Psychotic Academy

A clattering sound from the restaurant beyond the double doors caught the attention of everyone in the kitchen. As the various chefs and dishwashers glanced up, gasps and someone shouting for medical assistance followed the clattering.

“What’s going on out there?” chef de partie Jackson asked the chef standing next to him, who had a better view through the glass windows in the doors.

“Dunno,” his colleague replied, concentrating hard on the work he was doing on the plate in front of him.

Jackson leaned over the counter, trying to peer around. He was up on his toes, ignoring the way the other chef at his station was glaring at his ear from a distance of about four inches.

“Something up Dan?”

The sound of the head chef’s voice brought Jackson back down to earth with a bump – literally as he nudged the elbow of his fellow chef, who spilled the bottle of oil he was holding all over the gas burner of the stove. With a whomp the oil ignited and took the other chef’s eyebrows with it. A passing dishwasher quickly suppressed the fire as Jackson spun around.

“Um, no?” he said, swallowing when Stark narrowed his eyes at him. “Er, Chef,” he added belatedly.

After foiling the Romulan plot in Tokyo Stark had been posted to the burgeoning new Starfleet facility on Port McCaffrey, a distant Federation colonial outpost. While this might have been seen as a step down after the heights of cooking for dignitaries and ambassadors Port McCaffrey was a hub of alien cultures, giving Stark the chance to learn culinary techniques and combinations never before seen on a Federation world.

Jackson had been on the verge of being left behind to fend for himself, and it had only been some extreme begging and a promise to work harder that had convinced Stark, something of a pushover when it came to Jackson, to let his friend tag along. He had only been able to swing it by promoting Jackson in his kitchen, from commis chef to chef de partie, against his better judgement. So far this hadn’t led to any major incidents, though it had been a close call in the case of a group of Orion merchants when, in a fit of boredom, Jackson had spelled out rude words with the food on their plates. Fortunately Stark had intervened just in time.

“What’s going on out there?” Stark asked, letting Jackson off the hook and stepping around him. He was heading to the door, which meant he was nearly brained by it when the maître d’ stormed in, looking harried and nervous. He was ex-Starfleet, now a civilian, but he ran the front of house with an iron fist. The whole kitchen was a mix of non-commissioned officers and civilians with Stark being the only officer in the place, even if he was still only an Ensign.

“One of the diners just collapsed,” he informed them, and Stark’s face went pale.

“It wasn’t our food,” he insisted immediately, fighting the urge to glance in Jackson’s direction.

“No,” the maître d’ sighed, shoulders slumping. “I have heard news from the authorities. This is the tenth case in the last forty-eight hours. As of now, Port McCaffrey is under quarantine.”

As the news spread around the kitchen in murmurs and whispers, Stark frowned.

“Tenth case of what?”

The maître d’ met his gaze. “Phyrgean Plague.”

Silence fell at his proclamation. There wasn’t a single person in the Federation who hadn’t heard of the Plague and the toll it took on the populations of the planets it struck. With such a small core population and a high number of cases in such a short space of time, the colony on Port McCaffrey was in trouble.

It was Jackson who summed up what they were all thinking. “Well, crap.”

 

The Starfleet outpost was in no way capable of dealing with the kind of outbreak they were looking at, especially when the vaccines normally used against the Phyrgean Plague proved almost useless. They were dealing with a new, as-yet unseen version of the plague, so the first thing that the senior Starfleet officers did was to sending a distress call. This was received by a number of Starfleet vessels, who indicated they would pass on the emergency broadcast and divert to give aid to the colony as soon as they could. Their first priority, though, was to intercept and quarantine all ships that had departed the colony in the last two days. The reality of the situation was that they would not arrive for several days and until then, Port McCaffrey was on its own.

 

With one diner infected there was a high risk that everyone else in the restaurant was also infected thanks to the virulence of the Plague. The waiter who had been serving that table had been in and out of the kitchen a number of times, meaning that within an hour or so of the case being reported the restaurant and everyone in it was locked down and in quarantine from the rest of the colony. As it was a fairly large space, far larger in fact than the tiny Starfleet medical bay in the facility, the decision was taken to set the restaurant up as a triage centre.

The tables were cleared to the sides and the beds from the medical facility were wheeled in. Jackson watched from the kitchen as ten people in a variety of states were brought in. They ranged from unconscious in one of the beds, through upright but coughing violently, to the diner who had collapsed and now just looked a bit pale and shaky.

Once the patients and the medical staff – most of whom were wearing masks or in containment suits – were inside the commotion died down. All the doors to the outside world were sealed and the restaurant customers, waiters and chefs could only stare at each other, fear plain on their faces.

