D
rofessor Charles Xavier adjusted the plaid woolen blanket that covered his legs and looked out over the rolling, green hills of the Westchester Hills Cemetery. There were gravestones as far as the eye could see under the crisp, blue autumn sky.
Xavier gazed at the nearest of them, a simple rounded marker that stood at the head of an empty, rectangular grave. He inspected the words carved into it, studied the texture of the stone, and sighed.
Not that he was any stranger to death. Xavier had lost his parents to it, many years earlier. He had lost one of his most promising students to it. He had even lost his son. But he had never quite gotten used to the finality of it
After all, he was a man of considerable resources, assets and abilities, which far outweighed the liability of his crippled legs. He found it difficult to accept defeat of any kind, even when his opponent was the most implacable adversary of all.
So as Xavier sat in his wheelchair by the open grave of an old friend, autumn sunlight filtering through the branches of a tall old hemlock, he couldn't help feeling he should have done something to rescue Jeremiah Saunders. He couldn't help feeling that the man's death was somehow his fault
“Looks like we're early," said a voice behind him.
Xavier looked back over his shoulder at Bobby Drake, the baby-faced young man who had been one of the very first students at his Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. "So it would seem," he replied.
They were silent for a moment. The professor heard the wind rustling brittle autumn leaves.
"Is this good?" asked Bobby.
“Good?" Xavier echoed. It took him a moment to divine his companion's meaning, but he finally understood what Bobby meant. "You mean am I close enough to the grave?"
It was only after he had said it that he realized the question could have been taken two ways. The thought gave him a bit of a chill.
"Are you?" asked Bobby, apparently oblivious to the double entendre the professor had uttered.
"Yes," said Xavier. “I am fine, Bobby, thank you.”
“You're welcome," said the young man. “Let me know if you change your mind, all right?”
"I will," Xavier assured him, as grateful for Bobby's company as he was for his assistance.
They waited for another couple of minutes, during which time the professor adjusted his blanket twice more. He wasn't pleased with the wait, but he was used to it. It was the price of punctuality.
Finally, others began to approach the gravesite in twos and threes-perhaps a couple dozen people in all, each one dressed in an appropriately dark suit or dress. Next came the long, black hearse, backing up to the empty grave so the
cemetery workers could haul the mahogany coffin out and lay it on the hard, cold ground.
Finally, a silver-haired, walrus-moustached man in a gray corduroy sports jacket made his bowlegged way through the gathering. Xavier recognized the fellow asTristam Carter, the dean of Empire College and one of the deceased's longtime colleagues.
“Thank you for coming," said Carter in a gravelly voice. He looked around at the assembled mourners. "All of you.” He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “I'll try not to be too long-winded."
A breeze came up, ruffling the leaves again. This time, it had the smell of distant hearth fires about it.
"Jeremiah Saunders had a good, long run," the dean began. "He did what he wanted to do with his time on Earth, and he did it better than anyone else I know. Certainly, Jeremiah's Nobel Prize is ample proof of that. After Watson and Crick. I can’t think of anyone who contributed more to the understanding of human genetics."
It was no exaggeration, thought Xavier. Even he had a long way to go before he could eclipse Saunders' efforts.
"Jeremiah wasn't a religious man," Carter said. "He made mention of that several times in the seventeen years in which we worked together. He didn't believe in empty rituals, he would often say.
“And yet," the dean continued, “Jeremiah believed very strongly in the existence of a divine plan. How else, he would ask me, could everything in nature fit together.so perfectly? How could it all work, despite the complexity of the challenge? And he believed that nowhere was this plan manifested more splendidly than in his chosen field ... genetics."
Xavier recalled the first time he had attended one of Saunders' classes. Barely in his forties, the dark, intense-
looking Saunders was already one of the country's leading experts on genetically-linked diseases.
By that time, the teenaged Xavier had come to realize he was no normal human being-and that his differences lay somewhere in his genetic makeup. As a result, he was far and away the most attentive student in the entire cavernous lecture hall.
By the end of the hour, the younger man knew he had found his calling. And Professor Saunders was the one he had to thank for it.
"Jeremiah wasn’t very outgoing,” Dean Carter noted. “He didn't make many friends in his lifetime. But the friendships he made were genuine. They were true and lasting. And as you know-or you wouldn't be here today, mourning Jeremiah's passing—he prized the people closest to him as if they were chests of precious treasure."
With that, the dean turned to a tall, handsome young man with dark, wavy hair, who had a stocky, red-haired woman at his side. The fellow was standing in stunned silence by Saunders' coffin, his eyes lowered as if unable to look at the polished surface of the mahogany box.
His name was Jeffrey. He was the genetics professor's grandson, whom Saunders had raised from the age of three and a half.
Certainly, the death of his only caregiver would have been reason enough for the youngster to seem dazed and confused. But the problem went deeper than that, Xavier knew.
It wasn’t just grief and shock that muddled Jeffrey's thoughts as he stood in the autumn light. The young man suffered from what his grandfather had sometimes called "a condition."
Saunders had always employed the same words, the same euphemism for Jeffrey's problem. It was as though his
[
grandson were afflicted with something too horrible to speak of out loud, or else something too insignificant to even bother naming.
Strange, Xavier thought, that a man of science-a man whose expertise was in genetics—would be so circumspect in his description of mental retardation. And yet, that was the way in which Jeremiah Saunders had chosen to deal with his grandson's situation.
Why? Xavier asked himself. He had never pressed the matter, so he didn't know the answer.
But now, with his friend gone, he was inclined to guess. Was it the knowledge that, with Jeffrey's parents deceased, the professor's brilliance would never be passed on? Or did it hurt too much to look at such an undeniably handsome boy and be forced to accept his limitations? Xavier sat back in his wheelchair and wished that he asked. He should have imposed on their friendship at least that much, if only to understand his friend a little better.
"I don’t know how much of this you can understand," Carter told Jeffrey, "but we all thought a great deal of your grandfather. He was as kind to each of us as he was to you. And though you were the apple of his eye, we like to think we were planted somewhere in that orchard as well.”
That drew a few chuckles from the other mourners. But not from Jeffrey. He didn't even seem to know the dean was addressing him.
Xavier pressed his lips together. The last time he had seen Jeffrey, just a few months earlier, the boy was playing basketball in Saunders' yard. His tee shirt was on backwards and his shorts were a couple of sizes too small, but his grace and athleticism had been nothing short of startling.
"Jeffrey's become quite the basketball player," Xavier had observed between sips of lemonade.
Saunders had nodded his head, an unmistakably proud and loving gleam in his otherwise filmy, bespectacled eyes. “Yes," he had responded. “Quite the basketball player indeed."
But that was all that he had said.
And even now, as the young man stood beside his grandfather's grave, a stranger would never have suspected his deficiency. A casual observer would have said that Jeffrey was a lucky fellow, one who was likely popular with the opposite sex.
Xavier sighed. How wrong that observer would be, he thought. How hopelessly, tragically wrong.
As learned as he was, as learned as Jeremiah Saunders had been, there was so much about the science of genetics that they didn’t understand. Which minute twisted strand of genetic material caused one child to be born with a deadly hole in his heart, another with Downs Syndrome, and still a third with spina bifida?
Or the ability to fly at great speeds and great altitudes, or cloud the minds of others with illusions, or turn his flesh into a substance as hard as titanium? How did that all work?
To find the answer was to unlock a future where a thousand deadly or heartbreaking conditions could be prevented. It had been Jeremiah Saunders’ dream to provide the key to that future.
After all, he had seen the way his son and daughter-in-law, Richard and Jamie, had suffered when they learned of Jeffrey's condition. The way they had looked at their perfectly formed little baby and tried to accept the profound imperfections inside him.
An imperfect mind in a superior body, Xavier reflected.
He shook his head. He had an inkling of how the boy felt. After all, his was a superior mind trapped inside a decidedly imperfect body.
And what made his mind so superior? Not just his capacity for reason, though he compared favorably in that regard with anyone on the planet. Not just his insatiable thirst for knowledge.
