by Greg Cox
A fallen tree, Cyclops wondered, or something more sinister?
“Eyes up, folks,” he urged his passengers as the limo slowed to a stop along the side of the road. It was probably nothing, Scott realized, but X-Men couldn’t afford to take chances. Too many of their enemies knew their home address, even if the world at large did not; an ambush was always a possibility.
He relaxed only slightly when the car’s high beams bounced off the gnarled trunk of an elderly maple tree. Judging from the fresh dirt coating the ruin’s exposed roots, the tree had crashed onto the road within the last few hours.
Just what we didn’t need, Cyclops thought impatiently. They had lost too much time driving back from the city already.
“Better step out while I handle this,” he advised the others; even if there was nothing amiss, he saw no reason why Hank and Ororo should remain sitting ducks within the car. He stepped from the car and walked along the side of the road until he was only a few feet away from the imposing wooden barricade. Gravel crunched beneath his feet and he heard both rear doors of the limo open and shut. A pondful of frogs croaked somewhere behind the remaining trees.
“Do you require assistance, Scott?” Ororo volunteered. A few well-placed lightning bolts, he knew, would clear the road quite effectively.
“No thanks,” he replied. Storm had already done her share back at the police station, airlifting the Beast away from those trigger-happy boys in blue. Time for him to pull his own weight on this expedition.
He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, but the silent woods appeared deserted nor were there any approaching headlights in either direction.
Perfect, he thought. Taking hold of his glasses with one hand, he carefully lifted the red-tinted shades off his nose.
It was like removing a dam from the mouth of a rushing river. Unchecked by the ruby quartz lenses, crimson energy poured out of his eyes, merging to form a single incandescent beam that raced toward the toppled maple at the speed of light. Raw power, beyond Cyclops’s conscious control, slammed into the tree trunk, reducing it to splinters. A violent crash violated the quiet serenity of the countryside, momentarily silencing the steady murmur of the frogs. Only fragments of the shattered obstacle remained upon the pavement.
“That should do it,” Scott said, lowering the glasses back onto his nose. He took a deep breath; although his mutant eyes tapped into a seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of extradimensional energy, he always felt slightly depleted after channeling that much power through his mortal flesh. He blinked rapidly behind the protective lenses; his eyes burned a bit, but it was nothing he hadn’t experienced hundred of times before. I wonder what’s harder on my system, providing a conduit for all that energy— or holding it back the rest of the time?
Thankfully, his eyes could be used for more conventional purposes as well. Cyclops scanned the empty stretch of road, half expecting Juggernaut or the Blob to come barreling out of the woods at any moment, but only the rustle of wind through the trees hinted at life behind the still nocturnal tableau. Apparently, the fallen tree had been just that, not the opening move in another unprovoked assault on the X-Men. Scott shrugged his shoulders.
Better safe than sorry, he thought.
“Okay, everyone, back into the car.” He bent over to pick up one of the larger pieces of the broken wood off the pavement, then flung it into the shadows. Slipping back into the driver’s seat, he was gratified to see that the Beast was already back at work on his laptop. At least somebody was getting work done while Scott played chauffeur. The limo pulled back onto the road and Scott mentally counted the miles remaining back to the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning.
“Voila!” the Beast exuberantly declared, only minutes after their trip resumed. “My humble hacking has borne fruit at last. CNN.com reports that an individual believed to be Dr. Robert Bruce Banner has been spotted at Niagara Falls, not far from the Canadian border.”
“Good work,” Cyclops said. Hank’s breakthrough was not enough, however, to remove the worried expression from his face; they were still a long way from locating their missing teammate. “Anything about Rogue?”
The Beast shook his bushy head. “Not a word.” His gaze bounced between Storm and Cyclops. “What now, o’ glorious co-leaders?”
Cyclops glanced at the dashboard clock. It was close to two in the morning. Niagara Falls was several hours away by car, but if they used the aircraft hangared beneath the Institute, they could be there before sunrise.
