Fantastic Four, page 22
“How do we know this ain’t just some trick?” Ben said. “Somethin’ you and the big purple planet-eater have cooked up together? You pretend to be our pal, only to go and sucker punch us when our guard’s down.”
“Surely my treatment of the Punisher should have convinced you of my trustworthiness, Ben Grimm. But if you need further proof, I shall supply it. Let my actions hereafter affirm the honesty of my words.”
So saying, the Silver Surfer jetted off towards Galactus.
* * *
SERVANT DREW to a standstill in front of master.
Galactus gazed somberly down at his herald. In either hand he held one of the pair of igniters. He was scant moments away from starting up the Elemental Converter.
“I have destroyed your Punisher,” the Surfer said.
“I am aware,” said the Devourer of Worlds. “I trust you have an explanation.”
“It hardly seems necessary to give one. You must know, Galactus, as I do, that consuming this planet is wrong.”
“I know no such thing. I know only that my hunger must be appeased and that the energies this world harbors will fulfill that function.”
“Are billions of lives worth less than your own?”
“You would ask such a question of mighty Galactus? One who was old when the universe was young? One who is supreme among living beings? One whose needs supersede those of all others?”
“This is my plea to you,” said the Surfer, “as he who has loyally done your bidding for years beyond number. Leave. Choose another world, an uninhabited one, and take its energies instead. I shall find such a world for you, gladly. But leave Earth alone. Primitive though it is, and full of flaws, it is also wondrous, and its people deserve a chance to prosper and propagate.”
“I do not judge the moral worth of the worlds I devour,” Galactus argued. “I judge them purely according to the quality of nutrition they can provide.”
“You were not always Galactus. Once, you were a man. This much you have told me, in our rare conversations. Can you not remember that man you were? Do you not think he would be appalled at the unfeeling monster you have become?”
Galactus bristled in annoyance. “I am no longer a man, nor am I a monster. Such concepts are utterly meaningless to me. I am Galactus. And, Surfer, my patience has worn thin. If you have chosen to challenge me, after all this time, that is your prerogative. Know, however, that it will avail you naught. Your power is as nothing to mine. I gave it to you, and only a fool would bestow so much power on another that the other could possibly pose a threat.”
A hollow barking sound emerged from his throat which could only be taken for laughter, and contemptuous laughter at that.
“I know I am no match for you,” the Surfer said stalwartly. “That will not stop me, as it has not stopped these valiant humans. I have tried reasoning with you. Now comes the time for action.”
The Surfer unleashed a tremendous torrent of Power Cosmic at his former liege lord. The three members of the Fantastic Four shied away, shielding their eyes against its brilliance. For a time, it seemed as though a miniature sun was blazing directly over the Baxter Building.
The awesome dazzle faded, and where Galactus had been standing, now stood a large, rough-hewn ovoid. Smoke trailed off its surface. Heat radiated from it, tangible even to the three humans who were several yards away.
“Surfer,” said Reed, “what have you done?”
“I have contained Galactus.”
“So I can see. It appears you’ve formed a kind of cocoon around him.”
“Just so, Dr. Richards. Strange though it may seem to you, I could not bring myself to cause Galactus injury. Instead, I chose to place him under restraint.”
“I understand,” said Sue sympathetically. “You still respect him, even though you now oppose him.”
“That is exactly it. My heart grieves at the thought of battling one with whom I once shared the universe.”
“Well,” said Ben, “you mayn’t’ve polished him off, but you’ve at least stopped him doing what he wanted—and that’s more than that overrated chump Uatu managed.”
He approached the cocoon.
“Say, what’s this thing made of anyway?” he said, reaching out a hand. “Looks pretty strong, but is it strong enough?”
“Ben, I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” Reed warned.
Too late. Ben had already laid his hand on the cocoon. He recoiled immediately.
“Yeoowwch!” he cried, shaking out his arm. “It’s like it was pushin’ me away. And I mean really pushin’, hard as a piledriver.”
