by Stuart Moore
A data signal flashed in front of Cap. He tapped it, and the label PROJECT 42 appeared on one of the large screens. Blueprints began to flash up in rapid sequence, all watermarked with the Fantastic Four’s distinctive “4” logo.
Cap glanced over at Tigra. She smiled back at him, a wistful, playful smile.
The moment was gone. The spell was broken.
“I’ll tell the others,” she said.
“Receiving, Castle.” Cap stood up, stared hard at the incoming data stream. “Just keep it coming.”
THREE miles out, Sue started to hear something. She checked the instrument panel, wondering how a radio transmission could have reached her here, five miles beneath the ocean’s surface. The board was clear; no transmission showed on its log. Yet still she heard it. A dirge, a mournful chant. A dark, throbbing, inhuman melody.
Sue peered forward, gazing through the cockpit of the mini-sub, struggling to see through the gloom. But this far down, all was darkness. Eerie mutated fish flickered in and out of view, bony carapaces briefly illuminated by the sub’s forward lights.
Then she remembered: The Atlanteans are telepathic. She wasn’t actually hearing anything—her mind could sense their thoughts, coming from somewhere in the darkness ahead. That, in itself, was alarming. The Atlanteans remained a mysterious people, but nothing the Fantastic Four had ever seen indicated they could mentally transmit messages at such a distance. Sue had been to Atlantis twice before, and both times the approach had been silent, uneventful.
Maybe something was wrong in Atlantis. If so, Sue thought, that’ll make it doubly hard to ask him for help.
The dirge continued, like a parasite lodged in a dark corner of her brain.
At least I’m close.
A glow appeared directly ahead, like a giant stone jellyfish squatting on the ocean floor. Slowly Atlantis loomed into view, a sunken city surrounded by void, its ancient towers chipped and battered but proud nonetheless. The city glowed from within, illuminated by unknown sorcery combined with science beyond that of the surface world.
A stone wall circled the base of the city, pocked with battle-scars from long ago. As Sue approached, a pair of Atlantean warriors appeared out of the gloom, kicking fiercely as they sped toward her vehicle. They wore sparse military uniforms that left their powerful chests bare, and helmets with large fins on them. The lead warrior brandished a long spear; the second one held a compact, glowing energy weapon.
Sue reached into her pack, held up a stone amulet to the inside of the cockpit window. On it was carved the personal seal of Prince Namor, sovereign ruler of Atlantis. The lead warrior peered at the amulet, nodded, and gestured sharply to his fellow. They lowered their weapons and waved Sue on.
She arced the sub up and forward, swooping over the seawall. The telepathic song was stronger now, like a thousand voices bowed in angry prayer. Yet she couldn’t see many Atlanteans. Last time she’d been here, a phalanx of six warriors had received her. Today the wall seemed to be guarded by a skeleton force, and even fewer citizens milled around inside.
Just inside the seawall, she parked the sub and secured its controls. She donned a bubble-helmet and air supply, checked that her suit was watertight, and picked up a small carry-pack. Then she swam free and started toward the center of the city. Somehow she knew: That was where the mind-song would be strongest.
She passed a variety of architectural styles: Doric columns, Dravidian pyramids, Byzantine domes. All slightly different from their surface counterparts, adapted to the needs of an underwater culture. Doorways appeared at all levels, even out of penthouse apartments; balconies opened straight onto the sea, without railings. A civilization of swimmers wasn’t confined to the ground, and they had no fear of falling either.
If the ancient Greeks could fly, Sue thought.
Still she saw very few citizens. A pair of Herders passed by, shepherding a huge mole-like aquatic beast. Two elderly men—Judicators, she guessed—hurried past her, clearly late for some event in the heart of the city. But except for the two guards outside, she saw no Warriors, the caste that accounted for sixty percent of the city’s population.
When she reached the Avenue of Poseidon, she saw why.
Thousands of people, the majority of the city, crowded into the central square, floating and hovering at all levels. Herders, Builders, Merchants, Farmers, Judicators, and many, many Warriors, their finned helmets polished to a fine sheen. Skin shades ranged from deep blue to sea green to a pale, faded yellow. There were racial divides here, Sue knew, ancient tensions she couldn’t even begin to understand.
