by Greg Cox
Somehow, the Beast thought, I don’t expect I’m getting invited to the Policeman’s Ball this year…
* * *
LATER, in the luxurious back seat of Charles Xavier’s customized Rolls Royce, the Beast shared the fruits of his arduous adventure with his teammates. Storm sat beside him, looking refreshed by her recent flight, while Cyclops manned the wheel, driving the limousine north and out of the city, back toward the Institute. Discarded after the Beast removed his plunder from its pockets, the wadded-up trenchcoat rested on the empty passenger seat next to Cyclops, even though the air-conditioned interior of the Rolls was significantly cooler than the night outside.
God made man in his image, the devil made mutants, declared the uppermost of the stolen tee-shirts. The Beast could not help scowling at the inflammatory slogan as he removed the shirt from its plastic sheath and unfolded it on the seat between Storm and himself. The tips of his fangs protruded from beneath his lower lip. It was clear from Ororo’s disapproving expression that she was also disturbed by the garment’s hate-filled message.
“No matter how many times I encounter such unreasoning hostility,” she commented, “it never fails to surprise and sadden me. You would think that such vile sentiments could not endure so long in defiance of all sense and decency.”
“To quote the late, great Johann von Schiller, ‘against stupidity the very gods themselves contend in vain.’” The Beast sympathized with Storm’s disillusionment. Sometimes it seemed like certain regrettable tendencies were never going to change. “I fear the same may be said of prejudice and fear.”
In any event, he reminded himself, there was little that could be done tonight concerning the thorny and dismayingly intractable problem of human/mutant relations. The most they could hope for was some clue to point the way to wherever Rogue now resided, almost certainly against her will. He declined to even consider the other, unspoken possibility: that Cerebro could not find their absent friend because she was no longer alive.
I won’t believe that until I see a body, and maybe not even then. If there was one thing the Beast knew, amidst all his vast erudition, it was that X-Men were harder to kill than cockroaches.
He scanned the shirt with a handheld sensor based on advanced Shi’ar designs. The device, which he had taken care to bring along from the mansion, was several hundred times more sensitive than any equivalent Terran technology, and almost certainly many orders of magnitude more acute than any apparatus available to the N.Y.P.D. If there was anything unusual to be found, the sensor would surely alert them to its presence.
Granted, these garments were merely those left behind at the devastated fair booth, not the ones that Rogue carried away with her in her short-lived flight toward freedom. Still, these shirts presumably came from the same batch that had yielded Rogue’s textile tormentors. The Beast resolved to stay wary, lest the pilfered tee-shirts suddenly turn on the limousine’s passengers, but so far the cheap cotton apparel had displayed no evidence of vitality whatsoever.
Thank Providence for small favors, he thought. After successfully evading the eager clutches of the police, he had no desire to tangle with a bevy of belligerent attire.
Scanning for everything from mystical energy to signs of life, he carefully inspected the read-outs on the illuminated display panel. I am going to feel extremely foolish, he reflected, if my in-depth investigation reveals nothing more ominous than a MADE IN KOREA label. Imagine stealing the shirts from the police for no reason at all!
But that proved not to be the case.
“Well, I’ll be a primate’s progenitor,” he declared, staring at the results of the scan with keen scientific curiosity. His blue eyes flared with intellectual excitement. “In more ways than one.”
“What is it?” Cyclops asked from the driver’s seat. Eagerness and anxiety warred within his voice. “Did you find something?” Ororo listened expectantly as well.
“Indeed I have,” the Beast announced, switching off the scanner and placing it gently upon the garments in question. “According to our equipment, all of these undeniably insulting items of clothing have been recently exposed to gamma radiation. Not exactly a standard feature of ordinary sweatshop output, I’m certain.”
“Gamma radiation?” Cyclops repeated in surprise, although the Beast was pleased to see that their erstwhile leader kept his super-energized eyes on the road.
“With a capital G,” he confirmed. “There’s no mistaking these readings.” He wondered if and when the police would have ever detected the contamination. I didn’t see any Geiger counters around the precinct house.
