by Dan Abnett
“I am Groot.”
“Yeah, unless there is. Secret projects, secret places. The mail-delivery system would just route a parcel according to the tag. No questions asked. Gimme that tag!”
Gamora rips it off and hands it to him. Rocket sweeps up a mail-reader handset and scans it.
“Destination unknown,” the handset says.
“Locked out, more like,” says Rocket. “Blanked from the reader system. But not the routing system, or it wouldn’t have ended up here.”
“‘He,’ not ‘it,’” I say.
“Sure, whatever.” Rocket thinks for a moment. “Guys, it’s time to source this code. We need an executive terminal. Let’s find this Hanxchamp-dude’s office and—”
The mail in the wire bins around us starts to flap and flutter as if caught in a strong breeze.
Reality splits and blooms.
The matte-black Spaceknight Roamer appears before us.
“You!” growls Roamer.
“You!” hisses Gamora.
“You!” I gasp.
“I am Groot!” cries Groot.
“Not him again!” snaps Rocket.
Roamer raises his force pistol. Gamora flips out a knife from somewhere and hurls it at the Spaceknight. I have no idea where she had it concealed.
It strikes the Spaceknight directly in the visor slit and causes him to reel backward. His force pistol fires into the mail cages, blowing letters and documents in all directions. He fights to yank the knife out of his visor.
Rocket throws open the bin on our original cart and chucks weapons to Gamora and Groot amid a fluttering shower of scorched paperwork. Then he drags out his unfeasibly large gun.
He starts shooting.
Roamer pulls the knife free, and is immediately hit by laser rounds from Rocket’s gun, ripper barbs from Gamora’s pistol, and hard-matter concussion shells from Groot’s Nova Corps riot suppressor. The riot suppressor is a hefty piece of kit with a cyclic drum magazine that fusion-manufactures dedicated ballistics on demand. Groot is spraying fat-nosed, super-heavy rounds that are designed to smash and drop even the biggest opponent (or unruly crowd).
Roamer is sent flying back into the wall of mesh cages, and brings an entire shelving unit down on top of himself in an avalanche of paper and parcels.
“Run!” cries Rocket. Not for the first time, this sounds like expert tactical advice.
Alarms start to blare. Weapon discharge has been detected by the building’s sensors. We run, and we run hard. We are nearly at the mail-room door when it bursts open and a dozen Timely security guards enter, their Subduematics drawn.
Boot jets firing, Roamer lands in front of them, facing us with his back to them. He still has his force pistol. He has a laser sword in the other fist.
Perceiving him to be part of the threat, the guards open fire. Roamer stumbles forward as his armor takes a double-dozen Sub-duematic hits at close range.
He turns, and he kills them. All of them. With several brisk shots and several deft sweeps of his blade.
“This way! This way!” Rocket yells at us while Roamer is busy slaughtering the guards. We are running back into the mail room, away from the door.
“I can take him!” Gamora cries. “I owe him pain!”
“Great!” cries Rocket. “Send him an I.O.U. We’ve got places to be!”
He skids to a halt in front of a mail chute in the wall. He yanks open the hatch and scans the tag in his hand across the destination reader. It beeps. The words “security override…Senior Special Projects…” flash up on the display. Then the words “override approved.”
“Geronimo!” Rocket yells, and he leaps into the hatch. Groot, Gamora, and I look at each other.
“Oh, flark it,” Gamora says and jumps, too.
“I am Groot.”
“I know. Crazy, isn’t it?” I reply. “But we’ve come this far.”
• CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX •
MEANWHILE
[3,995 FLOORS HIGHER UP…]
I take Groot by the hand, and we leap into the chute—
And trust our fate to the intricate workings of Timely Inc.’s internal mail-delivery system.
“WHAT ?” Hanxchamp growled into the handset.
Senior Vice Executive President (Special Projects) Odus Hanxchamp had been enjoying a quiet moment in his inner office on the eight thousand and first floor of the Timely Inc. Headquarters building, taking in the view from his window.
Today, it was an emerald vista of the steaming rainforests of Huj, ringing with birdsong and reptilian choruses as the magnificent sunrise burst across the breathlessly green canopy.
