Civil War Prose Novel (2 page)

Or is this the last, the only take?

Nitro was a ball of fire now. Only his glaring eyes were visible, searing into Namorita’s.

“You’re playing with the big boys now,” Nitro said.

The energy flared out from him, consuming Namorita first. She arched in pain, let out a silent scream, then dissolved into skeletal ash. The shockwave continued to spread outward, engulfing camera, cameraman, school bus. Night Thrasher, then Microbe. The house, and the three villains sprawled in its backyard.

The children.

Eight hundred fifty-nine residents of Stamford, Connecticut died that day. But Robbie Baldwin, the young hero called Speedball, never knew that. As Robbie’s body boiled into vapor, as the kinetic energy inside him burst forth for the last time into the void, his final thought was:

At least I won’t have to get old.

ENERGY
tingled across his skin, dancing along the millimeter-thick sheath covering his body. Wireless sensors reached out, touched matching circuits on boots, chestplate, leggings. Microprocessors winked to life, each one faster than the last. Armor plates snapped open, seeking out his body, locking into place, completing each circuit in turn. Gloves clicked onto fingers, one two three four-five-ten.

The helmet came last, wafting easily into his hands. He lifted it onto his head and snapped the faceplate down.

With the first light of dawn, Tony Stark rose up into the Manhattan sky.

Avengers Tower dropped away below. Tony looked down, executed a vertical half-turn. The Manhattan skyline spiraled into view, majestic and sprawling. To the north, Central Park lay like a green blanket on a bed of gray. Southward, the tall, tapering maze of Wall Street narrowed to a sharp point in the water.

New York was home, and Tony loved it. But today he was restless.

A dozen indicator lights clamored for Tony’s attention, but he ignored them.
Where,
he wondered,
should I go for breakfast this morning? The Cloisters? Quick jaunt to the Vineyard? Or maybe a longer hop, down to Boca?
Serena would just be setting up for the day at the Delray Hyatt—she’d be stunned to see him again.

No, he realized. Today he was restless. Today would be different.

With a quick mental command, he dialed Pepper Potts. The call went straight to voice mail.

“Cancel my morning,” he said. “Thanks, doll.”

Pepper was never off duty. The voice mail meant she was deliberately ignoring him. No matter; she’d be acting on his instructions within minutes.

Tony banked sideways, cast a quick glance down at Central Park. Then he fired up his boot-jets—and the invincible Iron Man shot out across the city, over the East River.

The phone-messages light was winking, but Tony couldn’t deal with that yet. He clicked the autopilot on, making sure the special FAA notification beacon was activated. He soared over LaGuardia Airport, banked left, and blinked twice at the RSS feed. Before his eyes, a menu of headlines appeared.

More economic trouble in the European Union; he’d have to double-check his holdings later. Another Mideast war looked ready to break out, maybe as soon as today. Pepper had flagged a magazine feature on the Mexican subsidiary of Stark Enterprises too. Tony would have to make sure Nuñez, that division’s COO, remembered the company’s strict no-munitions policy.

And the Senate Metahumans Investigations Committee was in the news again. That reminded Tony of another duty, so he clicked over to email. Scanned a couple hundred messages: charities, contracts, old friends, old supposed friends who wanted money, invitations, Avengers business, financial statements…

…there it was. Confirmation of his own testimony before the Metahumans Committee, next week. That was an important one—there’d be no long-distance flight to blow off steam that day.

The Committee had been formed to investigate abuses of superhuman power, and to recommend standards and regulations to govern the actions of metahumans. Like many Congressional committees, it served largely to score political points for its members. But Tony had to admit that, as the world had grown more dangerous, super-powered beings had become less and less popular among civilians. As the highest profile Avenger with a publicly known identity, Tony felt a special obligation to make sure both sides of the issue were heard.

Below, a passenger ship was just pulling into Pelham Bay. Tony waved down at them, and a few tourists waved back. Then he soared up and out, over the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.

Scattered ships below, at first. Then just waves: massive, rolling, a pure, endless display of natural power. The sight calmed Tony, focused him. Slowly, the real source of his anxiety rose to the surface of his mind.

Thor.

The messenger from Asgard, home of the Norse gods, had appeared suddenly. Twelve feet tall, massive and stern, hovering in a mist of smoky fog above Avengers Tower. Tony had greeted the messenger on the roof, with Carol Danvers—the Avenger called Ms. Marvel—hovering just above. She floated tall and graceful, her body lithe and strong in flowing blue and red. Captain America stood with them, in full uniform, alongside Tigra, the orange-furred cat-woman.

