Marvel's Avengers: The Extinction Key E-Book

Greg Keyes

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 397

Beschreibung

The official prequel to Marvel's Avengers from Marvel, Crystal Dynamics, Eidos Montreal, and Square Enix, with an exclusive adventure that leads into the game itself.The official prequel to the blockbuster action video game Marvel's Avengers, written by bestselling author Greg Keyes. The game is being developed by Crystal Dynamics, Eidos Montréal, Nixxes, and published by Square Enix. It will be released May 15, 2020 for PlayStation 4, Xbox, Stadia, and PC.Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, Black Widow, and the Hulk. Earth's Mightiest Heroes have assembled to face world-class threats whenever and wherever they might appear. They are the AVENGERS.Yet some threats transcend the ages. Centuries ago, a never before seen group of heroes gathered as the Avengers of their ancient era to fight the Zodiac, foes who wielded unimaginable arcane energies channeled through a mysterious Key. The resulting battle devastated vast swaths of the planet. The Key was lost and the Zodiac went into hiding, influencing world events from the shadows, waiting for the stars to align to usher in their return.When strange beings exhibiting the traits of the twelve astrological signs appear in the 21st century, the Avengers again answer the call to assemble. But when this modern team of heroes are forced to divide their efforts, each encounter leads to their opponents gaining strength. Once again, the hunt is on for the Extinction Key... and if the Avengers don't find it, our world will be lost.

Leseprobe

Contents

Also from Titan and Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Also Available from Titan Books

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Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

Captain America: Dark Design by Stefan Petrucha

Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

Civil War by Stuart Moore

Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Omnibus by Jim Butcher, Keith R.A. Decandido, and Christopher L. Bennett (forthcoming)

Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus by Diane Duane

Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

Wolverine: Weapon X Omnibus by Marc Cerasini, David Alan Mack, and Hugh Matthews (forthcoming)

X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden

X-Men & The Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox

Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas

The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

GREG KEYES

TITAN BOOKS

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MARVEL’S AVENGERS: THE EXTINCTION KEY

Print edition ISBN: 9781789092066

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789094244

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: August 2020

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING

Jeff Youngquist, VP Production and Special Projects

Caitlin O’Connell, Assistant Editor, Special Projects

Sven Larsen, VP, Licensed Publishing

David Gabriel, SVP of Sales & Marketing, Publishing

C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

FOR MARVEL GAMES

Loni Clark, Operations Coordinator

Tim Hernandez, Executive Producer & Vice President

Dakota Maysonet, Creative Assistant

Becka McIntosh, Director of Operations

Haluk Mentes, Vice President, Business Development & Product Strategy

Eric Monacelli, Director of Production & Project Lead

Jay Ong, EVP & Head of Marvel Games

Bill Rosemann, Vice President & Head of Creative

Tim Tsang, Creative Director

Cover Art by Steve Epting

Avengers created by Stan Lee & Jack Kirby

Marvel’s Avengers developed by Crystal Dynamics

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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 Jack Simmons

PROLOGUE

THE Sorcerer Supreme danced on the wind, her bright-pinioned wings beating beneath the blazing noonday sun. Through dark syllables, arcane gestures, and the force of her will, Shaushka bent the elements to serve her fury, striking lightning through the Aegean skies as she descended toward the gathering below. There were twelve of them, assembled around a circle of nine monoliths standing on the rocky surface of the Isle of Penthos, a dot in the turquoise expanse of the sea.

Her target was Pabil, the Archer, but her thunderbolt dissipated before it reached him. His response was swift. Arrows as bright as the sun flashed from his bow with unnatural speed. Shaushka invoked Raggadorr, and seven cyan rings of energy enveloped her, shielding her from the deadly missiles, but even through the Eldritch Bands she felt the impact and heat.

The light blinded her for an instant.

In the middle of that heartbeat, something wrapped around her arcane defenses and yanked her from the sky. She beat her wings harder, but to no avail; she slammed hard into the rocky isle.

She struggled to stand, but as the spots faded and vision returned she saw the lash of energy that had pulled her down. A powerfully built dark-eyed woman held the other end of the whip. Shaushka knew her by reputation: Ab-Sin, the Maiden of the Stellar Knout.

“Oh, goddess,” the Maiden said. “How you have fallen.”

The rings still protected Shaushka from the searing weapon, but it was tightening. Sparks flashed, and she knew the Rings of Raggadorr would soon collapse. She implored dread Ikthalon, Lord of Stagnation, and long tendrils of intense cold curled from her fingers. The air itself condensed about the strands and then wrapped around her enemy. At their touch, the Maiden became rigid, encased in frost. Her glowing whip sputtered and vanished.