Charles Xavier could do things with his brain that other people couldn't even imagine.
He could read minds and control the actions of others. He could project his consciousness beyond his body to the four corners of the Earth. When necessary, he could launch mental assaults or guard against the assaults of others.
In short, he was a mutant-a being whom nature had randomly separated from the crowd, designating him as the next step in human evolution.
It more than made up for the loss of Xavier's ability to walk and the pain his damaged spine cost him. It even made up for the stares and whispers of pity that seemed to accompany him wherever he went.
Even now, he saw, a middle-aged woman was gazing at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering how he had been laid low. She was sympathizing with his disability, trying to imagine how he felt. Xavier didn't want or need the woman's pity.
With all the possibilities his mutant mind made available to him, his confinement to a wheelchair wasn’t really a handicap at all. It was simply a challenge-one of many that he faced every day, and not the greatest of them by a long shot.
Dean Carter looked around at the mourners. "As you may
know," he went on, "Jeremiah was partial to the poetess Emily Dickinson, who said, 'Dying is a wild night and a new road.'" He glanced at the coffin. "If that's so, we wish our friend a good trip.”
Saunders' friends began to disperse, some of them holding tissues or handkerchiefs to their eyes. A few gathered around the dean to congratulate him on his speech. And still others lingered near Jeffrey, not certain if it was wise or proper to express their condolences to the young man.
But Xavier was certain. Beckoning for Bobby to follow him, he rolled his wheelchair towards Jeffrey. The boy—
No, the professor thought, correcting himself. Jeffrey isn't a boy at all. It was easy to fall into the trap of thinking of him as a child because of his demeanor, because of the innocence that shone in his bright blue eyes. But he was an adult, a man of nearly twenty.
The wan, then, stood with his back to the grave, looking at no one and nothing in particular. He looked displaced, disoriented ... and more than a little frightened.
It wasn't difficult to understand. Jeffrey's grandfather, the man with whom he had lived nearly all his life, was gone. From his point of view, there was no telling what might come next.
His life had changed-and changed radically. That was enough to make anyone afraid, much less a retarded man.
Xavier stopped his wheelchair in front of Jeffrey Saunders, but the youth didn't appear to notice him. The professor looked up at his face. “Jeffrey?" he said softly.
The fellow blinked. Then he turned to Xavier with a look that tore at the older man's heart-a look that told the professor he knew something more than people gave him credit for. He may not have understood death completely, but he had an inkling of what had happened to him.
He knew that he had lost something-something pre-cious-and that it could never be replaced.
"Jeffrey," Xavier said, reaching out to take the young man's hand. Despite the magnitude of his intellect, he found it difficult to find the right words. “I'm sorry," he said.
Jeffrey blinked once again, and the professor saw that his eyes were wet with tears. His fingers closed on the older man's, gripping them tight with surprising strength.
Again, Xavier groped for words... and failed. Even if he had succeeded, words seemed to hold little meaning for Jeffrey. Fortunately, the professor had other options.
With the simplest of efforts, he cast an emotion out to Jeffrey Saunders, a pure feeling free of the trappings of artifice and intent. I feel sad too, his feeling said. Like you, I have lost a friend.
The professor's mind and that of the retarded man came together for the briefest of instants, but the effect was clearly visible. Jeffrey stiffened, almost as if someone had struck him a physical blow. Then he blinked rapidly, confusion clouding his face.
Jeffrey didn't know what had just happened. Xavier was certain of that. But he had felt the link, received the emotional message.
And in its wake, he smiled.
Xavier smiled back at him. Then he released the retarded man's hand. The professor would miss his friend Jeremiah Saunders for as long as he lived, and nothing would ever change that. But at least he had connected with the person Saunders loved most in the world.
It wasn't all that much in the scheme of things, Xavier reflected. But it was something. And in times of grief, any gesture, no matter how small, could be of immense comfort. He knew that from experience.
Abruptly, Xavier felt a drop of rain on his hand. Then another, on the skin of his bald head. He looked up and saw a couple of dark clouds sliding over to blot out the sun.
The redheaded woman came forward. "Hello," she told Xavier, "i'm Maryellen Stoyanovich. I'll be looking after Jeffrey at Westminster House." She smiled at the young man. "That's where his grandfather wanted him to stay when he passed away.”
The professor nodded. Saunders hadn't had any blood relatives besides Jeffrey. It made sense that he would have made arrangements with an institution for extended care.
"Is there a basketball court there?” Xavier asked.
The woman's brow wrinkled. No doubt, she hadn't expected such a question. “Yes, there is, actually. Why?"
"As you will find," the professor explained, recalling his conversation with his friend, "Jeffrey has become quite the basketball player."
Mrs. Stoyanovich smiled again. “I’ll remember that."
She would, too. Xavier could tell. He reached into his sport jacket and fished out a business card. "You can reach me at this number," he told the woman. "I would appreciate it if you would keep me appraised of Jeffrey's progress.”
"I will,” Mrs. Stoyanovich promised. She read the information on the card. "You run a school?"
“I do," Xavier answered.
"My sister is looking for a private school for my nephew. He's quite bright, you know. Is your place very... exclusive?"
"Very," the professor replied truthfully.
Mrs. Stoyanovich shrugged. "You should meet him. You might find he's just what you're looking for.”
“I might at that," Xavier allowed.
But he doubted it quite strongly-unless the redheaded woman's nephew was a budding mutant.
The rain began to come down harder and their conversation was necessarily ended. As Mrs. Stoyanovich guided Jeffrey toward an automobile waiting in the distance, the professor watched them go.
He knew it wouldn't be easy for the retarded man to become accustomed to new surroundings. He just hoped that, over time, Jeffrey would grow to like Westminster House.
Of course, only time would tell. No one's future was assured, Xavier reflected-least of all, his own.
Finally, he glanced over his shoulder at Bobby, who had demonstrated admirable patience, and pointed to his own vehicle. "It appears it's time to go," said the professor,
“Sure thing,” his student toid him, and wheeled him in the direction of their specially outfitted van.
It took a few minutes for Bobby to raise Xavier's chair into the vehicle with a built-in hydraulic lift and secure it to customized metal foundations in the passenger compartment. But by the time the rain began coming down with real force, the professor was safely inside.
Looking out the water-streaked window, he could see that the gravediggers were lowering Jeremiah Saunders' coffin into the ground. Xavier was sorry that they had to work in the rain, though they seemed dressed for it.
"Back to Salem Center?" Bobby asked as he swung into the driver's seat and pulled his door closed.
"I believe so, yes," said the professor. He smiled at his protege. "Thank you for accompanying me, Bobby. One should never be required to attend a funeral service alone."
The younger man laughed. "Are you kidding? There's no way I would have let you go without me. Besides," he chuckled as he started the van and pulled out onto the cemetery's main road, "I wanted to see what some of my old professors look like these days."
Bobby was joking, of course. He had graduated from Empire University not too long ago. His instructors couldn't have changed much in a short period of time.
Xavier remembered visiting the university for the first time just a few days after Jeremiah Saunders had moved there from the city to teach. He remembered how much he had liked the rolling, tree-lined grounds and the quiet location.
He wouldn't have minded the prospect of staying there and teaching genetics alongside his friend, in a place where the only threat to one's existence was the law of “publish or perish," and "cut-throat" meant only that one had to safeguard one's ideas from one's rivals.
In a better, less violent universe, he might have entered that world and remained in it the rest of his life. He might have devoted his life to study and contemplation. Unfortunately, that wasn't what fate had had in store for Charles Xavier.
He was born unlike normal human beings. And because of that, he had been compelled to follow a much more dangerous and difficult path than that of even the most determined academician.
For a time, Xavier watched the scenery move past him. He found it soothing in a way, perhaps even therapeutic. But then, he so seldom allowed himself the luxury of doing nothing.
“You okay, professor?" asked Bobby.
Xavier realized he had been dozing with his eyes open. He turned to his companion. "I'm fine.”
