Below him, the Earth turned lethargically upon its axis. Vast clouds drifted over its blue oceans and brown continents, dragging shadows across the convex surface beneath them. Above him, the white stars beckoned from the blackness, inviting him to join them.

Peacehammer hovered outside the Earth’s atmosphere yearning to head deeper into the cool void, to bath in the shower of cosmic rays and neutrinos that streamed across the nothingness. He wanted to plunge into the vast silence of space and feel the winds of the sun wash over him. But something kept him from it.

The Greater Mind gave him the power of understanding, but it was his old-fashioned human instinct that told him something was wrong down below. That and the sudden spike in military VHF radio communications he sensed.

He searched the millions of broadcasts pulsing from the Earth into space, carefully unraveling each transmission like a thread in a knotted ball of twine. It was a feat he was just learning to master and he felt clumsy in his effort. There were simply too many signals, too much noise; a screaming mist of voices and data. Then he heard it, a broken chatter coming over a military frequency. Something about Nelson. Ramsey. Burma.

Peacehammer spent a lot of time in outer space, but he still knew about Aung San and the growing problem in Burma. He also knew, as the world did, that Ramsey was considering supporting the Burmese Ultra. Peacehammer’s limited skill in receiving transmissions kept him from tuning in more, but he’d heard enough to make up his mind.

Space would have to wait; at least until he found out what was going on downstairs.

He headed back to Earth. The atmosphere resisted his approach, heating his blue flesh to a glowing red. He plunged deeper into the thickening air and the tug of the planet’s gravity reached out to him in an almost comforting way. He loved space, but this was still his home. Pulling up to fly parallel to the planet’s surface, he changed course and closed the distance to his destination at supersonic speeds. In the recesses of his thoughts, he felt the Greater Mind protest his decision to return.

He was going to Nevada, to Union Ultra Headquarters, where he knew Nelson could tell him what was going on. If Peacehammer was right, the radio transmission he’d overheard signified some very bad news.

The gradient landscape of United America changed from green forest to golden plains to brown desert beneath him. Cumulus clouds rushed past like ghostly islands. He dropped to a few thousand feet and saw his goal ahead, a slender nick cutting into the sky on the horizon.

The fifty-story black tower that rose above the Nevada flats was hard to miss. It was a skyscraper in the middle of nowhere.

Union Ultra Headquarters was designed to fend off attacks from super men. Concentric rings of barbed wire, chain-link fence, and twenty-foot-thick antiUltra walls radiated from its base like ripples in a pond. It’s upper stories prickled with proton cannons and specialized rocket launchers. The tower had been constructed counter-intuitively. Instead of being a squat, subdued structure like a bunker or bomb shelter, it lorded over the landscape, a direct challenge to any Super Hero or renegade that wanted a fight. It also drew the battle away from populated areas.

Around its summit, a swarm of flying Ultras came to roost among the upper decks. A cloud of dust rose from the single road that led to the tower, created by a parade of black SUVs carrying nonflying Ultras.

As he approached, he saw Skylark darting through the clouds, headed for the monolithic structure.

“Alex!” Peacehammer called. Skylark was a fellow member of Disaster and Rescue. A few months ago they had worked together to evacuate a sinking cruise ship in the Pacific Ocean. He wore the standard blue on white color-scheme of a Union Ultra flyer, but his personal variations were ornate and intricate. White swooshes climbed his arms and legs. A bold diamond pattern decorated his chest. The outfit was almost as flashy as those of the Super Heroes. More costume than uniform.

Alex Miller -- Skylark -- turned to see who called to him from the sky.

“Peacehammer! You’re kidding me!” He stopped flying and hovered upright. “I didn’t think you’d answer his call.”

Peacehammer flew to a stop next to Skylark. “Whose call? Nelson’s?”

Skylark looked blankly at the blue giant for a moment, then nodded in understanding.

“You haven’t heard then,” Skylark said. “Ramsey’s moving on Burma. He called Nelson and told him right to his face…or whatever. Nelson hit the panic button and transmitted a call to general quarters over the satellite link. Looks like it may be war.”

A sickening rush rose from Peacehammer’s stomach. Skylark’s words summoned a host of dreaded scenarios, all of which had disastrous outcomes. It had only been a matter of time until the truce collapsed and the two groups of Ultras fought. It was a conflict Peacehammer wanted no part of. For a second, he considered turning around and heading back for space, but decided to learn more about the situation. Perhaps it was not too late to avert catastrophe.

He and Skylark closed on the tower together and landed on a jutting shelf that was created as a receiving area for the flyers. Small groups of Ultras had begun to gather on the roof, sharing information, speculation and blind guesses about what was happening. Peacehammer’s arrival silenced the conversations and turned their heads.

