Bobby didn’t know what to do, which side to fight for. All he knew for sure was that every one of the combatants wanted him dead. But then, as he lay there on the dirty stone floor, he realized what lay beside him, beneath the final bed in the row: another sheet-wrapped corpse. And he reached for it with trembling hands, feeling a hammer blow to his heart as he unwrapped it and found himself staring into Debs’s blank, dead eyes.
Several seconds passed before he could think again, before it occurred to him that the battle had ended. All he could hear was the not-too-distant sound of shouting and gunfire from the main entrance. It sounded as if the mutates had broken through to the central cellar, taking the fight to their attackers. Looking under the row of beds, Bobby saw the shapes of motionless bodies, but he couldn’t identify them all.
His rifle lay beside him, dropped by the invisible woman, and he picked it up and rose to his feet cautiously. To his surprise, nobody tried to kill him.
He counted five corpses. It took him a second to realize who was missing—and when he did, he looked up in alarm, even as the flexible mutate dropped toward him from the ceiling. He reacted with well-honed reflexes, dubbing the mutate with his rifle and throwing him off-course. The orange-clad man twisted in midair to land on his feet, and sprang for his enemy with lightning speed. He wasn’t strong, but he was fast: he landed punch after punch, but somehow managed to wriggle out of the way of every one of Iceman’s own blows. It was all the X-Man could do to keep the mutate’s questing hands from his throat.
And every time he threw a punch, he was doing it for Debs, picturing her dead eyes in his mind-and with each miss, he became more and more frustrated, a fiery pressure building in his chest and demanding release.
Somebody had let off a sonic grenade. Hendrickson’s group must have been in trouble. Even at this distance, the piercing shriek drilled into Iceman’s head and threatened to drown out his thoughts. Everything but the image of Debs. He gritted his teeth and fought on, sweat dripping into his eyes-or was it tears?—as he abandoned any attempt to think faster than his foe, and just lashed out at random and hoped for the best.
To his immense surprise, the mutate was suddenly wrapped around his gloved knuckles. Perhaps the sonic attack had distracted him too, made him careless. Whatever the reason, Iceman had the upper hand. He consolidated his success with a good head shot, and the mutate toppled backward and fell like a wet sack. Momentarily, Bobby wondered if he had hit him too hard, but in that hate-frlled instant, he really couldn't have cared less.
He stood astride his fallen, dazed foe and jammed the end of his rifle into his head as the world around him became one endless, agonizing scream and he was barely aware of anything else. “You killed her, you bastards!” he yelled over the relentless siren. “You killed her!” There were tears on his cheeks, and his hands were shaking.
And the mutate was looking up at him with saucer-wide eyes full of fear.
And then, the siren broke off, but the silence that replaced it seemed somehow louder as if reality were crashing back in around Bobby Drake’s ears. And he realized what he was doing, and it filled him with horror and revulsion.
Shuddering, he flung the rifle as far away from him as he could, and helped the suspicious mutate to his feet. “Go on,” he mumbled, unable to meet the gaze of his erstwhile adversary. “Get out of here, and keep running. Go!”
The mutate didn’t stop to question his change of heart. He ran. And, when a weary and emotionally-drained Iceman rounded the end of the wine shelves a moment later, he was just in time to catch a glimpse of an orange back heading away from the main entrance. He frowned. Was the mutate looking for a hiding place deeper into the base? Or was there a way out down there? So far, the entrance to every cellar he had been in had been well and truly sealed—but it made sense that the mutates would have left themselves an emergency exit.
He made a decision. With Debs gone, he had no reason to be here any more. He would do what he should have done hours ago, when he had first had the chance.
The sounds of battle from the entrance had lessened. Either the fight was coming to an end or the humans had pulled back to regroup on the street as per Hendrickson’s contingency plan. The two sides were determined to tear each other apart, each blaming the other for their rotten lives, and the tragedy of it was that neither of them was right or wrong. Iceman could even understand, now, how they had been driven to this. But, whatever the reason, he knew that nothing he could do would stop them.
