Part 19
by DarkMark
Everyone in Greenwich Village had seen Dr. Strange at some time or another, sometimes with his working outfit on. Most of the time, though, he went out in a regular suit, sometimes in an overcoat and hat. Not too many people paid a call on the brownstone with the strange circular window on top which Strange called home. He wanted it that way.
He also had a way with concealment spells. That was why the hippies, cab drivers, pedestrians, and other folk who passed by just saw Strange in a normal outfit and three other guys with him in regular clothes. One of them looked big enough to work for a professional football team, or maybe to be a professional football team. But nobody asked their business, and they didn't offer any comments to the John Q's.
As they approached the building, Strange hesitated. Something wasn't right. Nothing anybody else would pick up, probably. Perhaps something only in his imagination. But when one was a Master of the Mystic Arts, one learned, very often, to trust one's imagination.
"Namor, Surfer, Hulk," said Strange, lowly, "be on guard. I fear something may be awry inside."
The Sentinel of the Spaceways, clad in the disguise of hat, dark glasses, overcoat, pants, and shoes he wore when he walked among men, raised his hand and pointed it at the door. From his fingertips, an invisible spray of energy issued, entering the building and probing it. His blank eyes widened behind his shades. "Strange," he said.
A second later, the door exploded and the Surfer was bowled over by a huge green gargoyle that knocked him on his back. "Long time no kill, Surf-boy," remarked the Abomination. "But I'm really here for the Hulk."
The Silver Surfer blasted him away with a double-burst of power from his hands. The Hulk, his disguise fading in an instant, roared and went at the Abomination, but got a foot in the face for his troubles. Namor hurled himself into the fray, but was caught in mid-leap by the brutal force of a flying body. As both were borne to the pavement, scattering passers-by and a cop, Namor looked up into the face of Tiger Shark.
"Thought we were done, didn't 'cha, Subby?" grinned the gill-faced villain. "We're just gettin' started."
Dr. Strange had both hands upraised and began an incantation. "In the name of the immortal, three-faced Vishanti..."
A bolt of eldritch power shot from the brownstone's doorway and caught him in the chest, knocking him sprawling into the street, where he barely dodged an oncoming Buick. In the background, through his pain, Strange could hear the voices of people talking, shouting, screaming. His disguise spell had been breached. Now, people knew about him.
They knew the Hulk, the Sub-Mariner, and the Silver Surfer were among them, too.
A huge, brutal-looking, bare-chested bald man in gray pants, holding a ball and chain in one hand, had rushed from the door towards the Surfer. The hero from Zenn-La raised his hand to defend himself. That was okay by the attacker. He grabbed Norrin Radd's hand, and began ingesting the Surfer's power.
His skin began to acquire a silvery tone, and his eyes went wide.
"Never tasted anything like this before," he noted. "Where ya been all my life, Surfey?"
Strange got to a sitting position in the street, still hurting in the chest, and looked up at another enemy soaring towards him by the power of levitation. He knew the man's face better than any other of his foes'.
"Welcome to the first effort of the Masters of Menace, Strange," said Baron Mordo. "One should be all it takes."
-M-
Noah Bernstein had dealt with super-heroes and their friends before. Being the major domo of Howard Hughes, he'd dealt with anybody he'd had to.
Mostly, it was buying things from the brainy guys who had things the company needed. He'd gone to the Baxter Building to cut deals with Reed Richards. He'd been to Tony Stark's Long Island plant many a time, to get what the boss required from S.I,, and had even met Iron Man. Henry Pym he judged to be a dumber man than many of the others he'd dealt with, business-wise: Hughes had simply bought several of Pym's patents when Pym needed the money. Nothing like the growth-altering systems Pym had pioneered, although Bernstein wasn't betting against Pym yielding them up if the fat met the fire one day. But he had a rich wife now, and he was able to hold onto more than he had in the past.
Stark Industries, though...now, there was the prize plum of Bernstein's career, and thus of Hughes's. Get the fee from that deal, and Noah could afford to retire. Even though he wouldn't, of course. Mr. Hughes wouldn't have stood for it.
The problem with Stark, as Noah saw it, stemmed from that trip he made back in '63 to Viet Nam. Well, that would've shook up anybody, and Noah knew all about shook-up billionaires. But even Howard hadn't gotten wounded in the chest by shrapnel while making an on-site check of weaponry he'd sold the government. Stark had come back from that, with Iron Man, his new bodyguard, in tow, but everybody who dealt with him knew Tony had changed.
It was a hell of a lot different world in '72 than it had been nine years ago. That Viet Nam mess had blown up into a full-fledged disaster, and Stark was too easy a target for protesters, with his weapons and his money. Compared to that, Howard's problems with that idiot Irving were nothing. Of course, Howard had his own problems. But he wasn't losing control of his empire.
But just days after Stark had agreed to talk a deal, he'd dropped out of sight. As far as anybody knew, he was running his ship by telephone. Probably he was out covertly with Iron Man, in that big fight the Avengers (and God only knew who all else) had gotten into. Noah was thankful Hughes had never had any super-heroes on the payroll.
Still, dammit, business was business, and Stark ought to know that. If he didn't come through fast, the deal would bloody well fall through. Even on a telephone, even through reps (and Noah knew all about reps, being one himself), the sale of Stark to Hughes could be made within days.
That is, if Stark didn't keep putting him off until "after the present crisis was over." Hell, he ought to know business went on no matter what crisis was going on. Wars, famines, plagues, maybe even the coming of the Messiah. Even this crazy rioting the schwartzes and the kids were doing all over the country. Even with all the idiots in costumes conducting maneuvers against themselves.
He'd tried getting in touch with Stark again, over his private number. A secretary had patched him through, and Noah had gotten Stark on the line, even though his voice sounded tinny. He'd done everything except get down on his knees and beg, and if Stark could have seen that over a telephone, Noah would have done that, too. But Stark put him off again. He said he'd have a final decision for him within ten days. As far as Noah was concerned, that was nine days too long. But Stark had stonewalled, and Noah had to give up.
That tinny voice still bugged him.
As much an electronics genius as Stark was supposed to be, couldn't he get a decent phone system?