“I have created the cocoon to be reactive,” the Surfer said. “It actively repels the slightest attempt to breach it, from inside as well as from outside.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“I did not feel it needed saying. Besides, your comrade advised against touching it, did he not? And you ignored him.”
“Yeah, well, Stretcho knows I don’t listen to him when he’s pontificatin’. It’s always ‘Ben, don’t’, ‘Ben, wait’, ‘Ben, you’ll regret it’. Never ‘Go ahead, Ben, ’cause I respect you enough to let you make your own decisions’. I mean, someday he’s—”
Ben broke off, because just then, with a loud crunching sound, a crack appeared in the cocoon, near its base.
“That wasn’t me,” he said quickly. “That’s definitely nothin’ to do with me putting my hand on it.”
“Get back, all of you,” the Surfer said.
Reed, Sue and Ben retreated across the rooftop, while the Silver Surfer took to the air.
The cocoon was trembling, chunks of its surface falling away as the crack spread upwards, branching, becoming a multiplicity of fractures. The thing was losing cohesion right in front of their eyes, succumbing to enormous pressures from within. The building shuddered beneath their feet with the forces that were at play.
Slowly, a hand emerged from the crumbling cocoon, magenta-gauntleted. An arm followed, and then the regal, helmet-encased head of Galactus.
Galactus flexed his chest, and the disintegrating cocoon shattered around him, breaking into a thousand pieces. Sue erected a fresh forcefield to protect herself and her teammates from the hail of debris.
When the dust had settled, the Devourer of Worlds was standing much as before, seemingly unperturbed after his temporary confinement. The only evidence that he had been inconvenienced in any way was the glare in his eyes as he looked around for the person who had sought to imprison him.
“Where,” he rumbled, “is my herald?”
“Here,” the Silver Surfer replied, gliding into view. “But your herald no more. That is now beyond question.”
“You have served me in the past,” Galactus said, “and you shall serve me in future. I am not vengeful. I give you this one chance to recant your opposition to me, repent your rebellion, and resume your ordained role. Do that, and we shall not speak of this incident again.”
“I cannot. You must be driven from this world. You must! No matter what the cost.”
Galactus nodded pensively and perhaps a touch ruefully. “Then the die is cast. It sorrows me to have to dispose of you, yet dispose of you I must. Our partnership is at an end, Silver Surfer. Prepare for death.”
And with that, cosmic combat was joined.
REED RICHARDS, Sue Richards and Ben Grimm could do little but look on as Galactus and the Silver Surfer battled.
Much the same could be said for the New Yorkers gathered below at the foot of the Baxter Building, and the people watching from the roofs and windows of adjacent skyscrapers, and all the many millions viewing the unfolding events that were being beamed to them, live, on their TV screens, not only in the United States but around the world.
In the Oval Office, the president and his staffers were glued to the news channels. The presidential security team had repeatedly advised their boss to get to the subterranean bunker beneath the White House, where he would be safe. POTUS disagreed. In his judgment, it wouldn’t make any difference if he was underground or not. As far as he could tell, either the Fantastic Four and their newfound silver-skinned ally saved the day, or it was the end of everything.
In parliaments, congresses and other national assemblies all across the world, much the same decision was reached. Politicians of all stripes came together in emergency sessions and agreed that the situation should be left to the American super heroes, who were practiced in the art of resolving such global crises. The consensus was to let them get on with it and be grateful they existed.
* * *
AMONG THAT community of super heroes, a similar calculation was being made.
The likes of Spider-Man and Daredevil, who tended to deal with street-level enemies, understood that they were surplus to requirements today. The villains they customarily fought, even the super-powered ones, were the type who robbed banks, carried out kidnappings or committed murders, wreaking havoc at a human scale only. Cosmic menaces were above the paygrade of Spidey and the Man Without Fear. Individually, each of them came to the conclusion that the situation at the Baxter Building was best left to the FF to resolve.
