Psychotic Academy

Daniel Jackson looked out over the restaurant with approval. He and Stark had just been transferred from the Academy kitchens to the prestigious role of food preparation at the Starfleet VIP Centre, Tokyo. Now, rather than just serving up uninspiring slop to cadets, they’d be serving up uninspiring slop… er, haute cuisine to the senior Admirals of Starfleet. It was an exciting career move. At least, for Stark. Jackson had just graduated from cleaning the floors to chopping vegetables, which still wasn’t the most amazingly interesting thing he’d ever done in his life. But he seemed to have a definite talent for it. Jackson shrugged. At least the decor was nicer here than at Command.

“Don’t think much of the decor,” Stark grumbled as he walked past Jackson carrying a large tureen. “I think it’s nice,” Jackson said. Actually, what he said was “Mmf mmf mmf nice,” as he was polishing off a breakfast bagel he’d appropriated from the senior officer’s mess buffet, but the general meaning came through via a spray of crumbs.

“It’s cleaner than the Academy, I’ll give you that,” Stark replied. “Now, are you going to stand there all day or are you going to come and help me?”

“Uh…” Jackson was torn with indecision.

“Normally, that question’d be a no-brainer,” Stark said. “Come on, we’ve got food to prepare.”

Today was going to be a busy day at the VIP Centre. There was an all day strategy and tactics session, with top brass from all over the galaxy converging on Tokyo to share ideas and brainstorm new techniques, taking place. It was to be an exciting and challenging session that would undoubtedly revolutionise Starfleet’s techniques and reinforce its role as the premier exploration and defence force of the Federation. On a more prosaic level, it meant that Stark and his team had to prepare meal after meal for most of the senior officers in Starfleet. Mistakes would mean court-martials. To say Stark was feeling the strain would be putting it mildly.

Jackson, however, as a civilian contractor felt slightly removed from the strain. Much as he hated to admit it, his job wasn’t specialised enough that he couldn’t find a similar role elsewhere, although having to move to another job that would involve him moving out of the Starfleet complex would mean either setting up a complicated mail re-routing program, or actually admitting to his family that he hadn’t made it into Starfleet Medical after all. In the meantime, however, he could quite cheerfully ignore the boiling tensions that flew round the kitchens faster than a runaway creme brulee.

And speaking of which… Jackson entered the kitchens only to be hit in the face by an airborne Pecorino cheese. He toppled soundlessly to the floor, his last conscious thought being a vague wish that it had been one of the softer cheeses, something along the lines of a Brie or a Camembert.

Stark stepped over Jackson’s comatose body and brought the tureen up to cover his face. Two seconds later, a Cevapcici bounced off the steel and embedded itself in a wall.

“Yugoslav kebabs?” he asked, extracting the skewer from where it was stuck.

“Yes sir, Commodore Miselovic is one of the delegates today,” one of his sous-chefs replied.

“Ah, good thinking,” Stark slid a lump of minced pork off the end of the skewer and popped it in his mouth. He chewed carefully, before nodding in grudging approval. “That’ll work. Carry on.”

Making his way over to his normal station, Stark read off the menus of the day. To say there was a wide variety of food being produced today was to commit a massive understatement. He’d had one area of the kitchen cleared away and specially cleansed to produce vegetarian food to official Vulcan dietary standards. The Veg-Zone was as far away as possible from the shielded section of the kitchen that was assigned to Andorian delicacies. For safety’s sake, personnel had to pass through a hurriedly erected airlock, wear protective garments and have received special training on some of the implements before they could begin work there. Between these two areas chefs were running about preparing a multitude of dishes for consumption more or less straight away.

Stark strapped on an apron, consulted his menu padd, and set to work on the Tellarite consomee that had won him awards at the last Federation Good Food ceremony.

Behind him, Jackson pulled himself to his feet, shook his head carefully, and made his way over to his chopping station. Unlike the other sous-chefs, Jackson’s duties were at the moment limited to cutting stuff up, and he had a long list of carrots, root vegetables and later slabs of meat to slice his way through. Selecting his favourite knife, Jackson got to work.

