#6 - Cornered

By John Stevenson & Dale Glaser

“Does this jet have any other speeds?” Everett K. Ross asks from the co-pilot’s seat of a Wakandan mini-quinjet. “I mean, besides Internal Organ Rearranger?” T’Challa, in his full Black Panther garb, sits silently with his hands gripping the flight controls of the jet. Except for the occasional almost imperceptible motion of his forearms required to steer, he is as rigid and still as carved stone. It is a stark contrast to the landscape blurring past the cockpit windows as the mini-quinjet races over the northern Canadian tundra.

“Your Highness?” Ross tries again to attract the attention of the king of Wakanda. “Come on, you gotta answer me. Or say something completely off-topic, even. When you’ve got the Panther mask on I can’t even tell if you’re awake under there.”

“I assure you I am far from asleep,” T’Challa answers gravely.

“Good, because you dummied up as soon as we took off from Iceland, and I was starting to wonder.” Ross tries to relax, but is still visibly uncomfortable due to the aircraft’s speed. “Are you even going to tell me where we’re headed?” he asks.

“If I knew that, we might well be there already,” T’Challa insists. He seems ready to leave the question at that, but turns his head slightly toward Ross, the man who has endured much at his side and for his sake, and relents. “I have been monitoring each of this quinjet’s tracking systems since we departed in pursuit of your attackers.* I had hoped to find a strong indication of our quarry’s escape route, and determine their destination.”

* = last issue

“But they pretty much gave us the slip, didn’t they?”

The Black Panther’s silence is response enough.

“Forgive me for saying so, sir,” Ross continues after a moment, his voice gaining confidence as he slips into the familiar role of a true diplomatic attaché. He thrives on human interactions, on saying what others need to hear.

“You seem more …” he pauses to discard a dozen words, ranging from incorrect to insulting, before settling on “… irate than I would expect under the circumstances. Now, maybe it’s just Iceland, believe me I could understand, I think that godforsaken end of the world brought out the worst in me, too. Don’t misunderstand, I appreciate your timely arrival, it certainly made dealing with those crazy commandoes easier than if I had to do it alone. I almost had them right where I wanted them, and you sped the process along nicely …”

T’Challa raises a hand in a silencing gesture. “I would not regret coming to your aid, wherever in the world you might be, Mr. Ross. Especially when those who threaten you are cowards attempting to strike at me indirectly.”

“Yeah, well, OK,” Ross agrees. “You came to my aid, and I’m all right, and I’m sure one way or another you’ll find those goons and … Monica …” Ross finishes the sentence with reluctance.

The figure of the Black Panther remains immovable, staring straight ahead out the curving cockpit shield. The voice emanating from beneath the ceremonial hood of the jungle cat gathers force like a rumbling mountain avalanche with each word. “An attack on you alone, my friend, would be sufficient to stir the blood of a king. Attacking Monica Lynne … is unpardonable.”

It is Everett K. Ross’s turn to make no response save for silence.

After the mini-quinjet has come to rest on a rooftop landing pad, the Black Panther and Everett K. Ross emerge from a connecting elevator within the Wakandan Embassy. T’Challa strides purposefully down the elegantly appointed hallway, as Ross deliberately slows his own pace behind the king. “Thank you again for the save back there,” Ross says earnestly, attempting to segue into goodbyes and exits. “Really. Honestly,” he adds when T’Challa ignores the attempt, and failing once again to elicit a word of acknowledgement finishes awkwardly with, “You da man.” He sighs and forges ahead, “Well, I should be going now. Somebody in the Office will want a report on what happened, and I think my apartment is the best place to whip that puppy up …”

“How did the commandoes’ craft escape so quickly?” T’Challa asks without slowing his procession down the burgundy carpet of the hallway. Ross eyes the door to the stairwell longingly, then hurries to catch up with T’Challa to more easily participate in the conversation from which he has not yet been dismissed.

“Cloaking device? Electronic jammers, radar invisibility, something like that?” Ross offers as hypothesis.

