by Stuart Moore
“Got it. You know what to do when S.H.I.E.L.D. arrives, right?”
Again, no answer.
Reed had been very quiet on the trip over. Marital troubles, Spider-Man thought. Wonder what that’s like.
“The fabulous Negative Zone,” Spidey said. “We just…walk through?”
“Follow me.”
Tony’s boot-jets flared. He arced upward, pivoted his body to horizontal position, and flew straight through.
Spider-Man stared, shrugged, and leapt.
Passing through the portal was like nothing he’d ever felt before. First his arms, then his head, then his torso and legs—all of them felt inverted somehow. The process wasn’t painful, but he found it disturbing.
Then he was inside, and the portal was gone. All around him stretched Negative Zone space, vast and bright, filled with objects of all sizes and shapes—stars, jagged asteroids, distant planets. It looked like deep space, if someone had pumped deep space full of extra matter and lined it with hidden funhouse mirrors to distort the distances involved.
“Weird, right?” Tony hovered just before him. “You get used to it.”
“It felt like I was…being turned inside-out,” Spider-Man said.
“That’s pretty close to what happens.”
“How can that be? How does that possibly, conceivably not kill us?”
“I asked Reed that, once,” Tony replied. “He launched into some elaborate quantum-physics explanation I couldn’t follow. Then he stopped in mid-sentence, and this funny little grin crept over his face.”
“He didn’t know either.”
“He didn’t know.”
Tony gestured toward a cluster of asteroids, took off toward them. Spider-Man followed, activating the grav-pack via his costume’s mental controls.
“S.H.I.E.L.D. is preparing to transfer prisoners,” Spidey said. “I guess that means the guys we captured at the chemical plant?”
“Correct.”
“So that’s how this is gonna work? Anybody who doesn’t register, gets brought to the Baxter Building and shipped in here?”
“Only temporarily. Reed Richards first discovered the Negative Zone; right now, the only portal on Earth is the one we just came through, in his laboratory. But Stark Enterprises is already building portals in major prisons all over the country. Once those are operational, violators of the Superhuman Registration Act will be dealt with like any other criminals: processed by the proper authorities, then transferred here.”
Spider-Man frowned. “You forgot ‘given a fair trial.’”
“There are no trial provisions in the SRA, Peter.”
“What?”
“You don’t give an atomic bomb a fair trial. Or an enemy combatant on the field of battle.” Tony pointed up ahead. “Altering course. Follow my lead.”
An asteroid loomed closer, one jagged rock among many. Buildings gleamed on its surface, reflecting the starlight. Spider-Man peered at it for a moment, and began to feel queasy.
“Follow me down, Peter. And don’t deviate from the flight pla—Peter?”
The structures on the asteroid’s surface were clearly visible now, jutting up like manmade building blocks. But something about them seemed very odd. Their configuration seemed to shift, flashing frighteningly from one arrangement to another. Spider-Man stared at them, felt a twinge of panic with every shift. His gut, his hindbrain screamed: This architecture is inhuman. Twisted, fearful. Wrong.
Tony’s voice sounded distant in his ear. “…sorry. Set your lenses to Filter 18, strength level one notch below maximum.”
Spidey could barely process the words. He stared, eyes wide, twitching. “What?”
“Never mind, I’ll do it for you.”
Spider-Man’s vision blurred, went blank for a second. He blinked, disoriented, and then the scene became clear again.
The buildings had stopped shifting. They rose like a futuristic city now, gleaming and majestic against the bare rock of the asteroid. Far below, guards in full armor patrolled the perimeter of the land and soared around the highest spires.
“Security protocol Reed worked out,” Tony said. “It uses a specially designed architectural configuration, in combination with the unique properties of the Negative Zone, to create a virtually escape-proof environment.”
Spider-Man hovered, stared down at the cluster of spires. He remembered the effect they’d had on him, just seconds ago, and shivered. “Rogue Moon,” he whispered.