 

In no time at all, Jackson was surrounded by mounds of peeled and sliced vegetables, and was cheerily whistling whilst he worked. Stark similarly was in seventh heaven, and enjoying a mild fantasy in which he won award after award for his carefully sculpted meal choices.

“Attention on deck! Commodore arriving!” The shout came from the main doors to the kitchen, and Stark and the other Starfleet chefs sprang to attention. Jackson looked vaguely up from his chopping, then, seeing nothing immediately interesting, returned his attention to his work.

The doors slid open, and the impressive form of Commodore Miselovic entered the kitchens. “Ah, Stark!” he boomed. “Good to see you!”

Stark grinned, and saluted sharply. “Commodore, good to see you too, sir.” His sous-chefs exchanged glances, and the Commodore’s deep bass voice provided some necessary exposition. “Stark’s first posting as a Starfleet chef was aboard my last command, the Irredeemable. This man is the finest chef in the fleet!”

“You’d better believe it,” Stark added meaningfully at his sous-chefs, who took the hint and returned to work. “So, Commodore, what brings you here?”

“The strategy and tactics session, of course! A chance to swap ideas with the finest minds in the galaxy, and of course sample your fantastic cooking!”

Stark’s chest puffed up, as did his head with all the praise lavished upon it. “We’ll pull out all the stops for you, Commodore.”

“You always do,” Miselovic nodded, and marched out of the kitchens. “There goes a damn fine commander,” Stark said to no-one in particular. “Best in the fleet.”

“What about Kirk?” a particularly foolish sous-chef said.

“What about Kirk?” Stark snarled back. “The culinary highlight of the Enterprise’s five year mission was when an alien species created real meatloaf in the galley. Worst galley crew in the fleet.”

The sous-chefs glanced at each other, and remembered to take into account Stark’s somewhat blinkered view of the strengths and weaknesses of the fleet. Nodding understandingly, they got back to work.

 

Jackson by this point had finished his chopping, and so reported to Stark for new duties.

“I haven’t actually got anything else food-related for you to do,” Stark said apologetically, “but we’re a waiter short. Get smartened up and we’ll use you waiting tables.” Jackson looked doubtful at this turn of events, but obediently hustled off to get changed. Stark returned his attention to the Arcturian broth he was preparing, the consommee having been completed.

 

The morning wore on, with the constant supply of hors d’ouevres keeping everyone busy (Stark had threatened the kitchen staff with extreme pain if anyone referred to between-meals food as ‘snacks’ or, God forbid, ‘nibbles’). Stark, with an eye on the clock, was all too aware it was rapidly approaching lunch, the first major test of his kitchen on this critical day. The starters were already prepared and ready to go, and he had enough of the main courses to serve regardless of who ordered what. Stark was determined not to repeat the infamous Bouillabaisse Rush of 2264. A lot of good chefs had lost their livelihoods that day, and the event was still talked of in hushed tones throughout the cooking community.

Stark shuddered at the mere thought of a rerun of that disaster, and Jackson, who was straightening his bowtie, remarked, “Cold?”

“Cold? What’s cold? Dear God, what’s gone cold?!” was Stark’s reasoned and completely non-jumpy reply.

“Uh, nothing,” Jackson replied, scuttling away. He decided that risking getting an Admiral’s order wrong was better than hanging around in the kitchens now.

Jackson got his wish to stay out of the kitchen for quite a while, kept busy as he was taking orders, spilling wine on important dignitaries and inadvertently starting a food-fight when he tripped and his arm-load of hors d’ouevres cruised neatly into the lap of CinC, Starfleet.

When the time came to take the main course orders, Jackson found that the third table he reached had Commodore Miselovic sat at it. He was entertaining the other delegates with a tale from his time aboard Irredeemable. Jackson, with his usual sense of tact and diplomacy, waded straight into the exciting climax with the question, “What do you want?” to the Commodore.

Miselovic, cut off as he was about to cold-start his phasers using a burst from the emergency reactors and surprise the Klingon battlecruiser, blinked a couple of times before he realised what Jackson was on about. “My order?”

