Star-Lord, page 1
part #1 of Marvel Wastelanders Series
“If I may,” the Rigellian Recorder said, “what are your titles?”
“Oh. I’m Peter Quill, but…” He brightened.
Rocket groaned, looking up from his work. “Don’t you dare. Don’t!”
“You can call me… Star-Lord.” Oh, man, it felt so good to say it. He said it with a confidence remembered and re-applied with all the care and love of someone slapping a strip of duct tape over a broken window and hoping nobody would notice.
“Does this mean you are nobility?” the recorder asked.
“What it means is you are in luck. Because me and Rocket over there – we are the Guardians of the Galaxy!”
“Is this equal to being space police?”
“Not exact…”
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© 2023 MARVEL
First published by Aconyte Books in 2023
ISBN 978 1 83908 227 6
Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 228 3
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Cover art by Steven McNiven
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For Josh, who believed in me.
Prologue
Begin Recording…
Entry C1451Z2E
Location: Outer spiral arm of the Milky Way, two light years off the perimeter of Alpha Centauri. An abandoned mining freighter owned by Stark Industries.
Stark Industries mining freighter Prosperity drifted in space like a vast, battle-scored tombstone freed from its terrestrial bonds. The word “sleek” had never been less appropriate. It was a vessel built solely for durability and function. Tony Stark would have had little hand in its aesthetic as it lacked the bells and whistles (and what Quill called “fancy bits”) that most of Stark’s personal creations did. No, the Prosperity had once had purpose.
Now it drifted. Aimlessly. Directionless. Lifeless.
Well.
Lifeless, that is, unless you counted the hundred alien voices mingling with one another, shredding any silence and serenity that may have existed. The shrieking of the Brood – incensed by the trespassers and now slavering for the fresh, warm bodies barricaded behind some mercifully sturdy doors – was a cacophony of horror. It invited visions of anguish, torment, and slow death, probably the sort where you begged them to stop eating you even as they chowed down.
The barrier standing between the Brood and their prey was one of the most important doors aboard the Prosperity. It was the access to the bridge. It was also, Quill reflected, all that was stopping him from becoming a Brood snack – a death he wouldn’t choose for anybody.
Right now, he was pressed up against the door, although he couldn’t have told you why that was. Perhaps it was born of a need to punish himself, to hear the bellowing from beyond and muse on the fact that perhaps what Rocket was saying was something he actually agreed with.
“We shouldn’t have stopped,” observed Rocket, the raccoon’s tone dripping so heavily with sarcasm that you could easily have filled a bucket. “‘We haven’t got time to stop, Quill. We’ve got a job to do, Quill.’ But did you listen? Hell, no. You never listen. You insisted we pay a visit to this… this… heap of tin. Now we’re screwed.” Rocket’s anger was nothing new. Of late, Quill was fairly sure that his small friend was largely sustained by spite, rage, and bile.
Quill’s need to placate and find the bright side of the situation overrode the need to admit he might have been wrong.
“We’re not screwed, Rocket. Not as such…”
“I knew you were stupid, Quill, but I didn’t think you were an idiot.” Rocket pointed one clawed finger at the door. “In case you’d not noticed, there is a Brood swarm right outside that door! Their teeth are bigger than your fingers!”
Quill couldn’t help it. He looked at his fingers.
He shuddered.
“Their exoskeletons are stronger than steel.” Rocket was relentless.
Quill looked at the steel door.
He shuddered again.
Rocket gestured around expansively, taking in the abandoned bridge. Like the rest of the freighter, there was a thick layer of dust over everything, as though a volcanic event had occurred before finding something better to do. “We have no way out, Quill. No way out except maybe through the digestive tracts of the Brood. That, my friend, is the very definition of ‘screwed’.”
Much as Quill hated admitting it, Rocket was right. But he still clung onto his misplaced sense of optimism.
“We couldn’t just ignore an emergency beacon…” he began weakly and Rocket rode over him roughshod. The anger gave way to something worse. Mockery.