As Shaushka leapt up, a huge man appeared, with bull’s horns curving up from his skull. He charged her. Laughing, she danced and vaulted over him, recalling her days posing as a priestess in Knossos on Crete-that-was. As she whirled through the air, she bound him in Cyttorak’s Crimson Bands, so he fell heavily to the rocky soil, struggling against his mystical imprisonment.

As she dodged more of the Archer’s arrows, she felt a sharp prickling on her face—or at first she thought so. But then as the barbs sank deeper her thoughts became confused. She realized that her mind itself was under assault, and her psychic shield slammed down as she turned to the culprit, a man whose skin looked like the armor of a sea-creature. His black eyes bulged from his skull and antennae protruded from his cheekbones. Dub, she guessed. The Pincered One. Whirling through the air she struck Dub in the face with the blades of her wings, slamming him into one of the standing stones, and the attack on her senses faded as quickly as it had begun.

The distraction cost her.

A bolt of energy appeared in her peripheral vision. Shaushka turned almost in time to deflect it. Almost. Everything went white as maleficent force surged through her nerves and sinews. A human would have been slaughtered on the spot, but Shaushka was born of the immortal Enna, a more ancient race. Still, she was staggered, and her limbs trembled.

A numinous shield around each hand, she deflected the next bolt, more arrows, a blast of heat from a woman with ram’s horns. But her foes closed in now, totally encircling her.

She flapped her wings and rose above the ground, beginning a terrible and irrevocable invocation to Dormammu. Before she could finish, the element of Air itself attacked her, beating her back to the stony earth. There the Earth also defied her will, gripping her feet like manacles. Holding her fast. The power was astounding. She felt the first creep of terror in her soul.

But she was Shaushka.

She pushed down the fear. Panting, she faced her enemies, turning as best she could to see all of them.

They parted ranks, and one stepped through.

He had changed since she had last seen him, but she would recognize him in any guise.

“Atherwan,” she said, and spat. “Traitor.”

He smiled.

She had known him as a tall, pale man with narrow features. He had styled himself as a magus from the distant northern land of Bakhlo, and found favor in her court in Nineveh. Now his skin was bluish-black, and appeared almost rigid, like the armor of an insect. His hair and beard had fallen out, and in his eyes, otherworldly stars gleamed.

“Goddess of Nineveh,” he said, mockingly. “Queen of Heaven. Sorcerer Supreme. How can I betray someone I never served?”

“You were my vizier,” she said.

He shook his head. “You believed that,” he said, “but everything I have ever done, every word I whispered into the ears of the mighty—into your ears—has all been for this.”

In his hand, he held a gleaming golden object. It was shaped much like an ankh—a cross with a loop on one end, but with the shorter part of the cross curved like horns. Power emanated from it, more raw energy than she had ever felt in a single object. Yet Atherwan wasn’t drawing her attention to the thing—he was using it to gesture at the sky.

It was almost noon, the sky was at its brightest, but along the ecliptic stars were appearing. Constellations, outshining the sun itself.

They were growing larger, brighter—closer.

“That is what I serve,” he said. “The Mulapin. The Shining Herd.” As she watched his fingers fused into pincers. A gleaming black scorpion tail rose from behind him and curved above his head, the wicked, venom-slick sting threatening her.

The others were changing, too, their human bodies distorting. The Bull was free, and nearly twice the size he’d been just a moment ago. Energy shivered from his horns as his legs shortened and arms lengthened so his fists rested on the ground.

She nodded her head at the object in Atherwan’s hand.

“That’s it?” she said. “The Key?”

“You know of the Key?” he said, his face darkening. “And you knew of our gathering here. You know about us. How?”

She lifted her chin. “I am Shaushka,” she said. “Mistress of Love and War, Queen and Goddess, Mother of Sorcery, Empress of Heaven. Sorcerer Supreme by right and by trial. Did you really believe you and these other fools could plot beneath my very nose? In my own city? On this world I protect? I don’t know all of your so-called herd, but I know of them. The cat, there. The Lion. A magus in the court of Mycenae, come there from the distant Kuru Kingdom. Ab-Sin, the harlot with the whip, a mistress of that doddering idiot Il-Keshub in Karkemesh and not at all the virtuous maiden whose title she usurps. Guanna the Bull, hitherto a royal scribe in Kolkhis. All of them—like you—worms in the apple of civilization. Like you, little schemers, playing at being the powers behind the throne. For what? Discord for the sake of discord, Atherwan?”

“I am not Atherwan,” he said. “I am Gir-Tab, the Clawer, the Cutter. The Scorpion. And if we seek discord, it is only to bring order, and an end to the vanity of human rulers. Freedom from the whims of self-styled gods and goddesses like yourself. And you are half right—in the past, our ultimate goal eluded us. But no longer. Now we have this.”

He brandished the Key in his claws.

“Yes,” she said. “That I can see.”

“You thought too little of us,” he said. “You were too slow to act, and even now, in your pride, you believed you could defeat our combined might—by yourself. It is your final misjudgment.”

He frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

“I’ve made mistakes,” Shaushka admitted. “Coming here alone was not one of them.”

His face was still human enough to show puzzlement.

Fist of Khonshu, Shaushka thought. Now.

Her answer was a rush of air above her. All eyes turned up as her champions appeared and hurled themselves down on the Shining Herd. Ares, war god of Olympus, resplendent in his armor and horse-comb helm, hurling his javelin at Guanna the Bull before his feet even hit the ground. Brunnhilde of Asgard, golden locks flowing from beneath her steel cap, her mighty sword Dragonfang cutting toward the Ram. The Black Panther from the Hidden Land of Libia dropped toward the Lion, who leapt to meet him, massive claws raking at the lithe warrior.

And Kandé, the Fist of Khonshu, who had brought the others from Shaushka’s palace by the arts of the Moon God. She now drifted down in front of Shaushka, her bone-white cloak billowing in the wind, her features masked in darkness. The earth released Shaushka’s feet and the air her arms, and with a cry of triumph she blasted Atherwan—Gir-Tab—with an eldritch bolt.

The battle began.

Caught unaware, Gir-Tab was knocked from his feet. Kandé sprang forward and grabbed the Key. Shaushka felt a surge of power as the Fist of Khonshu attempted to teleport away with it, but it didn’t work—Gir-Tab still gripped it tight. He and Kandé faded for a moment, but then snapped back to solidity. Shaushka added her effort to Kandé’s, but the Key was like a short, unbreakable tether. It would not be teleported—not without its master.

The Fist of Khonshu shrieked and her hands flashed through the colors of the rainbow. They seemed to vibrate like the plucked string of a lyre, and a high-pitched hum cut through Shaushka’s skull.

Gir-Tab snarled and thrust the Key forward.

“Away!” he shouted. A sphere of expanding force slapped the Fist of Khonshu and Shaushka back.

Gir-Tab swung the Key again, and a burning wind entered Shaushka, parching her from the inside. Her throat closed and her chest heaved, seeking breath that was not there. Kandé moved to help, drawing her crescent-shaped sword, but the Maiden had recovered from Ikthalon’s tendrils. She lashed at the Fist, who vanished before the whip could touch her. Shaushka saw Kandé reappear above the Maiden, but before she could retaliate a fist of water leapt from the Aegean Sea and enclosed her.

It didn’t hold her long; she might have failed to destroy the Key, but the Fist of Khonshu was no mere mortal, her weapon no ordinary metal blade. The sword bit into the water as if it were a solid thing, shattering it like ice. The bits flew apart, then came back together and reformed into a human shape. Shaushka recognized Gula, the Great One, the Waterlord. The Fist of Khonshu did not relent, but struck again and again with her sickle-shaped blade.

Then Shaushka had to return her attention to her own battle. She sent the Maiden hurling back and cast the Flames of Faltine upon the Scorpion. The ball of fire engulfed him, burning not his flesh but his soul, his spells, the powers contained within him. The Key combusted with a clear azure flame, and an unholy scream escaped Gir-Tab’s inhuman lips.

Ares came thundering between them, grabbing the Bull by the thigh and neck, lifting him, and slamming him down to earth. In the distance, she saw the Lion swiping clumsily at the Black Panther, while the Libian cut him mercilessly with his metal claws. Brunnhilde was beset by four foes at once, and doing well enough, but Shaushka blasted one of them, a woman with scales like a fish and the horns of a goat. Howling a battle song, Brunnhilde the Valkyrie put her blade through the Pincered One; the spray of blood was not red, but blue.

They were stronger than Shaushka had anticipated, but the tide was turning. She felt it in her ancient bones.

Then Gir-Tab raised the Key high, and thunder rocked the island—thunder with no flash of lightning. The Flames of Faltine blew off of it as in a high wind, flickering for another few heartbeats before extinguishing for good. He twisted the Key in a strange, intricate pattern. Shaushka felt space and time swell, like a wave building and then breaking, pulling her under…

* * *

SHE was alone on the island.

The sky dark, the sun further south—another season, another year…

“No!” she shrieked. She sent her senses scrambling up and down the timelines, through day and night and the seasons, until again she saw the battle at the moment she was ejected from it. She tried to open a portal to the same instant, but was denied re-entry by whatever force powered the Key.

Moving ahead an hour, she found a way in.

From just outside of time she studied the tableaux beneath her, trying to understand how the battle had gone. Was going. Gir-Tab had been right. Shaushka hadn’t taken the Shining Herd seriously enough. When their silly games had come to her attention, she had watched them almost with amusement, certain she could turn their antics to her own purposes.

Now they had the Key.

