by Alex Irvine
Tony was working up a good fury against the board. “This is great,” he said, and turned away from Obie. “I’ll be in the shop.”
“Hey, hey! Tony, listen. I’m trying to turn this thing around, but you have to give me something.” Obie came closer to Tony and tapped the RT in his chest. “Let me have the engineers analyze that. You know, draw up some specs.”
“Absolutely not,” Tony said. “This one stays with me.”
Obie looked like he might pursue it, but then he just picked up the pizza. “All right, well, this stays with me, then.” He offered Tony a slice.
“Thanks,” Tony said.
Good humor between them restored, Stane asked, “Mind if I come down there and see what you’re doing?”
“Good night, Obie,” Tony said, and went back to the lab.
It took him a few more days to hook the boot units, the control bandolier, and the new gauntlets together. Once he’d done it, though, he couldn’t resist trying out the setup.
“Shall I alert the rescue squad?” Jarvis asked as Tony fastened the last of the connections.
Tony flexed his arms. The tubing connecting the pieces felt stiff—but it was only a prototype after all. All he was wearing were the boots and gauntlets, just to try out flight stability. He had one of his lab robots, affectionately named Dummy, on fire control. “If you douse me again and I’m not on fire, I’m donating you to a city college,” he warned Dummy, who didn’t have a perfect grasp on its duties.
“All right, nice and easy,” Tony said. “Just starting with one percent thrust capacity.” He activated the boot jets and manipulated the controls.
Slowly, he rose off the floor and hovered in the air. The repulsor stabilizers in the gloves kicked in, steadying his flight. He moved up in the air, holding his arms out like a tightrope walker.
“And let’s bring it up to two point five,” he said. The surge of energy nearly crashed him into the ceiling, and it took him some flailing around to get the hang of using the gauntlets to keep himself steady while the boots provided life.
After gaining his balance, he floated slowly around the room, dodging expensive pieces of electronic equipment and avoiding the cars, workbench, and other obstacles.
He nearly bumped his head on the ceiling twice and came perilously close to the roof of his Porsche, but he didn’t hit anything. His papers and a few light objects scattered out of his way as he flew, repelled by the repulsor forces powering the boots and the gauntlets.
“See?” he said. “Nothing to it.”
He cut the propulsion, landed softly near his workbench, and grinned at one of Jarvis’s sensors.
That was when Dummy unloaded on him with the fire extinguisher. “No!” Tony shouted. When Dummy cut off the extinguisher, Tony briefly considered using it as repulsor target practice. Then he changed his mind. After all, he’d just done something incredible. What was a little fire-extinguisher foam? That wasn’t going to dampen his mood.
“Yeah,” Tony said. “I can fly.”
Half a world away, Raza stared at the gray suit of armor being assembled on the lab table in his new hideout.
“Amazing,” he muttered. Amazing that something like this could nearly destroy his whole operation.
It would be difficult to complete the reassembly without either Yinsen or Stark to guide his workers, but Raza knew the job would eventually get done.
And then he, Raza, would own a weapon that would be the envy of even the largest corporations and governments.
The warlord smiled and, for once, he did not mind the stiffness of his scarred face.
CHAPTER 11
Tony’s metal boots clanked across the workshop floor. The armor felt heavy, so he made an adjustment to the servo-motors that powered it. His Repulsor Technology heart glowed more brightly within his chest plate, and the suit moved more easily.
He flexed his arms and the suit flexed with him. The ailerons, air brakes, and other flying controls popped out on command, just as they were supposed to. The new armor covering him from head to toe felt good.
“Stand by for calibration,” he told Jarvis.
“Of course, sir,” the computerized butler replied.
Tony fired up the boots and the gauntlet repulsors. He rose into the air, hovered, and began to fly around the workshop. Then, suddenly, he lost his balance and plunged toward the floor.
He landed on his sports car, crushing the roof flat. The car’s alarm system screamed in protest. Tony blasted the alarm with the repulsor mounted in his palm. The alarm unit shook to pieces and went silent.