“Well done, my friend,” Storm said warmly. She eyed the pilfered garments with a new wariness. “But I don’t understand. How can radiation bring mere clothing to life?”
“You’ve got me there,” he admitted, considering the problem from every angle. Outside the tinted windows, the lights of the city gave way to a tree-lined highway as the car carried them toward their home in Salem Center. The Beast scratched his hairy chin. Gamma radiation…
The X-Men were often called the “Children of the Atom,” based on a trendy theory relating the rapid increase in human mutations to the spread of nuclear power. There was some truth to this theory, the Beast conceded; indeed, his own parents had been employed in the fledgling atomic industry, which probably contributed to his exceptional characteristics. Subsequent work, conducted by such respected authorities as Charles Xavier and Dr. Moira MacTaggert, had also explored the potential impact of various forms of radiation on human DNA, especially during conception and fetal development. As a scientist as well as a super hero, Henry McCoy had reviewed all the pertinent literature on the subject and even written a few incisive monographs himself, probing the causes and possibilities of human mutation. Consequently, the Beast felt he knew quite a lot about the intertwined mysteries of radiation and mutation.
That being said, he also knew there was only one man on Earth who was the undisputed authority on the effects of gamma radiation in particular: Dr. Robert Bruce Banner.
The man who was also known as the unstoppable mountain of muscle that a terrified world had named … the Hulk.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CRUISING majestically 25,000 feet above sea level, the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier was the largest moving object capable of soaring over the Earth. A huge mobile command base for the world’s premiere intelligence organization, the Helicarrier looked big enough to house a couple of Boeing 747s and still have room left over for a decent-sized shopping mall. Smaller aircraft buzzed and hovered around the immense vessel like jet fighters around a Navy aircraft carrier, landing and departing constantly while the Helicarrier remained aloft twenty-four hours a day, keeping watch over the world it was built to protect. Many noted meteorologists maintained that the Helicarrier was so colossal, and its energy output so vast, that it had a direct effect on the weather conditions in whatever airspace it was currently occupying. This was probably true; certainly, it was casting a massive shadow on portions of eastern Montana at this very moment.
Aboard the Helicarrier, in the office of the Executive Director, Nicholas Fury was not having a good day.
“Blast it, Val!” he swore, pounding his fist on his desk. “How hard is it to find a UFO? It’s been hours since we first tracked that thing.” He gulped down a steaming cup of black coffee—his fifth that day—then took a long drag on the stump of a cigar clenched between his teeth. Technically, smoking was forbidden anywhere on the Helicarrier, but the only person who had ever had the nerve to point that out to Nick Fury quickly lived to regret it. Last anyone had heard, he was still serving extended duty in Antarctica.
If I can survive World War II and a coupla hundred Hydra assassins, Fury thought, as the smoke warmed his lungs, a little caffeine and tobacco ain’t about to kill me.
“The Air Force, NASA, and our own units are searching for the mystery ship at this very moment,” a tall, dark-haired woman reminded him, her voice holding a distinct Europea
n accent. Like Fury, the Countess Valentina Allegro de Fontaine wore the standard blue jumpsuit worn by any S.H.I.E.L.D. field agent, complete with shoulder holster, handgun, plasma beam projector, and other lethal accessories. Even though they were currently occupying the nerve center of the world’s most formidable flying fortress, years of experience had taught both Fury and his second-in-command to be ready for anything, anytime, and anywhere. “Even the cosmonauts on Mir are keeping an eye out for this elusive UFO.”
“Right!” Fury barked. The empty socket behind his trademark black eyepatch itched something terrible, like it always did when trouble was brewing, but he refused to scratch out of sheer cussedness. “Like I’d trust the Russkies to share classified intel out of the goodness of their hearts.”
“The Cold War is over, Nick,” Val said, sounding faintly amused by her boss’s intransigent attitude. Only a white streak rising up through the lofty pile of jet-black hair above her unwrinkled brow indicated that the Countess had been in the spy game almost as long as Fury.
