Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Read online

  “I’m thinking we break out the good stuff: jerky, yogurt, and nuts I’ve been saving.”

  “That’s the good stuff?”

  “Hey, what do you expect? A six-course meal?” she asked, pretending to be miffed.

  “I’m teasing, of course. I’ve eaten more freeze-dried food than you can imagine. So it’s all good.”

  “Well then, I’ll get it set up,” she replied.

  “Now,” he said conspiratorially, “there’s just the matter of when you’ll let me take you out for a real dinner.”

  “Right,” she said, heat flushing her face. “We’ll just have to see when the odds are in your favor.”

  Geoff smiled. With any luck, this would not be their last supper.

  Eight months later…

  Standing in her room aboard the Blythrian Space Station, Deja moved over to her favorite spot—the large viewing pane. Outside and far away, a nebula’s molten colors bathed Deja Ortega in ripples of green, gold, and scarlet light. The swirls of beauty in space lulled her like the beating of a heart—or an excellent box of cherry cordials. Either way, the brilliant nebula made her want to stand there forever, forehead pillowed on the arm she’d pressed above the viewing pane.

  But the nebula didn’t need to make a living; she most definitely did. For all the time she had been crisscrossing the galaxy, taking dares and breaking the odds, she had never been this close to raising the money she needed to buy her father’s freedom. She didn’t often spend time in this luxurious cabin that an old carnie friend had set aside for her. That was fortunate, really. Too much of this would turn her into a gurzzlefop, soft and lazy. Sighing, she wriggled her toes in the plush, indigo carpet and straightened, ending her quiet vigil.

  “Lights to eighty percent intensity,” she ordered.

  “Right away,” responded Theodian, the cabin’s automated butler. “Would you care for refreshment?”

  “No, Theo.”

  “Perhaps a cup of hot rubarlo nectar?” asked the smooth, synthesized male voice.

  “Just lights for now.”

  “So noted.” Theo’s tone was sulky for a computer. But she ignored it.

  Settling into an armchair that conformed to her body, she took her time choosing which dare she would accept out of the many that were jamming up her PalmStar’s inbox.

  Let’s see…

  Hitchhiking from the Old Earth all the way to the Roxatorn System in just ten galactic weeks. Been there, done that. (And, yes, she’d always kept a trusty towel nearby during that trip.) Compete in a staring contest with a six-eyed Mawthraadite without dozing off—or worse, being hypnotized into acting like a spastic paruboru monkey or something. Interesting, but nothing she was in the mood for. If memory served, the first ambassadors of the Earth-Mars Alliance to visit the Mawthraadite home world returned to their ship on all fours, convinced they were domesticated buzlas. Deja shook her head and kept skimming.

  Oh, how about streaking at a live match of Yukalorian wrestling—during mating season? For a mere ten thousand dorems? Not bloody likely. Might as well inscribe herself with a bunch of dotted lines, showing the Yukalorians how best to carve her up into hors d’oeuvres for the spectators. She’d need more than a paltry Đ10,000 to make it worth her while. And, well, public nudity wasn’t her style. No doubt somebody wanted to get a gander at Deja in her birthday suit. This somebody underestimated just how hungry and inhospitable the Yukalorians were at a wrestling match, never mind during mating season.

  Rolling her eyes, Deja raked the fingers of her other hand through her short hair. Wait a second. Now here was something interesting. The darebacker must have read her dossier.

  Dear LuckGoddess,

  I’m a galactic food writer with a dream. A magnificent, glorious dream—to dupe the galaxy’s snootiest foodies in one of the choicest cooking contests anywhere. I dare you to enter the 30th Ultimate Chef of the Galaxy Contest on Vinadro.

  Masquerading as a master chef may not sound all that disagreeable or difficult to one as talented as yourself. But—here’s the rub—you’ll have to use a very... unfortunate ingredient in all of your dishes. If this has failed to stir your competitive juices, how does Đ500,000 strike you?

  In addition, Đ2,000,000 is yours if your concoctions outwit the gourmands to survive the elimination round wherein 5,000 chefs are reduced to a mere 50. Place in the top 15 at this gastric gala and win my undying worship—as well as another Đ2,000,000. Yours truly will cover the entry fee, travel, fake ID, and wardrobe.

