by Dan Abnett
“Oh,” says the male Centurion, sitting back and getting a measure of me. He is still confident, the alpha male in the room. “So look who turned out to be smart.”
“And, uhm, correct,” the female Centurion whispers.
“Leave this to me, Lolet,” the male snaps back. “You saw the rap card. You know what these guys have done.”
“Even so…” says the female.
“We do not know what we are alleged to have done,” I say. “Xandar Criminal Code, paragraph 1112 (a), subsection iii: ‘All detainees should be notified of their rights and informed of charges prior to interview.’ It is very clear.”
The male Centurion glares.
“You little fl—”
“Verbal Abuse of a Detainee,” I say. “Nova Corps Code of Conduct, item 171777454.”
“I should beat the goop out of you—”
“Physical Threat to the Body or Person of a Detainee,” I reply. “Code of Conduct 876888.”
“Yeah? Yeah? This is a sound-blanked room, metal-head!” snarls the male Centurion, rising to his feet. I feel the fizzling power of the Nova Force welling up in his gauntlets. “Who’s gonna know you didn’t just fall down while resisting?”
“This interview is being recorded,” I reply. “You told me that yourself.”
“I—”
“And she would know,” I add, looking at the female Centurion. “I observe that she is uncomfortable with this line of interrogation. She does not approve of your methods. Her opinion of you has been modified.”
The male Centurion pauses. He looks at the female.
“Lolet…“
“Simmer down, Grekan. Please. We know these guys are bad types. We know they tried to kill you.”
“Excuse me,” says Rocket Raccoon.
The female puts her hand out and touches the male’s arm, urging him to retake his seat. He does so.
“Grekan nearly died bringing you in. You flarked his ship,” she says. “It’s on the list of charges.”
“Which we still have not been allowed to see,” I point out. “Xandar Criminal Code, paragraph 1112 (a), subsection iii: ‘All detainees should be notified of their rights and informed of charges prior to interview.’”
The Centurions look at each other. Then the female rotates her tablet and slides it across the table. Rocket Raccoon reaches out to take it, but I pick it up first.
I review.
“This is quite extensive,” I say after a while, still reviewing.
“You bet your tin ass it is,” says the male. “What? Are you going to exercise your right to a lawyer? You want a lawyer?”
“Well, on balance, that’s not such a bad idea,” says Rocket.
“There is no need,” I say.
“Because?” asks the female Centurion.
“There is nothing a lawyer would know that I do not,” I reply. “Proceed.”
“Oh, I’ll proceed, all right,” says the male. “First off, resisting arrest—”
“That is not ‘first off,’” I say.
“What?”
“The Xandarian Criminal Code operates on an enshrined context of procedure and protocol. It respects, above all, due process. No matter the charges, any case that breaks due process is liable to be thrown out by the Xandarian High Chamber.”
“What the flark are you talking about?” the male Centurion asks.
“A suspect must be informed of his rights and the charges he faces before interview,” I say. “Xandar Criminal Code, paragraph 1112 (a), subsection iii and after. This has not been done. We have only seen the charges now, after the formal commencement of interview.”
“So?”
“A breach of due process. The case would be thrown out.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“Perhaps,” I say. “Given the magnitude and variety of the charges listed here, a tribunal might overlook the procedural lapse because of the significance of the case. A heat-of-the-moment thing.”
“Exactly,” says the male Centurion.
“There is more, however. Formal identification of a suspect vessel must be made prior to charging. Xandar Criminal Code, paragraph 82 (a), subsection iv.”
“You were tracked and pegged leaving Xarth!” the male rages.
“Incorrect,” I tell him. “Many ships left Xarth Three that night. Many may have been the same type and class as ours. You identified ours via the Corps’ ‘red-flag’ system, which is generally accurate but requires specific confirmation. Such confirmation was not obtained. It says so right here on the list. You suspected we were the ship leaving Xarth, and you have not yet confirmed it. Breach of due process. Case thrown out.”