“Right,” Stark said, clapping his hands together sharply and getting the attention of his staff. “Morale. Best way to keep morale up is to keep everyone fed. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

“You want us to cook? When we could all be dying?” Jackson burst out, eyes bulging.

Stark shrugged. “Not a lot else to do, is there? And it’s a challenge – cooking doesn’t get tougher than this! Plus the mortality rate for Phyrgean Plague is only about one in three, so we’re not all dying.”

“Oh yes,” Jackson said gloomily. “That’s wonderfully reassuring, thank you.”

He stood to one side as the rest of the kitchen staff started moving around, thankful to have been given something to take their mind off things. With nothing else to do, Jackson eventually joined them. Stark caught his eye and grinned.

“Don’t worry Dan,” he said cheerfully. “This’ll all be sorted out soon.”

 

Jackson watched as the sheet was pulled over the face of another body, turning away when the medical staff wheeled the bed away to the far side of the room, where the body would be moved to the floor next to the two others already there. That was the third death in two days from the Plague, and about two-thirds of the people in the restaurant were exhibiting symptoms of some sort. Jackson was one of the lucky ones so far, but he didn’t expect that to go on much longer. Seventeen more people had been brought into the quarantine area, bringing the total in the restaurant to around seventy. In a colony with a stable population under two hundred this was rather a significant proportion.

They were all exhausted thanks to sleepless nights spent on the hard floor of the restaurant and kitchen, broken by the coughing of the infected, who were taking up more and more of the restaurant every day.

“‘scuse me.”

With a sigh, Jackson plastered on a bright smile (as required by Head Chef Stark) and greeted the person standing on the other side of the table.

“What would you like?”

The person – who Jackson vaguely recognised as someone who had been in the restaurant a number of times before – blinked at Jackson’s manic grimace and smiled back nervously.

“Um, I’d like some of the pasta bake, please.”

“Right you are.”

Some of the restaurant tables had been set up as a buffet, and Jackson was stood along with a couple of the other chefs serving up the hot food Stark and his minions had cooked up. The kitchen wasn’t exactly kitted out for mass catering but they had done their best. The prep chef in charge of pasta had collapsed after producing enough to feed seventy people. Having worked himself to the bone, his exhaustion had left him susceptible to the Plague and he was now lying on one of the beds, sweating and trembling. All of the waiters also now had the Plague to varying degrees, so it fell to the remaining healthy kitchen staff to serve the food.

Worse still, half of the nurses and both of the doctors who had come into the quarantine with the infected patients had also come down with the plague, and their prolonged exposure to the earliest cases meant it hit them harder than many of the others.

The kitchen staff, remaining holed up behind the double doors to the kitchen, had been mostly spared. Still, the air in the restaurant was becoming rather stale thanks to the recyclers working overtime, and help was still several days away at a best estimate.

At least by staying contained they were helping to protect the rest of the colony. Bare comfort, Jackson thought as he slopped a portion of tuna-pasta bake into the next waiting bowl.

 

Given their quarantined nature it was something of a surprise when, two days later, the front door opened and a man, covered in a horrible rash and wheezing heavily, fell through. The entire restaurant was now given over to the sick, who were lying on the beds, tables and floor all around. Of the seventy-plus people originally crammed into the space there were fifteen dead, their bodies in the freezer for safe-keeping, and only seven or so were symptom-free, including Stark and Jackson. The others were chefs who had stayed in the kitchen as much as possible and the maître d’, who Jackson suspected was too ornery to get ill.

“Shut the door!” Stark yelled, as the last remaining nurse hurried over to the man to run a tricorder over him. She looked grim when she glanced up from his prone figure.

“Don’t bother.”

The voice was barely a whisper, and Stark blinked in surprise when he realised it came from the man on the floor. He cautiously stepped closer.

“What do you mean?”

“The plague… infected a Bolian. Something in his biology made it go crazy and the whole colony was infected in a matter of hours. Everyone is sick, and getting worse quickly.”

Stark exchanged a glance with the nurse, who was holding the hand of the man.

“The other doctors?” Stark asked.

“First to get sick,” the man replied.

“And the rest of the Starfleet officers?”

“All sick or dead.” The man’s hazy eyes focussed on the pip on Stark’s collar. “Think you’re probably the most senior Starfleet officer still on his feet.”

“I’m just a chef!” Stark protested, but the man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out. The nurse checked his pulse and motioned for someone to help her move the man. She looked at Stark.

“Orders, sir?”

