Guardians of the Galaxy: Rocket Raccoon and Groot - Steal the Galaxy!

by Dan Abnett

  They came with questions, frets, worries, doubts, fears. He gave them answers.

  He always knew when they were coming, of course, and had a pot of something or other warming over the open fire of his cave.

  On this particular occasion, it was a tureen of meat stew. The last time, it had been a kettle of Zundamite leaf tea, but that had been more than a year ago when a Sirusite nobleman had visited to discover whether his wealthy bride-to-be would remain faithful to him. The Sirusite nobleman had left fairly quickly with a disgruntled look on his face, and little of the leaf tea had been drunk.

  The tureen of meat stew was large. Very large. But this time it hadn’t been prepared for the visitor he knew was coming.

  Rain began to lash the unfriendly mountainside outside the mouth of the cave, and callous winds howled up the pass. Night was not so much falling as toppling like an inky landslide.

  The Interdite turned up the little photon lamps around his cave, bathing the chamber in a warm, yellow glow. Then he sat his wizened body down cross-legged by the fire and stirred the stew.

  His visitor had arrived. He knew it without having to look up—even though there had not even been the slightest sound, or crunch, or slither of loose stones outside. The Interdite could usually hear his guests coming from a long way off, so treacherous was the steep and narrow path.

  He looked up, the firelight shadows emphasizing the deep ridges of his craggy chin. His eyes were huge, doleful orbs that saw much, much more than the world around him. His furrowed brow furrowed yet more deeply.

  She was even more impressive in person.

  “Warm yourself at the fire,” he invited.

  She remained standing in the mouth of the cave, her cloak dripping. She pushed back her hood.

  “I’m not staying,” said Gamora. “I came for—”

  “Answers. I know.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “One answer in particular,” said the Interdite.

  “Good. You know that, too. Tell me, and I will leave you in peace.”

  “I have seen this moment,” said the Interdite. “Peace is not a word I’d use to describe it.”

  “Why not?” asked Gamora. She took a step forward.

  “Because of what will transpire.”

  “And what will transpire?”

  The Interdite sighed.

  “I cannot give you your answer,” he replied.

  She paused.

  “Why not?”

  “Too much is at stake. Too much. The fate of this Universe and others. Far, far too much is at stake for me to share it with you.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” said Gamora.

  “I wish I could,” replied the Interdite. “But we are on the cusp of fate. Destiny teeters. There are so many potent forces involved in this matter, it is actually hard for even one like me to confidently foresee the outcome. The future is in flux. The ultimate resolution is hidden from me, a blank void.”

  “People like you always say that,” she remarked.

  “Nevertheless…”

  “How do I know you even understand my question?”

  The Interdite sighed again.

  “Your question is this: What is the location of the Rigellian Recorder 127?”

  Gamora pursed her lips.

  “And the answer?”

  “I cannot give it, for the sake of the Universe,” replied the old prophet. “I told you this. The Recorder is uniquely valuable. People are fighting over him already. Blood has been shed and will be shed. To gain possession of the Recorder is to gain the ability to steal the Galaxy from all other sentient forms and shape it to one’s own ends. He is too valuable. Too precious. I cannot and will not supply an answer that would allow the Recorder to fall into the wrong hands.”

  He looked at her.

  “And yours are most definitely the wrong hands.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know who you are working for. I know who you will deliver the Recorder to.”

  “Really?”

  “The Master of the Negative Zone is too wicked a force to possess such power.”

  Gamora took another step forward.

  “I have come too far to listen to this,” she said. “You waste my time. Tell me the answer. Tell me the location.”

  “I will not.”

  “I can see the future, too, you know?” she told him. “If you continue to deny me, I foresee things ending badly for you.”

  He chuckled.

  “I know this also. You are the Deadliest Woman in the Galaxy, and I am but an ailing old hermit. I am no match for you.”

  “Yet you persist in frustrating me. Why? You know what I will do.”

  The old Interdite shrugged. He looked at her with his huge, soulful eyes.

  “Why? Because, remember, I knew you were coming.”

