Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Read online

  “What will she guess, folks?” asked the jubilant announcer, Chub Dornack, a chubby Vinadroan with teal fur and matching eyes. “Will she fail once again or will she beat the odds?”

  Odds, huh? Funny.

  Deja chewed the silky-smooth food, testing it with her tongue. She tasted a hint of fire but, most of all, a tangy sweetness and a hint of tropical flavors. She smiled.

  “This is rashaneeda pudding,” she said.

  “That is correct!” shouted the host, and the audience cheered. Well, most of them did. She seemed to be a popular entrant already.

  The next food item was hard and crunchy and, well, nasty. She asked for water and washed it down.

  “Tick tock, Chef Dubois. Ten seconds to identify the ingredient,” admonished the speaker.

  Deja tried not to grit her teeth. She had two ideas but could offer just one. If she missed another item, she’d be eliminated from this round and maybe the entire contest.

  “My guess is roasted shar beetles,” she ventured, clenching her fists.

  “That, too, is correct!” said Chub. “One more food item to go!”

  Deja licked her lips, relieved. Then she prepared herself for the last taste test. This time she recognized something nutty and a little burnt. She smiled.

  “Oh, we have a smile. But will we get the right answer?”

  “Guntle nuts,” she said.

  “That is right, Chef Dubois! And you have survived to compete further in the Ultimate Chef of the Galaxy Contest. Let’s hear it for her, folks!”

  People cheered as the tester took off her blindfold. She stood and took a bow.

  Walking toward the exit, she saw the porcine Orinkk named Chef Louis Gaskón emerge from the soundproofed rooms backstage. She gave him a little nod, which he returned.

  Once she passed through the exit, Geoff swept her into a big hug.

  “Ian!” she protested.

  “Sorry, had to do it, old gal.” He set her down. “I thought we were out of the contest for a minute there.”

  “Yeah, I missed too many. But, heavens, they had some hard stuff,” Deja said.

  “Yet you pulled through. Nice work, boss.”

  “Yes,” Chef Boyar interjected. “You did a fine job, Chef Dubois. Tell me, how did you become so well versed in food?”

  “Oh, just a lot of traveling as a kid,” she answered, trying to keep her cover intact.

  “Ah, that explains it,” the Vinadroan said, nodding. “Well, I’d love to discuss things over dinner sometime before the contest is over. I’m particularly curious about your run-in with that judge, Lukas Inciardi.”

  Deja perked up. So Chef Boyar wanted to know more about Inciardi, did he? Perhaps he would slip up and reveal himself as Famous Foodie if she accepted his invitation. “Why, how kind of you to offer, Chef Boyar,” she said, brushing her hair back from her face. “As it happens, I’ll be free two days from now.”

  “Brilliant,” said the blue-furred chef, giving her a quick bow, his sapphire hair ruffling with the motion. “And call me Bastian, please.”

  “Okay, Bastian. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap before the next event. I’m almost out of steam.”

  “Of course,” the Vinadroan said. She and Geoff turned and walked toward the exit.

  “No rest for you, though,” she told Geoff. “I need you to practice our sauces again—all except the mole.”

  “Oh, okay. No problem,” he said.

  “Perfect. Now get going,” she told him. He nodded and turned left when she turned right. As soon as he was gone, she smiled, thinking of the hug he’d given her and the date she had secured with Chef Boyar. She would have pleasant dreams. She was sure of it. In celebration, she took a few sips from her flask before lying down in bed.

  With great effort, Patricio opened his eyes. He blinked, even though the light he detected was dim. He looked around, trying to figure out what was happening—or what had happened. He felt…disembodied. With sudden fear rising like bile, he tried to move but couldn’t budge even a finger. He couldn’t even tell if he still had fingers. His eyes took in his surroundings and he started to feel a sense of…confusion. The last thing he remembered was being in a fight with Stempe and Ribell. And he had a vague recollection of being smacked on the back of his head.

