The Legacy Quest Trilogy

by Unknown Author

  Sebastian Shaw had been working towards this goal for a long time; since long before the X-Men, Selene or anybody else had chosen to interfere. He had invested a lot of time and money into the battle against the Legacy Virus. He had made plans and dreamt of possibilities, and all of them depended upon his being the sole benefactor of the eventual fruits of his labor.

  Now, it seemed that his longed-for cure was almost within his grasp at last-albeit still tantalizingly out of reach-and he had no intention of sharing it with anybody.

  GHAPTE

  AT FIRST, Phoenix didn’t know why Sage had taken the X-Men and Shaw into the subway station at 24th Street and

  _Sixth Avenue. It appeared long deserted, its floor layered with

  dust and the windows of its ticket office cracked and cobwebbed. At some point, it had been the site of a fierce battle: one end of the station had collapsed, and much of the fallen brickwork and earth was fused into slag. Jean could detect no thought patterns. Still, Sage approached the blocked entrance to the PATH system—the train line that connected Manhattan to New Jersey—and spoke in a loud, clear voice: “Knight to Queen’s 8, checkmate.”

  The obstruction fizzled out like a television picture cut off from its signal. A flight of steps was revealed, and Sage led the way down toward bright lights and the sound of low voices. She passed three teenaged boys, who stared at their colorfully clad visitors with saucer-wide eyes. “Lightshow has the power to create solid holograms,” said Sage, “and with Booster here amplifying his power, he can make them all but permanent. DK will replace the dust that we disturbed on our way through.” She glanced at Phoenix. “And we have four telepaths. We work on a rota system, keeping our presence masked from psi-sensitives.”

  “You’re sure well hidden down here,” said Rogue.

  “We have to be.”

  Their arrival on the PATH platform was greeted by a sudden hush as a dozen heads turned towards them. To Phoenix’s disappointment, she saw no familiar faces. If Sage’s group represented the main opposition to Selene’s rule, she would have expected to find at least some X-Men, past or present, among its members. Unless, she thought with a chill, there were no X-Men left. Perhaps she ought to have put the question to Sage; she was wearing the team’s logo, after all, and must have had some contact with them. But she didn’t think she was ready for the answer yet. She tried to console herself with the thought that so far she had seen only a small portion of the rebels’ base. The platform and the tracks to each side of it had been partitioned into many smaller areas by white sheets hung from frayed ropes.

  A young woman with a shaved head-another Genoshan mutate, presumably—had disappeared between two such sheets upon the X-Men’s arrival. She returned now at the heels of a taller man with a confident gait and a regal bearing. His clothing was pure white, which made him look as if he had just stepped out of a detergent commercial; it also covered every inch of his skin. He wore a white jacket and breeches, white boots and gloves, a white waistcoat and a white cravat around the collar of his white shirt. He even wore a white mask, which covered his face and hair and left only his eyes exposed.

  Sage went to him and slipped an affectionate arm around his waist. “Allow me to introduce the savior of mutantkind,” she said.

  The X-Men approached the pair more warily. “Looks like Hellfire scum to me,” growled Wolverine.

  “Selene only allows Black royalty into her Inner Circle,” said the white-clad man, his voice muffled by his white mask. “She is too arrogant-and yet also too weak-to expose herself to contrasting opinions.”

  “So, let me guess,” said Nightcrawler, “you must be the White King, nicht wahr?”

  “For now, I am merely a White Knight, charged with leading my troops to victory.”

  “Whereupon,” said Phoenix, “you will be ‘crowned,’ I expect.” “Indeed,” said the White Knight. “But I will be a benevolent King. My first act will be to lower the barrier around this city. Then I shall ensure distribution of the Legacy cure to all who need it. I will liberate New York, and mutants worldwide.”

  “If your motives are so pure,” said Cyclops, “why the mask?”

  “I might ask the same question of you, my friend.”

  “The White Knight is the figurehead of our movement,” said Sage. “If Selene learned his true identity, she would hunt him down and subject him to unimaginable torments. If his followers do not have that information, then they cannot be tortured for it.”

