Explode: Team Supernova (The Great Space Race) Read online

  That wasn’t why he didn’t want her as a racemate, though. All species had their quirks, and catlike shamelessness wasn’t bad as such things go.

  Not bad at all, in a different context. Sarr’ma was attractive, with that long black hair and big green eyes, and the skin that he could describe as creamy tan, paler than his own, but might be nearly white with a fine down of cinnamon-colored fur. The ears and tail were different, but charming. And even though she bounced like a small girl, she had to be an adult by her species’ standards to be selected for the race, so he wasn’t going to some kind of special hell for pondering for a second how far her feline shamelessness might go.

  Not that he’d take advantage of it anyway. Until he won Zel’s freedom, sex was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

  No, the reason he didn’t want her was because, based on what he’d caught of her, she was overconfident and inexperienced—a natural combination in a talented young person, but a dangerous one in the places where the race would lead them. He’d buy that she was a good racer, but she was obviously a child of privilege. Going to university for something impractical. Owning a customized racer at her age because her brother could just buy it for her.

  He didn’t want to be responsible for some pampered kid who’d panic at the first sight of trouble and couldn’t handle herself in a fight, not even if she was a more experienced racer than he was. Not that it was hard to beat “no experience at all and no real interest in getting any until last week,” but some of the other female candidates had also raced before, or were professional pilots or ex-military. Useful qualifications as well as a reassuring toughness he didn’t pick up from pretty, petite Sarr’ma.

  He was still thinking about those big green eyes, though, as he tried to make himself comfortable in the studio’s orange scoop-chair—damn things were fashionable, but give him a something with less style and more cushions.

  As the interviewer adjusted her mike, Tripp realized something important. Sarr’ma’s eyes were keen as well as pretty and merry. And she smiled in a cautious, guarded way when nothing else about her seemed guarded at all.

  As if she didn’t want anyone to see her teeth.

  Cats, he remembered, had altered the ecosystems on planets where a lot of them had gone feral. Damned efficient, stealthy killers. Maybe that cute, bouncy child had the sharp teeth of a predator.

  Sarr’ma might not be such a bad racemate after all, if it came to that.

  No. If that girlish cuteness disguised a sharp mind and a hunter’s instincts, that could be worse than babysitting a completely naïve rich kid who happened to have a talent for racing. A kid like that, he’d simply have to protect. A clever hunter he’d have to deceive—and still protect, because she might be a predator, but she was an overconfident, small, very young one.

  And he knew all too well that could happen to a pretty, overconfident young creature.

  *

  They’d herded all the contestants into a glossy waiting area that was barely large enough to accommodate all of them and the inevitable holo crew. “We’ll be back soon with the race-partner pairings!” a different show personality, this one a human female, announced in an annoying perky voice remarkably like Zissel’s.

  Only she was addressing the audience, not the contestants, and “soon” clearly meant “the audience will think it’s soon, thanks to skillful editing.” They’d been waiting for more than an hour. At first, most of the contestants had seemed excited and curious. Now Tripp would say the prevailing moods were impatience and aggravation. A number of people paced, doing a curious dance to avoid crashing into each other in the small space. A Lethonian in a brilliant red sarong that contrasted with his mottled black-and-white complexion had cleared a space for himself by juggling a pair of small blue daggers. Normal enough for an anxious Lethonian; they used knives the way some species used worry beads or stress squeezies. But unlike those innocuous habits, tossing blades around had the side effect of making sure no one barged into your personal space.

  Lucky for the Lethonian, but that meant everyone else lost some of theirs. Tripp didn’t mind that much. Miners’ bunkhouses weren’t exactly spacious havens of privacy. But some people seemed to be getting downright twitchy.

  Tripp sat as still as it was possible for a human to sit, reciting the Central Principles of Kaarlsagen so no one would see he was worried. We are all star-stuff. Regardless of species, regardless of wealth, we are all star-stuff. All that is born dies, and all that dies returns to stars and dust. We are all equal in the eyes of the cosmos. Equally insignificant, and for that reason, equally important.

