The Dark Cycle 3: The Stick and the Stone
Chapter One: Death in the Evening
"Assassination has never changed the history of the world." (Benjamin Disraeli)
The man stepped out of the alley and into the cross-hairs. It was a late summer evening, warm and golden, and he carried the jacket of his dark suit over his shoulder with one hand. The sleeves of his pale blue shirt were rolled up, revealing wiry forearms, lightly tanned under the dark hair. The sights moved up – the man was tall – to focus on the strong, even-featured face. The eyes behind the metal-rimmed glasses were piercing and vivid green. The sniper centred the cross-hairs on the odd-looking scar on his targets' forehead, and squeezed the trigger.
The Daily Prophet performed to expectations. The headlines screamed "HARRY POTTER SLAIN! Boy Who Lived Falls Victim To Muggle Assassin." But amid the fulsome obituaries and tributes to "the greatest wizard of his generation", were scattered some opinion pieces arguing that had Harry not pushed the wizard world into an unhealthy proximity with the muggle one, he would still be alive.
The muggle press, just to cover themselves, reported on the apparently motiveless assassination of a promising young detective from the Metropolitan Police.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, extended his deepest condolences to Harrys' family, and announced that Deputy Head of the Auror Section Ronald Weasley was to take over as Interim Head until his permanent appointment was confirmed by the Wizengamot. Interim Head Weasley then promised a 'full and far-reaching' investigation in which he expected the full co-operation of the Muggle authorities.
Mrs Ginevra Weasley thanked everyone for their kindness, and asked that she and her children be left in peace. Rather than floral or other tributes, she asked that donations should be made to the Dobby Memorial Home for Retired House-elves.
A memorial service was held in the great atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Colleagues, school friends, former teachers, even the Minister of Magic himself, spoke to Harrys' courage, his kindness, his victory over an abused childhood. They spoke of the long struggle against Lord Voldemort, and the hard-won victory. They heaped praise on the work Harry had continued to do afterwards. They promised solemnly that his work and his example would never be forgotten.
There was a small, private funeral in the old churchyard at Godrics' Hollow. Former journalist Rita Skeeter was caught by Ron Weasley hiding among the gravestones with a camera. She was sentenced to five years in New Azkaban for assault on an Auror, to begin after her release from St Mungos.
The fuss died down. Harry Potter was dead.
Arabella Riddle tossed her copy of the Prophet onto the table in front of her with a sigh of real regret. The bulky man sitting opposite shook his head and said in a quiet, cultured voice.
"I know you wanted him alive to see our victory, Arabella, but he was far too dangerous. The route his investigation was taking was growing too close to us, too soon."
"I know, Henrich, I know." She replied with a smile. "My wishes were personal, and our joint enterprise too great to risk. But still..."
Blofeld rose from his seat and came to sit beside her. "I do understand, Arabella." He said. "Had I been permitted, I would have given you your wish. But SPECTRE has a contract with the Master, and if we are to survive, we must honour our terms."
She put her hand on his arm. "I don't hold you to blame, Heinrich. You and your people did what they had to, and did it well. Now we have larger concerns, do we not?"
He nodded, and their conversation turned to other matters. But her hand remained on his arm.
The planet Fenris lies in the galactic north of the Segmentum Solar, far from Holy Terra. It is on the very frontier of the sprawling Imperium of Man, on the borders of the Eye of Terror itself. Here the threat of Chaos is ever-present, the unending war fiercest.
Fenris itself is classed as a Death-World, barely inhabitable. Its strongly elliptical orbit around a pale, tiny sun renders its climate extreme. In the winter, day barely dawns before sunset, so distant is the sun, and the oceans freeze over, allowing men to cross on foot between the tiny islands that form the majority of its land-mass. In the short summer, those same seas literally boil as the near proximity of the sun tears open the sea-bed, unleashing white-hot magma in eruption after eruption. The islands erupt and sink, while new ones are formed in an ever-changing geography.
