Marvel Novel Series 09 - The Marvel Superheroes

by Len Wein

  MEET THE MARVEL

  SUPERHEROES!

  The greatest array of superstars ever assembled between two covers!

  THE INCREDIBLE HULK! Caught in the heart of a nuclear explosion, victim of gamma radiation gone wild, Bruce Banner now finds himself transformed in times of stress into seven feet, one thousand pounds of unfettered fury—the most powerful creature to ever walk the earth!

  THE MIGHTY AVENGERS! Thor, god of Thunder! The Invincible Iron Man! The star-spangled Captain America! The sensational Scarlet Witch! The marksman called Hawkeye! The extraordinary Vision! The wondrous Wasp! Earth’s most awesome heroes—united against a threat which could destroy the world!

  THE DYNAMIC DAREDEVIL! He dwells in eternal darkness, but the shadows are filled with sounds and scents other men cannot perceive! For though attorney Matt Murdock is blind, his other senses function with superhuman sharpness—as his unerring radar-sense guides him over every obstacle! He stalks the streets by night, a red-garbed foe of evil!

  THE UNCANNY X-MEN! Cyclops! Storm! Banshee! Nightcrawler! Wolverine! Colossus! Phoenix! Children of the atom, students of the mysterious Professor X . . . MUTANTS! These are the strangest heroes of all, hated and feared by the very world they have sworn to protect!

  AN INSTANT COLLECTOR’S ITEM: MARVEL’S GREATEST SUPERHEROES IN COVER-TO-COVER ACTION!

  “ODIN’S BEARD!” THOR CRIED.

  “THE MONSTER DOTH ENDURE!”

  Only a small dent in Ultron’s chest marked the impact of Mjolnir, though it had driven him back half the breadth of the room and deep into the reinforced concrete floor.

  “Your worst cannot injure me, Thunder God! Now feel the naked power of Ultron without your vaunted hammer to protect you.”

  From nowhere, Captain America leaped in front of Ultron, taking with his shield the full fury of Ultron’s blast beam, reflecting most of the force back against Ultron himself. He staggered back a step, but Captain America was bowled over.

  “Come, demon, let us match strength ’gainst strength!” said Thor, suddenly leaping forward to grapple with Ultron.

  “I see only how easily you are tricked, fool,” cackled Ultron, as searing energy lanced from his glowing eyes, striking Thor full in the face.

  “Mine eyes! I cannot see!” Thor’s grip faltered momentarily and Ultron broke free, raising his ultra-hard fists to bring down a death blow . . .

  Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of

  GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION

  1230 Avenue of the Americas,

  New York, N.Y. 10020

  Copyright © 1979 by Marvel Comics Group, a division of Cadence Industries Corporation. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Marvel Comics Group,

  575 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022

  ISBN: 0-671-82091-5

  First Pocket Books printing September, 1979

  Cover Art by Dave Cockrum.

  Printed in Canada

  CONTENTS

  THE AVENGERS

  in This Evil Undying by James Shooter

  DAREDEVIL

  in Blind Justice by Kyle Christopher

  THE X-MEN

  in Children of the Atom by Mary Jo Duffy

  THE INCREDIBLE HULK

  in Museum Piece by Len Wein

  THE

  AVENGERS

  THIS EVIL UNDYING

  by JAMES SHOOTER

  Tony Stark adjusted a rheostat and the milky-white lab windows began to clear. Outside, the floodlights were still keeping the darkness at bay, and for as far as Stark could see from his third-story vantage point, the grounds of Stark International were quiet.

  One hundred yards away, across the well-tended lawn that insulated the Stark complex from its Long Island surroundings, two of his security men moved about their climate-controlled guardhouse. They were monitoring the electronic defense systems that protected the perimeter. In a minute, Stark knew, they’d log in an “all secure” and settle back with The New York Times for another hour.

  Stark wondered whether all would remain secure for the next hour. The peril was real . . . the threat was imminent. Worse, it was all his fault.

