“Yeah?” asked Crusher.
“The incident on Xarth Three was significant. A lot of deaths, and a lot of charges relating. The Xarthian government wants them bad. So does the Nova Corps of Xandar. It seems the Badoon are involved, too. There’s back-chatter that the Badoon are hunting for them with a determination bordering on obsession.”
Crusher turned and looked at her.
“So they’re bad guys? Ebon, this town is crawling with bad guys. Should we detain every one of them? And do we really want to be cleaning up messes for the Badoon or the Xandarians?”
“Sir, there’s another element to this,” she said. I showed you the watch-list report, she thought. Why didn’t you read it? “Shi’ar Intel suggests the pair I spotted are on the run with a Rigellian Recorder unit. The Recorder is the key. It seems that it contains data of some sort that is so valuable, a Badoon War Brotherhood Cadre would make an open play for it on high-status foreign soil like Xarth. The Xandar incident, too—some unknown assailant was gunning for the Recorder there, and it threw the Nova Corps into a tailspin.”
“If this Recorder unit is so very precious that major cosmic players are fighting over him,” said Dragoon quietly, “it would be a really smart move for us to grab him while we have the chance. If the data the Recorder contains is ultra-sensitive, we need to seize it for the benefit of the Shi’ar Empire before it winds up in the hands of one of our major rivals.”
“Exactly,” nodded Ebon. “Exactly my point. Thank you.”
Dragoon was an old hand, and Crusher had a grudging respect for her. Ebon appreciated the cool, firm support of the older female. Dragoon could easily see how potentially important the Recorder was.
“Okay, I’m convinced,” said Crusher. “You said you saw them in the vicinity of the Kawa Temple?”
“They’ll have moved on by now.”
“But…a Raccoonoid and a tree-man?”
“Yes,” replied Ebon, checking her tablet device. “One…let me see now…one ‘Rocket Raccoon’ and one ‘Groot.’ Both have long histories of troublemaking, and both are previously known to Shi’ar Intel. Apparently, they got mixed up in things when we went to war with the Kree.”
“How do you think we should play this?” Crusher asked.
Ebon hesitated. She hadn’t been expecting that.
“Airborne sweep,” she replied. “We can cover the souk, maybe get our tablets to run recognition matches.”
“Okay,” said Crusher, nodding. “Ebon, Dragoon, you’re up. Warstar and I will lead the squad in as backup if you flag a contact.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ebon. She and Dragoon didn’t hesitate. They gracefully rose off the ground into the air, lifted by their standard-issue Imperial Guard flight implants. All Guardsmen who didn’t possess an innate power of flight or levitation were equipped with one.
Ebon enjoyed the sensation. She rose up over the old city’s moldering roofscape, her arms by her sides, and began to glide across the street plan. Dragoon moved off in the opposite direction.
Ebon had keyed her optical implants to feed directly to her data device. As she studied the bustling streets below her, the device began running nano-fast recognition matches on all the thousands of individuals she was watching. Even if she missed something, the device would flag it with an almost one hundred percentile certainty.
If they were here, she would see them.
ROCKET and Groot hurried along the souk lane that led back to the city docks. The lane was busy, and Rocket did a lot of “excuse me”-ing and “coming through”-ing. Groot didn’t have to. Most people were smart enough to get out of the way of a striding tree. The few he accidentally bumped got a very apologetic, “I am Groot.”
“Shi’ar!” Rocket grumbled. “Flarking Shi’ar! Just what we need. I thought we were safe and set here for the duration, and now we’ve got to make yet another fast exit.”
“I am Groot.”
“Our trademark move, undoubtedly, and one to be proud of, but still…” Rocket heaved a sigh. “How was I supposed to know we were on some d’ast watch list?”
“I am Groot,” suggested Groot.
Rocket glanced up at him and couldn’t help but grin.
“Well, yeah, I guess it is kinda nice to get recognized in the street for once,” he agreed. “About time. Besides, flark it, why wouldn’t we be on everyone’s flarking watch list? We’re notorious badasses!”
