by Greg Cox
“There’s just one thing I still don’t understand,” Cap said to Iron Man. “How did you and your party get all the way back from Scotland before the rest of us could return from Alberta?”
Since the main meeting room had not yet recovered from the Hulk-Sentinel’s rampage, everyone had convened in an elegantly appointed parlor on the first floor, one often used by the Avengers for public receptions and to entertain visiting dignitaries. Commemorative plaques and trophies, presented to the Avengers by various grateful communities and organizations, adorned the mantel of a large brick fireplace over which a framed portrait of Tony Stark’s deceased parents, the original residents of the mansion, hung proudly. Avengers and X-Men occupied the antique sofas and chairs situated around the parlor.
Iron Man, whose heavy armor would be too much for mere wooden furniture, remained standing. He kept his helmet on to preserve his secret identity from their mutant guests. “It’s not hard to make good time,” he explained, turning his golden faceplate toward Storm, “when you’ve got a full-fledged weather goddess ensuring a strong tailwind.” Despite the iron mask covering his teammate’s face, Cap could readily imagine Tony’s charming smile accompanying his words of praise for the X-Men’s regal co-leader. Iron Man’s alter ego always had been a smooth talker where beautiful women were concerned.
“In addition,” the Vision pointed out, his sepulchral voice devoid of warmth or feeling, “we were delayed by the necessity to inform the Canadian authorities of our activities.”
That’s right, Cap recalled. Although it had been only common courtesy to keep the R.C.M.P. apprised of what he, Cyclops, and the Vision had encountered in that underground city beneath the Columbia Icefields, there was no denying that the lengthy debriefing had cost them a certain amount of time.
“That’s one of the few advantages of being an outlaw organization,” Cyclops observed. His ruby quartz visor turned toward the mantelpiece, where the Avengers’s numerous awards were displayed; Cap imagined that the feared and much-maligned X-Men didn’t get much in the way of public testimonials and citations. “Less paperwork.”
It’s a shame Xavier’s people don’t always get the recognition they deserve. Cap thought, but they may bring some of that on themselves by being so secretive. His legendary shield rested against the side of his upholstered armchair. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I still think there’s something to be said for working within the system.”
“You might not feel the same way,” Cyclops said, his voice taking on a bitter edge, “if the system hunted patriots with the same enthusiasm it has for chasing mutants.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Cap answered sincerely, “but I respect your right to disagree with me on this issue. Certainly, there’s a proud American tradition of civil disobedience in a good cause, such as protecting the civil rights of mutants everywhere.”
Cyclops’s tone mellowed as he offered Cap something of an olive branch. “If every American felt the way you do, Captain, then maybe we wouldn’t need to operate outside the law, or keep our distance from the authorities.”
Maybe one day you won’t have to, Cap thought. He had personally vouched for Cyclops on their mission to Alberta, but he had seen firsthand the wary treatment the X-Men’s other leader had received from the officials they’d dealt with on their way in and out of Canada. Anti-mutant prejudice was no figment of the X-Men’s imaginations.
“Enough politics,” Iceman blurted impatiently. Having regained his human form, the defrosted X-Man sat on a red damask couch between Storm and Cyclops. “What’s all this about the moon?”
The Beast, perching atop a camel back sofa behind the Vision, cleared his throat loudly. “Ahem, that sounds like my cue,” he began as all eyes and a visor gave him their full attention. “As you’ll recall, S.H.I.E.L.D. provided us with aeronautical information on the Unidentified Flying Object believed to be involved in the heinous abduction of our fair teammates. I’ll spare you all the abstruse mathematics and tedious triangulating, but meticulous analysis of the UFO’s reported trajectories, conducted by yours truly while the rest of you were gallivanting about the globe, clearly points to Earth’s moon as the mysterious vessel’s point of origin.”
“The moon?” Wolverine snorted skeptically. Too restless to take a seat, the abrasive X-Man paced in front of the dormant fireplace. Although he had retracted his adamantium claws, Logan struck Cap as no less volatile. “I think you cooked your numbers too long, Beastie Boy. C’mon, the moon? Give me a flamin’ break.”