What it was exactly she did not know, but she could see what it was doing. The twelve constellations of the ecliptic were descending into the Mortal Realm, infusing the Scorpion and his comrades with nearly unlimited stellar energy. She knew from her studies that when the descent was complete, the world would be theirs—perhaps for eternity. A world thus created would have no room for her, any of her champions, or any of their like.

What she saw emerging from that frozen moment was an Earth wiped clean of Enna, Annunaki, Asgardians, Olympians, Heliopolitans—all the gods of old. Heroes and champions, villains and demons, all stillborn not just in their mother’s wombs, but within the time stream itself. In the place of all of that potential—the power and greatness for good, evil, and everything in between—there was just these twelve for eternity, tending an utterly predictable world bereft of chance, of choice, of volition.

This could not be allowed.

Yet the battle was not going well. The Watery One seemed to be out of the fight, along with the Lion. That left ten of the Mulapin to her four warriors. Ares wrestled with the Bull, the Olympian’s sword and javelins broken, his face bloody. The Maiden’s whip was wrapped around him, wracking his immortal frame with stellar energy. Brunnhilde was also bloodied and on one knee, fending off the Crab and the Goat, one arm hanging uselessly at her side.

The Fist of Khonshu grappled with a hazy figure that phased in and out of existence. One of the Archer’s darts had struck Kandé; parts of her skeleton were showing through her skin as the uncanny energy penetrated her body. The Black Panther was setting his strength against two identical women who were in the process of merging into one. Where they fused, stellar energy shone like a star being born. The Ram was charging toward him, head lowered.

Gir-Tab stood alone, the Key lifted to the sky. Very little sign of humanity remained within him, but his chiton-armored body shone from within. He had grown gigantic, larger than an elephant.

Shaushka directed all of her attention to the artifact. It still warped space and time, unlocking the power of the constellations, but it was also feeding—absorbing power. It was hungry.

In that, she saw a possibility.

She returned to time, and to the ground.

The battle snapped back into action.

The Scorpion, she sent to her champions. The Key. We must have it. Ignore the others.

As she dispatched the message she went to work, summoning bindings for the Bull, the Goat, the Ram, and the Crab, raining the Fires of Raggadorr on the others so her champions could break free and assault the Scorpion.

He saw them coming.

The remaining members of the Shining Herd came for her. Shaushka summoned shields mystical and diabolic, calling on the Vishanti and even more ancient, less trustworthy powers. Against the assembled Herd even those defenses would not last for long, but she set that aside, and ignored them as they strove to extinguish her. She focused on the Key, until only it existed for her.

The Key could control the elements. It fed on their energy.

Let it gorge itself sick on them.

Drawing into the hollow of boiling rock beneath the island, on the storm forming in the air, on the crushing depths of the ocean, she sent it all streaming into the golden ankh.

And it drank. It grew brighter, spilling into adjacent dimensions and pulling energy from there. As if alive, greedy and insatiable. The Scorpion didn’t notice; he repelled his attackers with wave after wave of stellar energy. Even so, Ares managed to reach him, only to be impaled by the venomous black sting. Immortal though he was, he stumbled and fell as the toxin worked in his blood. The Black Panther followed him, slashing off the sting with his metal claws, only to be batted aside by a pincer.

The Bull broke his bonds and charged back into the fight. He stood twenty feet tall at the shoulder, and his eyes blazed like suns. Brunnhilde met his charge. They collided; thunder clapped. The battered Valkyrie was hurled high into the air.

The light of the Key began to creep into the Scorpion’s claw. It spread, moving faster. Gir-Tab looked up at her, puzzled.

The Key was powerful, but on one level it was a receptacle, and a receptacle could only hold so much. It had been using energy as fast as it had been garnering it. But not any longer.

It was full.

The Scorpion understood now. She could see that, and felt his panic.

Kandé, she thought. Get them out of here.

The Fist of Khonshu was reeling, only half conscious. For a moment Shaushka thought she would fail, but then Kandé and her champions vanished from the field.

As her shields shredded around her, Shaushka kept directing her energies at the Key. She couldn’t leave, not until it was done.

An arrow of light struck her, and then a bolt of stellar energy. Thoughts that were not hers crowded into her mind. A titanic wave rose up from the sea, towering above her. The Scorpion’s tail darted down. The sting had grown back, but her last remaining shield deflected it. She screamed as she wrenched open the stony gate of hellfire beneath her feet.

Then she felt the Key—break.

Where the Scorpion had stood was nothing but white energy, expanding. Time had slowed, creating the illusion that she could escape, but it wasn’t possible. She was injured and spent. If she tried to flee, she would die all the sooner. Even in this state of hindered time, she had only a handful of heartbeats remaining. She was immortal in the sense that the years had little effect on her, but her body could be destroyed, and this would surely do so.

But she had triumphed. There was no better way to die.

And then…

* * *

SHE was elsewhere.

“You’re welcome,” Kandé said.