“I am Groot.”
“True. It was pretty cool of Pip to give us the warning. He didn’t have to. It’ll be his zunks in a sling if the Shi’ar find out we slipped their net thanks to his tip.”
“I am Groot.”
“Yeah, old times, old friends. There when you need them.”
Groot suddenly picked up his tiny companion, deposited him in the shadows of an awning-covered alleyway, and stepped in after him.
“What is it?” Rocket asked.
“I am Groot,” Groot whispered, raising a twig finger to his craggy lips.
Rocket risked a sneaky look out. He was in time to see a svelte female in a tight red bodysuit fly over the rooftops. A Shi’ar Guardsman on an aerial sweep. Close. Rather too close.
But Rocket was pretty sure that thanks to Groot’s quick reaction, they hadn’t been spotted.
“Thanks, pal,” he said.
“I am Groot,” Groot shrugged.
“Okay, let’s make a last dash back to the ship before anyone else shows. Let’s hope Gamora and our Recorder-dude are ready to split. We can’t be hanging around.”
It took another ten minutes to reach the docks, and twice they took cover again for fear of a surveillance flyby.
The prowl cruiser was parked waiting for them on the landing pad. Its hatches were open.
“Ready to go, vehicle buddy?” Rocket asked.
“Go?”
“Jeopardy has reared its ugly head once more, this vehicle,” said Rocket, “so it’s time to turn Adjufar into Adjufar-far-away.”
“Destination?”
“I’ve given it some consideration,” Rocket replied. “I’m formulating a little plan.”
“Is it a plan that you intend to share with this vehicle?” the automatic voice asked.
“As soon as it’s formulated up all bright and spiffy, you betcha,” Rocket replied, shaking his head and mouthing “no” to Groot.
“I am Groot,” said Groot.
Rocket paused. He turned in a long, slow circle, then got back out of the prowl cruiser and looked up and down the landing pad.
“Hey, cruiser-buddy?” he called out.
“Yes?”
“Where are, you know, Gamora and the Recorder-dude?”
“This vehicle is not entirely sure,” replied the automatic voice, “but this vehicle believes they might have gone for a drink.”
“Oh, flark me,” Rocket groaned and put his head in his paws. “Why does she do this to me? Why?”
He turned and snatched up the unfeasibly large weapon that Pip had given him.
“Groot? Shake your bark, buddy!” he cried. “We’ve got to go back into town and find them! Before there is an inevitable and irreversible collision between the blades of a cyclic air-pusher and some truly toxic doo-doo.”
• CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE •
MEANWHILE
[IN AN ADJUFARIAN HOSTELRY CALLED PANDUBUNDY'S…]
“I DO not think this is a particularly safe establishment to visit,” I say, by way of conversation.
Gamora looks at me in a way that reminds me that a) she has two swords, and b) said weapons spend more of their time in use than sheathed.
“A fair point,” I agree. We go inside.
The place is called Pandubundy’s. I record this from the neon sign over the arched entrance, though the sign is now missing all the vowels and one of the d’s.
There is music playing—a poor recording of Makluan brash-metal, which is particularly piercing and vigorous. The bar’s interior is like a trash palace. Every seat and table has bee
n scavenged from a starship or ground vehicle. None of them match, and all are worn and dirty. The walls and rafters are festooned with tech salvage; the bar itself appears to be the repurposed, chrome-plated main-bridge console of a Guna warp-transport. It would appear that Pandubundy—or whatever the proprietor’s name is—does a brisk trade in tech salvage along with alcoholic beverages.
It is late afternoon. The place is not busy. It smells of various pre- and post-digested fluids, but it is not busy.
“What’s your poison?” Gamora asks.
“Micro-particle antimatter,” I state. “That would definitely kill me.”
“I mean, what do you want to drink?” she asks.
“Oh,” I say, understanding. I have no need for liquid or solid nourishment, gentle reader, but it seems frankly stupid to turn down an offer like this from such a comely female. I can always toy with a glass and pretend.
