Guardians Of The Galaxy: Collect Them All Prose Novel

by Corinne Duyvis

  “It’s a theory.” She grimaced. “Science is fun?”

  “I am Groot,” one Grootling chimed in.

  “It’s still progress,” Peter said. “We can tell the other Grootlings.”

  We can tell Groot, he thought, and winced. He wanted his friend back.

  And the truth was, he wanted his teammate back, too. They’d lost their heaviest hitter, and it showed. With Tivan chasing them, Peter wanted the Guardians at full capacity.

  “I am Groot.”

  “Kiya?” Peter leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and peered down at her. She was scrutinizing the charts. “You did good. Thank you.”

  “Oh.” She tore her eyes away from the screens. “I mean, I’m still not sure—”

  “I need to get ready. We’re about two hours from Vadin.”

  “Okay.”

  Two hours to prepare for Vadin and Baran, to convince Rocket to let Kiya try her approach with Groot’s shards, to check on the Grootlings, to check in with his team after the mess on DiMave, and to talk to Annay. He could show her some impressive parts of the ship that Drax might’ve missed.

  Kiya could help him with at least the first item.

  “We need to talk about the Groot you grew. The odds are good he’ll be brainwashed—we may need to fight him.” Peter hated the thought. But not as much as he would hate fighting Groot unprepared. “Tell me what we need to know about the poison.”

  31

  ROCKET?” Drax stared at the open hovercar in front of them. He squinted to keep the sweat out of his eyes. “Your contacts are terrible.”

  “My buddy generously drops off a car for us, and you complain? You wanna walk?” Rocket spread his arms to indicate the scorching Vadin desert around them and gave Drax a well? kind of look.

  Tough as Drax was, Rocket figured even he’d pass on walking in this heat, on this landscape. Vadin’s equatorial zone was all rock, scorching sun, and Kree too stubborn to leave for the more sensible climates on the planet’s poles. Great place to stick a capital city.

  It would’ve been easier to land in the city itself, but after the incident on Levet, Quill had wanted to avoid announcing the Guardians’ presence and attracting the attention of the Kree authorities. So instead, they’d landed the camouflaged ship in this empty stretch of desert a few miles outside of the city.

  Rocket’s contact, a Kree named Dab-Norr, was the only one who’d been able to hook them up with decent transportation on short notice. “Any of you even know people on this planet?” he went on. “Didn’t think so. But do I ever hear a ‘thank you, Rocket’—naw, didn’t think so.”

  “Thank you for arranging this piece of junk, Rocket,” Quill said. He ran a hand across his sweaty forehead—Rocket shuddered; hairless skin was so gross—and checked out the vehicle, from its scratched metal and dented doors to the half-rusted thrusters protruding from the bottom.

  “That’s all I ask.” Rocket climbed up the side of the car and hauled himself over. A dust cloud sprayed up as he landed in the driver’s seat. Gamora climbed into the back seat, followed by Annay and Kiya.

  The car really was a piece of junk, but it’d get them into town unnoticed. Blending in was easier without Groot, but that didn’t so much put Rocket at ease as frustrate him—in fact, it made him want to blow up random crap even more than usual. The Grootlings had asked to come along a hundred times, but Quill had resolutely told them no. They were too weak, and the team couldn’t risk losing more of them. The Grootlings wouldn’t come back if they were shattered.

  Of course, it was possible that none of the team would come back from a ride in this rusty gearbin, either.

  Rocket rubbed his hands. The controls looked outdated, but easy enough to figure out. There was even a rudimentary AI on board, if he recognized the model correctly, so it was probably just a matter of getting the system going and…

  “Voice authorization?” a voice chirped.

  “Rocket.”

  “I’m not familiar with that name. Try again?”

  “Rocket,” he repeated. “Dab-Norr said he prepped the system for me.”

  “I’m not familiar with that name. Try again? You have one attempt left.”

  “One attempt before what, exactly?” Quill asked from the passenger seat.

  “I got this, Quill.” Rocket glared at the control panel and spat out the next words: “Mangy rodent.”

