Chapter 12
Taking action.
Rocket looks curiously around him. The landscape was ephemeral, dream-like even. He was fairly certain now that he was dreaming, and off-hand wondered who such a powerful telepath could be to reach him even here at Procyon-6. None that he knew as a friend possessed such power. The gentle mists slowly part in front of him as he sojourns along the smooth garden path. The mist clears enough at the end of the path to reveal a rather simple pavilion. A figure robed in coarse brown monk's robes is sitting by the table set to the pavilion. Rocket looks at his own clothing and realizes with some curiosity how he himself is wearing what was currently quite fashionable at Xandar, fairly simple dark shirt, a smart vest ((guaranteed to keep you nice and cool on hot days, warm at cold while also answering your calls and arranging your almanac -tax returns-form app coming up next fall)) and pale short hemmed jacket with loose black trousers and sandal like Zori-shoes.
"Why am I here Underhill?" Rocket asks curtly from the golden eyed figure at the table. He'd seen glowy eyes before. They were nothing special to him who had in his time travelled almost literally from one corner of the universe to the next. He already pretty much guessed from where Vren Underhill had gotten his new and sudden Telepathic skillset and felt it mostly redundant to even comment on it.
"I have news Guardian-Ranger. Have a seat." The figure replies waving towards a chair by the table. Rocket nods stiffly and sits down opposite the hooded figure.
"Okay, well I hope this won't take long... I've got to wake up in a few hours, Trey's going freak up if I don't."
"Ahh, don't worry I won't keep you long. The news; first of all, you were right. The Badoon have begun to use Thermobaric bombs -they utterly decimated one of our newly outfitted divisions at Olzaba forest, causing us to lose what little control we had regained on that region. We've also gained a small victory against the Zom-troops near the village of Kampoor."
"Not much you can do against those Underhill. I told you to avoid direct engagements, they can't hit what they can't see... There are worse weapons of mass destruction than thermobaric bombs in the Badoon arsenal. Thermobaric Bombs just kill... Those others... There are chemicals -aerosols mainly, which the Badoon would have already used if they had only wanted to decimate this planet. In fact, had they wished to use them, only two kinds of people might be alive in this planet right now. People like me because of my cybernetic chemical warfare mods and probably those like you due to... changes done to you and still both of us would be envying the dead." Rocket says and draws a shuddering breath and Vren doesn't need his psychic abilities to realize that Rocket doesn't wish would speak of it further quite possibly due to personal experiences. Rocket then inhales sharply, continuing.
"-And by the way congratulations about finding what you needed if maybe not what you might have expected." Rocket fells silent his body language insinuating his wish to change the subject. He knew pretty well what a thermobaric bombs and nerve gases could do, he'd seen it done and once to a whole planet -bad things... best not to think of it too much or you'd never sleep well again. Vren lowers his head a fraction in acquiescence.
"Yet you do not seem surprised that I'm capable of this." Vren remarks contemplatively. Rocket snorts dismissively. "I've seen things to cool your blood for life in my travels through the Galaxy, ohh King of Kings... A teep with golden yellow eyes is positively tame to me."
"I have an advice to ask from you as well... when I found the Temple of the Kings and became the king of kings-." Vren says ignoring Rocket's light verbal jab.
"Okay... Well, spit it out boy, you may be a mind reader but I'm not."
"I do not read minds if I can avoid it, such breach of privacy makes me uneasy on the inside. Anyway -I seem to have gained a following. What should I do with people who've started a cult to follow me?"
"Why, are they causing you trouble?"
"No, but I fear that they'll get themselves killed or do something that I don't want, in my name." Rocket nods in understanding.
"Device a testing and only accept the ones that pass to be your 'true disciples" but most of all keep the most mentally suitable. Physical incompatibility can usually be fixed with training and exercise but mentally incompatible is usually a lost cause. Regard each of your recruits like your own children and they'll follow you even when they shouldn't and treat them as if they were your own flesh and blood and they'll follow you even on to death... But don't overdo it. Be fair but stern and don't forget to train them properly. You're going to need 'elite troops' later to police and keep order because the Badoon won't be here forever and there will be changes, big changes, once they leave - and big change always brings unrest. Coming of the Badoon has rattled what you Procyonians think as 'normal' and you can't turn back the clock and pretend it never happened." Rocket extrapolates in part from Nova corps field guide and part from his own experiences as a mercenary and lawman.
Vren nods at the advice thinking on it. "What of you, I sense you're not in space anymore?" He asks after a moment of mutual silence.
