Marvel Novels--X-Men

by Alex Irvine

  “You got it, babe. Let’s move.”

  Rachel was first back down into the station. She paused, gazing at the spot where she had lost her husband. The rest of the X-Men gathered around her, knowing Sentinel reinforcements were near. They only had a moment, perhaps, but they owed Franklin a moment.

  Where he had been, the tunnel floor was blackened, the tracks melted into a puddle that had yet to solidify. The nearest part of the concrete platform had been vaporized in a neat arc. Of Franklin himself there was only ash.

  Rachel wept at the sight. “When he died,” she sobbed. “Storm, I felt it! He was in my mind, and then—”

  “I know, Rachel,” Ororo said. “But we need you. We need you now. You must save your grief, or his death will have been wasted.”

  “I don’t want to hear about wasted deaths, or noble deaths, or sacrifices! No more death!” Rachel screamed. “It’s too much…”

  Logan spun her around and leaned in close, holding her by both arms. “Rach, I’m not gonna tell you how to feel. And I’m not gonna tell you what to do. But I am gonna tell you that if we don’t get moving, we’re gonna be looking at thirty Sentinels instead of three. What do you think will happen then?”

  “Maybe I don’t care,” she said.

  “Okay. You stay here, then. Hell, all of you can stay here. Then the Sentinels will have it nice and easy. But me, I’m not done killing yet. See you later.” Logan turned and started walking south, dropping down to the tunnel floor when he reached the end of the platform.

  “Rachel,” Ororo said. “Logan’s not gentle, but he is correct.”

  Rachel knelt at the edge of the scorched area and ran her finger along the end of one of the tracks, looking thoughtfully at the soot her fingertip picked up. She rubbed it onto her other fingers and stood back up.

  “Goodbye, Franklin,” she said, and turned to follow Logan south into the darkness.

  * * *

  “WHAT we’re gonna do once we get to Grand Central is skip over into the old Metro-North tunnels,” Wolverine said as they passed through the 51st Street station. “We can’t stay together. Two groups: me and Petey in one, and Kitty, Rachel and Ororo in the other.”

  “And how will we communicate?” Peter asked. “Rachel can reach out to us telepathically, but the Sentinels will locate her if she does.”

  “I know,” Logan said. “That’s where my compadres in the FCA come in.”

  “They are here? The Free Canadian Army is in New York?” Ororo asked.

  “’Roro, you know I like to work alone. But even I’m not enough of a lone wolf to take on every Sentinel in New York with just the five of us. You’ll see how it works in a minute.”

  It was actually closer to twenty minutes by the time they reached a branch in the tunnel that connected them to the Metro-North network. A voice came from the darkness. “What’s the password?”

  “Nobody told me the goddamn password, Rick,” Logan said. “But I can smell you, and you know my voice. So put your gun down and let’s get this show on the road.”

  A light came on a few yards away, illuminating an old train car with a cluster of a dozen or so armed men and women near its middle door. “Free Canadian Army, meet the X-Men,” Logan said. “X-Men, FCA.”

  The closest of the FCA soldiers stepped up to tap fists with Logan. “Thought there were going to be six of you?”

  “Should have been seven. We got one extra because Kate here woke up, only she’s actually her thirteen-year-old self. Long story. But we also lost two. Franklin bought it on the way down, and the old man didn’t make it out of the camp.”

  Rick nodded. “That change anything?”

  “Nope,” Logan said. “We still need you to keep an eye on the Sentinels and get us close to the Baxter Building. You up for it?”

  “Hey, we didn’t come all the way down from Sault Ste. Marie just to see a show,” one of the other FCA soldiers said.

  “Oh, you will see a show, all right,” Storm said.

  “Are we sure that Magneto didn’t make it out of the camp?” Kitty asked. “I heard one of the Sentinels say something about us also not having inhibitor collars on.’”

  “I heard that, too,” Peter said. “But we cannot be sure of the Sentinel’s syntax. It could have meant that we as well as Magneto had no collars. Or it could have meant that in addition to escaping, we also had no collars.”

  “But Magneto didn’t have his collar on. Rachel, can you—?”

