MORTALITY

By Hunter Lambright

Xandar

Just as victory is snatched from the jaws of defeat, too often defeat snaps back just quickly enough to mortally wound.

The Silver Surfer stood alone at the side of the medical pod holding the Kree youth San-Ol, Messenger-class Nova Corpsman. He was only ever supposed to be a delivery boy, giving messages by word of mouth that would be picked up by enemies if transmitted. It was the lowest duty in the Nova Corps, but he had done it with pride. The emergence of Galactus’ brothers and sister had thrust greatness upon San-Ol, and he had handled it with a maturity unexpected of one so young. For his part in the boy’s mortal injuries, the Surfer felt a gnawing at the edges of his insides, a black hole that consumed matter without want or need, but because it could. Nothing could satisfy it or make him feel better except for its own existence to be erased. But San-Ol would not be getting out of the pod any time soon, and the Surfer’s guilt would remain.

“You cannot hold yourself responsible for this,” the Worldmind said, projecting its image in front of the Surfer through their link in the Nova Force. “You have done all you can—more than would have been expected, given the circumstances. Here, you honor the boy’s subconscious wishes. Is that not enough?”

“No, it is not,” the Surfer said. “I should not have let this happen. I am meant to be better than this.”

The lines in the Worldmind’s face grew grimmer. “What here strikes you as worse than leading entire worlds—entire cultures and civilizations—screaming to their deaths? Without you, Galactus would have starved as he searched for these planets of life. You have caused billions of deaths before. What makes this one different?”

The Silver Surfer stood resolute. “There is a saying the people of Earth have. They say that a million deaths is a statistic; a single death is a tragedy.”

“It is a universal sentiment,” said the Worldmind. “Individual deaths personally afflict those who knew the individual. Millions of deaths affect too many and, because of the spread of those they affect, are regarded with less weight. What you did was something else entirely. The destruction of entire speciesunacceptable on every level. You are an accessory to universal genocide. What makes you feel this death more?”

“Perhaps it is that this is a death I did not plan,” the Surfer said. What little warmth had been in his voice had evaporated. “When I was forced to destroy planets, I found those most deserving of death. I led Galactus to sentient planets just reaching spaceflight capabilities who would use that technology to rain destruction around the universe. I found planets with psychic signatures that would pass for sentient minds to the Destroyer of Worlds. When I did so, I did it with every regret, knowing that the same could have happened to Zenn-La if I had not offered myself up as a sacrifice for my planet. I wrapped my heart in cold metal, just as you see on my skin, so that I would not feel every mind expire under my hand.”

The Surfer stormed out of the medical facility, leaving the Worldmind’s stationary projection behind. “Judge me if you must for my hypocrisy, but know that your fabled omniscience is flawed. I do not feel not because I am heartless, but because to do so would have left me broken and my planet and people shattered.

“Had it been Xandar, you would have done the same.”

Nova Corpsman Gallatar supervised a few of the new recruits as they began the process or aligning the border pillars to rebuild the artificial entry-prevention shield that had been destroyed in the attack on Xandar by the two siblings of Galactus. The new recruits weren’t worthless scum, but they had a long way to go before they were true Centurions of the Nova Corps. That was what training was for. Zan Philo had a rigorous program running on the surface of the planet, and they would whip these whelps into shape yet. As of now, though, their main priority was making sure they were protected against future devastation.

Gallatar performed his standard check at the top of the cycle, calling on each of the six points of the three spherical axes. The first four radioed in that their work was going well. The fifth, however, was silent. “Station 5, status report,” Gallatar repeated in his guttural, Quist voice.

The radio was silent. Gallatar had been raised by his aunt and uncle on his home planet. Cousin to Lucifer, the man infamous for crippling the earthling Charles Xavier, Gallatar had striven to be everything his cousin was not. Lucifer would have run at the first sign of trouble. Gallatar dropped the work on his station and rocketed toward Station 5. “Form up on me, rookies!”

Of all things at Station 5, the sight that greeted Gallatar was not what he expected. His Nova Corpsmen were floating at their station in the vacuum flow of space, hands still on the pillar. “Corpsman,” he said, nearing the closest Centurion. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“Boss—look!” One of the Nova Corpsmen, a Dallanian known for his sharp eyes, pointed at something only he could see. “Microfibers!”

Gallatar increased the vision scope in his helmet. The Dallanian was right. “Scatter, Corpsmen! We’re under attack!”

