He smiled as a thought occurred to him. Only mutants could pass through the barrier, right? So, if he went around the outside of it rather than the inside, then the demons would be unable to follow him. He could make his journey in safety and reenter the quarantined island at its southern tip, right on top of Battery Park and the rendezvous point.
An angry howl behind him hastened his decision. With a cheery wave and a cry of “See you around, suckers!” Iceman formed another ice slide and propelled himself along it, leaving the perplexed demons standing. He cringed in anticipation as he hurtled towards the barrier, but there was no pain, not even a suggestion of resistance, just a touch of dampness and a slight tingling sensation. It was like sliding into a fog bank. He was enveloped by a white shroud ...
... and as it lifted, he was hit by the cold light of the full winter sun, bright in the eastern sky. He flinched from it, shielding his eyes with one hand, and suddenly he was aware of a gigantic figure above him. It swooped down towards him, and his jaw dropped in alarm as he realized what it was.
It was humanoid, but large enough for its questing fingers to wrap themselves around Bobby Drake’s slender body if he let them. It was made of metal, tinted in shades of maroon and light blue. Iceman half-leapt, half-tumbled out of its reach, but a powerful fist shattered his slide like glass and sent him into free fall. The East River filled his field of vision and he braced himself for impact. Instead, he was suddenly jerked upward as if on strings. He rolled over and saw a giant blue hand poised above him. A circular orifice on its palm had slid open, and the air rippled as an invisible tractor beam did its work. He tried to block the hole, but the robot’s other hand emitted a blast of concentrated heat, which melted his ice plug before it was fully formed. His armor was beginning to turn to water; it was all he could do to maintain it, and even this was a losing battle.
It was all over in seconds. The robot’s steel fist closed around Iceman’s waist, holding him in an unbreakable grip which shattered the top layer of his protective coating. For a second he stared helplessly into its impassive, angular, flesh-toned parody of a face; a face that was all too familiar to him. He had been captured by a Sentinel: a machine built solely for the purpose of tracking down and eliminating mutants.
And then it exhaled a sweet-smelling gas, and the world pulled a slow fade to black.
CUPTEt 18
MS. MUNROE? Ms. Munroe, are you listening to me?”
Ororo Munroe blinked and, for a second, she had no idea
_where she was. For some reason, she had been thinking about
the X-Men’s battle with the demon Blackheart. It was odd, she thought, that it should have come back to her at this moment and with such startling clarity. She had almost been able to smell the brimstone in Selene’s catacombs, feel the fetid air against her cheeks and the stone beneath her feet.
It occurred to her that she couldn’t quite recall how the battle had ended. Just for an instant. But that didn’t matter now. It was all such a long time ago anyway.
She was sitting behind a polished walnut desk in an executive office on the top floor of the Storm Investments building in New York City. Her desk. Her office. Her building. The exquisite decor was enhanced by a selection of carefully arranged flowers: exotic breeds imported from around the world, some of her favorites. Without her regular attention and the blessing of her elemental powers, many of them could not have survived in this climate.
A man was seated across the desk from her, regarding her with rheumy eyes and a frown. He was dressed in a neat blue business suit. Ororo started. “I do apologize, Mr. Ambassador,” she said, flustered. “My mind must have ... wandered for a moment.” She cleared her throat in embarrassment and looked at the papers in front of her, frantically trying to recall the topic of conversation.
“We were discussing the irrigation program?” the dignitary reminded her.
“Ah, yes, yes of course.”
He leaned forward urgently, exposing a bald patch on the top of his head. “Ms. Munroe, I can hardly impress upon you enough how important this project is to my country. Overseas aid can only go so far as long as it is targeted at short-term relief. With this grant, our people can become self-sufficient in a matter of years. We can ...”
Ororo had located a money transfer order. She took an elaborate quill pen out of its holder, looked at the form for a moment, then added another zero to the figure upon it and signed her name with a flourish. She slid the form across to the ambassador, whose eyes widened as he saw it. He hardly knew what to say, but Ororo accepted his gushing gratitude with a gracious smile as he backed out of the room, almost trembling with excitement.
