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

by Dan Abnett

  “Smell it! Breathe in the spirit, the character,” Rocket urges us, turning in a circle with his arms raised. “Ahhh, Adjufar! The very scent of you! The spices, the delights, the local color, the liberty! This is what I’m talking about!”

  Gamora sniffs the air and frowns. Clearly, gentle reader, she does not detect the same delights at all.

  “I am Groot,” says Groot, going along with Rocket’s enthusiasm.

  I possess pico-processors, friendly reader, as I know I have already mentioned. The olfactory register of those processors covers a spread of almost ninety mega-cubits of data space. I could describe, should it become necessary, everywhere I have been in terms of scent alone. I could tell you of the perfumed air of Chandilar, the nitrogen-sweet aura of Hala, the chilly, antiseptic vacuum of the Sidri, the pungent yet complex base notes of the swamps of Huj.

  On Adjufar, I smell, though I am keenly trying to do better, nothing more than the stink of spit-roasted swine and the dirty, corrosive soot of trash-can fires.

  So this is fabled Adjufara City. The freeport to end all freeports. Thus, we arrive.

  I am not quite sure what we are doing here, except that it is a welcome respite from all the chasing and jeopardy of the previous few days.

  “Okay,” says Rocket, dropping his disconcertingly human-like hands to his sides and breathing out. “I’m gonna go have a word with this vehicle.”

  He trots back to the prowl cruiser. Ever since our hyperfast exit from the Kree versus Badoon space battle and the jeopardy it represented, the prowl cruiser has been insisting that it should revert to its original protocols, and return us to Xandar and the custody of Grekan Yaer.

  Rocket managed to talk the prowl cruiser out of doing that by persuading it that we needed to head to neutral ground first to drop off Gamora, as she was not in the custody of the Nova Corps and thus not governed by Yaer’s warrant. The logic was shaky, but it seemed enough to convince the cruiser—or at least, due to the length of the conversation and the mercurial nature of Rocket’s logic leaps, confuse it enough into agreeing.

  I amp up my audio receptors to listen in on the next stage of the conversation.

  “This vehicle wishes to know whether you are now ready to be transferred back to Xandar,” says the automatic voice.

  “Well, pal, is that really the best option, do you suppose?” asks Rocket.

  “This vehicle does. Jeopardy is no longer present.”

  “Is it? Is it no longer present?” Rocket asks. “You want to take us back to Xandar, but Xandar was pretty jeopardy-heavy, wasn’t it? That Spaceknight-dude? Come on, if you take us back there, what are the chances he’ll show up again? You’d be taking us right back into jeopardy. And that, as we have established, is way, way contrary to your Code.”

  “This vehicle…sees some sense in this. But where do you suggest this vehicle take you, instead?”

  “Oh, that’s the big question,” says Rocket. “Feels to me like there’s jeopardy everywhere. Everywhere we go. We’re going to have to have a good long think about where might be jeopardy-free.”

  “This vehicle believes it should contact Grekan Yaer, inform him of our whereabouts, and have him—”

  “Ooooooh, no, no, no, no!” Rocket insists. “Don’t you be doing that, this vehicle!”

  “Because?”

  “Well, uhm…because our com lines could be monitored. Yes, that’s it! That Spaceknight, or the Kree, or even the Badoon—they could be listening in, waiting to hear our next move. I mean, the Spaceknight must have found us somehow. No, getting in touch with our old pal Yaer could put us at risk of extreme jeopardy.”

  The automatic voice seems to sigh.

  “Then this vehicle will not do that.”

  “Good, good,” says Rocket.

  “For now. Explain to this vehicle the next course of action, please?”

  “Well,” says Rocket, “we’re pretty safe here. I know Adjufar of old. I’m just going to swing by a few places in the souk and pick up a few things that we might need.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, you know…salsa chips. Zero-Beero. Maybe some dips.”

  “This vehicle does not want its upholstery stained.”

  “Totally understood. See you later, prowl-cruiser-pal.”

  Rocket emerges into the ruddy sunlight.

