Deja Ortega: Oddsbreaker Read online

  Deja wasn’t surprised in the least to see that their clothes often bore stylized images of burgeoning orchards, fields, flocks, and so forth. Women favored wraparound skirts cut just above the knee, flaunting their plump lower legs. Men were more inclined towards snug ankle trousers. Male youngsters scuffled about in knee breaches, and the girls wore ruffled petal skirts for the most part. Only the children, incidentally, took all that much notice of Deja as she passed by on her way to the Atomic Meatball. Her driver, she realized, had been humming to himself the entire time but had made no attempt to talk with her.

  But she didn’t have more time to study him because the vehicle slowed to a halt in front of the most enormous meatball she had ever seen. Or, at least, a restaurant that looked like a gargantuan sphere of meaty goodness with a lighted sign flashing The Atomic Meatball: Diner and Museum. Delicious smells of spiced meatballs, battered edibles, and other enticing but unfamiliar fare wafted to her from where she was positioned outside the restaurant.

  “Here we are, lass. Lovely, isn’t it?” her driver asked.

  The translator chip behind her ear made his words intelligible. Staring at the absurdly realistic meatball, she almost didn’t avoid a bout of laughter. “Oh, yes,” she breathed, “and a more breathtaking meatball I have yet to see.”

  The Vinadroan paused as his own translator chip converted her words. “It’s a start,” he said. “Just be sure you don’t miss the Old Quarter. My little ones is always pestering me to take them over there. You’d think they’d never had a dish of iced belasino in their lives.”

  Handing him her CredChip, she thanked him. He held it up to the payscanner then returned it to her. She slid the door open and stepped out onto the walkway, studying the remarkable texture of the diner’s exterior. It had to have been molded and then painted by airbrush. The craftsmanship involved sobered her—but only a little. After all, it was a giant meatball.

  Her driver hefted her bag from the trunk then handed it over. In response to her thanks, he scratched at one of his eyebrows and bid her farewell. “Bounteous table to you,” he said, striding back to his vehicle and zooming off. Strolling into the eatery, Deja wasted no time placing her “order” as directed by Famous Foodie. The cashier, somewhat short for his race, eyed her and called his manager over. The manager, a white-haired beauty with a slight limp, wore a dark-green apron emblazoned with the restaurant’s name in scarlet thread.

  “Come along then,” the woman instructed, her voice husky and deep yet feminine all the same. She took Deja up several floors to a back room—a storage area for the museum, the oddsbreaker decided. Water dripped with a steady rhythm into a sink with a mottled copper basin. Strange contraptions, stacks of old holophotos, and a dusty scale model of the restaurant occupied the room. Ragtag tables, legless chairs, and faded décor peaked out from beneath retired tablecloths. But she focused on a sizable crate covered with a green tarp. That must be what she’d come for. Her instincts proved true when her guide pulled off the heavy tarp with one fluid yank.

  “Do as you will, my dear,” said the middle-aged Vinadroan, gesturing toward a crowbar leaning against the crate. Deja thanked her. The woman blinked and smiled, showing more of her fangs, and pointed to a comm button near the door. “Press this when you’re finished. I’ll have your supplies delivered to your destination of choice.”

  “Got it,” she replied, and the manager left.

  Stashing her duffel beneath the sink, Deja shoved her sleeves past her elbows. What she found in this crate might give her the means to buy her father’s freedom. If she knew how to make the judges like eating whatever dreadful thing Famous Foodie had seen fit to inflict upon them. Deja got to work loosening the crate’s lid. With a creaking sound, the lid popped off at last. Peering inside, Deja surveyed the containers and parcels and a small data pad all stacked with precision. Regrettably, the contents lay nestled amidst a multitude of spongy packing nuggets. The bothersome nuggets would be sure to scatter all over the place. Oh, well, she’d just have to slip the restaurant’s owner a pre-loaded CredChip to compensate for the mess.

  Retrieving the data pad, she slid the power button to the on position. The gadget, about the size of her PalmStar and only a few millimeters thick, blinked to life.