His presence seemed to ratchet the tension. Several members wore their concern openly with knotted brows and crossed arms. Having Peacehammer, the greatest among them, show up made them even more nervous. He had not battled in three years, not since his capture in Antarctica. Not since the Greater Mind came to him. Not since Clair’s death.  It was obvious they found his arrival a bad omen.

Sensing their stress, Peacehammer lifted his hand to all in greeting, hoping to relax them. He understood their reaction. It had been a while since he’d felt headquarters’ cold marble floor beneath his bare feet. He didn’t come around much anymore.

Corvus Moon approached him. She had arrived in a hurry and was not in uniform, just jeans and a T-shirt. The oval white gem embedded in her forehead glistened like mother-of-pearl in the afternoon sun.

“If you’re here it must be serious,” she said to him. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Peacehammer shook his long, sweptback head. “I know less than you. Skylark said the Doctor issued a call to general quarters. He said Ramsey was going into Burma.”

The flyer frowned. She was one of the most experienced Ultras around. At fifty years old, she was still the same formidable flying gun she was thirty years ago. In fact, she hadn’t aged a day. “Why would he do this after so many years?” she asked no one. “How can Ramsey just break the truce?”

Peacehammer moved toward the thick glass doors of the tower’s upper entrance. “Timing,” he said, heading into the monolith. Skylark, Corvus Moon and several uniformed Ultras followed him.

They descended a wide, ornate, zigzagging staircase to an open lobby lined with shiny black and silver, art deco elevator doors. More than a dozen Ultras stood talking and waiting for the elevators. KongÔ, Rake, John Reese, Zero, Carbide and a few he did not know. He took the first elevator to the meeting hall floor, all the while expressing his lack of knowledge to his nervous colleagues.

The elevator doors opened and Peacehammer heard the din of voices well before he entered the auditorium-sized room. The hall took up an entire story of Union Headquarters. It was circular and ringed with two hundred chairs in stacked tiers. About seventy were currently occupied.

Peacehammer had never seen so many wizards, strongpoints, guns and flyers in one room. Many he recognized, others were new to him. Even the youngest of them, Kevin, the boy in the metal resistance suit, was there. Peacehammer stood by the door as the various individuals moved to their seats.

After a few minutes, Nelson entered, followed by his assistants, and the Ultras in attendance fell silent. He took the podium at the center of the circular room and spoke into a black microphone.

“Although not all of us have arrived, I feel the urgency of my news cannot wait. Ultras in transit will be following through teleconference,” Nelson said as black and white stripes moved up his suit from his feet to the top of head. “At noon today, General Stewart Ramsey contacted me through a special communications link. He announced that he would be making a stand in Burma by backing Aung San, rebel leader and Ultra. If he does what he says, it will be a direct violation of the 1968 Tallahassee Accord and grounds for war…”

The confirmation sent a murmur through the audience.

“I am, at this juncture, announcing that I have already stationed an Ultra within Burma in anticipation of his action. Today, I’m activating the operative and giving him full range of battlefield authority. At the request of the Burmese government, I will be sending a first-response fighting team within the hour…”

That was it. Thirty years of peace had officially disappeared. Peacehammer shifted uneasily as Nelson continued.

“… And a second Interceptor will be ready for takeoff by morning. If you are on Battle and Defense, please report to the preparation center. I am also requesting reservists be moved to Active Status.”

Another murmur rumbled through the auditorium. That meant that the Ultras who had committed to Disaster and Rescue services, the super humans who preferred not to fight, would be prepared for battle. It didn’t get bigger than that.

“Isn’t that kind of a drastic move, Doctor?” Psynaut, a T-six wizard from Ontario, called from his seat. “We don’t even know what Ramsey’s going to do yet.”

Several members voiced their agreement with Psynaut while others called for silence so Nelson could answer.

“Listen, listen,” Nelson said, his amplified voice bouncing off the concave walls. “We must stop Ramsey before he gets a foothold in Burma. We must shut him down immediately. If we merely match him measure for measure, the conflict will escalate and extend over months, possibly years. We have to overwhelm him. We have to take him down with the first blow. I am asking all of you to help.”

And with that, so every Ultra present could see, he turned to Peacehammer standing at the meeting hall entrance. If the doctor had had a face, he would have locked eyes with the blue Ultra. Peacehammer did not react to the provocation. He still wanted no part of the fight. Peacehammer had never jumped just because Nelson snapped his fingers. Even the name he chose after his powers reflected and transformed him was against Nelson's will. It would take more than simple peer pressure to change his mind on this.

“For now, consider this a Level One emergency and report to your assigned stations,” Nelson directed. “If you wear a uniform and mask, go to outfitting and suit up. If you wear armor, go directly to the armory. UA military will be available to answer questions and help you inform your families. Now let’s do what we’ve got to do.”

As the doctor stepped away from the podium, his alien suit plunged to solid black except for a tiny blue fleck moving across his chest. The assembly of Ultras rose from their seats. Most did as Nelson said and headed for preparation. Some broke off in groups to discuss the matter further, seeking courage to either join the fight or leave.