-S-
"What in the devil is this?"
Simon Gilbert had asked the question, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know what he asked.
"I'm about to tell you, Dad, if you'll give me a minute," said Gary, standing there impassively. "Of course, it might take more than a minute, but you know what I mean."
Simon looked at his son, and, more importantly, at the man standing beside him. He looked like a parody of Che Guevara with a few more muscles, but the man had a gun, and Simon Gilbert didn't. Nonetheless, this was his son he was talking to. He got up from the chair they had given him.
"Mr. Gilbert," said Graine, not at all reasonably.
The industrialist bristled. "Son, tell him to put that thing away."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Dad," said Gary, quietly.
Simon stared at his son, open-mouthed. "Gary," he said when he found his voice. "Tell me the truth. He's holding you hostage, too. Isn't that right?"
"Uh, no, Dad. I'm afraid we're both holding you hostage. Only it's not exactly a hostage situation. Just let me explain."
"Explain what? I come to the house of my son, and a man holds a gun to my chest and now, now you say you're...what, working with him? Gary? Gary!"
"Mr. Gilbert," said Graine, handling the gun, "please sit down."
Simon Gilbert looked at the gunman, then at his son, and kept his eyes fixed on Gary. The latter had such a cold expression. Like the face one of Hitler's torturers must have had, Simon thought, when he was only doing his job.
"Son..."
"Sit. Down." Graine came forward and pushed Simon into the chair. He withdrew two steps, still watching the older man.
Gary stepped a bit closer, his arms folded. "Maybe, Dad, I should start out by asking you just what you discovered."
Simon Gilbert took a deep breath and tried to think of anything but the gun. "None of your budget holds water, Gary. Not to my eye. There's millions of dollars padded in there."
"Over 26 million, to be precise. And more where that came from."
"Why?"
Gary Gilbert smiled, slightly.
"Because there is a thing called Destiny, Dad. Because you and I are very much a part of it. Let me tell you all about what I do."
Pulling up another seat and sitting before his father, Gary began.
"The money has been going to fund a project. You've seen the super-villain riots all over the country on TV? The riots, too?"
Simon Gilbert tried to wet his mouth with his tongue and failed. "You're a part of that?"
"To be precise, I organized it. We helped pay for it."
Simon tried to leap up from his chair. Quicker than thought, Graine's gun was in his face. The businessman hesitated, breathing hard, than sat down. He said, "I thought you'd changed."
Gary nodded. "Well, I have. I found out overt action doesn't work against a powerful enemy. Covert action does. It works incredibly well."
The older man's face twisted. "How can you have done this? How can you have done it, and still be my son?"
The younger man looked very, very serious. "Precisely because I am your son, dad. Because I'm no longer bound by the misperceptions of your generation. Because I can see the truth. And, having seen it, I have to act on it."
"Seen the truth!" Simon was up from his chair without even thinking of it. Graine was there, trying to push him down, but Simon was trying to claw past him, to get at Gary. "What truth? Have you seen what the Communists really do, dammit? Have you seen all the misery and bloodshed they've created in this century? Have you seen the Berlin Wall, and the gulags, and the...the graves of the American boys they've killed in Viet Nam and Korea? Boys just like you?"
"Mr. Gilbert, sit down," snapped Graine, and hit him in the jaw.
Gilbert yelped, sat down–sprawled, actually–on the green pile carpet, and got up to a more dignified position, wiping his mouth and feeling wetness dripping.
"That's why I'm doing what I'm doing," said Gary Gilbert. "Because of those thousands of men like me who've died in Viet Nam. And Korea. And Europe, and the Pacific, and all over. In a short time, Dad, things are going to be reordered. They'll be grateful to both of us. Me, for what I'll do. You, for being my father. Trust me. It will happen."
Simon Gilbert grasped the arm of the chair in which he had been sitting and dragged himself back into it. "Tell me. Everything."
Gary pulled up a chair not far from his father, facing him, and sat down. "That's just what I'm about to do," he said.
Silently, Simon waited.
"You knew something of what I was into in college, Dad," said Gary. "The what, but not the why. I had my eyes opened there. Everything they didn't want to teach us in grade school, we learned in college. All about the massacres, the slavery, the injustice, the inequality, the..."
"Get to the point," said Simon.
"All right, then, Dad. All right. I'll get to the point. Matter of fact, I got to it long, long ago. I first got to it at age 11, when I was reading about the atomic bomb and what it had done to Japan. And I thought: what if enough people there had made a stand, and had refused to fight for the Emperor?"
"They couldn't. He was their god."
"But what if they had? What if they'd said to him, 'You're our god, but you're wrong. We won't fight for you.' Would they have had to suffer the bomb? Twice? Or even once?"
"That's insane. You're positing something that's a total fiction. You weren't living then, you weren't living there. You don't know..."
"Oh, but I do!" Gary's eyes blazed with terrible light. "True, most people are going to be good little zombies. Even the ones that follow me...no offense, Graine."
"None taken," said Graine, still holding his gun ready.
"But the ones who do know, who can perceive, they can make a difference. What if the scientists working for the Manhattan Project had realized what they were about to do, and refused to do it?"
"They wouldn't. They knew Hitler and the Japanese were working on the bomb, too. And they would have used it."
"And so they would have, unless the scientists working there realized what they were doing, and..."
"And Hitler would have had their cojones for it. The Japs would have tortured their scientists, most likely. My God, son, what in the hell were they teaching you in college? What were they teaching you all in college? The teachers there must have worshiped the New Deal so much, they never saw any of its flaws."
"Oh, they saw its flaws, all right, but they also saw its virtues. But that's not what it's about, Dad. Forget the New Deal. It's over and done. Even the revolution's about to be over and done."
"The revolution." Simon started to get up, but the gun waved meaningfully in his direction. Almost trembling, he sat down again.
"The revolution," said Gary. "I learned the spark of it from a guy in college who didn't even know what he was talking about. He thought you could make a revolution against the United States with overt military action, or violent protest. Wrong. This country is impregnable from both directions. I did my bit, just to show I was sincere, and I got maced for it. That confirmed my knowledge that this wasn't the proper way."