“Yes,” Jackson replied, looking away. The thrill of waitering had worn off at this stage, and he just wanted to get on with it.

“I’ll have the roast duck with Morello jus and the Lyonnaise potatoes, please.”

“Fair enough,” Jackson grunted, and wandered off again.

 

As Jackson entered the kitchens, Stark was screaming, “Who got the Commodore’s order?!”

“I did,” Jackson offered, waving the padd with the order on it. Stark vaulted the counter and snatched it from his hand, screaming, “Mine! I will do this one! No-one but me touches it!”

A second later, Stark stopped dead, and said, “This isn’t the Commodore’s order.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“It can’t be.”

“Well, it is,” a slightly narked Jackson responded.

“Huh,” said a confused Stark. “I was expecting him to have the kebabs. Unusual.”

“Okay,” Jackson responded, losing interest at this point.

 

A puzzled Stark prepared the duck, a non-plussed Jackson served it, and a grateful Commodore ate it. As Jackson cleared the plates away, he found the Commodore following him into the kitchens. Seeing Stark across the crowded room, Miselovic bellowed, “Chef!”

“Sir!” Stark put down the sous-chef he’d been berating, and double-timed it across the room to greet the Commodore.

“I just wanted to compliment you on the lunch. Your handiwork, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Absolutely, sir!”

“I recognised your masterful touch. I’m looking forwards to the evening meal.” Miselovic nodded, and left the kitchens.

“That was nice of him,” Jackson said, smiling at Stark. As the Commodore exited the kitchen, Stark’s smile dropped off his face, and was replaced with a puzzled frown. “I’ve never cooked duck for him before.”

“Okay,” Jackson said. “Wait. You remember every meal you cooked for him?”

The withering look Stark gave him in response put Jackson firmly back in his place. While Jackson watched him wonderingly, Stark stroked his chin and said, “He’s good, but no-one’s that much of a gourmet. Something’s not right here.”

 

For the rest of the afternoon, the mystery of the Commodore’s lunch gnawed at Stark, quite spoiling his enjoyment of the many praises coming his way from various highly important delegates. Jackson, who had been put back on to cutting things up duty again, was more than happy, although after a while his arms started to ache and so he was relieved when Stark asked him to waiter again.

As the dinner service began, Jackson found that some of the delegates were regarding him with suspicion, as if wondering if he would produce a custard pie from nowhere and slap it firmly into the faces of the Andorian group. With difficulty, Jackson extracted orders from them, and returned to the kitchen. Before he could set out again, Stark grabbed him and said, “You’re doing the Commodore’s table next?”

“Uh, yes,” Jackson replied.

“Good. Whatever you do, don’t offer him the kebabs.”

“But I thought they were being made especially?”

“They are. But I want him to choose for himself. Understand? No recommendations.”

“Okay.” A thoroughly puzzled Jackson made his way back out into the main dining hall, and headed towards Miselovic’s table.

As he approached the table, the Commodore saw him coming this time, and stopped his anecdote himself. “Good evening, young man.”

“Evening,” Jackson responded, uncertain if civilians were supposed to ‘Sir’ Starfleet officers.

“I trust Mr Stark has surpassed himself this evening.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Jackson said.

“Excellent,” Miselovic. “What do you recommend?”

“Uh, ah…” Jackson was struck by panic. “Everything’s great,” he finished lamely.

“I see. In which case, I’ll have the Cevapcici. The flavours of my youth,” the Commodore added for the benefit of the table.

“Okey-doke,” Jackson responded, and wandered off back into the kitchen to deliver the order. It was only when half-way there that it occurred to him he should have taken the rest of the table’s orders as well. Oh well, he shrugged. He’d do that later.

 

“He ordered the kebabs? Really?” Stark demanded.

“He did,” Jackson confirmed.

“Huh. I still think there’s something wrong…”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Jackson asked.

Stark looked Jackson straight in the eyes and said, “I’m going to make them myself.”