“I wouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand,” Iron Man stated. “It wouldn’t be the first time one of our enemies took up residence on the moon. As a matter of fact, the Fantastic Four and I were up there only a few months ago, running interference against Ronan the Accuser.”
“We’ve been to the moon as well,” Cyclops said somberly. From his tone, Cap gathered it hadn’t been the happiest of experiences. He saw Storm give Cyclops a sympathetic look, and wondered what the taciturn X-Man might have endured on Earth’s largest natural satellite. “And we can go there again if we have to,” Cyclops affirmed.
The Beast nodded vigorously. “One small step for a man, a giant step for mutantkind. Let us not forget,” he lectured in a quasi-academic fashion, “that the baneful Leader has previously demonstrated a marked predilection for establishing his devious domiciles in remote locations. Beneath a glacier, for instance, or aboard an orbiting space platform. What could be more remote and inaccessible than the abandoned stomping grounds of our revered Apollo astronauts?”
A persuasive spiel, Cap thought, but Wolverine still appeared dubious. “So now you’re telling me the Leader is really the Man in the Moon. Get real, McCoy.”
The Beast blinked his eyes, seemingly taken aback by Wolverine’s persistent objections. “But my calculations—? The angles of approach and ascent are incontrovertible.”
Iceman, for one, required no further convincing. “I say we go!” he exclaimed, jumping up from the couch. Cap admired the young man’s pep and spirit. “If there’s any chance that Rogue and Wanda are up there, we’ve got to check it out.”
“I concur,” the Vision stated, although the synthezoid’s icy reserve could not have been more different from Iceman’s youthful enthusiasm. His voluminous yellow cloak was draped over the arms of the small sofa. “I have reviewed the Beast’s calculations and concluded that his hypothesis has an 83.6 percent probability of accuracy. In the absence of any other plausible alternative, I can see no other logical course of action.”
“Then we are agreed?” Storm asked, searching the faces of the other heroes in the room. “As much as I regret separating myself from our mother Earth, I will gladly brave the barren vacuum of space to liberate our departed friends.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself, Captain America thought. He didn’t know Rogue well, although she had punched him through a park bench, then put him in a coma, during their memorable first encounter, but he had personally taken the Scarlet Witch under his wing when she and her brother first joined the Avengers. Casual jaunts to the moon still felt like Buck Rogers to a wartime relic like himself, yet he’d pilot a starship to the Skrull Empire and back if it meant rescuing Wanda and Rogue from the Leader’s clutches.
But would Wolverine go along with the plan? Despite the gruff Canadian’s longtime affiliation with the X-Men, Cap regarded Logan as more of a loner than a team player. He’d always been that way, even when they first met back in World War II. It occurred to Cap that Logan was surely the only individual in the room who was older than he was; it felt a bit odd not to have seniority. “Well, Logan?” he asked the other man. “Are you with us?”
“Sounds like a snipe hunt to me,” Wolverine said. “But if the rest of you are deadset on blasting off, who am I to raise a ruckus? Count me in.”
Good man, Cap thought. Now only the Hulk remained to be heard from. Too large and heavy-set for even the most sturdy of hardwood furniture, the brawny titan loome
d at the back of the parlor, blocking Cap’s view of a cherry-finish china cabinet. With some difficulty, Jarvis had persuaded the surly giant to trade his damp purple pants for a pair of Hercules’s old brown trousers. Even wearing hand-me-downs from the mighty Son of Zeus, the Hulk’s trunk-like legs had already torn out the knees of his new pants. “What about you, Hulk?” Cap asked. “Are you in this until the end?”
He half-hoped the Hulk would turn him down. A walking disaster area, the Hulk was also a loose cannon of the highest caliber; he made Wolverine look like Miss Congeniality. The prospect of going into space with such an ungovernable troublemaker was enough to give anyone second thoughts, even Captain America.
Scowling, the Hulk mulled the question over for several moments before answering. “Get this straight,” he said finally, sneering at the roomful of Avengers and X-Men. “I don’t need any of you costumed clowns to deal with my old pal, the Leader. Once we get to the moon, you’d best stay out of my way.” His angry green eyes and hostile expression dared anyone to object. “Still, I can’t think of any faster way to get to the moon ’cept by hitchin’ a ride with you losers. Just don’t push your luck.”
