by Dan Abnett
“Let’s get our guests welcomized!” he called out in a louder voice.
“Mingle and do your Shi’ar thing,” he whispered at Meramati. “I need you to cushion this flarkasco down for me.”
Meramati looked worried.
“But—”
“Oh, you’re noble-blood! Get them to bow before you or something!” Hanxchamp demanded.
“Mrs. Mantlestreek!” he yelled at the outer office. “Tea! Coffee! Juice! Biscuits! The whole hospitality thing! Right now!”
“Yes, sir.”
Hanxchamp saw Xorb Xorbux hovering in the doorway and went to him. Behind Hanxchamp, his execs were making superficial small talk with the Imperial Guardsmen.
“Xorb! Xorb, buddy!” Hanxchamp breathed, gripping Xorbux by the shoulders. “The Recorder…it’s here! On the premises! Get your men out, find it. Find it now!”
“Yes, sir!”
“The Shi’ar are all over us like a body bag, Xorb. We need to clinch this! If we find the Recorder and get it to the Datacore, then the whole Shi’ar Empire can take a bath. Forever!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Get it done, Xorb! I’m counting on you!”
“Fast as I can, sir,” Xorb Xorbux replied, rushing off.
Hanxchamp turned back into the office.
“So everyone good? Timely Inc. has this situation covered. Everyone happy?”
“Just one thing,” Arach said, looking up from her conversation with Blint Wivvers.
There was a rush of transmat energy. One by one, Metal Wing warriors in full armor materialized around the room. When the staggered transmat ended, there were forty of them lining the walls of the inner office, weapons raised.
Hanxchamp gulped.
“Just to be sure we’re on the same page,” Arach said.
• CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN •
MEANWHILE
[8,087 FLOORS LOWER DOWN…]
I CANNOT recommend being mailed. Particularly through an internal mail-routing system. There is a lot of falling and uncontrolled sliding, a lot of hard uncushioned bends, and a great deal of colliding with other mail in transit.
So being fired out of a chute and landing on our heads on a hard metal platform seems a bit of a welcome relief, to be honest.
“Ow,” groans Rocket Raccoon, and hops to his feet. He picks up his unfeasibly large gun and begins to pull off his Form-fit overalls. The slightly shabby Guardians uniform makes him look a little more like he means business.
“Nn ngngg ngggg,” says Groot. He pauses and removes several letters and a small parcel from his mouth.
“I am Groot,” he repeats.
“Exactly,” says Rocket. “Let’s find out where we are.”
Gamora is already on her feet. Like Rocket, she has shed her Form-fit, stripping back to her tight black body-armor. She takes her rolled cloak out of the overall pocket, shakes it out, puts it on, and raises the hood. In the gloom, she is almost instantly reduced to the merest suggestion of a shadow.
The chamber is large and made of metal. It is dark. The only light comes from an indicator panel on the wall. Beside the mail-deposit platform are several metal trolleys that look like hospital gurneys.
Rocket hits a button on the indicator panel, and the hatch opens.
We peer out into a corridor. The decor is stark: blue-black metal walls and decking, and functional iris valves that glow—through their chunky, radiating grilles—with a dull yellow light.
We edge along. After a short while, we come to an entrance hallway. On one side is a bank of executive elevators. They clearly require special executive codes to operate them. On the wall beside the elevators is a sign that reads “subbasement 86.”
Rocket whistles. “Sub-86,” he says. “This place doesn’t exist.”
“Except—” I begin.
“I meant officially.” He kisses the torn mail tag clutched in his disconcertingly human-like hand. “I knew it. I knew we were onto something. This is the inner domain. Secrety-secret Special Projects. They hide this stuff away, bury it deep, lock it out with codes and all kindsa security jazz—but the mail must get through. You see, they keep this stuff confidential from personnel, in case of industrial espionage and what-not, but they totally trust the building’s automatic systems.”
“I am Groot.”
“Exactly, because who’s gonna ask questions of the internal mail-routing delivery system?”
We are very deep underground. The air is dry and artificially cold. I can hear the buzz of powerful clandestine fields. It makes my outer casing vibrate unpleasantly. If (in the normal, organic sense) I had ears, I would prepare to shed them now.
