Explode: Team Supernova (The Great Space Race)

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  “No, because you have about as much charm as a glaspoid with the runs and smell worse. I don’t care what color you are. I’m not speciesist. I’m just not into dumb thugs.”

  Then she waited for him to move in on her and tried a trick Rahal had taught her.

  Yeah, she could still use a larger opponent’s mass and momentum to send him flying.

  Into a table, which tipped over, spilling several people’s drinks and food onto the floor. Someone took a swing at the blue guy, causing him to stagger into someone else. He kneed that man in the groin, apparently on general principle.

  Someone else pulled Sarr’ma’s tail. She wheeled around and slashed with her claws, not trying to make contact, but demonstrating that if she’d chosen to, his blood would be splattered everywhere. It seemed to be effective with that assailant, but someone else had to try. And then two people at once, which she solved by ducking out of the way and letting them punch each other.

  When a meaty hand clapped down on her shoulder, she jerked around, claws out.

  And barely managed not to slash up Tripp.

  “Time to go,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He had a takeout container and a bottle of beer, which was good since she’d forgotten that aspect of the challenge in the heat of the kissing and then the fight.

  “Can we take…” She didn’t need to finish the question before Tripp shook his head.

  “Against the rules, and no time anyway.” He tugged on her. “Going now.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she called to the woman she’d been kissing. “I wanted to get you off this nasty planet.”

  Sarr’ma foot-swept someone who got in their way, side-kicked someone else. “Tripp, let go of me so you have a free hand for fighting.”

  Tripp smiled, and it was vicious and glorious. The next person who came close found himself staggering away. Tripp was a blunt instrument—no finesse, no grace, and she’d bet no training. But brute strength and primitive glee were more useful in a fight like this. She was only doing as well with her martial-arts moves because both the moves and the muscles behind them were unexpected. She could use her claws if things got desperate, but they weren’t—nowhere near the point where “potentially lethal” was a good option. And a straight-up punch to the jaw like he’d just delivered? A beautiful thing in its own way, especially with that look in his eyes and a smile bigger than she’d ever seen on him.

  She snatched the packages from his hand. If necessary, she could always…

  Yeah, she could still do a standing backflip and land solidly. Always a hoot, particularly when you kicked someone in the jaw as you flipped away.

  By the time they fought their way to the front door, the bar was one seething brawl.

  Gus and the special, almost-invisible camera-drones had better be getting this.

  “That was great!” she exclaimed as they made a dash toward their shuttle.

  Chapter Nine

  ONLY WHEN THEY’D set the takeout down and made sure the camera drone got good shots of the greasy takeout, the beer, and the lipstick prints all over Sarr’ma’s farce did Sarr’ma bounce at Tripp and repeat, “That was so much fun. Can we…?”

  His arms closed around her. “No,” he growled. “We can’t do that again. No more instigating bar brawls. No more making out with bar-girls in front of a hundred horny refinery workers. At least not while I’m stuck pretending to eat mystery meat and making conversation with assholes.”

  “We needed a lipstick print anyway. This was more fun than having her kiss a napkin or getting it off a glass. And she’d have charged you.”

  “Just…oh…. Just…”

  For the second time that night, Sarr’ma saw someone’s eyes darkening with desire she hadn’t expected to see. Maybe that wasn’t so unusual. Some men got excited watching attractive women kiss. (So did she. Pretty-pretty people in any combination worked for her. In human terms, she was omnisexual. She preferred to think of herself as an equal-opportunity lech.) But seeing that hint of despair for the second time, a hint of desperation fueling the desire…that was weird.

  When he leaned in, she raised her face to meet his lips.

  He kissed her as if he wanted to obliterate the night—or maybe some other memory, one that had nothing to do with her—with his lips and tongue, with his big hands gripping her ass.

  And stars, she liked it, even though it wasn’t making a lot of sense.

  *

  “Why are you kissing me?” Sarr’ma asked when they paused for breath. “I thought you were mad.”

  “Why not?” was the best answer he could come up with that wouldn’t interrupt what they were doing for too long.

