Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Read online

  “Wow. Okay, that does seem suspicious,” Deja said. “Chef Boyar heard me also. But he was sitting right in front of us. Chef Glass wasn’t.”

  “Exactly. But your exclamation was kind of loud, to be fair. A few others noticed your outburst as well. So maybe Glass just happened to hear you,” Geoff said. “Heck, maybe her hearing has been enhanced. But we might as well make sure we don’t have any bugs.”

  “Sure,” she sighed. Grudgingly, she said, “I already tested what Famous Foodie sent me. Maybe my scanner didn’t catch something, though.” Geoff’s bug scanner remained silent until he reached her chef jacket, which she had removed and placed near a pile of stuff from the original crate Famous had sent. Geoff’s device beeped as it passed over the front of the chef smock. Deja leaned in as he fiddled with the offending item—a button.

  “Do you have something I can pry this open with? I think it’s hollow.”

  “Yeah. One second,” she answered. She retrieved some tools from her vest and handed them over.

  “Now this is genius.” Geoff held up the button he’d popped open with one of her delicate tools. The button itself was of no consequence. The opalescent blob embedded with circuitry and hidden inside, however, did not belong there. And the only way it could be there is if it was planted before she received the chef jacket.

  When Geoff exposed the strange glob, he and Deja watched it tremble and begin to ooze itself away from the light. The bug moved as an amoeba would, by stretching half its goopy mass forward and pulling the rest behind. Despite what this discovery might mean, Deja couldn’t help marveling for a moment. “I heard rumors about a new, organic-based bug. Never seen one.”

  “Yeah, even the Coalition doesn’t quite have these in the field right now. Yet our new scanners can pick them up.”

  Deja grinned, and Geoff did likewise. They both now knew that Famous Foodie might have tipped his—or her—hand. Chef Boyar and Chef Glass could very well be the culinary activist. And yet…something still didn’t sit right.

  “This little guy can just transmit,” Geoff remarked. “No data storage, either, unlike normal tech.”

  “So,” Deja said, “the comm shield is blocking the transmission, and the bug won’t have any stored record of our discovery.”

  “Exactly. Let’s seal the blob back where we found it, shall we?” he proposed.

  “We’ll give Famous—or his or her lackey—a good show,” she agreed, rocking back on her heels from where she crouched next to him. His long-fingered hands put the button halves back together. The tattoos on his pale skin seemed to weave and shift as he worked.

  “I just wish we knew which one of the contestants was Famous,” Deja said, trying not to fret. “At least we have some suspects now. Chef Boyar was reportedly quite bitter when he didn’t win the contest five years ago. Said there was corruption among the judges and a cover up. So he might be looking for revenge or at least vindication. Don’t know what Chef Glass has against Inciardi in particular or the judges in general, though.”

  “Hmm. Interesting,” Geoff said.

  “Yeah,” Deja agreed, “guess we’ll just have to be on the lookout for odd behavior.”

  “We can use sign to communicate private messages for the most part,” he said.

  “I agree. However,” she butted in, “if either of us needs to jam the transmission again, use a signal like this.” She flattened her hand and made a small slashing motion. “After all, Famous knows what I am. But we wouldn’t want him or her knowing that you’re not exactly the disreputable type.”

  “Disreputable rogue at your service,” he avowed, and she caught a fiendish set to his expression. But then he sobered. “Trouble is, Famous shouldn’t need you if he or she is here to compete, right?”

  As if Deja didn’t know that. With a shrug, she locked up her worry. Her dad was worth seeing this through.

  “I expect,” Geoff said, “that the activist wants you to take the fall for something besides what he or she dared you to do. Which is why I’m here. To make sure you don’t.”

  “Don’t go all protective on me. I just wanted to make sure we’re in the same orbit, is all,” she said, feeling the cold chill of anxiety fade just a little.

  “We are. Though some might say I’d rather just orbit around you.” He smiled so wide she could see his unusual number of teeth and the odd tongue within.

  Scowling, she snatched her chef jacket from the floor and stood up. She pointed toward his eyes with two fingers. “You, eyeballs, jelly,” she reminded him. “I’m going to freshen up. Then we’ll hit the test kitchen.”

