Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Read online

  But it didn’t matter. What happened had happened, and he wouldn’t change it for the world or even the galaxy. However, he did leave out a few tidbits that were rather personal and, well, weren’t anybody’s business but his and Deja’s. When he finished, night had already come and gone. He stood up from his desk and stretched. He went to the drink dispenser and ordered some coffee, black. He itched to contact Deja, but he had to wait until he got the final word from his commanders. Patience was key. He was patient. Usually.

  Sitting at his desk again, he sipped his coffee and reviewed his report once more. The statement was sound. Ready. He held his breath a moment and said a prayer as his parents had taught him. Then he sent the missive off to General Trikk. He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he received his orders on this matter.

  So once he had donned a fresh uniform, off he went to the mess hall. Even this early, it was busy with officers and enlisted members. A few people waved hello or voiced greetings. He almost didn’t notice, though. He was thinking of the last time he’d seen Deja.

  In the early evening, they’d been sitting outdoor at a café in Paris, France, on New Earth. She sipped at some rubarlo nectar spiked with gehut while he enjoyed black coffee.

  “Tell me, Deja, have you given thought to my question?” Geoff asked at the time. He’d asked if she would date him exclusively, but she had demurred and refused to give him an answer. This was their last night in Paris, and he hoped to coax her into agreeing to his request once and for all.

  “Oh, Geoff.” She frowned. “I…you don’t know what you’re asking. I am—I’m not ready. There are…things about me that you don’t know,” she finished, looking down at her drink. He reached out and tried to take her hand, but she pulled back.

  He sighed, placing his hands around his coffee mug again. “Deja, you’re right that I don’t know everything about you. But I want to. Is that really so astounding to you?”

  “I’m sorry, Geoff. Truly.” She licked her lips, then took another drink.

  “Okay,” Geoff said heavily. “Just know that I will never stop asking, mi corazón.”

  Deja blinked her green eyes at him, then said, “My dear, you are too sweet, as usual. Why don’t we go take a stroll by the river?” So that’s what they had done.

  Geoff snapped back to the present, brooding. As he ate some scrambled eggs and a side of plimber porridge, Geoff wondered what Deja was doing at this exact moment. He wished her well. And he wished her his.

  Opening a message window to Famous Foodie on her PalmStar, Deja tapped out a quick greeting on the keyboard. “Considering your dare,” she typed. “Let’s chat.” With any luck, he would be online. She was about to go find some lunch when she heard the beep.

  Famous_Foodie: Excellent. How soon can you arrive in the Wannavak System?

  LuckGoddess: Depends. As they say—all talk and no creds can’t keep an oddsbreaker fed.

  Famous_Foodie: Check your CredChum account. I think you’ll find the funds awaiting your acceptance as of this moment.

  Pausing, Deja toggled over to her CredChum account and logged in to find that Famous Foodie was as good as his word. All Đ500,000 had been dumped into her virtual holding account. Her blood surged a little faster as she punched in her acceptance code. Later, she’d be sure to transfer it to one of her permanent accounts.

  LuckGoddess: Creds check out. I’m in. How about we get cooking?

  Famous_Foodie: My pleasure. Catch a flight to Vinadro’s capital, Remla. At The Atomic Meatball in the lower east side, order a batch of their signature dish and a side of fried oyuchen with extra sauce and a lemotte twister.

  LuckGoddess: No problem. Just don’t expect me to eat it too.

  Famous_Foodie: Indeed. That would require an entirely new dare, wouldn’t it?

  Chuckling, Deja pushed back some of her damp, black hair. This guy, she could work with. Whether she could actually pull off the dare itself was something that remained to be seen. Still, she hadn’t nosed around her father’s galley for years without learning some serious culinary skills.

  LuckGoddess: Will I be creating my own recipes?

  Famous_Foodie: Yes; anything you like. But keep in mind that the special ingredient is non-negotiable and will require some…creativity to disguise.

  LuckGoddess: Done. And what is this ingredient?

  Famous_Foodie: Never fear, it will be included in your “care package” at the diner.

  LuckGoddess: And my alias?

  Famous_Foodie: Also awaiting you at the diner. You will be a middle-aged chef. That’s all you need to know for now. I just need your measurements for some chef jackets.

