Deep in the bowels of Attilan, the populace of the Inhuman city filed in more or less orderly fashion. They went into the light cast by Eldrac. Looking more like a huge machine than a sentient creature, he was the city’s greatest mode of interdimensional transportation.
“So I have to send you off, sister,” he said to Medusa. “The king has… spoken.” He giggled a little at his jest.
“Where is Eldrac sending us, Maximus?” the queen asked him. Her hair flowed out behind her like a train.
“Somewhere far from here,” he said. “And each trip to somewhere different. Where you are going, Medusa, is right where you belong.” She moved ahead of her brother-in-law, then paused to look back. “When you get there, be sure to look up into the sky,” he said. “It’s going to be some kind of a show.”
A look crossed her face—was that fear?
He hoped so.
Then she was gone.
The gigantic doglike teleporter stepped up alongside him and let out a grunt. “Indeed,” Maximus agreed. “They all say this is a golden age of our people, Lockjaw. I call it something else.” He stepped into the workroom that held his masterpiece. “The last Inhuman Age. Look at all the things we have built.” He caressed a control globe that stuck out from the machine. “Look at what we have created.
“They call me the twisted maker, the bent builder. Maximus the Mad. I tell you truly,” he continued, an expression of anger gripping his features, “I am only mad because I have seen madness.”
He armed the device.
* * *
“I GAVE you a choice,” Thanos said. “The gauntlet, where all of your people die, or the tribute, where only a small number are forfeit.” He held up one hand on either side as an example of the magnitude of the decision that had to be made, the balance that needed to be struck. When Black Bolt made no response, he let his hands fall to his sides.
“You know what I seek. I will not stop until that child’s head is in my hands. I am owed in blood. Enough to swim in.” He walked forward again until he stood at the foot of the staircase, looking up at the king who sat upon his throne and stared down.
“We both know that you will pay this blood price, Black Bolt. Because it means you and your people survive.” He peered around the chamber. “Still, I can be reasoned with. Give me the boy. Just give that one child to me, and I will let you keep this insignificant place. “What say you, little king?”
As he said those last words, Black Bolt stood. He moved forward from his seat of power until he stared directly down at his adversary.
Black Bolt took in a mighty breath.
Then he shouted.
“NO!”
As the devastating waves of sound pounded forth, Thanos, the Mad Titan, threw up his hands as if to protect himself from the full fury of Black Bolt’s voice.
Around him, Attilan—the city that had withstood centuries and held the history of the Inhumans—shattered under the onslaught. Buildings broke, and the very ground beneath the Titan became liquid for several seconds as vibrations destroyed the foundation, and made ruin of the anti-gravity engines and the field generators that kept the skies of Attilan safe from any attack.
Thanos felt his body sink into that miasma of powdered stone and earth, and forced himself back toward the surface, desperately fighting against the brutal attack upon his person.
His guards all died in an instant.
Thanos had been struck by gods. Hercules, Thor, and others before them, but none of them had landed a blow as hard as the single word uttered by the Inhuman king. With that sort of power at his beck and call, Black Bolt could have leveled entire civilizations.
For a moment Thanos was blind. The fluids in his eyes vibrated at too violent a rate to allow sight. For a moment he was deaf—the pressure from Black Bolt’s voice nearly shattered his eardrums, and the resonating noise that filled his skull left him barely capable of thought. He did not lose his voice. He knew that, and felt his vocal chords strain as he screamed his pain and outrage, but the sound was lost behind the reverberations of Black Bolt’s denial.
He felt. He felt too much. The pressure that smashed into his body was a symphony of pain the likes of which he had seldom experienced at any time in his life. The very armor he wore was destroyed, shattered and torn away.
Still, Thanos endured.
He was not a weakling.
What remained of Attilan lost power and dropped from the skies above New York Harbor, crashing partly on land and partly into the waters, casting massive waves along the shoreline. Boats and ships were destroyed in the landing. Buildings were crushed, the ground cracked, and an untold number of innocents were lost.
Thanos was cast aside as if he were little more than a speck of dust.
* * *
BEFORE THE city fell, another act of defiance by the Inhumans was carried out. Maximus had set the Terrigen bomb to detonate the moment his brother spoke. When it did, a wave of energies escaped the device. The Terrigen Mist sped across New York, and then across the world.
In some places the effects were immediate; in others they were delayed. The gift of the Terrigen became active in anyone and everyone who possessed Inhuman traits somewhere in their genetic code.
Some changed slowly, and others were altered in an instant. It happened whether it was wanted or not.
* * *
OROLLAN WAS a lost city, and that was deliberate. Its inhabitants were the Lor, an offshoot of the Inhumans, but they had hidden themselves away from the world and had no desire to reverse that decision.
Orollan was not like Attilan. It wasn’t a city of scientific miracles. It was stone, and clay, and brick. There were places where electricity ran, and the water was sweet and pure, but the wonders of technology were relatively few. That, too, was deliberate. A simple life bred a simple lifestyle. Though technology was available, no one wanted to use it unless absolutely necessary. It was there as a method of defense and nothing more.
They possessed only a single Terrigen Crystal.