It was beginning to get dark, the professor noticed. In the west, beyond the sparsely dressed trees, the sun’s light was contracting into the promise of a particularly beautiful sunset.
"Pity about your friend," Bobby said. "He was a heek of a teacher... even if I didn't understand half of what he was talking about."
Xavier was surprised. “You attended Professor Saunders' lectures?"
The younger man nodded. “A few."
The professor grunted. “I wasn't aware that you had an interest in the sciences, Bobby.”
His companion shrugged. “Well, you know, considering my... special circumstances, I guess you could say, I figured it wouldn't hurt to know something about genetics."
Xavier nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course."
He was so wrapped up in the intricate, the global and the impersonal that he sometimes missed simple logical connections between one mundane item and another. But now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense that Bobby Drake would want to learn about genetics.
Like Xavier himself, Bobby was a mutant, a human born with a twist to his DNA. That twist gave him the power to turn into a human icicle—a literal Iceman-capable of drawing ambient moisture out of the air, freezing it and using it in a variety of applications.
But then, all those who had been students at Xavier's school were mutants, a subspecies sorely in need of training and direction if it was to survive the hostility that had lately been directed toward it.
It was this need that had drawn Xavier to the life he led. It was the knowledge that people like him, left to their own devices, might be destroyed by the hatred and paranoia of others-or worse, that they might turn their talents against mankind, justifying that paranoia.
Too many, with names like Magneto and The Toad and
Unus, had done just that. They had seen in their mutant abilities a superiority that was both unfounded and dangerous. Mutants, Xavier believed, had to co-exist with the rest of mankind, using their special powers to build a peaceful and enlightened future for everyone.
"Um, if you don't mind my asking ..." said Bobby, drawing the professor out of his reverie.
"Yes?" Xavier responded.
"That tall, darkhaired guy who didn't say anything ... that's Professor Saunders’ grandson, right?”
"It is," Xavier confirmed.
"What's wrong with him, exactly?" Bobby asked.
The professor frowned and leaned back in his chair. “He was born with a brain defect—one that has cropped up from time to time in the Saunders bloodline. As a result, Jeffrey is incapable of processing information the way you and i do."
“And his parents?" asked the younger man.
"They died when the boy was three and a half,” Xavier explained. “In a collision with a man who had had too much to drink. Fortunately, Jeffrey was at home with a babysitter at the time.”
Bobby looked at him. "That's a pretty sad story.”
The professor nodded. “I wish there were something I could do for Jeffrey. However, even with all my resources, there's nothing I can do. For now, his problem is unbeatable."
He recalled again the emotion he had seen in his friend's eyes the day they watched Jeffrey playing basketball. He remembered the pride Jeremiah Saunders had taken in his grandson's accomplishments.
Now that he thought about it, Xavier had experienced that emotion himself on occasion.
He had not raised any children of his own, but he taken
IE
in a great many students over the years-and he had come to love them as if he were their father. What's more, the majority of them understood the depth of his affection for them. He didn't need to articulate it. It was simply understood.
Perhaps it was the same way with Jeffrey and Jeremiah. He had never seen his friend display a great deal of affection for anyone, his grandson included. But Xavier was quite certain that that affection had existed.
At any rate, Jeffrey seemed to think so. The professor had gleaned that insight during his brief contact with the young man's mind. Despite all that had gone wrong in his life, Jeffrey felt well-loved.
Xavier glanced at a sign on the side of the road. It told him that Salem Center was only eight miles away. Closing his eyes, he massaged the bridge of his thin, patrician nose with a forefinger.
In fifteen or twenty minutes, he estimated, he and Bobby would be back at the professor's school. He would return to his study and take a moment to put the loss of his friend from his mind.
Then he would check his worldwide information network for appearances of previously unknown mutants. If he found such appearances, he would take steps to bring the mutants into his circle. If there weren't any appearances, he might actually get some sleep that night.
If so, it would be a welcome rest indeed. And in the morning, Jeremiah Saunders' funeral behind him, Xavier would resume his normal life. That is, he reflected, as normal as life could ever get for the leader of the mutant team known as the X-Men.
“Hey!" Bobby exclaimed suddenly.
The professor opened his eyes and saw the look on his companion's face. It was unquestionably an expression of trepidation, caused by something Bobby had seen on the road ahead.
Xavier turned and saw the cause of the younger man's surprise, caught in the van's high-beam headlights: two large, muscular figures clad head to toe in skintight silver costumes, standing right in the path of the professor's speeding vehicle.
They didn't seem the least bit perturbed by the prospect of an impending collision. Far from it. It seemed they were expecting it-even looking forward to it.
"Bobby!'' Xavier cried out.
But the youth was already swerving to get around the figures. Though their garb and their attitude suggested they might be enemies, he couldn’t take a chance that it was just a fraternity prank.
However, as soon as Bobby pulled the wheel to the left, the pair on the road moved as well. They blocked the van's way all over again, inviting it to plow into them or smash into a tree alongside the road.
Bobby Drake had driven his share of fast cars. However, even an Indy 500 winner would have been running out of options at that point.
Bobby muttered something beneath his breath and swerved again-this time to the right. But to the professor's chagrin, it didn't matter. The silver figures darted back to the other side of the road, obstructing their path every bit as effectively as before.
By then, it was clear to Xavier that these weren't innocents. Using his power of telepathy, he communicated the observation to Bobby with lightning speed. It's time for a change of tactics, he advised.
"Hold tight, sir!" the younger man exclaimed through clenched teeth. “We're going through them!"
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and his foot slammed down on the accelerator. A fraction of a second later, the van leapt forward like a wild beast prodded by an electrical charge.
Like the professor and Bobby themselves, their vehicle-discreetly marked with the name Xavier Institute for Higher Learning-was not at all what it appeared to be.
Beneath its hood was a customized V-8, fuel-injected engine that could outrun almost anything on the road-even though it carried the extra weight of bullet-resistant glass in all of its windows and heavy-gauge steel plating on its specially reinforced body.
With their silver garb, the figures in front of them reflected the van's high beams back into the professor's face. He flinched. Then the van was on top of the unmoving strangers, slamming into them at more than a hundred miles an hour.
It was like plowing into the unyielding rock of a mountain. Xavier felt himself being thrown forward, only to be restrained by his shoulder harness and the passenger's side airbag that exploded from the compartment in front of him.
A moment later, he felt the air around him turn frigid, as if a blast of arctic wind had invaded the van. Turning his head, he saw that Bobby had gone from normal-looking flesh and blood to the faceted, crystalline appearance of the mutant operative called Iceman.
The plastic skin of the driver's side airbag froze solid on contact with Bobby's icy hide and shattered like rice paper under pressure from his hand. Then Bobby did the same thing to Xavier's airbag.
The professor couldn't find the men in silver. The crash had transformed the windshield into a maze of fractured glass, almost impossible to see through. But it wasn't hard to imagine that they were still in the vicinity, taking up positions outside the van.
Bobby glanced at Xavier, his eyes a glacial blue. "Are you all right?" he asked, icy vapors issuing from his mouth.
"I’m uninjured," the professor told him.
“And I'm going after those bozos," Bobby announced, a note of undisguised anger in his voice.
Xavier didn't try to dissuade him, anger or no anger. Every one of his students had worked hard to prepare for situations like this one. Bobby Drake could handle himself as well as any of them.
Unfortunately, the impact of the collision had jammed the driver's side door shut. But that was no obstacle for Iceman. Bobby simply covered the crack between door and jamb with a frigid hand and wedged increasing amounts of ice into the narrow opening.
After a moment, the professor heard a high-pitched sound-the shriek of twisting metal-as the door began to open. Planting the heel of his foot against it, Bobby shoved it open the rest of the way and vaulted out of the van.
Xavier unlatched his seat belt. Then he dragged himself through the doorway his X-Man had opened.
It was only then, in the wan light of the moon and stars, that he got a decent look at his adversaries. They were a good deal bigger and more muscular than he had imagined at first glance, and their eyes blazed with a fierce white flame.
