Doughnuts at the Edge of Silence

Captain Williphexer “Pomp” Pompadour-Plotnikov sat on the most utter edge of known space, which meant all he had to look at was unknown space. And he did so with one of the last cream-filled doughnuts he would ever have. It wasn't that he was dying (at least, he hoped he wasn't), rather he would be embarking on a quest out into the unvisited regions of the universe, traveling far from all known civilizations and all known doughnut shops.

Then again, there might, somewhere out there, be an alien planet populated by wise and wondrous beings who had already discovered doughnut shops.

Doughnuts for Williphexer, or “Pomp” as he preferred, were one of the great constants of life. He never let his ships fly more than two portal jumps from his favorite suppliers. Doughnut shops were, inarguably, one of the great hallmarks of what made a civilization civilized.

An opened pink box sat next to him on the bench, arrayed with eleven more wondrous rings of dough, sparkling like the stars themselves. As he finished his first pastry, he selected a simple and unpretentious glazed doughnut. He sank his teeth into it, the glaze breaking into flaking shards and dusting his gray-streaked beard. The moment the sugar touched his lips, he was taken back immediately.

He pressed his chubby face against a warm glass case. His Pop-Pop did the same, thick mustache flattened between the glass and his rosy cheeks. Both pairs of eyes roved over racks of fresh-from-the-oven delights. The boy and his grandfather were connoisseurs of all breakfast confections — from cinnamon twists to apple fritters to beignets to spudnuts to bombolone to faschingskrapfen. Every Saturday morning they descended upon the little doughnut shop on the edge of the city, the one with the tiny front door, unwashed window panes and cracked neon sign. There were plenty of more refined, more upscale shops, where words like “gourmet” and “sophistiquee” flashed in their windows. But as everyone knows, the best doughnut shops are never sophistiquee (or even all that clean). The best only come from small, dingy shops cramped between laundromats and nail salons.

Despite the frigid air of the dark early morning, the doughnut shop was as warm and bright as his mother's goodnight hugs. The bakers beyond the counter wielded the dough as if it were poetry and they were all Shakespeare, twisting and turning it into shapes that would soon debut within the front glass case.

He remembered his Pop-Pop, with that big cheesy grin and same excited passion in his eyes, telling him, just like he did every Saturday morning, “Alright Willy, pick whichever one you like. Don't matter how big, just whichever one catches your eye.”

Of course, young Pomp always chose the biggest one he could find...

“Captain Pompadour-Plotnikov, sir!”

The words rang out on the observation deck like a star-speeder breaking through the atmosphere. Pomp jumped in his seat and inhaled a massive wedge he'd just bitten off. After a moment of sheer panic as the doughnut wedge caught in his throat, the muscles in his neck seized and he spat out the soggy lump into his hand.

“What the devil is it?” he sputtered angrily, snatching a napkin and wrapping the regurgitated lump. Still breathing heavily, he turned toward the door.

Standing at attention in the threshold was his first officer. Her green and silver Independence Fleet uniform looked so cleanly pressed, Pomp wondered if it was one giant steel piece she stepped into each morning.

“Your presence is requested by Command, sir,” answered First Officer Adaeze von Holstein firmly. She kept her eyes straight ahead and pointedly not at him.

“Whatever for?” Pomp didn't bother hiding his irritation. His ire wasn’t with the young officer, but rather with Command. He had clearly marked this time on his shared calendar as do not disturb!

“Photoshoot. The press has just portaled in from Independency Prime.”

Pomp rolled his eyes and took another bite of his doughnut.

“Request denied,” he said, his mouth full.

“Sir, this is a request directly from the Senior Admiral.”

“They can just edit me into the photo later. I'm busy.”

“Sir, I do not think that will be an adequate answer.”

“Why not?”

“This is a command from our highest ranking officer.”

“You said it was a request.”

Pomp caught more than a hint of insubordinate emotions welling up in Officer Holstein. She was yet another one of the naval academy's best and brightest, trained and honed to serve the Independence Fleet with unwavering devotion. How it rankled these fresh-faced officers that Pomp should be their captain—a man born on dreadful Earth, who was little more than a space pirate, suddenly sprung from prison and inexplicably given the reins to the Fleet’s boldest mission yet.

