uo

Harpoon nodded and allowed Scalphunter to pour him a glass of whiskey. Then, as usual, he listened.

“Look, man, I ain’t gonna lie to ya,” Riptide said, a manic grin splitting his face. “Nobody here has any intention of going straight. 1 mean, we got a good thing going, and there are always going to be contract hits to fulfill, human dogs to leash, know what I’m sayin’?”

Harpoon nodded. He enjoyed the hunt, and the kill, as much as the next guy. But terror and oppression for its own sake was not his style. He did not need to debase innocent bystanders to gain pleasure, and that was perhaps the widest gulf between himself and the other Marauders. He knew it didn’t make him any more moral. What was morality anyway, he thought, but rules made by the prey to keep away the predators?

But Scalphunter and the others were cruel. They toyed with their victims. Harpoon believed in immediately killing his targets, finishing the job quick and clean. He was a hunter, nothing more or less. Still, these were his former comrades. He at least owed them the time it took to hear them out.

“I can tell you’re skeptical, ’poon, but just listen up, okay?” Riptide said, and Harpoon gestured for him to continue.

“We wanna get the Marauders back together,” Riptide said. “And we wanna pledge allegiance to the flag of Magneto, or whatever the hell the obnoxious windbag wants us to do.”

Harpoon narrowed his eyes in confusion, and Scalphunter interrupted Riptide to elaborate.

“Quiet a second, Rip,” Scalphunter said. “Look, Harpoon, I know you and I ain’t always been the best of friends. Still, we’re gonna have a sweet deal going here pretty soon and because you always played it straight as one of the Marauders, I figured we should give you a chance to get in on it.

“Here’s how it is,” he continued. “Magneto’s setting up a nation right here in Manhattan. Mutants are the bosses, and humans are the grunts. That means we’re nobility, get it? The humans, they’ve gotta do whatever we tell ’em, try to get through the day while we mutants live like kings. Tell him the best part, Arclight,” Scalphunter said, and Harpoon turned to where Arclight and Blockbuster had sat, speaking quietly to each other as the other tried to recruit him.

Arclight was pretty. Perhaps not beautiful, but for Harpoon, pretty was good enough. He’d always had a thing for her, and she had known it, but never showed him any real affection other than that reserved for all her teammates.

“The best part,” she said, and smiled at Harpoon in a way that reminded him just why he’d been attracted to her to begin with, “is that we can take all the contracts we like outside of Manhattan, slip out, do the job, slip back in, and even if the feds or Interpol find out we were behind it, there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it. There’s no way Magneto will let them extradite mutants from his new empire for prosecution.”

Arclight was still smiling prettily. Scalphunter was sneering his perverse pleasure. Riptide was grinning madly.

Drily, quietly, Harpoon began to laugh.

* * •

Iceman and the Beast were already half a block ahead of them at the TKTS booth that lay at the beginning of

the intersection between Broadway and Seventh Avenue. Wolverine watched as they crossed over to the west side of Broadway, then slid into the darkened entrance to a fast food restaurant. A moment later, they appeared again and began to move south once more. Wolverine was impressed. He had not expected either of them to be so proficient at this kind of work. Their past histories—both with the X-Men and with the other teams the pair of them had worked with over the years—indicated a tendency toward barrelling in with guns blazing. Perhaps Logan’s presence in the X-Men had rubbed off more than he’d known.

It wouldn’t be long now, however, and they had to be more careful than ever. This kind of caution was time consuming, but Bobby had already said he didn’t think they had more than ten or fifteen blocks to go, and there was no way to tell what kind of safeguards Magneto might have in place. No, this way was best.

Together, Wolverine and Bishop clung to the shadows on the east side of Seventh Avenue. It was going to be difficult the further they got into Times Square, with the glare of neon stripping away most of the shadows they might have used for cover. But they would do their best. As always.

With Bishop just behind him, Wolverine moved past the entrance to a strip club. From inside came the scent of stale beer and ... people. Mutants. Familiar scents that raised the hackles on his neck. Emotions roiled within him that were so powerful he could not keep his adamantium claws from sliding out and snapping into place with a snikt. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowing with hatred and he reached a hand behind him to stop Bishop.

The future X-Man’s only question was in his eyes. He was a good enough soldier to know when not to speak. Wolverine pointed into the strip club, then at himself, then held up a hand to let Bishop know he wanted to go in alone. There was a score to settle.

Still, he was no fool. If he’d been alone, he would have tried to settle the score alone. But he was with the X-Men, he was one of them. And what he owed the Marauders, they also owed. It was time to square a debt longstanding, but they would all be handicapped by the lack of room inside the club. Wolverine planned to draw them out into the street.

Maybe it would be like the OK Corral after all.

* • •

The Beast and Iceman moved together down Broadway. While they had seen only humans, mainly looters and hard looking teens, they didn’t want to take any chances. As he scanned the streets and the buildings above for any sign of mutant activity, Hank McCoy silently wished for backup. It was a big city, quickly filling up with enemies, as if they hadn’t had enough already. In his years with the X-Men, he had become known for his optimism.

Not today.

“Attention X-Men,” Bishop’s voice crackled from the comm-badge on his belt. “Wolverine has apparently registered the presence of some threat. He has entered an establishment here at 46th and Seventh. I expect we’ll need backup.”

“Then you shall have it,” Storm’s voice replied, and the Beast could hear the wind whipping past her, even though the volume on his comm-badge was quite low.

“Beast, you and I will backup Bishop and Wolverine,” Storm continued. “Iceman, continue tracking with that remote unit, but proceed with utmost caution. We will contact you to ascertain your location as soon as we have cleared up this situation.”

“Storm,” the Beast asked, touching a small button on his comm-badge, “is that wise, to allow Bobby to continue alone?”

“Perhaps not, Hank,” Storm’s voice crackled. “But our mission must take priority. And as we don’t yet know what threat Logan has discovered, we also need to provide him with as much backup as we can.”

“I’ll be okay, Hank,” Iceman said beside him. “You can’t babysit me forever.”

The Beast looked up, a little taken aback by his friend’s attitude, but then he saw that Bobby was merely joking, as usual. Iceman knew that of all people, the Beast was not going to underestimate his abilities. Just as Hank did not underestimate the dangers they faced.

“Watch your back,” the Beast said, and Iceman only nodded before moving on.

• * •

Wolverine crouched low as he inched his way into the strip club. There was a five foot barrier between him and the bar, which kept passersby from being able to see the dancers from the street. But there were no dancers inside. Only five killers. And Wolverine made six. Thing was, compared to him, the others were amateurs.

Each of their scents was indelibly etched upon his sensory memory, and on his soul. Together, they had perpetrated one of the most horrific acts Wolverine had been witness to in all of his long life, the so-called mutant massacre. They had mercilessly slaughtered unarmed mutants, with or without powers and regardless of their political affiliation. The tunnels under New York where the mutant outcasts known as Morlocks lived had run red with innocent blood.

All the work of the Marauders. And Wolverine had waited a long time to pay them back.

“Well, well,” he snarled, slipping out from behind the partition. “Ain’t this a touchin’ little reunion.”

The Marauders responded instantly. Arclight and Blockbuster stood on alert, waiting for the signal to move from whomever was giving orders. Riptide began to spin, in a blur, but did not attack, apparently also awaiting instructions. That left Harpoon and Scalphunter, and Wolverine figured Harpoon was too quiet to be the leader. A moment later, he was proven correct.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, Canuck,” Scalphunter said, a slow smile creeping across his face. “Coming in here and getting up in our faces, all by your lonesome. Did you forget what happened a few years back? We trashed the X-Men but good, Wolverine. All of ’em. And here you are, solo.”

“Wait, Scalphunter,” Harpoon said, and Wolverine was stunned to hear him talk at all, never mind that he was taking up for one of the X-Men.

“We came here for sanctuary, not for battle,” Harpoon continued. ‘ ‘Magneto wants this to be a haven for all mutants, does he not? If we expect him to offer it to us, we cannot do this.”

There was a lull in the room, as if, in that moment, nobody knew what to do. Except perhaps for Wolverine.

“I got three things to tell you murderers. First off, there’s no sanctuary to be had here,” he said, gnashing his teeth with every word. “Magneto’s little experiment is temporary, and nobody is going to recognize him as sovereign of anything. Second, and this one goes real specific for you, Harpoon, if you’re worried about whether or not you should throw down with me right here and now, well...”

Something happened to Wolverine’s face in that momentary pause. It was not quite a smile, though it did bring a sparkle to his eye and reveal his sharp, gleaming teeth.

“Who ever said it was up to you?”

With a vengeful roar, Wolverine launched himself across the bar at Scalphunter, completely unmindful of any danger from the others. He slammed the claws on his left hand into the man’s right shoulder and sparks flew as they penetrated armor and flesh and sank up to his fist. He used that hand to pin Scalphunter in place and, in the space of a heartbeat, brought his right-hand claws down toward the Marauder’s heart.

Arclight grabbed his wrist before he could fulfill his murderous intentions, and as she swung him away he felt his adamantium laced bones grind. His equilibrium was momentarily shot as he sailed across the room and slammed into the wall with a thud that brought jagged shards of broken mirror crashing down behind the bar.

Wolverine was up so quickly the entire thing might have appeared to be one, fluid, intentional movement. His skeleton was laced with adamantium, otherwise his wrist would have been crushed to a pulp rather than merely bruised. One of the gifts of the x-factor in his genetic structure, part of what made him a mutant, was the extraordinary speed of his healing process. By the time he faced the Marauders again, there wasn’t a cut or bruise on him.

“You’re faster than you look, lady,” he growled low. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Scalphunter was having trouble standing, and Blockbuster went quickly to his side, helping him remain upright despite his obvious pain. Blood poured down the gleaming front of Scalphunter’s armor, staining it crimson, and Wolverine smiled broadly.

“It’s not as sweet when it’s your own blood, is it babykiller?” he snarled.

“Kill him,” Scalphunter snapped.

Harpoon let loose with an energy-charged Slayspear, and Wolverine sidestepped it. There was no way he could avoid a joint attack, however. Even as he dodged, Riptide began to spin even more rapidly, disappearing in a tornado blur out of which projectiles exploded at blinding speed. There were small knives, Japanese throwing stars called shuriken, and metal burrs like a child’s jacks with razor sharp points.

Wolverine’s claws flashed as he moved sideways in a fluidly graceful motion that, to an untrained observer, might have looked like dancing. In truth, he had been trained intensively in Japan for many years, and was a master martial artist, equally at home fighting in a bar brawl or a formal ninja honor duel. He protected himself from more than half of Riptide’s weapons, despite their speed, then dove behind the partition again for cover.

“Oh, Wolverine, please,” Scalphunter said, and Wolverine could hear the pain in his voice. “Why drag this thing out. Can’t we just get it over with?”

“Come and get me, bub,” Wolverine said, his voice low, taunting, despite his pain. His body was in overdrive, mending the wounds he’d received from Riptide, but it would take several minutes for him to fully heal. It didn’t matter to him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had bled on a battlefield, and it would likely be far from the last.

Even as two shuriken popped from his skin, driven out by his rapidly healing flesh, and plinked to the ground, he began to get impatient. Scalphunter might actually be correct. He might not be able to take them all. Not a pleasant thought, but something he had to keep in mind. Not that it meant he would have backed off under any circumstances. Just a possibility to be registered. On the other hand, he hadn’t had any intention of taking the Marauders on by himself.

But time was wasting. Their mission was of primary importance, and these losers had taken up way too much time as it was.

“Come on you bunch of cowards,” he snapped. “Come get me!”

“Die!” Blockbuster shouted as he charged through the wooden partition.

“There you go!” Wolverine responded, even as he crashed backward, out of the strip club and onto neon-lit Seventh Avenue. “That’s the spirit.”

Blockbuster was the stereotypical musclehead, all brawn, no brains. Nothing like Arclight, who was not quite as strong but a lot more dangerous. The huge mutant’s fists pummeled Wolverine’s gut and chest until Logan held up his left hand and simply popped his claws into Blockbuster’s descending arm. The foot long ada-mantium blades sliced cleanly through Blockbuster’s bicep, but the momentum of the punch pulled down on the claws, ripping through meat and bone.

