Marvel Novel Series 10 - The Avengers - The Man Who Stole Tomorrow

by David Michelinie

  “I hold nothing from you, Wanda—there is nothing to hold. We were both aware of your brother’s feelings at the beginning, just as we are aware that they have not changed. I accept that.”

  “I know, darling, but . . . sometimes it’s so difficult to tell if you’re just being kind, or if you really understand.”

  “Understand?”

  The slender woman reached out, one scarlet-gloved hand lighting gently on the Vision’s forearm.

  “About Pietro. He doesn’t really mean to be cruel. It’s just that ever since we were orphaned as children, and outcast because of our supernormal powers, he’s been so terribly protective of me. It’s almost as though his sole purpose in life has been being my big brother.

  “I’m sure he would resent anyone I joined with, feeling them a threat to his protective role. The fact that you’re . . . what you are only gives him a focal point for that jealousy.”

  “How foolish.” An electronic ring still edged the Vision’s words, but now there was a warmth there as well—a warmth that translated into tenderness as his strong hands encircled his wife’s slender waist and pulled her close. “Though I suppose it is very human for jealousy to be involved. After all . . . we do both love the same woman.”

  Soft brown eyes looked into jet-black hollows, as the Vision’s head canted, lowering slowly. Lips met: hers, moist and yielding, parting slightly; his, smooth and supple, pressing harder as neural sensors picked up his wife’s quickening heartbeat. The kiss was natural, unhurried, ending only when Wanda pulled away with a small, reluctant sigh, and a resigned smile that curled one corner of her mouth.

  “We, uh, only have a few minutes before that debriefing, darling. Maybe we shouldn’t . . . ?”

  “Have you forgotten, Wanda,” the Vision’s voice now held almost a hint of amusement, “that there are certain advantages to being a machine?”

  Wanda’s smile opened coyly, revealing an inviting line of small, white teeth, as the two partners joined hands and turned from the window.

  “Hey, Wanda, your tiara’s on crooked.”

  “What? Oh, uh, thank you, Beast.”

  Inside the metal shell of his armor, Tony Stark watched the last two members of his team enter the high-ceilinged lounge, the Scarlet Witch taking a seat, in one of the low-slung contemporary chairs while the Vision took up a position behind her, both a calculated distance from the scowling Quicksilver. They were late, though not very, and while Captain America would probably have lectured them on the importance of tactical punctuality and military regimen, Tony Stark’s attitudes were somewhat more liberal.

  For he had been with the Avengers since their inception, when—as Iron Man—he had banded together with Thor, Ant-Man, the Wasp, and the Incredible Hulk to battle the menace of the renegade Asgardian, Loki. Since that time, nearly two dozen heroes and heroines had called themselves Avengers, and each one—including, in an abstract sense, the Vision—had shared a common trait: human fallibility. It was a difficult job, leading such a talented and powerful band while at the same time considering the needs and frailties of each member as an individual. It was also a tremendous responsibility.

  But it was an even greater honor.

  “All right, Beast, if you’ll turn off the pong game and join us, I think we’re ready to begin.”

  “Aw, shucks. And I was winning, too!” Reluctantly, the furry mutant shut off the video game he had been playing with Jarvis and bounded to where the others had gathered at the head of the room. Jarvis excused himself to fetch refreshments.

  Satisfied that everyone’s attention was now suitably directed, Iron Man turned to the computer console recessed into the wall behind him and flipped a switch, activating the mechanism’s built-in recording sensor.

  “As usual, I’ll give the basic details of the mission for our formal files, and then the rest of you can add your own personal observations afterward. Okay?”

  There were general nods and mumbles of agreement.

  “Right,” continued Iron Man, angling himself slightly toward the computer grid. “Avengers mission designation B-419: the Darvinian invasion. On the morning of December 14th of this year, an inter-dimensional takeover was attempted by an insectoid race of aliens known as the Darvinians. The purpose of this invasion was to secure a breeding ground for—”

  A thunderous crash snapped Iron Man’s sentence in two as the entire rear wall of the lounge came bursting suddenly inward. Caught in the full, buffeting force of the blast, those Avengers who had been standing were slammed instantly to the floor, while those who had been seated were sent tumbling, banging awkwardly into walls, furniture, and each other. Of the seven, only the Beast landed on his feet.