One of Nelson’s assistants approached Peacehammer, a young woman with large metal-framed glasses, perhaps a scientist or American intelligence. She clutched an electronic clipboard against her gray suit jacket.

“The doctor asked if you would join him in the conference center,” she said. “He said it was a matter of great importance.”

Peacehammer looked down into the woman's eyes. She was one of the UA government cogs that rotated continually around Nelson and the Union.

“I’m sure it is,” he answered. “Lead the way.”

She took him through a sliding door behind the podium to the conference center. On the other side of the door a well-lit room held a large conference table surrounded by a dozen chairs. Half of the chairs were occupied by UA military officers dressed in desert camouflage. Nelson stood at the far end of the table, giving them instructions. The soldiers nodded and stood to leave as Peacehammer entered. They filed through the doorway, leaving him and Nelson alone in the room.

“Hello, Michael,” the Doctor said. “It’s good to see you again.”

The use of his former name had no effect on Peacehammer. He had not been Michael Thorpe for many years. It was Nelson’s attempt to remind him of his humanity, but the effort was unnecessary. Despite his appearance, he was not that far removed from his origins.

“Thank you, Doctor. You seem to be doing well. Aside from this war, of course.”

A flat blue ring slid across Nelson’s chest and transformed into a constellation of stars and colorful planets.

“Yes. Except for the war. Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thank you. I don’t mean to be rude, but I believe we should get to the point.”

“Certainly,” Nelson made a gesture with an open hand.

“I will not participate in this battle. I simply won’t fight for you.”

“Why not?”

“While I am against Ramsey’s actions, I cannot entangle myself in the struggle. The Greater Mind forbids it.”

Nelson clasped his hands behind his back. It was a pose Peacehammer had seen before. The Doctor often adopted it before a lecture. The stance always reminded Peacehammer that the Doctor was a man from a long-ago time.

“You’re not unique to the Greater Mind, Peacehammer,” Nelson said. “Others have achieved it and still fought: Wusong, Rollo, Diamond, Esperia. The Atlantians designed it to give Ultras a sense of greater purpose, a sense of duty. How does it keep you from acting now?”

Peacehammer looked into the blank space where the doctor’s face should have been.

“But, Doctor, it does not,” he said. “My refusal is an action.”

“You realize what’s at stake here,” he said, leaning forward against the conference table for emphasis. “Ramsey believes Ultras should serve humans by ruling them. He wants them to influence every political decision made across the globe. Do you know what the end result of that would be? The strong would subjugate the weak. Eventually there would be only one government, one ruler, and might alone would decide who that was.”

Peacehammer knew all of this. He had weighed the problem many times during his solitary sojourns through space. The truth was he was torn by his decision. There was a sense of obligation, a desire to stop Ramsey in his tracks, that made him want to fight. But the Greater Mind had its own sense of duty and it was tempered with memories of Antarctica, of his imprisonment, of Clair’s death.

The stars and planets faded and Nelson’s suit dropped to a flat black.

"You know, without you, Ramsey's got us out-manned," he said.

Peacehammer shrugged slightly. "Only with flying strongpoints. You still have the advantage with wizards and guns."

"In number, yes, but most of them are young. They've never even seen a fight. And we know very little about this new Allison."

"Bandog and Karen can take up the slack on the ground."

Nelson nodded. "Perhaps."

A silence hung between them for several seconds, then Peacehammer spoke. "I simply cannot help you, Doctor. It is no longer within me."

Nelson moved around the table until he stood beside Peacehammer. His suit faded from black to a gray-white.

"Is it Antarctica?" He asked.

Peacehammer considered not answering, but that would not have been fair to Nelson. He had been there that day as well.

"Clair's death was the catalyst that brought the Greater Mind upon me. I have already dealt with the memory of that day on a higher level. I understand the purpose, even the necessity, of her death. But I have not yet come to terms with it as a man. The Greater Mind tells me to stay away from the fight, and I find no reason to deny it"

"I see," Nelson said, reaching up to place his hand on Peacehammer's shoulder. "These are very powerful forces binding you, Michael. But you also have a responsibility as a Union Ultra member. Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?"

Peacehammer looked at Nelson. The only image he had of the face behind the shifting mask were photos taken 80 years ago he'd seen in textbooks. In them Nelson was a young scientist in a white lab coat, long-faced, obviously intelligent, his hair slicked back in the style of the times.

“No.”

Nelson looked down and sighed heavily.

“Then for now it is goodbye,” he said, extending a hand to Peacehammer, who took it within his own. “Wherever it is you go when you leave here, I hope you find peace there."

Peacehammer said nothing and turned to leave. In the doorway he stopped and looked back toward Nelson.

“We are not mere weapons, Doctor.”

And with that, he left Union Ultra Headquarters and headed into the blue sky.

Continued next month ...

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