Inside the Behemoth Star Ring
The conference chamber was a marvel of diplomatic architecture, designed to accommodate hundreds of species simultaneously. Holographic displays floated at strategic intervals, translating speech into thousands of languages in real-time. The air itself was carefully regulated, maintained at a temperature and pressure comfortable for carbon-based life while specialized environmental fields created micro-zones for delegates with more exotic requirements.
This gathering encompassed most of the known universe, representing countless planets and civilizations. It was never intended to be a simple dialogue between the three major empires and the Incurseans forces. Too many smaller powers had grievances that demanded attention, too many old wounds that needed airing before any real progress could be made.
The result was controlled chaos.
"The Spartoi Empire, acting under Incurseans authority, launched an unprovoked attack on our diplomatic vessel!" Norman Osborn's voice rang out across the chamber, his Plumber uniform crisp despite the long journey. He stood ramrod straight, radiating the kind of authority that came from decades of corporate warfare. "I barely survived. Three members of my security detail were not so fortunate."
Several seats away, Steve Rogers rose to his feet, his expression granite-hard.
"The Ravagers must surrender the war criminal known as Red Skull to face justice for crimes against humanity," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of moral certainty that had made him a legend across two galaxies. "This is not negotiable."
A ripple of confusion passed through portions of the assembly. The Ravagers hadn't even been invited to this conference. They lacked the legitimacy required for participation in high-level diplomatic proceedings, their fractured coalitions too unstable and criminal to warrant recognition.
But the Red Skull had found a new home.
From among the Spartoi delegation, a figure in military dress uniform stood. His face was still that distinctive crimson skull, but his bearing had changed, refined by decades of cosmic experience. After surrendering the Soul Stone and being freed from Vormir's curse, Johann Schmidt had chosen not to return to Earth.
During his century of servitude to the Soul Stone, he'd gained something valuable beyond freedom. Knowledge. Understanding of cosmic forces and universal politics that made Earth's petty conflicts seem laughably small. He'd learned that his homeworld sat at a nexus point, a crossroads where dimensional barriers were thin and cosmic attention inevitably focused.
Destruction was coming to Earth. That much was certain. The Celestial had already abandoned that planet to its fate.
Why would he choose to be there when it happened?
His performance during recent battles had earned him respect within Spartoi military circles. Now he held the rank of non-commissioned officer, with real authority and a future that extended beyond Earth's inevitable apocalypse.
King J'son of Spartoi looked at Norman and Steve with unconcealed contempt, his lip curling into a sneer.
"Where exactly did these backwater primitives come from?" he drawled, loud enough for half the chamber to hear. "What makes them think they have the standing to negotiate with us?"
He knew perfectly well that Steve Rogers was a Plumber. So what? The Plumbers had member states scattered throughout the cosmos like dust motes in a sunbeam. If every minor civilization thought they could throw their weight around just by waving that hourglass symbol, then nobody would respect anyone anymore.
The Spartoi Empire ranked as a second-tier universal civilization in its own right. Their technology rivaled Xandar's in several key areas. Even the three major empires would need time and resources to fully conquer them if war broke out.
And now they had backing from the Incurseans Empire. Protection from one of the rising powers in the galaxy.
Everyone had a patron these days. Why should anyone be intimidated by the Plumbers' reputation?
Norman's face flushed red with barely controlled fury, his hands clenching at his sides. These space-dwelling savages had no idea they were insulting the homeworld of Sakaar's king. If they did, they wouldn't dare speak with such arrogance even if someone gave them ten times their current courage.
"Don't get so worked up, Steve," Red Skull said, his tone almost friendly. His English carried a faint accent now, corrupted by decades of speaking other languages. "We've been... friends, in a manner of speaking, for over seventy years. There's no need for us to fight the moment we lay eyes on each other."
He spread his hands in a gesture of reasonableness. "Besides, I've already abandoned Earth entirely. Hydra was destroyed by your efforts years ago. Why must you continue pursuing me so relentlessly?"