  “You must all be tired,” said the White Knight. “I know what you have been through to reach us. We have prepared quarters for you, if you would care to follow me.”

  Phoenix, like the rest of the X-Men, looked to Cyclops for his lead. She knew that her husband was exhausted and would welcome nothing more than a few hours’ sleep, but he concealed it well. “I think we have a few things to discuss first,” he said tersely.

  “On the contrary,” said Sage, “everything is well in hand.”

  “And you must get some rest,” said the White Knight, “before we make our final assault upon Selene tomorrow night.”

  He turned and swept through a join in the hanging sheets, as if in no doubt that he would be followed. Cyclops hesitated for a second before proving him right. His teammates took their cue from him. Shaw, who had been silent since they had left Avengers Mansion, stepped through the gap alongside Storm. Sage brought up the rear. Phoenix fell into step beside the former Tessa as they made their way down a narrow corridor formed by sheets on each side. It was like walking through a circus tent-except for the intermittent sound of hacking coughs, which served to remind her that New York was a city under self-imposed quarantine.

  “How many rebels are there?” she asked.

  “Thirty-seven,” said Sage with typical precision, “in addition to our leader and myself.”

  “I didn’t recognize anybody.” It was a simple statement of fact, but the possible implications of it caused a sick, nervous flutter in Phoenix’s stomach as she spoke.

  “Twenty-four of our people are Genoshan mutates, who came here seeking Selene’s cure. A further seven were made aware of their mutant genes only when they became infected.”

  Phoenix was about to ask about the remaining seven when one of them pushed her way into the makeshift passageway from a small compartment beside it. She was a young woman, short and slender, with blonde hair cut short at the back but falling over her face at the front. Unlike most of her colleagues, who were dressed in simple fatigues or Genoshan slave uniforms, she wore a stylish trouser suit which had no doubt been expensive. Jean recognized her, but she couldn’t quite place her. Most likely, she had seen her picture in the X-Men’s files. The woman looked startled, and she turned away and threw her hands up to her face as if hoping to hide it. Phoenix followed the broken line of her sight, and was interested to see that it ended at Sebastian Shaw. He didn’t appear to have seen the woman.

  The White Knight dropped onto the left-hand set of tracks and, brushing aside a final white sheet, led his guests into the tunnel. A train had been stranded there, its doors jammed open. The X-Men made their way in single file between the vehicle and the tunnel wall, and followed their host on board. The seats had been ripped out of the carriage, five camp beds and a pile of blankets jammed into the narrow space instead. “We have made our finest rooms available to you,” said the White Knight with a trace of humor. “The five gentlemen can sleep in here; the ladies will find a further three beds in the adjoining carriage.”

  “Sage wasn’t exaggerating then,” said Nightcrawler. “You certainly were expecting us.”

  The White Knight cleared his throat. “We have known for some time of Selene’s spell, and we have been awaiting your return.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Sage, “we couldn’t greet you when you arrived. We couldn’t station agents too close to the Hellfire Club without their being sensed. We had to wait until you had escaped from the Black Queen, and then find you.”

  “We
shall leave you now,” said the White Knight, “and talk more tomorrow. I am sure you have many questions.”

  That was certainly true-but right now, those questions didn’t seem to matter. It was still early evening, but the X-Men hadn’t slept last night and Phoenix was weaiy. She wanted to draw a line beneath the events of this difficult day. Perhaps things would look better in the morning. Perhaps, at least, she would be able to think more clearly, to start to deal with everything that had happened. She followed Rogue into the next carriage and lowered her aching body onto a camp bed, covering herself with warm blankets.

  Storm, she realized, had lingered in the doorway to conduct a muttered conversation with Wolverine. Phoenix shouldn’t have been able to overhear them, but she inadvertently caught the pair’s surface thoughts, which served to amplify their words for her.

  “Just thought you ought to know,” said Wolverine, “I caught the White Knight’s scent. Didn’t quite believe it at first-thought I must’ve been mistaken—but now I’m sure.”

  Storm nodded. “I don’t know how it can be possible either.”

  “You recognized him too, right?”

  “His body language, his speech patterns ... yes, my friend, I recognized him.”