"I completed the mission and sent the buoy. The Badoon have shot my ship down. I'm at an old Radio telescope mountain right now. If I'm right in my calculations, a Nova relief force should arrive within days and once they do and get rid of that Badoon fleet hanging over us... You'll need to be ready to wipe their filthy slave camps from the map. Avoid major offensives until then."
"Should I send someone for you to pick you up?"
"Don't bother. They wouldn't get here in time even if I'd need them."
"Understood. The Maker's mercy befall on you Guardian-Ranger." Vren says giving a respectful nod.
"Mercy. Never had me none, never gave it and never will need it." Rocket scoffs as the dreamscape begins to fade away.
"Daddy, I'm hungry." Trey whines poking Rocket on the side to wake him up. It was still dark though the rising sun was already beginning to russet the skyline despite the low drizzle. Rocket yawned widely, casting his bleary eyes on Trey. The kit seemed tired and his ears were drooping unhappily. The originally white emergency EVA- spacesuit was already more grey and brown than white from Trey having to use his hands rather than feet to move around. That model of EVA-suits by Pancor-corporation wasn't designed to be used for extended periods of time and ill-suited for terrestrial activities. Rocket's own suit was designed to be worn for weeks at a time without the need to clean it in-between whereas Trey's was already getting that faint smell of sour & grungy.
"I know son. C'mon let's get you off this suit already." Rocket sighs starting to peel Trey from his suit and felt the pangs of hunger as well. He dug into his pockets to find just one lousy and slightly mashed up food bar, that had basically been forgotten in the belt pocket, to give for Trey.
"Here son, it's what I've got left." Rocket sighs breaking the bar by giving two thirds to Trey and eating a third himself. Trey sniffs cautiously at the chocolate brown bar and its wrappers before taking a hungry bite after a careful nibble.
"Is this space food?" The kit asks while playing with the wrappers.
"Yeah, pretty much. In space you have to travel light and making food into bars like that allows you to take more with you for long voyages." Trey nods to the explanation.
"Can I have some water too daddy?" He asks next.
"Sure son. Give me a moment and I'll go fetch you some. Wait here." Rocket promises piling Trey's suit away into corner and considered leaving his helmet off as well. He shouldn't really need its protection or Radio right now.
It didn't take too long for Rocket to find a bowl suitable for collecting some of the rain water dripping down from the eaves. In the low drizzle the bomb shelled Station grounds seemed even more forlorn than it had at last evening when they'd arrived. He stood there for a moment in perfect silence, letting his helmet's sophisticated sensory arrays to do the work for him while waiting for the bowl to fill with water fresh enough for drinking. Satisfied that no sounds of engines were caught and that enemy radio frequencies had nothing but static, Rocket returns back inside with the full bowl. He considered making a fire to boil the water but decided against it in case of smoke drawing unwanted attention, dropping a purification tablet on the bowl instead, before offering it to Trey. Not that they had anything to cook for food anyway... All the more reasons to search the place for the original transmission and hike back to civilization. Sooner or later the Badoon would widen their search area and he intended to be gone before then. But first he'd need to do a bit of scavenging to give some much needed oomph to the basic Badoon war riffles he'd taken earlier. The digging around the station logs for the message was mostly aimed to satiate his curiosity and to find a few parts.
At the radio room on the second story Rocket found what he was really craving for. Never mind the radio equipment, parts or message logs. A full bottle of rum. He smacked his lips in delight, corked the bottle, took the ear muffs to listen on the logged radio messages and took a long sip and set down to tinker with the guns and equipment while becoming steadily inebriated.
-Please anyone! - They're coming-for god's sake! -
-Please, anybody. They're coming! -Coming! -help us! -
...
-My friend, Rafi- he's got...lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye. He got bit yesterday and now... When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'. Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white. And then, and then you hear that terrible high pitch screamin' and the ocean turns red and spite of all the poundin' and the hollerin' they all come in and rip you to pieces. -His not my friend anymore-
-and I woke up... On Rafi's feverish struggles
-I've taken to lock him up in the basement...
...
-I don't know how he got out, Maker's mercy, I've taken to keep my room locked up.
-His called them and they're here, -So many-
-I can hear their eerie howlin...
-gibbering howls, -beasts calling their kindred across the lone night
-Why am I still here? Why am I trying to keep sending this stupid message? Is there anyone up there listening? -
...
