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

by David Michelinie

  With that, the Thunder God swung, bringing Mjolnir around in a singing arc to strike the fur-matted demon a blow that would shatter a mountain. A mountain, perhaps, but not Brother Bear. For when the mystic hammer landed, it struck neither flesh nor fur, but instead lodged firmly in the yellow-green glow.

  Obviously astounded, Thor tugged at the hammer, pulling it slowly from the protective field as if from thick, bile-colored molasses. So intent was he at this task that he didn’t notice Brother Bear’s paw rising once more, pulling back in a deadly curve. He could hardly help but notice, however, when that same paw came smashing into his temple, spinning his head around with a force that would have snapped a mortal’s neck—if, indeed, it had left the head attached at all.

  For a frozen heartbeat, Thor hung motionless in the air. And then, loosening his grip on the now useless Mjolnir, he fell promptly to the floor, eyelids lowered, landing with an undistinguished thump. Almost as an afterthought, Brother Bear reached up and swatted the leather-thonged hammer, sending it bouncing across the carpet to some far corner, there to be forgotten.

  For yet a second frozen heartbeat, the remaining Avengers stood staring; Thor was the mightiest among them, and yet there he lay like a crumpled doll, felled by a single blow from the impossible apparition that towered before them, snorting loudly and rocking from left to right, right to left.

  It was then, with a voice as deep and solemn as doom itself, that the Vision spoke.

  “You are strong, monster. But you will soon learn that strength has many variations!”

  The Vision lunged, his right arm and hand extended, directed at the giant bear’s midsection. But scant millimeters before his fingers made contact with the outer edge of the creature’s glow, his entire hand and forearm paled, desolidifying, much as his entire body had done in the elevator a half hour before. So instead of touching the protective field, the Vision’s hand went through it, through the outer layer of fur and into the mass of the monster’s flesh, stopping only when it was buried to the elbow in Brother Bear’s green-sheathed torso.

  It was a ploy he had used sparingly in the past. Once his immaterial arm was deep into the substance of his enemy—be that target living tissue or mechanical construct—he would instantly increase his density, compacting and becoming ultrasolid. As a result, the normal molecules surrounding his superdense limb would be disrupted, usually to such a degree that his foe would explode from within. Needless to say, it was a tactic reserved only for the direst of circumstances.

  But the fact that three of his comrades had been swiftly—and apparently easily—dispatched had convinced the Vision that this was just such a circumstance. And so, setting his hand in a fist, the synthezoid willed his molecules to intensify, to grow harder, denser, until at last he had attained such tremendous weight that the oaken support beams beneath the lounge floor began to creak in protest.

  But the expected explosion never came. And instead of the familiar look of calm confidence on his face, the Vision’s features had contorted into a most uncharacteristic expression of surprise.

  “It . . . it isn’t . . .” he began, but was silenced by acrid smoke filling his mouth and nostrils, sooty vapors that poured forth in billows laced with guttering sparks. His internal organs were in turmoil, at war with one another. In a simpler machine, the condition would have been referred to as a “short circuit”; had he been able, the Vision would have called his own situation “spontaneous dysfunction.” But whatever the terminology, the results were the same: the Vision sagged—knees buckling, head lolling back—and crumpled to the floor in a red-green-and-yellow heap.

  “You . . . you . . . FIEND!” That such a relatively mild oath was all that hissed from the Scarlet Witch’s clenched teeth was a tribute to her enviable composure. For more than anyone else, she knew the Vision; she knew his dignity, his hidden tenderness. She knew his soul. Thus, she had more than average perception of the broken, melting pain that Brother Bear had just inflicted upon him.

  And that made her rage!

  With cold purpose, she raised her hands before her, left out farther than right, elbows bent, bringing the middle two fingers of each down to their palms, clasping them there with her thumbs. As a mutant, Wanda Frank had been born with the ability to alter probabilities; as an adult woman, she had been taught true witchcraft by the elderly sorceress, Agatha Harkness. In this instance, facing an obviously occult conjuration, she opted for the latter, as wavering spheres of arcane energy formed around her extended hands. The spheres brightened, growing in intensity until crackling hex bolts shot from each like twin spears of light. Naturally, considering the range, they struck the hulking bear-thing dead center.

