Marvel Novel Series 06 - Iron Man - And Call My Killer ... Modok!

by William Rotsler

  The smokestack was still doing its slow motion fall when Iron Man zoomed along, dodging through the factories at the second-floor level. He had thought of a plan.

  First, he had to test the connections between his brain and the suit. Forty-five degrees up. The suit responded. Level off, right turn, left turn—everything worked. It wasn’t the suit, it was him, his brain. The ion blast had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. A man’s reality was his mind and his memories. If they weren’t there, or he couldn’t trust them, he wasn’t himself—literally.

  Now: catch the Hornet and find out who is flying it and what they are up to.

  Iron Man raced at top speed after the faint dot of the Hornet. He rose up to a height over the ship and slowly drew abreast of it, analyzing its defenses. It had been designed for a war where the good guys had total aerial superiority. He had placed all the weaponry to be effective toward the side or down at the ground. Coming in from the top would be his only choice.

  Iron Man smiled thinly. If it was daytime he could come in out of the sun, just like a World War I movie. You can’t send a kid up in a crate like that. They didn’t have crates like the Hornet. Not even the U.S. Army had a crate like that because Stark had mothballed the prototype when it was obvious they didn’t need it. Enough destruction was being let loose by the available forces.

  He came in from the top, coming almost straight down, his fists out, ready to strike.

  Only the pilot had thought of the ship’s weakness, too.

  Iron Man was met with a repulsor blast at the closest range yet. This time when he regained consciousness he was underwater.

  The suit’s automatic defenses had gone into effect. He wouldn’t have drowned, he’d have just suffocated when his air supply ran out. He was deep in the slime of one of New Jersey’s polluted lakes. Disgustedly, he blasted out, fountaining up into the night sky and heading back toward Stark International.

  Let’s face it, he thought, I’ve been outmaneuvered and outfought. The only consolation is that I designed the weapons for the other side, he told himself.

  He felt even worse when he found that the hard-fighting pilot of the Hornet had been a woman; then, astonished that it had apparently been Marla Gafford, from Research.

  “Jasper, what is going on tonight?”

  “Iron Man . . . ah, I regret to inform you that the plans for your armor were stolen from the files.”

  “No, they weren’t, Jasper. I chased that AIM flyer and it blew up over Briarwood somewhere.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jasper said. “And while all the noise and alarms were going off here, someone broke the code on the computer and siphoned off the plans from there.” He looked darkly in the direction of the departed Hornet. “And that someone was Marla Gafford.”

  Iron Man let out a sigh. “The first man was just a diversion.”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “That AIM—!” He turned away angrily, not wanting to see the fire being put down in the Administration wing. “What in the name of humanity is that godforsaken bunch up to?”

  “Sir,” Jasper said, stepping close. “Why don’t we take a little trip up to the SHIELD helicarrier and talk to Colonel Fury?” He whispered the next sentence after looking around carefully. “Colonel Fury has some sleeper agents himself. In AIM.”

  “All right, Jasper. Get a helicopter ready and give Fury a call.”

  “I should check with Mr. Stark, sir, as soon as he arrives.”

  “No time,” Iron Man said. “I’ll scout around, see if I can pick up any clues, and I’ll meet you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jasper said politely, but his eyes looked shrewdly after Iron Man as he strode off. “I’ll have SHIELD give you a buzz on the present coordinates of the helicarrier.” Iron Man waved in response.

  There’s something about that man that confuses me, Jasper thought. His relationship with Anthony Stark, for one. If it wasn’t a matter of medical record about Stark’s bad heart, I’d swear he and Iron Man were the same person, yet . . .

  With a disgusted shake of his head, Jasper Sitwell set off to arrange the rendezvous with the mighty SHIELD helicarrier. The crackling of the fire and the clang of still-arriving fire engines made the area very noisy. But before anything else, Jasper Sitwell had to devise a quick new code for the computer files, something to be a stopgap for the leak until a better—and hopefully secure—code could be devised.