  He focused on his ghostly reflection barely visible in the polarized glass a foot from his face and saw accusation in the black phantom eyes staring back at him. No mercy. The accusation was firm. He should have anticipated, should have taken precautions and averted the crisis. He didn’t. He failed.

  Death for all mankind walked the Earth this night.

  With a too-violent flick of the rheostat dial, Stark dispatched his accuser into matte-white oblivion. The room mellowed as the computer-controlled, indirect lights automatically compensated down, adjusting to the reflectivity of the once-again opaque window-walls.

  Usually, the sublime efficiency of computers delighted Anthony Stark, especially when they were of his own design. For the past hour, though, the notion of computer infallibility had been, frankly, terrifying.

  An hour ago he had become aware of the existence of Ultron.

  It was an awesome concept.

  Somewhere out there existed an immensely powerful, virtually indestructible, sentient computer possessed of overwhelming hatred for things of flesh. It existed again. Because of Stark.

  Start felt a chill race up his spine. He shivered.

  Obligingly, the lab computer raised the temperature half a degree.

  “Damn,” Stark muttered.

  With a great effort of will, he banished the weariness that had driven him to abandon his labors for the past few moments. He dared rest no longer. Ultron would not rest. Right now, he was preparing to strike. The end could begin in days—or in minutes.

  He strode across the room toward a table upon which, in the midst of an array of microelectronic parts, rested a half-completed electronic device the size of a pocket calculator. As Stark sat down, a large magnifying lens, mounted on a swing arm, automatically positioned itself at the proper viewing distance between his eyes and his work. Out of spite for the computer. Stark manually adjusted the lens a fraction, putting it actually just a bit out of focus, and began again to microsolder circuit chips into place. The device was a weapon of sorts. It would be his only means of striking at Ultron, if the worst that he suspected was true. He hoped his device would cause a delay in Ultron’s plans to enslave all flesh and blood. At the very least, perhaps it would create an inconvenience for Ultron. There would be a price, of course. Stark’s death.

  At the hands of a friend.

  Stark looked out of place, hunched over a worktable, his fitted, white silk shirt; his expensive, black designer slacks; and his sun-bronzed skin suggesting more leisurely activities. But, then, Anthony Stark’s appearance was misleading in many ways. He seemed too young, no older than his early thirties, to be the principal owner and chief executive of an industrial giant like Stark International. At six feet one, 195 solid pounds, he looked more like an athlete than an inventor, yet he held more than a hundred patents. His inventions had enabled him to build an empire from the small string of factories and machine shops he’d inherited from his father. Society columns characterized Tony Stark as a playboy. He often was seen with a variety of dazzlingly beautiful women in the most exclusive places, acting like a playboy. Certainly, with his strong handsome features, accented by a narrow black mustache, and his black hair, neatly trimmed, slightly wavy, he looked like a playboy. His steel-blue eyes, however, gave him away. They were disturbingly deep, too thoughtful
and wise for the face of a philanderer. They alone showed evidence of the fierce, relentless pace at which Stark worked and played.

  “Time?” he said quietly without looking up from his work.

  “Three thirty-seven and seventeen seconds, A.M.” replied the computer, in a pleasant voice. Stark’s own. The sound triggered the same reaction as the phantom eyes had. Stark’s brow furrowed with the renewed weight of responsibility—and fear.

  But then, Anthony Stark was a very responsible individual, and one quite accustomed to dealing with fear.

  “Memo,” Stark said, firmly.

  “Ready,” said the too-pleasant Stark-voiced computer.

  “To Mrs. Donenfeld and the legal staff: Please reexamine and update my will as soon as possible. I’d like a report. Thank you, signed, Tony.

  “Memo.”

  “Ready.”

  “To computer-maintenance staff: Please replace the goddamned voice tapes on the laboratory computer. I’m going crazy talking to myself. How about Liv Ullmann’s voice or Catherine Deneuve’s or Don Rickies’? Anybody’s. Thank you, signed, Stark.

  “End of memo.”