Cap rose from the leather armchair to confront the Hulk. This requires careful handling, he realized. He didn’t want to set off a destructive tantrum that could leave the mansion in ruins; they had already wasted too much time fighting the Hulk back at Niagara Falls. On the other hand, he wasn’t about to let the Hulk think he could intimidate the rest of them whenever he felt like it; that would set a dangerous precedent and undermine his leadership. Glancing over at Cyclops and Storm, he could tell they felt the same way. The Hulk’s an Avenger, though, at least sometimes, Cap thought. That makes him my responsibility.
To avoid provoking another senseless battle, he left his shield leaning against the chair. “All right, Hulk,” he said firmly. “You’ve got more experience with the Leader than anybody here. I’ll grant you that. You want to launch a preemptive strike against the Leader while the rest of us concentrate on rescuing our friends, fine with me. But don’t think you can bully anyone here, or put the mission in jeopardy. You try something like that, and I’ll personally make sure you toe the line. Got that, mister?”
A moment of tense silence followed, as everyone present awaited the Hulk’s response. Standing firm, Cap kept his gaze fixed steadily on the jade giant’s subhuman features, maintaining eye contact. Some people called Captain America a living legend, a label he often felt uncomfortable with, even if it occasionally came in useful in cutting through red tape and taking charge of a crisis. At this moment, though, Cap was willing to trade on his laurels for all they were worth. If ever my status as a so-called national icon counted for anything, he thought, let’s hope it carries some clout with the loyal American inside that green-skinned monster.
“Yeah, whatever,” the Hulk grunted, looking away. His huge fists unclenched and his bulging muscles relaxed a little. Shoving the couch aside, he lumbered toward the door. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
I don’t believe it, Cap thought, maintaining a stern expression to hide his relief. He actually backed down. Cap figured that was as much of a concession as he was ever going to get from the Hulk. Sergeant Duffy would be proud, he thought, recalling the leather-necked old drill sergeant who had tried so diligently to make a soldier out of an unpromising young private named Steve Rogers, back during the fight against the Axis. He doubted if Duffy had ever had to deal with a recruit as recalcitrant and impossible to discipline as the Hulk.
Cap surveyed the parlor, taking stock of their combined forces: three Avengers, five X-Men, and the Hulk. Nothing to sneeze at, even if transportation posed a bit of a problem. Now for the hard part, he thought wryly.
“One more thing, Hulk,” he said. The gargantuan brute shot him a dirty look, his annoyed expression asking now what?, but Cap pressed on regardless. “The quinjet’s going to be pretty cramped as is, with nine of us en route for the moon. It will be a lot easier on all concerned if you’ll change back into Banner until we get there.”
Wolverine whistled in appreciation. “One thing I’ll say for you, Cap,” he said, grinning like a wolf on the prowl. “You’re not afraid to live dangerously!”
CHAPTER FOUR
EVEN with the Hulk’s massive frame replaced by the slender form of Bruce Banner, the quinjet was still packed to capacity. Seated at the helm of the sleek, high-tech aircraft, Iron Man made a mental note to expand the passenger area the next time he upgraded the vehicle. Maybe if I reconfigure the engine assembly, he theorized, drawing up imaginary blueprints in his head, then increase the wingspan to compensate for the added weight.…
His gauntlets had been inserted into customized niches in the helm controls, establishing a direct cybernetic interface with the quinjet’s instrumentation. Iron Man had designed the helm to be compatible with both his and the Vision’s operating systems, not to mention Hank Pym’s cybernetic helmet. The controls could also be operated manually, of course, but Iron Man regarded that as embarrassingly clunky and retro.
Through the polarized plastic windshield, he watched the moon grow steadily larger as the ship neared their destination. They had already left Earth’s atmosphere far behind; according to the onboard navigational computer, they were less than an hour away from entering into orbit around the moon, preparatory to touching down on the lunar surface.