  Dear Oddsbreaker,

  Before you are the makings of a challenging dare. Among the items within this package are custom-made chef uniforms, and, yes, the all-important mystery ingredient. Observe the see-through plastic containers. Care to guess the contents?

  Deja did just that, taking a few seconds to clear away some of the blasted packing nuggets to get a glimpse of the plastic containers. The box on top had a greenish, wet-looking material inside. The one below that contained a brown powder. Several others were buried deeper down where she couldn’t see them. No vile insects or atrocious bodily fluids. So far. What in the galaxy....? Picking up the featherlight data pad again, she scrolled down to the next few lines.

  What you have here are some lovely samples of calcium bentonite and calcium montmorillonite from some of my favorite planets. Put more simply: I have given you dirt. And your task is to make the judges eat dirt and like it. One judge in particular deserves it, believe me. Should you run out of soil, I’ll have your supply restocked within the day. Luck be with you.

  Yours,

  F.F.

  Laughter escaped Deja’s lips before she’d had half a second to consider her situation. Chuckling to herself and shaking her head, Deja couldn’t help but admire Famous Foodie’s taste in public humiliation. Sure, a few cultures adored eating various types of soil. On Old Earth, this practice was called geophagy. But most people did not like eating dirt. And in most cases, telling someone to “eat dirt” was still an insult.

  Opening one of the square boxes, Deja pinched off a bit of what she now knew to be a damp, greenish clay. The soft clay felt smooth beneath her fingers, and it had the fragrance of a forest after a rain with a hint of tang. Popping it in her mouth, she had the instant reflex to spit the stuff back out. It coated her entire mouth all at once. A woody chalkiness enveloped her tongue, and she found it somewhat challenging to swallow. But, hey, at least it wasn’t alien poop, right?

  Still... her stomach grumbled with more than simple indignation at the odd snack. Why would her backer be willing to ante up such a huge sum just for the chance to embarrass all the foodies lording over this cooking event? Why hadn’t he decided to muddy the culinary waters himself? Then again, this guy seemed to operate from the shadows, orchestrating food fights from the sidelines.

  She shrugged. Perhaps this was Famous Foodie’s way to avoid becoming too famous for his own good. Besides, the odds were still against her, as always. Even without the stupid dirt, she might not even make it past the first round. For her father’s sake, though, Deja Ortega hoped to break the odds once more.

  With that goal in mind, she began to unpack and open all the other cases of dirt. No sense in avoiding a complete taste test. Either she tasted them now or she wouldn’t know what other ingredients to buy that could disguise the distinctive soil types. After sampling six other pinches of soil, both moist and powdered, Deja took another few swallows of water from the sink. Rinsing out her mouth again, she spit into the discolored copper basin. Okay, so she could’ve been stuck with much worse. Still, she found herself wishing for a few weeks, not a few days, to create suitable dishes. The chefs against whom she’d be competing had spent months, if not years, perfecting their own dishes. Never mind; she couldn’t change that. And so, after locating one of her chef smocks and her contestant badge, she repacked the crate, already busy concocting recipes in her head.

  Moments later, she’d set up her travel mirror on the ledge above the freestanding sink. First, she stripped down to her underwear, then she removed the synthetic skin and scrubbed off all her makeup. The bio stats linked to her fake contestant ID indicated she would be impersonating a human female in her early fifties. Although anti-aging treatments were rather effe
ctive these days, she decided to create a more un-tampered look.

  Rifling through her duffel, she pulled out a kit with some scissors and tubes of red and gray hair dye. With quick snips of the scissors and a careful highlighting job, Deja created a hairdo that swept back from her face in controlled waves of silver-kissed auburn. Tweezing her eyebrows into suitable arches, she dyed them to match her hair.

  Then she set to work on rounding out her features, even sculpting in more padding beneath her chin and jaw line. After some debate, she decided to change the shape of her nose. Adding age lines to her skin proved simple enough thanks to the marvelous weathering balm she’d picked up several months ago. (Well, not so much “picked up” as absconded with. But, hey, if a backer reneged on a bet, she found other ways to recoup her losses.) Then she inked in some moles, including a smallish one above her left eyebrow. Searching through various capsules and powders, she took a two-toned pill that would turn one eye violet and the other blue. A subtle fashion statement for a respectable chef like herself.