He looked down and dusted the sugar out of his heavy beard. “Come sit down and have a doughnut, Holstein.”

“Sir?”

“That's an order. Come over here and grab a doughnut.”

The observation deck of the New Rubicon Space Station was a large chamber filled only with benches, most of it taken up by a wide, rounded window built for gazing out into the grandeur of space. He had booked the chamber for only himself, a safe haven from the maelstrom of responsibilities in which he’d found himself spiraling uncontrollably. He delighted in quiet solitude, hence why gazing out at the silent, endless void of outer space held no terrors for him. But some things were more important than even his solitude.

Stiff and awkward, Officer Holstein seated herself next to her captain, doing her best to hide her revulsion.

“Captain, I must report back to Command,” she said quickly.

“Oh, don't worry about it,” said Pomp, dismissing her concerns with a casual hand wave, chewing on another bite. “We both know Jameson doesn't want me around—and for a photoshoot of all things. He's just being polite. I'm sure the journalists will just bury my name at the end of the articles and give him the headline. Jameson's the golden-haired honors student, I'm the unwanted stepson with bad table manners.”

Senior Admiral Yusif Jameson regarded Pomp the same way a pageant contestant regarded aging past thirty. But Pomp served a unique and necessary purpose that even Command couldn't dispute. The crew wasn't privy to the real reason behind Pomp's controversial induction into the Independence Fleet, though more than a few suspected why.

“Well, go on,” he said, pushing the doughnut box closer to her. “Choose whichever one you like.”

As he said it though, he took out a few of his favorites and held them awkwardly in his hands.

Adaeze regarded him and the doughnuts with a wary glare. Those deep brown eyes could split moons in half with a look. A family trait he knew all too well. Eventually, she plucked a doughnut with pink sprinkles from the box and held it gingerly.

They made an awkward pair on the bench. He was a bleached old man with spider veins on his cheeks, a stomach as round as Jupiter and a beard shimmering with sugar dust. She was his opposite—every inch refined and clean-cut in her sharp-looking naval uniform. Her black skin shone radiant in the star light and her posture as straight and focused as her ambitions. She and Pomp had already spent a great deal of time together in briefings, conferences, surveys and preparations, but never in unofficial, casual settings.

The odd tension between them was so hideously obvious it could have practically been punched in the face.

Surprisingly, she was the first to break the ice. “Sir, permission to spea—”

“Permission granted,” said Pomp at once. “And permission to speak your mind. I'm a tough old man that's been cussed out by seventeen different military commanders, a planetary governor, and a suddenly self-aware toaster oven. Whatever's on your mind, believe me when I say I can take it. Unless you intend to insult my mother.”

“I would never—”

“Of course you wouldn't, because you're a decent human being,” he interjected. “Though I am beginning to have my suspicions. You are holding a doughnut and not eating it. Which is a serious crime on the Pompadour side of the family. Though not really the Plotnikov side, they were more of a waffle family.”

Officer Holstein looked down at the doughnut, where it sat in her rigid fingertips, afraid the sugar would dirty her pristine uniform. She tried to take the cleanest, most efficient bite possible, extending the doughnut out and taking barely more than a nibble. Pomp rolled his eyes and snagged a huge bite out of one of the many doughnuts sticking to his fingers to demonstrate. Doughnuts were not meant to be eaten politely. They were meant to be scarfed down voraciously, chewed loudly and savored fiercely. He had once caught a crew member on a previous expedition eating one with a fork and knife. Pomp had threatened to hurl him out the airlock.

“Now, speak your mind Officer Holstein,” he said tersely.

He noticed the young woman relaxing a little, the warm comfort food helping to melt the stiff exterior.

“Sir, why are you not making launch preparations?” she asked. “Our launch is in less than two days. I understand the photo op is superfluous, but there are several other responsibilities to meet.”

Responsibilities. She spoke of them as if they were a pantheon of angry gods, ready to smite if not appeased. He suspected responsibility was the fiery altar to which the Holstein family had bowed to every morning and night.