  His eyes were vast and dark, like obsidian mirrors. Gamora saw herself reflected in his eternal gaze. She saw the movement behind her, too.

  Now she could see what was coming as clearly as the ancient hermit.

  The Roclite was huge. A savage breed of humanoids with dark brown skin and vast, pupil-less eyes, the Roclites were famous for their immense strength, ferocity, and utter brutality.

  This was a big specimen, even by Roclite standards. Its rippling musculature and heavy frame made the likes of Drax seem puny.

  It swung its massive fist. Its reach was amazing. Its hairy arms were almost simian in proportion to its body. That first blow would have easily finished her.

  But she had seen it coming, and she was fast.

  She ducked and rolled into the cave, agile as a feline.

  The fist missed and struck the cave wall, fracturing the rock.

  The Roclite opened its considerable mouth and roared at her. Spittle flew, and its tree-trunk neck muscles corded and bulged.

  It blundered into the cave after her.

  Gamora somersaulted back onto her feet to face it.

  “You hired muscle to kill me rather than give up your answer?” she shouted at the Interdite over her shoulder.

  “It pays to think ahead,” he replied.

  The Roclite charged, howling. Gamora leapt out of its path, and it skidded clumsily as it tried to stop its charge and turn. It almost knocked over the pot of stew. The old hermit leapt out of its way with a weak cry and cowered against the cave wall.

  Her foe was big and stupidly powerful, Gamora evaluated, but it was also slow and cumbersome.

  It went for her again. She dodged, and a fist the size of a pumpkin smashed a dent in the cave wall beside her head. The other fist came in, but struck only empty air and the cave wall. She had ducked under its mighty reach and danced away.

  It rounded on her. She kept moving. No more games. She drew her blades.

  When the Roclite surged again, hands clawing to grab her and rip her limb-from-limb, she struck out—sweeping one blade up and left, and the other down and right.

  The Roclite howled and sank to its knees. Most of its fingers and thumbs were scattered like cigars on the cave floor around it.

  “And the others,” she snarled at the Interdite. “You know what I am. One Roclite?”

  They came in from both sides. Two more Roclite brutes emerged, bellowing, from the shadows at the back of the cave.

  A small, evil-looking Sagittarian appeared in the cave mouth. His expensive robes and waxed moustache dripped with rainwater. He was aiming a Mobian ripper pistol.

  “That stew had better be good,” the Sagittarian said.

  “It is,” replied the Interdite. “It will make this effort worthwhile… as will the winning numbers for next week’s Denebian lottery.”

  “Kill her,” the Sagittarian told his Roclite goons.

  They were already attempting to. She dodged the second Roclite and left a bloody gash across the ribs of the third, forcing it to back off. The second one came at her again, and she was obliged to leapfrog the kneeling, weeping form of her original
attacker.

  It tried to grab her as she bounded over it, but its lack of fingers caused it to fail.

  She was now on the Sagittarian’s side of the cave. He uttered a curse and opened fire with the ripper pistol. It made a spitting sound as it shot a stream of deadly, razor-sharp barbs. Two went through her trailing cloak. Two more hit the cave wall. One scratched her cheek and drew blood.

  Too close.

  She rotated and brought her blades up as he fired again. The swords moved faster than the eye could track, deflecting and blocking the deadly barbs. Sharp metal fragments sparked and ricocheted away from her.

  The Sagittarian had more in his clip.

  Gamora could not deflect them all. As he went to fire a third burst, she threw the blade in her right hand. It sang as it flew across the cave, end over end. It came to rest embedded in the Sagittarian’s chest.

  He uttered a grunt of surprise, looked down at the sword impaling him, and then collapsed on his face.

  Gamora tried to pivot, knowing that the Sagittarian had kept her occupied long enough to give the Roclites an opening. She wasn’t fast enough.

  A blow struck her from behind, and she went sprawling.

  She rolled, dazed, and tried to get up. The Roclite came after her. It stood on her other sword, pinning it to the ground, and drew back its fist to crush her into the cave floor.

