Gamora cocked her head. That probably wasn’t good. She cut short her search of a massive staff kitchen and ran toward the windows. There: The Guardians’ ship was hovering above the podium, across the courtyard.
And there: another ship—smaller, sleeker, likely uncrewed—chasing after Quill. He was horizontal, his boots firing at full force, his eyes flaring red. He bent in midair to send a flare of flame at the ship behind him, then swerved underneath the nearest skyway, off to the side of the courtyard.
“The Kree are slow on the uptake today,” Gamora grumbled. “Haven’t they realized yet that we’re trying to save their asses?”
“Focus on finding the Grootling!” Quill called. “I can manage!”
One problem with that command: Quill’s helmet and its array of scanners was the best tool they had to find the Grootling. Gamora took a second to analyze Quill’s and the ship’s trajectories: He was moving in circles to try to lose his tail, but she had a hunch where he was headed.
Gamora bolted back into the hallway. She was on the fifth floor, near the transparent walkway that the Grootling had crashed into. She ran to the walkway’s center, shards of glass cracking under her boots, the sky open above her.
As she’d thought: Quill was staying near the skyways and buildings, where his maneuverability might be an asset. He shot past like a bullet, offering a salute as he went.
Gamora leapt.
The Kree guard ship—she recognized the type; uncrewed and remote-controlled—flashed past. As soon as she landed on its hull, she began to lose her footing. She pinned down her sword, cleaving the metal to hold herself in place. Wind came at her full force. The ship turned sharply to follow Quill, heading back toward the courtyard. She took a moment to look down. The courtyard was crammed full, but still more people were being evacuated from the buildings. Some left in groups, huddling close together. Some left on their own, clutching bleeding body parts as they ran.
(Those lasers firing at Quill were bothersome. She crawled upside down along the bottom of the ship and took the weapons out with fast, decisive slashes of her sword.)
The crowd was a colorful array of blue Kree, pink Kree, green DiMavi, and a handful of other species. Several heads craned to look up at the ships. Other people shoved each other, pushing across the courtyard toward what looked like designated shuttle landing sites. Two shuttles sat there now, but they were small—barely able to hold 40 people apiece. At this rate, the courtyard was filling up faster than it was emptying out.
(Whoever was directing the ship had become aware of her presence. Abandoning the pursuit of Quill, the ship zig-zagged wildly, spinning overhead once, twice—trying to throw her off. Kids’ stuff.)
Kree military were herding people into position, directing them to either side of the courtyard—separating the civilians, Gamora noted. It was as if they’d drawn a line from the ceremonial stage down through the courtyard, keeping the civilians on one side, and using the other side to give the remaining military enough space to regroup and to treat the wounded.
(Gamora stalked forward along the ship’s hull, ignoring the various weak spots. She didn’t want to bring the ship down over all these people—only direct it away.)
Across the courtyard, a sudden movement among the civilians caught her eye. A flash of a striped tail, a gun swinging by the figure’s side. Rocket leapt from head to head, occasionally pausing and standing straight up to study the crowd, then scampering away again.
(It was time to end this. Uncrewed ships still typically had manual-override controls inside. Gamora planted herself right on top of the ship and thrust her sword down, working to open a hole.)
Drax had made it to the courtyard. He was storming his way through the crowd, head whipping from left to right, searching for the Grootling.
“Thanks for the distraction, Gamora.” Quill hovered above the crowd, the red eyes of his helmet scanning the military personnel. “I can only scan three soldiers at a time—and they keep moving around. By the way, Kiya, was my ship always like that?”
“Um. You mean the hole?” she said.
“I mean the hole.”
“…It was there before.”
“Huh,” he said. “Must’ve missed it.”
Gamora slipped into the Kree shuttle through the opening she’d carved, landing on the floor with a thud. She’d been right: manual-override controls, right in front of her. Her hands raced over the dashboard, flicked the holos that came up, and tore back the thruster. Within moments, she had control of the shuttle. She set it to hover in midair not far from the Guardians’ ship and clambered back out, striding across the hull.
As she drew nearer to the Guardians’ ship, she saw what Quill had been talking about. The Collector must’ve blown a hole through their cargo bay doors to get to Kiya. Four—no, five—Grootlings crouched low in the opening, holding onto each other to keep from falling out as they scanned the ground—presumably for a sign of the poison Grootling.
“Kiya blew a hole in the ship?” Rocket said. “Typical.” Gamora spotted him in the crowd below. He was speeding up, bouncing from skull to skull and leaving behind a trail of cringing civilians. “Hey. Hey! Near the stage. That Kree’s movements look familiar.”
“Scanning him now,” Quill said.
The Kree soldier Rocket had indicated moved strangely, the way someone much taller might, or someone severely injured. He seemed confused—looking around him, sometimes hesitating, then rushing forward again. He climbed onto the stage, ignoring commands from the military officials clustered on the other side.
If Annay had given the Grootling a preprogrammed command—and she must have, for him to strike out on his own like this—Gamora would put money on it being “take out the highest-ranking Kree you can.”
This qualified.
“I see him.” She breathed deep. “Take the shot.”
