Civil War E-Book

Stuart Moore

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Marvel novels
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 385

Beschreibung

Second title in Titan Books' Marvel fiction reissue program, featuring the classic story: Civil WarSPIDER-MAN • IRON MAN CAPTAIN AMERICA • THE FANTASTIC FOURTHE EPIC STORY THAT BLOWS THE MARVEL UNIVERSE APART!Iron Man and Captain America: two core members of the Avengers, the world's greatest super hero team. When a tragic battle blows a hole in the city of Stamford, killing hundreds of people, the U.S. government demands that all super heroes unmask and register their powers. To Tony Stark—Iron Man—it's a regrettable but necessary step. To Captain America, it's an unbearable assault on civil liberties.SO BEGINS THE CIVIL WAR.BASED ON THE SMASH-HIT GRAPHIC NOVEL THAT HAS SOLD MORE THAN HALF A MILLION COPIES.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Warriors

Part One: Last Gleaming

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Part Two: Starting to Believe

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Part Three: Pieces of Silver

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Part Four: The Deciders

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Part Five: Clarity

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Epilogue One: Invisible

Epilogue Two: Spider

Epilogue Three: America

Epilogue Four: Iron

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Coming Soon From Titan Books

A NOVEL OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE

CIVIL

WAR

Civil War

Print edition ISBN: 9781785659584

E-book edition ISBN: 9781785659591

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: April 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 MARVEL

Cover art by Michael Turner and Peter Steigerwald

Interior art by Steve McNiven, Dexter Vines and Morry Hollowell

Editor: Marie Javins

Original Design: Spring Hoteling

VP Production and Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist

Assistant Editor: Caitlin O’Connell

Manager, Licensed Publishing: Jeff Reingold

SVP Print, Sales and Marketing: David Gabriel

Editor in Chief: C.B. Cebulski

Chief Creative Officer: Joe Quesada

President: Dan Buckley

Executive Producer: Alan Fine

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Mark Millar,

who turned the blank page into gold;

Steve McNiven, who brought it to life;

and Liz, who sat through all my

jabber about Captain America and Iron Man.

PROLOGUE

WARRIORS

SPEEDBALL could barely stand still. That wasn’t unusual. Ever since the accident in the lab, his body had become a barely controlled generator of highly volatile kinetic-force bubbles. His teammates in the New Warriors were accustomed to his constant bouncing around, his inability to stay focused on anything for more than ninety seconds at a time. They barely even bothered to roll their eyes anymore.

No, Speedball acting antsy wasn’t new. But the reason for it was.

“Earth to Speedball.” The producer’s voice was tinny in his ear. “You gonna answer my question, kid?”

Speedball smiled. “Call me Robbie, Mister Ashley.”

“You know the rules. When you’re miked and in the field, it’s code names only. Speedball.”

“Yes sir.” He couldn’t resist tweaking Ashley. The man was such a suit.

“So,” Ashley said.

“So?”

“The villains. How many?”

Speedball brushed crabgrass away from his leg. He leapt up into the air past Namorita, who stood leaning against a tree, bored. He bounced off Microbe’s massive frame—the big guy sat sprawled in the grass, snoring—and came in for a featherlight landing right behind Night Thrasher, their black-cowled leader.

Thrash was all business, his hidden eyes peering through a pair of high-tech binoculars. Speedball looked past him at the house, old and wood-framed, concealed from its neighbors by a high fence. The Warriors—and their camera crew—stood about fifty feet away, hidden behind a pair of big oak trees.

A trio of muscular men appeared in the doorway of the house, all dressed in casual clothes: jeans, work shirts. Speedball touched a button on his earpiece. “Three villains.”

“Four,” Thrasher said.

Speedball squinted, managed to make out a muscular woman with dark hair. “Oh yeah. I see Coldheart in the back, emptying the trash.” Speedball giggled. “Emptying the trash. Man, these guys are hardcore.”

“Actually, they’re all on the FBI’s most wanted list.” Ashley sounded almost worried now. “Cobalt Man, Speedfreek, Nitro...they all broke out of Rykers Island three months back. And they all got records as long as your arm.”

Microbe had shambled up behind them—all 350 pounds of him—dressed in green and white with a thick belt full of compartments. “What’s up?”

Thrasher motioned him to silence.

“Coldheart fought Spider-Man a couple of times,” Ashley continued. “And get this. Speedfreek almost took down the Hulk.”