“One of Reed’s favorite sci-fi novels. I think it was an inspiration.”
“The guards are protected?”
“Actually, most of them are robots.”
Tony led him down to a landing pad, out where the gleaming metal of the complex petered out onto bare rock. Three robot-guards approached, pulse-rifles protruding from their arms.
“GUARD POST BRAVO RECOGNIZING ANTHONY STARK. IDENTIFY SECOND HUMANOID.”
“Spider-Man, real name Peter Parker,” Tony said. “Guest of Anthony Stark.”
“CONFIRMED. REGISTRATION ON FILE.” The lead guard’s face was blank, lights dancing behind its black-glass plating. “PRESENT ACCESS CODE PLEASE.”
“Tango Sierra Lloyd Bridges.”
“ACCESS CODE CONFIRMED.”
The guards moved aside. Tony led Spider-Man, on foot, toward a seemingly featureless silver wall. A door irised open, twenty feet high and almost as wide.
“‘Lloyd Bridges’?” Spidey asked.
“A custom-designed app randomly generates new passwords every half-hour. The app has an unanticipated fondness for the names of 1960s TV actors—yesterday it was ‘Charlie Foxtrot Adam West.’” Tony laughed. “When it gets to Sebastian Cabot, I’m pulling the plug.”
They passed through a large corridor, into a courtyard where baby plants sprouted from transplanted Earth soil. Spider-Man craned his neck, looked up at the featureless skyscrapers all around. The scope of the place was incredible; ceilings, buildings, everything seemed larger than life. And very new, very metallic, totally antiseptic.
“You said most of the guards are robots?”
“There are some human medical personnel and administrators, to make sure nothing goes wrong. But Reed and I discussed the matter at length. We decided the more we minimized the possibility of human error, the better this place would work.”
Tony led him into a smaller, tighter corridor. Held up his gauntleted hand, and a heavy door swooshed open.
“Here are the apartments.”
“You mean the cells?”
“Semantics.”
The hallway was lined with thick, angular metal doors, each with a small slit of one-way glass embedded at eye level. Spider-Man jumped up onto the wall, crept along it to the first door. He lifted a hand to raise his mask off.
“Careful,” Tony warned. “You take off your lenses, the disorientation effect will hit you again. It works everywhere inside the prison, except within the cells themselves.”
“Gotcha.” Spidey turned back toward the cell, leaned over to peer through the glass.
The inside looked like any sparely appointed living room, anywhere. Sofa, flatscreen TV, desk with a built-in computer monitor. A small fold-up bunk sat mounted against one wall, and Spider-Man could see the edge of a kitchen alcove in the background. The only oddity: a large armchair with wrist-restraints and a helmet hanging above it.
“Gotta admit, it looks nicer than my first Manhattan apartment. Bigger, too.” Spidey shrugged. “What’s that chair-thingy?”
“Virtual reality system. Lets them take little mind-vacations, even when they’re trapped in here. We may have to modify it, of course, for villains with tech-manipulation abilities.”
“I don’t see anybody inside.”
“The facility has only just become operational. Very few of the cells are occupied.” Tony cocked his head, consulting some internal data file. “Ah. Try this one.”
Spider-Man leapt down, crossed to the next cell. Peered through the glass.
“We caught him a couple weeks ago,” Spidey said. “With the Sinister Six.”
“You caught him,” Tony replied. “That was good work.”
Inside, Sandman flipped through a magazine, frowned at it. He picked up a remote control and plopped down on the sofa, sending grains of sand flying all around.
“He looks kinda sad,” Spider-Man said.
“Sad? He’s in prison.” Tony turned to Spidey. “People like Sandman are too dangerous to be allowed to walk around. You know that.”
“I’m not arguing about him, but…a lot of my friends, our friends, are gonna wind up here too. They’ll be locked up, same as him.”
“All their needs will be seen to. They’ll be comfortable.”
“But they can’t leave.”
“Of course they can. The minute they agree to register, to go public with their identities and follow the laws of the United States of America. To follow the courageous example you showed, back at the press conference.”
