Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men

by Christopher Golden

  Less of a surprise was their greeting. As they followed Wolverine into the clearing, they were surrounded by armed soldiers. In seconds, a pair of troop transports came around either side of the compound and skidded to a halt in the scrub only feet away. The transport to the west was followed very quickly by a fast-moving tank.

  A man in the front of the eastern transport stood with a bullhorn in his hand, and began to address them just as the clattering of dozens of weapons being cocked and readied for firing echoed off the trees behind them.

  “Attention X-Men,” said the man in the transport, “this is Colonel Tomko, United States Army. You are trespassing at a top secret federal facility. Throw down your weapons and surrender or you will be fired upon.”

  “Seem a little anxious to shoot a couple mutants, don’t they?” Wolverine said under his breath, but Storm put a hand on his elbow to prevent any reaction.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bishop begin to bring his plasma rifle around to firing position.

  SIX

  MAGNETO was aware of the presence of the U.S. military outside the perimeter fence. But he was unconcerned. Granted, they had arrived roughly half an hour earlier than he had expected, but that was well within the acceptable parameters for the Empire Agenda. The magnetic force shield with which he had surrounded the base was performing its function admirably, and the jamming signal Milan was broadcasting from the computer seemed to be working, for none of the radio contact they had tapped into amongst the troops signaled any knowledge of who had captured the facility.

  For the moment, he was content. Soon, he would have the means at his disposal to attain the goal he had worked toward for so long: mutant domination of humanity. He would prove to Charles Xavier once and for all time whose philosophy was not only the best, but the most pragmatic. The next twenty-four hours would be glorious, the weeks, months and years afterward, nothing short of utopian. For mutants, of course.

  Xavier would see the light at last. That was important to Magneto. Once, they had been the best of friends, but their divergent dreams tore them apart. Ever the idealist, Charles would argue with him hour after hour, day after day, until finally Magneto realized he must act to make his dream real, rather than simply debate its finer points.

  The last time they had parted as friends, at peace with one another, the argument had reached new heights. In the heat of the Israeli summer, desert sand flying in the sweltering wind, bodies baking inside uncomfortable clothing as their Jeep bounced on rutted unpaved roads, their already-tattered friendship was torn asunder. Finally, Magneto had insisted that Charles recognize the primary flaw in his philosophy.

  “And what might that be?” Charles had asked, eyes narrowing at this new approach to the debate.

  “It’s so obvious, Charles,” Magneto had answered. “You see it around you every day, in every newspaper, in every city. It’s something I learned in war that you have yet to accept. Human society needs someone to hate. There must be a bottom rung on the ladder. Right now, mutants are it, and I don’t see anyone else climbing up after us. Therefore, as long as human society exists in its current form, humans will hate and fear mutants.”

  Charles was quiet for a long time after that, his face darkened by the shadow of his consternation. When he met Magneto’s gaze again, he seemed unsettled, yet determined.

  “There are certainly humans who need to hate,” Charles began. “But I do not believe that is true of humanity as a whole. Humans and mutants can live in peace, Magnus. I will never believe otherwise. Never.”

  That stubborn quality had blinded Charles from the beginning, and Magneto believed that it still did. But not for long. In one day he would teach Charles Xavier what he had not been able to in all the long years since they had first met. In one day. Today.

  Magneto was alone in the Sentinel control center, except for Milan, who could hardly be counted as his consciousness was completely integrated into the computer core at the moment. He was still slumped like a corpse over the console, jacked into cyberspace, and his presence gave an almost ghostly feel to the room.

  “Lord Magneto,” Voght’s voice crackled suddenly from a speaker nearby. Magneto walked to a comm-console near the observation window of the command center and slapped a yellow button before talking into a speaker on the wall.

  “What is it, Amelia?”

  “In the forest outside the perimeter fence,” she said quickly, obviously alarmed, “the X-Men are approaching.”

