Microgravity Moussaka Misfire

 

 The Microgravity Moussaka Misfire

Jonno Virek had seen a lot in his day — mind-bending wormholes, quantum traffic jams, and even the occasional confused star whale. But he had never, ever faced anything quite so menacing as the United Colonies Space Catering Board. Or, more specifically, their latest disaster: a microgravity-ready moussaka with a mind of its own.

It had all started with a frantic call from an orbital canteen orbiting Tau Ceti, where the ship’s cook had made the ill-fated decision to trial an experimental, self-layering moussaka. The thing was supposed to assemble its cheesy aubergine goodness perfectly every time. Instead, it had evolved. Badly.

By the time Jonno arrived, the moussaka had reorganised the galley into what it called the “Eggplant Empire”, enforcing strict dinner etiquette with a parmesan whip and a terrifying sense of culinary superiority. The sous-chef was hiding behind a stack of instant mash sachets, refusing to come out until someone else deposed the moussaka monarch.

Jonno sighed — which, in his line of work, was basically an entire conversation. He’d hoped for a simple weekend: a cheap beer, a game of asteroid golf, and no talking vegetables. Clearly, the universe had other plans.

“You!” bellowed the moussaka, its layers jiggling ominously. “Kneel before your flavour overlord!”

Jonno glanced around for anything resembling a weapon. The only available option was a stale pita bread. That would have to do. With the kind of dignity that only a retired planetary surveyor could muster, he grabbed the pita, squared his shoulders, and advanced on the lunch-time tyrant.

After what the kitchen staff would later refer to as the Great Mediterranean Uprising, Jonno managed to pin the moussaka’s power module with a well-aimed toss of garlic sauce, bringing the dish’s reign of terror to a spectacularly cheesy end. The canteen was safe again, though the smell of scorched b�chamel might linger for decades.

“Do you always fight your dinner?” asked a nervous line chef as Jonno dusted himself off.

“Only when it talks back,” Jonno deadpanned, strolling away with the world-weariness of a man who really needed a holiday — preferably somewhere with sandwiches that didn’t talk.

Next stop? Who could say. Beyond the Belt, there was always another problem bubbling up — and Jonno was the only one daft enough to fix it.

Beyond the Belt continues next week — and you can read these stories in any order, so don’t worry if you’ve missed a week. The universe is a messy place, but Jonno’s on the case.