Project Dystopia (The Directorate Book 8)

by Pam Uphoff

  The entire camp was circled by a wall of steel panels, two meters high, with an armed checkpoint. The guards were in Directorate field khakis, identical to what he was wearing. Ebsa pulled up and stopped where they pointed.

  But when he opened the door, he found them doing a visual sweep of the undercarriage, shotguns in hand.

  One older fellow stepped to the door. "New here? We've got to check for spiders. Damn things are huge and poisonous." He waved in two men. "Check the top. This thing's a bit of a wreck, isn't it?"

  "Yep. But it's mechanically sound, and it sounded like I'd need a secure place to sleep. Spiders? Oh, definitely."

  The pair of guards dropped back down. "Clear up top." The first one grinned. "They never tell anyone about the spiders, else they'd have a serious personnel problem."

  The officer nodded. "Go to the aid station, get an injector of anti-venom before you go anywhere." He pointed. "The aid station is the third squishy on the left. What are you assigned to?"

  "Mess. I'm the new chief."

  That got him some wistfully skeptical looks.

  "I, umm, heard the two cooks assigned here weren't . . . impressive."

  "They know how to load up the fabs and are pretty good at keeping the vendos supplied."

  "Yipes. What time is it, local?" Ebsa glanced at the sun.

  "Mid-afternoon. Why don't you park on the far side of the big tent there? You'll see the kitchen setup there."

  "Good. I'll see about cooking a proper dinner."

  Definitely wishful expressions. Uh. Oh.

  He drove around the tent—more of an oversized sun shade, with no sides—spotted the kitchen in the back corner and swung around to park with his door a step away from the edge of the concrete floor.

  "Poisonous spiders, huh?" He opened the well-stocked gun case and grabbed his customized belt. A holster, pocket for the extra magazine, tight loops for a couple of epi pens. Stupid. The tests showed I'm not allergic. Just because my father died of a bee sting . . . A small pocket for the metal tube full of the Comet Fall Joy Juice. A life saver, more than once, but illegal in the Empire. This was the full blown von neumann potion. No chance it would ever be legal. Might not be useful against spider bites, but he was keeping it. He slung it on, added his favorite 9mm pistol and the extra mag.

  I look ridiculous. And paranoid. He unbuckled the belt and hung it up, grabbed the holster that clipped to the inside of his pants waistline, at the back. Slipped the pistol in and stuck it in the small of his back. Pulled up his shirt enough to blouse over the grip and headed out to check his new kitchen.

  The kitchen stank of unwashed dishes and had a visible lack of garbage control.

  "Hey! You can't park there."

  Ebsa looked up from his contemplation of the kitchen to see two people headed his way. A boy and a girl. They must be right out of school. . . When did twenty or twenty-one start looking so young to me? I'm only twenty-five.

  "Just did. I've got stuff to unload, but everything is going to get cleaned, scrubbed, and disinfected first." Ebsa showed his teeth. "I'm Ebsa Clostuone. The Mess Chief. Would you two be the two cooks I've heard mentioned?"

  Eyes widened, and then the boy's narrowed. "Clostuone? I don't have to take orders from a Closey."

  "Well, first get the insult right. That's Closey Upcomer Bastard, thank you very much. And if you want anything resembling a favorable job review from your boss—that's me, now—I think you'd better follow orders. Now, where are the cleaning supplies?"

  Two hours later, Rye, as in Ryej, and Woofie, as in Wfne, were still resentful, but the kitchen was up to snuff and his usual fall back meal of grilled beef patties on buns and deep fried julienned potatoes was being scarfed by gratified diners.

  Mind, the round tables they'd grabbed from the dining area were suboptimal for serving, and even the big fans spotted about couldn't reduce the heat of the late afternoon.

  Woofie shrugged. "There's crates and containers around back, we just got out as much as we needed." He glared resentfully at the line of people waiting for the next round of filled plates.

  Ebsa checked that Rye was flipping burgers, then cut cheese and reached to lay slices on the hot meat. Woofie laid out another double row of plates and Ebsa started opening up buns. "How's the mustard and ketchup holding up out there?"