  When the pressure let up behind her eyeballs and her vision cleared, she swallowed something else: tiny biocircuitry discs and the pain blockers she would need to tolerate what they would do to her larynx. Deja studied herself in the mirror. No sense in wasting good pain blockers on just one major alteration. On this planet, the females had three breasts apiece. The least she could do was magnify her twosome a cup size or so. She’d already planned on this when she sent Famous her measurements anyway.

  Holding her hand steady, she administered several injections in her breast tissue. Injections that normally had some dreaded side effects. But aren’t side effects always dreadful? For the most part, she escaped the body aches that made decompression sickness seem blissful. But she felt nauseous enough that she had to lay unmoving on the carpeted floor long enough to make her impatient. The worst pain and dizziness gone, Deja used collagen stimulants on her hands, feet, and face to help give the appearance of a little extra weight. Then, because every bit of disguise helped, she created dimples in her cheeks with a different subcutaneous formula.

  When she was able to stand on her own power again, she got dressed. Donning a pair of pleated black pants with upturned white cuffs, she wrestled with the clasp. Great. She’d have to watch how much sampling she did while experimenting in the kitchen. After pulling on a breathable camisole, she reached for her vest, pleased that the chef’s jacket would easily conceal it. No bra yet; the tenderness in her mammary tissues made her wince at the thought. The expandable fabric of her vest would do well enough for now. A pair of no-fuss shoes with square toes completed her ensemble; they were roomier than her other shoes anyway, so they fit her plumped feet. The makeup she applied was restrained, except for the luscious shade of coral lip tint.

  Packing up her supplies, she made a mental note to buy more role-appropriate clothes and restock her supply of pain blockers. As she reached to close her bag, though, her hand went instead to a padded, inner pocket. Hesitating a moment, she opened it anyway. Thoughts of Geoff ignited as she slid out the pair of slim LinguaLenses he had given her. Why shouldn’t she wear them? Her old ones wouldn’t do; too scruffy looking to suit the sleek chef she played. Besides, her translator chip only worked with vocalized language, and she had no idea how to read Vinadroan, which was more prevalent here than Common.

  Slender and gold-rimmed, the glasses seemed fragile, which was deceptive. The shatterproof lenses were a somewhat rounded, rectangular shape, just right for her facial structure. Adjustable in color and tint, the lenses would give her an advantage that she couldn’t pass up. Faint scrollwork ran along the outside of the temple pieces, which contained the small power supply and wiring. A smile reached her lips as she read the inscription Geoff had chosen for inside the left temple piece: “Exciting dare. Slim odds. Good food.”

  A few months after Deja’s daring rescue of the unconscious lieutenant colonel, Geoff had surprised her with this pair of high-end LinguaLenses. She remembered the kiss she had given him in return and flushed. Naturally, he hadn’t needed a translation for that. Yet even now, Deja cursed herself for getting involved with a man who was not only out of her league but also most certainly out of his mind for pursuing her. Scowling to herself, she put the lenses on anyhow. Such thoughts would just distract her. And right now, Deja, or rather, Chef EvaLynn Dubois, needed to do a little grocery shopping. Grabbing her flask, she took a few drinks and put it inside her vest. She’d refill it at the market.

  Deja’s spirits lightened a little as she prowled the expansive marketplace. Rented hovercart in tow, she selected all manner of foodstuffs and seasonings, some of which she had only heard about. One section of the marketplace housed a collection of brightly colored, striped pavilions; another section included stalls with permanent roofs; yet another area seemed dedicated to pushcarts with shaded awnings. The proprietors were of many races and sexes, including a good number of Vinadroans of course. The beings with whom she did business noted her chef’s attire and contestant badge and did all they could to be of service. This they did whether they had two eyes apiece or eight, two legs or eight tentacles, and any mixture of skin, fur, scales, spikes, and whatnot. The merchandise itself was as fresh and plentiful as she could have wanted. They had everything from the choicest of meats to the purest of spices and ripest of fruits and vegetables—and other things in between.