“A security breach, sir,” said Xorb Xorbux on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, I saw it on my monitor. Some kind of incident in the mail room on 4006. Why are you bothering me with it, Xorbux? Get your staff on it pronto!”
On the other end of the line, Xorb Xorbux, the Z’Noxian head of Corporate Security (Special Projects), hesitated. The data from 4006 was sparse, but from the ambient-energy readings captured by the mail-room sensors—and the pile of dead security operatives—he was pretty certain it had something to do with Roamer. He didn’t want to bring that fact up until he was sure what the flark was going on. He’d been the one who’d recommended the Spaceknight. If it was all going to d’ast in a flark-cart, it would be Xorb’s head on the line.
He was relieved that he had something more important to communicate to his short-tempered boss.
Well, kind of relieved.
“That’s not what I was calling about, sir,” Xorbux said. “There’s a more major security breach. You…you should look out of the window.”
“I am looking out of the window!” Hanxchamp retorted.
“So…you see it, sir?”
“Yeah, yeah, rain forests and mist and flark. So what?”
“I think that might be your window’s vista settings, sir,” said Xorbux gently.
“What? Oh, yeah, right.” Hanxchamp reached out with another tentacle, grabbed his actuator wand, and waved it at the window.
The rain forest shimmered and vanished. Hanxchamp was bathed in golden, late-afternoon sunlight. He gazed out across the spectacular view of teeming downtown Alpha C: the sparkling conurbations, the gleaming skytowers, the darting streams of low-level air traffic threading the street canyons, the roiling cloud banks haloing the setting sun, the dark shapes of hundreds of starships visible in low orbit above.
“I’m looking at downtown. What’s the problem?”
“Just wait a second, sir.”
Senior Vice Executive President (Special Projects) Odus Hanxchamp was good at many things: smoking expensive cigars, putting things on expense accounts, shouting at people, solutionizing, initiating preposterously expensive corporate projects, having ambitions way above his abilities—and talking the talk so well and so confidently that everyone, including the Board of Senior Senior High Executives, believed without a doubt he was the right being for the job.
He was good at many things. Waiting wasn’t one of them.
“Xorbux, this better not be one of your dumb Z’Noxian gags…” he began. Then he fell utterly silent.
A starship appeared outside his window.
It was huge and possessed elegant raked wings like a gigantic raptor. It was a stellar warship. Its forward-mounted bridge was aimed directly at the Timely Inc. building. So were its weapon batteries.
Traceries of lightning flickered across its steel-blue hull and wings as its cloaking field dissolved. Rain began to fall on the streets of Downtown Alpha C as the warship’s massive atmospheric displacement and grav-magnetic fields disrupted local weather patterns. Its immense shadow brought an early nightfall to the streets below Timely Inc. HQ.
It looked, frankly, impossible. Nothing that big should be able to hang so low in the sky, half a klick above the streets. And nothing that big should be able to get so close to an ultra-tech world like Alpha C without detection. Orbital Traffic Control
would be going flarkazoidal.
And that wasn’t even the worst part.
“Th-that…” Hanxchamp said, staring. “That’s a Strikebird Class warcruiser of the Shi’ar Empire!”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“The Shi’ar? The flarking Shi’-flarking-Ar?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Xorbux over the line. “Main communications got a direct link from them three minutes ago, warning of their approach. The ship is the Conscience of Sharra, and it is operating under the authority of the Shi’ar Imperial Guard.”
“The Imperial Guard?”
“The Imperial Guard want to take a meeting with you, sir.”
“Tell them no! This…this intrusion into the sovereign airspace of Alpha Centauri is outrageous! Flarking Shi’ar, throwing their weight around! Tell them to contact the Alpha C embassy and go through the appropriate channels! Flarking wars have started over less!”
“Sir,” said Xorbux with restraint. “The Imperial Guard made it clear that this is a venture of the utmost urgency. They are in pursuit of dangerous galactic fugitives. They believe them to be here. Under the terms of the Intergalactic Non-Aggression Pact, they are permitted in such extreme cases to intervene directly. Sir…“
“What, Xorbux?”