“Holstein, do you want to go on this mission?” he suddenly decided to ask.

The young woman looked affronted. Her dark eyes suddenly looked ready to split him in half.

“Of course, captain,” she exclaimed. “A chance to serve as a ranking officer on this exploration is an honor above honors.”

“But you'll never see your family again. No friends, no home, none of those little pleasures and comforts we yearn to greet at the end of a long day.”

“The crew is my new family, the ship is my home, and I shall find new ways to spend my leisure hours,” she said promptly.

“Yes, yes, all very pragmatic and good,” answered Pomp. Then he took a huge, loud bite and said, “I shall miss these doughnuts most of all.”

“Doughnuts, sir?”

“For me, doughnuts are memories,” he said. “My parents were both officers in the Homeworld Solar Corps, so they weren't around much. I lived mostly with my grandparents, and every Saturday my Pop-Pop would take me to the doughnut shop six minutes from our house. We would pick the biggest doughnuts we could afford, find a table by the window they never seemed to clean, and just eat in silence. There's a sacredness to silence, even when you're a child. A ritual as sacred as after-school cartoons and bedtime stories. When the first war started, my parents were on the front lines. It's scary for children whose parents are at war, as I'm sure you're no stranger to, but sitting in that cramped doughnut shop with my Pop-Pop, eating way too much sugar on a Saturday morning? I never felt safer.”

Holstein took another bite of her doughnut. A larger, more confident bite this time. She didn't say anything, but Pomp could tell her sharp mind processed his words without judgement.

“How do your parents feel about you serving in the Independence Fleet?” she asked quietly.

“Oh both of them were killed in the first war,” he answered simply. “Dad died in the battle of New Saturn. Mum died in a skirmish off the Kuiper Belt. My grandparents both passed away when I was younger than twenty. I was left a stupid kid with too much money he didn't want. So I bought myself a tiny Star-Skipper, blasted my way out of the Old System, and haven't turned the engines off since. When the Fleet came along and offered me command of the mightiest engines in the universe, I couldn't refuse.”

“But the Fleet killed your parents.”

“And my parents killed their fair share of the Fleet. Mom and Dad were good people, but ruthless combatants. It’s one of those strange yet unavoidable truths people don't like to think about.”

Another silence followed, in which they both ruminated on the bleakness of war while munching on icing-smothered breakfast food.

“Sir, if I may be bold, why did they pick you for this mission?” Holstein finally asked.

Now there was a truth he didn't like to think about. Pomp shoved a whole doughnut into his mouth to give himself time to answer. When he figured out how to swallow it without choking, he had a near-enough truthful response ready.

“Officially it's because I've visited just about every corner of this galactic quadrant and even dared to navigate through to the galactic center. If there's anyone who can steer our massive ship through unknown space, it's me.” Then he began to slide into the near-truth. “As for why me specifically, I guess my rather...unorthodox...resume makes me the perfect candidate for an unorthodox mission. And besides, most of our highly esteemed officers are trained for war, not exploration.”

Pomp made sure to shut his mouth once he was done. He had a tendency to ramble, and he had skirted closer to the truth than he wanted.

“Now, what does your family think of you blasting off to some savage galaxy lightyears away?” he asked, shifting the trajectory of the conversation.

Holstein took a deep breath, then took another bite of her doughnut. After she chewed it thoughtfully, she swallowed and answered. “They are proud of me,” she said. “They congratulate me, praise me and shake my hand. But my family...we don't express things like...well, like you do.”

“Shocker,” Pomp replied.

Holstein gave him another cutting look, but this one edged with good humor.

“I think they're scared, but they're not saying it,” she continued. “We are experts of public presentation and calculated performances. Fear is anti-productive and reflects poorly on assessments. But we still feel it. And we can spot it in each other. It's like a scent only we can smell on each other. After all, Holsteins are supposed to be born fearless.”

“Oh, I'm very well acquainted with your father,” said Pomp. Baron Umaru von Holstein was one of the most influential men among the Indepent Worlds. On paper, the mission to colonize a newly discovered galaxy was to gain new territories beyond the Homeworld's reach. In reality, it was the Baron's scheme for a much more specific purpose.