With an agonized howl, Blockbuster fell back away from Wolverine and curled up on the ground cradling his thrashed arm. Blood ran freely from his wounds onto the pavement. Wolverine remembered the blood that had splattered the walls of the Morlock tunnels after the mutant massacre, and he felt good as he rose to his feet.

Scalphunter emerged from the club, a long, silver plasma rifle pointed at Wolverine’s head. Harpoon rushed out beside him and held a Slayspear at the ready. Riptide spun onto the street like the Tasmanian Devil, tossing old beer cans and empty paper bags into a dervish around him, cackling madly. Arclight went to crouch by Blockbuster, to comfort him, and glared at Wolverine.

“You’re dead,” she said.

“Arc, get away from him,” Scalphunter said. “No more weakness, no more individual attacks. All together, now, and we’ll dance on the little runt’s corpse.”

“Sorry, bub, it’ll take more than your lot to kill me,” Wolverine said. “And you don’t pay attention too good anyway. I said there were three things I had to tell you. The third was, I didn’t come alone.”

Scalphunter’s eyes widened in alarm, and Wolverine snorted derisively.

Lightning flashed and Wolverine squinted against the sudden brightness. The air sizzled with energy between himself and Scalphunter as lightning struck the ground, leaving cracked and melted pavement in its wake. Above them, Storm hovered on the winds at her command, imperious as always. Wolverine loved that about Ororo. Proud yet quiet on the ground, once in her element, she took control of any situation with ease.

“The Marauders!” Storm observed. “Now, Wolverine, I see why you diverted from your course. We should not take the time for battle here, but the need for vengeance is undeniable. Also, if there is any chance at all that Magneto is unaware of our approach, we cannot allow these mass murderers to go free.”

“While you talk, Storm, you die!” Scalphunter shouted, and lifted his plasma rifle to aim at the spot where Storm floated aloft.

Wolverine was about to dive forward, to slice Scalphunter’s weapons, and perhaps the man himself. He had barely turned away when he heard Arclight moving in behind him. He spun and slashed, and caught her a glancing blow that scored the mesh alloy metal armor she wore. He had noted her speed earlier, and vowed not to let her surprise him with it again. She had tried and failed, but her real goal had been to distract him from saving Storm. In that, she had succeeded.

When Wolverine turned back toward Scalphunter, the leader of the Marauders was already pulling the trigger.

Suddenly, a blast of energy slammed into Scalphunter’s chest. His shot went wild, completely missing Storm, and he was knocked to the ground. Two more energy blasts ripped into him, and Scalphunter shook and jittered with some kind of seizure as blue light rippled back and forth across his body. Wolverine looked up and saw Bishop taking aim at the other Marauders, and his nostrils flared with a low growl that built into a great roar.

The biggest threat, without question, was Riptide. He began whirling ever faster, and razor sharp projectiles flew from the dervish he had become. But before they could reach their intended targets, they were whipped up into an even greater storm, a minor tornado that seemed to suck both the weapons and Riptide into itself. As he blocked a Slayspear that Harpoon had hurled at his chest, Wolverine noticed that the tornado Storm had created was spinning counter to Riptide’s own turns. It effectively cancelled out his powers, for no matter how he tried to turn, Storm kept the wind moving in the other direction. In essence, he was hung in midair, completely immobile in the center of a tornado.

With one shot, Bishop took Riptide down.

Harpoon aimed a Slayspear at Bishop, and Wolverine shouted to warn him of the danger. Bishop turned and ran directly at Harpoon, screaming like a madman. Harpoon hurled a Slayspear and Bishop incinerated it in mid-air with his blaster. Wolverine moved in on Harpoon as well, and in a moment, the two X-Men had the Marauder trapped between them.

“Your move, Harpoon,” Wolverine growled.

With fantastic speed, Harpoon drew another Slayspear from behind him and hurled it at Bishop, who brought up his weapon as protection. The spear struck the gun, discharging its deadly energy, and the gun exploded, knocking Bishop back several paces.

“You still stand?” Harpoon said in astonishment.

Wolverine hung back on purpose, knowing what was to come. Bishop had not been with the X-Men at the time of the mutant massacre. To the Marauders, he was an unknown quantity. Bishop’s mutant power allowed him to absorb any form of energy directed at him and release it with destructive force from his bare hands. Harpoon had no idea what to expect, but he pulled another Slayspear from his quarrel and hauled back his arm to hurl it at Bishop.

Bishop didn’t give him the chance. He had absorbed the energy from his weapon’s explosion and Harpoon’s Slayspear, and now he rechanneled it, turning it back upon the Marauder who, even now, was attempting to kill him. A blast of crackling green power burst from Bishop’s fists and buffeted Harpoon’s body like hurricane winds, tossing him backward through the blacked out plate glass window of the strip club.

Harpoon did not come out, and Wolverine scanned the street for more opposition.

“This fracas is gettin’ downright boring!” Wolverine shouted. “Maybe you killers just don’t know when you’re beat.”

“You want a fight, Wolverine?” Arclight asked as she closed in on him. “Then stop moving out of the way.”

“I can take whatever you got, lady, and then some,” Wolverine growled, sliding the claws of his left hand against those of his right, creating a chilling sound like six knives being sharpened.

“Come now, Wolverine, you must allow your adorable hirsuite amigo the opportunity for some merriment as well,” the Beast said as he leaped between Logan and Arclight.

“After all,” Hank added, “I was there in the Morlock tunnels as well. I have some demons of remembrance to excise.”

There was a look of smoldering fury on Hank McCoy’s blue-furred face that filled Wolverine with uncommon wonder. The Beast was the ever rational core of the X-Men, a good-hearted man who functioned on a practical, intellectual level most of the time. But not, apparently, all of the time.

Quickly, the memory of his run in with Arclight mere

m

moments ago came back to Wolverine, and it hit him that the Beast did not have his unbreakable adamantium bones. If she got a hand on him, Hank could be in serious trouble. And she was fast.

“Hank, maybe you’d better...” Wolverine began, but too late.

Arclight lunged for the Beast, the way a wrestler would, but Hank simply stepped aside and slapped her on the side of the head, knocking her down.

“Come on, then, hit me,” the Beast said, tauntingly. “As politically incorrect as it may seem—brand me a sexist if you wish—I would never ordinarily pummel a woman. But when it comes to someone who slaughters innocent people, innocent children, I’ll make an exception.”

“Aren’t I lucky,” Arclight sneered with sarcasm and contempt, then swung a large fist at the Beast’s face.

Hank caught Arclight’s fist in his own.

“Decidedly not,” he answered, and slugged her hard in the face.

Arclight’s legs collapsed beneath her. If the Beast had not been holding on to her hand, she would have crumbled to the ground. Arclight was a big woman, and with her armor on must have weighed close to two fifty. Hank picked her up, and without any visible effort, hurled her across the street where her body knocked a hole in the outer wall of an electronics store. She lay, unmoving, half in and half out of the hole.

When the Beast turned to face Wolverine, he was not smiling.

“I’ve heard revenge is sweet,” he said quietly. “That was a lie, wasn’t it?”

“Revenge doesn’t help anyone, Hank,” Wolverine answered. “It’s just something that needs doin’.”

Storm and Bishop approached slowly, on guard for any other members of the Marauders team.

“You can relax,” Wolverine said. “It was just the five of them.”

“Then let us secure these miscreants and move on,” Storm decided. “We’re wasting time.”

“And we must catch up with Iceman,” Beast reminded her. “The Marauders are not likely to be the only old enemies of the X-Men roaming around Manhattan tonight. I’m beginning to think letting him go on alone was a mistake.”

The conference room was vast and ornate. The door and window frames, and the twenty-foot mahogany table were hand carved with elaborate floral designs. The high-backed chairs were upholstered with burgundy leather. There was a portrait on the wall of a man none of them recognized, but it was clear he was responsible for the splendor around them. The other wall was covered floor to ceiling with shelf after shelf of legal texts.

This, Amelia Voght thought, is the world that might have been mine had I not been born a mutant. She had rejected the pursuit of wealth and privilege as measured by human standards, and had instead decided to fight for acceptance on an individual level, for who and what she was. When acceptance was not forthcoming, she realized that obedience might be easier to obtain. To achieve that, she become one of Magneto’s Acolytes.

They sat around the conference room, and Amelia thought that almost all of them looked as uncomfortable in that opulence as she felt. Perhaps only Senyaka, whose background was a mystery to her, seemed at home there. The only ones missing were Javitz, who was still injured and whom Amelia sorely missed, and Scanner and Milan, both of whom Magneto had constant use for in the rapid construction of his new empire. Scanner was needed for communication and to pinpoint mutant bio-signatures as they approached Magneto’s new headquarters. Milan, of course, was online and had become the nerve center of the empire, as well as the monitor for media and other transmissions.

That left Cargil, Senyaka, the Kleinstock brothers, and Unuscione. There were a dozen empty seats around the table, but Unuscione had taken the one with the tallest

back, at the head of the table. As field leader, Amelia Voght had every right to that chair, and she knew without a doubt that Unuscione had taken it with every intention of rubbing it in her face.

Amelia ignored her, choosing instead to stand at the opposite end of the table. Their conflict, as they silently confronted one another across that expanse of wood, had never seemed more clear.

“Okay, let’s get down to business,” Voght said. “Dawn isn’t far off, and Magneto has asked that we forget about policing the city for the rest of the night. Things have calmed down some for now anyway. People are likely waiting to see who ends up on top.”

“Aren’t we all,” Unuscione commented drily, and it was clear to Voght that the woman wasn’t talking about the Empire Agenda at all.

“There were plenty of mutants in the city already, and more are coming in by the hour,” Amelia continued. “The Sentinels have logged and identified most of them, and it’s only a matter of time before they show up here. Magneto also believes that we’ll see an even larger wave in the morning.”

“So do we finally get some sleep, then?” Harlan Kleinstock asked gruffly.

Amelia shot him a withering look and shook her head. “Sadly, no,” she answered. “We’ve got a few more important things to deal with just at the moment. Namely, the X-Men.”

“Those buffoons,” Unuscione scoffed. “I was wondering when they’d show their faces. Don’t worry, Harlan, you’ll be sleeping like a baby come dawn.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to laugh them off, Unuscione,” Amelia said, unable to stop herself. “You were, if I recall, defeated by Iceman, were you not? And isn’t he supposed to be the weak link in that team?”

“Don’t start with me you bitch!” Unuscione shrieked, leaping up from her chair and starting along the table toward Amelia.

Senyaka and Cargil were up immediately, holding her back. More accurately, she allowed them to hold her back, as her psionic exoskeleton could have tossed them both aside like rag dolls if she so chose.

“You cross me one more time—” Unuscione continued, but Amelia cut her off.

“Do not presume to threaten me, girl,” Amelia said, loading each word with menace. “Magneto has made me field leader of the Acolytes and until such time as he chooses to revoke that title, you will follow my commands as you would his.”

“And if I do not?” Unuscione asked defiantly.

“If you do not, then Magneto will never have the opportunity to correct you, for I will have disciplined you myself,” Amelia said curtly. “It is not something you would enjoy.”

“For all your talk, Yoght, you have ever been the softest of us,” Unuscione said smugly as she sat back down. ‘ ‘Do not think your laughable new rank changes that a bit.”

“For the last time, keep silent,” Voght said.

This time, Unuscione acquiesced.

“The Sentinels have recorded the entrance into New York of five members of the X-Men aboard the same Blackbird jet they used as transport to Colorado,” she began. “While the Sentinels could not be spared to confront, or even trail, the X-Men, we have independent confirmation that the Blackbird landed in Central Park and was abandoned there.”

“How the hell do they think they’ll find us?” Cargil asked. “Unless they brought Professor Xavier with them.”