Stark set to work on the Commodore’s kebabs, spurning the pre-prepared examples in favour of a rapidly constructed kebab of his own creation. “Let’s see, a bit of turmeric, a splash of curcurmin…”

Jackson watched for a while, mesmerised by the speed at which Stark worked, until the sounds of a growing riot outside reminded him that he hadn’t finished taking orders yet, and he got back to work.

 

Once Jackson had finished getting orders and ducking punches, Stark had finished his masterpiece. “Take this out to him. Deliver it straight to him, and then watch him as he eats!”

Jackson shrugged, said, “Okay,” and turned to go. He’d got two steps when Stark grabbed him and said, “Watch him from a safe distance and don’t make it obvious!”

“Of course!” Jackson replied, congratulating himself on making it sound like he’d already thought of that. Haughtily, he strode out of the kitchens, and Stark, watching him go, suddenly had doubts about the wisdom of his plan. It was, he realised, too late now.

Jackson delivered the meal, then, as instructed, stepped back and, from a hiding place behind a column, watched the Commodore consume the meal. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Commodore ate the meal with every sign of enjoyment, and the only real outcome of the surveillance was that Jackson realised he was hungry.

Just as Jackson was about to give up on watching the Commodore and go in search of a snack, Miselovic pushed back his seat, stood, and left his table. He was, Jackson realised, heading for the kitchen.

Stung into action, Jackson slipped out from behind the column, and began a run for the kitchens. He vaulted a table occupied by four Tellarite admirals, rolled under the next table along which had the Alpha Centauran delegation, before getting to his feet and hurling himself through the kitchen doors.

As he slid to a stop by a cooker, knocking over two sous-chefs in the process, Jackson blurted breathlessly, “He’s coming!”

“Right,” Stark said grimly, rubbing his hands together.

As Miselovic entered the kitchens, Jackson was still picking himself up off the floor. The Commodore looked curiously across at him, but his attention was diverted by Stark saying, “Commodore! How was the meal?”

“Fantastic as always, Stark,” Miselovic responded. “I savoured every bite.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Commodore,” Stark responded.

“I look forwards to our next meeting, Stark,” Miselovic said. “Unfortunately, though, I have to get back now.”

“Of course, Commodore.”

As Miselovic walked away, Stark screamed, “Get him, Dan!”

Jackson grabbed a mop that was propped up in a corner, and swung it hard at Miselovic’s ankles. With a yell, the Commodore fell forwards, and Stark sprang onto his back, grabbing an arm and pinning it behind Miselovic’s back.

“What’s going on?!” The Commodore spluttered.

“That’s a good question,” Jackson admitted, approaching cautiously, mop in hand.

“Someone get me a tricorder!” Stark shouted. “This man is an imposter!”

As Miselovic struggled, and the sous-chefs looked around somewhat pointlessly for a tricorder in the kitchens, Jackson, who was somewhat more direct in his problem solving, grabbed at the Commodore’s neck and pulled.

Stark watched as the rubberoid mask came away to reveal a greenish tint to the skin, jet black hair, and pointed ears. “A Romulan spy!” he said breathlessly. “Get Security!”

“I would have gotten away with it,” the Romulan grumbled, “If it hadn’t been for you two bloody cooks!”

 

Later, after Security had taken the Romulan away, Jackson and Stark were eating cheese toasties (even chefs are allowed comfort food). Jackson looked quizzically across at Stark, and asked, “So how did you know?”

“Easy,” Stark said. “The first clue was the meal he’d never had. Then, when he ate the kebabs, everything fell into place.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. I once cooked Cevapcici with turmeric. The Commodore said afterwards, ‘Stark, not bad, but ease up on the turmeric’.” Stark tapped the side of his head meaningfully. “So when I added turmeric and he enjoyed it, I knew something was up.”

“And that was it?” Jackson asked incredulously.

“Of course,” Stark said, sounding slightly annoyed. “The Romulans obviously didn’t do enough research on the Commodore if their imposter missed something like that.”

To which Jackson could only nod and eat his toastie.