  It occurred to Stark that it was rather optimistic to be worrying about whose voice the lab computer had tomorrow, since there might not be a tomorrow.

  He chuckled.

  “Time?”

  “Three thirty-nine and one second A.M.”

  “Coffee, please,” Stark said, resolutely, adding with a sigh. “It’s going to be a long night.” The computer responded to the key words, “coffee, please,” by delivering a steaming cup of Colombian Blue Mountain coffee from behind a sliding panel in the wall within his reach. It had no comment on its inventor’s weary lament.

  “Time?” said Stark through a yawn.

  “Five-oh-seven and twelve seconds A.M.”

  Stark placed the product of his night’s work into a small, steel carrying case, clicked the lid shut.

  He stretched, yawned, and reached for his briefcase.

  The briefcase looked ordinary, but under the leather finish it was armored with titanium. Carefully, Stark placed his thumb on a small blank panel cenr tered under the handle. A web of microcircuitry inside the panel, reading the correct fingerprint pattern, responded by snapping open the twin vanadium-steel latches.

  Stark lifted the lid, and unfastened the hidden latches to the case’s cleverly constructed false bottom, raising that to expose several gold-and-crimson objects—oddly shaped, glistening—and fitted precisely into felt-lined spaces. He removed the objects one by one. The first two, entirely red, unfolded as he lifted them, taking on the appearance of flattened boots, segmented from the inch-thick flat soles, to midcalf. They were topped with thick cuffs three inches wide. They were metallic, and yet, as pliable as stiff cloth, and far too light to be made of any known metal. Laying the boots on the table, Stark next removed gauntlets of similar design from the case. A headpiece followed, red except for a faceplate which was golden, and slit with eye and mouth openings. Packed beneath these were trunks and tunic also red, also made of the pliable metallic substance. Last, Stark removed two circular pods, each approximately six inches in diameter, flat on one side, convex on the other. They were red, like most of the other gear, but were very solid metal, and as heavy as one would expect steel disks to be.

  Having examined each piece, Stark quickly undressed, tossing his expensive clothes across a chair. Then, with routine ease, he donned the bulky tunic and trunks, boots and gauntlets. After fastening the circular power pods to couplings on each hip, he pressed a stud in his belt, and suddenly his hitherto-bare arms and legs were covered by a gleaming golden sheath of metal, which had sprung from the gauntlet and boot cuffs to seal magnetically against his trunks and tunic. Moreover, with the activation of the belt switch the appearance of all the parts of the costume had changed. What had apparently been thickened seams at the shoulders of the tunic had become inch-thick, inch-high reinforcing epaulets. A golden circle on the chest had gained dimension and become a built-in beacon. Clearly, the costume was metal, now. It looked hard. In fact, it had become armor, proof against the deadliest agents of destruction known to man, and yet somehow, impossibly, it was still flexible. Stark lifted the headpiece from the table and slipped it over his head. There was a soft click signifying its locking into place. As ionic energy from the pods surged into the headpiece, its unstable molecules polarized. metallicized, solidified. It became a helmet, the mouth and eye slits forming a grim visage belying the gentle face which had vanished beneath. And yet, for the first time this night, there was no mistake to be made about the man in this laboratory. For, in many ways, Anthony Stark, man of misleading images was gone, replaced by his creation—a modern knight, a deadly foe. a grim Avenger.

  Once again, Iron Man lived.

  Moving with amazing ease for an armored man, the striking crimson-and-gold figure crossed the room and picked up the metal case bearing his doom device. He looked toward the ceiling and very deliberately willed the skylight to open. Inside his helmet, a web of cybernetic circuitry, which controlled most of the armor’s functions, received and interpreted the thought command, causing the transmitter built into the right gauntlet to emit an ultrahigh-frequency beep.

  The remote-controlled skylight panel quickly, silently slid back revealing the cloudless, cobalt, predawn sky.

  With another thought, Iron Man’s powerful boot jets came to life, and his gleaming form surged upward, arcing into the dying night.

