by Stuart Moore
“…haven’t seen you in the barracks lately,” he said.
“That place is dangerous.” She took another gulp of vodka. “My little brother, my grandparents… I had to get them out of there.”
“Where? Where do you go at night, anyway?”
“I found alternate housing. In… what do they call it…” She lifted an arm and waved vaguely in the direction of the Hudson River. “Jer-Zee?”
That led to a new round of questions. She tuned them out, half-closing her eyes and forcing herself to take short regular breaths: in, out, in out. Her awareness expanded outward. She could hear the bartender’s breathing, the low murmur of the TV. Felt the subway tremble. Heard the honk and screech of traffic a block away on West Street. She tasted the filthy tide of the Hudson, rushing to the sea.
She shivered and took another drink. Still nothing; just a dull ache where the relief should be. She glanced at the door, wondering if Budda-lo would actually try to follow her onto the PATH train, all the way to Jer-Zee.
The door creaked open and a handsome young Earthman stepped into the bar. No, not stepped… strutted was a better word. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt, one of those garments the Terrans called a hoodie, with the hood down loose around his shoulders. As he walked past the table, his gaze met Kir-ra’s for a moment, and a strange light flashed in his dark eyes.
Budda-lo cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, “as bad as all this is… at least we got to experience the awe, the majesty of space travel.”
She almost laughed. Really? she thought.
The Earthman crossed to the bar. The bartender nodded, and the man greeted him with a short “Hey, Feliks.” They fell into a low-voiced conversation. Kir-ra couldn’t make out the words.
Budda-lo continued, undeterred. “The roar of rockets, the view of our world from the endless void. Don’t you think it was all kind of…” He paused for effect. “I don’t know. Beautiful?”
“I think it was kind of like watching everyone and everything you know get blown to atoms,” she said.
The Earthman turned at that. An approving smile teased at the corners of his lips. There was something coiled about him, something almost… Kree. As if he’d been born to violence and expected, even welcomed it.
She felt a surge of attraction for this man, a sudden burst of longing. All at once she realized: I’m very lonely. I was lonely long before I came to this cold rock in space.
Budda-lo glared at the Earthman, who met his gaze without flinching. When he turned back to Kir-ra, his whole manner had changed.
“You think you’re so special,” Budda-lo said, raising his voice. “Don’t you?”
Kir-ra tensed. At the bar, the Earthman slid easily off his stool. The bartender’s eyes flitted from one of them to the other.
“All that training,” Budda-lo sneered. “You were gonna be a soldier. Gonna get offworld, leave us poor grunts behind working on the assembly line. Maybe think about us once in a while, shake your head at the poor wage slaves you grew up with. Right?”
She said nothing. His words didn’t sting, didn’t hurt at all. The only thing on her mind was getting rid of him, as quickly and painlessly as possible.
“Well, guess what?” He leaned toward her, practically spitting the words. “You’re not gonna be a soldier. You’re not gonna leave us behind. You’re just another sorry little Kree, and you’re gonna work till you drop for Tony Stark, just like the rest of us.”
The Earthman took a step closer.
“I tried,” Budda-lo continued. The alcohol seemed to have hit him all at once; his voice quavered. “I have tried to be nice to you. Why can’t you just…”
He touched her shoulder – and her training kicked in. Before Budda-lo could say another word, he was flying over the table. The bartender stepped back and the Earthman snatched his drink out of the way, just in time. Budda-lo slammed into the bar with a sharp crack and a howl of pain.
Kir-ra stared at him, breathing hard. “How’s your back now?” she asked.
Budda-lo wiped blood off his lip. He scrambled off the bar, avoiding the amused looks of the bartender and the Earthman. He clattered up against a chair, then circled around the high table where Kir-ra sat. She hadn’t even gotten off her stool.
When he reached the door, he turned to glare back at her. “You’re nothing special,” he spat. “You’re gonna die here, just like us. Die like the loser you are.”
He tried to slam the door on his way out. But it just swung shut without a sound, sealing off the bar again from the outside world.
The Earthman stood up and started toward her. “This place used to attract a better class of people,” he said.
She was shaking, she realized. Budda-lo’s taunts had meant nothing – until he’d talked about dying here. She had already given up on becoming a soldier; the Kree-Skrull War was long over. But the thought of being stuck on this miserable world for the rest of her life… exploited by the wealthiest of its cruel, venal oligarchs…
“Here.” The Earthman handed her a glass filled with a dark brown liquid. “I got Feliks to pull out the good stuff. He saves it for his best customers.”
The bartender didn’t answer. He sat engrossed in another cheap show, a children’s horror series called Dark Mummy.
Kir-ra accepted the drink with a polite grimace. She wanted nothing to do with Earth, with its manipulative denizens and their sick games. But there was something about this man, something that drew her in.
And the drink was good. It went down smooth, filling her throat with a deep warm fire. The world spun around for a moment; she gasped, drawing the stale air of the bar into her lungs.
When she looked up, the Earthman was seated across from her. Had she invited him to join her? She couldn’t remember.
