by Greg Cox
In contrast to the tasteful Old World elegance of the corridor outside, the meeting room looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. Banks of sophisticated computer circuitry and monitors covered the walls and ceiling, lighted control panels blinking on and off, while the room was dominated by a large chrome table, the top of which was emblazoned by a stylized capital “A.” Egg-shaped metal chairs, designed to support the weight of even the Hulk if necessary, surrounded the futuristic round table. Iron Man’s boots rang against the shining stainless-steel tiles beneath his feet as he crossed the room.
The chairs were all empty now, but not the room itself. Iron Man immediately recognized the imposing figure standing on the opposite side of the table, his athletic figure proudly wearing the red-white-and-blue colors of the nation he had served and protected for over fifty years. A single white star glittered upon his chest, surrounded by a shirt of bright blue chain mail. Vertical red and white stripes girded his waist while a symbolic eagle wing rose from each side of his blue cowl. Flared red gloves and boots completed the ensemble.
“Hello, Tony,” Captain America said warmly. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“No problem,” Iron Man said. The vocalizer in his mouthpiece distorted his voice, giving him a forbidding, mechanical tone. He took advantage of the mansion’s privacy, protected by dozens of electronic countermeasures, by unlocking the metallic seals at the base of his helmet. Removing the headpiece, he placed it gently on the surface of the table, revealing handsome features distinguished by a trim black mustache and beard. A face often seen on the cover of People magazine looked vaguely out of place atop Iron Man’s mechanized form.
That’s better, Tony thought. He breathed a sigh of relief—despite all the improvements he’d made to the suit’s ventilation and internal cooling systems, it still got a bit stuffy under the helmet. Besides, he had no secrets from Cap.
Captain America kept his own mask on, probably just from force of habit. Iron Man suspected that, after five decades of fighting for freedom, from the dark days of World War II through all the years since. Cap was more comfortable in uniform than out of it. His real name was Steve Rogers, Iron Man knew, but even his closest friends mostly thought of him as Cap. His proud stance and patriotic costume, from the A-for-America upon his brow right down to his bright red boots, had been an enduring national icon since before Tony Stark was even born. Cap’s circular metal shield, similarly adorned with the Stars and Stripes, rested on the table as well, only a few feet away from Iron Man’s helmet.
The tools of our trade, Iron Man thought.
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and glanced around the room, wondering where the rest of the team was. As if in answer to his unspoken query, a spectral figure rose from the center of the table, passing through the solid tabletop, and the chromium floor below, like an insubstantial wraith.
Or Vision.
Translucent at first, so that Iron Man could spy a wall of computer banks through the green-and-yellow body of the newcomer, the Vision emerged in his entirety a few inches above the Avengers insignia on the table, then drifted silently to one side and lowered himself into an empty chair. Once seated, he solidified quickly, effortlessly taking on mass and substance until he appeared just as tangible as Captain America and Iron Man. A voluminous yellow cape, that had previously floated about him like a phantasmal aura, settled upon his emerald shoulders.
“Forgive my delay,” he said, his voice as cold and unfeeling as the grave, “but I was engaged in routine maintenance of my thermoscopic receptor.”
Iron Man was not too startled by the Vision’s eerie arrival. He had grown accustomed to the synthetic Avenger’s tendency to pass through solid objects when convenient—a useful application of the Vision’s unique ability to control his artificial body’s density. It was just such an immaterial manifestation, he recalled, that had led their former colleague, the winsome Wasp, to christen the synthezoid “the Vision” in the first place.
A fitting name, he reflected.
If Iron Man, at least with his helmet in place, resembled a humanoid robot forged from gleaming steel, the Vision, in his solid state, looked more or less like a living mannequin sculpted out of plastic. A skintight sheet of green and yellow latex garbed his synthetic frame, except where his scarlet face peeked through, looking no more natural or organic than the statues in a wax museum. A polished golden gem resided in the center of his forehead, absorbing the solar energy that provided the Vision with his own artificial form of life. The mask-like face, slender and refined in its contours, was capable of expressing emotion, Iron Man knew, but seldom displayed that ability to any significant degree.
