Reed Richards frowned at the words. “No need to be fatalistic, T’Challa. Anthony built the current Avengers team to handle the impossible—and look, they did. They exist to build hope, so we can build the unthinkable. You know how it is. Different machines are made with different tools.”
Namor growled. “And cemeteries are littered with dead men who died still believing they would live. Our world is dying. What are we going to do about it, gentlemen?”
Tony Stark stared at his helmet for a moment, looking at the distorted version of his face that peered back from the reflective metal surface.
“We continue—and though it may cost us our very souls, we gather the proper tools necessary.” He rose from his seat and walked over to the newest residents in their prison—the frozen forms of Thanos and Proxima Midnight.
“We build,” he said. “And we prepare for the unthinkable.”
* * *
IN WAKANDA, the queen made her way to the Necropolis, pausing to observe the reconstruction that had begun to take place. She brought with her an escort of twenty Hatut Zeraze, for the chance always remained there would be more of the pirates left. There was also the possibility that the conversation she was forced to have would go poorly.
“Where are you, T’Challa? Come out.” The Necropolis was a place of memory, a spot where the dead were supposed to rest and be remembered. She looked around, but did not see her brother until he wanted to be seen.
“You make it sound as if I was hiding, Shuri.” He walked through an archway from shadows where she would have sworn nothing had been hidden. “I can smell the smoke from the fires that still burn. Birnin Zana needs her queen. What brings you here to the dead city when the living one calls to you?”
“Dead Wakandans,” she responded, lowering her head. “The enemy broke the walls and poured into the capital. From the dead bodies, they made piles to stand on while they taunted us.” She stepped closer to him and looked hard into his eyes. He did not want to look back, but had no choice.
Though they both wore the garb of their totem, she was his queen, after all.
“And look how they fell, Shuri,” he said. “They were no match for the queen.”
“What took you so long to come to our defense, T’Challa? Where were you?”
He gestured around him. “I was here. This place was overrun by the armies of Thanos, as well. I came as quickly as I could.”
“I think he lies, my queen.” The soldier in white pointed at T’Challa as he spoke. “I think without his crown he has become a coward. Maybe he was always a coward.”
Without warning the Black Panther struck, knocking the man aside with a savage backhand. The soldier lay groaning on the ground as T’Challa stood over him.
“Your queen rules Wakanda, but here I am king. Speak thus again at your own peril.” He turned to Shuri. “I am sorry, sister. Yes, the walls were broken, but the city stands. We will rebuild again.”
She looked at her older brother, and then shook her head. She had to ask, though she feared the answer.
“T’Challa, what have you been doing in this place?”
He was silent for a moment. “The Necropolis does not concern you, Shuri. What happens here is of no matter to the kingdom.”
“Lies.”
He turned his head to see who spoke, and found the Dora Milaje entering the courtyard in which they stood.
“He lies, Queen Shuri.”
T’Challa pulled away his mask. The Dora Milaje were the elite of the Wakandan forces and answered to the queen. They had served him faithfully, and he knew that very well. It was Aneka who spoke, the very woman he had appointed to lead the elite force.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “How dare you?”
“We loved you more than our lives, my king,” Aneka said, her rage written in her expression. “But no more.” She looked upon T’Challa and broke her spear over her knee before tossing the remains toward him.
Behind her, the other members of the Dora Milaje stepped forward.
“You have lost your way,” one said—and she, too, broke her spear.
“You have lost your soul.” Another broken spear, cast at his feet. The entire time, he stood stock still.
“What is going on here, brother?” Shuri gave him a chance to defend himself, uncertain he had earned even that.
He was silent.
“Well?” Her word was a demand.
“Don’t do this.” His words were a plea.
She looked to Aneka. “Tell me.” Her brother would not answer, and that was not something she could accept.
“Namor,” the warrior said.
“What?” Shuri stared hard. There was a name she never wanted to hear again. There was a man who was reviled.