“Xavier is not in Manhattan,” Voght responded. “These are the same five we dealt with so unsuccessfully in Colorado—”

“Speak for yourself, Voght,” Senyaka snapped. “We did just fine against the X-Men.”

“We outnumbered them, Senyaka, but they handed us our heads,” Amelia corrected. “If not for Magneto, we’d be in federal custody right now, heading for the Vault. Of course, the situation is a little different now. We’ve got Magneto and the Sentinels on our side, not to mention all the new recruits that are pouring in even as we speak.”

“What I want to know,” said Sven Kleinstock, “is where are the rest of the X-Men? I mean, there’s at least ten of them, not even counting the various other mutants that are part of their little clique. Do you think this could be a setup?”

“Maybe it is,” Amelia admitted. “Magneto supposed just that. But even if they do have reserves on hand, they aren’t in Manhattan already or we’d know about it.”

“Unless there’s some new recruits that you don’t know are part of the X-Men,” Cargil suggested. “That’d be just the kind of thing they’d pull.”

“Enough chit-chat,” Amelia said finally. “We’ve got our marching orders. The X-Men have got to be on their way here. Lightning was just spotted in Times Square, and it’s a clear night otherwise. That’s got to be Storm.

Unuscione, you and Cargil will take Magneto’s first recruits out to find the X-Men, while the rest of us remain behind and cover the building’s lobby.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Unuscione spat. “The two of us and a couple of rookies up against the X-Men?”    '

‘ ‘If you miss them, or they defeat you, the rest of us will be here to capture them when they reach the building,” Amelia explained, then allowed a small smile to turn up the comers of her mouth. “Unless, of course,” she teased, “you don’t think you can handle it?”

“You bitch!” Unuscione screamed. “You’re setting me up for a fall.”

Amelia sniffed dismissively. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Unuscione demanded.

“You’re a smart girl,” Amelia said. “You’ll figure it out.”

“That’s it!” Unuscione screamed, and used her high leather chair to stomp onto the mahogany table. With a loud, almost melodic hum, her psionic exoskeleton seemed to burst from her body in a three dimensional spray of green light. It enveloped her in a square-edged armor of energy that changed its shape to fulfill her every whim.

“It’s time you were taught a lesson about how you speak to your betters!” Unuscione declared, and began to stomp toward Amelia with murder in her eyes.

“All right, you little brat,” Amelia spat, “you’ve been living off your Daddy’s reputation for way too long. And he wasn’t much to speak of in the end, was he?”

“You’re gonna die, Voght!” Unuscione roared, and her psionic exoskeleton lifted huge glowing arms and brought them down to crush Amelia with their power.

But Amelia wasn’t there. At the last instant, she teleported out of the way, and appeared behind Unuscione. To one side, the Kleinstocks, infantile as they were, began to snicker, giving her away. A battering ram of psionic energy shot out from Unuscione’s back and slammed Amelia hard against the wall. Her breath was knocked out of her, but she teleported again. When she reappeared, she stood next to Unuscione, just beyond the electric green shell that protected the other Acolyte.

“You idiot!” Unuscione cried with delight. “Do you want to die?”

Unuscione reached out and huge psionic energy hands wrapped themselves around Amelia’s throat, and began to squeeze. Stars exploded in Amelia’s head as she instinctively fought for air. But this was what she wanted, to have Unuscione so close. The other woman was merciless and would pound an enemy to gory pulp without blinking an eye. But this close, Amelia had wagered that Unuscione would not be able to resist a more intimate attack, and she had been correct.

That was all Amelia needed, to get her hands on Unuscione’ s exoskeleton.

Struggling to keep from suffocating, even as Unuscione gloated and, more than likely, prepared to break her neck, Amelia slapped her hands over the monstrous psionic energy fingers that choked her.

Then she teleported.

As she reappeared, Unuscione was screaming, her psionic exoskeleton being drawn back into her in tattered ribbons. On top of the mahogany table, Unuscione

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doubled over in pain, holding her hands tight against her chest.

“ What have you done?” she screamed.

“I’ve hurt you,” Amelia said softly, as she stepped toward Unuscione, still on top of the table. Around her, the other Acolytes stared at her in astonishment, as if she had suddenly become a total stranger to them. And in a way she had. None of them had ever really, thought of her as a powerful or dangerous woman. Just transportation. That was about to change.

“I’ve hurt you bad, I hope,” Amelia whispered as she crouched by Unuscione, who knelt now, still holding her hands to her stomach. “I took hold of your exoskeleton and I teleported part of it away.”

“You what?” Unuscione asked, her face red with pain and fury. She began to get unsteadily back to her feet.

“I stole a piece of you,” Amelia said coldly. “I might just as easily have taken your head and teleported away with that. But Magneto would not have been pleased. I hope it hurt. A part of you is gone forever, though I don’t suppose it will prevent you from using your powers.

“Now,” Amelia continued, leaning in to speak through clenched teeth, even as Unuscione finally stood straight and tall once more, “you will not question my orders again. Is that clear?’ ’

“Crystal!” Unuscione said, and slammed her fist into Amelia’s face with such force that Amelia fell back and rolled off the table. Cargil sidestepped to get out of the way, even as Unuscione dove at her.

“I don’t need my power to defeat you!” Unuscione screamed. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”

Amelia stood quickly and moved into a fighting stance. Unuscione came for her and Amelia ducked her blow, brought up her left leg and kicked the other woman three times in quick succession, twice in the face and once in the chest, sending Unuscione stumbling backward.

“Care to try that again?” Amelia asked, and was astounded when it appeared Unuscione was going to take her up on it. For the first time, she began to worry that she would have to kill the other woman to defeat her. Magneto would be sorely displeased, but she knew that if that was what it took, if she had no other choice, then she would do just that.

Unuscione charged at her, roaring. Amelia readied for the assault, just as Magneto entered the room.

“Enough!” Magneto commanded. He lifted his hands and Amelia felt herself plucked from the ground by his magnetic power, as if she were nothing more substantial than a child’s doll. Unuscione also was lifted from her feet, and the two women glowered at one another as Magneto slowly lowered them back to the floor on opposite sides of the table,

“I trust, Voght, that this is the ‘conversation’ that you had planned to have with Unuscione, and that it is now over,” Magneto said evenly as he looked first at Amelia, and then Unuscione. “However, in the unlikely event that there are any among us here who still do not understand, let me make something completely and ultimately clear.

“Regarding field excursions, or any battle situation where I am not present and specifically in command, Amelia Voght’s orders will be noted and obeyed by each and every one of my Acolytes,” Magneto said, meeting

their eyes one by one and finally letting his admonishing gaze rest on Unuscione. “Should I learn otherwise, should any one of you balk at these instructions, you will be severely chastised. If that is not completely clear, speak up now, and I will try to say it more plainly.”

No one spoke. Though Amelia was tempted to smile, she fought the urge. Though there was satisfaction in her victory over Unuscione and Magneto’s rebuke, the Empire Agenda took precedence over all individual concerns. Magneto seemed to think Amelia above such petty things as vengeance, and she did not want to give him reason to think otherwise. Not that it would matter. She had no doubt that her conflict with Unuscione was far from over. The woman had been humiliated in front of her comrades. No matter what Magneto said, Unuscione was stubborn and ignorant enough to seek revenge.

Frankly, Amelia was glad. If she didn’t kill Unuscione first, Magneto would get around to it eventually. Unuscione would leave him no choice.

“Now that I have your attention,” Magneto said, some of the tension leaving his face, “I would like to introduce you to three new Acolytes, the first to be recruited from the growing mutant population of Manhattan. Two of them have fought at my side before, and were, in fact, well acquainted with your father, Unuscione. While we have had our differences in the past, I am pleased to welcome them, and their ally, to their new home.”

Magneto stepped aside, lifting his hand with a dramatic flair that Amelia was surprised to discover in him.

“Mortimer Toynbee, alias, the Toad,*’ Magneto said, by way of introduction. The man who entered the room then was familiar to Amelia only by way of his reputation. The Toad was perhaps five and a half feet tall, though it was difficult to tell for certain from the way he crouched. His posture and his face both reminded Amelia of Quasimodo, for Toynbee was far from handsome. Though his super-powerful legs allowed him to leap great heights and distances, they were also perfectly suited for murder.

Once an object of ridicule, the Toad had developed a new reputation of late, that of a merciless criminal who loved nothing more than to bring pain to his enemies. Amelia was surprised, to say the very least. She knew for certain that Exodus, the guardian of space station Avalon, had rejected the Toad from the list of candidates for citizenship on Avalon for various reasons including his deviousness and doubts about his potential loyalty.

That Magneto would take him in now only served to further illustrate two things that Amelia had come to understand only recently. The first was that Exodus did not necessarily know Magneto’s every whim. The second was that Magneto’s plans for his mutant empire on Earth were far more vast than his original concept for Avalon.

And if the Toad were here, Amelia could guess who was next in line. For Toynbee rarely went anywhere in recent years without...

“Frederick J. Dukes, alias the Blob,” Magneto an-nouced.

Just as Amelia had suspected, and yet, having never actually met Dukes, she was stunned by the size of the man. To get inside the room, the Blob was forced to duck his head and lean the top of his body through the door, then turn sideways and shuffle the rest of his bulk to squeeze through the frame. Dukes must have been nearly eight feet tall and Amelia judged by his sheer girth that he might weigh as much as nine hundred or one thousand pounds. He was incredibly strong, and according to his modern myth, immovable. If the Blob was in your way, you weren’t going anywhere.

Immediately upon entering the room, the Blob set his gaze upon Unuscione, who seemed to shudder visibly at his attention.

“You’re her, ain’t’cha?” the Blob asked. “I can tell just by lookin’ at ya. You’re Carmela Unuscione. I knew yer father, chippie. Me an’ him was buddies. He was a hell of a guy. Just thought you’d like to know that.”

“I, uh,” Unuscione began, stumbling for a response as she looked around at the questioning glances of her comrades. Amelia Voght knew that she herself was staring, watching for some sign of a heart and soul in a woman she believed had none.

“Thanks,” was all Unuscione said, but the Blob, Dukes, merely nodded in response.

Amelia was fascinated. It seemed Unuscione had a heart after all, or at least had had one until her father’s death. As far as Amelia could see, the only thing the other woman cherished was the memory of Angelo Unuscione, the man who had become known as Unus the Untouchable.

“Finally,” Magneto continued, “their long-time partner, a man not very familiar to me, but whom I am certain will come to be a great asset to our cause, St. John Allerdyce. More commonly known as Pyro.”

Amelia had seen Pyro on television, back when he and the Blob were both members of Freedom Force. Of the three new arrivals, she believed he would be the most effective within the Acolytes’ already-established battle etiquette. The man’s curly blond hair flowed over the top of his mask, as bright in the dark room as the nearly gaudy yellow and red costume he wore. He was relatively tall, nearly six feet, but rail thin, almost sickly looking. Still, he didn’t have to fight with his mastery of fire. Pyro had a reputation for flash and braggadacio, but Amelia had an idea he could back it up.

“Right, then, ’ello there all,” Pyro said, his Australian accent obvious but not overpowering.

Cargil stepped forward.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Allerdyce,” Cargil said, with more warmth than Amelia had ever seen her exhibit or, in truth, ever believed she might possess. “My name’s Joanna Cargil, and I’ve read all your novels. I really enjoyed them, but I wish you hadn’t stopped writing.”

“Me, too, love,” Pyro said, his charm nearly tangible. “But, y’know, things ’ave been a bit busy lately.”

Cargil and Pyro laughed together, and Amelia shook her head in amazement. She thought about all the other mutants who were swarming in and around Manhattan at that moment, about the potential for power that existed if they were all to actually join together under Magneto’s banner. Finally, it struck her.

Magneto was not merely attempting to create a mutant empire.

In effect, he already had.

* * *

The Beast had been gone only a few moments when Bobby Drake decided he didn’t want to walk anymore. What was the point of being Iceman if he didn’t take advantage of the few perks his powers offered? At least, that’s the way Bobby figured it.