So, reluctant as he was to do so, as miserable as it made him, he turned his back on them.
And he walked away.
Wolverine’s enemies lay dead around him.
He didn’t remember felling them, but it didn’t matter. It only mattered that he had won. He stood in the darkness and watched as their bodies faded back into the shadows from which they had come. He was panting and flushed from his exertions, and his rational self was resurfacing. He was able to think again, to be aware of his situation beyond the immediate need to kill or be killed. Sometimes, it seemed that every time he gave in to his animal side, his real self faced a harder climb to reestablish dominance. Sometimes, it seemed that the animal must be his real self after all.
He needed to rest now, to let the darkness swallow him. But not for too long. There were other battles yet to be fought. Out in the real world.
He felt hands at his shoulders, coaxing him awake. He felt as if he had slept his deep, healing sleep for many hours, but it had probably been only minutes. He opened his eyes, and smiled to find his best friend there again, undoing the straps that held him down. He could hear fighting, not far away but not too urgent.
“Don’t try to move,” said Nightcrawler. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get you out of here.”
He smiled. “Think you can lug my metal-reinforced carcass about, elf?”
“As far as I must.”
“No need. Check out the war wound.”
Nightcrawler glanced at him as if he thought he might be delirious. Then, gingerly, he peeled back the bandage from his side. Wolverine lifted his head just far enough to see the expression of delight on Kurt’s face. “Unglaublich!”
“Closed up, huh? I figured as much,” he said triumphantly. He had been able to feel that his healing factor was working again, but it was good to have it confirmed. “Looks like this old body still has some fight left in it after all. We won this one.”
“By the skin of our teeth. How are you feeling?”
“Exhausted, and weak as a kitten—but fantastic!” He tried to stand, but his stomach muscles felt like over-stretched elastic. He grimaced. “Might need a hand getting up, though.”
“Sehr gerne, ” said Nightcrawler, “on condition that you do something for me in return.”
“The headgear?”
“I can’t remove it myself. As soon as I reach for it, I lose control of my arms.”
Wolverine closed his eyes and fought down a dizzying head-rush as he was hauled to his feet. He lifted the dome-shaped metal helmet from Nightcrawler’s head, then he leaned against the altar and took in his candlelit surroundings. His gaze alighted upon the mutate Priest, who lay facedown in the aisle, and he turned to his friend with a quizzical look.
“Much as he might like to believe otherwise,” said Kurt, “he is far from being another Magneto. Our old foe could not have been taken by surprise as he was. He would have sensed my approach through his magnetic field.”
Wolverine saw something on the floor beside the Priest’s bald head: a heavy, golden ornament in the winged shape of Magneto’s helmet logo. He grinned wryly.
At that moment, a short, thirty-something woman with gray hair stumbled into the chapel, a wailing child in her arms. Her face was blackened, her eyes red and puffy, and she was coughing fiercely. She carried with her a whiff of teargas, which made Logan’s nose wrinkle. She was halfway up the aisle before she saw the unconscious Priest, at which point she stopped dead and turned pale with fear.
“Louise!” exclaimed Nightcrawler.
“What have you done to him?” she cried. “I need him. My Magnus needs him!” The woman’s concern for her baby seemed to override her fear of the X-Men: she hurried forward and fell to her knees at the Priest’s side.
Kurt bounded up to her, his face a picture of concern. “Let me see him.”
The woman recoiled. “Get away!” she screamed. “I don’t want you infecting him.”
“I don’t have the Legacy Virus, Louise,” said Kurt evenly. The woman glanced suspiciously at Wolverine. “And nor does my friend, any more.”
“She doesn’t want our help,” growled Logan, “fair enough. Let’s get out of here!”
But Kurt was kneeling beside the woman, reaching out to her imploringly. “He isn’t breathing, Louise. Give him to me. I can help him.”
