Saccarine

No one came to see it, at first. How to ask? How to tell people to come and see, and not sound like a scammer or a crazy person, someone with something to sell or say. Why would you come and see?

The police, eventually, sent a couple of their people. Maybe they thought someone was going to be a danger to themselves or others. The two who arrived first had lost a bet, probably, but when they saw it for themselves, investigated a bit, and could not explain it- they sent for more. Uniforms secured the room. A couple of media showed up, did some interviews, took their pictures- and refused to publish. Ruin their reputations, you see. It was obviously a hoax. Just because no one could explain it- well, it still had to be a hoax.

Someone called the Detective. The PI. It might have been one of the police, at this point more than happy to pass the burden on. Who knows why he responded. He had said, more than once, that he had no interest in cheap publicity stunts. This had to be that, right?

Only, whose hoax? The room they had closed was the hotel’s main hall. A wedding reception had been booked. Not a society wedding- very middle class, but still, tens of thousands in fees for food and rental that would need to be refunded. An enemy of the hotel then had motive, obviously- but then, still, how? If you had the kind of access that would allow for such a hoax, why not just release some vermin, or set the place on fire. If you had the skill set to pull this off- why were you wasting your time playing pranks on a medium sized chain hotel in a medium sized city, and not pulling in seven figures with an act in Vegas. No theory explained the motive very well. No theory at all could explain how.

“See the cherry filling there? Do you think that is natural, or part of this… effect?”

The Detective had arrived, to everyone's surprise, rather quickly. His entourage consisted of a single bemused individual.

Friend? Colleague? Date? Another mystery. Not as interesting.

It was to this individual that the Detective spoke now.

“The filling. It is my suspicion that it- holding together like that? Is part of this. I’d like to see if I’m right. Send for the chef.” This last, not directed at the Individual, but at one of the other attendants in the room- a middle manager from the hote,l who had been deemed competent enough (but also expendable) to deal with this situation.

“The chef- sir, I assure you, this did not come from our kitchen!” he exclaimed, nearly in a panic.

“I did not say that it had. I merely seek an expert on the subject of normal pastry. It is not a subject I find myself an expert in, as it does not normally come up in my work.”

The chef was sent for.

Meanwhile, the Detective had circled the thing three more times. He had his companion hold one end of a string, and together they passed the string all around, above, below, both sides. Then they took a second string between them and passed the two simultaneously above and below.

No wires were found.

The chef arrived. Not the head chef, but a pastry chef. Expert indeed. She walked up to the object, almost as bemused as the detective.

“Not one of mine.” She said, looking closely at it.

The Detective raised an eyebrow. She narrowed her own. Understanding. An artisan knows their craft.

“Still, you are familiar with the … type?”

“Sure. Bog standard black forest cake. Sugar like a freight train. The cherry stuff in the middle- probably store bought, out of a can. One chance in ten maybe it was made in house, but why bother. Chocolate shavings on the top- nice touch. Still, not one I’d do.”

This appraisal did not affect the wedge-shaped slice of cake. It hung there, as it had since earlier in the afternoon when it was first discovered, a little over four feet off the floor, slightly canted to the side, unaffected by the movement of the air or anything else, including gravity.

“This-” the detective held up his hand next to the floating slice of cake “is bog standard?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know how they made it float in the air like that. It wasn’t covered at my school. I assume that’s more your line?”

“Not my line. Not anyone’s line, to my knowledge. Do you think- could we all be hallucinating?”

She shrugged again “If we were- how would we know?”

“Well, I for one have experienced a great number of different chemical excursions. I promise you, none of them felt this lucid. I am, for the moment, quite certain that we’re not all hallucinating, or under the influence of any mind altering substance. Though I’m equally certain many people will explain our testimony as such. Easier, that way, for them, I expect.”

She, for the first time, looked a little uneasy “You’re saying- you can’t explain this?” He held up his hands and counted off fingers “We can, as you can see, freely pass under, over, and all around it. No wires or support structure of any kind. Nothing magnetic is holding it up- my first surmise, disproven.” He spun a nickle in his hand and flipped it through the air, over, then under the floating slice of cake. “No wind or airflow that suspends it. We are not, to the best of my understanding, suffering a collective hallucination. We are not, to the best of my ability to discern, all trapped in a Virtual or Augmented reality of any kind- at least, not one perpetuated simply to fool us into believing a slice of black-forest cake floats here before us.”

“So what is it?” blurted the Individual, losing their cool “You’re clearly delighted. You must have some explanation!”

“No, I do not!” Said the Detective. “This is the thing. Whatever this… is it does not conform to what I understand.” He grinned like a schoolboy. “It’s wonderful. It’s something new.”

“But I thought you were a scientist.”

“Yes, that is the case.” he nodded “You imagine I must dismiss this thing, angrily claim it is a hoax, a delusion, because it does not conform to understood reality? Hardly. It is, for now, unexplained. Many things are, though few so… whimsical. It is beyond my experience. I cannot explain it. This is a wonderful thing, because only things that we can’t now understand offer us any opportunity to learn anything.”

“So it is a ghost? A miracle? Aliens?”

“As I have said, I do not know what it is. I do not believe it is any of those- all three surely would announce themselves more specifically, but I can hardly imagine. There is only one thing to do now.” He set off, with purpose, to the side of the room to where tables had been hastily cleared, seized his implement, and returned.

“What- what are you doing?” asked the individual.

“Two things seem certain. One is that the world will not accept this at face value. Pictures, video, testimony- only people who can see and examine this thing as closely as we have will have any chance to conclude it is not a simple hoax. Yet very soon, if it continues, it will be seized and sequestered by political or economic interests bent on hiding or profiting from it. At that time we’ll be denied any further access to examine it. If we are to learn anything, we must do so now- this minute.”

He flourished the fork. “The second is that this, whatever it is, if it is not a perfect hoax but some manifestation of an element of reality beyond our understanding, it must, must, be intentional, the work of a deliberate choice. Why make a piece of cake float four feet off the floor in the middle of a busy commercial meeting room? If it were some random cosmic accident, why not a rock in the forest, or some piece of flotsam out at sea? It is an edible thing in a high traffic place where it could not help but be noticed. A choice, made by an intelligence. An invitation, surely. To trick or compel someone into eating such a strange thing would be immoral, criminal- so I must part take myself. For science.”

With that, before any of the astonished onlookers could react. He reached out, deftly scooped a chunk off the end of the wedge, and placed it, a little gingerly, into his mouth. Chewed a moment, then swallowed.

Silence. He puckered his face. The room gasped.

Then, “You’re right- it is very sweet.”