At the planets' north pole lies its single stable continent, Asaheim. It is there the Fenrisians dwell, descendants of ancient colonists from Holy Terra. Their world has made them tough, ferocious and warlike. The tribes of Fenris know little of the God-Emperor, and care less. They live in their clans and tribes, they hunt the fierce beasts of Fenris, make war on other tribes when they feel so inclined, and worship their own primitive gods. Even the Inquisitors of the Ordo Hereticus do not come here – the few who have did not survive.
But there is one thing, one force, that all on Fenris fear and respect. It is what causes them to tremble and make holy signs when they look to the north. There, at the centre of Asaheim, rises a mighty mountain range, where few even of the boldest tribesmen dare venture. At the centre of this range of savage, sky-piercing peaks stands one greater than all the rest, reaching almost to the edge of the atmosphere. The mountain itself is great enough, but is rendered more so by the awesome pile of granite and adamantium that almost doubles its height, so that spacecraft can dock at its peak.
This is The Fang, mightiest fortress of the Imperium, save for the Emperors' Palace. It is the home of the demi-gods the Fenrisians worship as the Sky-Warriors. The Chapter-House of the Imperiums' most feared warriors – the Space Wolves.
Deep within The Fang is the Great Hall. Here the Space Wolves gather to celebrate victory, honour the fallen or returning heroes, the coming of summer, the return of winter, or the fact that it's Tuesday. Space Wolves can usually find an excuse for eating, drinking, singing and brawling. The Hall is also the place where the twelve Wolf Lords gather in Council, to speak of matters concerning the Chapter, to plan campaigns and assign duties. Eating, drinking, singing and occasionally brawling can also be part of these sessions.
On this day, Council was interrupted, and that in an unprecedented manner. It began with a whirring, groaning noise that steadily rose in volume until it filled the great chamber. That sound was not strange to all here, for Logan Grimnar exchanged a swift, meaningful glance with the ancient Wolf-Priest, Ulrik the Slayer, before raising a hand and bellowing "Hold!"
The other Lords, who had risen, reaching for weapons, at this sign of invasion, froze in place and as one turned to their Chapter-Master. The Great Wolf gestured them back to their seats. "Sit. Wait." He commanded. "There are no enemies here."
As his vassals subsided to their chairs, a shape began to form in a corner of the Hall. Ragnar Blackmane, who was watching Grimnar as much as anything else, noted that the Old Wolf's eyes widened a little. Clearly this was not what he had expected to see.
It was a drop-pod. Not one of the large ones that can send a whole squad of armoured Blood Claws or Grey Hunters into the fray. One of the smaller ones that might hold four or five Wolf Scouts, or a single Terminator. It was in the blue of the Ultramarines, rather than the grey of the Wolves, and it had clearly not been dropped from a ship.
It rested quiet for a moment, then a section opened, a ramp extended and two figures emerged. One was a woman, an ordinary human woman, tall and strong of her kind, but tiny compared to the Adeptus Astartes around her. She had dark hair, a strong, handsome face and wore the uniform of the 203rd Cadian Regiment.
The man beside her was clearly a Space Marine. His giant bulk and the ancient powered armour he wore ensured he could be nothing else. But the armour was, like the false drop-pod, Ultramarine blue, and the armour bore the sigils and symbols of the Second Company. He wore no helmet, and Ragnar knew his face. He rose again.
"Brother Captain Titus." He said. "It's been a while since Baradeen."
"Lord Ragnar." Titus acknowledged. "I am honoured that you remember me."
"Titus?" Bjorn Stormwolf boomed. "The heretic?"
Ragnar turned, and though he did not raise his voice, there was a deadly edge to it as he said. "Who calls this man heretic must answer to me, Stormwolf."
Bjorn raised a hand. "Gently, Wolf-brother." He replied. "I report only what many say. I answer neither to you, nor the Inquisition, but wait the judgement of the Great Wolf."
Logan Grimnar rose from his seat and came forward, face to face with Titus. The Wolves are accounted large, even among Astartes, but Titus stood easily eye-to-eye with him. Grimnar spoke evenly, as one who makes no judgements.
