GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY: ROCKET RACCOON & GROOT STEAL THE GALAXY!

by Dan Abnett

  The Spaceknight is already coming for them again. The vicious hand-to-hand battle resumes.

  “Okay, right,” sighs Rocket. “Not the warp shuttle, then.”

  We turn and rush in the opposite direction, toward the K-class Nova Corps prowl cruiser.

  It is a sleek thing, finished in burnished gold with a red starburst on its prow. It is designed to carry a team of four to six, with room aft for prisoner transportation. The ramp is down.

  We clamber aboard. The interior is equally sleek and finished with the classic design elements of the Nova Corps—seen in their uniforms, their iconography, their architecture, and their starships. Just looking at the rake of the windshield and the sweep of the gravseats, you can tell it’s more than just fast.

  Rocket clambers into the pilot seat. I take my place beside him in the copilot’s chair. Groot crowds in behind us.

  {halt expositional protocol}

  —I just want to point out that despite the ongoing jeopardy, this is terribly thrilling. I have never sat up front in a high-speed jump ship before, and certainly not while trying to make my escape from certain…if not death, then definite unpleasantness.

  {resume narrative mode}

  Rocket looks frantically at the sleek touchscreen controls.

  “I’m not sure I can hotwire this,” he moans. “I mean, it’s all touch-sensitive. It probably needs palm-print ID recognition. Flark it, it’s a Nova pursuit ship. They wouldn’t design them so any old perp could steal one!”

  “I am Groot!” Groot warns.

  “Okay, I will just push something!” Rocket snaps back.

  He lunges with a disconcertingly human-like hand and jabs at the main console in front of him. It lights up with a scintillating blue holo-display. Then a big red X appears across the display.

  “Forbidden,” says an automatic voice.

  Rocket jabs another control surface. The big red X pulses.

  “Forbidden. Function denied.”

  Rocket jabs yet again, exasperated. The big red X pulses once more, as if annoyed.

  “Forbidden. This vehicle is programmed for exclusive use by the Nova Corps. This vehicle cannot match your palm print, disconcertingly human-like though it is, to any ID registered in the Nova Corps database of authorized users. You do not have permission to use this vehicle.”

  Another jab. Another X pulse.

  “Desist,” says the automatic voice. It is quite calm, though firm. “You are not an authorized user. You are not Nova Corps. Desist and remain with this vehicle while this vehicle summons Nova Corps assistance.”

  “Flark it!” Rocket exclaims, jabbing something else.

  “Desist. This vehicle cannot establish your identity. This vehicle deems it likely that you are fugitives and/or criminals attempting to steal this vehicle. Further attempts to jab at touchscreen control surfaces will result in the automatic locking of all hatches and the release of anaesthetic gas. Desist and remain with this vehicle while this vehicle summons Nova Corps assistance.”

  Rocket goes to jab again. Groot grabs his arm and stops him before he can.

  “Okay, okay,” Rocket says, shaking off Groot’s grip. He leans forward and looks at the big red X

  “Please?” he says. “We’re in a spot of bother, and we could really do with a ride out of here. Please?”

  I believe he even flutters his eyelashes.

  “Forbidden. Your identity is not recognized. You are not Nova Corps.”

  Rocket begins to serially use almost all of the vernacular curse words popular on this side of the Western Spiral Arm.

  I hold up my hand to hush him.

  “Vehicle,” I say gently. “We are not Nova Corps. We are not authorized.”

  “Then why do you persist in trying to operate this vehicle?” the automatic voice asks.

  “We are in jeopardy,” I reply. “We have been arrested and taken into custody by Nova Centurion Grekan Yaer.”

  “That identity is verified. So you admit you are criminals. You are trying to steal this vehicle.”

  “We admit nothing!” harrumphs Rocket, folding his arms.

  “We are suspects in custody,” I clarify. “Extreme jeopardy, harm to our persons, and general threat exists in the bay outside. Please use your external sensor equipment to confirm this.”

  A pause. “Situation confirmed.”