  No answer. He pinned the boy with his best beady eye. The boy shrugged and peered. "They need more mustard."

  "Go get it." He turned back to the hotline, drained fries and lowered another basketful into the oil. Salt and pepper, and load fries onto plates as Rye scooped the patties onto the buns. Assembly line. Over a hundred people. No big deal. So long as the clean dishes hold out.

  A loud laugh from the side. A familiar face. "Hey, it's the self starter. No wonder it smells good in here!"

  "Wxxo! You running the camp?"

  "Yep, for my sins. I'll never complain about a camp full of rowdy soldiers again. Have you met the archaeologists?" He glanced around. "No, damn it, they haven't come in yet—poor sods are probably trying to avoid having to eat fabbed gunk again. I'll roust them out once I've had time to savor some real food."

  "Wait till I get fully set up before you flatter me too much." Ebsa turned back at a ding. Fries up!

  An hour later, he had to glare the kids into cleaning up during a brief hiatus, then they all scarfed a quick meal themselves before getting back to work.

  "Didn't you have any proper training?" He was getting a bit put out.

  "Yes!" Rye snapped. "We learned all about vendos, fabs, and vats. And some cooking. We do do some cooking, no matter what all those people were saying. We have to keep up with the vats, after all."

  Woofie looked around. "We fix proper dinners three nights a week, and keep everything running. How much cooking are you expecting us to do?"

  Ebsa sighed. "Three meals a day, children. Three a day. This is the least elaborate dinner you'll ever see me fix. And yes. The kitchen will be cleaned after every meal. Most of the lunches will be simpler, the breakfasts will vary."

  He glanced up at movement across the tent. "Next shift of diners. Load the cook top, Rye. Woofie?"

  "I know, I know! Mustard."

  "First, wipe down the tables. People have been spilling all over them." He could hear the boy's teeth grit, but he did as told, without further prompting.

  A mutter from the fast lengthening line. "But I'm a vegetarian!" Ebsa looked over and caught a couple of nods. Civilians. Or Directorate scientists. Probably both. He raised his voice. "How many vegetarians?" Hands went up. "Woofie, do the fries, keep the plates coming." He headed for the freezer for the tofu.

  Two more hours, everything scrubbed and put away, he sent the pair off to their beds. And sank down into a chair beside the grinning Paer.

  "You didn't warn me about the spoiled brats."

  "You might not have come." She scooted her chair closer and leaned on his shoulder.

  "I'd still have come. But I'd have bought a cattle prod."

  She giggled, and pulled out a sealed packet. "Actually, I've brought you an anti-spider-venom injector. Slap it in pointy end first somewhere between the bite and the heart. I've been told that the pain of the meds is only slightly better than dying. Oh, and sunscreen cream. Treating sunburns are a daily part of my job, even on cold days, not that we've had any for a week. And I've got an anti-chitinous insect spell from Xen. You're going to want to apply it regularly. Frequently, far and wide."

  Footsteps . . . Wxxo braced his hands on the table. "I finally had time to kick back and catch up on the news highlights. Warrior. Please tell me there's no trouble brewing?"

  "Ah. My reputation . . . is getting stranger. Well, I think Director Ajki is just trying to get us away, so the newsies would go away, and maybe our co-workers, given a little time to think, could wrap their minds around 'maybe we ought to stop being so rude to Ebsa.' Anyway, he sent Ra'd to Embassy, so any trouble here is not anticipated to require shooting anything."

&nb
sp; "I truly hope so. Especially since those tykes need cooking lessons."

  "Poor kids probably thought camp cook sounded like an easy job. I grew up underfoot in a commercial kitchen, so I know how one works. And how time intensive it is."

  "Does that mean no pastries in the morning?"

  Paer giggled. "Administrator! I'm shocked that you don't like those abominations the fabs produce!"

  Ebsa grinned. "Actually, that sounds like a great idea. Then I'll attack the crates out there and see what equipment the tykes have been ignoring."

  The administrator grimaced. "Just watch for spiders, as you unpack. Those things get into everything. And we just can't keep the small ones out."

  They neglected to tell him how large the small spiders were.

