Part 17
by DarkMark
Like all human beings, no matter what their power, the Silver Surfer needed to sleep. He usually took his rest in the upper reaches of Earth's atmosphere, not far from Galactus's barrier. He slept lying on his board, which hung in the sky as immobile as if imbedded in a sea of crystal.
Somebody woke him up.
Surfer.>
The silver-skinned being stirred to awareness. His enhanced senses told him the nature of the presence beside him before he ever opened his eyes.
"Strange," he said.
The ghostly ectoplasmic form of Earth's Sorceror Supreme floated near his feet, at the end of his board. The Defenders have need of you,> Dr. Strange sent.
"Let them continue to need," the Surfer said, more with his mind than with his mouth, as sound would hardly carry in these near-airless reaches.
Namor's Atlantis is being attacked,> Strange replied. We have been asked to aid. I have already summoned the Hulk.>
"Good. He will be sufficient." The Surfer hardly raised his head.
If a soul-projection can be said to express frustration, Dr. Strange's did so now. We need you, Norrin. You must enable the Hulk and myself to breathe underwater, to withstand its pressures. We need your hand in the battle, to save our comrade and his nation.>
The Surfer finally sat up. "Strange. On practically every continent of this globe, there is war. Earthmen wasting other Earthmen's lives, more casually than they would slay brutes of the field. More often than that, they simply die of starvation. Whenever I try to help, they chase me away as if I was a demon from Hell. If I could, I would heal, and that is how I would spend my days. But the only time anyone ever asks for my help is when they want me to fight."
And what would you have me do, Norrin Radd? Tell the Sub-Mariner that Atlantis must die because the Silver Surfer is too uncaring to help a friend? That his pose of piety is only a cover for his cowardice about letting himself care?>
Silver-covered eyes seemed to blaze hatred at the ghost-form.
"Blast you, Strange," the Surfer said. "Blast the day I heard of you and your Defenders."
Then you will come?>
"I will. God of Zenn-La help me, I will."
Strange's ectoplasmic form whisked back through the rarefied air towards his Greenwich Village apartment in a city and a continent and a planet far below. The Silver Surfer stood on his board and, as if balancing on a wave, rode cosmic force downward towards him.
If Strange was smiling, the Surfer couldn't see from his viewpoint.
-M-
The new X-Men were hitting the Brotherhood and hitting them hard. That was the only way they'd have a prayer of surviving. It was baptism of fire time.
Havok was blasting away at Juggernaut with the full power of his white-circle plasma bursts. He was smart enough to zap the ground under his massive foe's feet first, causing Cain Marko to fall on his chest. After that, he spun the Juggernaut around for a bit with his blasts. But that only lasted for a few seconds, as Marko grabbed handfuls of concrete sidewalk and dug in his fingers to still his spin. He grinned at Havok.
"If that's all you got, Cyclops, Jr.," he said, "you're buzzard bait."
The Banshee soared in from above, borne aloft on his powerful screams, and let loose a focused sonic attack on the Juggernaut. Marko put his hands to his ears, covered though they were with his metal helmet, and closed his eyes.
Havok took the opportunity to blast him in the face. It appeared to hurt. That, at least, was gratifying. But it didn't hurt that much.
The massive menace began lumbering towards Havok. "Okay, let's get two things straight," he said. "First: I don't like people making me look like a spinning numbskull with a bunch of TV cameras around. Second: you're dead."
Another foe stepped in front of him. "Not till you get through me first," he said.
The Juggernaut put up a mighty, metal-banded hand to push the newcomer aside. "Get outta the way, kid," he snapped. "Wait your freakin' turn, already."
But the kid grabbed his wrist with a hand that was increasing perceptibly in size, strength, and mass.
To Marko's astonished eyes, his opponent was bulking up within his weird orange and red costume, until he well-nigh matched the Juggernaut in size.
"They call me the Mimic," said the X-Man, tightly. "Let me show you why."
WHAM!
The Juggernaut was knocked flying and plowed a furrow in asphalt and concrete with his back, going a full twenty feet before he could stop himself. His face showed an obvious bruise where the Mimic had slugged him. He touched his nose and his hand came away slightly wet and red.
He smiled.
"Sonofagun," said the Juggernaut. "About time I run into some real competition."
Havok pointed at his teammate. "Mimic, don't stay in that form too long. The Juggernaut's powered by some evil magic force. If you tap his power...you might be next."
He never knew if the Mimic heard him or not. Cal Rankin and the Juggernaut ran at each other like express trains on a collision course. It was horrific to see the Mimic's body distorted in such an overblown fashion, like a white-skinned Hulk, but there was little time to worry about it. The two of them came together with an impact that resounded through the area.
Alex Summers prayed for his partner, but he had no time left to spare for him. Cal was the only one of them who could match muscles with Cain Marko. That left a lot of other enemies to tend.