Simon Gilbert looked at his son, and had a vision of Lenin in a London library, doing research on elements of destruction. But he held his peace.
"I looked at the individuals who were getting the headlines," Gary continued. "Presidents. Politicians. Dictators. But outside of them and the movie stars, who were getting the biggest play? Super-heroes. Super-villains. They were as big as the Beatles. Constant entertainment, and the only price you paid was higher taxes to replace the property they destroyed in their fights. That was the way. I knew it, when I was finally led to it. I guess I could say, the New York Times got me my job."
Simon shook his head. He could have made a comment, but he chose not to.
"I took what I knew of engineering and electronics from our side, then I went to Stark's training programs and learned all he had to give me. My inspiration was twofold. First, there was Captain America. Don't laugh, Dad."
"I'd never laugh at Cap," said Simon. "He was the flag made flesh and blood for all the men of my generation. Especially the ones at the front."
"And so he was," said Gary, seriously. "That was what our side needed: a Captain America for the cause. So I would be their Captain America. My second inspiration was Stark's armored lackey himself: Iron Man. He was the Captain America of capitalism and industrialism. He also had a suit which made him more than human. Either something he'd made for himself, or which Stark had made for him. Something he had made to make himself a super-hero. That was what I chose to do, to become a super-hero for the Revolution. That's why I made myself the Firebrand."
"The who?" Simon Gilbert looked at his son in true confusion.
Gary actually showed honest emotion. "You never heard of me? How can you not have heard of the Firebrand?"
Graine looked disgusted. "Fine thing. Your own dad never heard of your secret identity."
"You were some kind of super-villain?" Simon Gilbert shook his head. "There are hundreds of those. I never kept up with any of them."
For an instant, Gary looked deflated. Then he threw up his hands. "All right. It isn't like I had a big, long career. I wasn't a super-villain, though. I was a super-hero for the Revolution. Tried helping out some blacks in a property dispute, got into a fight with Iron Man, and made that running dog look pretty damned bad. I was the one who ended up running away, though. From that, I learned another lesson: that, if I kept up my career as Firebrand, I'd be nothing more than another headline. More entertainment for the masses. I would accomplish practically nothing other than that. So I put away my armor, and I started to think even more."
"In the wrong way," said Simon.
"You think any way but your own, any way but America's present way, is the wrong way," said Gary. "Ever take a look at the Third World countries, Dad? The starvation they experience there, because the First World is using up their resources?"
"They're experiencing starvation because of the stupidity of their governments," responded Simon. "Most are living under dictators. They're the ones that hoard the money we give them."
"Then why do you give them the money?"
"Because we need what they have in order to function," said Simon. "The raw materials, in order to manufacture what we need, what the world needs, and give it back to them."
"Exactly!" Gary jumped up in triumph. "So you see it, now. It's because America neglects its responsibility to the people of the Third World that the Third World is allowed to starve."
"And how in hell is America supposed to exercise that responsibility?", Simon snapped. "By going to war with those countries? You kids scream enough when we make war against a Communist enemy. How eager would you be to go to war in Africa, against those blacks you claim to love so much over here?"
"You just don't see it, Dad," said Gary, disappointedly. "After all this, you really just don't see."
"I see a lot more than you think I do," said Simon. "I see all the illusion you've based your life on, how insubstantial, how fragile it is. You think you can see through us, but that's just because you've never had a mirror good enough to look at yourself."
"Maybe we're just two competing sets of illusions," said Gary. "But I have the power to make mine real. And I will."
"Yours will never be real," said Simon. "They've tried it before, son. Under Lenin. Under Mao. Under Castro. Under all those little sub-dictators. Hell, even under Hitler."
"Don't you compare me to him!" Gary was out of his seat, pointing an accusing finger at his father. "Don't you ever mention Hitler in conjunction with me. We're doing this absolutely against the spirit of Hitler. We're doing it in the spirit of the new age, of the new era, of the..."
"Of the new Reich?" said Simon. "You decide what's to be done, who's to be killed? You play God, just like Hitler tried to do? You got plans for all those who don't fit into your little..."
Gary sprinted to his father in the time of an unleashed thought and slapped him, hard, across the face. Simon Gilbert, chair and all, fell backward and hit the floor. Graine was immediately at Gary's side. Gary was panting.
"Don't. Ever. Make. That. Comparison. AGAIN."
"You..."
"DON'T!"
"Mr. Gilbert," said Graine, training his gun on Simon. "I think you'd better sit down and shut up."
Simon trained his gaze on Graine, even though his own mouth was freshly bleeding. "You," he said. "Don't you realize what you're about to do? What he's about to do? Don't you have any feelings for your own country?"
Graine said nothing. Eventually, Simon righted his chair and sat back down in it.
"Well," said Gary, regaining control of himself. "Well, to begin again: after I fought Iron Man, I knew that overt action was a mistake. Only covert action would be the viable way. That was when I got back into the family business, Dad. That's when I decided to make you proud."
Silently, Simon sat there. There was nothing left to do, it seemed, other than let Gary finish his story.
Gary said, "The Revolution could only be made as if by a magician's trick. Britain employed stage magicians in World War II to show them how to fool the Nazis. I didn't need anybody in a top hat to show me how to pull this one off. It just took planning, secrecy, and a lot of money. The company would give me the only thing I really needed: the money.
"I saw the opportunity coming. Stark pulled out of munitions, and you pulled out of Stark even before that. We picked up the contracts. We made better weapons than even he did. Uncle Sam loves us, Dad. He loves us to death.
"And I siphoned off just enough money to put my organization, such as it is, together. The public wants super-heroes fighting super-villains? Fine. I'd give them that. The problem was that they were never organized. They'd fight little brushfire battles against their chosen heroes, maybe get together in a gang of six or so, but, outside of those ill-advised attempts they periodically made to take over the world, none of them really thought big enough. They could spend all the money in the world on their elaborate deathtraps, their deadly machines, and all they'd get out of it would be a broken jaw and a trip to the slammer. They'd do that over and over again, and none of them ever thought outside of that box. Not even Doctor Doom.