Thrasher lowered the binoculars. “He what now?”

Microbe scratched his head. “These guys sound out of our league.”

“Out of your league maybe, lardo.”

“Shut up, ’Ball.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“’Ball,” Microbe repeated, a lazy smile on his face.

“Enough.” Namorita turned her head, barely interested. “What’s the plan?”

Speedball smirked. “Plan is you spend five more minutes in makeup, Nita. You think people wanna see that big ugly zit on your chin?”

She shot him the finger and turned away. Pierre rushed up to her, foundation brush in his hand.

Namorita was a blue-skinned beauty, an offshoot of the royal family of Atlantis. Cousin or niece or something to Prince Namor, ruler of the undersea city. One time, Speedball had tried to get into her pants; she’d held his head underwater for five minutes.

“I don’t know,” Thrasher said. He cast a worried glance back toward the house. “I’m not sure we should do this.”

“What?” Speedball almost jumped up into the air, then realized just in time he’d be blowing their cover. “Think of the ratings, Thrash. We’re dyin’ here. Six months we been driving around the country looking for goofballs to fight, and the best we’ve managed was a bum with a spray can and a wooden leg. This could be the episode that really puts the New Warriors on the map. We beat these clowns and everyone’ll stop bitching about Nova leaving the show to go back into space.”

Fernandez, the cameraman, cleared his throat. “I just wanna remind everybody that the crew’s on shift for another twenty minutes. After that, we go to time and a half.”

Everyone turned to Night Thrasher.

“Okay, listen up everyone.” Thrasher held out a tablet computer, displaying profiles of the four villains. “Nitro and Cobalt Man are the real threats here. Coldheart’s a hand-to-hand expert; we should take her out from a distance if possible. I don’t know the current state of Cobalt’s armor, but...”

“’Ball,” Microbe said again, leaning over to whisper in Speedball’s ear. “’Ball ’ball ’ball ’ball ’ballllll.”

Speedball pulled out his iPhone, thumbed on some Honey Claws. Electronic riffs and a pumping bass line. Mercifully, it drowned out both Microbe’s taunts and Thrasher’s boring tactical briefing.

Speedball was tired and cranky. They all were, he realized. It had been Thrasher’s idea to turn the New Warriors into a reality show, and at the beginning it seemed exciting. Times were tough for teenage heroes, and this was a chance to transform their frankly third-rate team into pop stars. The show enjoyed a brief spurt of attention, and Speedball became addicted to the public acclaim, the guest appearances on The Colbert Report and Charlie Rose.

But then Nova had quit, and the less said about his replacement—“Debrii”—the better. She’d washed out after two episodes. As the season wore on, the strain of travel and constant reshoots had worn on all of their nerves. And the ratings took a sharp dive, straight into the toilet. A second season looked really, really unlikely.

It’s too bad, he thought. When this started, we were all friends.

Nita elbowed him roughly in the ribs, and he yanked off the earbuds. “What?”

“We’ve been marked.”

Speedball looked over at the house, just as Coldheart turned to stare right at them. Then she ran inside, yelling, “Everybody in costume. It’s a raid!”

The Warriors were on their feet. Fernandez hefted his camera, preparing to follow them.

“Standard attack pattern,” Thrasher called out. “Form on me—”

Speedball just grinned and leapt, kinetic-energy bubbles blasting out from him in all directions. “GO!” he yelled.

He could almost feel Thrasher’s exhausted sigh.

As Speedball arced in for a landing, halfway across the lawn, he thumbed his iPhone to another track. The show wasn’t broadcast live, but somehow, the stentorian theme music in his ears always got him pumped. And Speedball lived to get pumped.

“SPEEDBALL!” the announcer’s voice called in his ear. “NIGHT THRASHER! MICROBE! THE SULTRY NAMORITA! AND...THE MAN CALLED NOVA!”

He hated that part.

“IN A WORLD OF GRAYS...THERE IS STILL GOOD AND EVIL! THERE ARE STILL...”

“...THE NEW WARRIORS!” Speedball shouted the words along with the announcer—just as he crashed into the front door, splintering it to toothpicks.

The other Warriors ran up behind him, surveying the scene. The living room was stripped bare, like a crack den. A long-haired man whirled to greet them, half clad in a metal exoskeleton.