"Because I owe it to everyone who died fighting your organization," Steve said flatly, his blue eyes hard as diamonds. "Even if it takes another seventy years, I won't let you go."
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The Skrull Queen slammed her fist against the table, the impacts echoing through the chamber like gunshots. Her green features twisted with irritation.
"Why are we wasting valuable time on some insignificant backwater planet and its criminals?" Queen Veranke's voice dripped with disdain. "I was under the impression this meeting was convened to mediate the war between major powers, not to arbitrate disputes between primitives."
"That is indeed our primary purpose, Your Majesty," Caiera said smoothly, stepping forward.
She stood beside Peter's Gravattack form, technically positioned as an attendant but functionally running the entire conference. Peter had been given strict instructions to speak as little as possible. Every word increased the risk of someone catching an inconsistency in his performance.
So he played the role of mysterious cosmic arbiter, letting his mere presence intimidate while Caiera handled the actual work.
What Peter hadn't noticed was the Super Skrull warrior standing at Queen Veranke's right hand. The elite soldier's eyes had been locked on Peter's wrist since the moment he'd entered the chamber, tracking the Omnitrix with an intensity that bordered on religious fervor.
That device contains the salvation of our entire species, the warrior thought, barely breathing. The path to restoring Skrull glory lies within that watch. If I can just find the right moment, absorb its power, transfer its capabilities to our people...
His hands trembled slightly with anticipation.
Queen Veranke rose to her full height, her royal robes shimmering with embedded technology. She pointed an accusing finger across the table at the Kree delegation.
"If you want the Skrull Empire to cease hostilities," she declared, her voice ringing with imperial authority, "then the Kree must immediately withdraw all forces from contested territories. Furthermore, they will surrender all former Shi'ar Empire territories they currently occupy, and provide an additional fifty star systems as reparations for damages inflicted during this conflict!"
"Veranke, have you lost your mind completely?" Kree Tar-Rell's laugh was sharp and mocking, his blue-skinned features twisting with derision. "Or did you suffer some kind of head injury on the way here?"
He was deliberately inflaming tensions, of course. The more chaos and shouting filled the chamber, the easier it would be for his Highbreed infiltrators to blend in and systematically replace the Skrull guards outside.
These green-skinned shapeshifters had spent centuries infiltrating other civilizations, wearing stolen faces to undermine their enemies from within. Now they would experience that same violation firsthand, having their own security compromised, their own people replaced by perfect duplicates working against them.
Poetic justice, in Tar-Rell's opinion.
"You demand that we abandon hard-won territory and pay you reparations?" His voice rose with theatrical outrage. "Do you think this is your personal throne room? That everyone here is your lapdog, eager to obey your delusional commands?"
His eyes raked across her face with unconcealed disgust. "If you want to indulge in fantasies, go back to Andromeda and do it in private where you won't embarrass yourself."
Veranke shot to her feet, her chair clattering backward. She leaned across the table, trembling with fury, looking ready to launch herself at the Kree king's throat.
But nobody at this conference was inclined to defend her honor.
Well, almost nobody.
"Now, now, there's no need for such hostility, esteemed Queen Veranke!" Emperor Milleous's voice was oleaginous, dripping with false sympathy. The corpulent Incursean leaned forward in his reinforced chair, his beady eyes gleaming with something disturbingly close to lust. His thick, stubby fingers clasped together in what might have been intended as a gesture of prayer but looked more like a child anticipating dessert.
"If you desire territory from the former Shi'ar Empire, I can offer you abundant holdings!" His tongue flicked out, moistening his lips. "And I can promise you something far more valuable than mere star systems. An alliance between the Skrull Empire and the Incurseans Empire! Together, we could crush the Kree permanently, erase them from the cosmic stage!"
He paused, his smile widening obscenely. "All I need in return is... well... you. Hehehehe."