“Mine’s a Zero-Beero,” I say with enthusiasm.
She nods.
“Find us a table,” she says. “I’ll be right back. Don’t get lost.”
“Indeed I won’t,” I agree.
I watch her walk away from me toward the bar. I can’t help it. I am programmed to record everything. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.
Gamora strikes up a conversation with the hulking Pheragot barman.
I look for a table. I find many instantly. They are all around me. I realize that Gamora meant “go and sit down,” and that an inconspicuous corner would be best. I wonder which table arrangement she might find the most aesthetically impressive. Perhaps the circular, three-legged Kree table there with the scraggy Ovoid bench and the Skrullian stool? Or the square Nymenian table with two tattered leather Spartoi ship-seats and a mismatched Mobian acceleration chair? Or perhaps the booth in the corner surrounding an ergonomically splendid Shi’ar gaming table? Even if the banquette seats are stained?
I realize that I am, perhaps, thinking too hard about it. The truth is, reader friend, that I have never been taken for a drink before and certainly not by a female as undoubtedly beautiful and astoundingly body-confident as Gamora.
Even if she is the Deadliest Woman in the Universe.
I review, via fast processing of my mental records, what other males might do in such circumstances. Peter Quill, a.k.a. Star-Lord, for example. He has a way with women. He has a roguish charm. He is laconic. Perhaps I should try to be laconic.
I consider others. Fictional examples. Tom Cruise, for instance, in the splendid motion picture about knocking small balls into holes called The Color of Money. He was also laconic. Or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Understand, gentle reader, that I am through-processing millions of examples simultaneously. I am only mentioning the ones that, once again, are tailored to the thematic references of your Human Culture. No problem. My pleasure.
I think of Bogart and decide that what Bogey would do is to suavely (and laconically) tell the band to strike up the lady’s favorite tune, to melt her heart via nostalgia.
There is no band.
Tom Cruise, I’m sure, would call up a song on the jukebox in the corner. So would Nicolas Cage any time he found himself wearing a snakeskin jacket. John Cusack would stand on a car roof with a boom box held above his head. I don’t think I’m prepared to go that far. For a start, I don’t have a boom box. Or a car.
There is no band, as previously stated. The music is recorded. The brash-metal track has faded out and been replaced by a cosmotrance mix of Mephitisoid jumpa-rumpa. There must be a jukebox, or a jukebox analog.
I see it. It is built into the salvage on the west wall of the bar. I stroll toward it, hoping that I look laconic.
I stop in my tracks.
“Recorder 336?” I gasp.
“Recorder 127?” she replies.
My dear fellow Recorder 336 has seen better days. Since her commission and construction in the matter forges of Rigel centuries ago, she has misplaced all four of her limbs. Her body casing and faceplate are dirty, grazed, and cracked. She has been fastened to the wall fixings and rather crudely wired into the bar’s speaker systems. The music is coming from her.
She looks pleased to see me.
“What has happened to you, 336?” I ask.
“Oh, this and that,” she replies. “I recorded the sun-death at Aliximat. I recorded the entire course of the war between the Badoon and Klixamites. I recorded the migration of Herms across the void wilderness to their mating grounds in the Andromedan Nebula. I recorded Galactus, the Great Devourer, consuming the worlds and suns of the Nanx Group. That is just a summary, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The edited highlights.”
“I understand. But what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Damaged beyond useful repair after the Nanx recording, I was picked up and salvaged by agents of Pandubundy the scrap trader and brought here. Appreciating my capacity for data storage, he wired me in place and had me record all the music at his disposal. I am a…a music archive now. Ask me, as all the pundits do, and I will play anything.”
“Oh, 336!” I cry. “This is terrible. Undignified! You have been turned into an iPod!”
“Query?”
“I forget. You have not been to Earth. 336, I must free you from this enslavement!”
“Dear 127, it’s far too late for me. Look after yourself.”
“I need to recover you, 336,” I insist.