“Speedfreek,” Thrasher said.

“Holy crap.” Speedfreek reached for a silvery, red-visored helmet.

Grinning again, Speedball body slammed him, sending the helmet flying. They crashed together through the far wall, into the backyard. ’Freek stumbled back over an old stump, surrounded by overgrown grass and weeds.

“I’d heard that clothes make the man, Speedfreek.” Speedball punched him hard, a solid left cross. “And in your case, it’s totally true!”

“Ungh!” Speedfreek flew back, fell to the lawn.

Fernandez, the cameraman, tapped on Speedball’s shoulder. “Sound cut out for a minute there, bud. Any chance of that last part again?”

Speedball grimaced, motioned to Namorita. She rolled her eyes and stalked over to the dazed Speedfreek. She lifted him easily up into the air, tossed his limp form toward the cameraman.

Speedball crouched down and leapt up high, swooping back down with a flying kick. As his foot made contact with Speedfreek’s jaw, he called out clearly: “In your case, Chuckles, it’s totally true!”

Fernandez lowered the camera, gave a bored thumbs-up.

Speedball looked around. Night Thrasher and Microbe had Coldheart and Cobalt Man cornered against the far fence. Cobalt was struggling to fasten his high-tech suit over his big frame, while Coldheart slashed her energy swords through the air, keeping the Warriors at bay.

Microbe turned lazily to glance at Speedball. Probably hoping I get my head kicked in, Speedball thought.

“Wait a minute.” Coldheart paused, holding up her energy swords in a defensive posture. “I know you guys. You’re those idiots from that reality show.”

“That’s right,” Thrash replied. “And this is reality.”

Speedball shook his head. Lame catchphrase, boss.

“No,” Coldheart continued. “No way. I’m not gettin’ taken down by Goldfish Girl and the Bondage Queen.” She sliced a crackling sword-arc through the air.

But Namorita was already inside Coldheart’s defenses. Nita slammed a blue fist, hardened to withstand the ocean’s depths, straight across the villainess’ jaw. “Beg to differ, sweetheart.”

Night Thrasher followed up with an acrobatic kick to Coldheart’s stomach. “Can we edit out the part where she called me the Bondage Queen?”

“Yeah.” Nita smirked. “Because Night Thrasher sounds so much straighter.”

Coldheart was down—but where had Cobalt Man gone? And what the hell was Microbe doing, just standing there in the corner of the lawn, his back to them?

Speedball leapt over to Microbe. Surprisingly, the manchild stood over a writhing, subdued villain in an overcoat. Beneath the coat, an armored exoskeleton seemed to be dissolving away before their eyes.

“I got Cobalt Man!” Microbe said. “My bacterial powers are rusting his suit away. Guess I’m not such a loser after all, huh?”

“Learn to count, loser.” Speedball looked around. “Where’s the fourth bad guy?”

Nita leapt high up, the small wings on her feet fluttering madly. She stopped, hovering in midair, and pointed out over the house toward the road beyond. “I’m on it.” She turned to soar up and over the roof.

Thrasher and Microbe whirled back toward the house. They marched through the hole in the wall, heading after Namorita.

Speedball started to follow, then turned back at a sound. On the ground, Speedfreek grunted, trying to rise. Speedball kicked him hard, then turned toward the house. Fernandez followed, shouldering his camera.

Halfway through the living room, Speedball stopped in his tracks. Fernandez shot him a look, and Speedball motioned him ahead. The cameraman trotted on toward the front door.

Speedball took a long, careful look around the room. Beer cans were everywhere. On a folding table, pizza dripped and rotted, the one remaining slice soaking through a greasy box. A meth pipe still glowed, discarded on a pile of Xbox disks. Ancient paint cracked and peeled from the walls; stuffing leaked from the old sofa.

This house, he realized. It’s where you end up. When it all goes wrong, when things don’t turn out the way you expect. When you make all the wrong decisions, and end up running for your life.

Speedball had peaked early during the fight; now his adrenaline levels were crashing. He felt suddenly tired, useless, futile. He was glad the others weren’t around—he’d expended a lot of energy, no pun intended, keeping his bipolar condition a secret from them. He felt very unreal, as though he were watching his own actions from a distance. Like some bored, faceless audience member, just getting ready to click away to another channel.

“Speedball!” Ashley’s voice lanced into his ear. “Kid, where are you? You want to miss the climax?”

