“All systems are online and awaiting your signal, Sarr’ma Settazz.”
An announcer’s holo-head appeared in front of her. No, the host’s head, that silver-haired Suede (definitely not Leather—she had to remember that!) Harrington. She kind of liked their handler Zissel, but Suede came off as the careless kind of con artist who didn’t mind if something terrible happened to his mark as long as he scored. Not a decent Mrrwr’wrn con artist like her parents, who’d leave their mark poorer, but unharmed in other ways, and even laughing over the ridiculous trick that had been played on them. “We are all waiting with bated breath—at least those of us who breathe—for the start of this season’s edition of The Great Space Race. In minutes, the T-47 yachts will blast off for their journey. Before they do, let’s take a minute to thank our sponsors.…”
Enough with the over-enthusiasm already. She could tell real excitement from a performance. It must be like faking orgasm. A professional needed to do it sometimes, but thankfully when you maintained your amateur status, you could express when you were bored.
Which she did by rolling her eyes dramatically and muttering, “Speed it up!” at the long list of sponsors and the logos flashing past over the announcer’s face.
“Take your time,” Tripp said. “I’m in no hurry to blow up.”
She turned and flashed him a grin—a toothier one than she’d let him see before, but he’d seen her pounce on those appetizers so it was no secret she was a predator. “Relax. I’ve done this before. Team Supernova will be fine. I can’t say the same for everyone else, but you’re in good hands.”
Then she turned her attention back to her work. Suede Harrington was starting to count down, numbers flashing where his face had appeared and also on her instrument screen. She paid attention to those, of course, but more to the ships around her. Which ones were closest? Who had gotten into their allotted spot at an angle that might cause their trajectory to interfere with hers? Who was starting to rise, impatient to get started?
She was eager too, but she’d let those morons go first. Unless they were wildly experienced—and even if they were, in such close quarters—their eagerness was likely to get them in trouble.
She’d rather stay out of the potential debris field, thankyouverymuch.
So when the announcer and the screen both blared GO, Sarr’ma stayed.
“Aren’t you supposed to move?” Tripp yelled.
“Hush, pretty-pretty. I need to concentrate.”
Even inside the Supernova, she could hear the roar of the engines. Whatever they used for ignition fuel was loud and flamed even in the thin stratospheric orbit, both of which were totally unnecessary but made for a good show. Probably unsustainable, definitely polluting. Possibly even antiquated fossil fuels. Marling stars, how could the locals have what amounted to teleportation and still be using combustible propulsion?
Not her circus, she reminded herself. Not her howler-bleffens.
Three-quarters of the ships blasted up at once, most at a speed they shouldn’t be trying to achieve from a floating platform, dodging madly in the crowded airspace.
Already, three ships had fouled each other. They’d avoided an actual collision but only because one of them veered at an angle that could, if they weren’t careful, pull them into planetary orbit. Make that lucky. It was obvious they weren’t careful.
What she wouldn’t give for some cricket chips. She could munch on them and watch everyone else screw up. As long as it was chaotic but not deadly, it would be hilarious.
“What are you doing? Shouldn’t we take off?”
“And run into that mess? Thanks, but no.”
She’d share those imaginary chips with Tripp. Give him something to do with his mouth other than yell at her when he had no clue what was going on.
She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, or maybe the fine hairs lining her ears caught the movement of air. Tripp had stood and was galumphing over to her. “We’re supposed to be trying to win, you little larf-licker, not watching the scenery.”
He was close. Too close. He wasn’t a threat, just an annoyance, the kind of guy who loomed over people and yelled to make a point. But all her fur, even the soft down most non-Mrrwr’wrn didn’t notice, stood up. She whirled the seat around, grabbed his wrist, and twisted his arm back; not a damaging hold, but one that would get his attention. “Listen, big guy. I know what I’m doing. You, by your own admission, don’t. When it’s time for digging holes, blowing things up, or cheap thugging, I’ll talk to you. Meanwhile, back off and let me do my job. Which, at this point, is making sure we live through the start of the race. By the way, according to my translation software, you just called me something super-rude. I don’t know what’s it’s like in the mines, but on my world, that’s only acceptable if it’s in bed and we talked over humiliation play beforehand—and that’s so not one of my kinks.”
Tripp made a funny noise. He might have been stifling another rant or he might have been laughing. His expression was no more or less pissed off than usual, so it was hard to tell.
She hung onto her fury—and his thick wrist—to help her ignore the fact he smelled good, like rain on rocks on a hot day, and that this close, she saw gold flecks in his dark eyes that, under better circumstances, she’d like to study up close and personal, preferably with both of them on a comfy horizontal surface. He opened his mouth to say something.
Whether it was argument or apology she’d never know.
Two ships clipped each other.
One veered off at a skew angle, spinning end over end for a few terrifying seconds before righting itself and heading on its way. It wasn’t exactly going in the right direction, but it was a safe direction, and it had plenty of time to correct its course.
The other plunged back down toward the spaceport.
Sarr’ma held her breath. This was exactly what she’d feared. They were going to crash—with luck, not on top of spaceport workers or any of the other ships that had held back for the starting scrum to clear. The Supernova was far enough away they’d be safe as long as there wasn’t a huge explosion.