At his warning, one of the rookies yelled as a microfiber plunged through her suit and into her flesh. The silent Corpsman at the station turned around. Gallatar saw that the man’s skin had been crystallized, turned into hard, black metal with golden circuitry running up and down where he had once had veins. He had been infected by the techno-organic virus. “Technarch! It’s the Technarch!”

“Retreat to Xandar! Protect the Worldmind at all costs!”

Gallatar blasted planetside, but he allowed himself to steal a glance back at the Corpsmen he had lost. They advanced, mechanical and lifeless, on Xandar.

Xandar—Mess Hall

Though the Silver Surfer no longer needed sustenance, the mess hall on Xandar was the only place he could find that he could be alone with his thoughts. Though many were around him, he found it easier to become lost in the crowd. His thoughts were a dangerous place to be, but after spending so much time in the past weeks on instinct and in life-or-death situations, he found this particular brand of danger refreshing.

Worldmind’s words bothered him. Was it because there was truth to them? Was he being a hypocrite?

Atonement. It was a funny word. On Earth, he had heard that people who kill are given imprisonment for life. Is that because that was how long it was meant to take for them to understand the gravity of what they had done or because they had done so maliciously? The Surfer had never led Galactus to another planet out of malice. He had done it to protect his own. Zenn-La’s martyr had become the most hated man in the universe.

And now? What was he doing now? He had been given two sources of great power and he knew what he had to do to use them. He was no longer under Galactus’ influence, but still carried the Power Cosmic. Had Galactus known something that the Surfer didn’t? These were the questions that pulled at the edges of the Silver Surfer’s mind.

“They’re good questions.”

The Surfer perked up at the voice. Had he spoken aloud?

“No, just a part of my gift, I’m afraid,” the voice said again. The Surfer wheeled around, only to find that the voice belonged to a man who stood directly behind him, hands behind his back. The man’s skin was navy blue and his beard was solid and white, shining with the reflected light of the mess hall. His eyes were the red of burning cinders and his cloak alternated between blues and blacks, never the same color in the same place for more than a second.

“I feel…like I know you,” the Surfer said. “Who are you?”

“You have met my parents, Surfer, but I am Gallowglass. I have come because your thoughts cried out to me,” said the man, holding his arms white. He was well-built and barrel-chested. “I can grant you that which you seek.”

“I do not understand,” the Surfer said. Looking around the mess hall, no one had reacted to the scene that had unfolded. “What is it you wish to do?”

“I can restore the boy to health, but it will require something from you,” Gallowglass said. “You spent enough time on Earth to understand how these bargains work.”

“I will retain my soul,” the Surfer said, turning away from Gallowglass. “I am not interested.”

“I am no demon. I serve a higher power than the concept of Hell.” Gallowglass stepped back into the Surfer’s field of vision. “I would require something else. Tell me, Surfer. When was the last time you were physically hurt?”

The Surfer thought for a moment. “When Blastaar disrupted the energy flow—”

“Perhaps I chose my words wrong, Surfer. When was the last time you were physically injured?” Gallowglass countered.

The Surfer shrugged. “When I was flesh.”

“The power that runs through you grants you something that mere mortals should never have. You became more than yourself when you accepted Galactus’ deal. You became immortal, not only in body but in concept,” Gallowglass said. “Your presence on a planet is met with fear and hatred. You are the quintessential Herald of Galactus. You squander your immortality on struggling to reverse it.”

“You want my reputation in exchange for San-Ol’s life?”

“No, watching you struggle against the weight of the reputation? That is something that my master does not want to change. It is your physical immortality—the knowledge that you will never die early or young—that they wish to take.”

“If you were asked to surrender a shield to get rid of a coffin, would you?” the Surfer asked.

Gallowglass smiled. “I have no answers. Nothing I say has any power over you.”

“When does the deal expire?”

“When San-Ol does.”

A buzzing akin to a thousand Zenn-Lavian darlufs buzzed deep in the Silver Surfer’s mind. “Attention, all Nova Corps members! There has been a perimeter breach. Prepare for action. Further information will be relayed telepathically as it comes.”

The Surfer squinted. Telepathic intrusion from the Worldmind left him uneasy. When his vision stopped swimming, he looked toward Gallowglass. The man was gone.

Chaos reigned as the Silver Surfer answered the distress call. “Worldmind. Situation report.”

“We have lost contact with several Corpsmen who were working to reestablish our shield system. As we speak, another has lost contact. However…there is something disturbing about the way these disappearances are happening,” the Worldmind said, its hologram appearing in the Surfer’s mind as he raced along the corridor.

“Disturbing? Elaborate.”