From time to time, information had been sent to Attilan, updating genetic profiles and indicating the conditions of the Inhumans living there. A census was offered in exchange for peace and independence. Otherwise they were safe in their isolation.
The city rested in the Eternal Chasm, hidden in Greenland where none would ever find it. Among its inhabitants was a young man, a healer who cared for people young and old. His name was Thane.
He was the son of Thanos.
Thane was aware of this fact. He dreaded the knowledge and did all he could to avoid any possible connection with the Mad Titan. His mother had brought him to the most isolated branch of the Inhumans so none would know of his existence, and she raised him as best she could. Thane stayed true to her goals.
He tended to the ill and did all he could to comfort those who were beyond help. He lived his life secure in the knowledge that the smallest gestures mattered, and made certain to remain as happy as he could—even when dealing with the dying. Thane understood that whatever grief he might feel for their loss, theirs was greater. They were the ones departing the world, often leaving behind loved ones who would be missed as much as they would miss the departed.
Thane also made it a point to avoid the Terrigen Mist. For if the beliefs were true—if the Terrigen did, indeed, reveal the inner person, the absolute potential of an individual—what would it do with the part of him that was truly of his father? Would he be as bad? Would he be worse?
These thoughts were with him every day of his existence. They haunted him as the Terrigen Mist moved over the city of Orollan, and the transformations began. His mind raced through all of the possibilities as many around him secreted the transformative cocoons that quickly encased them. He knew horror as his body instead bled fire, erupting to engulf those who stood close by. Burning away his skin and his flesh as it transformed him.
He was Thane. He was a healer.
The flames spread.
* * *
THE RUBBLE of Attilan mixed with the ruins of Terran buildings, smoking in the aftermath of Armageddon. Here and there fires had sprung up. The waters of the harbor still churned furiously, and from all directions screams could be heard. Some of them were muffled, others piercing.
With the harsh screech of metal on metal, a pile of the rubble moved. Lifting slowly, it fell away, revealing the massive figure that rose from beneath, cut and bleeding in a dozen places.
“What is this?” Thanos emerged at the water’s edge and peered around. “What has he done?”
Nearby there was the sound of someone else emerging from the ruins. Cautiously he turned and began moving in the direction of the source. Then he stopped at the sight of a black-clad figure.
Black Bolt was alive.
“Still with us, then, Inhuman?” he growled. “Good. This should be finished with blood on our hands.”
Without preamble Black Bolt cried out again, but Thanos was better prepared. He braced himself for the impact and held his position as the metal, concrete, even the ground around him was pulverized. When Black Bolt stopped to catch his breath, Thanos was there, leaping out of the clouds of dust, driving his fist into the chest of the little king.
“Where is the boy, Black Bolt?” he demanded. “Where is my son?” He had tried being reasonable. He had offered to let the Inhumans survive, yet the king was unreasonable, and so he sought to teach the man. With massive hands, he caught Black Bolt by the arms and lifted him easily from the ground. The fingers contracted, and Black Bolt winced as muscles were crushed in his grip.
“You will tell me,” Thanos said. “Where is he? Where?”
If he thought his anger would get him what he sought, he was wrong. Black Bolt screamed.
Directly into his face.
The force was enough to fracture mountains, to level cities. It was concentrated this time, focused to a tight beam of sound that struck Thanos and blasted away the remains of his armor. His skin rippled under the force, pressing to his bones, drawing blood from his flesh.
Thanos felt pain the likes of which he could not recall ever experiencing in his long life. But he did not give ground. He held his opponent in a grip of steel. The ringing in his ears was a white keening noise that overwhelmed everything around him. He released one arm and grasped the Inhuman’s head, wrapping his fingers around it.
“Enough.” He could not hear himself speak. Still, he lifted Black Bolt above his head, and then smashed him down onto the remains of his kingdom. The monarch fought and struggled to break free, but it was wasted effort. Again he crashed into the debris as stone and ashes scattered with the impact.
“Keep your secrets. Take them to your grave.”
Black Bolt did not move when Thanos lifted him again. His body was without tension, his muscles completely relaxed.
Thanos slammed him into the earth again, and then a final time. Concrete and metal were crushed beneath the impact. When he released the king of the Inhumans, Black Bolt was motionless. If he breathed at all, the breaths were too shallow to be detected.
Looking at his own hands, Thanos felt satisfaction. There was blood there. Inhuman blood.
Turning away from his fallen foe, Thanos peered around at the sheer devastation that surrounded them.
“Where are you hiding, child?”
* * *
FROM A safe point in Brooklyn, Maximus watched the explosion high above, and saw Attilan fall. For a long time it had been something he’d wanted. For a long time he’d have reveled in the destruction.
That took none of the sting away from watching his home explode in the skies over New York. The towers were gone. The spires. The inventions he had created over the years to aid in its protection. All gone.
Still he smiled.
“I bet Medusa is ready to scream.” Then he frowned. “In fact she was screaming when Eldrac took her away, wasn’t she?” He looked at Lockjaw as he spoke.
