Try to picture the universe. 

It looks a little like this: a rapidly expanding soap bubble.

Now try to picture the cosmos, containing an infinite number of universes, all loosely connected, a web of membranes, perhaps best visualized by dumping a bottle of bubble bath in an enormous washtub.  Some of these membranes expand, some contract, and some share uneasy borders.

That was the relationship between the universe of mankind and the so-called Negative Zone.  Two bordering universes that could, theoretically, never mingle, as one was composed of matter and the other antimatter.  Both would annihilate each other should they ever merge.  Their two soap bubbles would pop, simply put, leaving no residue behind. 

Yet, through a scientific miracle called the Distortion Area, small bits of matter occasionally crossed from one universe to the other.  Somehow positive charges were changed into negative ones and vice versa without altering the atoms themselves.  This should have been impossible but for one caveat, the statement that made the word ‘impossible’ itself antithetical to science. 

Which is:  Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

And some magical thing or things at sometime in history had wanted the universe of mankind to mingle with its neighbor, the Negative Zone.  Thus it was. 

What one might see upon entering the Zone wasn’t so different from any other carbon-plentiful universe.  Although significantly smaller than man’s universe, that still meant billions of solar systems containing trillions of planets.  One of those planets was a tiny little rock once labeled 32-I in the exploratory journals of one Dr. Reed Richards, an earthman who claimed to have discovered the Zone, as if discovering something that had always been was even possible.  

From there one could travel a relatively trivial seventeen-hundred light years and reach another planet as yet unnamed by man.  Of course it had been named in the astronomical journals of many Negative Zone civilizations, among them:  Talon 6, Yazzratklatz-ktz, Ybirk, 000000010, and the Big Red Eye.

The Big Red Eye was an arid rock, largely barren, with little in the way of valuable ores.   Upon it two vast armies were currently waging the latest in a near infinite number of battles.  Their forces had gathered in a deep valley, like an enormous bowl, their legions teaming at its edges and sometimes spilling over.  They fought, and fought, and fought.  The dead on both sides were now stacked in layers, neither army pausing long enough to count their casualties, let alone move them.

At a distance they took on the appearance of waves repeatedly clashing, receding at times to leave behind their lost like ghastly tide pools, before surging forward to clash once again.  And almost all of this grim fighting was fought claw-to-claw, tooth to tooth, not with advanced weapons but with bone and sinew.  

Yet for all that not one person cared.  Not one soul  heralded their passing.  Every valiant, heroic death -- and there were doubtless many -- bore no more significance than dust in the wind.   Unrecorded, uncelebrated and unobserved.

Save for one.

And he was a stranger. 

He squatted atop the ledge of one of the enormous mesas that surrounded the valley.  He had been watching the fight through his binoculars, focusing in at random, sometimes so close he could see the individual faces of the warriors.  He could admire their bravery even if this battle meant nothing to him.  He didn’t even know who was fighting whom or why.

Because he truly was a stranger.  Not just to the planet but to the Zone itself.  He had come here searching for a man.  Not a friend, exactly, not even a man who could be said to like him much, or vice versa.  He was here because he had made a promise to a woman he had once loved and who had never loved him. 

He had come alone to this strange universe, without friend or ally, a fact which may have alarmed others but not him.  He’d spent most of his life alone.  Even on his home planet, Earth, he stood apart.  It was a world controlled by humans, homo sapiens, and yet he wasn’t one.  He was ruler of the undersea kingdom of Atlantis until very recently, but never really a true Atlantean either.  Not completely.  He was also a mutant, so called homo superior, but he had never mingled with others of his kind or cared for their causes.

He was singular.  He was unique.  He was Namor.  The Sub-Mariner. 

And he was more than a little lost.

He had passed through the Distortion Area in one of Reed Richards’s Nega-Rovers, a slimmed down version of the rocket ship that had once propelled the Fantastic Four into Earth’s outer atmosphere.  Since the Negative Zone had no vacuums and even its space had an oxygen rich atmosphere, the Rover was built simply for speed.  It was little more than a jump drive and a cockpit.   It had enabled Namor to travel great distances in a very short time. 

Knowing where to travel, however, was the real trick.  He had been given the coordinates to 32-I, the planet where Richards, the man he was searching for, had last been seen.  He was already gone when Namor arrived though.  He had found the bunker Richards disappeared into and discovered nothing inside but dismantled machinery and smashed computers.*  Richards had simply disappeared, yet not entirely without a trace.

(See Fantastic Four #6, Vol. 2 - Al)

A small yet distinct radiation trail had been left by Richards’ own ship.  The Nega-Rover’s sensors were able to detect it, just barely, although at times he had nearly lost all trace.  Namor had, in fact, been following its winding path for over three months now.  His food was nearly exhausted and he had been sidetracked more than once, fending off multiple attacks by Zone pirates and very nearly being forced to wed the daughter of a race of cosmic squids.