Especially since his marriage to Wanda broke up, Stark thought privately. These days, the Vision was even more icy and inhuman than he had been in years.
“Who else are we expecting?” Iron Man asked. He didn’t want to rush things, but there was a stack of paperwork waiting back on his alter ego’s desk. His executive assistant, Pepper Potts, could handle most of it if necessary, but Stark preferred to be a hands-on administrator whenever possible; he owed that to his numerous employees and stockholders. Avengers business took priority, though, as well it should. The fate of one company, even his own, hardly compared to the safety of the whole world.
“Just Wanda,” Cap informed him. “Hawkeye and Thor are both pursuing solo missions, while Firestar and Justice are attending a New Warriors reunion. That leaves only the Scarlet Witch on the duty roster.” He glanced at a digital chronometer mounted into the south wall, beneath a sizable viewscreen. The clock read 01:36:08 p.m. “I’m not sure what’s keeping her. So far, she hasn’t responded to any of my hails.”
There was a moment of awkward silence as both Cap and Iron Man looked toward the seated Vision.
If anyone might know where Wanda is… the armored Avenger thought. The Vision and the Scarlet Witch had been deeply in love once, even happily married with two small children of their own. But several tragic reversals of fortune, including the loss of their twin sons, had taken its toll on their union. The Vision had even been completely disassembled and reconstructed at least once, losing much of his earlier personality in the process—or so it appeared. Iron Man didn’t pretend to understand all that had happened to their relationship, but it was clearly no longer what it once was, and had not been for some time.
It can’t be easy for them, he thought, still living under the same roof, fighting beside each other as members of the same team. Still, that was none of his business, even now.
Perhaps sensing his human teammates’ discomfort, the Vision volunteered what he knew without being asked. “I believe Wanda expressed an interest in visiting an exhibition at a local museum, but I do not know when she expected to return.”
Cap nodded solemnly, his chiseled jaw firmly set beneath his cowl. “Well, why don’t we get started without her,” he decided as chairman.
Iron Man agreed silently, taking a seat at the table. It was unlike Wanda to skip out on official Avengers business, but, given all the hardships she had endured over the last few years, he was inclined to cut her some slack. We can always fill her in later if we have to.
Cap walked over to the primary viewscreen and activated the widescreen monitor, which flared to life with a faint phosphor glow. “I received the following transmission at roughly 1300 hours. I think it speaks for itself.” A prerecorded image appeared on the screen, depicting the scowling visage of Nick Fury, director of the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistic Directorate. Four times larger than life, Fury glared out from the monitor with his one good eye. A simple black eyepatch concealed the remains of his other eye, while what looked like a day’s worth of stubble bristled along his jaw, which chomped down, as usual, on a cheap cigar. Only the gray at his temples hinted that the veteran spymaster had been around just as long as Captain America. Fury was a tough old warhorse. Iron Man knew; Stark had personally recommended Fury for his post at
S.H.I.E.L.D., back when it was still called the Supreme Headquarters International Espionage and Law-enforcement Division.
“Listen up, heroes,” Fury barked. His voice was as gravelly as a bad stretch of road. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has confirmed several UFO sightings in New York State, at least five in the last three hours. We’re not talking swamp gas or weather balloons here; this looks like the real deal.” His scowl deepened, as if the alleged alien spacecraft had arrived just to make his life difficult. He bit down hard on the base of his stogie. A puff of gray smoke rose from the burning tobacco. “Invading ETs are more your line than ours, so you’d better be on the lookout and get ready for anything. Full details of the sightings are being transmitted to your computers— under maximum encryption, natch—even while I’m sitting here jawin’ about this. That’s all for now. Let me know if we’re about to be overrun by little green men. Fury out.”
The screen went blank, shutting itself off as it reached the end of the communication. Cap let the ominous message sink in for a moment before speaking. He gave Iron Man a quizzical look. “I don’t suppose Stark Industries is testing any experimental aircraft in this vicinity?”