  “Nova Corps Code of Conduct, item 1246613,” I say, “enshrines that the ‘Nova Corps is morally responsible for the welfare of any individual or individuals in its custody or detention.’ Yaer arrested us, thus he and all agencies of the Nova Corps of Xandar must do everything at their disposal to protect us under the terms of that arrest.”

  There is another pause.

  “So this vehicle, as a functionary unit of the Nova Corps, is obliged to remove you to a distance that might be considered appropriately safe for the duration?”

  “Precisely,” I say.

  “What distance might be considered appropriately safe?”

  “Orbital,” says Rocket. “Definitely orbital.”

  “Given the scale and the ferocity of the situation,” I suggest, “orbital might be appropriate.”

  “Or even, you know, another star system entirely,” says Rocket.

  “One thing at a time,” I tell him. I look back at the display. “Vehicle? You now understand the gravity of this incident and the laws that apply to it. What does your programming tell you?”

  The big red X pulses again, twice. Then it vanishes.

  “This vehicle suggests you fasten your harnesses,” it replies.

  We do not have time. The hatches slam and the prowl cruiser launches, as is so often the case with elements of the Nova Corps, like a rocket at hypervelocity. We shoot skyward out of the bay like a golden bullet. Rocket and I are crushed back into our seats. Groot disappears backward down the cabin behind us with a strangled “I am Groot!” and ends up crumpled upside down against the bars of the suspect transport cage in the rear.

  Far below us, the magnificent vista of Xandar and the Hall of Justice recedes, bright in the sunlight. Sunbeams lens-flare through the window ports. In the impound bay, the Spaceknight slugs Yaer away from him, looks up to see us depart, and activates his propulsion system to give chase. He soars after us, struggling to match the prowl cruiser’s velocity. Yaer, Clawdi, and more than two hundred other Nova officers take to the air in pursuit. Chase ships and arrest fliers of the Corps join them. High above, heavy cruisers and mass-driver vessels move in to blockade the orbital route.

  “The identified jeopardy is following this vehicle,” the automatic voice tells us. “This vehicle will attempt to achieve appropriate safe distance.”

  The prowl cruiser accelerates. Hard.

  We experience extreme G-force push, a pressure so intense that our cheeks begin to flap. Well, mine don’t, gentle reader, because they are made of synthetic polyalloy. But Rocket looks like a dog with a migraine grimacing in a wind tunnel.

  Behind us, the Spaceknight knows his efforts are wasted. He cannot keep up with us. Moreover, the heavy cruisers in close orbit have target-locked him with their main batteries—main batteries more than capable of incinerating even a relentless and determined Galadoran warrior.

  He activates whatever exotic device first brought him to us and vanishes in a blister of torn reality.

  The prowl cruiser immediately begins to decelerate. However, we are already almost eighty million distance units out from Xandar.

  Rocket slumps forward, the G-force lifted. From far behind us, Groot groans.

  “Why are you slowing down?” Rocket asks the console. “Hey, hey! Keep going!”

  “The jeopardy has gone,” the automatic voice replies. “This vehicle will now return you to Xandar and into the custody of Grekan Yaer.”

  “No, no, no!” Rocket yelps. He thumps the console in frustration.

  The big red X reappears and pulses.

  “Forbidden. Your authority is not recognized. Don’t make
this vehicle use the gas.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” gabbles Rocket. “My bad. I’m sorry! It’s just, we were doing so well. You, us, on our way to who knows what adventures. Come on, it was kinda fun, wasn’t it?”

  “The jeopardy has gone,” the automatic voice repeats. “This vehicle will now return you to Xandar and into the custody of Grekan Yaer.”

  “But the adventures? The fun?” Rocket asks in a quiet, disappointed voice. “We were going to have such adventures…uh… vehicle.”

  “The jeopardy has gone,” the automatic voice insists. “This vehicle will now return you to Xandar and into the custody of Grekan Yaer.”

  Rocket turns and looks at me with a sigh.

  “Oh well,” he says.

  Of course, one does not always have to go looking for adventures, gentle and generous-hearted reader. Sometimes adventures come to find you. And they are not always good adventures.