She hated to say the words. If the Grootling had been shaking off the brainwashing, maybe they could talk to him and get through—
But not fast enough to stop him from hurting people.
“Groot!” Rocket dashed toward the Grootling, running across the heads of the crowd. “Groot!”
The disguised Grootling stood on stage, facing the military side. He spread his arms.
Quill aimed and fired. A blast of ice slammed into the Grootling’s chest. It knocked him back, off balance. The holo around him flickered rapidly, alternating between Kree soldier and battered Grootling.
Then the holo fizzled out completely, leaving only the Grootling.
He stretched again, looking dazed, arms wide—
The lieutenants were climbing onstage, running over to tackle him—
“They’re in the way!” Quill yelled, flying down like a spear. “I can’t—Rocket, get away!”
Rocket abruptly stopped a few feet away from the stage.
The Grootling had gotten turned around. He faced the civilian crowd now, roaring, his voice splintering. He didn’t even seem to see Rocket.
“Groot?” Rocket shrank back.
“Don’t!” Kiya said, her voice shrill over comms. “I can’t stop them!”
Them?
Gamora’s head snapped up. There, in the open cargo bay of the Guardians’ ship. Where she’d counted five Grootlings before, now they filled the entire opening. Adults, saplings, and every stage in between. The smaller Grootlings clung to the older ones’ legs to steady themselves against the wind. The Groots peered past the edge of the ship to the scene on the ground.
They looked determined.
Gamora knew what that determination meant, that tension in their legs. Their fixation on the stage right beneath them. They were going to jump.
She wanted to shout at them to stop, the way Kiya was doing.
They couldn’t survive a drop like this.
They would lose themselves.
But if they didn’t jump—if they walked away when they could help—they would lose themselves anyway. They wouldn’t be Groot.
They wouldn’t be a Guardian.
Groot couldn’t give that up so easily. Gamora understood that with a sudden sharpness. She wouldn’t have been able to give it up, either.
The Grootling on stage knocked the approaching Kree lieutenants aside. “I am Groot! I am Groot!”
The air in front of him shattered into glittering spores.
Just a few feet away, perched atop a DiMavi’s shoulders, Rocket froze.
Nowhere to hide, no time to run—
“Rocket!” Gamora screamed.
And the Grootlings in the cargo bay leapt.
47
THE GROOTS could block the spores.
Their duplicate stood on the stage below them. The spores spun toward the crowd and Rocket, irreversible and unstoppable. Their friends were scattered around the courtyard, down in the crowds and up in the air, too far to help.
But the Groots were close—so close they could jump. If enough of them landed on that stage, if they spread out fast and gathered every scrap of energy they had left—maybe they could catch and block enough of the spores to make a difference.
The Groots had changed, these past weeks and days. Shards of memories had slipped into nothingness. Traits and habits had faded. Bit by bit, each of them had twisted, shifted further away from who they had been and from the others around them.
They hadn’t felt apart. They hadn’t felt separated.
They had felt like themselves, only less.
But even with everything that had changed, three things had stayed the same:
Their desire to help.
Their love of people.
Rocket.
They leapt.
As they fell—air rushing past them, screams and gasps below, gripping each other’s shoulders and hands tight—for the first time in weeks, they felt—
They felt a little bit more again.
Rocket was down there. They could see him as they fell. He was a small statue of fear, his ears pressed flat to the sides of his head, eyes wide and fixed on the Groot on stage. His mouth moved in a quiet, frightened question: Groot?
The spores glittered and spun and shone, a snowstorm in miniature.
The civilians in the crowd didn’t realize the danger. As the spores whirled their way, they watched with a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity. DiMavi and Kree, adults and children, each of them alive and bright and beautiful.
Rocket did realize the danger. Every inch of him showed it.
The Groots realized, too. As they fell, they feared and loved, all at once, all the same, their minds surging closer and aligning for just this moment.
And the hands they held slid into one. They slipped into each other, grew toward each other, legs twisting into one and arms stretching into one and minds spinning into one—
—flashes of the fighting pits—the greenhouse on Pirinida—the Collector’s smile—sitting on the kitchen counter beside Gamora—Kiya’s hands—
—vines around Drax in the back room of the bar, depositing him in the chute—
All of it whirled together.
They might not have felt apart—but Groot realized, now, that he had been. He’d been more apart than ever, apart and alone and separate, and nothing, nothing like the way he felt now:
more
and
whole
and
strong
and
him
Groot landed on the very edge of the stage on two massive feet, bending his legs to absorb the blow.
“I!”
He stood straight, tossed his head back.
“Am!”
He spread his arms, stretched them wide, grew them thick.
“Groot!”
Twigs sprang to life across his body. They grew along his shoulders, raced across the length of his arms; they sprouted from his sides and chest; they twined out from his legs. He was a forest. He was a wall. He was a shield. Each twig sprouted another, coiled farther, forked off into more, burst into wild, curled leaves.
The spores settled on him gently, harmlessly. They nestled in the cracks of his bark. They lingered in the leaves. They sank into him and faded into nothing.
The air no longer glittered.