Rocket stops the tape, counting. If he placed the time of this message right on the timeframe of events, it would mean that the Dark energy portal distorts space time in its vicinity, possibly moving things shortly through time -relatively, possibly a week or more. Going out from Procyon's system through it would be going backwards and coming in was forward. That could mean that his message buoy had been out for days already in the Galactic median time and the Guardians could be here much sooner than he'd anticipated. If this was a normal feature of dark energy... It would certainly explain the Shi'ar reluctance to even mention of it to anyone who wasn't a fellow Shi'ar with high security clearance. D'ast but he needed a drink.
Vren was not hard to find. He'd changed perhaps more than the lad would care to admit. Roork though climbing up the low hillside to find the young Raccoonoid staring at the night sky. The golden eyed youngster turns to look at his elder when he approaches.
"You heard what happened at Olzaba?" Roork asks carefully.
"Yes, I saw the reports. I don't know, if we could have somehow..." Vren starts wringing his palms in the concerned washing pattern familiar to all Raccoonoids.
"Don't say it mate. Thermobaric bombs delivered down from orbit -just like the Guardian Ranger had warned us about. We could've only died in that field with them..." Roork sighs trying to figure out what it was that Vren was staring at in the horizon.
"You don't understand, Roork. Nobody does. I could feel them dying, even from here. The living -for the few minutes that they had left after the bombs hit, were envying the dead in their final thoughts as their destroyed lungs slowly expired..." Roork blinked at Vren's statement. "You could feel them -from another effin' continent?"
"I am the king of kings, Roork. I can feel each of my subjects' life beginning as well as ending as their conscience joins and leaves me... I was very distraught about it at first, but they're just pinpricks now and easy enough to ignore when I choose to but not on this scale. So, my mind was drawn, drawn like a moth to a flame to witness it." Vren explains drawing a shuddering breath. Roork could only nod in sympathy and felt strangely lucky for not being the one to have gone to the Temple
"If it's any consolation to you, the High command has issued an order; that for the time being we're to avoid any pitched and large-scale battles. We have no defense against Thermobaric bombing and the Badoon don't seem to even care if they lose a few of their own in the process." He informs bleakly.
"It's not, but thanks for sharing. The High command do not trust me with much anymore." Vren grimaces slightly.
"On another news. You're starting to gather a following." Roork says deciding on changing the subject.
"News travel fast even now. I've seen a few already. Wearing brown robes and refusing to use anything but simple hand-to-hand weapons if they can't get their hands on ray swords." Vren nods closing his eyes for a while, concentrating on something which only he could perceive. Roork felt it best to not interrupt it with his banter and stays silent waiting for him to finish it.
"They're beginning to gather here now, Roork. I've also spoken with the Halfworlder and he agrees on what to do with my followers..." Vren explains opening his eyes that had started to shine intensely golden.
"You do?" Roork says uncertain.
"Yes, come with me. I am going to need a good lieutenant at my side when I whip them into shape." Vren says starting to walk back down the hillside to their camp at its base. 'Uh-huh' Roork huffs in response.
It was early morning or maybe it was night when the message was received at the Guardians home ship. Peter had never been fully sure how to call these odd hours when at space. The times when you were feeling tired and just felt like going to bed before you'd keel over, but you still had at least an hour to go with your shift at the helm. He drowsily takes a sip of his Xandarian coffee and almost chokes on the hot mouthful when the console unexpectedly beeps implying a message incoming. Peter wipes his mouth clean, pushing a few buttons on the comm-console to receive & record it. The holo-vid pops into small dashboard display which Peter quickly transfers to larger display and hits 'play' folding his hands behind his neck while lounging at the chair. His leisure pose turns into one of rapt attention when Rocket, -in space, at his ship pops into view.
At the start of the Holo-vid Rocket glances to his right and is pointing at something to his co-pilot at the co-pilot's dash which Quill can't see due to fixed angle of the holo-cam. Quill assumes it is mounted to the dash in front of Rocket. -Rocket then apparently gives some kind of instructions in some unknown language that had a peculiar chittering accent or rather a quality to it. A language which Quill's translator implant can't translate. Someone acknowledges the instructions in that same unknown language that Quill's translator still can't make heads or tails out off. Though after listening a play-through of the short banter for the third time, he was pondering on how the tone made him think that the reply may have belonged to a child. Was Rocket teaching local kids to fly? On the Holo-Vid Rocket turns his attention back to finishing with recording his message. Quill fast-forwards it a little to get to the actual message portion.
-"Hey Quill, when you get this message I might already be kinda dead or close enough anyway that it'll make no difference to me. So, I'm only going to say this mushy-wushy touchy-feely crappy shit once..." Rocket explains becoming more serious in tone as the video progresses. At the end of the message Peter 'Star-lord' Quill is cursing coarsely and loudly enough to surprise even his team mates.