  We are all star-stuff. Stars do not have wars. Stars do no violence. Stars shine, as we all should shine. As we all will shine, once we recognize our own light and the fire in others.

  He’d believed all that once, believed it in his bones. He’d thought the Central Principles mattered, and the miners’ union would make a difference.

  And then Meridian Corporation heir Eno Kallrydis took a shine to Zel and didn’t care whether she was interested or not—and everything Tripp stood for, everything he’d worked for, everything he believed, collapsed on itself. He knew the mess it made of his life, even with him being shipped off to do this ridiculous race, was subatomic compared to what Zel was going through, but it had shaken him to realize how powerless they all were. How powerless he was. He’d known his life wasn’t perfect, that a lot of things on his home planet were screwed up thanks to Meridian Corporation, which owned the mines, being too eager for profit. But he’d thought he had a chance of making things better.

  He thought that the perspective granted by the Central Principles could help him keep his head when he got frustrated by the wrongheadedness of people in general and the owners and management of Meridian Corporation in particular.

  He’d thought he could at least keep his own sister safe.

  He’d been wrong about all of it.

  And now he was stuck light-years away from home, doing The Great Space Race in order to gratify a rich man’s twisted ego enough that Zel might be allowed to go home.

  But the words still soothed him. The repetition. The rhythm. The peace they gave wasn’t the peace of certainty, but meditation was calming even if the words were meaningless.

  No, the words weren’t meaningless. But it was hard to figure out how those abstract principles applied in a life that had gone insane.

  Despite the semi-distracted meditation, Tripp found himself watching the cat-girl Sarr’ma. While everyone else acted out their agitation in various ways, she’d managed to curl up in a purple scoop-chair that looked much too small and hard for the purpose and fall asleep. She was practically in a ball, her black tail wrapped in front of her face. Her silky ears twitched occasionally, but otherwise she seemed completely relaxed, as if she were alone in the most comfortable bed ever.

  She was exposing red lace panties to the entire room. Most of the males and several of the females kept glancing her way, or staring outright. Tripp had to restrain himself from adjusting her skirt or draping his own gray canvas jacket over her.

  Tripp wondered if she’d sleep through trouble or wake up hissing and snarling. Not that he expected trouble in the studios—time enough for that once the race actually started. But it would be telling. She seemed to be wrapped in the deep, undisturbable slumber of someone who’d always been safe. But those twitching ears told another story. Could the whole thing be a pose, like his façade of calm?

  Not that it was his concern. He was watching out of a combination of checking out the competition and studying a new-to-him species.

  A pretty example of a new-to-him species, which made it pleasant to indulge his curiosity. But that was all.

  *

  After what seemed like hours, a blond human woman so improbably well built she had to be cosmetically enhanced came around and handed out tokens. (Sarr’ma extended one hand, took hers, and curled back into a ball without seeming to wake up fully.) The idea was that you
were supposed to wander through the assembled contestants and see whose token matched yours. Partners found each other—sometimes with laughs, sometimes with dubious silence—and were then whisked away by handlers, no doubt to face some humiliating getting-to-know-you ritual for the viewers.

  Tripp stayed put. Let someone come to him, or at least let the herd cull itself so he wouldn’t have to talk with so many strangers. He was going to have a hard enough time faking enthusiasm once.

  Sarr’ma still appeared to sleep.

  The Lethonian male who’d been juggling knives earlier—now disarmed—nudged her.

  She came awake with a startled hiss. Her tail puffed up as she uncurled. One hand lashed out so fast Tripp was sure she was going to hit the hapless Lethonian. Instead, she clapped the hand onto his arm in a gesture that was simultaneously friendly and warning. “Important safety tip: make some noise before touching a sleeping felinoid. Sometimes we scratch. What can I do for you, pretty-pretty?”

  The Lethonian, soft-spoken like most of his species, showed her his token and mumbled something that must be an explanation. She compared tokens, shook her head, and said. “Too bad. We’d have looked good together on camera.”

  Then she unfolded herself to stand on the scoop-chair.