Across from him, the other Groot stood. He was so small—or perhaps Groot himself was now so large. He’d grown; he was twice his normal size, perhaps bigger. He couldn’t tell, he just knew he felt alive—
“I am Groot,” the other Groot said, defiant, unsure. Confused.
“I am Groot,” Groot returned. He stepped forward. He crouched, letting their eyes meet.
“I am Groot—”
He embraced the other Groot, pulling him in tight.
“I…am…”
The other Groot’s voice was muffled. Groot’s bark grew into his. Twigs wrapped around him, braiding together and drawing him in close, close, closer.
Groot felt an initial spark of resistance, as though he were being pushed away. Their minds had strayed apart. He reached out further, and embraced those differences, too.
They sank into each other.
“Buddy?” a small voice behind him said.
Groot turned.
Rocket climbed onto the stage. His ears were pointed upright again, but his tail dipped low, and his eyes were wary.
“It’s really you? It’s all of you?”
Groot crouched. Slowly, the branches he’d grown across his body drew back in, shrinking down and smoothing over.
He flicked Rocket’s nose.
“We are Groot.”
48
PETER shot straight up, past the walls of Addil Hall toward its roof.
As he went, he watched the courtyard below. The Kree were continuing the evacuation, even with the biggest danger passed. He listened in on Gamora, who was on the stage trying to convince the generals to let the Guardians take Groot with them. The Kree insisted he stay to be quarantined and interrogated.
Groot made the decision for them.
He nodded at the generals, smiling. He took hold of Gamora with one oversized hand and Drax with the other—Rocket had already settled in on his shoulder—and stretched his arms high enough to reach the Guardians’ ship still floating overhead.
It seemed to take no effort at all. Even when Peter saw small flashes of red and orange bouncing off Groot—the Kree were shooting at his legs—he shrugged it off.
“Rocket?” Peter said through his communicator. “I want to talk to Captain Mari-Kee or Captain Ol-Varr once I’m on board. Find a way to get hold of them.”
Groot might be unfazed, but Peter would still prefer the Guardians to take their leave without being chased by laser beams and energy blasts—let alone a warship.
The team would stick around Vadin for at least another day, and there was plenty of time to sit down and talk through the Guardians’ role in what happened. They had saved the Elder Council and attempted to cooperate with the captains, and everyone in that courtyard had seen the Groot from the ship defending against the attacker. Those things should buy the team some good will.
For now, the Kree needed to focus on the panicky civilians in their courtyard. The Guardians had a couple of things to take care of.
Like Annay, to start with.
Peter deactivated his helmet and slowed as he reached the roof. Annay sat right where he’d left her, cuffed to one of the transmitter masts that stretched up from the building. She’d woken up.
She watched him, her head resting back against the mast. He’d left her in the shade. It turned her skin dark and her eyes shimmery.
“Hey, you,” she drawled.
“’Sup.” He landed a couple of feet in front of her.
“Still up for renting those motorcycles?”
He walked over, crouched by her side, and started to uncuff her. The wind was fierce up here—tugging at their clothes, tangling their hair, thinning their voices.
Annay’s head turned, her eyes on Peter’s even as he kept his averted. “I�
�m guessing you saved the day,” she said. It wasn’t quite a question.
“It’s kind of what we do.” A moment before releasing the cuffs, he paused. “You know fighting me now would just be embarrassing for you, don’t you?”
“Don’t worry, Earth boy. I’ve got more sense than that.”
He considered her for a moment. The white hair, the round face and sharp eyes. She looked tired in a way he wouldn’t have been able to picture earlier that day. “Yeah. You did seem sensible.”
“I should’ve stuck with the hands-off approach.” She sighed. “Are you handing me over to my government?”
“Your favorite people. Looks like we’re visiting the embassy after all.” He unclicked the cuffs.
She scrabbled to her feet and offered him a wry smile. “You gonna come see me in prison, at least?”
A massive shape rose up from Peter’s left. The Guardians’ ship was approaching. Peter caught a glimpse of the bridge—Rocket grinning wildly in the pilot’s seat, and behind him, the unmistakeable shape of Groot leaning in to peer through the viewport.
Peter held up a hand in greeting.
So did Groot.
Drax, in the navigator’s seat, thumped Groot on the back and exclaimed something Peter couldn’t hear.
As the ship rose to hover overhead, Peter looked back at Annay to answer her question. “Yeah…murder? Actually a big turn-off.” He stepped closer, grabbing her tightly around the waist.
He paused. “So—don’t read anything into this part.”
He kicked off from the ground, straight up toward his ship.
If only this meant the Guardians were done for the day.
THE SHIP was a flarking mess.
They left the DiMavi embassy behind, flying their busted ship out of the city to find somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed for a while.
The desert seemed like a good place.
Space seemed like a better place, Rocket thought, but the gaping hole in the cargo bay kinda prevented that. And they had to stay on Vadin for a while longer anyway, to clean up their mess. Rocket would still have preferred the novelty of having their spaceship actually be spaceworthy—especially with the Collector out there. It was always possible the Kree would change their minds and come after them, too.
Guardians of the Galaxy: Collect Them All Page 29