Peter replays the message to his companions who each have their own 'take' on it. Gamora looks like she's had a breakfast of stones while muttering 'figured it' under her breath.
"Time to bust out the body bags!" Drax grins widely and smacks his palms together loudly. It was no secret that Drax had issues with spending his 'downtime' outside combat hours. Groot is suspiciously muted prompting Quill to frown a little at his wooden companion.
"You knew about this didn't you?" to which Groot shrugs as if implying to say, "And what were you going to do about it even if I'd told you?"
Quill gets up from the chair and stretches his back after sitting in the chair for hours before turning to look at his team mates. "You want to call this crisis to Nova corps Gamora? I've done the call thrice this month already."
"Didn't know we were counting Peter Quill." She notes wryly.
"Figured they might be bored with my face by now... Besides with eye bags like these they might confuse me with Rocket." Peter quips yawning loudly and leaves Gamora to handle the message while he went to get some much needed shut-eye.
It would probably take at least 12 hours for Nova corps to mobilize a force big enough to be of any use for this 'Procyon-6'. What a strange name. It tickled something at the back of Peter's mind. probably a Terran word association like the living planet Ego which coincidentally had a huge ego even though the name translated to something wildly different in galactic common.
Rocket wakes up from his drunken stupor and blinks groggily, spending precious seconds to figure out what's going on and what time it was. "Yeah, yeah, I'm awake. You can stop yelling on my ear now Trey."
Trey's palpable gratefulness at the other end of the comm-link is enough to electrify Rocket that something was very wrong even before Trey could explain himself.
"Daddy, daddy! Lizards, hundred, -thousand even, coming up the hill. What are we going to do daddy?" Rocket shook his head a little to clear his head. He hadn't meant to drink enough from the bottle to get drunk, it was all his fault that they were still here when the Badoon came calling. He gave it a moment of thought.
"Right son. Now listen carefully, have the Badoon seen you yet?" Rocket asks peeking out from the window to verify his son's words himself. Those were indeed Badoon he saw, not merely Zoms but luckily it was just a patrol and not a full assault squad. Trey seemed to think his words for a moment before his reply which was scared; -No he didn't think they had seen him yet.
"Okay, good. Now put the rest of your suit on -don't argue, I know it smells funny now, and crawl into closet or cabin to hide and stay there until I tell you otherwise and under no circumstance are you to open your helmet visor or take any part of the suit off, you understand? Good." Rocket instructs sternly and goes to town with the various cleaning, household and maintenance chemicals he'd found on one of the cleaning closets while checking out the second floor. The chlorate detergents and pipe cleaner would be particularly useful, he thought grimly and started to mix them up just so in empty glass jars and bottles that were laying about. Rocket was secretly glad that the staff of the place hadn't been exactly neat freaks thus leaving him with plenty of useful scrap to use in 'home defense'.
Trey could hear them coming. The heavy clanking footsteps from many pairs of metallic heels hitting on the concrete floor. Guttural voices speaking in the alien language of the Badoon. Furniture being moved around, searching. He stifled a scared whimper when the steps came closer and stopped just in front of the cabinet closet he was hiding in. Suddenly there was the sound of glass breaking, guttural screaming, the hissing sounds of laser fire, more yelling, bodies hitting the floor and then... Strange drumming sounds, sounds as if someone was striking their heels repeatedly against the floor. Thumping of heels is then replaced by dragging sounds, as if something was being pulled across the concrete floor and then it became deathly quiet except for the sounds of door slamming. Trey waited and waited too afraid to move even a muscle. He nearly jumped out from his skin when his father's voice spoke through the comm-link. "It's alright now son. You can come out now."
And Trey very carefully opened the door of the cabinet he was hiding in. The foyer room was a mess, even more than it had been before. Broken glass was now littering the floor and strange unhealthy looking yellowish-brown miasma still clung about. His father seemed mostly uncaring about it. Trey couldn't see the bodies of the Badoon but he was a smart kit and quickly figured it all out from the laser scorches and long drag marks on the floor leading away from the house. He glances at his father, who seemed engrossed with inspecting his enormous Frankenstein of a gun and then at something dangling from a chain at his free paw that vaguely looked like a keychain. Trey says nothing waiting for his father to make the decision. Rocket looks up from the keychain at the room and then smirks at his kit. "We're going for a wild ride son." But the hangman's grin on his father's face is bereft of joy.