Avengers

by James A. Moore

  The Builder turned his eyes toward Ronan. “I stay because this world is mine.” The thing’s head swiveled, and it looked toward the skies above the cathedral. An opening in the ceiling showed what at first seemed to be a falling star. They both knew better. Had the falling object been a celestial body, the planetary-defense batteries would have destroyed it before it could cause damage. So it had to be benign.

  “Better for the Kree that I do not have to break what is mine in maintaining its proper place.” The Creator paused for a moment as the falling star came closer. “What is this?” The question seemed rhetorical, but Ronan answered just the same.

  “That is a communication orb from the Shi’ar Empire,” he said, adding, “It is weaponless.” The metal orb was about six inches wide. It stopped in front of the Creator and hovered for a moment before its top blossomed open to reveal a holographic projector. An image of Gladiator appeared.

  “To the Builder holding the world below. I am Gladiator, Majestor of the Shi’ar Empire. We wish to parley.”

  The Builder turned its head slightly, and the mandibles danced and clicked again and again.

  “And what do you wish to discuss in this parley, Majestor?”

  “It would be better for all that we discuss a mutually acceptable end to hostilities,” the Shi’ar said. “We have hurt you. You have hurt us. There can be no easy resolution to this situation that does not end in continued violence, unless we meet in person.”

  Ronan watched, grinding his jaw in frustration. Had they lost their senses completely? He wanted nothing so much as to join those forces in pushing the damnable Builders from his homeworld, and now they wanted to discuss… what? Surrender? Were they all as foolish as the Supreme Intelligence?

  “There is an order in the universe, and this possibility falls well within it,” the Builder replied. “I agree to one representative only. One. More, and any chance at parley is eliminated.”

  “Very well.” Gladiator’s somber visage nodded. “When shall we meet?”

  “In one standard hour. You may send your representative to these exact coordinates.” As the Creator gave the instructions, Ronan seethed, however quietly.

  The Creator turned to him. “You see? As predicted. All things yield to the greater agency. Assemble your Accusers, Ronan. Fill the parade grounds with your people. Let them all watch what follows.”

  “It will be done.”

  “Make sure you do it well. This is history after all. You are about to witness the end of our little war.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE FINE ART OF NEGOTIATION

  GLADIATOR CLOSED the holographic comm and set it aside.

  “They have agreed.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, making certain all present understood the gravity of his words. “The Builder will accept one man to negotiate an end to hostilities. So the Captain was right to sue for peace. Yet I do not trust them. I don’t think any of us should. I have looked into the eyes of many beings that wanted to kill me, and I do not think any peace gained is for the long term.

  “They want to eliminate us.”

  “Of course they do,” Captain America said.

  “Yeah?” Captain Marvel looked at him and frowned. “Then what are we doing here, Steve?”

  “Look at the board, Carol.” Captain America gestured to the map that floated above the council table. “The victory changed nothing. We remain outgunned, outnumbered, and fractured. They have taken so many worlds that we’ve lost the only real advantage we ever had. We’re outmanned. So why are we still going to meet with them, even though we know they meet with ill intent?”

  He looked at Gladiator and then at Kl’rt. “Because there’s really only one move we have left. We surrender.”

  Kl’rt snorted. Gladiator didn’t respond.

  “I didn’t say it would stick, gentlemen,” Captain America continued. “But it’s an excuse to get close. It’s the only chance we have that doesn’t involve chasing after the Builder fleet, or just hoping it will all go away.”

  * * *

  WHILE THE others discussed the turn of events, Carol Danvers pulled Captain America aside, as far from the rest as they could get.

  “Have you taken a good look around?” she murmured softly. “I see people on the verge of breaking. We can’t take much more—”

  “No, we can’t,” he agreed, his expression unreadable. “So the next question is, ‘Is this going to work?’ The answer is, ‘It has to.’”

  She was about to speak when Gladiator called from across the room.

  “Captain,” he said, looking at a communications unit. “It’s done.”

  * * *

  RONAN CALLED them together. Charne the Accuser was not amused. Rydiu the Accuser was outraged. Memarak the Accuser argued with him until he pulled rank and demanded that they remember his place and submit to orders.

  None of them were happy.

  Neither was Ronan. Still it was his duty, and so he did it. He called the Accuser Corps to order, and they in turn made certain the grounds of the cathedral were full to overflowing. As this was accomplished, the Creator was in discussion with his peers in the fleet.

  “Events unfold, Builders. The rebel worlds have requested a negotiation to offer an end to hostilities.”

  “Do these overtures have merit?” one of the holograms replied. Ronan did not understand the creatures’ hierarchy. All of the different species he’d seen—and a few more besides—were represented in the projections that had responded.

  “The message comes from a Strontian, a subspecies of the Shi’ar whose genetics exist within our xenobase. Markers imply truthfulness. Subtext indicates more.”

  “Then accept the diplomat,” another replied. “Demand terms that properly leverage survival and longevity in the local sphere should they comply with simple terms of surrender.”

  A third Builder added, “We will drop the interference with their systemwide communication network. We will omnicast the end of the nuisance, the better to end all further resistance.”

