Explode: Team Supernova (The Great Space Race)

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  “A pirate-infested one, supposedly,” Tripp commented. He had no idea if that were true, but at the gala, he’d heard people chatting about places to avoid. The Karilio asteroid field was high on the list. “So yeah, explain, Sparky.”

  “You instructed me to set the fastest course to the checkpoint. I did. You did not tell me to factor in safety considerations.”

  “Recalculate a safer route!” Tripp ordered as they skidded into the bridge, in case Sarr’ma was so focused on figuring out how to fly through asteroids that it didn’t occur to her to try to avoid them altogether.

  “Circumnavigating the field will add 36.27 Standard hours to our trip at top speed. Accelerating to hyperspeed is impossible here given proximity of stray asteroids and unpredictable for much of the route for the same reason. Also, a small vessel has just decloaked. Scans suggest the presence of long-range weaponry. Logic suggests pirates.”

  As Sarr’ma leaped into the pilot’s chair, she let loose with an impressive string of curses. At least he assumed they were all curses. He recognized “marling AIs and the marling idiots who trust them” (he suspected she was cursing herself at that point) but after that, she switched to her native language. Not a challenge to guess the gist of those hissy, snarly noises, though.

  “Fine. We’ll do this hard way.” She grasped the control stick with one hand, started punching buttons frantically. He had no idea what she was doing—he could only hope she did.

  A burst of light flared, briefly blinding him. The Supernova shuddered.

  “A brush,” Sparky reported. “No damage. However another small, armed vessel is approaching, and we are now entering the asteroid field.”

  Tripp knew there must be something he needed to do, but he was blanking on what it was. He’d been in dangerous situations before, but they’d been work-related. Trinium mining was hazardous, but he knew the mine’s safety systems and protocols like the back of his hand; when there’d been a problem, he knew exactly how to react. Firefights in space? They were the stuff of holo-dramas and newscast from less stable parts of the galaxy, not real life. We’re going to die. I’ve come all this way and we’re going to die because Sarr’ma forgot AIs are literal and I forgot to remind her. And Zel will be a prisoner forever.

  Sarr’ma turned and glared at him. “Well, ace, are you going to do anything or just stand there until we blow up? Get our shields up and then shoot back!”

  He must have gaped like a glupfish out of water. Her hands stayed on the controls but her black tail crooked and pointed at the control panel for the weapons array. “We have marling weapons. Use them! You said that would be your job.”

  Right. Good idea. At least he didn’t have a better one.

  All the contestant had gotten a crash course in the weapons system. As he sat down, he hoped he remembered enough. Sarr’ma had seemed fascinated with what she’d called “shiny toys,” which had scared him enough he’d decided to make the weapons his job, and had paid close attention.

  Right now, all the information was a blur, as if adrenaline scrambled his brain. At least he remembered one important detail: Sparky was integrated into the weapons controls, as it was into most of the ship’s systems. “Sparky, help me blow those larf-lickers out of the sky,” he said as he flipped switches and turned dials, hoping he was doing it in the right order.

  “Instructions not clear.”

  He flipped one last switch and the targeting array sprung to brilliant life. What had he been thinking about AIs being literal? “Help me target those ships before they hit us.”

  He swore Sparky chuckled, even though this level of AI shouldn’t have a sense of humor unless the rudiments of one were programmed in, and he’d seen no sign of such a feature in Sparky. “Acknowledged. Programming the targeting array now. Your job is to adjust the sightlines if needed and then launch the weapon of your choice. I do not recommend the proton torpedoes. You have only six and will forfeit the race if you use them all.”

  He knew he’d forgotten something important. Good thing Sparky reminded him, though shooting proton torpedoes at other sentients seemed like a last resort. “Right. Let’s go.” Lasercannons were the green button; rapid-fire pulse guns, the blue lever mounted on a control stick; torpedoes were the big red button.