“The Corpsmen are out of contact, but their connection to the Nova Force remains. It is if they are alive, but they do not exist. The part of them that made them ready for the Corps is gone.”

The Surfer emerged into open atmosphere through an airlock. “Redirect me to the last known location of the most recent disconnection. Also, I am not certain I understood your elaboration.”

The Worldmind sighed. At times the Surfer wondered if it sighed because it had sifted his memory and found that it had been a common reaction of his time on Zenn-La or even Earth. “When Corpsmen are chosen, it is typically for their valor or bravery. They are chosen for their ability to overcome odds. These disappeared Corpsmen…their bodies are connected to the Nova Force, but their courage, their personality, it all disappears.”

“They are dead, but alive,” the Surfer paraphrased, routing his path around one of the masses of rock that formed a piece of Xandar. “Is the term brain-dead? Plant life. Showing signs of life but no intelligence.”

“Rider would call them vegetables,” the Worldmind suggested. “Nova Prime is en route from Earth, but your services would be greatly appreciated. Have you found the source of the disconnection?”

The Silver Surfer came around another piece of planet, only to find a handful of Nova Corpsmen hovering, their back to him. He zeroed in on their serial numbers at the back of their helmets. “Worldmind, are you still in contact with Corpsman 2814?”

“2814? No. We have not replaced that Corpsman since the attack of the Magus.” There was a pause. “Surfer. I order you to retreat.”

“I am not sure I understand why.”

Then it came together. “The Magus. He took over several Corpsmen. Has he returned?”

“I do not know. We do not know if his techno-organic virus can be transmitted across Corpsmen, but I cannot risk losing you. You are to retreat to the Worldmind Core and protect it at all costs,” the Worldmind ordered.

“Are you certain you are the target?” the Surfer asked.

The Worldmind nodded beside him. “Yes. Technarchy require draining the lifeglow from living things to survive. The Magus must have found that it could not leech the Nova Force as a lifeglow substitute via Corpsmen. It has returned for the source.”

The Surfer turned back to see if the Nova-Corpse, the wall of dead, transmode virus-infected Corpsmen had followed him. They had not moved. They hovered against the black wall of space as if waiting for something. The stars shimmered gold, and then something strange happened. Together, the golden stars moved as one. When the Surfer moved, they remained in place, but as one star moved, so did the rest.

The Surfer froze. “Worldmind. The situation is much worse than we believed before.”

“Has the Magus taken over our defenses?” the Worldmind asked.

“No,” the Surfer said, eyeing the black-and-gold mammoth that blotted out the stars. “It is not the Magus that controls these, but a full-grown elder of the Technarchy. We are dealing here with one of the fathers of their race…a Siredam.”

The towering Technarch elder stood over what had once been a training barracks but was now reduced to gold and black circuitry cinders. The Siredam had infected it with the transmode virus and sucked all of the lifeglow, whatever little nourishment there may have been, leaving it to crumble to pieces. The Surfer guessed that the Siredam had been given the Corpsmen as a gift of fealty from the Magus from what little he knew of the Technarchy. It was also entirely possible that they had been won from him in battle.

Regardless, the Surfer knew he had to stop it before it reached the hospital. “Siredam, halt!”

“Surfer! You will halt what you are doing immediately! Your death would cause great danger to the Worldmind!” the Worldmind shouted, its angry hologram appearing in front of him instead of off to the side.

The Siredam took a world-shaking step toward the next facility, the dust in its footprint also gold and black circuitry. It was infected with transmode virus completely, so that its very touch transmitted it. The Surfer made a note not to come in contact with it.

“I said, halt!” The Surfer unleashed a dual blast of the Power Cosmic and Nova Force into the Siredam’s shoulder. Rather than returning the attack, the Siredam remained hunched over and took another step.
The Surfer began to transmit a message. “All Nova Corpsmen, ignore Worldmind transmissions. The Siredam is approaching the hospital wing. Do not let it or its dead Corpsmen touch you.”

“Insubordination!” the Worldmind shouted, but the Surfer tuned it out. Already, he could see the bright, orange lights of several Corpsmen as they answered his cry.

“Nova Radd! Stop with this path or I will be forced to—” The Worldmind’s voice shrank to a near whisper. “Surfer, the power has gone off in the hospital wing. Life support is failing. Messenger San-Ol has only moments to live.”

“NO!” the Surfer yelled. He had not had time to ponder the consequences of Gallowglass’ offer. But what reason had he to be immortal when a youth had yet to live? The Siredam took another step, and the Surfer watched as the metal outside the hospital wing quivered with the vibration.