Aneka pointed at T’Challa, her face a study in anger and betrayal. “The prince of Atlantis has been here many times since he attacked our city. While Wakanda has been at war with Atlantis, the Sub-Mariner has been here!” She stomped her foot to indicate that the City of the Dead was the place she meant. “Many, many times.” She glared at T’Challa, and Shuri could see the pain of the words.
“They consort with one another.”
“Shuri, please.” T’Challa looked her way. “You do not understand.”
The queen studied the man she had admired and loved for all of her life, and felt a cold pit where that love should have been. She had been queen for only a short time, but he had failed her time and again. She overlooked that because he was her older brother, but now she could not allow the ties of blood to influence her.
“Then explain it to me,” she demanded. “Tell me why.” She fought back the tears. She held back the anger. She would give him this one chance.
“I…” He looked away. “I cannot.”
Shuri stared for a dozen heartbeats while she considered his words. Then she turned away.
“We are leaving.” Her words were a command, and no one misunderstood that fact. Least of all, apparently, her brother.
“Shuri, wait.” He reached for her. “It’s not what you th—”
“Get your hands off me!” She slapped his hand aside. The anger bloomed into a bitter rage. “You are no longer welcome
inside the city, brother.” Her eyes looked him over, and the rage grew hotter still, but she kept herself as calm as she had to. She was a queen and had to act that part, even if she wanted to stab out his eyes.
“And this is not done, T’Challa,” she continued, “but there are funerals I must attend, friends I have to bury.” She started away again and covered a dozen paces before she turned back to him. She stopped, but her escort continued on, knowing they were not wanted at that moment.
Some things had to be said without witnesses.
“You once told me this is a sacred place. That it is holy. The goddess walks here.”
He nodded. “I did.”
“Then you are a damned fool, T’Challa, to betray your people in her presence.”
She walked away and felt his eyes upon her the entire time. She did not cry.
She would not allow herself that luxury.
* * *
T’CHALLA FELT his face burn with shame. His little sister had crushed him under her heel, and he could do nothing. He watched her go and wanted so desperately to explain… about the Illuminati, about why he fought to save the world rather than fighting beside her to save Wakanda.
The problem with secrets was that they had to be kept, or they were no longer secrets. And how would he explain the weapons he’d hidden so close to her kingdom, when he could barely justify it himself after all that had gone so very wrong?
There was a slow, sharp clap.
Then another… and another.
The applause caught him by surprise. The wind shifted, and he smelled Namor before he saw him. The Sub-Mariner walked down a series of stone steps from the broken landing above.
“Very well done, T’Challa.” He continued to clap his hands, slowly.
“You cannot be so bent as to think this is the time to taunt me, Namor. You simply cannot be that stupid.” The man’s arrogance was legendary, but to do this now, when his world was ashes?
“Oh, I am not taunting you, T’Challa,” the fish-man said. “I am applauding your bravery.” The words were made a lie by the smirk on the man’s face. “And it is bravery. I did not know it myself until recently, but I am fully capable of seeing it now.”
The Sub-Mariner was a powerful man. He was capable of bending steel with his hands, and so much more. He had taken the brunt of a blast from Black Bolt and remained conscious even as the walls around him were shattered. Just the same, T’Challa started considering where to hit him to cause the most damage.
“I am seeing so very clearly these days.” His lip pulled back in a sneer. His eyes studied T’Challa with cold and merciless intent. He, too, was considering where best to strike at his enemy. He, too, restrained himself. Of that, T’Challa was certain.
“See, now you know what I know,” Namor continued.
“And what is that?” The Panther tired of the Atlantean’s games.
“What it’s like to face death having lost everything you hold dear.” Namor stopped directly in front of him, close enough that T’Challa could have struck. “You spent your entire life building a perfect kingdom, and now you have been cast out.” He peered around the area for a moment, and then looked back at the Black Panther.
“You could have told her many things. The truth of what we are doing, the nature of you and I. You could have said, ‘Namor is here now—I can give him to you.’ But you did not.” He smiled a cold smile. It was not a kind expression, but a distillation of his contempt for the former king of Wakanda.