  “What the hell was—”

  But the Beast’s question faded swiftly, ending in a startled gurgle at the back of his throat, as he saw the unlikely answer to that question stepping carefully through the jagged hole that had appeared in the rear of the mansion. An answer whose eyes and hands were aglow with impossible crackles of arcane energy. An answer whose frail form wore two shadows.

  It was the old man.

  “You who are in league with the wing-footed defiler, hear me well!” Words like razored ice, clattering from the lips of the dead. “Stand aside, lest I mete out the retribution you so justly deserve!” A step taken, shoulders hunched. “My quest has been long, my pain great, and I shall brook no interference in the completion of my sacred task! For I am Aningan Kenojuak, and I have come,” a single hand raised, like a poising snake, “to retrieve . . . god!”

  Two

  The dust refused to settle. Every time it would light amongst the scattered rubble on the lushly carpeted floor of the lounge, a new breeze would gust from the hole in the outer wall, sending a fresh flurry of motes to dance like random vapors in the rapidly cooling air.

  The Avengers, however, were somewhat less animate. Struggling slowly, sometimes painfully, to rise from where they had fallen, they could but stare silently at the old man with the tattered parka and the necklace of shiny stones—and the chill they felt was more than a whim of the harsh winter wind.

  Captain America, using a partly overturned trophy case for support, eased himself up and into a side-angled crouch. Ever the efficient soldier, he had quietly slipped the red-white-and-blue shield from its carrying position on his back and, in a motion made smooth by familiarity, now held it before him, toward the old man. He was the first to speak.

  “God? The only god here is Thor. Got any idea what he means, Goldilocks?”

  “Nay. I have ne’er cast eyes ’pon yon venerable mortal in all mine unnumbered years!”

  “Nevertheless,” Iron Man had now regained his feet, “you’d better let us handle this until we find out what’s going on. God or no god, this character’s obviously no run-of-the-mill senior citizen. He could be dangerous even to you.”

  “Oh, pshaw,” said the Beast, clambering forward on knuckles and heels, “that old coot’s just got some kind of burr under his saddle. Let me give it a try.”

  “Careful, Beast,” called Iron Man, reaching out a hand, “that ‘old coot’ just blasted a hole in a solid stone wall!”

  “Picky, picky. Just look at that face. How could anyone with a mug like that be dangerous? Weird, yeah, and he’s got some freaky powers, but I’ll bet he’s just mixed up, maybe even looking for help.

  “Hey, pop, what’s the problem? Someone cop your oatmeal?”

  Aningan Kenojuak looked unsure, touching one hand to his necklace. “You . . . you don’t seem evil. But you’re one of them! So, please. Stay back. I don’t want to hurt you, but if I must—!”

  “Now, now,” the Beast had approached the old man, slowing, until he stood directly before him, addressing him with a silly Cheshire-cat smile. “No one wants to hurt anyone, pop. So why don’t you just come with me, huh? We’ll go into the kitchen, have a cookie, talk over the latest medicaid rip-off and—”

  “No!”

  The Beast had put a hand
on the old man’s shoulder—or rather, had tried to—because inches from their goal, the furry fingers had stopped, as if touching something that wasn’t there. And then that something was there: an aura of translucent, yellowish green energy that covered Aningan Kenojuak like a thick second skin. It had obviously been there all along, an invisible protector awaiting a summons.

  Then, almost in the same instant as it had appeared, the energy fluxed, brightening and booming like muted thunder—and, not incidentally, sending the startled Beast rocketing across the room as if shot from a cannon. The Beast tensed—“Aw, no.”—hit a row of bookcases with a sound like a falling redwood and then dropped heavily to the floor, an unmoving ball of tousled blue fur.

  The oddest part of the entire occurrence was the sadness on the face of the man in the yellow-green glow.

  “I . . . I warned him.”