"So I tempted them all with money, with revenge, with power, and put them all together into a syndicate that I promised them would end up ruling America, and then the world. They all think they're going to knock me off afterward, then go to war on each other to find out who's the biggest stick on the block. But they'll never get that chance."
"You'll...see that they don't live that long?" Simon could barely believe he got the sentence out.
Gary grinned. "You're catching up, Dad. Everything is planned to perfection. Simply by being very, very smart. Smarter than the average super-villain. Smarter even, perhaps, than Doctor Doom and Magneto and the Mandarin. But they're only part of the illusion.
"The second part is the revolutionaries themselves. The students on the New Left, the blacks in the Panthers, the Diamond Heads, and the ones who just don't like Whitey and want to do something about him, some of the Old Lefties that heard of what we're doing and want to get in on it. Oh, yes, they all have their part to play. All of them, and none of them are watching the magician's hands. They don't even know where they are."
Simon shook his head. "Black magic."
Gary nodded, soberly.
After a moment, Gary resumed. "Any more questions?"
"What about Russia? What about China? You think they'll sit around on their hands while this is being done?"
"There are plans for Russia as well," said Gary. "Trust me. As for China, they can fend for themselves. The upset in the world balance will push them off-kilter as well. As for me, there's a part I have to play, also. There's a thing called the Fire, Dad. I'm going to light the Fire."
That was the last thing Simon Gilbert consciously listened to.
He never believed in the phenomenon some novelists called "red rage" in the adventure stories he'd read as a youth. As if a curtain of blood came down in front of the afflicted person's vision and negated his reasoning, stopped him from thinking, made him an Amok only directed against the enemy, no matter what the cost to himself.
Of course, that was all before he heard about the Fire.
Simon's next conscious thought was that, somehow, he had his son down on the floor, had his fingers wrapped about Gary's throat, and was banging his head against the floor as hard as he could. It seemed to be hurting Gary, the carpet notwithstanding. The strangling certainly seemed to be. Gary had his hands on Simon's wrists and, for all his striving, didn't seem to be able to pry them loose. Somebody was shouting something incoherent. Simon was certain that it wasn't him, because he didn't judge himself capable of speech at the moment, but he had to admit that it sounded like a passable imitation of him. Especially when he was in rage.
That was the last thing he thought.
There was a sound that drowned out even the shapeless screaming. Did it happen before or after the incredible pain and heat? Impossible to tell.
The redness and the face of his son faded faster than the picture of a clicked-out TV set. The pain peaked in an incredible instant. Then it, too, faded.
What remained of Simon Gilbert fell limply across the bloodied body of his son.
David Graine looked at the two of them, framed by blood and spattered brains, smelled his smoking gun, and waited.
After a second, Gary Gilbert began to cry.
Graine watched him clutch the inert body of his father, still open-eyed and seeing everything and nothing, and listened to him sob, watched him put his own cheek against the bloody cheek of Simon Gilbert. Actually, Graine wanted to puke. But he decided to save that till later on, when he had some spare time.
Gary cried. He cried for a very long time. David Graine got a chair for himself and sat down in the next room, waiting things out. True, he did what he must. But that didn't mean he had to stay around and watch the afterleavings for hours on end.
It seemed like an eternity later, but, checking his watch, Graine knew that it was only ten minutes since the murder before Gary came in to see him. His eyes were glassy, like those of a prize-fighter who doesn't realize he's just won a ten-rounder.
Gary stood looking at him for a long time with that stare.
"I'm sorry," Graine said, finally.
"You did," Gary said, with a supreme effort, "what you had to do."
Then his fingers went under the lapel of his reddened coat. Graine's eyes widened behind his shaded glasses, knowing what was being reached for. He leaped up. "Boss, no," he said. "The Revolution. It can't get along without you. It isn't done yet. Don't kill yourself!"
The gun spoke.
David Graine couldn't think of anything to say.
Gary caught him as he fell forward.
Actually, part of his mind thought, it wasn't as though the guy was going to mess up his suit any worse.
-M-
The X-Men, old and new, had retreated to the police lines, which were drawing further and further away from the area Magneto, the Monolith, and their coterie had claimed as their own. The large group of costumed mutants could see the Monolith, standing in the distance with his arms folded, among what was left of the skyscrapers the Brotherhood had partially or wholly leveled. He wasn't making any move yet, probably because he figured he didn't have to.
Cyclops was talking on a plug-in phone to the mayor of Dallas. The old team was mingling with the new team, conferring with their old friends, trying not to sound like know-it-alls and having little success at that. Iceman had tried to console Magnetica for the loss of Havok, but she told him to go away. After that, Jean, who had been talking friendly-fashion with Lorna, turned a cold shoulder to her. The Beast was helping Sean tend to the Mimic, who was still hors de combat. Sunfire was standing by himself, arms folded, facing the Monolith in an imitation of his stance. It seemed a gesture of defiance.
"I wouldn't exactly say we blew it, sir," said Cyclops. "It'll just take a little more time. No, I don't know how much time. Well, sir, I wouldn't know what kind of weapon you'd use on him. Short of a tactical nuke...no. No, sir, I am not at all advocating the use of nuclear bombs in the heart of Dallas. That's just an expression, sir. Just an expression... Well, I don't like it much, either. He's got my teammate captive. But the X-Men have usually... Well, sir... It's like this. We know the problem. We've dealt with it before. We've... Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I know. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. Goodbye."
Marvel Girl came up to him as he slammed down the phone. "Trouble, Cyke?"
He set his mouth in a sour expression. "Apparently the mayor of Dallas isn't as impressed with our work as Hizzoner was in New York. He said he wants us to get 'that Big Tex imitation out of my city, and do it now'. Those weren't his exact words."
"I can imagine."
One of the cops nearby said, "This is really both our jobs, sir. We're here to protect Dallas. These guys may be your old opposition, but it's our responsibility."
"I realize that, sir," said Cyclops, trying to sound reasonable. "The bottom line is, we're trying to save lives here. When the X-Men and the Brotherhood fights, nobody gets killed on either side. So far."