The great house of Holstein stood as a beloved pillar of the United Republic of Independent Worlds. Adaeze von Holstein's great-grandfather had signed his name to the Proclamation of Galactic Freedoms, which had severed the Independent Worlds from the stranglehold of the Homeworld. Her grandfather had fought and died with valor at the Battle of Epsilon Eridani. Her great-aunt had brokered an alliance between six different transgalactic militias. And her own mother, though not born a Holstein, had earned her place in their ranks when she spat in the Homeworld ambassador’s face for insulting her mother-in-law.

The Holsteins were indeed a great family, though not the kind to sit down and enjoy doughnuts together.

Pomp chuckled as Holstein discreetly took a second doughnut from the box.

“I can't say I'll miss all of the politicking and the grandstanding,” she said. “I guess when we're in a new galaxy, things like family names and daunting legacies won't matter.”

“Oh I don't know,” said Pomp. “Our ancestors thought the same thing when they terraformed Mars. And when they colonized Alpha Centauri. And when we all flung ourselves out into the stars beyond. The past follows you, no matter how far you hurl yourself into outer space. Take it from a stupid kid with too much money and never enough anti-matter fuel.”

Holstein didn't say anything else, but let his words settle into her thoughts. Pomp had already guessed her to be a deep and introspective processor. She didn't make decisions lightly. And she didn't like to rush, even when thinking about what an old pirate had to say. She was the exact opposite of Pomp, who had lived like a jetpack had been glued to his back.

Holstein’s sudden promotion in naval rank so soon after her graduation had nearly been as controversial as his own recruitment. Everyone, Pomp included, presumed the promotion had been solely bought by her family’s good name. Oddly enough, she was the exact sort of first officer he would have picked for himself. She had a sharp mind coupled with a cool head—a perfect balance to his lightning-fast impulses that mostly got him out of trouble.

“What do you think we will find out there, in the new galaxy?” she asked.

Pomp and she both looked through the window and out into the wonder of the beyond, where undiscovered worlds by the billions spun among the stars, practically beckoning them like beautifully mysterious ladies at a dance. The New Rubicon Space Station floated on the edge of the Milky Way Galaxy, clinging to its fringe like a baby bird still too scared to fly. In a matter of days, they would board a wonder of a vessel, the first of its kind built to travel intergalactically. After almost an entire century and half of work, the Independent World’s engineers had finally managed to develop the materials to power a Neo-Alcubierre drive engine to allow a heavy carrier to reach new galaxies (without accidentally time traveling). Unfortunately, only enough of the materials had been developed for a one-way trip.

“I think we’ll find silence,” answered Pomp after a moment of thought and a bite of a bear claw. “This galaxy, with all of its wars and disagreements, has gotten much too noisy. Noise is what resounds out of hell, but things like silence and music, those come out of heaven. So we'll try to keep that silence sacred for as long as we can.”

“How long, realistically, do you think that sacred silence will last?”

“Oh, probably three to four seconds. Humans have never met a paradise they didn’t shatter.”

Holstein nodded, wiping the sugar flakes from her mouth. “That’s what I like about space,” she said. “You can’t shatter the silence of space. You scream at it and it doesn’t care.”

“That’s a strange thing to enjoy about space.”

Holstein blushed suddenly, unused to this newfound vulnerability.

“I only mean to say,” she said firmly, exerting control over her emotions, “it’s… reassuring to know there are some things humans can’t change.”

“Death, taxes and the silence of space,” mused Pomp, chomping on his bear claw. “What do you say we at least abolish taxes once we get there? Just forget all about them?”

“I’ve, well, never had to pay taxes,” said Holstein sheepishly.

Pomp nearly stole the doughnut right out of her hands to show her what she was missing.

“Well, seeing as I’m the captain," he said instead, "and you’re the first officer, what do you say that we institute a moment of silence once we reach this newfangled home of a galaxy? A silence that lasts at least five seconds?

Holstein couldn't fight her smile this time. “An exemplary suggestion, Captain,” she said with a bigger smile. “I’ve never understood why moments of silence are only reserved for remembering, but never for beginning.”