“Um.” Stark looked back blankly. “I-”

He was thankfully saved from having to come up with anything by the sound of a transporter beam materialising somewhere outside. He stood up, Jackson close behind him, and cautiously poked his head out the door.

Across the deserted square was a puzzled-looking man in a Starfleet uniform, with a six other more casually-dressed people gathered around him, some of whom were carrying technical-looking cases. He spotted Stark and hurried over as Stark came out to stand and wait. Glancing at each other’s rank insignia – Olding was in uniform, Stark had an embroidered version on his chef’s tunic – and seeing they were of equal rank he and the new officer exchanged respectful nods.

“Um, hi,” Stark said. “I’m Chef – I mean Ensign Stark. I think I’m probably the ranking officer right now. Are the relief and medical ships here?”

“Ensign Christopher Olding,” the other man introduced himself, frowning. “And no. I was transferring to t’ Flamenco for my first posting when t’ transport I was on was hijacked and diverted here by this lot.” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder to the group of people gathered behind him.

A woman stepped forward, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, face devoid of makeup. “We represent the Committee to Abolish the Misery and Suffering Of Lifeforms Everywhere, or CAMiSOLE. We heard about the Plague outbreak here on Port McCaffrey and immediately resolved to come here and end all the suffering.”

“You have medicine?” Stark asked hopefully.

“No,” Ensign Olding grumbled, glaring at the woman. “They mean extermination.”

Stark blinked as the woman smiled beatifically. “That is such a… dramatic… word. We simply help people towards the inevitable end in as quick and painless manner as possible.”

“That… doesn’t sound so bad,” Stark said doubtfully.

“She isn’t talking about quiet, peaceful moments surrounded by loved ones,” Olding grumbled.

“Then what-?”

“Nuking them from orbit,” the woman said, spreading her hands and looking up towards the sky. Behind her, her colleagues all copied her actions, contented smiles on their faces. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

Silence followed her dramatic pronouncement. Behind Stark, a few people still capable of walking shuffled out of the stale confines of the restaurant into the open air, Jackson leading them. He wandered up to stand at Stark’s shoulder.

“So does the transport ship have the ability to drop bombs?” Stark asked, partly curious and partly to stall her.

“No,” the woman admitted. “This is why my friends and I volunteered to bring the devices to the surface ourselves to detonate them and achieve our goals.”

“I told them I wasn’t going to let them bluidy get away wi’ it,” Olding said, “so they brought me down here with them to stop me from re-hijacking t’ transport to intervene. The crew are up there locked in the toilet.”

“Are there any more of you?” Jackson asked the woman suddenly.

“No, we have all transported here to take part in our glorious mission.”

“And are the bombs ready to detonate?”

“Very nearly,” she said.

“But not quite?”

“No,” she replied, sounding frustrated.

“Right. Get ’em!”

At Jackson’s shout the people who had been standing behind him produced a variety of kitchen implements from behind their backs, a mixture of knives, pans, rolling pins and meat tenderisers, and charged at the startled CAMiSOLE group.

The numbers were evenly matched and those CAMiSOLE members with bombs in cases weren’t above using them as clubs. Stark and Olding, both reacting quick off the mark, launched themselves at the woman leader in a pincer movement, Olding grabbing the arm that was going for something in her pocket while Stark tried to restrain her without touching anything inappropriate.

Jackson, having pulled a meat tenderiser from down the back of his trousers, threw himself into the fray. He dodged an awkward punch from one man and brained his attacker with the tenderiser before jumping onto the back of one of the case-carrying men. The man somehow managed to stay on his feet and promptly slammed Jackson backwards into a wall. Jackson lost his grip and fell to the ground, ducking just in time to avoid having his head caved in by the heavy case. Reaching forward he grabbed the man’s trousers and pulled them down to his ankles, causing the man to cry out, drop the case and stumbled backwards until he fell over. He was promptly subdued by one of the other chefs, who sat on him.

One of the other CAMiSOLE members broke away from punching a dishwasher in the face to snatch up the fallen case and sprint away from the fight. Stark and Olding were too busy trying to wrestle a small weapon away from the leader to notice until it was too late, and it wasn’t until Jackson looked up from where he and the maître d’ were using most of a roll of clingfilm to immobilise one of the attackers that anyone noticed the man kneeling in front of the open case, tapping at the controls inside.

There wasn’t any time to run over there. Jackson looked down, saw the knife on the ground, reached down to grab it, straightened up and threw it all in one motion. Although he had spent the best part of three years learning the heft and balance of Stark’s kitchen knives, he had never actually thrown one of them before. It should have been out-of-control, tumbled end-over-end and missed, or fallen short, or hit the man by the handle, or anything other than embed itself to the hilt between the man’s shoulder blades. As the man slumped to the ground, Olding ran over, glancing at the bomb controls before pressing a button. The lights went off and the screen shutdown, and Jackson breathed a sigh of relief.