But as powerful as their bodies were, their minds would likely be another story-and no one was as adept at breaking down a brain's defenses as the professor was. Laying himself down on a patch of grass, he cast a mental bolt at the nearer of his two enemies.
To his surprise, nothing happened.
Strange, he thought Frowning, he turned to the other silver suit and tried the same thing.
Still nothing.
His mental assaults had felled some of the most determined and powerful minds on Earth. And yet, Xavier reflected, they seemed to have no effect on these two.
He decided to change tacks-and launch a mental probe instead of a bolt. After all, he required information more than anything else right now. He needed to know what kind of being he was dealing with and how he had mustered the strength to resist a point-blank mental assault.
That's when the professor received his second surprise in as many moments-because try as he might, he couldn't find an intelligence driving his adversary's actions. He couldn't even find a hint of an intelligence.
Xavier wouldn't have been so shocked if an independent mind were there and it had been shielded from him. But that wasn't the case at all. The silver-suited figure was completely and utterly vacant. He was a puppet, a shell, propelled by someone else's will.
But whose? That was the question, the professor asked himself. Meanwhile, Bobby Drake was hardly standing idle. As Xavier watched, he sent a blast of half-frozen slush at one of the silver-suited figures.
"Try this on for size," Bobby announced rakishly. “It ought to make an ice cube like you feel right at home!"
Their antagonist said nothing in response. He just stood there as Bobby's slush flowed around him and then hardened, enveloping him in its blisteringly cold embrace.
Bobby didn't wait long to admire the results of his strategy. After all, the ice surrounding the silver-suit was thick enough to hold a fair-sized tank in check.
Instead, he turned his attention to their other opponent, who had begun advancing on him with purposeful but unhurried strides. Creating an arsenal of big, rock-solid ice balls, the mutant sent them hurtling at the second silver-suit. They struck him hard, battering him, forcing him to pause in his progress ... but ultimately failing to incapacitate him.
Suddenly, Xavier heard a sound like thunder crackling nearby. He turned and saw an aura of blue energy blazing about the silver-suit that Bobby had already immobilized. Hairline cracks began, to appear in their assailant's thick, icy shell. Then there was a flash of light and fragments of ice went hissing in every direction.
The professor frowned in combined anger and concern. The first silver-suit was free. And like his partner, he was advancing on Bobby.
Xavier didn't like the way the conflict was proceeding. He also didn't like the fact that the mastermind behind their opponents was unknown to him. It meant that he and his protege would have to do battle without knowing whom they were fighting—always a dangerous proposition.
Bobby? h° called out telepathically, using his preferred method of communication in combat situations.
His student cast a glance in his direction. Right here, Professor. You see the way that guy shrugged off my ice shell?
I did indeed, thought Xavier. Quite possibly, he has an invisible force field at his disposal. If so, your ice never touched him.
Bobby shook his head. Looks like these dudes have got more going for them than nifty costumes and big muscles.
They also seem impervious to my mental bolts, the pro-
fessor told him. /4s far as I can ascertain, they have no minds of their own. They are being directed by an unseen intelligence.
Bobby frowned. Not good. Not good at all.
Then he stopped communicating and started battling again. Xavier took some small comfort in the knowledge that there were few who could fight as hard as Bobby could -few who could match his recklessness and his intensity.
Unfortunately, the silver-suits proved to be more than Bobby could handle. When he hit them with a barrage of sliver-thin ice darts, the missiles bounced right off them, When he tried to root their feet to the ground in massive blocks of ice, it took them only a moment to shatter the blocks and resume their progress. And when he made the ground beneath them too slick to walk on, they still found traction.
Bobby backed off until he was standing right in front of the professor. We've got a problem here, sir.
Keep fighting, Xavier told him.
He wished he could give his X-Man some assurance, some insight he could follow to victory. But he had nothing to give him. He could master and befuddle any human consciousness on Earth-but in the silver-suits, there was nothing for him to master.
To that point, their enemies had seemed content to let the mutants take the offensive. Abruptly, that all changed.
One of the silver-suits raised his hand, clenched it into a fist and pointed it at Bobby. Before either Xavier or his X-Man could do anything about it, a sun-bright energy burst exploded from their opponent's fist.
Professor... ?came Bobby's thought.
Then he was flung backwards like a rag doll. He hit the i-m
side of the van hard and slid to the ground. A moment later, his icy exterior began to melt like snowflakes on a warm window pane, exposing the very human-looking being beneath it.
Xavier bit his lip. Bobby? he called out telepathically.
There was no answer. Fortunately, Professor X's power allowed him to ascertain that the young man wasn't dead, just unconscious. But for all intents and purposes, he had been removed from the battle.
And all the professor had been able to do was sit there in the moonlight and watch. As much as it galled him to acknowledge it, he was helpless against this kind of adversary.
No doubt, the one behind this attack had anticipated that. In fact, he had counted on it.
As Xavier entertained this thought, the silver-suit who had leveled Bobby swiveled his hand like a cannon on a hydraulically-operated turret. This time, he pointed his fist directly at Professor X.
Helpless, Xavier thought again. Then came the blinding flash and the impact.
The biggest surprise in Bobby Drake's mind when he came to was the fact that he was coming to at all.
The mutant had felt certain, in that impossible-to-meas-ure instant of time between his recognition of the energy burst and his being struck by it, that he was a dead man; a bona fide, deep-fried corpse with all the trimmings.
And if he did by some trick of fate live to see the world again, he would never have predicted that he would do so unimprisoned and unrestrained.
Yet that was what happened.
Bobby was lying on the grass beside the van where he had fallen, the stars blazing brightly in the dark open sky above him, his hands and feet unfettered. And even more miraculously, his super-powered attackers were gone without a trace.
Then a possible explanation floated to the surface of his consciousness-one he wasn't at all thrilled about thinking. What if they had only been interested in Professor Xavier?
He bolted to his feet and looked around. To his chagrin, he didn't see his mentor anywhere. "Professor X!" he shouted into the night.
Then it hit Bobby that he had gotten to his feet too quickly. Still dazed from the impact of the energy blast, his knees wobbled like jello in an earthquake
Fighting the vertigo, he staggered around the van. He expected to find the worst on the other side.
Instead, he found Professor X sitting calmly in the driver's side doorway of the vehicle. The older man looked up at him, his temple bruised slightly but otherwise in good shape.
'Tm fine, Bobby," Xavier reassured him, answering his unspoken question. “You, however,” he said with concern in his voice, “are looking somewhat the worse for wear.”
The younger man touched a forefinger to the point of his brow, where a throbbing pain had developed. His fingertip came away wet with blood. “I guess I am,” he conceded.
"No internal injuries, I trust?" asked the professor.
"Just some bruises, I think."
"I'm relieved to hear that."
Bobby eyed his mentor with relief. "I thought for sure I was going to find you gone, sir... or worse." He looked up and down the moonlit ribbon of asphalt highway. "What happened? Where did they go?"
Xavier shook his head. “I regret to say I don’t know. I was
rendered unconscious by a force blast a few seconds after you were. When I awoke, I was still here... and our assailants had disappeared."
The younger man puzzled over it for a moment, but couldn't come up with a plausible explanation. “It's just weird,” he said at last. "It seems like a lot of trouble for someone to go to just to trash our van and give us a couple of headaches."
“I am compelled to agree,” the professor replied. "Unfortunately, I was unable to pick up any thoughts or clues from them telepathically, so I cannot answer as to their motive. Unless they return and reveal it to us, we may never know what it was."
Bobby smiied humorlessly. "No thanks, sir,” he said. “I'd rather live with the mystery than have to deal with those guys again.”
"Indeed," said Xavier. "Let's hope we have seen the last of those two." He craned his neck to get a look at the crumpled front end of the van. "I must assume," he said dryly, "that our vehicle is no longer roadworthy."
The younger man found himself chuckling at the comment despite his injury. "You can say that again, sir."
He leaned inside past the professor and rooted around on the floor until he found his suit jacket. Then he pulled his cell phone from an inside pocket and flipped it open.