“A not entirely unsuccessful test,” Jarvis observed.
Tony picked himself up, brushing stray bits of the automobile off his armor. “We should take this outside,” he said.
“I must strongly caution against that,” Jarvis warned. “There are terabytes of calculations still needed before the armor is fully operational and under control.”
Behind his metal helmet, Tony smiled. “Jarvis, sometimes you have to run before you can walk. We’ll do those calculations in flight.”
“Sir…” Jarvis said.
“That’s why you’ll be making the flight with me,” Tony replied.
He pressed a button on a lab console and downloaded Jarvis’s program into the suit’s computer system. The armor’s heads-up display flashed to life. “Ready?” Tony said. “Three… two… one…” The lift jets in the suit’s boots fired up. “Handles like a dream,” he said.
Tony opened the workshop’s garage doors and slowly hovered out the door and along the workshop driveway.
Jarvis’s voice echoed in his helmet. “I suggest you allow me to employ Directive Four,” the butler said.
Tony frowned, not remembering which directive that was. “Never interrupt me while I’m with a beautiful woman?” he guessed.
“That’s Directive Six,” Jarvis replied. “Directive Four is to use any and all means to protect your life, should you be incapable of doing so.”
“Whatever,” Tony replied. “Let’s see what this thing can do.” He kicked up the power and blasted into the night sky.
Iron Man weaved and wobbled through the air, trying to keep the horizon steady. He tried poses he’d seen in various movies, books, and comics about flying super heroes, but each one seemed more unstable than the previous one.
Then he had an idea. You’re jet powered, he told himself. Think like a jet.
He thrust his chest out, held his chin up, kept his knees and feet together, and flung his arms out to the side—like a delta-winged fighter aircraft.
To his delight, the pose worked, and he zoomed through the air like a human missile. He pulled a few exhilarating banked turns, and then followed the ribbon of the Pacific Coast Highway south to Santa Monica. Onlookers gaped in awe as Iron Man buzzed by the giant Ferris wheel on the pier.
Tony smiled and arced upward in a power climb. The clouds streaked past like misty dreams. Soon he emerged into a perfect, starry night.
He was so high up now that the world seemed a tiny, distant place. Ice crystals formed on the inside of his helmet.
“Sir, there is a potentially fatal buildup of ice occurring,” Jarvis warned.
Caught up in the moment, Tony didn’t listen. Instead, he zoomed ever higher, chasing the stars.
“Mr. Stark,” Jarvis said, “please acknowledge.”
The moon beckoned before him, huge and impossibly bright. Tony never remembered seeing anything more beautiful in his life.
Suddenly, the heads-up display inside Tony’s helmet went dark. One remaining warning light flashed: SYSTEM SHUTDOWN.
“We iced up, Jarvis!” Tony shouted. “Deploy flaps! Jarvis!”
But the shutdown had taken Jarvis off-line as well.
Iron Man’s thrusters sputtered and died. The suit felt heavy and awkward. Tony glanced at his chest plate; it wasn’t glowing.
The weight of the armor overcame his momentum and he plummeted, pinwheeling toward the earth.
<
br /> “Uh, Jarvis?” Tony called. “Jarvis!”
The earth zoomed up toward him.
“Status!” Tony called to the silent computer system. “Status! Reboot!”
He plummeted through the clouds. The coastline appeared below, the lights of the city blazed into view, and the snaking curve of the highway revealed itself.
Why hadn’t he listened to Jarvis?
Something popped near his ear and, suddenly, the heads-up display flickered back to life. Power surged through the suit’s servo-motors and circuits. Tony fought to bring the armor back under control.
“Temporary power restored,” Jarvis said calmly. “Descend immediately.”
Tony righted himself and flew back toward the mansion. He aimed for the driveway, struggling to maintain stability.
“Shall I take over the final descent?” Jarvis asked.