He saw Stark heading over to join Olding and stood up to go with him. Behind them, the restaurant staff finished subduing the rest of the hijackers. The woman who was leading them was trussed up, face down on the ground and yelling things like, “But we were only here to help!”

Olding rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. “Right. We’d best be gettin’ on wi’ this. Let’s get into t’ main building and see if we can get t’ transporter workin’. There’s some supplies on the transport, I’m sure Starfleet will be happy to replace whatever we use.” He looked at the two of them. “T’ medical ship Penicillin is just a couple o’ days away. We need to keep everyone going until then.”

Stark nodded. “I think most if not all of the medical staff are sick.”

Olding raised his eyebrows before sighing and turning to Jackson. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever hand any Starfleet medical training?” he asked jokingly, though slightly desperately.

“Well, a bit, I mean I went to the Academy but it didn’t really work out,” Jackson replied, ignoring Stark’s bulging eyes and disbelieving stare. This could be his chance to actually get into Starfleet!

Olding’s eyes lit up. “Alright, in that case under Section 56 Article 102 Paragraph 17 of the Starfleet Emergency and Disaster Code, I’m hereby appointing you a field commission of Ensign. Get to the medical bay and report on what’s goin’ on.”

“Yes sir!” Jackson said saluting smartly before hurrying off.

Olding noticed the way Stark was staring at him. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Uh, well, he didn’t exactly get that far through the Academy,” Stark mumbled, not quite willing to reveal just how far Jackson didn’t get.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Olding retorted, effectively ending the conversation. Stark shrugged, and the two of them headed towards the small Starfleet facility main building.

 

Behind them, the maître d’ glanced around to make sure no-one was looking and then slipped back into the restaurant. He headed back into the kitchens, checking carefully to make sure they were empty before pulling out a small recording device.

“Agent 94114, observational notes. Subject: Jackson, D. Preliminary encounters indicate possible unexpected suitability for recruitment. Suggest additional monitoring. Reference incipient Starfleet files on outbreak of Phyrgean Plague on Port McCaffrey.”

He pressed a button on the recording device, which promptly reported, “Message Sent,” in a bland, unemotional tone. Satisfied, the maître d’ headed back out to assist with the cleanup.

 

Several weeks later Stark was waiting for Jackson on the other side of a closed door. They had spent several more days on Port McCaffrey before the relief ships arrived and everyone was screened, immunised and evacuated. He, Jackson and Olding had been lucky in not succumbing to the plague themselves before the medical ships arrived, but it had been a close run thing. All three of them had been feeling lethargic and generally ill for about a day before a hoard of Starfleet doctors had descended and, with the laboratory power of a couple of starships behind them, developed a cure and vaccines for the newly-mutated Plague in just a few hours.

There had been a certain about of consternation amongst the senior officers when they discovered what Olding had done in regards to Jackson, but as the laws stood Jackson’s field commission could only be revoked by an appropriate tribunal of specially-chosen members of Starfleet command.

Jackson’s fate was currently being decided on the other side of the door Stark was staring at, and he couldn’t help but feel pessimistic about the whole thing. He was taking a break over Christmas before starting his new role in the Starfleet Command Contact Office, working as a xenoculinary expert and liaison officer. He wouldn’t have a kitchen to take Jackson with him and he didn’t know what to do about it.

The door opened and Jackson stumbled out, looking dazed. Behind him, Ensign Olding patted him on the shoulder awkwardly and said, “Best o’ luck,” before giving Stark an equally-awkward nod and wandering off down the corridor.

Stark stood up and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got some friends, I can get you a job in another kitchen…”

Jackson looked up, and his eyes were shining. A manic grin spread over his face. Stark stopped talking and stared.

“They let me keep it!” Jackson whispered.

“They… what? Why?!”

“No idea. They said if I’d take some post on a backwater outpost that no-one else wants, I could keep my commission.”

“That’s… insane,” Stark blurted out in utter disbelief.

“I know! But it’s true! I’m a Starfleet officer! Head of Hygiene on LV-426!!”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“I don’t care!” Jackson turned around and started skipping down the corridor. Stark watched as he got to the end, jumped up and clicked his heels together and disappeared around the corner with a “WOOHOO!!!”

“Blimey,” Stark said to no-one in particular. “Oh well, onwards and upwards.”