The Fruits of Our Labors.

Deliveries to the palace generally arrived on the four hundred and fiftieth floor, either gently cradled in the arms of drone swarms or, in the case of particularly valuable packages, hand-delivered by couriers in unmarked transport jets. For this reason, the Baker stands on the delivery platform in a heavy thermal coat and oxygen mask, neurotically checking the time on his watch. Of course, he is not required to collect his prize in person. Most workers of his importance would send someone unimportant for collection. But, lifetimes ago, the Baker had always tended to these details himself, and, after many countless iterations, it was unthinkable that anyone else might lead this small ritual in his place. After some time, the thrusters of a reflective black delivery Jet silenced. A small man in unmarked clothes emerged from a hatch with an unmarked steel case. A few minutes later, the Baker was in the service Elevator heading down a hundred floors to the kitchens. Although the entire trip, up and down, had taken less than ten minutes in total, it infuriated the Baker. Each minute was precious. When he had first worked in this building, deliveries had arrived by hyperloop in the basement levels before pressurised vacuum tubes carried them to their destination. It was quick and reliable, but recent civil unrest in the undercity and incidents of missing stock had forced a change in procedure.

As The Baker made his way through the central Kitchen, he stopped only to briefly observe the main courses being prepared by the head chef and his crew. He hated the chef. Earlier in the week, the chef had fired a cook on the spot for some minor breach of protocol. A single button left undone on a jacket. The Baker had punished apprentices for similar offences in the past, but on the spot dismissal in this case instantly revoked the building access, social status and augment benefits the woman had earned over many years. Leaving her ejected from the building in the ground level slums without her money, most of her clothing and her enhanced eye. It was unpleasant to think about, but this was simply how things were.

It was not always how things had been. When the Baker had first met his wife decades ago, she had just been fired, unable to contain her spirit. Still, she had simply walked away to find another, incidentally finding him instead. That first night he had cooked for her. He had fed her his soul, and she had captured his heart. He had told her that one day he would make her the most incredible chocolate cake, which he had tasted only once as a child, baked by his grandmother, before the slow decay of the world had made real ingredients almost extinct. They had laughed, neither really believing he would ever be in a position to fulfil such a promise. It was precisely this dessert he had been hired to create tonight for the most powerful person on the planet.

The Baker found his mind wandering as he went about the routine of preparing for the nights' work, checking in with his staff, tasting ingredients, checking and double-checking equipment. This was a complex machine, and he prided himself on being able to identify and inspect every element in it, whether it be a human, a tool or an ingredient. The Baker knew why his attention was split. Of course, he knew precisely why today was different from the many, many days exactly like it in his career.

Mindlessly, he worked his way towards his private Kitchen, collecting everything he needed as he moved. He had already told his second in command that he would work privately for the rest of the day. The Baker laid the case down carefully in the middle of his workbench, as if it were made of glass and not steel. He knew the contents of this case were worth fortunes and certainly comprised the most expensive ingredients he would ever work with. Although synthetic versions could be found for more reasonable prices, these were real, the only natural ingredients he had seen since he was a. small child. Inside were eggs, flour and milk.

A few hours later, the work was almost done. He had poured everything into this, his heart and soul. This would be his magnum opus, created from the highest quality ingredients, with the highest quality tools and the sum of all his experience. It was as if over the last twenty years, each hour working, each sleepless night had been a process of distilling his very essence, and here, finally, lay the purest result. As he came closer and closer to the end of his task, it became more and more apparent to him that this would signify the end of his journey. This was it, and once it was over, he could finally rest. Not his work, even with his prestige and position as one of the worlds foremost artisans, he had only enough wealth to provide for himself and his daughter a year or two more. He would work until he could no longer, and then he would die. This was simply how things were. No, his work would continue, but his pursuit, his quest, would end. As the culmination of so many years approached, The Baker could no longer damn the flood in his mind, could no longer deny the significance of this moment. Memories overwhelmed him.

Exactly six years ago, to the day, he had returned home to find corporate police waiting by his door. His wife had been fired from another job, they told him, and he smiled, knowing that she had surely refused to bow before some absurdity. He loved her for this. But, they continued to explain how this time, as was the employers right, her social status had been revoked, and she was left on the street. Dropping her thirty kilometres from home. No transport or autonomous vehicles would accept someone without social status. Walking confidently through the undercity slums, still wearing corporate uniform attire, she had quickly been marked by those with nothing to lose. She barely made it two blocks before she was robbed and murdered. When the police left, they took all her possessions with them as compensation for the company's losses. The only part of her that remained was their infant daughter, who had slept soundlessly in his arms the whole time. 

The work was complete in every aspect. With many of The Bakers most famous desserts, they were served when they achieved some level he pragmatically and reluctantly conceded as acceptable in a given timeframe. Still, there was always more that could be done. This time, there was no more. It was perfect. And so, as he always has, he put a single crack in its perfection, his signature. It was not a literal signature in this case but a tiny, undeniable mark that would let anyone who cared to look that it was his genuine work. After adding his makers' mark, he took a moment to enjoy his now completed masterwork, then he quickly removed it. Leaving any mark on the work would result in forfeiting his pay, his rights and, in this case, probably his life. It would be acceptable for the centrepiece in such a prestigious dinner to be created by someone of his economic or social status. His work would be commissioned by, presented by and enjoyed by others. It was well known that this occurred in high society, but the guests would play their parts, and the imposter would reap his rewards. This was simply how things were.

That night, with his prized art delivered and his final responsibilities attended to, he returned to the Private Kitchen to find a letter from his employer, not from his employers' secretary, but from his employer themselves. The world's richest man, the world's most powerful man, is effectively a god compared to The Baker. The letter thanked him for his work, explained in detail how meaningful this dish was for him, its significance and value, along with an invitation for him to attend the dinner, in the servants quarters, of course. This was an unprecedented honour. A handwritten letter like this would be the prized possession of some lives, or at least worthy of selling for a small fortune. The Baker, however, folded the letter up neatly and left it on the table. He chose not to stay for dinner. He was finished, at last. He couldn't care less about how important this work had been to his employer. It was important to him, to his wife, to his child, to his family. More important than it could ever be to anyone else, it was his. And in all his life, with all his life, all his work, he had never once been able to show this refined version of himself to his wife, to his daughter. If it was up to his employer, he never would. The sum total of his life's work would be collected and served to those for whom he did not care and who cared nothing for him. But that would not be the case tonight. In the Bakers bag, tucked away nice and neatly preserved, was a single, perfect slice of Chocolate Cake. A small part of the more significant work, his greatest work. This time, he would hold on to this part of himself, this priceless work. He would take it home, and he would give it to his daughter or, as he acknowledged was more likely, he would be stopped before he even left the building, arrested and summarily executed by security for theft. But tonight, he would not turn back, not this time.

He nods politely to the guards as he approaches the front security gates, but they do not nod back. He can hear someone is talking to them in their headsets, they look intensely at the Baker, but he does not look back. He does not stop, not this time.