She hesitated for long seconds. She looked down at the Priest, but it was obvious that he wouldn't be stirring for some time. She looked into Nightcrawler's yellow eyes—and, although she didn’t hand Magnus over, nor did she resist as Kurt took him and laid him on his back across a wooden chair. She brought her knees up to her chest, weeping, as the X-Man breathed into her baby’s tiny mouth.
“I left him in his crib,” she sobbed, “just during the service. I didn’t think he’d come to any harm. I didn’t know the flatscans would attack. I couldn’t reach him! If they’ve hurt him . . .”
“Gott sei Dank!’’ breathed Nightcrawler, throwing his head back with a relieved grin. Wolverine could see that the baby’s chest was rising and falling again.
Kurt handed him back to his mother, who wrapped her arms around him, tears still flowing. “He was so special. I thought he was blessed. A little miracle. How could the Savior turn his back on a child? He’s so young-what could he have done to deserve this?”
“He breathed in a little teargas, that’s all,” Kurt tried to console her. “He should be fine now.” But his words didn’t seem to have an effect. “You should get him checked out at a hospital,” he persevered, “just to be sure. You do have hospitals here, don’t you?”
Louise shook her head miserably. “They can’t help us.”
And suddenly, Wolverine thought he knew what she was crying
for.
She turned to him and, hesitantly, as if afraid to hope, she asked: “Is it true? Are you really... clean now? Can you make him clean too?”
He shook his head sadly, and watched the light in her moist eyes die.
“How long have you known?” asked Kurt quietly.
“He’s had the sniffles for a week. And ... and last night, I noticed a rattle in his chest. I... I tried to deny it at first. I kept telling myself it was only a cold. I should have brought him to the Priest, I know, but I thought he ... I was scared he might____”
“Every kid gets a runny nose from time to time,” said Wolverine gruffly.
“Logan’s right,” said Nightcrawler. “You mustn’t assume the worst.”
“Would your God see this happen, Mr. Wagner?” asked Louise with sudden clarity. “Would your God allow an innocent child to suffer and die?”
It was a question that Kurt couldn’t answer. Logan saw the pain in his expression, and had some idea of what was going through his head—and his heart.
“Don’t wait for the Priest to wake up,” said Kurt finally. “Take Magnus to a hospital. They can test him for the virus and treat him if... if the worst happens.”
Louise nodded, tears welling from her eyes again. “I know my faith hasn’t been strong enough, and perhaps I am being punished for that. But if Magneto can only spare my child, if he can take me instead, I swear I will never doubt Him again.”
Wolverine stepped forward. “Listen, darling-” he began. But Nightcrawler silenced him with a gentle hand on his arm.
“Don’t take her faith away from her Logan,” he said softly. “It’s all she has.”
They teleported away, then. Not wishing to materialize out in the open, Nightcrawler took them to the end house in the row: the one into which the mutates’ emergency exit led. He had checked it out before, surreptitiously, fixing its location and layout in his mind. As brimstone-scented smoke dissipated across the deserted hallway, he clutched a pained hand to his stomach. “I have got to stop doing that!” he gasped.
“You’re not kidding me, elf!” Wolverine was leaning against a gray-plastered wall to get his breath back. The tandem ’port had taken a greater than usual toll upon him: worrying proof that he hadn’t yet fully recovered from his trauma. “Tell me there’s a way out of this place that doesn’t involve churning our guts up again.”
Kurt gazed out of a broken window beside the front door. “We’ll have to use the back entrance,” he said glumly. “They’re fighting in the street now.”
There were bodies on the tarmac: more than he liked to count His sole consolation was that both humans and mutates had now pulled back from close combat. They had found cover behind abandoned cars, and in the doorways and windows of houses on each side of the road. The air between them was thick with bullets and energy beams, but with both sides entrenched in their defensive positions, fresh casualties were few. With a little luck, the skirmish would eventually grind to a halt as limbs became tired and ammunition spent.
“Funny!” snorted Wolverine. “I thought this was what Magneto came here to prevent!”
“Give him his due,” sighed Kurt. “I suspect he tried.”
