The Ultimate X-Men

by Unknown Author

  Bishop started walking up the beach from where they’d landed the Blackbird. “I say we start searching for the Acolyte base. It won’t take long, considering how small this island is.”

  “I agree,” Storm replied, “but I caution you not to take any action until we hear from Hank and Dr. Watkins. We cannot risk the Acolytes releasing the bacterium until we have an antidote. The danger is too great.”

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  For a moment it looked as if Bishop was going to argue the point, but eventually he nodded his agreement and they set off together in search of the enemy. Within a short time they came upon a small bungalow about a mile inland from the X-Men’s landing point on the beach. Storm and Bishop ducked into the cover of the pine wood forest as the Acolytes Katu and Spoor emerged from the bungalow and sprawled out on the sand just outside the door.

  “Let’s take them,” Bishop hissed to Storm. “Then we can make them tell us where the bomb is.”

  Storm shook her head. “That is too risky. Even if they told us the location of the bomb, it may have a failsafe or dead-man switch on it that they could activate before we could reach it. We cannot risk detonation. I will stay here and watch these two while you search for the bomb.”

  After a moment’s silence, Bishop nodded his agreement and headed farther inland, while Storm sat and patiently kept watch over the two Acolytes.

  Back at the Institute, Beast and Watkins had re-created the plastic-devouring bacterium, but were having little luck producing a counteragent. Watkins piped a dab of liquid onto a slide treated with the bacterium and looked into the microscope. He shouted and gestured excitedly to Beast, motioning for him to come take a look. “I think we’ve finally hit something here, Hank!”

  Seconds later, Beast pulled back and shook his head. “We’re closer, but the agent only slowed the bacteria down. It became active again.”

  “We were so close,” Watkins sighed, and cursed under his breath. “But slowing it down isn’t enough. I gave it a

  high reproductive rate, so we need to slow it down, yes, but then we need something to move in for the kill.”

  “Two different agents,” Beast mused. “Maybe we should try to engineer a virus within these growth-slowing bacteria. As the plastic-converting bacteria consume the slowing agent, the virus w?ould be released.”

  Hours later, Watkins wratched, bleary eyed, as Beast performed the final test on their latest offering. Both scientists held their breath as they waited to see what would happen. Thirty seconds . . . one minute . . . two minutes . . . five minutes . . . there was still no sign of activity from the plastic-consuming bacteria after the initial introduction of the counteragent. Then they saw the color change that marked the deterioration of the plastic consumer, and began to breathe again.

  Beast extended his hand, and Watkins took it. As they shook hands on their victory, Beast was already turning to the next phase of the job—creating a large enough quantity to counter the bomb. “W'e’ve got just under a day. Even with accelerants, it will be difficult to produce sufficient counteragent and get it to Cat Island. Let us hope we will have enough time.”

  “Hank, I want to ask a favor.”

  Beast glanced tow7ard Watkins, mildly surprised. “What is it, Jerome?”

  “I want to go with you to the island.” He held up a hand as Beast began to protest. “I have to see this thing through to the finish, Hank. I’m responsible for this situation; I started it with my research. I have to be there, to make sure that the bacteria is truly destroyed.” He looked ready to plead his case and was slightly surprised when Beast

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  did no more than nod his head in agreement. Not knowing what to say, Watkins started gathering the materials they needed to begin creating the new batch of counteragent.

  “The United States government, and the goverments of the world, will not give in to demands made by terrorist groups. I’m here to assure you all that the country’s best scientists are now close to a breakthrough which will enable us to counteract any bacteria that the Acolytes might unleash. It is just a matter of time before—”

  From behind the bushes screening the path in front of the bungalow, Storm watched as Katu reached over and switched off the portable radio on the patio table in front of him.

  “Fools!” Katu shouted. “Do they really think they have a chance of stopping the destruction this will unleash? These are the last whimpers of humanity.” He stood up and began to pace back and forth along the path, pausing just a few feet from Storm without noticing her presence.