“‘Whatever happened to the Guardians of the Galaxy?’ he said.” Rocket simpered in his best impression of Quill. Then he slapped his paw against the console. “‘Let’s go explore this abandoned ship that won’t respond to our hails’, he said!”
Rocket’s tirade was interrupted by a keening wail from the other side of the bulkhead and a series of heavy thuds as the Brood battered at the barrier keeping them from their prey. There was a wet snarl and although it was unlikely, Quill swore he heard something out there licking its lips.
“If we die, my ghost is gonna haunt your ghost.” Rocket moved away from the central console where he had been studying the primitive human technology. He prodded Quill’s stomach, each word accompanied by a jab. “Because. This. Is. All. Your. Fault!”
“All right, all right!” Quill threw his hands up in exasperation. “Just… stop, OK? Let me think.” He reached up and scratched at his bristled chin, casting his gaze around the gloomy bridge. The only illumination came from the light spheres they’d released, floating abov
“OK, I got it. I got us into this mess. I am gonna get us out.” He left his post at the entrance, ignoring the growing number of thumps shaking the door. He moved with as much alacrity as his body and the debris on the bridge would allow, hopping over a pile of disturbingly human bones to where he’d caught the glimpse of what he hoped was…
Yes!
He metaphorically punched the air, then actually punched the air. “Here!”
“Here what?” Despite his barely contained fury, Rocket followed Quill and stared at what he was indicating.
“This!” Quill pointed triumphantly at his quarry. “A robot of some kind.”
The humanoid shape was crumpled in a heap on the floor of the bridge, sleek and more sophisticated than most of the other tech – if not the freighter itself. Synth-tech across the galaxy was extraordinary and many manufacturers had chosen to build in metallic elements to indicate that their creations were not, in fact, real.
Quill couldn’t help but notice that the body had a definite set of feminine curves to it.
He was great at spotting those.
Focus, Quill.
“Let’s see if we can get it up and running…” He was enthusiastic. This was a great plan!
Rocket rolled his eyes. “What’s the point of…”
“Think about it, Rock! This could be some sort of battle bot, with lasers and hidden weapons! It could hold vital information on what’s happened here. It probably knows more about the situation that’s led to this point than we do. Just look at it. Please?”
Rocket opened his mouth to respond, but the hopelessness of Quill’s tone stayed his biting retort. He glared upwards, throwing up his paws irritably. “Fine,” he said, before shifting his attention to the automaton on the floor, crouching down and studying it more closely.
“Naw,” he said. “This ain’t no battle bot. Design’s too synthetic. Probably an emissary of some sort. Maybe a translator droid.” He studied it a little longer, then stood. “Probably motion activated. I got just the thing.”
He punctuated the sentence with a swift kick to the bot’s torso. Despite himself, Quill put out a hand.
“Hey, woah! Don’t kick it, man! Look at it. I mean her. It’s a girl bot. Don’t kick…”
Rocket stared at him. Quill couldn’t hold his gaze. He turned away to look at the bot, which suddenly emitted a burst of static and white noise. He was briefly put in mind of someone tuning an old radio, looking for a stable signal. Rocket smirked, folding his arms across his chest.
“See? There we go.”
There was a sudden and violent burst of feedback and the bot’s eyes flickered into life. They were a deep emerald hue, artificial of course, but projecting a curious sense of awareness. Quill waved a hand in front of them.
“Hello? Hello?” He turned to Rocket. “Do you think it can hear me?” He leaned in closer and just for good measure, and because there are certain conventions that cannot be denied in such circumstances, raised his voice. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Quill drooped.
“I don’t think…”
There was another burst of static, and another high-pitched whine, gradually ebbing to a barely audible hum from the bot’s body.
Well, barely audible over the sound of hundreds of starving Brood.
“Rocket! Did you see that? Look! Her eyes! They’re moving. She’s awake. Good job, buddy! Good! Yes, yes! They flickered, did you see? I think her eyes flickered. Her eyes, Rocket! Did you see the eyes? Did you see them flicker?” His excitement was boyish and infectious but Rocket had long grown used to it.
