by Greg Cox
As team leader, Cap couldn’t be unaware of all the pain that the Scarlet Witch had endured during the dissolution of her marriage. Sometimes he wondered about the wisdom of keeping the estranged couple on the same team, although, to their credit, neither Wanda nor the Vision had ever let their personal difficulties interfere with the performance of their duties. All the more reason, he resolved, to use every resource at their disposal to recover Wanda safely; it was the least they could do for a valiant teammate who had always been willing to put her life on the line for the sake of the Avengers, America, and the world.
“We can rule out the Puppet Master, too,” Iron Man reported. “I got an e-mail from his niece a few minutes ago, confirming her uncle’s alibi. Seems she was with him this morning, around the same time Wanda was apparently abducted.”
Left unspoken was the grim possibility that the Scarlet Witch was no longer alive, but Cap refused to accept that she might have already paid the last full measure of devotion. As long as there’s hope, he vowed, the Avengers will never abandon one of their own.
“Even if the Hulk is innocent,” Iron Man added, “I wouldn’t mind a chance to ask Banner some pertinent questions about those traces of gamma radiation at the museum. I like to think that I’m a pretty savvy engineer, but I’m not ashamed to say that I’m stumped when it comes to figuring out how in the world you could use gamma rays to bring a bunch of puppets to life.”
“All available databases report that the Hulk’s whereabouts are presently unknown,” the Vision reminded them. Cap knew that the Vision remained in contact with the mansion’s ultra-sophisticated computer systems via a direct cybernetic link. “Every search engine is now engaged in searching for clues that might lead us to the Hulk, as are as many of our auxiliary members as I have been able to contact.”
That’s good to know, Cap thought, but was it enough? As Iron Man had so astutely pointed out, the Hulk’s connection to Wanda’s abduction was an extremely tenuous one, even if it was the only lead they had. Their lack of progress frustrated him. They also serve who only stand and wait, he knew, but it was hard to just cool their heels in the opulent comfort of Avengers Mansion when another team member was in jeopardy.
His resolute gaze drifted to another portrait, occupying a place of honor on the west wall of the reception room. The framed photograph depicted the second wave of Avengers, consisting of himself, Hawkeye the Archer, Quicksilver, and the Scarlet Witch.
Those were the days, Cap thought. It had been his privilege to sponsor and train both Wanda and her brother when they first resolved to turn their backs on their criminal pasts, and he had never had cause to regret his decision to give the homeless young mutants a second chance. That reminds me. I should probably try contacting Pietro again. Previous attempts to notify Quicksilver of his sister’s disappearance had proven useless; neither the Inhumans nor the Knights of Wundagore knew where Pietro could be found. Given the speed at which the superfast mutant traveled, he could be anywhere in the world at any given moment, making him a hard man to catch up with.
An electronic beep distracted Cap from his somber ruminations. He extracted his Avengers I.D. card from the flared cuff of his right glove. An emergency signal flashed upon the laminated card.
“It’s S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he announced to the other heroes. “A priority transmission.”
He aimed the card at the framed photo above the fireplace and clicked twice on the touch-sensitive card. The portrait slid to one side, gilded frame and all, revealing a largish monitor not unlike the one in their communications center upstairs; thanks to Tony Stark’s renovations, the venerable mansion was full of such hidden technological surprises. With another click, he transferred the incoming message to the screen above the mantle. For the second time that day, the Star-Spangled Avenger contemplated an over-sized close-up of Nick Fury’s grizzled features.
“Captain America here,” he addressed the screen. “What’s up, Nick? More about that UFO you mentioned before?” He would have preferred news of Wanda, but duty called.
Fury chomped down mercilessly upon a cigar. “Yeah, you might say we had a bit of a close encounter ourselves.” He had obviously seen recent action; a dark purple bruise discolored his unshaven chin while a fresh bandage was wrapped around his shoulder. “At approximately 2100 hours, Eastern Standard Time, the Helicarrier was attacked and boarded by the X-Men.”