Gamora has moved away from the elevator bank toward what looks like a main-entrance hatch. It is an enormous double-iris valve surrounded by throbbing red bands of security countermeasures. Beside the hatch is a small dais equipped with genetic probes.
She examines it.
“We can’t get in this way,” she says. “This needs a code-key, plus a security sequence—plus palm prints, retina, voice, gene sample, and pheromone spectrum.”
Rocket looks forlornly at the tag.
“This ain’t gonna get us past that. If only we had a—”
One of the elevators pings. We take cover in the shadows.
A Timely Inc. executive in a suit rushes out of the doors. He is a Kaliklaki, and he seems very agitated. With him come two Timely Inc. security men.
“It’s all going -tik!- down on the 8001st floor,” the Kaliklaki exec says. “They say Hanxchamp is in a standoff with the Shi’ar Imperial Guard! In his office!”
I glance at Rocket. He glances back, ears lowered.
“We have to -tik!- secure this area, you understand?” the Kaliklaki tells the security guards.
“Yes, Mr. Gruntgrill.”
“Hanxchamp’s orders. If the -tik!- Shi’ar start sweeping the building, they must not find this place, okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Gruntgrill.”
“Okay, good. Let’s do it.”
The exec—Gruntgrill—steps up on the dais.
He slots his code-key in the slender reader-console. Then he places his green hands on the palm scanners. He looks the blue light of the retina probe square in the eye.
“Voice,” he says. The machine lights shift, sampling. “Gruntgrill, Arnok. Security sequence -tik!- 11324567812. I invite you to check my palm prints, retina, voice, gene sample, and pheromone spectrum.”
“Identity match failed.”
“What? -tik!-”
“Sequence not recognized.”
“I said ‘security sequence 11324567812.’”
“Incorrect. You stated security sequence as ‘-tik! - 11324567812.’”
“Are you mocking me? Again?” Gruntgrill asks.
“Question not recognized.”
“You’re mocking me again for my speech impediment? I’m nervous!”
“Comment not recognized.”
“Scan me -tik!- again! My sequence is -tik!- 11324567812. I mean, it is -tik!- 11324567812.”
“Sequence not recognized.”
“This -tik!- happens a lot,” Gruntgrill laughs, looking around at the security men. They are no longer behind him. They are unconscious on the floor. His eyes widen. He finds himself looking at me, a threatening tree, a green killer with two swords, and a Raccoonoid aiming an unfeasibly large weapon.
“-tik!-” he gulps.
“Open the hatch, budster,” Rocket tells him.
He gawps. He tiks. His antennae quiver.
I realize that despite the swords, despite the unfeasibly large weapon trained at his face, despite the threatening tree, the angry Raccoonoid, and the shadowy killer, he is transfixed by the sight of me.
“It’s you,” he says.
“Yes, I am me.”
“Recorder -tik!- 127.”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Open the hatch,” snarls Rocket, “and let’s find out why that’s so flarking important.”
He racks his unfeasibly large weapon, just to make the point.
• CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT •
MEANWHILE
[8,087 FLOORS HIGHER UP…]
“PUT those guns away!” Hanxchamp demanded. “Right now! This is no way to behave in my flarking office!”
“Then comply,” squeaked Arach.
“Listen to me, spider-queen, this—”
A hypervelocity boom shook the windows so hard, it made the vista view of Huj flash up again briefly.
“The flark?” said Hanxchamp.
“Sharra and K’ythri!” Ebon cried.
Through the window, they could all see that a second huge star-ship was now hovering outside the Timely HQ building, right beside the Shi’ar Strikebird.
The immense Nova Corps heavy cruiser was more cylindrical in construction, an armored missile compared to the Shi’ar’s elegant falcon. The heavy’s downlights flicked on, washing the streets below with light.
“This is just out of order!” Hanxchamp cried.
The windows exploded inward, blizzarding glass. Four Warriors of the Xandarian Nova Corps landed neatly on their armored feet behind Hanxchamp’s desk. Their boots crunched on broken windowpane slivers.