“Estimated thirty seconds until San-Ol passes, Nova Radd,” the Worldmind whispered.

“Gallowglass!” shouted the Surfer. “For my crimes, for my pitiful attempt at redemption—I accept your offer!”

Nothing happened.

Then, in an icy voice from just behind his ear, Gallowglass said, “Consider it done.”

When the Surfer turned, no one was there. The tremor of another step from the Siredam snapped the Surfer out of his confusion. If he did not stop the Siredam’s approach, San-Ol would be sucked into the breach of space and die anyway.

Flanked by nearly a hundred Corpsmen, the Surfer blasted at the Siredamn, bringing himself around to face it at its head. The gleaming golden teeth made up most of its head, forming a terrifying smile that could cleave moons.

It was then that the Siredam held up its hand to ward off further attacks. The Surfer warned his fellow Corpsmen against attacking the Siredam. He wanted to see what was about to happen.

The Siredam lifted its torso, revealing a cube whose dimensions were no longer than the Surfer was tall. It had not been attacking directly, but protecting the cube. “You see now.” It spoke in a gravelly voice that shook the rocks of Xandar.

The Surfer moved forward. “What is it we see?”

“Life,” the Siredam said. “The last time a Technarch was born with the code in this byte, it almost destroyed our race. This one’s father is dead. The Technarcy’s rites and traditions are unaffected, or else its father would kill it himself. It is brought to you, self-proclaimed peacekeepers of the universe, to do with as you see fit, knowing you will choose that which does not destroy any race—even that of the Technarchy.”

“I do not understand,” the Surfer said. “What have you brought us?”

“The byte holds a youngling. The elders have read its code. It feels compassion. For that, it is an abomination. At most, the elders feel apathy toward it, wanting nothing to do with the creature. Make the decision,” said the Siredam.

“We will,” said another Corpsman. It was an Earthling, the one called Bernie Dillon. “But first, release our dead. They can’t feed you anymore, and we want to bury our own.”

Siredam shifted, sending tremors across Xandar. “As you wish.” Dozens of snapping cords silently cast the dead Corpsmen adrift. “Our interaction is done.”

The Siredam lifted off with little fanfare, leaving the cube behind. Bernie flew up next to the Surfer. “So…what was that all about?”

“I say we kill it.”

The Nova Corps gathered en masse in front of the byte, the cube that held the Technarch youngling. Left with the Nova Corps, it was up to them to decide what to do with it. Nova Corpsman Morrow looked at it with disgust. “I tell you all, this thing is an abomination if even the Technarchy would have nothing to do with it.”

“He has a point,” said another Corpsman. “If it’s as deadly as the Siredam thinks…”

“That’s so much crap,” said a new voice. Richard Rider stepped through the crowd, spurring a flurry of conversation. The Nova Prime had returned.

“How many of you come from a planet where you’re hated, but someone gave you a chance?” A few hands rose reluctantly into the air.

“How many of you are from a culture where second chances are noble?” More hands rose.

“How many of you have been judged for something that you haven’t done just because someone else said that that was who you are?”

Morrow’s hand rose halfway. The Surfer, too, put his hand in the air.

Rider walked up to and around the byte. “That’s what we just proposed doing. Second chances in life are something we don’t get very often. I mean, if you had a chance to do it all over again, would you? If you realized you were totally screwing up everything you ever did, would you?”

He strode into the crowd. “Let me tell you something. Back home? On Earth? I just totally screwed the pooch. I messed up—bad. But I got lucky. I get to come here, focus full-time on helping people and doing it right. Who’s to say we aren’t going to provide an environment for a Technarch—one that the Siredam says is bad because it feels compassion—to do the same thing?”

Morrow shook his head. “I respect you, Nova Prime, but your mistake—how many lives were lost? We’re talking about potentially keeping around something that could kill an entire race, even if that race is the Technarchy.”

Rider opened his mouth, but the Surfer beat him to the punch. “Over the cycles, I have led billions to death. Yesterday, I helped save the entirety of the universe. If there is anyone who will take responsibility for the young one’s second chance, it will be me.”

“See? The Silver Surfer takes personal responsibility for the life of this little guy, and—”

A whirring noise stopped Rider’s speech as the byte began to reorganize itself. Circuitry shifted, molded, transformed. The box became long and lanky, separating into a creature with long legs and arms and a fat upper torso.

“Query: Self…exists?”

“You look a lot like…Warlock, was it?” Rider asked.