  She let go of the sword and dived headlong between its legs.

  The Roclite roared in frustration and turned. It was met by two devastating jabs to the face and then a vicious series of spin kicks.

  Then Gamora hit it in the side of the head with the tureen. The dish rang like a bell. Scalding stew sprayed into the air.

  The Roclite staggered. She rolled to its left, retrieved her sword, and put it through the creature’s throat. It fell and lay face down in a gleaming, spreading pool of dark blood.

  She wheeled, expecting the other. But the cave was still, apart from the snivelling whimpers of the kneeling Roclite with no digits.

  The third Roclite was propped up against the wall on the far side of the cave. Its face was slack, and its one remaining eye was glassy. One of the deflected barbs from the ripper pistol had gone clean through the other eye into its brain.

  Gamora recovered her other sword, yanking it out of the Sagittarian’s sternum. She picked up the ripper pistol, too, and took the spare clips. It was a nice piece.

  She walked back to the fireside, pausing only to quickly end the suffering of the whimpering Roclite.

  She looked over at the cowering Interdite.

  His eyes were wide.

  She bent down, stuck a finger in the remains of the stew in the overturned and dented tureen, and tasted it.

  “Not bad,” she said. “Not worth my life, but not bad.”

  “Is this the way you saw things turning out?” she asked, rising.

  “N-no,” the hermit stammered. “I hoped, but…I told you, we are on the cusp of fate. D-destiny teeters. There are so many p-potent forces involved in this matter, it is impossible even for precogs to foresee reliable outcomes. The future is in flux. In flux! The ultimate resolution is hidden from me. It is a b-blank void.”

  “You did tell me that,” she said. “But it’s not what I wanted to hear. Tell me the answer I came for.”

  He told her. He told her everything he knew.

  “Thank you,” she said. She walked toward him, a blade in each hand. “You know, there is another reason why you see the future as nothing but a blank void.”

  “P-please!” he begged.

  “I think you should get out of the precognition business,” said Gamora. “I see no future in it.”

  • CHAPTER EIGHTEEN •

  LIVE KREE OR DIE

  AT this juncture, I am reminded of the Hakklofarbs of Demantle III. Demantle III lies in the outskirts of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud, lest you forget. Anyway, the Hakklofarbs have a saying that, when translated, goes along the lines of, “Pain is gain. Accept your pain, and life will become much easier.”

  I’m sure, gentle reader, your Terran culture has developed a similar philosophy somewhere along the way. Also, it might explain why the suicide rate on Demantle III is twenty-seven times the Galactic average.

  Anyway, I am in pain. Quite the most pure and awful pain I have ever experienced. I am kneeling on the podium of the Chamber of Examination aboard the Kree battleship, bathed in the lingering blue beam of the Psyche-Agonizertron. Rocket and Groot are sprawled, unconscious, on either side of me. It has been too much for them.

  Sharnor the Accuser is staring at me, her chin on her fist, her finger planted firmly on the Psyche-Agonizertron’s touch control.

  “Tell me!” she demands.

  “I cannot tell you anything!” I announce in dismay.

  She lifts her finger. The pain threads away.

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because I know not!” I reply, rising to my feet.

  “I do not follow,” she says, lifting her head to study me.

  “Madam Accuser,” I begin, trembling. “I am a data-storage device. I am a Recorder. I will gladly communicate to you all of the data contained within me. But I cannot supply you with data that I do not possess.”

  “You know nothing about Project 616?”

  “I do not!” I insist. “Your device is killing me. But even for that, despite everything, it is for the sake of my two organic companions that I plead you to stop. I will tell you what I know. I sincerely hope it is what you want to hear.”

  Sharnor regards me coldly.

  “Go on.”

  “I understand that I am valuable. Many forces are hunting for me.”

  “Like who?” she asks.

  “The Badoon War Brotherhood, for example,” I reply honestly.

  “The Badoon?” she asks, rising. “They are in this, too?”