Once again, Spider-Man felt the low rumble in his head. The ache that had kept him awake, these past several nights.
“Come on,” Tony said. “The S.H.I.E.L.D. shuttle should be arriving about now.”
Spidey followed him back, through the corridors and the courtyard and the huge metal doors. His head was swimming. Those buildings rose up a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty stories. How many people would this place hold, ultimately? How long would they stay here? How much had it cost to build?
Outside, the S.H.I.E.L.D. shuttle was just arcing in to a landing. It looked like an airborne version of the Mobile Buses, thick and heavy, with rocket-tubes mounted on all four corners of its stern.
A hatch hissed open. A pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents strode out, in full riot gear and protective goggles. The robot guard moved to intercept them.
“PRESENT ACCESS CODE PLEASE.”
“Echo Delta Julie Newmar,” the agent said.
“ACCESS CODE CONFIRMED.”
Tony turned to Spider-Man. “Codes are getting better.”
The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent gestured inside the vehicle. Two more agents led Cloak out onto the landing pad. The young man wore his full costume, but with manacles at his wrists and ankles. A thick helmet was clamped on his head, stretching down to cover his eyes.
“Power dampener,” Tony explained. “It also shields them from the distortion effect.”
Wiccan and Hulkling stumbled out next, similar helmets covering their eyes.
“They’ve been assigned a double apartment, together.” Tony gestured to Spider-Man. “We’re not trying to punish anyone, Peter. This is about containment.”
A tall, thickly built agent brought up the rear, escorting the red-garbed figure of Daredevil. DD walked easily, confidently, despite his fetters. When he reached Tony and Spidey’s position, he stopped and turned straight toward them, despite the helmet covering his eyes.
His radar sense, Spider-Man thought. The dampener must not be stopping it completely.
“Tony Stark himself,” Daredevil said. “Here to admire your handiwork?”
Tony said nothing.
“Impressive.” Daredevil gestured up at the towering spires. “Built by Stark Enterprises, right? The government’s really been handing out those no-bid contracts. How many millions have you made this month?”
Spider-Man turned to Tony. “Millions?”
Tony hesitated. With a jolt, Spidey realized: It’s a lot more than millions.
Billions, maybe.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent prodded Daredevil forward. But Tony held up a hand. “It’s all right, agent. I’d like to talk to Daredevil while you bring him in.”
Daredevil turned blind, hooded eyes to Tony and Spider-Man in turn. Then he marched toward the door. Tony fell in beside him, and Spidey followed.
“Daredevil—is it Matt? Never mind.” Tony held up a hand, opened the door. “I want you to understand why we’re doing this. I assure you, I don’t take any pleasure in hunting down my friends.”
Daredevil’s lip curled in distaste.
“I sat there in Washington, on Capitol Hill,” Tony continued, “and I watched them debate this issue from every side. In the end, it came down to two choices. Registration, or a total ban on all super hero activity. I think you’d agree: none of us wants that.
“You’ve heard of the Fifty State Initiative? It’s real. It’s happening. Eventually there will be fifty super-teams, one in each state. Every member trained, licensed, and accountable to the U.S. taxpayer. It’s the next stage in superhuman evolution. We’re already training new super heroes, and working to find a place for anyone who wants to join us.
“Daredevil: If you’re interested—if you want to come clean, to register and go public right now—you’d be at the top of my list. You could even have your own team, call the shots. What do you say?”
They’d reached the cellblock. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent lifted an access card and said a few words into the cell door. It whooshed open. The cell inside looked just like Sandman’s—a bit neater, Spider-Man noticed.
“Otherwise,” Tony continued, “this is the alternative. And nobody wants that, either.”
Daredevil stood in the doorway, silent and grim. At length, he turned to the big S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.
“Agent Chiang,” Daredevil said. “Would you give it to him, please?”
Tony turned to the agent. “Give it to me?”