  But before he could start kissing her again, before he could explore that velvet skin, she backed two steps away. “Because we need to get this beast in the air before an angry mob, or at least a pissed-off bar owner and a few bouncers, shows up.”

  “Local sentients approaching,” Sparky announced in a voice that managed to sound flat and anxious at the same time. Tripp had always heard they learned pretty rapidly. It was obviously learning to deal with life with Sarr’ma.

  Sarr’ma was in the pilot’s chair before Tripp could react and before Sparky finished saying, “Some are armed with small laser weapons and flame throwers. Chances of serious injury, almost nil. Chances of damage severe enough to necessitate repairs, 22.75 percent.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” she sneered as she pressed buttons and flipped levers in ways that made little sense to Tripp. “Like how fast I can get us out of here without blowing either us or the spaceport up with the stupid combustible lift-off agent. I’m not waiting for burn-off or traffic control. Especially since I think I saw the traffic control guys in the bar.”

  It didn’t make Tripp feel better that it took Sparky more than an instant to answer, and in that time the engines were firing up. “Lift-off possible in one minute without potentially dangerous overburn.”

  “That should…oh marling stars, someone lobbed explosives at us!” She pressed a few more buttons.

  “Mining charges,” Tripp guessed. “I doubt they could damage a hull of a vacuum-capable shuttle.”

  “Accurate,” Sparky reassured. “However, the potential for this being the start of a larger riot that will at best interfere with your schedule is roughly 58.2 percent. I detect law enforcement flyers on route to the space port, so I predict the situation may become more complicated.”

  “Cosmic. Normally I like a good riot, but aren’t they overreacting? We stole a kiss, a skunked beer, and some greasy takeout, not the crown jewels. By the way, Tripp, don’t eat the takeout. Smells like the fried whatever-it-was had gone off. Why are they so marling upset?”

  “My databanks provide no answer,” Sparky intoned. “However, I might theorize…”

  “Rhetorical question, Sparky,” she and Tripp snapped at almost the same time. “Can I take off without blowing anything up?”

  “The shuttle will be safe and the sentients are out of range. However, the nearest building….”

  “Lifeform check, Sparky. Is anyone in there?” Sarr’ma spat out. Good for her. Tripp hadn’t thought of it himself, and realizing it made him feel like a dangerous ass.

  “Lifeform check complete. It is empty at the moment.”

  “In that case, we’re out of here. Octiron can marling pay for the customs shack,” Sarr’ma exclaimed as the shuttle took off with a jolt that shook Tripp’s bones.

  And his cock. Damn Sarr’ma for making reckless so sexy.

  “Hope so.” Tripp looked out the viewing window at a burning building on the ground below them, hoping it would calm his throbbing dick. It worked, but not as well as he would have thought.

  Once they made it back to the Supernova, Sarr’ma said, “Sparky, program the fastest course to the checkpoint. I need to clean up.” She turned to Tripp. “Cheer up. That didn’t go so badly. A little messy at the end, but we’re fine, the shuttle’s fine, and I’m sure Oct
iron will pay for the damages. Things like this must happen the time. Racing’s dangerous even without all these crazy challenges.”

  A disembodied voice started to speak. The by-familiar blue face of Zissel, three times larger than life and transparent, popped up in the middle of the bridge halfway through first word. “Unfortunately for Team Supernova, the costs of repairing this damage will be taken out of their winnings. Sparky, any estimate?”

  “It’s a small pre-fab building of local manufacture and doesn’t house anything other than a customs ’bot and a snack shack that was closed for the night. My sensors tell me the fire suppression systems engaged immediately so it won’t be a total loss. Shouldn’t be more than two hundred thousand credits, Zissel. Thanks to the bonus for finishing their first challenge before any of the other racers, Team Supernova won’t be in the red, but they’re back to an almost empty purse.”

