by Dan Abnett
“This is why you need me,” I sigh. “To complete this.”
“Yes -tik!-” says Gruntgrill.
“You have the whole of creation in data form down there, apart from the portion I represent.”
“I am Groot,” says Groot.
“Yeah, explain!” Rocket urges with his unfeasibly large weapon.
“It’s a datamap!” Gruntgrill cries. “A datamap of all creation. When it’s complete, Timely Inc. will understand the fundamental nature of everything and comprehend the known Galaxy down to a pico-molecular level. Thus we can precision-market and audience-tailor our billions of products like never before. We will know and understand everything. Everything! We will dominate the Galaxy and secure our position for eternity as an entity more powerful than any species!”
“Like Google Earth?” I say.
“I don’t know what that is,” Gruntgrill replies.
“Nice speech,” says Gamora, aiming her swords at Gruntgrill. “Can I kill him now?”
Rocket waves a disconcertingly human-like hand.
“This is about money?” he asks Gruntgrill.
“About -tik!- power! With money comes power!”
“I do like money,” Rocket says.
“Why have you used—abused, I should say—the Rigellian Recorders?” I ask.
Gruntgrill looks at me. “Because we’ve -tik!- been working on Project 616 for decades. We realized the data collection was going to take decades more to complete. We -tik!- fast-tracked it. We realized that using Rigellian Recorders was a brilliant way to expedite the process. We abducted all the Recorders we could find, copied their memories, and then sent them out again, reprogrammed.”
Gruntgrill looks at me sadly.
“You are the last one. The most special one.”
“Special? Why?”
“When you were-tik!-abducted by Timely, you managed to escape.”
“Hey, go you, Recorder-dude!” says Rocket.
“You accidentally viewed and recorded the entire Timely Datacore,” says Gruntgrill. “You -tik!- know everything. You’re the last big missing chunk that we need to get the Datacore percentile to a working level. But you’re also, essentially, a pirate copy of the entire core. That’s why everyone -tik!- is after you.”
“That explains the blanks,” I say. “Data overload. I do not know what I know.”
I look at Rocket Raccoon. Then I turn back to the executive.
“If I join this,” I say, indicating the throbbing pink glow below me, “then you will achieve total data-control of the Universe?”
“Yes,” says Gruntgrill.
“That is akin to the Power Cosmic,” I suggest.
“Friend, it is the Power Cosmic.”
I turn back to Rocket.
“Rocket Raccoon,” I say. “I trust you. Do this for me now. Use your unfeasibly large gun and annihilate me. Do it quick. I will not be part of this.”
“Hey!” he says, backing off in alarm.
I spread my arms.
“I am a clear target. Do it. Save the Universe. Guard the Galaxy. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rocket breathes. “But not like this…”
“Rocket Raccoon, I implore you,” I say. “I am the last piece of the puzzle. I am the Universe. Through me, Timely Inc. can control creation. I do not want that. I do not want them to possess the Power Cosmic. Complete universal data. Do you have any idea what that means?”
“No,” says Rocket. “And because I don’t work that way, I ain’t gonna shoot you. You’re my pal, for d’ast sakes.”
“Please…annihilate me,” I say.
Reality edits itself. I taste page-turn surprise and dramatic twist.
The Spaceknight suddenly reappears.
“Oh, flark!” says Rocket.
“He’s mine!” cries Gamora.
Roamer pounds across the walkway. She springs to meet him, a ninja-shadow. Their blades clash, her two against his laser sword, and sparks fly.
They trade blows at a furious speed that is hard to record.
I just…I just want to die. I want my very existence to be ended. I have been used. I am going to be used. For all his bluff exterior and sarcastic wise-crackery, Rocket Raccoon has a heart of gold. And for that, I will suffer. And the Universe as I know it—and as you know it, gentle reader—will suffer also. Universe 616 will become entirely controlled by the soulless executives of Timely Inc.
I look pleadingly at Rocket, but he is too busy trying to aim his unfeasibly large weapon at Roamer. Gamora keeps getting in his line of fire. Groot, his aim also thwarted, groans in despair.