  “Yes, chef.” He saluted, touching his fist to his forehead and then his chest like a true Evuutan warrior. Pivoting on her heel, Deja tromped off to the lavatory with her duffle.

  A test kitchen? No, this was paradise. Of a culinary caliber. Deja, standing at the west-facing counter, paused from kneading a third (and hopefully final) test batch of clay-based sweetbread. She could hear Geoff shuffling things around in the temp-controlled locker in the southeast corner. Again, she thought how her papá would revel in such a setup. He would have been thrilled by the ovens, which could be powered by wood, gas, electricity, or even kowtons depending on what sort of flavor you were going for. Two of the marvelous ovens were set into the south wall; the third, an oven-and-stovetop combo, was built at ground level, on the east side. It was right beside the walk-in food locker Geoff was rummaging around in.

  Also present was an arsenal of knives and other scary-looking implements, along with assorted pots, pans, molds, and such. Certain buttons would open wall panels or drawers with gleaming machinery. The sort of machinery that could blend, grate, chop, and perform many other complicated culinary tasks. Like getting washed lettuce leaves well and truly dry.

  At the kitchen’s heart stood an island workspace complete with heating elements, a grill, and another sink. All of it was easy to reach from any side of the kitchen. “A kitchen’s gotta have work triangles,” her papá always told her. Well, this place had enough so-called triangles to enchant any mathematician. If the mathematician liked to cook. Stainless oshondrite sinks with two basins apiece were positioned on each wall except the north one, which was reserved as the plating area. The kitchen had storage space galore, too. Another smaller, temp-controlled locker stood diagonally across the room from the one Geoff seemed to be ransacking.

  Someday, she would build her father a kitchen like this. One for herself, too. She sighed.

  “Something wrong?” Geoff asked, voice muffled.

  “Not really. I just wish I had a kitchen like this—and I wish we didn’t have to cook in a communal kitchen with other chefs during the competition. That’s gonna be rough.”

  “True,” Geoff said, walking out of the fridge with a sausage in one hand. “But you’ve worked in a busy kitchen before. And so have I, as you know.” Here, he was speaking of his cover story. Finished with his pep talk, he bit into the sausage and hummed approvingly.

  Blowing out a large breath, Deja shelved thoughts of having to share a kitchen with lots of contestants. “Blackleaf,” she said commandingly, using the tone she’d adopted for her character, “I needed that swephorra compote yesterday. No time for snacks, apprentice!” Of course, that wasn’t all he had been doing. They had come back from a break, and Geoff had been sweeping the kitchen again for any hidden comm or imaging devices. Her voice boomed impressively, bouncing against vaulted ceilings high enough for taller competitors.

  “Just keepin’ my strength up,” he rumbled back. Turning around, he gave her the all-clear signal. And a wink. The small, telescoping black wand in his hand hadn’t lit up to indicate anything suspicious. That didn’t count the biobug Famous Foodie had concealed in Deja’s chef jacket. Thus, Deja and Geoff always had an audience of one, and they’d put up a good front thus far. Famous had every reason to think his or her pawns were engrossed in the contest and unsuspecting of the culinary crusader’s true identity. Tucking the device away, Geoff sn
agged the bowl of compote.

  “Got the compote right here.” He walked across the tiles of darkest purple and deepest green that weaved a lazy pattern on the floor. Most of the walls flowed with a mural of prickly, green vines heavy with blue-black fruit and golden blossoms. Geoff, with his pale, tattooed skin and white chef jacket, looked like a ghost amidst a tropical jungle.

  “About time. Now I can finish these lovely fruit-and-dirt rolls,” she joked. Deja moved to wash her hands in the sink to her immediate right. Waving a hand over one particular sensor, she added, “I need those bevsnips peeled and sliced. I want to do another run-through of those toasted clay-and-bevsnip chips. Then get a reduction going for the flatbread filling. And don’t forget to baste the ortoo roast again.” Warm, sudsy water misted over her hands as Geoff skirted the island, heading for her side of the kitchen.

  “Oh, have some pity, will you?” he huffed as if tortured by the thought.