Not far away, Magneto himself was being confronted, if that was the word to use, by a green-haired girl in a chartreuse costume. He looked on her with disdain. "Go home, girl," he said. "It is not in me to slaughter children."
Lorna Dane didn't back up. "Your friend there, Mesmero, told me that you were my father once. I believed him. Turned out that was a lie. So was the Magneto I thought was my father. He was just a robot."
Mesmero, nearby, smiled. "That one fooled me as well. This Magneto, child, is the real article."
The master of magnetism held up one purple-gloved hand. "I know of you, as I know of the rest of Xavier's replacement band. You are a mutant, you have powers akin to my own. But, child, you do not have powers which match my own. And I warn you only once...my sympathies for those who stand with Xavier are slight."
For once, Lorna was grateful for the Texas heat. If her armpits were dripping sweat, they might chalk it up just to the sun.
She raised both her arms and metal girders from the pile of rubble went flying towards Magneto.
He raised his own and sent them back at her, and more besides.
Even those of the Brotherhood found themselves forced to dodge as the barrage became deadlier and less controlled. Magneto and Lorna defended themselves with dome-fields of magnetic force, but each battered at the others shield with tons of steel I-beams. The tremendous smashing of steel on unseen force and creaking of bended metal brought to mind a horrific and continuous auto wreck. If either shield came down, none could tell whether the victim would receive mercy or death.
The two were shortly buried in what appeared to be domes of strewn steel beams. Sunfire, flying overhead, was aghast. With a cry of concern, he strafed the metallic tomb of Lorna, trying to cut and melt it away from her.
Really, he shouldn't have bothered.
The dome of metal covering Magneto came apart like scattering shrapnel and the red-and-purple-clad mutant vaulted up into the sky, propelled by the invisible lines of force that expanded between himself and the Earth. A second later, he was joined by Lorna Dane, similarly strewing the beams that had surrounded her, some of them dripping deadly, red-hot, molten metal where Sunfire had melted them. Even the Blob found it prudent to take cover.
Magneto snarled. He was not used to a challenge using power similar to his own. This had become more than a slugfest between himself and one of Xavier's band, now. It was a matter of pride. He spread his hands in the air as if calling down the elements, standing some thirty feet above the ground, and then brought them down, extended towards Lorna Dane.
The heroine in green knew what was coming, and spread her own arms as if to ward off danger. That was in fact what she was doing.
Though none could see it, Magneto was exerting his own power to encircle Lorna in a sphere of crushing, contracting magnetic waves. For her part, Lorna was exerting all her own might to maintain a sphere of defense. For a moment, it held. Then, ever so slightly, it slipped.
Lorna Dane's expression grew even more tense. She felt as though she were in a submarine at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, with a rupture in one of its plates. If the least bit more of it gave...
From the look in Magneto's eyes, that was just what he was planning on. "Stand with the enemy," he said, "you die with the enemy."
Then he felt a blast from below that lifted him fully forty more feet in the air, singeing his legs, burning his back, and almost fracturing his bones. Magneto barely had time to construct a repulse-shield to spare himself further injury. Through his pain, he could guess who the attacker was.
"Mess with her again, Magneto, and I kill you," yelled Havok from below. "Simple as that."
From behind, Havok was attacked, flattened, pressed to the ground, weighed down so heavily he couldn't breathe. He tried unleashing his power by pressing his palms to the ground, but all it did was vibrate him and turn the soil beneath him incredibly hot.
The Blob, over him, rasped, "This won't be the first time I ever smothered a guy. I just hope I ain't lost my touch."
That was the last thing he said before he screamed and rolled off of Havok, his bare back burnt red by a choice lump of hellfire. Anyone else would have been rendered into ash. All the Blob was given was a second-degree burn over his spine.
It hurt. The Blob wasn't used to being hurt.
Sunfire swooped from above, landed, and picked Havok out of the depression in the ground he had been forced into. "Are you intact, leader?"
Havok shook his head. "Thanks, Sun. But don't let up on the Blob. We're still in trouble."
Then the two of them were enveloped in the most bizarre environment they could ever have imagined. Worse, it was beyond their imagining.
Buildings, rubble, ground, combatants on both sides, even the very air seemed to have turned cubist and incredibly off-center. As if tainted by Lovecraftian geometry, in which 360 degrees was not the limit, all seemed to shift and alter radically whenever Havok or Sunfire made a single move. Even if that motion was breathing.
Alex Summers struggled to hold his equilibrium. Even when he closed his eyes, the illusions seemed to persist. And the field of battle was too deadly to close one's eyes to for very long. But...how to fight? How to defend? How even to escape?
Havok had never taken illegal drugs. But he imagined this might be the sensation if one were tripping on Owsley acid. Just knowing that the enemy was doing it to you didn't help a bit. With all their power, he and Sunfire were clay pigeons for as long as this...whatever it was...lasted.