  It wasn’t a bad move on several levels, Tripp supposed. She was short enough she could have been hard to spot in the crowd, but now she stood head and shoulders above almost everyone. He imagined that several holo-vid cameras had focused in on her right away, so she’d get extra airtime; that might make the audience curious to follow her and get her some extra popularity points. And the way she uncurled…when that aired, millions of people would wonder what it would be like to bed someone that improbably agile.

  Stars, he was speculating himself. That said something, because he’d had approximately zero erotic impulses since Zel disappeared. He imagined Sarr’ma would be a pleasure to watch even if you didn’t fancy females that way, the same way you’d appreciate an athlete in motion or a beautiful wild animal. (Not that he’d use the latter comparison where she could hear him.) Whoever teamed with her would be pulling in a lot of extra credits from viewers voting them a favorite team.

  Which would be handy, if she didn’t end up getting the team killed.

  “I have a purple token with a star on it,” she announced, her tail swishing a bit as she spoke. “So where’s my purple-starry match? Whoever you are, you’re probably bigger than I am, so you can elbow your way to me.”

  Oh no. She couldn’t be…

  Tripp looked at his token again, trying to convince himself it was blue, or burgundy, or some color other than purple, and failing. He flipped it over, as if it would have a different color or design on the other side. Nope. Face it, he had the cat-girl as his partner.

  He’d do his best to keep her alive and hope that her beauty and perkiness would win them popularity points. If he didn’t come out of this with a million credits, he didn’t want to think about what would happen, and with him clueless about racing and his partner barely legal and apparently gifted with more beauty than brains, they’d need all the help they could get.

  Reluctantly, he raised his hand.

  “Sarma Sets,” a announcer said. No, the show’s primary host, a silver-haired human named Suede Harrington. As more and more racers were paired off, they were bringing out the big guns.

  “Sarr’ma Settazz,” she corrected. It sounded like alien music rolling off her tongue, with the rolled R’s and the glottal stop, and the way the S sounds seemed to go on forever. Her language wouldn’t be easy for a human to learn, he imagined, but it must be something to hear. Beautiful unless the speaker was pissed off, and then it could sound like hisses and snarls.

  “Sarr’ma Settazz.” Suede Harrington still didn’t pronounce it the way the cat-girl had, but it was closer. “Congratulations! You are partnered with human Tripp Gallifer from Nieves and together you’ll be Team Supernova! Tripp, step forward and meet your racemate! She’s a Merr…Murr…okay, I’m not even going to try. She’s a felinoid, all the way from the Milky Way Galaxy, where they also enjoy The Great Space Race thanks to our recently expanded broadcast range.”

  Tripp forced himself to stand and take a few steps toward the girl. Be polite. Be gracious. You have to work together if you’re going to win—and you need to win. Kid or not, she has a lot more racing experience than you do.

  People moved back to let him pass. He tended to have that effect in places that weren’t used to a miner’s muscular bulk.

  He’d managed only a couple of steps before Sarr’ma leaped from her perch, ending up with arms, legs, and tail wrapped around his startled body. His arms acted without his brain’s conscious command to catch her. She was heavier than he’d expected. With his arms around her, he felt wiry muscle under her hot skin. She was only obviously furred on ears and tail, but seemed to sport a soft coating on the rest of her skin, so she was the texture of velvet. Cream-colored velvet tipped with cinnamon. Heated velvet.

  Not the image he needed, not when he could imagine himself wrapped in that hot softness so easily.

  “Hi, Mr. Gallifer!” she chirruped in that sweet, lilting voice. “Or do you prefer Tripp?”

  “Tripp’s fine…” He tried to ease her down, but she clung.

  “We’re going to have so much fun, Tripp! This race is going to be cosmic,” she announced to him, and to the universe at large. “And we’re going to win this thing.”

  While he was still processing that, trying to come up with a snappy answer to placate the audience, she kissed his cheek, then slid down his body in what was either the most deliberately provocative dance move he’d ever experienced or another example of her species’ casual approach to modesty and physicality.