“What do you think?” he asked Storm, peeking at her pensive features in the rearview mirror. “The Blackbird?”
“My thoughts exactly,” she said.
* * *
SENTINELS! Cap’s jaw dropped in dismay, much as he imagined Tony’s mouth must have fallen open beneath his gilded mask. I don’t believe it.
Sentinels, in whatever form, had to count as one of the U.S. government’s most shameful ideas: a species of powerful and implacable robot policemen specifically designed to track down and apprehend mutants. Mechanized discrimination … he could scarcely imagine a more blatant violation of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. He had hoped that, after the last Sentinel-inspired orgy of strife and destruction, the whole pernicious notion had retired permanently.
But apparently not.
“Don’t give me that look,” Fury grumbled, spitting out his stogie in disgust. He stared down at the Avengers from the color monitor. “I don’t like this any better than you do. Mama Fury didn’t raise no bigots.”
“Then how did S.H.I.E.L.D. end up in the business of manufacturing Sentinels?” Iron Man asked indignantly. No doubt he was wondering whether any classified Stark technology had gone into the construction of the new robots.
“I’d like to hear the answer to that myself,” Cap said. The government’s occasional efforts to pander to all the anti-mutant hysteria out there invariably reminded him of the relocation camps that Japanese-American citizens were herded into during the last big war. He had personally toured several of those camps, and it remained a lasting source of regret to him that he had never been able to persuade President Roosevelt and his advisors to reject that ignoble enterprise.
And now here we are, he thought, fifty years later and heading down that same sad road. As far as he was concerned, building Sentinels to round up mutants was no different from imprisoning innocent men, women, and children simply because of their ancestry.
“Blame bureaucracy in action,” Fury snorted. “After Senator Kelly shut down Bastion’s little witchhunt, the Sentinel development program was folded into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s larger robotics R&D department. I never cottoned onto what those busy little techies were up to because the whole project showed up on the budget as just specialized Life Model Decoys.”
Cap nodded, comprehending. S.H.I.E.L.D. frequently used artificial LMDs to impersonate both agents and adversaries, not to mention the occasional targets of assassination plots. There was a world of difference between LMDs and Sentinels, especially where their objectives were concerned, but he could see where the basic robotics technology would tend to overlap.
One man’s defense is another man’s weapon of destruction, he reflected. Even his own shield could be used for offensive purposes.
“I hate to point this out,” Iron Man commented, “but the existence of these new Sentinels gives the X-Men a plausible motive for attacking the Helicarrier. They could have seen it as a preemptive strike against a new anti-mutant crusade.”
Or maybe that’s what someone wants us to think, Cap considered. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time villains impersonated heroes to destroy the reputations of their enemies; less than a year ago, an alien Skrull had briefly taken Cap’s own place as part of a plot to deceive the American public. To my mind, the X-Men are innocent until proven guilty—just like any other citizens.
The Vision spoke up, his sepulchral voice practically lowering the temperature in the room. “Given that the express purpo
se of Sentinels is to apprehend mutants, perhaps there is some connection here to the unexplained disappearance of the Scarlet Witch.”
“Good point,” Captain America said. He tersely informed Fury of the circumstances surrounding Wanda’s abduction. “The only problem is that she was attacked by the puppets several hours before the prototype Sentinels were snatched from S.H.I.E.L.D. Still, I can’t help feeling in my gut that there’s a link between these two incidents. A missing mutant. Stolen Sentinels. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”
Iron Man raised another question. “You said these were a new type of Sentinels. What exactly was so special about them?”
Fury shrugged. He was a soldier, not a science whiz. “You’d have to ask the eggheads for the real nitty-gritty, but what they told me is that these tin woodsmen have gamma reactors for hearts. Supposed to make them a whole lot stronger than the last batch.”
“Gamma reactors?” Cap asked, incredulous. He exchanged meaningful glances with Iron Man and the Vision.