The X-Men? Cap couldn’t believe his ears. Their unsavory reputation notwithstanding, he knew that the mutant heroes generally fought on the side of the angels. “Are you sure, Nick? I know the tabloids make them out to be the biggest threat this side of the Masters of Evil, but I’ve stood by them in the line of fire and I can tell you that their hearts are in the right place. The Beast even served as an Avenger once.”
“I know where you’re coming from, Cap,” Fury admitted, “but take a gander at some of this combat footage, captured by our own security cameras.”
Fury’s scowling visage surrendered the screen to chaotic images of desperate S.H.I.E.L.D. agents fighting back against brightly-costumed invaders wielding fire, ice, flying blades, and what looked like telekinesis. The pictures were several orders of magnitude clearer and more vivid than the security videotape Cap had watched earlier that day; obviously, S.H.I.E.L.D. could afford better equipment than the American Museum of Folk Art. Despite frequent gusts of flame and steam, Cap easily recognized the faces and distinctive uniforms of the intruders: Sunfire, Banshee, Archangel, Phoenix, and Iceman. All mutants, right enough, and all linked to the X-Men. Watching the footage, he could tell that the apparent X-Men were clearly on the offensive; he winced in sympathy as one of Archangel’s barbed feathers struck the Countess Valentina, rendering her unconscious. Moments later. Fury himself succumbed to the mutants’ onslaught; S.H.I.E.L.D.’s irascible director dropped face-first onto the floor of the Helicarrier, multiple flechettes jutting from his punctured body.
He went down fighting, Cap noted, impressed by any strike force that could overcome Fury' and his people on their own turf. He watched with growing concern as Banshee’s supersonic scream, which registered upon the videotape as an ear-piercing squeal, knocked a massive steel airlock off its hinges. The X-Men stormed over the fallen bodies of Fury and his people to enter what was clearly labeled as a top-security laboratory. What are they after? Cap wondered.
The security footage blanked out, replaced by a very unhappy Nick Fury. “It’s just as bad as it looks, maybe worse.” Having shared some of the darkest hours of World War II with Fury, Cap knew that the old war horse wasn’t prone to exaggeration. “Not only did we get our butts kicked, but your mutant buddies also absconded with some choice classified hardware, zipping away in their flying saucer before we knew what hit us. We figure it’s got some sort of stealth capacity, that’s how it got in past our defenses.”
“What kind of classified hardware got stolen?” Iron Man asked urgently, his metallic faceplate back in place. Cap recalled that Tony Stark had provided S.H.I.E.L.D. with much of its state-of-the-art technology. The thought of his own discoveries falling into the wrong hands surely preyed on the armored Avenger’s mind.
An uncomfortable look came over Fury’s face, like he didn’t much like the taste of the words in his mouth. “Well, that’s kind of a problem, actually. I can tell you already that you’re not going to like what I have to say.” “What is it, Nick?” Cap asked, puzzled by Fury’s visible reluctance to spit out the truth. He didn’t always approve of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s more clandestine operations, but he knew that Fury was a man of integrity, stuck in a dirtier job than Cap would have ever chosen for himself. I always want to give America’s officially-sanctioned defenders the benefit of the doubt, even though I’m sometimes disappointed by what our own leaders can stoop to.
Fury could not conceal his distaste for what he said next. “Turns out a handful of our resident science whiz-kids had just finishing assembling the prototypes for a new generation of Sentinels.”
The
black sedan rolled through Westchester County, down tree-lined avenues that led toward the quiet suburban community of Salem Center, New York. Behind the wheel, Scott Summers resisted the temptation to put on the gas now that they were almost home. After the Beast’s narrow escape from the police, the last thing they needed was to be pulled over for speeding.
Impatience gnawed at him, however. For all they knew, Rogue could be in desperate straits at this very minute. He was anxious to get back to the Institute and continue the search for her. With any luck, Wolverine would have returned from his solitary roaming in time to help with the hunt; they might have need of his tracking skills.
I just hope Logan’s not slumming in Madripoor again, Cyclops thought. We might not see him for weeks.