She rose and walked across to the window, luxuriating in the feel of her red silk dress against her skin. She basked in the glittering lights of the city, which stretched out below her towards the East River. People teemed along the sidewalks; she couldn’t make out their individual details from this height, but she felt an almost proprietorial warmth towards them all. Most of them didn’t know it, but she had improved their lives in a thousand small ways.
She had created a better world.
Sebastian Shaw was alone in a white void. It stretched for as far as he could see in all directions, even below him. It looked and felt as if he were standing on thin air.
He knew it couldn’t be real. A moment ago, he had been in the catacombs beneath the New York Hellfire Club building, the X-Men at his side. He concentrated, exerting the mental defenses that telepathic allies like Tessa and, in her time, Selene herself had taught him how to build. He pivoted slowly, squinting as if to pierce the blankness and make out the real world beyond it. To his aggravation, he saw nothing.
He completed his circle and recoiled in shock to find Blackheart standing beside him. The demon’s charcoal features were recognizable even though he had reduced himself to Shaw’s size and clad himself in a dapper black suit. Shaw composed himself, galled at having shown weakness in front of a foe. He suppressed a scowl at the sight of a gold trident pin on Blackheart’s tie. Selene had bestowed upon this creature the rank of New York’s Black King: a rank that Shaw himself had once held, and would hold again. The fact that Blackheart eschewed the Club’s traditions by wearing modern clothing was a further slight against him.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, determined not to show trepidation.
“From you?” rumbled Blackheart. “Nothing that you have not already forfeited.”
Shaw smirked mockingly. “I assume you are referring to my immortal soul. Do not insult my intelligence, demon. I accept that you have power here, and over your own physical realm-but I am not superstitious enough to believe that it extends into an afterlife.” Blackheart inclined his head, apparently unconcerned. “As you wish. In any case, I choose not to waste my time with such as you; not when I have had delivered into my grasp the souls of seven noble heroes, ripe for the corrupting.”
“The X-Men.”
Blackheart extended an upturned hand towards Shaw. His featureless face betrayed no emotion, but Shaw was sure that the red glow of his eyes had intensified. “I thought you might care to accompany me on a guided tour of their nightmares.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and opened a door that wasn’t there, creating a widening crack in the nothingness, which he stepped through. Out of curiosity more than anything, Shaw followed him into a small, brick-walled cell. A shaft of golden sunlight fell through a high, barred window, bringing with it birdsong and the promise of a brighter tomorrow. But the shadows around the light were dark and dank.
Wolverine was chained to the far wall, spread into an X shape by the manacles that bound his wrists and ankles. Cyclops was trying to free him, but the metal resisted his optic blasts.
“It’s no good," said Wolverine. “You’ve got to get out of here without me.”
“I’m not leaving you,” insisted Cyclops.
“The X-Men’s leader,” observed Blackheart, his words apparently hear
d by nobody but Shaw himself. “A man who has devoted his life to the pursuit of an impossible dream.”
“A stubborn man,” said Shaw. “Strong-willed.”
“But not incorruptible. Nobody is incorruptible.” Blackheart moved to Cyclops’s side, and suddenly the X-Man reacted to him as if seeing him for the first time. There was no sign that he could see Shaw, however, and Wolverine simply lolled in his restraints.
“What do you want, Blackheart?” snapped Cyclops, his fingers closing reflexively on the palm controls for his visor.
“I have a proposition for you, Scott Summers.”
“Forget it!”
Blackheart sighed. “So impetuous... you might at least hear what I have to say before you dismiss it.”
“Whatever it is,” said Cyclops, “I’m not interested.”