With barely a conscious thought, an ice platform grew beneath his feet, and Bobby stopped walking. He drew in the moisture from the air around him and froze it beneath that platform. By constantly replenishing it, he propelled himself along. Bobby called this mode of travel his “ice slide/’ but in truth, he wasn’t sliding at all, merely standing still and letting his powers do their job. His speed depended upon his level of concentration and effort, and he had yet to test its upper limits. For now, he was in no rush. The other X-Men were supposed to catch up with him, and he did not feel any overwhelming desire to face Magneto on his own.

Bobby’s eyes flicked back and forth from the horizon to the mini-Cerebro tracking unit he held in his icy fingers. He was the runt of the litter as it was; the last thing he needed was to slam himself into some building because he wasn’t paying attention. Yet he found it difficult not to stare at the digitized face of the tracking unit. Mutant energy signatures were recognized by Cerebro and signified on the tracker as blinking green dots. Since they had landed in Central Park, the number of green dots on the screen had increased dramatically.

But what drew Bobby’s attention so powerfully was the red tinge that glowed at the top of the screen. While the original Cerebro unit, back at the Xavier Institute, had the energy signature of every known mutant programmed into it, the mini-tracker had space only for one target signature at any given time. They had, of course, programmed it to track Magneto in particular, and mutants in general. The red glow told Bobby what direction to go in order to locate Magneto. At least, until they got within a certain range. Then...

The tracker emitted a low, quick beep. Bobby ducked to avoid getting clotheslined by a flagpole that jutted from the granite face of an aging hotel, then looked down at the tracker. The red tinge was gone. Instead, near the center of the top of the screen, a single dot blinked a glowing red in a sea of green dots.

“Magneto,” Bobby whispered, slowing his progress and finally coming to a halt. He stood on a beam of ice twenty feet above the pavement, staring at the screen of the tracker.

“What now?” he asked himself, aloud. The answer was quick in coming: not a damn thing. He was going to contact the other X-Men on his comm-badge and then sit and wait for them to join him before he moved another foot. Bobby Drake may have acted the fool at times, but he assured himself at that moment that he was not fool enough to dare Magneto’s defenses on his own.

Bobby sighed and looked around for a relatively inconspicuous place to wait. There was a sudden electric crackle, like mosquitoes frying in one of those backyard bug zappers his parents always had back home. But it was the sound of something else, too, something it took him a moment to recognize.

“Unuscione!” he called, making her name a curse.

Iceman dove from his ice slide even as the vicious Acolyte slammed an extension of her psionic exoskeleton down on the spot where he’d stood a moment earlier. The ice shattered into a thousand glittering shards and rained down with him as he fell. Utilizing his years of training with the X-Men, in the Danger Room and in real battle as well, Bobby tucked his legs beneath him and spun around in midair. When he thrust his legs out again, he had already created another ice slide beneath them.

This time, it carried him away at a great clip. He had blown the X-Men’s presence in Manhattan by allowing Unuscione to get the jump on him. He had ...

“Whoa, camel,” Bobby muttered to himself as his escape slowed.

Unuscione had attacked him alone. He’d beaten her in Colorado the previous evening, and he could do it again if she was by herself. And if he could catch up with her before she reported back to Magneto, they might still make a surprise attack.

Already, he had made a U-turn and was speeding back to the spot where Unuscione had attacked him, glancing warily from side to side.

“You’ve come back?” Unuscione asked in astonishment, and shook her head with amusement. She stood in the center of the street, as if it were high noon in an old Western town. “You’ve got more guts than I would have given you credit for, Drake.”

“Not at all,” Iceman said as he slid down to the pavement to stand opposite her, fulfilling the western shootout image he had concocted. “In fact, considering how badly I whupped your ass about twelve hours ago, I’d say you were the one showing surprising courage.” “Arrogant fool,” she sneered, and then Bobby heard that frying insect noise again and tendrils of green energy shot from Unuscione’s body, quickly forming a force field of armor around her. “You’re going to die here, and you’re making jokes?”

“Why are people always trying to kill me?” Bobby asked whimsically. “I’m such a nice guy.”

“Nice guys finish last, Drake,” another female voice said, off to his left.

Bobby turned to see who had spoken and Unuscione chose that moment of distraction to attack. He leaped out of the way of her blow just in time, but looked up only to see the Acolyte called Cargil, an attractive, muscular black woman with a killer right hook, racing toward him.

“Oh, please,” Bobby said.

His confidence was growing. Bobby had defeated Cargil before as well. If he could keep the two of them distracted for a couple moments, he thought he might actually be able to beat both of them simultaneously. Iceman froze the ground in Cargil’s path, and the woman’s feet slipped out from under her. Her weight and momentum sent her sliding out of control, and Bobby whipped up an ice shield that acted as a curved ramp, turning and lifting Cargil until she was flying through the air, directly at Unuscione.

Unuscione wasn’t playing games, however. With her psionic exoskeleton, she batted Cargil out of the air. Her fellow Acolyte was sent sprawling several yards away, where she landed hard.

“Oh, Drake, I do so wish I was behind you right now,” Unuscione said, and snickered in a way Bobby found extremely unattractive.

“Right here? In front of everyone?” he laughed.

“Not at all,” she sneered. “You’re not my type. I’d just love to see your face when you turn around.”

I’m not going to fall for it, he vowed. I’m not going to...

“Oh, hell,” he said, and chanced a quick glance behind him.

He couldn’t even get an ice shield up in time to block the Toad’s attack. The little man, whom Bobby had always despised, leaped toward him and slammed his feet into Bobby’s chest. Something cracked in there, and Bobby hoped it was only ice as he sailed backward across the street. He slammed through a picture window, and was immediately on his feet, despite the pain in his chest.

With one instant of concentration, he melted and re-froze whatever had snapped within him. One of the benefits of being made out of ice. He hesitated to think what might happen if he was ever really shattered, but he couldn’t help entertaining the thought at the moment. For the Toad wasn’t alone. As Bobby stepped back into the street, he faced five opponents.

He might have been able to beat Unuscione and Frenzy. He might have been able to beat the Toad as well. But the Blob and Pyro too? Not a chance in hell.

Miraculously, he had held on to the tracking unit and he quickly thumbed the comm-link button from his badge, which he had affixed to the tracker rather than to his icy self.

“Iceman to X-Men,” he said swiftly. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Pyro said, his cockiness and his Australian accent grating on Bobby’s nerves as always. “We’ll have none o’ that.”

The mini-Cerebro unit melted in his hands from a burst of Pyro’s flame. Bobby whipped up an ice shield to protect himself, and then thought better of it. He let the shield drop, then poured on a barrage of icy projectiles. Pyro had no problem melting them, but it at least would keep the man busy while Bobby thought of something else.

Then he had it! If he could just freeze the flame thrower units on Pyro’s back, there wouldn’t be any fire for the madman to control.

Which would have been fine, he realized, if he were only fighting Pyro.

Unuscione’s psionic exoskeleton expanded, lifting a huge electric green arm to crush him where he stood. Bobby could have stopped her, could have frozen the air inside her exoskeleton again, but that would have left him open to attack from Pyro. He leaped clear, but when he looked up, the Toad was already there. The troll-like mutant kicked him in the face, and Bobby stumbled backward, a ringing in his head.

Cargil and Unuscione were behind him, Pyro and the Toad in front. He tried to slide out from between them, and ran directly into the blubbery belly of the Blob. Fred Dukes grabbed Iceman by the arms and lifted him off the ground. Dukes was huge; Bobby had forgotten exactly how huge. There was no way to move him.

“Let go!” Bobby shouted, and froze the moisture over the Blob’s eyes.

Fred Dukes screamed, and dropped Iceman to the pavement. Even as he turned to face the others, Bobby knew he'd lost. Cargil’s fist connected with his face, and Bobby Drake hit the pavement with a crack.

For a moment, the Iceman stared up at his enemies, and then the night melted away into a deeper darkness. After that, there was nothing.    .

The moon shone brightly over Jackson Square, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Cathedral bells rang and the smell of chicory coffee wafted out over the cobblestone street. It all seemed to hit Jean Grey at once, as if waking up from a dream, or entering one. An old sax man on the corner played Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.” The clip-clop of hooves drew her attention to the horse-drawn carriages nearby.

Jean couldn’t see yet just what it was, but something was missing. Something was disturbingly not right about the scene around her. Still, she could not afford to delay. She had one goal in coming here, and that was to discover whether Gambit had suffered any permanent neurological damage from his electrocution, or from Archangel’s paralyzing wing-knives.

As she walked down Decatur Street, Jean peered into narrow alleyways, scanning the darkness, searching for Gambit. She heard the slap of her own boots on the pavement, smelled spicy Cajun cooking from a nearby restaurant, and was momentarily startled when a street-comer brass band launched into “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.”

A radio blared the Neville Brothers “Fiyo on the Bayou” from a small barber shop, perhaps to counterprogram against the brass band, who were rather sloppy, truth be told. On the sidewalk in front of the barber, a wizened old black man sat on a rocking chair. His eyes met Jean’s and, though he didn’t wave or nod or even smile, there was a twinkle of a greeting there that made her feel a little more solid, a little less surreal.

Other than the barber, for Jean assumed it was he, there were very few people on the street. A handful of

folks going about their business, though it was relatively early in the evening. Then it hit her, what had been missing before, what had bothered her. She took a close look at a couple walking by, hand in hand, swaying drunkenly but determined to remain linked together. A bespectacled old woman with an ugly hat and patched canvas bag rode by on a bicycle. Up ahead, a pair of slim dangerous-looking men conversed at the mouth of an alley,

They were all locals. There were no tourists here, though New Orleans was a city that thrived on tourism.

One of the dangerous men up ahead turned slightly to one side, and in the darkness Jean could see the glint of red in his eyes, like flaming coals burned in their sockets. It was Gambit, but not Gambit. He was not in costume, did not even have the long brown duster that she had come to associate with him. No, this was not Gambit but Remy LeBeau, the man inside her comrade in the X-Men. This was Remy LeBeau of the New Orleans Thieves Guild, whose reputation preceded him into every back room in New Orleans Parish. Thief, rogue, troubleshooter, troublemaker.

Remy noticed her, finally. Quickly, he grabbed the elbow of the man he was speaking with, a man who seemed familiar to Jean though she could not see his face. The two of them disappeared into the darkened alley, and Jean quickened her steps to catch up with them.

She turned the comer into the alley, never slowing. There was movement ahead, in the darkness, and she followed. She had nothing to lose now. He knew she was here.

“Remy,” she said, finally speaking, “I need to talk to you.”

Then the darkness swallowed her, an inky blackness that seemed to wash over the alley, making brick walls and trash dumpsters disappear into an ebony void.

“Remy?” she asked the dark. “Why are you doing this?”

Receiving 110 answer, Jean knew that her only hope of finding Gambit was finding the light again. She turned back the way she had come and began to run, paying no mind to the trash cans and other refuse she knew would be underfoot. She heard something behind her, and stopped short.

“Jean,” she heard Remy say, directly over her shoulder.

She turned, and enough light had come back so she could see again. Remy stood there, in costume now, fully suited up in the garb he had worn from the day Storm first brought him to the X-Men. He held his bostick in front of him casually, but she knew how quick he was with the weapon.

That knowledge didn’t save her. Gambit lunged quickly, bringing the stick up in a diagonal blow that struck her across the forehead with a solid thud. Jean fell.

* • *

Jean Grey’s eyes snapped open and her head rocked back as if the blow had been real. And in a sense, it had been. A blow struck on the astral plane, even by one who was not an adept in such areas, could often be as painful as a flesh and blood attack.

She looked down at Gambit’s prone form in surprise.

Almost as if on cue, his eyelids began to flutter. For the first time since he had been electrocuted on the planet Hala, Remy LeBeau was truly awake.

“Well done, Jeannie,” Archangel said behind her. “He’s out of it.”

“Jean...” Gambit croaked, his voice low and gruff from unuse.

Jean bent closer to hear what he had to say, her ear only inches from his lips.

“What is it, Remy?” she asked tenderly.