"Don't worry, sir,” Bobby said as he dialed the number of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. "I'll just call home and one of the guys will come pick us up."
"Thank you,” the professor said with a nod. Suddenly, he looked very weary. "Truthfully, I would like nothing better than to put this day behind me."
The younger man grunted. “That makes two of us.“
Abruptly, he heard a voice on the other end of the phone. "Hello?"
Bobby Drake smiled ruefully at the sound of his teammate's voice. "Hank? It's me."
"Bobby?" came the cultured reply. “I was starting to get worried. Is everything all right?"
The mutant glanced at the van. "That all depends."
"On what?" asked Hank.
"On how you like rental cars," Bobby told him.
w
Jobby... ?"
Professor X heard the name spoken out loud. The voice behind it was thin and weak but strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize that the voice was his own.
With an effort, he opened his eyes-but he didn’t see anything. He was lying in darkness on a hard, flat surface, a series of confining metal bands stretched taut across his chest, his arms and his legs.
“Bobby?" Xavier whispered again.
This time, he sent out telepathic signals in search of the younger man's consciousness. However, Bobby was nowhere to be found. That meant he was either still unconscious, outside the range of the professor's summons or—
No, he thought forcefully. I won't contemplate that last possibility. At least, not yet.
Clearly, something was wrong. And just as clearly, it had something to do with the silver-suited, super-powered figures who had attacked Xavier and his young companion.
He remembered that he had been unable to draw a tele-
pathic bead on either of their assailants. He remembered how helpless he had felt, how utterly, gallingly inept. And he remembered the brilliant, bone-rattling impact of his adversary's energy attack.
More than likely, it was that enemy who had brought him here-wherever here was. The professor expanded his telepathic senses to see if he could find a clue as to his surroundings. It was no use.
The place was devoid of sound as well as light. There was no hint of movement, no stray thought that Xavier could sift from his environment. Just the cold, hard reality of his bonds and the sharp tang of metal on the chill, climate controlled air.
Obviously, he was a prisoner. But whose prisoner? Who was the guiding force behind the silver-suits?
Surely, a voice hissed softly in the professor's mind, you've not forgotten your old friend.
Xavier's heart began to beat faster beneath his metal restraints. A telepath, he thought. It made sense, given that the silver-clad supermen who had attacked him had no volition of their own. A telepath could have directed them without the use of any mind-enhancing technology.
But such a feat would have taken an adept of considerable skill and experience. And any foe that powerful could easily read the professor's thoughts if he left them unshielded.
Quickly, Xavier put up screens against the intrusion. He envisioned a massive stone wall surrounding his mind to keep his mysterious adversary from gaining further access to it.
A moment later, he could feel the ticklish brush of a mental probe testing his barrier. Really, the voice slithered chillingly through his brain, if I have power enough to make
a prisoner of you, your little mental wall will hardly prove an obstacle.
The only emotion the professor sensed in his enemy was amusement. As a result, he was unprepared for the mind-splintering agony that smashed at his head, pounding his mental barrier like a sledgehammer.
Xavier writhed in pain, forced to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Clearly, he realized, he was still debilitated from the beating he had taken on the road. Rather than endure another assault, he dropped his barrier for the moment.
There, the voice said. That's much better. I do so prefer unrestricted access to your mind. A soft chuckle whispered through the throbbing ache in the mutant's brain. Especially here and now. Your confusion, your discomfort... they're quite delicious, you know.
"Who—?'' Xavier croaked through parched, swollen lips. "Who are you? What do you want?"
I told you, came the reply. I am an old friend.
"That's a relief," the professor said dryly, speaking out loud so as to minimize his enemy's access to his mind, "imagine the trouble I would be in if you were an enemy."
Laughter rumbled through his head. Yes, please do imagine that, the voice told him. Ponder the implications of being physically and psychically helpless in the clutches of one who hates you. Think what such an individual might do to you... the pain he might inflict. The damage he might do to you and those close to you.
Xavier had already entertained such thoughts, but he quickly tamped them down into the deepest recesses of his subconscious. The last thing he could afford now was to give his enemy, whoever he might be, ammunition to use against
him. And at the moment, fear was the greatest weapon his tormentor had in his arsenal.
He couldn't erect another telepathic firewall—his adversary would only detect it and attempt to batter it down again. Still, the professor had to maintain some control over his thoughts and emotions. And he had to do this without the one who had invaded his brain realizing he was holding something in reserve.
“Then let's get on with it," Xavier retorted with feigned impatience. “If you know me as well as you claim, you know also that I have no patience for mind games."
Ah, but it is all mind games between us, the voice said with growing heat. It always has been and it always will be.
The professor felt something revealing then-a telepathic twitch, a tiny flare of anger. It was the slip he had been waiting for, the stray emotion that marked the intruder as surely as if he had signed his name on the darkness in phosphorescent characters.
Xavier smiled grimly to himself. So that was who it was.
I thought by now you would have given up on the idea of revenge, he shot at his captor. After all, you haven't proven very adept at it.
Another flare of anger, bigger than the one before it. Very good, the voice snapped harshly in the professor's head, sending pinpoint needles of pain through his forebrain. I forgot that I must never underestimate you, Terran, not even for the briefest of moments.
Suddenly, the room was awash with light. Xavier squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head from the source of it. Then he opened his eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust to the brightness.
He was in a large room, filled from floor to ceiling with dark, oily-looking, angular machines whose purpose and
function he could only guess at. However, the mutant knew one thing with absolute certainty, even before his vision cleared enough to inspect the devices more closely... they were not of earthly origin.
Rather, they were from a distant world called Quistalium. But that came as no surprise, because so did the professor's captor... the malevolent arch-schemer known on Earth as Lucifer.
Xavier caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Craning his neck, he got a better view of it. A moment later, a tall, powerful-looking figure loomed beside the mutant and gazed down at him.
Lucifer wore a crimson tunic and loose-fitting pants of the same color, cinched at the waist by a purple sash. His gloves, boots and cloak were purple as well, as was the helmet that covered most of his face. Only his eyes, pale biue and cold as ice, and his mouth, twisted into a snarl over a black slash of goatee, were visible.
But how could he be standing there? Professor X wondered. Hadn't his own people killed him, disappointed in his failures?
“I thought you were dead," he said.
Lucifer's mouth quirked into a sneer. “As one of you Ter-rans once said, news of my death was greatly exaggerated."
Suddenly, Xavier realized that something else had been exaggerated. After all, his enemy's footsteps hadn’t made any sound when he approached. "You're a simulacrum," he concluded. “A hologram."
Lucifer's eyes glinted cruelly. "Right again," he responded. "But then, you have always been a difficult man to deceive."
Many years earlier, when Xavier was a young man in search of his destiny, he had discovered Lucifer's handiwork in a remote walled village in Tibet. An advance agent for his species of space conquerors, the Quistalian had brought the local populace under his control and was using the town as his base of operations.
Xavier led a revolt against Lucifer, throwing a wrench into the alien's plans. However, he paid for his presumptuousness when Lucifer dropped an immense stone slab on him-crushing his spine and crippling him from the waist down.
Even now, the professor could feel the terrible, sudden weight of the stone, heavier by far than anything he might have imagined. And he could feel the even greater weight of pain and sorrow as he was struck by the magnitude of his loss____
"Yes," said Lucifer-a voice in his head again. "I remember it vividly. You should have seen the look on your face, Xavier... the comical, wide-eyed expression of shock ... of horror____"
The professor had to quell his own rising storm of anger. “Then you remember also," he said evenly, “that what happened to my legs didn't stop me. If anything, it made me more determined to stop you."
Lucifer's simulacrum scowled. “You and your X-Men, you mean."
Xavier nodded. "My X-Men.”
In fact, one of the reasons he had brought his group of young mutants together was to thwart the Quistalian's next move. But he had to wait for a number of years.