First, though, they had to pinpoint the location of the Leader’s headquarters. No small task; although the moon was only a quarter of the size of the Earth, they were still talking over fourteen million square miles of craters, mountains, plains, and basins. “How are we doing?” he asked the Vision. “Any luck tracking down the Leader’s new address?”
The synthezoid sat beside Iron Man in the co-pilot’s seat. A fiber-optic cable linked the solar gem in his forehead to the ship’s computer banks. “Affirmative,” he reported. “A systematic survey of the most recent lunar reconnaissance photos, provided by S.H.I.E.L.D and Starcore, has detected what appears to be an artificial structure located in the Tycho crater on the earthward side of the moon. This structure, previously unreported, is too small to be seen from the Earth except by the most powerful telescopes. It is a domed structure, approximately one thousand feet in diameter, resting inside the circumference of a smaller crater in the shadow of Tycho’s outer walls.”
Yes! Iron Man thought, encouraged by the Vision’s news. “That’s got to be it. How many people could have set up housekeeping on the moon recently?” He quickly reviewed his lunar geography; Tycho, a crater the size of Yellowstone National Park, was located in the moon’s southern hemisphere, hundreds of miles from the Sea of Tranquility, where Apollo 11 made history decades ago.
Tycho was also significantly distant from the moon’s famed Blue Area, site of alien ruins over ten million years old. Given that the Blue Area currently housed the Watcher, the Supreme Intelligence, and a full complement of Starcore scientists, Iron Man wasn’t surprised that the Leader had set up shop in a less crowded neighborhood. The man likes his privacy, it seems. Too bad he’s about to get a whole passel of unwanted visitors knocking on his door.
A voice piped up from the passenger seats behind Iron Man. “Are we there yet?” the Beast asked waggishly. “I’m not saying that conditions are snug back here, but I find myself pining yearnfully for the wide open spaces of a New York subway at rush hour.”
“You can say that again,” Iceman agreed. “Just ’cause I can freeze up doesn’t mean I want to feel like I’ve been crammed into an ice cube tray.” Iron Man heard the young man squirm within his zero-gravity restraints. “This trip is bringing all new meaning to the term ‘icepack!’”
Probably just as well we were never able to contact Quicksilver, Iron Man thought. There wouldn’t have been any room aboard for Wanda’s brother even if they had succeeded in catching up with the world’s fastest mutant, which was no easy task.
A groan from the back reached the armored Avenger�
��s audio receptors. “Are you all right, Bruce?” he asked. The Hulk’s human counterpart sounded ill, but Iron Man wasn’t too alarmed; weightlessness sometimes had that effect on people. “There should be medication for space sickness in a compartment by your seat.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Banner answered. “You forget, I’ve probably been to space as often as any of you. I was just reacting to Iceman’s joke. I guess I have a low tolerance for bad puns.”
“Even after knowing Rick Jones all this time?” Cap remarked, referring to the high-spirited young man who had often ended up playing sidekick to either the Avengers or the Hulk. Rick’s personality and sense of humor weren’t all that different from Iceman’s.
“You have a point,” Banner admitted readily. “Maybe it’s just that I’m not really used to working with a team, let alone two at once. I’m out of practice when it comes to witty banter.”
Iron Man couldn’t help noting the dramatic difference in attitude between the soft-spoken physicist and his bestial alter ego. Even after dealing with the bizarre phenomenon for years, along with plenty of other secret identities, Iron Man still found it hard to accept that the Hulk and Bruce Banner were really the same person. Never mind the grotesque physical transformation; the psychological metamorphosis was astounding in its own right.
“If it makes you feel any more comfortable, Dr. Banner,” Storm began, “I admit to a touch of claustrophobia myself, under the circumstances.”
Maybe we should have taken two ships, Iron Man mused. The X-Men’s Blackbird was not equipped for extraterrestrial flights, but a spare quinjet remained parked in a hangar on the top floor of the Mansion. At the time, though, it had seemed unwise to divide their forces when they had so little idea of what to expect at the end of their journey. “Not much longer,” he assured his crowded passengers. “There’s Luna, dead ahead.”