  “Authorization accepted.”

  “I’m gonna murder Dab-Norr,” Rocket announced. “Let’s move.”

  They rose a few feet above the rocky landscape and floated forward, fast and silent. Clumps of dry desert grass wafted beneath them; gusts of sand billowed in their wake. At the horizon ahead, they could see the shimmery outline of the city; in every other direction they saw only empty desert.

  The rush of wind brought welcome relief from the burning sun. The car had no climate control, dubious safety measures, and kinda twitchy controls, but to Dab-Norr’s credit, it was actually a pretty smooth ride. Vadin’s eponymous capital wasn’t far, anyway.

  “There is a roof to this thing, right?” Quill asked.

  “Who would want one?” Annay said from the back seat. Her hair was a tangled mess of white, and she looked absolutely delighted about it.

  “Inside the city, bring up the roof,” Quill instructed. “Even without Groot, we’re too recognizable.”

  “Are you trying to kill us, Quill?” Gamora asked. “This heat is almost worse than Levet’s. Speaking of killing us—what are we actually up against?”

  The team had been so busy on the short flight to Vadin—researching the ceremony and Baran, discussing Groot, sending the Collector more bogus tips about Kiya’s location—that they hadn’t gotten together for a proper briefing. They had just shared bits and pieces of info over comms or when passing each other in the halls.

  Quill twisted around in the front passenger seat and propped his arms up on the headrest. The wind tugged at that ridiculous hair of his, but he didn’t seem bothered. “Good question. Truth is, we don’t know what kind of spores we’ll be dealing with.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Rocket said, yelling over the wind.

  Quill was silent for a moment. Rocket got the impression Quill and Kiya might be exchanging meaningful looks, but he was too busy steering them around a clunky rock formation to check.

  “Kiya spliced the Grootling with a weaponized form of the tirrinit tree from one of Kree-Pama’s moons,” Quill said eventually. “On landing, the spores send out a…signal?…to disrupt or damage nearby nerve endings. The spores were designed to take effect even through protective gear.”

  “Sounds nasty,” Annay said.

  “Is nasty,” Rocket said. “I’ve dealt with weaponized tirrinit before. Only a Badoon-level intellect would play with that stuff.”

  “Baran said he wanted it for defensive purposes,” Kiya snapped. “And it doesn’t have to be lethal. It depends on the nutrients the tirrinit absorbs from the soil. The spores might only make you itch for a few minutes.”

  “They might also permanently numb your skin, cause agonizing pain for hours, or straight-up kill you,” Quill added. “And if Baran wants revenge on the Kree, I don’t think he’ll feed the Grootling the friendly, itchy kind of nutrients.”

  “There is nothing friendly about itching,” Drax said. “It is deeply irritating.”

  Rocket chanced a look over his shoulder to give Drax an are you kidding me? face, only to find Quill and Annay nodding in grudging agreement.

  “I don’t know what kind of spores Baran would go for,” Kiya said. “I didn’t even know he worked with our government. I thought he was maybe local law enforcement. He wanted the DiMavi villages to be able to defend themselves in a way the Kree—or anyone else—wouldn’t see coming and couldn’t easily block.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He seemed—I don’t know—determined. To the point.”

  “That’s about right,” Annay
said. “Baran doesn’t visit the bar often. I think he does favors for my more politically inclined customers. Lost reports, delayed raids, a heads-up here and there. You didn’t hear that from me, for the record. I don’t make a habit of sharing my customers’ business with super heroes. Anyway, couple months ago, Baran got rid of some troublemakers in the bar for me. So, when he asked, I agreed to take a message from Kiya. Which I’m beginning to regret, now that I’ve lost my bar, communicator, and pride, and somehow ended up in a Kree desert of all places.”

  “Funny how that goes,” Quill said.

  “There may be one upside.” She looked up at him, squinting at the sun. “To be determined.”

  Rocket groaned, partly at her words, partly at Quill’s appreciative grin.

  “What kind of attack would he launch?” Gamora asked.

  Annay only shrugged.