“We can easily match serial codes—” the female begins.
“Yes, but you have not done so,” I reply. “Continuing. Suspects must be identified formally before charging may take place. Xandar Criminal Code, paragraph 6768 (a), subsection i.”
“We can put you in a lineup, if you like,” says the male.
“To what end? Who would formally identify us? There are roughly eighty-eight trillion sentient beings in this part of the Galaxy alone. What formal identification could be made to specify us?”
“A Rigellian Recorder, a walking…tree, and…and whatever that hairball is!” the male Centurion shouts. “How much doubt could there be?”
“Enough,” I answer. “I am one of many, many Recorder units. Raccoonoids and specimens of flora colossus are commonplace.”
“Commonplace?”
“Commonplace enough in this infinite Universe for there to be a considerable element of doubt without precise formal identification. Doubt equals breach of process. Case thrown out.”
{As I have previously indicated, loyal and gentle reader, it is entirely my pleasure to tailor the thematic references of this story to your Human Culture. To that end, I feel I should say that, at this point in the proceedings, I am beginning to feel like Henry Fonda in 12 Angry Men or Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Or the rather dashing Matthew McConaughey in entirely every movie based on a John Grisham novel}
“We can get prints,” the male Centurion tells me. “We can get prints, hair residue, DNA, bark samples—whatever you like. We can make a formal ID like that.” He snaps his fingers.
“Yes, you can,” I agree. “But you have not. Rush the samples from Xarth Three. Teleport them, if you like. Fast-process them through your labs. It is too late. You should have done it before beginning formal interview. Xandar Criminal Code, section 45, paragraph 23. Breach of due process, Centurion Grekan Yaer. Case thrown out.”
“I’ve met slick attorneys like you before,” Yaer glowers.
“Two things: One, I am not an attorney. I am Recorder 127 of the Rigellian Intergalactic Survey. I merely know what I know, and I apply that data if necessary. Second, no you haven’t.”
“But you resisted—”
“Unproven. Breach of due process. Case thrown out.”
“But we have charges that—”
“Unsupported by fact. Breach of due process. Case thrown out.”
“D’ast it! You tried to kill me and—”
“Not shown in evidence. You risked your own person during a high-speed pursuit while we were simply attempting to navigate a dangerous asteroid field. No charge upheld. Breach of due process. Case thrown out.”
“I—”
“Also,” I add, “none of us has been offered sustenance or even a beverage since custody began—”
“I could really use a beverage,” sighs Rocket Raccoon. “But, you know, one of those cups with a little handle, because I hate to spill.”
“—none of us has been offered a beverage since custody began,” I continue. “Nova Corps Code of Conduct, item 1770134. ‘Detainees shall be furnished with sustenance and/or a beverage at regular intervals prior to interview, without their demand, as upheld by the Universal Codex of Sentient Welfare, section 2, paragraph 12345671111.’ Breach of due process. Case thrown out. You should hav
e provided us with beverages, Centurion Yaer. You should have provided us with beverages.”
Yaer falls silent. He looks glum.
“I’m checking this via the Worldmind,” Centurion Clawdi says. “Flark. Flark. Everything the robot said…it’s on the statutes. Every line and citation. He’s got us cold.”
They look at us, stunned.
“We will be leaving now,” I say.
“I am Groot,” says Groot.
“I’d love that beverage, though,” says Rocket.
“Do not push them,” I advise. “Know when we’re done.”
“But we get our ship back, right?” Rocket asks Yaer. “And it had better be all fixed up and hand-valeted.”
“Do not push us,” says Yaer quietly.
“We will get your ship back from impound,” I tell Rocket. “We will effect repairs ourselves. We incurred our own damage. Surely you have insurance?”
Rocket mumbles something.
I look at the Centurions. They both seem a little…deflated.
“Good day to you both,” I tell them.
