She led me toward a waiting hover-taxi at the edge of the landing pad, laughing as she went.
"Ethical Norman Farm, please. Just outside the dome," she hopped into the taxi.
The driver, a Martian native with the characteristic reddish skin tone from generations of adaptation, nodded and punched in the coordinates.
As we drove through the red Martian landscape, I studied Zara. In the better light, I could see those scars she'd mentioned—the one on her left cheek was thin and pale, probably old. The one across her collarbone peeked out from her tank top, looking newer. She caught me looking and raised an eyebrow.
"See something interesting?"
"Just wondering how someone racks up that many scars running 'legitimate tour operations.'"
"Oh, you know. Here and there. Little accidents. Nothing serious." The way she said it suggested they'd been very serious indeed. "That one on my cheek? Bar fight on Rigel Station. Guy didn't like that I counted cards. The one on my arm? Grabbed the wrong end of a Voltraxian eel. And the collarbone one—"
"Poor decision-making skills?"
"Adventure," she corrected firmly. "Big difference."
The taxi stopped outside a large facility surrounded by high fences. A sign read "ETHICAL NORMAL FARM - EXOTIC LIVESTOCK - TOURS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY."
"Wait," I said as we got out, "you actually made an appointment?"
"Of course I did. What kind of tour guide do you think I am?" She walked toward the entrance with complete confidence. "I told you, totally legitimate operation."
The owner was waiting for us at the main building—a stocky man with graying hair and the weathered look of someone who'd spent their whole life working with dangerous animals.
"You must be Zara," he said, shaking her hand. "Got your message last week. Welcome to Ethical Normal Farm." He turned to me. "And you're the chef?"
"Uh, yes. Enthony Guilver."
"Excellent. Always happy to show fellow food professionals the operation. I'm Marcus Webb, owner and operator." He gestured for us to follow him. "Now, I understand you're interested in seeing our Xemogros enclosures?"
"Xemogros?" I asked, unfamiliar with the term.
"Fascinating creatures," Marcus said as we walked through the facility. "Imported from the outer colonies about fifteen years ago. Look, they're extremely dangerous, so we've got to be careful, but once you know how to handle them, the meat is absolutely exquisite. Come on, I'll show you."
He led us through a series of corridors to a large observation room. Through the reinforced glass wall, I could see what looked like a nightmare made flesh.
The Xemogros were roughly humanoid but clearly not human. They stood about seven feet tall, with elongated heads sporting curved horns that gleamed under the facility's lights. Their bodies were muscular and covered in a dark, chitinous exoskeleton, but—and this was the disturbing part—they had what appeared to be soft, fleshy tissue around their chest area, almost like mammalian features. Their hands ended in long, sharp claws, and when one of them opened its mouth, I could see rows of metallic-looking teeth.
"Holy shit," I breathed.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" Marcus said proudly. "Now, the key things to know about Xemogros: one, they have highly acidic blood. Two, they can spit that same acid with remarkable accuracy. And three, they're extremely aggressive. We've lost three handlers over the years, but we've perfected the safety protocols since then."
As if on cue, one of the Xemogros noticed us through the glass. Its head snapped toward us, and I could see intelligence in those dark eyes—and pure, unadulterated hatred.
"That's Big Betty," Marcus said. "She's our most aggressive female. Watch this."
Big Betty opened her mouth, and I saw her throat swell. Then she spat directly at my face.
I jerked backward with a yelp, but the acid splattered harmlessly against the glass, sizzling and steaming but not penetrating.
"Don't worry," Marcus said with a chuckle. "This glass is military-grade. Extremely durable, breathable so the Xemogros get fresh air, and completely acid-proof. You could stand here all day and—"
An alarm suddenly blared through the facility, red lights flashing.
Marcus sighed deeply, pulling out a tablet. "Not again."
"What's wrong?" Zara asked, though she didn't sound particularly concerned.
"One of them's escaped through the ventilation system. Again." He tapped his tablet, bringing up a schematic of the facility. "It's always the vents. We've reinforced them three times, but the damn things are smart. They figured out that the screws in Section C are slightly weaker than the others."
"Escaped?" I repeated, my voice climbing an octave. "As in, one of those acid-spitting monsters is loose in the facility?"
"Oh, it's fine. Happens about once a month." Marcus was already walking toward a weapons locker on the wall. "They usually head for the kitchen—they can smell the feeding prep. We've got protocols for this."
He pulled out what looked like a large cattle prod and a net gun.
"Protocols?" I looked at Zara, who was watching the whole situation with amused interest. "Did you know this was going to happen?"
"How would I know that?" She grinned. "But I did mention this would be educational, didn't I?"
Through the glass, Big Betty and the other Xemogros were becoming agitated, sensing their escaped companion's freedom. They scraped their claws against the walls, leaving deep gouges in the metal. One of them rammed its horns against the glass—which held, but the impact was enough to make me take another step back.
"Right then," Marcus said, checking the charge on his cattle prod. "You two stay here in the observation room. Door locks from the inside. I'll go round up our escapee. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?" I stared at him. "To catch a seven-foot acid-spitting monster?"
"Give or take. Last time it was fifteen, but she'd just eaten so she was sluggish." He headed for the door, paused, and looked back. "Oh, and if you hear screaming, that's probably just Jenkins in maintenance. The Xemogros like to mess with him. He's fine, just gets startled easy."
Then he was gone, leaving Zara and me alone in the observation room with a wall of glass between us and at least a dozen aggressive alien creatures that looked like they wanted nothing more than to dissolve us with their acid spit.
"So," Zara said cheerfully, pulling out her tablet to take notes, "what do you think of your first stop on the Totally Legitimate Galactic Tour?"
I looked at her, then at the Xemogros, then back at her.
"I think I should have asked for a detailed itinerary before I paid you two million credits."
"Where's the fun in that?" She snapped a photo of Big Betty, who immediately tried to spit acid at her phone. "Besides, isn't this exciting? Real adventure! Real danger! This is what you paid for, Tony."
"I paid for a tour, not a death wish."
"Potato, po-tah-to." She grinned at me, and despite everything—the escaped monster, the acid-spitting creatures, the blaring alarm—I found myself smiling back.
Maybe this was insane. Maybe I had made a terrible decision. But Zara was right about one thing.
It was definitely more exciting than burning soup.
Somewhere in the facility, I heard what might have been screaming. Probably Jenkins.
"Educational," Zara said, still grinning. "I told you it would be educational."
Yeah. That was definitely one word for it.