シンプルな人間クッキー ― しかしエイリアンガールの反応は皆を驚かせた。HFY、SFストーリー
The market at the edge of the Terran outpost smelled of ozone, fried algae, and the faint metallic tang of recycled atmosphere. A thousand different species milled about under the cracked dome, voices clashing in a dozen tongues, haggling over wares that glittered, hummed, or threatened to explode if shaken too hard. Among the clamor, a slender figure in a cloak drifted between stalls, silver hair spilling over long, pointed ears that twitched like antenna, searching for a signal. She moved with careful grace, but her eyes betrayed her, wide, suspicious, and at the same time achingly curious. She stopped before a small stand stacked with odd brown discs. They looked to her alien eyes like compacted soil samples, the kind used to test planetary fertility. They smelled nothing like soil, though. Something sweet and warm drifted up from the tray, worming into her nose, shortcircuiting her instincts and making her stomach ache in ways nutrient cubes never had. The vendor was absent, leaving only a human man leaning against the stand, chewing with maddening casualness. His dark hair stuck up like static, had chosen a favorite victim, and his clothes looked patched enough to have survived at least three wars, or one very enthusiastic laundry cycle. He noticed her stare and raised a brow. “You’re looking at them like they might detonate,” he said, holding up one of the discs. “Good news, they only explode in your mouth.” Her ears tilted forward at the sound of his voice, trying to decide if he was dangerous or simply ridiculous. “Explode,” she repeated in an accent that clipped vowels as if trimming them with scissors. “Flavor explosion,” he clarified. “Safe, delicious, highly addictive, but in the legal way.” He broke the disc in half, revealing glistening chips inside, and offered the piece across the counter. Her people had strict protocols about ingesting foreign matter. She thought briefly about those rules, weighed them against the insistent growl in her belly, then decided rules were like docking fees, important until you pretended not to hear them. She took the offering with both hands, sniffed it once, then bit. It was as though a sun went off inside her mouth. Sweetness flooded her tongue. buttery richness spread like liquid fire, and the strange dark shards inside melted with a bitterness that only made the sweetness more unbearable. She froze, eyes wide, body trembling as though gravity had tilted. For a moment, she forgot where she was, who she was, and why the dome lights hummed so harshly above. Then she made a sound. It began as a gasp and toppled into a laugh, bright and high, ringing across the stall. She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified by her own lack of control, but the laugh leaked through her fingers. Anyway, the human grinned, folding his arms. I’ll take that as a review. Four stars. Five. She swallowed hastily. What? What is this substance? Cookie, he said as if unveiling a holy relic. Chocolate chip to be exact. Humanity’s greatest contribution to galactic civilization. Right after sarcasm and poor urban planning, her ears flicked back and forth as if debating whether to flatten in suspicion or rise in awe. It is engineered some form of boweapon only against waistlines, he said dead pan, though I suppose if you threw enough at someone’s face, you could cause mild blunt trauma. She blinked at him, then burst into another helpless laugh. It felt strange, laughing in a marketplace that always smelled like danger and debt. She steadied herself, ears angled sharply, but a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Anyway, you are mocking me constantly,” he admitted. “It’s part of the human brand.” He slid another cookie across the counter toward her. “Go on. Science demands replication of results.” This time, she didn’t hesitate. The second bite sent shivers down her spine. “Your world,” she said through a mouthful, “m must be very strange if this is common place.” “Strange, sure,” he said, shrugging. “But we figured out early that if you can’t solve problems with diplomacy, you bribe them with sugar. Works nine times out of 10. The 10th time you end up in jail, but hey, cookies make good last meals, too.” Her laughter came easier now, bubbling out like carbonated water. She felt the gazes of nearby shoppers, some curious, some disapproving, but she didn’t care. The warmth of sweetness lingered in her chest, and for once the universe seemed less cold. “Do your people eat these everyday?” she asked. “Only the lucky ones,” he said. “Others settle for protein bars that taste like sadness, want to hear the ancient earth debate.” She raised a brow. Debate. Crunchy versus chewy, he said solemnly. Families torn apart, civilizations divided, friendships ruined. I