  And just as naturally, considering the previous assault attempts, they had no effect whatsoever.

  Instead, the mystic bolts turned back upon themselves, as if having struck some rock-hard mirror, and sped back along their original paths of flight. Having neither the time nor the concentration to cast a spell of protection, the startled Scarlet Witch was caught in the full force of her own hex blast, as a wreath of crimson magic engulfed her, seeping into her very core. Wracked with violent spasms, Wanda Frank doubled over, dropping to her knees, her eyes rolled up in their sockets and spittle trickled unchecked from her trembling, half-parted lips.

  A fraction of a second later, Quicksilver was beside his sister, kneeling and taking her quivering shoulders in his hands.

  “Wanda! Wanda!”

  “Easy, Quicksilver.” Captain America sprinted across the lounge to join his friends, ever keeping an eye on the slowly advancing Brother Bear. “Just take it easy.”

  “Like hell I will! When some hirsute monstrosity turns your sister into a frothing vegetable, Captain, then you can tell me to take it easy!” Quicksilver had risen to a half crouch, tensing. “But right now I’m going to send that lumbering fiend back to whatever godforsaken limbo it came from! I’ll hit it so fast that it won’t even see me, let alone—”

  Captain America shot out a hand to grab Quicksilver’s arm. “Damn it, Pietro! If you can’t follow orders, then at least open your thick skull for a minute and listen to reason! That ‘lumbering fiend’ has already taken out five Avengers—including Thor and Iron Man—and hasn’t even worked up a sweat! Trying to drop it by ourselves isn’t going to do anyone any good, including Wanda! We do still have a chance, but only if we use our heads!”

  Some of the built-up tension eased from Quicksilver’s crouch, but his eyes still blazed anger as he looked at the Avenging Patriot. “Very well, Captain. I’m listening.”

  “All right.” Cap’s hand dropped from Quicksilver’s arm. “I’ve been watching Kenojuak all through this skirmish, and every time his bear creature has acted, the old man has been touching one or more of those gems around his neck, just as he did when the monster appeared. It’s my guess that that necklace is the source of his power, and I’m betting that if we destroy it, his green gorilla there will pop out like a soap bubble. Are you with me?”

  Reluctantly, Quicksilver nodded. “It seems a sensible plan.”

  “Good. There here’s the strategy: I’m going to distract Kenojuak long enough to keep him from siccing his snaggle-toothed watchdog on us. Then, while his attention’s on me, you rush in at superspeed, grab that necklace and smash it against anything hard enough to turn it into splinters. Got it?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Captain America flipped his shield to a horizontal position, reaching over its top to grab the far edge, holding it like an oversized discus. Then, cocking his arm back, he took a single turn and sent the shield zinging through the air with a trajectory as straight as a drill sergeant’s spine. The shield hit a far wall, caromed off at right angles to fly across the room and then hit again on what remained of the outer wall behind the old man. Taking a second bounce, the circular missile arced directly toward the back of Aningan Kenojuak’s head. It was then that Captain America barked a single command:

  “Now!”

&nb
sp; Quicksilver’s reflexes caught the word, translating it instantly into action, and before his heart could pump a single stroke he had crossed nearly the entire thirty feet that had separated him from the old man, having made a slight detour around Brother Bear on the way. Moving with a speed almost equal to that of thought, he closed the final distance, his hand reaching for the glittering necklace.

  It was a prize he was not to have.

  For at the same time that Quicksilver had started to run, Aningan Kenojuak had also started to move—and at a velocity that surpassed even that of the Silver Speedster! Without turning, he had reached a hand behind his head, catching Captain America’s careening shield like a poorly tossed Frisbee, and had pulled it around to hold in front of him. So that in place of the desired handful of stones, Quicksilver got instead a faceful of adamantium alloy, hitting with a resounding PATANG and crumpling like a used-up tinfoil puppet.