“Sir, we knew various foreign parties were sniffing around Project 616. I think the Shi’ar have now become involved. We need to handle this discreetly. That’s why I put them on to you, not the Board.”
Hanxchamp waved a tentacle at the warship outside his window.
“This is discreetly?” he wailed.
“Given the Shi’ar’s track record, yes. Sir, we need to protect Project 616. Do you want the Board involved? Handle this, you’ll look like a hero. Performance bonuses, everything.”
Hanxchamp pulled himself together. Whatever his personal character failings (and they were numerous), Odus Hanxchamp hadn’t risen to be one of the most powerful executives in Timely Inc. without the ability to be assertive and commanding. He felt his career arc teetering. He had to turn things around. Xorbux was right. This was a crisis, but no one looked better—or got a better promotion—than when they took charge and faced down a crisis. This could make his place on the Board. He could do this. He could do this…
Flarking Shi’ar. What did they know? This was a flarking fishing expedition.
“Xorbux?” Hanxchamp said. “I’m putting you on hold.” He stabbed another stud on his handset.
“Mrs. Mantlestreek?”
“Sir?”
“Get the Senior Special Projects execs to my office. I need Wivvers, Harnon, Rarnak…and especially that ice-queen Meramati. Having a Shi’ar noble-born on hand will sure help to smooth this situation right the flark down!”
“Yes, sir,” replied Mrs. Mantlestreek. “And when should I schedule this meeting for, sir?”
“Look out of the flark-d’ast window, you stiff-necked old witch!” Hanxchamp screeched. “Right the flark now, of course!”
Hanxchamp pressed another stud.
“Xorbux? You still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell the Shi’ar Imperial Guard that I’ll take their flarking meeting. Half an hour. Executive Boardroom sixty-eight.”
“Tell you what? How about now instead?”
Hanxchamp turned from the window at the sound of the voice. Four Shi’ar Imperial Guardsmen were standing in front of his desk, transmat energies dissipating around their feet.
“The d’ast—?” Hanxchamp mumbled.
One of the four, the one who had spoken, was a tall, lithe female with dark-gray skin and a tight, black bodysuit. Like all of her comrades, she wore the inverted silver triangle of the Guard.
“I am Ebon, of the Shi’ar Imperial Guard,” she announced. “You, I take it, are Odus Hanxchamp?”
“Senior Vice Executive President (Special Projects) Odus Hanxchamp,” Hanxchamp corrected in a small voice, sitting down with a bump in his executive chair.
“Pardon me?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Hanxchamp.
“Very well,” said Ebon. “Greetings, on behalf of the Shi’ar Empire. I present Guardsman Dragoon—”
A female in a red bodysuit nodded her shock-white mohawk.
“Guardsman Warstar 34—”
The towering dark-green roboform also nodded.
“And my team leader, Sub-Praetor Arach.”
Arach was a large thing, an iridescent blue spider-form with a humanoid torso and head. She folded her forelimbs and palps in a formal gesture of greeting.
“Hi,” said Hanxchamp.
“Sub-Praetor Arach has been obliged to take command of this mission after my previous commander, Crusher, was injured in the line of fire,” said Ebon. “This was on Adjufar. Crusher will live, though he is in intensive care.”
“Sorry…sorry to hear that,” said Hanxchamp, wondering what it would take to make this all go away.
“I am glad that you are sorry, Senior Vice Executive President (Special Projects) Odus Hanxchamp,” said Arach. Her thin voice issued through a translator module that made it shrill, like wet fingertips on glass. “The incident on Adjufar was grave. We lost a number of warriors. And as Guardsman Ebon stated, a notable member of the Guard was critically hurt.”
“That’s a d’ast shame,” said Hanxchamp. He had recovered slightly and was determined to take back control of the situation. “Too much of that lawless d’ast goes on these days, too much. Where’d you say it was? Adjufar? Scum-hole!”
He got up. He lit a smile.
“Folks, welcome. Can I offer you drinks? Cheesy comestibles?”
“We do not drink on duty,” replied Dragoon.