I wish I had a folder of case files or a dossier to straighten with a tap on the maxteel table before I turn to go. I wish I had a briefcase.
I wish I looked like Matthew McConaughey.
Meanwhile, ten days earlier in the Negative Zone…
• CHAPTER ELEVEN •
MEANWHILE
[TEN DAYS EARLIER IN THE NEGATIVE ZONE…]
SHE hated the Negative Universe. It was counter to every fiber of her matter. It was utterly alien.
Also, it stank worse than a Brood’s armpit.
Steam hissed from the gas vents dotting the blasted landscape around her. The ragged planetoid on which she stood was rotating far too fast around a pair of Negative suns. They drizzled ugly light. Day and night, and day and night went by every few minutes.
She should have turned down the job. She knew that now, no matter the paycheck. Coming to the Negative Zone made her sick. She was a being of the Positive Universe, and that was where she belonged.
Still, she was between jobs. She needed the cash. Times were surprisingly hard when you weren’t guarding the Galaxy. They were also hard when you were, but that was different. Lean times made you a mercenary. You went where the work was, even if it was the Negative Zone.
The stink of the place was in her nose. She prowled forward. Her blades were heavy in her hands, heavy and ready. How many had she diced so far?
She’d lost count.
From behind boulders, camouflaged by the shifting shadows of the repeating sunset/sunrise, the next two attacked.
Both were gibbering, multiarmed warriors, waving far too many blades and cleavers. She ducked, kicked one back with a long, lean leg, and then sliced her right-hand blade through the other. Three limbs flew away in a shower of ichor. So did the top of the thing’s head.
The other one rallied and came at her, chopping and slashing.
She dropped to her knees, raised her left-hand blade, and let the creature impale itself. It shuddered, its weight upon her, and went limp. Ichor streamed down over her sword hilt, her hands, and her thighs.
She rose, shaking the thing off her sword in revulsion. She switched her blades in the air beside her to fling off the blue body fluid.
“Enough,” she cried.
“Enough indeed,” replied Annihilus.
It flew forward into view on its grav-platform, a hunched and wizened insectoid mannikin half-cased in purple organic armor. Below its jaw, its Cosmic Control Rod glowed a harsh yellow, throbbing with immense, cosmos-altering power. She made no move against Annihilus. She knew, full well, that the insectoid on the grav-platform was one of the most powerful beings in any universe.
It slowed to a halt and hovered in front of her. Behind it, a host of warriors emerged, rattling forward like a swarm of locusts.
“You have performed well,” it hissed in a voice like crackling paper.
“I don’t like tests,” she replied. She had had enough of those growing up.
“Eighty-two of my foremost warriors dead,” said Annihilus, ruler of the Negative Zone. “An impressive audition. You are truly the Deadlies Woman in the Universe.”
“A Universe,” she sneered. “Not this one. Get to the point.”
Annihilus laughed. It was the sound of a dog retching.
“Project 616.”
“Means nothing to me,” she replied.
“Heh,” it replied.
“So how do I fit in?” she asked.
“There is a target,” Annihilus crackled. Its chitinous skin creaked as it moved. “I want it obtained and brought to me.”
“Finder’s fee as mentioned?”
“No,” it said. “Double it. Whatever it takes.”
“I like your talk.”
“Good.”
“I don’t like you.”
“Few do,” Annihilus replied. “I have built my reputation on it.”
“Why can’t you do your own dirty work?” she asked. “You’ve got the manpower. Why hire an agent?”
“None of my people could function well, or operate undetected, in the Positive Universe,” Annihilus replied. “We would be showing our hand too early. You, however, creature of the Positive, can move without notice there. Do this for me, and you will be rewarded. You will be rewarded beyond your dreams.”
“The target?” she asked.
One of Annihilus’s warriors stepped forward nervously and handed her a data-block.
She speed-read it.
“This? This is what you want?” she asked.
“This is what I want,” Annihilus replied. “Can you perform?”