Pomp felt the sudden hammer-stroke that old, crusty fellows feel when a young person says something so profound. He’d be chewing on that thought for days yet.

For the next several minutes, they stared out into the stars, silently waxing rhapsodic about silence—their silence broken every now and then by loud munching.

“You know,” said Holstein. “The cooks aboard the ship can make you doughnuts. This isn’t necessarily the last time you’ll eat one.”

“The best doughnuts come from small, dingy shops,” said Pomp with all seriousness. “Never starship kitchens.”

Holstein shrugged. “You never know. The universe is full of surprises.”

Pomp didn't answer, but he did shove the rest of a bear claw into his mouth. The doughnut box now sat empty.

“I suppose there are responsibilities that need to be seen to,” he said. “You should go and see to yours while I go and see to mine.”

“Yes sir,” Holstein answered, snapping back into formality, though not as severely as when she had entered. She stood up and made her way to the entry port. As it slid open, she turned and said, “Thank you sir. For the conversation. And the doughnuts.”

“Thank you for keeping an old man with a ridiculous last name company,” he said, rising from the bench and straightening his uniform.

With a nod, Holstein left the observation deck. Pomp waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps. When he was sure she wasn't coming back, he sat down again and pulled out another box of doughnuts from underneath the bench. “Eating doughnuts made on a starship, whoever heard of such madness?” he chuckled to himself, devouring a fritter.

He had not meant to dive into such an introspective conversation with the first officer. His only aim had been to keep the officer from blabbing to his superiors. But he supposed, sitting before the vastness of the starry cosmos, you can't help but turn everything into a deep and philosophical discussion.

Pomp's memory turned back to one year ago, to the first time he had met the formidable Baron von Holstein in his sterling palace on Independency Prime. The Baron’s enormous black-lacquered desk could have crushed even the ponderous Pomp to a pulp (and Pomp highly suspected the muscular Baron could easily throw the desk one-handed).

What Pomp remembered most clearly, however, was the portrait of the Holstein family on display behind the Baron. The line up of dark faces looked down at him in stalwart judgment. In the painting stood the Baron and his wife, both in military dress, with their children arrayed before them. The brood of twelve children stood as regal and imperious as their parents.

He only knew which child Adaeze was because the Baron kept pointing to her young, austere face.

“She is the reason for this mission,” the Baron said, his voice as mighty as the roar of starship engines. “It has nothing to do with exploration or colonization. Those are fringe benefits as far as I am concerned. Another war with the Homeworld is coming and it is a war we will not win. We are outgunned, outmanned and disastrously disorganized.

“I have already lost two sons to the skirmishes on the quadrant line. My eldest daughter has vanished. My other children already command their own ships or colonies, but won’t survive the Homeworld’s bombardments. They all are beyond my reach, which means they are within the Homeworld’s range. Only Adaeze can I still protect. And so Asaeze alone must carry the Holstein honor into the future.

“If she stays here, the war that comes will not spare her. The Homeworld wants to see my family dead and wiped clean out of history. So, she will serve as your subordinate officer on an official exploratory mission, but make no mistake, you are to keep her safe and out of the Homeworld's reach.”

“But why me?” Pomp begged for the eleventh time that hour. “I'm a fat coward who's simply trailed behind better navigators and sailed by on stupid luck!”

“Because you are expendable!” bellowed the Baron.

There was powerful fear in the powerful man's voice. When he collected himself, the Baron continued. “If we are to stand any chance, we must reserve our best captains for the war ahead. You know your way around a starship. You know how to lead a crew. And you have been outwitting the Homeworld Solar Corps for decades. Those are the only qualifications I need.”

Pomp fought off a groan. The Baron had just insulted and flattered him within the same minute.

“You will make for New Rubicon tomorrow morning to meet your crew,” commanded the Baron. “The truth behind this mission will remain forever silent. If the truth about this mission is revealed, I’ll see you drawn and quartered no matter what world you try to hide on.”

Pomp bowed his head and took a heavy breath. “Yes sir.”

