It was early in the era of orbi-culture. Industrial farming in orbit included chicken satellites hosting millions of zero-G cluckers. That's where it started: chickens. Turned out chickens raised in zero-G did better if they weren't exactly alive. Actually almost completely biologically dead was the best chicken to grow. The dead chicken being already dead did not have to be protected from the diseases which usually attack only living chickens. Dead chicken did not have to be free range, which posed problems in space. Never alive chicken does not have to be treated as sentient beings and assured meaningful lives. This saves lots of money.

The market of the time, early orbi-culture, still required chicken to look chicken-like. The food industry process engineers worked hard at making the best solution cultured egg-less vat brooded space chicken meat. After awhile, the techies that ran the bots that cleaned the vats noticed lots of boneless chicken stuck to the insides of the vats. They had a culture that grew edible chicken cells on anything.

This changed tertiary farming forever. Oh, people still farm and ranch and practice animal husbandry, just no longer industrially, no longer using vast swaths of land. Hobby meat for gourmets is still big business. Dinner lives a full life before signing the waiver for the butcher. Today the really big meat is in space.

In orbit of our moon Luna.

Sheep-sats, cow-sats, chicken-sats, pig-sats, sats full of vats full of any kind-of meats anybody not a vegan or a cannibal would really want to eat. Though there are rumors...

Custom Cultures Limited Laboratory satellite factory is a huge series of jacketed tanks strapped together behind a solar collector array in an antennae forest. This place brews the soupy living milk of cells all the dead meat needs to grow. Our spacecraft mob zipping into it's orbit looked like insects buzzing a gigantic spiny corpse. The French EU Frigate a warlike hummingbird to all the mosquitoes of space of Bearcats and cubs and Katska's and handi-cabs full of lawyers.

Our assault fleet is outnumbered by the space tankers, freighters, lined up in spirals of waiting to load or unload. Vans very like the one Kermit flew to Luniplas Crater Seven line a parking ledge. The great thing about the pilot-less remote controlled Bearcub is I sit up front in the pilot seat, with the big front window to look out of. Room for me and Space, Traci and Bette, and the Librarian. How come my blue one didn't have four seats up front like this? I ask the launch tank of marstini at my hand.

The person in the shock sack laid out... well, anywhere, set the Bearcub down in the row of delivery vans on the ledge of a long oblong structure. Airlock intact we disembark in 'blast em!” mode. It is a pleasant stroll through typical space business decor to the typical space factory 'control center'. Control of this operations podule secured by already re-promoted Captain No Chaos Here who somehow beat us to control.

Here too the staff are zombies. Only two, captured with the locking hatch's by corporate security from remote. No survivors to stun.

The Custom Cultures securities have great vid of Dr Kermit stealing the van. He loaded the zombie bomb bottle into it from the handi-cab he arrived here in. He brought it in the cab from somewhere... ? How did he zombiefy these two hapless employees? Why did they let him in the podual?

Traci: “Food delivery. Zombie bomb bottle identical to the Luniplas device. Vid being analyzed.” Troops carrying with poles a bubbled bottle squeezed past us toward the door.

Librarian: “The delivery van has been sighted. Parked at a 'Stucky's Rest Satellite' halfway to Balance Station.”

Me: “Is he inside having breakfast? They make a great waffle.”

Bette: “We are dropping a bubble bag over the whole orbital. Let god sort them all out!”

Me: “'God'?”

Traci: “Our new testing protocol: G.O.D. 'good or dead'.”

The Smiling Nose by glitchy holo: “Gegenspieler was there just after the office opened for the morning brought coffee and pastries and a zombie bomb. The Seattle police are after him.” He stands no chance against their doughnut fueled persistence.

Seattle Police Deputy Chief Sorenson: “We've got him! He rents three floors of University Marina tower. The site is surrounded.” Vid shows hundreds of police in bubble suits crouched for action behind all available cover.

Me: “Lets go!” But I'm no longer in charge of my transportation. This Bearcub with the up front seating is on Traci's signature.

Traci: “Lets go!”

Me: “hey suit whats up with all the sub-titles?”

Suit: “Boop”.

George McGeorge, Ginsberg and Cohen Space Taylor's by audio only: static “Today is upgrade Tuesday.” unintelligible “Your suit is having” static “bandwidth restrictions.” Is that a dig at my waist line?. ”Perhaps if you hung it up somewhere with good ping speed.”