  “Aye, varlet, and now I warn thee!” Thor stepped forward, his enchanted hammer half raised to a striking position, his face set in grim, hard lines. “Thou speakest of gods—and thou wouldst be well counseled to make peace with thine own!”

  “Thor! No!” Iron Man gestured, knowing that physical restraint against the angered Thunder God would have been futile. “You’re the old man’s target, remember? He could be leading you into—”

  “Fie! Yon villain hath struck down a comrade; moreover, a friend! And none shall pursue such base sport with impunity! Not whilst the son of Odin doth have one strong arm with which to fling the mighty Mjolnir!”

  With that, Thor raised his arm to full cock and, snapping it forward like a fly fisherman’s rod, let loose his mystic mallet. Across the room it flew, an enchanted length of stone and wood that in its time had shattered steel, cracked planets and brought power-mad demigods trembling to their knees.

  When it struck the old man, it bounced off him.

  Making a sound not unlike the reverberative ping of a sonar unit, the sorcerous hammer arced back a few feet toward its owner, then dipped sharply, returning as ever to its master’s hand.

  “ ’Od’s blood!” A note of puzzlement had crept into Thor’s voice. “In sooth, I did but seek to stun our attacker—yet at the least, my throw should have sent him tumbling! ’Tis witchcraft of the darkest sort!”

  “Perhaps,” the Scarlet Witch added, “but it’s unlike any I’ve ever encountered!”

  “Whatever it is,” said Iron Man, “it gives that old codger a hell of a wallop. The rest of you stand back—I’m going to see if he can handle a double repulsor blast.”

  Repulsors. To most people, the term conjured up images of ray beams, zap guns or, most erroneously, “those laser gizmos that Iron Man uses.” But repulsors were more than mere lasers—far more.

  Born in the steaming caldron of Southeast Asia in the 1960s—in the same fires that had birthed Iron Man, himself—repulsors had begun life as an advanced experiment in reverse magnetism, their intended purpose being to repel, or repulse, any object. The mechanism had later been incorporated into Iron Man’s segmented gauntlets by the inventor of both—Tony Stark—and over the years, the repulsors had undergone countless alterations, refinements, and improvements. At last they had mutated into their present form, that of the most powerful particle-beam-emission units ever conceived by the mind of man.

  Iron Man stalked forward a few steps, set his feet, and purposefully raised both hands before him, holding them at arm’s length, palms vertical. Then, never taking his eyes from his energy-auraed target, he triggered cybernetic release circuits, sending twin shafts of devastating power to strike square at the intruder’s chest.

  The old man didn’t move.

  Good lord, thought Iron Man, what’s this guy made of? That blast would have sent a Metro bus flying for blocks! Maybe if I double the intensity . . .

  He did, and was rewarded by several beads of sweat that popped out on Aningan Kenojuak’s forehead as the palm-mounted repulsors began to whine.

  So, he can be hurt! Got to key in my reserve circuits, hit this joker with everything I’ve got . . . try to break down his energy shield before he can pull some other surprise out of his hat!

  Around the room, the other Avengers watched—some uneasy at following the noninterference order; all a little impressed. For they had rarely seen their leader unleash the full force of the technological might at his command. Their leader rarely had cause to do so.

  Meanwhile, the object of that impressive onslaught was sweating more profusely, his protective aura crackling brightly at some points, dimming at others. He took a shallow step backward, and then clasped both hands to the gemstone-laden line about his neck.

  “The Totem warned that you would be guileful, that you would feign confusion and kindness and then attack without mercy. Just as he told that you had corrupted the All-Highest, debased him into serving as one of your cohorts, and it disgusts me to see that this is so.

  “But I am not helpless. I have come with the strength of the righteous, for the Blue Totem has blessed me with Brother Bear and the String Of Stones, and has instructed me in their use. And thus all of your power and perfidy cannot stay me from abrogating your degradous sins!”

  “Iron Man,” Captain America whispered, having come to stand beside his armored compatriot, “just what the blazes is he talking about?”

  “Beats me, Cap. And to be perfectly honest, what worries me more is the fact that the effects of my repulsors seem to be lessening!”