  “We’re cool,” he tells us. “Our hyperthrust rocket mobile is staying with us for the time being, and he isn’t going to give us up to the Corps, either.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “I do have a way of convincing people,” Rocket agrees. “I really do.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “And I do have a plan,” Rocket nods. He looks at me.

  “Are you going to share it?” asks Gamora.

  He turns to her.

  “I might. I still don’t entirely trust you, Gam.”

  She frowns.

  “We were a team,” she says.

  “The Guardians are on hiatus, honey-buns.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” she replies. She seems sad. “Back on the Kree ship, we were a team. We got out of that together.”

  “Yes, we did, and we couldn’t have done it without you, you psycho nutzoid lunatic.” Rocket grins. It’s a winning grin. He holds up his disconcertingly human-like hand; after some hesitation, she high-fives it.

  “So what happens now?” she asks.

  “I am Groot.”

  “Precise-amundo,” Rocket nods. He looks at Gamora. “Time to spill. Full disclosure. Why are you after our Recorder-boy here? Who’s paying you? Remember, though, the answer will influence how much of my cunning plan I bring you in on.”

  Gamora shrugs.

  “I don’t know much,” she says. “I was told the tinker-toy was valuable, and my client wanted it recovered. It seemed like a sweet deal until I discovered that you two clowns were caught up in it. I tracked the Recorder via a pre-cog, fed the data to the Badoon to provide a distraction, and then infil-ed to make recovery. The rest you know.”

  “Why am I valuable?” I ask.

  She glances my way.

  “No idea. I don’t care, actually. It was just a job.”

  “I am Groot,” says Groot, photosynthesizing in the late afternoon sunlight.

  “My client?” asks Gamora.

  “Yeah, you heard him,” says Rocket. “Who was paying you?”

  “I don’t know who he was.”

  “Come on, Gam, he musta divulged.”

  “It was Timely Inc.,” she says quietly. “Timely Inc. wants the Recorder so they can finish some kind of program.”

  She’s lying. I know it. I know dissembling when I see it. I want to speak up, but Gamora has two swords and a wicked propensity to use them. I try to shoot Rocket a look—but sadly, gentle reader, my face is made of autonomic plastic and metal weave, and does not communicate expressional nuance.

  How does she know about the Timely involvement? That’s what I want to know.

  “Okay,” says Rocket. “We noted the Timely connection, too. And that’s the basis of my plan. I figure we head to Timely Inc. HQ and find out what’s at the bottom of this. Where is Timely Inc. HQ, anyway?”

  “I am Groot.”

  “Alpha Centauri, right,” says Rocket. “I reckon our next move is to go there and take the lid off this. Who’s with me?”

  “I am Groot.”

  “I would certainly like to know what’s going on and why I am so sought after,” I agree.

  Gamora nods.

  “Okay,” says Rocket. “A plan, coming together.”

  “What about the ship?” asks Gamora. “How will you persuade it to take us there?”

  “Oh, I’ll work on that,” Rocket says with a smile. “I’ll talk this vehicle around. Besides, I fancy the whole adventure thing has gotten into its system. It’s enjoying the ride, just a little bit. Enjoying the fun. I think we can talk that hotrod into just about anything.”

  She shrugs.

  “Oka
y,” says Rocket. He has the Uni-beam blaster he took from the Kree trooper and the Kree helmet I borrowed. “Groot and I are going for a stroll. We’re going to do a little shopping in the souk, a little business. We’ll be back in a bit. Gam, can I trust you to stay here and look after the Recorder?”

  “You can,” she replies.

  “Anything I can get you?”

  She thinks about this.

  “A whetstone. Some ripper-gun refills. And a bottle of Dakkamite brandy.”

  “On it. See you shortly,” Rocket says.

  “You can’t see us any other way,” she replies.

  “Ha ha funny,” he scowls. Then he and Groot wander off toward the souk.

  Gamora turns to me. She is quite the most aesthetically pleasing female I have ever recorded. Surplus to this, she smiles.

  “Just you and me, then,” she murmurs. I experience an odd, rushing sensation in my nether extremities.

  “And this vehicle,” reminds the automatic voice from behind us.

  She winks at me.