  Based on Kiya’s silence, Rocket guessed she didn’t know, either.

  Well, that was real helpful. It made him all the more worried about what kind of state they’d find the poison Grootling in.

  Scattered farms started to dot the landscape, along with the campus of a military academy. The city was close. “Bringing up the roof,” Rocket announced. “Someone get me a route to the embassy, will you?”

  THE DIMAVI embassy on Vadin was on the city’s outskirts, in the middle of a bustling neighborhood filled with hotels and ports. As they approached, Peter peered down the side of the car to take in the area.

  Vadin was an old city, and it showed. Ancient Kree buildings and aged footpaths sat side-by-side with towering skyscrapers and six layers of road decks that crisscrossed the space between buildings. Most of the newer buildings had main entrances at least half a dozen floors up, providing easier access from the raised skyways—the city’s surface was so cramped and neglected that ground-level traffic was at a minimum.

  “The embassy is over there.” Annay indicated indicated a square, robust building that stood out against the curved Kree architecture around it. It was only a couple stories high, with the entrance stubbornly on the ground floor. Peter guessed the DiMavi weren’t fans of the Kree approach to civil engineering. Most people he saw in the area—whether on the surface below or on the raised walkways that connected the taller buildings—were Kree, but DiMavi were a close runner-up, and more so the closer they came to the embassy. They had to be in town for tonight’s ceremony.

  As Rocket steered their car off the fastdeck and onto the slower lanes below, Peter got a better view of the embassy down on the city’s surface. A modest courtyard lay in front of the building’s entrance, and there was no fence or wall to separate the area from the public street, which would—theoretically—give it a welcoming impression. At the moment, though, red do-not-cross lines glowed on the ground, and wary groups of DiMavi guards secured the building and the courtyard perimeter.

  “Are the DiMavi particularly paranoid, or is something up?” Gamora pressed close to the window on her side.

  Annay sounded worried. “Something’s up.”

  “Rocket, stay on this lane,” Peter said warily.

  Rocket had started to steer them toward the surface streets, but immediately course-corrected. They zoomed past the embassy, leaving it safely behind them.

  Peter had hoped to be able to slide up to the embassy and inquire casually about Baran at the front desk. He doubted they would even reach the front desk now, and he didn’t want to take chances if the DiMavi were on high alert. Annay had complained about her government being buddy-buddy with the Kree; anyone who recognized the Guardians might turn them in.

  “Can you check—?” Peter started.

  “—local news and transmissions for information on a recent DiMavi-related incident,” Drax said, his face obscured by the holo hovering over his communicator. “Yes. I am working on it.”

  The ceremony wasn’t until tonight. The odds that this was Baran-related were slim—and from what they knew of him, Baran was unlikely to target DiMavi.

  Something still felt off.

  “Traffic accident,” Drax said. “The locals seem to be exasperated with their DiMavi guests’ driving skills.”

  “Oh, come on!” Annay gestured at the tangled mess of roadways outside the windows. “Who designs roads like this?”

  “Actually, those higher lanes look fun.” Peter turned around in his seat, propping one arm on the headrest, to face the green crew in the back seat—Drax studying the holo over his communicator, Gamora glancing over at his findings, Kiya keeping to herself, and Annay still looking indignant about the Kree road system. “Can you rent motorcycles on Vadin…?” Peter mused.

  Annay sounded skeptical. “You’re kidding.”

  “Star-Lord has few self-preservation instincts,” Drax said, not looking away from the holo. “This usually does not surprise people.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t.” Annay met Peter’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows at her, half-expectant, half-challenging, and couldn’t help but notice that she was fighting to contain a smile.

  “I’d invite you to join me,” he told her, “but those DiMavi driving skills, I just don’t know…”

  Drax went on, “Another traffic accident. Another traffic accident. Another—”

  “Please stop mentioning the traffic accidents,” Gamora said.

  “You’re on,” Annay mouthed at Peter.

  He winked before looking to Drax, who had paused in his work. He seemed to have found something more interesting than traffic accidents.

