Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Immortal

  Immortal Works LLC

  1505 Glenrose Drive

  Salt Lake City, Utah 84104

  Tel: (385) 202-0116

  © 2021 Sarah Bylund

  www.sarahbylund.com

  Cover Art by Ashley Literski

  http://strangedevotion.wixsite.com/strangedesigns

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information email [email protected] or visit http://www.immortal-works.com/contact/.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-953491-19-0 (Paperback)

  ASIN B092VBJ84P (Kindle Edition)

  To Mandy, who taught me what it’s like to have a dear sister who is unbelievably giving, strong, supportive, and funny. (And I suppose to Aaron, too, because he’s the brother who somehow succeeded in catching her.)

  Her face was all made up—but, then, so was her identity.

  However, the deception was altogether justified. As an oddsbreaker, if Deja Ortega wanted to pull off a dare and get paid, she had to know how to sell an identity customized for every situation—like to the horned gatekeeper barring her from entering the hallowed halls of The Wrinkle, the galaxy’s hottest and snootiest fashion club.

  “Are you certain, ma’am?” asked the bouncer, brow furrowed between the horns on either side of his massive head.

  “Yes,” said Deja with a put-upon tone.

  “And your name is Shaylone Redd?” he mumbled, eyes searching the screen of his data pad.

  “No,” she replied, sighing. Peering up at the large fellow with feigned indignation, she said, “It’s ‘shay-LO-nee.’ But Lady Redd is my stage name. Now what’s this about me not being on the list of today’s designers? How could that possibly be? Get someone important out here immediately or—”

  “Your credentials seem to be in order, Lady Redd, but scheduling difficulties can arise,” he said in an even tone, though his orange-gold eyes darted left and right as if looking for backup. Of course, Deja had ensured that his “backup” was otherwise engaged.

  “Yes, and unemployment can happen as well, Qort” she warned, tossing her head with irritation, causing the multicolored, crystal ornaments in her intricate hairdo to jangle and chime. Micro cameras were hidden in a few of them. She also wore a few biopatches beneath her clothes because the client had requested the Deluxe Virtual Package. All her biofeedback data—blood pressure, heart rate, perspiration, adrenaline, cortisol levels, etc.—would be relayed to the client, whose vitals would then be matched with hers thanks to the client’s Virtual Biofeed device.

  Deja gestured to her entourage of models of varying species. “Look over there,” she commanded. “Do these stunning people look as though they are on the cleaning crew? Or perhaps they are here to raid and pillage The Wrinkle?” she scoffed, flicking an elegant hand toward the somewhat wrinkled-looking, multi-tiered building behind him. You just never knew what the eccentric building would look like from one week to the next. Constructed like a puzzle with moving parts, its floors, rooms, and staircases were often shifted and shuffled to suit the owners’ fashionista whims. Even the club’s outer and inner walls were an oft-changing canvas of colors, textures, lights, images, and sounds. Sometimes, the whole place trundled a few miles or so to a new location. Deja paused; it reminded her of some Old Earth books. Something about Howl’s Harry, a castle, and Rumble Doors or something?

  She focused again on her adversary, who seemed just about ready to fold. “If my show is cancelled because of you, sir, I’ll make sure you never guard more than the clearance aisle at Fabric Fix.” Really, she wanted to wince at her own words. Poor fellow. Hope I don’t cost him his job.

  “A moment, a moment,” Qort protested, touching a comm device nestled in one tufted ear. “Helston, I have a Lady Redd here, but—”

  Deja didn’t need to strain to hear the reply: “But what? Let her in. Her show’s on in two turns!” A few colorful words followed that. But Qort was already waving her and her people in.

  Deja breathed deep, striding toward the assigned staging room, leading a posse of ecstatic models and two assistants towing in all the clothing and accessories.

  Okay. I’m in. Hope my “fashions” will be too.

  Deja moved rapidly, dressing her models with a speed that bespoke all her years helping her carnie mates change costumes backstage. She tried not to laugh at how ridiculous everything looked. But the client had, after all, dared her to use only junk and reclaimed items to create her masterpieces. He had something against the elitist fashion lovers in this establishment.

  That grudge was fine by her. Now she had a way to add more to her stash—the precious bribe money that would soon, with any luck, be enough to free her father from that horrid debtor’s prison on Gredlar, a backwater planet. Once again, she tried not to worry about his safety. If only her papá hadn’t become a degenerate gambler after losing his wife. If only her mamá hadn’t been murdered along with the rest of the carnie troupe. If only. Maybe then he wouldn’t have sunk so low as to visit gambling’s worst armpit (or mecca, depending on your viewpoint). If only.