  “Let’s find a bar,” she says.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN •

  RETAIL THERAPY

  ROCKET and Groot entered Adjufara’s souk, wandering along, lost in the crowd. Though one was a Raccoonoid and the other a tree, they hardly stuck out as unusual. All cosmic life flocked to Adjufar.

  “Pip’s Palace is around here somewhere,” said Rocket. “He’ll fix us up with what we need.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “Pre-sactly. A camo-generator. Maybe a nice, high-spec Krylorian device. We’re gonna need it.”

  They stopped to get some munch-krunchies at a hover stall, with extra hot sauce, and pick up some griddled Cotati spears at a street vendor’s cart. Then Rocket spotted the emporium of an “antique and nicknack” dealer and traded the Kree helmet for eight clips of Mobian ripper shells and a decent whetstone.

  They returned to the busy lanes, breathing in the heady atmosphere.

  “Uh-oh, not that way,” Rocket said sharply, drawing his towering companion in the other direction.

  “I am Groot.”

  “Some Shi’ar Imperial Guard cutie, jet black, head-to-toe, very hard body,” he said. “She was snooping around. She had Metal Wing guards with her. We do not need those kinda… Imperial entanglements.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “No, I don’t think she clocked us, but it pays to be careful,” said Rocket. “This way. I know a sneaky back run through the lanes behind the Kawa Temple.”

  They got a little lost in the inter-passes and avenues of the souk.

  “Of course I know where I’m going!” Rocket complained. “I know this place like the back of my hand!”

  “I am Groot!”

  “What do you mean…’disconcertingly human-like’?”

  “I am Groot.”

  “I don’t care what that Recorder-dude has been saying. He’s a funny one, though, ain’t he? I mean, all the major power brokers in this sector are after a piece of him. Pal, I’m not kidding, he could be the making of us. There’s cash in that walking, talking piece of Rigellian artifice. I think we’re on to the big one, kid. The mother lode. I think this could end up with us living on easy street. He’s worth a gazillion, I bet.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “Well, of course I’ll look after him. What do you take me for? A mercenary? You know me better than that.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “Okay, okay, but this time I won’t be. He’s a nice guy, and I’m not about to flark him over for an easy score. But eyes on the prize, pal. He’s our meal ticket. That piece of Rigellian hardware is going to see us set for life. You can take that to the bank.”

  “I am Groot.”

  Rocket stopped. “Flark, you’re right. This is the place.”

  Pip’s Palace was a trade emporium that filled three floors of the old Adjufara Mercantile Bank, a crumbling edifice at the heart of the souk. Its lofty, dusty chambers were crammed to the breaking point with all manner of junk and surplus: used combat uniforms, weapon clips, boxes of medals, crates of shell cases, racks of daggers, holo-clamps, lift-modules, generator pods, antlers, tea cups, trading cards, hat-boxes, brass-effect ignitors, badges and pins, stuffed animals, porcelain, commemorative holo-mugs and plates, bells, cutlery, jewelry, ion engine guards, plutonium scuttles, dolls, tablecloths and linens, smoke-dirty paintings, chamber pots, buttons, buckles, broken pens, ivory tablets, paper knives, tablet stands, fusion umbrellas, tachyon ploughshares, old news tablets, and burned-out hardware.

  The place smelled of old cigar smoke.

  The bell tinkled as they entered.

  Behind the glass-topped counter, Pip the Troll—diminutive, fat of belly, and pointy of ear— sat up and beamed.

  “Rocket! Groot! My old pals! What can I do for you this fine Adjufaran afternoon?”

  “Hey, Pip,” said Rocket with a grin. He looked up at the massive, dusty skeleton of a Makluan space whale suspended from the ceiling. “How’s tricks?”

  “Can’t complain, can’t complain,” Pip said, fetching three shot glasses from under the counter and reaching for a bottle. “I mean, now that I’m out of the business, life is a lot easier.”

  Rocket knew that by “the business,” Pip was referring to the hero trade. For a long time, way back, Pip had fought alongside Gamora as a companion to the cosmic super-mortal known as Adam Warlock. The stuff they’d done—facing down cosmic horrors the likes of Thanos, the Magus, and the Universal Church of Truth.