In Westchester County, upstate New York, at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, the five mutants who comprised the X-Men were gathered around the TV set in their common room. Their teacher and mentor Professor Charles Xavier was with them, seated as ever in his wheelchair.
The X-Men were debating among themselves whether they should travel to the city to help the Fantastic Four or whether that would only make matters worse. It was Hank McCoy, the erudite, anthropoidal character also known as the Beast, who summed up their dilemma best.
“Should we arrive at the scene,” he said, “our presence might well exacerbate the tensions evident among the populace. Doubtless we, as members of the distrusted and shunned species known as Homo superior, would be regarded as abettors in whatever nefarious shenanigans are taking place at the Baxter Building, and would be abused and castigated for it, with a violent altercation the likely outcome. Ergo, on balance, it seems that our most prudent course of action is, alas, inaction.”
Master of the Mystic Arts, Doctor Strange, was the sworn foe of eldritch, nether-dimensional entities such as Dormammu, Nightmare and Shuma-Gorath, who coveted Earth for their own and were none of them exactly lightweights when it came to sheer power. He had foiled their plans on several occasions. His magics, however, were ill suited to adversaries like this Galactus.
In his Sanctum Sanctorum in Greenwich Village, Strange floated in midair, cross-legged, before the Orb of Agamotto, and perused the images of the goings-on at the Baxter Building conveyed to him by that magical artifact. The all-seeing Orb was providing a sorcerous equivalent of the newscasts everyone else was transfixed by, one generated by its own scrying powers rather than video cameras.
Strange, bathed in its misty, flickering glow, felt helpless—not a comfortable state of being for a man such as him, who prided himself on confidence and unflappability. He prayed to the wise Vishanti that the Fantastic Four would prevail this day.
In shining Asgard, All-Father Odin beheld the crisis unfurling on Midgard through his own magical means, namely the mighty Odinforce, which granted him a plethora of divine powers, including the ability to observe, remotely, whatever was happening in any of the Nine Realms.
His one good eye—its counterpart sheathed by a jewel-encrusted patch—was narrowed in concern. He understood that his favorite son, Thor, had a rare affection for the people of Earth, and he knew that the thunder god, who was currently lying comatose, near death after doing battle with Odin’s treacherous councilor Seidring, would not wish to see the place he considered his adopted home destroyed.
Yet Odin knew, too, that he himself could not lift a finger to assist the mortals. It was not his place to. The Midgardians must fend for themselves; and should they fail, and perish en masse, it would be a shame, but it would also be simply what the Norns decreed—and Urd, Verdandi and Skuld, the three sisters of Fate, were not to be gainsaid.
“So mote it be,” he murmured to himself, sadly, sanguinely.
One of those Midgardians, Colonel Nick Fury, shared with Odin the lack of an eye; he was also, like the All-Father, unusually long-lived, although not himself immortal.
He, however, was in a less accepting frame of mind than the ruler of the Asgardians. For Fury, the role of bystander grated. He was currently aboard the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier. The enormous airborne vehicle was stationed just off the coast near Bridgeport, Connecticut, hovering at an altitude of some 20,000 feet. From there, Fury was vigilantly monitoring affairs at the Baxter Building.
A little earlier that day, he had checked in with Captain America at Avengers Mansion, and the upshot of their teleconference was: stand back and leave the Fantastic Four to get on with it. The two World War II veterans—who had fought the Axis powers side by side on several occasions, back when Fury wore a sergeant’s stripes—bore an immense respect for each other. On this occasion they had both agreed that sometimes, in a conflict, you just had to have faith in your fellow warriors to hold up their end of things. The FF would come through for everyone.
This hadn’t, however, stopped Fury from instructing the Helicarrier flight crew to be ready to race in along Long Island Sound and take up position over Manhattan at any moment, if he thought some heavily armed air support was required. In certain circumstances the cavalry had to ride in even if they weren’t called.