  Three combatants remained standing, and the air between them was strained with wariness and fatigue. Captain America stared at the old man, even as the old man stared at Captain America. Brother Bear snarled and spat and shuffled from foot to foot. At last, the old man spoke.

  “Brother Bear,” said Aningan Kenojuak, his voice now tinged with more than a hint of sorrow, “be gentle.”

  With that, a half ton of fur, claw, and fury shambled forward. Captain America knew that anything he did would be futile, but it had never been his nature to shake hands with Death and welcome it to his door. And so he lashed out with a karate roundhouse kick, a move that had proven devastating from the sands of Iwo Jima to the gutters of Hell’s Kitchen. A move that was totally ignored by Brother Bear.

  In an almost casual gesture, the twelve-foot demon scooped Captain America up, bringing both arms around to crush the struggling Avenger to his chest with a pressure that could literally, if ludicrously, be called a bear hug. It was over in a matter of seconds. And then Brother Bear held the limp red-white-and-blue figure a foot or so over the floor and let it drop in what must have been, for him, the epitomé of motherlike tenderness.

  “You have done well, Brother Bear,” the old man spoke softly. “The sins of these profane few, though still indefensible, have been assuaged. Yet there remains one further task for you to perform. The wing-footed stealer of gods must be punished! For it was his impious actions that caused the Great Sorrow, and it is only his chastisement that can appease our Lord.

  “So go! You know where to find the winged one—and what must be done when you arrive there!”

  With a snort that could have indicated agreement, or possibly just the clearing of a nostril, Brother Bear turned and clambered slowly though the broken wall and into the winter-cold air of the city.

  Meanwhile, back in the first-floor lounge of Avengers Mansion, Aningan Kenojuak padded forward to one of the fallen heroes, then lowered himself to one knee, his hands clasped in a mood of reverence. He smiled.

  “At last and forever. My Lord, we are together.”

  Then the old man reached one hand to the sacred String Of Stones around his neck, and both he and the unmoving Avenger were washed in a warm, pink light, like a sunset mist that flowed, and swelled, and ebbed. And when it was gone, so were they—leaving behind a battlefield scattered with rubble, splintered furniture, and six very, very still bodies.

  Interlude

  Once upon a time, in the legendary land of Manhattan, there was a police officer named Franklin Kim. It is told that Officer Kim was not a terribly imaginative man. In fact, he was well-known to the other officers on the force as a man who stuck stubbornly to the accepted laws of logic, who followed without compromise the established paths of probability.

  He was also known as something of a dork.

  Nevertheless, he believed in reality, and anything that deviated from that norm upset him no end. Even at home, he was constantly at odds with his children, Eddie and Frank, Jr. They were always watching space shows on TV, or reading too many of those trashy comic books. It just wasn’t healthy.

  “But, Daddy,” Eddie would whine, precocious for his age, “fantasy is good for you. It helps you understand people who aren’t like you, and opens your mind to things that might happen. It helps you grow.”

  “Bull,” was Franklin’s standard reply. “Now get rid o’ that funny book an’ hop inta bed before I whap yer fanny.”

  It was a limited philosophy, true; but it made up for its limitations by being simple and easy to remember. And because his outlook was quite probably one of the prime reasons why, after twelve years on the force, Officer Kim was still pounding a beat, he saw no reason to alter his principles or point of view.

  Of course, all that changed when he saw the giant, yellow-green polar bear trudging slowly down the dock toward the East River.

  At first, Franklin Kim just looked at the creature. He knew it was really there—he’d had twenty-twenty vision all his life. But why for Christ’s sake was it there? Instinctively, he reached for his walkie-talkie—then stopped. Just what was he going to tell the dispatch chief, anyway? “Hey, Gordie, there’s a puke-green polar bear, maybe ten to fifteen feet tall, truckin’ down the East Side docks! Get some black-and-whites down here on the double!” No, he couldn’t say that. Why, that would sound downright silly! But then, what else could one do about a ten- to fifteen-foot-tall puke-green polar bear?