  A force seizes the prowl cruiser. Alarms blare, but the vehicle cannot fight the tractor-beam holding it.

  “What the flark?” Rocket has time to say.

  We get a brief glimpse of an immense battlecruiser de-cloaking in front of us, and then a trans-mat beam dematerializes us and the prowl cruiser along with us…

  …and rematerializes us in the stark belly-hold of the gigantic battlecruiser. It is a cyclopean space, like the interior of a temple designed by a minimalist.

  “Do not be alarmed, criminals,” the automatic voice says calmly. “Jeopardy has been identified, and this vehicle will protect you with all the means at its disposal.”

  “That doesn’t really reassure me,” says Rocket. “Look at the flarking size of this place!”

  Outside, hatches open, and fire teams of warriors rush onto the hold floor to surround us. Their green-and-white uniform armor design is unmistakable.

  “Kree?” exclaims Rocket. “It’s the d’ast-damned flarking Kree?”

  A statuesque figure walks out behind the troopers. She wears a powered exoskeleton over which she is draped in distinctive, hooded uniform robes. The robes are emerald green; the exoskeleton armor is black. In her left hand, she carries a ceremonial power-hammer.

  “You in the ship!” she booms in a voice that would intimidate a Skrull armada. “Hear me! I am Sharnor the Accuser! I hold the high rank of Accuser as a governor and jurist, to arbitrate law and control across the Kree Stellar Empire! I bear these responsibilities according to the lasting, eternal edicts of the Supreme Intelligence! Get out of the ship and kneel before me! Now!”

  “Flark,” says Rocket.

  “This vehicle is not quite sure what it can do about this particular jeopardy,” says the automatic voice. “I am Groot,” says Groot.

  I did not know, either. We suddenly found ourselves prisoners of one of the most powerful and militaristic cultures in known space. And we did not even know why. This was a reversal of fortune. This was utterly unforseeable.

  This was a sudden, surprise twist, gentle reader.

  You didn’t see that coming, did you?

  • CHAPTER FIFTEEN •

  IN WHICH WE STAND ACCUSED

  [DISSEMBLING MODE DEACTIVATED]

  CAUTIOUSLY, we emerge from the prowl cruiser. Ranks of first-echelon Kree warriors face us, proud and formidable in their sculpturally crested helms and green-and-white uniforms. The uni-beam weapons they aim at us are even prouder and more formidable.

  Steam billows across the mesh deck, rolling away from us like ground mist as the internal atmosphere of the prowl cruiser exhales and blows the vapor back. There is no sound except the quiet clicking of the prowl cruiser’s cooling engines, the muffled crackle of the Kree soldiers’ helm intercoms, and the distant, half-audible announcements from other parts of the immense battlecruiser. Because of Kree physiology, the air in the hold has a slightly raised nitrogen content.

  The towering figure of the Accuser regards us coldly. Unlike most of the warriors around her, she is blue-skinned, indicating that she is of the “purebred” racial minority. Evolutionarily, the blue-skinned elite—considered the most racially ancient and original form of the species—are more gracile and less robust than the pink-skinned majority. There is, however, nothing that might remotely be described as “gracile” about Sharnor the Accuser. I suspect her undoubtedly impressive physique is the result of extensive genetic engineering and possibly cybernetic enhancement.

  She studies us for a moment longer. Then she turns to the Kree officer at her side.

  “Captain Yon-Dor, instruct the helm to reactivate the aura of negativity and make best speed for Hala.”

  “Yes, Accuser.”

  “We are deep in Xandarian territory, and out of jurisdiction. The Worldmind of Xandar will have detected us the moment we decloaked. If we remain here, it will wish to challenge us. It may even consider our presence here an act of aggression.”

  “Yes, Accuser.”

  “Also, establish an Omni-wave link to Hala. Inform Stellar Command that we have acquired the Rigellian artifact.”

  The Captain salutes and turns to gabble instructions into his helmet com.

  The Accuser returns her icy gaze to us.