"I have heard the tale of Graia, worthy of a Saga in itself. How you slew Warboss Grimskull and battled Nemeroth. I heard also that you resisted the Warp in a manner many found suspect, and that you surrendered yourself to the Inquisition, so that the matter might be resolved.
"I know that the Scourge of Heresy was attacked by the Necrons, and of Inquisitor Thraxs' sacrifice. But I have spoken with Commander Dante, and he told me more. The thread of a story, a whisper, a rumour. A mention of the Lord of Time, who came and took you under his protection and, it is said, bound you to his own mission.
"Now soldiers' tales are soldiers' tales, and they grow in the telling. But that," Grimnar pointed to the 'drop-pod', "tells me otherwise. No ordinary pod could penetrate the defences of The Fang, and I have heard such engines before. That is a TARDIS, is it not?"
"It is." Titus acknowledged. "My TARDIS. Have you encountered one before, Lord?"
"I have travelled in one." Grimnar told him. "With the Doctor. If it was indeed he that you met, then the rumours of heresy must be false."
"I am no heretic." Titus averred. "But I am no longer fully an Adeptus Astartes. I have learned that my father, who I thought dead in some forgotten battle with his guard unit, was as the Doctor is, a TimeLord, who returned to fight for his own world."
"So! A tale indeed, and one I am minded to believe, Brother." Grimnar smiled. "We set little store by Inquisitors here, Titus, we trust our own instincts. Mine tell me you are here for a purpose, so speak, Brother, how can we aid you?"
"I came," Titus told him, "to invite you to a fight, Lord Grimnar!"
Grimnars' smile became a grin. "Better news you could not have brought, Brother! Tell us of this fight. But first, a tankard of mead and a haunch of beef! A man must eat, or he cannot think!"
Hogwarts Castle was dark and silent, staff and students long in bed. Even the Gamekeepers' hut was dark, though anyone approaching within fifty yards could clearly hear the snoring from within. By the shores of the lake stands a single building, unlike all the others in the grounds. A simple edifice of white marble, without doors or windows.
The building is the White Tomb, final resting place of Albus Dumbledore. By day, it is quiet, though people come from time to time to pay their respects, or to draw inspiration from the spirit of a well-loved and respected mentor and leader. At certain times of the year, the whole school gathers there, along with dignitaries from the wizard world, to perform solemn ceremonies of remembrance.
On this summer night, the place was deserted, however. Then it was not. Without a sound, a small figure appeared out of nowhere close to the tomb. Pale, bulging eyes scanned the area, large ears strained for any sound above the lapping of the waters and the night breeze.
"Benty has his orders." The figure muttered. "He mustn't make a sound."
The House-elf approached the Tomb and laid a long-fingered hand on the stone side. He pulled his hand back and the stone came soundlessly with it. He left it hanging in the air and stepped into the tomb. The body within was fully skeletonised now, Benty saw as he gently moved aside the gravecloth. But what he sought was still held in the bony fingers.
"Benty is sorry, and his Master is sorry." He told the dead man. "But this must be done, and sir would understand."
Having taken what he needed, Benty respectfully restored the wrappings, then sealed the tomb again. Then he disappeared as silently as he had come.
In Greenwich Village, New York, there is an unusual house. Set back from the street in a rather overgrown garden, it would look more at home in ancient, witch-haunted Arkham or crumbling Kingsport. The most unusual feature is a large, circular skylight in the roof, out of which a bright white light is known to shine at odd hours, as it shone now.
The source of the light was an artefact known as the Orb of Aggamotto, a crystal globe the size of a mans' head that usually rested inside an elaborate stand in the centre of the room below the skylight. Tonight, the stand was open, and the glow of the Orb illuminated two figures. A tall man in a blue tunic, and a short woman in a smart business suit.
The man gestured at the orb, and a face appeared in it. It was hard to tell the age of the man it belonged to, but the face itself was strong-boned and kindly, with penetrating dark eyes. The head was totally hairless.
"I still can't get used to this way of communicating, Stephen." The man said.
"It is only for a moment, Charles." Stephen Strange replied. "One you have attuned your mind to ours, we can synchronise your Cerebro device with the Orb, and begin our task."