  “You heard me,” she said.

  He put the dish of compote on the black countertop beside the ball of dough she’d been kneading. “Can’t I cut up another ortoo beast or do something interesting?” he asked, affecting peevishness.

  “Come off it,” she said, flicking soapy water at him. “You take to butchering too easily.”

  “You know, that’s what all my targets thought, too. Right before I finished them off. Like I always say, the—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Deja said, cutting in. “The higher the body count, the fatter your cred account. All fine and good, since you’re on my side. Now get to it.” In reality, Geoff loved to hunt and fish, hence his amazing skills at butchering animals. But he always followed the laws of the land, wherever that land happened to be. And he never, ever let the meat go to waste. True, sometimes his black ops job did lead to his protecting innocents by killing bad guys. But Deja couldn’t believe he took lives with any real pleasure.

  “Okay, boss.” The officer exuded counterfeit sulkiness as he tromped off to get the starchy vegetables and a peeler. Ah, it was a perfect time to “beef up” his cover story for Famous.

  Removing her hands from the sink, she activated the blower to squeegee the water from her hands with sanitized air. “Just think,” she encouraged, “you won’t owe me any more favors when this is done. Stop griping and start reliving your glory days of culinary servitude.”

  Geoff, peeler in hand, snorted. “Some glory. I never did make chef at The Wormhole. Even after the three years I slaved at the place.” The Wormhole, as anyone in the inner galaxy would know, was a restaurant distinguished by its nefarious criminal clientele. Her partner reached up and selected a pot from an overhead equipment rack.

  “Yeah, that’s what happens when a best customer’s son is found with your knife in his gut,” she shot back.

  “Ah, well. Right. Sloppy of me. Didn’t have time to take the knife back after I relieved him of the gratuities he owed me. And the woman he stole from me.” Both of them hooted with laughter.

  How odd it still felt, though, to have him there. Her partner in all this. Someone she could strategize with. Someone who wanted to share the risk. Why not see the positive side of something she couldn’t change? Besides, he’d already found out about her incarcerated father. Geoff knew all about her papá and somehow thought more of her, not less. However, there was that nagging thought that he didn’t know all her faults, like the one she herself couldn’t quite think about.

  She sighed, pushing those thoughts away. Gliding one hand along the jet-black countertop, Deja walked toward a blinking control panel. To her delight, she had discovered she could control the height of the counters. Even better, the countertops could maintain a range of temperatures. Reaching out, she lowered the temperature for the space she was using to make the rolls. A chilled surface would keep the dough from getting sticky and soft. Too cold, though, and it would go hard, especially with the high clay content.

  Rolling out the dough, Deja ran through all their menu items in her head. She’d had to come up with three main dishes and sides. Dish one: Ortoo steak empanadas with a clay-and-flour crust, mole poblano, and rice resting on juniper ash flatbread rounds made from yet more dirt and flour. All accompanied by a rustic salad of nuts, seaweed, riverberries, and toasted croutons infused with garlic and clay and served with twizzle dressing. Next dish: Triple-bean soup with clay-and-flour pierogis stuffed with several kinds of dark meat, all served in a bread bowl made of flour-and-clay dough. It would be complimented by a side of popped kernels of sweet, juicy ziphers dusted in a fiery pepper sauce. Last dish: Pounded breasts of kurrocco bird stuffed with a paste of duxelle mushrooms, wutoo nuts, and, yes, dirt. Served, of course, with a side of toasted bevsnip chips tossed in balsamic vinegar powder and parmesan cheese.

  Three deserts. Desert one: truffle-flavored, iced belasino featuring chunks of sweetened dough infused with lemony mud, presented beneath a globe of dark chocolate that would separate into little petals once some hot caramel was drizzled over it. Next desert: Two cheesecakes made from three kinds of chocolate and two types of mud, cut into disks then topped with a creamy marmooka whipped cream. Final desert: Fruit-and-dirt sweet rolls with fiery cinnamon-and-guanchu glaze served with tivel sticks garnished in chocolate and nuts. When she presented her entries to the judges, of course, they would hear nothing about the “earthy” contents.