“You bet,” Fury confirmed. “More government restructuring— seems covert research into gamma weaponry got lumped in with this new Sentinels initiative as part of a campaign to simplify government spending. Blame Al Gore.” He glanced down at notes or reports below the view of the screen. He paused for emphasis and Cap leaned forward, wanting to know all he could about what the Avengers might be running up against.
“That’s even what they called these blasted things,” Fury said ominously. “The Gamma Sentinels.”
CHAPTER TEN
A few hours before:
CLOSE to a hundred thousand gallons a minute poured over the two great Falls at Niagara. Multicolored lights, projected from both the American and Canadian sides of the Falls, cast a brilliant radiance over the vast cascades of roaring water as they tumbled more than a hundred feet to the breakers below. Defying gravity, a constant spray of polychromatic mist rose from the rocky base of the American Falls, reaching all the way up to where awestruck spectators stood on the shore, looking out over the brink of the precipice, watching the Niagara river plunge furiously over the crests of the Falls with irresistible force.
Bruce Banner knew all about irresistible forces, having shared his life with one for over a decade now. The damp mist cooling his bearded face, he paused upon the lighted walkway running along the southern shore of the river and leaned against the guardrail. Preoccupied with other matters, Banner nonetheless spared a moment or two to take advantage of the spectacular view. Closest to him, the American Falls stretched over eight hundred feet across, while farther away, on the other side of Goat Island, the Canadian Horseshoe Falls, so named because of their distinctive shape, could be seen streaming down into a deep, mist-shrouded pool. The muted roar of the Falls filled his ears. People came from all over the world to witness the Falls, he reasoned, so he might as well take in the show while he could. And, to be perfectly honest with himself, he didn’t mind stalling a bit before facing the ordeal ahead.
I wonder if this is really such a good idea? he thought.
Newlyweds and other tourists strolled leisurely along the path, their hushed oohs and ahs barely audible over the crashing water. None of them took any heed of the solitary individual, clad in a navy blue windbreaker and faded purple jeans, leaning upon the rail. Unlike his alternate persona, Banner was of average build and unexceptional appearance. A cheap box of hair coloring, purchased only hours before at a local drug store and applied at a convenient public restroom, had lightened his customarily brown hair to bleached blond. Only the haunted look of his eyes, and the weary shadows beneath them, distinguished him from the gaily-chattering vacationers also visiting the Falls tonight. That and the fact that he was conspicuously alone.
Taking one last look at the breathtaking magnificence of the American Falls, Banner sighed and pushed away from the rail. Time to get it over with, he decided as he continued on toward the Rainbow Bridge farther on down the river, past the Falls. Getting past Customs was going to be tricky, but, all his doubts notwithstanding, he didn’t have any better options. With General Ross and his Hulk-busters back on the warpath, now struck him as an ideal time to get out of the country for a while; God willing, Ross’s battalions wouldn’t be so gung-ho as to pursue him beyond the Canadian border, which might at least buy him a little time to figure out what to do next.
The longer they leave me alone, he mused, the longer I may be able to keep the Hulk under control.
Sometimes that was the most he could hope for.
The American customs station was far from impressive, being basically a one-story aluminum shack flanked by a wire fence to keep people from skipping around it on their way to the bridge; it looked like a temporary shelter intended to make do until the real station was built, but Banner remembered it looking much the same the last time he passed through. Not exactly a triumph of public architecture; he’d seen DMVs with more grandeur and gravitas. Impressing visiting Canadians, it seemed, was low on the federal government’s list of priorities.
He trudged up the wooden steps to the front door, doing his best to affect a jaunty, carefree attitude. Just another tourist out for an evening excursion, he thought. Nothing suspicious here, nope, not at all. He wished he was really as confident as he hoped he looked, and that his heart wasn’t racing so fast. Maybe he should have bought some false glasses as well, to go along with the dyed hair. His baggy purple jeans, held up by a cheap leather belt, were several sizes too big, just in case.
