by Len Wein
“Apparently, I was rebuilding Ultron . . . at least to the point that he could complete himself.
“I must have been under some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion. I figure that, in his last incarnation. Ultron captured me, as Tony Stark, planted his orders and his design in my mind, and then let me go, physically unharmed. I was his ace in the hole, his ticket to reincarnation.
“I should have foreseen this. I should have taken steps to prevent it. But it’s done now. I don’t have time to wallow in guilt. I’ll do that later . . . if there is a later.
“What worries me is that I may still be subject to Ultron’s control.
“I haven’t been able to determine the type of hypnosis or mind control Ultron subjected me to. I’ve given myself every conceivable test, tried every antihypnotic technique, but I haven’t been able to ‘unlock’ the memories of my ‘missing hours,’ nor, I suspect, have I eliminated any additional hypnotic programming. Whatever method of superhypnosis Ultron used, it’s powerful stuff, light years beyond ordinary hypnosis.
“I know damned well that no sleepwalker could construct an Ultron. My guess is that Ultron’s mind control somehow alters an individual’s frame of reference—changes a few of the ‘givens’ and principles fundamental to his reasoning, and thereby twists his sense of right and wrong. It makes you think you desperately want to do whatever the programmer says, because you think it’s right.
“That means that the affected individual can ‘freelance.’ He isn’t bound by rigid, step-by-step orders. He can devote all of his creative faculties toward accomplishing whatever goal has been set for him.
“And in my case, that makes for a very dangerous situation. If I should fall under Ultron’s power again, it’s possible that I could end up serving him . . . as Iron Man.”
The armored man’s voice trailed off. He looked at his clenched, armored fist and tried to imagine fighting willingly, fervently at Ultron’s side against the Avengers. A wave of revulsion swept through him.
And yet, had he not recreated Ultron? Most likely filled with righteous fervor all the while.
He trembled.
“At any rate, I have considered possible solutions:
“First, I had planned to tell all this to Thor. I trust him above anyone. He alone of the Avengers knows that Tony Stark is Iron Man, and I would have been able to tell him the whole story without compromising my privacy.
“He is also, perhaps, the only Avenger capable of surviving an all-out surprise attack by me . . . and the only one powerful enough to have a decisive edge in battle against me.
“I planned to put my life in his hands, to leave it to his judgment, whether or not at any point I was truly myself, or in Ultron’s sway. Except maybe for Jarvis, Thor knows me better than anyone. He would be the first to sense it, if I had gone over. And he, above all, could be counted upon to do his sworn duty, no matter how repugnant.
“Even to slaying a friend.
“Just in case I tried running from Thor, last night I constructed a tracer, attuned to my armor, which is capable of locating me anywhere on this planet. It’s sealed in the subbasement vault, which is fused shut well enough so that it would take me a day to blast it open. Thor could reach the tracer a good bit quicker, I’m sure, and use it to track me down if necessary.
“There’s only one thing wrong with this elaborate plan. Thor never showed. So I am pondering alternatives.
“There’s always suicide. Right now. That would eliminate the possibility of Iron Man becoming a threat. Or perhaps Tony Stark could simply be locked up in a maximum security cell somewhere far away from Iron Man’s armor.
“That sounds good. Except that it eliminates me from the war against Ultron . . . and in all modesty, against that invulnerable monstrosity, the Avengers need the power of Iron Man . . . especially since Thor isn’t with us.
“There isn’t time to find and train someone else to use my armor, either.
“Maybe I should confide in Cap . . . or the Vision. Or even Jarvis. Or . . . in all the Avengers, together. My ‘privacy’ somehow seems unimportant now.
“But anyone I confided in would become the first target of a renegade Iron Man. And how could they follow me into battle and fight at my side, while fearing me as much as Ultron. Suspicion . . . division in our ranks . . . hesitation could kill us all.
“Maybe needlessly. This is all speculation on my part. I doubt that Ultron could be aware that I’m both Stark and Iron Man. It is very likely he saw no further use for me after I reconstructed him. I don’t know, or even have reason to suspect that Ultron has implanted any further programming in my brain.
