Page 12 of Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef

I allow myself a small smile. “Just don’t tell them it was cooked by a primitive human. Wouldn’t want to shatter their illusions of superior alien cuisine.”

Elana snorts. “Please. After tasting this, they’d probably beg you to be their personal chef.”

As she leaves, I turn to face Nelan. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the past hour, methodically chopping vegetables and stirring sauces without his usual commentary on my inferior cooking methods. It’s... unsettling.

“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “What’s next on the menu, oh culinary master?”

Nelan’s head snaps up, his dark eyes intense. He takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for war. “The General’s meal.”

Right. Our VIP guest. The one whose very presence has everyone on edge, even if they won’t admit it. No pressure. Just cooking for someone who could probably have us all vaporized if we serve an undercooked appetizer.

“Okay, what are we thinking? Another round of enchiladas? Maybe with some fancy alien garnish to jazz it up?”

Nelan shakes his head, his expression grave. “No, for a guest of this caliber, we need something truly exceptional. I suggest we prepare Gral’thok Shu’vari.”

I blink. “Bless you?”

That familiar look of exasperation crosses his features. I’m starting to think it’s his default expression around me.

“It’s a classic Volscian dish. Highly revered, especially among the upper echelons of society.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, already feeling out of my depth. “And what exactly is in this Gral-whatever? Please tell me it doesn’t involve anything still alive.”

“Gral’thok Shu’vari,” Nelan corrects, enunciating each syllable like he’s teaching a particularly slow child. Or me. “It’s a delicate balance of flavors and textures. The main component is seared Drek’nar tentacles, marinated in a blend of rare spices. This is accompanied by steamed Yolandi bulbs and a reduction sauce made from fermented Grokian blood fruit.”

My head spins. I recognize maybe two words in that entire description, and I’m pretty sure one of them was “and.” “Nelan, I hate to break it to you, but I have no idea how to make any of that.”

“Which is precisely why I will be taking the lead on this dish,” he says, already moving toward the pantry with the determination of a man on a mission. “You will assist me.”

I bristle at his tone. “Excuse me? I thought we were working together here.”

Nelan pauses, turning to face me. His expression softens slightly. “We are. But this dish requires a level of expertise and cultural understanding that you simply don’t possess. Not yet, at least. It’s nothing personal, Laura. It’s just a fact.”

I want to argue, to insist that I can handle it, but the truth is that he’s right. I’m way out of my league here. At least he’s not commanding me around anymore. If anything, he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt.

With a sigh, I nod. “Fine. What do you need me to do?”

“For now, just observe. Pay close attention and learn. This dish requires absolute precision,” he says, gathering an array of ingredients I couldn’t even begin to identify. He pauses, glancing back at me. “It’s why a NutriSynth is usually used.”

I watch as Nelan works, his movements fluid and confident. It’s like watching a dance, every motion purposeful and graceful. Despite my irritation at being sidelined, I can’t help but be impressed.

“The key,” Nelan explains as he slices what I assume are the Drek’nar tentacles, “is in the preparation. The tentacles must be cut at precisely a 37-degree angle to ensure optimal texture.”

I nod, trying to look like I understand why a 36-degree angle would be catastrophic. “Right, of course. Wouldn’t want to risk a third-degree disaster. Get it? Because... angles... and degrees...” I trail off as Nelan’s unamused glare cuts through me like one of his precisely angledknives.

“This is not a joking matter, Laura,” Nelan says, his tone sharp. “The slightest imperfection could ruin the entire dish.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “No jokes. Got it.”

As Nelan continues to work, his instructions become increasingly specific and, frankly, a bit ridiculous.

“The Yolandi bulbs must be steamed for exactly 7 minutes and 42 seconds,” he insists, setting a timer with almost comical precision. “Any longer, and they become mushy. Any shorter, and they remain unpalatably firm.”

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that I doubt the General will even notice the difference of a few seconds over-cooked. After all, it’s not like it’s burnt to a crisp.

“Now,” Nelan says, handing me a strange, pulsating fruit that looks disturbingly like a beating heart, “I need you to juice this Grokian blood fruit. But be very careful. If you apply too much pressure, the juice will become bitter. Too little, and we won’t extract enough for the reduction.”

I take the fruit gingerly, half expecting it to burst in my hands. “Right. No pressure. Literally. Just gotta find that sweet spot between gentle caress and fruit murder.”

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