He sat on the observation deck for an hour more, his memories drifting from his days as a boy in a doughnut shop, to his years as a boy pretending to be a man lost among the stars, to his newfound role as guardian of, essentially, a space princess.

Two days later, Captain Pompadour-Plotnikov stepped out onto the main bridge of the IPS Julius Caesar.

“Captain on deck!” announced First Officer Holstein. The other officers on the bridge snapped to attention and saluted.

“At ease,” Pomp answered, making his way to his chair. The mainbridge gleamed like a set of crystal plates fresh from the wash. The officers busied themselves with their numerous tasks at their screens and intercoms, stiff but respectful.

He gave a nod to Adaeze, who nodded back, standing with her perfect posture beside his chair. He was about to take his seat, when she took hold of his arm and halted him. She pointed to a little pink box waiting for him in his captain’s chair.

Pomp picked up the box and opened it. Inside sat a perfectly round, perfectly plump cake doughnut.

“A gift from the kitchens to commemorate the launch,” Adaeze said with a grin. “At my recommendation.”

“Give the chef my thanks,” he said, tears in his eyes. He lifted the doughnut and took a generous bite.

It tasted awful—like an old shoe, dry as a heat rash, slathered in mucus. And the cooks had completely skimped on the sugar.

Tears of joy turning to tears of bitter anguish, Pomp set it aside and nodded with a forced smile. He swallowed painfully and turned his attention to the wide window before him. A vast array of twinkling stars shined back at him. In a way, it reminded him of the glass case back at his favorite little doughnut shop.

“Alright crew, let’s begin launch procedures and get this baby bird off its branch,” he commanded from his chair. “Oh, and by the authority vested in me as Captain of the United Federation of Independent Worlds, I do hereby proclaim a change to our destination.”

Everyone on deck froze, looking at their captain.

“Um, Sir?” said the navigations officer nervously.

“Don’t worry, I’m doing so on Command’s orders if you’d like to confirm,” he said. “The original destination was a PR stunt to distract Homeworld spies.” He was telling the truth. Command had, wonder of wonders, given him carte blanche for picking their destination, so long as their destination could sustain life. “Officer Coronado, please bring up the stellar cartography of the new galaxy and find me the biggest star,” Pomp commanded with a giddy smile.

He felt Adaeze’s sharp glance cut down at him, but she didn’t say anything. Officer Coronado nervously displayed a rendering of their new galaxy on the screen. It wasn’t perfect, as their satellites could only capture so much. But what they could see was the frosted swirl of a galaxy, with a perfect hole through the middle.

Pomp couldn’t help but chuckle to himself.

“I’ve found a hypergiant in the northern quadrant sir,” responded Officer Coronado, who honed in on the star on the screen. "It does look, well, promising. It's further than our original destination, but...far more likely to meet requirements for life-sustaining environments."

The screen displayed the star along with its designation and features. Twenty-three planets were estimated to orbit it, twelve of them in its habitable zone no less. Pomp had already picked the star, but he wanted it to feel like a group effort.

“Good, change our course to this star,” Pomp commanded.

All heads regarded him nervously.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Our engines can take us a little farther.”

Everyone looked nervously at each other and at their systems. No one moved a muscle.

“Did you hear the captain?” shouted Officer Holstein. “We have a change in destination. Hop to it!”

At once the crew snapped back into their roles and responsibilities, punching buttons, making calls, analyzing data. Pomp smiled as the ship began to disembark from New Rubicon.

He remembered back to several months before, sitting in a conference room full of all sorts of important people, chief among them Baron von Holstein himself. They had long been deliberating over their destination, when the Baron silenced everyone and asked Pomp directly, “Captain, the Caesar can take you just about anywhere in this new galaxy. Why don’t you just tell us where you’d like to go?”

Pomp had looked at the map of the new galaxy, feeling like a kid in a doughnut shop. Except for doughnuts, he had a galaxy of stars to choose from. He could almost hear his grandfather say, “Alright Willy, pick whichever one you like. Don't matter how big, just whichever one catches your eye.”

He made sure the room was steeped in a deep, sacred silence before he answered.

Of course, Pomp always chose the biggest one he could find.