“Okay, please yourself. I’m having one.” Hanxchamp poured himself a large glass of vintage Spartoi liqour from the drink trolley. He did it unhurriedly, with measured ease, to show that he was calm. He let the ice cubes tumble slowly in the heavy glass. That kind of time-taking display usually disarmed the people who met with him. It showed them who was boss.
“Cigar? Anyone? No? Okay, ladies and…roboform. How can I help you?”
“My task force encountered several individuals on Adjufar,” Ebon said. “Three of them were identified as fugitives from violent incidents on several other worlds.”
“Really?” asked Hanxchamp, sipping and sitting.
“When an attempt was made to apprehend the individuals, violence occurred. My squad commander was seriously injured. Nine Metal Wing warriors died.”
“Wow, that’s a hell of a thing,” said Hanxchamp, using his sympathetic face. “Hell of a thing. My condolences.”
“The fugitives fled Adjufar using what we believe was a Xandarian cruiser,” said Arach. Gad, that fingers-on-wet-glass squeak again! Hanxchamp winced. “We were able to track their route. They were heading for Alpha Centauri. We lost their trace two minutes after they entered airspace.”
“Lost it? Oh, dear. Unfortunate.”
“Predictive tracking reports that it was coming here.”
Hanxchamp took another sip, swirled his glass, and punched some touch-controls on his desk tablet. He turned it so they could see.
“Okay, full disclosure. I want to help you Shi’ar guys. Timely Inc. has nothing to hide. See? Full inventory of today’s landings. Not a Xandarian cruiser amongst them.”
Dragoon stepped forward and took up the tablet. She scanned it, looked at Arach, and shook her head.
“We believe it may have employed a disguiser field,” said Ebon.
“Really? Like you, you mean?” Hanxchamp asked, flipping a tentacle at the warship dominating the view outside his window.
The Shi’ar were stony faced.
Ebon looked at Arach, who nodded.
“The fugitives were in the company of a Rigellian Recorder unit,” Ebon said. “We believe that the unit is of consequence. We believe they may have brought it here. Why would that be?”
Hanxchamp quivered. Could it be true? It was here? Actually here?<
br />
“Sir?” asked Ebon. “Would you comment? We’re waiting.”
Hanxchamp gathered himself.
“Guys, friends, I have no idea why a Recorder unit would be important to anyone except the Rigellians. Those crazy data-nuts! Eh? Eh? Tell you what, though, in the spirit of cooperation, let me run a full search of the building. Top to bottom. We have excellent security here. Top drawer. If there is a Recorder…or any fugitive-type persons…we’ll find them. Then we can talk about what to do with them.”
“We would prefer to do the searching,” Warstar 34 rumbled.
“Flark, I’m sure you would, big buddy!” replied Hanxchamp. “But this is Alpha C jurisdictional, and this is Timely Inc. property. We’ll do it our way first. We’ll resolutionate this situationism for you, stat. Kick back for a while. I’ll get hospitalitization to lay on sandwiches and juice. Put your feet up.”
He grinned at Arach.
“You, lady—we’ll need to find lots of footstools for you, am I right?”
“What?”
“Just saying.”
“We…we will do things your way, for now,” said Sub-Praetor Arach.
“Great! Isn’t this great? See how we’re working together now? Isn’t it great? Like…synergizeticism or something?”
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter!” Hanxchamp cried.
Blint Wivvers, Pama Harnon, Sledly Rarnak, and Allandra Meramati appeared in the doorway. They gazed at the visitors in alarm.
“Come in, come in, guys!” Hanxchamp beckoned them. “We have guests. Special guests. Shi’ar Imperial Guard, no less. Big day! Make them welcome. It appears they’re here hunting for fugitives and… you’ll never guess…some kinda Rigellian Recorder unit who may, right now, be in this very building!”
“You’re kidding,” Wivvers began. “I mean…how odd is that?”
“A Recorder?” asked Pama Harnon. “Literally here?”
“I mean, what are the chances, Pam?” Hanxchamp agreed.
“It’s here?” Rarnak hissed.
“Totally. Keep them happy, I’ll get Xorbux on it,” Hanxchamp whispered.