  Anger surged through Tripp. Two hundred thousand credits gone, half of which would have been his, because Sarr’ma was reckless. One-tenth of the credits he needed to free Zel. He wasn’t thinking when he galumphed the few steps to Sarr’ma’s side, merely reacting. “You idiot! All we had to do was ask for a souvenir kiss on a napkin or something, throw one bottle into the crowd, and sneak out during the ruckus. But no, you had to start kissing random bar-girls, we pissed people off, and all our winnings have evaporated.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize we’d landed on the planet of the crazy people who’d try to kill us over a stolen kiss and a free lunch!”

  “A stolen kiss that may yet save the day for Team Supernova,” Zissel explained, obviously talking to the invisible audience. “It looked like our Sarr’ma and her pretty dirtside friend enjoyed that kiss. How about you? We’ve already gotten a few coms saying Sarr’ma deserves bonus points for that delightful visual. Let us know if you agree.” The challenge wouldn’t have been broadcast yet; there was always a delay for editing. Zissel was adding the narrative they wanted viewers to hear. “Or, for that matter, if you think Tripp should get some for not tying her tail in a knot. It’s a dubious honor being the first team on this year’s race to set something large on fire, but if you thought that was stellar viewing, you can vote them points for that too! And don’t forget, you can watch the points for Team Supernova and the other contestants accumulate in real-time at our Universenet site. That’s UVS Dot SpaceRaceStats Dot Par!”

  Tripp had an awful suspicion. “Sparky, were we supposed to be able to hear that?”

  “No. Octiron wishes contestants to figure out what might get bonus points on their own, so you can only see the show at the same time the rest of the viewers do, when it’s too late to affect your rating. However, Ms. Settazz reprogrammed the holo-display settings.”

  “You’re cheating already?” he roared. “Sarr’ma, I ought to space you. Except that would definitely get me kicked out of the race instead of maybe getting kicked out.”

  Sarr’ma snorted and Tripp swore even the AI suppressed a chuckle. “It is not cheating,” Sparky said. “The rules do not explicitly state contestants must not reprogram the feeds to get more information. Several contestants over the years have figured out how to do so. Not many, but enough that Octiron could have changed the rules or added more layers of security. Logically they must not mind.”

  Tripp forced the anger back and thought. Then he started to laugh. “Those tricky larf-lickers! They want us to bend the system. I suppose it makes things more interesting for viewers.”

  “And happy viewers mean happy advertisers means a happy Octiron,” Sarr’ma said conclusively. “Took me about six Standard seconds to figure it out. My brother’s a marketing whiz on top of being a galactic martial arts medalist. I picked up just enough of both of them to be dangerous to self and others.”

  “Maybe I overreacted.”

  “Again.”

  “Again,” he agreed. “If I’d thought it through, I might have figured it out. It’s not like Octiron couldn’t afford outrageous security protocols if they didn’t want contestants to jack equipment. One of their subsidiaries develops high-level security protocols.”

  Like the ones on the door to the drive room, which Sarr’ma had been spending a lot of her free time trying to crack. She hadn’t gotten anywhere. He’d learned a few unpronounceable but clearly rude words in her native language from her efforts and was getting as curious and anxious as she was about what the lock was hiding.

  Sarr’ma shrugged. On a human, at least, it would be a shrug. On her, it was more like an erotic dance move. “I caught that when I was doing background research. Knowing they’re affiliated with a security firm, I figured anything I could modify was fair game and they might actually want us to do it to keep things interesting.” She smiled at the camera, then turned and flashed Tripp a private look of concern.

  Something knotted in his gut at the look on her face. “Sorry I got so angry,” he repeated. “You frightened me and I snapped and you didn’t deserve it.”

  A big, private smile for him, one that showed those alarming carnivore’s teeth. “Not for tweaking the holo-feed. Maybe for setting that building on fire. I wanted to get us out of there before things got even crazier or we got arrested. Stupid combustible fuel anyway. You’ve got better hyperdrives than we do, and instantaneous matter transport, but you’re still burning trapped carbon for power. ”

  An ugly thought popped into his head. “For all I know, the police here are the sort who’d shoot the rioters, then try to shoot us. I hope not. The riot didn’t even have much to do with us. They were so bored they’d take any excuse for excitement.” He had no idea what relations between the police, company management, and the general population were like here, but it was the kind of thing that happened sometimes in areas controlled by Meridian Corporation. Their management style was, to say the least, strict.

