The thing teetered, ready to fall.
Team Two did its part and signaled the Auger. Their prisoner disappeared in a flash, leaving the clamps empty.
“Did we get him?” she said into her comm.
“We have him,” the Scientist Supreme responded. “Translocation to the island was successful. Tunneling into trans-universal, also successful. There’s little damage it’ll be able to inflict there.”
Superia nodded to herself. Excellent. A.I.M. had found a space between dead universes, a nothingness they used as the ultimate storage facility. It also served as the perfect prison for a creature that could level all of the Avengers with ease.
“However, there’s still work to be done,” the scientist reminded her, and she bristled a bit at the condescension. “Are the harvesters ready?”
She looked at her team. “They’re collecting what they need now,” she responded. A.I.M. wasn’t just made up of testosterone-charged foot soldiers. They weren’t Hydra. It was a gathering of inquisitive minds who wanted to understand science in ways no one else could—and to profit from that information. “When they’re finished, we’ll need a redirection on the lure, to translocate us back to—”
“A machine? That’s what you use to teleport?”
She spun to face the newcomer.
“How adorable,” Manifold said.
“It’s Eden Fesi, ma’am,” one of the techs said. “He’s their teleporter. He’s—” The man’s words were cut off as Manifold’s spear pierced his shoulder.
“I don’t know what you’re doing to my friends,” Fesi said as he sprinted toward them. “I don’t even know what happened here, but it ends now.” One by one the A.I.M. personnel vanished in flashes of light. “It’s time for you guys to leave.”
More flashes.
“And I don’t care where you go.”
Only Superia remained.
“No!” she said. “Get your hands off—”
Her feet crunched on snow in a dark wasteland.
“—me,” she finished. “Damn.”
* * *
CAPTAIN AMERICA looked up and blinked at the glare above him. The last thing he remembered was being knocked senseless by a new attacker, another threat to the Earth. Now—as he rose to his knees and then his feet, grabbing his shield as he stood—he saw only Manifold.
The man looked to him and nodded. “I have bad news.”
“How bad?” Cap looked around and studied the other Avengers. They were breathing. There was that much at least. No fatalities was the best news he could have imagined at that moment.
“Very bad. According to Captain Universe, we have much bigger problems than we originally thought.”
That was exactly the sort of news he didn’t want to hear, but some things were simply inevitable.
Captain America listened, and then sighed.
Much bigger, indeed.
ACT TWO
GAUNTLETS
CHAPTER EIGHT
MACHINATIONS
THEY WERE eternal. By definition, they had always been. That was the belief the Builders held. Since the universe was new, having been created by the Mother, they had been there. Her servants once upon a time, now they were masters of their own destinies—and of the fate of the Multiverse.
Not just one universe. All of them. That was the purpose of the Builders: to make certain the Multiverse remained pristine and healthy, regardless of the cost. The Builders did not age. None of them had ever died. They had been created to guide the Multiverse, and they had been created well.
The Builders were many, and were said to be the oldest race in the universe. There were factions within their ranks. Though they considered themselves one people, the Builders fell into two unique groups: the Creators and the Engineers.
The Creators seeded the cosmos. Though creatures existed in many places without their machinations, they often stopped and made alterations to what they found, the better to promote life in the way they felt it best suited the needs of the universe.
The Engineers worked out the designs for the changes. They also created the vessels used to move through the vast void of space and across the Multiverse. Their creations included the robotic Curators, which recorded the changes that were made and the worlds that were touched, making recommendations as necessity demanded to preserve what had been accomplished.
Similarly, the creatures known as the Caretakers nurtured the worlds modified by the Builders, making certain natural events did not undo the important work that had been done.
Where necessary, the mechanical Alephs cleansed the worlds of random life-forms that did not satisfy the Builders, after which the Gardeners replaced what had been removed with new life— organics the Builders would deem satisfactory. The race known as the Abyss judged the success of their work.
Each species had a purpose, and together they worked to make the universe better.
* * *
A SIGNAL came to them from a distant spot in the cosmos. It was clear, and they took in the information offered and considered it carefully. Then they made their determination.
Something had gone wrong.
Repairs would be needed before the changes taking place caused irreparable harm to the universe and the Multiverse alike. They would make the repairs as they always did, and always had.
It was their reason for existing.
No matter the cost to the living.
They were eternal.
Nothing would stop them on their sacred task.
Nothing.
* * *
T’CHALLA LOOKED at the newcomer, and controlled his anger. Even though it was justified. Despite his passionate desire to strike the man dead, he did not move. As sure as he was of his country and his abilities, he was also certain this opponent could snap his neck as easily as he would bend a blade of grass.
The Black Panther was no longer the king of Wakanda. His sister ruled over his homeland—yet in his heart they were his people, and it was his job to protect them.
They stood in the Necropolis, the City of the Dead. It was a place T’Challa often wandered when he needed to think. Shuri was his sister and the reigning queen, but either she or her advisors had made poor choices. Atlantean leaders had been captured in Wakanda, and they were to be tried for war crimes.