  Reality answered: Franklin Kim removed his service pistol from the holster at his hip.

  But in bringing the heavy Colt revolver to bear on his target, Officer Kim hesitated. This glowing, crud-colored monstrosity was not your everyday midtown mugger. And so he quickly upended the pistol, unlatched the cylinder and ejected the round nosed, department-issue cartridges to the pavement. Then, reaching under his heavy uniform coat, he unsnapped a leather case on his belt, removing a speed-loader reloading device charged with six Glaser Safety Slugs. The slugs were illegal as hell, even outlawed by the department, but half the cops Franklin knew carried them as spares. After all, it was better to be a little reprimanded than a little dead.

  With smooth precision, Officer Kim fitted the loader to the cylinder, twisted its release knob to drop the fresh cartridges into their chambers, and then flipped the cylinder shut. The Safety Slugs weren’t really bullets in the literal sense. They were, in fact, actually composed of a thin copper sheath covering a heavy load of number twelve birdshot suspended in liquid Teflon. When the slug hit, the sheath peeled back and allowed the birdshot to penetrate a target at its original velocity. A coroner Franklin knew, on examining a safety slug wound, had described it as being roughly similar to opening the chest cavity, inserting a .410 shotgun barrel about an inch and then pulling the trigger. It was little wonder that the slug’s manufacturer guaranteed them as “one-shot kills.”

  Six “one-shot kills” later, Officer Franklin Kim watched with open mouth and unblinking eyes as the slick-furred, yellow-green polar beer dived effortlessly if also somewhat gracelessly, into the ice-cluttered waters of the East River. Then, holstering his empty revolver, he began to walk casually back down the dock, taking in a deep breath and releasing it slowly. In the days to come, Officer Kim would not quit the force. He would not begin to drink heavily. He would not seek therapy.

  But he sure as hell would start listening to his kids!

  Three

  “Er, Master Iron Man? Is everything all right?”

  Jarvis stood in the hallway outside of the first-floor lounge, a scowl of protective worry on his face. He was used to loud noises issuing from the Avengers’ debriefing sessions, and realized that it was most often the result of the Beast being his acrobatic self, or else one of the others letting off steam after a grueling mission. But the sounds he had heard moments ago had been different, almost as though they were caused by mindless destruction—or by mortal combat.

  If the door wasn’t opened soon, he thought, he’d have to go against every rule of professional service and enter uninvited. He cringed slightly at the prospect and rapped on the do
or once again.

  “Sirs? Madam? Are you—”

  The heavy oaken door swung inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing a figure covered almost as much by plaster dust as by disheveled blue fur.

  “Wha—Master Beast! Wh-What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Sure, Jarv. It’s nothing a couple of months in intensive care couldn’t clear right up!”

  The door opened wider, and the startled Jarvis could see that inside the room various Avengers were getting slowly to their feet, massaging a wide array of bruises, cuts, and twisted muscles. The lounge itself looked as though it had played host to its own private hurricane.

  “Oh, my. Oh, my, my!”

  “My sentiments exactly, Jarv,” added the Beast. “Look, we Avengers can take a lot of punishment, but it might be a good idea if you fetched the first-aid kit—the big one—anyway. Oh, and you might bring a pot of coffee while you’re at it, along with the sewing kit. I’ve got a feeling some costumes are going to be needing on-the-spot repairs.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” His outward calm restored, Jarvis turned and walked methodically back down the hallway, while behind him, the Beast returned to the lounge, regretting that he had forgotten to request some medicinal brandy.

  A short distance away, the Scarlet Witch sat back on her calves amidst the rubble, palms touched gently to her lowered forehead, eyes open and blinking. The Vision, lips and nostrils still traced slightly with soot, had come to kneel beside her, placing a hand on the curve of her shoulder.

  “My wife! Are you hurt? Is there pain?”

  “No, darling,” Wanda Frank’s voice was a bit weaker than normal, but steady. “I seem to be . . . all right now. I guess I’m just not used to taking . . . a dose of my own medicine. But . . . but you—!”