The sound that escaped Queen Veranke's throat was somewhere between a retch and a gasp of horror. A visible shudder ran through her entire body.
"Where did this toad come from?" she spat, her voice shaking with revulsion. "Someone take him outside and drown him before I vomit on this entire assembly!"
"..."
Peter sat frozen in his Gravattack form, his consciousness struggling to process what he was witnessing. The diplomatic representatives seated on either side of the central table had devolved from policy discussions to personal attacks, and from personal attacks to elaborate insults directed at each other's ancestors stretching back seventeen generations.
Is this really the Galactic Conference?
He'd imagined something... grander. More dignified. Powerful leaders conducting themselves with the gravitas their positions demanded, negotiating through careful diplomatic language and veiled threats delivered with sophisticated charm.
Instead, it resembled nothing so much as a fish market at rush hour, with vendors screaming over each other about whose product was least rotten.
The disillusionment was crushing. Peter shifted uncomfortably, the motion translating strangely through his alien form. He'd been sitting here for what felt like hours, and his patience was wearing dangerously thin.
I should have gone with Ben to infiltrate the Incurseans Empire, he thought miserably. At least being a spy would have been exciting!
Hundreds of Light-Years Away
"Fascinating! Absolutely fascinating!"
Princess Attea's eyes practically glowed as she watched Ben approach, having just concluded his meeting with Dr. Psychobos. The scientist had vouched for his credentials, confirming his story about being a loyal Incurseans operative.
And now she could finally appreciate him properly.
Handsome! The thought exploded through her mind like fireworks. How is it possible for someone this attractive to exist within our species?
"I never imagined the Incurseans Empire could produce someone like you," Attea breathed, her voice taking on a quality that might have been seductive if not for the underlying predatory intensity. "Your features are so... symmetrical. Aesthetically pleasing. The probability of such genetic expression occurring naturally is astronomically low!"
She was practically vibrating with excitement now, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.
"I've made a decision!" Attea announced, loud enough for several nearby soldiers to turn and stare. "Once I eliminate my father and claim the throne, you will become the First Prince Consort of the Incurseans Empire! Your duties will include attending to my personal needs every night without exception!"
She emphasized the word "every" with significant weight, leaving absolutely no ambiguity about what those needs might entail.
The title of First Prince Consort would also, practically speaking, be the only Prince Consort. After seeing Ben's face, Attea couldn't imagine voluntarily looking at another Incurseans male without experiencing immediate nausea. The species' typical appearance was... unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate.
But this one specimen represented a genetic miracle worthy of preservation.
"It would be my profound honor to be chosen by Princess Attea," Ben said quickly, bowing with what he hoped was appropriate deference.
Attea's expression immediately soured, her features contorting as though she'd bitten into something toxic.
Can't this idiot learn to address me properly? The voice in her head was screaming. She took several deep breaths, visibly restraining herself from striking him.
Control yourself, Attea, she thought desperately. If you kill him, you'll never find another male of this quality. The entire species only produces one acceptable specimen per generation if we're lucky.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth, forcing the words out. "Since you're clearly... special... I'll make an exception. You may call me Attea instead of using my proper title."
She clapped her hands sharply, the sound echoing through the corridor. "Now follow me. We have much to discuss."
Inside the massive warship, Attea carried herself with absolute authority. Soldiers snapped to attention as she passed, their movements crisp and fearful. This was her domain, her power base, the foundation from which she would soon launch her coup.
Ben's eyes tracked every detail as they walked, cataloging the ship's layout and defensive positions. He noted the security checkpoints, the guard rotations, the location of critical systems. But something was conspicuously absent.
"Princess Attea," he said carefully, matching her pace, "I heard rumors that you'd recruited the infamous Vreedle family for this operation. I don't see them anywhere. Where did they go?"
Attea glanced at him with mild suspicion. "Why do you ask?"
