Food Trek

-Stardate 23.452.7-
-Onboard the Victual Dominion Starship KS Luncheon-

Rise and shine, sleepy head! It’s another beautiful space-day aboard the Luncheon, and you’ve got plenty to do. Being Chef-Captain of one of the Dominion’s top of the line starships is a full time job, but you’re just the life-form to do it!
You squint your optical sensory organs of choice in the general direction of the narrator’s booming, sexy voice, and clumsily extricate yourself from your bed with a churlish expression. Don’t give me that look. If you want more positive adjectives, you’ll have to earn them!

Suddenly, a second, far less impressive voice speaks to you from somewhere overhead.

“Good morning, [UNKNOWN USER],” drawls the Luncheon’s computer, “Please log in.”

Great. It sounds like the computer’s malfunctioning again! Just like it did last week, when it went crazy and tried to kill everyone on board. Or the week before that, when it went crazy and tried to kill everyone on board. At least this time it seems fairly minor. You give the computer your log-in information.

“Error. Profile not found,” the computer says, its androgynous voice oozing boredom. “Please try again, or request a profile transfer from Dominion Central Command.”

You try once again to log in, but to no avail. Looks like you’ll have to request your profile transferred. Thankfully, Central Command keeps pretty good backups of these things.

“Very well. Establishing connection with Dominion Central Command. Please clearly state your full name, rank, species, and gender.”

There you have it kiddo. What do you say?

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.

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

Please clearly state your full name, rank, species, and gender.

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

"Chef-Captain Garli Conion, Female Beet Beetle"

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.

Bring a clock. Stab it, slowly and maliciously. Torture time in the most efficient way possible. Let its gasping breaths feed your treachery.

Check on the torpedoes.

Do you have any crew who are from Munchius or have experience serving food there? You don't want to nearly commit your own embarrassing faux-pas, after all.

yeah make sure those torpedos are warm and snug and still live

activate the deep friers and tune them to warp speed 7

activate the deep friers and tune them to warp speed 7

You call up the galley and make sure that they've tuned the deep fryers for warp speed cooking. You don't want the oil going out of synch with the rest of the ship mid-warp! It could spill on the floor and make a mess. Or burn someone. That's a no-no. Fortunately, your First Sous-chef, Commander Blrblgrlr, has made these arrangements. Good entity, them, a Jelloid from Jell-0. Very methodical. Probably due for a promotion of their own, one of these days. You need to teach them to be a little more daring, but all-in-all a very dependable sort.

Check on the torpedoes.

yeah make sure those torpedos are warm and snug and still live

A sensible decision! You decide to head down to the torpedo bay...

Bring a clock. Stab it, slowly and maliciously. Torture time in the most efficient way possible. Let its gasping breaths feed your treachery.

...But first you decide to do this, for some reason. You grab your bedside table clock as you leave. Taking your standard issue plasma paring knife (a must have for the Chef-Captain on the go), you slowly cut gouges in the treacherous time-piece, leaving plastic shavings and bits of wiring littering the floor behind you.

You enter the space-elevator and descend, all the while gouging and stabbing your defenseless digital-display victim. The ensign who was already on the elevator is trying very, very hard to be invisible. And pretty effectively, too, given her people's natural camouflage abilities.

You arrive at the weapons bay, and step out, leaving behind the cowering ensign.

The three people on duty in the weapons bay are surprised to see you, and are even more surpised to see you still absent-mindedly chopping at the now-ruined remnants of what was once a very nice alarm clock. You explain that you're just here to check on the torpedoes after the computer's little... hiccup.

They nod and you give the torpedoes a quick scan, along with a visual examination. Everything seems to be in order! That's good. Though fairly stable, you wouldn't want all these Scoville torpedoes just rolling around loose! These warheads, while not the most powerful models in the fleet, are still a little hotter than you'd like to handle.