  “Thank you,” he said calmly. “Please keep me up to date.”

  “Yes, Lord,” she replied calmly, but it was clear that Magneto’s reaction had surprised her. He had, of course, expected the X-Men, or one of their splinter groups, to make an appearance during this operation. He was prepared for that eventuality. Voght should have known better than to think he could be taken by surprise.

  “Now then, Amelia, report to the control center at once,” he said in his normal voice. No additional urgency was required for his commands to be carried out. He was their Lord, after all.

  * * *

  AS she made her way to the Sentinel command center, Amelia Voght wondered, not for the first time, how she had ended up an Acolyte of Magneto when she had turned down a similar role in the life of Charles Xavier. Perhaps, though, the answer lay in the manner in which she had phrased the question. As an Acolyte, Magneto was her lord and master. Xavier had been her lover. When he began to build the foundations for the X-Men, their relationship became … well, competition was the only word she could think of.

  If she had wanted to continue her relationship with Xavier, she would have had to throw herself wholly into his dreams for the X-Men. Voght hadn’t been prepared to do that. She had known, better than any of them, what would happen. Xavier would gather his X-Men—like-minded individuals or young people whose opinions were not yet fully formed, whom he could then sculpt to his needs—Magneto would do the same, as would others she was certain would pop up eventually.

  It was asking for trouble, she had thought then. She knew better now, knew that hiding her head in the sand was not the answer, that she could not live in fear and shame simply because she was a mutant. But then she had been afraid, and her fear had made her self-righteous and indignant. Xavier had chosen his path, irrevocably, and Voght did not wish to follow it. It had ended that simply.

  Years later she had realized it was too late to make a choice. She was afraid again, but this time, there seemed only one way to survive, and that was to fight back against the swelling tide of human loathing. Mutants had to prevail. Magneto was the living essence of that conviction, and therefore Voght had thrown in with him.

  Though she thought him foolish, she still had a soft spot in her heart for Charles Xavier, a nostalgia for the innocence of their first days together in India, he only newly crippled, and she his vigilant nurse. That modicum of good feeling did not, however, extend to the X-Men. They were hopeless fools all, seduced by romanticism and wallowing in ignorance. Amelia Voght would be more than happy to teach them the error of their ways.

  The command center door slid aside with a hydraulic hiss. Magneto stood at the observation window staring out at the fleet of Sentinels that would soon be his to command. Milan was still psych-surfing the net, out like a light. Voght waited a moment, but Magneto did not turn to address her.

  “You rang?” she said finally.

  He started slightly, as if he hadn’t heard her enter, then turned slowly to face her.

  “Ah, yes, Amelia,” he said absently. “I’m sorry. I was just running over the Agenda in my head. Everything seems to be running perfectly well, but there are a couple of things we need to be wary of. Including, of course, the arrival of the X-Men.”

  “You don’t seem too concerned,” she said. “I had hoped to keep our presence here unknown for as long as possible, but it seems I have failed.”

  “Not necessarily,” Magneto answered. “It is entirely possible that they know of the Sentinels kept at t
his location, and mean to prevent anyone from possessing them.”

  Voght realized that Magneto was right. At least with the Sentinels in the hands of the federal government and Operation: Wideawake, the X-Men knew what they were up against. Better the devil you know, as they say. Xavier would have sent them to investigate no matter what the circumstances or the identity of the potential thieves.

  “Do you want us to engage them?” she asked, but suspected she knew the answer.

  “Not at all, Amelia,” Magneto said with a benevolent smile. “It will take quite some time for the X-Men to resolve their presence with the particularly hostile attitudes of the American military forces arrayed outside this base. Even then, they’ve got to break through our force shield. At that point, you may be required to engage them. As such, please find Senyaka, Unuscione and the others and prepare.”

  “You said there were a couple of things we need to be wary of,” Voght reminded him.