For a moment, the messenger said nothing. Then he unfurled a parchment scroll, yellowed with age, and began to read.

“RAGNAROK HAS COME,” he said. “I AM SENT TO NOTIFY YOU OF THE THUNDER GOD’S FATE. YOU WILL SEE HIM NO MORE.”

Tigra’s eyes went wide with alarm. Captain America, teeth gritted, stepped forward. “We’re ready. Tell us where to go.”

“NO. IT IS DONE. RAGNAROK HAS COME AND PASSED, LAYING WASTE TO ALL ASGARD.”

Tony flew up into the air, confronting the messenger directly. “Look,” he began.

“THOR HAS FALLEN IN BATTLE. HE IS NO MORE.”

At those words, a terrible, sunken feeling had taken hold of Tony. He felt dizzy, almost tumbled out of the sky.

“I AM HERE OUT OF RESPECT FOR WHAT HE MEANT TO YOU. BUT HEAR ME: THIS IS FATHER ODIN’S FINAL MESSAGE. FROM THIS DAY, THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER CONTACT BETWEEN MIDGARD AND ASGARD, BETWEEN YOUR REALM AND OURS.

“THOR IS DEAD. THE AGE OF GODS IS DONE.”

And with a peal of dull, echoing thunder, the messenger was gone.

That was four weeks ago. Now, soaring out over the ocean, Tony heard the words again in his head: THE AGE OF GODS IS DONE.

Well,
he thought.
Maybe. Maybe not.

Tony had grieved for Thor, this past month. The Avengers had discussed their sorrow and also their frustration: After dozens, hundreds of battles together, their friend and comrade had apparently died alone, in a war fought far away, on some other plane of existence entirely. Not only had the Avengers been powerless to help their friend, but they probably couldn’t even have
perceived
the battle that took his life.

Now, though, Tony began to realize that something else was nagging at him. Thor hadn’t just been his friend; the thunder god had been the linchpin, the very center of the Avengers. Tony and Cap were both strong-willed men, each with his own strengths and flaws: Cap was ruled by heart and instinct, Tony by a faith in the power of industry and technology. Several times since the founding of the team, they’d almost come to blows over some matter of strategy or sacrifice. And each time, Thor had spoken up with that booming voice that left no room for argument. He’d remind them of their duties or laugh at their folly, and his gigantic mirth always brought them together. Or else he would just walk up behind and clap both men both on the back, so hard it nearly fused Tony’s armor to his skin.

Tony had tried to reach out to Cap, but the super-soldier had been very quiet these past weeks. Tony had a terrible feeling that Thor’s death had driven some permanent wedge through the heart of the Avengers.

Otherwise, things were going well. Stark Enterprises was flush with Homeland Security contracts, and if there was no one special woman in Tony’s life right now, there were four or five incredibly hot ones. Overall, the last few years had been a very good time to be Tony Stark.

And yet, he couldn’t shake this dread. The feeling, deep in his metal-sheathed heart, that something profoundly horrible was about to happen.

Another light winked on. Happy Hogan, Tony’s chauffeur.

“Morning, Hap.”

“Mister Stark. You need me to pick you up?”

Something loomed up ahead, bobbing on the choppy water, barely visible through the cloud layer. Tony peered at it, briefly distracted.

“Mister Stark?”

“Uh, not this morning, Happy. I don’t think you could bring the car around where I am.”

“Another hotel room? Who is she this time?”

Tony dipped below the clouds, banked around in an arc—and spotted a small, 24-foot fishing vessel. Probably Portuguese, but a
long
way out from home port. It was listing, taking in water over the choppy sea. Crewmen struggled on deck, trying to bail out water with buckets, but they were losing ground.

“Ring you later, Hap.”

Tony swooped in toward the ship. A massive wave swelled beneath it, tipping it up on its side. The crewmen grabbed frantically for masts, supports. But the wave pushed relentlessly. The ship was about to capsize.

As Tony dove, he called up a web listing for 24-foot ships. Weight would be somewhere between 3400 and 4200 pounds, not counting crewmen or cargo. A strain, but with the new microcontrollers on his shoulder-muscle augmenters, it should be doable. The ship’s stern rose up before him, pointing almost straight up into the air now. He grabbed hold of the stern, kicked in the microcontrollers with a mental command, and pushed.

To his shock, the boat continued to press against him, forcing him downward toward the sea. His armor, he realized, had stalled; the controllers had failed to engage. Four thousand pounds of fishing boat pushed down now against Tony’s normal, human muscles.

Just then a call rang through—an Avengers Tower priority number. Tony swore; he couldn’t take it now. With half a thought, he activated the auto-text reply:
Will call back.

