Peter Quill's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Peter reached his ship at dawn with the data chip burning a hole in his pocket. His crew's coordinates sat inside it, but coordinates meant nothing if he couldn't fly. He climbed into the cockpit and hit the ignition. The luminous trim flickered, then died. The drive coughed once and went silent. He tried again. Nothing. His ship, the fastest thing he'd ever owned, sat grounded like a dead bird. Somewhere out there, a contact was already loading his crew's locations onto the auction block. Peter had hours, not days. He slammed the console. "Come on. Not now." "Yeah, that'll fix it," said a voice behind him. "Real technical." Peter turned. Rocket stood in the hatchway, a half-eaten ration bar in one paw. Peter hadn't seen the raccoon since the crew split six weeks ago. They'd flown together for years, argued more than they'd agreed, and Rocket still fixed engines better than anyone alive. His metal arm caught the cockpit light, and a gun far too big for his body hung across his back. "How'd you find me?" Peter asked. "Didn't. Found your ship. Heard it choking from two docks over." Rocket shoved past him and pried open a floor panel. "Your drive's fried. Coupling's slagged." He tossed a blackened part over his shoulder. It clanged on the deck. "Can you fix it?" "Course I can fix it." Rocket dug into the wiring, his metal fingers moving fast. "Question is why I would. Last time we talked, you told me to fly off a cliff." "I need to reach the others." Peter crouched beside him. "Somebody's selling their locations. Today. To whoever wants me dead." Rocket stopped. He looked up, and the sarcasm drained from his face. "The others. All of 'em?" "All of them. If I don't move now, they're gone." For a long second Rocket said nothing. Then he yanked his gun off his back and set it beside the panel. "Hand me that scorched part. And the tape from the wall." They worked in silence. Rocket rerouted the drive through his own gun's power cell, jamming wires where they didn't belong. Sparks bit Peter's knuckles. Twice the whole panel smoked, and twice Rocket cursed and kept going. "Try it," Rocket finally said. Peter hit the ignition. The drive roared. The trim blazed to life, and the whole cockpit hummed under his feet. "You beautiful little maniac," Peter laughed. "It'll hold for one jump. Maybe two." Rocket climbed into the seat beside him and buckled in. "After that, this bird's dead for good. So wherever we're going, we don't come back the same way." Peter stared at him. "We?" "You think I fixed your drive so you could crash it alone?" Rocket set his gun in his lap. "Punch in the coordinates. Let's go get our people before somebody else does." Peter fed the chip into the console. The ship lifted, wounded but flying, on a drive that would only last one shot.