The Quantum Soup Catastrophe
Jonno Virek prided himself on hauling the weird, the dangerous, and the downright ridiculous across the Belt, but even he had never dreamed of being terrorised by soup.
He and Mara had picked up the cargo on Europa Station — a sealed crate of instant soup pouches, experimental, self-heating, “quantum-infused for perfect temperature every time,” according to the marketing blurb. The contract was to deliver it to a research outpost orbiting Saturn, where some bright spark hoped to feed entire station crews with the stuff.
The trouble started when they left orbit.
“Jonno,” Mara called from the galley, “the soup is… boiling.”
Jonno frowned from the pilot’s seat. “Isn’t that what soup does?”
“It’s boiling while still sealed,” she replied. “And then it froze. And then it started fizzing like a bad soda.”
Jonno sighed and came to investigate. Sure enough, pouches of quantum soup were shifting states at random — solid, liquid, gas — and leaking a rainbow swirl of synthetic miso into every corner of the cargo bay. One packet, in a fit of quantum inspiration, had decided to condense onto the ceiling in the shape of a smiling cat, then drip suspiciously down on Jonno’s head.
“Wonderful,” he muttered, wiping soup off his brow.
Mara tried to scan the packets with a handheld analyser, only for the analyser to lock up, burping out an error code in ten different languages. The soup, she realised, was rewriting its own molecular code every time anyone so much as thought about a meal.
By the time they arrived at Saturn orbit, half the ship smelled like a dodgy noodle bar, and the ship’s climate system was on the fritz from trying to balance quantum steam drifting through the vents.
When the station’s research director came on comms, Jonno had to explain why the precious shipment might need a containment field just to unload it.
“You brought me a molecular hazard,” the director hissed.
Jonno shrugged. “Call it a gourmet hazard.”
With Mara’s help, they improvised a stabilising field using parts salvaged from an old plasma cutter and one of Mara’s hair clips, giving them just enough containment to land the cargo without feeding half of Saturn Station an unwanted instant lunch.
Once the last quantum soup packet was secured, Mara poured herself a mug of strong tea, looked at Jonno with a grin, and asked, “Think they’ll still pay us for this?”
Jonno laughed, mopping a smear of fluorescent broth from his sleeve. “If not, we’ll bill them for the entertainment value.”
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