Tempered, page 6
part #1 of Space Chef Series
Vaslov’s smile dropped away and the devil came out. Pointing his finger at the mercenary, he growled out his response. “You’re bought and paid for, bucko! Do you hear me? You’ll do as I say or there will be consequences beyond your imagination. All sorts of bad things can happen in space if you aren’t watching. Let me worry about those Intel boys. The Washington’s one of the flagships remember?”
“That’s what worries me, all the extra crew and things on board because of the admiral. Do you have a plan for that? I sure don’t see any others here with us. A ship this big… there’s only the two of us,” Watson remarked, glancing about the room.
“Plans within plans. I’ve had six full months to put my end of this together. Trust me. The Broth…” Vaslov waved his hands as if to erase his words. “I’ve other agents like you in place already. Everything will work as I explained. Our biggest worry is the crew. Have you found any issues?”
Watson gave his boss a wry look. Not knowing all the pieces was going to drive him insane, but even half of five hundred thousand credits was by far enough to pay off his debts and maybe, just maybe, get the syndicate off his ass. Note to self: never, ever, bet on a horse that gets a limp and never take advantage of a woman you don’t know. It was just his luck the top dick in the underworld had a very young-looking wife who liked to play. A little kink was one thing but getting caught with his pants down, literally, wrapped up in leather hanging from the ceiling on her sex swing was a bit much. He was so very lucky her guards took cash, all he had on him. This job couldn’t have come at a better time. Taking a deep breath, he nodded almost to himself before finally answering. “Issues? Yes, just a couple.”
Vaslov pulled out his tablet and laid it on the table. “Who?”
“The doctor was one, but I see he’s more of a loudmouth than a revolutionary. A bit of violence in the right direction will take care of him. A bullet to the brain if need be. You said it yourself that we’ve got a short crew for this one. Three biggest issues are the marines, engineering, and the chiefs. Eliminate at least two thirds of them and we’ve got this. If I had to choose, it would be marines, then engineering, followed by the chiefs,” Watson explained showing the captain his lists.
“The marine force is covered. I wouldn’t even be attempting this if it wasn’t. Why engineering? None of these were on my list,” he said pointing at the tablets.
“Control. This ship is from another time. Thirty, forty years ago the galaxy was different, more violent. I really wish I’d been born then. It wasn’t all that long ago that the Colony Wars ended, and the navy didn’t completely trust itself,” Watson said.
“Explain that,” Vaslov said.
“Simple. Query your AI. Look at the mutiny rates then versus now. It’s the entire reason we even have mutiny doors on this ship. There were way too many colonial pukes in the navy to trust them with command. It’s one of the reasons the armory is between Marine country and engineering. Check the schematics. There’s only a single deck between the two. If you’re able to look at some of the original plans for the ship, you might see some of the extra compartments in CIC and engineering. Weapon stores. Those spaces were set up to take back the ship if need be,” Watson pointed out. “We don’t use them now, I double checked that little tidbit. Emergency food supplies and backup ship parts, respectively. But why engineering? They can control the ship from there. Any engineer worth his salt can rewire the board down there to run the ship remotely. It’s been done before. Historically as well as recently. Nova twelve.”
Nova twelve. Vaslov stroked his chin a few times in thought. He’d forgotten that little dustup. He was sure the Navy wanted to, as well.
Two destroyers, one a surplus ship left over from the Colony Wars, the other the newest top of the line scout special, the Bunker Mountain. Nova twelve was the Corporation’s newest golden child. A system filled with rocks, rubble, and riches not seen in years. Aliens existed. Humanity had run into them less than a hundred years out of the Sol system. Their interest in us humans varied. Some, like the Greys, traded extensively with humans. They were sneaky double-dealing little shits, but they sold good stuff. Others were so far above humanity we were ants to their boots. Every so often you’d read a report of primitives or lost ruins found somewhere, but never a whole damn system. That was Nova twelve. At some point in time, there’d been a war and the Nova people lost. They lost big. Some unknown weapon vaporized all the planets.