Carefully, mumbling apologies, she pushed her way through and around the people. Several of them stopped to stare. A pink-skinned woman in an air helmet was unheard of in Atlantis, and not terribly welcome either.
When she reached the front of the crowd, she saw him. And all her old doubts rose to the surface again, along with a nagging sense of regret.
Prince Namor floated in the center of the square, addressing the crowd. His muscular frame was cast, as always, in a pose of kingly arrogance. His pointed ears, sharp cheekbones, even the small wings on his feet—absolutely nothing about him had changed since Sue’s last visit. He had donned his dress uniform, she saw, a dark blue tunic worn open to display his magnificent chest.
Namor’s skin color was Caucasian, the legacy of his human father. But despite his mixed blood, the Atlanteans acknowledged him as their absolute ruler. He seemed ageless, regal, the proud heir to a long-lived people’s heritage. Just behind him, a transparent glass coffin floated, glowing lightly with logomantic energy. The coffin was empty.
Namor had taught Sue the basics of Atlantean, and the telepathic component of their language allowed her to understand him clearly. When he spoke, his eyes burned with sorrow and hatred.
“Imperius Rex,” he said. Normally it was a battle cry, but here it seemed more of an introduction: Here I am, your king.
“Twenty-nine days,” Namor continued. “A full turn of the tides it has been, since the violent death of my cousin at the hands of the hated surface people. And so we gather today, the proud inheritors of ancient Atlantis, to enact the age-old ritual.”
Oh god, Sue thought, Namorita. She’d forgotten: One of the New Warriors had been directly related to Namor. A member of the royal family.
“The time has come for the regresus. The return of Namorita—” Namor’s voice caught, just slightly. “Of my cousin to the sea. As we all sprang from the leaves and crawling things of the ocean floor, so now shall she be returned to the source of all life.
“Or rather: She would be.”
Namor gestured to the coffin, floating hollow behind him.
“Behold my cousin’s remains. There are none. The surface men have not merely robbed us of the royal princess, a laughing light in my life and the lives of all Atlanteans. They have deprived us of every last bit of what she was.”
The telepathic wave surged, grief blending with anger like a red tide. Sue winced, made a small involuntary noise.
A blue woman glared at her. The woman nudged a warrior, who stared at Sue. She felt suddenly very pale and exposed.
“They fill our waters with poison,” Namor continued. “They boil the ice caps and hunt proud species to extinction. And when one of us, the sweetest and noblest of all our race, ventures forth to live among them, this is their response. Total, utter annihilation.”
The Atlanteans’ thoughts grew darker, angrier still. Two warriors pointed at Sue now, talking in low tones.
“We seek nothing from them, nothing but coexistence. And yet their hatreds—their petty feuds—infest our refuge, thousands of miles away. The superhumans of the North American continent boast of their power, their honor, their prowess at combat and destruction. Yet even as I speak, they battle among themselves over an incomprehensible matter of names and papers.
“Hear me, my subjects: It is my fondest hope that they will exterminate themselves and leave this world to us.”
“My liege,” cried the warrior. “Start with this one!”
Two more warriors moved in toward Sue. She flashed on her force field, knocking the warrior back. But the recoil sent her tumbling through the water. She wasn’t used to fighting at this depth; her force field seemed unusually thick, hard to control.
She flailed straight into Namor, her force field still up. He snarled and reached for her—and then his eyes went wide.
“Susan Storm,” he said.
Sue turned to him, gesturing for help. A dozen emotions flashed across Namor’s dark, cruel eyes. Then he reached out a hand to her.
She lowered her force field and allowed him to grasp her arm. He pulled her roughly toward the center of the square. The coffin floated just above, held in place—she saw now—by tiny water-jets attached to its base.
Namor took her by the shoulders, turned her roughly to face the crowd. “This woman,” he said, “is one of the world-famous Fantastic Four. She represents the surface-world superhuman community, in all its decadent squalor.”