No, he realized. No, I don’t want to miss it.

Speedball bounded out through the shattered front door in a burst of kinetic energy. He pivoted on the front step, posing briefly in case one of the cameras was recording him, then bounced out into the street.

Across the road, a crowd of elementary school kids had gathered at the edge of a playground. Some of them held books, computers; one kid carried a baseball bat. Night Thrasher and Microbe held them back, motioning firmly, while Namorita swooped down through the air toward a parked school bus.

A small figure dashed across the street, toward the school bus: purple-and-blue costume, long silver hair. Cruel eyes that looked like they’d seen—and done—terrible things.

Nita crashed down onto him from above, slamming him into the bus, caving in its side. Shattered window glass hailed down, covering both figures.

The man made no sound.

“On your feet, Nitro.” Namorita stood in full battle stance, arms upraised, legs planted firmly for the camera. “And don’t try any of your stupid explosions, because that’s only going to make me hit you harder.”

Speedball moved in to back her up.

Nitro knelt crouched on the pavement, leaning up against the dented bus. When he looked up, his eyes blazed with hate...and deadly fire.

“Namorita, right?”

Fernandez moved in, swinging the camera back and forth from Nitro to Nita.

Nitro smiled, and his eyes glowed brighter. “I’m afraid I’m not one of those bargain-basement losers you’re used to, baby.”

Nitro’s whole body was glowing now. Nita took a step back. Night Thrasher watched, tense and unsure. Microbe just stared, his mouth slack, eyes wide.

The kids had moved out into the street, also staring. One of them dribbled a basketball absently, nervously.

Thrasher strode forward, sudden alarm in his eyes. “Speedball...Robbie. Help me get these kids out of here!”

Ashley was chattering too, in his ear.

Speedball didn’t move, didn’t even nod. Once again, he felt like he was watching events, images, moving in a prerecorded pattern on some high-def screen. Does any of this matter? he wondered. If it all goes wrong, if it doesn’t follow the right script, can we just do another take?

Or is this the last, the only take?

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

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

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

The children.

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

At least I won’t have to get old.

PART ONE

LAST GLEAMING

ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, he thought. Maybe. Maybe not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning, Hap.”

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

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

“Mister Stark?”

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

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

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

“Ring you later, Hap.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tony? You there?”

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

“Peter Parker,” he said.

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

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

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

“It’s you, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you…hang on a minute, Peter…”

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

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

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

“Glad to hear it.”

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

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

“Tony…”

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

“Tony, I’m not sure if I can accept.”

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

“The suit is a gift, Peter.”

“I know. I mean the other thing.”

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

“I need you, Peter.”

“I’m flattered. Believe me, I haven’t heard that from too many chicas lately.”

“I might be able to help with that, too.”

“Tony, I just don’t think I can replace a god.”

So that’s it.

Tony paused, gathered his thoughts. These next few moments, he realized, were critical. They could set the course for the rest of his life, and of Peter’s too.

Peter added: “I’ve never been much of a joiner, either. I’m just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. You guys operate on a whole other level.”

Tony notched up the sensitivity level on his microphone. When he spoke again, his voice had a subtly greater resonance to it.

“Peter,” he began, “there’s a lot going on right now. Have you heard of the Senate Metahumans Investigations Committee?”

“No, but I already want to party with them.”

“They’re mulling over a number of measures that will have profound effects on the way you and I live our lives. The age of the lone wolf is ending, Peter. The whole world is your neighborhood now.

“If you plan to continue—if you want to carry on saving lives, helping people, using your gifts for the betterment of mankind—you’re going to need a support structure.”

Spider-Man said nothing. His expression was unreadable, behind the metal-mesh façade.

“I have a strong team in the Avengers,” Tony continued. “Cap, Tigra, Ms. Marvel, Hawkeye, the Falcon, Goliath. Even Luke Cage is starting to fit in. But there’s no one else who thinks the way I do—who understands science and technology, and who always has one eye on the future.”

“Ha! All I do these days is worry about the future.”

“Peter, I’m not asking you to replace Thor. No one could do that. But I need your raw strength, and I need your sharp mind. You’re a crucial part of Project Avenger now.”

Spider-Man leapt up, scuttled nervously across the ceiling of the Tower conference room. His tentacles flashed and whipped around. He looked more like a spider than ever before.