T’Challa shakes his head to negate the idea. “My personal jets have far more sophisticated tracking apparatus than radar. Vibranium antennae can detect the ripples in the airstream caused by any craft’s movement through the sky, invisible or no. Yet they too perceived no sign of our enemies.”

“Then the commandoes totally disappeared – not just from sight, but from the area. There one second, gone the next,” Ross concludes.

“Indeed. Again, however, I must ask: How?”

Ross shrugs. “Guess that’s what you need to figure out in order to find Monica.”

T’Challa has reached a door at the end of the hall and places his hand on the doorknob. He inclines his head toward Everett K.

Ross and corrects him, “WE will figure it out.”

“Hoo-boy,” Ross exhales as he follows the king of Wakanda into his private embassy office.

Meanwhile, half a world away, Mendinao, the royal doctor of the court of Wakanda, stands in silent vigil over a hospital bed. Lying on the antiseptic white sheets is Zuri. Mendinao stares down intensely at his patient, as if attempting to mentally will the large, muscular frame to once again show positive signs of vitality. However, the noble warrior remains comatose, his bare skin an ashen mockery of its usual deep brown luster, half of his long black hair shorn away by surgeons. An oxygen tube runs across Zuri’s upper lip, its prongs inserted in his nostrils, and an I/V runs down his arm from shoulder to inner-elbow insertion, like an albino vine creeping across fallen ruins. A young nurse enters the room to record Zuri’s vital signs. She performs her task quickly and respectfully, but before leaving turns to Mendinao. “You must be very deep in thought,” she observes.

“I was thinking,” the doctor responds while stroking his chin with thumb and forefinger, “that Zuri has never cared for the new ways of Western technology, such as the machines which now feed him and assist his labored breathing. Nor has he tolerated being coddled or treated as an invalid. If Zuri were aware of the means and measures being taken to heal his wounds, he would surely rise up like a wild beast and tear these apparatus apart with his bare hands.”

The nurse smiles at the thought of Zuri rampaging unchecked around the hospital room, indignant and full of fury, but quickly grows somber at the realization of how far from being able to rise up at all the trusted advisor to the King truly is. “Will Zuri ever recover, Doctor?” she asks.

Mendinao continues to stare at Zuri, his eyes boring into the warrior’s body.

“It is possible,” he answers reluctantly. “The bullet which grazed his head inflicted serious damage to his skull and brain. Our surgeons were able to repair the vast majority of the damage, and we may only pray that his own recuperative processes will mend the wounds which remain. But we will not know until Zuri awakens, if there remains a sliver of bone fragment which might block a blood vessel in his brain, or if he is free of complications and out of danger.”

The nurse nods her understanding and quietly departs, leaving Mendinao alone once again to contemplate his patient’s fate.

“OK, thanks, Luella. Really, you’re a peach. All righty, buh-bye,” Everett K. Ross ends his conversation and hangs up the phone. He sits in an embroidered chair of French colonial style, beside a small table with a telephone. Across the embassy office, T’Challa occupies a large leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk, and focuses on the flat monitor screen on the desk’s righthand corner. His clawed gauntlets have been laid aside on the desk, and his Black Panther cowl has been pulled back to rest against his shoulders, revealing his bald, goateed, imperious visage.

“Do you want to hear what I’ve been able to piece together?” Ross asks the African monarch.

“I did not suggest that you make calls to keep the information to yourself,” T’Challa answers without looking away from the monitor.

“OK, then,” Ross continues, unruffled. “I got Luella – she’s in the IS department at OCP – to go through some server records and see if there were any outside entities who accessed my employee file to find out I had been re-assigned to the Iceland embassy. Turns out there was a hack into the network, but nothing anybody had paid much attention to, because all the hacker did was read files, not try to change them. Amateur stuff, coulda been some kid trying to play Lone Gunmen or something.”