If it was anybody else, Cyclops would never tolerate an X-Man going AWOL as often as Wolverine did, but he had learned from hard experience that there was little hope of getting Wolverine to change his ways, and the diminutive Canadian was too valuable an asset to the team to do without. Over the years, he had grudgingly come to accept Logan’s singular idiosyncrasies, just as the habitual loner had adjusted to being part of a team . .. sort of.
If necessary, we’ll have to make do without him, Cyclops decided. With or without Wolverine, there was no time to spare.
Keeping his foot firmly on the gas pedal and his eyes on the lonely road ahead, he called back to his companions. “Any luck?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” the Beast replied from the back seat. Scott heard Hank tapping away at the customized keyboard of his portable computer, handcrafted to accommodate the Beast’s gorilla-sized digits. “I’m searching the Internet for any new developments concerning Rogue, gamma radiation, or even the Hulk, but so far there’s been nothing worth noting, although I did stumble onto a couple of intriguing new scientific treatises that I’ve bookmarked for later study. Purely of academic interest, alas; nothing that points the way to our comrade’s safe recovery.” :
“Didn’t I read something recently about the Hulk’s wife dying?” Cyclops asked. As team leader—well, coleader—he tried to stay abreast of current events in the superhuman community. You never knew when some obscure old villain might suddenly stage a comeback in your own backyard.
“Yes,” Hank said, his tone somewhat heavier than usual, “from an overdose of gamma radiation. There was considerable controversy over whether she could have been irradiated simply through prolonged contact with the Hulk.” - . . -
“How tragic and unfortunate,” Ororo sympathized. The X-Men, too, had known their share of sorrow, and controversy as well. If anything, the Hulk got even worse press than they did.
“All the more reason to try to contact Banner,”
Cyclops declared. “If anybody can explain what the radiation on those shirts means, it’s him.’’ He steered onto a back road leading toward the Institute; no need to attract attention by driving through the town proper during the wee hours of the night. “I just hope he’s in a, well, approachable state if and when we find him. I don’t relish another run-in with the Hulk.”
Might be just as well that Ix>gan 's trekked out for parts unknown, he reflected. Wolverine and the Hulk had an adversarial relationship that dated back years, to way before Logan even joined the X-Men. Cyclops scowled at the thought; he didn’t want their search for Rogue to get derailed by yet another grudge match between the volatile Canadian and Banner’s monstrous alter ego.
“1 know what you mean,” Hank agreed. Strong as he was, the Beast was nowhere near the Hulk’s weight class. “Here’s hoping that Dr. Banner is not looking notably chartreuse when we come calling.”
First we need to find him, Cyclops remembered. With luck, that wouldn’t take long; there weren’t many places where a thousand-pound green monstrosity could avoid attracting attention. Unlike Scott Summers, Banner could not conceal his curse behind a simple pair of quartz glasses.
Besides being merely elegant in appearance, the luxurious limousine came equipped with all the latest features, including sophisticated night vision technology. An infrared heat sensor mounted in the front grill scanned the darkened road ahead for over five hundred yards, five times farther than the sedan’s headlights could reach, and projected a long-distance image onto a ten-inch screen above the steering wheel and just below the top of the dashboard. Consequently, he spotted the barricade well before it came within ordinary sight; on the photonegative screen, the blockage on the road registered as a long white cylinder, glowing warmly against a dark background.
A fallen tree, Cyclops wondered, or something more sinister?
“Eyes up, folks,” he urged his passengers as the limo slowed to a stop along the side of the road. It was probably nothing, Scott realized, but X-Men couldn’t afford to take chances. Too many of their enemies knew their home address, even if the world at large did not; an ambush was always a possibility.
He relaxed only slightly when the car’s high beams bounced off the gnarled trunk of an elderly maple tree. Judging from the fresh dirt coating the ruin’s exposed roots, the tree had crashed onto the road within the last few hours.
Just what we didn’t need, Cyclops thought impatiently. They had lost too much time driving back from the city already.
