Search and Rescue

by Unknown Author

  Right now, all he needed was Cyclops, provided the

  X-Men’s most serious and sober soldier-in-arms deduced what the Beast had in mind. After a moment’s silence, Cyke nodded and gestured for the Beast to step aside. He pointed his visor at the turbulent river and raised the inner lens all the way open.

  A wide red beam ploughed through the river, clearing a path all the way across to the other side. “Shades of Cecil B. DeMille!” the Beast enthused. “Not to mention that Dreamworks cartoon a few months back!” Cyclops had well and truly parted the waters before him.

  Now came the uncomfortable part. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, the Beast hurled himself bodily into the path of the awe-inspiring beam. Countless newtons of force immediately slammed into his back, pushing him forward at breathtaking speed. It was like sitting in the driver’s seat of a Saturn rocket at liftoff. I’m going to be black and blue after this stunt, he thought, grimacing, not that anyone will be able to tell....

  The intense pressure lasted only an instant. But, as he had hoped, the Beast found himself prone upon a grassy lawn overlooking the river. Several feet behind him, a protective metal railing had been bisected by Cyclops’s initial blast, leaving behind a ragged gap. Further back, in the river itself, the water filled the channel that Cyke had briefly carved through the flowing torrent.

  Nice of him to clear the way before I jumped aboard the Eyebeam Express, the Beast thought, wincing as he sought to mobilize his badly-abused body. His entire back felt as though it had been pounded upon repeatedly by the Absorbing Man’s ball and chain.

  He lifted his face from the damp, dewy grass to find a half dozen automatic rifles aimed at his head; the Beast suddenly envied Iron Man his impervious helmet. A squadron of nervous-looking soldiers peered down the sights of their M-16s, surrounding the Beast and leading him to hope, for his sake, that there were no trigger-happy mutant-haters among the assembled troopers, many of whom were staring at his bristling blue countenance as if he had just arrived from Mars.

  “Er, take me to your leader?” he said weakly.

  They didn’t have to. His rank announced by the black colonel’s eagles on his battle-dress uniform, their commanding officer came stomping across the lawn, a megaphone in one hand and a two-way radio in the other. Anxious subordinates, clutching charts and binoculars, trailed after him like a film star’s entourage.

  Just the individual that I wished to behold, the Beast thought, encouraged despite the battery of automatic rifles aimed at his unusually well-educated brain.

  “Colonel Lopez, I presume?” the Beast stalled to stand up, only to hear a dozen firearms lock and load. On second thought, he reconsidered, maybe I’ll stay right where I am for the time being. He entertained the notion of giving the soldiers a friendly smile, then realized that his bared fangs might be misinterpreted. Little do they know that I prefer a good salad to raw meat.

  The Colonel shouldered his way through the crowd of young recruits. His lean face had been permanently furrowed by the responsibilities of command. “Identify yourself,” he barked at the Beast. “Are you with the X-Men or the Avengers?”

  “Both, actually,” the Beast responded, more or less accurately. To be fair, he hadn’t enjoyed active status among the Avengers since that time-warping contretemps with Morgan Le Fey a few months back, but now did not strike him as the most politic occasion at which to point out that particular distinction. “You could check with the appropriate authorities regarding my various clearances and credentials, but I fear that we have precious little time to spare, Colonel, and I could definitely use your assistance.”

  The scowling officer mulled the matter for only a few moments before nodding in the Beast’s direction. “I remember now. I saw you and the other Avengers fight Graviton in Times Square, back when I was just a private.” Following their commander’s lead, the uniformed riflemen backed away from the Beast, although a few of the more wary soldiers kept the Beast in their sights until the Colonel directed them to lower their weapons. ‘ ‘What can I do for you?” he asked the prostrate X-Man.

  A couple of aspirin would he appreciated, the Beast thought. Slowly, keeping one eye on the potentially over-eager troopers, he lifted his aching body from the grass, leaving a squashed, Beast-shaped impression in the lawn. Grass stains streaked his blue fur. “In fact,” he explained, “I am desirous of requisitioning an item of communications technology. That megaphone, to be precise.” He pointed at the funnel-like apparatus gripped in the Colonel’s left hand.