myself walked the Chewy path, but I’ve lost many good friends to the crunch. She stared at him, horrified. Then she realized he was joking again. Her laugh spilled out so loud that the vendor returning to his stall nearly dropped a basket of glowfruit. She clutched her stomach, gasping for air. You are ridiculous,” she said between wheezes. “Thank you,” he said with a small bow. “It’s my most reliable talent.” Right after cookie distribution, her ears relaxed, drooping slightly in contentment. For the first time since leaving her world, she felt something more than vigilance and duty. She felt joy, silly, and unguarded. She took another cookie, holding it delicately like a jewel. If this is what you trade in markets, she murmured. Perhaps your species is not as barbaric as they say. The human wanked. Don’t spread that rumor. It ruins our mystique. She bit again, crumbs scattering like stardust, and wondered with sudden dangerous curiosity what other secrets humans might hide inside their absurd little creations. She returned to the marketplace the next cycle with a determination that made her cloak flutter like a battle flag. Her long ears were angled high, scanning the bizaar’s noise, but her eyes betrayed her true purpose. She wasn’t here for plasma cartridges or xenon crystals. She wanted the strange discs of power again, the human cookies. She found the stall exactly where she left it, though the human man was now sprawled in a chair behind the counter, balancing one cookie on his nose like a circus creature. “You came back,” he said without moving, voice muffled by gravity and sugar. She narrowed her eyes. “I require more of the chocolat weapon. He dropped the cookie from his nose, caught it midfall, and popped it in his mouth.” “Weaponized joy,” he corrected. And you’re pronouncing it like you’re summoning a dragon. Try again. Chocolate. Chocolate. Close. But if you keep saying it like that, someone’s going to think you’re cursing their ancestors. Her ears twitched, and she sat primly on the stool opposite him. Give me one, she demanded. He passed her a cookie with exaggerated ceremony as though offering a royal crown. She took it in both hands and bit with a sigh that turned heads nearby. He chuckled. See, that’s the sound of diplomacy. Forget treaties, just deploy these. Her voice was muffled by crumbs. If my people had access to such things, we would conquer entire galaxies without lifting a plasma spear. Exactly, he said. Cookies, the real weapons of mass confection. She tried to glare, but dissolved into laughter halfway through. Her ears bent backward, trembling with mirth. He grinned at the site. New rule, he announced. You can’t eat unless I tell you a story. It’s payment. One story per cookie. Suspicion narrowed her eyes. You would blackmail me with flavor. Absolutely. It’s tradition. You ever hear of grandmothers, grandmothers, old humans who spend half their lives baking and the other half guilting you into eating more? If you say no, they sigh so loudly at registers on seismic sensors. Legendary beings feared across generations. She blinked, then burst out, laughing so hard she almost inhaled crumbs. Your species frightens me. He leaned forward conspiratorally. You should hear about the crunchy versus chewy wars. The schism nearly destroyed our civilization. Families broken. Friendships lost. A cousin of mine still won’t speak to me because I said Chewy was superior. Chewy is better, she said instantly. He slapped a hand over his chest in mock gratitude. Finally, someone who understands me. Their laughter tangled together until even the nearby vendor selling Glowfruit cracked a reluctant smile. As she chewed, she explained her world’s rations, gray nutrient blocks, efficient and tasteless. Her people called them sustainers. No joy, no smell, no warmth. We are taught to swallow without thought. Taste is considered distraction, but she gestured at the cookie. This is distraction worth dying for. He snorted. Don’t die yet. I’ve only got half a batch left. She tilted her head, studying him. You are strange. Correct, he said cheerfully. But you’re still here. Her ears lowered slightly, betraying amusement she refused to show in her face. “You are tolerable.” “That’s the highest compliment I’ve gotten all week,” he said, mock solemn. “Most people just call me a hazard.” The hum of the market swelled around them, traders bartering over plasma knives, a trio of insectoids buzzing about reactor parts, a vendor shouting about discount antimatter flasks. But inside their small orbit, only cookies mattered. She tried another careful pronunciation. Cho Kali. He clapped. Perfect. You’ve just passed the hardest part of Earth culture. Next lesson. Dunking cookies in milk. Milk? Oh, it’s what comes out of cows. White liquid. Tastes great. Unless