“Nice move,” he said, raising his hand to trace the path Budda-lo had taken through the air. “You’re pretty lean for a barroom brawler.”
She gave him a wary look. Was he making fun of her? He smiled and gestured at her drink. She considered for a moment, then took another gulp.
“What was that technique?” he asked. “Aikido?”
“It’s called Sen-Zha,” she said.
“Sen-Zha. Not a fighting tradition I’ve heard of. It involves turning your opponent’s strength against them, doesn’t it?”
She shrugged.
“You don’t look like a fighter.” He paused, then hurriedly added, “I mean, you look like you’re meant for, well. Higher things.”
She closed her eyes. Once again, she felt the evil, the oppressive force that had followed her to this planet. “There are no higher things,” she said.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered.
She was conscious of the silence, the stale air. The only sound came from the TV behind the bar, a low-volume chatter of distant voices.
“That wasn’t some random encounter,” the Earthman said. “You know that guy.”
She nodded. “We work together.”
“Office romance! An old story.” He straightened up, smirking a little. “I prefer self-employment. Fewer complications.”
“Must be nice to have a choice.”
“Let’s see.” He straightened up, studying her. “You’re adept at a fighting technique whose name does not derive from any known language. Also – and I admit this is the bigger clue – we don’t see a lot of blue girls on the West Side. You’re not from around here, are you?”
She took another drink. This man was puzzling, alluring, and infuriatingly full of himself. And this, she knew, was the crucial moment. She could either trust him, or put down the drink and walk out.
“Have you heard of the Kree-Skrull War?” she asked.
“They did a special about it, on one of the streaming channels.” He frowned. “Big space battle, right?”
“That’s one way to
put it. The Kree-Skrull War raged on for years… two mighty stellar empires, neither willing to yield to the other. In the end, it claimed the lives of over five billion people. Including both of my parents.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m an orphan too.”
“Don’t be sorry. They were warriors, proud soldiers in the service of Kree supremacy. They died in battle, serving the purpose for which they were trained.”
“And you?” he asked.
“Same deal.” She let out a sigh. The alcohol was definitely hitting her now. “Or at least, that was the plan. Praeterus, my homeworld… there aren’t a lot of opportunities for advancement. Weren’t. Being a soldier was pretty much the only way to get offworld.”
“So you, what? Trained?”
“Oh yes.” She looked away, remembering. “I wanted to pursue officer training, like my mother and my brother. But like you said, I’m not built like a fighter. My teachers said I might want to consider dance.” She let out a cold laugh. “To the Kree, that’s an insult.”
“Not patrons of the arts, your people?”
“You’d be surprised. There’s more appreciation than you’d think.”
“I meant no offense. Did you want to be a dancer?”
“What? I don’t know. On Praeterus, you just don’t make your living that way. I come from a long line of… I mean, there have always been soldiers in our family. It was expected.” Again, she sighed. “For my little brother, too.”
He nodded, gesturing for her to continue.
“Anyway. After my parents were gone, I had to take care of the family, so I just kept working in the plant. Ten hours a day, sometimes twelve or sixteen. Munitions – the only real business on Praeterus. Then, at night, I studied combat. The teacher suggested Sen-Zha. It’s a technique used by third-level Kree battalions, designed to allow less physically strong soldiers to fight effectively. It teaches you to tune your senses, to send your awareness out into the world. You take in every bit of information about your opponent and their surroundings, so you can pinpoint their weaknesses and defeat them.”
“I’d say the training paid off.”
“It might have, except for two things. One, the war ended.”
“The soldier’s dilemma,” he said. “What to do in peacetime?”
“Well, I knew the answer to that one,” she snapped. “Keep working in the munitions plant. But that wasn’t an option after the planet exploded.”
His eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“The planet… exploded? What happened? Was it the Skulls?”
“Skrulls – no, I don’t think so. Nobody knows, really. One day, life was just the usual mind-numbing drudgery, and then the next…KA-BOOMMM.”
“I’m so sorry. But you escaped?”
“A few hundred of us. Out of eighty thousand.” She shook her head. “So many lives lost… and then we got this offer. Come to Earth… a pilot work program, they said. You’ll be welcome, trained and treated well.”
“But it hasn’t worked out that way.”
“Ha! Same lies, different planet. Work the assembly line for long hours, terrible pay. Dirty, cramped barracks with half a dozen people crammed into one room. The work quotas are inhuman… even worse than back home. We all had to sign employment contracts making it impossible to quit. And even if we did, who else would hire…”
“…aliens,” he finished.
She smiled wryly and took another sip. Slow down, she told herself. You’re talking too much.
“It’s almost funny,” she said. “Back on Praeterus, I worked full shifts at the munitions plant and studied combat techniques every spare minute. And there was my brother to take care of – he was supposed to go to Officer Academy! And my grandparents, and…I don’t think I ever got more than three hours’ sleep in a night. I used to pray to leave that place, get on a ship and speed away and never, ever come back.”
“Well, you did get away.” He paused. “How does it feel?”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“It’s the same,” she said.