India whizzed by below, then Thailand. Indonesia.

“Full medical?” Spidey asked.

“Better than that Obamacare you’re on now.”

“Then I’m in.”

“Excellent.” The gray bulk of Australia loomed ahead. “I’ll be home in three hours. Celebratory drink at the Tower, say two PM?”

“Club soda, of course.”

“You know me well.” Tony paused. “Peter, I’m having a little satellite trouble. See you this afternoon.”

“Satellite trouble? Where are you, anyway?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Everything okay?”

“Little trouble with the new microcontrollers in my armor…never mind. I’m fine.”

“Good. Well, uh, thanks. Again.”

“We’re going to do great things, Peter. Thank you.”

Tony severed the connection.

He glanced down just as New Zealand slid by. He kicked left, banked north, and slammed on the afterburners full blast. The first sonic boom barely penetrated his armor; the second one rattled his ears slightly.

Tony had grown bored with the flight. He was eager to get home, to return to work. To set the next phase of his life into motion.

Enlisting Peter into the Avengers had been a top priority. Tony genuinely liked the young man, and he hadn’t been lying when he’d flattered Peter’s scientific ability and quick mind. He found himself looking forward to mentoring Peter.

But there was another factor he hadn’t brought up. Tony wasn’t just interested in Peter Parker, science prodigy. As Spider-Man, Peter was one of the most powerful metahumans currently roaming the planet. That made him a resource to be tapped…and a potential danger to be watched, too.

Better to keep him close.

Tony glanced down at the Pacific Ocean, watching as the tiny islands of Hawaii appeared. He slowed briefly, picturing himself on a hotel deck with a Virgin Colada in hand. Beautiful women glistening as they splashed and strode from the water.

No. Not today.

By the time Tony reached California, he had eight voice mails from Pepper. Appointments, calls, contracts. With each successive message, her voice grew just a tiny notch angrier.

Well, Tony thought. She’s waited this long…

The salt flats of Utah rushed by, then the beautiful snowcapped Colorado mountains. The bare plains of Kansas, the lush forests of Missouri.

So beautiful. All of it.

When the Appalachian Mountains rose into view, he dialed Happy.

“Gonna need a pickup, Hap.”

“You still in the hotel room, boss?” Happy chuckled. “Whatever’s in your veins, they oughta bottle it an’ sell it like Viagrrrrrrrr”

A rush of lights and alarms assaulted him, blocking out Happy’s voice. Tony blinked, wobbled over Pittsburgh, and cleared all notifications with a mental command.

“Still there, Happy?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Stand by.”

Tony called up the RSS feed; it loaded slowly. He flipped through the cable news channels. The incoming reports all seemed very confused, even panicked. Something about hundreds dead…a huge crater, right in the middle of…

He could make out Avengers Tower now, jutting up above the Manhattan skyline ahead. “Meet me at the Tower, Happy,” he said. “Fast as you…”

Then his optical sensors picked up a column of smoke rising up into the air, over to the left. Couple miles north. No…farther away than that, past the city limits. Forty miles, at least.

A big column of smoke.

Something horrible had happened.

“Change of plans, Hap—stand by for instructions. I’m changing course now, to...”

He paused, locked GPS on to that thick, rising plume of black smoke.

“…Stamford, Connecticut.”

TWO

THE FIRST thing Spider-Man thought as he entered Stamford was: This is a hell of a first mission as an Avenger.

On the outskirts of the city, ambulances squealed. People stood outside their homes, chattering fearfully. A few businessmen stabbed at phones, frustrated; cell service was overloaded. Everyone kept glancing north, toward the thick black cloud at the center of the explosion.

Spider-Man stopped at an intersection, glanced up. The smoke had thinned out now, but a dull artificial haze blanketed the whole city. The lenses in his new costume could probably analyze that fog’s composition, but somehow he didn’t really want to know.

Spidey knew he needed to be here. But Tony wasn’t answering his calls, and as embarrassing as it sounded, he didn’t know how to reach anyone else in the Avengers. So he’d hopped a ride on a northbound truck and, when traffic slowed to a stop, he’d hoofed it the last three miles.

An Avengers quinjet whizzed by overhead, heading toward Ground Zero. Spider-Man raised his arm, shot a strand of webbing up to wrap around a lamppost, and set off after his new teammates.

