Explode: Team Supernova (The Great Space Race)

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  She flicked one ear. “That was the day I realized we were mates, and because of the situation it got intense. Usually the notion of killing for your mate and sharing your kill with your mate is symbolic. At most, you catch dinner together once in a while and it’s foreplay. But hunting and mating blur in weird ways, and taking down a dangerous animal together when I was starting to admit I felt something for you did strange things to my head.”

  “I’m human,” he said, meaning I’m confused. The parts about blood and hunting made no sense to his human mind. But his heart…oh, that was fine with the idea of a mate. Of Sarr’ma being his, as he was hers.

  She laughed softly. “I know, and it’s wonderful, except you’re not a predator, so sharing my kills could be awkward. Don’t expect you’d care for raw leeta. Braised leeta in a nice cream sauce, maybe.” She snuggled closer. “I’ll still kill for you if necessary. I promise not to shower in the blood again, though. That was too much adrenaline mixed with mating hormones.”

  “I’d kill for you, too.” He added sheepishly, “though I’d probably feel as sick as I did after torpedoing the pirates, which I think I managed to do because I needed to keep you safe. I didn’t want to die myself…but fear for you let me act instead of freeze. So maybe I was already feeling the mate thing, although I still don’t understand what it all means.”

  She wrapped her tail around him. “Not much to understand. Mine”—she pointed at him. “Yours”—pointing at herself. “The rest is details. Except for the part that being mates means if I won’t mind nearly as much if this mess means I wind up a resident of Paragon Galaxy.”

  She didn’t say anything about the immense and dangerous task ahead of them. Maybe that counted as details. Or maybe she wanted a short time to bask in the bliss of being together.

  Stars knew that was what he craved. In the morning—well, it was morning, but after they’d slept—they’d figure out how to storm a well-guarded mansion on Arias and rescue Zel on camera.

  For so long, rescuing Zel was all he could allow himself to want, so some part of him wanted to get on it. A few hours wouldn’t matter, though. Right now, he wanted—needed—to stroke Sarr’ma’s silky cloud of hair and listen as she purred herself to sleep.

  Humans couldn’t purr, of course. But if he could have, he would have joined her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I DO NOT recommend this course,” Sparky intoned. “While Team Supernova is one of the race leaders, you do not have time for such a long detour.”

  “Don’t care.” Sarr’ma put her hands on her hips and stared at the impassive silvery face. “Is this a fast and safe route to Arias?”

  “It is a highly efficient route to the Meridian Corporation Sector, Sarr’ma Settazz. But you are deviating from race parameters. It is nowhere near the Shadowlands, which is where your next challenge lies.”

  What? “The Shadowlands? We received different instructions!”

  “Impossible. Show me what you were sent.”

  Sarr’ma and Tripp both shared their com-displays.

  The AI faltered, something Sarr’ma had never heard it do. “This must be an error. It says your next challenge is in the Yestrian Republic. We do not send race contestants there.”

  “I doubt that’s because it’s dangerous,” Tripp commented.

  “Octiron Media has no business or political connections in the Republic, so it is not worth dealing with their hostility to outsiders. The risk of death leads to high ratings. Actual preventable deaths—such as ones caused by violating Yestrian Republic space—lead to lawsuits.”

  “How did this happen, Sparky?” Sarr’ma demanded. After the conversation last night, she knew who was behind it, but the how would useful.

  The silence lasted only seconds, but that was a long time when dealing with the AI. Finally it said, “There is a copy of the instructions you received among my blocked communications. My internal sensors detected a questionable electronic ID on the message. It is a valid Octiron Media code, but does not belong to a member of the race production team. There is no reason for us to receive race instructions from the Facilities Management department so it was deemed spam. Wait briefly. I must check something.”

  This brief wait seemed agonizingly long, but Sarr’ma had a decent idea what was coming. “Your last two challenges did not come directly from Zissel. They passed through other accounts and a deep examination of the code shows they were altered.”

  “You didn’t notice this before, why?” Tripp demanded. If Tripp had a tail, it would be puffed up. Sarr’ma’s certainly was, and her claws were working in and out.

