A/N - The prompt for this story was the single word "quasar."  1960 words.

"Mr President, are you sure you've got the right organisation?"

"Completely sure, Mr Cromulent.  Your company is the one we need."

"My company?"

"Yes."

"QUASAR?"

"Yes."

"Um, perhaps there's been some misunderstanding, Mr President.  I know QUASAR sounds all science-y and advanced and exciting.  But we're actually kind of...not.  Any of those things.  At all."

"Mr Cromulent, you can be assured that we know everything we need to know about QUASAR."

"And you still want to use us?"

"Yes, Mr Cromulent."

"For a matter of planetary security?  That's what your aide said."

"Yes, Mr Cromulent.  Although to be strictly accurate, this matter concerns the security of the entire solar system."

"Right.  And you're really, really sure you've got the right company?"

"For the last time, yes, damn it.  Mr Cromulent, we're fully aware that security matters do not usually fall within the purview of your organisation, however in this particular situation we must act as our needs dictate.  And they dictate that we need QUASAR.  Besides, is it not the case that you have a former Space Ranger among your staff?"

"Uh...I don't think so, Mr President."

"Do you have an employee named Quinn Bolt?"

"Bolt?  A former Space Ranger?  Ha!  Not a chance.  He used to be a...hmm, actually now that you mention it, I don't know what he used to be.  He's not much of a talker.  I always kind of figured he was an ex-con."

"Mr Cromulent, are you telling me that you don't run background checks on candidates prior to hiring them?  Or even look at their resumes?"

"Not so much, Mr President.  We do drug-test 'em."

"Well, that's something, I suppose."

"Not that Bolt passed."

"What?  Why on Earth would you hire a candidate who failed a drug test and about whom you know nothing?"

"Well, that's complicated, Mr President.  But it was mainly 'cause I thought he'd hit me if I didn't."

"Mr Cromulent, you are rapidly eroding my already limited confidence in the capabilities of your organisation.  Nevertheless, regardless of its shortcomings, QUASAR is our only option in this current, desperate situation.  Now, shut up and listen."

"Yes, sir."

"Firstly, we're going to need the communication codes for the vessel your company currently has en route to Neptune."

****

Simmo was relieving the relentless boredom of his watch with a power-nap when an insistent buzzing from the control panel interrupted him.  Blinking groggily, he switched on the intercom.  "Hey, boss!  We're getting a communication burst from Earth."

It was only a matter of moments before an irate Dumont stormed onto the bridge.  "It is about time.  'Ow dare they keep us in the dark for this long?  It is an outrage!  And as I have told you a thousand times, do not call me boss.  Call me chef, curse you!"

"No worries.  Chef it is, boss.  You want me to play the message?"

Dumont massaged his temples.  "Tu es con.  Fine, yes.  But get Bolt up here first.  We can all watch together."

According to the ship's roster, Bolt should have been sleeping, but he appeared wide awake when he appeared a few minutes later.  He nodded to his crewmates and took a seat as Simmo activated the message.

The first image to appear was the sweating face of Jeremy Cromulent.  "Hey, guys.  Sorry not to have been in touch for a while.  Bet you're probably wondering what's going on, huh?  Well, it's way weirder than you think.  And to prove it, here's the president."

Simmo's and  Dumont's jaws dropped as the President of the Federated Planets appeared on screen.  Bolt scratched his nose.

"Gentlemen," said the president.  "Your services are required by the Federation.  We are facing a threat of the gravest magnitude and until that threat is resolved you and your vessel are officially under Federation control.

"As you are aware, most of the Federation's fleet is currently involved in war-games around Neptune.  Or at least they were.  Several hours ago every Federation vessel in the area was sabotaged and disabled.  Contact has been lost, however the last few messages received indicate that the saboteur is one of our own.  Fleet-commander Admiral McLennon is the only person with the capability and the access codes to have pulled this off.

"Gentlemen, your mission is to locate and capture the admiral.  And then to somehow convince him to reactivate the fleet."

Dumont snorted.  "Why send us to do their dirty work?  And what's the big 'urry, anyway?"

"Time is of the essence," continued the president.  "Long-range scanners have picked up what appears to be an invasion fleet entering the outskirts of the solar system.  The Alpha Centaurans have long coveted our system's mineral wealth and it seems they've decided to make their move.

"As the only active Earth-based vessel within five astronomical units of Neptune, you're our only hope of bringing the fleet back on-line.  Without them we are virtually defenseless."

Dumont got to his feet.  "Well, it will be tough.  But at least we have me in charge."

"Former Space Ranger Quinn Bolt will lead the mission," said the president.

Simmo and Dumont gaped at Bolt.

"Bolt, for the duration of this mission, your former rank of major is reinstated.  The only intel we can give you is that the admiral's last known location was on his personal barge, which appears to be the only operational vessel in the fleet.  I realise it's not much, but it's all we have.  The Federation is depending on you, major.  Good luck."  The screen went blank.

"Space Ranger?" queried Dumont.

"Major?" boggled Simmo.

"In charge?" huffed Dumont.

Bolt slowly got to his feet.  He sighed.

"Yep."

****

With great satisfaction, Admiral Vladimir McLennon lounged back in his command chair and surveyed the panorama laid out before him.  The vast cerulean blue crescent of Neptune dominated the view, with the rocky orb of Triton just cresting the horizon.  The stunning magnificence of the scene was not however the source of McLennon's pleasure.  The score or so of much smaller objects, drifting helplessly in orbit around the planet, were what made him smile.