“Look,” he said, smiling a warm smile. “Earth is rough. I’ve had to fight for everything I ever got, and believe me that ain’t much. But it’s easier if you got friends.”
“I have friends,” she said, feeling suddenly defensive. “A group of us banded together, even hired a lawyer. But I don’t think that’s going to…”
She trailed off, feeling a cold lump of panic form in her stomach. “I shouldn’t be talking to you,” she whispered, rising to her feet. “Who are you? Do you work for him? For Stark?”
The Earthman’s eyes grew cold. He stood up, glaring as if she’d just delivered a mortal insult.
“I do not work for Anthony Stark,” he rasped.
“OK.” She blinked, feeling foolish. “Sorry. I’m… I’m so tired. This is my first day off in weeks.”
He smiled again. “Of course.”
“It’s just… I can’t afford trouble. I just want to be left alone, to take care of…” She shook her head. “I should get home.”
“To your brother,” he said.
“And my grandparents. In the evacuation, we… I thought we’d lost them…”
Again, she told herself: stop talking! She hurried toward the door, grabbed hold of the handle–
“Hey, dancer?”
She stopped, turned. The Earthman stood by the table, smiling at her.
“Stop by again,” he said. “Feliks and I’ll be waiting.”
The bartender didn’t look up. He’d clicked over to another show, a telenovela called Dear Marsha.
She nodded, flashed the man a sad smile, and turned away. Then she pulled open the door and stepped out into the night.
•••
The man watched her go, standing rigid until she was gone. Then, slowly, he reached up to pull the hood up over his head. The smile on his face turned cold, little fires glowing in his eyes.
“She’s here, Master,” he said.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond. He fiddled with the TV, searching for a new program.
“Yes,” the hooded man continued. “Oh, yes indeed. I think I’m going to enjoy this.”
Chapter 12
Tony Stark, chairman and CEO of Stark Enterprises and part-time Invincible Iron Man, had a headache. In fact, he had a lot of headaches. F.R.I.D.A.Y., his digital assistant, was reading off a pretty good list of them through the implant in his ear.
“…earnings down in the west coast office. Stock took a slight dip yesterday; not enough to panic over, but a bad leading indicator. In spandex-related news, S.H.I.E.L.D. sent over some intel regarding A.I.M. activity on a private Pacific island… I have updated the Avengers casefile accordingly.”
Tony sighed and tried to smile, focusing on his second headache: Jen, the lawyer sitting across from him. She was reading off a list of… something. Labor problems, maybe?
“…unsanitary conditions,” Jen said. “Workers forced to sleep in barracks not designed as permanent living quarters. Doors locked from outside after dark, effectively holding them prisoner at severe safety risk.”
F.R.I.D.A.Y.: “…in possible acquisitions news, chip manufacturer Zendor has come on the market. They’ve made some breakthroughs in RFID that might complement our own.”
Jen: “…lack of transportation. The workers who do not live on-site must either park a great distance away, or take multiple buses in order to access the facility…”
Tony tuned them both out and swiveled his desk chair, turning to gaze out the window. His third-floor office looked down on the old Stark shipyard, a disused pier jutting out into Long Island Sound. On that pier, his father had supervised the outfitting of battleships, military copters, even nuclear subs. It had been abandoned years ago in favor of the ne
w factories and experimental labs located elsewhere in the complex.
He squinted, taking in the discolored wood of the pier, the dark supports vanishing down into the water. Most of the structures had been razed long ago, but a small shack still stood right in the middle of the pier, its roof tiled with multiple patches applied over the years. As a boy, Tony had hidden in that shack every chance he got – watching the ships come in, the workers load and unload weapons of war. He even had a nickname for it: Shackie.
No one had used Shackie for decades. But he’d never allowed it to be torn down.
A wave of emotion washed over him, a strong sensation that took him a minute to pin down. Nostalgia, yes, but mixed with a strange, helpless exhaustion. This was the original Stark Enterprises facility, the place where his father had amassed the family fortune. Tony rarely came here anymore, preferring to conduct his business from the Manhattan and Malibu offices.
But with Pepper Potts gone, his duties had multiplied. Along with those headaches.
“…lease is up on the west coast nuclear facility.” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice was designed to be soothing, but it wasn’t having that effect today. “I’m preparing a list of possible alternatives, though the contamination risks involved in a move should definitely be considered…”
“…implicit threat of starvation,” the lawyer said. “Long-term ‘trial’ pay rates far below the legal minimum, forcing the workers to incur dangerous levels of overtime…”
“…code violations in Manhattan,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. continued. “It’s the building’s fault, not ours, but we’ll probably have to free up some funds to help them modernize. Oh, and this just in from S.H.I.E.L.D.: a prison escape. It’s the Melter–”
“The Melter?” Tony snapped. “How could a clown like the Melter escape from a secure government–”
The desk in front of him split in half with a loud CRACK, knocking his chair off its casters. He tumbled to the ground and rolled to a crouch, instinctively calling the first piece of his armor to him. Nanomachines responded to the call, flitting through the air to form a gauntlet on his outstretched hand. He looked up–