“Better step out while I handle this,” he advised the others; even if there was nothing amiss, he saw no reason why Hank and Ororo should remain sitting ducks within the car. He stepped from the car and walked along the side of the road until he was only a few feet away from the imposing wooden barricade. Gravel crunched beneath his feet and he heard both rear doors of the limo open and shut. A pondful of frogs croaked somewhere behind the remaining trees.
“Do you require assistance, Scott?” Ororo volunteered. A few well-placed lightning bolts, he knew, would clear the road quite effectively.
“No thanks,” he replied. Storm had already done her share back at the police station, airlifting the Beast away from those trigger-happy boys in blue. Time for him to pull his own weight on this expedition.
He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, but the silent woods appeared deserted nor were there any approaching headlights in either direction.
Perfect, he thought. Taking hold of his glasses with one hand, he carefully lifted the red-tinted shades off his nose.
It was like removing a dam from the mouth of a rushing river. Unchecked by the ruby quartz lenses, crimson energy poured out of his eyes, merging to form a single incandescent beam that raced toward the toppled maple at the speed of light. Raw power, beyond Cyclops’s conscious control, slammed into the tree trunk, reducing it to splinters. A violent crash violated the quiet serenity of the countryside, momentarily silencing the steady murmur of the frogs. Only fragments of the shattered obstacle remained upon the pavement.
“That should do it,” Scott said, lowering the glasses back onto his nose. He took a deep breath; although his mutant eyes tapped into a seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of extradimensional energy, he always felt slightly depleted after channeling that much power through his mortal flesh. He blinked rapidly behind the protective lenses; his eyes burned a bit, but it was nothing he hadn’t experienced hundred of times before. I wonder what’s harder on my system, providing a conduit for all that energy—or holding it back the rest of the time?
Thankfully, his eyes could be used for more conventional purposes as well. Cyclops scanned the empty stretch of road, half expecting Juggernaut or the Blob to come barreling out of the woods at any moment, but only the rustle of wind through the trees hinted at life behind the still nocturnal tableau. Apparently, the fallen tree had been just that, not the opening move in another unprovoked assault on the X-Men. Scott shrugged his shoulders.
Better safe than sorry, he thought.
“Okay, everyone, back into the car.” He bent over to pick up one of the larger pieces of the broken wood off the pavement, then flung it into the shadows. Slipping back into the driver’s seat, he was gratified to see that the Beast was already back a
t work on his laptop. At least somebody was getting work done while Scott played chauffeur. The limo pulled back onto the road and Scott mentally counted the miles remaining back to the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning.
“Voila!” the Beast exuberantly declared, only minutes after their trip resumed. ‘ ‘My humble hacking has borne fruit at last. CNN.com reports that an individual believed to be Dr. Robert Bruce Banner has been spotted at Niagara Falls, not far from the Canadian border.”
“Good work,” Cyclops said. Hank’s breakthrough was not enough, however, to remove the worried expression from his face; they were still a long way from locating their missing teammate. “Anything about Rogue?”
The Beast shook his bushy head. “Not a word.” His gaze bounced between Storm and Cyclops. “What now, o’ glorious co-leaders?”
Cyclops glanced at the dashboard clock. It was close to two in the morning. Niagara Falls was several hours away by car, but if they used the aircraft hangared beneath the Institute, they could be there before sunrise.
“What do you think?” he asked Storm, peeking at her pensive features in the rearview mirror. “The Blackbird?”
“My thoughts exactly,” she said.
Sentinels! Cap’s jaw dropped in dismay, much as he imagined Tony’s mouth must have fallen open beneath his gilded mask. / don’t believe it.
Sentinels, in whatever form, had to count as one of the U.S. government’s most shameful ideas: a species of powerful and implacable robot policemen specifically designed to track down and apprehend mutants. Mechanized discrimination ... he could scarcely imagine a more blatant violation of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. He had hoped that, after the last Sentinel-inspired orgy of strife and destruction, the whole pernicious notion had retired permanently.
