“Kole, you have to let me go. You have to.”<br/><br/>“No! Stop talking!” Tears forced themselves through Kole’s clenched eyelids. He was gripping Gunnar’s suit by the lapel. “Ye not gunna die on me, ye hear!”<br/><br/>The gunner and the cook had escaped on a scout ship when The Hrið was attacked. Gunnar fended off an attacker but was wounded on both legs that Kole had to carry him over his shoulder just to get to the Scout. The scout ship's reactor was damaged during their escape. With the ship not having enough power to reach The Vætta, the injured gunner broke autopilot and performed an emergency landing in the wilderness of the planet Bryaclia. The crash aggravated Gunnar’s injuries, pushing him to pre-critical status.<br/><br/>“No, don’t turn on the distress signal. Those buzztards are still scouring the sector for survivors. Wait 96 hours or so. And besides, who’s gonna come to our rescue? We lost the Hrið, and we’re far away from The Vætta, and from other Norse--”<br/><br/>“But we gotta get ye to a med bay, Gunner! Ye stoopid or wot! The GP gonna find us and bring ye to a med--”<br/><br/>“It’s suicide, idjot! Most of Parra Savva hate our guts, the Galactic Police no different.”<br/><br/>Kole reluctantly saw Gunnar’s logic, and resolved to keep him stable until real help arrives. For the next two days, they found themselves talking intimate matters: about family back home; who among the crew would get married first; what it takes to be a great ship gunner; how invaluable knowledge of the indigenous flora was, knowing which plants contained coagulating agents to slow blood loss, which herbs were good sedatives to alleviate hypertension and slow down heart rates, which in turn would decrease respiration rates -- something especially critical since the dwindling supply of breathable air was their biggest enemy. The planet was carbon-dioxide rich, toxic to humans. Food and water posed no problem; once the rations ran out, there were enough edible Bryaclian vegetation and watery fruits to consume. According to Gunnar, the ship had enough reserves to oxygenate the air for 21 days for the both of them.<br/><br/>On that second day, equipped with a breathing apparatus, Kole was out surveying and collecting resources. He figured that he would activate the distress signal after only 48 hours, but when he returned, he found Gunnar anemically pale on his makeshift stretcher, foaming at the mouth. His palm opened weakly to reveal an emptied vial. The cook knelt by his dying comrade in disbelief, staring at his misting eyes. Dilating pupils, searching left and right. Gunnar didn’t need to speak. It was written all over his glazed eyes.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Kole, I’m only a burden… even if you can keep me alive for months, what use am I without my legs. I know there’s no guarantee, if... anyone is even looking for us. You might have to seek out the Bryaclians for help. Kole, live. Live for me. For our people. Giving you three more weeks is the least I can do…</span><br/><br/>Within moments, the gunner Gunnar was a goner.<br/><br/>The worst day of Kole’s life.<br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * *</div><br/><br/><br/>“Ggóður dagur! Y’Captain!” The cook cheerfully served Alfalfa her portions. “We be havin’ today boiled eggs, alfalfa and kale salad wit’ cranberry dressing, baked potatoes wit’ chives, nässelsoppa, and slices of fresh apricots and canteloops.” Gotta serve the non-perishable foods first such as fresh fruits, freshly ‘acquired’ from generous sources. “And non, Syrr Krii didna help out today, simple enough menu fer today’s lunch, ya?”<br/><br/>But before Alfalfa could respond, Isa’s stomach once again announced its presence. Kole was about to quirk an eyebrow, but since the last of the crew was served, everyone was free for seconds, and in Isa’s case, thirds.<br/><br/>“Aite, Jack Rabbit of all Tools, ye be knowin’ the rules, so yes, here ye go,” serving her a third portion. The rules being, or at least one of them, that no one should get a second helping until everyone has gotten their first. Kole had to bend the rules<span style="font-style: italic">a little</span>and<span style="font-style: italic"> a lot</span>for Isa -- just like those other times he felt like bending his flexible spatula across her posterior, because it seemed to him as if she was presenting it for his disapproval, but that little twirl of the body was probably a defensive gesture for any self-respecting being, shielding or at least turning their most armoured or padded side to buffer or cushion incoming strikes. Besides, to whack someone with a cooking utensil currently in use was offensive to anyone with a sense of hygiene!<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br/><br/>“Eh, ye feedin’ two mouths or somethin’?” Kole joked one time in a similar situation as present – while serving at the counter but with Frisky nearby. “Er, doc, ye sure ye found nothin’ in yer scans? She sure eats enough fer two.” No one laughed, at least that he could recall. Maybe because it was lunch time and no one wanted to hear a joke about alien parasites who hide inside people’s stomachs. So he tried to alleviate the situation by cleverly changing the implied subject -- from an alien to a baby. “Ye sure ye’re not pregnant? Eh? Eh?” Adding a wink.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br/><br/>There were other rules in Kole’s Kitchen. All dining implements were unbreakable, from the silver utensils to the ceramic food trays to the genuinely glass-like plastic cups. Unfortunately, his wooden set was destroyed on that fateful day a long time ago. Being out in space, turbulences were bound to occur more often than on a ground-based establishment, so everything must be shatterproof. Another rule: everyone must eat together at appointed meal times. The crew was small enough that four tables sufficed, and that policy could only help in fostering a social atmosphere. Supporting this rule himself, Kole would randomly sit at different tables, not playing favourites, although he did have his preferred company. In such an environment, Kole would not only be able to catch up on senior officer plans and general ship agendas, but also figure out how to introduce and merge the ship's lower-level issues such as ration levels and supplies with higher-priority ones.<br/><br/>At the moment, there was one item the ship’s cook and budding winemaker was particularly excited about, and so he brought his tray and cup and sat in front of the Navigator Johan Liutsson. Kole remained wearing his chef beanie hat; not presentable, wearing a hathead.<br/><br/>“Say, what be our chartered courses fer the next little whyle, eh?” It wasn’t an unusual query. Kole had asked this before many times, so he can coordinate picking up supplies from this and that location, which would allow him to plan ahead his menu, among other things. But he overheard Negotiator Ragna saying something about avoiding Coren for the next little while. “Eh, okay, besides Coren, that be.”<br/><br/>Kole was curious. He read, or heard, from somewhere, that time travelled faster or slower in different places. Of course, the entirety of the dissertation was gibberish to him, but that was what he understood and took away from it. He didn’t even realize that he gleaned and tucked away this info until he got into winemaking. What is the most important ingredient in wine? Even more crucial than the most exquisite variety of grapes? Why,<span style="font-style: italic">time</span>, of course! But, what's that got to do with anything? It's not like time can be distilled and increased or decreased as an ingredient? Or can it? His secret brainstorm: to lower a crate of barrels of freshly pressed wine -- with a very very long rope or something to avoid being affected -- into someplace where time ticked faster, leave it there for a month, come back and retrieve it, and it would have aged decades, maybe even centuries! Vintage!<br/><br/>A sparkle like that of champagne alighted Kole’s clear blue eyes.<br/><br/>“Any like, uh, dead spots the space sailors be sayin’ to avoid, or somethin’ like that, Syrr Liutsson?”