  Nine

  The SHIELD helicarrier was a master achievement, a billion-dollar flying fortress and laboratory. It came west, from over rural Pennsylvania, to meet Sitwell’s jet helicopter over New Jersey. Almost at the same time, Iron Man’s crimson- and gold-form was detected streaking through the late-night skies by the ever-vigilant guardians of the airborne command post.

  Iron Man came to a halt on the landing deck next to Jasper’s grounded chopper and the two men went below decks together. Iron Man strode ahead, his armored feet making a clanging rhythm on the metal flooring. He knew right where to go—the command center.

  “So we’ve got to pull your chestnuts out of the fire, huh?” Nick Fury said, shifting his cigar stump from one side of his mouth to the other.

  Iron Man said nothing in reply, but strode on past him to a large telemap, with small, moving lights indicating the location of the helicarrier’s aircraft. “That’s right,” Fury said, taking out his cigar only long enough to spit into an old-fashioned brass spittoon. “Soon as Jasper here called, I sent out half of the pilots on patrol.”

  Iron Man turned and took a long look at his old companion-in-arms. Dressed in his usual black, strung with equipment belts and weapons, he was—as always—combat ready. Also, as always, he was unshaven. His excuse varied, but it was usually that he didn’t have time. That excuse people could believe, for SHIELD was a twenty-four-hour organization, ready to go and fight wherever and whenever needed.

  He wore the same eye patch, Iron Man noted, covering an eye lost in service in World War II, when he had been the toughest of infantry noncoms. But now he was an officer, a colonel, and one of the toughest and most skilled fighters Iron Man had ever known. Behind the impassive golden mask, Tony Stark smiled. He knew one thing: he never wanted Nick Fury after him!

  “Made some calls, too,” Fury said, throwing himself into a metal chair bolted to the deck. “Called in a few favors, collected a little intelligence about our adversaries in good ol’ AIM.” Fury chuckled roughly and repeated the word, “Adversaries.” He took out his cigar butt and looked at it critically, then stuck it back in. “Dirty no-good back-stabbin’ freaks, that’s what they are.”

  “We know how you feel, Nick,” Iron Man said. “What’s the intelligence?”

  “AIM’s in trouble. And we’re the cause,” he added with a leer. “SHIELD, you, The Avengers, the common citizen who won’t go for one of their hypes or cons. But mostly us, the action arm. We’ve been smashing up their operations wherever we find them. And we’ve been hurting the finks—first and second generation, both. Not only actual AIM operations, but other criminal setups, outfits that have been buying equipment from them. Even small-time operators, three- and four-man gangs that buy plans from them to rob banks or rip off some computer-run outfit.”

  “They broke the security code on Stark International’s secret data file,” Jasper Sitwell said. “I’ve put a temporary Langley-Ten puzzle code on the computer,” he said to Iron Man. “Tell Mister Stark, will you, if you see him first?”

  “Right,” Iron Man said. “Sounds like AIM is into a lot of things.”

  Fury nodded, puffing on his cigar. “The whole ball o’ wax: plans, operations, fencing stolen goods—and stolen ideas—everything. But still, we’ve been hurtin’ them bad.” He looked hard at Iron Man. “I figure they needed something big, a really hot item, something to get them ahead, pay the bills, as it were; something to bring in big money.”

  “The armor plans,” Sitwell breathed.

  “The plans . . . or the iron suits,” Fury said. “I
f AIM controls the deal, if they keep the plans, then they can control not only the number, but who gets them. They can jack up the price if they wanna. Looks like you’re going to have a lot of opposition, Iron Man.”

  But Iron Man didn’t seem to be worried. He was very still, obviously thinking, so Sitwell spoke. “Getting something as complex and as big as a production line for suits like Iron Man’s won’t be easy. It could take a couple of years. More, if we harass them. We should try to anticipate where they might set up production facilities. Central or South America, maybe.”