“No,” Tony said proudly. “I’ve got it. I—”
An accidental shift of his weight sent him crashing through the roof of the mansion.
Shattered beams and plaster rained around him as he broke through the ceiling of his garage and landed on top of another sports car, wrecking his piano on the way through the living room.
The impact shook his entire body and set off every car alarm in the garage. The robot he called Dummy sprayed him with a fire extinguisher. Annoyed, Tony said, “Kill power.” The suit went dark again. He scrambled to his feet and pulled off his helmet.
“Shall I alert the body shop, sir?” Jarvis asked.
“No,” Tony replied. “Just switch the alarms off and let security know we’ve had a little… setback.”
“Very good, sir,” Jarvis said.
He clambered out of the armor and hung it on the work rack nearby, then began typing design notes into his computer. Graphics and data scrolled down the lab’s many monitors.
“Notes,” Tony said, getting right to work. “Main transducer felt sluggish at plus forty altitude. Hull pressurization is problematic. I think the icing might have been a factor.”
“This design isn’t rated for high altitude,” Jarvis observed. “You’re expending eight percent power just heating and pressurizing.”
“Reconfigure the suit using the gold-titanium alloy from the Seraphim Tactical Satellite. It should ensure fuselage integrity to fifty thousand feet while still maintaining power-to-weight ratio.”
“Shall I simulate a new hull utilizing the proposed specifications on-screen?” Jarvis asked.
“Thrill me.”
On-screen, the sleek form of the Mark II armor transformed into an even sleeker golden Mark III prototype.
Tony regarded it and rubbed his chin. “A bit… ostentatious, isn’t it?” He glanced over at his collection of cars and motorcycles, seeking inspiration in their paint jobs.
“Add a little red, would you?” he said, pointing to the screen. “Here, here, and here.” The computer graphics prototype changed color appropriately.
Just then, Tony noticed the image on the television, which had been playing silently in the background. He turned up the volume.
A local reporter stood outside a grand entertainment hall where a huge crowd was gathering. “Tonight’s red-hot red carpet is here at the Concert Hall, where Tony Stark’s annual benefit for the Firefighters’ Family Fund has become the go-to charity gala on LA’s high-society calendar.”
“Jarvis, we get an invite for that?” Tony asked.
“I have no record of an invitation, sir,” Jarvis replied.
Nearby, the lab’s automated tooling and manufacturing machines sprang to life.
“But this great cause is only part of the story,” the reporter continued. “The man whose name graces the gold-lettered invitations to the event hasn’t been seen in public since his highly controversial press conference. Some say Stark is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and hasn’t left his bed in weeks.”
Tony scoffed and returned his attention to the design screen. The red-and-gold Iron Man Mark III uniform looked good—very good.
“Estimated completion time is five hours,” Jarvis noted.
“Good,” Tony said. He suddenly had a place to be, and he was very curious why he hadn’t been invited in the first place. “Don’t wait up for me, honey,” he joked, and hurried to get ready.
CHAPTER 12
The crowd outside the concert hall filled the entire avenue and overflowed into the surrounding streets. The concertgoers were a mix of celebrities, generals, business tycoons, and movie stars.
Flashbulbs lit the scene as Tony pulled his sports car up to the curb. He got out, waved to the crowd, and handed his keys to the waiting valet.
The crowd roared as Tony stepped onto the red carpet and, for just a moment, the former prisoner of war felt completely out of place. Not so long ago, these had been his people, but now they were just a sea of faces. There was Obadiah, mixing with the crowd and giving some kind of statement. In other words, grandstanding as usual.
“What’s the world coming to when a guy’s got to crash his own party?” Tony asked. Stane looked uneasy. He nodded to the other guests. “I’ll see you inside,” he said, and steered Tony away from the crowd.
“Let’s just take it slow, okay?” Stane said. “I’ve got the board right where we want them.” He nodded toward a group of Stark Industries executives milling around with the red-carpet crowd.
