The Feast of Stevens Read online

The Feast of Stevens

  By Kristen Stieffel

  Copyright 2011 Kristen Stieffel

  License Notes

  • • •

  Cover Illustration: Mission Atlantis by Tijmen Koelewijn

  Cover design by Kristen Stieffel

  This story first appeared at The Cynic Online Magazine in December 2009.

  • • •

  Table of Contents

  The Feast of Stevens

  About the Author

  • • •

  The Feast of Stevens

  By Kristen Stieffel

  After rapping twice on the door of the captain’s office, Dr. Brewster opened it and stepped in. Her usual manner. She never waited for him to bellow, “Come in,” and he liked it that way.

  “Captain, I have Stevens with me.”

  Captain Stanislaus got that shriveled-stomach feeling that mention of the cook’s name always inspired, ever since the escapade that summer when Stevens had delivered red-white-and-blue gelatin desserts to the docking ring. He looked up, out his window.

  The office was just a few meters square, with unadorned curved steel walls. In the outer ring of the wheel-shaped space station, rotation simulated gravity almost equal to Earth’s. This put the “floor” on the outside of the wheel, and the “ceiling” on the inside. The window over the captain’s desk gave him a view of the zero-G docking ring at the middle of the wheel. With no ships docked, he had a starkly beautiful view of craggy asteroids against the dark, star-sprinkled chasm of space.

  He pulled his gazed down to the pot-bellied, bald-headed, unshaven cook who had come in behind Brewster. “What is it, Stevens?”

  “Well, sir, I’d like to prepare a nice Christmas meal for the crew—”

  “Not everyone on the crew celebrates Christmas, Mr. Stevens.”

  “Yes sir, I know, sir. But everyone appreciates a good turkey dinner, sir, and—”

  “You were told at Thanksgiving, our budget won’t cover—”

  “Oh, I know, sir, I know. But people get tired of hydroponic-vegetable pureé, no matter how elegantly I mold it.”

  Just the mention of VegeMold triggered a flopping sensation in the captain’s bowels. “And?”

  “I have a friend from Europa who can get me a bargain on soy turkey.”

  “On what?”

  “Turkey substitute made from tofu, sir.”

  Europa, a vegan colony, produced soy products in such abundance they always had a surplus. But it took almost a year for a ship to reach the station from Europa.

  Stanislaus shook his head. “No. I’m not going to authorize a botulism buffet—”

  Brewster cocked her head. A thin smile spread across her cherubic, round face. “Stan, will you listen?” she chirped, in her crisp British accent, in that way of hers he just couldn’t say no to.

  Stevens continued. “It’s not like that at all, sir. They make the soy turkey right there on the ship. Totally fresh.”

  Stanislaus sighed. Soy turkey had to be better than VegeMold. Nothing could possibly be worse. “How much cash are we talking about?”

  “None at all, sir.”

  “None?” Stanislaus leaned forward. “What’s the catch?”

  “A friend of mine, sir, on the manufacturing ship, told me they’re on their way to Earth, and they need to put in here for repairs. They want to trade the turkey for the repair work.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud—” Stanislaus propped his elbows on the desktop and put his head in his hands.

  “Look what you did.” Brewster chided Stevens. “You made him put his head in his hands.”

  “Just trying to help,” Stevens muttered.

  Stanislaus looked up. “You know the company frowns on that sort of thing.”

  “Well…” Stevens’ voice trailed away. It wasn’t often he was at a loss for words.

  “Oh, come along, Stan. There is a procedure for barter,” Brewster said. “And it’s been a long time since we did one, so corporate probably won’t mind.”

  “Fine. You explain the unbilled work hours.”

  “Yes, Stan—” she leaned across his desk “—I’ll take care of the paperwork. A real—well, nearly real—turkey dinner will do a lot for morale. What do you say?”

  He sighed. If she thought it was a good idea, then it probably was. But with Stevens behind it, that seemed unlikely. “Oh, all right.” He just couldn’t say no to her. There was probably something wrong about that, but he didn’t care.

  • • •

  It was December 23, Earth time, when the Europan manufacturing freighter Clarke docked at the space station.