Shaushka was with her battered champions, on a spit of land facing a broad sea. In the distance, it looked as if the sun was rising from it, but far too quickly, pulling a black column of ash and smoke behind it.

The stone beneath them groaned and shook.

“There will be earthquakes,” the Fist of Khonshu said. “Tidal waves.”

“More than that,” Shaushka said, as the light of the explosion rose so high it was hidden by the vast plume of ash. A secondary explosion expanded from the first, this one of boiling white clouds. Steam, she thought. The sea was pouring into the lava-filled heart of the island. But that wasn’t what she meant. The constellations of the Shining Herd were fading, but much of their energy had been released. Waves of terror, fury, and discord spread out from the explosion even faster than the physical shockwave.

Ares sensed it too. He laughed.

“There will be war,” he said. “Everywhere. War and chaos. The world is changed.”

“And that pleases you?” the Black Panther asked.

“Immensely,” Ares said. “Things have been quiet for too long. It’s been boring.”

“I must return to my people,” the Black Panther said. “To protect them from what is coming.”

“I will take you home,” Shaushka said, “and then I must return to Nineveh. I fear Ares is right, and I do not take pleasure in it as he does.”

Brunnhilde pointed out to sea, where the horizon lifted higher and higher.

“I suggest we all depart,” she said.

“Agreed,” Shaushka said. The airborne shockwave was even closer than the tidal wave, carrying steam, smoke, ash, and stone on its crest. Even for immortals, that would be painful.

* * *

DAYS later, from her palace in Nineveh, the Sorcerer Supreme left her physical body, traveling in astral form to the site of the explosion. The Isle of Penthos was gone, no stone of it remaining above water. The sea still bubbled and boiled. The sky there was dark, the sun a pale lemon sphere barely able to pierce the black clouds.

Every trace of the Scorpion’s Shining Herd was gone.

Or was it? She sensed something familiar—feeble, but real. A trail, a future. Something—or someone—had escaped, leaving only the faintest trace in passing.

Had the Scorpion survived? Was the Key actually destroyed?

She had to know. And so she began the search.

But Ares’ prediction proved prescient. In the months and years that followed, famine and war swept the land. The kingdoms of Mycenae, the Hittites, Babylon, and Egypt all collapsed. Barbarians swept in from the seas and plains, threatening even her own city of Nineveh. Finally she abandoned the search and returned to her beloved palace where, after much struggle, she managed to keep the kingdom from completely falling apart. Even so, it became a ghost of its former self.

Years after the battle, Kandé, the Fist of Khonshu, returned to Nineveh, seeking aid in a cause of her own. She came in mortal guise, without veil and cloak. Unmasked, she was as beautiful as a goddess, with eyes like black opals gleaming in her deep brown face. Shaushka had likewise withdrawn her wings from sight. They sat—to all appearances—as two mortal women on the willow-shaded terrace of the crumbling palace, listening to the nasal croak of a sacred ibis rooting in the weed-choked canals below, to the nightingale singing in its ornate cage, the trickle of water from the garden pool down the stepped sides of the royal dwelling. They sipped the strong red-black wine from Kaptara.

“This is good,” Kandé remarked. “It is difficult to find good wine these days.”

“Enjoy it,” Shaushka told her. “This is from the last amphora of a lot I bought twenty years ago. That art of making it has been lost, and the vines now only a memory.”

“Like so many things,” Kandé said. “Was it worth it? We prevailed, but the cost was terrible.”

Shaushka thought to share her suspicion—that the Key might have survived by slipping into some other dimension. But she had never found satisfactory proof of that, and saw no reason to dampen further her guest’s spirits.

So instead she sipped her wine, and then nodded.

“This is only one corner of the world,” she said. “The East was untouched. The Shang Dynasty thrives. Cities are rising on the Western continents. Civilization has fallen before—you know this as well as I. We have lived much, seen much. Atlantis and Mu were destroyed long ago, but life continued. People die, more are born. Cities fall. Cities are built. The humans go on, pursing their own often violent, twisting paths. If we had allowed the Shining Herd to descend, there could only have been one path—theirs. I have seen it. That would have been far more terrible, and it would have been permanent. In time, humans will rebuild these lands. They will lay brick and stone, bring crops from field and desert. One day there will be a wine to match and even surpass this one.”

Kandé nodded. “I am the Fist of Khonshu, but before the moon god chose me I was born human. The Kingdoms I knew have fallen, my people slip into ignorance and darkness. I do not know those cities across the oceans, beyond the mountains. I know these places. And now I mourn them.”

Shaushka shrugged. “I have some affection for this corner of the world, as well,” she replied. “I have lived among these humans for centuries; I have been priestess, queen, sorceress, goddess—sometimes all of them at once. I have descendants among them. But as Sorcerer Supreme my view must be broader. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.”

“I suppose,” Kandé said.