T’Challa’s dark eyes flick in Ross’s direction impatiently. The attaché continues, “Right, so Luella tried to trace the hacker from point of entry. But the hacker at least knew enough to try to cover their tracks and take the long way toward OCP’s network. Luella traced ‘em back through General Motors’ system, CNET, PacBell’s server farm, and a couple other networks, until the trail went cold with an ISP network somewhere in upstate New York. That might have been where the hacker started, but then again, maybe just where he started getting sloppy about hiding himself. Only other thing Luella could tell me was that the hacker used a dummy login to ping a lot of the systems, which was ‘littlewoodenboy’.”

T’Challa returns his gaze to his computer monitor, and replies, “Perhaps even that small amount of information will prove useful. The data records from my mini-qunijet have been downloaded and analyzed, and I have discovered an anomalous reading from the vibranium antennae which I overlooked previously. There was a slight ripple effect in the air ahead of us, as if an aircraft had suddenly ceased to occupy space in the sky, causing an implosion of air. This could have been caused, for example, by an instantaneous teleportation of the aircraft.”

Well, I guess we have to expand our list of suspects to include David Copperfield, huh?” Ross asks.

T’Challa goes on unperturbed, “I have accessed the Avengers databases, and am searching for rogue technology capable of large-scale, fixed-location teleportation. I believe that the commandoes, armed and conducting themselves as they were, can only have technological advantages at their disposal, rather than superhuman powers or magic.”

“If you say so,” Ross shrugs. “But if there’re any files in the Avengers’ computers, won’t they be out-of-date, already dealt with?”

T’Challa snorts quietly. “The Avengers often choose not to deal with minor threats immediately. It is often advantageous to know of several criminal lairs kept in reserve, should the team find itself in need of a positive public appearance.”

Ross stares at the sovereign of Wakanda, mouth agape. “You’re kidding! No, you’re not kidding. You never kid, who am I kidding? Why am I still talking?” Shaking his head, Ross mutters, “The Avengers, the World’s Mightiest Spin Doctors. Who knew?”

T’Challa reports, “Currently there are four such installations known to the Avengers. One is in Syria, one is outside of Mexico City, one near Butte, Montana in the U.S., and one in Ithaca, New York, USA.”

“Upstate New York,” Ross points out knowingly.

“Indeed,” T’Challa answers. “The last trajectory of the commandoes’ aircraft could have intercepted with New York, or Mexico City, and in all likelihood not with Montana or Syria. Still, I would prefer further confirmation.” The regent lifts the receiver of the phone on his desk, and dials a number from memory. In a few moments he begins a conversation in fluent French, as Ross watches with interest. The conversation is animated, and T’Challa’s manner is polite, although sometimes clearly intimating the leverage of his position to coerce cooperation from the party on the other end of the telephone connection. After several minutes, including a long pause during which Ross can only assume T’Challa has been placed on hold, the king hangs up the phone.

“Psychic Hotline?” Ross asks irreverently.

“A banker in Zurich,” T’Challa replies evenly, typing on the computer keyboard.

“Although Swiss banks enjoy a well-deserved reputation for discretion, those which have investments in the vibranium reserves are somewhat susceptible to persuasion. Once prompted with a scenario of arms trading and homing teleportation development, Dominic was able to recall a depositor conducting transactions of that nature. He checked the records and verified that although the depositor remained anonymous, a corporate name of Safeguardian, Inc. was registered, as well as a United States telephone number.”

“Which we can probably trace to a certain state with a propensity for electing first ladies to the Senate,” Ross quips.

“Which we have done,” T’Challa announces, rising from his seat. He picks up his gloves and pulls them on, saying “The number is from the Ithaca area, and there we will find our would-be tormentors.” The Black Panther dons his mask and his eyes glow a fierce yellow. “They will find that we bring them more torment than they bargained for.”

“Um, Your Highness, I can’t help but notice you’re saying ‘we’ again,” Ross protests half-heartedly, but the Black Panther is already striding to the roof elevator. Ross falls into step behind him.

After landing the mini-quinjet a safe distance away, Everett K. Ross and the Black Panther approach a small horsefarm on the outskirts of Ithaca, N.Y. by foot. The land is surrounded by woods, and the Black Panther leads the way along the edge of the treeline, past the farmhouse and stable to the open field beyond. The sun has set and dusky twilight covers the grounds.

