Yes, needs some work; I wouldn't put it into Critiques in this condition. But it solidifies another crew member.
Whose is captain Jowelssen? you might want to rewrite the captain's monologue as he would have said it, rather than my over-stilted version; I can't hear him yet.
Galley
"Damn weight restrictions"
Arwen Cernan had a doctorate in sociology, a masters in political science and had written several influential papers on sociobiology. She had served in the army in Afghanistan, with a sharpshooters certificate. And yet again it was her 'cordon bleu' license that had got her her place on the Heinlein.
She wouldn't be seeing fifty again, but physically she'd been well classed relative to contenders thirty years her junior, and certainly, in hand to hand combat (no particular style, a bit of this, a bit of that, whatever worked) she had fallen in the top fifteen percent.
"and double damn quarantine regulations."
In that luddite thread where Sonja had picked up her toy-boy, Arwen had seen venison on the hoof that would have added greatly to their menu, and streams cascading over rocks that would have been infinitely better than the stuff condensed from their breathing or distilled out of their waste to rehydrate their freeze-dried pap. She'd have shot the deer herself, too – she loved the lightweight electric dart guns they'd been issued.
"Food could be brought aboard from anywhere. Cooking renders it safe, sterile; that's what cooking was invented for, before we found out how good we could make it taste. It's not as if I were proposing sushi, or steak tartar."
Her two aides - Penny and a 'security expert' today, but it could have been anyone not involved with cracking the local languages, KP not being considered a punishment - looked a subliminal wink at each other. They were proud of their 'kitchen dragon', and knew that everybody aboard sympathised with her position. If she had come in contact with the health and safety inspector who had drafted the regulations she would probably have been thrown off the crew (and the inspector would probably be getting out of hospital about now) but if any representative of that class were to appear now (not now now, you understand, but the next time the ship hit Bureauland) she's have the entire ship's company behind her, starting with the captain.
This was not harmed by the fact that when they got back after their first tour, and were waiting in Freiburg in Brisgau to be sent to their various homes (theory held that the location was chosen because it was the most inconvenient for the maximum number) she had growled "All of you, tomorrow night I will show you how cooking should be done." and had gone out and hired a restaurant, sending home the kitchen staff and keeping only a couple of servers. How she had managed this, and gathered the ingredients together, and done all the cooking for sixty-four three course meals is incomprehensible (most of the extras were project officials, plus a couple of members of the second team, but no Eurocrats). Everybody with a special dietary requirement had a special meal, nobody could remember when they had eaten that well; certainly the political banquets organised to celebrate their return didn't bear comparison. The restaurant owner offered her a post between flights at whatever salary she cared to specify, the servers begged leftovers to take home, and when she appeared with the cups of flaming coffee she was met with a standing ovation that threatened the structural integrity of the building.
The cooking gear was ultra lightweight. The screening on the microwave was barely more than foil over high temperature extruded foam, and the pans hardly heavier. Knives, grinders, grippers, everything had been pared down to the minimum. All Arwen's weight allowance was in flavourings; she hadn't even brought her personal knives, and that, for a chef, is desperate straits. Yet she knew the food was bland and textureless, while a few hundred metres down farmers had tons of interesting ingredients, and would have traded without hesitation. Even the sealed bags of dehydrated dung would have been useful to them as fertiliser. The meat in the featherweight freezers had no bone, no gristle, very little fat and no taste; the fish was reconstituted. About the only thing that survived the rationalisation was chocolate, and that is hardly a balanced diet. When Jod had commented on the poor quality of the eating experience under technology, she had hugged him; savage or not, he'd got his priorities right.
A screen next to her detected her presence and bipped politely.
"Arwen? The captain would like to see you at your convenience." The message was repeated in text, in case she'd gone deaf, but in script and pastel, not the flashing orange capitals that would have indicated urgency. For that matter he could have blasted it out of every speaker on the ship, or sent it to her implanted personal communicator.
Still, the captain was the captain, and 'at your convenience' was five minutes ago, so:
"Penny, make sure the stirrer keeps turning, would you? Captain's called me in, and I don't leave captains waiting. I've got the thermostats set, and it should go perfectly well without me, but if it clogs hit 'panic' and third shift lunch will be a bit late."