  Nodding to herself, Deja spoke aloud to Theo without looking up from her PalmStar. “Theo, I’ll have that nectar now. Double strength with a shot of gehut.”

  “Excellent choice, Ms. Ortega. Allow me fifteen seconds to prepare your beverage.”

  Meanwhile, Deja speculated to herself. What could this ingredient be? Something weird, maybe disgusting. The bile or snot of an alien perhaps? The larvae of an odious insect? Some sort of pungent, fermented meat? Well, whatever it might be, she would just have to blast her way through that obstacle when she came to it.

  LuckGoddess: Not giving me much prep time, I see.

  Famous_Foodie: Didn’t think you’d want to compromise that thinks-on-her-feet rep of yours. Besides, Vinadro’s food markets are second to none.

  LuckGoddess: Fair enough. I plan to be second to none in this little cookoff. I’ll contact you when I arrive. I’ll send my measurements shortly.

  “Your nectar is ready,” Theo announced.

  Flinging down her nigh-indestructible PalmStar, Deja walked over to the beverage bay to get her drink. “Excellent.” She lifted the cup of chilled liquid then took a sip and found it satisfactory. Tilting her head, she downed the remainder in two gulps. The drink scorched an icy path from her throat to her stomach. Deja Ortega never started a dare without a stiff drink and a warm bath. Now she’d done both, and it was time to get on the trail of a new adventure with all its blazing promise and atomic meatballs.

  Turning toward the wardrobe to gather her possessions, Deja said, “Theo, notify me when the ship is on final approach to the hyper-travel hub.”

  “But, Ms. Ortega,” he protested, “you have a full day and a half more aboard our station. This time is non-transferable, and it would be a pity for—”

  “Enough,” she said, retrieving her black duffel bag and setting it on her cushy bed. “If you want to be useful, you can confirm my flight to Vinadro. First class. Under Rolina Hoffler.”

  The cabin’s automated butler paused longer than was necessary. She didn’t take the bait. Theo could pout as long as he obeyed her; and he would. One just had to know how to deal with AI personalities. Opening the duffel, Deja rummaged around. Hmm. She wanted a preppy-punk tourist look. In a few seconds, she’d selected several items: a rectangular, silver-toned box of cosmetics, a plastic pouch filled with tiny, colored pills; comfortable, stay-put underthings; a wig of curly blue tresses; a loose, long-sleeved, scarlet blouse; black knee trousers; calf-hugging black boots; and, most importantly, her lucky vest.

  “Searching for your flight, Miss Ortega,” Theo replied at last.

  “Thank you,” she said reflexively, her long fingers opening the pack of colorful pills. Selecting one the color of cinnamon, she popped it in her mouth. Swallowing it, Deja soon felt a familiar pressure behind her eyes. She counted to sixty. There, now she was brown-eyed. Disrobing, she began to dress. For a flitting moment, she worried that her workouts hadn’t offset all the indulgent dining she’d done on board the station. When her trousers buttoned with just a tad more effort than usual, Deja exhaled in relief. Then she picked up the wig and cosmetic kit and went to the full-length mirror.

  Theo spoke up just as she began adjusting the wig. “Miss Ortega, your first-class flight itinerary has been confirmed. Departure in four Standard Galactic Hours. The Comet Chaser LV will dock a
t Outer Ring Station in one SGH.”

  “Excellent, Theo,” Deja said, opening her cosmetics case. Now it was time to indulge in one of her favorite pursuits: the art of disguise. Within moments, she’d applied a fake but convincing tattoo on her cheek: an emblem depicting a turquoise planet speared by a plume of orange-red flame. Most everyone would recognize it as the logo for the Afterburners, a popular, though dead, space punk band. Then she obscured her eyebrows altogether, as was the space-punker style, using two self-adhesive strips of simulated skin. Yet more custom prosthetics reshaped her unique nose and rounded the square of her chin. Foundation went on after that. Still in the groove, she mixed some color into her mascara, painting her long eyelashes turquoise. Her eyelids she painted light gold. A rosy blush and plum-tinted lipstick finished off her makeup. Her earlobes and wrists she adorned with matching ovals of polished blue stones set in gold. She nodded at her transformed self in the mirror and walked back to the bed where her lucky vest awaited. She put it on and fastened it, feeling more secure and confident.