Well, that and the half a billion credits the Alpha Centaurans had transferred to his bank account.

The hard part was over, although in truth it hadn't really been that hard.  He had simply ordered the captain of every ship to attend a meeting on his flagship, and then triggered the deactivation codes while the various bridges were unattended by anybody senior enough to override them.  It was actually astonishing just how easily one man had been able to take out a trillion credits' worth of hardware.

Now all he had to do was wait out the invasion.  Then it was nothing but caviar and Ferraris.

"Admiral, I've picked up a ship approaching our location."  Grimsby was the only other person on the barge.  After thirty years as the admiral's XO, his loyalty was unquestionably to the man rather than the Federation.

"What the hell?  What class?"

"Sir, it doesn't appear to fit any of the standard fleet classes.  It's quite small."

"Small?  I'm gonna need more than that," growled the admiral.  "What's it look like?"

Grimsby punched a few buttons and an image of the approaching spacecraft appeared on the bridge's main screen.  He scratched his head.  "Sir, it looks like a...croissant."

"A what?"

"A croissant, sir."

It was undeniably true.  The approaching vessel was golden-brown.  It had ridges of what looked like deliciously flaky pastry.  And it was croissant-shaped.

"Croissant, my ass.  It'll be a toasted croissant if it comes any closer.  Hail those sons-of-bitches."

"Attention, unknown craft," said Grimsby.  "Identify yourself immediately or we will fire on you."

Simmo's grinning face appeared on the display.  "G'day, mate.  No worries.  QSS Croissant One at your service.  Fancy a bagel?"

"QSS?" queried the admiral.  "What the hell does the Q stand for?"

"QUASAR,  mate.  Quality Assured Snacks and Refreshments.  We're the caterers."

"The caterers?" spluttered McLennon.  "The Federation doesn't provide caterers for war games!"

"Nah, not officially," replied Simmo.  "We're more what you might call freelancers.  Most of that regulation Federation grub is pretty rubbish.  So we're here to provide some quality fare for the more discerning palates."  He reached off-screen to retrieve something and returned holding a towering croquembouche.

Grimsby flicked off the audio on the communicator.  "Admiral, will I blow these scum away?  I have a missile locked."

The admiral was fixated on the pastry teetering enticingly on the screen.  "Er, no.  Let's not be too hasty.  Taking out the fleet is one thing.  Wasting a croquembouche is a whole other kettle of profiteroles."  He turned the audio back on.  "We'd be happy to sample your wares, young man.  Have one of your boys bring a selection over.  Including the croquembouche."

****

Dumont regarded Bolt suspiciously.  "'Ow did you know the admiral would take the bait?"

Bolt was in the pilot's seat of Croissant One's small shuttle, in which the croquembouche was riding shotgun, as it was the only place it would fit.  "We have history."  He slammed the shuttle door shut and Dumont barely had time to clear the airlock before the little craft blasted off towards the barge.

****

Pausing briefly between mouthfuls, McLennon regarded Bolt with a beady eye.  "Son, do I know you from somewhere?"

Standing attentively by the half-demolished pastry cart, with a napkin draped over his arm in the classic waiter's pose, Bolt shrugged.  "People often say I have a familiar face."

The admiral squinted at him for a few seconds and then continued chewing.  "Ah well, who cares.  Pass me some more of that croquembouche.  And Grimsby will have some, too."

Some time later, McLennon leaned back from the table, finally replete.  He grinned and then belched enormously.  "Son, that was some good eatin'."  He drew a gun from under the table and leveled it at Bolt.  "Almost makes me feel bad about killing you."

Bolt whipped the napkin off his arm, revealing a small device held in his hand.  "You may want to think twice about that, Admiral.  Every profiterole in that croquembouche contained a micro-detonator, and you just ate about fifty of 'em.  This is the trigger."

The admiral's jaw dropped and he involuntarily placed his hands protectively over his bulging stomach.  "You're bluffing."

Bolt grinned.  "Try me."

At the sight of that grin, McLennon went cold.  "I do know you."

"Nice to see you again, Admiral.  Actually, not really, you fat bastard."

Grimsby was looking perplexed.  "Sir, you know this man?"

"Oh yeah, he knows me," replied Bolt.  "He was my commanding officer during the Mars campaign back in '47.  Sent my whole platoon on a suicide mission to retrieve a captured cargo delivery.  We got the cargo back, but only ten of us survived."

"Soldiers die in war, Bolt," snarled the admiral.

"Oh, I get that.  What bothered me was the contents of that cargo.  You see, I took a little peek.  Turns out my men died to rescue a shipment of hors d'oeuvres.  Hors d'oeuvres for one of the admiral's dinner parties."

The admiral watched him, tight-lipped.

"I lost it," said Bolt, simply.  "I decided I needed to punch the admiral right in the face.  Made it through about three layers of his security before they brought me down.  Dishonourably discharged.  So now I'm a cook."

Leaning in close, he looked the admiral right in the eyes.  "But I'm a pissed off cook, with the power to kill you stone-dead, not to mention a raging desire to do so.  So you have a choice, admiral.  Bring the fleet back online and save the solar system.  Or don't, and I'll redecorate this place with your intestines.  Either way, I'm happy."

McLennon's stomach rumbled ominously.  He swallowed.  "Grimsby, pass me that keypad."