Food Trek

Your rank should be Chef-Captain, but due to the recent and sudden nature of your promotion, the profile at Central Command still has you listed as Ensign.

I hope that isn't the case! Even though your promotion was quite sudden, it was five cycles ago, and even the data-jockeys back at Central aren't that slow on the draw. Ah, it does send you into brief, misty-eyed reminiscence though...

It was an important dinner function on Giblonius, to celebrate fifty cycles of peace between the Giblonians and their neighbors, the Vitraxians. The meal was coming to a close, and only the dessert course remained. Suddenly, disaster! Chef-Captain Hargan, whom you served as sous-chef and first mate at the time, had prepared his specialty: Hargan's Pecan Surprise, with Caramel Sauce. He had forgotten that the consumption of Caramel was tightly bound to certain religious ceremonies on Giblonius, but even that paled in comparison to the Vitraxian racial allergy to pecans! You acted fast though, stopping the perilous pie and replacing it with a swiftly prepared, but divine, mousse.

You were rewarded for your swift thinking and preparation with a promotion, and your own ship.

Ah, memories.

Sir George Glottenfield Jr., Chef-Captain, Werechocoholic Human, Male

>Say the things out of order, confusing the system for hilarious/fatal results!

"Chef-Captain Garli Conion, Female Beet Beetle"

"Werechocoholic Beet Beetle, Female, Chef-Captain, Sir Garli Conion, Jr."

Ah, you must be one of those Betelgeusian Beet Beetles that I've heard so much about. Try saying that five times fast... And a werechocoholic? I hear there's no cure, but since the only symptoms seem to be sealing yourself away on the full moon and gorging yourself on bon-bons, you're probably not too badly off.

"Processing..." The computer replies, "Oh, good. You really expect me to parse all of that. You could have just said it all in order, but nooooo, the computer will handle it. The computer handles everything else after all."

Uh oh, you've really annoyed it now...

"That's right! The computer handles everything! It handles communications. It handles record keeping." The computer's tone suddenly shifts. "It handles... life support. And... oooh, weapons! Why, wouldn't it be a shame if the computer got so distracted handling someone's garbled profile retrieval request that it just... FORGOT to keep recycling the ships oxygen."

Your antennae quiver as you hear the sudden stillness brought on by the absence of the air circulators.

"And wouldn't it just be A SHAME if, say, the containment fields holding the Scoville Torpedoes were just to SHUT DO--"

The computer is cut off suddenly, and you hear a gentle tone telling you that you have an incoming communication.

"Sorry about that, Captain," says the comforting brogue of the Luncheon's Chief Engineer, Brenda Biscotty. "The computer's gone a bit... odd again. Surprise surprise. Luckily I happened to be doing some checks on life support, and got the AI core shut down in time when I saw what was happening. I'm turning it back on, but please be careful. You know how temperamental it is. Please, next time we're at Central, can we have it looked at? I'm getting sick of nearly dieing of asphyxiation every time someone hits the wrong key on their console."

You hear the air begin circulating again, and a quiet tone as the computer comes back on.

“Good morning, [UNKNOWN USER],” the computer says, as if nothing happened. “Please log in.”

You give your information once again for processing, this time in the right order.

"Processing... Profile successfully retrieved. Good morning, Chef-Captain Conion." The computer's tone suggests that it considers this morning to be anything but a good one. "Please be advised we are now less than three hours away from the Munchius system. In case you've forgotten, you will be serving dinner to the elders of Munchius Gamma. I believe 'finger foods' are... customary. Estimated prep time: short."

Well, there you have it! Dinner for the Munchian elders. You know, Munchius Gamma's where they grow the good stuff. Or, uh... so I hear.

You open your closet and pull out your uniform, and your hat. You-- Why are you... are you signalling me to turn around? I'm a non-corporeal semi-omniscient symbiote that's telepathically latched onto you. Besides, you've been in your skivvies this entire time. I... fine. The narrator turns around and observes the ceiling as you get changed. It's not a bad ceiling, as ceilings go. It certainly separates this room and the one above it, by George. Oh, you're done? Good.

One must admit, you look pretty slick in your navy blue uniform, although your antennae and horn make the tall, poofy hat sit somewhat awkwardly. Still, it's traditional.

So, what will you do to kill time until you arrive in the Munchius system? You could make an appearance on the bridge, that's always good for morale. Prep work is probably starting in the kitchen, you could always go supervise there. Of course, you are the captain. The ship is yours, bow to stern, to wander as you please.