“Now,” Shaushka said. “Tell me why you have come, and I will tell you if it is a matter which interests me.”

“It will,” the Fist of Khonshu promised. “But even if it does not, you do owe me a favor, yes?”

ONE

BY the time the plane took off, Bruce Banner remembered how much he disliked commercial aircraft. He despised the crowded, claustrophobic space, the plastic smell of the air, the thoughtless behavior of the other passengers. He itched to get up, get out, be free. Alone.

How could he have forgotten how much he detested this?

Granted, it had been a long time since he had traveled by passenger plane. Not since before the accident. In fact, now that he really thought about it, he remembered his first flight: his delight as the plane rolled out and swept into the air, the fields and rivers dwindling with distance, even as the greater dimensions of the earth were revealed.

No, he thought. I hated it even then.

There was some sort of kerfuffle going on a few seats up. He had noticed the guy staring at him earlier and tried to ignore it. Now the man was standing in the aisle, having a furious whisper-argument with the flight attendant.

“…in the front,” Bruce heard him say. “As far as possible from that thing.”

“Sir,” the attendant said. “I’ll do what I can…”

Now nearly everyone was looking at Bruce. Including the person in the seat next to him, a professional-looking woman in a black suit with dark hair that was cut short and touched here and there with gray.

He tried to pretend he was reading his book, but she kept glancing at him.

Reluctantly, he looked up.

“Hi,” he said.

“You are him, aren’t you?” she said. “The Avenger. The one who…” She trailed off, smiling uncomfortably.

“Let me help you out,” he said. “I’m the one who turns green.”

“Yes,” she said. “Doctor Bruce Banner, right?”

“Umm—yes. I don’t usually get recognized like—this,” he said. He looked around. “At least, not until lately.”

“Oh,” she said. “I read your profile in Rolling Stone. About how you’re a scientist, not just a… an Avenger.”

The profile. They’d asked to interview him, but he had declined. They went on with the story, pestering everyone from his childhood friend Randy to General Thaddeus Ross, who had very little good to say about him. Or so he heard. He hadn’t read it, but he remembered the cover: a picture of him from his college years superimposed over the Hulk’s face.

He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I promise to stay a scientist on the flight. No green guy.” He hoped that was an end to the conversation, but as usual, the world cared little about what he hoped.

“I’m Andie Strain,” the woman said.

“Nice to meet you,” he replied.

There was a little pause, and he started to let his eyes wander back to his book. Maybe she would get the message.

“So you’re in coach,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be in the Avengers’ jet, or—I mean, can’t you fly?”

He laid the book face down in his lap.

“No,” he said. “No, I can’t fly. What I can do is jump—really, really far. But I have to be the green guy to do that, which would destroy my suit, and I’ve only got this one suit. I could pack a bag, I guess, but he would probably throw it away or rip it open and scatter my clothes from New York to San Francisco. I’m on my way to a meeting where I figure clothing is… if not required, at least desirable. And the Avengers’ jet—the Quinjet—is really just for—well—special stuff. This is more like a business trip. And first class seems sort of… I don’t know. Unnecessary. So here I am in coach. And you?”

“I’m going to a job interview,” she said. “I’m a copyright and trademark lawyer. I can’t afford first-class. One day, maybe.” She glanced at his book. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m bothering you. I’ll let you get back to your book.”

He tried to smile. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re not bothering me. But, you know,” he lifted the book back to reading position. The guy who had been arguing with the flight attendant seemed to have won his case. He was headed toward the front of the plane.

Andie noticed.

“That guy,” she said, when the agitator was out of earshot. “Don’t worry about that guy.” She looked away, as if embarrassed, but then met his gaze squarely. He tried not to flinch. It felt threatening at first, that direct stare, but then he realized it was just sincerity, which was in some ways more difficult to accept.

“Look,” she told him. “I’m a New Yorker. You guys have done so much for our city, and that thing that went down in Brooklyn, a couple of years ago? Without you, there’s a good chance I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. My brother was a first responder, and I know he wouldn’t be with us. Some people say the bad guys come to fight you—that if you weren’t headquartered in New York, we’d be better off—but I know better. A lot of people do. It’s good to know you’re there. Maybe you turn into a big green monster, but you’re our big green monster.” She nodded up the aisle. “Guys like him—I wonder what he’s done for anyone.”

“Oh,” Bruce said. “That’s… Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” she said.

He turned back to his book then. He still felt confined and irritated, but—a little better. Almost enough to continue the conversation, see where it might go.

Almost.

It made him wonder. Had he really always felt this way about flying? Was he remembering it right, or was that the Hulk in him bleeding through? He’d been more social once, hadn’t he? More adaptable around people? He remembered having a long talk with a complete stranger on a flight to a conference in Iceland. Nothing unpleasant then. Before that, his first time as a kid, watching the world below unfold like a topographic map. He had actually loved that, hadn’t he? He’d written about it in a notebook he kept.