Then Lucifer brought a terrifying array of alien technology against Xavier's original task force-five young mutants code-named Cyclops, Marvel Girl, Beast, Angel and Iceman. However, the teenagers proved themselves more than a
match for the Quistalian. Like their mentor before them, they defused his plans to enslave the human race.
In punishment for his failure, Lucifer was banished by his masters to the Nameless Dimension, where neither time nor space existed in any recognizable form. But even then, he tried to get his revenge on Xavier—using his alien powers to manipulate various Earthmen and sometimes even imbuing them with ionic energy powers.
Fortunately, he was beaten each time. And when the Quistalians got wind of his ill-fated efforts, they terminated him for attracting too much attention. Or so the professor had been given to believe.
It seemed now that Lucifer had survived after all. But if he was compelled to speak through a hologram ...
Yes, the villain told him. His voice was a bitter, hissing response in Xavier’s head. You're correct, of course. I'm still a prisoner here in the Nameless Dimension.
Abruptly, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. “And those brutish figures in the silver suits..said the professor, “they were powered by ionic energy, weren't they? Just like all the other pawns you've manipulated over the years."
Lucifer shook his head. “No," he replied out loud, “not like the other pawns. Those two were made entirely of ionic energy. That made them a good deai more dangerous-not to mention a lot easier to control."
Xavier understood now why the silver-suited drones hadn’t evinced any detectable thoughts. Their master hadn’t bothered to program them with minds of their own.
"As you can see," Lucifer breathed, his eyes narrowed to slits, “I've learned a few new tricks since we last saw each other. But then, I've had nothing but time on my hands."
The professor saw the simulacrum's eyes blaze with shame and indignation. He knew why, too. Quistalians were conquerors by nature. The impulse to dominate was in their blood. It was difficult for one of them to accept defeat at the hands of an apparently inferior species.
"It was you who brought me to this pass," Lucifer snarled. "My suffering and humiliation ... they are all your doing.”
Xavier shook his head from side to side. “All I did was act to save my planet," he said reasonably. "It was no more than you would have done if our positions had been reversed."
"No!" the simulacrum roared suddenly, its deep voice echoing from one bank of alien machines to another. Its gloved fingers coiled into fists. "Your place was not to resist, Terran! Your place was to submit-as the inhabitants of a thousand worlds submitted before you!"
The professor sighed. He might as well have tried to teach a scorpion the philosophy of peaceful co-existence. Lucifer simply wasn't capable of embracing a non-Quistalian view of the universe.
Unfortunately, this wasn't merely an academic exercise. In the present case, the very deadly, very hostile scorpion in question held Xavier's fate in the palm of his hand.
"I am Lucifer," the hologram rasped, shaking with accumulated fury. “I am a Quistalian, an initiate of the great and terrible Arcana. I lived to bring honor to myself and my peo-ple-until you made a fool of me.”
He lowered his face closer to his prisoner's, his lips pulled back from his teeth like a wolfs, his eyes cold and merciless. “I can still win honor, Xavier. I can still serve Quistalium. But first, I must escape my confinement and destroy the source of my humiliation."
The muscles writhed in Lucifer's jaw. It looked to Xavier as if he were in real, physical pain.
"Only then,” the hologram insisted raggedly, "can I prostrate myself before the Supreme One and beg his mercy! Only then,” he thundered, shaking his fists at the machine-studded ceiling, "can my name be restored to the list of his most trusted agents!"
It was at that moment that the professor realized the full extent of what he was dealing with. Lucifer was no longer just a powerful adversary, no longer just a tool bred to conquer other species and crush them beneath his heel. He was in the process of becoming something else now, something infinitely more treacherous.
He was in the process of going insane.
Nor was it difficult for Xavier to understand how it had begun. After all, the Quistalian had spent years in a place where time and space had no meaning. Was it any wonder that his grip on reality had started to slip?
Lucifer's simulacrum straightened, walked over to a bank of machines and inspected its control panel. Then he cast a glance back over his shoulder at his captive.
"Do me a favor," he said.
The professor looked at him. "A favor?" he echoed warily.
"Yes." The hologram's eyes narrowed in the oval slits of his helmet. "Remember each of my defeats at your hands. Savor each detail for me. Turn it over again and again in your mind. That way, I won’t have to look far to fuel the flames of my hatred."
Xavier met Lucifer’s gaze, but he didn't say anything. He was too busy trying to think of a way to escape his confine-ment-because he knew now that he wouldn't survive any other way.
“And above all else,” said the hologram, considering the machine again, "keep hope alive in your heart. After all, you beat me before. You must feel some confidence that you can do so again."
Suddenly, he pounded his fist on the control panel, but there was no contact. After all, he was immaterial.
"Then," Lucifer continued, his voice taut and guttural, "I can strangle that hope, little by little. I can have the pleasure of watching it die ... before I destroy you as well."
The professor tried not to think about such things. "I'm pleased that you don't harbor a grudge," he said as evenly as he could.
Lucifer whirled-only to smile at him like a predator picking at a corpse. "I do harbor one, yes,” the alien admitted, "indeed, it’s all that has sustained me since I was sent to the Nameless Dimension."
Xavier decided that he needed to distract his captor. He needed to keep the alien talking until he could learn more about this place, until he could find some breach in its defenses.
“I had heard of the Nameless Dimension," Lucifer told him, "but I never dreamed how stark and featureless it could be. How empty of stimulation. Someone could go ... quite mad there."
Unexpectedly, he laughed. It was a short, ugly sound that originated deep in his throat.
“That is why I needed to find something on which to focus-something on which to obsess. A grudge, for instance. Or the plotting of vengeance against my enemies."
The professor decided to change the subject. "And the reason I'm not already being tortured to death?"
The Quistalian grunted disdainfully. 'Truly, Xavier, you exhibit greater curiosity than common sense. But then, you
have always been an intellectual first and foremost. It is a pity I need to destroy you. I could use someone of your talents."
The mutant scowled at his captor. "I think you know the likelihood of my working for you, Lucifer.1'
"I do," said the hologram. “But imagine,” he whispered fiercely, closing his fingers around an imaginary planet, "imagine how it might feel to be lord of your entire world."
"A lord obliged to serve a Quistalian master," Xavier noted. "In that case, it would not feel very good at all."
Would Lucifer have even suggested such an alliance years earlier? The professor sincerely doubted it. Clearly, the Nameless Dimension had taken its toll on him.
Abruptly, the villain smiled. You forget, I am in your mind, Xavier. You think perhaps my time in the Nameless Dimension has changed me... driven me over the brink to madness?
The mutant cursed himself. Careful, he thought, at a level Lucifer couldn't reach. You musn't slip that way again.
"What do you think?" Xavier asked.
The hologram shrugged, as if it weren't very important. "Perhaps I have gone a little mad after all. And perhaps I am unable to recognize it because the madness prevents me from seeing clearly." He shrugged again. "An intriguing philosophical question for another time-but one with which we need not concern ourselves at the moment. You see, the time has come to effect my redemption in the eyes of my masters."
He pointed a thick, gloved forefinger at his captive. "And you, Terran ... you are the key to that redemption."
I'd rather die first, Xavier reflected, letting the thought appear to slip from behind carefully laid mental blocks.
At that precise moment, as though it were the result of a single synapse firing in the professor's brain, he released his astral image-a projection of himself controlled by his mind but unfettered by the boundaries of the physical world. His astral self was utterly invisible to the naked eye and, if Xavier had accomplished all he intended, invisible as well to Lucifer's telepathic scrutiny.
"You'd rather die?" the Quistalian repeated. “I assure you ... that can and will be arranged.”
Xavier kept the tiny portion of his mind that was linked to his astral projection buried as deeply as he could. That way, his mental doppelganger would have an opportunity to pinpoint his whereabouts without Lucifer knowing about it. And once the professor possessed that information, he could arrange an escape.
After all, his astral projection could travel at the speed of thought. It could contact his X-Men and alert them to his predicament. And even if Lucifer somehow became aware of the message, he would be powerless to keep it from going through.