“But it would be just like that son of a bitch to have done it.”
The man in the armor stood and slowly, wearily, stroked his chin and pondered for a moment. “Signed, Stark,” he said, finally.
“End of memo. Print one copy, seal it with a numbered Avenger’s seal, in an envelope marked ‘Top Secret.’ Address: Thor, then . . . erase the tape.”
Moments later, Jarvis jumped out of his Barca Lounger in response to a heavy thumping on his door. Though it was long after his official hours, he still wore his vest and bow tie. On the way to the door he almost stopped to put on his jacket, then deferred to the urgency in the knocking.
It was Iron Man.
“Sir?”
“Jarvis,” Iron Man said quietly, gravely, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help.” He held up a white letter-size envelope addressed to Thor and imprinted in red “Top Secret.”
“Give this to Thor the moment he arrives here.”
Jarvis took the envelope. “Certainly, sir, but . . .”
“There’s more to this, Jarv, and it’s important, so listen carefully.
“As long as you hold this note, your life is in danger. I can’t explain it, Jarvis, but . . . I may try . . . to kill you . . . to prevent you from delivering this message.”
“Y-you, sir?”
“Yes. Jarvis . . . if I should do anything unusual . . . or . . . if you just sense that I’m not myself . . . or, if God forbid, I attack you . . . then forget about Thor. Do whatever you must to get this message into the hands of any Avenger. But under no circumstances let it be destroyed or give it back to me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Iron Man said, turning away. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Of course, sir. Good night.” Jarvis closed his door and leaned against it, holding the dreadful letter with a shaking hand, eyes wide, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He loosened his tie, and opened his collar, and quietly contemplated playing keep-away against an armored titan who could twist steel beams into pretzels.
The Vision stood at the foot of the bed staring at Wanda. She had gotten dressed again, as had he, except for her cape, boots, and gloves. She lay propped up on two plump pillows, reading Gide’s The Immoralist.
“Are you going to stand there staring at me all night?” she asked without looking up.
“Occasionally I shall look out the window,” he replied. “You are very lucky that I require no sleep, or else you would have had all of us in this room with you two by two in shifts all night. Remember, Iron Man was reluctant to consent to my being your sole bodyguard.”
“If I am the one Ultron fears, perhaps then I should be guarding all of you!” the Witch said with a hint of imperial disdain in her voice. She rose and stood erect, her arms folded under her bosom and her head tilted haughtily back. “What if I choose to go for a midnight stroll in the garden . . . alone?”
“You shall not pass,” the Vision said, his hollow monotone somehow conveying ironclad resoluteness.
“Hmm,” the Witch said, suddenly coy. “So dutiful!” She undid the clasp at the back of her body suit and pulled it down exposing one supple shoulder. “Maybe the poor, imprisoned Witch can tempt her cruel jailer. Maybe he can be bribed!”
A knock at the door interrupted the game.
The Witch pulled up
her body suit, but didn’t fasten the clasp. The Vision cautiously opened the door.
“It’s me,” Iron Man said, entering.
“It is late. The others have all retired. I thought, perhaps, you had too,” the Vision said. “You seemed tired before.” He noticed that the eyes behind the mask no longer showed the exhaustion they had earlier, but were more intense than he had ever seen them. It disturbed him.
“I feel fine.” Iron Man said. “Pardon the intrusion,” he shifted his cold gaze to Wanda for a second, then focused again on the Vision, “but we’ve got a problem. Something has come up that only you can handle, Vision. Sensors have detected unusual vibrations in the bedrock far beneath the mansion. I want you to dematerialize and search underground. It could be that Ultron is tunneling under the mansion, planning a surprise attack from below.”
“It would seem illogical for him to take such a risk,” replied the Vision. “Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain,” Iron Man growled. Catching himself, he said quietly, “I’m sorry. As you said, I’m tired. But it is imperative that you undertake a search immediately. I recommend two spiral patterns to a maximum radius of half a mile, the first at a depth of 200 meters, the second at 500 meters.”
“Very well. What about Wanda?”