The crowd roared for blood, but kept its distance.
“Tell my people, Susan.” Namor glared at her now. “Defend to them the actions of your comrades, of the so-called heroes of your realm.” He gestured at the coffin. “Explain how this atrocity came to be.”
The people raised blue fists, brandished spears and guns. But Sue ignored them, keeping her eyes on Namor.
“Namorita was killed by a super villain,” she said. “Not a hero.”
“A villain.” Namor’s gaze didn’t waver. “Like myself?”
I was wrong, she thought. He has changed. He’s become more bitter, more resentful; there’s no joy in him anymore. And yet…
…he won’t allow me to be harmed.
Sue suddenly felt very calm. She reached into her pack, pulled out a small, watertight cylinder made of sculpted marble.
“This urn contains your cousin’s ashes,” she said. “At least, all we could find. I’m afraid it wasn’t very much.”
The crowd murmured in surprise. A thousand eyes watched as Namor accepted the urn, ran his hands over its surface.
Sue cleared her throat. “Namor, I—I’m very sorry about—”
“Vashti.” Namor gestured sharply, and an old man swam forward. Namor grasped his neck in an intimate gesture, whispered urgently into his ear.
Then Namor took Sue’s arm, steered her roughly toward a large, minareted building. “Come with me,” he said.
“Watch the damn hands.”
But she allowed herself to be led. Behind them, she heard the old man addressing the crowd: “Err, the ceremony will resume tomorrow. Warriors, return to your assigned posts…”
Namor led her straight through a marbled hall, past a sitting room filled with floating chairs, to his royal bedchamber. A huge round bed filled most of the room, topped with rippling, waterproof sheets. As she watched, grimacing, he shrugged off his vest and began removing his formal pants.
“Umm…”
He paused, and a hint of the old playfulness showed in his eyes. “Why are you here, Susan?”
She gestured at the urn, discarded on the bed. “I—”
He whipped off his pants, revealing his normal casual wear: green scaled trunks. When he spoke, there was menace in his voice. “Don’t mislead me again.”
She nodded, her mouth tight.
“Things are bad, Namor. They’ve issued what amounts to a superhuman draft, and they’re imprisoning people who don’t comply. They’ve already killed one of us.”
He waved her on, impatiently.
“Our—Captain America’s raid is planned for tomorrow night. You’ve got one of the fiercest warrior armies in the world out there, Namor. Having you on our side could mean the difference between winning and losing.”
Namor stared at her blankly for a long moment. Then he reared back his head and laughed.
“You heard my people,” he said. “You felt their grief, their rage. I am their king; their pain, their outrage, is mine as well. Why in the seven seas would I want to help you?”
“Captain America is one of your oldest friends.” She could feel her voice faltering. “You fought with him in World War II…you’ve known him longer than anyone.”
“And where is my friend now?” Namor swam through the chamber, gesturing theatrically all around. “Off plotting his little power struggles, no doubt. While he sends you here, to take advantage of our unique relationship.”
Sue felt very small now, vulnerable in Namor’s private quarters. “We don’t have a relationship,” she said quietly.
Namor eyed her closely, and a sly smile crept onto his lips. He swooped through the water, landing next to her on the edge of the bed.
“Very well,” he said. “I will help you, Susan Storm.”
Something in his tone made her bones freeze. “It’s Richards now,” she said.
He pulled back the top sheet, gestured at the bed. “I prefer the Storm.”
All the rage, all the frustration of the past weeks erupted inside her. She reached out and slapped Namor, as hard as she could given the water resistance. He barely flinched, but his eyes turned cold.
“You’re an arrogant, entitled child, who thinks anyone and anything is there for the taking,” she hissed. “Always have been.”
“You once liked that.”
“I’m not finished. You don’t respect women, you don’t respect yourself. And yet—despite all that—I always thought you had your own brand of honor, somewhere deep inside. Something that made your people want to follow you anywhere.
“But I was wrong. This is your price? You’ll help us, save your friends and allies from imprisonment, subjugation, and death, if and only if I agree to sleep with you?”