  Janet Van Dyne Pym sat bolt upright in bed, awakened by a sudden lurching and an ear-splitting roar. It sounded as though the south wall of her large, comfortable, Cresskill, New Jersey, home had been ripped away all at once.

  It had.

  Out of habit she looked at the digital clock radio on the nightstand. It read 5:21. It was barely beginning to grow light outside.

  She sighed, forcing her taut muscles to relax as she shifted her assessment of the situation from earthquake to nightmare. Leaning back slowly, wearily, she again settled into her satin-covered pillow. Almost immediately waves of sleep eroded the tension of a moment before, and oblivious peace enveloped her. After all, she was entirely unaccustomed to awakening before noon.

  A noise like a cannon shot shattered the stillness as the house shook again.

  Janet Pym’s eyes snapped open wide.

  It was real.

  She threw the satin sheet aside and scrambled out of bed.

  Smaller sounds of destruction rattled the house intermittently now. It was coming from the south wing.

  Hank’s lab?

  She started toward the door, then stopped abruptly, remembering that she was naked. She reached for the chiffon robe lying across her vanity chair, then jerked her hand back, thinking better of wearing a filmy negligee.

  It was Hank’s favorite.

  Why wasn’t he here? Why did he have to be halfway around the world at a stupid symposium?

  The crashing continued, louder now.

  Closer?

  She could feel the power behind each thunderous impact. Someone or something awesome was smashing her home.

  Trembling, her hands raised to her brow, she lowered her head and closed her eyes, fighting the tide of clamoring, racing thoughts. Her breath came in nervous, shuddering gasps.

  Gray light, heralding the approach of dawn, pervaded the room, painting everything in shades of despair. Janet Pym’s soft fair skin looked wan and bloodless. Her slender but strong, supple limbs appeared fragile and brittle. Warm sensuality fled her enticingly rounded breasts and stirringly curved hips. Her body seemed cold and untouchable, an erotic sculpture in ice, a figure of eerie beauty, standing alone in a surreal chamber of bleak luxury and harsh comfort.

  Just a door away from death.

  She composed herself.

  Calm now, though her heart was still pounding, she gathered clothing from a special section of her wardrobe and hurriedly began to dress.

  Moments later, she slipped out int
o the hall clad in a formfitting, sleeveless, yellow body suit, made of a strange shimmering material. There were two vertical slits in the back, one over each shoulder blade. She wore boots that matched the body suit and pale-yellow tights. Around her neck there was a flat, featureless inch-wide metallic band.

  Stealthily she crept down the thickly-carpeted hall.

  As she passed a mirror, without pausing, or thinking, she fluffed her medium-length, deep brown, Sassooned hair.

  It grew cold as Janet Pym approached the laboratory. A burning smell mingled with the dewy scent of morning air.

  She peered cautiously through the open laboratory door.

  The outer wall was gone. Tattered remnants of the insulation fluttered in the light breeze that was blowing through the jagged hole in the reinforced brick wall. Debris cluttered the floor. Fixtures were smashed, some were smoldering. Broken water pipes hissed and gurgled Hank’s “impregnable” walk-in safe was open! The heavy door, battered and cracked, lay partially imbedded in the wall on the opposite side of the room.

  She heard a scraping noise from inside the vault.

  Janet edged out farther, trying to see inside the vault. It was dark. Something was moving around, but she couldn’t make it out.

  The visible proof of its destructive capacity settled the issue, however. First she would summon help—powerful help. And while help was on its way, she would continue scouting the enemy, cautiously, in a manner uniquely hers—and, well, Hank’s too, but not as much so. Pleased with her plan, she pulled her head back from the doorway.

  Too late.

  A bolt of light lanced out from inside the vault, shattering the steel-reinforced wall behind which Janet Pym hid.

  She screamed, tumbling backward as the wall vanished in a flash of searing heat and a shower of fragments.

  Singed, bruised but still alive, she opened her eyes. Somewhere beyond the red haze obscuring her vision, a grotesque figure lumbered closer. She saw it, and dazedly watched it approach for a second or two before she realized the significance of what she saw.