Hulk, Peter David [best ereader for academics .TXT] 📗

of them holding a stuffed toy, one of those two toys, and Bruce said, “This one can fly, he’s faster,” and David replied, “But mine will eat yours right up!” and the way he said it caused momentary panic in Bruce, and his little features tightened, and he said, “No! He won’t, mine is flying away,” and David smiled and said, “Yes, you’re flying away!” and he threw the doll down and it was

right

there.

Right where it had always been, the knowledge he needed, the obligation upon him, the way to beat him, the way to defeat himself, right there in the pointlessness of the dolls battling and giving up and flying away, and when he spoke it was to his father or to himself, it didn’t matter. It was all the same as he wondered if he’d ever even had a father, or just another incarnation of himself, and his voice was utterly calm as he said, “I know how you plan on winning, Father,” and his father said, “Do you know?” and Bruce told him, “By harnessing my rage,” and there was the approving laughter of a father who was finally proud of his son for making an intuitive leap, and he said, “Yes, I will take it from you,” and Bruce replied, “But you won’t—because I will take it from myself,” and the father, genuinely interested, asked, “And how will you do that?” to which Bruce answered, “By forgiving you. Take him. He’s yours.”

And the ice was cracking beneath their feet as David Banner rose up from the melting ice, lifted the Hulk’s fist, and held it to his stomach. The Hulk struggled, but he was bewildered and unfocused, as if he didn’t know what to do with his rage—or no longer possessed it at all.

“Come to me, my son,” said David Banner.

The Hulk seemed to dissolve, but Bruce Banner could be glimpsed briefly inside the falling shape as it dropped into the lake. His father, victorious, towered above the mountains. He saw on the horizon a fleet of puny Stealth fighters and jets making their way toward him, and he laughed and laughed, and his laughter resounded like thunder.

Then he paused, and looked down at his stomach. Swirling energy radiated into his whole body making it bigger, bigger. He thrashed about, looking for his son or the Hulk, and began to scowl.

“You!” he shouted to no one. “The reaction—you tricked me! Take it back! It’s not stopping!”

Nor was it. It spun out of control, the different energies colliding, his body absorbing everything, the moonlight, the air, the wind, and when there was nothing else, his body—seeking new energy sources—found the largest one around: itself. His body literally began to devour itself, the effect flowing from the middle and surging outward, and as the father clutched at himself and screamed and howled, a voice sounded in his head, and it might have been his own, but it sounded like his son’s. And the words—the parting words from his offspring—burned into his fevered consciousness.

. . . things fall apart . . . the center cannot hold . . .

David Banner stumbled to the top of the mountain, and this time he didn’t notice the fighters swiftly approaching from behind.

And in the far, far distance, Thunderbolt Ross looked at his daughter as he gave the final order. “Gentlemen, release.”

The thermonuclear missile took off from one of the planes, heading straight for the father who continued to grow and distend in an agony of energy. Something warned him at the last moment, and he turned and saw it coming. For a half-second a grin split his face as he anticipated more energy to absorb, but then he realized, Too much! Too much!

. . . the center cannot hold. Best wishes from this rough beast . . .

The missile struck him and his center shredded and blew apart, unable to contain it, as a massive explosion—an explosion evocative of that which had haunted Bruce and Betty’s dreams for as long as they could remember—engulfed the sky.

On the monitors, they watched the explosion grow larger and larger, and Thunderbolt Ross, grim, lowered his head and put his face in his hands.

And bridging the barrier of years and resentment, Betty reached across and put a hand on his. “It’s okay,” she whispered as, on the monitor, the planes pulled back and away and the winds rose to the heavens. “It’s okay.”

the cross of red

It was several months later that Betty Ross, studying twisted strands of DNA under the lens of a microscope, answered the ringing phone that was to her immediate left. These days she never positioned herself far from a telephone. She never knew who might finally call . . . or when . . . presuming he could . . .

So lost in thought was she that it took a few moments for it to penetrate that her father’s voice was saying repeatedly, “Betty, is that you?”

She sighed. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’m glad I caught you,” said Ross.

She looked at the materials she was deep in the middle of researching, and smiled to herself. Catching her was never a problem; she was in the lab practically all the time. She didn’t have much of a personal life; then again, at this particular point in time, she wasn’t all that interested in pursuing one. Her father, of course, knew all that. Nevertheless, they had this little ritual they pursued every time he called, and she went along with it. “I’m glad you called,” she replied, and she genuinely was.

“Betty—” He hesitated, which was unusual for him. He was usually the king of coming straight to the point. “You and I, we both know, of course, that Banner, well, he couldn’t have survived that, that explosion and all . . .”

She’d been slouching a bit, but now she straightened. “Dad, what’s up?”

“You know, the usual loonies,” said Ross with a sigh, “thinking they’ve spotted big green guys.”

“They have,”