A bored-looking customs official, seated behind a desk to Banner’s right, waved him on. Apparently, you didn’t get the third-degree until you tried to get into the country. Breathing a sigh of relief, he exited the shack at the rear and stepped onto the pedestrian walkway on the Rainbow Bridge. Traffic across the bridge was light; only a few stray vehicles drove past him. A hundred-some feet below, the coursing river continued on its way to the Whirlpool further north. Banner would have been more impressed had he not once beheld another Rainbow Bridge, the one that stretched across the heavens to fabled Asgard, home of the mighty Norse Gods.
Now that was a bridge, Banner thought. If nothing else, his tumultuous career as the Hulk’s saner half had taken him to some interesting places. Meager consolation, perhaps, for a life spent on the run.
It was perhaps a reflection of some deep-rooted national inferiority complex that the Canadian customs station, at the opposite end of the bridge, was as opulent and imposing as the American station was minimalist. Surrounded by impeccably landscaped gardens, the white marble facade looked like it should house the sacred remains of some historic figure instead of what was basically an ornate tollbooth; it was like going from a low-rent mobile home to the palace at Versailles. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Banner opened the door to let a party of Norwegian tourists through, then stepped inside.
Easy does it, he cautioned himself. Just another tourist, remember?
The Canadian border guard, a big man with a stern expression, looked Banner over more thoroughly than his Yankee counterpart. “Purpose of visit?”
“Checking out the sights,” Banner said casually. He considered shrugging, but decided that might be pushing it. “I hear there’s a pretty good view from this side.”
“Uh-huh,” the Mountie granted. The name on his badge read craigie; Banner assumed that was his surname. The guard glanced at the clock over the door. “Kind of late,” he commented.
Banner’s mouth went dry and he fought an urge to gulp. “Don’t tell me the Falls close at midnight,” he said with a smile, trying to make it sound like a joke. He jammed both hands into the pockets of his windbreaker to keep them from fidgeting nervously.
Let it go, he silently begged the Mountie. Don’t make me get too upset— or I might not be responsible for what happens.
“Just saying it’s late,” Officer Craigie said, not cracking a smile. He eyed Banner suspiciously, his gaze intermittently dropping down to inspect something below the edge of the counter. A wa
nted poster, Banner fretted, or some sort of alert? Beneath his jacket and calm exterior, sweat began to soak through his cotton shirt, gluing the fabric to his back. “May I see your passport, sir?”
Something’s wrong. Banner was convinced of it. He glanced back over his shoulder, hoping to see more travelers approaching. Maybe a line of impatient tourists would speed the process up, but, no, he was on his own. The Mountie held out his hand, waiting for the passport while Banner fumbled around in his pockets. I should have waited until morning, the fugitive scientist castigated himself, when there was more of a crowd.
It was too late to back out now, though, not with this overeager Mountie already watching him like he was the second coming of Al Capone.
“Here they are, officer,” Banner said, handing Craigie the phony papers he had bought in Times Square with nearly the last of his hard cash. They had looked convincing to him, but what did he know? I’m a nuclear physicist, blast it, not an international smuggler.
The border guard inspected the fake passport longer than Banner liked. Long, sweaty seconds ticked by.
“Is there something the matter, officer?” he asked. He probably should have kept quiet, he realized, but maintaining the semblance of calm was rapidly turning into a losing battle. His heart pounded in his chest, raising the terrifying prospect of an unplanned and very unwanted transformation.
No, not now, Banner prayed, even as a dozen familiar sensations alerted him to the change commencing within his body. His skin felt raw and exposed, stretched tightly over rebellious, rippling muscles, and burning as if being roasted from within by a tremendous inner heat. His teeth and gums tingled while an angry pulse started throbbing behind his eyes. His breathing grew shallow at the same time that his lungs expanded against his ribcage. The collar of his shirt felt tight around his neck, choking him. His belt dug into his waist and too-small shoes squeezed his feet. Not now, he wished fervently. Anything but this. He stared at his hands in alarm. Was he only imagining it, or was his skin already starting to take on a greenish tint?