Marvel Novel Series 10 - The Avengers - The Man Who Stole Tomorrow
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“You should not worry about me, Wanda,” answered the Vision, his fingers moving in a soft circle at the base of his wife’s neck. “My components are self-repairing, within reason. And I was more inconvenienced than harmed by—”
“Wanda!”
The single word had begun more than twenty feet away, and had ended mere inches from their ears as Quicksilver skidded to a halt before them, absently wiping at a crust of half-dried blood that had trickled from his nose.
“Are you all right? When I saw that hex blast hit you, I thought surely you were . . . but never mind that. I’ll call you a doctor!”
“That will not be necessary,” the Vision interjected. “Wanda’s cardiovascular functions are unstrained, and my scanners indicate that her respiration will soon return to normal. Summoning a physician would be superfluous in light of—”
“Damn you, machine! When I want the opinion of a walking pile of transistorized scrap, I’ll ask for it! Now, come, Wanda. I’ll clear a place for you on the couch.”
Taking her wrists, Quicksilver helped his still-shaken sister up, and then led her to a nearby, debris-spotted sofa. Behind them, the Vision remained on one knee, watching; then he rose, slowly and deliberately. To all outward appearances, he had not reacted in the slightest to the silver mutant’s actions or words. But somewhere deep within his jet-black eyes, there burned the spark of a jet-black fire.
Across the room, Iron Man pried himself from the jagged hole in the floor and walked with a slight limp to a corner where Thor, apparently none the worse for wear, stood with Mjolnir cradled in both hands before him, looking at it with undisguised bewilderment.
“ ’Tis most passing strange,” he said as Iron Man approached “Mine enchanted mallet hath ne’er gained the habit of failure. So why ’twould fall short ’gainst two such blackguards as invaded our sanctuary this morn is a conundrum indeed.”
“I’ve got a bigger one for you, Thor—like why are you still here? If that old man came to grab a god, like he said, then why cause all of this destruction and then leave without taking what he came for?”
“Hey, Shellhead!” The Beast came bounding up to join his teammates, shaking a last puff of plaster dust from his fur. “Is this Ellery Queen session closed to the public, or can anyone join in? ’Cause if you’re looking for posers, I’ve got a doozy for you.
“Cap’s gone.”
“What?”
All eyes had turned to the Beast, widening at his words.
“That’s right,” the erstwhile Hank McCoy continued. “I’ve looked all over the lounge—he’s not here. And the door was blocked by rubble until I opened it, so he couldn’t have gotten out that way. Which either means that he went off after that economy-sized teddy bear on his own, which doesn’t sound like his style, or else it was really Cap that old coot was after. And he got away with him.”
The Scarlet Witch’s voice had grown stronger. “But why? Why would some cratery old Indian think that Captain America was a god?”
“I don’t think he was an Indian, Wanda,” said Iron Man as he started across the room. “Not too many plains dwellers make a habit of conjuring up polar bears. And as for his motivations, I guess we’ll just have to find the gent and ask him about those.”
“But that’s impossible,” Pietro joined in. “We were all unconscious when he left. We have no idea where he’s gone!”
“Perhaps.” Iron Man had reached the recessed computer console. “But we’d just started a debriefing session when the cow pies hit the fan, so with a little luck we’ve got the whole skirmish on tape.”
As Tony Stark, Iron Man had designed the entire advanced computer system on which the Avengers relied for everything from security maintenance to videotaping “Mork and Mindy” when they were away on missions. Thus it was little wonder that his fingers, even while encased in crimson metal gauntlets, could play the console keyboard like a finely-tuned Steinway, bringing the tape instantly to a point mere seconds before the bizarre confrontation had begun an hour earlier.
As the six heroes sat listening in temporary chairs, warmed by portable heaters, Jarvis returned, passing out coffee (laced with medicinal brandy—a good butler anticipates), administering to minor wounds, and sewing patches on brightly colored uniforms. As he did so, he tried his best not to listen to the sounds coming from the computer’s oval speaker. Violence upset him terribly.