Atlantis tried to return the favor by taking the Wakandan ambassador to the United Nations. Instead of a capture, the ambassador and his people were dead. From there, events had spiraled out of control.
Namor stood several inches taller than T’Challa. He was dressed in a dark-blue, scaled vest and blue pants, with golden bracers on his arms. His face was all sharp angles and brooding eyes. There had been a time when T’Challa had called Namor an ally, if not a friend.
That time was past.
“That’s far enough, Namor,” T’Challa said. The Sub-Mariner came up behind him, the sound of his footsteps revealing the regal grace to which he had been born. “You tread in a land where you are most assuredly not welcome. What do you want?”
Namor paused. “To offer you something,” he replied. “To do you a favor.”
T’Challa did not bother to look.
“Are you offering to fall on your sword?” he asked darkly. “If so, you forgot to bring it. Posturing is a bad idea for a dead man.”
“So is playing king when one clearly is not.” Namor shook his head. “Listen to me, T’Challa. Wakanda cannot possibly win a war with Atlantis.”
“I think you overestimate the strength of Atlantis.” He stared at the man now, his eyes locked and showing clearly his repressed fury. “And any perceived weaknesses of Wakanda.”
“Ah, the fabled technological superiority of the great nation that has never fallen.” Namor shook his head. “And men call me arrogant. T’Challa, your problem is not resources, tactics, or even your army. Your problem is the people.”
“How do you suppose?”
“Many do not care for the pretender who keeps Wakanda’s t
hrone warm,” Namor continued. “The queen—your sister—has enemies. These enemies whisper, and would like to see her fall.”
“She is the rightful ruler of Wakanda.”
Namor took a deep breath. “How do you think we so easily defeated your elite forces? How do you think we knew they were coming? Enemies from within weaken Wakanda, and will continue to do so as long as your sister sits on your throne.”
The man who wore the mantle of Black Panther looked at the man who had made war on the surface world more times than he could count.
“Would you like to hear my favor now?” Namor said.
“If you would have me deliver a message to my sister, the queen, I can do so. Beyond that, I make no promises.”
“Very well.” Namor nodded. “Tell your queen I want peace. I will offer favorable terms. All I want in exchange is a cessation of violence between our people.” He paused, then added, “I will not make the offer a second time.”
“She will refuse you.”
“Then she is a fool,” the Sub-Mariner said without any trace of irony, “and she needs someone to help her make the correct decision.”
“I would refuse you.”
“Liar. Regardless of how you feel about me, you know we have better things to be doing than spilling blood, my friend.”
T’Challa shook his head. “We are not friends. That time is gone. You have warred against my people, and I will not forgive that.”
“Your people, T’Challa. Not hers.”
T’Challa found himself nodding, and hated the fact. “Make your offer through the normal channels,” he said. “If I choose to back it in the council, it’s best if the offer doesn’t originate with me.”
Namor nodded. “Very well.”
He began to walk away.
Then he paused. “Oh…” he said. “You’re welcome.”
T’Challa said nothing.
He was no longer the king.
There was nothing he could say.
* * *
SOME THINGS were simply too large to ignore. For example, the city of Attilan—home to the Inhumans, a race of beings created by the aliens known as the Kree. At the time of their creation, Earth was a small, insignificant backwater of a planet.
Attilan had moved several times in recent years. In the early days it was hidden in the Himalayas, secluded and seldom encountered. For a time it had rested in the Blue Area of the moon, home to an enigmatic alien who observed the Earth and its inhabitants. When the Inhumans settled there he—the Watcher—had paid them remarkably little notice, so immersed was he in his mission.
Attilan was hidden no longer. The city hovered in the skies over Manhattan, leaving part of New York in perpetual shadow. There were many who wanted the island moved, but few who could convince the Inhumans it was a good idea. The population of New York itself guaranteed no one would consider attacking Attilan, even if they could penetrate its impressive defenses.
The Inhumans traced their origins back millions of years, when the Kree visited Earth and experimented on man’s primitive ancestors. The Kree hoped the research would help them overcome a genetic crisis faced by their race, and they intended to use the genetically modified Earthers as powerful living weapons.
Though the test subjects advanced far beyond the primitives of Earth, the Kree abandoned the experiment. The Inhumans went into hiding and developed a technologically advanced civilization. Among their discoveries were the mutagenic Terrigen Crystals, which in turn yielded the Terrigen Mist.
When subjected to the mist, carefully selected Inhumans developed a wide variety of physical attributes and superhuman abilities.
Black Bolt, the king of the Inhumans, was the son of prominent geneticists and had been exposed to Terrigen while still in the womb. The result was the most powerful Inhuman, an energy manipulator whose slightest whisper unleashed immeasurable destructive sonic energies.
* * *
“IT’S FOR the best,” Maximus said to his brother, Black Bolt. “You know this and I know this, but if we are wise, we’ll keep that bit of knowledge to ourselves.”