“Not even in the fulfillment of your most cherished ambitions; of your mentor’s dream?” Blackheart spoke the words casually, but Cyclops’s pose changed. He stiffened almost imperceptibly. “I talk of a world in which your kind are recognized as equals, in which they can live their lives openly and freely without fear of persecution. I am talking about eradicating anti-mutant sentiment from the hearts and minds of humanity forever.”
“And you’ll expect something in return, of course.”
“Of course. Is that not fair?”
Cyclops shook his head. “I don’t do deals with your kind.”
“You will find that a demon’s word is his bond.”
“But there’s always the small print to worry about, isn’t there!” “No small print this time,” said Blackheart. “No hidden clauses. I will expect full payment in advance for my services. After that, your obligation to me will be at an end.”
“What kind of payment?”
“Kill Wolverine!”
Cyclops just stared.
“He is weak,” said Blackheart, “chained. You will never have a better chance.”
“What makes you think I want a chance to commit murder?” spluttered Cyclops.
“Come now.” Blackheart laid a hand on the X-Man’s shoulder, but it was shaken off before he could guide him into the shaft of sunlight. “Why don’t you look out of the window?” the demon purred. “Why don’t you look at the world that could be?” Indicating Wolverine, he said, “Do you really imagine that this psychopathic runt could fit into a world like that? It only takes one snake to bring down a paradise.”
“So that’s your offer, is it?” asked Cyclops hotly. “You’ll make my dream come true by slaughtering anyone who might possibly disagree with it?”
“Just one death,” said Blackheart. “You have my word on that.” “It’s one too many.”
“Are you deaf or something, Summers?” The interjection came from Wolverine, who suddenly seemed aware of what was happening in front of him. It occurred to Shaw that he probably wasn’t real, just a gruesome trapping in a scenario created for his teammate. “Didn’t you hear what the man said? This is everything you want, everything we’ve ever fought for. One life in return for thousands, probably millions, spared.”
“It isn’t worth the price,” said Cyclops obstinately.
“To you, perhaps,” said Wolverine scornfully. “You’re weak, Summers. You talk the talk all right, but when it comes down to it, you don’t want to dirty your pure lily-white hands.”
“Think carefully, Scott Summers,” said Blackheart. “Few people are offered the chance to wish for world peace. All I ask is one stained soul to amuse me throughout a lonely eternity.”
“But you don’t mean Wolverine’s soul,” said Cyclops shrewdly. “You mean mine.”
“Indeed I do.”
Blackheart turned away then, and beckoned to Shaw to follow him as he walked straight through the wall beside the shackled Wolverine. Shaw lingered, looking at Cyclops, who continued to ignore his presence; he was staring at the window from which the light came, and his expression was tom by painful indecision. He took a step towards the light, but could go no further. He couldn’t let himself see what was outside that window.
“If he was asking you to lay down your life,” his teammate taunted him, “you’d do it like a shot.” Cyclops’s only reaction was to clench his fists tightly. “Kill me!” bellowed Wolverine. “For God’s sake, Summers-for the world’s sake-kill me!”
Disconcerted, Shaw hurried through the intangible wall, and emerged onto a busy New York street. Blackheart was waiting for him. “He won’t do it, you know,” said Shaw.
“I know,” said Blackheart.
“Then why—?”
“The claiming of a soul is a lengthy process. Seeds must be planted. Scott Summers may not accept my offer now, but in the years to come he will dwell upon his failure to do so. He will wonder if he made the noble choice or merely the craven one. I have made him that little bit more likely to accept a similar, smaller compromise in the future.”
“I see.” Shaw couldn’t help but smile despite himself.
“It is easy for men to forget that the lesser of two evils is still an evil.”
A ripple of fear had spread through the shoppers on the sidewalk. Some people gasped in horror, while others had started to mn. A young woman raced through Shaw without either seeing or feeling him. The disturbance was centered upon the opening of a narrow alleyway, and he could hear the sounds of a violent battle from within.
Blackheart gestured toward the opening. “Perhaps you would like to see more?” he said.