“Stark Solutions,” Iron Man corrected him, supplying the name of his new-and-improved corporation. He was proud of his latest enterprise. He shook his head. “I would’ve alerted S.H.I.E.L.D. ahead of time in any case.”
“I figured as much,” Cap said. “I spoke with Reed Richards earlier. The Fantastic Four don’t know anything about this either.”
“What about the X-Men?” Iron Man asked. Compared to the FF or the Avengers, the mutant team were renegades as far as the government was concerned. He couldn’t imagine that Wolverine and company bothered to notify the authorities when they went offworld or hosted extraterrestrial visitors.
Typical, Iron Man thought, a frown marring his debonair features. He didn’t buy into all the anti-mutant hysteria that sometimes got directed at the X-Men, but he had to admit that the whole bunch of them had always struck him as a pack of dangerously loose cannons, even if they had managed to cooperate (barely) with the Avengers on a couple of occasions. Why can’t they work within the system like the rest of us?
“Apparently not,” Cap answered. “I quietly dropped a line to the Beast, and he assured me that we can cross the X-Men off our list of suspects, although he couldn’t vouch for all their splinter groups.”
Iron Man rolled his eyes. X-Factor. X-Force. Excalibur. Generation X… there’s even some kid calling himself X-Man running around these days. He couldn’t blame Hank McCoy for not being able to keep track of all his fellow mutants. I can’t make sense of it myself. He sighed wearily. We Avengers may retool our membership periodically, but at least we always know who’s who. And you can tell the good guys from the bad…
“Then it could be almost anybody behind these sightings,” he objected. “The Kree, the Skrulls, the Badoon, Galactus. Even the Stone Men from Jupiter. And that’s assuming that this UFO really is extraterrestrial in origin, and not just some new high-tech aircraft cooked up by Zemo or Hydra or someone.”
“Fury has his own sources of information,” Cap pointed out, sitting down at the table between the Vision and Iron Man. His trusty shield rested within easy reach. “If he says that none of our local mad geniuses are responsible, I’m inclined to believe him.”
That was true. Iron Man conceded. S.H.I.E.L.D wasn’t known as the world’s premiere intelligence operation for nothing; Fury probably knew what the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants had for breakfast. “So what do we do now?” he asked. “Take notes while we watch The X-Files?”
Cap raised an eyebrow under his cowl, looking a bit puzzled by the allusion. Iron Man guessed that Captain America, having grown up with old-time radio, didn’t watch much TV.
“Never mind,” he told Cap. “But besides notifying all our auxiliary members, I’m not sure what else Fury expects us to do.”
The double doors behind him swung open and Jarvis entered the meeting room, carrying a silver tray on which Iron Man spied three china cups. “Excuse the interruption, gentlemen, but I thought you might care for a spot of refreshment.” He strolled around the table, handing out the steaming cups. “A black coffee for you, sir,” he said to Captain America, “and a cappuchino for you, Master Stark.” The butler did not offer the third cup to the Vision, since the solar-powered synthezoid had little need of food or drink, but instead looked about the meeting room. “I say, has Mistress Wanda not yet returned? I thought sure that she would have arrived by now, perhaps while I was busying myself in the kitchen.”
“I confess that I grow increasingly concerned about the Scarlet Witch’s continued absence,” the Vision intoned. Iron Man had heard automated answering machines that sounded warmer. “I have never known her to disregard an official summons.”
He has a point, Iron Man thought. When Wanda had served as team leader for the West Coast Avengers, before that branch of the team was dissolved, she had been a stickler for punctuality, usually arriving several minutes before any planned meeting. It was always possible that her tardiness today had a perfectly innocent explanation—perhaps her I.D. card had been misplaced or malfunctioned—but Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time that an individual Avenger had been waylaid by one or more of their many foes.