  “I heard AIM has a stranglehold on at least one banana republic and another one—one of them new nations—over in Africa. They could always bribe politicians in some European country, I suppose, hide things away.” He chewed at the inside of his mouth a moment. “Just like hitting the ball-bearing factories in Germany during the big war. Didn’t have an effect immediately, but pretty soon everything ground to a rusty halt. Yeah, I agree. We try to figure out where we’d put up an iron suit factory and then—”

  “Don’t bother,” said Iron Man, coming out of his musings.

  “What d’ya mean?” Fury demanded. “You know something we don’t. Some place, maybe, where these dudes might set up?”

  “They won’t. Not with those plans. They’re dummies.”

  Sitwell looked shocked. “False information in our data bank?”

  Iron Man nodded. “Only Tony Stark and I know where the real plans are, and they are safe. But we both thought that someday someone would go after the specifications and designs. So we went to the trouble of making up some really good-looking fakes. They fooled you, didn’t they?” he said to Sitwell.

  Jasper looked discomforted. “Sir, I am not supposed to . . . I mean, I have no need to know, and I—”

  “Oh, come on, Jasper,” Iron Man said in a light tone. “You’re curious. Well, did they pass inspection?”

  Sitwell flushed. “Yes, sir, they . . . they seemed quite accurate . . . from what I knew. You must remember that the data bank is part of my responsibility and—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nick Fury interrupted. “You an’ those yo-yos got some phonies. How long before they find out they were taken?”

  Iron Man shrugged. “Depends. An ordinary engineer might be fooled for weeks, at least until he tried to make a prototype. The suit just wouldn’t function well. It would have . . . flaws.”

  “But what if whoever ripped off your plans was no ordinary engineer, what then?” Fury snapped.

  “Then . . . perhaps very soon. What they stole from SI would make, maybe, a good Tin Man from Oz. But whoever is running AIM’s engineering section might—”

  “Forget it. You know how they run that bunch o’ creeps—from the top down. And at the top is Modok.”

  Jasper Sitwell grew pale. Modok was one of the most enduring adversaries Iron Man or any of them had ever faced. He was utterly ruthless and hated everyone. They were in big trouble.

  Marla Gafford stood in the spotlight, trying to conceal her impatience and her fear. In the darkness before her, up in the circle of television monitors she could see her monstrous master scanning through the computer printouts.

  It was a thick file. The famous, powered suit was very complex. There were pages of specifications, diagrams, construction procedures, electronics plans, mechanical operations, lists, and still more plans. She had worked feverishly at a computer terminal after using the electronic code-breaking instrument AIM had given her. She had heard the fire alarm go off and had smiled: Modok had suggested she turn off the water supply, just in case. The computer had taken ages to print out the long specifications for Iron Man’s supersecret suit, even in its fast-printing mode. Now she was waiting for praise . . . and for a reward.

  She hated looking up at the monstrous supreme scientist of Advanced Idea Mechanics. Just looking at him made her squeamish. He was—literally and actually—the head of AIM. He was almost all head, with a body that seemed trivial by comparison. The body existed only as a support mechanism for the grotesque cranium. Even then it was not enough: a complex, motorized chair, self-propelled and armed, kept him alive.

  A glance up at Modok and she could see the myriad buttons and dials, the snouts of weapons built into the rocket chair. She could also see the rig of metal bands that supported the heavy head. Modok’s face was in proportion to his head—it was a yard wide. An ugly face: bulging eyes over an evil mouth filled with teeth; shaggy, lank hair; pale skin; and above all, an expression of perpetual anger and abiding evil.

  Yet it was to this paragon of evil she had vowed loyalty. Years before, she had been recruited by AIM, tested and found amenable to their uses for her. She had been planted within Stark International with great care. Her advance through GM, GE, Westinghouse, Electronix-West, and Evanier Electronics had been carefully guided. At the right time she had come up with breakthrough discoveries—all courtesy of AIM captive scientists. Stark International had felt good about employing her, and she had proven a productive employee, even without any aid from AIM.

  It had started with greed—and that most useless of emotions: envy.

  She had seen her peers advance while she had not, in those early years. At first she blamed it on the fact that she was a woman, but when other women gained prestige, better jobs, academic approval, and industrial merit, she quietly discarded that argument. She began to realize she was good—but not very good. She was stalemated.