  Once Ebsa got his breathing back under control, he poured the anti-chitin spell over every single box, crate, container, bare ground, himself just in case there was something besides sweat crawling down his back . . .

  Climbed back in the crawler and strapped on the belt with the joy juice and extra magazine . . . C'mon you idiot, they weren't big enough to shoot! He hesitated, hands on belt buckle . . . took off the khaki shirt and pulled on a loose knit shirt that hung down over the pistol. Swapped out an epi pen for the anti-venom injector. Went back to the pile of crates.

  Well, plenty of goodies and not much space for them the way the current equipment was set up. He had the hot buffet set up in time for the first danishes to come out of the oven, paper plates so that today his assistants wouldn't have to wash very much. If they ever showed up.

  He walked over to the pole holding up the center of the tent and nodded in satisfaction. Plenty of power outlets.

  "What are you looking for?" Woofie frowned from Ebsa back to the kitchen.

  "I'm going to set up a vendo and fab island with all the coffee machines, here in the middle."

  Woofie wrinkled his nose. "The fabs do good coffee. There's no need for coffee machines."

  Ebsa contemplated the infant. "Did you actually specialize in cooking?"

  "No! I'm going to be a camp manager." His voice dropped to a growl. "They said I should do a stint at each job I'd be managing. This One forsaken spider infested place is bad enough, but I've been stuck here for two months!"

  "Wfne Withione. Did you actually think you'd be in charge as soon as you had your diploma on your screen?"

  The boy scowled. "They did say it could take ten years. But then they threw me and Rye in here, with no supervisor—until you got here. Well, there was a guy assigned, but something happened and so we were on our own. And we did all right."

  Ebsa pinched the bridge of his nose. "Woofie. First, I suspect that what they said was 'at least ten years.' Second, most postings are for two years. Third, you are failing miserably at what I sincerely hope is your first posting."

  "I'm not failing!" Scalded, disbelieving indignation.

  "Did you notice the line for dinner, last night? Do you think they were being polite, to eschew the vendos for a night?"

  "That was just cheeseburgers and fries. I've done that, and with proper fab buns, too, not those dry things you brought. They didn't bother thanking us for them."

  "I'll grant that you did keep the vendos and fabs supplied and working. But the camp crew can do that, and apparently did for four months before you two got here. But you are here to cook."

  The oven timer dinged. "Come with me. Let me show you how to do some pastries. If you will work, I will try to get you up to speed on how a field kitchen for a large project ought to be run." He spotted Rye yawning her way toward the kitchen. "Rye? School is in session. Grab a danish and listen up. For pastries like this, set the fab for dough number five . . . " He talked while reloading the oven and loading plates.

  They ate one danish apiece as if it was stuffed with spiders.

  Gawped in disbelief that he could access the special programs. And then that he would access the special programs for the express purpose of creating something that still had to be baked.

  Rye squirmed. "I don't mean to be offensive, Ebsa, but this just doesn't taste right."

  Ebsa bit his lip. "You've eaten fab food all your life, haven't you?"

  "Yes, thank the One! You wouldn't believe what they made us eat at the Directorate School!"

  Woofie nodded agreement. "Nasty weird stuff. Sheesh, it's not like either of us was on the Teamer Track. I . . . never expected something like this."

  Rye nodded emphatic agreement.

  "Siblings? No?"

  "Cousins. We lived next door to each other."

  "And our parents were much too import . . . er, busy to cook. I just took the class because it was required." Rye eyed the last bit of danish and pushed it aside. "So, maybe I should start getting the fabs to turn out some proper pastries."

  Ebsa looked over as the first staff showed up. Noses up and sniffing.

  "Damn, something smells good." The plates started disappearing faster than he could load them. The vendos were working overtime delivering coffee. Tomorrow, real coffee.

  He put the kids to work rolling out the dough, sprinkling generously with brown sugar and cinnamon, rolling it up, slicing it and filling a baking sheet, adding the fruit toppings . . .

  Even the vegetarians came back for seconds.

  Rye glowered. "Well, everyone else seems to think it tastes all right. They don't usually eat much breakfast."