Infrastructure was slow to build, so protection was needed. The older destroyer, the Opus, was assigned the job by one of the corporations. It was the ship on station when Bunker Mountain came calling. Neither captain could explain it afterward, but there was something in that system that blocked standard communication procedures. The very moment the Opus called to report its position, all coms went down on the Opus.
The battle might have been awesome to watch if anyone was watching. As it was, they were alone among the rocks. Opus fired first and Bunker finished it. Both ships floating in space, streaming air and the frozen blood of their dead. The Opus was older and better equipped for war than the newer ship. “They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” explained it best.
“Right,” Vaslov said. “I don’t have a man down there, and that’s a problem. My original plan was to seal off that section first, then attacking with the marines if possible. The distraction provided would give us time to consolidate the bridge and either gas or vent the ship. However, since I put the plan into action I’ve managed to replace more than ninety percent of the officers. My contacts are supposed to meet us at our drop-out point. If certain officers and crew are eliminated, we might be able to pass it off as an attempted mutiny if something goes wrong. But it shouldn’t. I’ve been informed that they can assault the ship if need be, but we’d lose our fee if they have to do it. I’d rather get paid.”
“And the chiefs?” Watson asked. Among the enlisted men of the ship, the chief was the closest thing to a god they had.
“Half of them aren’t with us, like the missing crew. With a couple of exceptions, the officer corps is brand new, too. None of them have had time to explore the ship or become acquainted with either all the chiefs or enlisted. I’ve worked them that hard. Besides yourself, there are an even twenty of my people on board. In a ship of multiple thousands, what we’re about to do would be near impossible. There are less than five hundred crew with us,” Vaslov explained. He chuckled. Orders from the Admiralty said to take the Washington out half a sector before jumping straight back. BuShips wanted a simple test to be sure the engines were working. He could only laugh at their imagined faces when word reached them his ship had vanished. It was the most perfect revenge on them. Eyeing the renegade in front of him, he frowned slightly. Two hundred fifty thousand credits was way too much to pay a double dealer like Watson. When his employers came for the ship, he’d make a secondary deal with them.
Thomas Watson was having similar thoughts. Just who was this guy, besides a disgruntled captain? CCID would pay big time money to learn about him. Stealing even a small ship from the navy was ballsy, but one of the two flagships? Vaslov should walk with pride wherever he goes. His balls must be gigantic and made of gold and silver. If the chance arose, Watson would use the communication protocols they’d given him, but for now he’d ride the inside track and learn what he could. Maybe things would go as planned. Two hundred fifty large with the added bonus five hundred prime mining slaves would bring. New Vegas would be the least he would hit with that kind of cash! “Is there anything else for me?”
“One person to add to your list that wasn’t in the records. Chef of the Navy, Casey Lewis. She came on board at the last minute before departure,” the captain explained.
“Lewis? Isn’t she like some kind of food guru or something?” Watson asked with a frown.
“A nosey bitch is more like it. She’s one of BuShip’s spies. While she does a good job training up the cook staff, she pokes her nose into the entire ship, or at least that’s what I’ve heard. As Chef of the Navy, Lewis is outside the normal chain of command,” Vaslov commented even as he searched his tablet for the Chef’s records.
“What’s her background, do you know?” Watson asked.
“Cooking. She’s been in at least fifteen years but only worked for Admiral Hawthorne for ten, I think.” The captain gave his tablet a shake. “Stupid thing. There isn’t very much here. Just enough to prove she’s navy. One of my Academy classmates told me about her once. She roams around almost at random. Orders from the admiral told me to give her a free hand with Chef Johnson, my personal chef. She’s supposed to be training him and his staff on new procedures and recipes.”
“Blond hair, about this high?” Watson held up his hand less than two meters.
“Yes,” Vaslov answered, “that’s what’s written here.”
“She caused a stink at boarding. One of my… our… specialists had a run-in with her. Something about large floating cases he was unable to search. Master Sergeant Draven and Lieutenant James took care of her. I’ll assign someone to keep an eye out. You got anything harder than this? We should toast the job.” Watson held up his glass of tea.