The Metal Wing soldiers’ weapons came up, arming. All four Imperial Guardsmen assumed battle stances, ready to fight.
“Stand down, Shi’ar,” announced the Nova leader. “I am Centurion Grekan Yaer of Xandar. With me, Centurion Clawdi, and Corpsmen Starkross and Valis. Be calm, or we grav the flark out of you.”
“You can try!” Warstar yelled.
“Whoa, whoa!” Hanxchamp exclaimed. “No shooting in my office! Stop this confrontationalization at once!”
Reluctantly, the Shi’ar troopers lowered their weapons. The Nova Corpsmen and the Imperial Guardsmen powered down. The looks they were giving each other, however, were still armed and lethal.
“Better,” said Hanxchamp. “That’s better. Everyone be cool. Everyone play nice. Now then, Mr. Nova person, what is this about? You’re paying for the window, by the way.”
“We are in pursuit of fugitives, sir,” Yaer stated. “A stolen Corps prowl cruiser is identified as coming here.”
“You have no jurisdiction here!” Arach cried.
“Oh, like you do, you mean?” Clawdi returned.
“Insolent wretch!” snapped Arach.
“Guys, guys! Calm! I’m sure this is all a misunderstandism!” Hanxchamp shouted. “Nova guy,” he said, looking at the impassive Korbinite Yaer. “Can you specificigate just a little more?”
Grekan Yaer flipped out a tablet and showed it to the Senior Vice Executive President (Special Projects).
“Galactic warrant,” Yaer said. “Prosecution of fugitives, Galactic Order 9910. Pursuit into other jurisdictions as a result of the above, Galactic Order 3596. Location and identification of Recorder unit 127, case specific.”
“Recorder what did you say now?”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing!”
“Basically, sir,” Grekan Yaer said to Hanxchamp, “we have a permit granted by galactic treaty to search these premises.”
Arach approached, scuttling forward on her long blue legs. She looked at the tablet, then handed it back.
“It’s true, he does,” she squeaked. “He has far more legal coverage in this situation than we Shi’ar do.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Yaer said.
“That being said,” said Arach. “This one’s ours.”
She twitched a palp. In perfect, drilled unison, the Metal Wing troops raised their weapons and aimed them at the Nova Corpsmen.
“Not in my office! Not in my office!” Hanxchamp shrieked.
“Then what do you suggest?” asked Yaer, his glowing fists raised and aimed at the Shi’ar. “Unless our Shi’ar friends back the flark down right now, we’re going to find ourselves having a situation.”
“We have no wish to engage in combat with the forces of Xandar,” Arach squeaked wetly through her translator. “We of the Shi’ar are well aware of their power. A fight between us could level this tower.”
“This city,” hissed Clawdi.
“And leave four dead Nova Corps personnel and the burning ruin of a Nova Corps Heavy,” returned Dragoon without missing a beat.
“Oh, guys! Super-mortal folk! Please!” Hanxchamp wailed. “This is giving me a tension migraine! Calm the holy flark down and stop being so…so…aggressivized! Let’s do this the megacorp way! Let’s sit the flark down around a great big table and solutionate the flark out of it! Mrs. Mantlestreek! Biscuits and juice! Biscuits and juice!”
“I’ll literally see to it, sir,” said Pama Harnon, and she hurried out.
Yaer lowered his fists. At a nod from Ebon, the Metal Wing troopers dropped their aim. Their fingers remained on their trigger studs, and their weapons stayed armed.
“A clash of jurisdiction,” said Yaer.
“We clearly seek the same individuals,” said Arach, “given the information you have volunteered.”
“What information will you volunteer?” asked Yaer.
Arach paused.
“How many fugitives are you pursuing?” she asked.
“Two, plus the Recorder unit.”
“And you want them for…as I see from your warrant…invalid vehicle insurance? Is that correct?”
Yaer grimaced.
“For now,” he admitted.
“We are pursuing three, plus the Recorder unit,” said Arach.
“Which ones?” asked Yaer. He showed her his tablet. “These are mine. Raccoon, Rocket. Groot, no other nomenclature.”
“Yes, those two, and this one,” said Arach, nodding to Ebon to show her tablet device. “Gamora.”