Marling archaic combustible fuels. There might be a huge explosion.
“Universe preserve them,” Tripp murmured. It was, she thought, not an automatic thing like the way some humans said “bless you” if you sneezed, but an actual-factual prayer.
If he had an in with whatever gods he worshipped, that would be handy. Octiron seemed way more interested in putting on a good show than on running a safe race. You couldn’t control what happened in deep space, but it was easy enough to make sure racers didn’t foul each other at the starting line. So why hadn’t they bothered?
At the last second, a tractor beam from the spaceport captured the plummeting ship and dragged it to safety, more or less. It was close enough to the surface the tractor beam could keep it from crashing, but not slow it down much, so it landed hard. A couple of panels popped off, and Sarr’ma would be surprised if the team on board hadn’t been injured.
But at least they weren’t blown to atoms. They were out of the race and might be spending some time in the local equivalent of a regen tank, but they were alive and could drink on tales of their narrow escape for years to come.
She looked at Tripp, whose eyes were as wide as hers felt.
Somehow, as they’d watched the near-disaster, her grip had shifted. She wasn’t doing a martial-arts hold on his wrist anymore. Their hands were twined together, gripping each other as if the fierce contact would keep the other ships safe.
They pulled apart as if the other’s hand was on fire. Tripp took a couple of big steps back. “Sorry,” Tripp muttered. “Shouldn’t have startled you like that, but it’s good to know you can stand up to a big guy being an ass. Thank you for keeping us out of that mess.”
“You acted like a complete driftdwell between the shouting and the looming—seriously, didn’t your parents teach you better manners? But maybe I should have explained why I was holding back.
”
He nodded. “My momma would slap me silly with a shovel for acting like that. An explanation would have helped, though. If there’s something more beginner than beginner when it comes to racing, that’s me. I haven’t even watched the show that often.”
Are you sure you’re not one of those supposedly mythical people who isn’t here voluntarily? That might explain why you seem so miserable.
Before the words could come out, she forced her attention back to the race. She’d try to ask him again later; it seemed important.
But it was more important to capture the perfect takeoff window that was about to open.
“Now, Sparky!” she proclaimed. “Fifty percent power until we’re out of atmo and then hit it.”
The Supernova took to the heavens.
Chapter Seven
“SO WE’VE MADE the first checkpoint.” Sarr’ma glanced down at her outfit, which was still the mutated jumpsuit. “Which, as it turns, out wasn’t the ‘first checkpoint’ Zissel meant when she was talking about getting our regular clothes back. At least we can do some fun challenges as we work to catch up with our clothes. You’ve looked them over, right?”
Tripp nodded. She was literally bouncing in her seat and when she got like this, he’d already figured out it was best to let her ramble. When she did get to a point, it was usually a good one. Now that he’d realized the bouncing, like the lilting voice, was more a cultural thing than a sign of serious immaturity, he could it admit it was entertaining.
“I say we start with one we can do quickly,” Sarr’ma suggested.
“Not a bad idea. That way we can get used to working together in a relatively low-risk situation. Plus, there are huge bonuses for being the first to finish a challenge.” And the more bonuses, the better. One million credits…
“How about this one? ‘Dinner Date on Izbo. Visit the refinery colony, come back with takeout, a beer, and a kiss (or at least a lipstick print) without paying for any of it.’ It’s not worth a lot of points, but we should be able to do it in about three seconds and get on the way to the post-challenge checkpoint, which is one where you get extra credit for being there first. And the one where we get our own clothes back. Admit it, you want to see me in a clingshirt.”
“I just want to use the sanitation chamber without getting almost naked.” Which was a nice thought, but he admitted to himself the little smile had to do with the idea of Sarr’ma in a clingshirt, bouncing.
“There has to be a catch to the challenge, I know, but even the catch can’t be that bad. Izbo isn’t inhabited by cannibals, the atmosphere’s breathable for both our species, it’s hot, but not so hot we’ll need protective gear, and if I can’t con a meal and a kiss out of someone, I should turn in my tail bows. You should even be able to do it, if you smile a little. Ruggedly attractive or something. Even in that jumpsuit.”
“This isn’t going to be as simple as it sounds,” Tripp advised. He was proud that he didn’t just shout NO. But that would be stupid, right? He’d be there to watch her back. And she’d researched too. She knew what she was getting into. At least kind of.
“The part about having to land a shuttle on the planet instead of using the transporter? Easy-peasy bloxfruit squeezy and one-hundred-percent less post-transporter queasiness. The gravity’s virtually identical to Mrrwr, it’s a full-service spaceport, even if it’s small, and the shuttle is so easy to fly I bet you could do it as long as Sparky kept an eye on you.”
“One thing they’re not telling us in the notes is that the planet has something like a twelve-to-one male–female ratio for a good reason. Exposure to the process used to refine gallium can make females miscarry, even years later. I’m a miner. Even in another system, mining something completely different, we know why working with gallium’s a bad idea.”
