Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men

by Christopher Golden

  THIRTEEN

  LATE afternoon in the Colorado Rockies. Breezy, peaceful, birds chittering in the forest as the shadows grew long. Any other day, it might have been all those things. On this day, however, it was nothing short of chaos, and closing in on disaster.

  The moment the X-Men had passed through the force field surrounding Operation: Wideawake’s mountain base, the Acolytes had appeared from within the low, simple building which served to mask the complex beneath. When the Acolytes appeared, the force field surrounding the base evaporated. And they all knew, then, what the field had been. Knew who was behind the takeover of the facility, and the Sentinels inside.

  “Magneto,” Wolverine growled, though he could not see the Acolytes’ master anywhere.

  “Oh shit,” Iceman whispered beside him.

  Time seemed to halt a moment, as the X-Men and Acolytes faced each other down over fifty yards of wind-bent grass. For Wolverine, it called to mind that high noon in Tombstone, when the Earps faced down the Clantons. It was almost as if he could hear the melee, see the violence shimmering in the air, smell the bloodshed, all in that moment.

  The Acolytes were more dangerous, more vicious, more disturbing than most of the enemies the X-Men had faced over the years, for one reason. To them, it was jihad, Holy War. To die for Magneto would be the greatest honor they could imagine. Wolverine knew what it was like to lose all sense of self-preservation. He knew how dangerous he became when the fervor of a berserker rage came over him. It was similar, in its way, to their devotion to Magneto. It was blind rage.

  The X-Men had always been noble and benevolent. It had been, in large part, due to his involvement with them that Wolverine had been able to keep the savage beast inside of him at bay. But there were times, as the Acolytes had proven to them in the past, where nobility was secondary to victory. It had been a hard realization for all of them. All but him. Wolverine had been saddened to realize it was a lesson he had never had to learn.

  If savagery was what it took, that was all right with him. For Wolverine, it was like the intimate, knowing kiss of an old love: bittersweet, unwelcome, exhilarating.

  All of which occurred to him in that moment when time stood still, when Iceman still stood jaw agape at his side and Storm locked eyes with Amelia Voght across the field. Voght was no madwoman like the others, but her face showed the fierce resolution with which she followed Magneto. Wolverine watched her mouth form the words, the command that broke the silence, shattered frozen time, sent birds flapping from the trees.

  “Acolytes!” she commanded. “Destroy them!”

  The seven Acolytes surged forward, the Kleinstock brothers merging into one. The X-Men responded in kind. Wolverine saw Storm call lightning down on the merged Kleinstocks, who took flight themselves to battle her. Iceman blasted Cargil with a hail of knife-sharp icicles. Out of the corner of his eye, Wolverine saw Bishop flattened by Unuscione’s exoskeleton.

  Two of them rushed to attack Wolverine: the hulking Javitz, whose ruined left eye was obscured by a red bandanna tied across it, and the hooded Senyaka, whose psionic whip even now flashed toward him. Logan barely tensed, and his adamantium claws burst once more through the flesh between his knuckles, already streaked with his own blood.

  “Only the strong will survive the Mutant Empire!” Senyaka snarled as his whip whisked toward Wolverine’s face.

  “Guess you’re out o’ luck, then, bub,” Logan said, sidestepping the whip and slicing through its psionic length.

  Senyaka cried out and staggered back, but Wolverine knew from experience that he would be off-balance only for a moment. But a moment would be all he needed.

  “True mutants follow the lord Magneto!” Javitz bellowed, his voice a rumbling bass.

  The big mutant moved much faster than Wolverine had expected, and his first swing connected with Wolverine’s left cheek. His teeth clacked together and he allowed himself to stumble into a backward somersault, then came up to face Javitz again. Logan spit blood, the wounds in his mouth already healing, and dove for his prey.

  “Time for the ol’ Canucklehead to give you a right eye to match the left,” he growled. “When I’m done with ya, you’ll have to read your comic books in Braille.”

  Javitz grabbed for Wolverine’s extended left arm, which was precisely what he wanted the huge Acolyte to do. It was a feint that had worked many times before. No matter how hard Javitz squeezed, he could never break Logan’s adamantium bones. All the fool had done was give him an opening to slash.