So why had he just been thinking he had hated it?

Was the Hulk in him revising all of his old memories? The Hulk didn’t like people, or crowds, being confined, controlled in any way. What if every time he changed, more of the Hulk came back with him? What if eventually there was no difference between them but how much weight they could bench press?

He tried to concentrate on his book, but it wasn’t easy, and halfway through the flight he gave up in favor of watching the landscape change beneath the jet’s wings, trying to remember what it had been like to be eight years old.

* * *

MONICA Rappaccini met him at the gate, holding a placard with his name on it.

He first met Monica in grad school in New Mexico and the first thing he noticed about her was her eyes. Not what color they were or how they were shaped but how she used them, how she scrutinized everything around her, deconstructing everything she saw and putting it back together, all in the space of seconds. She never just observed the surface of anything, but always the structure, the components, the operating mechanics, the theory inherent in its design. She’d been a brilliant student, one of the smartest people he’d ever met, and one of the kindest. He’d really been impressed by her. He’d even had a little crush on her, although he’d never done anything about it. He’d been too busy.

And then—years had passed. Life intervened, in a very big—very green—way. He hadn’t forgotten about Monica; he had read a lot of her publications, often because they coincided with his own interests, sometimes just because he liked the way she thought, how her ideas scanned on paper.

Six months ago, they’d met again, in San Francisco, at a pitch meeting with a fellow named George Tarleton. Monica and George had a start-up, a little company named Advanced Idea Mechanics—or as they called it AIM—and some very big, very exciting ideas. Monica had approached him about a meeting with Tony, mostly on Tarleton’s behalf. She had seemed a little embarrassed about playing on their very old, very thin acquaintance, but he had agreed to talk to Tony.

He’d felt a little intimidated seeing Monica again, unsure how to handle himself. But she was still just Monica—smart, driven, focused perhaps to a fault. Flirty, but not that practiced at it.

Tony had been a bit of an ass, as usual, and Tarleton had been a little prickly himself. Bruce and Monica had become instant allies, trying to keep the peace and move forward toward an agreement.

Afterwards, he’d invited her to coffee; she had upped the ante to dinner, and things had moved on from there. Stark had gotten involved with AIM, and he and Monica had gotten involved with each other. He’d offered her the use of his lab in New York a few times, but now her lab in San Francisco was about as well equipped, so she didn’t have much reason to come that way anymore.

When she had asked him to come out to San Francisco, he hadn’t argued. He didn’t mind taking things slow—in fact, he preferred it. But for a while now, it had felt to him as if he and Monica were, well—moving along. About as well as they could, long distance. It felt like something was maybe about to change—for the better.

But here she was, holding a sign with his name on it. That was a little weird.

“Doctor Banner,” she said, letting her hand drift out for him to shake. “I trust your flight was alright?”

He had been starting toward her for a kiss, but that put him on pause.

“Umm—what?” he said.

She smiled.

“It’s a joke, Bruce,” she said. She held out her arms. “Come here.”

* * *

“SO how have things been?” he asked as they drove north along the Bay, beneath low gray clouds.

“Great,” Monica said. “The new lab is—I can’t wait for you to see it. Amazing.”

“Well, you can thank Tony for that,” he said. “He’s pretty excited about what you guys are doing.”

“Yes, I can tell,” she replied. “He’s always checking in. I can’t believe he didn’t come with you.”

“He wanted to,” Bruce said. “But he’ll be over next week. My idea. I told him we needed a little alone time.”

“You and AIM, you mean?” she said. He thought it was probably meant to be a joke, but something sounded a little funny about the way she said it.

“You know,” he said, “I may have misinterpreted your invitation. I kind of thought—”

“That I wanted to see you for personal reasons?” she said. “No, you didn’t misunderstand me. I’ve missed you, Bruce. I wish we had more time together, and not just so I can pick your brilliant mind. I’ve been thinking—there’s a whole continent between us. Why?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve sort of been wondering about that, too.”

“Really? I don’t mean to be pushy. It’s just—you and I, we have similar research interests. We’re good together. You’ve been kind enough to let me use your lab in the past. Now that I have one to equal it—or almost, anyway—I wonder if maybe I can return the favor.”

“You mean move out here?” he asked.

“I mean at least stay for a while. Stark has made a huge investment in AIM He’s been talking a lot lately about having a liaison here.” She glanced over at him. “I… may have suggested you.”

“He said something like that,” Bruce admitted. “I thought it came from Tarleton.”

“And now you stand corrected,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “I’d—uh, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

“But?”

“It’s just—for Tony my moving out here—it’s part of something bigger. Something I can’t talk about right now. And something I’m not sure I’m on board with.”

She nodded. “Let me give you something to think over, then. Did you read my last paper?”