The captain's cabin was close to the galley, as it had been correctly assumed he'd eat there frequently. As Arwen deflated the entry curtain a screen flashed, then stabilised, in front of her.
"You're going to like this one; read that first"
Unlike other personal spaces on the Heinlein, captain Jowelssen's doubled as a working area. The paperless (weight, weight!) organisation meant his in box was virtual, but none the less bulging for that.
A tentative cough brought him back to his visitor. "And what, as a sociologist, have you spotted as the common factor between those?"
"Food. Every transaction, from declaring the end of a war to setting trade restrictions, is done over a meal."
"So we come out of it looking stand-offish and arrogant, untrusting and unfriendly. And even if this appearance is accurate, at least for our bosses, it reflects badly on us. And this is prime information territory, high-tech and peaceful, just the sort of place we could make some real profit, so, as captain of the Heinlein I'm going to take the risk of relaxing the regulations a little.
Of course I could just accept one of their multitudinous invitations, and choose two or three others to leave their suits off and risk whatever but, with you aboard, we can do better than that. Here's my plan: it's not an order yet, and I'd be happy for any suggestions.
We fly you and Sonja down, language and taste, with a couple of emeralds which you convert into currency at a lapidary in the city. Then we fly you to what seems to be a farmers' market in the heart of the agricultural zone, and you buy whatever ingredients you can find fresh.
Back to the city where they'll have lowered the lift cage, and you buy any cooking utensils you may need, plus any foodstuffs you need from a city. You'll have a bit more than twelve hours to do all this, starting at dawn tomorrow. Meanwhile, we'll have cleared a flat patch of waste ground, and set up dining a tent.
Twenty hours after your return I expect you to turn out something to compete with the meal you cooked after the first tour of duty, only for twice as many people, a large number of whose tastes we do not yet know. Anybody you need to help, to stir, to peel, you've got, be it crew or locals, but you have the final say in everything. If it were anyone but you, I wouldn't take the risk, but if we win this one, we've won more than just a world; we've forced a little slack into the reins Brussels keeps us tied up with.
I know I can trust the two of you; will you be needing a guard to carry the heavy stuff?
Ivan will be staying with the plane at all times, and you can carry a lot more provisions if there are only the three of you."
The captain reached down and turned off the 'public recording', leaving only the security backup running.
"I know that both you and Sonja, each for her own personal reasons, are dying to get out of those suits. You are the most logical team, and she's already agreed.
Of course I take advantage of my crew's special talents; what good captain wouldn't? But I'm not forcing you – we can always accept their hospitality, and only expose a few of us to the risk.
Still, off the record, if a few sacks of dehydrated human waste should disappear, and an equivalent weight of fresh ingredients magically replace them, I, for one, would not be unhappy about it, and the Eurocrats can stuff it back where it came from. Consider it a bribe, as I can't bribe you with money."
Arwen's eyes were glowing brighter than her personal screen as she scribbled notes to herself.
"No guard, Captain. Anyone who gets in the way of this meal is going to end up part of it. And we're not fragile flowers; we'll carry it all right.
Clothes?"
"Yes, that would be a good idea. There will be costumes that should pass as local waiting for you at the lock, with the stones."
In the grey predawn, the two women were lowered down to the 'Albatross' in her sling beneath the Heinlein. Ivan looked at them jealously; he was still sealed into his freezer bag. As they sat they were still tucking in unfamiliar clothing, and foam coffee cups and bread rolls were clutched in their hands.
"If you will kindly check your safety harness attachment the oh four fifteen to Issatry will be leaving immediately"
The difference in being able to smell an alien environment.
The city, with its alcohol-fuelled cars rather than the hydrogen or newer coil-powered vehicles was a first taste, but it was still a city, while every market was symphony of odours, this was in an alien scale. She had been in sensory deprivation with nothing but the bland predigested smells of Heinlein's kitchen, the farts of its occupants; here she threatened sensory overload from the full colour, high-definition olfactory invasion.
The market had not started well. The local security had been informed of their arrival, but what they'd been afraid of was xenophobia. What they got was far more mundane; four low-grade agricultural labourers, seeing two women, one dumpy old one and a younger, with empty backpacks walking into the market decided this indicated they had money, and offered, fairly forcefully, to help them protect it, and guide them. Upon being informed that this would not be necessary, they had increased the intensity of their arguments, moving in close enough that the women could smell that, despite the morning being barely started, they had already absorbed a certain quantity of alcohol.
