11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

B ecca

The moment I step into the baking arena, I’m hit with the aroma of spices and sugary confections. Cinnamon, ginger, and something that smells like peppermint tickles my nose, sparking a little surge of nostalgia. It’s starting to feel a lot like Christmas—even out here, in the depths of space.

Arisha steps onto the stage, glowing in a shimmering green and red gown that shifts colors under the lights like a living Christmas ornament.

“Welcome, bakers… and gladiator, to the Galactic Glingonbread Garrison Challenge!”

A murmur of excitement ripples through the crowd as Arisha continues. “Each team will have four hours to construct an edible fortress using Zorgellian spice cakes, Meeponian sugar mortar, and an assortment of candy adornments. Your creations will be judged on structural integrity, aesthetic appeal, and, of course, taste!”

I turn to Pyne, a grin spreading across my face. “We do something similar on Earth. We call them gingerbread houses.”

His eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Gingerbread houses? Do Earthlings live in them?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “No, no. They’re just for decoration… and eating. It’s a holiday tradition.”

As we head to our workstation, I take in the ingredients laid out before us. We’re supplied with many recipes for the spice cakes and mortar. I set the computer pad to English, taste the spices to familiarize myself with them, and combine a few recipes to create spice cakes of my own design. Luckily, though the ingredients are new to me, the flavor profiles are very similar to holiday recipes and flavors from home.

I feel a sudden pang of homesickness, remembering the gingerbread houses my family used to make together every Christmas. The laughter, the sticky fingers, the joy of creation, the competition—it all comes rushing back.

I don’t think of my family and friends often. Not that I don’t love them or miss them. Just the opposite. I discovered shortly after my abduction just how much it hurt to think of them. It wasn’t just emotional pain, it was so wide and deep it made my body ache.

There’s something different today, though. When I think of Mom and Dad, it hurts, but it’s as though the pain has been blunted. My gaze slants to Pyne as I wonder if perhaps having him around, so thoughtful and gentle, has somehow taken the edge off my grief.

He notices my wistful expression and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You okay, sugarplum?”

I nod, blinking back the memories. “Yeah, just thinking about the holidays back home. Let’s make this Galactic Glingonbread Garrison one that would make my family proud.”

As we set to work, I guide Pyne through the process. After we put the bread in the oven, we use the computer pad to sketch our design. I know it has to be something unique and striking for us to win, but all I can think of are the creations I made with my family back on Earth.

Luckily, Pyne’s imagination is on overdrive today. He adds turrets and windows and we decide on a protective moat and drawbridge we’ll construct if we have time.

When the bread’s done baking, we slice it thin and put it back in a low oven so it turns the consistency of graham crackers rather than bread. Then we stack the spice cakes and use the sugar mortar to hold the construction together. Pyne’s strong, steady hands are surprisingly nimble, and soon we’ve got a solid foundation laid out.

I’m decorating the walls with intricate patterns of candy when I catch sight of the team next to us—the pair of hulking Saurian reptilians with scales that glint like polished obsidian. During dinner last night, Pyne mentioned they have a reputation for being as ruthless as they are cunning. I can only wonder how the pair stumbled into a baking competition rather than becoming mercenaries like so many others of their species.

As I watch, one of them, the male who has a jagged scar across his snout, reaches over and deliberately knocks a tray of candy adornments off the workstation of the team on their other side. The delicate spun sugar shapes shatter on the floor, and one of the other team’s bakers, a willowy, iridescent alien, lets out a cry of dismay.

“Oops.” The Saurian’s voice drips with mock sincerity. “How clumsy of me.”

His partner, a female with eyes like molten gold, snickers as they continue working on their own garrison, which is already taking on a menacing, spiked appearance.

Anger surges through me and I turn to Pyne, who also noticed the reptilians’ underhanded tactics. “Pyne, we can’t let them get away with that.”

He nods, his jaw clenched. “Agreed. But we also can’t stoop to their level. Let’s focus on making our garrison the best it can be and let the judges take care of the other team’s misbehavior.”

We redouble our efforts, and soon our Galactic Glingonbread Garrison is taking shape. The walls are studded with glittering stars and delicate, lacy patterns of frosting that remind me of snowflakes. Pyne has built a series of turrets and towers that look like something out of a fairy tale, and the whole thing is topped with a shimmering sugar dome that catches the light and reflects it in a diamond-like shimmer.

As we step back to admire our work, I breathe in the mingled scents of spice and sugar, feeling a warm glow of pride. It may not be a traditional Christmas, but working side by side with Pyne, creating something beautiful and delicious, fills me with the same sense of joy and connection I felt with family and friends back home.

The judges make their rounds, tasting and examining each garrison. When they reach the Saurians’ creation and I inspect it for the first time since they’ve finished, I can’t help but gasp. It’s a twisted, nightmarish thing, all jagged spines and leering gargoyles, more prison than fortress.

But as the judges move on to our garrison, their expressions change to ones of delight and wonder. They marvel at the intricate details, the clever use of candy adornments, and when they taste a piece of the spice cake, their eyes close in bliss.

“The flavors are perfectly balanced,” one judge declares. “The Zorgellian spices meld seamlessly with the sweetness of the Meeponian sugar. It’s like a symphony of taste.”

“And the construction is impeccable,” another adds. “This garrison looks like it could withstand an assault from an army of sweet-toothed invaders.”

In the end, it’s no contest. Our Galactic Glingonbread Garrison is declared the winner, and Pyne sweeps me up in a hug, spinning me around in a giddy circle.

“We did it, Becca!” he whoops. “We showed those Saurians what real baking is all about!”

I laugh at my big, strong gladiator’s elation at a baking creation. My mirth is soon replaced with arousal as the warmth of his embrace seeps into my bones. “We make a good team, Candy Cane.”

As we bask in the glow of our victory, I catch a glimpse of the Saurians, their faces twisted with envy and resentment. A shiver runs down my spine, and I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning of their hatred.

But for now, I push those thoughts aside and let myself savor the moment. The sweet taste of success, the joy of creation, and the growing bond between Pyne and me—it’s the stuff that holiday magic is made of, and I wouldn’t trade it for all the first-place ribbons in the galaxy—although I sure would like to earn my freedom.