  “Unlike the one indicating you were to go to the Yestrian Republic, these had electronic codes belonging to members of the production team. Minor changes from within the team are not uncommon. Sometimes details of timing, for instance, are altered to fit the overall schedule after Zissel drafts the communication. But the challenge would never be rewritten completely.

  “Except some of yours have been.”

  “The underwater challenge on Altaria?” Tripp asked.

  “And the one where you were caught up in a revolution. Several regions on that planet have hosted the 4D maze challenge over the years, including the one where you were sent—and frankly I did not question, at the time, that Octiron chose an unstable area to add another layer to the challenge. The results of your challenge in zero-G suggested Team Supernova might handle a 4D maze quite easily. But the original instructions specified a different region, one with a stable government. I do not know why this is happening.”

  “We do.” Sarr’ma put her hands on her hips. “And that’s why we need to get to Arias as quickly as possible.”

  “I will communicate with Octiron headquarters. They must know the race been tampered with.”

  “Not yet, Sparky,” Tripp ordered. “We need to be on the way to Arias before anyone realizes what’s going on.”

  Tripp usually left directing the AI to Sarr’ma unless it was something straightforward, but he sounded confident, certain enough that Sparky winked in and out once, then said, “Very well. Arias first. I will do my best to obscure our course for as long as possible. Zissel, at least, will be able to find us quickly. I will not tell her. It was one thing to alert her that you were engaging in sexual relations, but lives may be at stake here and the directive to keep you safe is primary.”

  That was a start. But they’d need more than mere cooperation from the AI to pull this off. Sarr’ma suddenly had an inspiration. “Thank you, Spartacus!”

  “Spartacus? We have agreed to call me Sparky.”

  “I said I’d call you Spartacus if you turned out to be a hero. And you are. You know who’s in Arias?”

  “The being who is interfering with the race?”

  Thank you, AI Obvious! “Yes, but more importantly, Tripp’s sister is there—and she’s a prisoner. Kidnapped by someone who’s also trying to kill Tripp by messing with the race.”

  “But that is wrong in so many ways! No one should interfere with The Great Space Race, because the show is Octiron’s property. Murder is a crime on all worlds. Also, though Tripp Gallifer is the target of this plot, you are also endangered, Sarr’ma Settazz, and possibly other beings—not to mention myself. Kidnapping is illegal on every civilized planet, and holding someone against their will is slavery. I’m afraid it is well known slave trading takes place on the fringes of Meridian Sector and widely suspected that Meridian profits from it. A quick scan, however, shows historical, philosophical, and legal sources agree fifteen to one that slavery is wrong, so I feel safe saying that whether it is technically legal in that area, it is a bad thing and should be stopped. And if Meridian Corporation is involved in your troubles in any way, they are considered an oppressive regime by several interstellar authorities. They are also rivals of Octiron in certain business sectors, which makes their involvement suspicious.”

  On one hand, she was pleased the AI got it. On the other…stars, she had to get him
to shut up and get working. “Do you know why Spartacus is considered a hero? He fought against oppression, against slavery.” She’d looked it up early on, not being an expert on human history. Or human popular culture, as it turned out. Spartacus was fictional, created centuries after the time he’d supposedly lived—but the tale of the brave slave who struck out against evil obviously caught people’s imaginations. He started out as a character in a book, but inspired graphic novels, serial dramas, and at least twelve full-length holos, dating back to the time they were called “movies” and were only 2D.

  “Spartacus dies at the end,” the AI said slowly, carefully. “I was very new when we first spoke. I did not know that at the time. Spartacus is a hero. He saves others. But he is destroyed himself. As I will be if I appear to be malfunctioning—which they may think I am if I hide your itinerary.”

  She reached out, placed her hand over the AI’s. It wasn’t solid, but she felt a prickle of static electricity. “I’m sorry.” Sparky was, by one way of looking it, sophisticated software that was supposed to aid racers in any way necessary. She could get it to cooperate in the end, and she might have to. But it was also an entity in its own right—not exactly alive, but lively and intelligent. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Can you hint how we can do this without your help?” Tripp demanded. “Can we work around it that way? We don’t want you to be erased on our account, but I have to save my sister.”