  They parted then, Wolverine returning to his own carriage as Storm took the final bed in this one. Phoenix drifted into sleep, with one more puzzle to ponder on when morning came.

  Shaw lay still and listened to the sounds of breathing-and the occasional snore—until he was sure that none of his roommates were awake. He had been through as much as most of them, but his energy-absorbing powers had allowed him to refresh himself repeatedly, and he had needed no more sleep than usual. His body clock had been thrown off by his journey through time, but he guessed that midnight was some hours past, dawn yet to come. The light from the platform, some of which had found its way into the train carriage last night, had been extinguished and he could hear no voices.

  He levered himself out of his camp bed, wincing as it groaned beneath his weight. He tiptoed towards the nearest door, but caught his breath as he saw that the one bed in his way appeared empty. Then he remembered that the berth was occupied by Nightcrawler, whose mutant gene allowed him to blend into the darkness. Concentrating, he was able to discern the outline of the goblin-like X-Man, fast asleep.

  As he stepped out into the tunnel, however, he was assailed by the stink of cigar smoke. Wolverine was blocking his way to the platform, leaning against the side of the carriage. “And where do you think you’re slipping away to, ‘Your Majesty’?”

  “I find myself restless,” said Shaw. “I desired some fresh air.” He looked pointedly at Wolverine’s cigar, and the Canadian X-Man seemed to accept his explanation. He allowed the Black King to squeeze past him and continue on his way.

  As he hauled himself up onto the platform, Shaw heard Wolverine’s soft but threatening growl behind him. “I’m watching you, bub.”

  A few night-lights had been jury-rigged into the roof wiring to dispel the subterranean blackness. Shaw’s eyes adjusted slowly to the desultory illumination as he made his way along the platform and peered into each partitioned cubicle in turn. His gaze was met by more than one pair of wide eyes from the camp beds therein, but nobody spoke to him nor raised an alarm. He saw no sign of Sage or the White Knight, but presumed that their quarters were housed further along the train or in a second one at the other end of the station. Either way, he had no doubt that they would be together, in adjoining rooms if not in the same bed. He was hurt by that thought. As often as he had been betrayed in the past, he had come to rely on Tessa, trusting her as he had trusted few others in his life. Bad enough that she had thrown in her lot with the X-Men in his absence; now she also had a new master, to whom she showed as much loyalty as she ever had to him.

  He put such thoughts from his mind. It was not Tessa who concerned him at present.

  He found the young blonde woman asleep on her back, hair splayed across her pillow, a displaced blanket revealing an elegant silk negligee. Three confident strides took him to her side. He dropped to his haunches and placed one hand across her nose and mouth, the other atop it. Her sleep became fitful as her brain slowly registered the fact that she could not breathe. A second later, her alarmed eyes snapped open.

  “Good morning, Ms. Payge,” said Shaw with a cruel smile. “I do apologize for my earlier rudeness. I trust you didn’t think I had forgotten you?”

  The world distorted around him. The white sheet walls of Reeva Payge’s quarters became screeching ghosts, reaching out to entangle the unwanted intruder. Shaw had been prepared for this. Even with her mouth covered, Payge could sub-vocalize notes which, although beyond the range of human hearing, wreaked havoc with the neurochemistry of the brain. He closed his eyes, but he could still see the leering phantoms and feel the floor pitching beneath him. He ignored the illusion and the dizziness that came with it, and focussed upon his own body, determined not to move a muscle.

  “Not a very bright idea, Ms. Payge,” he said through gritted teeth. She was more powerful than he had thought. Not powerful enough, though. “I am well aware of your abilities, and I can assure you that they won’t keep me from suffocating you, should you force me to do so.”

  His surroundings returned to normal, although he wasn’t sure if Payge had given up because of his threat or because she had run out of breath. He had pinched her nostrils closed; she could still suck in air through her covered mouth, but not nearly enough. She tried to remove his hands, but he was pressing down too hard. She ceased her struggle at last, and her eyes pleaded with him for mercy.

  “That’s better,” said Shaw. “Now I am going to take my hands away in a moment-and, when I do, you will have one chance and one chance only to speak to me. If you wish to survive this night, you will use that chance to answer one simple question.”

