I hesitate to think what some of this alien food actually tastes like, but be sure to let us know what sounds the most appetizing!
Chapter 17
The Golden Goose’s kitchens had been found programmed with recipes from throughout the Confederation. The crew had quickly added everything they could think of from home. And with every new system they’d passed through, every colony they’d visited, every depot they’d raided, and every alien race they’d encountered, a whole new world of culinary traditions had been added to the menu. Between the provisions already stored in the cargo bay and the loads of contraband they’d liberated along the way, their kitchens could now make just about anything.
There was so much to try. Estelle had half the galaxy at her lips. Every dish was an exploration and every bite a discovery.
She decided, that first evening, on a whole buttered lava-crab, served with spliced and mashed cancrian tubers and vacuum-grown meteor weed-sprouts. She finished the meal in its entirety, slowly savoring every morsel, and after a short rest followed it with a hasperat soufflé. Her stomach finally quieted as it swelled with contentment. She massaged it a while, basking in a pleasant, guiltless afterglow.
The second day, she woke with a sense of anticipation she hadn’t allowed herself in months. There was something to look forward to.
Breakfast was a selection of faintly glowing eggs that swirled with color. They were the most flavorful eggs she’d ever eaten, but also the most filling. She appeared on the bridge much later than she’d planned, having spent an hour digesting. The bridge officers greeted her with knowing looks; her jacket was completely unbuttoned. She didn’t stay long.
With the eggs sitting heavy even later into the day—she’d forgotten to check which alien foods were actually safe for human consumption—she skipped lunch. But as she plodded through her uneventful daily rounds she made a few stops into the lounge for snacks: a sleeve of serpent worms, some spiced leola root, a basket of enriched protein wedges (heavily seasoned). She never quite let her stomach feel empty, but by evening she was ravenous for dinner anyway.
Her appetite got its wish. The kitchens sent her a gigantic ragnasaur steak with all the garnishes, sauces, and sides the tray could hold. The service arms uncorked a bottle of pulsar-treated wine and it made a perfect pairing. She was fuller halfway through the meal than she’d been at the end of dinner the night before, but never slowed. She switched on some music and shuffled to the hot tub, where the service arms rubbed her shoulders and fed her a bubbling semi-transparent pudding for dessert.
The third day she didn’t even change into her uniform, appearing on the bridge in her much more comfortable peignoir, once again late after a long breakfast of uttaberry crêpes. She dispensed with her inspections—much to the crew’s delight—and spent the day socializing instead. She joined the away-team in the officers’ lounge for dewback burgers and fiery Fornax rings. She joined the crew for dinner in the mess hall to celebrate an engagement between two ensigns. They sat feeding one another cake and receiving well-wishes. Estelle sat feeding herself Threfallian meat-vine and an assortment of sparkling fruits filled with a pungent, lip-puckering cider.
She’d eaten more lunch than anyone in the lounge and more dinner than anyone in the mess hall. But her shackles had been thrown off and her appetite wasn’t satisfied. She returned to her quarters bloated, disheveled, a little tipsy, and eager for more.
She got more: sauteed chryssalid, relativistically-cooked rice, something that claimed to be a salad but proved to be a high-calorie pre-hibernation meal for the giant herbivores of Ursonis IX. She didn’t remember what she chose for her second dessert of the night, but woke the next morning in her reading chair covered in crumbs and dribbles of a gelatin that changed color when she moved.
The next day she didn’t bother to appear on the bridge at all. She lounged in her cabin all day, listening to music from all over the galactic rim. She enjoyed a long, luxurious massage in the steam chamber. She watched erotic alien films. She watched the stars drift by. She ate. She ate more.
The sensations she’d worked so long to forget were returning and they were even better than she remembered. There were no more limits. She sat in bed and gazed lovingly at the menu even as her next meal was brought in. There was so much more to try.
Her stomach seemed to fill her vision. She directed the service-arms to rub it for her and reached for another pastry. They refilled her wine glass. They put on another film—the glamorous and always sultry Vesper Virgo was having a lust-filled adventure through the Tryphena system. It was late in this fourth night, just as she was reaching the blissful peak of a thoroughly glutted stupor, that the red alert sounded.