  She landed at his feet. Took his hand. Literally bounced off in the direction the announcer indicated, dragging him along.

  She didn’t even come up to his shoulder and the hand that grasped his was tiny, more like a child’s than a grown woman’s.

  But her grip was fierce, and he could feel claws pricking at his skin. Her species was obviously not primitive hunters, so he doubted the claws were useful for much besides opening a stubborn package—or exciting a lover. But as he’d suspected earlier, she might still have a predator’s instincts and quick reaction time.

  And petite or not, playful or not, the kid…whom he had to stop thinking of a kid…had made an impressive standing broad jump. Into him, sure, but if for some reason he’d stepped aside, he suspected she’d have landed like a system-class gymnast.

  This was going to be interesting. Crazy making, but interesting.

  Interlude: Unedited Interview with Sarr’ma

  DO I GET a shiny uniform because I’m the team captain? No? Come on, I’d look good in one, wouldn’t I? Seriously, I’m glad I’m in charge of the flying side of things. I’m used to solo racing, so I’m a bit of a control freak. But it would be good to have a backup on a race that might last a few months. Couldn’t I have ended up with a teammate who’s flown anything, including an in-atmo personal flyer? My youngest cousin could do better on a flight simulator than Tripp did, and she’s only five.

  Also, Tripp seems super serious. Grumpy, even. Did his spouse dump him because he’s doing the race? Is the air pressure or gravity way different here from his home planet and he’s still adjusting? Is being in the race the terms of his marling probation? If he doesn’t loosen up eventually, I’ll prank him until he jumps out an airlock. Only I can’t do that because then I’d be disqualified—and he’d be dead, which is way too harsh for being Mr. Crankypants. So I’ll prank him until he can’t help laughing. Then we’ll be fine.

  (Sarr’ma laughs.)

  Oh, come on, Zissel. Of course I don’t hate him. I can’t waste time hating someone because he doesn’t have flying experience—or even because he doesn’t come off as fun. A lot of people are fun-handicapped. Tragic, but science hasn’t figured out a cure. He seems like a decent enough guy other
than that, and life’s too short to focus on the negative. Speaking of life being short, when do we get to see our ship?

  Interlude: Unedited Interview with Tripp

  I JUST MET the kid. I haven’t formed much of an impression yet.

  (Tripp feebly attempts to laugh.)

  You got me. I guess I have formed an impression, which is she isn’t old enough to be away from home, let alone in a different galaxy. I know she’s supposedly a good racer, and I saw she can rock a flight simulator, but how much experience can she have? In anything, not just racing? I can see her bouncing up to hug a Yestria warrior or taking a shortcut across the Jessup Void because it would be thrilling to meet a krakaan.

  And she’s supposed to be the team captain. Great. On one hand, it’s good I’m not doing the flying because I’d crash us in about five seconds. The only thing I’ve even flown was a cargo floater, and those suckers are slow and ride low. On the other, I signed up to win a race, not baby-sit a racing child prodigy. This is going to be interesting, and probably not in a good way.

  (Tripp scowls.)

  No, I’m not going to comment on Sarr’ma’s looks. What does that have to do with racing? I was raised to believe we’re all star-stuff according to the Central Principles of Kaarlsagan. The form it takes is a mixture of evolution and individual genetics, and I’m sure there’s a good reason her people evolved to look so much like cats. What matters is she’s qualified to fly a T-47 and she’s won races before. I’m going to focus on those positives and hope I don’t have to tie her to the pilot’s seat for her own protection when it’s time to go on-planet.

  Chapter Three

  “SOON WE’LL GIVE you a few minutes to explore the T-47,” Zissel said. “But first, put these on.” She handed Sarr’ma and Tripp unprepossessing mounds of pale blue fabric.

  Sarr’ma unfurled hers. A jumpsuit emblazoned with the Octiron logo and that of the space race. Right… Clearly this galaxy didn’t have many sentients with tails. At least the com-unit they’d provided was flexible enough the earpiece could mold prettily to her ear. “I don’t think this is going to fit me.”