Now he was genuinely off course though and the last of his water reserves spent.  This barren planet with its strange clashing armies had been the last to give up even a hint of Richards’s radiation trail.  It had faded before he’d even landed and now Namor was beginning to realize that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew.  How could he really hope to find a man who likely didn’t wish to be found when he had a whole universe to hide in?

Not that Namor would ever admit such a thing.  He had given his word and that was enough.*  Giving up was never an option, even should it mean dying in this strange place.  

* (See Fantastic Four #8, vol. 2 - Al)

Of course, he reflected, placing his binoculars back into their pouch and scratching his scraggly growth of beard, there really was no rush for him to prove that.  If he didn’t discover some water soon, however, that was becoming a very real risk.  As it was, his strength was already severely reduced, a curious effect of being half-merman. 

“Well, we’re not going to find any here,” he told himself, standing up slowly, and knowing in that very same instance he was no longer alone.  Something was skittering up the side of the cliff below him.  Several somethings in fact.   He considered taking to the air -- his mutant ability was a pair of somewhat silly looking but terribly handy ankle wings that gave him flight -- but realized it wouldn’t do him much good to abandon the Nega-Rover.  Without it he’d be stuck here.  And since here had no water, he’d be guaranteed a slow, certain death.   So, instead, Namor crossed his arm and waited for them to arrive.   

He didn’t wait long.

There were sixteen of them altogether, long chitnous creatures with six legs, segmented bodies, and two purple orbs set above powerful pinchers.  All were identical save for one, smaller and brown instead of green, with a noticeably larger head.  It was this one who spoke at him in a series of clacks and hisses.  The others pointed tubes in his direction which were very probably some sort of weapons.

Namor frowned.  Insects.  They looked like giant insects.  As was true of most surface creatures, he found earth insects repulsive.  He fumbled with the button on Richards’s Universal Translator and was surprised to hear it decode the creature’s words so quickly.  They were even fairly easy  for him to understand.

It was saying:  “Surrender or die.”

Elsewhere, incalculable light years away in an altogether different universe, the exact same thing was being said by a small human in a purple bullet-shaped helmet.   The targets of his wrath, however, looked somewhat less than intimidated.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be that way.  This really isn’t personal, you know, Mr. Wizard.”

“Do not call me Mr. Wizard, traitorous fool!”

“Traitorous?  Now, I think that’s a little strong, I really do…”

Bentley Wittman, the Wingless Wizard, extended his hand, palm open, at the twelve men seated across the table from him.  A greenish glow spiraled up his purple armor -- this purely for affect -- as its embedded anti-gravity discs flickered to life, producing enough G-force to smash its targets into a red goo.  And…

Nothing happened.

One of the men finally cleared his throat.  “Yeah, ah, we forgot to mention, but we’ve had the whole HQ done up with Graviton Shields as of last month.  It’s actually kind of amazing how cheap advanced technology has gotten during this whole recession thing…”

Grinding his teeth, The Wizard switched the settings on his armor and tried again.  And again.  An awkward silence descended as the men now exchanged embarrassed glances.  It was hard to see their old boss in such a sweat, especially since he’s just gotten out of prison and all.*  But, well…

(See M2K’s The Vault for his prior residency - Al)

“Business is business, Mr. Wizard.  And we got to talking while you was in stir and we think maybe we should go our separate ways, you know?  It’s just there’s no money in what you got us doing…”

“No money?”

“Yeah.  These flashy robberies and then going after the Fantastic Four all the time.  Especially that last one.  I mean, Billy here still has his jaw wired up from when the Thing belted him last year.”

Billy nodded emphatically, looking as if he had cotton balls stuffed in his cheeks.   

“…and, well, we’ve all got families to think of now too.  Well, except Tony, but his mom has been sick lately…”

“The doctors think its cancer,” Tony said, producing sympathetic noises from the other men.   Only the Wizard scowled. 

“…so we’ve decided we need to focus on safer schemes in the future.  You know, insurance fraud, blackmail, kidnapping.  The classics, Mr. Wizard.  We’re tired of big league superheroes.  You can understand that, can’t you?”

“I will kill you all.”

“Aw, hey now, that’s just plain rude,” the men complained, “and here we even put together a sort of severance package for you…”

They placed a white envelope on the table, one filled with loose cash, while the Wizard continued to jab fruitlessly at the controls of his suit. 

“To which legion are you assigned?”

“You already asked me this.  I’ve told you before that I’m not part of your ridiculous army.”

“Then you are one of Blastaar’s conscripts.  Enemy combatants are subject to execution or enslavement.”