  Then someone she knew was not as good as she was, got a certain sought-after position at Evanier Electronics. That was the straw that broke the back of her control. She raged around her apartment, smashing dishes, pounding walls, crying, and screaming. It wasn’t fair!

  Perhaps AIM had been watching; perhaps their timing had just been fortunate. In any case, they approached her, obliquely, and she was just bitter enough to bite. They had dangled a vision before her: money, power, glory . . . and the chance for revenge against those who had passed her over.

  She had advanced. She had felt a growing sense of power. Warned against that most deadly of poisons for a sleeper agent—the feeling of being forgotten and useless—she had reacted in just the opposite manner: by feeling she was being saved for something extraordinarily important.

  And if anything was important, it was Iron Man’s fabulous suit. And she, Marla Gafford, had gotten it for her employer. Her back straightened; she awaited suitable commendation.

  She saw the baleful, hate-filled eyes of Modok turn from the thick sheaf of plans to her. She trembled involuntarily. He can’t help it, she told herself. He just looks monstrous. But a secret little voice deep within her ran through her consciousness like a bug running for safety: Modok is evil.

  “This is useless to me,” Modok said, his voice shrill and angry. “Useless!”

  “But, Modok, I-I-I got it right from the computer files, with the lock breaker your men gave me, I didn’t—”

  “Fool!” The woman cringed under the booming voice. There were figures moving in the shadows, helmeted AIM minions. “It is a clever imitation. Only the designer could have done it and only Modok could have found the flaws.” His small hand cascaded the printouts down from his lofty chair. They fell noisily, folding and bending until they ended in an untidy pile at the bottom of the column upon which Modok had enthroned himself.

  “But these plans are useless to me!” Modok roared. “I’d build something only slightly better than a walking scarecrow, if I followed these plans—and a damned expensive scarecrow!”

  “Master, I assure you, I—”

  There was a guttural roar from Modok and an abrupt motion of one of his deformed arms. Helmeted figures ran in and seized Marla’s arms, ignoring her scream of protest.

  “No! It’s not my fault! I didn’t know, how could I?”

  “Room 101,” Modok said, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

  The uniformed men dragged Marla away. “No, please, give me another chance! I won’t fail you again! Next time, I’ll—”
>
  The door slid closed behind them and there was silence in the dark arena. Modok was alone. He savored his rage for a long moment, adding it like fuel to the fire that burned eternally within him. It was a fire that did not require refueling—it burned with a bright flame at all times, but sometimes a bit of fuel gave it shape.

  Modok hated.

  He hated with an all-consuming hatred, for there was nothing he loved—nothing.

  If he could not have their love and admiration, then he would have their fear and respect. He did not want their pity, but he would have their lives. He would have power.

  Power.

  The power to destroy a thing is the absolute power over it, and he had that power and would have more. At first, power had been necessary just to survive, but as he gained power he found out something certain men and women had known—that power was addictive. Now he had to have power for its own sake—power to control.

  In contrast, Modok believed not that power corrupted, but that power ennobled. And absolute power ennobled absolutely.

  Riches and power—but if a choice were to be made, the sensible, prudent man would choose power, for the lack of power also corrupts.

  Power was freedom. Power was never having to say, “Yes, sir” to anyone. Powerlessness was an obscene state. Modok was determined never to be without power again.

  Power came in all sizes. Sometimes, as Modok secretly knew, the small powers were very gratifying. Such as the power to kill an insect.

  His hand pushed a switch and a television screen flickered to life. Room 101, that very special room with that very special number, a number he had taken from Orwell’s 1984. The room where you met whatever it was that frightened you most.

  Spiders, snakes, pain, disfigurement, rats, electric shock, surgical experimentation, sexual perversion, humiliation, dismemberment, loss of motion control, and whatever else it took to break someone.

  Anyone could be broken, given the right tools and the right information. Some would take longer, some would break almost at once. He shrewdly guessed that Marla Gafford would not take long.