“Keep outta my head, chere,” he rasped. “Girl could get hurt in dere.”

Then his eyes closed again. This time, however, Jean knew that Gambit was merely sleeping. He would recover completely, would in all likelihood have no more physical problems than a little stiffness when he awoke again. His mind was fine as well, as healthy as ever. But there was clearly something, or any number of things, he desired to keep private, even on a subconscious level.

Jean felt a little guilty, though she had acted only out of the most benevolent motivations. She felt like she had been prying. At the same time, she could not help but be curious about the secrets that Gambit kept hidden from them all. She considered these things for a moment, or two. Then Corsair interrupted her thoughts, and their dire situation erased any thought of Gambit. His secrets were his to keep once again.

“Jean,” he said, and she turned to face him, noting as she always did the similar features Chris and Scott Summers shared, a similarity only she had noticed the first time they had all met.

“What is it, Corsair?” she asked. “How is Hepzi-bah?”

“Recovering nicely, thanks,” he answered. “In fact, she’ll be up in a short while. Raza’s another story, though. His arm’s out of commission for a while. And you, how’s your head?”

“It hurts, but I’m fine,” she assured him. “What’s happening outside?”

Corsair sighed, his lips pressing together to form a slim line of regret.

“It’s not good, Jean,” he said finally. “Ch’od and I have been talking to Scott over the comm-link, and we all agree that there’s only one way we’re going to get out of here.”

“We’re not going to like this, are we Corsair?” Archangel asked grimly, standing by Jean and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. Jean was glad Warren was there. The nearness of friends always added strength.

“No more than I do, Warren,” Corsair answered. “The warp drive is completely trashed. We’re not going to get it going again. If the sun doesn’t fry us in this big tin can before then, our life support systems are going to run out eventually, and we’ll all suffocate on our own breath in here. I’ve done some tinkering in the back, and despite the fire before, the hyperbumers seem to be functional ...”

“That’s great!” Archangel said, obviously elated. “So what’s the problem?”

“The computer is fried is the first problem,” Corsair explained.

“Isn’t there a way to repair that connection outside?” Jean asked, still not understanding what the problem

was.

“That’s what we’ve been trying to do, that’s what Raza and the others were doing when we had that misfire,’’ Corsair explained. “It’s a no go. And now that additional damage has been done, we can’t even jump-start the hyperbum engines from the outside.”

‘ ‘So, in essence what you’re telling us is that the engines are working fine, we just can’t get them to start,” Jean said, shaking her head in disbelief at their predicament.

“Well,” Corsair said, obviously uncomfortable with whatever more he had to tell them.

“We don’t have time for discomfort, Corsair,” Jean said irritably. ‘ ‘What is it? What do you want us to do?’ ’

“Ch’od and I believe that the hyperburners can be directly ignited,” Corsair said finally.

“Oh, that’s marvelous,” Archangel said. “What do we do, crawl up inside the propulsion system and light a match?”

“Close,” Corsair said. “We think that Scott’s optic blasts at full bore can do it.”

Jean was speechless.

“I know you’re not thrilled with this idea, Jean,” Corsair said quickly. “I don’t blame you. But we’ve talked it over, and it’s our only hope. With you protecting him from the hyperburners themselves, dragging him outside the Starjammer until our momentum has relaxed enough that Rogue can bring him inside, well... it’s all we’ve got.”

“Corsair,” shesaidsoftly,shakingherhead, “Chris ... you’re his father.”

“Don’t you think this thing is tearing me apart?” Corsair suddenly shouted. “Don’t you think I’d go out there and do it myself if I could, that I’d do anything I had to not to have to heave my boy out into space againl Come on, Jean, give me a goddamn break! Scott and

Alex are all I have, being their father is the one great thing I’ve done in my life!

“I know what I’m asking!” he shouted, poking at his own chest hard enough that Jean could hear the hollow echo inside his rib cage. “But it’s all we’ve got, dammit. Otherwise we’re all going to die out here.”

Jean stared at Corsair a moment, unable to think of the words to express her regret, her fear, her doubt that she could hold her lover’s life in her hands again without crumbling. Her eyes met his, and she saw all of those things in him as well.

“Chris, I.. she began, but then Corsair took her in his arms and held her in a suffocating embrace, and Jean could say no more.

After a long moment, Jean broke the embrace and looked around the main cabin at the sleeping forms of Raza, Hepzibah, and Gambit. She looked at Warren, who bit his lip and nodded slowly. She barely noticed at that moment that his skin was blue. To her, with that look of concern and grim acceptance, with the intelligence and caring she saw in his eyes, he was Warren Worthington as she had always known him. They were friends. They were a team. They were X-Men. That meant more than Jean could ever put into words.

“Tell me precisely what we need to do,” Jean said as she turned back to Corsair.

• tt *

“I must be out of my mind,” Scott Summers said, shaking his head in nervous anticipation. ‘ ‘What kind of fool sticks his head into the engine of a starship?”

“You must really have the jitters, Slim,” Archangel said, again calling Scott by his teenage nickname in a transparent attempt to lighten the mood. “In the field, you never let on that you’re nervous.”

“That’s different, Warren,” Scott said. “When I’m leading the team, I’ve got to keep morale up or we won’t be at our peak.”

“But now, since it’s just you, the hell with morale, right?” Archangel said, grinning.

“If I could pacify myself with a little pep talk, Warren, I’d gladly do it,” Scott said, somewhat harshly, then began to grin as well. The grin turned to a laugh and he rolled his eyes heavenward. “God, maybe you should just bum me up now, save me the trouble of going out there again.”

Archangel stopped smiling, and a moment later, Scott did as well. It wasn’t funny at all, he realized. Particularly comments about burning up. It was nearing one hundred and twenty five degrees inside the ship, and the temperature was rising rapidly even with life support systems trying to compensate for their nearness to the sun. If his effort failed, they were unlikely to come up with another plan in time.

But there was more to it than that. Even if he could get the hyperbumers to fire up again, and the Starjammer and her crew were able to return to Earth, there was no guarantee that he would be on board when it landed. Or even if he would be alive.

“How do we get ourselves into these things, Scott?” Warren asked soberly.

“We do what we have to, old friend,” Scott responded gravely. ‘ ‘Which I guess answers my question about what kind of fool I am. The kind that does what needs to be done, just like all the X-Men, and maybe a lot of civilians as well.”

“Not enough civilians, Scott,” Archangel said. “Most people know what needs to be done, but they wouldn’t dare attempt to do it themselves. I’ve got to hand it to you, Scott, because there are a lot of courageous people who wouldn’t even attempt what you’re about to do.”

“Thank you, Warren, that makes me feel so much better,” Scott said, trying for levity again, but failing miserably.

“What I’m trying to say, Scotty, is that, well, I know we’ve given each other some grief over the years, but you’ve always set the example for me. I’ve always had great ambitions, things I wanted to do or learn to better myself. Most of what I’ve aspired to are things I’ve observed in Professor Xavier, and in you, Scott,” Archangel said sincerely. ‘ ‘I just thought you should know that.”

“Thanks Warren,” Scott said, with some discomfort. “That means a lot.”

Several seconds of silence ticked by, then Archangel put out his hand.

‘ ‘Good luck,’ ’ he offered.

Scott shook his old friend’s hand, and considered once again the utter insanity of the job before him. It wasn’t the space walk that bothered him, or the fact that he would be alone outside the Starjammer. In many ways, it wasn’t even the fact that he would be forced to jump-start the hyperburners with his optic blasts, risking having his head and shoulders incinerated in an instant.

It was what came after. Sure, Jean would have a hold on him with her telekinetic power, but the Starjammer would be moving at extraordinary speed. The odds were stacked up so high against Jean being able to hold onto him that they might as well be zero. And even if she could, Rogue still had to leave the ship during its hyperburn and try to bring him in. After all, the pressure would be tremendous and it was highly unlikely that he would remain conscious.

In some ways, that was good. Scott wasn’t sure he wanted to be conscious in that moment when the destiny of everyone aboard the Starjammer was decided.

You're thinking too much, Scott, Jean’s mental voice whispered in his mind. As much as I wish I could, we both know there isn ’t any way I or anyone else is going to talk you out of doing this crazy thing. Perhaps that’s for the best, otherwise we die here. My real fear is that, if you fail, then we won’t even be able to die together.

Are you trying to cheer me up? Scott asked in his mind, and he could sense Jean’s amusement on the psychic rapport that they shared.

“Jean’s here,” Scott said aloud, and he and Warren both turned to see Rogue and Jean entering from the gangway.

“Y’all ready for this kamikaze mission?” Rogue asked, with a sarcasm her Southern upbringing would have called sass.

Despite her tone, however, Scott could see she was unnerved by the prospect of their plan. Still, it was not as if any of them had a choice. If any of them, Scott, Rogue, or Jean, had been killed on Hala, or disabled somehow, or had Rogue or Jean not chosen to come along on this trip, then they would not even have had a chance of survival. The people aboard the Starjammer would have had to simply sit and wait to die.

But there was a chance. And Scott Summers would be damned if he didn’t make good on it.

Scott was suited up for the space walk just as the others were suited up in case there were a sudden loss of life support systems. He said nothing as Jean approached and leaned her helmet against his own. Through layers of fluid force shield and ruby quartz, their eyes met briefly. Jean’s face reflected the resolution he had sensed in her mind.

I love you, she said in the intimacy of their psi-link. Always have, always will.

Always is an awfully long time, Scott thought, and he saw Jean smile.

It better be, Jean answered.

“Time to go,” Scott said, and the moment of tension that had frozen the four X-Men in place collapsed, leaving only action in its wake.

Scott entered the airlock and turned to face the small window as it sealed him out of the main body of the ship. Through the tiny portal, he could see Archangel heading away, back toward the cockpit, where he and Ch’od would share piloting duties while Corsair watched over the injured. Jean and Rogue stood close together, both attempting to smile, both failing.

The airlock was sealed, and Scott attached his lifeline to the clamp at the edge of the outer door then latched it to the belt of his suit. The oxygen in the airlock was cycled out into space, depressurizing the compartment. Otherwise, when the outer door was opened, he would have been blown out at a velocity so great it might have snapped his line. The door slid open, finally, and Scott drifted out into space, using his fingers to find hand holds on the door frame and then the hull of the ship. He scrabbled over the outer hull of the Starjammer, and headed for the engines.

Are we sure this makes sense, Jean? he asked in his head. I mean, we spun out of control when only one engine fired before. Aren't we just going to have the same problem? I know that was the warp drive, but they use the same ignition sequence.

Ch’od doesn’t think so, she answered through their psi-link. With the small repairs he already made outside, and what he’s been able to do in the cockpit, igniting one of the hyperburn engines should immediately ignite the other. The propulsion system was offline before, so that didn’t happen.

And it’s online now, right? Scott asked, and sensed a hesitation in Jean that was far from heartening. Jean?

It’s online at the moment, Scott, but Corsair says it’s liable to cut in and out, depending on the way the emergency systems reroute power. They ’re doing all they can.

That’s all I can ask, he thought, and moved on.

As he crawled out to the starboard leg of the ship, toward the engine well, Scott kept Jean apprised of his progress. The sun was on the opposite side of the ship, but its glare glinted off the Starjammer, bright enough to distract him even through the face shield and ruby quartz visor he wore. He was alone, the vacuum of space around him, no one and nothing for infinite miles of space other than his family inside the ship. Jean’s voice, even her presence, in his mind was the only comfort he had.

Even that was disappearing, however, as Scott began to develop an agonizing headache. A red mist of energy seemed to spill from his eyes and out into space through his face shield. They were so close to the sun that, he had passed his potential to store energy, yet he didn’t dare let off an ounce even to relax the pressure in his head. He would need every bit of power to ignite the hyperbumers.

He thought once again of the people within the Star-jammer, of how they represented his entire life. His father, lost to him as a child and rediscovered as an adult. Jean and Warren, members of the first X-Men team, which became his family when he was only a teenager. Gambit and Rogue, brash young reminders of how difficult it was to make love stay in a world that hated and feared mutants so explosively—not to mention, in Rogue’s case, what a barrier those mutant powers could be to interpersonal relationships. They were more recent additions to die team, especially Gambit, and perhaps Scott saw a bit of his future as he looked at them.