  At least he thought that was right. No clue how he was supposed to decide which to use—that hadn’t been covered in the brief training—so he’d start with the pulse gun. Maybe that would scare them off without him having to actually kill an unknown number of people (pirates, sure, but still sentient beings formed of star-stuff) in cold blood. A quick resolution would let them get to the checkpoint faster, right? It wasn’t squeamishness, simply practicality.

  Placing the sight lines correctly had been easy in the training simulation, but that hadn’t involved both ships swooping and darting at the same time. Sarr’ma was using the asteroids for cover, which was brilliant—but what it made hard for the pirates to target them made it hard for him to target the pirates as well. The result was a lot of near-misses and brushes that probably startled the piss out of the pirates, but didn’t do much damage.

  Apparently shooting pulse guns in their general direction wasn’t enough to deter them. It would have deterred Tripp, but he wasn’t a heavily armed pirate.

  At least given that the T-47 was high-end and fast, probably the kind of ship pirates loved to capture, they weren’t likely to try…

  “Torpedo coming in!” Sparky informed him. Oh stars yes. There it was on the targeting array. Apparently they didn’t like people firing back and were willing to risk a prize to make a point.

  “Hit that torpedo with the laser cannon now!” That was Sarr’ma, not Sparky, and Tripp’s instinct was to check and make sure they’d be far enough from the detonation.

  But the longer he waited, the more dangerous it would get. “Sparky, target that torpedo and adjust for its velocity. Then start locking in on the ship that fired it.”

  The sightlines closed in on the torpedo. It was moving fast, but laser did too. With Sparky’s help, the system should calculate exactly where to hit.

  “Now,” the AI instructed. He slammed the green button.

  The explosion blinded him. The ship lurched—he couldn’t tell if it was shockwaves or something or Sarr’ma veering to avoid debris. (Would debris even blast outward the way it would during an in-atmosphere explosion? He never claimed to understand physics and he knew what they showed in holos was often faked for dramatic effect.)

  Way too close. Way too larfing close.

  If they died, Zel was trapped.

  If they didn’t die, but were disabled and captured, Sarr’ma would end up in the hands of pirates. He would too, of course, but they’d either sell him for expendable slave labor or blow his head off; either way, it would be over quickly. A pretty female might suffer a much more drawn-out, nasty fate. She’d take a few pirates out, he imagined—she had courage, martial arts skills, and impressive claws. But in the end she’d be overpowered and they’d be harsher on her if she’d damaged some of their friends. He couldn’t let that happen. She was his responsibility. She might not see it that way, but he did.

  “Are we targeted, Sparky?” His eyes were still stunned from the explosion, so he couldn’t properly focus on the target array, let alone make adjustments. He didn’t care.

  He reached out and slapped a button. Green, red, he didn’t particularly care. He just wanted to get them to back off long enough for Sarr’ma to use the Supernova’s speed and agility to get away.

  He closed his eyes without even realizing it. But he could see the light of a torpedo destroying its target even through his lids. “The other ship is retreating.” Sparky announced. “I will continue to track it and advise continuing an evasive course. If I may say so, that was an excellent shot, Tripp Gallifer. The pirate vessel is destroyed. However, you are down to five photon torpedoes.”

  As Sarr’ma cheered, he kept his eyes closed. If you’d asked him even a couple of h
ours ago how he’d feel about blowing up a pirate ship in self-defense, he’d have guessed pretty good. Manly, even, if he’d saved Sarr’ma’s tail in the process.

  Nothing was ever that simple. He was elated and sickened at the same time. People were dead because of choices he’d made. Perhaps there’d been another way, but he’d been too angry and, face it, terrified, to figure it out. Maybe he’d relied too much on the AI. If he and Sarr’ma had actually had a chance to think and discuss, they might have come up with a clever escape plan that didn’t involve a photon torpedo.

  But it had all happened too fast for thought, just reaction.

  He’d done what he needed to do. They were safe for now, and there was one less mob of pirates out there to bother travelers.