"So far," echoed the policeman, dubiously.
"This has usually been a combination of two things," Cyclops continued. "One, the X-Men don't fight to kill. Two, we know how to protect ourselves. But if your men go in there, they've got guns, and their only option is to use them."
"Maybe they got a different way of doing things in New York," said the cop. "Let me tell you how it is here in Dallas. Somebody gets crazy out here, starts endangering people's lives and their property, we give him a choice: come out with his hands up or with his toes pointin' to the sky. When we lock people up here, they stay locked up till their sentence is done. The way I understand it, where you come from, they let 'em out about four times a year each so you can have a whoop-up with 'em. Down here, they get one chance, and that's all they get. And the people of Dallas expect us to keep order in this town."
"Think you can take down that one there with guns?" Cyke pointed to the Monolith.
"Think we'll have to use everything we can," admitted the officer. "We will, too."
"Against Magneto, you'd be better off using wooden clubs. He'll also lift you by your belt buckles and dump you from as high a point as he wants."
"So? You got any better ideas? We ain't got time to wait no more."
Cyclops didn't have anything to say for a moment. Then he said, "Give us thirty minutes to handle this. If we can't do it...you take your shot. But do it from a distance."
"You've got fifteen."
"Twenty."
"Go for it, Mr. X," said the policeman. "But if I lose my badge over this, you get to testify in my behalf."
Cyclops walked away from him, and towards the perimeter of their impromptu settlement. "X-Men," he called loudly. "Huddle for planning. Now."
"He is not our leader," bristled Sunfire, concealing the pain in his hurt arm.
"He is now," said Banshee, "and don't you forget it."
The group of mutants clustered about Cyclops as he outlined what he had for a plan, tersely. He ended with, "Forget the division. We're not old X-Men. We're not new X-Men. We're just the X-Men today, and that's what we have to be. A unit. Understood?"
A chorus of yeses and equivalents came from the group members.
Cyclops turned towards Sunfire meaningfully. The Japanese mutant
nodded, briefly. "All right. Let's go," said Scott, and waved
in the general direction of the Monolith.
Magneto scanned the enemy camp with a pair of conventional binoculars. "They're coming," he muttered.
"Gives us something to do," answered Juggernaut, grinding one hand into his other palm. "As long as Monny leaves us enough."
The other members of the Brotherhood looked at Magneto with anticipation. For his part, Magneto adjusted his helmet and sighed. "Damn them. They never would listen to reason."
"That's kind of the thing my uncle Louie would say, sometimes," noted Unus. "He was in the rackets."
"Silence!"
The Vanisher, not far away, looked on the master of magnetism and held his peace. He hadn't worked with Magneto for very long, but he was liking it less and less as time went by. Once the fight was over and things were sorted out, it might be time to simply...vanish.
The Blob, rubbing dirt between his hands and brushing them off afterward, said, "Let 'em come. We've had enough kay-fabing around here. It's time for those guys to take some permanent bumps."
"Give us the word, Magneto," said Juggernaut. "You're the man on this op."
The man in red and purple paused a long time, watching the group of dots grow larger with every second and resolve themselves into recognizable costumed figures. They were his Scylla, the men at his back were his Charybdis. He always knew the burdens of power, and with power comes the necessity for great decisions. Whether one liked them or not.
"Let them get closer," he ordered. "Then...kill them."
He glanced at the towering leg of the Living Monolith, nearby. It would be unnecessary to give him any orders.
Magneto turned to his right, expecting to see Mastermind around. Of all the coterie about him, Jason Wyngarde was his oldest associate. It didn't make him a friend, but Magneto knew he could depend on the illusionist's fear.
The problem was, Mastermind wasn't in sight.
While Magneto had his head turned, he heard Unus speak. "Magneto...look!"
He whipped his head back around to see. As he saw, his eyes went wide. The helmet he wore only partly concealed his shock.
Somewhere around 100 X-Men were coming at them.
There were at least five Cyclopses, and about as many Marvel Girls, Beasts, flying Angels, Banshees, Sunfires, Icemen, Magneticas, and even a small squad of Mimics. All of them seemed to be moving independently, but they were moving so well it was impossible to tell the real from the imitations. If there were imitations.
"Mastermind," breathed Magneto. Then, loudly: "MASTERMIND!"
The others, unconscious of the mesmerist's absence before, quickly looked in all directions for him. He was gone. Or if he was there, he was shielded by illusion.
"What gives, Mags?" asked the Blob, incredulously. "What's happenin'?"
"Isn't it obvious, you bloated idiot?" retorted Magneto. "The red-headed witch has gained mental control of him. She's harnessing his illusion power against us. MONOLITH!"
The grey-skinned titan turned his head. It was uncannily like seeing the Sphinx respond to a questioner, if such a thing was imaginable. "YES?" There was no mistaking the tone of arrogance in the single word.
"Stamp as many of them as you can! That'll sort out the true from the false...if any of them live afterward."
"ARE YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME ORDERS, LITTLE MAN?"
The other Brotherhood members, from Juggernaut on down, tensed. If the big guy turned on Magneto, every one of them was going to make a fast fade to Fort Worth and parts further out.
"DO IT!" yelled Magneto, pointing at the X-horde almost upon them.
Luckily, the Monolith had more against the X-Men than he did against Magneto. He swung one towering leg out, over fifteen feet in diameter, and smashed its metal-sandaled foot towards the X-Men.
Then he slipped on a huge slide of ice that formed under his foot, fell backwards, flailing his arms comically, and hit with a WHUMP that took over a building behind him, jarred almost everyone off of their feet, and made for a hefty bonus for the newshawk on the perimeter, catching it with a film camera and telescopic sight.
"Go! Go! Go!" hollered Cyclops, pointing forward and spearheading the charge. The illusionary heroes quickly faded and only the originals were left. The X-Men split up, each one seeking a predetermined target. Cyke's impromptu strategy had to work, and quickly, or every one of them could expect to become fillet of mutant.