The response was a low, soft bark. There was no way to know whether the sound was the beast agreeing with him. He reached out and ran his hand along the side of the dog’s great head. Lockjaw’s eyes were warm and brown and trusting.
“Wuhrr?”
“I don’t know,” Maximus responded. “I don’t know. You do the math. You double-check, but the variables, Lockjaw… the variables make any assurances sheer folly. So I don’t know.”
Lockjaw pushed that massive face against his hand, a reminder to rub just there. Maximus nodded and agreed. His hand worked the heavy folds of flesh, and Lockjaw made a pleasured sound.
Maximus looked at the waves coming his way, and worried briefly that the water might reach him before Lockjaw decided to move them. He needn’t really be concerned, though, he knew. The great beast was smarter than it let on.
“Wuhrr?”
“Was it worth it? I would die for nothing, but my brother Black Bolt has ideals. He believed in the bomb. He believed in Terrigenesis, and he believed in the two of us.” Looking up, he watched another set of waves—those rippling out from the center of the explosion, the place where Attilan had hovered. “Are you ready?”
“Woorff.”
In the distance the fires continued to bloom over the waters, and wreckage continued to drop from the skies. Maximus smiled.
“Then let’s continue, shall we? We have places to be.”
A moment later they were on their way.
* * *
ALL AROUND Thane the people of Orollan were wrapped in blue cocoons. Some fell; others remained standing while the metamorphoses occurred. Some of the wrappings burst open quickly, while others did not. The fortunate changed before he finished his own transformation.
He had feared that too much of his father hid within him, and the explosive force of his awakening might well have proven his fears valid. His skin was ash gray and bore the same marks as his father’s—a sign of a heritage not only from Titan, but also of the Deviants, the mutants of their species.
His left hand had become a claw and burned with fire, the entire arm a deep, scaly black. Thane screamed, unable to stop the dark flames from peeling flesh away from bone, stripping away life. A golden aura surrounded his right hand, a bright mirror of its sinister counterpart.
Whatever the flames touched withered and died. Whatever fell victim to his right hand was immediately frozen. Inhumans, only recently minted into their new lives, became statues—locked in a living death, unable to move, suspended as if in amber, alone forever with their thoughts.
Terrigenesis was a wild card. For that reason Inhumans were trained for years, in the hope they would be able to control their new abilities. When the time came for exposure to the mist, there were others—teachers—ready to help them grasp their powers and prepare for their use. The Inhumans had been created by the Kree to be living weapons, and in most cases those weapons needed to be honed and perfected, much like any good sword.
Perhaps his father would have been proud, but Thane of the Inhumans was horrified by what he had become.
ACT FOUR
CHOICES AND REPERCUSSIONS
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HALA
RONAN THE Accuser reminded himself, again, that his reason for living was to protect his people.
He stood beside the Creator, one of the highest-ranking Builders, and looked down upon the masses from his place in the Kree-Lar Cathedral, the vast cavern where the Supreme Intelligence resided within its holding tank.
The Kree Empire continued, and the Supreme Intelligence held command. That there were others above the Supremor did not matter to many of the followers. They were fanatics who worshipped the Supremor as if it were a god, and therefore could find no possible fault in any decision it made.
Ronan’s job was to protect these people.
“I know that look,” the Creator said. “You have a question for me, don’t you?”
Ronan spoke directly. “Why do you stay?”
“I am more than six hundred thousand years old, Accuse
r Ronan. There are many places I have stayed, and even more I have left. Ask me a more direct question.” The bug was being deliberately obstinate. Still, the Accuser rephrased his question.
“There are hundreds of council ships in orbit around Hala. Those very same ships defeated your fleet. They are ships captained by great warriors who certainly see the military significance of this empire and are not afraid to act on it. So I ask again—why do you stay here when you know defeat is imminent?”
Given the Creator’s mandibles, he couldn’t tell whether the creature was attempting a smile. Trying to establish empathy with the thing was impossible. Perhaps that was why he loathed it so. The fact that it was not a Kree, and yet currently ruled over his empire, might have been a part of it.
“Because this is my world!” The Creator lifted its arms over its head. “Because you and yours bent your knees to me. Because none of you realize your position as yet.” It turned and faced the Supreme Intelligence. “Supremor, tell your Accuser how beaten we Builders are. Tell him what happens next.” The bug seemed to be gloating.
The Supreme Intelligence spoke. “Based on observed behavior, there is a ninety-nine-point-seven percent chance the Builder fleet reassembles. There is a seventy-two-point-five percent chance the fleet continues on its previously projected path. There is a twenty-seven percent chance the fleet returns to eliminate the remaining council armada. Such a conflict would result in council defeat in eighty-two-point-two percent of all simulated battles.”
Those glossy red insect eyes seemed to glow. The mandibles moved repeatedly before a single word was uttered. “Yes, and under all of these scenarios, what is the chance the Kree remain under Builder control?”
The Supreme Intelligence sat implacably within its tank. To the bug its expression might have seemed unchanged, but to Ronan the anger was obvious. It may have surrendered, but it did not like being usurped.
“Assuming the natural attrition of insignificant worlds and prioritizing of significant world groups, seventy-point-one percent.”
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