you’re lactose intolerant. Then it tastes like regret. Her ears perked. You drink cow secretions. He winced. When you say it like that, it sounds criminal. Her laughter rang again, bright enough to make the nearest shoppers turn their heads. She didn’t care. With every bite, the universe seemed a little less sharp, a little less cold. She leaned across the counter, lowering her voice. Teach me how to bake them. His eyebrows shot up. Bake? That’s dangerous. Last time I tried, my oven filed a restraining order. I am serious, she insisted. If my people taste this, they will never again eat gray blocks. Yeah, but if they find out I taught you, they’ll arrest me for cultural sabotage. She grinned around her cookie. Then we will bake in secret. The way she said it, with ears tilted mischievously and crumbs on her lips, made him laugh so hard he nearly tipped over his chair. “Fine,” he said once he recovered. “But don’t blame me when your people declare war over Chewy versus Crunchy.” She raised her cookie like a sword, then let war come. And with that, she bit down again, savoring the taste that was quickly becoming rebellion. By the third visit, whispers had begun to follow her through the market. Traders pretended not to stare, though their eyes tracked her long ears, her silver hair, the way she stroed past plasma cannons and iron rifles without a glance, and made straight for a human with a tray of baked goods. Her guardians had noticed, too. They trailed behind her at a careful distance, muttering in their own tongue about scandal, dishonor. He translated with a straight face. She says, “These cookies are a new tritey.” The guardian blinked. The market went quiet. And then, unbelievably, someone laughed. Not her, not the human, but a vendor selling glowing mollisks. Soon another laugh joined, then another, until the bizarre echoed with absurd amusement. Her guardians threw up their hands in exasperation. She seized the moment, raising her halfeaten cookie like a banner. “I declare snack time,” she shouted. The cheer that followed was ridiculous, improvised, and possibly the first diplomatic success powered entirely by sugar. She turned back to the human, ears trembling with joy. “Perhaps this world is not so barbaric after all.” Careful, he warned, sliding her another cookie. If you say that too loudly, people will start expecting us to act civilized. She laughed again, softer this time, and bit into the gift. For the first time in her life, rebellion had a flavor, and it was sweet enough to silence fear. She slipped out after curfew, cloak wrapped tight, ears folded low to avoid recognition. Her guardians had doubled their watch since her marketplace declaration, but she had learned their patterns. A small distraction, an overloaded hover cart groaning under too much weight, gave her the gap she needed. She darted through the shadows of neon stalls, heart hammering faster than the pulse of the dome’s old generators until she reached the familiar stand. The human was already waiting, crouched over a portable heat coil balanced precariously on three dented cans. He squinted at a pan where lumps of dough sizzled unevenly. Smoke curled in uncertain spirals. You’re late, he said without looking up. My prototype batch is considering mutiny. She pulled her hood back, ears flicking at the scent of something both sweet and suspicious. What have you done? Baking? he declared proudly, though his eyes watered from the smoke. Well attempting. The cookies might be quantum objects at this point, both edible and inedible until observed. She peered into the pan. The cookies were misshapen, edges burnt black, centers raw and gooey. They look like collapsed stars. Exactly. I call them supernova crunch. He scooped one up with tongs and offered it like a sacred relic. Care to test? Her instincts screamed no, but curiosity screamed louder. She took a bite. The taste hit her tongue with the subtlety of a plasma grenade. Charcoal, half-melted sugar, and something that might have been egg or might have been alien collided in chaos. She gagged, coughed, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. This is poison. She wheezed, clutching her stomach. You have weaponized dough against me. Accidentally, he protested though he was laughing too hard to sound sincere. I was aiming for Chewy. I overshot and landed in catastrophic. Her ears trembled from her laughter. Never again. Promise me you will never again attempt such crimes without supervision. Fine, he said mock solemn. From now on, I’ll apply for a baking license before cooking. She wiped crumbs from her lips, still chuckling. How does your species survive its own food experiments? Trial and error, he said. Mostly error, but hey, at least you didn’t explode. I nearly did. They laughed until their sides achd, the