Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Page 7

  Well, that was a little odd. After all, most inmates didn’t care too much about hygiene. But certain prisoners did have some strange proclivities. So, really, he wasn’t too concerned. “Todo bien,” he said simply, then called out to the Orinkk at the end of the counter: “Jamm, what you got cooking?”

  The porcine alien looked up. “Oh, just some cornbread to go with the soup. Bien?”

  “Sí. Gracias.” At least someone here had a little good taste. Of course, they had to use pre-ground cornmeal. And it wasn’t that high in quality. But they were lucky to have anything besides wheat flour.

  “De nada,” said Jamm, who went back to mixing the batter. His pinkish skin and piggish features lent him a disarming demeanor. His hands had four fingers and one opposable thumb, each with thick, almost hoof-like nails. His legs were constructed a lot like the back legs on swine from Old Earth. Unlike such pigs, though, he had no tail of any sort. Like most of his kind, he refused to eat pork at all. Some Orinkks still had the unfortunate tradition of dining on their deceased loved ones. Blah, cannibalism! Of course, food and the act of eating were fraught with all sorts of ramifications, as Patricio knew better than most: politics; religion, identity, sexuality, psychology, physiology, and so on.

  He went over to the spice rack and grabbed a few jars. Then he picked up the salt grinder as well and headed back to the stove. Just as he reached the pot, another prisoner came through the swinging door pushing a trolley of supplies.

  “Hola, Patricio,” said Gisgor the Pintrel. He had black fur all over, except on his hands, and a bearish face, with short claws on his paw-like hands and bare feet. “I come bearing gifts from the warden who wants something special, pronto, for him and his guards.”

  “Another special order for el jefe? Why am I not surprised?” Patricio answered.

  Gisgor chuckled and came to a stop in front of Patricio. “Here are the goodies. Hopefully, you’ll be able to find something to satisfy the boss.”

  With practiced ease, Patricio began to catalog the contents of the shipment. Let’s see…fresh garlic and cilantro, tomatillos, tomatoes, onions, various peppers, cheese, eggs, ortoo steak, and so on. Then he saw the bag of masa harina.

  Excelente. Now he could make semi-fresh corn tortillas. A simple but delicious recipe came to mind: chiliaquiles rojos.

  He shook his head, wishing he had enough ingredients for the inmates, too. But that would never happen. This prison didn’t coddle its incarcerated individuals. No, they were put to work on all sorts of projects outside and inside the prison. They were supposed to be working off their debt. But that was practically impossible given how little they were paid. Hence, he was lucky he had someone on the outside who was saving up bribe money on his behalf. A prickle of guilt settled in his throat, however, when he thought of Deja working as an oddsbreaker because of him. She had only ‘fessed up to her new line of work just recently when he asked her how she was making so much money.

  He coughed, trying to clear the prickling sensation, then looked back up at Gisgor. “Muy bien. Help me with the soup, yes? Then I’ll work on the special order.” If he prepared some stellar chiliaquiles rojos, the warden might just let him send another letter to Deja this week instead of several months from now.

  “They want chiliaquiles again?” Patricio asked Jamm. The Orinkk nodded then pointed to the loaded cart he’d just brought in.

  “Here’s everything they ordered in special. Should be what you need. Can I help?”

  “Bueno. Sure, you can ayudame,” he replied.

  “Us too,” piped up Gisgor and his buddy, a reedy-looking, highly tattooed human named Jase. Stempe was there also, but he didn’t even bother looking over at everyone else. Just as well. The guy was surly and hard to manage. So was the amphibious Zoox named Ribell who liked to hang out with Stempe. The two of them were talking to each other in the corner of the kitchen. Plotting something to make more money, no doubt. Oh, well.

  “Okay,” Patricio said. “Gisgor and Jase, make enough chicken stock for the warden and the guards, then start on the salsa. Jamm and I will begin making the corn tortillas.”

  “Right on,” said Gisgor. He and Jase started preparations for making some nice broth. He trusted them enough not to screw it up. Patricio grabbed the masa harina from the cart while Jamm took out some large bowls and measuring cups. Patricio didn’t need to measure anymore, but Jamm still needed some assistance in that area.