  “Not enough information is available to draw a conclusion,” Sparky said. “However, in a comparable incident on Regulus…”

  “Shut up!” Tripp ordered. To Sarr’ma, he said, in a voice he forced to be quieter, “I want to preserve the illusion I was being paranoid.”

  “Paranoid’s good. I wouldn’t have thought of that. My brother and his mates do private law, and they’ve shot a few people, but they only go after dangerous criminals. Mass murderers, slavers, war criminals, scum like that, not drunks on a rampage. And a small drunken rampage like that one wouldn’t even be illegal at home. Worst you’d get is having to cover medical bills if a bystander got hurt.”

  She stood. Unfolded. Whatever the right word was, she did it like no one else he’d ever seen. It was the poetry of stars, with that dark hair and the almost glowing skin. If he squinted, he could pretend the dusty blue outfit was the color of dusk.

  “I don’t like being afraid,” he admitted. And I’ve been afraid way too much lately. Worrying about you too seems to push me over the edge.

  “No need to worry about me. At least not in a stupidly fast takeoff or a bar fight. I’m great at those. Although the bar fight was a lot better once we started working together. You’re good, you know.”

  His mind boggled at her coolness, her faith in herself. Then he laughed. At least in those two areas, she had every right. “So are you. I was concerned during the fight—you’re not exactly a bruiser—but you’ve learned how to use your size to your advantage. On the other hand, that lift-off took ten years off my life.…”

  “Would that make you underage? That would be a marling shame.”

  Her smile…oh stars, that smile. Her beauty got under his skin, the graceful lines of her body, but that smile killed him.

  There was no way he could defend himself when she took a step closer, than another. Then wrapped her slender, strong arms around him. He groaned and pulled her close. Her body felt hot, on fire. Not a fever—her natural body temperature was higher than a human’s. Stars, he liked that.

  She raised her face as if to kiss her. He bent down to meet those hot lips, still stained with a whore’s lip
stick, but she spoke first. “Question: Is this going to be a hate fuck?” She sounded perky and girlish, but she had when she was dragging enough intel out of Sparky to make an insane lift-off, or tossing large men around a dive bar. He wouldn’t say he knew her well yet, but he thought he recognized underlying seriousness in this question.

  “No.” He thought for a moment, pulled his words together. “You scare me. You turn me on. You make me crazy. But I don’t hate you. I don’t always understand you, but I think I like you.”

  “Good.” She bounced in place like an excited child. No, not like a child at all, because watching a child move wouldn’t affect him this way. “I don’t do hate fucks. Angry fucks, sure. Confused fucks. Adrenaline-rush fucks. Thank-the-Cat-Mother-we-survived fucks. Why-the-stars-not fucks. But not hate fucks.”

  “I promise this won’t be a hate fuck. Probably a post-angry fuck. I’d say a why-are-we-doing-this fuck, but I think we know why.”

  He did, at least. Because it had been hot as the molten core of a star seeing her kiss that other woman, even though at the time he’d been ready to choke her from deviating from the safer plan of one of them begging for a kiss-print on a napkin. Because for a heart-stopping second back at the bar, he’d thought someone was going to drag her away or otherwise harm her, and he’d fail her as he had his sister, but she’d been fine. Because she’d needed backup rather than rescue in that fight, and as relief surged through him, a flood of hormones followed. Because winning a good bar fight (for some definitions of winning), not to mention accomplishing their first ridiculous mission for the Race, left him filled with adrenaline and restless energy, and sexytimes seemed like a better use of that energy than finding more people to punch.

  Probably all true. But it was mostly because Sarr’ma felt like mischief and sex in his arms.

  If he was being honest with himself, and he might as well be, he’d wanted her since he laid eyes on her, at the same time he’d been praying to any powers that would listen that the felinoid wouldn’t end up as his teammate.