  Yet he wasn’t in his prison cell. He wasn’t even in the prison’s medical ward. Instead, he was in some kind of high-tech hospital room. Also, he was by himself—which was quite the luxury. Machines were hooked up to him, displaying blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and other things. He also managed to determine that he was wrapped in a yellow blanket on a hospital bed with metal rails on the sides. There were lights lining two sides of the room, all on a low illumination level. He also saw a wooden door, closed, with a holopanel that displayed his name and some other things he couldn’t quite decipher.

  He sighed, then tried to make a noise. “Hhellp,” he croaked, feeling something strange going on with his tongue, which felt too big or something. He hadn’t spoken very loudly. Would anyone hear him?

  To his relief, the handle of the door turned. Someone was coming! The door swung open without a sound, and a figure entered. Yellow feathers fluttered from its head and large black eyes blinked above a small, beaked mouth. A Ractyl. And it looked male. Yes. And he was wearing a long, white lab coat and holding a medical device of some kind in one taloned hand.

  “Hello,” said the doctor. “I see you are awake. That’s very good. My name is Doctor Chipton. Can you tell me how you feel on a scale of one to ten with one being ‘terrible’ and ten being ‘terrific,’ Patricio?”

  “I…I don’t r-really f-feel anything,” he managed.

  “Ah, okay.” The doctor nodded, hair feathers moving up and down. “You have been on painkillers and paralytics for quite some time while you were healing. You should start to get feeling back soon. But we will monitor you closely for pain, all right?”

  Patricio heaved a sigh. No wonder he couldn’t feel his own body. “O-okay. What…what’s w-wrong withhh my t-tongue?”

  The Ractyl walked forward and looked down at him with gentle eyes. “I’m afraid that some inmates severed most of your tongue. We had to reattach and repair it. So you will struggle with speech for a little while. But the fact that you can speak at all is very good. You have other injuries, but I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

  “Oh. G-gracias. Wh-where am I?”

  The birdlike man smiled. “You are at a Coalition hospital. Your daughter’s friend arranged for you to be transferred here after the attack on your life. I have to say, you have friends in high places, Patricio.”

  A friend of Deja’s? Could he mean a boyfriend? Patricio opened his mouth to ask, but the doctor followed up with another question. “Are you thirsty?”

  “Y-yes, muy.”

  “Nurse?” called the doctor, turning his head toward the open door. Someone else hustled into the room.

  “Yes?” answered a tall, human male with light skin, a tidy beard, and thin lips. He wore purple scrubs with blue stripes, which made Patricio’s eyes feel a little swirly.

  “Sterling, please bring in some ice chips for Mr. Ortega and feed them to him over the next hour.”

  “Right away,” Sterling said, leaving.

  Dr. Chipton patted Patricio on the shoulder, then said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you on the mend. And I’ll let your daughter know you’re awake.”

  “D-Deja? Is sh-she here?” he mumbled, excited.

  “No, I’m sorry. But we know how to get in touch with her.”

  “Okay.” He tried not to sound disappointed. It had been so long since he had seen his own daughter in person. How had his daughter’s “friend” managed to get him out of that nasty prison? He just hoped he wouldn’t be returning there when his hospital stay was up. That thought made his throat tight.

  “M-must I g-go back to prison?” he asked, just as Sterling came back in with a cup of ice chips.

  �
�Oh,” said Dr. Chipton, “I doubt that very much. Don’t worry yourself over it. I believe your freedom is guaranteed thanks to your daughter and her friend. Now, let Sterling help you, and I’ll be back to check on you later.”

  “G-gracias, doctor.”

  “De nada,” said the Ractyl, surprising Patricio with Spanish. Then the physician turned and left the room. The male nurse sat down on a stool by the bed and waited for Patricio to open his mouth.

  The first ice chip tasted like heaven wrapped in sunshine. He could get used to this treatment. He just hoped he could handle the recuperation. The doctor had been careful not to say anything about his overall injuries. Who knew what the next days and weeks and months had in store for him? But, well, he was alive. And out of prison. He could live with that.

  Something beeped in Deja’s ears. Images of dancing vegetables disappeared from her brain. She groaned, awakening. Dancing vegetables? Why not something Geoff related? Oh, well. The nap had been welcome anyway.

