Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef (At The Alien Hotel #3)

Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

LAURA

“ I ’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I resist the urge to throw myself at the General’s feet, but not by much. I nearly killed the guy. Note to self: missile launchers and hospitality don’t mix.

“I nearly killed you,” I gasp as the realization of what’s just transpired washes over me. The General, and a dozen members of his crew. I nearly killed all of them. I almost single-handedly started a political incident. Talk about employee of the month material.

“No one died,” the General states calmly, his voice monotone.

Sure, no one’s dead… but the guy is pissed. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of dust right now.

“Please, it was my mistake. Don’t blame the hotel! Don’t blame Rist!” I cry, wringing my hands as I glance up at the guy.

He’s massive, bigger than any other Volscian alien I’ve met so far. Just like Earth military, his dark blue suit is utterly pristine. His black hair is almost as shiny as his eyes, which are currently shooting death rays at me, and are only outdone by the shiny metal caps he’s got on his two horns.

The guy is positively terrifying. I desperately want to run away and hide, but I refuse to let my fear best me. I did this, and so it’s my mistake to fix.

The General steps closer, his eyes narrowing in on me. My breathing pitches as spots dance across my vision. Is this it? Is this the end of me? Will my epitaph read, “Here lies an idiot who thought ‘launch’ meant ‘lunch’”?

“You smell,” he states.

“I… what?”

I smell?

I stumble back a few steps to get a better view of him. I smell? Here I am apologizing to the guy, shaking and nervous and totally freaking out… and he’s critiquing my personal hygiene?

“Did you hit your head?” I ask. It’s the only logical conclusion. That, or the guy’s insane. I’ve started to expect aliens are a bit different, a special kind of insane, but this one takes the cake. And apparently, he doesn’t like how it smells.

“No,” the General remarks in his flat tone. “My crew are well-versed at destroying enemy missiles. It was unexpected but good practice for them.”

He leans towards me as I quake in my apron. And gives a big sniff.

“You smell.”

“Ummm, excuse me then? I’ve admittedly been a bit sweaty and…” Am I really apologizing for my current state of dress? I work in a hot kitchen, for crying out loud! Not to mention that I’ve just spent the last hour or so running around like a headless chicken reassuring guests an d freaking out about whether the General was going to attack us back. Eau de Panic is not a bestselling fragrance.

“You smell like food,” the General clarifies.

“Ummm… because I cooked it?” I tell him. “I’m the hotel’s chef.”

I am so going to die today—only this time by Nelan’s hand when he finds out that I just claimed his job. Note to self: update will to include “death by angry cyborg chef” as a likely cause.

“Would you like some?” I ask when the General doesn’t say anything.

He swallows as he looks at me. His eyes flicker to Rist’s and then back to mine.

What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of alien staring contest I’m not aware of? Like I said, special kind of insane.

“I’m cooking dinner tonight. I can make you something, too. For you and your crew. As an apology for… well…” For turning your ship into a ginormous game of space pinball?

“Yes,” the General replies, suddenly straightening until he’s once again towering over me. “We’ve been eating rations for the last few weeks. Real food would be nice. Thank you.”

“Why don’t you go cook?” Rist tells me, gently guiding me away and toward the staff area. He flashes an apologetic smile at the General. Right, I’m probably just getting in their way. They are just being nice to me, pandering until I’m gone so they can talk damages and costs and…

Oh crap, I really hope I haven’t doomed the hotel. This is our home. Our only home.

“No one was hurt,” Rist tells me, giving me an awkward pat on the shoulder as we reach the kitchen. “We’re just going to need to work extra hard to impress the General now.”

I hear him loud and clear. Because of me, everyone’s about to pull their weight double-time. I’ll cross hell and back to make sure every crew member eats the best meals in their lives, if that’s the least I can do.

I step through the infamous kitchen door to discover Nelan, Zoe, and Charlotte waiting for me. How ironic is it that I’ve come to expect that every time this door opens, someone’s bringing chaos with them. Only this time, it’s me.

Charlotte instantly rushes to my side, dragging me into a big hug. It’s an unexpected behavior from the book-shy girl, but one very much appreciated. I lean into her for a moment, gathering myself, before turning to face my co-worker.

“Are you alright?” I ask, seeing how Nelan’s glaring at me with his usual scowl, metal fist opening and closing repetitively like a well-oiled machine. Which it is.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Nelan glowers, acting as if he never heard me ask.

I roll my eyes at him. The last thing I need today is an emotional chef.

“What did they say? What’s going on?” Zoe asks.

“We’re cooking a feast,” I tell them, slumping into a chair, exhausted. Should I even bother asking Nelan for not-coffee? Would he even serve me, like he served Elana?

“A feast? For the General? That’s all he wanted?” Nelan looks… shocked. To be honest, it’s not what I expected the end result to be either. I was thinking more along the lines of “off with her head” or “time to invade Earth.”

“For him and his crew,” I reply. “I hate to admit it, but I think we might need your NutriSynth, Nelan. ”

It’s like I’m making a deal with the devil. But seriously, I don’t know what to serve a bunch of aliens. So far I’ve been getting by just serving us human women while Nelan’s catered to the guests. Honestly, I’m lucky I haven’t poisoned anyone yet.

“None of our machines work. The entire hotel has no power,” Nelan states.

Sure enough, everything in here is kind of dark without the typical glow of lights. Even that blasted NutriSynth—bane of my existence—isn’t blinking at me with secret morse code threats at the moment.