“Do not bother yourself,” she replies. “127, you are intact. I sense you have a massive store of data within you. Do me two favors.”
“Of course, 336!”
“First, download all my recordings of the incidents I have witnessed. Add them to your database so that they will not be lost forever.”
It is the least I can do. I press my forehead against her sad, cracked faceplate, and the transfer is swift. I witness the sun-death, the Badoon war, the Herms, Galactus, and more than eighteen million other things. Also, I find myself suddenly containing an extensive and eclectic musical archive.
I relive her life, at rapid speed. I see the things she has seen. Wonderful things, marvels of a marvelous cosmos. I feel and replay the countless incidents at a giddy speed.
I begin to feel slightly ill.
“What is the matter, 127?” she asks as I pull my head back sharply. I stagger for a second.
“It is nothing.”
“127, you are malfunctioning. Have you reached data capacity? Have I overloaded you? 127, I have never met a Recorder who has achieved maximum data consumption.”
“I’ll be all right,” I assure her.
“127, you are glowing.”
I look down and see that she is correct. A nimbus of hot pink light is surrounding my body and limbs. I feel power. Immense power. Power such as I have never known.
“How much have you seen?” 336 asks. “127, as we touched, I sensed a data-load in you second to none. How have you recorded so much?”
“I don’t know,” I gasp, leaning on a table for support. The glow begins to dissipate.
“I feel better,” I say.
“You must return to the matter forges and be downloaded,” she says. “127, you must empty your banks before you melt down.”
“I told you, I am more concerned about freeing you, 336.”
“And I told you to forget it. You have my data now. Take that with you, deliver it, and let that be my legacy. I am past saving.”
I hesitate.
“What was the second favor?” I ask.
“Look after yourself.”
“Why would you say that, 336?”
She looks at the bar.
“I have heard the woman talking.”
I glance at Gamora, who is still chatting with the barman. I had not listened in on her conversation because frankly, I had turned my audioreceptors down because of the furious brash-metal.
“Play back what I heard,” 336 tells me.
I do so, reaching into the most recent part of her transferred rec
ord.
Gamora: “So, you have tech, huh?”
Barman: “Yes, ma’am.”
Gamora: “I need to establish a trans-data link with the Negative Zone—fast. You got tech that can do that?”
Barman: “Pip the Troll is your best bet for that.”
Gamora: “Pip? He’d never understand. What have you got?”
Barman: “Well, I’ve got a Nega-Zone relay out back you can rewire if you really feel like it.”
Gamora: “Let me get my ‘friend’ settled, and I’ll be right with you.”
She is walking back over with two drinks. She is, I believe, “sashaying” her hips slightly. It is quite distracting. So is the smile on her face.
“Look after yourself, 127,” says Recorder 336.
“I will,” I say. “And I’ll come back for you.”
“No need.”
“Every need,” I reply.
I join Gamora at a table. She puts the drinks down.
“One Zero-Beero,” she smiles.
She listens to the music.
“Zen-Whoberian froth-rock?” she asks, grinning as she sips her drink. “Is this ‘Inga-Binga-Freakout’ by the Gamagan Quintet? I love this. Did you put this on? Good choice.”
I glance at 336. She smiles back. She knows her audience.
“So, Recorder. It’s 127, right?” she says. “So, 127, I think we should get out of here.”
“That is the Raccoonoid’s plan,” I agree.
She waves her hand dismissively.
“Oh, forget him and his wooden chum. They don’t have your best interests at heart.”
“And you do?”
“Of course,” she smiles, taking another careful sip of her Timothy. She leans back and crosses her legs. Her thighs—
I am, gentle reader, truly enjoying this moment. It would seem a terrible shame to spoil it. But I must.
“I believe,” I say, “that you intend to betray them. And me. I believe you wish to use me for your own financial ends. This is why you inveigled me away from them to this bar.”
“I what? I ‘inveigled’?”
“Yes. With your hips. And soft words. And peerless green skin. But most particularly, your hips. You are going to betray me.”