“The one on mutagens and intra-cellular toxicity?”

“That’s the one.”

“Of course,” he said. “Brilliant.”

“It was inspired by you,” she said.

“By my—condition.”

She nodded. “I know how you feel about the accident, about the Hulk. I don’t blame you. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for you. And I know you’ve tried—tried to find a way back. A cure.”

“That’s no secret,” he said.

“Well, I have some ideas,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yes. Just ideas. But if you were around more, if you were willing to cooperate—”

“I—That’s great,” he said. “I’m grateful you want to help. But you’re talking about figuring out the Hulk. And that—that could really be dangerous. You’re not the first person to ask.”

“But that’s why I want you here, Bruce. So you can oversee everything I do. So the instant something doesn’t feel right to you, you can shut it down. Think of it as if we’re doing the research you are already doing yourself—but with a partner who might think of things you haven’t. A partner who cares about you.”

He had to admit, it sounded good. Really good.

“That’s what you asked me out here for?” he said.

“That’s part of it. The rest is purely selfish.”

He smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay as in ‘yes’?”

“Okay as in I’m willing to be convinced.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I’m willing to convince you.”

TWO

NATASHA Romanoff accepted the flute of champagne. She sipped it, wrinkled her brow slightly, and set it down.

“Is it not to your liking?” the man in the blue suit asked.

“It’s fine,” she said.

In fact, it was very good wine. Expensive. It went with the nineteenth-century Persian rug, the Grecian vase in the corner, the Mayan stele imbedded in the floor, the lapis lazuli necklace hung on a headless bust on the wall, and the jade statuette of an Olmec jaguar man on the end table where she rested her champagne.

And the guards, of course, the men who had patted her down before she entered, and now stood at roughly each cardinal point of the room.

“You are the buyer?” the man in blue asked.

“The buyer? Of course not. She does not do—errands—but I represent her. I’ve been authorized to make an offer. A generous offer. After I’ve seen it.”

“I understand,” the man said. “Ms.?”

“Smith,” she replied.

“Of course.”

He peered at her, and for a moment his eyes narrowed slightly. Did he recognize her? Her hair was dyed black with a streak of gray, and she wore brown contacts over her naturally green eyes. Her cheeks were sprayed with temporary freckles. Her accent was that of Ghent, in Belgium. She wore a black three-piece business suit over a white shirt.

It had been easier in the old days, before all of the television exposure. She’d taken this assignment as a challenge, as much as for any other reason. To prove she could still go undercover. Now she worried they should have sent in someone else.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“We have done business before,” she said. “I sometimes work for a certain successful businessman on the West Side. I’m sure you remember.” In fact, she’d never met the man in blue before. If he called her bluff, asked for details, she was screwed.

But he didn’t; he backed down, just as she thought he would. He knew which businessman she meant. Few were interested in getting on his bad side, or showing disrespect for anyone who worked with him.

“Oh,” the man in blue said. “Of course. My apologies for not recalling you immediately.”

“No matter,” Natasha said. “I am not here to discuss history, but to see it.”

“Of course.”

He stepped behind a long, low hardwood cabinet. His hand worked for a moment out of sight, and then he pulled out a wooden tray with a glass lid, of the sort in which jewelry was often kept. He walked to where she sat and tilted it in front of her so she could see its contents.

The tray was far bigger than it needed to be to contain the object it held, which was no larger than the palm of her hand—a rectangular tablet inscribed with the elongated wedges of cuneiform and a peculiar diagram that might be some sort of map. It displayed a central circular object with rays, with eight smaller circles ringed around it.

“One of the few such tablets known to be inscribed on metal rather than clay or stone,” he said. “And the language—”

“—is undeciphered,” Natasha said. She reached into the sleeve of her shirt and pulled out her phone.

“I’m sorry,” the man in blue said. “That won’t work in here—and if you take pictures, I shall be forced to confiscate it.”

“I’m not taking pictures,” she said. She tapped in a code and watched the screen until she was satisfied. “It’s the real thing.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “But—”

“How do I know? Because this was stolen from a special collection of the Smithsonian five days ago. By a crime lord in Taiwan.”

The man in blue took a step back. Balancing the tray with tablet in one hand, he drew a pistol from his jacket. The guards pulled theirs.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Like I said, I’m on an errand.”

She grabbed the jade statuette and kicked the tray as she flipped backward over the chair. The tray slammed into the man in blue’s face as she added a half gainer to the flip, slinging the heavy jaguar man at the guard farthest from her and landing in a crouch two yards from the nearest guard in the back of the room. He fired his pistol as she sprang forward, but she was to the left of where he thought she was going. She clotheslined him with a spinning roundhouse, then tucked and came down as two bullets panged into the wall above her.

The guard at the far end collapsed, clutching his face where the jaguar man had hit it. The remaining two were busy trying to put holes in her suit.