She stopped bouncing and stared at him with those unsettling green eyes. “You think I didn’t read up on the planet before I decided to suggest this challenge? A couple of hours isn’t enough to harm me, and it won’t take longer than that. And we can definitely work with a twelve-to-one ratio. Would be even easier if I could go in alone, but that’s against the rules, and there’s a lot to be said for backup in a strange place.” She smiled—not for the camera, but for him, what he’d come to realize was her real smile.
The one that showed her teeth.
Just when Tripp thought he was used to her small, sly, devastating smile, she’d grin and show off those carnivore’s fangs. It was alarming, but at the same time it shot straight to his groin.
He’d get use to the fangs in time, but being aroused by them was never going to be comfortable.
He shouldn’t be turned on by the fact his tiny teammate could rip out his throat if she wanted to. He’d tried to convince himself it was relief that she wasn’t as helpless as he’d thought at first. That might even be partially true.
But mostly, it was because she was disturbingly hot when she smiled.
*
Tripp held his breath until they actually touched down in the spaceport on Izbo. But once again, Sarr’ma proved she was a star-bright pilot. She was borderline reckless, coming in at barely below a redline speed, teasing traffic control too much for his comfort. But she set the shuttle down as gently as you’d put a baby into a crib. Once he unclenched his fists and took a deep breath, he realized she’d done everything traffic control had told her to do. Just quickly and with a sarcastic running commentary for him and the viewing audience.
He still wasn’t sure she was his ideal race partner, but her flying skills were top-notch.
And she put up with his edgy temper and frequent silences and didn’t ask too many serious questions, like why he locked himself in his cabin once a week. He couldn’t very well say he was waiting for Zel’s proof-of-life com.
As soon as they left their ship, the dust and heat of Izbo wrapped around them like an unpleasant blanket. They hadn’t gone more than a few meters before a layer of beige dust coated Sarr’ma’s fur and skin. She kept licking at herself, making a face, but trying again thirty seconds later, as if she couldn’t bear the sensation of dirt on her velvety skin. It was probably less visible on him since nature had made him in shades of brown and beige already, but he felt it coating him. Everything around them was covered with the dust: the buildings, which mostly looked like cheap pre-fabs so it almost made no difference, the gnarled leathery things with thorns he figured were what passed for trees around here, the other people. He was pretty sure the sky was bluish, but there was enough dust blowing around he wouldn’t swear to it.
“Tell me again why people live on Izbo. Other than they’re not too clever, which I could have figured out by the fact the planet, the only inhabited continent, and the capital city all have the same name.”
He knew she already knew the answer, because they’d both done their homework. She was playing for the camera. “Dianspore deposits with a high yield of gallium and no native sentients to care if other species want to dig up their planet. Money to be made.”
Sarr’ma flicked her tail, licked the tip, made a face, then licked it again. “Gallium’s useful, but it’s got to be available somewhere that isn’t a million degrees and ugly as a glaspoid’s butt, not to mention hazardous to your health. If it’s that bad for females, it’s probably doing something to males that they haven’t pinpointed yet.”
“Stop complaining about the heat. You’re wearing almost nothing.”
Which was a major part of their plan. If you’re trying to score a free dinner and a kiss on Izbo, someone had better look like they were going to put out. And since there were so many more males than females or “others” on this planet, that someone was going to be Sarr’ma.
This was going to get messy, but damned if he could convince her of that. She was strutting with her dusty tail held high, wearing that mutated jumpsuit as if it were something high fashion, expensive, and beautiful, instead of jerry-rigged, turned inside out like his own jumpsuit to hide the logos, and, thanks to
the dust, rapidly turning the same color as everything on this ugly planet.
Except her skin, fur, and eyes. Here, her eyes were like emeralds, and the black fur and cream-and-cinnamon skin looked lusher and more inviting, like the night sky itself, despite the dust they were inevitably collecting.
Her tiny panties were bright orange. He’d seen that (stars, a good portion of the galaxy would probably end up seeing it) when they were disembarking and a gust of wind caught the wisps of her skirt. That fiery color against her pale skin…it might be seared permanently into his retinas. Had Gus, who operated the drone camera back in a studio on Primaera, linger over that bright lace, the curve of her ass, or had he caught a tease and then panned away as Tripp had made himself look away?
Dream on. Octiron was looking for ratings, and a pretty ass in lace panties would get attention.
Besides, Gus might be an AI, who wouldn’t feel any compulsion to look away for the sake of manners.
The bar they chose looked a lot like all the sad-assed miners’ taverns he’d ever been in, except that even in the most ratty dives back home, there’d be female miners and support staff. Here he didn’t see any females except one older human behind the bar, and a human and a woman of a species he didn’t recognize in bright, tight dresses. Well, when there’s a market, someone will provide the product.
When they walked in, the bar didn’t quite fall silent, but he could feel the stares—curious ones, lustful ones, a few hostile ones directed, he thought, at him. (A couple of the lustful ones were too, which made sense. If you were queerbent, getting a job on a planet full of men might seem like a great idea. It probably palled when you realized all the men ended up looking kind of alike, coated in that nasty dust.)
Explode: Team Supernova (The Great Space Race) Page 5