“I’ll take care of Wanda,” Iron Man said in a businesslike tone. “Go!”
The Vision faded quickly to near transparency and sunk into the floor.
Wanda had resumed her reading, this time sitting ladylike in a comfortable chair. While Iron Man was talking to the Vision she had discreetly fastened up her body suit again, and put on her boots, gloves, and cape. For some reason, for the first time since she had known him, she had felt uneasy in Iron Man’s presence, naked and vulnerable. Being fully costumed helped, but not much. She knew his gaze well. Often, for fleeting moments it had revealed a bit of warmth behind that stoic mask. Tonight it made her flesh crawl.
She felt him advancing toward her. She looked up. His armored hand was outstretched toward her and his eyes were deadly cold. Before she could move or scream, blue electrical fire leaped from his fingertips striking her. Her spine arched and her limbs jerked spasmodically as she tumbled to the floor, landing hard, face first. A shriek of pain died in her throat.
She lay still, crumpled awkwardly. The smell of burned hair filled the room. Iron Man knelt and roughly flipped her on to her back. She was unconscious, but still breathing in shallow, gurgling gasps, half choking on blood flowing freely from a split lip and a cut inside her mouth.
The man in the armor smiled at the blood.
He placed both hands around her neck, ready to snap it like a match stick. He began to exert pressure, then abruptly paused.
Releasing his grip on the Witch’s throat he rose and strode toward the balcony, effortlessly shattering the lock on the French doors rather than troubling to unlatch it. He pulled the doors open. He would rather have smashed them, but he dared not risk the noise.
Out on the balcony, he stood silhouetted, gleaming in the light pouring out behind him.
A thin whip antenna extended mechanically from a tiny aperture in his right shoulder brace. He tuned the transceiver dial in his belt to a certain ultrahigh frequency. A tiny throat mike built into his armor picked up his whispered words. “Iron Man to Ultron. I have the Scarlet Witch. Should I destroy her . . . or bring her to you?”
Moments passed in silence. The armored man waited nervously, biting his lip inside his helmet. Maybe he should just kill her and have done with it.
“Repeat.”
Iron Man barely heard the belated, one-word answer, but he grinned with satisfaction as he complied. “This is Stark . . . in Iron Man armor. I have the Witch. Should I destroy her or bring her to you?”
Silence again. This time the answer came more quickly.
“Bring her,” a crackling mechanical voice said. “I will guide you.”
Seconds later, he carried the still-unconscious woman out onto the balcony. With a whoosh of supercompressed air, he lifted off, arcing skyward. Two hundred feet in the air he stopped climbing and hovered for a moment, thinking.
He had almost forgotten the note.
As quietly as he could he settled down onto Jarvis’ patio. The curtains were slightly parted, and inside, with the aid of the infrared lenses built into his helmet, the armored man could see Jarvis sleeping. And there, on the dresser near his bed lay the letter, “hidden” in plain sight. An old man’s ploy. One that might thwart a petty thief. Iron Man’s built-in sensors confirmed, without a doubt, that the note was the genuine article. The numbered seal was intact. He held the Witch easily by the waist in one mighty armored arm as he adjusted the laser built into his right gauntlet. A moment later, a needle-thin red beam stabbed through the window glass and the all-important letter turned to ash in a single searing burst of flame.
Jarvis slept on.
Roughly, Iron Man tossed the Witch across his shoulder and rocketed skyward once more, with a satisfied, happy feeling inside.
Like a man headed home after a job well done.
Forty-five minutes later, Iron Man threw the unconscious Scarlet Witch at the feet of Ultron.
The armored man stood erect, proud of his work, regarding the hideous monster before him with respect and admiration.
Ultron’s perpetual scowl remained unchanged, but the crackling fusion energy seething inside his impenetrable body showed brighter than ever in his glowing eyes. He spoke in a guttural, evil, metallic voice. “You are Anthony Stark?”
“Yes.”
“I had presumed that Anthony Stark, the man who endows the Avengers, would be able to enter the Avengers’ Mansion easily enough, and when the opportunity presented itself, slay the Witch. A simple gun-shot . . . one slash with a knife from behind. Flesh is so easily destroyed.