  Then the AI blazed bright, a smile that lit up the bridge. “The story of Spartacus has inspired millions over the centuries. The Supernova will change hands at the end of the race in any case, and many of my memories will wiped before that happens to preserve Octiron proprietary information. Much of the entity I have become will be lost in the process. If I am to lose myself anyway, I might as well go out a hero like the original Spartacus. What do you need me to do?”

  Sarr’ma had a whole list of suggestions, but Tripp surprised her by saying, “Can you get us through to Zissel privately?”

  Sarr’ma laughed nervously. “I never thought you’d want to talk to Zissel. Thought you hated the media in your face.”

  “I do, but I have an idea—and I think it’ll work.”

  Zissel’s holo appeared, smaller than it was when she was doing official interviews. She wore no makeup and sported a baggy black nightshirt decorated with glittery comets. “Do you have any idea what time it is here and how little sleep I’ve had lately, tracking you racers through dozens of time zones?”

  “Sorry we woke you.” Tripp sounded almost smoothstyle. “You can go back to sleep after you answer one question. Zissel, would you like to get into investigative journalism?”

  All three of her eyes widened and she shared what Sarr’ma suspected was the first honest smile they’d seen from the perpetually grinning hostess. “Stars, yes!”

  “Then do we have a story for you!”

  There were many more questions and answers after that. But by the end of the conversation, Zissel—who’d taken the job with The Great Space Race three seasons ago because they’d promised her a job with Octiron’s news programming after one season of racer-herding—was on board and already working out how to get camera-drones diverted to Arias.

  Sarr’ma jumped up and down. “We can do this! Now all we need is a way to get into Eno’s face.”

  The weary-looking Zissel-holo managed to grin. “The good thing about being stuck in reality- and gossip-show hell? I happen to know one of the other major Arias families is throwing a shindig in eight days. Fountains of bubbly. Lots of celebrities. Media coverage. A couple of good-looking personalities from a popular show like The Great Space Race are going to fit right in.”

  Tripp protested that Eno Kallrydis would recognize him too quickly.

  Sarr’ma and Zissel laughed simultaneously. “Have you ever been at one of these huge rich-people bashes?” Sarr’ma finally choked out. “I’ve been dragged to a couple of ice-sculptures-and-diamonds parties over the years. Everyone is too busy preening and trying to get the most face-time with the VIPs or the media to see anyone. We’re famous enough to get in, but not famous enough we’ll be noticed.”

  Zissel’s eyes lit up. “Is there a story behind why you’ve been at those parties, Sarr’ma?”

  “There is, but I’m not telling you. Besides, you said you wanted to get out of the gossip trade. So let’s forget about me and Tripp and get to work on the real story.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  SARR’MA SLITHERED INTO her dress from the opening gala and added a smallish hair bow that sparkled with Jallaxian glow-crystals. She surveyed herself in the mirror. Not bad—sexy but sophisticated, which was the right look for this kind of party. She’d be happier in a shorter dress, one that would allow her to fight more easily if it came to that. For that matter, she’d be happier without shoes, but she knew they were mandatory for a fancy party thrown by humans. “What do you think?” she called to Tripp, who was struggling with the buttons of his high-necked formal jacket.

  “I think whoever invented this kind of collar should be shot.” He looked up. “I also think I want you to wear that dress sometime when we’re not on a mission so I can peel it off you.” His voice held no serious sexual heat, not with so much riding on tonight, but his eyes shone with appreciation.

  “I’ll take care of your collar, but there’s a toll.” She crossed to him, rose onto her tiptoes, and demanded a kiss.

  She hadn’t realized her hands were shaking and her heart was racing until she touched Tripp and suddenly everything was better.

  Mates did that.

  She shivered pleasantly as his mouth covered hers, but unusually, she didn’t feel the urge to rip his beautiful suit off and climb him.