  Gritting her teeth, Deja took another drink from her flask. If onlys are stupid. She needed to focus all her efforts on this latest dare, or she was going to fail and lose the promised credits. She surveyed her models with a sharp eye, seeing reclaimed shower curtains, heat shield shingles, old pipes, horrid upholstery fabric from public transit seats, used bolts and washers and other hardware, bits of porcelain and other materials from bathroom fixtures, fake feathers and animal skins from old purses and bags, and even a little burlap from sacks of root vegetables she’d found in the dump. All of it was trash, but she had crafted the refuse into beautiful and exotic outfits. She hoped.

  The furry Oxortian wore a dress of “scales” made from washers and porcelain. The tall Ramelite with his graceful limbs wore an armor-like outfit from heat shield shingles, hinged with pipes and accented with color-changing paint. The squat but curvy Twellish woman wore draped burlap and upholstery festooned with glittering stones from the floor of a gutted bathroom. All the others wore similar masterpieces of recycled goods. Some even had props like a live reptile or a fuzzy rodent or the occasional shoulder bag. And they all wore jewelry—if one could call it that given the source.

  Her short aide ran up to her. “Lady Redd, you’re on in the lower levels in five minutes. The upper levels start in ten.”

  “Wonderful,” she acknowledged, then turned back to her models and started shooing them to their proper places. “Make them feel your fashion, people! We want to sell, sell, sell!”

  “Yes, Lady Redd,” they all answered, strutting or shuffling or even slithering off to their positions. Well and good. Now
she just had to watch her work glide down the runway while she worked the crowd. She would only get creds from her daregiver if she managed to sell some of these crazy designs. And sell she would. Her papá’s freedom, and maybe even his life, depended on that. Prison, the one in which he resided in particular, was not a cushy place.

  She surveyed the club’s guests on multiple floors until the lights flared and the music blared, then she chose her first marks and approached them with her most charming smile. “Hello, gorgeous ones. I am the Lady Redd. So, how do you like that number on the Ramelite? I believe you long-limbed lovelies would be stunning in that one, don’t you agree?”

  The guests in question perked up, swiveling their ears in her direction. She continued her flattery mixed with truth, selling four units. After that, she continued to work the rooms, exuding confidence and mystery and, of course, sex appeal.

  Deja wasn’t the most gorgeous human ever, but she did turn many a head. Her luscious black curls weren’t too long, but that was the fashion at the moment. Her papá’s Hispanic and Latino heritage and her mamá’s French and Mediterranean lineage had graced Deja with light brown skin that had a hint of an olive tint. Her eyes were green and slanted just a bit. Her nose was somewhat long and yet elegant, just like her face. Her lips were perhaps not as full as could be desired; yet they were wide and formed a cupid’s bow on the top. Her chin was just a bit square but in a charming fashion. And her cheekbones—well, they were high enough to satisfy any standard of beauty. Her neck, lengthy and slender, lent her even more grace and beauty.

  She was five foot nine, too, so she wasn’t lacking in height. And her mamá’s genes had endowed her well in the cleavage and other-important-curves department. Today, she wore a minimal disguise. She wasn’t dealing with a dangerous crowd, so she hadn’t felt the need to conceal herself too much.

  As she worked the rooms, Deja capitalized on the showmanship she developed over the many years of her youth. While Deja was growing up, her papá, Patricio Ortega, had served as the ship’s spitfire chef for the planet-hopping troupe of carnies in which her mother, Esmira Kanathredies, had been an illusionist, escape artist, aerialist, and a lot of other “-ists.”

  As Deja worked over the next few hours, her heart sped up. When she was nearly done, she stopped a moment to tally her sales.

  Yes, this next sale should do it. I think I’ll meet the daregiver’s challenge!

  Her whole body felt light and buzzing with energy. To celebrate, she took another drink from her trusty flask. She tucked her sales tablet under her arm and raced up another flight of stairs to the last level. There, she charmed more buyers. She almost felt bad she wouldn’t actually be filling any of these orders for her “masterpieces.” No, this dare was about showing the fashion set just how gullible they could be. I mean, a dress made from a shower curtain or some burlap and a few well-placed baubles? Come on.

  Still, it felt good to be desirable, no matter what the situation. So off she went to complete the dare and skedaddle before anyone realized she had invented the up-and-coming Lady Redd just weeks ago. Deja could already imagine the money being transferred into her account.

  “Wait, now, Lady Redd or whoever you are. Your bio says you showed your designs on planet Rodon at the Telwan fashion show. Yet I was there, and never did I see any of your creations.” The reptilian speaker eyed her with his red irises and flicked his tongue in disdain.

  Slag it all! Think of something, she ordered herself. She’d done her homework; now she just had to embellish on it.

  “Well, that’s because my mentor stole my ideas and presented them as his own. You’re familiar with Monten Talrathius, I presume?”

  Her challenger sat back in surprise, forked tongue flicking in and out. “But of course. Who isn’t?” He still didn’t seem convinced. And everyone at the table awaited her reply. The whole dare could crash down around her if word got around that she wasn’t whom she claimed to be.

