The Borscht Ultimatum
By Pyrite
Words were dangerous, and everyone knew that. Even Sousuke Sagara, a man of few of them himself, was all too familiar with the hatred and loathing that a few choice words could invoke.
“I love you, Kashim!!!”
Henceforth, any contact with Kaname Chidori is forbidden.
“Yes. I killed her.”
And as he stood in the entrance to the mess hall, he remembered to move one terrible sentence to the top of his list.
“I’ll treat you to something later.”
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“Hey, Yu…”
“Corporal Yan?”
“Kowloon was great, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, you said it. Peking duck…”
“Dim sum…”
“Char siew noodles with dumplings…”
“Sweet and sour spare ribs…”
The two men let out a collective sigh as they stared at their meal, and the sergeant seated beside them, Kurz Weber, echoed in abject frustration. It should have been a feast fit for a king: the mess hall’s tables were almost creaking from the weight of myriad assorted foods, a veritable smorgasbord of delicacies from all around the world. And Lieutenant Commander Kalinin, in an uncharacteristic gesture following the success of the Kowloon mission, had spared no expenses in obtaining nothing but the finest for the SRT.
There was just one problem. As Al had pointed out to Sousuke once, ‘Smorgasbord’ referred to a sumptuous buffet, usually stocked with whatever suited the host’s fancy, and had its origins in the Swedish phrase, “bread and butter table”. In the hands of the lieutenant commander, though, it was evidently Russian for ‘borscht-everything’.
Kalinin’s tastes remained a mystery to Sousuke: he didn’t know why the man who’d taken him in insisted on flavouring everything with the taste of the traditional Russian beet soup, but he’d never really questioned it in the beginning. A life on the battlefield had heightened all his senses except the sense of taste; the flavour of your next meal was never as important as living to taste your next one. Still, he couldn’t help but notice, even at such a young age, that the rations he scavenged off his fallen foes tasted far better than his guardian’s food.
Then Hamid had shown him what Middle Eastern food was like. Mithril introduced him to the Danaan’s mess hall. Kaname Chidori had cooked some of the best meals he’d ever tasted in his life, and weaned him into appreciating – albeit with limited success – the nuances and intricacies of Japanese cuisine. And the more he ate, the more he began to suspect that whatever regular food was, it didn’t involve making everything pink and sour.
Still, whatever Sousuke thought of Kalinin’s culinary expertise – or lack thereof, he had never dared to tell it to his face. So mission after successful mission, Sousuke would return in one piece to the congratulations of his team-mates, the warmth of his quarters… and a slap-up borscht feed from “Grandpa Kalinin”.
This time, to quote Gauron, he intended to take some others down with him. And the mission had been successful.
“So you’re telling me that everything at this table is borscht-flavoured?”
“Yes.”
“The sushi?”
“Borscht.”
“The cold cuts?”
“Borscht.”
“The suspicious-looking ‘strawberry’-sundae?”
“Borscht,” Sousuke repeated, raising a spoonful of pink mashed potato to his mouth with the stoic lassitude of the condemned.
“Well, I say you’re the one who needs a good kick in the borscht –”
“Quit whining, Kurz,” Mao muttered, planting his head firmly onto the table in front of his serving. “It’s not that bad…”
“Yeah, right,” came his muffled retort, a bitter – or more accurately, sour-sweet – taste still in his mouth. “Sousuke was right: the old man must be indestructible if he eats what he cooks. Besides, weren’t you the one who said something about torturing Blueno with the borscht-flavoured salmon?”
“That’s not the point!” she snapped back, suddenly reminded of how the turncoat had screamed like a girl when faced with the possibility of such cruel and unusual punishment. “Anyway, our team leader isn’t complaining about it… are you, Bel?” She turned to face the man, who was sitting directly opposite her, and carefully scrutinised the lieutenant’s stern face – it being the only ray of hope in the sea of queasy expressions that made up the rest of the Uruz team.
Then she noticed his plate. “You haven’t touched your food yet.”