  She threw back the covers and stood up, stretching her back and limbs. Then she showered. She stepped from the shower and almost dropped the towel when a knock sounded on the door.

  “Deja. It’s just Geoff.”

  “Good grief. You scared me. What is it?” She secured the towel around herself and stepped in front of the mirror.

  “It’s about your dad.”

  She had the door open in two seconds.

  “What happened? Is he okay?” she asked, steam drifting around her.

  “Uh,” Geoff took in her state of undress for a second before speaking again. “Yes, he’s doing quite well. He’s even been talking again! The doctors think his tongue will heal all the way in just a day or so. At first, they weren’t sure it—”

  Deja let out a whoop and cut him off with a very wet hug. And then she did what she’d been wanting to do ever since he’d told her he had saved her father from the prison’s medical ward. She reached around his neck and pulled his face down to her level. When she kissed him, she let herself go. Stunned, he responded with a hand at the base of her back, pressing her closer. She tasted his makeup, but she didn’t care. After a few precious moments, she pulled away.

  “Deja,” he breathed.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” She blushed, remembering she was in just a towel. “I can’t—we can’t—” She stopped, taking a big breath.

  “It’s okay. I understand. But for what it’s worth, I don’t regret it at all.”

  Her heart pounded. “I just wanted to thank you, Geoff. For what you did for my father.”

  “Well, you know how I love it when you thank me.” He grinned.

  “Oh, stuff it,” she said, smacking his arm and turning around. “Now get out of here. I need to finish getting ready.”

  “Of course. You’re on in ninety minutes.”

  Talking. Her father was talking again. She smiled as she closed the bathroom door and shed her towel.

  “Chef Dubois, you’re up,” said the stage assistant who was holding the door for her.

  “I’m ready,” she said, walking up to him.

  “Let’s test your mic.” He reached over and pressed a button on the mic attached to the front of her chef smock. She also had an earpiece in case someone needed to give her instructions for her ears only.

  “One, two,” she said.

  The Vinadroan gave her a nod and motioned to the entrance. “Just wait for your cue and head on stage. Good luck.”

  Standing by the entryway, Deja breathed in a few deep breaths. She could do this. Or rather, her tongue and palate could do this. Just a little while ago, she had managed to stay in the competition by identifying enough of the foods she had tasted while blindfolded.

  Her father had often made a game of guessing all the ingredients in one dish. Now she’d do the same thing in front of trillions of people. No pressure.

  “And back to show us how strong her palate is—Chef EvaLynn Dubois,” Chub Dornack announced.

  Deja walked onto the stage as the spectators cheered. Many more cheers than boos anyway. Luck is still with me, she thought. She kept walking and waved at the crowd, which responded with louder cheers.

  “Here she is. Let’s get her ready to taste!”

  She had reached the staging area where a seat awaited her. A female Vinadroan with purplish coloring stood next to the chair holding a blindfold. “Please sit,” she instructed.

  Deja did. The blindfold went on, and the theatrical host said, “Okay, people. Chef Dubois can miss just five ingredients total or she’ll be disqualified. Do we think she can do it?”

  The crowd roared back, “Yes!”

  “Conductor,” Chub ordered, “bring out the first item.”

  “Sniff, please,” instructed the female conductor to Deja.

  Deja obeyed. A metallic fragrance hit her nose.

  “Now open, please.”

  She did so, and her mouth was full of a soft pudding with a metallic tang and a hint of sweet smokiness. This was blood pudding. Not her favorite. But, more importantly, she thought she could tell what was in it. She started listing ingredients aloud.

  “Tryfus blood, ortoo suet, cream, rice, onions, raisins, malt vinegar, salt, pepper, paprika, and a bit of sherry.”

  “Is that your final answer?” asked Chub.

  “Let me have one more taste,” she said. After eating the second bite, she mulled things over. There was one other spice. Aha! She had it.

  “And powdered yurthin,” she said, relieved.

  “What do we think, folks? Did she get it right?” The crowd voiced their opinions. Deja curled her hands in anticipation. “Chef Dubois scored twelve out of twelve!”