The security force scrambled as fast as they could, but when they arrived one of the would be aggressors was hopping on one leg, clutching his other foot, while another was curled up on the ground, attempting to choose between screaming, breathing or vomiting, while an audience of other customers applauded and offered various portions of the aggressors as trophies; they were known, and not liked.
From then on, market buying became more standard, and it became clear that Arwen hardly needed an interpreter. By mime, by feel, by the mere fact she obviously knew what she was doing even if she had no more than a dozen words to explain herself, she chose the products she wanted, with a drone from the local television network soon following her around like a pet dog. She tasted – and everyone wanted to have their products tasted by her – cheeses, wines, vegetables and preserves, making it absolutely clear when a product was good, but not what she needed. She sniffed at, poked and squeezed meat, fish, sausages and spices, asking what this was good with, and apparently absorbing the answer without the intervention of language, though Sonja was always there, translating in both directions.
When it became clear the rucksacks were becoming heavy, a teenaged girl appeared from nowhere with a handbarrow, and accompanied them round from then onwards, basking in reflected glory.
Finally the 'dong' of time's up sounded in both of their ears, and they made their way back to the plane for the next phase of the buying, the entire market shouting farewells and encouragement. They hadn't stopped for lunch, but the constant offer of titbits, a glass here, a nibble there had kept them nourished and sustained (even a tiny bit light-headed in the case of Sonja, who tended to drink the entirety of any beverage, rather than just tasting) The girl refused all attempts at payment, explaining to Sonja that the marked inspectors were paying her, and leaving a number she could be contacted the next time they came through. And the crowd moved back, and the little plane, loaded only slightly over its limits, bounced across the pasture and carried them on to the next stage in their endeavour.
Great cooking is always an experimental science; ingredients change from batch to batch, and require slightly different treatment, or quantity. To get everything just right, at just the right time, requires intuition and masses of experience. Working with ingredients you have never met before requires something more, between genius and magic, and that day Arwen had it; she was determined that, even if she spent the rest of her working live rehydrating pap, this was a meal that would be remembered by everyone who ate it.
Sonja lived as her shadow as local chefs came in, to find ways of replacing gear that didn't exist on the ship, and stayed to help, recognising that this was going to be a historic event, that having this on your CV was worth a year's apprenticeship in a great restaurant. It wasn't possible in the time allotted, and they all knew she was going to do it anyway. In the main tent, tables were being built and decorated; in the smaller cooking tent an unstoppable force of nature converted a heap of ingredients into a feast that would be remembered beyond her own lifetime. She didn't eat, but tasted so many different things she probably absorbed enough nourishment, didn't sleep, and stopped twice to urinate. The cameras built up; they too could feel the electricity in the air, the drama of an opera that was, despite all the willing helpers, a one woman show.
And when the first guests were shown to their seats, the apperitives were on the tables and eager assistants brought glasses of the first wine chosen.
Sonja had been stolen by the Captain to interpret at the high table, so communication in the kitchen had gone non-verbal. Perhaps the gap between the fish course and the sorbet to clear the palate before the meat (or egg based, or vegetarian) main course was a bit longer than it should have been, because her aides hadn't understood the theory, but everyone was communicating (some were actually talking, others using more basic techniques) in the main tent, so it wasn't noticed. Course followed course, and those who'd indulged themselves in the earlier offerings now began to regret it, as new and ever more seductive odours invaded their senses. Clothes creaked under the strain, as beneath them did bodies. Cameramen let their machines run untended and stole unclaimed deserts, not having been allowed the earlier courses. Bottles stood unpoured, glasses untouched.
And finally even that drew to a close; there was nothing left to serve, and no-one left who could eat. A combined force of local chefs and ship's crew who had been serving picked up the heroine of the evening and carried her, red-eyed and wilting, into the main tent, where she was stood on the high table like an ornament. It didn't matter that she couldn't speak, with the cheering going on she wouldn't have been heard, anyway. The captain leapt to his feet and hugged her, being nearly as tall as her even with the table, then Jod lifted Sonja onto the table so she could do the same, and soon she was being passed round, signing menus and place settings, hugging locals and shipmates indiscriminately, all thought of isolation thrown to the wind, crying, laughing exhausted, victorious.