  At ease in this crowded environment, she kept a sharp eye out for fellow competitors. She wasn’t the sole contender doing some shopping. Not by a long shot. But they ignored her, and she pretended to do likewise. An oddsbreaker never knew what details about her foes could tip the odds in her favor.

  The unspoken code of non-fraternization among contestants held true—up until the moment she set her sights upon a lone basket of red hixote peppers, possibly her favorite peppers of all time. As she made haste to claim the prize, she noted a female competitor with a rounded face and piercing gray eyes sidling up to the same pushcart. In her mid-sixties perhaps, the human female bore all the marks of a serious chef. The main one being that of irritating arrogance—or so it seemed to Deja anyway. The impeccable, starched chef’s jacket she wore identified her rival as Chef R. Glass.

  Each of the women placed a possessive hand on the basket of coveted vegetables, though Deja’s reached it first. Years of preparing food had left Chef Glass’s hands and forearms with scars from burns and cuts that, pointedly, hadn’t been erased with derma-regeneration. Thinning, silver-blonde hair slicked back into a tight bun, Chef Glass raised her eyebrows at Deja with a disapproving glare. Naturally, Deja stared right back.

  The other woman’s sous chef, a thin fellow with long, black hair and a sun-like birthmark on his cheek, said nothing. With the creases on his face and hints of salt-and-pepper in his hair, Chef T. Rin was older than Deja by quite a bit, yet younger than his boss.

  The pushcart’s owner, a bald, male Vinadroan who had his back to them, whirled around after the two women had converged on the ill-fated produce. He rumbled a laugh, showing considerable fangs as he smiled over the rivalry. The mottled green of his skin reminded her of striped watermelons back home.

  Deja spoke first. “My apologies, Chef Glass, but I seem to have beaten you to them.”

  “How much for these?” the woman demanded of the vendor, ignoring Deja’s remark.

  “Seems like your translator chip isn’t working, chef. These are mine.”

  Straightening and tugging at the cuffs of her immaculate jacket, Chef Glass sniffed with disdain. “I see,” she said, looking Deja up and down like an inferior cut of meat. “I suppose you think your culinary credentials outclass mine then, Chef Dubois?”

  Now that wasn’t anything like Deja had anticipated. Clearly, she should’ve read up on the city’s marketplace customs a bit more. But, in full bluff mode, she answered back. “Credentials? I thought we were shopping for peppers. And as it so happens, I laid first claim to them.” Shifting her attention to the hulking form of the pro
prietor standing behind the cart, Deja held out her CredChip. But he didn’t move to take it. Not good. Behind Chef Glass, her sous chef just shook his head. What was Deja missing?

  “Respected chef,” the green-skinned Vinadroan said to Deja, “I believe your colleague here is correct. In matters such as this, we sellers are obliged to award the most honored chef with the disputed merchandise.” As his words were translated by her chip, Deja forced her expression to remain impassive.

  But Chef Glass nodded in approval and unclipped her badge, which she handed to the produce monger. “Excellent. I cannot stand this woman’s prattling much longer.”

  A passing urge to engage in some colorful “prattling” seized Deja. After a pause, she offered her ID. “Fine. Compare our credentials, by all means. I don’t intend to quarrel endlessly about this bloke’s peppers.” She quirked her lips at the owner in a suggestive smile.

  “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy your continued presence, but I do have to abide by the code,” he said. If she was reading Vinadroan body language right, the way he tugged at his ear suggested a little ribald amusement. Running their IDs through his computer, he said, “It’s no mystery we love our food. So naturally we make a mystery out of everything else. No reason to be embarrassed, Chef Dubois. One moment here.” He paused, studying the digital readout behind the counter. His eyes flickered in her direction but then settled on the other woman. “Looks like Chef Glass is entitled to this produce.”

  “Indeed,” agreed the woman, snatching her ID back from the seller.

  “Thank you,” mustered Chef Rin, who had the same gray eyes as his employer. He lowered his gaze when Chef Glass frowned at him.