If he had a future. But with or without him—even if none of them survived—the X-Men and everything they stood for would continue. When he realized that, an inner calm seemed to grow within Scott. Any trace of nervousness disappeared as he finally reached the engine well. He would do what was required of him, the only thing he could do, in an attempt to save his father, his comrades, his lover. He would do his best. Beyond that, there was nothing. The silence of space was no longer intimidating, but rather, it had become serene in its power, sublime in its apathetic immensity.

Do or die, Scott thought, to himself this time, and if Jean heard him she made no reply.

He felt nothing, no trace of her influence, but Scott had absolute confidence that Jean’s telekinesis would both protect him from the infernal blast that would burst from the engine well, and catch him and drag him behind the ship as it got under way. He placed his life in her hands more completely than he had ever done before, and he did not give it a second thought.

Scott lay along the outside of the engine well and took a last look around. The stars seemed as distant from him here as they ever had from Earth. Still admiring the cold points of distant light, he grasped the edge of the engine well with both hands and pulled himself around, letting his legs drift out and away from the ship.

He looked up slowly, narrowing his eyes to peer within the engine well. Scott did not know what he had expected to see, but he was disappointed when his eyes found only darkness within the long metal alloy cylinder. Rotating his head to stretch his muscles, he heard a series of soft pops and crackling sounds from within his own body. He tried to pinpoint the exact center of the darkness ahead.

Then his eyes exploded in a burst of energy that would have decimated the ship had that been his intention. Never had Scott stored so much energy. Never had he cut loose with such total abandon.

There was a bright flare in the engine well as the engine converted the kinetic energy of his optic blasts and ignited, and a split second where the flame seemed to go sideways as it in turn ignited its twin. Scott had a moment to realize the flame was erupting toward him, and despite his confidence in Jean, he began to duck his head out of the way.

Propelled by the power that Cyclops had brought to bear on its engines, the Starjammer shot forward into space. Scott lost his grip in an instant and went limp just before his tether snapped taut, and suddenly the ship was towing him—for a moment. Then the tether snapped and there was a moment when the ship seemed to be leaving him behind. Suddenly, he was caught up in invisible hands, pulled far behind the ship by Jean’s telekinesis,

at a distance which gave Scott cause for great concern.

His eyes hurt, so finally he closed them. His mind ached and he felt empty inside, drained as if he had been fasting for weeks. When he began to lose consciousness, he was dimly aware of having grown much closer to the ship, and of the sensation of motion.

When he felt Rogue’s arms embrace him, his eyes fluttered open for a moment, and through his pain and exhaustion, Cyclops felt a small smile fighting to be bom on his lips.

Jean? he asked, floating on a sea of semi-conscious delirium. Jean, are we all right? Did we do it?

For a moment there was no answer, and even in his disoriented state, Cyclops began to be overwhelmed with panic. Then her voice appeared in his mind.

You did it, Scott. You did, she said. We’re going to be all right now. We ’re going to make it.

The words were a jumble to Scott, but he got the general impression. Comforted, he allowed himself to slip down into unconsciousness once more. There was something nagging at him, a voice in his head warning him that it wasn’t over until they were back on Earth, but he pushed the annoying pessimist away and settled into Rogue’s strong arms.

His job was done.

V Chapter 10

Exchange Place was awash with frantic humanity, from the media to the military to those who had fled the mutant empire. An almost palpable haze of desperation-derived energy surged in Jersey City, connecting person to person in a massive network of tension. Perhaps the single most powerful concentration of that tense energy was the stretch of pavement in front of the PATH station that served to separate the two sets of trailers and tents that had become the military and media camps—the former on Washington Street, half-out of sight, the latter in the plaza overlooking lower Manhattan.

The only thing occupying that lunatic focal point was the temporary trailer headquarters of Valerie Cooper. Gyrich had set his trailer up with the military personnel, but Val had been unwilling to commit to either side. Still, despite the bedlam around her, Val was calm. It was always safest at the eye of the storm.

“Ms. Cooper, are you insinuating that Mr. Gyrich has been attempting to obstruct you in the execution of your duties?” the Secretary asked over the scrambled vid-comm link he and Val had set up.

“I’m insinuating nothing, sir,” she said firmly. “I’m just telling you what happened exactly the way it played out. How you choose to read it is your business. However, we both know that Gyrich would be only too happy to obstruct me in the execution of my duties if he found an opportunity to do so.”

The Secretary frowned, and Val knew she had crossed the line again. It was damn hard not to, though, what with the parameters of propriety changing with every passing moment.

“Ms. Cooper,” the Secretary chided, “I will ask you,

for the final time, to please remain objective during this operation. It is of the utmost importance that you and Mr. Gyrich put aside your mutual animosity and work to resolve this situation.”

Val lost her patience.

“Sir, with all due respect, I’d be more than happy to do my job and put aside my animosity toward Mr. Gyrich if he would simply hand over the Sentinel override codes, as he was instructed to do by the President himself,” she fumed, her tone edging into sarcasm.

The Secretary was not a forgiving man.

“Listen, Cooper,” he snapped, “I’ve had just about enough from both you and Gyrich. Maybe you’re missing this, what with your own little crises and all, but my ass is on the line here with every second this fiasco holds the nation’s, and the President’s, attention.

“You know as well as I do that Gyrich was ordered to cooperate with your mission, not specifically to turn the codes over to you. If you have the X-Men, and your mission is being held up by Gyrich, then he would be disobeying direct orders from the Commander-in-Chief. But you don’t have the X-Men, do you?”

Val did not respond.

“Do you?” the Secretary asked again, insistent.

“No, sir, not at this time,” she answered, reluctantly.

“Well, if you can produce them, and Gyrich doesn’t give you the codes, get back to me,” he said, exasperated. “Until then, I’m waiting for the President to decide upon a course of action independent of your earlier recommendations. That will probably be Gyrich’s play, and you’ll be out of it. You want a part in this, Cooper? You’d better get some mutants in your court, so we can have a go at the Sentinels. Otherwise, stop wasting my time!’’

Val sat in stunned silence inside her trailer as her vid-comm unit flashed a blue screen, indicating no source of input. She was out of it. The only way to convince the Secretary otherwise was to explain that they could contact the X-Men telepathically and provide them with the codes. But that would mean allowing the X-Men control of the Sentinels without herself or another government official monitoring them, and the Secretary wasn’t likely to go for that. It would also mean letting the government know that Professor Charles Xavier was himself a mutant. And Xavier wasn’t likely to go for that.

Sure, there were other mutants. But Magneto’s vision was alluring, and she could not trust that any of them would be unmoved by it. She did not even trust the X-Men completely. Just the most. Other than her X-Factor team, of course. But they were out of the—

What they were, Valerie suddenly realized, was her only hope.

She typed in a command code on the vid-comm controls, then an override code, and finally an eyes-only destination code. The blue screen turned to white noise, hypnotic static, and there was a high trilling sound that she knew came from the other end of the connection. Suddenly, a face snapped into view amidst hissing static. The picture was distorted, but the identity of the man was unmistakable. It was the leader of X-Factor, Alex Summers, also known as Havok.

“You picked a hell of a time to call, Val!” Havok shouted to be heard over the sounds of explosions and gunfire in the background. “We’re in the middle of a firefight. I hope it’s important.”

“It’s important, Alex,” Val said firmly.

Alex Summers was a brash young man, and Val had never really gotten along with him. However, like his brother Scott, better known as Cyclops of the X-Men, Alex was a bom leader. Not only did he have the raw instinct, but there was a certain charisma about him that demanded loyalty. While Havok had not ever really attempted to hone his skills in the way that Cyclops had, nor had he ever become as grave as Scott often was, he was a firm believer in Xavier’s dream.

And X-Factor was definitely a part of that dream. With the anti-mutant sentiment at an all time high, it was important for the public to see that the federal government was willing to work with mutants. X-Factor’s job was to capture outlaw mutants for the government. It was equally important, however, that they simply exist as a government-sanctioned operation. Part of Havok’s value was that he understood both parts of the job.

“We’ve got a major situation here, Alex,” Val said. “Like nothing else we’ve encountered. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Val, gimme a break, will ya?” he said gruffly. “We’re in the middle of the latest outbreak in a seemingly endless civil war. X-Factor is about the only thing keeping the two sides from slaughtering each other during peace negotiations. I’ve been fighting for days! I’m not exactly near a TV set, y’know!”

“Okay, relax,” she said. “Look, all I want to know is, how soon could you get out of Genosha if you had to?”

“You mean, if we decided to let it all go, to let chaos tear Genosha apart? Just up and left?” he said, astonished.

“If that’s what it takes, yeah,” she responded. “How long?”    ’

“Three to six hours, depending on Loma’s wounds and how badly our transport was damaged,” Havok said grimly. “But I mean it, Val. Tomoirow, maybe they won’t need us this bad. Right now, though, with the UN dragging their heels, we’re the only thing holding Genosha together.”

“Plus, it would take another ten hours for you to get here,” she said, thinking aloud. “Damn.”

“What’s that, Val? I couldn’t hear you. What’s our next move?” Havok asked.

“Stay put, Alex,” she said finally. “But as soon as your presence isn’t absolutely vital, get back here. And be prepared to withdraw immediately on my command if it gets too hot here.”

“What is it, Val?” Havok said. “What’s going on back there?”

She considered telling him, but thought better of it. Knowing Alex Summers, it was completely possible he’d say the hell with Genosha and evac immediately. Which, despite the country’s crisis, would have been fine with Val if she thought it would make a difference. But sixteen, even thirteen hours, would very likely get them there too late to make a difference.

“Just stay put, Havok,” Val said curtly. “Let me worry about it.”

Valerie Cooper stood, ran a hand over her blonde hair where it was tied back in a tight ponytail, and stepped to the door of her trailer. When she stepped outside, she noticed a glow in the eastern sky and realized that dawn was not far off. She wasn’t sure if that would make things easier or more difficult for what was to come.

The first order of business, however, was to acquire the Sentinel override codes. Val was certain that her original plan was the only one with a prayer of succeeding without massive loss of life and property damage. Perhaps the only one with any hope of succeeding at all. Otherwise, Magneto might very well achieve his dreams of empire. No, she had to get those codes.

One way, or another.

• • *

For many years, Charles Xavier had been repulsed by the manner in which the media vultures feasted on the helpless, dying form of America. As the night wore on toward morning, Xavier’s throat had become parched and sore from incessant talking. Just as swiftly, his sense of moral justice had become, if not dulled, then most certainly numbed by the overwhelming cynicism of the media. It wasn’t just repulsive anymore, it was damned depressing.

Only Annelise Dwyer, of all the gathered journalists, had not lowered herself to pander to the fears and prejudices of the nation. Though, admittedly, given the atmosphere created by the agitated military presence, much might be forgiven of those tempted toward confrontation. Xavier had always had a respect for the military—indeed, had willingly served in the Army in his younger days—tempered by knowledge and common sense. He only hoped that there were people in charge who did not share the blind fervor of zealots like Henry Peter Gyrich.

As he wheeled his chair away from his latest interview—with E! Entertainment Television of all things—the psi-weh that emanated from him at all times picked up angry thoughts with himself as their focus. Xavier nonchalantly turned his wheelchair, as though recalling something he needed to do, toward the source of those thoughts.

Val Cooper stalked toward him, filled with righteous anger and a visible sense of plan or purpose.

“Professor Xavier, we need to talk,” Ms. Cooper said.

“I am at your service as always, Valerie,” Xavier responded. “Shall we go to your trailer?”

Cooper looked at him oddly for a moment, and Xavier caught a hint of amusement in her thoughts. Without prying further, he understood. It had crossed Val’s mind that observers, media or military, might believe himself and Valerie to be involved in some kind of affair, that they were sneaking off on a lovers’ tryst. Xavier stifled a smile, for he did not want Cooper to think he was reading her thoughts without her consent. And it had been a momentary, whimsical thought.