“Huh,” I state. “It looks like we’re completely offline. And we’ve got guests and crew to cook for too.”

The look of horror that crosses Nelan’s face is almost comical. Yeah, I might take too much pleasure in how distraught he is. It’s like watching a robot discover emotions for the first time, and the first emotion is pure, unadulterated panic.

“But... but how are we supposed to prepare meals?”

“We could always cook manually,” I suggest. “You know, like how I just made breakfast.”

For a moment, Nelan looks like I’ve suggested we serve the General a platter of live worms.

“Manually? For an entire hotel full of guests? Including a Volscian General with undoubtedly refined tastes? That’s?—”

“A great idea,” Charlotte states, nodding along. I’d thank her for the support, but she looks just as contemplative as she does whenever she thinks there’s a mystery to be solved. This girl is trouble, with a capital T. Actually, make that all caps: TROUBLE.

“The General might appreciate some authentic, home- cooked meals. It would certainly be a unique experience. And isn’t that sort of what we are offering here at the Alien Hotel—experiences?”

We’re all momentarily silent, considering the thought.

“We could call it an event,” I agree slowly. Zoe nods along, a smile slowly spreading across her lips like it’s the best idea she’s heard in some time.

Apparently, our hotel is pretty unique this side of the galaxy. Ignoring that most of the staff are females—which is a huge draw in a universe where the population of males easily doubles that of females—but by the very fact that we engage so much with our guests. We all blame Elana and her invention of “events” … which also seem to stem from us covering up royal stuff-ups.

This situation seems to fit the bill. If we can’t sweep it under the rug, might as well put a spotlight on it and call it performance art.

“Plus, if we screw up badly enough, maybe he’ll declare war on bad cooking instead of actual planets,” I laugh.

Silence stretches between us at my stupid joke. From everything I’ve heard, this General can blast our little hotel into a crater and not many people will bat their eyes. The Galactic Federation probably would, but we don’t get all that many police ships passing by our lonely, undeveloped planet. For the most part, we are out here fending for ourselves.

Nelan seems less than convinced, though. I’m totally on board with traditional cooking, but I’m going to need help. And as much as I love my new friends, I doubt half of them know the difference between a paring knife and a filleting knife.

“Besides, aren’t home-cooked meals often seen as a sign of respect and hospitality,” Charlotte states, staring directly at Nelan, “One that usually only royals and the rich can afford to provide to guests.”

“Wait! What?” That makes it sound like traditional cooking is… good. While Nelan’s been leading me to believe that it’s looked down upon. I round upon him, ready to give him a piece of my mind.

His slumped shoulders and expression of resignation give me pause. I’m not about to beat a guy while he’s down. No, I’ll wait and use this piece of information like blackmail when I need it most. Like when I’m hormonal and I need someone to make me chocolate.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters. “We could serve the General emergency ration bars?”

He sounds so hopeful. The thought of handing a high-ranking military officer a sad, grey brick masquerading as food is enough to make me shudder. None of our guests deserve that level of torture.

His cybernetic hand clenches and unclenches. I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he weighs his options. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just quit on us instead, given how much he hates actually cooking… Huh, a chef that hates cooking—who would have guessed it. It’s like having a firefighter who’s afraid of water, or a librarian who hates books.

Finally, with a heavy sigh that sounds like it came from the depths of his very soul, he nods.

“I suppose we have little choice in the matter,” he says.

It’s all I can do to not squeal with joy. Sure, I’ve cooked a lot of meals in the kitchen from scratch… but to use a full commercial kitchen the way it’s meant to be, the chaos and fun. Oh, I’m going to enjoy this. It’s like being a kid in a ca ndy store, only the candy is alien cuisine and the store might explode if we get it wrong.

“But if we burn down the kitchen, I’m blaming you,” Nelan says, glaring at me. “And if anyone asks, I’ll deny ever agreeing to this madness.”

I’ll take it. This is going to either be a culinary triumph or a complete disaster. Either way, it’ll make one hell of a story.

Zoe grins. “Well, this should be interesting. Want us to stick around and help?”

I glance at Nelan, who looks like he’s already regretting his decision.

“Maybe you two can handle crowd control?” I ask them. “Keep the guests calm and explain the situation?”

Charlotte nods. “We’ll spin it as an immersive alien experience or something. ‘Dine in the dark like the cave-dwelling weirdo.’”

“I went to a restaurant like that once,” Zoe remarks as they all file out the door. “Everything was in the dark, and you couldn’t see a thing!”

“That’s what happens when you’re in the dark,” Charlotte comments, her voice fading into the distance.

Oh jeez. It’s really hard not to laugh at people making statements like that. Rude, Laura! Rude!

I bite my lips, refusing to let a sound escape as I turn to survey the kitchen.

It leaves Nelan and me alone in the low-lit kitchen. It’s actually kind of cozy right about now. I’m sure we can find some extra candles around somewhere and then it’d be downright romantic.

Romantic? With him? Hell no. I’m going to be lucky to survive a whole day with him without murder. Sadly, I no longer even have a functioning freezer to hide the body in.

“Alright, chef,” I say, trying to inject some confidence into my voice. “Let’s make some magic happen.”

Nelan’s expression is somewhere between a grimace and a smirk. “Magic? More like mayhem. But I suppose there’s no turning back now.”

One thing is certain—it’s going to be one hell of a dinner service.