  But a follower of the Central Principles—even a half-hearted one like him—couldn’t be entirely happy about it. He couldn’t believe the cosmos was a poorer, darker place for the loss of those particular lights, but at the same time, he didn’t like knowing he was responsible for their return to star-dust.

  *

  They’d made it! Sarr’ma should have been dancing on the instrument panel in celebration, or looking for bubbly in the Supernova’s stores.

  Instead, she kept watching Tripp for a signal it was all right to hug him. Not even get naked with him (though that would be theoretically cosmic if and when the time was right), but throw her arms around him and squeeze in hopes it would ground him.

  Make that ground them both.

  She was shaken herself by the firefight. Better the pirates than them, sure…but one thing drummed into the head of every Mrrwr’wrn kitten was “don’t kill other sentients.” As an adult, you learned the “unless you’re defending yourself or others” and “because if you kill them, they won’t learn anything” corollaries, but those weren’t engrained as thoroughly as the basic part was. The pirates shot first, escalated to bigger weapons first. There hadn’t been any way around it, not that she was smart enough to see, at least. But she still felt as though her psyche needed a bath.

  She wanted to tell Tripp that, reassure him that he’d done what was necessary and she was proud of him. Wanted to say it wasn’t easy for her, a predator, so he must feel terribly conflicted, and that was all right.

  But she couldn’t find the right words. They’d gone from cuddly afterglow to battle without even a chance to say good morning, and everything seemed sharp-edged and awkward.

  And every time she decided to reassure with a touch, even as simple as a hand on his shoulder, she could feel him freezing up.

  It almost came as a relief when Sparky announced “We will arrive at Post-Challenge Checkpoint 1 at 23.57 Standard time. Contestants, at my signal, please allow the tractor beam to bring you into transport range of the Octiron 17 space station.”

  Almost a relief. She still wasn’t crazy about putting her ship—and by this time she thought of the Supernova as hers—into an Octiron-run tractor beam.

  She wasn’t entirely convinced that Sparky hadn’t thrown them into that asteroid field on purpose. If Octiron would kidnap and coerce people into the race simply to create a more interesting field of contestants, or set up the start of the race so collisions were almost inevitable, they might program their AIs to create maximum drama even if it endangered the racers.

  She wouldn’t admit to anyone that she had her tail wrapped around her legs to comfort herself the whole time they were in the tractor beam.

  She certainly wouldn’t admit she’d rather have been curled up next to Tripp, holding his hand. He wasn’t having any of it, though, and that was bothering her far too much.

  Blast it, they’d had a fling. An amazing fling, sure—her serious, intense teammate was seriously intense in bed. But that didn’t mean they were a couple. Stars, they were barely reaching the point of trusting each other as teammates, so they didn’t even count as friends with benefits. It was one of those adrenaline-fueled hookups that happened after a dramatic race, only since they were living on the racer together, it happened during the race.

  It would have been great to turn the fling into an ongoing good time. But if she and Tripp couldn’t even hug and say a few encouraging words after dodging asteroids and blowing up pirates together, sharing sexytimes was clearly a bad idea.

  Sexytimes were great, but they needed to work together more than they needed to sleep together.

  So matter how tempting it was, she wouldn’t sleep with him again. Maybe when the race was over, they could celebrate in a clothing-optional way, but until then, she’d keep her panties on and her hands off.

  Marl it.

  She sighed, then pulled herself together. They were at Station 17; there would be holo-cams everywhere and she needed to work them. Tripp was in no shape to do so, and anyway, she figured he was about due to shut himself up somewhere for half an hour, which he did at about the same time once a week. She suspected he was checking in with his family at set times, but was embarrassed to admit it. (She suspected that because she’d be doing the same thing if live coms connected between galaxies; instead she was sending text coms every other day and hoping they got there within the month.)

  So it was up to her to turn on the charm and get some bonus points out of their wild day.

  If she wasn’t going to get a grand race romance—or at least a grand race fuck-buddy—she was doubly determined to win.