But then, Marvel Girl thought, Scott's plans had a habit of working out. So far. She crossed the fingers of her right hand and sent out another mental command: Mastermind. Sleep.>
"Yes...sleep...", said an apparently disembodied voice not far from the Blob. It was followed by a yawn, and, seconds later, a reclining and dozing Mastermind was seen fading into view on the ground. The Brotherhood didn't have time to take note of him for very long.
Magneto raised his hands and pointed them at the enemy. This time, nothing would be held back. Xavier's men had refused to parley. What ensued would be upon their heads. His hands were circled by a dim nimbus of purplish energy.
Then his whole body was enveloped in flame.
Despite himself, Magneto screamed and rolled, using his power to dredge up iron-bearing soil around him and snuff the fire. He wasn't badly burned, but it hurt like hell.
Sunfire, above him, launched another bolt. It connected, heating the metal of Magneto's helmet to a terrific degree. Clenching his teeth, the master of evil mutants grabbed his metallic mask with gloved hands, felt them and the flesh beneath them sizzle, and tore his helmet away, throwing it onto the ground. It was heated to whiteness. Magneto's hands were seared. Worse, the heat retarded his magnetism. His white-haired visage showed the pain, and he dared not open his mouth for fear the cry of agony that would come forth would never be stopped.
"Die, you unclaimed bastard," said Sunfire, and meant it. He unleashed more torrents of atomic flame at his foe.
Magneto, blinded by pain and fire, sought to track his foe by magnetic imaging and tore more girders and metallic fragments from the battle site, hurling them skyward. But as he did so, another girder smashed him from behind and knocked him flat on his face. Others joined in the attack, battering him despite his hastily erected magnetic shield. He tried to gain control of the weapons used against him, but the beating and Sunfire's continued attack left him too weak.
It couldn't end this way, he told himself. It simply couldn't. Destiny would not see fit to thwart him again.
But that was his last conscious thought, as another powerful blow rendered him senseless.
Sunfire lit on the ground beside his partner in combat, Lorna Dane. "Is he finished?" asked Toshiro.
"Only unconscious, I think," said Magnetica. "But there's a lot more bad guys to go."
Not far away, the Beast was engaged in baiting another one. That was about all he could do, as the Blob seemed about as vulnerable to his attack as the Rocky Mountains. He hopped nimbly about the obese adversary, trying to stay just barely out of his way. "One would think you would feel indubitably flattered, Blob," said the Beast, on the fly. "I came out of retirement just for you."
"Ah'm about to put you back there, permanent-like," said the Blob, grabbing futilely for the Beast's foot. "Stand still, blast ya! Fight like a man!"
"But would I be a prudent mutant to do that?" asked the red-and-blue clad Hank McCoy. "Honor I have, but self-preservation is always utmost in my mental sphere...uh!"
His cry came from being snagged about his huge ankle by the Blob's fingers, each of which seemed about as big as a tube of toothpaste. Family size, the Beast mentally amended. Grinning, Fred Dukes balled his other hand into a fist and swung it at the Beast's head.
The Beast responded by pulling a plastic packet from his belt and throwing it at the Blob's eyes.
It burst open and engulfed the Blob's orbs in a painful, burning sensation. The Beast easily ducked the Blob's blow, which went as wild as his scream of pain sounded. And while the Blob had his mouth wide open, the Beast went for another package from his belt, pulled it forth, and stuffed it down the Blob's gullet. He got his hand out before the Texan mutant could bite it.
The Blob swallowed hard, almost choking before he could respond. He still held the Beast fast. "You," he offered, loggily. "You sonuvvatwo-headed-rattlesnake, what'dja...what'dja..."
"Something I got from the X-Craft, in the same medicine cabinet where I got the irritant," explained the Beast. "It's a really efficient anaesthetic. Wouldn't you say?"
The Blob really wasn't capable of saying much. He'd been fed enough sleeping medicine to prepare five normal men for surgery. His eyes crossed and he began to have a vision of his mother cradling him, at a time before he had punched her in the face.
Then he fell backward, which the Beast was grateful for, as he didn't want to have to dig his way out from under his foe.
"Score one for brains and preparedness over brawn," remarked Hank, as he pried his ankle loose from the Blob's fingers. "Sleep tight, my oviparous opponent."
The Juggernaut found two opponents facing him: the lily-livered Irishman, the Banshee, and that gimp who'd tried to give him a good fight before and was still limping from it, the Mimic. "You have just got to be kidding me," he said. "Charlie sent you both out here on a suicide mission?"
"Nah, y' ignorant spawn of a peat bog," replied Banshee. "He just didn't think it'd take more'n the two of us to take ya. Come at us, now. I'll even stay on the ground for ya."
"Got to be a trick," said the Juggernaut, putting his head down. "But y'know what? I don't really give a damn. Here I come, lugnuts!"
He charged.
The Juggernaut had been expecting the Mimic to try and copy his power again when he got close. In that, he was mistaken. By the time Cain Marko took his first step, both the Banshee and the Mimic had their mouths open, and they were directing high-pitched screams of sonic force at him from two directions.
He was being attacked in stereo.
Marko shouted in rage and pain. His helmet could protect him from mental attacks, but he had to hear in order to function. So he was vulnerable to an attack by sound, and that was exactly what Irish and his kid partner were giving him. The only way out of it was to knock them both down. He made for the kid.
The kid stepped to the side and screamed harder. So did Irish. The sound was affecting the Juggernaut's equilibrium. He found it harder to stay balanced. And, dammit, the noise was driving him insane!
Turning with difficulty, the Juggernaut next tried charging at the Banshee. It took him twice the effort it usually did, and he noted he was traveling half as fast as normal. True to his word, the Banshee didn't fly into the air. He just sidestepped Cain's charge and let him go by. The sonic blasts were affecting Marko's ability to aim his charges. Hell, he was barely able to keep standing up!
The Mimic had also turned to pinpoint his own copied sonic blast at the Juggernaut. When Marko finally got his footing again, he was still bombarded with the double noise beam. It hurt.
It took three more charges, but the massive malevolent finally became so confused he wasn't able to figure out which way to move. He turned this way, then that. All the time, the two screamers were pelting him with sound that was worse than three hundred Marantz stereo systems blaring at the same time.