The Black Panther signals for Ross to wait behind, and Ross nods with relief. Crouching low, the Panther slips out from the cover of the woods and moves sleekly across the field. He stops, presses his hands to the ground, and finds a man-made seam in the earth, into which he inserts his claw-tipped fingers. With an exertion of his peak-human strength, the Black Panther lifts a massive, metal plate from the ground and slides it aside. He gestures for Ross to follow him, and the attaché reluctantly does so. The Panther helps Ross down through the opening, then silently follows behind, disappearing into the ground like a shadow.

The chamber in which the Black Panther and Ross find themselves is impenetrably dark, with only the fading daylight from the opening in the ground above to stave off absolute blackness. “What now?” Ross asks in a whisper.

The Panther’s glowing yellow eyes narrow slightly. “Perhaps my Kimoyo card will cast sufficient illumination for us to …”

The Black Panther is interrupted by the harsh glare of light flooding the chamber from all sides. The king of Wakanda immediately assumes a battle-stance, while Everett K. Ross clasps his hands behind his back and looks around the room appraisingly, as if he were a speculator considering in purchasing the building. The charade helps him to ignore the distressing unease he feels at seeing once again the commando uniforms of the Safeguardians, as eight of the men in fatigues carrying automatic weapons surround Ross and the Black Panther.

The Black Panther spoke commandingly, “You have attacked my friends, and kidnapped Monica Lynne. I assume you have done so to lure me here. Now that you have met that end, I strongly urge you to release Ms. Lynne and do not delay our departure. I assure you that by following any other course you will succeed in nothing but earning yourselves more pain.”

“The pain will be yours, son of T’Chaka!” a voice screeches from a dark recess of the chamber. Before the threat is completed, a knobby, wooden mace with a long, thick handle seeming to grow outward from the shadows slams into the base of T’Challa’s skull.

The Black Panther reels from the blow, driven forward onto his knees. “That voice,” the Black Panther groans, clasping one hand to the back of his head. “A’kurru …”

“Who?” Ross demands.

“No, not A’kurru the fool and weakling,” the reedy voice answers from the shadows, as the Black Panther regains his feet and turns in that direction. “By one name shall I, the man who deposes the rootless ruler of Wakanda, be known … I am Icon!” *

* A special AV2000 No-Prize to anyone who recognizes this Wicked Wakandan –ADS

“Mendinao! Mendinao!” The nurse’s cries echo throughout the ICU of the palace hospital in Wakanda.

Mendinao bursts through the doorway of Zuri’s room. The alarms of all the electronic monitors attached the Zuri’s body sound off riotously, indicating the desperate struggles of the proud warrior’s bodily systems.

“I need a crash cart!” the royal doctor shouts above the din. “And all free hands in here – NOW!”

“I … I can’t find a pulse,” the nurse reports fearfully.

“Begin chest compressions while I intubate Z-- … the patient,” Mendinao orders, snatching blade and tube from the tray beside Zuri’s bed. Mendinao rushes to the head of the bed and looks down upon the ailing figure prone beneath him. He begins the intubation and prays to the Panther Spirit to coax life back into the lifeless form.

Author Notes

After a long awaited issue 5, issue 6 was almost as much an adventure to get done. My incredible admiration for the characters in this book remain at an all-time high. However, after writing issue 5, I felt I could no longer do them justice. I wasn't on the right track and my enthusiasm dipped.

Enter Dale Glaser. The guy who came into Av2000 with an off-the-wall idea for a "What If..." ongoing series. Strangely enough, it has quickly become a hit and I am among its fans. Upon entering Av2000, Dale also extended the offer to script stories. Having read his excellent stuff at fDC, I jumped at the opportunity and threw my plots at him for issues 6 and 7.

A little while and a few snags in the road later, and here is Black Panther #6. I think Dale did a great job on this issue, immensely better than I could have done. To him, I extend my thanks and words of praise. Great job, Dale! So all of you out there, drop Dale a line at badblood51@hotmail.com and let him know what you think!

Sincerely,

Adam Di Stefano

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