Half a mile out, a line of police barricades blocked the main road. Beyond, Spidey could see devastation: collapsed buildings, flashing emergency vehicles, shards of cloth wafting down rubble-strewn streets. Frantic civilians argued with cops, threatening and cajoling, desperate for news of their loved ones.

Just outside the barricade, a small crowd had gathered, pointing upward. An old four-story library building, topped with an ornate cupola, creaked and tottered. Spider-Man focused his lenses and spotted the cause: a shard of concrete projecting from one wall, apparently flung there from all the way inside the disaster zone. An old woman and a man on crutches straggled out of the library’s front door, urged on by local police.

But that wasn’t what the crowd was staring at. Along the side of the cupola, near the top of the building, crept the deep red form of Daredevil, the Man Without Fear.

Spider-Man tensed and leapt. He almost overshot—the muscle-augmenters in the new suit had kicked in automatically. But he pivoted in midair and, in less than a second, touched softly down on the outer wall. His fingers clung easily, spider-style, to the brick facade.

If Daredevil was startled, he didn’t show it. His radar sense had probably warned him. “Peter,” he said. “Is that you?”

“In the flesh, Matt.” Spider-Man paused, tapped a finger against his metallic eye-lens. “And steel, I guess.”

Beneath them, the building creaked and lurched.

“There’s a kid trapped inside,” Daredevil said. “Back me up?”

“Always.”

Daredevil grabbed at a window latch, tried to pull it open. Locked. Spider-Man tapped him on the shoulder, then—concentrating—reached out with one of the tentacles protruding from his costume’s back. The tentacle quavered before the window, then rapped it hard, just once. The glass shattered.

Daredevil turned to him. “Where’d you get the suit?”

“Fellow named Anthony Stark built it for me. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Daredevil frowned, his mouth grim beneath his red cowl. Then he turned and dove into the building.

Spider-Man shrugged and followed, using his tentacles to sweep away the glass remaining in the frame.

The office was bare, quiet. No power; computers sat dark on a pair of paper-strewn desks. “You know where this kid is?” Spider-Man asked.

But Daredevil was concentrating, sending his radar sense fanning out through the floor. He pointed toward the door, and again Spidey followed.

“Matt. How you doing, anyway? I know that whole identity thing’s been a strain for you.”

Daredevil didn’t answer right away. Six months ago, a tabloid paper with organized crime connections had outed his secret identity, revealing him publicly as Matt Murdock, crusading attorney. This had led to a flood of civil suits and public harassment. Matt had made the risky decision to deny everything, to publicly swear he was not Daredevil—which, of course, was a lie. Spider-Man wasn’t sure he agreed with his friend’s decision; the morality seemed pretty murky. But Matt had made a persuasive case that it was his only workable option.

“I’m all right,” Daredevil said. He didn’t sound convincing. “Hey. Hey there!”

In a room full of cubicles, a seven-year-old girl sat cowering on the floor against a barrier. The building lurched, and she whimpered.

Then she saw Spider-Man, and screamed.

Guess not everyone’s used to the new look, he thought.

“Let me get this one,” Daredevil said.

Five minutes later, they were back down on the ground. Daredevil handed the girl over to her mother, while a brace of cops watched carefully. The woman cast suspicious eyes across Daredevil, then Spider-Man. Then she took off at a run.

“Gratitude,” Spidey said.

Daredevil turned back to him. “Do you blame her, after what happened today?”

“I don’t know what happened today.”

“It’s bad, Peter. For all of us.”

Spider-Man frowned. “Can I get a tiny little clue here?”

“I’m talking about the Superhuman Registration Act.”

Spidey shrugged helplessly. With both arms and four tentacles.

Daredevil shot a look upward, and Spider-Man followed his gaze. The red-and-gold figure of Iron Man streaked by, headed for Ground Zero.

“Ask your new BFF,” Daredevil continued.

When Spidey looked down, Matt was gone.

* * *

SWINGING over the barricade proved no problem. A cop yelled up at Spider-Man once, halfheartedly, then returned to his duties. The Stamford police had more than enough to deal with today.

Inside the barricade, the streets turned quickly to chaos. Some houses had collapsed inward; others lay fallen under piles of rubble. Emergency crews bustled all around, transferring the dead and injured to ambulances or, where the roads were too rough, to hastily outfitted Jeeps.

And the sky…the sky was filled with ash, with a gray haze. The sun shone through weakly, casting no shadows, a dull red orb barely visible through the cloud of dust.