Chapter 17
The Golden Goose’s kitchens had been found programmed with recipes from throughout the Confederation. The crew had quickly added everything they could think of from home. And with every new system they’d passed through, every colony they’d visited, every depot they’d raided, and every alien race they’d encountered, a whole new world of culinary traditions had been added to the menu. Between the provisions already stored in the cargo bay and the loads of contraband they’d liberated along the way, their kitchens could now make just about anything.
There was so much to try. Estelle had half the galaxy at her lips. Every dish was an exploration and every bite a discovery.
She decided, that first evening, on a whole buttered lava-crab, served with spliced and mashed cancrian tubers and vacuum-grown meteor weed-sprouts. She finished the meal in its entirety, slowly savoring every morsel, and after a short rest followed it with a hasperat soufflé. Her stomach finally quieted as it swelled with contentment. She massaged it a while, basking in a pleasant, guiltless afterglow.
The second day, she woke with a sense of anticipation she hadn’t allowed herself in months. There was something to look forward to.
Breakfast was a selection of faintly glowing eggs that swirled with color. They were the most flavorful eggs she’d ever eaten, but also the most filling. She appeared on the bridge much later than she’d planned, having spent an hour digesting. The bridge officers greeted her with knowing looks; her jacket was completely unbuttoned. She didn’t stay long.
With the eggs sitting heavy even later into the day—she’d forgotten to check which alien foods were actually safe for human consumption—she skipped lunch. But as she plodded through her uneventful daily rounds she made a few stops into the lounge for snacks: a sleeve of serpent worms, some spiced leola root, a basket of enriched protein wedges (heavily seasoned). She never quite let her stomach feel empty, but by evening she was ravenous for dinner anyway.
Her appetite got its wish. The kitchens sent her a gigantic ragnasaur steak with all the garnishes, sauces, and sides the tray could hold. The service arms uncorked a bottle of pulsar-treated wine and it made a perfect pairing. She was fuller halfway through the meal than she’d been at the end of dinner the night before, but never slowed. She switched on some music and shuffled to the hot tub, where the service arms rubbed her shoulders and fed her a bubbling semi-transparent pudding for dessert.
The third day she didn’t even change into her uniform, appearing on the bridge in her much more comfortable peignoir, once again late after a long breakfast of uttaberry crêpes. She dispensed with her inspections—much to the crew’s delight—and spent the day socializing instead. She joined the away-team in the officers’ lounge for dewback burgers and fiery Fornax rings. She joined the crew for dinner in the mess hall to celebrate an engagement between two ensigns. They sat feeding one another cake and receiving well-wishes. Estelle sat feeding herself Threfallian meat-vine and an assortment of sparkling fruits filled with a pungent, lip-puckering cider.
She’d eaten more lunch than anyone in the lounge and more dinner than anyone in the mess hall. But her shackles had been thrown off and her appetite wasn’t satisfied. She returned to her quarters bloated, disheveled, a little tipsy, and eager for more.
She got more: sauteed chryssalid, relativistically-cooked rice, something that claimed to be a salad but proved to be a high-calorie pre-hibernation meal for the giant herbivores of Ursonis IX. She didn’t remember what she chose for her second dessert of the night, but woke the next morning in her reading chair covered in crumbs and dribbles of a gelatin that changed color when she moved.
The next day she didn’t bother to appear on the bridge at all. She lounged in her cabin all day, listening to music from all over the galactic rim. She enjoyed a long, luxurious massage in the steam chamber. She watched erotic alien films. She watched the stars drift by. She ate. She ate more.
The sensations she’d worked so long to forget were returning and they were even better than she remembered. There were no more limits. She sat in bed and gazed lovingly at the menu even as her next meal was brought in. There was so much more to try.
Her stomach seemed to fill her vision. She directed the service-arms to rub it for her and reached for another pastry. They refilled her wine glass. They put on another film—the glamorous and always sultry Vesper Virgo was having a lust-filled adventure through the Tryphena system. It was late in this fourth night, just as she was reaching the blissful peak of a thoroughly glutted stupor, that the red alert sounded.
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