  “I fear so,” I reply. “Madam Accuser, the thing is, I have no idea why I am so valuable. You must believe me. I do not know what ‘Project 616’ is, but it evidently has much to do with me.”

  She stands, aiming her formidable gaze and equally formidable embonpoint at me simultaneously.

  “Tell me about Project 616,” she demands.

  I cringe.

  “Forget the psyche ray!” she says, sympathetic for a moment. “Tell me what you know.”

  “I have no knowledge of any Project 616,” I say. “I can only conjecture. Let me think…’616’ is the multiversally agreed designature of this Universe.”

  “The what?”

  “We live in a Multiverse of infinite, parallel Universes, madam,” I say. “We regard this one as wonderful and infinite because it is the only one we know. There are an infinite number of others. They each have designations. Our Universe is denoted as 616.”

  She sits down hard.

  “There are others? Other Universes beyond ours? I know of the Negative Zone, of course, but…there is a… Multiverse?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “How do you know this, Recorder?”

  “Well, I have been around the block a few times,” I laugh. I halt. The tension has clearly not thawed. “What I mean to say is, there is evidence. Your own brave Mar-Vell journeyed between realities. How else would you explain interdimensional crossovers, or multiple alternate iterations of Wolverine or Spider-Man?”

  “Who?” she asks.

  I sigh.

  “My point stands. It is a fact. There are many Universes, and this is the quite marvelous Universe 616.”

  She quivers. I am not sure whether it is with rage or uncertainty.

  “Even if I believe you—”

  “You should,” I assure her.

  “Even if I believe you…I don’t know what you are saying!”

  I pause.

  “Madam Accuser,” I say, “this seems to me more than a coincidence. Universe 616? Project 616? You see? I have a very high function. I connect and process data. I am a data gestalt. If we wish to answer your original qu
estion—and I sense, because of the torture, we really ought to—why don’t you tell me what you know?”

  “Me?” she asks, offended. “Me? Tell you what I know? I am the examiner here! What I know is classified by the High Command of the Kree Stellar Empire!”

  “Good to know,” I reply. “But that won’t really get us anywhere, will it? Share with me, so that I might join the dots.”

  “I will not!”

  “I can only operate on cognitive data connection,” I say. “I knew nothing of ‘Project 616,’ but ‘616’ as a phrase triggered my database. It lit up a connection. If you wish to learn more, feed me with new data and I will likely make new connections. What is Project 616 to you?”

  “The key to universal control,” she murmurs.

  “Indeed. Well that would explain the nomenclature.”

  I pause. The immensity of the notion she so glibly encapsulated dawns upon me.

  “The key to universal control?” I ask. “How…how could it be that?”

  “It is, as I understand it, a device that, when complete, will enable the user to control reality.”

  “Is that so?” I ask. “Wow.”

  “That is why the Kree Stellar Empire pursues you. You, according to our spy, are a fundamental part of this device. The last missing component.”

  “I see,” I say, worried. “And who is behind the construction of this device?”

  She hesitates. Clearly, Sharnor the Accuser hates sharing.

  “Timely Inc., my spy tells me. Do you know what that is?”

  “I do,” I reply. “Timely Inc. is the largest and most successful megacorporation in this Galaxy. Its power and influence are beyond measure. It controls seventy-eight percent of all retail with its products. It exceeds its nearest rivals, Distinguished Competition Inc. and Fantastic For You Co., by an unprecedented market share. It is an undoubted commercial leader. The time will come when, culturally, Timely Inc. will become more powerful and influential than any of the ancient, great cultures. The Kree, for example.”

  “This is what we fear!” she cries. “If they build such a device—”

  “Even without such a device, you should fear it,” I agree. “It will be a sad day for this Universe when commercial musclepower overtakes the basic elements of cultural character. Races will die out, or become incorporated into the commercial behemoth. Species will become impoverished trademarks. The age of civilizations, Madam, is drawing to a close. Culture has been squeezed out. The new epoch of commercial imperative, the Era of the Megacorporation as the basis of intergalactic community, is dawning. According to my database, anyway. What do I know?”