  Woofie nodded, and glared at the tub of flatware. "We ought to have used tosser forks, too."

  Ebsa snorted, and pulled the last pan out of the oven. "Load the dishwasher and run it. I'll do a small run later." He snagged two pastries for himself, slathered on butter and headed for Wxxo's table.

  Wxxo pointed at the empty chair. "Sit. Funny, not a single person has complained about the wasted funds for a Mess Chief this morning."

  "Good." Ebsa nodded at the center pole of the tent. "I'd like to move the vendos and two of the fabs to make a central hub, for snacks and whatever."

  The stranger at the table scowled.

  "And set up the coffee makers where everyone has easy access to them."

  The stranger sat up straight. "You brought actual coffee makers, I mean, with coffee beans?"

  "Yep. Got two of them." Which have been sitting here in boxes for six months. "Brought twenty kilograms of whole bean Colombian with me."

  "My crew will be here in an hour to move anything you want anywhere you want. I'm Ocho Neartuone. Anything mechanical, electrical, or plumbed is my baby. Ditto equipment setup."

  "Ebsa Clostuone. Pleased to meet you, Chief. I'll start shutting down the machines and uncrating the good stuff."

  He savored his danishes as quickly as feasible and headed back to the kitchen.

  "All right. We've got a crew coming to do the move. We'll keep one fab here, for ingredients, keep the vats, of course, and put the chest freezer there. The work table . . . "

  "What work table? Why?" Rye looked baffled. "I can't believe these people are eating that stuff! While you were gone people finished off every single one of those things. I offered to fab some good ones, but they practically ran away."

  Ebsa cleared his throat. "People who did not grow up eating only fabbed stuff often prefer the sort of food they grew up eating. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they outnumber you. By a very large margin. So, you two know the turnoff routine for the fabs? Please demonstrate."

  Their lifetime familiarity made it a snap. Their faces shown clear and bright, for the first time.

  "You guys are good with equipment. Watch what the work crew does on the move. This is something you'll need to know, eventually."

  Then he made them help uncrate the chest freezer for the moving crew, assemble both large and small work tables, set up the two ten liter coffee machines, run water through them, then grind the beans and brew the first pot.

  All with the work crew, and Chief Ocho, hovering.

  The first pot lasted minutes. A stunned Rye ground more beans whi
le Woofie fetched water.

  "But Ebsa! It’s isn't very good!" she hissed.

  "Again, it's what you're used to." He grinned. "I'll show you two the old-fashioned way to make bread, as soon as you've got that pot going."

  The yeasty odors had them backing away in horror. But he made them punch the dough down twice, and form sandwich rolls. In between they were relieved to be able to deal with vat meat.

  "Which is also a form of yeast, by the way. Genetically engineered to produce the muscle proteins of several types of animals. And the edible bits of fruit and vegetables."

  Seasoning the meat products and roasting it was something they were familiar with.

  "Friday dinner, mother always made a roast." Rye pounced on the cutter and dialed it for thin slices. "So, sandwiches on your disgusting bread?"

  "Yep. We'll do paper plates again. Then I'll talk to Wxxo about the garbage. Maybe a fire pit for reducing the sheer volume of it." Ebsa grinned at their aghast expressions. "Now, let's assembly line this process. Rye, check the coffee makers, and make sure they're full. Wfne, lay out a double row of paper plates and I'll start slicing the rolls."

  They were well ahead by the time people started showing up and started grabbing plates.

  The vegetarians got fresh rolls with cheese.

  They finished with half a dozen extra rolls. Ebsa told them load their own . . . "Oh fine, go hit the vendos. Kids these days! Take a break. Check back in two hours." He spotted Paer hovering, and loaded the rest of the rolls, in case of more latecomers, grabbed two and abandoned the kitchen for an empty table.

  Paer plunked down two cups of coffee. "This is my third cup. All Hail the Chef!"

  "Magical black elixir of life." Ebsa inhaled, and sipped. "I never did get over to the Aid Station. You have much staff over there?"

  She shook her head, and looked exasperated. "Dr. Atly, Haad, who is the clerk, and me, who does everything else, including mopping the floors. I have to work to not sound like your helpers."