  Yes! Now to keep up her momentum.

  “Tester, the next sample, please.”

  Deja sniffed then tasted the next bit of food, a creamy sauce. This would be tough.

  “Yyrtle stock, butter, flour, cream, irix juice, egg yolks, salt, pepper, and… Can I taste it once more, please?”

  “Certainly.” The female gave her one more taste.

  Deja resisted biting her lip. There were at least two more spices. Well, she’d just have to try her luck. “And I detect rithius and holante.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve missed some,” replied the announcer. The crowd took a breath. So did Deja. “What you thought was holante was actually saffron. And…” They waited. “That’s it! Your score is nine out of ten. You can miss another four ingredients before you’re cut for good.”

  The next four samples of food were even tougher. She missed another three ingredients. The hunshian stew had been especially hard. Cursing inwardly, she tried to cheer herself by thinking there was just one more dish to taste. As long as she didn’t miss more than one ingredient, she would rank as a winner in this task, which would boost her overall score.

  “You may sniff,” said the contest official.

  The scent that hit her nostrils took her back to her father’s galley. She smiled when she tasted the fiery sauce with a hint of chocolate. The concoction was a version of mole poblano, one of the very sauces she would be preparing for the judges—if she got that far. The ingredients tumbled out of her mouth like a word waterfall.

  “Onion, garlic, hixote peppers, ancho chilies, pasilla chilies, chipotle chilies, tomatoes, tomatillos, ortoo lard, cloves, cinnamon, coriander, marjoram, anise seeds, raisins, almonds, pumpkin seeds, sesame seeds, flour tortillas, oil, tythrill chocolate, salt, black pepper, and sugar.” Whew. She took a deep breath, waiting.

  “Wow. What a quick recitation. Anyone care to guess if she missed anything?” the announcer asked. “Well, I can tell you, it’s a close one. If she misses more than one item, she fails this task. Chef Dubois, do you think you got everything right?”

  “Well, I’m still in the dark,” she indicated her blindfold, inciting some laughter. “But I think I stayed within my cutoff range.”

  “We’ll see about that. Conductor, please remove the contestant’s blindfold. Ch
ef Dubois, look at the main screen. We will reveal if you missed or mistook anything in that sauce.”

  Deja blinked against the lights as the blindfold came off. She and everyone else looked up at one of the main screens. Then, in bold letters, the word “Thyme” appeared. Deja’s heart stuttered. Slag it. She’d almost added that one. Would the screen reveal another ingredient she’d missed? The screen blanked out and then “Congratulations” flashed across it in 3D. Deja smiled and blew kisses at the onlookers as they went wild.

  “As the screen says, congratulations, chef. You’ve mastered this task. And here’s your ranking for today.” The screen showed her ranking and the six chefs below and above her. Deja wanted to grit her teeth when she saw Chef Glass ranked above her. But she kept a smile on her face until she reached the exit.

  Deja waited with little patience for her PalmStar screen to light up. “Papá! I’m so glad to talk to you at last.” On her PalmStar’s screen, she could see her father lying in his hospital bed; but she had turned on just her mic, not the camera. “Sorry you can’t see me. But I’m undercover right now.”

  “D-don’t worry about th-that,” he said, his words still slurred a little. “I’m s-so lucky th-that I get to h-hear your voice, although it s-sounds different to me. I must’ve gotten bumped on the head h-harder than I th-thought.”

  She laughed. “No. That’s part of my disguise, Papá.”

  “Oh. Gracias. I th-thought I was l-losing my mind again.”

  “No. But you could have died. Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?”

  “Because.”

  “Of course. Because it was the right thing to do. I know, I know. But I wish you’d been more careful about it. If it weren’t for Geoff, you might still be unconscious. You might never have woken up again.”

  “Yes. I was t-truly fortunate. Tu novio is most kind. When will I f-finally get to m-meet him?”

  “Oh, he is not my boyfriend. Not really.”

  “Ahh, we’ll see about that.” He grinned at her.

  Ugh. She rubbed her forehead. “So…tell me what happened? Geoff gave me the basics.”