Namor did his best to keep his anger in check, never one of his strong suites.   He was still suffering from the aftereffects of their fight, the multiple cuts and bruises, the sprained ribs.   He had managed to take out three of his attackers before the rest had literally swarmed him.  If he been at full strength it may have gone differently but as it was he was probably lucky to be alive. 

He was currently in an interrogation room being grilled by the brown insect creature whose squad had captured him.  They had been stuck in the same cycle of questions for the last hour.  It assumed he had escaped from the ongoing battle in the valley, and was a deserter from one side or the other.  It seemed uninterested in his own explanations.

“Curse you, no!  I’m not a soldier or a conscript of anyone!”

“Who do you serve?”

“No one!  I serve myself.”

The feelers atop his interrogator’s head twitched slightly, the closest it ever came to showing emotion.

“Illogical.”

Actually it didn’t say ‘illogical’, not according to Namor’s translator.  It seemed incapable of such qualifiers.  Nothing was described as good or bad, true or untrue, but merely done or not done.  It’s vocabulary was incredibly limited although Namor had already come to the conclusion it was the most intelligent of the group.  The others, the larger ones, the soldiers, were incapable of any sort of speech at all.

“All must serve one side or the other.” 

“And no one ever deviates from that?”

It seemed to think the question absurd on its face.  “There are Insectivorids and non-Insectivorids.   Insectivorids are done.  All others are not done.  Blastaar is not done.  Blastaar will be destroyed.   You are one of Blastaar’s conscripts.”

“No, damn you, I’m not!  I came here looking for someone, that’s all.  Didn’t you see my ship?”

“Your ship was dismantled.  Its parts will be used to aid the war effort.  This is done.  You are one of Blastaar’s conscripts.”
 

Namor sighed.  “Apparently whether I agree or not…”

“Enemy combatants are subject to execution or enslavement.  Will you remain loyal to Blastaar?”

“No more so than usual.”

“This answer is not done.  Will you remain loyal to Blastaar?”

Namor frowned.  “No.”

“Then you will be sent to Work Planet 13.  There you will serve the Insectivorids until death.  Lord Annihilus’s will be done.” 

Namor was sedated for the trip and when he next awoke he found himself on a cot inside a narrow one-room structure very like the Quonset Huts he recalled from the Great War.   Something luminous and blue hovered in front of him.  After a moment he realized it belonged to a face, or something akin to one at least.

“Good, you’re awake!  I was worried you were going to sleep through the day.  Our shift has almost started.”

He sat up slowly, his body still aching from its recent wounds, although the bruises had mostly healed and the cuts scabbed over during transit.  He was handed something in a plastic bowl and he drank from it reflexively.  It wasn’t water but a viscous tart mixture that left his tongue numb.  It did, however, quench his thirst for the time being.

“Where am I?”

“Planet 13 of course!  I would have expected them to have told you that much at least.  My name is Thello, if you care.  I’m sort of the unofficial elder in this particular work detail.  Not that that means anyone ever listens to what I say, naturally.”

Now that his head was clearing, Namor could take in his host for the first time.  He was not human, although that hardly surprised him, and only vaguely humanoid.  Thello walked on four pod-like legs with an equal number of three-fingered arms jutting from his flat circumference.  A sparkling crystalline shell covered most of his body, allowing one to see hints of his internal organs when the light hit him just right.  To Namor, he looked something like an unusual crustacean, a sort of deformed crab with segmented blue eyes on pinkish stalks.   He could see no hint of a mouth and he realized he had been hearing him telepathically.  Whether that was owing to Thello’s physiology or his own limited ability to communicate mentally with aquatic lifeforms was difficult to say. 

“Up, up, up,” Thello said jovially, grabbing him by the shoulder with surprising strength.  “If you’re late, they dock your rations and it holds everyone else up besides.”

Namor let himself be guided out of the doors where the cold of this new planet struck him like a bucket of ice.  If he wasn’t awake before, he certainly was now.  Everything around him blurred into a sort of utilitarian gray.  The dirt under his feet, the sky overhead with its tiny blue sun, and the hundred or so cylindrical huts lined up one after the other, each identical to the one he’d just left save for holographic placards displaying their individual numbers in a dozen different languages. 

Across from them sat a single enormous city-sized building, the factory.  Also gray, but taller, with billows of dark smoke escaping from its hundreds of smoke stacks.  Somewhere in the far distance he could see something like a giant black pitchfork jutting up, but before he could truly study it, they were already inside. 

The goosebumps on his flesh immediately gave way to a heavy sweat.  Within the factory, giant furnaces belched heat while huge vats filled molds on a series of assembly lines that stretched as far as his eye could see.  Hundreds of workers from hundreds of races filled their place on the lines.  Thello guided him towards a magnetic rail car that would carry them the three or four miles needed to reach their own detail.

“So all these people are slaves of the Insectivorids?”