Ororo didn’t remember leaving her office. She didn’t remember taking her private elevator down to the street, where her limousine and its chauffeur were waiting. She didn’t remember being driven the few blocks uptown to the Hellfire Club building, and she certainly didn’t remember walking the familiar route to her suite therein and changing into her elegant white robes. But that was probably because she had done all those things so many times before.
She admired herself in a full-length, gilt-edged mirror, and a smile came to her lips. But it froze there as she was struck by a blade of doubt beneath her breastbone. For a dreadful moment, she felt as if she were floating on the outside of her body looking in, and she was screaming in impotent silence at the sight of what she had become.
“It suits you.”
She started at the unexpected voice. Another figure had appeared in the glass beside her: a redheaded woman, dressed in the leather bodice and cloak of the Hellfire Club’s Black Queen. Ororo turned to greet her best friend in the world, Jean Grey.
“I only wish I could be as sure,” she said.
Jean smiled. “Oh come on Ororo, what would you rather be wearing? Yellow spandex?”
“The X-Men ...” murmured Ororo, and something cold slithered down her spine.
“The X-Men did a lot of good,” said Jean, “nobody’s denying that. But the time came to move on, and you know it.”
“I... I know, but...”
“You’re one of the most powerful people on this planet, Ororo. You were worshipped as a goddess! We’ve both been blessed with incredible abilities, and what did we do? We wasted those gifts on never-ending battles with the likes of Magneto and the Brotherhood of Mutants, and why? What did we gain from it? We never changed anything important.”
Ororo nodded thoughtfully. “I remember how frustrating it could be at times.”
“Look at how much we’ve accomplished since we joined the Hellfire Club,” said Jean. “I still remember a time when Congress were debating a Mutant Registration Act.”
“How could we forget?”
“Today, they’re talking about new laws to prevent anti-mutant discrimination in the workplace-and they’re likely to be passed.” “Because there are mutants in Congress now,” said Ororo. She sounded as if she had only just realized that fact, but she wasn’t sure why. She had always known it, hadn’t she?
“And the Hellfire Club were instrumental in putting them there.” “Yes,” she said distantly. “Yes, I remember.” Another thought occurred to her, and she f
rowned. “Although I am not entirely comfortable with some of our methods.”
Jean shrugged. “A few dollars in a few back pockets, a few words in the right ears about certain indiscretions ... what difference does it make in the long run?”
“You are saying that the ends justify the means?”
“I’m saying that history will judge us on our results.” Jean grinned. “Anyway, it could have been much worse. When Moira MacTaggert ran for election, Sebastian wanted to assassinate her opponent. If not for you, he would have done it.”
“I talked him out of it?” Why was it so hard to remember?
“Just like you made him fix a fair market price for the Legacy cure,” said Jean. “You make a good team, our White King and Queen: Shaw’s ruthlessness tempered by your compassion.”
Ororo was becoming more and more confused. “Sebastian is the ... White King?”
“Of course. He deposed Selene, my predecessor as Black Queen. He had to take the opposing color to hers; Hellfire Club rules. Ororo, are you OK? You don’t look yourself.”
Ororo smiled bravely and tried to shake off her strange mood. “I am fine,” she said. “I was just reflecting on how many things have changed for us.”
“But for the better, I hope,” said Jean.
“I hope so, too.”
The alleyway was strewn with the garishly clad bodies of fallen criminals: some of the X-Men’s most persistent super-powered foes, mutant or otherwise. Shaw had made it his business to be aware of such people; he could put names to all the masks and to most of the faces beneath them. He was both disturbed and oddly proud to see his own face among them.
Only a few villains remained standing, but they were losing badly. They still outnumbered their single opponent, but he was knocking them down with ridiculous ease. The teleporting Vanisher was taken out by a kick to his chin; the colossal and reputedly unmovable Blob fell next. A flurry of punches to the head of the Living Pharaoh concluded the uneven combat.
The Legacy Quest Trilogy Page 40