She nodded.
“Yes. No problem. Arrange my transvacuation to the Positive Universe, and I’ll begin at once.”
“Agreed. It will be done,” Annihilus replied. “One last thing—”
Three warriors rushed her. She decapitated one, bisected the second, and impaled the third.
“You can stop doing that,” she said. “Tests are over. I’ve taken the job.”
“That wasn’t a test,” said Annihilus. “That was a taste of the horror you will face if you fail to deliver.”
Behind Annihilus, the insect army pulsed and chittered, quivering their wing-cases. Tough as she was, she knew she’d never take them all. And Annihilus was as powerful as a god.
“I always deliver,” she said.
“Good.”
“And I always expect prompt payment.”
“Of course.”
“I’m going now,” she said. She turned. She paused.
• CHAPTER TWELVE •
OUR AL CAPONE MOMENT
She looked back at Annihilus.
“Just by the way, don’t ever threaten me. Ever,” said Gamora.
SEE? Once again, see how I make Human Culture references to ease your comprehension of the story, gentle and generous reader?
Oh, I realize I am also foreshadowing. I hate that. I will cease and desist from this moment.
{But just to explain, Al Capone was a notorious criminal of your 20th Earth century. Despite his horrendous acts of felony, he was only jailed because of a comparatively minor charge of tax evasion. I have recorded this fact thanks to repeated viewing of an exciting Kevin Costner movie, which also features Sean Connery not doing an accent. And that, gentle readers, is the Chicago way}
We are in the impound dock of the Nova Corps HQ on Xandar, reviewing the frankly parlous state of our ship, the aforenamed White Stripe.
Rocket Raccoon keeps slapping me on the shoulder. So does Groot. The latter hurts rather more.
“That was amazing, Recorder, ol’ pal, ol’ bud,” Rocket says to me. He seems genuinely grateful.
“I am Groot,” says Groot.
“I know, I know…how incredible was that?” Rocket agrees. He looks at me. “You just took them to school, Recorder. You took their ol’ Xandarian rule book and fed it back to them, chapter and verse. All the ways I
’d imagined getting out of the clutches of the Nova Corps, and it never occurred to me to beat them at their own game. It was a thing of beauty to watch. An absolute thing of beauty.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” I reply.
“It wasn’t?”
“I just know these things. It is my purpose. I realized all I had to do was simply apply the knowledge in my head.”
“Well, pal, you aced it,” says Rocket.
“I am Groot,” Groot agrees, as he slaps me once again on the shoulder.
After I pick myself up, we inspect the ship.
The White Stripe has seen better days.
“FTL drive?” asks Rocket.
“I am Groot.”
“What about the sublight?”
“I am Groot.”
“Flark’s sake…environmental?”
“I am Groot.”
“Shields?”
“I am Groot.”
Rocket looks at me.
“It’s going to be a while,” he says. “Lot of repairs to run. We’re going to need parts and spares, and probably a good mechsmith, too.”
The impound dock is not a friendly place. A dank concrete box open to the sky, it is bathed in cold inspection lights; the tops of the walls are festooned with defense cannons and tractor-beam relays. There are two other ships parked on the concourse beside the White Stripe: a shot-up Xeronian warp shuttle with impound stickers and evidence markers all over it, and a K-class Nova Corps prowl cruiser that is in for repairs. Nova Corps tech teams wander about, working and talking, but they pay us little heed.
“We should effect repairs,” I urge, “and then go to this place you mentioned. This Knowhere.”
“I am Groot,” opines Groot.
“I hear that,” replies Rocket. He sighs. “We have some cool tech skills, but this might be a tad beyond us.”
“I apply knowledge,” I say. “I am not a mechanic of any sort, but I apply knowledge. Fetch me the user’s manual.”
It is brought to me. It is a tablet device, and I have to wipe off the smears of old beverage stains and crumbs of “salsa” corn chips.