As for Captain America and the team he led, they collectively maintained their stance that Reed Richards and company were equal to the task of defeating Galactus. The Avengers, for once, were not the most important assemblage of super heroes on Earth. That honor, today, rested with the Fantastic Four.
REED RICHARDS, it must be said, was not feeling any too important at this particular moment. In fact, he was feeling somewhat redundant.
It was galling for someone as sharp-witted and proactive as him to be demoted to mere spectator.
Then again, the power and fury being unleashed by Galactus and the Silver Surfer was so great, so blisteringly intense, he knew he couldn’t compete. None of his team could. As Ben put it, with characteristic demotic candor, “Next to that pair, we ain’t nothin’ but ninety-seven-pound weaklings.”
The Surfer darted around almost faster than the eye could follow. He and his board were a glinting blur against the blueness of the sky.
Galactus, by contrast, scarcely budged. He stood with his feet planted square on the rooftop, turning his head to track his one-time herald’s progress and, arm raised, loosing off shimmering bolts of energy from his fingertips.
These the Surfer evaded, threading around them like a lightning-quick needle. Whenever an opportunity arose, he retaliated with energy bolts of his own, firing with one hand or sometimes both.
None of the shots he discharged at Galactus had any apparent effect. The Devourer of Worlds seemed as impervious to them as if the Surfer was squirting him with a water pistol.
In fact, Reed got the distinct impression that neither combatant truly wished to hurt the other. Galactus, for all his talk about “disposing of” the Surfer, was clearly exercising restraint. He could surely have eradicated his erstwhile servant with merely a thought. Instead, he was subjecting him to a barrage of blasts which he must have known the Surfer could run rings around.
Similarly, the Surfer doubtless realized that nothing he did was causing Galactus even to flinch.
To Reed’s mind, it looked as though each of them was punishing the other. Their battle was performative—a demonstration of antipathy, rather than a way of settling it. The bond between them had been severed, and both were lashing out as an expression of disgust. The Surfer wanted to prove he had a conscience. Galactus wanted to prove that a conscience was an irrelevant luxury.
Nonetheless, there was something distinctly mythic about their fight. Reed was put in mind of Prometheus defying the Greek gods. Of Frankenstein’s monster, repudiating his creator. Of Milton’s Lucifer, who preferred to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. Mythic, and tragic. Epochal too. A kind of Götterdämmerung. Even when just trying to score a point against each other, the two of them were still exerting enough raw power to make the whole of Manhattan quake.
At last, Galactus acknowledged the futility of it all.
“Surfer,” he said, “I implore you, one final time: abandon this folly. You know that your place is ever at my side. I can still, even now, find it in me to overlook your imprudence, and forgive. Reaffirm your allegiance to me. Kneel before me and vow to be my herald once more. It is that or die.”
“Then it is no choice at all,” the Surfer retorted. “I would rather the embrace of sweet oblivion than bear the guilt of one further life lost.”
“These humans—these specks of dust—are really worth that much to you?”
“Every life is worth something. To treat other sentient beings as though they are nothing displays not merely overweening arrogance but moral blindness.”
“Yet these same humans you so admire slaughter animals for their food,” Galactus said, “animals which possess varying degrees of sentience. How is that any different from my own method of obtaining sustenance?”
“I do not pretend that humans are perfect,” the Surfer replied. “I point out only that there are alternative sources of nourishment available to you, Galactus, which you choose, by preference, to spurn.”
“But you are willing to die for their race.”
“I am willing to die for a principle.”
“I should have known this day might come.” Galactus sounded almost doleful. “From the very first, when importunate Norrin Radd came to me and offered himself as my thrall in exchange for reprieving his homeworld Zenn-La, I should have realized that same selflessness would lead him to turn on me in the end. In hindsight, it was inevitable.”
“The flame of altruism in me guttered,” the Surfer said, “but it did not die. All it took was the gentle words of a kind, wise woman to fan it back into life.”