He finally had to sit down. Then he had to lay down. Then he didn't think conscious thought was worth the effort anymore, and he closed his eyes. The loud pair kept up their barrage until they were certain he wasn't faking. Overloaded with sonic stimulus, Cain Marko had simply gone to sleep.
Cal Rankin coughed and grasped his throat, which was turning sore. "Can we stop now? I don't see how you do it."
"Got to be born with the talent, laddie," said the Banshee, a second after cutting off his own sonic blast. "But ya did fine, for a Yank. Now let's lend a hand to the other buckos and Besses."
Unus and the Vanisher were still at large, but their powers were mostly defensive and their threat was negligible. Cyclops and his brothers-in-arms were converging on the Living Monolith. He was getting up, and his powers were anything but negligible.
Marvel Girl, Beast, Iceman, and Magnetica were already on the scene. Angel was flying about the Monolith's head, trying successfully (so far) to avoid the giant's grasp. Sunfire, visibly hurting from his wounded arm, caught up and spiraled about the Monolith's face as well, and unleashed a sunbolt right at his enemy's eyes. The Monolith tried to turn his head to avoid it, but was only partially successful. It seared the side of his face and the skin over his right eye.
He roared in agony.
"YOU, JAPANESE ONE," he declared. "YOU WILL BE MY FIRST SACRIFICE TO OSIRIS. YOUR DEATH WILL BE QUICK, BUT NOT PAINLESS."
Iceman tried encumbering him with ice ties about his feet, but they broke like frayed strings. His snow-bomb at the Monolith's face did no more good. "We're in for it, Hank," he confided to the Beast. "Understatement of the millenium."
"Perhaps not, my Fahrenheit-fallen friend," observed the Beast. "Even Achilles had his famous heel...and, to paraphrase Bob Dylan, perhaps we may render him temporarily like Achilles."
"You want to get under that heel, be my guest!"
Cyclops tried blasting the Monolith's ankles, but they had about as much effect as a man stubbing his toes. The Banshee was on the scene now, joining Angel and Sunfire in flying about their foe's head and unleashing sonic blasts. They confused the Monolith, but did little more.
The leader of the old X-Men nodded briefly to the two women of the team. "Marvel Girl, Magnetica, it's up to you. Go for it."
Jean Grey, standing beside Lorna Dane, pressed her fingertips to her temples and concentrated. The Monolith's expression showed bewilderment. The others guessed, correctly, that she was attacking him through his mind. Then the brobdinagian foe stood up straight, flexed his muscles, and screamed.
"GET OUT OF MY MIND!"
The backlash knocked Jean flat on her side. Lorna and Cyclops were by her in a moment, helping her up. "It's all right, it's all right," said Jean. "I couldn't stay in there long. Didn't expect to."
"What did you get?" rapped Cyclops.
"Just what you expected me to," she answered.
"Link with Lorna, and do what we planned."
Marvel Girl faced Magnetica and imparted the information she'd gotten from the Monolith's mind. Without a word, Lorna gestured, and a dislodged girder rose from a heap of rubble and settled beside them. "Get on," said Lorna.
"What?"
"Like this," Lorna said, and brought the beam up a foot or two, straddling it and sitting on it. Since she was in a skirt, Jean settled for going sidesaddle. Lorna shook her head. "With both legs," she directed.
"Oh, all right," sighed Jean. She straddled it as well, and the I-beam rose into the air. It flew quickly in a certain direction, carrying its riders with it. The Monolith, seeing it, tried to knock them out of the sky.
He missed.
Angrily, he swept back his arms and knocked the flying mutants out of the sky. The impact was like being struck by the arms of a giant animated statue. Iceman formed a slide to catch Sunfire, Banshee, and Angel as they fell, but the great shadow of the Monolith loomed over him.
In his great hands, the Monolith scooped up Cyclops, Banshee, the Angel, Iceman, and Sunfire. They tried training their powers on him, but it was of no use. The Beast and Mimic tried to attack him from below, but their efforts were even more futile.
"GODS OF ANCIENT EGYPT, I COMMEND THESE SACRIFICES TO YOU," said the Monolith. His hands began to tighten.
"Bobby," gasped Cyclops. "Expand your icepower. Try to...loosen...his grip..."
Iceman said, "No dice...Scotty. Tried it...already. Cracked ice. Nice workin' with ya...again."
Sunfire, his face white with pain, shouted, "Banzai!"
Then...
...the Monolith's grip began to falter.
Scott Summers wondered if it was but an illusion, a misperception before death. But no, the Monolith really was squeezing them less forcefully. It might still be enough to finish them, unless...
"X-Men," he said. "The grip's weakening. Use all your power on him, now!"
The Iceman made a second effort to expand the ice about him. This time, it worked. The right hand of the Monolith quickly sprang open. Sunfire blasted the Monolith's other hand, which he was caught in, just as Cyclops unleashed his visor-blasts on the same hand. The Monolith cried out in pain, and loosened his grip on that hand.
The Banshee turned his head upward and hit their foe with a sonic scream. A second later, he said, "Saints be praised! D'ya see it, boys? The Mono is shrinking!"
And so it was.
The giant swayed back and forth unsteadily, his huge metallic garments growing ever more cumbersome and outsized on him. The five original X-Men had seen such a thing once before, when they first met the Monolith, and they were more than happy to see it again.
In another second, he was too weak to hold his captives. He dropped the five X-Men. The Beast managed to catch the falling Cyclops. Iceman provided himself with a pole down which to slide to the ground. Banshee, Angel, and Sunfire simply flew to the ground.
Looking on, Iceman remarked, "I think Monny is about to break the indecent exposure code."
"Methinks you have a point, chum," replied the Beast.
The giant was shrinking as quickly as if he had been a Hollywood special effect. He lost bulk, mass, weight, and skin texture. The worst part about it seemed to be the fact that his face showed his awareness of it. "NO," he screamed. "NOT AGAIN. THIS CANnot happen to me a..."
Then his great metal garments clunked to the ground and Professor Abdol, quite naked amidst them, collapsed.