  If you blow your cover—or the judges’ digestive systems—don’t expect a second payday. That will be the least of your concerns, I think. Perhaps you’ve heard the rumors of how the Vinadroans treat those who violate the sanctity of food? Well, maybe it’s best you didn’t. Besides, don’t oddsbreakers like yourself crave danger like Orooguphs crave blubber-and-seaweed casseroles?

  As a longtime fan of yours, I dare to hope that you’ll help me achieve my worthy aspirations. If interested, message me within seven Standard Galactic Days.

  Yours Truly,

  Famous Foodie

  Deja read through the dare twice before looking up from the ice-blue screen of her PalmStar. She stared across the cabin, trying to compute the thought of 4.5 million dorems let alone half a million just for entering the contest. Moreover, Đ500,000 combined with what she already had would almost be enough to free her papá. In comparison, the total amount could also serve as down payment on a decent condo on Mars or another agreeable planet in the Milky Way. Thoughts of settling down were, ironically, unsettling. Deja shuddered and let her hands fall into her lap.

  With 4.5 million dorems and the money she already had, she could buy her papá’s freedom and then some. After well over two years of brutal living in debtors’ prison, her father could be his own man again, for better or worse. (Probably worse, her mother would have argued if she were still alive.) Deja felt a tingle in her heart, imagining her father emerging from prison.

  And thanks to him, she just might have a shot at winning. Her dad was an amazing chef. While Deja was growing up, her dad had learned new recipes in every port, teaching his daughter along the way. Naturally, Deja’s mother didn’t always approve of these cooking lessons. After all, the ship and troupe earned their keep by performing, not cooking.

  Taking a deep breath, Deja realized she’d been grinding her teeth. She didn’t like thinking of her mamá much, not after Esmira and the others died in the explosion onboard their ship. Hands fisted, she remembered how (of all things) her sweet tooth had saved her. “Papá, let’s go out for a late-night snack, pleeeeease?”

  Of course, Esmira had left her daughter some things that were tough to forget: the same startling green eyes, a similar talent for performances, and a stellar streak of bull-headedness. Despite such parallels, everyone in the troupe knew she was a daddy’s girl, and her mother hadn’t ever been keen on sharing the spotlight. And whenever Esmira caught Deja or Patricio playing games of chance, the fights were almost fierce enough to power a nuclear reactor.

  For a moment, nothing roused Deja from her memories. Then she happened to glance at her phantom reflection in the powered-down holopanel. Some of her curls were sticking out at absurd angles.

  With an effort, Deja shoved the uncomfortable thoughts about her future out of the proverbial airlock. Hungering for the bigger payoff too much could make her overeager—weak. So, enough of this lolling about in luxury. She had some research to do on this “Famous Foodie.” But first she’d take a long bath.

  “Theo, run me a bath at one-hundred-five degrees Fahrenheit. Five percent sassaflower scent; fifteen percent kallum milk; and eighty percent filtered water.”

  “My pleasure,” drawled the resonant male voice.

  “Tell me, how long until the next hyper-space ship is due to dock?” she asked, bringing her thoughts back to business.

  “Long enough,” Theo assured, “to give yourself a suitable soak and reconsider the ill-advised decision upon
which you seem determined.”

  “Right. And that bad decision would be…?” A flicker of wariness flashed through her. Her computerized butler better not have tried hacking into her PalmStar. Artificial intelligence was over-rated. It was, after all, artificial—even more so when applied to the male mindset. Alas.

  “Why, ending your stay prematurely, of course,” Theodian said in doleful tones. “We here on the Blythrian Space Station live to pamper our clients, whether they think they deserve it or not. So we do what we must, else we fail to make the stars a friendlier place to visit. Surely you deserve to stay the two remaining days of your booking?”

  During this appeal, Deja made no reply. Instead, she padded over to the sunken tub in the deluxe, in-cabin lavatory and removed her clothes. The floor panel over the tub slid back as the hot, pearlescent liquid began to flow. The steam’s inviting fragrance hinted at captured sunbeams on a tropical beach. She slid into the bath with delight, intending to stay only a half hour.