Do you have any crew who are from Munchius or have experience serving food there? You don't want to nearly commit your own embarrassing faux-pas, after all.

Bidding the weapons technicians goodbye, you return to the space-elevator. By now, there's little left of the clock but some broken plastic and bits of electronic scrap, which you stuff in your pockets for later disposal.

"Computer," you begin, waiting for the narrator to quit talking so that you may continue, "Are there any Munchian crewmen on board?"

"One Muchian crew member on board. Ensign Stargleam. Currently assigned to the botanical labs."

You command the elevator to head for the botanical labs.

"You're welcome," sneers the computer.

Ah, the botanical labs, where the ship's fresh veggies are grown, and where cutting edge experiments in growing the perfect garnish take place. It's always humid in here, and strong earthy smells hang in the air. Reminds you of home, doesn't it?

With the help of the head botanist, you find Ensign Stargleam tending to some plants. You get his attention.

"AH! Uh, hi Captain," he says, peering around nervously. "If uh... if this is about the stuff in my quarters, that's medicinal!"

You tell him to relax. You also remind him that even non-medicinal 'stuff' isn't actually illegal under Dominion law, provided he's sober on duty.

"Oh... yeah!" His long ears perk up a bit, and his fur un-ruffles slightly. "I may have been watching too many old holovids... heh... things can kinda run together. Uh... so what can I do for you, Captain?"

You explain that you need to ask him if his species has any particular dietary requirements, preferences, or allergies you should be aware of.

"Whoa, Captain, are you gonna make me dinner or something? That's like, super nice of you!"

You may have to phrase things a little more clearly. Munchians are a pretty literal-minded bunch. Not dumb by any means, they just tend to think in straight lines.

You explain the situation a little more clearly.

"Ooooh! I get it! Okay, so, like, us Munchians don't really go in for big portions or real fancy stuff. We like to have a lot of little things to pick and choose from. We're grazers! The only thing you have to watch out for is we really don't handle sugar or caffeine very well. We're waaaay sensitive to that stuff, and a hyper Munchian is not a Munchian you want to be around. A little sugar's okay, but go easy on the desert, yeah?"

He's not just whistling Dixie, either! When Munchius Gamma was first discovered, the traditional Dominion welcoming gift baskets were distributed all over the world, containing an assortment of candies and other goodies.
The war was brief, but incredibly brutal. It lasted less than a standard week, but several large cities and their outlying areas were devastated in the fighting. It took years to rebuild, and the Munchians have been a bit leery of outsiders' food ever since (which is part of the reason you're on this mission). Munchians don't deal well with sugar, indeed!

Your communicator signals you. You answer it.

"Greetings Captain," comes the precise, mellow voice of Commander Blrblgrlr, "I've just received word from the bridge that another ship seems to be following us. Your presence is requested on the bridge."

You thank the Ensign for his time, and proceed to the bridge.

--

Lieutenant Vgarr is waiting for you. He seems distressed, although it's hard to tell as he's always scowling to one extent or the other.

You follow him to the sensor station, where he looms over the ensign on duty there. You join him in looming (though admittedly, Vgarr is much loomier than you are, even with your horn to give you an edge in that department).

"There," Vgarr says, tapping the display. "We detected this ship following us several minutes ago. It does not match any known profiles."

You take a closer look at the display, antennae twitching in concentration. The strange ship is matching your course exactly, and is moving just slightly faster. And it's big, too, whatever it is. It's obviously on an intercept course, but for what purpose?

"What is your command, Captain?" Vgarr asks.

RAM IT

Food tourists who have heard of your culinary genius!