He turned away angrily. Shrugged his taut, muscular shoulders. “I grow bored now.”
“Tough. That’s just tough. Because you want to know something? This is important to me. I have left my husband and my children, which is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I miss them so much, miss them every second of every day, I see them everywhere but it’s not them, it’s just me, it’s just in my mind. And I didn’t do all that, I didn’t tear my life apart, so I could come down here and submit to the whims of some puffed-up, greasy fish-man. I did it because it was RIGHT!”
She whirled toward him, but he had drifted away. He floated on the far side of the chamber, his face angry, downcast.
I’ve done it, she thought. I’ve gone too far. Even if he wanted to help, there’s no way his pride would allow it now.
Sue’s adrenaline ebbed. She felt ashamed; she felt like a failure. She wanted to cry.
But despite everything, she wanted the slate clean between them. Something inside her couldn’t let the whole visit be tainted by dishonesty.
“The ashes.” She gestured at the urn. “I, we don’t know for sure they’re Namorita’s. The site was atomized pretty bad. The authorities did their best, but…”
Namor gritted his teeth.
“…but really, Namor. Her ashes, Speedball’s, Night Thrasher’s or Microbe’s. Does it really matter?”
Still he said nothing. Just pointed to the door, his arm rigid, his eyes burning in cold anger.
So she left. She swam away, back through the sitting room and the big foyer, into the open waters of Atlantis. Past the swarms and groups of amphibean men and women, going about their daily business now, pausing as she passed to stare with hostile eyes.
Just like surface people. So small, so provincial. So filled with tiny hatreds, so quick to vilify and demonize others.
No, she thought, there’s one difference. When Namor’s people cry, the tears just wash off into the sea.
“SO Namor’s a no-show?”
Johnny Storm snappe
d shut the cell phone, shook his head.
Cap grimaced, trying not to favor his bad leg as he led the group down the hallway. He felt briefly angry. In the Pacific Theatre, he’d once seen Namor storm an entire Japanese base with only one man—Cap himself—for backup. Back then, Namor would never have let him down.
“Moving on,” Cap said. “Who else have we got?”
“Wolverine won’t break ranks with the X-Men, so that’s out.” Falcon consulted his tablet. “And S.H.I.E.L.D. just picked up Hercules outside Chicago. That’s a throwdown I would have liked to see.”
“Too bad. Tony’s already got a Greek god on his side—we could have used one too.”
“Black Panther’s with us, though,” Johnny said. “He’s raging mad about the Bill Foster business—he and Storm say they’ve got our backs.”
“Isn’t Storm a mutant?”
“She’s also Queen of Wakanda, now. Guess that trumps the X-Men’s neutrality.”
“What about Doctor Strange?”
Falcon frowned. “Said he had to meditate on the situation. Last I talked to him, he was entering the ‘Eight-Day Trance of the Faltine.’ I wouldn’t count on him for tonight.”
Cap slammed a fist into his palm. He felt pumped up and anxious, his usual emotional state before a battle. Especially one with as many “ifs” as this.
“It’s the first phase of the assault that worries me,” he said.
Falcon nodded. “We need as many troops as we can get. I’ve called in all the reserves, Cap.”
Cap stepped through the door to the conference room. An array of bright costumes sat around the table: Cage, Dagger, Patriot, Speed, Photon, Stingray, and at least a half dozen newcomers. Cap recognized ex-villainesses Asp and Diamondback, among others.
Punisher sat alone at one corner of the table, meticulously cleaning a pair of semiautomatic rifles with a can of oil, sitting open in front of him.
Cap seated himself at the head of the table; Johnny and Falcon took seats on either side of him. “Okay, let’s get down to business.” He pressed a stud built into the tabletop.
Newly installed holographic projectors hummed to life, and a rotating schematic image rose up from the table. It showed a jagged complex of buildings jutting out of a rock, floating in a surreal version of outer space. “The Punisher got us all the specs on the Negative Zone prison. This is a huge, collective holding facility designed and built by Stark Enterprises specifically to hold superhumans. The layout can be found in this three-dimensional schematic.”