“Yeah, that’s what they want us to think,” Fury replied, exhaling an acrid cloud of smoke into the pressurized atmosphere of the immense airship. A half-day’s growth of stubble carpeted his jaw. “You and I both know better.”
Deep down, though, he knew Val had a point. This didn’t feel like a Russian operation, Red or otherwise, which was one reason he had brought Cap and the Avengers into the loop. Ordinarily, Fury preferred to handle matters of international security without relying on the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, or any other super-powered civilians, thank you very much, but if these UFO sightings were the first glimmerings of another extraterrestrial offensive, then the Avengers might be the only people equipped to handle the threat. Good as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hardware was— the best on Earth, probably—he knew damn well that it didn’t stack up against the futuristic super-science of Galactus or the Celestials.
Blasted aliens, he fumed. It’s not like there weren’t enough cockamamie menaces on Earth already. Faxes blanketed the top of his stainless steel desk, containing updates and status reports from field agents and regional directors all over the world, bringing him up to speed on any number of brewing situations that might soon require immediate intervention by S.H.I.E.L.D. He quickly sorted through the documents, scanning them for the pertinent details. An underground A.I.M. laboratory somewhere south of Seattle, rumored to be the site of unsanctioned time travel experiments. A reported alliance between two Hydra splinter groups, in Berlin and Stockholm, respectively. Rumors of industrial espionage at Stark-Fujikawa, including advanced computer technology diverted to the Zodiac crime cartel. Ceasefire violations along the Wakandan border. Civil unrest in Genosha. New leads pointing toward the possible hidden lairs of Baron Zemo, Modok, Viper, Fenris, the Red Skull, the Yellow Claw, and other regular fixtures on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Ten Most Wanted List. The usual, in other words.
All in a day’s work, he thought sourly.
And now, on top of everything else, an Unknown Flying Object that persisted in staying Unknown despite the best efforts of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s considerable resources, and up to who knew what. Fury ground out the remains of his stogie in the adamantium ashtray on his desk, rubbing the ashes into a scorched photo of Baron Wolfgang Von Strucker, and wished he could dispose of the nagging problem of the mystery ship as easily.
“Keep watchin’ the blasted skies,” he muttered under his breath. “Why can’t these everlovin’ ET types stick to their own backyards?”
It didn’t help his mood any that the Helicarrier was carrying him farther and farther away from the vicinity of the UFO sightings. While security considerations clearly dictated that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s command center be moved away from any potentially hostile aircraft, running away always rubbed Fury the wrong way. There was a reason his office was surprisingly compact, barely large enough for a small meeting; he didn’t want to get too comfortable sitting behind a desk.
If there’s a nasty brawl ahead, I want to be where the action is, not sitting tight hundreds of miles away.
As if in answer to his unspoken request, a warning siren suddenly caught both Fury and the Countess by surprise.
“What the—?” he exclaimed, shooting an inquisitive glance at Val, who didn’t know any more than he did. He slammed down his palm on the intercom switch on his desk, heedless of the faxes that went sliding off the edge of the desk to flutter unnoticed to the floor. “This is Fury,” he snapped, spitting out the words like bullets from an automatic rifle. “What the devil is going on?”
“Intruders on Deck Four,” an automated voice reported. “All security forces report to site of breach. Instituting stage-three containment procedures…”
Fury was already away from his desk and out the door, with Val right on his tail, pausing only long enough to stuff a couple of particularly sensitive documents into the shredder. A Colt automatic in his hand, Fury joined a stampede of armed agents rushing to defend the Helicarrier from the still-unidentified invaders.
What’s the matter with our security perimeter? he wondered. In theory, the smaller aircraft surrounding the Helicarrier should have intercepted any hostiles before they ever got close enough to board the vast airship itself. Why wasn’t there any warning?
The shrill alarm blared in his ears. Unwilling to take a chance on the mag-rail elevators during an emergency situation, Fury shoved the Colt back into his shoulder holster and clambered hand-over-hand down a sturdy maintenance ladder, counting off the decks as he descended rapidly toward who knew what.