“Easy enough to check out,” he said, reaching for his helmet. Putting the headpiece back into place, the magnetic seals engaging automatically, he employed a cybernetic command to activate the helmet’s built-in antenna array. A priority signal, keyed to Wanda’s specific coded frequency, and strong enough to reach her anywhere within New York’s five boroughs, issued from the powerful communications equipment embedded in Iron Man’s armor.
A shame if we alarm her unnecessarily, he thought, but better safe than sorry.
“Iron Man to Scarlet Witch. Priority Yellow. Please reply.”
To his surprise, he couldn’t even get a lock on the card. Not only did Wanda not respond verbally, but there was no indication that the card was anywhere within range of the signal, which argued conclusively against it being left downstairs somewhere.
Blast it, Wanda, what the devil has happened to you?
“Iron Man to Scarlet Witch,” he repeated, more urgently this time. “Let us know where you are.”
Nothing.
“This isn’t good,” Iron Man reported to Cap and the Vision. Was that a flicker of anxiety in the synthezoid’s glittering plastic eyes or merely a trick of the light? “I can’t reach her at all, or even get a fix on her location.” He silenced the static in his earpiece, abandoning his efforts to establish contact with the missing mutant sorceress. “I don’t like this one bit. Wanda wouldn’t just leave the city without telling anyone.”
Not of her own free will, that is.
CHAPTER FIVE
“LET’S go, people!” Cyclops shouted. “Hurry!”
A series of explosions rocked the alien space station, punctuating the X-Man’s command with a string of seismic exclamation points.
I need no further urging, Storm thought, running down the quaking corridor, the diminished gravity, less than a third of Earth-normal, seeming to add wings to her feet. She was anxious to leave this cold and sterile environment behind. Transparent portholes, revealing the blackness of interstellar space, only emphasized how far this place was from the gentle winds, cool waters, and nurturing sunlight of her beloved Mother Earth. The cramped confines of the silver corridor, added to the enclosed nature of the entire station, induced an all-too-familiar sense of claustrophobia, but Storm refused to let any irrational fears, no matter how deeply ingrained, distract her from the challenge at hand.
If we can just make it to the shuttle, she thought, before the whole station falls apart!
They were running out of time. Already the walkway buckled beneath her feet, venting gusts of hot gas and ionized plasma which she and her two companions were forced to dodge as they ran, trusting on agility and adrenaline to avoid the hazards that
sprang up in their path again and again. Ahead of her, the Beast bounded over a ruptured steam pipe, his powerful legs propelling him well above the pipe itself, so that his shaggy dark blue fur was only slightly scalded by the blistering steam spewing forth from the jagged cleft.
“Alley oop!” he called exuberantly, landing upon his massive hands, which he used to launch himself further down the corridor. “Come along, my brother- and sister-in-arms. Our heavenly chariot awaits!”
“Just have it warmed up and ready to go,” Cyclops ordered him, sounding like he was only a few yards behind Storm. In contrast to the effusive Beast, his voice was brusque and humorless. “This is going to be a close one.”
If we make it at all, Storm thought grimly.
The harsh clamor of metal supports crumpling and crashing upon each other came from the heart of the station, merely three levels away. Although the outer hull had not yet been breached, exposing them to the deadly vacuum outside, she knew that complete explosive decompression— and near instantaneous death—was only minutes away.
This is taking too long, she realized. We need Rogue or Wolverine. But the X-Men’s numbers were sorely reduced today, leaving only the three of them to face this latest trial by fire.
Steaming vapor filled the corridor before her. Storm realized her own legs could hardly duplicate the Beast’s spectacular leap, even allowing for the lesser gravity, so she called upon her own mutant abilities instead, taking hold of the pressurized atmosphere with her mind and shaping it to her will. Elemental energy suffused her eyes, masking the striking blue orbs behind an impenetrable white glow. A robust wind sprung to life within the ordinarily weatherless environment of the station, fluttering the wings of slick black fabric that hung beneath her arms and blowing the scalding steam away from her path. It took only seconds to disperse the hot mist, then an incandescent red beam shot past Storm to crush the exposed pipe to a flattened mass of lead, sealing the leak completely.