He didn’t have to read her mind to know Cooper realized that it was more likely they would be suspected of some conspiracy than of any intimacy. She was lithe, blond, and powerful. He was bald and crippled, and no matter how handsome he might or might not have been, gossip was not likely to center around a potential relationship between them. Such were the assumptions of the world. What bothered Charles was the reason for the assumptions, not the assumptions themselves. For it was true, he could never be involved with Valerie. But that was because he was sworn to another, not because of his handicap.

“What is it you want, Valerie?” he asked as they neared her trailer. “I sense great turmoil in you.” “What, you mean our current situation isn’t cause for turmoil?” she said with heavy sarcasm.

“It’s more than that,” Xavier prodded. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s what’s on Gyrich’s mind that concerns me, Charles,” Val said, letting out an exasperated sigh.

They reached her trailer, and an awkward expression crossed Val Cooper’s face.

“Charles,” she said. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking— you can’t get that chair into my trailer.”

“I know,” he answered. “I just thought this was the most secluded spot for us to have our conversation. Please continue, you were saying something about Gyrich.”

“Well, you know our plan can’t go ahead without the X-Men, and Gyrich loves that,” she said. “It’s going to give him a chance to get back in the good graces of the President and the Director of Wideawake. You see, there has been no attack order, but I don’t think Gyrich is waiting for the order. I think he’s planning to send a small squad in on his own. That was his original plan.” “Even if he does that,” Xavier reasoned, “it is very possible that he has been given an unofficial order to do so. Such things are very popular amongst politicians who have ardent supporters but do not want to take responsibility for the actions of those supporters. It’s become par for the course in American politics, I’m afraid.”

“My point exactly,” Val countered. “I’m afraid. And I don’t think there is anything I can do to stop him.” “Even if we get the codes from him, we cannot

communicate them to the X-Men without Gyrich coming too close to the truth,” Xavier said, speaking what he knew were Valerie’s greatest concerns.

“That’s what I’ve been dealing with,” she acknowledged. “But I want to go ahead and do it anyway. We’ll get the codes, get them to the X-Men, and hope they can wrap this whole thing up before Gyrich starts a bloody civil war with his fascist tactics.”

Xavier was perplexed.

“I’m sorry, Valerie,” he said. “Perhaps I misunderstood. How is it that you plan to get these codes?’ ’ “I’m not going to, Charles. You’re going to have to get them.”

Immediately, Xavier understood.

“You want me to infiltrate Gyrich’s mind, find the codes and pluck them out, is that it?” he asked.

“That is precisely it,” she admitted. “It’s the only way.”

“Then there is no way,” Xavier said coldly. “As you should know from the many years we have been acquainted, Valerie, I simply do not do things like that. I will not enter someone’s mind without their consent unless I am required to do so for purposes of self defense.” “Don’t you see, Charles,” she pleaded. “This is self defense! If Magneto wins, you are sure to be hunted down eventually.”

“That’s not the way it works, Val,” he snapped. “It is against everything I stand for. I simply will not do it, and you should know better than to even ask.”

Cooper fell silent, but Xavier could see from the determination smoldering in her eyes that though the conversation was at an end, the topic would most definitely come up again. He did not relish the thought. There was a line he had set up for himself as a young man, when he had first discovered his abilities. He had crossed the line several times in his life, each with disastrous results.

The most painful had come when his blossoming relationship with Amelia Voght had come to a sudden end. Agonizing over her planned departure, he had psioni-cally commanded her to stay. It had lasted only a moment, but that betrayal of Amelia, of himself and of his ethics had ended any chance they might have had at reconciliation.

Now Amelia Voght was one of Magneto’s most trusted Acolytes. Charles Xavier knew that many of his students, and myriad other people he had come into contact with over the years, considered him nearly perfect, infallible. If only that were true, he thought. To them, he was Professor X, more than human, above pain and error and all the petty things that make up a human being.

He was both pleased and saddened to know that it was not true. He made mistakes, as he had with Amelia. He felt pain when he remembered those mistakes. And he was filled with regret and self-recrimination as he wondered if that breach of the love and trust between them had been the thing to drive her, in time, to become one of Magneto’s followers. If that were true, he hoped that he never discovered it. Xavier suspected it might be too much for him to bear.

As the world’s most powerful psi, a telepath to whom every mind was laid bare, the absolute truth regarding any subject was available to Xavier, awaiting only his whim to reveal itself. More than any other being on the Earth, he knew the power of truth. An extraordinary weapon, it could be used to free people of burdens, to frighten them into submission, or to cause extraordinary and intimate pain.

Simply put, there were times when it was better not to know.

“Look at it this way, Charles,” Cooper persisted. “If we can’t get the codes from Gyrich, then the ball is in his court. He’s going to go into Manhattan like a bulldozer and all hell is going to break loose. We can stop it before it gets that far.”

Xavier knew she was right, but he would not compromise himself under any circumstances.

“What of X-Factor?” he asked.

“I tried,” Cooper snapped. “They’re unavailable.”

A tense silence emerged between them. They shared a long history as allies, but they had never really been friends. Xavier began to see why the relationship had remained so strictly professional. For Val Cooper, the ends most definitely justified the means. The very thought was anathema to Charles Xavier.

“I will consider your recommendations, Ms. Cooper,” he said, then turned and wheeled his chair away from her, heart heavy with thoughts of consequence.

• • •

As he descended into the PATH station for the second time that day, Henry Peter Gyrich entertained several moments of unusual self-reflection. Normally, he was so caught up with his job that he never had time to consider his work, his future, his goals, no time for hollow shouts of victory or the tears of self-recrimination. But this was a rare, quiet moment before the start of what might be his greatest victory.

Gyrich was more self aware than most people gave him credit for. He knew why he was almost universally disliked, knew why Val Cooper hated him so thoroughly. He represented the ugly truth that mutants, regardless of their initial intentions, spelled doom for the rest of humanity. They claimed to be the next step in human evolution, but Gyrich knew better. Mutants were a genetic aberration, as unfortunate and undesirable as Down’s Syndrome, but far more dangerous. If they were allowed to proliferate, to assemble, to present themselves as some minority group deserving of special consideration ... well, by the time people woke up to reality, it would be too late.

Gyrich genuinely felt bad for most mutants. It was not their fault they were bom with that genetic x-factor, not their fault they had become part of the problem. It was also not their fault that, just as there were human madmen, lunatics like Magneto had come to represent the image of the mutant in popular consciousness. The sanctity of the American lifestyle had to be protected from the rise of mutants, but that didn’t mean that individual mutants were bad.

Cursed, perhaps, but not bad.

Not until they crossed the line. As far as Gyrich was concerned, that was inevitable. Along with their mutant gifts, he believed they received some kind of genetic trait which gave them a propensity toward violence and hostility toward authority. They believed their special powers gave them the right to do whatever they liked.

That was the greatest evil of the mutant race. They were not human, and acted as though human laws did not bind them. That was the reason the Sentinels and Operation: Wideawake were so important. That was the reason Gyrich had pushed aside much of his other work for the CIA, NSA, and other agencies in order to put emphasis on the mutant problem.

In no way did he want to see the nation tom apart by the issue. But such mutant uprisings had to be dealt with immediately and with extreme prejudice, before others began to get ideas. Already the government had brought mutants into the fold with X-Factor, which Gyrich thought was a major error. Due to their feelings of superiority, by their very nature mutants were not to be trusted.

And for the President to countenance any contact by his people with the outlaws called X-Men, why that was simply outrageous!

Mutants were a human problem, for humans to solve. Bringing in more mutants was not a solution. Some kind of electronic tracking and power-restraining implant, that would allow the government to keep track of mutants while rendering them no more dangerous to humanity than humanity itself, that was what was necessary. In any case, the world needed to see that humanity could handle the problem on its own. If they relied on mutants to rescue Manhattan from Magneto, they would be starting down a dark path to their own extinction.

More dedicated than ever to his chosen course of action, Gyrich reached the guarded door to the parallel access tunnel that would allow Surgical Ops Unit One to travel into Manhattan unnoticed by the Sentinels. Or at least, that was what he hoped would happen. If they were discovered and eliminated by the Sentinels, Gyrich would have to work on a backup plan. And that backup might be full-scale assault, if he could arrange it.

He hoped SOU1, and Operation: Carthage, would be successful.

As Gyrich entered the tunnel, Major Skolnick snapped to attention.

‘ ‘Sir, Surgical Ops Unit One prepared for deployment, sir. Locked and loaded, sir. Operation: Carthage is waiting for your word.” Skolnick barked, each word enunciated with military precision.

“Excellent, Major,” Gyrich said, and nodded with pleasure. “Gather your men.”

Skolnick disappeared into the tunnel, shouting commands with the confidence of one who is always obeyed. The tunnel was poorly lit, and there was a lot of rustling in the shadows, along with the clanging of weapons and equipment being hefted. In less than one minute, SOU1 had scrambled and presented themselves for attention in front of Gyrich as if he were the Conunander-in-Chief himself.

He liked that. It fit right in with his image of the future, of what he might obtain and attain once this mission had ended successfully. He reminded himself once again of Graydon Creed’s suitability as a Presidential candidate. The phrase “power behind the President” had always intrigued him. There was a definite allure to it.

“SOU1, all present and accounted for, sir,” Major Skolnick barked, and the men and women of the team all snapped to attention right along with their commanding officer,

Gyrich knew that he was expected to tell them to be at ease at that point. He didn’t. For one thing, he didn’t want the team getting comfortable with him, seeing him as just one of them, another soldier. He was hardly that. And for another, he didn’t want them at ease. He wanted them angry, furious, mean. That was how the day would

be won. It had always worked for Gyrich.

“As you all know,” he began, lingering with the words, allowing the rigidity of their attention to weigh on them, “you are about to embark upon the most important mission of your lives. I don’t want anyone underestimating what has to be done here today.”

He scanned each face for any sign of debate, discomfort, annoyance, and found none.

' ‘Full-scale attack is not an option at this time, at least not one the President is yet willing to entertain. And if you fail, he may have to. That means death and destruction, boys and girls. Let’s not make any mistake about that. You can avoid that. That, in fact, is your job here today. That is the purpose of Operation: Carthage. To restore the public faith, both in the American government, and in humanity itself. The people of this country have got to know that when it comes to the mutant menace, we can take care of ourselves! We clear on that?” “Yes, sir!” they responded in unison, with enthusiasm that Gyrich felt was not merely trained into them, but genuine.

“And what is the primary objective of Operation: Carthage?” Gyrich asked.

“Terminate Magneto, sir!” they answered. “Excellent,” he said proudly. “You may begin.” “SOU1 deployed, sir!” Major Skolnick barked. “Operation: Carthage is under way.”

The team hustled up their gear and disappeared back into the tunnel. In seconds, they were gone. Before they were out of range, Gyrich heard one of the grunts bragging to the others.

“I’m gonna tear out that mutie freak’s terrorist heart and feed it to ’im for breakfast!” the man announced.

“Nobody holds a city hostage in America. We just don’t go for that crap here!”

As he made his way back up to the surface, where dawn was already beginning to lighten the sky, Henry Peter Gyrich began to smile.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

• ®

For Storm, the coming of the dawn had a glory unequalled anywhere else in nature. As a child, she had watched the sun rise over the desert sands of Egypt. As a young woman, she had witnessed dawn breaking over the African plains. It was the triumph of light over shadow, the renewal of the spirit, the radiant hope of the future. The sun rose with power enough to send the shadows scurrying underground until it had passed over and night approached once again.

In Manhattan, the arrival of dawn was an altogether different thing, the victory of the light hesitant and uncertain. It was inevitable that the sun would rise, that the shadows would be beaten back. But in the darkened canyons created by row upon row of towering structures, there was a moment each morning when the outcome seemed questionable.

That moment had come. As Storm glided upon the winds at her command, sunlight crept over the tops of buildings, shone down on entire blocks where few walked alone. Guerrilla warfare ensued between light and dark, and finally, the dawn’s light flowed like liquid gold through the streets of the city..