  “No. Not a chance. Every time we activate our mutant genes, the Sentinels know it. I want Magneto to be alive as much as you do, but using our powers to try and find him would be stupid.”

  “If he’s alive, we could use his powers,” Ororo said. “He would be a vital part of our plan.”

  “If we go looking for him and he’s dead, we’re not going to have any plan at all,” Rachel snapped. “You told me to move on. Now the rest of you have to do it, too.”

  “She’s right,” Logan said.

  “Shouldn’t we find out for sure?” Kitty couldn’t stand the thought of leaving someone behind. Even if that someone was Magneto! This future…it was too much for her. “How could they do this to me?” she said, without quite meaning to.

  “They?” Rachel echoed. “You mean us? And by us, I mean also your future self. She was full speed ahead on this idea while some of the rest of us were still wavering. So before you go playing the martyr, consider that. Also consider that Kate is back in the past, hoping to save this whole future from ever happening. Is that worth you being sad, little Kitten?”

  “Whoa,” Logan said. “Easy. She’s just a kid.”

  “She doesn’t get to be just a kid,” Rachel said.

  “Maybe we should have left you behind, if this is how you’re gonna be.” Logan pointed at each of the X-Men in turn as he went on. “Who has Storm lost? How about Pete? Kate? Hell, me. You think you’re the only one with something to mourn? And you know what else?” Logan swept his arm back to take in the watching FCA soldiers. “These guys have all lost more than any of us, because none of this is their fault. We did it. Mutants. We did it to ourselves. It wasn’t norms who killed Kelly and Charlie and Moira. So ditch the sackcloth and ashes, and let’s go crack some skulls.”

  “Speech,” said one of the FCA soldiers. A couple of them clapped, whether sincerely or ironically Kitty couldn’t tell. But she believed Logan. He stared at Rachel, and she stared right back.

  “Have we gotten all of this out of our systems?” Ororo asked, breaking the stalemate. “Rick, you will pardon us for being touchy, I hope. It has been a difficult few hours.”

  “You bet it has,” Rick said. “Maybe we can help you make sure the next few are a bit easier.”

  The plan, as elaborated by Logan and Rick, was relatively simple. Using the FCA’s ability to move about the city, they would assess the Sentinels’ security around the Baxter Building. The X-Men would separate into two groups, as Logan had already said. One group would head down the Grand Central-Port Authority shuttle track and come up on 5th Avenue. The other would work its way through maintenance tunnels and surface on Madison near 43rd, using a hole in the street left behind from the Sentinel battle for control of New York. “There were some Rogues in there,” Rick said, “but you don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

  In the absence of any telecommunications secure from Sentinel surveillance, the group would work the old-fashioned way, posting individuals at corners along the way and communicating via hand signals. Here they would have help from an unexpected source: The FCA had been cultivating mutant sympathizers from among the ostracized A-class citizens of New York. Many of them were willing to help—although just as many were hostile, seeing the mutants as the reason for their own problems.

  “So we set up a network of FCA and these A-class native guides, and that’s how we know where we can go and where we can’t,” Rick said. “We’ll get your teams in place.”

  “And then,” Logan finished, “we hit the
Baxter Building from two directions, kill every Sentinel we find, and burn that sucker down.”

  “That ought to tell the Europeans that they should hold off a day or so before they start dropping bombs, eh?” one of the FCA soldiers said.

  Something about hearing the voices of normal people talking about fighting alongside mutants lightened Kitty’s mood. For the first time since she had arrived in this future, she felt a hint of hope. No matter how dire the circumstance, there was still good to be found.

  Also, it was the first time she’d ever heard a Canadian actually say “eh.”

  SEVEN

  THE GUARD was named Reynaldo Cabrera, and he worked the security checkpoint at the garage entrance to one of the Pentagon’s many subbasements. Reynaldo did a double take at the size of the guy walking up with Raven Darkholme, one of the secretary of defense’s top deputies, whom he saw every day. The two were coming from the underground restricted-access garage just off Jeff Davis Highway. Darkholme’s ID badge was clipped to the lapel of her suit, exactly per regulations. The other guy was also wearing a suit—one that looked to the guard’s eye like it had been hanging in a closet since about 1978, the year before Cabrera was born. He’d seen pictures of his dad and uncles in suits just like it. Plus the giant was wearing a turtleneck sweater, which put the guard in a bit of a tailspin as he tried to think of the last time he’d seen someone wearing a turtleneck sweater at the Pentagon.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Cabrera,” Darkholme said.