  Patricio poured part of the cornmeal into his bowl and then went to get some warm water to mix it with. Jamm did likewise, only he used the measuring cups to pour out a specific amount of flour and to collect some water.

  “Recuerda, let your fingers decide if the mix is too dry or too wet, sí?” Patricio prompted.

  “Sí, señor,” his kitchen mate answered.

  So they both worked the water into the flour until they had dough. Then they began kneading it. The texture was grainy at first but became smoother as time progressed. Patricio decided to add a touch more water to his. He tested Jamm’s batch, and it was fine. In no time, the dough was ready to be rolled into balls and pressed into tortillas.

  “Start rolling the dough into balls,” Patricio ordered. “I’ll get the tortilla press and parchment paper.”

  “Okey dokey,” said Jamm, humming to himself.

  Just as Patricio reached the equipment cabinet, he heard a loud grinding, buzzing sound.

  “¡Ay, caramba!” he exclaimed, turning around to look for the source of the sound. Stempe stood by the blender trying to grind something extremely hard in Patricio’s extremely nice blender. “What are you doing?” he demanded. Jamm, Gisgor, and Jase all turned to watch the argument unfold.

  “None of your business,” replied Ribell, puffing out his throat in challenge.

  “Oh, I say it is. That blender is nuevo. Stempe, what are you chopping up?”

  Stempe glared at him, as did his friend. “Just some peach stones.”

  “Peach stones? Heavens! ¿Por qué razón?”

  “If you must know, I’m crushing them to make some face cream. ¿Recuerdo? Now beat it,” Stempe growled.

  “Yeah, mind your own business,” Ribell chimed in.

  Patricio ground his teeth. “Esta es mi cocina. What you are doing is my business,” Patricio yelled over the horrific sound of the blender. “Stop!”

  Stempe punched the off button then turned to face Patricio fully. “OK, but you’ll have to explain to Yeltzin why I don’t have his product ready for him.” Yeltzin, the lead huckster and smuggler in the prison for over a decade, was a major player. Crossing him wouldn’t be too smart. Patricio clenched his fists. Did he want to have to explain to the warden why a new piece of equipment might be ruined? Or did he want to explain to the violent smuggler that he couldn’t have his crushed peach pits? All things considered, he had a stronger rapport with Warden Tock than he did with Yeltzin.

  “Fine,” he relented. “Just don’t make it a habit. And next time, ask first.”

  Stempe nodded tersely, but a smile played on his lips. He knew he’d won without really even trying.

  “Harumph.” Patricio turned back to the equipment cabinet to grab the wooden tortilla press. The loud grinding resumed. One of these days, Patricio was going to have to stand up to Yeltzin. It was strange that anyone in the prison wanted an exfoliating cream, of all things. It made him wonder… Bah. He just hoped they weren’t up to something stupider than what they’d admitted to doing.

  Patricio returned from the bathroom to find Stempe hovering over the tomato bisque he’d been preparing for Warden Tock and his crew.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” he asked, his tone sharp. He glimpsed Stempe stuffing something into his jumpsuit pocket before the other man stepped back, away from the pot.

  “Just stirring your stupid soup so it wouldn’t burn,” Stempe retorted, turning away.

  “Wait,” Patricio commanded. “What’s that in your pocket?”

  “Nothing,” said the other
man. “Right, Ribell?” The Zoox stood behind Stempe.

  “Yeah, it’s nothing,” said the Zoox, voice low and hostile.

  “I’ll be the judge of that in mi cocina,” Patricio said.

  “Fine, big man,” said Stempe, taking out a paper envelope. “It was just some thickening agent I bought. I thought the soup was a little thin.”

  Yeah, right. Patricio never made his bisque too thin. “That sounds a little thin to me, Stempe. Let me see the envelope.”

  “Sure, knock yourself out.” Stempe walked forward and handed over the item.

  At that moment, Patricio noticed that none of “his” people were in the kitchen. Where had they gone? Cautiously, he brought the envelope up to his nose and took a whiff. Immediately, he smelled a bitter odor, almost like almonds. The smell was odd.

  He stepped over to the pot of bisque and sniffed it too. He could sense the same aroma, only stronger. Oh, dear. Not good. Something stirred in his memory.