  “Agreed,” the bug that currently held sway over Hala replied. “You provide the platform. I will deliver the lesson.” The images faded with a wave of its hand, and it turned to address the Accuser. “You have summoned all that I requested, Ronan?”

  “I have. The high born, the blues, the pink skins, military and political classes—all have been summoned as you requested.”

  “You have called forth your judges?”

  “Yes. The Accusers are here. All of them.”

  “Then summon the rebel diplomat. Let’s have an end to this. Let the rebel come and bend a knee for all of Hala and all of the universe to see. For you to witness, Ronan. This will be the greatest day in the history of the Kree. They will surrender to me, and to my new empire.”

  * * *

  “ALL OF our hopes resting on the shoulders of one person.” Kl’rt spoke softly as the emissary left them and descended toward the planet below. “Our futures all dependent on surrender.” His voice was a low rumble, the promise of a storm still building. “Is this how far we’ve fallen?”

  “What does pride earn us now, Warlord?” Gladiator replied. “The time for debate has ended. We cannot win. Regardless of how badly we might wish for battle, for now we appear strong and beg for time. The good Captain has made his case, and we both agreed.”

  “The shuttle has landed.” Captain America watched the screen that stood before them. “He’s ready to begin negotiations.”

  “He barters for us all, Captain,” Gladiator said. Despite his earlier words, he sounded dubious. “You’re sure you sent the right person?”

  “Of that I have no doubt. I sent my best negotiator.”

  Kl’rt growled. “Well, we wanted to barter from a position of strength…”

  * * *

  THE ESCORT sent for the emissary was a large one, as befitted either a serious threat or an honored guest. The bug would see it whatever way it wanted, but as far as Ronan was concer
ned, the negotiator—whoever it was—should be treated as an honored guest. Whoever came had held out against surrender far longer than the Kree, and that said a great deal.

  A small smile played at his lips when he saw the Asgardian.

  Thor, the God of Thunder among his people, walked with squared shoulders and head held high. The hammer gripped in his hand swayed casually.

  The guard moved with him, but Ronan could hardly blame the ones that looked nervous. His abilities were well known among the Kree, as he had helped defeat them on several occasions. The strongest soldiers could stand only for so long against a hurricane, and spears of lightning tended to melt armor to flesh. The council might be there to surrender, but they intended to do so from a position of strength.

  Ronan walked closer and blocked the Asgardian as he stepped up to the dais. He pressed one hand against the Asgardian’s chest, and felt the powerful heartbeat that resided there.

  “Unarmed, my friend,” he said. “The Builders have seen you in action, and they recognize formidable when it appears before them.”

  Thor looked at him, and Ronan steeled himself. Then the thunder god nodded, speaking softly as he held Mjolnir close to his face.

  “Hear me, Father. Am I worthy? If so may I find your favor this day. See my heart and not just my hand.” Then he drew back, and hurled the war hammer upward into the air. Ronan watched until Mjolnir was no longer even a speck.

  “As requested then.” Thor smiled, though there was no humor in the expression, and held up his empty hands. “Unarmed.” He looked directly at the bug. “Shall we haggle now like weak men?”

  The bug looked at him, and when it spoke it managed a sound that was nearly contemptuous despite the lack of recognizable facial expression.

  “You think there is a bargain to be had here? No, there is no bargain.” It stepped closer to the Asgardian and looked up slightly into the blue eyes of a god. “I understood that, so you rebels might survive and your worlds remain unrazed, you would be surrendering this day. Was I ill informed? Was I misled?”

  Thor’s smile dropped away and his brow furrowed as he considered the creature before him. His expression said all that it needed to—that he faced little more than, well, a bug.

  “Your understanding of the matter is not wrong. I am here to officially end hostilities by surrendering the field to you.” He looked the Creator over as one might a thing to be stepped on. “But I will be demanding assurances.”

  “It is wise to ask, but less so to demand. Assurances, you say?” The Builder leaned in. “Come closer.”

  Thor obliged.

  The creator backhanded the golden-haired Avenger hard enough to make him twist and move back half a step. Ronan knew exactly how impressive that display of strength was, and his every muscle went tense.

  “You will submit, or perish,” the Creator said. “You will kneel, or your fellow warriors will lose all they hold dear. All that is left is surrender.

  “On.

  “Your.

  “Knees.”

  Thor slowly wiped at his mouth, as if to wipe away the taste of the contact with the insect. His eyes locked on the red orbs of the creature’s eyes, but the thunder god did not blink.

  Throughout the known universe, the Builders boosted the live footage, showing one of their own striking a god and making demands. The members of the Galactic Council watched from the Lilandra, aboard other ships, or from their home planets. The Kree all watched—the Supremor, the royals, the pinks and the Accuser Corps. All bore witness to the slap and to Thor’s response.

  Slowly, as if it caused him great pain, Thor of Asgard lowered to the ground and took a knee.

  The Creator loomed over him and looked down.

  “There,” it said. “This is good. Does it not suit you better? Is this not your natural state?”

  Thor did not reply.

  His expression was obscured in shadows.

  “You have saved so very many by yielding here today,” the bug continued, “but you should know that you have not saved the Earth. There is no saving that world. We will reduce it to atoms, burnt to nothing with the power of a thousand suns.”