  Several hours later, she sat in an upholstered chair aboard a lighted cabin on a hyper-jump space cruiser. The climate for this particular cabin was calibrated to fit Class H life forms, so she didn’t even need an oxygen mask or enviro-suit. And, rather than sleep the trip away in stasis, she would use the time to become an expert about the Ultimate Chef of the Galaxy Contest, past and present. A longtime fan, she had seen many of the competitions. But to prepare more fully, she would need to study everything: previous judges, competitors, critics, scandals, grudges, and, of course, the gastronomical conquests and catastrophes.

  Well, she would just as soon as she did something about the oh-so-ingratiating fellow sitting next to her, intent on drawing her into conversation. Lukas Inciardi was a human and about thirty-five or forty years older than she. His skin was light and his features aristocratic in their own way. His short brown hair was carefully cut and combed. A trimmed moustache perched on his upper lip. And she was sure that his dark-blue suit had been tailored just for him.

  Currently, the man was eating a rather elaborate dinner that consisted of several courses. She shuddered to think how much it had cost, especially on a space cruiser. He often commented on each component as if he were judging for a rapt audience. Sure, it made her hungry. But she had opted for the much more affordable meal—a hot sandwich, fried trists, and (of course) some icewine.

  For the second time, her seatmate offered to share his meal with her, and she politely declined. When Inciardi finished, he wiped his mouth and smoothed his moustache. Then he tried to strike up a conversation. Again.

  “Ever seen one of these,” he asked, showing her a length of golden metal in his hand. It twinkled with a few gems of varying colors. At one end it narrowed into a point, but it didn’t seem to be a writing implement. Despite herself, Deja was curious.

  “Nope,” she said.

  “Well, it’s a toothpick equipped with these delightful nanobots that scour one’s mouth clean. It leaves one’s mouth fresh without the hassle of brushing or flossing. This gadget leaves me quite ready for anything.” He smiled and glanced down at her lips suggestively.

  “Right. How wonderful for you,” she said flatly. This guy didn’t need much encouragement.

  The man merely started using the toothpick. When he finished, he put the implement in a pocket and remarked lazily, “Well, I do suppose that I pamper myself too much these days. But I like to share when I can. In fact, I have a sleeping compartment onboard ship that you are welcome to share with me if you haven’t one of your own.”

  At this, Deja was ready to stab the guy with his precious toothpick. Restraining herself, she thought up a plan. Turning to meet his gaze, she said, a bit too loud, “Really? You’d share your sleeping compartment with a total stranger?”

  “Of course,” he replied, smiling again. “I will always strive to help any ladies in distress.”

  “How very kind,” she said a little more loudly and winked at him. People were already looking in their direction. Perfect. Then she summoned an android steward who was walking by.

  “Yes, Miss Hoffler?” asked the flight attendant, all chrome and efficiency.

  “Ah, there you are. You heard Inciardi here. My fellow passenger noticed a frail, elderly human female in cargo class—row 820A—and he would very much like to share his sleeping compartment with her. Can you make the arrangements, please?”

  Nearby, passengers were now alert, watching with interest. This dashing traveler wanted to share his first-class digs with an even older lady? Her suave seatmate began to redden as he realized what slim choices lay before him. Ultimately, he chose wisely, and Deja had a much quieter seatmate for the rest of the journey. Besides, she had her own small sleeping compartment, thank you very much. And she could study in there just as well as she could study out in the seating area.

  At one point, Deja paused to consider why she had been so annoyed by the man. After all, he hadn’t been excessively rude or tried to manhandle her in any way. An image of Geoff popped into her head. Maybe, just maybe she reacted as she had because she thought of herself as, well, taken. But that couldn’t be. Not really. As much as she wanted to be the woman Geoff deserved, she knew she would always fall short.

  With a yawn, Deja went back to studying, then eating, then sleeping until the ship reached its destination. She already knew most of the contest’s rules. For instance, if you had four arms, you’d have less time to cook than someone with two. And you couldn’t cook any animal with an intelligence rating higher than a four—so no eating of fellow contestants, of course. This was a civilized spectacle after all.