“Query: Who is Warlock? Self is Tyro.”

The Surfer shrugged off the new development. “Let us take Tyro to a holding facility until the final decision is reached. Preferably one with access to a power source. The last thing we need is a transmode virus to get my personal responsibility off to a rough start.”

Rider nodded in agreement. “Hear that? Voting has been postponed. New developments and all that.” He frowned. “Surfer? The Worldmind told me that you’re needed in the hospital wing.” He smiled. “And thanks, by the way.”

The Surfer returned the nod. “Hypocrisy at the nature of second chances would have been unbecoming, although I am becoming quickly aware that I may be out of my depth.”

Rider’s smile turned into a frown. “Well, what can I say? Raising a kid is tough, if that’s the best metaphor we’ve got. But I think you’ve been to hell and back enough to at least know how to keep this one from becoming the devil they’re thinking.”

“I have been face to face with Mephisto,” the Surfer agreed. “Hell is one thing with which I am well acquainted.”

San-Ol was already sitting in his bed when the Surfer arrived. “I see you have awoken. This is good,” said the Surfer.

“You’re telling me,” the Kree teenager said. “I really thought that was the end there. I didn’t expect to wake up. You know what’s crazy? The guy they have playing doctor right now says that most of my injuries are already gone. Maybe I have a healing factor I didn’t know about.”

“You should probably have someone gene-scan that before coming to that conclusion,” the Surfer said uneasily.

San-Ol shrugged. “I’m embarrassed. The Worldmind told you what I wanted, then, didn’t he?”

“He did. It was a flattering request, if not misguided. I am no great hero, San-Ol. I have done terrible—”

“Don’t hate me for this, but stop right there,” San-Ol said, cutting him off. “I’ve heard the spiel. But you know what? You figured out what was right and it’s not too late. I have a new lease on life, and that’s only reaffirmed for me that this is what I want to do with my life. I want to help people, save the universe, things like that. And you’re the guy who led me to that conclusion.”

The Surfer took this in. “For that, I am grateful to you, San-Ol.”

“To me?”

“When we atone, sometimes we do not see progress in the face of the weight of our failures,” the Surfer said. “Sometimes it takes the faith of others to prove to us our worth. For that, I thank you.”

San-Ol smirked. “What an insta-card moment.”

“Insta-card?” The Surfer’s flat-lined mouth turned up at the corners. “Kree. I am going to have to learn a new planet’s worth of references now, aren’t I?”

Outside Time and Space

Gallowglass stood next to a hooded figure, staring as the Surfer and San-Ol were reunited in the hospital wing on Xandar. The hole in space through which they watched was surrounded by utter nothingness.

“The Surfer made the right choice, Mother,” said Gallowglass. “It was his only choice under the circumstances. He did what he needed to do, and because of that, he will be yours.”

The hooded figure said nothing, but nodded its approval.

The Silver Surfer had traded his immortality for the life of a boy that one day would eventually die. It was a fool’s bargain, but because of it, one day—soon, if Gallowglass’ machinations continued—the Silver Surfer would belong to her.

For too long, the Surfer had shepherded billions her way, but now with his turn away from being Herald of Galactus, it was time for the shepherd to meet Death herself…

To be continued?

This wasn’t how my run on the book was supposed to end.

When I started out, Nova-Corpse was a planned annual crossover between Silver Surfer and Nova. I had a full Infinity Gauntlet saga planned after “Galactic.” Things were going to be great. But then? I had a hard time writing this book. That’s what it came down to.

The Silver Surfer is a difficult character to grasp for me. He isn’t like me outside of his need to make up for the things he’s screwed up on in the past, and I think that’s why I latched onto that so hard. The concept of “second chances” practically screamed at you in this issue. The Surfer talked about his second chance when he was no longer Galactus’ Herald. Nova talked about his second chance that happened just recently in his own book here at Marvel Omega. Tyro was given a second chance officially off-panel, as moved by Richard’s speech. San-Ol was given a new lease on life (at the cost of the Surfer’s immortality, something that would have been explored heavily, and I think is ripe material for whoever comes along after me).

Second chances are a big deal to me, if you couldn’t tell. I think they give meaning to making mistakes, because if we can’t make up for them, what was the point of them happening in the first place? So yeah, that’s where we are.

If this book doesn’t get picked up, maybe I’ll come back and explore that sometime. But for now, who out there wants to write a Silver Surfer with twice the power and half the defense? Because for me, that’s where I left the book, and I’d love to see what comes of it.

-Hunter Lambright