Then came a scream that was loud, shrill, piercing, and familiar. The contorted landscape seemed to withdraw into itself as if it were a theater scene being struck. Reality was resumed, and Havok stood once more on solid ground, teetering to regain his balance. He swept the scene with his eyes and saw, behind him and Sunfire, two of their foes sprawled on the ground and holding their ears. They were, not surprisingly, Mastermind and Mesmero.
Banshee, in his uniform of yellow and green, lit on the ground beside his two teammates. "Looks like the Mandrake brothers made their last gesture," he said with a grin. "Now what, meboys?"
"Oh, try dying for a change," said another voice, and punctuated it with gunshots.
The three of them hit the dirt, but Toshiro was a tad late. From where he lay, Havok could see the Japanese mutant's right arm was wounded, just below the shoulder. Sunfire clutched his arm, and from the smell of it, Alex guessed he was using his power to cauterize the wound. The X-Man made no cry of pain, more credit to him, but his face was white and sweating.
The gunman, clad in red and black, smirking, was Unus.
"Nope, don't need anything fancy to do my work," said the evil mutant. "Go ahead and take your shot. I'll just stand here to make it easy."
Havok raised his hands from ground level and blitzed Unus with a coruscation of power. The circles of white-hot energy splattered against the Italian-American mutant's force field harmlessly. With one hand, and a cry in Japanese, Sunfire added his power to the mix. All Unus did was laugh.
Then the Banshee looked up. "Here's sound in yer eye, bucko," he muttered.
He shrieked.
A second later, Angelo Unuscione added his own scream to Banshee's.
The Irishman unleashed his power for a full ten seconds, so long that even Sunfire's and Havok's ears began to hurt. Finally, he ended his scream, letting it trail off into a forest of echoes. Unus lay on the ground, his gun still in his hand, his eyes open and staring at the sky, his mouth gaped wide like that of a fish. Outside of his chest going slightly up and down, he was not moving.
Banshee helped Havok and Sunfire to their feet. "It's a foregone conclusion, if'n the lad can speak and hear, then that force field of his don't hold out sound worth a diddly."
Sunfire, still favoring his wounded arm, said, "I am obligated, Banshee. Your act of bravery shall be repaid a thousandfold."
Alex Summers wanted to say something to the two of them, then. He wanted to tell them how they had proven themselves today, in the deadliest battle they had ever waged. They needed to be told how they were, now more than ever, acting as a team. Watching out for each other, acting in concert when the need came, feeling out their opponents' weaknesses, and capitalizing on them. Even in the heat of combat, even with one of his men wounded, they needed to know that.
It was a pity he didn't get the chance to tell them.
First, Lorna Dane descended towards them, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Then, a massive orange-and-red costumed figure hurtled towards them and skidded on the ground a full thirty feet before stopping. His exposed flesh looked like one large bruise. The Mimic was hors de combat.
The Juggernaut lumbered into view from not far off, battered but grinning. "He's got the strength, but he ain't got the heart. Give 'im credit for trying, though. And that's all I'd give him, except what I gave him."
"Oh, god," breathed Lorna. "How is he?"
Cal struggled to turn over, opened one eye in her direction. "'m all righ'," he managed to say. "Jus' get me up...point me his way..."
Havok snapped, "Circle around him, X-Men. Backs towards Mimic, faces to the enemy."
The four of them complied in an instant, their feet circling the fallen Mimic. The Blob had recovered enough now to rejoin the fray, and advanced from the opposite direction as Juggernaut. From nowhere, the Vanisher appeared. His power of teleportation was negligible in an assault sense, but he was chortling at the chance to see the spawn of Xavier facing doom.
"Sell it dearly, lads," advised Banshee. "Make 'em know they put their hands into hell. Up the X-Men!"
"Side by side I stand with you, Cassidy," replied Sunfire. "Side by side I die with you. And a sixth one stands beside us. Honor. BANZAI!"
Lorna only said, "Alex..."
Havok looked straight at Juggernaut. "See if you can tear that bastard's helmet off," he said. "Then I'll see what I can do to his head."
Another figure made his entrance from the sky. Magneto, his cape somewhat tattered by the fight with Lorna Dane, but still looking impossibly solid and powerful, descended from above and let his feet crunch in the gravel midway between the Blob and Juggernaut. At a nod from him, the two of the Brotherhood stopped their advance.
His descent from above made Havok think, somehow, of the advent of an evil messiah.
"No need for such puerile heroics, Havok," Magneto pronounced. "Indeed, there is no need for further battle at all."
"Says you," said Juggernaut. "Let me at 'em!"
"Juggernaut!" At Magneto's mention of his name, Cain Marko subsided. Havok wondered at the power of their enemy's leadership, and wondered how he could master such. Of course, that was one of his lesser worries at the moment.