  “Look, the man is brilliant, but he gets bored. He was upset with me because I suggested some changes to his latest line. And we all know how well he takes critiques.” She paused for effect. A few of the onlookers nodded or huffed in agreement. “So, in retaliation, he took six of my designs and passed them off as Talrathius designs. And what could I do? I couldn’t defy him. Not then. I didn’t have enough clout. So I just let it be.” She conjured a small tear in one eye, which trickled down her face at just the right moment. Then she offered a shrug for effect and sat down on the nearest chair as if the whole conversation had deflated her fragile sensitivities.

  “Well, Lady Redd,” said the reptilian alien, leaning forward. “I am most sorry to hear of your troubles. It is a story all too common these days. And I, for one, will not let Talrathius spoil these proceedings any further. Where’s that sales pad of yours?”

  “Why, thank you, dear friend,” she said with an air of relief, treating him like her rescuer. She handed over the sales pad, which was soon passed on to the others at the table.

  Nailed it, she thought, relieved. Besides, her legs kind of hurt after all that standing and walking and climbing. The shoes she was wearing were killer. Thus, sitting on the chair for a moment was altogether welcome. Fashion was slaggin’ hard work.

  Ca-ching! There it is, she thought, watching the credit transfer go through. Her daregiver just paid her for winning the last fashion-intensive dare. She tapped the email button on her PalmStar, a handy device that fit well in her human hand. A data pad with a blue, oval-shaped screen, her PalmStar had many functions. She swiped over to the message app to see if she had received a letter from her father yet. A smile bloomed on her face as she saw a letter from Patricio Ortega. Savoring the words, since he rarely got mail privileges, she read through the message twice.

  Querida Hija,

  ¿Como estás, mija? I hope you are taking good care of yourself. Nothing too risky for my sake, I hope. Do you have any good news for me? Maybe un hombre guapo in your life? Now, do not make that face at me. I just want you to be happy. I know you must be lonely. I am sorry I got myself in this awful situation.

  I am still working in the prison galley. Of course, it is primitive. But I make do. Do not concern yourself too much with me. The warden has requested me to make toda su comida. I have a nicer cell now with only two cellmates. And I don’t have to go out on the labor trips. ¡Por fin, un poco de suerte! And yet…estoy cansado. I am too old. However, I will carry on, mija. I cannot wait to see your beautiful face once again. Cuídate.

  Con Mucho Amor,

  Tu papá

  Poor Daddy, she thought, breathing out a long-held lungful of air. She knew he kept a brave face for her most of the time. But he was an old man, and prison life was not an easy one by far. She debated on what to write back. While she thought, she sipped a drink of rubarlo nectar with a shot of gehut. It was early, but she couldn’t help feeling stressed about her father’s predicament. Finally, she began her letter:

  Querido Papá,

  Estoy muy bien. I am glad you are top dog in la cocina ahora. You deserve that and so much more.

  I just completed a dare in which I created fashion masterpieces from, get this, basura. Yes, it’s true! I used all sorts of crazy materials that people had chucked out. And the fashionistas just ate it up! It was quite a difficult job, though. It took me weeks to prepare. But, Papá, I made good money. I hope to have you out of prison soon. Maybe even by the end of the year. Never give up hope.

  As for me finding a man, don’t start! You know I don’t have time to date anyone. Besides, I don’t attract the good ones in mi profesión. I am always on the run from the law, especially the Coalition. You know how it is for me. One day, I will have time to settle down. But not right now.

  I am getting ready for another dare. Nothing too dangerous. Don’t worry. Estar segura, también.

  Con Mucho Amor,

  Tu hija

  When she finished typing, Deja tapped the send icon. After thinking about her papá a whi
le longer, she tapped the sleep control on her PalmStar. Her father had always enjoyed two things: cooking and gambling. But it wasn’t until his wife, Deja’s mother, had been murdered that his need to gamble had evolved into an all-consuming obsession.

  Deja sighed and tucked her PalmStar away inside her special vest. Made of black hydrathermex fabric—its magno-tabbed pockets keyed to her genetic signature—the vest kept everything in place and safe from galactic pickpockets. Well, safer than most. All told, the custom-made vest had nine pockets, but only four of those were on the outside. The front featured glossy, ebony buttons in the shape of tiny barrels. Those were just pleasant diversions, however. Her fingers found the much more practical closure hidden beneath the button flap: a magnetic, watertight seal.

  Straightening her vest in front of a cracked mirror in a cramped room on planet Be’Voya, she felt much more protected, not to mention sexier. Impeccably tailored, the garment swept past her waist and over her hips. That, combined with its construction from several vertical panels of fabric, lent her an even taller, curvier physique. Stars and suns, but she loved that part. And the front plunged into a V-neck. For safety’s sake, she’d also paid for shield lining. The tough, dual-layered material could stop just about any blade and most projectiles of moderate size. The inner pockets concealed her flask, PalmStar, CredChips, lock-picking tools, knife, micro binoculars, comm-tapping gizmos, and other useful implements.