  He snapped off a salute and said, “ID, please, ma’am.”

  Scanning her ID, he looked expectantly at her… companion? That didn’t seem exactly like the right word, because Sergeant Cabrera had just noticed the guy was handcuffed. “And what’s our situation with your…?” He let the question hang.

  “This is Duke,” she said. “It’s cleared ahead. Check the Joint Chiefs staff log.”

  “I’ll need his ID, too,” Cabrera said.

  “I’m afraid they confiscated that at intake,” Darkholme said with a smile. Cabrera knew she was flirting with him a little, but he didn’t mind. A “Duke Fredericks” was in fact on the pre-approved and cleared Joint Chiefs guest list. Fredericks offered the surliest expression Cabrera had ever seen on a visitor-ID photo.

  Cabrera logged Fredericks’ arrival and printed a visitor pass. “Keep this on his coat,” he said, handing Darkholme the pass. “And I’m afraid that as long as you’re in the building with him, both you and he are knocked down a whole bunch of clearance levels.”

  “Understood, Sergeant. We’ll stay on the straight and narrow.” She shot him a highly unprofessional wink and led Duke Fredericks into one of the perimeter hallways.

  The size of that guy, Cabrera thought. You can practically feel the building shake when he walks.

  * * *

  NEITHER Darkholme nor her companion spoke as they walked nearly the length of the hall and then turned down a side corridor leading to a hospitality suite. The Pentagon maintained them for prolonged meetings and interagency events, as well as the occasional off-the-books visit by dignitaries from allied military services and foreign defense ministries. The occupants of this particular suite, however, were none of those.

  As she opened the door, Darkholme’s form shimmered and seemed briefly to liquefy before taking the shape of an athletic red-headed woman. In this form, she would have drawn glances wherever she went—especially because of her pupilless eyes and rich blue skin. Her crisp suit was replaced by a form-fitting white dress slit high on both thighs, accented by a waist chain worked in a pattern of skulls. Another skull on her brow brought the whole look together, giving her what she thought was the perfect combination of allure and menace. Her given name was Raven Darkholme, but her enemies in the X-Men knew her as Mystique—though they did not yet know what she was capable of.

  She had devoted her adult life to furthering the agenda of the Brotherhood of Mutants, primarily under Magneto’s direction. Now, with Magneto buried under a million tons of ice in the Savage Land, Mystique had decided the time had come to reconstitute the Brotherhood—particularly in view of the Hellfire Club’s recent resurgence. The Hellfire Club—especially its White Queen, Emma Frost—were now rivals in recruiting mutants and pursuing an agenda opposed to Charles Xavier’s. Xavier emphasized a strategy he called coexistence, but Mystique tended to characterize it less charitably as appeasement.

  Mystique had visited Max-X the week before in the guise of Blob’s lawyer. There she had given him the idea to try the implosion trick that had worked so spectacularly that morning. She had also put out feelers to certain individuals in the Hellfire Club, suggesting that they might do some useful damage to the X-Men if they were present at Max-X on a particular morning.

  Then, on the appointed day, Mystique had returned to New Mexico, waiting five miles down the access road at a turnoff that dead-ended into an overgrown logging track. Blob had arrived right on schedule after his dawn breakout, and from there she had gotten him back East with little trouble. Using her Pentagon connections and Brotherhood resources, she created his fake identity. Everything had gone as smoothly as any criminal mastermind could want.

  Mystique, however, wasn’t a criminal by nature. There were those who might have categorized her as a terrorist, but crime for crime’s sake held no interest for her. She wanted mutant power—not to mention power for herself—and she sought to attain that power through a rejuvenated Brotherhood. And what was the best way to increase the strength and power of the Brotherhood? Make a statement of mutant power that no one could ignore. For too long mutants had tried to coexist with those who hated, feared, and persecuted them. This was why she had begun rebuilding the Brotherhood—and why there were three other people already in the suite.