  “Let them whine,” Spoor replied. “Their days are numbered, and they know it.”

  Storm started slightly as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Bishop directly behind her. A few feet behind him were Beast and Dr. Watkins. Watkins held a large vial in his hands. They retreated out of hearing distance of the bungalow.

  “We managed to produce a counteragent for the bacterium, but we had no time for testing on a large scale,” Beast told Storm and Bishop. “I can’t promise that it will work.”

  “Now,” Storm said quietly, “all we have to do is find

  the bomb and disarm it. If everything goes well, we won’t need the counteragent. Good work, Beast. You, too, Doctor.”

  “I’ve searched over the entire island, and there’s no sign of the bomb,” Bishop pointed out. “It’s possible the device is inside the bungalow, but to get to it, we’ll have to go through those two.” Bishop nodded in Katu and Spoor’s direction.

  “I have noticed that either Spoor or Katu is with the radio at all times. They have not left it alone for a moment. Now, that could be because they want to keep listening in case their demands are met, but I wonder...” Storm mused.

  “An intriguing possibility, Storm,” Beast said.

  “We’ll check out the radio as well as the bungalow,” Bishop decided.

  “Jerome, you are not equipped or trained to battle with these two,” Beast said not unkindly. “For your own safety, please stay hidden here until we have secured the area. Your part is done.”

  “Since our powers share some similarities, I will deal with Katu,” Storm decided. “Spoor and the bomb are up to you two. Are we ready?”

  After receiving the nods of agreement, Storm launched herself into the air, propelled by the island winds that were hers to command. Pushed by the gathering winds, the clouds gathered behind her and began to darken.

  As soon as he caught sight of Storm, Katu spat out an oath and gathered his powers in opposition. Where Storm controlled specific elements of nature, Katu produced atmospheric anomalies that countered them. Within seconds,

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  the winds around the island raged, and sand from the nearby beach flayed their skin, while the heavens opened up to pelt them with freezing rains. When Storm called forth thunderstorms, Katu countered with a change in the pressure system to push the storm back. The two were so evenly matched that it was obvious that the victor}' would go to the one who held off exhaustion the longer.

  Taking advantage of his distraction as he watched the battle, Bishop stepped into the clearing in front of Spoor, planting his feet and levelling his plasma rifle at his enemy. “Where is the bomb, Acolyte?” he demanded.

  A sly smile came to Spoor’s face. “Ah, X-Man. Come to save the human race, have you?” He cackled. “It’s too late. They have only minutes left before the bomb detonates and puts an end to their tyranny over mutants.”

  “Using violence to end violence, are you?” Beast leapt into the clearing in front of the bungalow. “Rarely have those tactics succeeded, and never without tremendous cost to all the parties involved.”

  Spoor looked from one to another and backed away a few steps. “W7e gave them their chance. They chose not to take it. On their heads be it. ’ ’ Without warning, he rushed toward Beast, releasing his hallucinogenic pheromones at full strength.

  Even the Beast’s phenomenal agility did not enable hi
m to dodge the pheremones, and he crashed to the ground, holding first his head, then his stomach, as waves of sharp pain cascaded over him. Knife after hallucinatory knife stabbed him, and each slice felt as real as if it had been made with cold steel. He lay there, helpless, but struggling to get up and fight back.

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  When he saw that Beast had fallen to the pheromones, Bishop ran to the pair and stepped between them. Bishop’s own involuntary powers reflected the Acolyte’s pheromones back upon himself, with quick results. The Acolyte fell to the ground, screaming, the visions in his head taking control of him, immobilizing him as effectively as he had Beast.

  Bishop picked up the now-helpless Spoor and looked at his fellow X-Man. “I can handle him. You help Storm.” He strained to be heard above the roaring winds of Storm and Katu’s battle.

  Beast rose to his feet, the effects of the pheromones quickly wearing off. A few quick hops brought him behind Katu. The Acolyte was completely focused on his intense battle with Storm and didn’t even notice the Beast until the X-Man delivered a quick blow to the back of the head. The Inuit mutant fell unconscious and the Beast carried him into the bungalow.