sound bouncing off the silent stalls. When the laughter faded, she sat beside him, legs folded under her cloak, ears angled forward. He offered her one of the edible cookies from the original stash, and she accepted with reverence. This is safer, she said between bites. Safe is boring, he replied. But I’ll admit my experiments are probably classified as crimes against the pallet. Her smile softened. Still, I prefer eating your failures to the gray blocks of my people. He tilted his head. Really? They feed us efficiency, not joy. We are told joy is weakness. But this, she held up the halfeaten cookie. This makes me laugh. Weakness should not feel this strong. He leaned back, watching the glow of the failing heat coil. Maybe that’s why your people are scared. Not of the cookies, but of what comes after them. If you taste joy, you start wanting more. And wanting more makes you unpredictable. Her ears drooped slightly thoughtful. And unpredictability is dangerous. Or fun, he said with a shrug. Depends who you ask. They sat in silence for a while, chewing quietly. The dome above flickered as the artificial sky tried to simulate twilight, but the illusion was imperfect, too violet, too sharp. She stared at it, ears twitching. “Teach me more words,” she said suddenly. “Alien or human?” “Both,” she said. “If cookies are diplomacy, then language is reinforcement.” He grinned. All right. In Earth language, delicious. Repeat. Delicious. Perfect. In your language, what’s the word? He translated with a straight face. She says these cookies are a new tray. The guardian blinked. The market went quiet and then unbelievably someone laughed. Not her, not the human, but a vendor selling glowing mollisks. Soon another laugh joined, then another until the bizaar echoed with absurd amusement. Her guardians threw up their hands in exasperation. She seized the moment, raising her halfeaten cookie like a banner. I declare snack time,” she shouted. The cheer that followed was ridiculous, improvised, and possibly the first diplomatic success powered entirely by sugar. She turned back to the human, ears trembling with joy. “Perhaps this world is not so barbaric after all.” “Careful,” he warned, sliding her another cookie. “If you say that too loudly, people will start expecting us to act civilized.” She laughed again, softer this time, and bit into the gift. For the first time in her life, rebellion had a flavor, and it was sweet enough to silence fear. She slipped out after curfew, cloak wrapped tight, ears folded low to avoid recognition. Her guardians had doubled their watch since her marketplace declaration, but she had learned their patterns. A small distraction, an overloaded hover cart groaning under too much weight, gave her the gap she needed. She darted through the shadows of neon stalls, heart hammering faster than the pulse of the dome’s old generators until she reached the familiar stand. The human was already waiting, crouched over a portable heat coil balanced precariously on three dented cans. He squinted at a pan where lumps of dough sizzled unevenly. smoke curled in uncertain spirals. “You’re late,” he said without looking up. “My prototype batch is considering mutiny.” “What?” She pulled her hood back, ears flicking at the scent of something both sweet and suspicious. “What have you done?” “Baking,” he declared proudly, though his eyes watered from the smoke. “Well, attempting. The cookies might be quantum objects at this point, both edible and inedible until observed.” She peered into the pan. The cookies were misshapen, edges burnt black, centers raw and gooey. They look like collapsed stars. Exactly. I call them supernova crunch. He scooped one up with tongs and offered it like a sacred relic. Care to test. Her instinct screamed, “No, but curiosity screamed louder.” She took a bite. The taste hit her tongue with the subtlety of a plasma grenade. Charcoal, half-melted sugar, and something that might have been egg or might have been alien collided in chaos. She gagged, coughed, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. This is poison, she wheezed, clutching her stomach. You have weaponized dough against me. Accidentally, he protested though he was laughing too hard to sound sincere. I was aiming for Chewy. I overshot and landed in catastrophic. Her ears trembled from her laughter.
– #Audiobook #SciFiFantasy #SciFiShortStory
A lighthearted yet intriguing sci-fi story that blends humor, wonder, and cultural discovery. This alien woman story unfolds with warmth and curiosity, making it perfect for fans of galactic stories, audiobooks, and anyone seeking an English sci-fi story that feels fresh and human. A short sci-fi story that shows how even the smallest moments can connect entire worlds.
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