Charles Xavier nodded. "A quite remarkable method of search, and one our antagonists have no way of tracing or detecting. Cerebro shields the Orb from magical detection and the Orb blinds technology to Cerebro. We should have done this long ago, Stephen."
"We had other problems." Strange pointed out. "But let us hope that this first attempt augurs well for future work." He turned to the smaller figure at his side. "Are you ready, little sister?" He asked.
Ginny Potter, grim-faced, stepped closer to the Orb. "Let's get started." She said.
Life aboard Agent Coulsons' 'bus', Ron Weasley reflected, had its ups and downs. Agent May and Kratos, on the one hand, had 'clicked' to degree that made Ron heartily grateful for the planes' sophisticated auto-pilot. On the other hand, Hermione and Agent Simmons had loathed each other on sight. Agent Coulson had helpfully pointed out that the two women were so alike in manner and style that they could be sisters, which probably explained it.
Leo Fitz steadfastly refused to acknowledge Ron and Hermiones' existence, other than to constantly scan them for the nano-technology he was convinced was the true source of their abilities. Skye, on the other hand, wandered around open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the notion of 'real, live wizards', and badgered them with questions about their powers and world.
Thankfully, Agent Triplett recognised Ron as a fellow professional. That, and his easy-going manner, made life easier for Ron. Still, it was a relief to see the tall, white-haired figure striding up the ramp.
"Dante." Ron greeted him. "Thanks for coming, mate!"
"No problem." The demon-hunter stated. "If it hits the fan the way you say it might, you're gonna need me! Where we headed?"
"Portland, first, to pick up Nick and Monroe. Apparently, the Council told Rosalee they think SPECTRE are using wesen for some jobs, so a Grimm and a blutbad on the team will be useful. Then we're swinging by Paris to pick up Duncan MacLeod."
"The Highlander's a good man to have around." Dante acknowledged. "I know the Spartan's already aboard. Who else?"
"We've got some people coming in from New York on their own transport." Ron told him. "Not settled yet who or how many. My brother, Bill, along with Luna Lovegood from Torchwood Four and my old mate Neville Longbottom will be coming along with Ginny -she wanted as many of the 'old firm' as she could get. They'll be apparating."
"OK." Dante said. "But what's the endgame in all of this?"
"A bloody great scrap, I imagine." Ron replied. "But as to where, Ginny's working with some people on that, and she'll let us know as soon as we have a location. Then we use the nearest SHIELD, UNIT or Sanctuary facility as a staging post."
Colonel Steve Rogers, Director of SHIELD, eschewed the use of an electric wheelchair, relying instead on the immense power of his broad shoulders and muscular arms to propel himself easily along. The process which had turned him from a skinny, pale young man into the epitome of human perfection might not have allowed his spine to heal from the effects of a Dalek ray, but it prevented his body from deteriorating, and even his now-useless legs retained their sinewy form.
He looked around the corridor he was travelling down, then spoke to the man beside him.
"You haven't made made too many changes to the old place, Erik." He noted.
Erik Lensherr, Assistant Director in charge of Avengers Division, smiled.
"This mansion remains the property of Mr Stark, Colonel." He replied. "Despite his other vagaries, he is a man of cultured tastes. Tastes which, on the whole, agree with mine. That said, the working areas of the mansion have been kept thoroughly updated."
"Good to know." Rogers said. "Bearing in mind I have to sign off the budget for this place!
"Now, why did you ask me here? You know there's a lot going on."
The man once known and feared as Magneto shrugged his shoulders. "The invitation did not originate with me, Colonel, but with Mr Stark. Apparently he has something he wishes to show you."
By this time they had reached the elevator, which whisked them several storeys below ground before opening to allow them into a huge, brightly-lit laboratory area. Antony Stark hailed them cheerfully from a nearby workstation.
"Steve! Good to see you, pal! Erik, you staying for the show?"
Lensherr shook his head. "I have matters to attend to, Antony. Remember that you are on call. Charles may contact me at any moment. Colonel, we will speak later, if you wish."