Then something occurred to Xavier. What if he wasn't on Earth anymore? What if the Quistalian had taken him to some orbital facility, shielded by force fields from the prying eyes and instruments of Earthmen?
It was a disturbing thought. If he was no longer earth-bound, his task became infinitely more complicated. !t would be harder not only to reach his team, but also for them to reach him.
"Your X-Men?" Lucifer sniggered as he caught the stray thought from Xavier's mind. "They won't even know you're in danger before they're struck down themselves."
The professor didn't like the sound of the remark. He cared less about his own welfare than that of his students. "Would you care to explain what you mean by that?"
“Why not?" said the simulacrum. "As we speak, the ones you cail Bobby Drake and Henry McCoy are returning to your facility in Salem Center. And neither of them has any inkling that you're my prisoner, since you're sitting in the same vehicle they are."
Xavier's brow furrowed with consternation. "Am I? And how am 1 managing to accomplish such a feat?"
Lucifer tapped his forehead with his finger. "I told you, Terran... I have labored long and hard to reach this moment. You remember the two who accosted you on the road?"
"The silver-suits," the mutant offered.
"Exactly. And you remember that I said they were made entirely of ionic energy?" He lifted his bearded chin with unmistakable pride. "Well, they aren't the only ones."
Xavier could feel his teeth grind together. "You made a duplicate of me? Out of energy?"
The alien grinned. "I did. And he has taken your place."
The professor absorbed the information, mulled it over. “But it can't be long before my X-Men see him for what he is.”
“I would not bet on that,” Lucifer told him. "Your duplicate possesses all your memories, all your thought patterns, gathered by Quistalian sensor devices during our previous encounters. Your young friends will be hard pressed to see through the deception."
Xavier contained his trepidation. "And if I may ask... what specific purpose does this ruse serve?"
The projected image of the alien wagged a warning finger at his captive. “No," he said, “that would ruin the surprise. Let us take this one slow step at a time."
He had barely finished when the professor caught another flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he saw the two silver-clad super beings who had attacked him and Bobby. They moved toward him
mechanically, their expressions vacant and their eyes ablaze with white fire.
"It's time for you to leave now," Lucifer told him. "But don't worry. We'll see each other again before you know it."
Xavier didn't understand. He said so.
"It's quite simple, actually," his captor remarked casually. "You see, this facility contains an intriguing little device for transporting an individual into the Nameless Dimension.”
The mutant's mouth went dry as he realized for the first time why he had been brought here. No, he thought fiercely.
"My assistants," Lucifer went on in the same casual voice, “will use this device to transport you here."
No, Xavier thought again.
“I look forward to the company," the alien said as if he were confiding in him. "And also, for you to have a taste of the hell I have endured since I was sent here."
The professor swore under his breath. It was too soon. His astral projection hadn't yet completed its probe of the area.
It had taken Lucifer years to discover what he believed was a means of escape from the Nameless Dimension. Xavier didn't have years. He didn't even have days—not with his enemy's doppelganger running loose among his X-Men, planting the seeds for Lucifer's triumph.
“Unfortunately," the Quistalian went on, “we won't be companions for long. After all, your duplicate's first priority is to see to it that I'm liberated from my dimensional prison-and that you're abandoned here for the rest of your pitiful life."
As he spoke, his silver-clad puppets lifted the table on which the professor was bound. Then they began to walk it back the way they had come, toward a semicircular portal at the far end of the room.
Lucifer’s simulacrum followed, smiling broadly beneath
the forward edge of his helmet. Clearly, the Quistalian was deriving sadistic amusement from the professor's plight.
Xavier struggled against his metal bonds, refusing to go down without a fight. His world was far from perfect, but he couldn't let it fall prey to a pack of alien slavemasters.
In desperation, he directed a stream of mental energy blasts at the silver suits, but they didn't so much as flinch. Then he assaulted Lucifer's simulacrum, with the same results.
Poor, pitiful fool, the alien hissed in his brain. You've lost! Try to accept it with some grace!
The professor bit his lip. Grace was the least of his concerns right now. He wanted only to warn his students before Lucifer could put his scheme into effect—whatever it might be.
He watched as the drones maneuvered him through the portal into a considerably smaller and more poorly lit enclosure. The walls there were covered with dark, serpentine tubes and glowing amber nodes.
The only furniture in the room was a set of metal supports, located immediately below a large fixture that resembled nothing so much as an oversized heat lamp. The silver-suits laid his table on the supports, locked it into place and backed away from it.
Lucifer stood off to the side, gloating. "I will say goodbye, Xavier. But only for a moment, you understand. Then we will be reunited in a significantly more exotic environment."
One of the drones moved to the wall on the professor's right and manipulated a control switch. Abruptly, the fixture above Xavier began to glow with a seething crimson light.
The mutant turned his head and shut his eyes against the awful glare. But soon, he had other forms of discomfort with which to concern himself.
Bathed in the Quistalian device's lurid illumination, the muscles in his arms and legs knotted painfully. Then his skin began to crack and blister. And a moment later, it felt as if a white-hot poker had been plunged into his belly.
Lucifer! he bellowed in his mind.
At the same time, Xavier felt his astral projection returning to him. It had managed to determine his location, a place deep underground in the northwestern part of the United States. It could go now and find his X-Men, let them know...
But even as he began the thought, he realized it was too late. The Quistalian device had begun its work in earnest. And as it shuttled him off this plane of existence, his astral image went with him, drawn inexorably back into his mind.,.
Dragged forcibly with Professor X into the roiling, eternal nothingness of the Nameless Dimension.
1 nn
m » W
J
]
rofessor Xavier was drowning in the depths of a cold, viscous sea. Or rather, he felt he would be... as soon as he tried to pull his first breath into his lungs.
Fortunately, he had sucked in some air as Lucifer's ray washed over him. It wasn't that he'd had any idea that his destination would be like this-a bizarre environment of thick, oily liquid. It was just a reaction to the pain the ray had inflicted on him.
Had the professor been prepared for such a place, had he had any idea of what he would have to face, he would have fortified himself even more. He would have taken in as much oxygen as his lungs could hold.
But he hadn't.
And now he was caught in a nightmare, a horrible death pressing in on him from all sides. With no way of knowing which way was up, he began to thrash about with his arms, turning his head this way and that... seeking something-anything-that might give him a chance to orient himself.
A feeling of panic surged through him. But that, he
H
knew, could be the death of him. Bringing all his considerable willpower to bear, he forced himself to relax, to examine his predicament coldly and logically in the small amount of time left to him.
If he remained calm, he had a chance to prevail-a chance to survive. He would give himself that chance. Then even if he failed, even if he lost his final battle, he would at least know he had first tried everything he could think of.
Experience told the professor that he had perhaps fifty seconds left before the breath in his lungs needed to be released. Then he would be compelled to suck in that first and last liquid breath. Fifty seconds, he reflected, consulting his wristwatch. It didn’t seem like a lot of time for him to figure out where the surface was and reach it.
But it was all he had.
Normally, the light would have been a clue. The surface would have been wherever the illumination was the brightest. However, it seemed to be of equal intensity in all directions. No help there, Xavier thought.
On the other hand, he couldn't be too distant from the oxygen he craved, since a liquid this thick would start to block light at a relatively shallow depth. So if he could figure out in which direction to swim, he probably wouldn't have to go far.
Abruptly, the professor recalled a trick he had learned from a scuba diver. Expelling a tiny bit of the air stored in his lungs, he watched the bubbles it made. Since air was lighter than water, they would eventually rise in the direction of the surface.
But as he waited, it became plain to him that the bubbles weren't going anywhere. They were just hanging there in front of him, as if the thickness of the stuff around him was preventing them from making any headway.
Inwardly, Xavier cursed. How much time did he have left? He looked at his watch again. Thirty-five seconds.
The surface, he told himself. Find the surface.
Unfortunately, he had no other ideas, no other strategies for orienting himself. With all the survival training he had undergone, all the mental exercises, he was unprepared for something like this. So he seized the only option open to him.
He guessed.