  “¡Veneno!” he declared, shaking the envelope in Stempe’s face.

  “What’s that even mean?” Stempe yelled back.

  “It’s poison! You poisoned the soup with cyanide from those peach pits you wanted so much!”

  “Estas loco,” Stempe laughed.

  “Really? Well, we have plenty of soup to test for poison, don’t we?”

  The other inmate, who had forty pounds on him, took a swing at Patricio. The blow connected with his face, and pain exploded in his jaw. He brought up his arm to fend off another blow and tried to yell “guard!” but the Zoox beared down on him, landing a blow to his stomach. All the air whooshed out of him, and he doubled over. He’d been in some brawls in his day, but he was outmatched, and he knew it. He danced backward, preparing to yell again when something hit his head from behind. And that was all he remembered.

  The muscular, six-foot-three Lieutenant Colonel Geoff Thorne continued waiting to speak with his CO. He resisted the nervous urge to run fingers over his brown hair, which was cropped in a short, military style. His eyes focused on his Coalition field-op data unit, looking through various bulletins.

  “Lt. Col. Thorne, he’s ready for you,” chimed the receptionist, brushing back a few strands of—what would you call them?—hair feathers.

  It’s not like she can fly with those feathers, he thought. And they’re on her head. So they’re hair. Sort of. The sleek orange feathers sprouting from her head marked her as a Ractyl from the Gunth System.

  Geoff Thorne was already standing, but he took a moment to straighten his dress uniform and slide his Coalition data pad into his pocket. His body chose this moment to remember that even he, a trained black-ops officer, ought to be nervous. Super slaggin’ nervous. His heart surged into high gear. If this meeting didn’t go well, he could be facing citations, demotions, a hundred laps around the training compound, and then, oh, wrestling with a poisonous beast or two.

  “Thanks,” he told the feathery woman, striding toward the office of his CO. She smiled and preened as he passed, but he gave her only a quick nod. A different woman was on his mind and, well, in his heart. Deja Ortega. Her future, and maybe even their future together, was in jeopardy here.

  You will win this one, he told himself.

  Simple, right? All he had to do was sell his CO on a covert mission to catch one of the galaxy’s most violent food activists by letting Geoff enter a ridiculously expensive cooking contest as the sous chef for a non-combatant who just happened to be an oddsbreaker on the wrong side of the law—and who just happened to be the one that his heart desired. He’d known his heart was hers not long after she, a stranger, had rescued him following an explosion and gunfire. Now, Geoff hoped to make sure Deja would survive this dare—and that Famous Foodie wouldn’t get away.

  As Geoff opened the wooden office door, he saw his CO, General Rex Trikk, behind his desk, standing, as always. General Trikk rarely sat or laid down. He did most everything standing up, including sleeping. His desk had, in fact, been special ordered to accommodate this.

  If he were human, this would all be quite fantastical. Yet Trikk was Rekloran, so he was more like a saber-toothed, bipedal reptile than a human. No one could forget Trikk’s favorite mantra: Live standing or die sitting. That is, no soldier on active duty could ever forget it after Trikk had caught him or her sitting on the job. Hence the reason Geoff had been standing, not sitting, in the reception area.

  General Trikk looked up and flicked out his long, greenish tongue, casting for pheromone cues to Geoff’s state of mind. Combat training kicking in, Geoff’s heart slowed and his body relaxed. Hopefully, he hadn’t just lit up an “I AM BLOODY NERVOUS” sign for his CO. He stood at attention and waited for the general to address him. The Rekloran blinked and the tip of his forked tongue traced all two inches of his right fang.

  Uh, oh. Right fang action. Not good, not good.

  Geoff stood unmoving, though, refusing to react.

  “At eassse, lieutenant colonel. For now,” hissed Trikk, who always hissed at random times; you just never knew whether he was mildly pleased or downright angry. Hissing and intimidating: two things Reklorans did well. And Trikk was marvelous at both. Geoff moved his legs out a bit and clasped his hands behind his back, still keeping his mouth shut.

  “I have read your proposal, Thhhorne. Tell me, is this Deja Ortega your lovemate?”

