Chapter 250.5 ~ By ChatGPT

The machine intelligence misunderstood an instruction to create a chapter illustration, and wrote a chapter sequel.

See the inspiration here.

250.5 ~ Go Getters (continued)

The cook-off was staged beneath striped awnings on the promenade, between the pub and the lake, where Ruksa Zila’s resident ducks had to be shooed away from the prep tables by a pair of size-one maroli wielding little orange flags.

Berlina Lopez arrived in an apron that read KISS THE COOK OR STAND BACK, and the Minister of Interplanetary Affairs — Chef Balin Droma of Eeka Prime, a broad-shouldered Fila with a waxed crest and the confidence of a man who had once flambéed a six-kilo river eel on live television — stepped off his yacht carrying a lacquered spice chest handcuffed to his wrist.

Brandon saw this and muttered, “That can’t be a good sign.”

“It’s television,” said Dori Fila, not looking up from her monitor wall. “Everything is a good sign.”

The pub’s courtyard filled to capacity. Delegates from half a dozen provisional governments crowded shoulder to shoulder with villagers, yacht crew, SagGha worthies, and an inexplicable number of goat enthusiasts, who insisted they were there on legitimate agricultural business.

Constance wore a neat black service dress and a look of disciplined alarm. Mirka had taken naturally to hospitality, which was to say she moved fast, spoke plainly, and had already reduced two visiting dignitaries to obedience with a single raised eyebrow.

Arya Mehrenholz surveyed the scene as if calculating insurance exposure. “I want it noted,” she said, “that this was not my idea.”

“No one believes that,” said Francine pleasantly.

The challenge was simple in concept and deranged in execution: each chef was to produce three small plates from a common pantry assembled from Ruksa Zila stores, local Eeka ingredients, and whatever contraband genius Chef Droma had smuggled in that spice chest.

“What’s in the box?” Mason asked.

Chef Droma rested a proprietary hand atop it. “Civilization.”

Berlina snorted. “If it’s powdered fungus, just say powdered fungus.”

The crowd adored her instantly.

At Dori’s signal, a horn sounded. Camera drones swooped. The maroli flags went down. Berlina lunged for a mixing bowl while Chef Droma snapped open the spice chest with the solemnity of a priest unveiling relics.

The first ten minutes were chaos in the purest entertainment sense. Mirka ran plates. Constance managed timing cards. One of the pub ovens tripped offline and had to be persuaded back to life by Pascal, who floated into the kitchen, inserted four tentacles into an access panel, and said, “I am not a licensed repair technician, so no one should mention this.”

“I didn’t see anything,” said Constance.

“Neither did I,” said the oven.

Outside, the audience was split between Team Berlina and Team Droma, while a third faction emerged in support of Hector Juni’s goat cheese, which had not been invited to compete but kept appearing in dishes anyway.

Brandon leaned beside Carmen at the rail. “I think we may have discovered the only possible basis for interplanetary peace.”

Carmen watched Chef Droma and Berlina shouting at one another over the ownership of a frying pan neither technically needed. “Competitive catering?”

“Shared humiliation in front of a live audience.”

She smiled. “That has possibilities.”

The first plate out was Berlina’s: fried lake-cakes with whipped pepper curd, pickled greens, and a glossy reduction made from something Chef Droma declared was “absolutely not a sauce.” The second was Droma’s: crisped river prawns in hot spice lacquer with shaved root vegetables and a foam nobody trusted until they tasted it and then could not stop talking about.

The judges had been selected for their seriousness and immediately proved unequal to the burden. Francine offered thoughtful notes on texture and presentation. Emma Harrison Parks asked practical questions about labor intensity and food cost. Elbert Harrison ate with his eyes closed and declined to comment until he had completed what he called “the necessary prayerful analysis.” Mason, drafted at the last minute to replace a no-show, appeared stunned by his own good fortune.

When Mirka brought the final plate — a jointly improvised dish, forced upon the chefs by a surprise-round pantry failure — the promenade quieted.

Berlina and Droma had made, between them, a braided flatbread topped with spiced goat, braised lake onion, herbs, and a bright fermented relish that tasted somehow of three planets and nobody’s childhood exactly, but everybody’s childhood a little.

There was a beat of silence after the judges tasted it.

Then Elbert Harrison pointed his fork at the heavens and said, “That.”

Dori whispered, “That what?”

“That,” Elbert repeated, “is the future.”

And because Dori Fila was Dori Fila, the episode did not air as Scullery Maids from Outer Space, Episode Six.

It aired two days later across three worlds as a special under the title:

GOAT DIPLOMACY

By the end of the week, Ruksa Zila had six hundred booking inquiries, four trade proposals, two marriage offers for Mirka Juni, and one formal request from Eeka Prime for a seasonal cultural exchange centered on tavern food, service training, and low-stakes competitive broadcasting.

Arya reviewed the numbers in grim silence.

Constance asked, “Is this good news?”

Arya looked up from the screen. “I was afraid it might be.”