Cyclops breathed heavily, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Super-heroes liked to joke about the Last Desperate Chance. But until you lived through one of them...and Scott had lived through all too many...you never knew how black the laughter was.
"Hey, Cyke!"
He knew the voice. Cyclops turned his head and saw, above and behind him, a girder flying in the air, ridden by three people.
Lorna.
Jean.
And Alex.
He smiled as the girder brought them to a safe landing. Even before Jean, Scott had to embrace his brother. And he did.
"Looks like the see-saw went down again," said Angel. "In our favor."
"You might say that," said Havok. "You might also say...it's good to be alive!"
"And then some," said Lorna, joining Jean, Scott, and Havok in a group hug.
As per Cyclops's instructions, Jean Grey had not only attacked the Monolith's mind, she had probed it for information as to where Magneto had taken the coffin bearing Havok. It was in a nearby landfill. With Magneto out for the count, it was only the work of a few moments for them to raise the coffin and crack it open. Havok's exposure to the Earth's cosmic rays cut off power to the Living Monolith and restored the latter to his normal form.
It had happened before, but they were never more grateful.
A few minutes later, the mutant band rounded up the unconscious and / or subdued Brotherhood members. Unus was taken down by Jean's mental powers. That left only two unaccounted for. The Vanisher was one of them.
Magneto was the other.
"No sign he tunneled away," remarked Havok. "You think he just got up and walked away?"
Jean shook her head. "No chance. I'm scanning the area, and I'm not picking up his brain waves. He couldn't have gotten far enough away this fast."
"So," said the Beast. "Vanisher absent. Magneto likewise. Putting the two together does not require the talents of Professor S. F. X. Van Dusen."
"I didn't know the Vanisher could take people with him when he 'ported," said the Angel. "But it's probably something they worked out beforehand."
Cyclops nodded. "I can think of one place he'd go. All of us, let's get back in the ships and take it to Westchester. Jean, get on the mind-horn to the Professor, if you can."
"It's too far out of range, Scott."
"Then we'll call him on the radio. Let's go, group. And, Alex..."
Havok waited, Lorna holding his hand.
"...you guys did really good."
Alex Summers smiled, and smacked his brother on the shoulder. "You too. Let's move it the hell out."
Then both of them froze. They saw Sunfire standing over the fallen Professor Abdol. His hand was ablaze.
"Sunfire, NO!" shouted Alex.
Toshiro didn't move. "I can slay this dragon before either of you can stop me."
"Don't bet on that, Sunfire," said Cyclops, clenching his hand in preparation to opening his visor. "Stand down."
"This man endangers too many lives, including our own, with his continued existence," said Sunfire. "He specifically targets you, Havok, my leader. His execution is a necessity."
"Like hell," said Alex. "This is America. Like it or not, even a super-villain has rights. Put out that hand and step away."
"I must refuse."
"Then your status drops from an X-Man to a Brotherhood member," said Havok. "We will treat you accordingly. I have given you an order, Sunfire. Obey it, or face us all."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then the flames around Sunfire's hand were snuffed out. The Japanese mutant strode over to Alex and bowed before him. "I present myself for disciplinary action."
"I'll think of something," said Alex. "In view of your earlier performance today, it'll probably just be cleaning the washrooms. Now..."
Sunfire pitched forward on his face.
Alex grabbed him by the shoulders. Cyclops crouched over him. "He's unconscious," said Havok. "The pain must have gotten to him."
"We'll get him to Parkland Hospital, fast," said Cyclops. "The X-Craft can get him there. By the way, Alex, one hell of a job of leadership."
"Don't mention it, Scott. Just my job."
"I have to mention it. The X-Men must never accept a member who is a murderer."
The Dallas police were approaching, now that the battle was over. Cyclops saw the policeman to whom he had been talking. "We'll have to take them with us," he said, gesturing to the fallen Brotherhood. "And we'll have to go now."
"You got a court order?"
"We got one before we came."
The cop smiled.
Cyclops said, "Did we make it on time?"
"Naw. You took half an hour. But you looked like you was havin' so much fun, we cut you some slack." He extended his hand. "Welcome to Dallas."
"We've got a man down," said Cyclops, shaking the cop's hand. "We need to get him to Parkland."
"You want an escort?"
"Just tell them we're coming."
The united X-Men began to load their fallen foemen aboard the jetcraft. The policeman started back to his squad car to make the radio call. On the way, another officer caught up to him. "Herman?"
"Yeah?"
"I gotta say it."
"Say what?"
"Just who was that masked man, anyway?"
"Shut up."
-M-
PARKER
By the time I got to the place in New Rochelle my Spidey Sense had clued me into, I was tingling worse than if my head had gone numb the way your arm does when you sleep on it wrong. Whatever it was that was wrong was in the wrongest way possible.
I found out when I got inside. I had to break the door lock to get in. The back door, of course. I suppose somebody from another house in the division saw me, but that wasn't what I was concerned with. I could already smell something in abundance that unnerved me.
Blood.
It didn't take too long to find where the bodies were lying. Normally, I would have tried to check for a pulse. One look told me that was useless. These guys were dead. Bad dead. Worse than anybody I'd ever seen.
Don't expect me to describe it. I had a tough enough time hanging onto my cookies the way it was. I tore myself away, looked through the rest of the house. Only me and the two stiffs were there. A middle-aged man and a very big, very muscular hippie. There was more blood elsewhere, and some of it led out to the garage. I looked out there, and the trail ended around an empty car space. Whoever the perpetrator was, he'd gotten away on wheels.
I didn't know who either of the corpses were. I sure didn't know who'd killed them. I didn't even know who owned the house where I was standing. But I did have a communicator Fury had given me, and I gave him a call pronto. I explained my situation. He told me to get the Sam Hill out of there, that he'd cover for me with the local cops. He said to make myself scarce, and he'd have SHIELD lock the place down and investigate. He'd be in touch with me later.
Yeah, maybe I should have gone home. But I needed answers. A lot of them. I didn't know where most of the heroes in New York had gone, but I did think there was one guy still left that I knew in Greenwich Village. If anybody could find things out, it might be him.
Doctor Strange.
But all of us were still racing against the Fire.
To be continued...