The Avengers, on the other hand, listened closely, trying to catch every nuance of sound the tape held. It was an unsettling experience, hearing one’s own head being cracked against a wall, hearing the screams of helpless friends, hearing the clatter of unquestionably inglorious defeat. But it was a purging with purpose, as proven by Iron Man’s first words after the tape had ended.
“Well, at least now we’ve got a direction. Two of them, in fact.”
“We do?” asked the Beast, scratching his head with a toe. “Like what?”
“Our goals,” answered the Vision, evenly, “are Alaska and Atlantis. The clues contained in the recording were unmistakable.”
“Oh,” said the Beast. “Of course. Look, Vizh, hand me a problem in quantum mechanics and I’ll give you an answer in two shakes of a lamb’s tush. But cryptography was only my minor, so how’s about clueing us all in on just what the bean curd you’re talking about?”
Iron Man couldn’t help giving in to a smile beneath his mask. “Uh, actually, Beast,” he began, “the clues weren’t all that subtle. The only Indian types living far enough north to have any truck with polar bears are Eskimos—and ‘Aningan Kenojuak’ has a definite Eskimo ring to it.
“Furthermore, our uninvited guest mentioned two geographical names in that chant he used to summon Brother Bear: Koyukuk and Talkeetnas. I’ve just run a query through the geoscan data bank and it’s confirmed my theory—the Talkeetnas are a mountain range in southern Alaska and the Koyukuk is a river in the northwestern section of that same state. Since Brother Bear’s spirit was called on to cross both of those barriers in getting here, it stands to reason that its point of origin—and, hopefully, Kenojuak’s stomping ground—lies north of the Koyukuk. I’ve also instigated a second query about—”
An electronic tone sounded from the computer console, as a thin, punch-coded card emerged from a slot on its face.
“Ah, here’s the readout now. Uhhh-huh,” Iron Man continued, reading the card. “This should make our job a little simpler. There’s only one current Eskimo community northwest of the Koyukuk, a tribe called the Bantu.”
“So that explains Alaska,” said the Scarlet Witch. “What about Atlantis?”
“Really, Wanda,” the Vision’s tone wasn’t actually condescending; merely a bit surprised, “how many acquaintances do we have with wings on their feet?”
“Oh. Ohhhh! Namor!”
Namor, also called the Savage Sub-Mariner, was prince of the fabled undersea kingdom of Atlantis. Born from the hybrid seed of human and Atlantean, Namor ruled his subjects with a hand both fair and firm, a hand most often curled into a fist when dealing with his half brothers on the surface. For Namor had little trust for humans—a prejudice that had been justified on more than a few occasions—and he was ever ready to prove that the “savage” in his sobriquet was there for more than the convenience of alliteration.
Iron Man threaded the readout card through the shredder slot on the computer face. “I still haven’t the slightest idea why some Eskimo shaman would think Namor a ‘stealer of gods,’ but since Kenojuak obviously considered him important enough to send his pet monster after him, that complicates our strategy a bit.”
“Aye,” Thor spoke, rising, “e’en with Namor’s legendary strength, he’d stand little chance ’gainst a creature who hath laid low all of our number. ’Twould be the noble thing to warn him of his grave peril!”
“More than that,” Iron Man added, “it would be to our own advantage. We may have a fair idea of where Cap has been taken, but we still don’t know why. Maybe Namor can tell us.
There were none.
“All right, then—let’s go!”
Not far from the disapproving eyes of Quicksilver, the Vision and the Scarlet Witch touched hands, then lips. Nearby, Iron Man and Thor shook hands, pair-on-pair. All were silent. They knew that each one might be going to his or her respective death; they knew that every time they parted. But just because it was an accepted part of their chosen careers didn’t make it a damned bit easier.
Then, led by the bouncing, caroming Beast, the Avengers filtered out of the room, dispersing to head for their respective destinations. In their wake, Jarvis entered what was left of the lounge—broom in one hand, dustpan in the other—and sighed.