Roamer and Gamora duel on the edge of the walkway overlooking the throbbing Datacore, sword against swords. Each of them represents the pinnacle of their own kind’s fighting evolution. As a document of ultimate martial prowess, what I record is worth enough, in and of itself. Their battle is the greatest and most skillful sword fight in the history of swords. Ever.
I know this for a fact. I have compared and contrasted. You can forget Liam Neeson versus Ray Park. Or Christopher Lambert versus the Kurgan. Or Errol Flynn versus Robert Douglas in The Adventures of Don Juan. Or Tyrone Power versus Basil Rathbone in The Mark of Zorro. Or Yu Shen Lien versus Jan Yu in the estimable Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Or Toshiro Mifune against absolutely everyone in The Seven Samurai. Or even Inigo Montoya versus the Dread Pirate Roberts (yes, yes, once again, I am tailoring the references to your culture base, dear reader).
They are so fast. Blade blocks blade blocks blade. He is heavily armored; she is not. She is lithe and athletic; he is stoic and determined.
She darts, he sweeps. He strikes, she dives. He stabs at her, but she is no longer there. She rips at him, but he ripostes with a rising blade. He sweeps at her, two-handed. She ducks the blow and comes in with a flurry of strikes.
She wounds him, and he falls back against the rail. He blocks her rain of blows and cuts her. She falls back, bleeding from the throat. She kicks him back into the rail and smashes his head to one side. She is about to deliver the kill-stroke.
Suddenly she convulses, her body crackling with electrical discharge, and falls onto the walkway.
We are surrounded by Timely Inc. security guards, their Sub-duematics aimed. A fierce Z’Nox leads them, and it is his shot that has put Gamora down at the moment of victory.
“Oh, Xorb!” cries Gruntgrill. “Am I -tik!- glad to see you!”
The Z’Nox ignores him, and aims his weapon at Rocket and Groot. So do the other security guys.
“Drop the unfeasibly large weapons now!” the Z’Nox demands.
They have no choice. Their guns clatter to the walkway, and they raise their hands.
Roamer gets up, tossing the unconscious and limp form of Gamora off him. He points his sword at me.
“Recorder 127,” he growls, his visor glowing blood-red. “I promised to deliver, and I have, Xorb Xorbux.”
The Z’Nox, Xorb Xorbux, breathes out.
“Worth the wait,” he says. “I knew you’d come through, Roamer.” His men move forward, and lock Rocket and Groot in mag-cuffs. They surround me, Subduematic phase pistols aimed.
“Good, good,” says Xorb Xorbux. “A proper solutionization. Gruntgrill? Tell Hanxchamp the good news.”
Gruntgrill flips out his tablet and dials.
“What’s going to happen to us?” Rocket asks the Z’Nox.
• CHAPTER FORTY •
DANGER IN THE WORKPLACE
“Nothing,” Xorb Xorbux replies. “For ever.”
Rocket swallows hard.
“Sir, this is Gruntgrill! We have secured the Recorder, sir!” the Kaliklaki says into his mobile. “Yes, intact. We—what? What’s happening, now?”
He lowers the tablet and looks at Xorb Xorbux. His face is tight with fear.
“You’re never going to believe this,” he says. “The -tik!- Kree are here!”
SENIOR Vice Executive President (Special Projects) Odus
Hanxchamp had thought he was doing so well, ushering the four powerful Nova Corpsmen and the frightening quartet of Shi’ar Guardsmen, not to mention their armor-clattering retinue of Metal Wing warriors, down to the Executive Boardroom. Beverages had been laid on, along with crudites and dips. There was juice and biscuits and nibbles.
Some of the Metal Wing troopers had raised their visors to enjoy a piquant salsa-dipped root stick and a cup of hot beverage. Sub-Praetor Arach was actually engaging Grekan Yaer in idle chit-chat. Hanxchamp’s execs were circulating with platters of hors d’oeuvres.
The business method, Hannxchamp thought. That’s the way the Universe works.
His tablet rang, and he was about to answer it.
Thunder boomed.
Two huge warships hanging in inter-atmospheric space would be one thing. But suddenly there was a third: the Kree battleship Pride of Pama. It was twice as big again as the Shi’ar cruiser or the Nova Corps Heavy. It hung outside the Timely Inc. HQ tower, an impossible mass gradually appearing as its aura of negativity fell away.