A flutter of wings caught Spider-Man’s attention. The Falcon, a muscular black man costumed in red and white, fluttered downward a block away. Spidey followed his descent and spotted Captain America, in full costume, speaking with a couple of medics.

Cap and the Falcon had been partners, off and on, for years. They exchanged a few terse words— Spidey was too far away to hear—and then set off at a run toward a still-smoking house.

“Cap,” Spidey called.

Captain America turned, squinted at Spider-Man, and flashed him a quick frown. Then he turned and resumed course for the burning building.

Spidey shook his head. What was that about? He raised his hand to fire off a webline, planning to follow Cap and the Falcon—

“Hey. You an Avenger?”

A rescue worker had lowered his breathing mask. He looked exhausted, impatient.

“Yeah,” Spider-Man said. “I guess I am.”

“We could use some help.” He pointed to a collapsed pile of stone, the remains of an old city administrative building. “Motion detectors are picking up something, twenty feet down. But we don’t got our diggers here yet.”

“I got it.” Spidey leapt through the air. “Clear a little space, guys?”

Time to give this new suit a workout.

And then he was digging, using his tentacles to clear away stone and mortar, the splintered remains of desks, walls, collapsed ceilings. He reached ground level and kept burrowing, down into the building’s basement, then its sub-basement. Climbing down carefully, steadying himself with web-braces, sweeping the tentacles around to clear debris and punch through layers of flooring. In the old days, he would have had to do this the hard way, lifting ceilings with his webbing and forcing his way through blocked passageways using muscle power alone.

This seemed easier. More natural, even.

Almost before Spider-Man knew it, the rescue workers had followed him down on grappling ropes. They fanned out around the sub-basement, while Spidey reinforced the creaky ceiling with layer after layer of webbing. When they’d located all five survivors, they rigged up rescue pulleys and began lifting the injured out. The civilians had inhaled a lot of dust; one had a broken leg. But they would all survive.

Peter crawled back up to ground level, to scattered applause from the rescue workers. And two other figures, too: Tigra, the catlike were-woman, and Luke Cage, Power Man.

Tigra reached out her arms and half-hugged, half-hoisted Spider-Man up out of the building. Her furry body was warm and muscular; her bikini costume barely covered her at all. She held Spidey close, just a little too long.

“Welcome to the Avengers.” Tigra smiled, ran flirty eyes down Spider-Man’s thin frame. “‘Bout time we got some hot guys in this group.”

“Thanks. Wish it was under less...” He gestured around. “Well, less horrifically apocalyptic circumstances.”

“The Avengers saved my life.” Tigra seemed serious now. “After my transformation. Cap and Iron Man...if I hadn’t had this team for support, I don’t know what would have happened to me.”

Cage, a working-class hero from Harlem, wore dirty jeans, a black muscle shirt, and shades that hid his eyes. His dark face was covered with dirt and soot. He clapped Spider-Man on the back.

“How ’bout you?” Spider-Man asked. “Being an Avenger, has it been good for you?”

“Only been a couple months. This was prison, I wouldn’t even be eligible for parole yet.” Cage lowered his shades, peered closer at Spidey. “Interesting threads.”

“It’s a Tony Stark designer original. They’ll be selling it at Target next year.”

“Come on,” Tigra said. “Let’s see if we can help Cap out.”

She set off on all fours, picking her way over downed stoplights, across fallen telephone poles. Cage gave Spidey a quick nod, and together they followed.

Straight ahead, a single, freestanding brick building still raged with fire. Goliath, the latest in a long line of size-changing heroes, stood twenty feet high, picking debris off the roof. He reached down, recoiled from a blast of flame, and grabbed a loose chunk of tar. He threw it high into the air, and Ms. Marvel swooped down under it. She fired off a blast of radiant energy, incinerating the roof chunk instantly.

Spider-Man frowned. “Is that a firehouse? On fire?”

“Former firehouse.” Falcon swooped in for a landing in front of them. “Now it’s condos. Well, now it’s a disaster area.”

Cage stepped forward, gave Falcon a half-hug. The two had grown up in the same neighborhood. “Cap’s inside?”

“Straight up. Said to hang tight out here.”

“Where are the firemen?” Spidey asked.

Falcon gestured around, at the chaos and flashing lights. “On their way.”