Peter Quill's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

The wounded drive howled toward the pulsing dot. Peter's ship shook as he pushed it faster. Then the console flashed and a voice cut through the cabin. The rival's ship had opened a hail. "Stand down, Quill. This kill's already bought." The bigger ship loomed on the screen, its guns lit. "Keep coming and every port from here to the core hears your name. You'll never dock anywhere again." Rocket froze at the panel. His metal arm clicked as his paw tightened around the strange gun in his lap. Six weeks ago he'd stormed off Peter's ship and slammed the hatch. Now he was back, patching wires and cursing under his breath, and Peter still didn't fully trust the peace between them. "He's not bluffing," Rocket said. "You answer that with silence, you're a target at every fuel line in the galaxy." "So I answer it loud," Peter said. "That's the dumbest—" Rocket stopped. "Say more." Peter pointed at the hail signal. "He's talking to us. That means his channel's open. Groot. Can you climb into that broadcast and turn it around on him?" Baby Groot sat up in the seat pocket. He'd nearly drained himself cracking the chip's lock, but his eyes sharpened. He looked at the open channel, then at Peter. "I am Groot." *(I can reach it.)* "Do it, buddy." Groot stretched a thin root to the comm port. Shoots split and threaded into the wiring. His face scrunched. This mattered. The rival's voice sputtered mid-threat. Then the man's own words looped back out across every open band in the system—his bounty, his ship's tag, his threat to shoot a marked target for money. Broadcast wide, for anyone listening. "He just told the whole system he's here to murder somebody for coin," Rocket said. He barked a laugh. "On his own channel." The rival's ship swung hard. Not toward Peter now. Away. Other markers had lit at the edge of the map—ships that policed this space, drawn by a broadcast confession. The hunter ran before he became the hunted. Groot pulled his root free and swayed. "I am Groot." *(Done.)* Peter grabbed the throttle and dove toward the crew member's dot, clear now. "We beat him." But the console chimed. The looping broadcast had carried more than the hunter's shame. It had carried this system's coordinates too—Peter's coordinates, tied to his name, sent everywhere at once. Rocket read the screen and his ears flattened. "You wanted loud. You got loud. Now everybody knows where we jumped in." Peter's jaw tightened. The drive coughed. One jump left, maybe two. He'd cleared the road ahead and lit a fire behind him. Somewhere out there, more hunters were already turning toward the beacon he'd just made of himself. "Then we grab our crew," Peter said, "and we're gone before they arrive."