Sharnor the Accuser teleported directly to the Executive Boardroom. She was a towering figure.
“The Recorder is mine!” she declared, smashing her force-hammer down on the table, which shattered. She aimed an accusatory finger at the Shi’ar and Xandarians present. “No one move. This is Kree business.”
Both the Shi’ar and the Xandarians would have fought back in an instant, except that Sharnor wasn’t the only being who had teleported in. With her came a hundred armed Kree warriors and three Sentry units. The boardroom was getting crowded.
“Well,” said Arach, her voice a shrill, slippery squeak. “What we seem to have here is a standoff, Lady Accuser.”
“No,” snapped Sharnor. “What we seem to have here is total Kree control. Make a move—you or any of your soldiers—and we will obliterate you. Same goes for you, Xandarians.”
“The Nova Corps does not respond well to bullying, Accuser,” replied Grekan Yaer.
“This is not bullying, Xandarian,” Sharnor said, dropping her voice. “This is military domination! Stand down, leave, or die. I give you this choice!”
“You’ve crossed a line, Accuser,” Yaer insisted. “This is an act of war. It breaks every non-aggression treaty in—”
“This is an act of self-defense, Xandarian,” Sharnor countered. “The Kree Stellar Empire is taking urgent action to protect itself against a potentially overwhelming threat. A threat represented by the Timely Inc. megacorporation. They are about to acquire such power, they will depose all other empires and civilizations. They are about to steal the Galaxy from us all.”
She looked at Yaer, then at Arach.
“Tell me you don’t suspect as much. Tell me that’s not why you’re here, too.”
“We…we are concerned,” Arach admitted.
“We know something’s going on,” said Yaer.
“Then we should be standing shoulder-to-shoulder in this,” Sharnor said contemptuously. “This threat menaces us all. The worlds of Xandar, the dominions of the Shi’ar. This… megacorporation cannot be allowed to achieve such power.”
“I think you’ll find that what Timely Inc. does is entirely Timely Inc. business,” said Hanxchamp. “We inventize, we designerate, and we developmentationalize. Then we benefit from that invest-mentage. You can’t come in here and tell us to stop developing a project just because you don’t like it.”
He faltered. The Accuser glared at him.
“Look at me,” she said. “Do I not appear to be exactly the sort of person who could do that? Bring the Recorder unit to me.”
“Hang on,” said Hanxchamp. “We don’t even know if the flarking thing is on the premises. We’re searching now, but it’s not definite that—”
“We have been told it is here. This has been confirmed,” said Sharnor.
“Told?” Hanxchamp said, outraged. “Told? Lady, I can assure you—”
“The Recorder unit is here,” Pama Harnon said, stepping forward. “Hanxchamp confirmed this to me just minutes ago. Timely security is attempting to secure it and hide it while he keeps you busy.”
“Pam?” Hanxchamp gasped.
“I do not work for you,” said Pama Harnon coldly.
“Una-Ren is one of my most trusted infiltration agents,” said Sharnor. She looked at “Pama Harnon.” “You have performed excellently in the name of the Kree Empire, Una-Ren. You will be honored and rewarded on our return to Hala.”
The spy nodded.
“Produce the Recorder unit now,” Sharnor said to Hanxchamp. “We will put an end to your dreams of total galactic domination.”
“No, you will deliver him to us,” said a new voice.
A full-size holographic image had appeared at one end of the Executive Boardroom. It was a Badoon War Brotherhood Commander. The telepresent figure leered at them. He had recently undergone extensive cybernetic reconstruction, and it had not improved his visual appeal.
“I am War Brotherhood Commander Droook,” the image said. “You will deliver the Recorder unit to War Brotherhood hands or face the consequences.”
“Consequences?” Hanxchamp stammered.
“Failure to comply will result in the obliteration of this building, this city, and the landmass it stands upon.”
“Scans confirm that a War Brotherhood battlefleet has just appeared in low orbit,” said Ebon, consulting her tablet device in alarm. “Ten megadestroyers, batteries locked on to this location… and our ships.”