Vaslov snorted. “Spirits, on a naval vessel? Who are you kidding here? I’ll call my man to bring us something really good.”
“Why do I always get the idiots?” Sergeant Michale Bolton mumbled to himself as he monitored the conversation in the dining area. It seemed like every time they needed someone to monitor the pigeon, his name came up. Being recognized as the best at something made you beneficial to the Brotherhood and decreased your chance of spacing. But only a little. Vaslov had sounded like a good bet. A free battleship with little to no cost looked too good to be true. Poke one officer here, prod another there, and suddenly a promotion goes away like it never existed. From what he’d seen so far, the man was a good captain but a lousy drunk. Loose lips sink ships was just as relevant now as it had been a thousand years ago. But still, asking drunken naval officers how they’d take their own ships down paid off occasionally. Bolton closed the hidden panel and set his tablet down. Time for some play acting. “Coming, sir.”
Bolton stepped into the room, his hands behind his back, almost at attention. “Sir?”
“Break out the good whiskey, Sergeant. Time for a toast,” Vaslov ordered.
Studying the executive officer for a moment he nodded. “Of course, sir.”
The really good stuff sat in a bottle marked ‘Foot Elixir’ that was stored inside the medical cabinet in the galley. Naval regulations were both lax and strict when it came to alcohol on board. Admirals and above were allowed a single bottle of spirits and unlimited wine to be used for socialization and meetings. But captains were only supposed to have wine. Officers were limited to single bottles per tour with enlisted having none. That didn’t stop micro stills from popping up in unexpected places, anyway. It was the primary reason sugar and fresh fruit were kept under lock and key aboard ships. If you wanted a nip, you had to disguise it.
Transferring the liquid to two shot glasses, Bolton returned to the officers. “Here you are, sir.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Watson smelled the glass, taking in the waft of scents. “Not much of this out on the frontier.”
“I know. This is my personal supply. I had it stashed until we departed. Those damn dock workers were everywhere for the past six months. You can’t keep much secret from them,” Vaslov gripped his glass. Giving his XO a nod, he slugged it down. Even as the fiery liquid burned down his throat he uttered the word “smooth.”
Watson frowned as the whiskey touched his taste buds. He’d had the really good stuff on New Vegas, and this wasn’t it. Rotgut, more likely. One more check mark against the captain. He always judged character by what a man drank.
“I won’t keep you from your duty, Thomas. By my calculations we’ve got less than a week before the rendezvous to take care of the crew. Start now. In the morning, I’ll see what we can do about this list,” Vaslov said as he held up his tablet.
“Yes, sir. That sounds like a plan.” Watson slid out of his chair and stood up. “I’ll see myself out, then.”
Vaslov upended the shot glass, catching the last drop on his tongue. “Good. We’ll touch base in a day or so. Carry on.”
The moment the door closed and locked, Bolton was on Vaslov. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Vaslov slammed the shot glass down onto the table, almost breaking it. “Who are you to speak to me like that?”
“You know very well who I am, so don’t play those games with me, Captain,” Bolton replied with scorn in his voice. “How soon you forget who dragged you out of the massive hole you’d managed to trap yourself in. It was the Brotherhood who gave you this chance at revenge. Our plans. Our people. Do you have any idea of who he’s worked for in the past? Do you? You might’ve given the entire fucking thing away by bringing him along.” Bolton pointed at the door. “By bringing that traitor here with us you’ve put my head along with yours on the chopping block. And let me tell you something. I like my head where it is, so if I go, you go. Don’t think I won’t kill you in the most inventive way I can think of. Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?”
“If you must know, I hired him to help with the officers. The ship’s computer can only do so much. I have to have a few hands I can trust as well,” Vaslov replied. His hands were starting to shake just a bit.
“You don’t fucking listen, do you. What did we say? Does that alcohol-pickled brain of yours remember anything? The Brotherhood will provide the manpower. Yours is the will. Only on your authority will the computer lock out the others. Hiring your own people wasn’t in the contract we signed with you, damn you!” Bolton yelled again. “This plan of yours better work.”