“You got it,” Tony replied, giving the board members a curt wave. “Just cabin fever. Look, I’ll see you inside.” He headed for the theater doors, anxious not to get caught up in company business.
The interior of the venue was almost as crowded as outside. Music filled the concert hall as happy couples whirled around the dance floor. Tony spotted Pepper coming down the stairs. She looked stunning in a classic evening gown.
Tony started to head in her direction, but he was interrupted by… what was his name? The guy who had been in the house the other day. “Mr. Stark?” he asked, and introduced himself again. “Agent Coulson.”
“Oh yeah,” Tony said. “The guy from the…” Again his memory failed him. The organization with the really long name.
“Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division,” Coulson said helpfully.
“You need a new name for that,” Tony said.
Coulson nodded. “I hear that a lot. Listen, I know this must be a trying time for you, but we need to debrief you. There’re still a lot of unanswered questions, and time can be a factor with these things. Let’s just put something on the books. How about the twenty-fourth at seven p.m. at Stark Industries?”
“Tell you what,” Tony said. “You got it. You’re absolutely right.” Coulson looked surprised. Tony nodded in Pepper’s direction. “Well, I’m going to go to my assistant, and we’ll make a date.”
As he said it, he finally broke away and caught up to Pepper. She looked surprised and pleased to see him.
“Ms. Potts,” Tony said, “can I have five minutes? You look… like you should always wear that dress.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It was a birthday present—from you.”
“I have great taste,” Tony said. “Care to dance?” He took her hand and whisked her onto the dance floor. She looked away from him bashfully.
“I’m sorry,” Tony said. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“No,” she replied, her face slightly flushed. “I always wear a chiffon dress, forget to put on deodorant, and dance with my boss in front of everyone I’ve ever worked with.”
“Would it help if I fired you?” Tony asked.
She grinned. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”
“I might,” Tony said.
“What’s your Social Security number?” she asked.
“Uh…” Tony began.
She whispered it into his ear.
Tony chuckled. “I guess I wouldn’t make it on my own after all.”
They danced together long enough that Tony lost track of time. Finally, they r
etired to the veranda outside to catch their breath. Pepper looked beautiful in the starlight.
They stood silently for a moment. “That was totally weird,” Pepper said after a while.
“Totally harmless,” Tony said. “We’re dancing. No one’s even watching.”
“No, it was not just a dance,” Pepper said. “You don’t understand because you’re you. You’re my boss, and I’m dancing with you.…”
Tony thought he knew what she was saying. It might have seemed a little weird for her to be dancing with the boss, who had a bit of a reputation with the ladies. But it was just a dance. Wasn’t it? “I just think you’re overstating it,” he said.
She shook her head, like he still wasn’t getting it. “We’re here, and I’m wearing this ridiculous dress, and we’re dancing, and then…” Their faces got a little closer together, and Tony realized that if one of them didn’t do something they were about to kiss.
Pepper, as usual, was the one who handled the situation. She paused and said, “I would like a drink, please.”
“Okay,” Tony said.
Tony went and picked up a pair of drinks from the buffet table. Before he could return to Pepper, though, reporter Christine Everhart strode up to him. She had a file folder under her arm.
“Mr. Stark,” she said, shoving a microphone into his face, “I was hoping I could get a reaction from you on your company’s involvement in this latest atrocity,” she said.
“Hey, I didn’t set up this event,” Tony explained, loosening his collar. “They just put my name on the invitation to draw more people.”
She opened the file folder and thrust it toward him. “Is this what you call accountability? It’s a town called Gulmira. Heard of it?” Inside the folder were pictures of Ten Rings separatists clutching Stark machine guns, rocket-propelled grenade launchers, and other weapons. Behind them, a village burned.
Tony looked at the photos, and his blood ran cold. “When were these taken?” he asked.
“Yesterday,” she replied. “Good public relations move. You tell the world you’re a changed man, but continue doing business as usual.”