“Ah, yeah.” Agent Chiang reached into a pocket-compartment, pulled out a small disk. “When we processed him, we found this under his tongue. We tested it, it’s harmless. But he said he was savin’ it for you.”
Tony took the object in his hand. Spider-Man peered in and saw what it was: an ordinary silver dollar.
“I…I don’t understand,” Tony said.
Daredevil half turned toward him. “That’s thirty-one pieces of silver you’ve got now, Judas.”
Then he turned and strode into the cell. The door swooshed shut behind him.
The agent secured the door and started back through the corridor.
“Come on,” Tony said.
Spider-Man lingered for a moment, gazing at the cell that held his longtime friend. The rumbling in his head seemed louder now, pulsing, filling his mind.
He turned to follow Tony back through the prison. Past rows of cells soon to be filled, exercise rooms and courtyards waiting to be used. Tony seemed to have talked himself out; he was quiet now, thoughtful.
And slowly, Spider-Man realized what the ache in his mind was. Spider-sense. Not like he’d known it before, a sharp shock warning him of imminent danger. This was lower, steadier, more constant. A different kind of alarm entirely.
He followed Tony Stark out and up, off the surface of the asteroid, away from the prison called Project 42. But he couldn’t escape the buzzing in his head. The nagging feeling that things had gone very wrong, and were about to get even worse.
My Darling Reed,
First off, I wanted to let you know that Johnny’s doing better. The stitches came out yesterday, and he’s been happily recuperating at the penthouse apartment of someone named “Marika.”
Same old Johnny. I know I should be happy, but I’m not.
I’m so ashamed of you right now, Reed. And I’m ashamed of myself for going along, for passively supporting your fascistic plans.
That’s why I’m leaving.
The suitcase lay on the bed, half packed. It was small, carry-on size, with little wheels: barely enough space inside for a change of clothes, some toiletries, and a well-worn blue super hero costume. Somehow the costume still fit, even after two children and dozens of super villain battles.
Sue smiled. Must be the unstable molecules.
&n
bsp; She’d had to sneak into her own home, past the S.H.I.E.L.D. blockade. If Reed were to check the entry logs, he’d see that she’d entered her passcode—and, of course, the security cameras would record the outer door opening briefly, then swishing shut. It wouldn’t show anyone entering, of course, because no one had. At least, no one visible.
But Reed was distracted. Very, very distracted, even more so than usual. Right now, one floor above, he and Tony Stark were overseeing the transfer of the captured “Resistance” members to that horror show they’d built in the Negative Zone.
Once Sue was inside the building, she hadn’t felt the need to stay invisible. Reed would never notice her. These days he had no time for anyone, except Tony.
Sue flung open the top bureau drawer, felt around for her old, disused communicator. Found it: a bulky walky-talkie device with a “4” etched onto it. She tossed it into the bed, next to the suitcase—and then her eyes stopped on something else, lying in the back of the drawer. She pulled it out, held it up to the light.
A model rocket ship. And not just any rocket: a replica of the privately built ship that Ben Grimm had piloted out of the desert that fateful night. The night that Sue, Reed, Ben, and Johnny braved the cosmic ray belt at the edge of Earth’s atmosphere, and were transformed into the Fantastic Four.
She’d almost forgotten this model. Reed had built it for her on their first wedding anniversary. The paint job was meticulous, down to the silver detailing on the old-style rocket tubes. The tinted cockpit even showed four little silhouettes inside.
She remembered thinking it was possibly the worst anniversary gift in history. And that had made her love Reed even more.
She wiped away a tear. Turned to the baby monitor on the night table and switched it on. Listened, for just a minute, to the voices of Franklin and Valeria arguing with HERBIE, their robot babysitter, about who was allowed to pick a DVD to watch.
Then she heard a noise, just past the doorway. She snapped off the monitor and willed herself invisible—then thought better of it, and faded back into view. It was pointless to hide. If Reed didn’t already know she was here, the half-packed suitcase would be a dead giveaway.