Lemon Bars Rule
“Sergeant Bolton doesn’t exist,” I muttered to myself. Officially, my job within BuShips was to evaluate the culinary departments. However, Admiral Hawthorne also wanted me looking for what he called oddities. Strange bits of staffing qualified as odd. Exiting out of the ship’s crew registry, I had Sarah do a general search of the name.
“Nothing pertinent shows up. The surname has some historical meaning, though. Only one entry this decade not related to the navy in general,” Sarah replied after a moment.
“Define historical meaning,” I directed. Sometimes knowing the history of things helped to understand the present. Everything was interesting to me.
“Michael Bolton, a singer and performer of music defined as pop. Birth and death in the late twentieth and twenty-first centuries. John Bolton diplomat and activist. Birth and death in the same time period as Michael, no relation found. Several towns and historic buildings located in what was once the North American portion of Old Earth were also–”
“End,” I said, cutting Sarah off. I stared into space for a few seconds. “Other than ancient records, what do you have for the fleet? Any Boltons there?”
“Not the modern fleet. Records indicate there was a Bolton family on board the Kansas City in 2215,” Sarah answered.
“The Kansas City? Which Navy?” I asked her.
“Colony ship The Kansas City, ship number J-5-Alpha. Privately constructed by a consortium of investors in Earth orbit. Officially launched with a marked destination of Ceti Tau Four January 30, 2215. The ship never arrived. No trace has been found,” Sarah explained.
“Hmm. Interesting, but not part of this, then. Resume standard searches,” I ordered. While I wasn’t technically a spy, my AI was. Keeping Sarah and her ‘advances’ secret was part of the deal I’d struck with BuShips and Admiral Hawthorne. She did the majority of the info grabs. I just cooked.
I pushed away from the small built-in desk in my quarters and started to gather my things. I’d felt the vibration of the Washington entering transwarp several hours ago. According to my copy of the orders, we were supposed to jump out a quarter parsec, cruise for half a day, then jump back. Any and all malfunctions were to be noted. Food and other supplies were stocked aboard in the off chance the newly upgraded jump engines failed. Sublight sucked so much that traveling home on it alone would be awful. But for even a ship as large as the Washington, it would only take a few days rather than weeks. That was the real reason for the short staff. While I’d been working with both Chef Johnson and his sous chefs, today was the real training day.
“Ok boys and girls, it’s time to play some games.” The Washington’s kitchen crew was top notch, but it was my job to make them better. My training techniques might not follow the book, but they worked. And that was all Admiral Hawthorne wanted. And he wanted success, and I planned to get it even if it killed all of them. “This...” I dropped a stack of flimsies on the table in front of them. “...is just a taste of some of the new recipes we’ve put together for you. BuShips has been listening to all of your complaints and requests fleet-wide for a while now. We’ve boiled it all down to three main categories: food, equipment, and technique. Technique meaning new recipes or new ways of doing things. For example, a fellow cook way out on the rim discovered a way to cook meat during transwarp. Rather than keep it to himself, he shared it.”
The many cooks surrounding the table all began murmuring to themselves. Everyone except Sous Chef Tomas, that is. He’d learned this one already. One of the ways I trained was through demonstration. Reading manuals or naval directives got old fast. Because they were written by the most unimaginative and boring of authors, most cooks and chefs lost interest halfway through, and ended up depriving their crews of a tasty treat.
Pulling fresh ingredients from the reach-ins and refrigerant units surrounding this part of the kitchen, I proceeded to demonstrate some of what I was talking about. “...so you see the difference? Food you prepared the old way might be rejected by your captain and crew as inedible or wasteful. It was those practices that have set this job of ours back a century. Never forget that everyone has to eat to survive. Even the Craven, those funky doglike aliens in the Opus sector, have to eat at least once a week. Trust me on this, I’ve eaten falconer, and prepared improperly it’s grisly and unappetizing. The guy that invented this technique turned down a transfer to BuShips, by the way. He told Admiral Hawthorne he liked the customs cutter he was on too much. Room to experiment without oversight, is what he told me. So, take his example to heart and learn something new. When we stop learning we start dying.”