Rogers watched Lensherr leave, then turned to his old friend.
"OK, Tony, what do you have for me?" He asked. "It must be something special, or you'd have just emailed me."
"It is." Stark perched on his workstation. "Look, Steve, all our intel about this job tells us that HYDRA are active again, right? We're even getting chatter that says the Red Skull is back, aren't we?"
"Him, or someone claiming to be him." Rogers allowed.
"Whatever." Tony said. "But we do know one thing for sure. Who is the only person HYDRA are really scared of? The one person even the Skull respects?"
Rogers shrugged. "Captain America." He said, "But those days are over, Tony. I'm not up to it any more, and we lost Reinsteins' formula. Last time anyone tried to recreate it, we ended up with the Abomination, and it took Bruce everything he had to bring that guy down!"
"You're right." Tony said. "But I don't do chemicals, Steve, and there's more ways to skin a cat than letting Logan stroke it!"
He got down from the workstation and switched on its holo-field. "You know the principles my armor works on, right? The servos that boost my strength and so on? Now before I gave myself this fancy new nervous system, I was paralysed for a while. But in the suit, I was as mobile as ever."
"I know." Rogers said. "And I've used a War Machine suit a couple times myself since I was injured. But its' not my style of operating, Tony."
"Sure, it's not." Tony allowed. Specs, diagrams and images began to flow through the holo-field. "You ever see a Brit animated film called The Wrong Trousers?" He asked. "Guy in it has these cyber-pants, and the villain uses them to walk him around when he's asleep.
"Well, I got to thinking. There's a lot of people in wheelchairs who could use those cyber-pants. So I started working on a lightweight exoskeleton that they could wear on the street and move around like everyone else. It's not perfect yet, but partway through the process, I got to this.
"It's basically a lightweight suit with ceramic plates and Kevlar, bullet-proof, knife-proof and flame-retardant. Like the new SHIELD battlesuits I'm working on, only this has miniature servos built in to boost the wearers' physical performance."
Rogers was leaning forward now, his eyes gleaming. Even before he had become Captain America, Steve Rogers had been a man of iron will and unbreakable courage. These had let him accept his paralysis with stoic calm and get on with his life. But inside, he was still a man of action, a soldier anxious to get back into the field.
"Think of the millions of disabled people this technology can help!" He exclaimed. "Not to mention that, with a suit like that, I could be as fast, as strong, as I ever was!" He looked up at Tony. "You've got a prototype, haven't you?"
Tony grinned and pressed a switch, a container unit nearby swung open, and as Rogers saw what was inside, his eyes blazed.
"I kinda took the liberty, as Jarvis might say, of making up something in your size." Tony said. "Like it?"
"You bet I do!" Rogers said. "But there's something missing..."
"It's in the armoury upstairs." Tony told him. "Been there since 2008. Ben found it when he dug you out from under that building. Not even a scratch on it."
There was a pause, then Lensherrs' voice came over the PA system. "Attention please. We have a location on our target. Expeditionary force to hangar in ten minutes. This is not a drill!"
Tony and Steve looked at each other, then both men said simultaneously. "Put on the suit!"
They were playing Scrabble. Amy was just explaining, for the fifth time, that 'Raxacoricofallapatorius' was a proper name and wouldn't fit on the board anyway, when the Doctor clapped his hand to his pocket.
"Hang on a mo!" He said, pulling out a small notecase and perusing what was inside.
"Psychic paper." Amy murmured to Rory.
"Here we go again!" He mouthed back, and began quickly sweeping the tiles back into the bag.
"Note from River?" Amy asked.
"Yes!" The Doctor said. "C'mon, Ponds, work to do!"
"Where this time?" Rory asked.
"Most dangerous planet in the universe." The doctor told him. "Earth!"
With that, he bounded over to the controls and began fiddling with them. The engine note rose, then the TARDIS titled crazily to one side, sending the Scrabble board flying. Rory held up the bag of tiles with a wry grin for Amy before the ship swung the other way and almost spilled them to the floor.
"Geronimo!" Yelled the Doctor.