“You did not, because you know what we used to call life has very little meaning these days. You know that the world itself is on the edge of collapse, and you would protect her from that even as she sends you away. Thus she repays you for the kindness of omission.” He laughed and rose into the air, the small wings on his ankles holding him easily.
“Welcome to the edge,” he said. “It is the perfect place for kings who have lost their kingdoms.” A moment later he was gone, soaring into the air and heading for the sea.
* * *
IN GREENWICH Village lay a house no one could see unless he wanted them to see it: the Sanctum Sanctorum of the Sorcerer Supreme, a man who liked his privacy. There were exceptions. Wong advised him and cared for his needs. Stephen Strange would be lost without the man, and they both knew it—though neither spoke of that fact.
“There is something different about you, Doctor. I can tell.”
Strange stared out the window and contemplated the city. Outside of his private sanctuary, it was rebuilding again. That almost always seemed to be the case.
The world, the very universe, continued to change.
“How hard is it to see a blood moon in the night sky?” He did not turn to look at Wong as he spoke. He continued to study the night and the stars. “For a very long time, I liked to think of myself as a man with a foundation, with a purpose, not someone defined by living on the periphery. Not someone catering to the needs of others.” Finally he looked to his friend and companion. “Different, Wong? Yes. Very much so.”
He had things to do, and he did not trust that he could do them with Wong by his side. Not this time.
“I want you to leave this room, Wong,” he instructed. “Bar the door. Do not enter. Do this regardless of what you might hear, or what you think might be happening. If I have not emerged from this room in three days’ time, summon Reed Richards. Tell him that this room—that the whole of the Sanctum Sanctorum— must be dispatched from this plane of existence.”
Wong looked at him and considered speaking, but in the end nodded instead.
“I plan to use the Blood Bible.”
“Master, the cost is too—”
“Do it now, Wong. Time grows short, and I am tired of watching others make choices of consequence while I do nothing.”
Wong left the room and locked the door, following his friend’s orders.
“If I am to be damned by these decisions,” Strange said to himself now, “then let it be while using all the resources available to the Sorcerer Supreme. For I am not a pawn. I am a doctor, and it is time to find out what ails the universe.”
A moment later he turned the pages in his Blood Bible and studied the spell he thought would be the best to answer an impossible question. He began the incantation, doing his best to ignore the fear that made him want to hesitate. Energies began to crackle around him, and bizarre forms flitted and danced in the arcing lights. There were sounds, strange and terrible, far beyond human hearing.
There was no place for cowardice, not with a universe at stake.
* * *
THE ILLUMINATI gathered. Or some of them did. Iron Man. The Beast. Mister Fantastic. The others were nowhere to be seen.
“You notice it’s the royalty who are absent?” Stark said.
“True,” Richards replied. “It’s almost as if they have to stop and take care of their own worlds for a while. I’m rather surprised you have the time yourself, Tony. You have an empire of your own.”
“Sometimes it’s best if I let Pepper handle the details,” he admitted. “She’s better at it than I am.”
“Terrigenesis,” Hank McCoy said, breaking through the banter. “It’s a happening thing right now, gentlemen. The cocoons have been found on every continent and in pretty much every nation. Some of them are already opening.” He sighed as he dug for an apple in his backpack. “They’ve been pulling the rubble of the Inhuman city out of the harbor and checking for bodies. Not one so far that doesn’t belong to one of Thanos’ thugs. I can’t say that news hurts my feelings.”
“That’s a disturbing fact, in and of itself,” Richards said. “Given the records Black Bolt shared with us, the spike in the Inhuman population could very well rival the spike in mutant births over the last two decades.” He glanced at Hank. Just to be safe, he clarified. “That means a massive potential for unexpected powers, uncontrolled abilities, and a panicked response by the persons who aren’t transformed.”