Below him, fishermen hung from the masts, crying out in panic. They’d be underwater in seconds.

Tony couldn’t fire repulsor rays; at this range, they’d shatter the boat to splinters. He forced himself to breathe and executed a force-reboot of the microcontrollers. Lights danced before his eyes…and then, this time, the controllers engaged. Energy flowed into his metallic exoskeleton. Tony pushed, too hard at first, and grabbed at the boat to correct its course. Then he eased it back down, settling it gently into the water.

The sea had calmed, temporarily. Tony called up an internal translation memo, chose PORTUGUESE.

“You’d better head back to port,” he said. The armor translated his words seamlessly, amplifying them to the fishermen below.

A relieved, soaked captain smiled sheepishly back up at him. His mouth formed words in Portuguese, and Tony heard the armor’s metallic voice: “Thank you, Mister Anthony Stark.”

Huh,
Tony thought.
They even know me in Portugal.

He swooped upward, high enough to make out the coastlines of Portugal and Spain. The water seemed calm enough for safe passage, so he waved farewell to the ship and shot off toward the shore.

Those microcontrollers were trouble. Tony had always had trouble with microcircuitry; the smaller his work got, the more likely it was to misfire. He should consult someone about it…maybe Bill Foster? Before he’d become the hero called Goliath, Foster had specialized in miniaturization.

“Memo,” Tony said aloud. “Call Bill Foster tomorrow.”

Spain’s beach-dotted coastline loomed, tempting him. Did he dare stop for tapas? No. Not today. He pulled up the phone menu and selected CALL BACK LAST NUMBER. An option popped up: VIDEO? He selected YES.

A nightmare apparition appeared before Tony, filling his field of vision. A glistening, insect-like creature, gleaming metallic gold and red, slim arms and legs crackling with electric power. Elongated gold lenses hid its eyes, lending it an air of inhuman malice. Its shape was vaguely human—except for the four additional, metallic tentacles sprouting from its back, flicking back and forth in random, jerky motions.

Tony tumbled in midair, quickly righted himself. He’d passed clear over Spain now, heading over the Tyrrhenian Sea toward Italy.

“Tony? You there?”

The voice was friendly, medium-pitched and familiar. Tony laughed.

“Peter Parker,” he said.

“Gave you a heart attack, huh? Sorry, not funny.”

“That’s okay, Peter.” Tony shifted south, away from Bosnia, to swing around the tip of Greece. “I should recognize that suit…I built it, after all. Just never seen anyone actually wearing it before.”

On Tony’s video feed, Peter Parker—the amazing Spider-Man—leapt up onto a table, all grace and speed. “Well.” He vamped, adopting a comical “Vogue” pose, metallic tentacles framing his face. “What do you think?”

“It’s you, baby.”

Tony double-checked the call-origination info; it was Avengers Tower, all right. That explained the video capability. It also gave him a good sense of why Peter had called.

“Seriously, Tony…and you know me, I don’t say ‘seriously’ very often. This costume is Da. Bomb.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t say that very often either.”

Spider-Man tapped at the gold lenses. “What’s in these things, anyway?”

“Infrared and ultraviolet filters. The earpiece has built-in fire, police, and emergency scanners.” Tony smiled; he loved explaining his own work. “The mouth covering has carbon filters to keep out toxins, and there’s a full GPS system built into the chestplate.”

“Whew! I’ll never get lost in the West Village again. What’s with those diagonal cross streets, anyway?”

“Well, you…hang on a minute, Peter…”

Jordan loomed up ahead, with Saudi Arabia just beyond. Tony kicked in his armor’s stealth field, felt the familiar tingling throughout his entire frame. Now he was invisible to radar, satellites, and the naked eye at any range past forty feet.

“…you never know where you’ll find yourself.” He called up a detailed dossier on Peter, scanned it quickly. “How’s your aunt?”

“Better, thanks. That heart attack turned out to be minor.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Tony, I’m grateful as hell to you. You know I am. That old cloth suit I sewed when I was fifteen…it was looking pretty ragged.”

“I’ve also incorporated mesh webbing that should let you glide for short distances,” Tony said.

“Tony…”

“The whole thing is made of heat-resistant Kevlar microfiber. Anything less than a medium-caliber shell won’t even penetrate it.”

“Tony, I’m not sure if I can accept.”

Tony frowned, kicked in his afterburners. The desert sped by, a blur of brown hills under the unforgiving sun.

“The suit is a gift, Peter.”

“I know. I mean the other thing.”

Peter’s back tentacles twitched.
He hasn’t gotten used to the mental controls yet,
Tony realized.