“It’s against my religion.” Actually, the Koran never said anything about beets, but it does have strict injunctions against self-abuse. Still, he couldn’t resist prodding at the amorphous pink lump on his own plate with his fork, asking, “You eat this… on a regular basis?”
“Yes, Sir, usually when we return from a successful mission.” Kurz, who had never been on friendly terms with Lieutenant Grouseaux, was more than happy to put the knife in between their new leader’s ribs, even if it involved a little bending of the truth – or in this case, outright lying. “And Lieutenant McAllen, being the squad leader, always got double portions.”
At that point, Grouseaux would have gladly eaten his own disparaging words about McAllen: they certainly looked more palatable than what was being served.
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The ripples of dissent had reached the other end of the table, where talk proceeded only in the quietest of whispers – and for good reason.
“Nora, regarding your relationship with the Lieutenant Commander…” Goldberry mumbled, casting a glance at the subject of their conversation and wondering how he managed to wear an apron without everyone on board the Tuatha de Danaan questioning his masculinity. But of course, Kalinin was that kind of man… which explained the rumours that had been spreading about him and the Chief Technical Officer.
The aforementioned party, Lieutenant Lemming, was a little too quick to close any further discussion regarding the sensitive topic. “For the last time, Goldberry, there isn’t anything going on between us!” she insisted tetchily even as the blood rushed to her pale face, bringing a knowing chuckle to the medical officer’s lips.
“Okay, sweetie, if you say so. Still, let me give you some advice if you should ever decide to get something going…”
“What is it?”
“Well…” Goldberry shuddered at the thought of Nora’s cooking, which more closely resembled something that came out of her laboratory rather than an oven. Obviously, she and Lieutenant Commander Kalinin were made for each other. “He doesn’t eat what you cook, and you don’t eat what he cooks. The Chinese have a saying: Live long and prosper, eat crap and die.”
“Gee, thanks.” Nora stared into her glass of borscht cola, in no condition to argue.
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“I’m done!”
It was Tessa who stood up first, bringing a napkin daintily to her lips as she excused herself. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander, for this… wonderful meal,” she exclaimed, polite as always, “but I must return to check on the Danaan’s maintenance round. If you’ll excuse me…”
Kalinin acknowledged her with a silent nod, and the captain slipped out of her seat, tottering back to the bridge on noticeably unsteady feet. A pair of ever-vigilant hawk’s eyes observed her departure, seeing an avenue for escape, and their owner immediately seized that opportunity. In a manner dignified enough to disguise any attempt at fleeing the scene, Mardukas rose from his seat, announcing, “I shall assist the Captain in her duties…”
Sadly, his valiant attempt at freedom died stillborn, killed off by the sudden appearance of Kalinin’s smiling face. And as everyone on board the Danaan knew, a smiling Lieutenant Commander was the most dangerous one of all.
“You’re not eating enough, Mardukas. Look at you – thin as a rake! Here, have some more fried rice.” The Vice-Captain found himself strong-armed back into his seat, where a steaming heap of pink rice was waiting on his plate, personally served by Kalinin himself.
His face remained expressionless, but Kurz could have sworn that the old Briton’s stiff upper lip was about to dissolve in a shower of tears.
Turning back, the sniper noticed that a particular member of the team had vanished from the table. “Where’s Sousuke?” he queried, asking for the one who had landed them all in this mess in the first place.
“You mean you weren’t paying attention?” Mao raised her eyebrows in surprise, washing down her mouthful of borscht cake with a large glass of water. “Tessa told him to get back to work on the Arbalest. It was an order.”
Lucky dog. “An order, huh? I suppose he didn’t ask for fries with that,” he shot back sardonically, handing a tray of beet strips to the Sergeant Major.
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You seem nauseated. It appears to be related to the meal you had earlier.
“Excellent observation. You have no idea how hard it is to stomach the Lieutenant Commander’s cooking.”
I lack a stomach or tastebuds. Regretfully, I am unable to share your observations…
“You’re not regretting anything at all.”
True.