"We stand before one another, as part of the same subset," Magneto continued. "Yourselves, as myself, and my allies, all of us prime examples of the next step in human evolution: homo superior. For ten years, now, we have been placed in opposition. This is not something I would have continue. Do you recall an event that the Blob, Unus, the Vanisher, and Mastermind have told me of? The day they and your predecessors stood as one, against an enemy threat to the world? An alien who posed as one of us?"
"Aye," said the Banshee. "The Mutant-Master. He captured me and Professor X."
"And so he did," said Magneto. "I am told that Professor X himself instructed you never to forget that day. When there were no categories of his naming, such as 'good' mutants...the ones who stood with him...or 'evil' mutants...which he defined as the ones who did not stand with him. Have you forgotten that day, X-Men? Or, more importantly, has he?"
"Make your point, Magneto," said Havok. "It's getting towards dinner, and I'd like to finish this up soon."
The Blob cracked his knuckles. "Careful what ya wish for, wise guy. Ya never know who might be playin' Santa Claus."
"My point, Havok: we have been set against each other artificially. Xavier has sold you a false dream, as false as that of Chamberlain when he spoke of peace in his time...the time of Hitler. It is not by uniting Mutant with Lesser Man that our dream of peace and security may be achieved, but by uniting Mutant with Mutant, that we may stand together in a land of our own...our Promised Land, where none of our kind may fear Homo Sapientes again. Not Good Mutant against Bad Mutant, no...but Mutants united in self-defense, and in brotherhood. In that, we offer you welcome. In that, we offer you a new dream. A dream much more real than Xavier's."
"Go to hell," said Lorna, bravely.
"Hell?" Magneto laughed, bitterly. "I am more familiar with that place than ever you may imagine, woman. No, I stand against hell. Against that hell which Humanity has prepared for us. Oh, I know what they can imagine. Believe me, I know it first-hand. Join with me, Havok, and your little band with you, and we begin the new age. Even your professor will be spared."
"Get thee behind me, Satan," said Banshee, just loud enough to be heard.
"And if we refuse?" said Sunfire, still holding one shoulder, still hurt, but ready for final battle. "What then, O tempter?"
Magneto's gloved fist clenched. "Then you become merely another obstacle to be removed. Your decision, X-Men. Now."
"Here's mine," said Havok, and blasted away with his circles of plasmic power.
Lorna let loose a stream of magnetic energy. The Banshee howled. Sunfire unleashed his fiery stream from one hand. The Mimic struggled to his hands and knees, his massive frame beginning to dwindle to its normal shape.
All of their powers, save Banshee's sonics, abutted hard against Magneto's field of force. It began to contract.
"A pity," said Magneto. "We could have worked so well together."
The X-Men exerted more force against their unseen prison. It was contracting like the wall of death it was, compacting them together, crushing them. Lorna strove to push her power beyond that wall, to assault Magneto himself, but couldn't manage it. The Banshee was hard-pressed to draw breath enough for a scream. Havok's eyes blazed in anger and helplessness.
If this was the way it had to end, at least they went valiantly.
Then, from the right, another factor entered the scene. It struck Magneto in the side of the helmet and sent him sprawling. The pressure eased up on his cage of death, and the four standing X-Men burst forth from its imprisoning walls.
The factor had been a ruby-red beam that was all too familiar to Havok. Just as familiar were the five figures that accompanied it, at a run. Alex Summers offered a prayer of thanks, even as his eyes went wide in wonder.
Cyclops. Marvel Girl. The Beast. Iceman. The Angel.
He hadn't even heard their hovercraft land.
His brother Cyclops sprinted at Magneto, grabbed him up by the shirtfront, raised him from the ground, and unleashed a terrific uppercut that got him on the jaw below his helmet. It didn't put the big man out, but it rocked Magneto's world.
"Believe me, Magneto," said Scott, in a low voice, "you want to stay on my good side, don't ever mess with my little brother."
-M-
Whether or not Namor had the edge in strength against Tiger Shark was a hard thing to estimate. The two had fought several times, and Namor had triumphed in each, but not without great difficulty. The Shark, a transformed Olympic swimming champ, seemed to learn with each encounter.
Right now, he was more than holding his own against the Sub-Mariner. He was holding Prince Namor in a full-nelson, trying to keep him in position for Orka, the human killer whale, to strike. There was no doubt about Orka's superiority in size and strength. Another creation of Dr. Dorcas, Orka had been an Atlantean before his transformation. Now, he was a monster.
"Quit messin' around and do it," snapped Tiger Shark. "I can't hold Spock-ears here forever."
"Give me but another second and you shall hold me not at all," grunted the prince of Atlantis. But he knew how dangerous his predicament had become. One stroke of Orka's huge fist would render him senseless. Not too many more would render him a corpse.
In the name of Neptune, it was not supposed to end this way!