Four
The Arctic wind whipped horizontally across the tundra, sending sheets of powder-white snow skittering over frozen topsoil. It was just after daybreak, and the temperature had barely begun to crawl back up from its nighttime low of -37°. With luck, it might reach -24° by afternoon.
In the sky, the sun hung stuck like a fuzzy thumbprint, obscured by the constantly-swirling snow, looking down on a land as barren and grim as it was incredibly beautiful. For countless miles, the ivory vista rolled on, broken only by massive drifts, occasional rock outcroppings, and a single human abode.
The isolated igloo of Aningan Kenojuak.
Inside the dome-shaped, one-room dwelling, the atmosphere was decidedly more pleasant. The curved, skin-sealed entrance corridor kept the cutting wind at bay, while a cluster of smoldering coals set in a bowlike burner at the center of the room served to warm the air tolerably. All around the chamber, furs hung from thin hooks embedded in the sloping ice walls. Some were painted with simple designs, some were not; all served the dual purposes of decoration and insulation.
Stacked or propped neatly at one side were the usual tools of Eskimo living: an ice ax, fishing spears, and tanning equipment; along with crude, if serviceable, cooking and eating utensils. Arrayed nearby on a soft, sealskin pad were a variety of animal bones, powder pokes, brittle scrolls, and hand-carved stone figurines: the usual tools of shamanistic magic.
And just above the fur-carpeted floor at the entranceway, there was a pulsing, pink glow.
The glow hadn’t been there long, only a second or two, but it grew quickly, swelling and sparkling and dancing in the close confines of the igloo. Then, as if suddenly having grown bored with itself, the glow faded, leaving behind two less animate, if more recognizable, forms: the old man with the String Of Stones, and a still-unconscious Captain America.
“We have arrived, My Lord,” Aningan said simply. “Soon, all will be as it was, and the faith shall live again.”
These last words wavered, as if stumbling over the old shaman’s smiling lips in their eagerness to be said. His eyes blinked rapidly, holding back tears, and he looked for all the world like a man who had sworn against impossible odds to climb a staircase of a thousand steps, and had just set foot on number nine-ninty-nine.
Gingerly, he slipped bony hands under Captain America’s body and, rising, lifted the unmoving Avenger with a strength normally denied men of his age. He then crossed the room and set his hallowed burden on a bed made of built-up furs, taking time to strap the alloy shield to the nodding man’s shoulders before laying him back, arranging his limbs in precise symmetry, and almost as an afterthought, brushing a lock of imaginary hair from the blue-masked forehead.
“I pray you’ll forgive me, My Lord,” said Aningan, kneeling before the altarlike platform. “I never wanted to hurt you—I never wanted to hurt anyone. But the cult of Avengers had you under an enchantment, one stronger than my magic. And the Totem instructed me, said that I must use every power at my command if I was to return you here.
“But now you are here. And isn’t that end worth the tribulations of any means, no matter how extreme?”
Captain America moaned, a sound little more than a sigh to indicate the restlessness of his unnatural sleep. But to Aningan Kenojuak, it might as well have been a primal scream.
“Oh! Oh, no! Y-You mustn’t speak! I didn’t mean for you to speak! Everything must be exactly as it was before the Great Sorrow! Exactly!”
Nervously, the old shaman fumbled with the gemstones dangling about his neck, found the right one and squeezed it tightly. Almost immediately, a shining mist began to form around Captain America’s feet, looking something like the halos that cling to street lamps on foggy nights. On seeing that haze, Aningan commenced a low, singsong chant, partly to accompany the mist as it began to move slowly and deliberately up Captain America’s body, and partly in awe of what it left in its wake.
As the mist flowed unhurriedly past the shield-slinger’s ankles, shins, and knees, it left whatever it touched encased in a cocoon of translucent, blue-white ice, no less than three feet thick. It grew evenly, slipping beneath the legs and propping them up so that the cold, smooth shell was equally thick on all sides.
The chant finished, Aningan Kenojuak sat back on his haunches and regarded his god. The ice, the red-white-and-blue raiments, the majesty of the moment . . . all were familiar. Soon, he thought, things would be just as they were before the time of the Great Sorrow. He let a bitter smile play upon that memory.