“Yeah,” he acknowledged sourly. “I saw them flicker.”
The bot, which was laying on one side, shifted slightly and its arm dislodged a nearby bone. The bone skittered away across the metal floor of the bridge. Quill could barely contain the excitement he felt at this sudden development.
“It moved! Look! Its arm… her arm moved, Rocket!”
“Maybe. You could just be having a stroke, old man.”
“Yeah, maybe, but no. No, I’m not. The arms are moving.” He reached out and gripped Rocket’s shoulder with one hand. “Look! She’s gonna talk!”
The voice that came from the bot was rich and pleasant, modulated for composure and control. Anything else that might be gleaned at this stage was curtailed somewhat by the fact it presently had very little to say.
“Hell.”
“Great,” said Rocket. “At least it understands the situation.”
“Hell. Hell. Hell.”
Rocket snorted again. “I know that feeling, honey.”
“Hell… o.” There was a brief pause, another burst of static and then the voice spoke again, this time confidently. “Hello.”
“Well, hi,” said Quill, delighted by this development.
“I,” said the robot, “am a Rigellian Recorder.”
“Of course you are,” said Quill, reaching an arm down. “Here. Let me help you up. Careful.” He gallantly helped her stand. The automaton was reasonably sized, perhaps a little over five and a half feet in height and now that it stood, it was apparent that the builder had gone for a pleasing female aesthetic. Her metallic body was a perfect facsimile of a young human woman.
Sometimes, Quill thought, wistfully, I worry I’ve been on my own with nothing but a ratty old doormat for company for too long.
“Thank you,” she said, displaying impeccable manners. “Thank… thank… thank you. I apologize. My vox unit is glitching.”
“Ah, don’t sweat it. Sometimes I feel glitchy myself when I wake up. One of the things that comes to you when you hit fifty…”
Rocket snorted. “Fifty. Of course you’re fifty.”
Quill waved a hand vaguely. “Fifty-ish.”
“Oh, please,” said Rocket. “Not even. Why do you live in constant denial of the fact that you’re nothing more than a slowly rotting bag of human waste? Don’t bother. I already know the answer.”
Several thuds against the door suggested that if they didn’t come up with a plan soon, then they’d all be reduced to quickly rotting bags of waste, human or otherwise.
“I’m an optimist, Rocket,” said Quill.
“Where I come from, that’s called ‘delusional’. Now talk to the skinbot and figure out what happened.” He shifted back to the central console and fixed Quill with a glare. “I’ll try and get the mainframe back online.”
Rocket busied himself with the console, using one of the many tools he carried with him to open the service compartment. He muttered and complained as he worked, commenting on the state of the system, the fact that they were just delaying their own deaths, and the futility of existence – all to the accompaniment of the howls and screams beyond.
There was an awkward silence as Quill found himself wondering how to open a dialogue with a synthetic. He scratched his beard and rubbed his nose. Then he scuffed his boots.
“So… hi.”
Great moves, Quill. He tried again.
“Is everybody dead?” Not the best opening line, but at least it was to the point.
The recorder tipped her head to one side and studied him. “I am sorry,” she said, sweetly. “I do not understand.”
“Everybody. On the ship.” Quill waved a hand. “We must’ve passed about fifty skeletons on the way here. Is everybody dead? The crew?”
“No, not everybody is dead,” came the reply. There was an innocence there, a lack of guile that caught Quill by surprise. “You and your pet are alive.”
Rocket’s voice bellowed from the bowels of the console, filled with venom. “I am not his pet!” Even as he spoke, there was a fresh sound from outside the bridge: a heavy, resonant DOOM sound suggesting the urgency had grown, the Brood thrilled by the sound of Rocket’s shouts. “I am his boss, thank you very much. If anything, he’s my pet…”
DOOM!
DOOM!
The recorder nodded, turning away from Rocket to look back up at Quill. “You are correct: everyone else is dead.”
DOOM!
“The Brood ate them.”
Rocket sneered. “Well, I took at least five of them down in the hall before we got here,” he said. “Few less mouths to feed…”