Not with his wife, his son, Namorita, and the people of Atlantis at the mercy of the conqueror Attuma, or his black-hearted cousin Byrrah. He had little doubt what would be the fate of the women at the hands of those two. What would be his child's fate chilled his very soul, for he had no idea whether or not Attuma would choose to raise the boy as his own, or slay him outright.
Namor flexed his muscles again, those sinews which had power to propel him through battleship plate, and felt Tiger Shark's grip giving. But it would not give quickly enough. The great, blue-gloved hand of Orka was swinging forward.
SHOOOOMMM...
The noise and fury of a swift and speedy entry from Above into the waterworld caused even Orka to stop his blow. Despite himself, Tiger Shark flinched in surprise. That was all it took for Namor to exert all his strength with a tremendous cry, and break the Shark's grip, allowing himself to swim free. He lashed out with a kick at the Shark's chest before speeding away from Orka's reach.
The mass of air bubbles borne with the entrance of the invader masked them from the sight of Atlanteans and Attuma's forces alike, for a long moment. Orka looked around, saw Namor swimming away more rapidly than he could follow, and turned in rage towards those who had dared interrupt his sport, whoever they were. He lumbered towards the place from which the bubbles were issuing and reached out a mighty hand, seeking to grasp and crush whatever he could find.
Whoever it was had hair, which seemed reassuring. But when Orka flexed the muscles of his hand, the head it held simply refused to be crushed. Frowning, Orka drew his potential victim from the bubble mass, intent on berating him for his uncooperativeness before he killed him.
The hand came back, grasping a huge head. Even below the waves, Orka could tell the face on that head was green. It was also grinning, without any mirth at all.
The body accompanying it, clad only in tattered purple pants, wasn't as big as Orka's. But somehow, that wasn't the least bit reassuring.
"Who in the name of Proteus are you?" was all Orka had time to get out. The intruder grabbed his arm with green hands that felt as though they could break not only the skin but the bones beneath, and used them to crawl up his arm till he was within reach of the human killer whale's face.
Once there, he pronounced a two-word judgment:
"HULK SMASH!"
THOOM.
Orka flew backward faster even than anyone had seen a warship move that day, promoting currents that spun warriors around in their wake, knocking combatants out of the way, smashing the bottom out of a passing craft with his head, and crashing against a coral reef, almost plowing right through it. He was still on the near side of consciousness, but that was becoming an iffy proposition.
The green stranger really should have taken longer than he did to get to Orka, but the latter wasn't expecting him to travel the distance in a huge jump. The worst part about it was, both great green feet landed square on Orka's chest, and they hurt like hell.
Arguably, things were getting serious.
Two other figures had emerged from the point of entry, now. One of them had silvery skin that caught what light was to be found at that depth and reflected it like a metal statue come to life. Below his feet was a board, which propelled him forward without a visible power source or exhaust trail. He was heading straight for the clashing mass of warships, both his hands outstretched.
The isolated warriors on both sides below shouted out warnings to the newcomer. He was heading straight into certain death. Then, as he passed, they shrugged and resumed their battle. If the silver man wanted to throw his life away, let him. Nobody else was on that much more secure a footing.
The ships of Atlantis and Attuma barely gave him a notice as they unleashed their armaments at each other. That is, until he got between them and halted, a palm stretched out in each direction. From his hands came two blindingly-bright streams of energy, brighter by far than any of the beams that had been seen in the day's combat.
And the raybursts and deadly projectiles and forward motion of every craft in the vicinity ceased.
Shouting with rage, the warriors in the ships threw full power into their engines. It mattered not a whit. The warcraft were stalled in their places. It was as if they had been imbedded in glass.
In his command ship, Attuma roared.
"What base trickery has the Atlantean employed? Is he too squid-hearted to let my forces fight? Where in the Stygian depths is his fighting spirit?"
Saru-San, Attuma's court jester, shrugged. "Perhaps, milord, he just doesn't want to take the trouble anymore."
Attuma hauled off and smacked him straight across the bridge.
Two of his viewscreens on the console had lit up. They showed the faces of Byrrah and Llyra, and neither of them looked pleased. "Attuma," said the cousin of Namor. "In Neptune's name, what has happened? My cruiser was passed by a jellyfish!"
"The silver man has shut us down, you fool," shouted the green-skinned woman. "He's one of Namor's allies, but I've never seen him before."
Attuma cursed. "Must I do the thinking for all the Triumvirate? Our ships are stilled, but we are not. My forces and I will abandon our craft and take the fight to Namor hand-to-hand. Can you really hope to expect mercy from the Sub-Mariner after today?"
"Do you really expect me to fight Namor hand-to-hand?" retorted Byrrah. "That is a grand way to end up handless!"
"Then refuse," answered Attuma, "and end up headless, once I find you. Break contact." Attuma slammed a switch on his console, then opened another. "Attention, Attuman forces. This is your commander. Abandon all warcraft and engage enemy in single combat. Any laggards face personal reprisal from me. This day either Atlantis, or the barbarian nation, will fall. Order ended."