“The Deadliest Woman in the Universe!” Corpsman Valis whispered.
Yaer looked at him.
“She’s on every watch list we post, sir,” Valis shrugged. “Extremely bad news.”
“Our interest is the criminals,” said Yaer. “Raccoon and Groot. This Gamora, too, if she has charges pending.”
“Oh, she really has, sir,” said Valis.
“Our interest,” squeaked Arach, “is justice. Xandarian justice is quite sufficient for us, provided that the bodily harm caused to our Guardsman Crusher and the deaths of the Metal Wing warriors is taken into consideration for penalty. Life in the Kyln, without appeal. Under such an arrangement, we would be content for the criminals to be taken into Xandarian custody. But the Recorder unit is ours.”
“Why?”
“State secrets of the Shi’ar Empire, Centurion,” Arach replied. “Surely you do not expect me to divulge those?”
“So…we take the crims, you take the Recorder?” asked Clawdi.
“That would be acceptable to us,” nodded Arach.
“You drive a hard bargain, Shi’ar,” said Yaer.
“You are hard to bargain with, Xandarian,” she squeaked back.
“Ha ha ha!” Hanxchamp laughed without humor. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Look at this, isn’t it great? Isn’t it great, Blint?”
“Amazing, sir,” Wivvers agreed.
“Splendid,” added Rarnak.
“Look at us, we’re already solutionizing this!” Hanxchamp declared, clapping his tentacles. “Look at us, I’m proud of this moment. You guys. I’ve got a tingly feeling.”
IN the outer office, Pama Harnon directed Mrs. Mantlestreek and the office service robots to “hurry the flark up, and get some dips and appetizers fast!”
Mrs. Mantlestreek glowered at Pama Harnon over her hornrimmed spectacles.
“Do I look like I’m literally kidding?” asked Pama Harnon. “Do it!”
They hurried away. Pama Harnon breathed out. Then she pulled out her new lip-gloss.
She pressed the cap down and fired the Omni-wave beacon.
Urgent…urgent…
• CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE •
PROJECT 616
GRUNTGRILL steps up onto the dais.
He is painfully aware that he has guns trained on him. He puts his code-key into the slender reader-console. Then he places his green hands on the palm scanners. He looks the blue light of the retina probe square in the eye.
“Voice,” he says. The machine lights shift, sampling. “Gruntgrill, Arnok. Security sequence -tik!- 11324567812. I invite you to check my palm prints, retina, voice, gene sample, and pheromone spectrum.”
“Identity match failed.”
“Try a -tik!- gain.”
“Sequence not recognized.”
“Please -tik!- don’t do this! Not now!” Gruntgrill exclaims. “I’ve got a -tik!- gun to my head!”
“Remark not recognized.”
“I have a -tik!- speech impediment? I’m nervous!”
“Comment not recognized.”
“Scan me -tik!- again! My sequence is -tik!- 11324567812. I mean, it is -tik!- 11324567812. Dammit!”
“Do better than that, buddy,” Rocket says.
Gruntgrill takes a deep breath.
“My sequence is -tik!- -tik!- -tik!-…it is 11324567812.”
He breathes out, head down. His tie hangs.
“Identity now verified, Arnok. Welcome to Project 616.”
The glowing-red countermeasures wink off briefly. The doubleiris opens, outer then inner, with a squeal of metallic petals dilating and scraping over one another.
Cool air gusts out.
Gruntgrill gets off the dais and walks toward the hatch.
“Come on, then,” he says. “Let me show you. Let me show you the future of the Galaxy.”
The leaves close behind us again immediately with a slow shriek.
We enter Project 616.
Gruntgrill walks us down to the hatch of the Datacore Chamber. I notice displays that read: Datacore—87%.
More security processes are required. Gruntgrill is nervously scanned several more times.
The shutter opens.
Before me, I see my destiny at last.
The Datacore Chamber is immense. It is overwhelming.
As we step onto a concentric observation walkway, I am stunned not just by the immensity of the chamber, but by the far greater immensity of the data it contains. The Core pulses below us in the tech-lined storage well, a hot pink light of almost infinite data.