It's the lady or the tiger, Professor X told himself.
Flip a coin, pick a door, and hope, with the odds dead even, that a ferocious bundle of orange-furred feline didn't come springing out at him. Except there were a great many directions from which to choose. Many doors. And only one of them contained his salvation.
Xavier began to swim toward what seemed like "up" to him, sweeping his arms through the heavy liquid in long, powerful strokes. He wished he could go faster, but his paralyzed legs were useless to him, as much a burden here as on dry land. As usual, the professor would have to work with what he had and hope for the best.
His chest tightening with the need to exhale, he glanced at his watch. Twenty-five seconds to go. And Xavier still had no idea where he was ... or whether he was headed towards or away from the surface.
He considered the insanity of the situation. Why had Lucifer bothered to transport him here just to drown him? If it was the professor's death the Quistalian desired, why didn't he just kill Xavier while he lay there in front of his simulacrum? It made no sense.
Twenty seconds.
He could feel his face flushing, his fingers going numb from lack of oxygen. And still he pulled himself along.
What was it the mental projection of Lucifer had said? /
SI
look forward to the company-and also, for you to have a taste of the hell I've endured since I was sent here.
Clearly, the alien had meant for Xavier to end up in the Nameless Dimension. Then why had he sent the mutant here instead? Was it a mistake? Had he miscalculated somehow-or given his drones the wrong instructions?
Fifteen seconds.
His strength was ebbing. The compulsion to exhale was becoming too powerful to resist.
Think, Xavier told himself as he continued to pull at the liquid with powerful strokes, more and more certain that the answer was floating right in front of him. Why are you here?
Ten seconds...
The professor was in agony. Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision, threatening to claim him.
And suddenly, it came to him.
A smile crossed his tightly clamped lips and he stopped swimming. Of course, he thought, his lungs near to bursting. Lucifer hadn't meant to kill him. And he hadn't made a mistake either.
He had sent Xavier here on purpose... to the Nameless Dimension, the same realm the Quistalian himself had inhabited for the past decade. And Lucifer would have drowned here long ago if this environment weren't somehow capable of sustaining an oxygen-breathing being.
Five seconds.
His lungs near to exploding, the professor knew he had nothing to lose by acting on his guess. So against his every instinct, he opened his mouth and released the last of his breath.
It bubbled eerily from his nose and mouth. Then, again fighting his animal instincts, reasoning that he would either survive or end his life then and there, Xavier inhaled a deep draught of the oily liquid.
For a moment, it seemed to him that he had made a mistake. The stuff filled his throat, threatening to asphyxiate him. But when it reached the professor’s lungs, he found it strangely satisfying-strangely invigorating. In fact, he realized with relief, it was every bit as nourishing as the oxygen he had been breathing all his life.
Whatever this stuff was, he thought, pulling in some more of it, it wasn't a liquid as liquids were constituted on Earth. Xavier couldn't begin to understand how or why it worked as it did-and while it would be interesting to subject it to analysis some day, he could live for now without knowing its precise nature.
All that was important was that he was sustained by it. He was alive. And if he was alive, he could still win out over his enemy.
Keep telling yourself that, Xavier!
The words slammed through the professor’s mind like hammer blows. It was Lucifer, he realized, but the villain's telepathic voice was far louder and far more immediate than it had been on Earth. It made sense, now that he thought about it. After, all, they were no longer on opposite sides of the dimensional barrier.
Xavier tried reaching out with his mind to pinpoint the exact location of the voice. But he found, to his deep concern, that he had trouble focusing his thoughts. Something was wrong, he told himself. Some element of this dimension was affecting his telepathic powers, making it difficult for him to utilize even a fraction of his abilities.
It was like a sighted man losing ninety percent of his vision. Once again, the professor felt helpless, unable to maneuver. Panic gripped him. And once again, he managed to submerge the feeling.
He had to maintain control, he told himself, as he had done before Lucifer transported him from Earth. He had to minimize the villain’s ability to invade and read his thoughts. No matter what happened, no matter how bad the situation got, he couldn't let himself surrender.
Oh, yes, Xavier, the voice thundered painfully in his skull. Fight me. Cling to your thin, sickly hopes... so I can crush your soul the way I intend to crush your feeble body.
Sensing a movement behind him, the professor used his arms to turn himself around. His eyes narrowed as he saw what was speeding towards him. Standing upright, propelled by his ionic-energy powers, came the crimson-garbed figure of Lucifer.
It wasn't the simulacrum, either-not this time. It was the Quistalian himself. Even from a distance, Xavier could see the hatred blazing in his enemy's eyes, the rage twisting his thin, cruel lips.
Lucifer wasn't coming to talk. Of that much, the professor was certain. He knew as sure as he was breathing liquid that there would be considerable misery in his immediate future.
Xavier couldn't deflect the Quistalian's attack-not with his telepathic abilities muted by the Nameless Dimension. However, he could still erect a shell around the deepest part of his consciousness and try to hide his psyche inside it.
His body would take a beating. There was nothing he could do about that. But he could protect his sanity and that was more important. Even in a diminished state, the mutant's mind was his greatest asset. To lose that would be to lose everything.
Lucifer slowed as he came nearer, his purple cape billow-
ing majestically about him, his posture that of the hunter that has cornered his prey. Finally, the alien stopped altogether and hovered in front of Xavier.
You don't look happy to see me, Lucifer told him. I was hoping for a warmer greeting from such an old friend.
The Quistalian wasted no more of his strength on telepathic communication. Instead, he unleashed a barrage of brilliant, white energy bolts. They struck Xavier with triphammer force, sending him tumbling end over end through the thick liquid atmosphere.
Then, before the professor could catch his breath, his adversary hit him again. And again.
Lucifer toyed with him as a cat might toy with a mouse, swatting at him and sending him pinwheeling away so he could pursue him and catch him all over again. And while the alien blasted his body, his psionic attacks pounded Xavier's mental defenses.
All the professor could do was roll with the blows, trying his best to disassociate himself from the pain and the suffering and the humiliation. He continued to focus his energies on one goal and one goal oniy-to maintain the shell that kept his mind from serious harm.
Of course, complete non-resistance would have made it clear to the Quistalian that Xavier was up to something. So every so often, the professor lashed out with his fists or launched a halfhearted psionic counterattack, making it appear that he was concentrating all his power on the strug-gle-and that it just wasn't enough to make a difference.
Xavier hoped fervently that Lucifer would eventually have his fill of revenge or simply grow tired of battering him. After all, as tough as he had made himself, even he couldn't endure such punishment indefinitely.
But to his chagrin, the alien wasn't done with him-not by a long shot. Though Lucifer stopped walloping him with his ionic energy bolts, he continued to assault the mutant with his fists.
Through his pain-clouded vision, Xavier could see the sadistic glint of pleasure in the eyes of his helmeted tormentor. With every cruel, damaging blow that he brought down on the professor, the Quistaiian's face beamed with evil delight.
The thick liquid environment did little to diminish the speed and impact of Lucifer's blows. His fists flew at the professor with bone-crushing force, bloodying the mutant's mouth and nose, raising bruise after bruise and welt after welt.
Finally, panting from his exertions, his eyes shining with the knowledge that he had brought Xavier to the brink of unconsciousness, the alien ended his attack. With a sigh, he allowed himself to float back a little and observe the results of his handiwork.
“You cannot imagine how long I have dreamed of this," Lucifer rasped, his cape undulating behind him. "To see you flail helplessly, to hear your mind scream in pain ... it is like a symphony to me."
The professor didn't say anything. He couldn't. He was too close to unconsciousness to come up with anything intelligible.
Lucifer smiled at his silence. “You cannot appreciate what I'm saying, can you? But you will learn, Xavier. Oh, how you will learn! And the time I spent imprisoned here will be as the smallest fraction of the eternity I have planned for you. But that is not all..."
As he spoke, the alien began to construct a cage of ionic energy around the professor. Having allowed himself to be battered so soundly, Xavier was only dimly aware of the glitter-