The merman in the horned helmet snapped off the contact switch, selected a weapon from a rack over the fallen Saru-San, and, shortly afterward, emerged from his ship's hatch along with the rest of his crew.
If he had kept his viewscreen on a tad longer, Attuma might have found out what became of Byrrah. In his own ship, the blacksheep relation of Atlantis's royal family was proceeding down the walkway to the escape hatch when he bypassed a series of portholes in the side.
Through the thick quartz glass he saw a man, with the white skin of a surfacer, floating near his ship, wearing a blue garment and a red cape which billowed in the water.
Byrrah blinked. What in damnation was such a character doing this far below the only element he could breathe?
The man's orange-gloved hands formed odd, two-fingered gestures. Byrrah assumed it was some sort of obscene surface insult. Once he got out there, he'd blow the man apart with a blaster. Then he could get on to more serious matters, like putting a lot of space between himself and Atlantis.
But before Byrrah could get more than that thought out, blasts of golden energy leaped the gap between the surface man's hands and Byrrah's body, even though they had to go through a solid, reinforced warship hull to do so.
An instant later,.he fell as though someone had cut the connection between his brain and his voluntary nervous system. Byrrah lay on the floor of the craft, unable to move. But he could see, hear, and think.
Within seconds, Dr. Strange had opened the hatch of Byrrah's command ship and entered it. He was unused to fighting underwater, but he had tips from the red-and-white-clad man at his side, who had been summoned along with him and had insisted on going along. Sting-Ray, blasting miscreants with electric shocks from his hands, noted that the magic of Dr. Strange, whom he had never met before today, worked as well below the surface as above it.
They rendered the crew helpless in record time, and went on to another ship, and another after that.
Between them, Dr. Strange and the Silver Surfer managed to stop just about all the individual warfare between invaders and Atlanteans. Whether stupefied by spells or paralyzed by the Power Cosmic, the blue men of the underwater world soon found themselves unable to battle each other. All things considered, the loss of life on both sides was surprisingly low.
But still existent.
Sub-Mariner had been streaking for Tiger Shark with one fist outstretched, ready to knock his foe into total oblivion, when the villain in the orange-and-grey suit suddenly shimmered and vanished. It took Namor precious seconds to halt his forward momentum, and by then he had passed straight through the space of water which Tiger Shark had occupied. Therefore, he deduced that his foe had not been somehow rendered invisible, but had in fact been transported away.
By whom?
His attention was drawn by a familiar roar, and by the sound of metal rendering and warriors screaming. Namor swiveled and propelled himself in another direction, towards a spot from which he saw large chunks of warship being flung. He didn't have to guess who was responsible.
The Hulk, having beaten the tar out of Orka, was tearing any warship within his general area into tiny pieces. Thankfully, the crews had escaped, and both Atlanteans and barbarians were swimming for their lives. Namor guessed the behemoth was just taking out his fury on inanimate objects. That was all right, considering the alternative.
Even from this distance, Namor could see an aura surrounding the Hulk. Whatever it was, and whoever had put it there (and he already had two good candidates for that), it was probably supplying the Hulk with air and protecting him from the subsea pressures. Not that he really needed the latter. The Hulk had been in Atlantis before, and Namor had carried the bruises for weeks afterwards to prove it.
"Peace be with you, green-skinned one," ventured the Sub-Mariner.
The Hulk looked up and chunked a large bit of warship at him. Namor dodged, and swam away. Let the green buffoon amuse himself however he might.
It was not very many more minutes before, among the throng of still-moving warriors, the prince caught sight of a familiar visage. The other also caught sight of him, and aimed a weapon. It was of a new design, and Namor only barely dodged the missile. The thing curved back and began to seek him, at an unholy speed.
A silvery stream of power caught it and destroyed it without harm. The Sub-Mariner turned to see the Silver Surfer nearby, and nodded to him briefly before speeding towards Attuma. The barbarian warlord was readying some other weapon, but the Atlantean could see the fear in his eyes.
Namor took care of that with one good punch.
Then a thrust of energy repelled him from Attuma's fallen body. With a voice hardly hampered by the depths, the Surfer intoned, "There will be no more killing today. The Silver Surfer has spoken."
The prince of the realm turned a scornful look on his ally. "The only way to stop the slaying is by slaying this one," he proclaimed. "All too many times has he beset my nation. All too many times has he barely been bested."
"Slay him, and you must slay me first, Sub-Mariner," said the Surfer, and waited with arms crossed.
After a few seconds, the two of them heard another voice cry, "Hey!"
They turned in the direction from which it had come. Sting-Ray was there, holding up an unconscious Warlord Krang by his collar. "Good thing I was still on the job. This bilge-scum was about to pot-shot the both of you, for whatever that'd be worth."