  Drax offered, “Nine people were injured in a surface-level park two hours ago, including several DiMavi. Reports do not go into details.”

  “Any rumors?” Peter ran a hand through his hair. He could be worrying over nothing, but in the middle of a possible political disaster, he wanted to be sure.

  “Apparently, a DiMavi diplomat may have been among the victims. This would explain the increased security at the embassy. And—ah.”

  “Now that’s interesting.” Gamora was leaning into Drax, reading along on his communicator.

  “Care to share with the group?” Rocket asked.

  “Witnesses are talking about a monster,” Gamora said. She locked eyes with Peter in the front seat.

  “A tree monster,” Peter finished.

  Found them, he thought.

  32

  THE HOSPITAL was ancient by Kree standards, which wasn’t exactly surprising to Rocket. Vadin was full of old crap. It was, apparently, the planet’s main draw: Vadin was one of the first planets in the Kree Empire and had enough culture to fill up a z-chip and make it dance a traditional fenin waltz—in other words, just enough history and art to put Rocket right to sleep.

  At least the welcome bots hovering by the ceiling had been built in the past decade. One buzzed up to the three visitors—Quill, Kiya, and Rocket—as soon as they entered the main lobby.

  “Good morning!” chirped the perfectly round, metallic ball hovering in midair before Quill. “What’s your purpose today? May we assist?”

  “We’re visiting family,” Quill said.

  “Do you need any help locating the room?”

  Rocket scanned the lobby. Scuffed floors, walls cracked and pale with age. Clean, though, and the security system was halfway decent, with 3-D recorders and gen-seven force field barriers at strategic locations. A flesh-and-blood receptionist farther down seemed too busy to notice them. Security guards? He kept an eye on them, but they didn’t seem on edge. Other visitors talked to the welcome bots or went straight for the elevators, while nurse droids guided patients toward the inner courtyard for fresh air.

  This would be no problem at all.

  “We know her room number,” Quill told the bot. “Where are your intensive-care and emergency wards?”

  “Those are not accessible to visitors.”

  “Oh! You misunderstand. We don’t want to go there! We need to know so we can avoid them. Since we’re just visitors. Obviously.”

  The ball-bot spun twice, as if thi
nking. “Great!” it said then, its voice light. “We at Centravada Hospital appreciate your thoughtfulness. Allow me to show you a projection of the hospital. The off-limits wards are indicated in red.”

  The emergency room was on the ground floor, south wing. Intensive care was two stories above, east wing. Rocket memorized the floor plan in one look.

  “Thanks! You’re a champ. I’ll leave something in the donation box on the way out.” Quill walked past the bot, a hand up in thanks, with Kiya and Rocket close behind him.

  “I got a question.” Annay’s voice came through Rocket’s comms. “Am I getting paid for this?”

  She’d been asked to check the streets—maybe hook up with local contacts—for a sign of Baran. People would talk to a DiMavi more easily than they’d talk to the rest of the Guardians.

  “We don’t get paid for this,” Gamora informed her. She and Drax were out looking for eyewitnesses—especially ones with information on where Baran and his Grootling had disappeared to—in case the victims in the hospital weren’t in any shape to speak.

  “You’re a member of the team, though,” Annay said. “I just got drafted.”

  “Do you have anything better to do than help our friend and prevent an attack on innocent lives?” Quill asked, his tone casual.

  “Fine, fine,” she sighed. “But if I save the day, I expect a thorough thank you.”

  “I can arrange that.” He turned to Rocket, still looking amused. “Rocket, try to access security footage. See where they took the victims. Kiya, check the emergency ward. Get a glimpse of the situation, see if you can spot the victims—or any suspicious extra security. Anyone asks what you’re doing, act worried and say you’re waiting to hear about your brother. Cooperate and leave. Me, I’ll check out intensive care.”

  Quill went for the elevators, and Kiya and Rocket headed into another hallway together—he’d seen a good spot on the map, a stairwell just past the ER that looked like it’d be quiet enough to do his job undisturbed. Rocket tended to get looks. He wasn’t eager to get those looks while he was trying to sneak into their security system.