  Before the space cruiser docked in Remla, the industrious Deja had a workable idea of what to expect at the gastric gala. As she left the black-hulled spacecraft, Deja caught the eye of her talkative seatmate. He certainly looked more tired than he ought to, what with his own personal sleeping compartment. She giggled a little inwardly. As she passed by, he just raised one slender hand and gave her a little salute.

  The open-air vehicle in which Deja rode allowed her every opportunity to enjoy the city, its people, and the oxygen-rich atmosphere. Twenty-five percent oxygen. What a treat. Breathing in another lungful, Deja appreciated the buzz of wellbeing it brought. But, at some point, she ought to use nose filters to limit her oxygen intake. Otherwise she’d wreck all the excruciating days she’d spent conditioning her lungs to survive on the barest amounts of the precious gas.

  Playing the part for which she’d dressed—a naive tourist—Deja let her gaze roam with obvious enthusiasm. Before long, she decided this planet was more fanatical about food and eating than any other place she’d been. She’d watched quite a few seasons of Ultimate Chef of the Galaxy. But the little vignettes they showed about the planet just didn’t do it justice. All things epicurean held sway as the planet’s favorite pastime and religion all blended into one. The architecture alone testified as much.

  All along the route she traveled, edifices bore food-inspired moldings, murals, and signs. To her amusement, she soon saw that many of the structures were shaped like food itself. Here, a bakery impersonating a three-tiered cake of some sort. There, a church resembling a gigantic, gilded egg. Across the street, a cheese monger shop modeled after a tremendous wheel of aged cheese. And over yonder what seemed to be a school masquerading as some sort of pomegranate-like fruit.

  Her stomach gurgled as she sniffed the air, catching scents so enticing she almost stopped the cab right then to find some grub. Scores of pushcarts beckoned, the peddlers’ tasty wares ranging from soups of unknowable origins and skewered edibles she’d never seen before to flatbreads stuffed with curious combinations and frozen sweets she longed to try. Of course, Deja couldn’t read the ideographic language on the pushcarts or the shop windows, but the prominent displays of edibles spoke quite well enough. Other street vendors peddled non-food items: synthetic and hand-woven fabrics and showy trinkets; sculpted figurines and games, man
y of them edible; holographic paintings and maps; and one-of-a-kind dinnerware that, strangely, looked just like the dishes being sold by another hustler on the next corner.

  Lofty of height and solid in girth, the locals themselves also drew her attention, though the city had its fair share of non-natives, too. All the photos and videos she’d viewed in her research hadn’t quite captured their complexions of dusky blue, bright yellow, soft green, and many other shades. A downy layer of fur the same hue as their respective skin tones covered their powerful legs. Weight balanced chiefly on the balls of their feet, they seemed to trot rather than walk, swinging their long arms as they went. The Vinadroans’ knees were complex condyloid synovial joints like hers. Yet their ankles, formed by hock joints, were hinged the opposite way. None of the locals wore shoes; their taloned feet had no use for such protection. Somewhat less-intimidating talons tipped the three fingers and opposable thumb on each hand. Thank heavens handshakes weren’t a normal mode of greeting here.

  The females couldn’t be called dainty by any means, but they didn’t carry the same bulk and height as their male counterparts. However, the women had distinct assets of their own, what with having breasts in triplicate. Both genders, though, had a crest of hair that traveled from their heads, down the sides of their necks. Similar hair graced each eyebrow. Broad foreheads and elongated faces seemed to radiate an alertness and genial warmth. Of course, the fangs protruding at the corners of their bluish lips negated that geniality somewhat. And their noses, resplendent in their bigness, left no doubt as to why they were renowned for their olfactory aptitude.

  With a sideways glance, she studied the shock of graying white hair atop her driver’s head. Would it feel more on the wooly side or the silky side? The driver swiveled his large, oval-shaped ears in her direction, expecting her to say something perhaps. The outer edges of his ears looked crimped like the crust of a pie. Small hoops pierced the entire length of his left ear, like many of the adult males she saw. For women, large jeweled hoops were popular as earrings in both ears.