Maximus was the Inhumans’ greatest intellect. He was also quite mad. At the behest of his brother, Maximus had bolstered Attilan’s defenses, making them virtually impenetrable. As a result, the devastation that had fallen upon the Earth as the signals from Mars came and went did not have any impact on Attilan.
“I’m spinning the circle, brother,” the madman continued. “Cogs in an Inhuman machine. A Terrigen haze, clouding my vision… Maximus the maker is building something wicked.”
Wicked, indeed. Black Bolt just sat, watching silently. A part of him thought the weapon too extreme. Certainly the device would, for lack of a better way to express it, help even the odds if the humans decided the Inhumans were too much of a threat. Best of all, the weapon would cause remarkably little harm to the planet.
Humans had their thermonuclear devices, viral weapons, and deadly gases.
Black Bolt had Maximus.
He wasn’t truly sure which weapon was the least humane. Even as he thought it, his brother turned to glare at him.
“Don’t blame me,” Maximus protested. “This wasn’t my idea. It was yours.” He grinned. “And I’m not going to stop unless you tell me to. Go on…”
Silence.
“No? Nothing?
“Very well.”
Maximus returned to his work.
“Let’s burn it all down.”
* * *
TITAN. SATURN’S moon was his home. It was where he was born. It was where he was raised and where he grew to become who he was.
It was not the same as it had once been. It had been shattered, beaten, and broken, then re-formed to suit his needs. In a sense, Titan meant nothing to him. He had no particular affection for the people and no need for them in his world. His mission was more important than any one sphere.
His mission was to transform the universe to suit his needs.
At different times, he had possessed—however briefly—the power to shape the universe as a whole. He had held the Infinity Gems—shards of reality left over when the universe was formed that could, if held by the right person, remake the universe. Gathered together, they offered the power of a god.
Thanos had held the power of a god. Not of a minor deity, like one of the Asgardians, but the ability to create and recreate and destroy and alter the universe on a whim.
Such power was heady stuff.
Thanos had followers—a galactic church worth of followers, led by the Cull Obsidian, the Black Order that followed his every instruction and obeyed him without hesitation. His followers looked upon his throne and were humbled, as well they might be.
“My Lord Thanos!”
Corvus Glaive stood before him—a tall, regal creature with a heavy brow and enough powerful fangs to give children nightmares for generations. He dressed in black and gold. His skin was the color of ash, and his eyes were darker than midnight. Corvus was a loyal follower, devoted to Thanos and eager to please.
“I offer you the Ahl-Quito, called the ‘World Cleaver.’” He held a wooden box before him; it contained broken fragments of a sword, drenched in red. “It is all that remains of the champion of the planet Ahl-Agullo. They have surrendered to you, rather than risk destruction.”
“Of course they have.” Thanos placed his hands together and nodded. “They aren’t fools. Merely… optimistic.” He shrugged. “Show me.”
Glaive gestured, and four of his servants ran forward with an even larger chest. In this one were the heads of fifty of the creatures that had once ruled over Ahl-Agullo.
“Your tribute, Lord Thanos.” Glaive lowered his head in a formal bow.
Half a hundred heads. Before, when first Thanos took Titan, it had been hundreds of thousands laid to waste. Millions. These days the population of the planet was only a few thousand. Still Thanos smiled. He could end them, but preferred that they live and worship him properly.
“Excellent
work, Corvus. You do me proud.” The man swelled with pride, and lowered his head again.
“This one has done you great services, Lord Thanos, and seeks to assist you again.” He gestured to an Outrider. The creature was a genetic stew, with four arms, an eyeless, horse-like head and wicked teeth, its other senses serving in place of sight. The Outriders were loyal to a fault, and just intelligent enough to serve without hesitation—powerful fighters capable of great stealth and savagery.
This creature bowed low, facing the ground rather than risk being burned by the glory of its god.
“You would serve me again?”
“Yes, my Lord Thanos.” It shivered in a near ecstasy of devotion. “Oh, yes.”
Thanos leaned closer and placed a massive hand on the shoulder of the thing. Both of the arms beneath that shoulder relaxed at his touch. Its mouth, filled with nearly as many fangs as Corvus Glaive’s broad maw, panted lovingly.
“There is an Infinity Stone on the planet Earth,” Thanos said. “I know this to be true. I need it found.”
“I will not fail you, my Lord.” It dared much, and all four of the Outrider’s oddly shaped hands touched his thick wrist—just for a moment—before letting him go.
“Make me proud, Outrider, and you may yet earn a name granted by me.” That was very close to the offer of heaven in the view of the Outriders. To be named by Thanos was an honor few of their kind could ever hope to achieve.
“I will not fail you!” the creature said. “I live only to serve you, Lord Thanos.” With that it rose and backed away, bowing several times as it did so. Thanos smiled and rose from his throne. He walked closer to the creature and leaned over it, his mouth nearly touching the side of its head.
He whispered another command, while the thing shivered at the close proximity of its god.
A moment later the Outrider was gone.
Thanos looked around at his followers.
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