  “Not much to look at,” she murmurs. “I hope all this effort was worth it. But if this ensures the future survival of our race and our continued dominance in the Galaxy—”

  “That’s a lot to ask of us,” says Rocket.

  She glares at him.

  “Anyway, this is nice,” Rocket continues, turning in a slow circle and looking up to admire the truly colossal space of the hold around us. “Love what you’ve done with the place. And wow, Hala, huh?”

  He looks back at the Accuser.

  “A free trip to Hala, birthworld of the Kree. Nice. I haven’t been to Hala in the longest time. Tell me, they used to mix a mean Timothy in the Pleasure Palaces of Lar-Lux, you know, down south on the coast there? They still—”

  “Do not talk,” snaps the Accuser. “Do not speak unless it is in answer to a direct question. Do you understand?”

  Rocket hesitates.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Oh,” says Rocket. “Was that one of the direct questions?”

  “Yes.”

  She waits.

  “Answer!”

  “Sorry,” says Rocket. “I was confused. You see, ‘yes’ isn’t a direct question. Neither is ‘answer!’ actually, so I really shouldn’t be speaking now. What was the question again?”

  “Do you understand?!”

  “I reckon I do,” says Rocket.

  “Bring them!” the Accuser tells her soldiers. We are duly brought. As we leave the hold, surrounded by a phalanx of unsmiling Kree warriors with unsmiling heavy weapons, we hear an automatic voice call out faintly behind us.

  It says, “This vehicle will just stay here and wait, then? See you criminal guys later, this vehicle guesses…”

  We are brought down a long way. We are marched along the lofty and gleaming hallways and corridors of the massive battleship. The decks are throbbing gently, and I realize we are under way and traveling at high warp.

  We are brought through monumental drive chambers, crossing these stupendous spaces on long, slender walkways that bridge one side of each chamber to the other at high level. Below us, prodigious drive units—each one the size of a city block—pulse with inner light as they generate Nega-energy to power the ship. The Kree engineers maintaining the drive units far below look no bigger than dust mites. I do not have a chance to observe and record the view for long, because we are being brought rather briskly. Besides, the soaring walkways have no guardrails whatsoever, and the drop is making me a bit giddy.

  Finally, we are brought down a long corridor where the walls, high ceiling, and deck are so polished they seem like mirrors. The haughty Sharnor the Accuser leads the way. Her men stamp along on either side of us, rigid and uniform as automata. At the far end is a massive blast door. It is guarded by a towering Sentry, one of the Kree Stellar Empire’s indomitable hum
anoid war robots. It is significantly taller than Groot and broader than a bulldozer. It is so broad, in fact, that it looks stocky despite its imposing height. Its complex armored bodywork gleams purple with pale blue highlights.

  Sharnor the Accuser halts in front of it.

  “Sentry #212,” she says.

  It answers with a deep, electronic grumble.

  “Observe these three prisoners. Store their identities in your database.”

  It issues another electronic rumble.

  “My orders, Sentry #212,” says the Accuser. “These prisoners are not permitted to leave the ship without my express authority. If they attempt to escape, you will pursue them. You may obliterate that one—”

  She points to Rocket.

  “—and that one.”

  She indicates Groot.

  “That one,” she says, pointing to me, “must be recovered without damage and brought to me intact. Are my orders clear?”

  A deep electronic rumble indicates the affirmative.

  “Open the chamber door,” she says. “Soldiers? Bring them.”

  The hatch whirrs open like the door of a bank vault. The Sentry stands aside to let us pass.

  As we are brought for the final time, I notice the signage above the hatch. It reads, in High-Halan, Chamber of Examination.

  WE enter a large, circular compartment. There is a raised, round podium in the center of the floor, bathed from above in cold blue light. Facing it, around the edge of the chamber, is a semicircle of large, raised thrones.

  The hatch closes behind us. A brisk gesture from Captain Yon-Dor indicates that we are expected to mount the short flight of steps and stand on the podium. Sharnor the Accuser takes a seat on the central throne and rests her chin on her fist, studying us. The warrior escort withdraws to the back of the room.