  “Indeed,” Magneto agreed, nodding. “While most of the Acolytes will see your orders as a direct communication of my will, that is a lesson Unuscione may need to be taught. Were I you, I would watch my back during battle, ever a convenient time to be rid of competition.”

  Voght was silent. She expected nothing less of Unuscione, but felt it remarkable that Magneto should deign to mention it at all. She knew she held a place in his life as a confidant, but she hoped there was no romantic interest involved. She had already once given her heart to a man incapable of accepting the responsibility. She’d be damned if she’d do it again.

  “I appreciate the heads-up, Magneto,” she answered finally. “If Unuscione gets out of hand, you can be certain my retribution, or reprimand if you prefer, will be swift.”

  “I had thought it might,” Magneto said. “The Empire Agenda can ill afford to have my orders questioned.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” Voght said. She turned and marched from the command center, wondering if Magneto was purposely maneuvering Unuscione and herself into a confrontation. She would not put it past him, but if that was his goal, Voght was mystified as to its purpose. No matter, though. If Unuscione came after her …

  “I’ll take her down hard,” Voght said under her breath, eyes narrowed and with a grim set to her jaw. Life as a mutant was becoming an ugly business. But then, she had always known it would come to that.

  * * *

  WITH mixed feelings Magneto watched Voght set off to prepare for battle. He had every confidence in her ability, both to lead and to withstand Unuscione’s back-stabbing tendencies, but he did not wish to see their conflict undermine the Empire Agenda. He considered for a moment that it might have been unwise to place Voght in charge for this mission, and then brushed the thought aside. The two women were on a collision course, and there would be no avoiding that fact. Best to be done with it, and move on.

  A loud thump made him whip his head around, entire body taking on a defensive posture, wondering if the X-Men had somehow devised a way to enter the base unnoticed.

  “Apologies, my Lord,” Milan said, for it had been his open palm on the metal desk that had made such a noise. He sat, still slightly hunched over the console. Milan no longer looked dead; now he simply looked as if he were dying. Sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks in droplets and he wiped them quickly away. He stood and stretched, arched his back with a crackle of popping muscles.

  “We’re ready, my Lord,” he said with great deference, then sat back down at the console. “All we need to do now is enter your password, and we will be online and ready for reprogramming.”

  Milan’s exhaustion and satisfaction were evident in his features, though obscured by the visor he wore and the tattoo on his face. For a moment, Magneto wished he did not have to disappoint one of his most faithful Acolytes, but there was no avoiding it.

  “I’m sorry, Milan, but I must take over from here,” Magneto said.

  “My Lord?” Milan asked, astonished at his master’s words. “Have I offended you somehow, Lord? What may I do to salve whatever wrong I have produced? Surely, there must be …”

  “Please, Milan, be still,” Magneto instructed, and was obeyed. “You have done no wrong.”

  Magneto crossed the control center, his footsteps echoing heavily on the metal floor, a dead hollow sound that only served to amplify the lifeless, haunted atmosphere of the base. It was a cold place, and Magneto greatly anticipated the moment when they might quit Colorado and move on to their ultimate goal.

  Milan waited, head tilted slightly downward, as Magneto approached, and only stood when his master had laid a hand on his left shoulder. When he had vacated his seat at the console, Magneto replaced him there, where his mind had labored tirelessly to navigate layer upon layer of computer security. Now that Milan had breached that security, had found the backdoor that Sebastian Shaw had built into the Sentinels’ programming, Magneto knew that he must take over.

  “Please sit down, Milan,” he said, motioning to a chair several feet away. “Sit by me now, and you will see that I have done nothing but save your life.”

  On screen, the console displayed only one word, a request: “PASSWORD?” Magneto typed E-M-P-I-R-E, and hit the return key. The resounding, grinding noise of generators coming to life filled the facility. Giant engines churned with sudden purpose, like dozens of jets preparing for takeoff simultaneously.