  Now Pip lived his latter years on Adjufar, running a bric-a-brac store. Rocket shivered. He wondered whether he would end his days in a similar fashion, thriving on the memory of past deeds, glorying in the past. That always happened to second fiddles and sidekicks.

  Rocket Raccoon was no flarking sidekick.

  Pip hesitated before pouring.

  “You are still in the business, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Rocket shrugged.

  “Guardians of the Galaxy,” he replied.

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Yeah, me and Groot, we’re still playing the big game as best as we can.”

  “Well, good for you, buddy, good for you. I miss it sometimes,” Pip laughed. “No, I don’t, not at all. It was a pain in the rear thrusters, if you know what I mean.”

  “Great to know you’re still fighting the good fight, though,” he puffed. “What is it this time? Thanos? I bet it’s Thanos.”

  Rocket shook his head.

  “Not this time, Pip.”

  “Oh well,” the troll shrugged. “But stay wary. Thanos, you mark me. He was always behind everything, even when it seemed like he wasn’t. You got Adam with you?”

  “Nope, it’s just me and the tree. And Gamora.”

  “Gamora? I haven’t seen her green booty in a long time! How is she? Deadly still?”

  “The deadliest.”

  “Good times. Send her my regards. Drinkies?”

  “None of that foul Laxidazian grog for me, thanks,” said Rocket. “I don’t want to turn into a troll. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Pip grinned, pouring himself a shot and sinking it.

  “Don’t suppose you have the fixings for a Timothy?” Rocket asked.

  “Fresh out of antimatter,” replied Pip. He fetched a bottle of Morani spirit and filled their glasses. They sank them, and Pip refilled.

  “So how can I help you?” Pip asked, refilling his own glass with Laxidazian grog. “And what have you got to trade? ’Cause knowing you, it won’t be a cash deal.”

  Rocket put the Kree Uni-beam blaster down on the glass-topped counter.

  “We’re looking for a camo-generator. A cloak-field unit. Fancy as you like.”

  “Aura of neutrality?” Pip asked.

  “No, straight disguise field. Top-of-the-line. We don’t want to be invisible, we want to be business as usual. Can you help us out?”

  Pip picked up the blaster, hefted it, felt it for weight, te
sted the grip, and sighted it for good measure.

  “Nice weapon,” he said. “Worth multi units. And this is what you’re trading?”

  “Hope so.”

  Pip nodded. “Well, boys, I think I can help you.”

  He refilled their glasses, and they drank again.

  “Oh, that’s the stuff,” Rocket grimaced.

  Pip reached under the counter and placed a device on the glass top. It was about the size of a house brick.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Rocket.

  “Yes, sir. A Slig disguiser. Works for any ship, my personal promise. State-of-the-art Rynebian tech. Unless you’re running a super-massive.”

  “No, just a small jump ship,” Rocket said.

  “Well, that’ll do you,” Pip replied.

  “Straight exchange? The Kree gun for this?”

  “No,” said Pip. “Since you’re still in the business, I’ll throw this in, gratis.”

  He reached down and placed a massive weapon on the counter.

  Rocket picked it up and tested it for weight.

  “That is unfeasibly large,” he admitted.

  “Saurid Class M Shooty-Killer. Sorry, that’s just how the name translates. Nothing as high-class or u-tech as the Kree shooter you traded, but take it with my blessings. I think you’re gonna need it.”

  “We are?”

  Pip slid a tablet device over the counter toward them.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT •

  SOUK AND DESTROY

  “This just flashed. You were on a watch list thanks to certain actions on Xarth Three and Xandar. The Shi’ar have pegged you, and they’re closing in. Boys, I’m sorry, but a world of hurt is coming for you. The flarking Imperial Guard is after you. And they mean business. Good luck. Now get out of my shop.”

  EBON could tell that Crusher wasn’t entirely sold on the change of plan.

  “This could be a waste of our time, Ebon,” he said as they moved through the busy souk.

  Nothing like the last few days, then, Ebon thought.

  “Sir, this could be pretty major, and it’s our responsibility to check on it,” she replied. “If the pair I spotted are who I think they are, they are persons of interest for at least three Galactic superpowers.”