“Oh, yes!  Their worlds have all been conquered, of course, like mine and obviously yours too.”  Clearly, Thello did not know Namor’s story, which was just as well for now, he decided.  “They have us all working together at this munitions factory.  You know those little tubes of theirs?  Plasma weapons, made to fit their mandibles.   I’m sure you’ve seen them.”

“Yes,” Namor answered, recalling a few of their beams arching past him during his battle.  They hadn’t seemed too accurate with them, although perhaps they hadn’t really wanted to kill him.  “So they have their slaves sitting on a stockpile of weapons?”

“Yes, and I know what you’re thinking.  It wouldn’t work. We may create the weapons here but the ammunition charges are created elsewhere.  They‘re all useless as they are now.  Only the Insectivorids are armed.”

Thello told him all this in the same cheery voice that he’d been using since Namor awoke.  “You don’t sound as though you mind…”

“I don’t, really.  Everyone thinks about rebellion when they first get here but they realize eventually it’s pointless.  Besides, most of us have no where to go even if we did overthrow them.  We are all the last surviving members of our races.” 

“What happened to the rest?”

“Dead, I’m afraid.  The Insectivorids only keep a small section of the population alive as workers when they conquer a planet and put the rest to death as superfluous to their needs.  Our planets are mostly homes to similar factories now or their hatcheries.” 

“Monstrous,” Namor said.  “Don’t you at least wish revenge?”

The crab creature made a motion similar to a shrug.  “Maybe once, long ago, I thought that way but I’ve come to realize it’s merely the natural order.  They’ve proved their superiority as a species.  This is how things go.”

“You just accept that?”

“Better that than to fight the inevitable.  Besides, they are not truly malicious, in fact they lack the capability for such emotions.  There is no word for torture or punishment in the Insectivorid language and there is something very much like equality within each class, even for the slave class like us.  This is more than I can say for life under Blastaar, who ruled my planet before they came.” 

“I should find it intolerable to be ruled in such a manner by these inhuman creatures.  I cannot believe all think as you do.”

Thello conceded that not all did but most who felt differently did not survive long.  That made the Insectivorids sound excessively brutal, yet that was not how he viewed things.  They were merely efficient and, all in all, he said, they were not treated so badly.  They were fed, clothed if necessary, given shelter and medical care, even allowed vacations and holidays once the Insectivorids were made to understand what such things were. 

“As long as one fulfills one’s assigned role, one is treated justly.” 

“And if you don’t?” 

“Then you are executed without ceremony.  This is true even among the Insectivorids themselves though.  They are all hatched according to class…soldiers, instructors, organizers, mechanics, breeders, and so forth.  Even Lord Annihilus serves a singular function as their martial leader.” 

“To what end?” 

“The same end as any living things, I suppose.  To reproduce and expand onto infinity.  They won’t stop until they have conquered and colonized the entire universe.” 

The time for talk was now over for they were holding up the line.  Thello found some overalls, gloves, and a face shield that fit Namor’s relatively common bipedal body type and showed him what they did.  They were fitting rivets into enormous sheets of metal, just one part in a long assembly process.  It was manual work that could have been done just as easily by robots but the Insectivorids did not have time to build fully automated world factories like the ones that supplied Blastaar’s armies.  They moved too quickly, swarming from planet to planet, and there was always an abundance of captives to man them instead. 

“These pieces we’re working on, what are they for?  They seem too large to be handheld weapons.”

“Yes, noticed that did you?  I honestly can’t say.  The factory has been undergoing some changes of late and several of the lines, including our own, have been converted.   It’s believed there’s some sort of special project in development.”

“Special project?”

“A super weapon, rumor has it.  Annihilus has been losing ground in his ongoing war against Blastaar ever since he lost the Cosmic Rod.*  Perhaps the Insectivorids believe this will sway the odds back in their favor.”

* (A result of the M2K/JLU crossover.  See related mini for details. - Al)

“I see.”

“Of course it’s not their own creation.  The Insectivorids are notorious thieves, they have virtually no creativity but are incredibly adept at adapting and reproducing the work of others.”  

“So who’s behind this new project then?”  

“A stranger.  No one is certain where he’s from but he’s kept in special quarters with his own armed guard.  In fact, I believe that’s him right there…”

Namor glanced over his goggles as a group of brown Insectivorids crossed the catwalk above them.   A slim figure in a dark blue jumpsuit and lab coat stood in the midst of them, glancing from each station to the clipboard he was holding, as though judging all according to some prearranged diagram.  With a start Namor realized he recognized his face.  He had found the man he was looking for at long last; he had found Reed Richards. 

And he appeared to be working for Annihilus.

Next Issue: Assault on Planet 13!

Fantastic Forum

“…advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic” is one of Arthur C. Clarke’s Three Laws of Science.