  Finished rolling the sweetbread dough into a rectangle, she looked over at Geoff. His back to her, he was half-humming, half-warbling a smutty tune about a freighter pilot and a hoverbike racer. A song the real Geoff wouldn’t have even admitted to knowing. The lieutenant sure was taking his role as a scoundrel in stride. Deja shook her head and picked up a pastry brush. With expert strokes, she painted the dough with cinnamon butter and then the orange-red compote. Finally, she sprinkled cinnamon, raisins, and sliced almonds over it.

  Six days, six dishes. But before she could even present her dishes, she and Geoff would have to perform well in a number of intimidating contests. She’d watched many such contests before as a mere spectator and marveled at the creative and harebrained nature of those competitions. How long would Deja and Geoff last? How long before Famous did whatever it was the old foodie activist had been plotting? As Deja began rolling the dough into a tube shape, she mulled over the nastier crimes attributed to Famous Foodie. Murder conspiracy charges. Oodles of them. According to Geoff, the victims—all guilty of some food-related offense—suffered poetic, and therefore unpleasant, deaths. Not that Deja hadn’t dealt with murderers before, but this time she had more on her “plate” than ever. Her father’s freedom. Her livelihood. Geoff’s livelihood.

  Knife in hand, Deja sliced the dough into plump disks. This, she thought, this is what I’ll do to any rotten person who dares to endanger me or mine.

  After the session in the test kitchen, Geoff went off to communicate with his superiors. Deja waited for him in her room, anxiety dripping through her veins.

  “Okay, so what do we know?” Deja asked as soon as he entered her quarters.

  “Well, whoever Famous is, he or she might just have an unhealthy interest in Inciardi.”

  “Oh, really?” Deja asked. “Well, Chef Glass is annoying enough that I wouldn’t mind if she turns out to be the bad guy. What about the backgrounds of Chef Boyar and Chef Glass? And does the Coalition have any new info on Inciardi?”

  “My CO says that both contestants have impeccable credentials. But they weren’t always famous and not much is known about their earlier years. As for Inciardi, that probably isn’t his real name. General Trikk found evidence that the judge’s past is a bit murky in details, too.”

  “I figured as much,” Deja admitted. “It seems like Famous must’ve run afoul of at least one of the judges in his or her past, maybe even Inciardi himself. Has Trikk spoken to Judge Inciardi directly, just in case?” Deja asked.

  “Yes. And, get this,” he added, “it turns out that the judge signed on as a CI for someone even more high-ranking than the general!” />
  “Whoa,” Deja exclaimed, thoughts churning. “You should’ve led with that. So…did his handler already tell him about our undercover op here?”

  “Yep. We’re only just finding out now because Trikk himself didn’t have clearance.”

  “Really! The GJC sure has lots of red tape.” Disapproval coated her words despite an attempt to hide it.

  Geoff cleared his throat, looking down. “I know, I know.”

  “No wonder Inciardi hasn’t called me out as an imposter. He’s on our side,” Deja concluded.

  “Precisely,” Geoff smiled. “Trouble is, he won’t say much about his past. But he reports that he’s gotten plenty of hate mail.”

  “Why? Because he’s a ladies’ man?” she wondered, frowning.

  “No, apparently that’s just his way of looking more flawed and open to being on the take.”

  “Oh. Well, we still don’t know if Famous intends to simply humiliate all the judges or just Inciardi or if Famous plans on doing something worse, like the chef’s rap sheet suggests. Feeding dirt to a judge isn’t a crime, just embarrassing—for the judge.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he agreed. “We’ll just have to stay on high alert until the activist decides to make another move.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “We don’t have enough to catch him or her red-handed yet.” Deja sighed.

  “Well, the next event is in under an hour,” Geoff reminded her. “You’d better get ready.”

  “Sure. I just hope we stay in the contest long enough to figure out who Famous is and what he or she is up to.”

  Blindfolded, Deja prayed she’d be able to figure out what the contest official was going to put into her mouth. This was the eighth mini challenge she’d experienced so far.

  First, he let her sniff the food. Then she opened her mouth, and he put the spoon in.