  An hour or so later, Deja emerged from her bath and wrapped her body in a self-heating robe. She took a seat and scooped up her PalmStar. Now to see if this Famous Foodie fellow checked out. She’d heard a lot of rumors, of course. But now she needed more information.

  After prowling the G-Net and its counterpart, the Sub-Net, for some time, Deja was rather confident that this Famous Foodie persona had existed about two decades prior to contacting her and, supposedly, had no orange or red flags. Quite an accumulation of silver and black ones, though. Many of them for some rather amusing infractions. For instance, inciting the Frank Fracas, a food fight over imported Frankfurters on some planet in the Beta System. Or producing evidence that precipitated YeastCease, an explosive audit of the InterGalactic Yeast Farm Guild. Undercover reporting on an omelet racketeering ring for the illegal poaching of jumbo pegoruu eggs. Supposed financial support of the illegal strike among Tri-Solar Cheese workers. Alleged orchestration of the Rubarlo Riot, a simultaneous, illegal jettison of overpriced rubarlo nectar from space cruisers in six solar systems. And that was just a smattering of his run-ins with the law. Interestingly, his colorful rap sheet was posted for all to see on his Spicenet blog. That is, if the blogger was, indeed, the real Famous Foodie.

  Deja sighed. The Ultimate Chef of the Galaxy Contest was a huge affair. She had to be sure the exposure would be worth the risk. And that meant she needed more reliable information from an unimpeachable source. And if she was being honest with herself, her best source was an officer in the Galactic Justice Coalition itself.

  Ah, Lieutenant Colonel Geoff Thorne. What a valiant officer. Handsome, gutsy but prudent, and above all, a reputable man. True, she had other sources. But none were as…enticing as he was. It was a pity he was too good for her. Her past was littered with all sorts of illegal deeds. And, well, she had other flaws that didn’t bear dwelling on too closely. Her eyes strayed over to the mini bar on the other side of her room. As usual, the bar never stayed stocked for long when she was on board. And she could use the drink dispenser whenever she wanted.

  Just four months ago, she had agreed to meet Geoff and go on a real date. Actually, a series of dates over the period of five days. It went well. Too well. He even gave her a gift—a brand new pair of LinguaLenses. But when he hinted at a more committed relationship on their final night, she had demurred and changed the subject.

  Clearing her throat, Deja fidgeted with the tie on her robe and straightened in her chair. It just wouldn’t do to dwell on Geoff as a love interest. She needed to contact him as a business associate. She’d already learned that Famous Foodie was voraciously active in galactic food affairs. And yet he didn’t strike her as a malevolent troublemaker. No, more like a mischievous crusader who sported a ridiculous fascination with food. His exploits stirred a mirthful, if wary, admiration in Deja.

  Sure, she might blow this dare and wind up washing dishes in one of Vinadro’s infamous citywide kitchens. And that’s if they went easy on her. But what she stood to lose outweighed what she just might win. Last she knew, her father was still okay. Although his sanity and health had dwindled somewhat, his liberty wouldn’t ever be a lost cause if she had anything to say about it. One day she’d buy his way out and set him up to live somewhere in peace. Then maybe she’d think about what other things might be waiting for her.

  Opening a message window to Lt. Col. Geoff Thorne, she typed out a quick message.

  Deja: Hi Geoff. I need a little help on a dare. Care to help me with your extensive knowledge of the galaxy’s criminal underbelly? Come on, you know you want to!

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the most businesslike message. But it would catch Geoff’s attention. Deja put down her PalmStar and went to her closet. After some thought, she picked out a soft, yellow dress with a blue sash around the middle.

  Ding. Deja jumped a little. She hadn’t expected such a quick reply. And she tried to convince herself that the rapid beating of her heart had nothing to do with the prospect of talking to Geoff again. She tied the sash and then hurried over to her bed. Picking up the PalmStar, she read his reply and answered with her own.

  Geoff: Deja! And here I thought that I might not ever hear from you again. And now you need my help, huh?

  Deja: Sorry not to be in touch. My last dare was quite…preparation intensive. But I have a new dare that has me worried. I know you’ll be able to help. Please?