Sub-Mariner grimly smiled. "My thanks, Walter Newell. Once again, you prove yourself a surface-man I can trust." The Sting-Ray, a scientist and oceanographer, had transformed himself into a part-time super-hero with the suit of his design, which supplied him with air, protected him from pressure, and allowed him to deliver shocks like the greatest of electric eels. He had worked with Namor several times over the years, and both had the respect of the other.
"What now, Prince Namor?" asked the Silver Surfer.
Namor gestured to Attuma. "Pick him up and carry him with you. If I have to do it, he might not arrive at my dungeon in the same shape he takes at this time."
But, afar off, where a blonde girl in a green swimsuit had still been obediently guarding the fallen Dr. Dorcas, things were not going so well. Namorita had been found by Llyra, the Lemurian / human hybrid who had once almost murdered Dorma. They had fought, and Nita had shown great strength and courage. But she was still not a match for the green-skinned woman in red.
Now Nita was desperately trying to fight back, even to claw her enemy's face. But that face was sneering down at her in sadistic pleasure as her strong green hands put incredible pressure on Namorita's windpipe. The face began to blend with flashes of black and white, and, mentally, the girl began to recite a child's prayer to Neptune. Neptune, the father of Atlantis, who had left his trident in hiding...Neptune, who guided the souls of the deserving through death...
And Llyra's eyes went wide in shock, somehow, and she gurgled wordlessly as Nita felt an impact transmitted through her body.
The middle tine of a trident had just penetrated the villainess's throat. The other two framed her neck, as if she were a morsel on the fork of a giant.
There wasn't even enough strength left in Llyra for a death throe.
The limp green hands fell away from Namorita's throat and, as her gills began to draw life-giving oxygen from the water about her once more, her vision cleared. She saw the one whose hands held the trident, whose eyes were even now stained by oily tears. The one who had given Llyra her final retribution.
Lady Dorma.
The queen of Atlantis almost collapsed to her knees atride Namorita, grabbing her and hugging her desperately close. "You live, Namorita. You live."
Nita tried to speak. "I...I..."
"Hush, child," said Dorma. "She is dead. Once and for all, she is dead. And the trident...yes. That is the trident of Father Neptune. Once, Namor himself risked life and limb to reclaim it, to restore himself to the throne of Atlantis, to save my life, and to overthrow the usurper Krang. I think...it has been put to fitting use today."
And there were no more words for a long time after that.
Later, in the throne room, there were many more words. Namor, seated on his royal chair anew, wearing his crown and robe of office, had presented Dr. Strange, the Silver Surfer, the Hulk, and Sting-Ray with medals for meritorious service to the realm. (The Hulk had torn his off abruptly and crushed it.) Namorita, Dorma, and Namor II were also present, as was Lord Vashti, the grand vizier of Atlantis.
"The queen has informed me that she was the one who summoned you, and the other Defenders, to the realm," Namor pronounced.
Dr. Strange nodded. "It was an emergency measure. In case you ever needed our help, I could guess that your pride wouldn't let you call for it. So I gave her a mystic jewel through which she could contact me, if the time came. And it came today."
The Sub-Mariner glanced at his wife, as if to say, Where is the jewel? She smiled back, holding her son in her arms, as if to say, I will never tell.
"From what we have learned through Byrrah," Namor continued, "mine enemies were contacted through Tiger Shark, who was himself supposedly the agent of another power. But without him, we know nothing. He vanished from the field of battle—literally."
"I detected an unusual residue of energy in that area," reported the Surfer. "It came from neither Strange nor myself. Nor have I encountered quite its like before."
"Magic," said Dr. Strange, simply.
The Hulk said nothing, but sat on the floor, looking bored and sulky. Dorma prayed that the green giant would not fall into a rage. She, too, had seen his power, once when he beset Atlantis, and once when he and Namor first joined forces with the Surfer. Even though he was an ally, it was akin to being joined with a ticking bomb.
"And if so, whose?" asked Namor. "Could it be the Undying Ones again, who once brought you, I, and the Hulk into concert? Or Dormammu, whose power we faced not long ago?"
"I've got suspicions, but no proof," admitted the magician. "And if what I think is true, we're going to need your help, Namor. The Defenders will have to be together for this one."
Namor shook his head. "No. The Realm needs me. There is much to rebuild, and prisoners to tend to. We may have broken the back of Attuma's power, but without vigilance, it might grow a new spine."
"And if Tiger Shark is gone, you can guarantee he won't be gone for long," Strange reminded him. "All hell is breaking loose in America. Super-villains acting in concert, race riots, leftist riots, and now this. Try and tell me, Namor, it isn't a branch of the same tree."
The Sub-Mariner stared at the mage, and Dorma clutched her sleeping baby closer.
Finally, Namor said, "We will remain here another day. Can the Surfer's auras provide you with air enow for that time?"
"They could stay here for the rest of their lives, if I desired," replied the Surfer.
