Galaxy Defender

Once upon a time, there was a galaxy so enormous that even the people who lived in it could not quite imagine how big it was.

There were planets so far apart that light traveling between them took longer than any human civilization had existed. There were cloud-cities built in the atmospheres of gas giants, where the buildings swayed in thousand-kilometer-per-hour winds and the residents thought nothing of it. There were ruins on a planet called Morag, carved by a civilization so ancient its name had been forgotten, where columns the size of mountains stood in formations no one had fully mapped.

The Milano had been to many of these places.

Gamora stood at the forward viewport sometimes and watched the stars go by, and she thought about how large the universe was and how small any single ship was in comparison, and she found this comforting rather than frightening. There was always more to do. There was always somewhere to go. There was always, somewhere in that enormous dark, someone who needed help.

The Nova Corps was brave and dedicated. The officers of Xandar worked hard and cared genuinely about the worlds under their protection. But even the best organization in the universe could not be everywhere at once. The galaxy had gaps — quiet spaces between the protected zones where nobody official was watching, where the strong could take advantage of the less strong, where people could be trapped in situations that no one was coming to resolve.

Except, perhaps, a scuffed and reliable ship that showed up at the right moment.

Gamora had made a rule for herself, back in the early days when the Guardians were still figuring out who they were and what they were for. Before every mission, she asked one question: Who does this help?

Not who pays best. Not who offers the most exciting adventure. Not which contract came with the best fuel credits. Who does this help?

It was a simple question. It turned out to have a surprising amount of power.

On the ice world of Praxius IX, where the sky was the color of pale silver and the ground crunched underfoot, a corporation had set up a mining operation that was reaching into the territory of a small colony and taking resources the colonists needed to survive the winter. The company had contracts and lawyers and a very secure fence. The colonists had, it turned out, the Guardians of the Galaxy.

Rocket's expression when he saw the fence was one of professional interest.

"That's a very expensive fence," he said.

"It is," Gamora agreed.

"It would be a shame if something happened to it."

Three hours later, the mining equipment was in pieces, the fence was in more pieces, and the colonists were being reunited with the resources that had been taken from them. Rocket had been genuinely cheerful for the rest of the day, which was unusual.

At a relay station above the Kree border, there was a different kind of problem. Two groups — a Kree patrol and a Xandarian trade ship — had been locked in a standoff for eleven days over a misunderstood communication. Both sides believed the other had made a threat. Neither side had. But neither side felt safe standing down first.

Gamora sat down at the communications console.

She did not pick up a weapon. She did not ask Drax to look threatening in the doorway, though he offered. She simply began to talk, carefully and slowly and honestly, in a voice that neither pushed nor rushed. She explained what each side had actually meant. She translated the misunderstanding out of existence, word by patient word.

Forty minutes later, both ships went home.

"That's it?" Rocket said. "That was the whole mission? You just talked at them?"

"Talking is a skill," Gamora said.

"I feel cheated."

She smiled.

There were no statues of Gamora on Xandar. There were no songs written about her in the cloud-cities of Contraxia. The people of Praxius IX did not know her name — just the memory of a green-skinned woman who arrived on a scuffed ship and made things right.

She did not mind.

The galaxy was vast and old and sometimes cruel and sometimes surprisingly kind. Every morning it needed the same thing: someone to show up with a clear head and a steady heart and ask: Who does this help?

And every morning, that question had an answer.

Gamora found the answer. Every time.

Outside the viewport, the stars moved past in their slow parade: ancient and patient and full of people who were just trying to live their ordinary, extraordinary lives.

The Milano flew on.

And the deadliest woman in the galaxy — who had turned all that skill and all that training toward the quietest, most important kind of heroism — watched the stars and planned the next destination.

There was always somewhere to be. There was always someone who needed help.

And the Milano was always on its way.