  Geoff: Well, you used the magic word. Brief me.

  Deja: I’ve got a potential dare backer named Famous Foodie. I’ve learned all I can about his past, but I sense that something is missing. I hoped you could fill in the blanks.

  Geoff: Sure. I’ll see what I can do. I should be able to dig up his full rap sheet for you.

  Deja: Perfect. You always know how to treat a lady.

  Geoff: Yes, and I could treat her even better if she’d actually agree to go out with me again.

  Deja paused, trying not to fidget with her sash. What to say, what to say!

  Deja: I suppose I can’t argue with that.

  Geoff: Brilliant. I’ll get to work and contact you when I’ve got what you need. And then you and I will set a date for that date, yes?

  Deja: Agreed. Now run along and get me that rap sheet.

  Geoff: Ha. Very well. As you command.

  Sighing, Deja put down her PalmStar, a wave of nausea threatening to engulf her stomach. She had just agreed to another date. How could she do that to Geoff? She would never be good enough for him, and yet she couldn’t help that she wanted him, too. Oh, what a mess. She needed some chocolate and a fair amount of gehut.

  Retying her sash for no reason, Deja left her room in search of her favorite indulgences.

  Patricio Ortega dipped a long wooden spoon into a huge pot of simmering soup in the galley of the prison where he had been incarcerated for bad debts. He hadn’t prepared the soup himself, because he’d just started his kitchen shift. Thus, he was about to taste the concoction to see how much help it needed. It was a poultry-and-noodle soup with dumplings. By the fragrance alone, he could tell it needed more veggies and additional seasoning.

  Patricio, a human in his mid-fifties, wore a black apron over his brown prison jumpsuit. The jumpsuit sort of blended into his brown skin. He had black hair that was getting long and a scruffy beard because it was no easy feat to get shaving or haircutting supplies in prison. He had a wide nose set off with brown eyes and a broad forehead. He’d never been much of a “looker” as some might say. But his daughter sure had turned out pretty. That was Esmira’s doing, of course.

  He resisted the urge to pull out the small photo of his wife that he kept in his pocket. Staring at it would do him no good, especially when he was trying to focus on cooking. She’d been gone almost four years now—murdered by an unknown bomber who killed most of the carnie troupe in one horrific explosion. He had Deja to thank for avoiding that fate. But he hadn’t done his daughter any favors by devolving into a degenerate gambler after Esmira’s death.

  E
nough of such thoughts, he scolded himself.

  After stirring the soup a bit more, he pulled the wooden spoon out to get a taste of the dish. What he saw startled him. There, on the spoon, was an entire chicken foot—with a plastic ring still attached around the leg!

  “Gross! Eso es malo,” he exclaimed aloud. When most of the kitchen crew looked in his direction, he plucked the chicken foot from the spoon and held up the offending ingredient so they could get a glimpse.

  Then he tossed it in the bin. The sad thing was that he’d seen much worse in his time here at the prison on Gredlar. How long had he been here? Hmm. About two years. Too long.

  “Stempe,” Patricio called out, “who prepared this sopa horrible?”

  Looking up from his station, the human male said, “Who knows. Not me, though. I’m just pitting these torran peaches for the warden’s dessert.” Over time, the kitchen crew had become accustomed to Patricio’s leadership. Some were somewhat resentful that he had risen to the top so quickly, like cream on fresh milk. But hey, when you’ve got it, you’ve got it. On the positive side, a few of the kitchen crew liked him and were eager to learn. Stempe was not one of those, however. No matter; Patricio loved to teach his craft. It reminded him of precious moments with his daughter onboard their spaceship.

  Before he turned his attention back to the soup, he noticed Stempe stashing some peach pits in his jumpsuit’s pockets. “What are you doing, Stempe? Why aren’t you tossing those peach stones?”

  The sandy-haired man looked at him and narrowed his brown eyes. “What’s it to you?”

  “Just answer the question, por favor.” He couldn’t let this slide or who knew what else the guy might try.

  Stempe shrugged, pocketing another peach pit. “Just gonna sell ‘em. They’ll be ground up and used in a body scrub for those that likes to be extra clean.”