  “Go ahead,” Colonel Lopez said, handing the device to the Beast. “Lord knows it hasn’t done me a bit of good.” The Beast sympathized with the man’s frustration. There wasn’t much conventional armed forces could do against the X-Men, let alone the Hulk. Let us now ascertain whether my own powers of persuasion are sufficient to the task of restoring some degree of tranquility to Niagara. The Beast was by no means Killgrave the Purple Man, whose every utterance compelled obedience, but he might be Niagara’s last, best hope for peace. With apologies to a certain TV space station, he amended.

  “Cap! Iron Man! Storm! Cyclops!” he called out, holding the megaphone before his lips. “This is your mutual acquaintance, the beneficent Beast. I believe an immediate truce is in order, the better to resolve whatever differences may have arisen. Allow me to offer myself as mediator, if such is required. I trust that will be acceptable to all concerned.”

  Except the Hulk, mayhap, he thought. Still, it seemed Storm’s all-shaking thunder had lessened in volume and Iron Man’s fiery repulsor rays no longer glowed like bright orange neon against the angry clouds. Then abruptly, they ceased. His gaze switched to the embattled island and the tiny figures on it. “Your binoculars, please,” he requested from one of Colonel Lopez’s lieutenants.

  Had Cap and Cyke acknowledged his plea as well? Resting the borrowed binoculars upon the bridge of his nose, the Beast spun the lenses until the tip of the island came into focus. To his relief, he saw Captain America cautiously lowering his shield even as Cyclops held back his trademark eyebeams behind his visor. “Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than war,” the Beast rejoiced in relief, quoting Milton.

  “Huh?” the lieutenant asked, bewildered. Colonel Lopez gave the Beast a puzzled look as well.

  Before the hirsute X-Man could helpfully attribute the quotation, an angry green figure shot like a cannonball away from the island, arcing across the sky until it landed with an earth-rattling thud only a few yards away from the Beast. The manicured lawn trembled beneath the mutant hero’s bare feet.

  “Spoilsport!” the Hulk accused, shaking an enormous fist at the Beast. “Killjoy! Who gave you the right to play Mother Teresa at my brawl?” He stalked toward the Beast, glaring murderously at the X-Man. “As far as I’m concerned, this little donnybrook’s just getting started!”

  The Beast gulped. The musclebound monster had crossed the river in a single leap. The Beast had known he would have to soon deal with the Hulk, but he hadn’t exactly planned on facing the Hulk quite so up close and personal, at least not right away. Oh my stars and garters! he thought. The herculean Hulk was even bigger and more intimidating than he remembered. He makes Colossus look positively ectomorphic.

  The surrounding soldiers opened fire on the gigantic green ogre, determined to defend the park and themselves from the gamma-spawned gargantua. Automatic rifles rat-a-tatted and the smell of gunpowder filled the air as the frightened troopers fired clip after clip against one solitary figure, who laughed sarcastically at the fusillade.

  '‘Mediate this, party pooper!” he challenged the Beast, sweeping aside a row of armed soldiers with one backhanded blow. Bullets literally bounced off the Hulk’s burly chest without leaving so much as a bruise.

  “Cease fire!” the Beast shouted through the megaphone, making his voice heard over the blaring gunfire. He fretted for a second about usurping the Colonel’s authority, but the ricocheting bullets were more likely to hurt someone else than th
e Hulk. There was no point in endangering the soldiers’ lives, not when it was him the Hulk was after. “Lower your weapons,” he ordered. “Let me talk to him.”

  Did I really say that? the Beast thought incredulously. I must be out of my famously learned head.

  Confused soldiers looked to their commander for confirmation. “Fall back!” Colonel Lopez instructed his troops. “Let the Avenger see what he can do.” As his soldiers retreated toward the north end of the park, the Colonel gave the Beast a worried look. I hope you know what you’re doing, his eyes seemed to say.

  No less than I do, the Beast thought as the Hulk approached, each step leaving enormous tracks in the ground. Arms as wide as telephone poles swung at his side. Faced with this brutish goliath, the Beast felt like David, sans sling.

  “You want to talk?” the Hulk said skeptically. “Yeah, right.”