Logan opened his mouth-but before he could make what Kurt suspected would be a scathing retort, the cellar door flew open, and a man in the mask and combat suit of a magistrate emerged. Wolverine spun around, and let out a curse. Had he been at his peak, he couldn’t have been surprised like this: he would have smelt or heard the man’s approach.
For his part, the magistrate was frozen in his tracks. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped forward and blurted out: “Wolvie! Boy, am 1 glad to see—”
But Wolverine had already sprung at him, snarling with rage, determined to compensate for his oversight.
And Kurt recognized the magistrate’s voice, muffled as it had been by his mask-but by that time, it was already too late.
Wolverine had buried his claws up to his knuckles in Iceman’s heart.
CHAPTER 13
THE COCKPIT radio of Shaw’s luxurious private jet sputtered to life. Through a cloud of static, a female voice said: “Unidentified
_aircraft, this is Genoshan Air Traffic Control. This country has
jeen closed to incoming flights by order of its sovereign, Magneto. You have two minutes to transmit an authorization code or leave our airspace. Failure to do either will result in your being shot out of the sky. No further warning will be broadcast. Thank you.”
“Your move, Shaw,” breathed Cyclops.
A knot formed in Phoenix’s stomach as the Black King said nothing, continuing to stare ahead into the gray sky with a dark expression. A tense silence fell until, from her position behind the controls of the plane, Storm prompted sternly: “The authorization code, Shaw!”
“I doubt that, even with your hardy constitution, you could survive a missile strike to this conveyance,” mused the Beast. “Are you so eager to see Magneto’s plan succeed that you are prepared to perish alongside its opponents?”
“Ninety seconds,” said Cyclops in a strained voice.
Shaw didn’t move. His face didn’t flicker. He didn’t even blink. “Oh, he’ll transmit the code all right,” said Phoenix confidently. And Shaw half-turned to face her, an eyebrow arching in mild curiosity.
She smiled at him sweetly. “The only question is, will he be in control of his own mind when he does so?” She leaned toward Shaw, and lowered her voice threateningly. “You know I don’t want to do this, don’t you Sebastian? Please don’t force my hand again.”
He returned her stare unflinchingly, and she could read nothing in the depths of his eyes.
“One minute,” said Cyclops.
Shaw nodded abruptly, and re
ached past Storm’s arm to activate the radio. “Air Traffic Control, this is Hellfire One requesting permission to land.” His fingers blurred across a small keyboard set into the instrument panel, and he sat back with a trace of a smile on his lips.
The radio emitted another static burst, and then nothing else for some time. Phoenix’s anxiety was exacerbated by the fact that, through her psychic link, she could feel her husband tensed like a coiled spring. What if Shaw had betrayed them? What if he had sent a warning signal? Perhaps she ought to have seized control of him after all, taking the information they needed from his thoughts. The idea disgusted her, but the stakes were too high to risk failure. Wolverine would have told her she ought to be more ruthless.
“Hellfire One,” said the voice of Air Traffic Control at last, “you have permission to land.”
And the outpouring of relief in the crowded cockpit was almost tangible.
Storm guided them in over Hammer Bay, and a wave of melancholia washed over Jean as she looked at the scarred and pitted landscape beneath them. She felt for the people of this beleaguered country, wishing that the X-Men could do more to help them.
“Incoming,” reported the Beast. “Two magistrates at eleven o’clock, flying under their own power: mutates, if you can imagine such a thing.”
Jean glanced over. “I’ve got it.”
The magistrates took up positions on each side of the pl ane, peering suspiciously into the cockpit. The X-Men froze, nobody saying a word, until their temporary escort peeled away again, apparently satisfied. “Well done, Jean!” smiled Cyclops.
“And may I inquire as to what they thought they saw?” asked the Beast.
“Three Hellfire Club agents,” said Jean. “And they mistook me for Tessa.” The procedure required to disrupt the evidence of the mutates’ eyes had been minor, and non-invasive: a simple matter of reordering their surface thoughts. “After all, they might have been suspicious if the Black King had been sighted without his faithful poodle.”
The Legacy Quest Trilogy Page 69