“I never calculated the possibility that Anthony Stark was Iron Man. I never imagined that the Armored Avenger would carry out the orders I had given Stark and far surpass my simple expectations. How . . . interesting.”
“Thank you, sir,” Iron Man said sincerely, thinking that it was remarkable how expressive, how human Ultron’s voice was compared to the Vision’s hollow mockery of human speech. Certainly, he was ugly. No doubt about that. But, all in all, he decided, Ultron was a likable guy.
The Vision’s anguished scream awakened everyone in the mansion. Within moments, first Captain America, then Hawkeye raced half dressed into Wanda’s room to find the Vision kneeling on the floor over the blood spots on the carpet.
“She’s gone. Gone!” the Vision rasped. “I never should have left her side! I was deceived,” he almost spit the words, “by Iron Man!” His cold, robotic voice could not disguise his anger.
“Hawkeye, check the grounds,” Cap ordered.
Without comment, Hawkeye complied, and found nothing. When he returned the Vision was relating his story a second time.
“I can’t believe that Iron Man’s a traitor, Vision,” Cap said, shaking his head. “If he kidnapped the Witch for Ultron, it must have been because of some pretty powerful persuasion.”
“Of course, Captain America.” The Vision once again sounded calm and emotionless. “Obviously, in some manner Ultron has enthralled Iron Man. It is the only conceivable explanation.”
“Pardon me, guys, but how do you know Iron Man did anything?” Hawkeye interjected. “Maybe Ultron popped up and made off with them both.”
“Then why did Iron Man divert me on that fool’s errand? No, Ultron is more brazen than this. Once he had slain Wanda or made her helpless, he would have destroyed his house and all within, furthermore, Iron Man’s behavior just previous to the abduction was atypical, a fact that unfortunately, I ignored.”
“ ‘Unfortunately,’ he says.” Hawkeye stared in disbelief at the impassive android. “Our alleged leader has done a Benedict Arnold, your wife is in the hands of a crazed mechanical murderer and already you sound like you’re talking about last week�
�s fender bender! What’s with you?”
“An emotional display will not contribute to solving the problem,” the Vision replied. “The fact that Wanda was abducted and not slain on the spot suggests that she may yet be alive. If I am concerned for her, the rational course is to devote all energies toward finding her and saving her if possible.”
“Screw it, tomato-face,” Hawkeye snarled contemptuously. “A minute ago it seemed like you cared . . . but you really don’t feel anything, do you?”
“I was created to operate in a logical manner, Hawkeye, but I am not free of emotion. Emotion is rooted in logic. It is functional as a catalyst in human relations. It precipitates rapid, decisive action in the face of crises. Uncontrolled, it is a hindrance, one I can ill afford now.
“But once I find Ultron,” the Vision said softly, calmly, “if he has harmed my woman . . . there will be no limit to my rage.”
“Nor mine.”
The voice from the figure filling the doorway was deep, noble, and quietly powerful. The Avengers turned.
“Where the hell have you been?” Hawkeye asked acerbically.
“The God of Thunder hath duty to attend beyond this mortal sphere, Archer,” said Thor, patiently.
“I hear the god of potato salad’s been real busy too, since picnic season started.”
Ignoring the bowman’s sarcasm, Thor strode majestically into the room, and at once dominated it. He stood six feet six but seemed taller. Powerfully built, he was physical perfection itself, on a far grander scale than Captain America. If the star-spangled Avenger was first among men, Thor was first among gods. Long golden hair flowed out from under his winged helmet, falling with artless grace around a handsome subtly sculpted face that evinced strength, nobility, pride, supreme confidence, gentleness, and compassion. His countenance would be dark and terrible in rage, the epitomé of joy in laughter. His eyes, brilliant blue, far outshone even Hawkeye’s. He wore a deep-blue tunic that left his mighty arms bare, except for crimson wristbands. Cross-strapped leather boots rose almost to his knees, and snug deep-blue breeches covered his muscular legs. A full, flowing, crimson cape billowed behind him.