  Exhausted, Storm drifted back to the ground, landed, and trailed Beast into the building, followed in turn by Watkins. Bishop deposited Spoor in the room off the main entrance and stepped aside to let Beast enter with Katu. Both Acolytes were unconscious and likely to remain that way for some time.

  Leaving their foes in the cottage, they walked back out onto the patio. The radio was still on the table.

  It was Storm who first noticed the clock on the stereo. “Look! That’s not the time! It’s counting down.”

  Watkins handed Beast the vial of counteragent. “We have to be ready to release this should the need arise.”

  Bishop turned to Watkins. ‘ ‘You can stand over there in

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  the doorway and keep an eye on those two while we try to defuse the bomb.”

  Watkins was surprised. “Stand guard over them? Me?” Bishop nodded. “Just watch them carefully and let us know when they start to wake up.”

  Beast moved into place to dispense the counteragent should that be required. Still weakened from her stalemate with Katu, Storm steeled herself to contain the expelled bacteria should the bomb accidentally detonate during the disarming process. Watkins could feel the tension in the air as Bishop removed the radio casing, carefully placing it to one side.

  Uncovered, the bomb proved to be an intricate series of multicolored wires in elaborate and confusing combinations. Slowly, Bishop snipped one wire after another. Wire cutters poised over the final series of connections, he stopped and whistled softly. “Tricky litde fiends. Thorough too,” he muttered under his breath. “They almost fooled me. They’ve connected a second trigger mechanism, but it’s very subtle.”

  “Should we be worrying?” Beast asked.

  Bishop shook his head. “Not yet. It’s just going to take a little longer for me to disarm.”

  Distracted from his watch by Bishop’s difficulties, Watkins failed to notice Spoor’s stirring in the room behind him. Without warning, he felt a flood of heat surround him and smelled smoke. He felt the flames charring his skin, and in a blind panic to escape the blaze, ran full speed toward the ocean—straight at Bishop, who was engrossed in the delicate process of disarming the second trigger. “Jerome, what are you doing?” Beast cried out. He leapt

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  forward in a desperate attempt to intercept Watkins, but was too late.

  With one sweep of his arm as he tried to force his way to perceived safety, Watkins brushed the wire cutters in Bishop’s hand against the trigger mechanism. In the brief seconds before the explosion, Spoor lost consciousness again, and Watkins and Bishop were face to face, eye to eye.

  Bishop stared in horror at the man before him, then saw something he didn’t expect. He saw true sorrow reflected in Watkins’s eyes. The shame of being responsible for the bacterium’s creation plain on his face, Watkins turned away in the last moments and threw himself over the bomb.

  The explosion threw Watkins in one direction and Bishop in another. Storm reacted immediately, gathering the bacteria in a funnel of wind and fighting to contain them. “Quickly, Hank! Release the counteragent!” she yelled over the force of the wind.

  Beast released the stopper on the vial and fed it into the wind funnel, watching its light color mix with the darker shades of the consumer bacteria. He turned and saw Bishop rise, slightly shaken, but unharmed. Not that the bomb would have harmed him in any case; Bishop’s power allowed him to absorb any energy he was hit with. But Watkins had no way of knowing that.

  The Beast ran to Watkins then, who lay still on the ground.

  “H-h-help me, Hank,” the scientist managed to cough out. Gently, Beast helped Watkins to sit up.

  They all watched anxiously as Storm fought to contain the mixture of destruction and hope, her limbs drooping

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  slightly as her strength began to flag. Fearing the worst, they watched the plastic-consuming bacteria begin to make their mark on the patio furniture, which, as the umbrella and table began to dissolve and small puddles of goo filled the seats of the chairs, began to resemble a Dali painting.