  Beneath his hands, Reeva Payge nodded eagerly, her eyes saying: Anything.

  “I have been waiting a long time to find you, Ms. Payge-you or one of your colleagues. I know all about you. I know you served on the Inner Circle of the New York Hellfire Club under my son. All I want to know is this: where is he? Where is Shinobi?”

  He loosened his hold, then, just a little, and Payge’s chest heaved as she sucked in great lungs full of air. Shaw waited until finally, in a halting voice, she gave him his answer.

  A minute later, he sank into a canvas chair in the small communal area at the front end of the platform. He hadn’t expected to find one of his son’s minions here, of all places. After all this time. Her presence had complicated things. Now, he had two matters to attend to; two tasks that were each as important as anything he had ever done. He burned with impatience to get started, but he was trapped in this hovel by the boy Lightshow’s so-called solid holograms. He had no doubt that the tunnels would be blocked as the stairs were. His original plan had been to wake the young mutant and force him to lower his barriers—but that might cause a commotion which, with Wolverine on the alert, he could well do without.

  Somebody had left a combat jacket slung over a collapsible table. Shaw took it and donned it over the shredded top half of his boiler suit. He settled back in the chair again, and fought down his own mounting frustration as the slow seconds ticked by. Whatever the situation, he had always known the importance of biding his time.

  Wolverine had familiarized himself with the layout of the station, in case of an emergency. One of his concerns had been that an enemy could stumble upon the rebels simply by exploring the subway system; however, a hundred yards beyond the train on which the rest of the X-Men slumbered, the tunnel ended at a brick wall. He had tested it, feeling that its texture wasn’t quite right. A solid hologram, then. He had given it a few experimental taps and felt it vibrate beneath his knuckles. Its function was to deflect attention rather than force; chances were, it wouldn’t take much of the latter to get through it.

  When his worst-case scenario was realized, then, he was prepared.

>   He leapt into action before the echoes of the explosion had died down. He popped his claws and clattered them along the side of the train as he loped past it, shouting: “Heads up people, we’re under attack!”

  He caught the decaying stench of Selene’s demons before he saw them. They rushed out of a pall of smoke towards him, at least eight of them, and he greeted them with deadly force. But the demons and the smoke overwhelmed his sensitive nostrils, and he didn’t detect the less pungent scent of an old foe until it was too late.

  She reared up in front of him and took him by surprise. Her claws were as sharp and unyielding as his, and he roared in animal pain as she raked them across his face. He made to strike back, his anger fuelled by the burning lines on his cheek, but she had already sprung away from him with remarkable agility and grace. Snarling, he lunged for her, but the demons held him back. They were trying to bear him down by sheer weight of numbers, and he was forced to concentrate on extricating himself from a headlock. As he was thus distracted, the woman darted in behind him and struck again, her claws biting into his back.

  As Wolverine’s rage grew, he abandoned his attempts to fight defensively. He lashed out as hard as he could, not caring what damage the demons did to him as long as he could hurt them in return. Three fell and didn’t rise again, but a fourth got a hold on his back and wouldn’t let go. He sensed the woman moving in behind him and twisted around, bracing himself against the demon and meeting her charge with a two-footed kick to the gut. He felt like he had stubbed his toes on the hull of a battleship, but he succeeded in repulsing her.

  A cold smile spread across her pale face, and her dead eyes glowed. She returned his glare with a calculating gaze, waiting for her next chance. She flexed the foot-long, double-jointed fingers that Wolverine knew were artificial. They were forged from metal, laced like his own claws with adamantium, wrapped in artificial flesh and sharpened to cruel points. Much of her body was artificial too, replaced in an insane quest to make herself stronger and more durable. Her legs were armor-plated, and Wolverine doubted that there was much flesh, blood or bone left beneath them. She wore a scarlet and white Japanese-style headdress and robes as if to remind him of the Samurai training that had made her a deadly warrior even before her surgical enhancements. She had done all this to herself for one reason: to become Wolverine’s nemesis. Once, she had been called Yuriko Oyama; now she answered to the name of Lady Deathstrike.