Outside, downtown Alpha C was now cast into shadow by thirteen massive warships. The War Brotherhood megadestroyers of the Badoon hung in a silent, ominous ring around the HQ—weapons ready to discharge at any hint of resistance from Timely Inc., or defiance by the Shi’ar, Kree, or Xandarian vessels.
“You just escalated this to an insane level,” Grekan Yaer said to the image of the Badoon.
“The Kree will not allow this!” Sharnor boomed.
“The Shi’ar Empire will prosecute any move against us by the Badoon with extreme prejudice,” warned Arach.
“None of you are in a position to negotiate,” said Droook. “All War Brotherhood batteries are locked on. Give us the Recorder now.”
“My kind will not stand for this!” Allandra Meramati cried suddenly.
“Yeah, we’ve heard the Shi’ar position on the matter!” Hanxchamp snapped, frantically trying to think of an ace he could pull out of his sleeve.
“Shi’ar?” said Arach. “That female is not Shi’ar.”
“What?” said Hanxchamp.
Meramati pulled off her fake Shi’ar crest. Without the feathers, it became clear she had been a well-disguised Sirusite woman all along.
“Project 616 and the vital Recorder unit represent Truth. Total universal truth,” she said. “Thus I claim them on behalf of the Universal Church of Truth.”
The skies above Alpha C exploded in quivering, volcanic flashes of warp-gate energy. The weather systems cauldroned into a huge, seething torus a hundred kilometers wide.
Forty immense Templeships of the Universal Church of Truth, massive space vehicles that looked like airborne cathedrals, entered reality with an abominable boom of displaced atmospherics. They hovered above the city, dwarfing everything.
At that point, most of the staff at Alpha C Orbital Traffic Control just gave up and went home.
The Universal Church of Truth did not wait for discussion or negotiation, or even surrender. The moment they appeared, the Templeships began teleporting hosts of Crusaders, led by Cardinals.
A ruthless, all-out assault of Timely Inc. Corporate Headquarters began.
• CHAPTER FORTY-ONE •
TRUTH OR DARE
ARNOK Gruntgrill lowers his tablet. His face is pale and agitated.
“All -tik!- kindsa flark has broken loose upstairs,” he says to Xorb Xorbux. “I think…I think the -tik!- Badoon are here, too—and something else. The building’s under attack. It sounds like chaos.”
&nbs
p; “I’d better get up there and—” Xorb begins.
“No!” says Gruntgrill. “The last thing I heard Hanxchamp scream was that we needed to complete the Datacore. We need to -tik!- integrate the Recorder. If we get the Core up to power, we can wield it, Xorb. We can…incapacitate the alien forces with a blink of an eye. We can banish them with a thought.”
Xorb hesitates.
“You really don’t understand the potential of the Datacore, do you?” Gruntgrill asks him. “Knowledge is power, and all knowledge is all power.”
“I just thought Project 616 would enable us to control the market, be a jump or two ahead of our competitors,” says Xorb. “You know…by knowing more than anyone else.”
Gruntgrill shakes his head.
“It will make us gods, Xorb,” he says. “It will make Timely Inc. into an omnipotent entity. By understanding reality down to its most minuscule detail, we will be able to control it, manipulate it. There will be no more disruptions to our market strategy. No more Kree-Skrull wars, no more Annihilation events, no more invasive threats like Galactus or Thanos. We will create total -tik!- galactic stability—and control all lives everywhere, forever. In the mega-corp future, even the DNA of individual beings will carry the Timely logo. It will be a Timely Universe, and we will be its masters.”
“That sounds pretty flarking awful to me,” grumbles Rocket. He and Groot are cuffed behind us, under the watch of the security guards. Gamora, also cuffed, is sprawled on the floor behind them.
“You shut your lip!” Xorb growls at Rocket.
He looks at Gruntgrill. “Get on with it, then. Hurry.”
“You do not like this very much, do you?” I ask Gruntgrill.
“It -tik! - scares the willies out of me, frankly,” Gruntgrill replies.
“Just get it done, Gruntgrill!” Xorb barks. “I like the sound of being a god.”
Gruntgrill nods, and Roamer edges me toward the lip of the walkway. The Datacore blooms pink below us. I feel the crackle of the data inside me responding.