Deck Four, he considered as he climbed. That was mostly R&D: state-of-the-art laboratories where S.H.I.E.L.D.’s crack team of scientists and technicians developed everything from new particle-beam weapons to the latest generation of Life Model Decoys. Pretty damn convenient. Fury thought, that the invaders chose that region to stage their incursion. He’d bet his government pension, which he never expected to collect anyway, that they knew exactly what they were looking for.
Valentina’s steel-toed boots rang against the metal rungs right above Fury’s head. “Nick,” she suggested hesitantly, “maybe you should hang back until we find out what exactly we’re dealing with here.” From the tone of her voice, she knew this idea wasn’t going to fly with Fury, but felt obliged to bring it up, anyway. “We can’t afford to lose you.”
“Not a chance,” he barked gruffly. The day he had to hide behind a battalion of bodyguards, like some president or senator, was the day he’d hang up his eyepatch for good. “Nobody breaks into my HQ without an invite, not without gettin’ a .45-caliber welcome from me.”
As he neared his destination. Fury could hear the unmistakable sound of battle raging, like a small war had erupted on Deck Four. Gunfire crackled and voices shouted, along with a series of hisses, zaps, and buzzes of a less recognizable nature. Fury smelt both gunpowder and ozone in the air and felt the ladder tremble in his grip. A series of violent shocks shook the Helicarrier, which was swiftly losing altitude, perhaps to cope with the loss of air pressure on the research deck. Judging from the lack of explosive decompression, not to mention the fact that he could still breathe, Fury guessed that the titanic airship’s automatic self-maintenance systems had already sealed whatever gap the enemy boarding party had torn in the hull. He just hoped whoever was flying the Helicarrier right now knew what they were doing. Chances were, Fury’d be too busy fighting off the bad guys to approve any flight plans for a while.
But what kind of customers was he gunning for? Who in heck had the nerve and the gall to stage a raid on S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ? Dropping from the ladder onto the quaking floor of Deck Four, Fury quickly ran through all the possibilities. Hydra? The Serpent Society? The Mutant Liberation Front? Nothing in any of his daily briefings and status reports had even hinted at an enemy operation of this magnitude.
Just that blasted UFO, he thought, all his instincts pinning the blame on the mystery ship. In his gut, he knew there had to be a connection. Guess there’s no time like the present to find
out who’s come knockin’, he thought, drawing his handgun. The customized blue-steel firearm fit perfectly into his hand.
“Heads up, everybody!” he hollered to Val and the other agents coming down the ladder behind him. He recognized Lee, Coning, Plummer, and Schwartz—all solid agents. They dropped onto the shaking deck without a single misstep. “Let’s show these trespassers what we think of surprise visits!”
Rounding a corner into a spacious testing area, over a city block in size, he was prepared to confront anybody from foreign terrorists to alien space monsters. The last people he expected to see fighting a team of hard-pressed S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives were … the X-Men?
Unlike many of his peers in the CIA and the NSA, Fury had never regarded the notorious mutant team as more dangerous to public safety than any of the other high-profile super-groups proliferating out there in this brave new world of costumed cut-ups with paranormal powers. To tell the truth, he’d always figured the X-Men served a useful strategic function in keeping tabs on the real bad apples in the mutant community, like Magneto and his fanatical Acolytes. Let the super-weirdoes police themselves, while the rest of us take care of our own problems, that was his philosophy, at least until one or more of the costumed clan got seriously out of line. To date, the X-Men had never risen to the top of Fury’s “to-do” list. He had his hands full with real hard cases.
But if that was the case, then what were they doing here, wreaking havoc on the Helicarrier with their freakish talents for destruction? Before his one remaining eye, brightly-garbed figures whom Fury identified as past and present X-Men took on his own people, each in their own bizarre fashion. A jagged gap in the ceiling, nearly two yards across, testified to the mutants’ initial angle of attack, but their goal appeared to be a sealed airlock at the opposite end of the staging area, which the first wave of courageous S.H.I.E.L.D operatives were doing their best to defend, despite the uncanny forces arrayed against them.