  The Beast’s simian posture made him look shorter than he was, but the Hulk would have loomed over the beleaguered mutant even if he had stood as straight as the Washington Monument.

  “So, what’ve you got to say?” the Hulk demanded. He looked more than ready to make the Beast eat his own words, one syllable at a time. “This better be good,” he dared.

  Well, McCoy, the Beast asked himself, how do you get through to the Hulk? His mouth went dry while his brain raced faster than Quicksilver. Think! Put your intellect and erudition to work! He was hardly Doc Samson, the recognized shrink of choice to the superhero set, but he had reviewed much of the scientific and psychological literature concerning Bruce Banner’s metamorphic transformations. Current wisdom, he recalled, had it that the “Hulk” persona somehow provided an outlet for Banner’s repressed aggression. The Hulk thus embodied—and then some— Banner’s most primeval instincts. By that reasoning, threats, challenges, and ultimatums would only reinforce the Hulk persona and escalate the likelihood of violent confrontation. The trick, perhaps, was to reach the brain behind the bravado. . ..

  “Yes, perhaps, you can assist me with something that’s been bothering me,” the Beast suggested, swallowing hard to moisten his throat. “What precisely is the isotopic coefficient of a controlled gamma reaction under standard atmospheric conditions?’ ’

  Hostile green eyes blinked, caught off guard by the abstruse scientific question. The Hulk’s acromegalic fists, poised to pound the Beast into the ground, hesitated as the unexpected query circulated through his testosterone-swamped synapses. “What the heck—?”

  Taking swift advantage of the Hulk’s momentary confusion, the Beast pressed ahead with his mind-tweaking gambit. “Think about it,” he urged. “If the ratio of the half-life to the atomic weight is directly proportional to the photonic energy emissions, then how do you factor in the quantum fluctuations caused by electromagnetic phase shifts? Especially when you initiate the chain reaction by bombarding processed vibranium with unstable molecules?”

  “No, no!” the Hulk said impatiently. “You have to isolate the vibranium inside the magnetic constrictors first. Then you can worry about the quantum emissions!” Despite his surly tone, the Hulk’s arms gradually dropped to his sides. It’s working! the Beast thought. Now if he could keep coming up with genuine scientific conundrums relating to Bruce Banner’s field of expertise. It wasn’t enough to simply snow the Hulk with a blizzard of scientific queries; he had to stimulate the mind of the brilliant physicist trapped inside the Hulk’s grotesquely distorted body and psyche. “But are we talking about Wakandan vibranium or the Savage Land variety? As I understand it, the fundamental properties of each isotope differ significantly,” the Beast said.

  As he posed this new dilemma, a metallic glint in the sky caught the Beast’s eye. He glanced up discreetly to see both Storm and Iron Man hovering overhead, ready to intervene should the Hulk lose all patience with his furry interrogator. For the time being, though, they seemed content to watch from above, waiting to see if the Beast could succeed in soothing the raging Hulk with nothing more than words. If not, he thought anxiously, there’s not likely to be

  much left of Niagara when the fighting’s over.

  “Different isotopes, sure,” the Hulk agreed grudgingly, ‘ ‘but the variation in atomic weights cancels out when you get rid of all those stupid neutrons.” He scratched his unkempt emerald hair with one hand. “You don’t really need to mess with the coefficient until after the nuclei collapse, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

  The Beast wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn that the Hulk’s chartreuse flesh was starting to look a little pinker. Could it be that his improvised talking cure was bearing fruit?

  Then again, the Beast thought, maybe all the Hulk really needs is a gallon-sized Prozac. He was tempted to address Banner by name, but, no, the Hulk might perceive that as an attack on his own identity and react accordingly. We definitely don’t want that, the Beast decided. Better to sneak up on Banner’s submerged personality by way of his copious scientific knowledge and insights.

  “I see,” he conceded readily, “but doesn’t the nearly infinitesimal mass of the discarded neutrons contribute to an accumulation of dark matter at the reaction site? According to Reed Richard’s most recent paper on the effects of the Negative Zone on subatomic bonding....”