  Indeed, Aningan Kenojuak was now standing erect, all trace of perspiration gone from his brow. His head had snapped back, as if from a blow, and his eyes were closed, while his mouth opened and shut in sporadic cadence, mumbling words in an unsettling, chantlike monotone.

  “Come to me, O Brother Bear,

  Child of Negafok and Sedna,

  ’Cross the fierce and raging Koyukuk,

  O’er the heaven-touched Talkeetnas.

  Hear my sorrow, feel my anger,

  Come to me, O Brother Bear.”

  Over and over, the singsong recitation tumbled from flaccid lips, as the already-chilled room grew even colder. Something was about to happen, something unnatural, and everyone sensed it. In the blink of an eye, Quicksilver stood beside his sister, slightly to her front. At Wanda’s other side, the Vision noted that appearance, but said nothing.

  A short distance away, Iron Man had ceased his repulsor attack, realizing that it was now futile, for the yellow-green glow around the old man had deepened, thickened, growing so dark as to make the form inside it nearly invisible.

  And then the glow began to move.

  Like a bilious, unhealthy cloud, it floated to the center of the battlefield/lounge, leaving Aningan Kenojuak behind, shoulders slumped but otherwise looking much as he had when he had first approached Avengers Mansion. Similar, that is, but for one salient difference: the old man now had but one shadow.

  The second shadow belonged to the entity now manifest in the darkling glow. In the center of the debris-laden room, that entity now grew, lightening, taking form. It first extended its substance downward, creating legs for itself, and then spread high toward the ceiling, flowing like oily light, sprouting arms and a head.

  And then, like a movie-projector beam being racked into focus, it solidified.

  The most closely accurate human term that could be applied to the creature would be “polar bear.” Although that mode of description could be likened to calling Peter Benchley’s man-eating Great White a “fish.” For this unlikely animal stood a full twelve feet tall, and weighed easily half a ton. Its sinewy form was covered with thick, matted fur, slick as if greased, and its head held eyes that were an empty, solid white. Below those eyes, a dreadful slash of mouth opened in a perpetual snarl, exposing double rows of jagged, needle-tip teeth. And the monster’s entire body, from hind paws to sloping head, was bathed in the same sickly green glow that had covered Aningan Kenojuak.

  The six Avengers stood silently, disbelieving, blood pumping madly through dilated veins.

 
“Now, Brother Bear,” called the old man, his head still bowed slightly, but his eyes alive, “punish the blasphemers!”

  And with a low, grumbling growl, Brother Bear lumbered forward, moving with an ease that belied his considerable bulk. Directly in the creature’s path, Iron Man stiffened, instinctively bringing his arms up to fire another blast of recoilless repulsor energy.

  He would have been equally effective shooting spit-balls at a Mack truck.

  Brother Bear merely shrugged off the hissing repulsor blasts, ignoring them as he brought one heavy paw up to head level—any higher would have put it through the ceiling—and then swung it earthward again, slamming the meaty mass down on Iron Man’s head and sending the Golden Avenger crashing through the carpet-covered wood of the lounge floor. There, wedged solidly half in and half out of the room, the nearly indestructible armor showed no sign of damage. The unmoving man inside that metal shell, however, was not so fortunate.

  Captain America, being the soldier that he always was, stepped in instantly to fill the shoes of command. “We’ve got to take that animal out fast! Thor, try a frontal attack! Vision, Scarlet Witch, back him up! And don’t pull your punches—that thing may have just killed Iron Man!”

  Moving with a precision polished by years of life-or-death teamwork, the three Avengers pressed forward. In the lead, Thor had taken to the air, the mighty Mjolnir carrying him at a modest height and speed dictated by the closeness of the quarters. The Scarlet Witch and the Vision fanned out, approaching Brother Bear from either side.

  “Thou hast stricken down the noblest of our number, craven beast!” Thor now hovered directly before the glowing bear-thing, mallet gripped firmly in hand. “And for that I shall not stay my hand as I did with yon elder. Nay, thy soulless form shall feel the full, unfettered fury of the hammer of Thor!”