  Now she needed the simple comfort of touch. That afternoon, in orbit over Arias, they’d made love with quiet desperation—and eventually with loud desperation. Trying to memorize each other’s bodies. Trying to forget, for now, that they were about to do something even she had to admit was dodgy and not very smart. Necessary, sure. Best idea they’d come up with, definitely. Smart, probably not.

  So much could go wrong tonight.

  She shook herself. So much could go right. Would go right. She had to focus on the outcome they needed—Zel flying away with them to safety and Eno Kallrydis embarrassed in front of the galaxy, if not actually under arrest.

  Tripp pulled her closer. “I don’t want to let go of you,” he whispered. “As long as I’m touching you, I know we can do this. When we’re not in contact, I wind up thinking that this plan wouldn’t even work as the finale of a B-grade suspense holo.”

  Sarr’ma kissed him again, then said, “Holo plots aren’t going to be as outrageous if they don’t include Mrrwr’wrn. Throw in a cat-girl or cat-boy and the screenwriters can go nuts—and audiences will believe it because they know what their felinoid coworker did just to get back at a supplier that ripped them off.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “Two of them, on the tips of my ears. But seriously, this isn’t bad. We’re bamboozling a house full of rich, corrupt people. My parents do this kind of thing for a living. My brother’s done it to entire planets more than once. We have a strong motivation and media backup. Rahal took over a country once by himself because he was bored.”

  Tripp couldn’t manage even one of his subtle half-smiles. The attempt he made stretched his mouth up at the corners slightly, but didn’t reach his eyes. But his voice sounded more relaxed as he said, “Since we’re carrying on a time-honored Settazz family tradition, everything should be fine.”

  She decided not to tell him the number of times her parents had had to flee the aftermath of a con gone wrong or how many times someone tried to assassinate Rahal.

  But their plan would work. It had to. Zel needed freedom and this Eno person needed to go down hard.

  She took a deep breath, then stepped back from Tripp and ran her hand over her ears and tail, sleeking fur that she suspected looked fine.
“Let’s go do this thing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  EVEN THROUGH THE queasy haze that seemed to be the inevitable effect of transporter travel, the house where they planned to crash a party and break Eno Kallrydis was spectacular.

  House? Try estate. Try marling palace. Tripp had seen holos of ancient palaces—in history lessons back in basicschool, and in holo-documentaries that he’d watch when he couldn’t sleep. This place rivaled some of those old royal residences. Arched windows three stories high, huge chandeliers blazing behind them, looked out over manicured blue lawns that swept down to the ocean. Pillars capped with what might be actual-factual gold flanked the immense front door. Seven twisty towers topped with golden minarets stabbed up at the night sky, where remnants of the last sun’s setting dyed the northern horizon and two moons were rising. He swore there was an enormous jewel—maybe even an Aquari crystal—set on a slender rod at the top of the central tower. The color of the house shifted as he looked at it, blue to green to brick red and back again. The seven towers swirled with different combinations of those colors, shot with silver.

  Tripp slipped his arm around Sarr’ma’s waist. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  She yawned in an exaggerated way. A camera-drone must be focusing on them; she was better at spotting them than he was. “It’s straddling the line between elegant and gloriously tacky and not doing either well. If you’re going to have those gorgeous Old Earth-style windows and the kind of understated landscaping that requires fifty gardening ’bots, you shouldn’t do the shifting color effect. And if you’re going for shifting colors, make them brighter, add a light show bursting over the slidewalk, and silver-plate the marling front door.”

  “Jaded, are we?”

  “No, but I study design,” she said to the camera. “Someone spent a lot of credits on this place, but they must have hired two architects who hated each other.” Then she threw her arms around Tripp’s neck, kissed him in an overdone, teasing way like that, too, was playing for the camera, and whispered in his ear, “I’ve been to a party at the Prime Minister’s mansion in Mrrwr Centrum, where everything’s comfortable and simple and about the price of a small space station. My brother won a palace from a syndicate boss, and that one was so tacky the galaxy breathed a sigh of relief when he burned it down. So yes, I’m jaded.”