  He bent closer. As he spoke, spittle came from beneath his mandibles and fell onto the helmet of a god.

  “And do you know why?” it asked. “Humanity is a plague, not just to this galaxy or even to this universe. It is a sickness that exists in every universe that has been or ever will be.”

  Still Ronan did not move. He wanted to—oh, how he loathed to watch a proud warrior kneel before the insect that now loomed over Thor.

  “Humanity is a festering wound that must be cauterized. A blight on the great canvas that is everything.” The insect’s voice very nearly vibrated with an anger the face could not show. “Your victory here is hollow, human. Others will live, but your kind will die with you. And you dare think it could have ended any other way?”

  Thor looked up, his face unreadable.

  “Humanity should have the good sense to know their story is over. Mankind should know they are done.”

  Thor’s eyes found the red orbs, and he smiled. It was a cold thing, a slice of ice in the night.

  “And what if I am not just a man?”

  KRAK-A-THOOM!

  Far above the Kree-Lar Cathedral, a peal of thunder rippled through the air. There was silence, then the sound of rushing air, growing louder.

  Something was moving very fast.

  “What?” The Creator looked up. A point of light appeared, a glowing contrail stretching out behind it. Before he could react, however, Mjolnir returned from the heavens, carrying with it the fires from its trip around the sun.

  Thor began to rise even as the hammer slammed through the Creator from behind and erupted from its chest. He caught it with a smooth, easy motion, ignoring the heat of the thing and the blood baked onto it.

  Its entire midsection a gaping hole, green ichor pouring out, the Creator fell forward onto its hands and knees. It struggled to rise as Thor stood above it.

  “Y-you-you don’t understand,” it said. “This-this means… everything dies.”

  “You first.”

  Thor brought his hammer down on the thing’s head. It shattered in a spray of chitinous armor and green slime. As the thunder god stood, the ichor dripped from his weapon.

  He looked at Ronan. It was rare to see the God of Thunder kill. In that moment he understood how very merciful Thor had been to the Kree over the years.

  “Above this world are free men and women, fighting for their people throughout the galaxy.” The Asgardian spoke with calm. “Those who would die before yielding their liberty to a harness. Are you a free man, Ronan?”

  There was no hesitation in the answer.

  “Yes.”

  Thor continued, “And are there other free men and women in this hall, as well? Those who would stand and be counted? Who would fight until they fall, or are victorious?”

  “There are.”

  Thor stared hard into his eyes. “Then call them out, Accuser. There is battle waiting for the righteous.”

  Ronan looked around the cathedral. It was utterly silent. He ignored the Supremor whose containment bath towered behind him—the very being that had surrendered to the enemy.

  Thor held his hammer. It was a weapon worthy of a warrior.

  Ronan held a hammer, as well. It, too, was a weapon worthy of a warrior.

  He was a warrior. He felt a moment of shame for letting himself forget that fact, however briefly and for whatever possible good reasons. Then he raised his hammer over his head and looked out over the congregation of the Kree.

  “Accusers!” he bellowed. “Are you with me?”

  As one the Accusers raised their hammers and roared their affirmation. It echoed off the walls of the Kree-Lar Cathedral. Where the Accusers led, the Kree would follow.

  Then a voice rose over the sounds of cheering.

  “This victory means nothing.”

  Ronan turned a
nd looked at the Supreme Intelligence. A computer imbued with the memories of the long dead, it had ruled for centuries. Yet it did not have the passion or the honor needed to rule properly.

  The truth was simple enough to see. The Supremor kept him close so it could keep him on a leash. The thought enraged him and assaulted his sense of honor.

  “This changes nothing,” the damned computer said. “They are still legion. The forces of the Galactic Council are shattered. All that has happened here is a blight on Hala—one that we must hope the Builders do not see the need to remove forever.”

  “Supremor.” Ronan spoke as calmly and as reasonably as he could under the circumstances. His passion was refueled, the need for honor and glory was a song within him, and the machine had tried to quell that. “We are a mighty people. We are warriors who have conquered a galaxy. We have been given a second chance to show the universe what we truly are. We must take it.” He looked into the eyes of the Supreme Intelligence. They were not Kree eyes. They were incapable of understanding the complexities of the Kree heart.

  “We must take this opportunity,” he continued. “Our honor demands it.”

  “I do not care for performances, Accuser,” the Supremor responded. “This is not some great play acted out on the stage called the universe. Your honor means nothing.”

  His ears rang. His blood surged. Still, Ronan held himself steady, as the Supremor was not yet finished presenting its case. It stared down from above, a vast thing, bloated on its own self-importance.

  “Against the long history of our people that I carry in my memories, you are nothing.” Those words burned him and marked him with shame. “You are all nothing. What are a billion lives against the trillions spanning the long chronicle of our people? What good is a moment when compared to all of our history?”

  When he spoke again, Ronan’s voice shook with the cold pit of rage that had replaced his heart.

  “This moment, Supremor? This moment is everything.” He lifted his hammer high above his head and brought it down upon that smug face, shattering the tank that kept the thing safe and secure.