Another day was won, another in an endless series of tiny, meaningless battles. But night was not far off, and that would bring another battle, another chance to lose.

Storm marveled, as she always did, about the wonders of nature. She prized the dawn as it charged the city with gold light and blue sky, with bird song even in this polluted environment. And yet, the eternal balance was always in place. Without the night, there would be no day to cherish, without the day, no shadows to fear. It meant everything, and nothing. The two gave each other

meaning, but the cycle was so equally balanced that each became almost meaningless.

Were they a part of a similar cycle? she wondered. With the Professor as the day and Magneto as the night, were they fighting an uncertain battle that was merely a tiny part of a ceaseless struggle? Did it matter, in the end, who won the day, when the straggle would go on?

Inhaling deeply, Storm ran her slender fingers through her long silvery white mane of hair, felt the warmth against her face despite the wind. Dawn had always been a moment of freedom for her, as well. Freedom from the special terror the night held for her personally. Though she might be in open air, no walls in sight, she could not avoid a small tinge of her radical claustrophia when it was dark. She might not be enclosed in any small space, but the darkness felt confining, restrictive, and that was enough.

And if the day surrendered, determined that the fight was useless and withdrew from battle? Why then, the night would win. There would be no day. She would be forever cloaked by darkness, and Storm did not think she could retain her sanity in such a forever night.

In a sense, the struggle was nearly as important as victory.

“Any sign o’ Drake, Ororo?” a gruff voice asked over the comm-badge she wore on her clavicle.

“None,” she responded, touching the badge to transmit her voice. “I think we’d better discuss this.”

At her mental instruction, the wind whipped around her, turning Storm and propelling her back the way she had come. Two blocks ahead, she saw her teammates awaiting her in the shadow of a newsstand. Wolverine and the Beast remained close to the small structure, attempting to be inconspicuous. Though he had more formal training than any of the X-Men, except perhaps Wolverine, Bishop did not make any effort to conceal himself. He stood rigid with tension, his backup weapon ready in his hands to eliminate any sudden threat.

Storm had to wonder whether Bishop was going to be able to handle the mission. Though he had been able to maintain his control when it counted, he had already shown himself prone to frenzied overreaction. It was understandable, given the part the Sentinels played in his upbringing. But it could also be dangerous. Storm had to make sure that didn’t happen. She could not allow Bishop’s fears of the future to cost one, or all of them, their lives.

Storm had created an updraft beneath her, and now she slowly lessened its intensity until her feet touched the ground. Wolverine moved silently to where she stood, their time together as teammates and as partners on the road having long since eliminated the need for useless chatter and ponderance. Bishop was silent as well, and so flush with nervous energy that Storm could nearly see it emanating from his skin. He was more on edge than she had ever seen him, and with Bishop, that was saying something.

The Beast, on the other hand, was rarely without an opinion.

“Not a solitary indication regarding Robert’s fate or present position,” the Beast said, his tone betraying obvious concern for Iceman’s welfare. “I ought never to have deserted him. If any ill has befallen him, I—”

“Drake can take care of himself, Hank,” Wolverine grumbled. “You know that even better than I do.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Bishop added without venom,

but Storm saw the way Hank and Logan looked at him.

“Yeah, I know Logan,” the Beast said, for once lapsing into more colloquial language. “But if anything happened to my little buddy, mother McCoy’s bouncing boy would still feel responsible.”

“We’ll find him, Hank,” Storm said, and offered a smile in appreciation for Hank’s attempt at levity.

“We have another problem none of you seems willing to address,” Bishop said, his tone harsher than ever. “If we cannot find Drake, that means we have no way of effectively tracking Magneto. This is a very big city, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re playin’ this one wrong, Bishop,” Wolverine said, a trace of menace appearing in his voice.

“Indeed, Bishop,” Storm agreed. “I understand the kind of stress you must be under, but—”

“You have no idea what’s in my mind, Storm!” Bishop snapped. “There is no possible way for you to understand the dread that has frozen my heart since we left Colorado! You have not lived death on the scale I lived it, felt fear with every breath! You could not even conceive of the consequences of your actions today, and you stand here and worry about the X-Men’s ‘class clown’ because he has lost his way! We have a job to do!”    "    '

Storm had heard enough.

“That will do, Bishop,” she said curtly. “Do not presume to tell me my job. You claim to have been such a model soldier. Good—see if you can follow orders. I am your superior in the hierarchy of this little army called the X-Men. When I issue a command, you snap to it. If I say we look for Iceman, then we look for Iceman. I don’t know how you did things in the future, but you’re

an X-Man now, and we take care of our own.”

“Conversely, Ororo,” the Beast interrupted, “it would not do to linger a moment longer than necessary. While we are in motion, there is less risk of being discovered. Without any means to track Bobby, we probably should move on. Once Professor Xavier contacts us again, we can request that he do a psi-search for Magneto in the area wherein Bobby originally noted his presence.”

“But we can’t go too far,” Storm protested, all the while astounded that the Beast would voice any agreement with Bishop after the future X-Man’s behavior.

“I vote we get movin’, ten blocks south, then find an out o’ the way place to sit an’ wait for Charlie’s next contact,” Wolverine said. “I’ll take point, see if I can’t pick up the scent o’ Magneto or one o’ his lapdogs. It’s the best we’re gonna do, right about now, ’roro,” “Agreed,” Storm said, and nodded slowly.

“One last thing,” Bishop said, and Storm could hear the hesitation in his voice. “I recommend that you remain with us. With daylight upon us, you would be a very clear target in the air.”

Storm shared Bishop’s hesitation, then released the anger she felt toward him. It would work against them when the time for battle came. She smiled at him, and he returned the favor. Storm touched his elbow and moved him along beside her.

“Let’s go,” Storm said. “Time’s wasting.”

They had not taken twenty paces when Wolverine came to a dead halt in front of them.

“Logan,” Storm said worriedly. “What is it?” Wolverine turned slowly, an amused smile spread

across his features. He shook his head incredulously, then he issued a small chuckle.

“We got company,” he said in a low growl. “An’ you guys ain’t gonna believe who it—”

Before Wolverine could finish his sentence, chaos erupted out of the hot glare of the morning sun. The Acolytes were attacking, but they were not alone.

* * *

The Beast was astonished. He was one of the first generation of X-Men, and had seen members of the team come and go over the years since he had first joined, including himself; indeed, he was the first X-Man to leave the fold, not returning to the team for many years. The opposing side had also gone through an evolution. Early on, Magneto had gathered around him a small group of who gave themselves the unlikely name of “the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants.” That was the means to his hoped-for end, at least early in his career. Later, those mutants had gone their own, separate ways, and it had been Hank McCoy’s understanding that there was no small amount of animosity between them.

But here were the Toad and the Blob, two of Magneto’s original allies, and their teammate in a more recent incarnation of the Brotherhood, Pyro, working alongside Magneto’s present Acolytes Unuscione and Cargil.

He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Not really. After all, this was what Magneto had promised, mutants who had nothing in common but their genetic x-factor banding together to conquer humanity. But looking at these five most unlikely teammates, for the first time, the Beast truly believed that Magneto could fulfill that promise if left unchecked.

That was where the X-Men came in.

“Destroy them, Acolytes!” Unuscione shrieked madly half a block away, even as she tried to crush Bishop beneath her exoskeleton. “Death to the X-Men!”

Bishop dove to escape Unuscione’s blow, and his gun clattered to the pavement, out of reach.

“So much for Magneto’s open door policy,” the Beast mumbled, and tensed to spring to Bishop’s aid.

A powerful hand clamped on his shoulder.

“Not so fast, McCoy,” a female voice said, and Hank tried to dodge the blow he knew was coming. He caught a glancing blow to the back of the head, and tumbled forward. The momentum and temporary disorientation threatened to leave him sprawled on the ground, a perfect target. But he had not trained for so many years to end up in such an ignominious position. Hank used the momentum to tumble into a somersault. As his feet came around to the ground, he sprang away, putting space between himself and his attacker. He spun in the air, and when he landed a dozen yards away, he was facing her.

Joanna Cargil, once known to the X-Men as Frenzy. She was a muscular black woman whose strength was multiplied exponentially by her mutation. And she was faster than the Beast had remembered.

“Joanna,” Hank sighed. “Once again you disappoint me.”

Cargil strode toward him, on guard but without fear.

“Once, that kind of thing would have hurt me, McCoy,” Cargil said. “I was so inexperienced, insecure, when we first met. That’s changed now. I know my duty, my destiny. I don’t care if you’re disappointed. The unenlightened often are.”

“Ah,” the Beast said with a purposely patronizing smirk, “a zealot. I shall look forward to thrashing you, then.”

“Why you pompous, overbearing...” Cargil began, and rushed at him, ready to deliver a blow capable of shattering his skull.

Hank had no intention of letting her connect. Once again, his good nature and his reputation had somehow caused an opponent to forget just how strong he was. The Beast felt it was time his enemies were reminded. Cargil moved fast, yes, but he was infinitely faster. He could have leaped from her path, escaped any number of ways, worn her down until she might have been subdued in less violent fashion.

But there wasn’t time for niceties.

Cargil swung at him, crouched low in boxing fashion to avoid a counterpunch to the body. But the Beast was out of patience. He put his left arm up to knock Cargil’s blow away, steeled himself for the pain that even that tangential impact was certain to bring, and struck. His massive fist curled into a ball of blue fur that looked as though it should be soft, but was like solid stone beneath the downy pile.

It was a testament to Cargir s hardy constitution that she did not simply drop in her tracks when the Beast’s fist slammed into her cheek and nose. Her head snapped back at whiplash speed and blood burst from her left nostril. Eyes filled with rage, Cargil began to raise her fists again. A smile spread across her face, and she seemed about to say something, seemed confident that the Beast would give her the time to recover, time to taunt him, time to fight it out the way they had once before. Confident that, if he did, she would win.

The unwritten rules of a fair fight allowed time for your opponent to recover. But Hank McCoy had neither the time nor the inclination for a fair fight.

Before Cargil could speak, Hank hit her with a left, then a right to the gut, and a left again to the face. When she fell to the ground in front of him, nearly unconscious, several things occurred to the Beast simultaneously. He had stooped to a method of fighting he had always tried to avoid—two people standing toe to toe and pummeling one another. He had badly beaten a woman whose major crime had always been ignorance. And he was sickened by it. Sickened and ashamed, and wishing he was home, curled up with Shakespeare and cocoa. Anywhere but here.

He turned to walk away, to offer help to his teammates, who seemed to be at the very least holding their own. Then he heard movement behind him, and spun around to see that Cargil was trying to raise her head. Her eyelids fluttered as she fought unconsciousness. Though it seemed to cause her pain, she sneered.

“Just thought you should... know,” she said, her words staggered, slurred. “Drake whimpered like ... a puppy when 1... took him down.”

“What?” the Beast roared. “What did you do to Bobby?”

Cargil’s cheek hit the pavement with a wet slap, and she was completely out. He knelt over her, trying to get her to wake up, but it was no use. She and the others had ambushed Iceman, that much was clear. But Hank did not know if his old friend was alive or dead. When he turned back to the battle, it was with the single intention of discovering Iceman’s fate.

* * •

Whenever he saw Mortimer Toynbee, the Toad, Wolverine was tempted to underestimate him. After all, the man had always passed himself off as a benchwarmer, as the Peter Lorre character in a film, or Igor to Magneto’s Dr. Frankenstein. A loser. A third-rate coward who was little or no threat. But his heart was filled with evil and hatred, and he could do quite a bit of damage with those powerful legs.

So he was no third-rater. Still, he was second-rate at best. In any case, it was hard not to underestimate him at first. Wolverine was going after the Blob, eagerly anticipating the idea of putting Dukes on the adamantium claw diet, when the Toad slammed into him from behind. The impact, with the power in those legs, knocked Wolverine from his feet. He sailed across the street and slammed into a wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and loosen several bricks.