  “What is that sound, Lord?” Milan asked, hands over his ears.

  Before Magneto could respond, the console began to change. Where it had been a very modern computer system, it now unfolded like a lotus flower, blossoming into a thing of much greater technological promise. The screen widened, and glowed with a pink hue that made Magneto think, absurdly, of cotton candy. The top rolled back into itself and a new apparatus was born from inside it, consisting of a long gray box with a six inch opening at one end and another, strangely shaped construct.

  “Name?” asked the computerized voice of the command center.

  “Eric Magnus Lehnsherr, called Magneto, White King of the Hellfire Club,” Magneto said. Though the latter bit of information was no longer true, it was part of the identification that Shaw had programmed into the system.

  “Password?”

  “Empire.”

  “Voice pattern analysis confirms identity. Please proceed with fingerprint and genetic analysis.”

  Magneto removed the glove from his right hand and slid it into the long, gray box on top of the console. He breathed deeply as the computer scanned not only his fingerprints, but the lines of his palm as well. That completed, he grimaced in pain as fine lasers sliced off a small swatch of his skin for testing.

  “My Lord, you are in pain,” Milan said, and Magneto almost laughed at the simple childlike wonder in the man. Though it was possible devout piety and childlike wonder were too often confused.

  “In answer to your question, that sound is the arming and ignition of all Sentinel systems,” Magneto said, knowing it would be several seconds before the computer confirmed his genetic pattern and realizing that Milan had probably forgotten he’d ever asked the question. “Now that Shaw is dead, if anyone other than myself were to attempt to enter the system in this fashion, the Sentinels are programmed to destroy that person.”

  “Fingerprint and genetic analysis confirms identity,” the computer announced. “Begin retinal scan.”

  For a heartbeat, Magneto wished he could witness the enormity of it from Milan’s point of view. The very idea was foolish and impossible, and he chided himself for it. Magneto placed his face against the contoured edge of the Retinal Scanner and a reddish light bathed his eyes. He tried not to flinch from its brightness. After all, any machine is capable of errors, and an error here would mean failure at best, possibly even death.

  “Retinal scan confirms identity,” the computer voice said. “Welcome, Magneto. Please run system self-diagnostics before downloading alternate priority program from restricted memory.”

  “Run diagnostics,” Magnet
o said.

  “Running.”

  Magneto looked at Milan, who sat in silent appreciation of his master and the technology that was about to become enslaved to their needs. The Master of Magnetism took in a deep breath, sweet with relief, and leaned back in his chair, content to wait while the soldiers of his empire began to learn their new duties.

  * * *

  VAL Cooper was getting stonewalled by Gyrich’s secretary, and was considering putting in another call to Xavier, as the Professor was the only other source of information regarding the Colorado situation that she had at her disposal. Gyrich was hardly following the Secretary’s instructions, and he’d pay for it later, no doubt. But Val knew that the bastard couldn’t care less about later if it meant not having to deal with her, now.

  That’s what she was thinking, anyway, when her office door crashed open and Henry Peter Gyrich stormed into the room.

  “Cooper, I’ve got a major crisis on my hands, and I wonder if you can shed some light on it for me,” he said, not caring enough to even begin to disguise the hostility in his tone and manner.

  “Really?” Val asked, all innocence. She had no idea what he was referring to specifically, but loved the disgusted look on his face and the pain it must have caused him to come to her.

  “What can I do for you, Henry?” she inquired, and then allowed the venom to seep into her voice. “Seeing how cooperative you’ve been, you know I’ll help where I can.”

  “Back off, Cooper,” he snarled, then dropped into the soft leather chair in front of her desk. “I want to know what the X-Men are doing traipsing all over the Colorado site. Somehow, I expect you’ll have an answer for me.

  “If you’re implying that I …” she began, bursting with mock fury.

  “I imply nothing,” Gyrich interrupted. “I’m far too direct for implication, don’t you think?”