"I heard stories that Ma Vreedle once made Vilgax cry," Ben said, injecting just the right amount of nervous curiosity into his voice. "Anyone capable of that must be terrifying beyond comprehension. I'm just... curious about what she's really like."
The suspicion faded from Attea's expression, replaced by satisfaction at his apparent cowardice. Good. Fear was appropriate.
"She's located a planet with abundant water sources," Attea explained, pride evident in her tone. "She's using it as a breeding ground to clone her Vreedle army. Once production reaches critical mass, I'll launch the main offensive!"
Her smile widened, showing too many teeth. She'd planned this so carefully. The Vreedle hordes would be deployed against the Kree Empire, overwhelming them through sheer numbers and biological horror. Her own Incurseans military forces would pin down the Skrulls, preventing them from interfering. And the Waybad—beautiful, terrifying creation—would be specifically deployed against the strongest threat: the Sakaar Empire.
Of course, before any of that could happen, she needed to eliminate the Behemoth Star Ring. Her father was there, and as long as Milleous drew breath, she couldn't claim full control over the military hierarchy.
The Death Ray Cannon would solve that problem quite permanently.
"As for Ma Vreedle's idiot sons," Attea continued dismissively, "they were assigned to my father's protection detail. Keeping them far away from anything actually important."
She settled into her command throne, a massive piece of furniture that dwarfed her relatively small frame. Then she lifted her legs and gestured expectantly at Ben.
"Massage," she commanded. "My calves are tense from standing all day."
Ben didn't hesitate, moving forward to comply. Resistance at this stage would accomplish nothing except raising suspicion. He pressed his thumbs into the muscle, finding knots and working them loose with practiced efficiency.
Attea made a small sound of satisfaction, then abruptly shifted position, leaning much closer to Ben's chest than necessary. A faint flush colored her cheeks.
"Your hands are quite large," she observed, her voice taking on that predatory quality again. "Proportionate to your overall frame. Excellent genetic markers for producing superior offspring."
From the perspective of Incurseans aesthetic standards, Attea was probably considered attractive. Symmetrical features, healthy coloration, no obvious genetic defects.
"So," Ben said, maintaining his massage rhythm while steering the conversation, "the Red Wind Empire's princess—she was captured through a joint operation with Ma Vreedle, correct?"
"Actually, no." Attea rolled over, grabbing Ben's hand and placing it directly on her chest without any pretense of subtlety. She looked up at him with genuine confusion. "When I found them, they'd already been attacked by someone else. Whoever did it nearly killed them both."
Her brow furrowed with legitimate puzzlement. "I'm still trying to figure out who could have possibly defeated someone like Looma Red Wind. That violent woman has a reputation for crushing opponents twice her size."
Even now, both Looma and Felicia remained in medical comas aboard Attea's flagship. Their injuries had been severe enough that without immediate intervention, they would have died in the wreckage of their damaged ship.
Ironically, Attea's decision to take them hostage—to use them as leverage against the Sakaar Empire—had saved their lives. Otherwise, they would have simply bled out in the cold vacuum between stars.
"That's... unexpected," Ben said slowly, his mind racing. "The ship's black box recorder didn't capture any data about the attackers?"
"How would I know?" Attea shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "I only wanted the ship's engine. The rest of the vessel was basically scrap metal after whatever battle they fought. I certainly wasn't going to waste resources repairing it just to satisfy my curiosity."
Her logic was coldly practical. "Besides, the Plumbers have enemies everywhere. It was probably the Kree or the Skrulls who attacked them, opportunistic scavengers taking advantage of a vulnerable target. Why would I bother investigating on behalf of people I'm planning to use as hostages?"
Ben bit back a sigh of frustration. She had a point, even if it was an infuriating one.
But that was fine. He'd accomplished his primary objective—infiltrating Attea's inner circle and confirming Looma and Felicia's location. Now he just needed to wait for the right moment to extract them.
And judging by the way Attea was looking at him, still pressing his hand against her chest with increasing pressure, that moment couldn't come soon enough.