  Storm’s strength completely depleted, she collapsed on the ground, releasing the swirling cloud of bacteria. No longer artificially contained, the cloud dispersed out into the island’s natural wind pattern. Bishop went to Storm’s side, raising her to her feet and letting her lean on him as they walked toward the Acolytes’ transport. Beast picked up the injured Watkins, ci'adling him as a child, and followed the other X-Men down the path to learn if the world as they knew it would continue.

  The Acolyte plane was on the far side of the bungalow, and as they watched, the wings began to droop towards the ground as the compound dissolved. Soon half the wing was melting, hanging limply in the air. They held their breath and waited.

  Seconds passed, and then minutes, the silence broken only by Watkins’ strangled breathing, but there was no further deterioration of the plane.

  “It worked, Hank.” Watkins’s voice came out garbled, his breathing heavy and labored. “We were able to stop it.” Beast looked down at the man in his arms. “That we did, friend.”

  Watkins grasped Beast’s furred hand, squeezing it tightly. “We made a good team.”

  Beast nodded once and watched as Watkins' eyes slowly closed and his breathing slowed. “Jerome?”

  Then the sounds of breathing stopped. Dr. Jerome Wat-

  kins was still and silent, his goal accomplished and his conscience, if not cleared, then relieved, as he let himself slip away.

  Beast took a deep breath and lifted the body of his friend and colleague, preparing to carry him out to the beach to the Blackbird.

  “You ruined our best chance for a mutant society this day, X-Men,” Katu’s voiced boomed out from behind them, more sorrow than anger in his words. “You could have let the bacteria do its job. It would have given us freedom!” Beast looked back only once. He stared at Katu for a moment, then down at Watkins’s body in his arms. “I would not pay this price for your ‘freedom.’ It would bring no peace, only violence, hatred, sorrow, and regret. There will be no true freedom until we can work together.”

  With that, the X-Men moved toward the beach.

  “What about the Acolytes?” Bishop asked. “What shall we do with them?”

  “Leave them,” said Beast. “They have to live with themselves. And they have ‘nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope.’ ” “Shakespeare?” Storm asked.

  “Robert Frost,” Beast replied as they walked away.

  Three days later, Beast sat alone in his laboratory, reading over a new medical journal when he glanced up at the video monitor. On the screen Graydon Creed, the leader of the mutant-hating Friends of Humanity, pounded a small wooden podium like a crazed evangelist. His mo
uth worked furiously, and out of a sense of morbid curiosity, Beast turned up the volume.

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  “I tell you people, without mutants and their kind we would not be subjected to threats like the one we had last week. We would not need to live in fear of one of their plagues robbing us of our future, like a thief in the night. We would not have to constantly guard ourselves against this evil if the government would put them into forced labor isolation centers, as we have repeatedly advocated. If I am elected to office, I will write a bill that places all mutants in a controlled environment, so as to keep our country safe for the American people—for humans.”

  Beast shut off the monitor, unable to listen to any more of the venomous speech. For a moment he felt a pang of sorrow that so many humans saw things in the same light as Creed. Then he remembered Jerome Watkins and his sacrifice. Until the fresh summer breeze of change did come, Watkins’s sacrifice would give him hope and faith that change was possible.

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  ton Timmons

  Illustration by Rick Leonardi & Terry Austin

  All of this happened, give or take.

  The sun was shining and a brisk wind blew marshmallow clouds across its face, painting the suburbs in light/shadow/light, giving everything a shutterbox effect.

  There were the hypnotic drones of electric lawn-mowers, and the smell of freshly cut grass and timothy hung sweetly on the air. A radio in the dash of a ’65 Mustang that a shade-tree mechanic was restoring proclaimed the good news that the Cincinnati Reds were winning the first game of a scheduled double-header against the Pirates.

  A bird perched on the rim of a stone birdbath in the Beckers’ front yard; he dipped his bill into the cool, clear water and tipped his head back, allowing the water to trickle down his throat. Afterward, refreshed, he trilled an unbroken string of notes. Somewhere down the neatly manicured block, in a tree in a yard bordered by just-cropped shrubbery and a newly painted white picket fence, another bird answered.