PREPARE FOR BOARDERS... by cooking them a fine meal and making sure your guest rooms are ready to receive them.

cover their ship in whipped cream to disable their cloaking mechanism in advance, then fire off a maraschino cherry to break through their shields. slow them down and overheat their systems with a hot fudge glaze. this is going to be one bloody sundae

Don a poofier hat.

go to the bathroom and ruminate on the wonder of toilets

>Hail them!
>No! Computer! No! Don't hail them with missiles! Hail them ,as in open a communication channel GODDAMIT COMPUTER

go to the bathroom and ruminate on the wonder of toilets

You don't have time to admire the wonders of space-plumbing right now! Sure, there was a time in your life where you considered the life of a free-wheeling, independent space-plumber, but those dreams are behind you now! The Luncheon is where you belong, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

cover their ship in whipped cream to disable their cloaking mechanism in advance, then fire off a maraschino cherry to break through their shields. slow them down and overheat their systems with a hot fudge glaze. this is going to be one bloody sundae

You have a brief flashback to your days as an ensign, on board the Dessert Class Warship, the Adjudicator. In those days, the Dominion was at war with a strange race of flavor despising monsters, the Blandulons. Your first battle was over the planet Soy, a primary producer of the Superdense Tofu used to power most of the Dominion's starships. Maraschino missiles and streams of molten superfudge tore through the night sky over the Soyer's heads. The Dominion won that day, but at great cost...

Sadly, the Luncheon is no Dessert Class warship. Yours is primarily a diplomatic vessel (though not completely defenseless).

Don a poofier hat.

As Chef-Captain, yours is the poofiest hat on board. You'd have to be a Chef-Admiral to get a poofier hat! Maybe someday, if you play your cards right. But you've got bigger problems than the relative poofiness of your headwear right now!

Food tourists who have heard of your culinary genius!

PREPARE FOR BOARDERS... by cooking them a fine meal and making sure your guest rooms are ready to receive them.

Dining aboard the Luncheon is by reservation only! If they want something on a walk-in basis they should track down one of Burger Shogun's fast food stations, conveniently located in most major star systems.

RAM IT

"RAM IT." You shout, directly into the ensign's ear.

"But Captain!" Vgarr says, his head-vines rustling in confusion, "Our ship is not built for that! Our hull would crumple like a discarded cupcake wrapper!"

He has a point, there, Attila. Most starships aren't built for that kind of abuse, not even the Dominion's warships. Is it really worth sacrificing your life and the lives of everyone on board to slam your starship into an unknown vessel?

>Hail them!

"I meant to say hail them," you lie, "Computer, hail the unknown vessel!"

"Acknowledged... Hailing the unknown vessel. With Scoville torpedoes."

>No! Computer! No! Don't hail them with missiles! Hail them ,as in open a communication channel GODDAMIT COMPUTER

The computer sighs in annoyance.

"Very well. Opening a communications channel."

"This is Chef-Captain Sir Garli Conion, Jr. of the Dominion Starship Luncheon. Please identifty yourself, unknown vessel."

There is a brief period of silence.

"Receiving visual communications," the computer states.

You order it to be projected on-screen.

Turning towards the bridge's main screen, you are shocked at what you see.

He looks like he was human... once. However, his body is heavily modified. Strange mechanical components are grafted into his skin. Lenses of some sort cover his eyes. One of his arms looks to be wholly mechanical. When he speaks, his voice is in a robotic monotone.

"We are the Smorgasborg. Halt your ship and allow yourselves to be boarded. You will be absorbed, and your culinary techniques and flavors will be melded with our own. Opposition is useless."

The Smorgasborg. You thought they were merely a myth. There's never been any solid information about them, and no one has claimed to see them for decades. These guys look pretty serious though. You don't know much about them, except that they supposedly travel the galaxy, subjugating entire species and absorbing them. You do know one thing for certain though: You can't let them have the Luncheon. You won't.

"We repeat: Halt your ship and allow yourselves to be boarded. This is your final chance. If you do not comply, we will resort to force."

So, Chef-Captain, what's your reply?

This is simple enough. They're after your culinary techniques, so you just need to convince them that you aren't worth assimilating. Allow them to board and then serve them the worst meal you've ever made.