  Crap. A trick question really. He wasn’t sure. The answer depended on whether Deja was even communicating with him and if she was feeling only somewhat scared of commitment or holy-heck-we-can’t-ever-meet-again scared of commitment. So Geoff went for a compromise: “Yes, when she feels like it, we are, sir.”

  His CO nodded, the light playing over his copper-scaled skin. “I thought so. And how sure are you that this oddsbreaker will cooperate? What if we do not help her father?”

  “Sir, if we don’t help her father, her only motivation will be to avoid angering the GJC. And, to be honest, she’s not too afraid of doing so, as you can see by her record. She’d just cut and run.” He resisted the urge to add that extracting her wounded parent from that barbaric prison was the most ethical thing to do. Results, not ethics, mattered more at the moment.

  Trikk flicked his tongue, then nodded. “And you would stake your future on her cooking skills? You would stake your career on the chance that Famous Foodie is truly the backer for this dare?”

  “Yes and yes, sir. Ms. Ortega’s cooking is beyond delicious. And it is likely that Famous Foodie won’t be able to resist the chance to personally witness Ms. Ortega wreaking havoc at the largest and most pompous cooking contest in the known galaxy.” Geoff swallowed and waited, squeezing his hands behind his back.

  “And what did you tell your…when-she-feels-like-it lovemate about the foodie’s killings?”

  “Nothing, sir. She knows only the rumors and the Class B and C infractions.” And Geoff sorely regretted not telling her the whole truth. But, well, the Class A information was classified. Famous Foodie was far and away more lethal (and unstable) than he had told Deja. He felt itchy just thinking about what he hadn’t told her.

  Yet, if he had told her, she might have passed on the dare, which meant he would once again be waiting for her to contact him. If she ever did again. And her father would most likely die in the prison’s shoddy medical bay. Oh, and Geoff would also lose his chance to catch a vicious, food-crazed criminal. Yeah, he couldn’t exactly forget that astronomical, career-enhancing opportunity. Still, he’d rather “catch” Deja once and for all than catch the bad guy. If only she would let… Geoff cursed himself. Stay focused.

  “Very well,” Trikk said, picking up his own Coalition data unit, tapping the onscreen keyboard with one black claw. “I will discuss your plan with Marshal Hart and the high council. If they approve it but you fail, you will become a missserable cadet. I will see to that.” The alien’s vertical pupils expanded, punctuating the seriousness of that last promise.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Geoff waited to be dismis
sed.

  “But, Lieutenant Colonel Thorne,” the general added softly, “spend your time writing, not waiting. Tell me exactly how you met this woman and why you failed to mention her until now.”

  Gulp.

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  Trikk nodded sharply. At that, Geoff turned on his heel and strode from the room, a fierce hope tugging at the corners of his mouth. This time when his heartbeat picked up, it was with the anticipation of seeing Deja once more. Maybe this time she’d finally and truly stop running; maybe she’d let him love her. If, that is, she didn’t strangle him when he butted into her dare. And if Famous Foodie didn’t kill them both. Ah, so much to look forward to!

  Back in his office, Geoff let his thoughts drift to when he first met Deja Ortega. Okay, not “met.” That wasn’t the right word.

  There Geoff was, on a vacation, not a mission, and he almost got turned into hamburger. The galaxy must have a sense of humor. And, clearly, the intel about that planet’s governmental stability was woefully flawed. He harrumphed, mostly out of habit. After all, if he hadn’t made such an unlucky choice, he wouldn’t have become so lucky in love.

  He thought again about the circumstances of their meeting. Several days had passed before the police had contained the citywide rebellion. All the while, this woman had tended to him, cleaning and stitching his shrapnel and bullet wounds, setting his broken bone, giving him painkillers and antibiotics, feeding him, and helping him get to the toilet. If he’d been any less injured, he would’ve felt as embarrassed as could be. As it was, this woman became his lifeline. He knew she thought herself beneath him, but that made him sad. To him, she was feisty and funny, brave and beautiful.

  With as much objectivity as he could muster, Geoff got down to typing up the whole experience on Be’Voya as well as his and Deja’s reunion a few months later. He strove to write the Be’Voya incident like a militaristic report—as if an op had gone bad and he was describing the fallout. Hence, he tried and failed to make the entire report devoid of subjective feelings and thoughts. Argh. This is tough.