  ‘ ‘The Negative Zone has nothing to do with it, not on a macroscopic scale!” the Hulk insisted, suddenly more interested in convincing the Beast than crushing him. “We’re talking about a strictly exothermic fusion reaction, yielding a geometrical increase in gamma radiation by several orders of magnitude. The neutrons don’t mean jack.” The Hulk leaned forward, thrusting his glowering face at the Beast. “Got that?”

  “Got it,” the Beast said hastily. On closer inspection, the Hulk didn’t look like he was likely to change all the way back to Banner anytime soon. Perhaps they might have to settle for a slightly calmer Hulk.

  I can live with that, the Beast thought. Come to think of it, Doc Samson’s recent clinical studies suggested that the distinction between the Hulk and Banner had blurred over the years, evolving from the bad old days when they represented two diametrically opposed personalities. Maybe I’ve managed to drag just enough of Banner to the surface to make the Hulk think first and smash later. Much later, preferably.

  Certainly, the Hulk looked less malevolent than a few moments ago. As the Beast held his breath, the volatile titan peered down at the comparatively puny X-Man, then shrugged his enormous shoulders. “What’s this all about anyway?” he asked reasonably. “Don’t tell me you and your mutant bodies came all this way just to quiz me on the finer points of gamma radiation?”

  “As a matter of fact,” the Beast assured him, “we did.”

  The stately Colonial manor on Graymalkin Lane looked innocuous enough. Sturdy red brick walls rose to meet gabled rooftops. Darkened windows looked out over a freshly trimmed lawn. Matching three-story wings flanked the large central building, from which a domed belltower provided an excellent view of the surrounding estate which included an Olympic-sized swimming pool, several acres of pristine woodlands, and a three-mile stretch of shore along Breakstone Lake. Nestled in the sylvan suburbia of Westchester County, the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning looked exactly like the ritzy private academy it was supposed to be.

  Appearances can be deceptive, Nick Fury thought. The executive director of S.H.I.E.L.D., the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistic Directorate, knew for a fact that the venerable edifice ahead also housed the—for the most part—secret headquarters of the X-Men. He doubted if the townsfolk in neighboring Salem Center realized they were harboring a mutant hangout in their vicinity, but S.H.I.E.L.D. had known where Xavier’s super-powered proteges hung their hats for over a decade now. Fury had just never seen fit to crash the X-Men’s HQ—until now.

  “Well?” he asked. “Anybody home?” Together with an elite team of agents, he crouched in the shrubbery outside a heavy iron gate that guarded the front drive. Beside him, clad in a regulation dark blue S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, Agent 146
, Matthew Bradley, scanned the mansion with a handheld motion detector. Five more agents, all level 4 or higher, kept low behind Fury and Bradley, sticking tight to the shade trees lining the road. A little further down the road, an armored van, camouflaged as an ordinary moving truck, contained their heavy artillery. Just in case.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell, sir,” Bradley reported. Stubbornly, he fiddled with the controls of the flashlight-sized instrument, only to shake his head in frustration. “I keep running into some sort of interference, jamming me on every frequency. I don’t know what it is; it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  “Figures,” Fury said. His stubble-covered jaws clenched down on the stub of an unlit cigar. A simple black patch covered his left eye, but his healthy right eye showed no sign of surprise. “Reliable intel suggests that the X-Men have access to all sorts of advanced alien technology, specifically from the Shi’ar Empire. Probably rigged up something to shield the house from prying eyes, electronic or otherwise.”

  I should have known this wouldn’t be easy, Fury thought. Not that he had much choice; the X-Men’s raid on the Helicarrier yesterday cried out for rapid retaliation, especially since the mutants made off with the experimental prototypes of what the lab boys and girls were calling the Gamma Sentinels.

  I still don’t get it, Fury' thought. Why did the X-Men resort to a commando-style assault against S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place?

  Fury didn’t expect them to approve of anything involving Sentinels, but why hadn’t the X-Men at least consulted with him first, before staging a preemptive strike in his own backyard? He and the X-Men had always managed to work things out “under the table” so far, like that time in Nebraska a few months back, when he looked the other way while the X-Men reined in that mutant firebug, Pyro. If he had been informed that S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists had been roped into another blasted anti-mutant research project, then maybe he could have nipped the whole dirty business in the bud. Before it came to this.