Hank finished a bite of his apple before responding. “I think the wisest thing you could do, Dr. Richards, in order to keep the populace safe, is either destroy the information you were given or blatantly lie to any government officials asking about it.”
“You are not mistaken, Dr. McCoy.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Stark remarked, “but I have to agree.”
“This poses other problems that are all new,” McCoy said in between bites. “Existing methods used to scan for mutants aren’t likely to register Inhumans. That’s going to make it difficult to locate or quantify these newer super-powered beings. Despite the fact that—as we have seen in the past—Inhumans don’t always look, well, human.”
“One nightmare at a time,” Stark said. “We don’t know how long it will be before the other members of our group will be available. In the meanwhile, there are still cities to rebuild, panicky people who need to be reassured, and alien technology that’s just waiting to fall into the wrong hands.”
“Most likely S.H.I.E.L.D. will be doing its best to handle that last part.” Richards offered a small smile. “I’ve already dodged a couple of calls from Nick Fury. I’ll answer the next one.”
Tony nodded in agreement. “He’s been trying very hard to get in contact, and my people have been good at keeping him out of my hair. Maybe I should show him some mercy, as well.”
Hank smiled around a piece of apple. “See? I don’t get calls from Nick Fury. Do you know why? Because I keep a low profile. Kitty Pryde gets calls. You gentlemen get calls. But everyone assumes I’m just a jovial, blue-furred mutant, and no one tries to draft me.”
“Says the guy who used to sport an Infinity Stone,” Tony responded.
“Keywords: used to. And what sort of trouble did that cause? I continue t
o maintain, Mr. Stark, that a wise man keeps a lower profile.”
“That would never work with my image.”
Richards stood. “If it’s all the same, gentlemen, we need to adjourn. I’m off to the Baxter Building to study a few probes I’ve sent out. There hasn’t been any extraterrestrial activity since we defeated Thanos, but that can’t last for long.”
“Agreed.” Beast stood up, as well, and tossed the apple core in his hand into the wastebasket halfway across the room. “I have to get back to teaching my students. Let’s worry about saving the universe next week. For now, let’s just bask in the glory of the latest victory.”
Tony nodded.
“Amen to that.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NO ONE works alone on a book like this, and a lot of times the driving forces behind the scenes get missed. To that end I’d like to acknowledge the people who have, through their efforts, made this book better than it would have been otherwise. Heartfelt thanks to Vivian Cheung, Nick Landau, Laura Price, Paul Gill, Cat Camacho, and the superhuman Hayley Shepherd from Titan Books; and to Jeff Youngquist, Caitlin O’Connell, Sven Larsen, and John Nee from Marvel Comics.
A heads-up to C. B. Cebulski, because once upon a time he helped me more than he knows. Glenn from the Comic Book Palace, in Haverhill, Massachusetts, was a lifesaver when it came to research, and I thank you kindly, sir.
And, of course, Steve Saffel from Titan, who has to work with my drafts and make them coherent, is an unsung hero, as well. Thank you, Steve, from the bottom of my heart. Doubly so for letting me play in my favorite sandbox. The original graphic novel, Infinity, was written by Jonathan Hickman with Nick Spencer. It was illustrated by Jim Cheung, Jerome Opeña, Dustin Weaver, Mike Deodato, Stefano Caselli, Leinil Yu, Marco Rudy, and Marco Checchetto. I hope I managed to do your works justice. Thanks very much for the ride!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES A. MOORE is the bestselling and award-winning author of over forty-five novels: thrillers, dark fantasy and horror alike, including the critically acclaimed Fireworks, the Seven Forges series, Blood Red, the Serenity Falls trilogy (featuring his recurring anti-hero, Jonathan Crowley) and his most recent novels, Avengers: Infinity, The Predator: Hunters and Hunted, and the Tides of War series (The Last Sacrifice, Fallen Gods, and Gates of the Dead). In addition to writing multiple short stories, he has also edited, with Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon, the British Invasion anthology for Cemetery Dance Publications.
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