  The ceiling of the long, narrow mess hall had a slight curve to it. Above the white-painted support trusses, windows revealed the docking ring, which was connected to the outer ring by eight spoke-like transit tubes.

  From their table, Captain Stanislaus and Dr. Brewster could look up at the Clarke.

  “It looks a bit lonely there,” she said.

  The mess hall was nearly empty: just the two of them having their afternoon coffee break, and some of the crew from the Clarke, who were digging into late lunches, or perhaps early dinners.

  “It’ll have company soon,” Stanislaus said. “There’s a Martian ship coming in for refueling tomorrow.”

  “Where are they headed?”

  “Delivering a shipment of turkey to an asteroid-mining ship.”

  “Real turkey?”

  “Yup. It’s the miners’ year-end bonus.”

  Brewster snorted. “Why do we never get a bonus like that?”

  “Because we don’t produce raw materials needed to expand the Mars colony.”

  She rolled her eyes. “A minor detail.” She stood, and so did he.

  Stanislaus was several decimeters taller than Brewster. Beside her petite stoutness, he felt as awkward and lanky as a scarecrow.

  “Hang about. Won’t frozen turkeys be a bit stale by the time they get to the miners?”

  “They would,” he said, “except they’re transported live.”

  “You’re having me on.” They took their empty cups to the galley window.

  “No I’m not.” He took her cup and set it on the shelf. “This way, they’re fresh.”

  “Oh, my. Do they have an abattoir on board, or do the miners have to slaughter their own dinner?”

  “Everything’s right on board—they deliver cleaned and dressed birds, ready to cook.”

  • • •

  The next day, a few hours after the Martian coop-ship Viking had docked, Stanislaus was called to the mess hall. Security Chief Mostafa met him in the doorway. Several security guards inside were holding back a fistfight.

  “The Europans heard the Martians have live turkeys on their ship.” Mostafa was almost as tall as Stanislaus, but burly. “They want the Martians to take the turkeys back to Earth and set them free.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud.” Stanislaus stepped into the room, thinking loose lips sink ships, and knowing all too well whose lips had been loose. But he went in, putting on his best imitation of magisterial command, and said, “What seems to be the problem here?”

  One of the Martians stepped forward. “These pantywaist vegans are trying to tell me how to run my business,” There were shouts of protest from the other side. One Europan tried to shove aside a portly security guard.

  “Now, let’s not be abusive.” Stanislaus said. “Will everyone please sit down? We’ll get a lot further if we behave in a civilized fashion.”

  “I agree.” Brewster’s voice came from the doorway. There wasn’t a voice in the solar system he’d rather have heard. She was a much better diplomat than he. “Let’s have tea and coffee all round, shall we, Mr. Stevens?”


  The cook, leaning through the service window, nodded before ducking back into the galley.

  “You’re the Captain of the Viking?” Stanislaus asked the short, ruddy-complexioned man who had insulted the Europans.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Stanislaus expected an introduction, but one did not seem forthcoming. He extended his hand. “I’m Captain Stanislaus, commander of this station. I apologize for the unpleasantness. I hope we can resolve this quickly.”

  The other captain nodded, and shook his hand. “I hope so, sir. I’m Captain Jefferson. Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you, sir.” Stanislaus glanced over his shoulder. Stevens was coming from the kitchen with a coffee cart. Stanislaus scanned the crowd until he spotted the Europan captain. “Captain Elfman, would you join us, please?”

  “With all due respect, Captain Stanislaus, I don’t think so.”

  Brewster walked over to Elfman and looped her arm through his. They made a comical pair, she small and stout with her dark-brown hair cut in a pert bob, and he blond, tall, and pale, like most Europans. “Now, then, let’s be polite, shall we? Just have a seat—” she showed him to a chair. “Tea or coffee?” There was that Mary Poppins tone of hers. One couldn’t be rude to her—it was simply impossible.

  “Oh, um…tea, I suppose. Thank you.”

  Brewster fetched him a cup of tea from the cart while Stanislaus drew coffee for himself and Jefferson from the urn.