The Feast of Stevens Page 3
of them!”
• • •
Chief Mostafa reviewed the security tapes of the Viking’s docking bay, and identified the Europan perpetrators. Though they tried to seek refuge on their ship, Captain Elfman’s own security staff rounded them up and brought them to Mostafa’s brig.
“To Mercury with them—they’re fired.” Elfman said, as his officers turned over the would-be turkey liberationists. “They disobeyed orders, but worse than that—their actions led to the deaths of thirty-eight innocent turkeys.” His voice caught in his throat. “Let justice be done.” He spun about and stalked out of the brig.
• • •
Jefferson and Stanislaus reached a settlement whereby the station waived half of the Viking’s fuel charges as restitution for the destruction of the turkeys. Stanislaus and Jefferson were just wrapping up their meeting when Stevens appeared at the office door.
Stanislaus showed Jefferson out and waved Stevens in. “What now, Mr. Stevens?”
“Well, sir, I hear the Martians lost some turkeys.”
“Yes, and we just paid for them in the form of fuel.” Stanislaus gestured to the paperwork, which was still called that even though it existed only on his computer screen.
“I daresay I can—how shall I put it—dispose of the bodies?”
Stanislaus glanced at his computer’s calendar window. Earth time: December 25. “Oh, no. No No No. We are not—”
“But they’ll just go to waste otherwise, sir. I can make it work, sir. Really.”
Stanislaus agreed, despite his recollection of free-falling tricolor gelatin.
He would not allow the turkeys to have died in vain.
• • •
Autumn leaves decorated the mess hall. On the tables, Brewster had placed little crepe-paper pumpkins and Pilgrim hats. A banner strung from the upper struts had the word “late” inserted with a caret in red ink between “Happy” and “Thanksgiving.” A vertical banner next to the galley door displayed every known holiday from November through January, All Saints Day to Australia Day.
“Who knew there was so much to celebrate?” Kolinski came alongside Stanislaus to survey the list.
“Dr. Brewster did, if I’m not mistaken.”
Kolinski laughed. “Leave it to her.”
“Indeed.” Stanislaus followed Kolinski to the buffet. Alongside the roast turkey, Stevens had set turkey tetrazzini, turkey gumbo and several dishes Stanislaus couldn’t name. Stevens had outdone himself.
Mostafa speared a slice of soy turkey.
“No real turkey for you, Mr. Mostafa?” Stanislaus asked.
He shook his head and scooped up some mashed potatoes. “No, sir, I’m afraid slaughter by laser blast is not halal.”
“Oh, no…I’m sorry.”
Mostafa laughed. “No worries, sir, It’s a beautiful feast.”
“Thanks. I assure you the timing was purely coincidental.”
“I didn’t think you staged a turkey infestation just to get us to eat dinner!” Mostafa clapped Stanislaus’s shoulder, then went to find a seat.
“You see?” Brewster snuck up behind him. “I told you things would be fine once we all stopped taking ourselves so seriously.”
He jerked his thumb at the banner with its catalog of holidays. “That’s your doing, isn’t it? Who else would know when Kenyan Independence Day is?”
“Well it’s my job, isn’t it? To look out for the well-being of the crew, and their morale, and so forth.” She began putting on her plate a small sample from each dish except the soy ones. “I must admit, it took a bit of research,” she whispered. “I don’t just remember these things off the top of my head, you see.”
“I’ll never tell.” Stanislaus took a thick slice of roasted turkey and a heaping pile of sweet potatoes.
Brewster frowned at a casserole. “Shepherd’s pie with turkey? You can’t make shepherd’s pie with turkey! I’ll have words with that man, mucking about with our traditional English recipes.”
“Now who’s taking herself too seriously?”
“Oh, get off.”
• • •
An hour and a half later, after they had eaten far too much food, Brewster pushed back from the table and burped in that ladylike way of hers. “Oh, excuse me. I haven’t eaten like this in years.” She stood, slowly, leaning heavily on the table. “I’m going to go back to my cabin now, where I shall drink a bottle of antacid and lie on the cold bathroom floor like a bloated cow.”
Stanislaus, boggled, stared at her. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I didn’t want you to come looking, and mistake me for Elvis.” As she walked toward the door, Stevens came out of the kitchen. “A lovely dinner, Mr. Stevens.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“If you ever do that to a shepherd’s pie again, I’ll put you out an airlock.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stevens approached the captain’s table. “Well sir?”
“A resounding success, Mr. Stevens.”
“Made up for the gelatin incident, I hope.”
“More than adequately.”
“Thank you sir. I’m glad you think so. Because I have this idea for St. Patrick’s day...”
• • •
The next morning Stanislaus, feeling slightly less bloated than he had the night before, strolled through the corridors to the command center. Most of the damage had been cleaned up, though there were still one or two trouble spots. He passed the tube that came down from docking bay two. A janitor, with a hose plugged into the central vacuum system, was cleaning up the singed turkey feathers that had fallen from the scene of the massacre. He was singing new words to the tune of “Good King Wenceslaus.”
“Captain Stanislaus looked out/On the Feast of Stevens...”
Perhaps Stanislaus ought to have been angered by the impudence, but he chuckled instead. Side-stepping a puddle of feathers, he strode to the command center, whistling that melody.
Shortly after he stepped into the room, before he even had a chance to pour his cup of coffee, the communications officer handed him a palmtop message display. “This came in overnight, sir.”
Stanislaus almost dropped the coffee pot. “The chairman is coming.”
The comm officer nodded, looking a bit pale. “What do we do, sir?”
“Nothing.” Stanislaus handed back the display and filled his coffee mug. “We’ve already done what we can. Let him come.”
• • •
Two hours later, Stanislaus and Brewster were up at the docking ring. They met the chairman as he floated off the ship.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Shaw.” Captain Stanislaus shook the chairman’s hand, and introduced Dr. Brewster. “This is quite an honor.”
“Yes. I decided to make the rounds, as it were. See the outer system facilities for myself. This is my first stop—” he jabbed a finger at Stanislaus “—and you are not to let anyone up ahead know we’re coming. It’s supposed to be a surprise, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I see.”
“I hear you had a bit of excitement, Stanislaus.” Mr. Shaw, a rotund man with a thin ring of gray hair, kicked off and floated down the tube to the outer ring. His retinue followed close behind.
“Yes sir, but nothing we couldn’t handle.” As they lowered themselves down the tube, they squeezed past a janitor with a scrub brush, cleaning up the last of the turkey guano. Their feet dug into the rungs when they got closer to the outer ring.
As he stepped out of the tube, Shaw glanced around at the freshly cleaned corridor. “You’ve had two ships put in this week, Stanislaus. One received unbilled labor and the other got half-price fuel. What’s that about?”
“If you’ll come with me, sir,” Stanislaus said, “I’ll explain everything.” He extended his arm to show the way to the mess hall. “Would you like something to eat? I think we have some leftovers.”
THE END
About the Author
Kristen Stieffel is a freelance copy editor and
has belonged to the Editorial Freelancers Association since 2010. She specializes in helping Christian writers polish their work till it shines and also enjoys helping business people deliver their messages with the style of a professional writer. Despite ten years of newsroom experience, Kristen still believes in preserving each writer's unique voice.
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