Just as they were . . .
“The dogs, Aningan. The dogs got here before us. There’s not enough meat left to feed half the children, let alone the whole tribe!”
It was fall, the early 1960s. And what should have been a prime hunting season for the Bantu Eskimos had proven to be little more than an exercise in frustration. For the normally fruitful months following the short, relatively mild summer had been all but bereft of game. Moose and caribou were practically nonexistent, and even deadly prey like Nanook the bear seemed to have forsaken this desolate stretch of northern Alaska. Thus the Bantu had been forced to range far in their hunts, traveling deep into unfamiliar territory as their desperation grew. They knew that unless they were soon successful, unless they were able to set aside large caches of fresh and salted meat, many of their tribe would die in the long winter ahead.
Earlier that morning, a long-wandering hunting party had spotted what they had hoped to be the beginning of their salvation: a single caribou grazing on a patch of frozen grass not yet covered by the gently falling snow. They had skulked close to the animal, evincing a stealth as much the product of need as skill, and then had leaped forward to the attack.
But the hunters had been tired, hungry, and their quarry had been swift. Only one of the bone-tipped spears had struck home, and that had landed several inches below the kill zone. The caribou had bounded off, carrying the ill-thrown shaft with it and leaving a trail that the angry Eskimos had followed well into the afternoon. It had been a quest that had ended only when the parka-clad trackers had topped the crest of a small rise and witnessed the justice-mocking tragedy beyond.
For in the shallow valley below the rise, a carcass lay sprawled amidst slivers of gore. It was the caribou. Ripped, gutted, and torn; it had been raked so clean by feral jaws that more bone remained than flesh, and its life’s blood lay in spatters around it, a cooling crimson tapestry. The hundreds of footprints surrounding the corpse gave the reason—dogs. Packs of wild dogs, more wolfish than canine, were not uncommon in this wilderness land and often roamed unchecked, preying on anything weak or foolish enough to stray into their midst.
Today, they had preyed on the Bantu’s dreams.
Aningan Kenojuak, already old, spoke softly from the rise. “Remove whatever meat is left. Salt it. It may sustain us until we can find the caribou’s herd.”
“If there is a herd,” said one of the younger hunters, removing his curved skinning knife and half-walking, half-skidding down the rise to the corpse.
Aningan couldn’t blame the young man; he was only expressing the despondency fe
lt by them all. It wasn’t pleasant, failing when the lives of one’s family and friends were at stake.
Drawing his furs more tightly about him, Aningan turned from the process of salt-curing the remaining shreds of caribou meat and walked eastward. He knew that the Alatna, a tributary of the Koyukuk, was nearby, and there might be animals trying to drink from the cracks in the already ice-clogged river; anyway, he was little good at preparing game.
There were those who said he was little good at anything.
Aningan Kenojuak moved his snowshoed feet in deliberate steps, and scowled. He had been shaman to the tribe of Bantu for over three decades, and it was only recently that his respect and influence had begun to wane. True, his power had never been great, confined mostly as it was to mixing medicinal potions, predicting game migrations, and casting runes that allowed him to perceive the world on a level somewhat beyond that of the average man. But power it was, and until lately it had been enough to establish him as the closest thing to a leader that the loosely structured tribe had.
But then came the white man.
Oh, there had always been white men at the trading post at Selawik, but that was miles and mountains away. It had only been in the last few years, when disillusionment and growing population in the other United States had increased immigration, that the problems had arisen. The young were naturally the most susceptible to the glitter of “progress,” and as the tribe had moved farther and farther north, more and more of their children had stayed behind, adapting to the new ways. Why, some of them had even taken to building homes of concrete blocks and metal sheeting, rather than living in the time-proven security of an igloo!
The Bantu had finally settled some miles from the frozen Koyukuk, and Aningan Kenojuak had done his best to keep them together. It had not been easy. The lure of packaged food and electric heat was strong competition against the constant struggle of wilderness life. And it had become even stronger in recent months, as food became scarcer and starvation seemed almost certain to dwindle their numbers even more.