"Then you will be the honored guests of the Realm for that time, while I set things to rights," Namor declared. "After that...we shall see."
"Suits me," said the Sting-Ray. "As long as the Surfer keeps my oxygen supply up. Even my suit has limits."
The Hulk stirred. "When do we get to smash something else?"
Namor and the others looked tense. Gently, Dr. Strange lay a gloved hand on the green one's massive shoulder. "Give us one day to rest, my friend, and we'll show you all the fighting you could want."
The green Goliath smiled. "Always knew Magician wasn't all dumb."
-M-
There had been a war behind closed doors in Greenwich Village. Clea and Wong had battled valiantly, but they were in over their head.
Now the two of them, bound by physical and mystical restraints, could see the four who had conquered them. Only one of them was familiar, and he was all too well known to them. That was Baron Karl Amadeus Mordo, the greatest evil sorceror living, and the greatest mortal foe of Dr. Strange.
They had no idea who the others were. The huge, misshapen green troll-like being in trunks, the bare-chested man in prison pants who carried a wicked-looking ball and chain, the pointy-toothed one in an orange-and-grey costume with a big fin on his back...they were unknown quantities. But they were powerful. All too powerful for Dr. Strange's lady and servant.
"So why don't we take care of 'em now?" said the finned man. "Why wait?"
"They are bait," said Mordo, and that seemed to explain it.
"I wanna get this over with," groused the bald man with the ball and chain. "Outside'a the Hulk, I ain't even met any of these creeps you told me about."
"You don't worry about the Hulk," said the green troll, in a low rumble. "I'll take care of him. Real good."
"You are here because you are needed," said Mordo. "Afterward, if Thor yet survives, we will aid you against him."
"From what I hear, the Masters of Evil may beat us to 'im," said Tiger Shark.
The magician smiled. "Amateurs," he said, "beside the power of Mordo and his Ministers of Menace."
-M-
It was hard to tell when Simon Gilbert was seething, because he'd learned to keep such emotions to himself. He was a good poker player.
But the documents that Mitchell the accountant had brought him just didn't make sense. He knew costs and overruns and everything it took to run a business. And the figures he'd brought in just didn't seem to make sense.
It was as though Gilbert Enterprises was running a huge black budget.
Moreover, it was in the very areas he had assigned to Gary.
As if there wasn't enough hell around already, what with the rioting in the streets and the damned superheroes and super-villains.
He punched a button on his telephone. "Miss Roarke. Cancel my appointments for the afternoon. I'm going to be out."
"What? But, Mr. Gilbert..."
"I said, I'm going to be out." He punched a button beside it, and the contact was broken. Simon Gilbert got up, pushed his chair back, looked out the window at Manhattan round about him, and sighed. Then he put the folder with the papers he had looked over into his briefcase, snapped it shut, got his hat and coat from a tree in the corner, and stepped out of his office.
Gary was probably at his house in the suburbs tonight. And he was going to have a surprise visitor.
Whether he liked it or not.
-M-
The room where the man sat was darkened, the way he liked it. He wore a smoking jacket and comfortable pants and slippers, and paged through an ancient scrapbook by the light of a fireplace. It was the room's only illumination.
There they were, all the records of happier times. He stood in one photo beside that dolt Hitler, the one who had given him everything, only to learn too late that all he had could be taken away as well. Pity the Human Torch got to him first.
Along with that were the bodies of men who had died, usually by his hand, sometimes by those of men he employed. Trophies. Idly, the man understood Baron von Richthofen and his obsession with trophies and numbers. Of course, he had long since passed the Baron's total of 80. He'd done better than that by his first year.
Of course, pictures of his greatest enemy were there, along with the runny-nosed brat who kept company with him. Damn him. Damn him thoroughly. Sometimes, the man thought that his enemy was the real reason the war had been lost, though even he usually regarded that as an insane thought. The enemy had thought the man dead time after time, and time after time the man had risen from apparent death to prove him wrong.
There had to be a plan beyond human imagining that kept the man in action, in tact, in condition, and in hatred long after his original sponsors had died. He was a Great Antithesis, if his enemy could be thought of as a Great Thesis. Of course, that smacked too much of damnable Marxism. But how else could once explain his survival, and his foe's, both in suspended animation, both revived within years of each other, and both promptly at each other's throats anew?
But the battle had not yet ended.
Not, at least, before the present circumstance.
It could be capitalized upon. The man knew exactly how he would do it. He put the scrapbook down long enough to turn on his stereo. The strains of Chopin's Funeral March filled the room. He smiled.
He looked at the page before him. It bore a photograph of himself during the time he had toured Treblinka. That was shortly after the camp's commandants learned how to effectively burn the bodies they had accumulated.
He smiled. Nostalgia. It was worth the indulgence, almost.
The Red Skull stood and warmed his hands, in memory of that earlier fire.
To be continued...