  “Good morning, all,” she said. “I trust these accommodations meet with your approval. Destiny, Pyro, Avalanche—permit me to introduce Fred Dukes, better known in some circles as the Blob.”

  “Fred J. Dukes,” Blob said. Mystique stopped and locked eyes with him. “Hey,” he said after a minute. “That’s the name my daddy gave me.”

  Two of the three other members of the Brotherhood sized up the Blob, then turned to share a smirking glance. Pyro, a rail-thin Englishman with a thick head of hair that made his body look a bit like a just-lighted match, said, “I think I prefer Blob. It’s quite a good moniker. Fits you.”

  “Good thing, too,” Avalanche added. He was twice as big as Pyro, blunt and heavy where Pyro was sharp and angular. “Not much else would.”

  “Gentlemen, this is not a schoolyard. Jokes about size are beneath us.” Mystique unlocked Blob’s handcuffs, watching him carefully to gauge his reaction to this initial hazing. “And Blob…we try to avoid using our real names, for what should be obvious reasons. With or without middle initial.”

  For the moment, at least, he appeared unruffled. “Nice digs,” he said, crossing to the table and pouring himself a drink. “Also that was one fast ride back from the joint. This is a class operation. Only thing is, I was part of the original Brotherhood, and it seems to me the wrong person’s givin’ the orders around here.”

  Ah, Mystique thought. The expected challenge. She let it go, anticipating that Blob’s assertion would provoke interesting reactions from the others—and so it did.

  “La-de-dah, chunky,” Pyro said. “You think you can do better?”

  “Blow it out your Union Jack, Limey.” Blob paused in the act of lighting a cigar from a crystal box on the bar. Apparently, Mystique had discovered, prohibitions on smoking in federal buildings were relaxed when the presumed occupants had their fingers on their countries’ red buttons. “This is between me an’—yeeoww!”

  The flame of Blob’s match flared and exploded into a monstrous figure, looming over him and singeing his eyebrows. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, leaving Pyro to comment in his silkiest tone, “Watch your mouth and remember your place—or the next time you light a match, I just might create a demon tha
t will par-boil instead of scare you. This is the new Brotherhood. Magneto is old news.”

  “Oh yeah?” Blob snatched a marble sculpture from the end of the table. “That’s all the lip I’m gonna take from you, pal. Fred J. Dukes ain’t no two-bit amateur! You—”

  Again Blob broke off—this time because the sculpture had crumbled to dust in his hand.

  “Blob,” Avalanche said, “have you considered why Magneto left you to rot in prison these last few years?”

  “Enough, all of you!” Mystique said. “Now you’ve both shown Blob a little taste of what you can do. Blob, you’re correct. I am not Magneto, nor would I wish to be. But cross me—in any way, especially today—and you’ll find me as deadly a foe as he ever was to those who betrayed him.”

  The three men said nothing. Neither did Destiny. Throughout all this posturing, she had sat quietly in the corner, looking like a librarian or maybe a legal secretary: conservatively cut skirt and coat, nondescript color and style of hair. The only thing that might have made her stand out in a crowd was the dark glasses signaling her blindness. When Mystique issued her threat to Blob, she remained quiet and still—as if nothing more interesting was happening than a conversation about the weather. For Destiny, that was true, since her precognitive abilities had told her what Blob, Pyro, and Avalanche would do before they even knew they were going to do it. Mystique planned to consult with her shortly, but first she had to make a few things clear to the men of the Brotherhood.

  “There will be no infighting here. Save it for our enemies.” Mystique looked at each of them in turn. “Pyro,” she said, “bank your fires. Avalanche, Blob—in case you haven’t figured it out, your powers are practically designed so you can’t affect each other. Do you think I assembled this particular group by accident?”

  “What about her?” Blob said, pointing at Destiny. She hadn’t said a word.

  “What about her?” Mystique echoed, a mocking lilt in her tone.

  “You got an angle on the rest of us. What about her? Who is she, anyway?”