>Tell them that you want to check out the awesome cyborg optimizations that they're gonna do to you before you lose your minds to the hive. Send a crewmember (of a species that has the abilities come back unharmed at the end of all this!) and poison him so that they can absorb him...... and all die! A perfect plan!

activate some kind of food pun stealth mode and then teleport behind them in a food way

>Tell them that you want to check out the awesome cyborg optimizations that they're gonna do to you before you lose your minds to the hive. Send a crewmember (of a species that has the abilities come back unharmed at the end of all this!) and poison him so that they can absorb him...... and all die! A perfect plan!

Yes, just the right combination of cunning and daring!

"Before I agree, I need to know what kind of cybernetic implants and modifications we'll be subjecting ourselves to."

"Captain!" Vgarr hisses, "What are you doing?"

You would wink at him if you had eyelids. Instead you just gesture for him to be quiet.

"We will send over one crewmember! You can modify him, send him back to us, and we'll take a look. Deal?"

"Unacceptable. Halt your ship, and prepare yourselves to be boarded."

You have a feeling this guy did not attend the Dominion's mandatory series of seminars, 'Diplomacy and You: Empathize, Prioritize, and Compromise'

activate some kind of food pun stealth mode and then teleport behind them in a food way

You immediately spring into action. "Okay! I failed my diplomacy check! Turn off the coms, activate the cloaking device, power up weapons, let's go!"

The Luncheon's cloaking device begins powering up. Emitters on the hull beginning shooting out a thin coat of tapicloaka pudding, which quickly hardens into a shell, impervious to anything but the most powerful of sensor arrays.

"Alright, slow us and drop behind them, we'll--"

You're interrupted by an explosion that wrenches the ship and sends crewmen sprawling. Those Smorgasborg are quicker on the draw than you gave them credit for.

"They only inflicted minor damage, Chef-Captain," one ensign shouts over the blaring alarms, "but they shattered the cloak. We're exposed!"

Well dang.

This is simple enough. They're after your culinary techniques, so you just need to convince them that you aren't worth assimilating. Allow them to board and then serve them the worst meal you've ever made.

This goes against everything you were taught at the Dominion Culinary Academy. It goes against everything you stand for. But desperate times call for desperate measures. If it will save your crew, you will make... A SUB-PAR MEAL.

You hail the Smorgasborg once more.

"Halt your--"

"WE KNOW. We... we know. We're going to halt now! You can board us, and we'll demonstrate our techniques so you can absorb them."

"...Really?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you don't want to... oppose us some more?"

You shrug. "I believe you have informed us that opposition is useless."

"Well, yes... it's just... nobody has actually ever surrendered before. Most people fight us until the bitter, inevitable end."

"Yes, well, this is us surrendering. Prepare for the meal of your life."

"Yes. Good! Uh..." The Smorgasborg spokesman realizes that he has gone a bit off-script here. "Prepare to be absorbed! Resistance is useless. End communications!"

Vgarr gets your attention as soon as the screen shuts off.

"Captain!" He shouts, "What are you doing!? We can't surrender to those... those things!"

"Indeed we can't. Which is why I'm going to go down to the kitchen and prepare the worst meal I've ever made."

Vgarr looks shocked. "But Captain! You can't--"

"Shush. While I'm attending to things down in the kitchen, you get security armed and in position, in case things turn into a fight."

"Yes, Chef-Captain."

Now, you're going to need something truly, truly repugnant if you're going to repulse the entire Smorgasborg Hivemind. The more courses you can whip up, the better (especially since that will give the security teams more time to arm up and get into place). So, what are you going to prepare for your illustrious guests?

a box of chocolates, but all of them are filled with pure disappointment (harvested from that terrible planet you had to save the other week)

Mämmi.

artichoke hearts, seared, for an appetizer and a surprise digestif encore. they're leathery and hard-to-chew on the outside, but raw and still bleeding on the inside, and it's impossible to decide which is worse.