  Interlude: Second Unedited Interview with Sarr’ma

  THOSE T-47 YACHTS are amazing—so maneuverable. I loved bringing the Supernova through the asteroid field once we got rid of the pirates. I don’t think Tripp thought it was as much fun as I did, though. Between you and me, he was green as a Huthar with a hangover. But he was still impressed by how well it handled.

  A commercial endorsement for the T-47s? Maybe. It’s one thing being on The Great Space Race, but I’m not sure I want to do commercials.

  Oh, right. Clause 15 of the contract. Of course I’ll do the endorsement. But not tonight. I rolled out of bed this morning and found myself up to my eartips in danger, and I’m not at my best. I’ll sell a lot more ships for you if rich boys who like big toys want to imagine I’m included in the optional accessory package.

  What about Tripp? I don’t think you want him doing endorsements for you, but maybe the scowling-but-sexy look will work in some markets.

  Oh, you meant how he handled today. You’d better ask him yourself, but I’d be surprised if he’s not in shock.

  I’d be concerned about being on a small ship with him if blowing up a bunch of people, even if they were pirates, didn’t bother him at all. He’s never been in the military as far as I know, and it’s not something the rest of us have to do regularly, thank the Great Cat Mother. For a few minutes at a time, the hunter in me remembers how exciting the stalking was. Then I remember that people are dead and that we came way too close to being dead ourselves, and I want to groom my tail until there’s no fur left. Poor Tripp’s not a predator, so he’s not even getting a few minutes of imagining this was anything but awful.

  Get out of here!

  (Sarr’ma laughs and bats at the air with her hand.)

  I navigated through an asteroid field while Tripp battled marling pirates—and we still made it to the checkpoint ahead of most of the other teams and get to go to some crazy first-teams-back dinner with Suede Harrington and the other bigwigs—and you’re focusing on whether Tripp and I are in a relationship? Silly Zissel, of course we have a relationship. We’re teammates, and that’s the only relationship that matters at the moment. We ended up in a clinch on camera after our first challenge. I can’t exactly deny that, can I? And it was pretty cosmic. I’m not going to deny that either. But it’s not like we’re star-made mates. Sometimes during a race, if you’ve just pulled off something crazy, you get a huge adrenaline buzz. If there’s someone attractive next to you, it might seem like a good idea to rip each other’s clothes off. But it doesn’t mean much other than ‘whee!’ The important thing is we’re Team Supernov
a and we’re going to win this race.

  Interlude: Second Unedited Tripp Interview

  I DON’T WANT to talk about the pirates. I did what I needed to do to keep us alive. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary. Period, end of story, let’s change the subject.

  Sarr’ma? It’s not her fault. They have AI in her galaxy but she hasn’t interacted with them a lot and she forgets how literal they are.

  Please, drop it. Don’t try to make me say something you can use as a teaser to suggest a problem in the team. Not our team. We’re solid. Could you see what she did, getting us through that asteroid belt? Sarr’ma’s got reflexes like you wouldn’t believe.

  (Tripp scowls)

  Nothing like that is going on and if it were, I wouldn’t tell you. What happens between adults in private is no one else’s business. We made out a bit the other night. Tensions had been running high and sometimes mad and scared and happy and horny mix together in weird ways. We both get that.

  Why not after the firefight? Because I’d just larfing killed people. Even if they were trying to do the same to us, I was feeling more sick than sexy, and she probably was too.

  Oh stars, give it a rest.

  (Tripp rises to his feet, one fist clenched, the other hand grasping it as if to keep him from punching someone)

  You folks should be happy. After Izbo, you got an on-camera argument and some on-camera sexiness. Then we got into serious trouble because Sparky’s not that bright, but we survived. Sarr’ma flew like some kind of goddess. It’s good holo, and everyone in the galaxy will be watching to see who almost dies or almost fucks next. Now if you’ll excuse me, I could use a sonic cleanser and a meal that isn’t from a vacpac or a replicator. At least the food should be good at this party, even if I do have to put on that stupid suit for it.