  His claws sliced the wind, and then the taut muscle and tendon of the shoulder and arm that were holding Wolverine aloft. Javitz screamed, loud and long, but miraculously, he didn’t let go. In a flash, he had Wolverine’s other arm, and was holding those flashing claws, glinting in the sunshine, away from him.

  With his enhanced senses, Wolverine scented Senyaka on the cool breeze, heard the low crackling of his whip, even before the mutant was within range. Such was Javitz’ strength, however, that he was unable to get out of the way. The psionic whip coiled around his neck, and Wolverine roared in pain. Where it touched his skin, the whip burned. His flesh blackened and Logan smelled it cooking. His limbs began to slow, reacting belatedly to the whip’s paralyzing effect.

  He looked up into Javitz’ smiling face, and just completely lost it. The berserker rage was on him, now. There was no holding back anymore. With all of his strength, he thrust his forehead up into Javitz’ face, the head butt smashing the Acolyte’s nose. Blood spurted and Javitz lost his grip. Wolverine hit the ground, adrenaline and healing factor surging together to overcome the paralyzing whip. He reached behind his head and twined his arms in the burning touch of Senyaka’s mind.

  And yanked.

  Senyaka flew, but in his rage and pain, Logan paid no attention to where the hooded Acolyte might land. Javitz, furious and bleeding from face, neck and shoulder, came at Logan again. This time, Wolverine was ready for him, operating on fevered primal energy. He ducked Javitz’ swing, and raked his claws across the tall mutant’s rib cage, spilling fresh blood onto the grass.

  Javitz fell, and did not get up again.

  Logan looked around, his feral senses testing the air. Nearby, the Beast had Amelia Voght in his grasp. Hank held the woman aloft, trying in vain to talk sense into her. Wolverine tensed to rush them, to show the Beast how to deal with these psychotic mutant terrorists.

  But Hank and Amelia disappeared.

  “Amelia! No!” he heard the Beast shout above him. Above him.

  Wolverine looked up, just in time to see Voght and the Beast falling, perhaps a hundred twenty yards in the air. Then Voght teleported away, and Hank McCoy was falling to his death. In a moment, the rage had gone, and Wolverine was in motion. In his peripheral vision, he saw Amelia pop up next to the unconscious Javitz, then both of them disappeared.

  Still, the Beast fell. Wolverine’s healing factor had kicked in, but the burns on his neck were still there, still hurt, and the charred skin cracked and tore as he moved. His legs pumped hard and he looked up to see that Hank was almost to the ground.

  Hank McCoy had eight inches on him, and at least one hundred and fifty pounds. Logan knew he could cushion the Beast’s fall, that he wouldn’t die, that his adamantium skeleton would not give way. That was something, at least.

  “This is gonna …” he started to say, and then he was under the Beast, and his arms were up. McCoy’s blue furred body slammed into his arms and chest and drove him to the ground. Logan lay there, wind knocked out of him, his entire body beginning to bruise even as his neck healed.

  Hank rolled off of him and groaned.

  “We’re accomplishing nothing,” the Beast said. “Time for some tag team action.”

  “We’re getting somewhere,” Logan replied. “They’re down to four, or five, depending how you count the Kleinstocks.”

  * * *

  “LORD Magneto!” Amelia Voght cried as she appeared in the command center.

  Magneto s
tarted in his chair, stunned by her sudden appearance. Voght knelt on the floor next to Javitz, who was bleeding profusely from wounds on his neck and chest. The slash marks told their own story, and a sudden fury filled Magneto.

  “Wolverine!” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I have always hoped the X-Men would see the light, would see the flaws in Xavier’s dream. But that man has tried my patience once too often. There will come a time, I can see, where his potential usefulness does not balance the pain and damage I have suffered because of him. I wonder if he knows the harm I could do him. I wonder if he cares.”

  Voght only looked at him, wide-eyed, then back down to Javitz. Magneto knew she was right, that indulging his anger was foolish. Javitz was not the most intelligent of his Acolytes, but even in his ignorance, the one-eyed giant had been one of Magneto’s most loyal followers. To him, Magneto might as well have been God. Magneto knew that faith had to be repaid.

  “I will try,” he said simply.

  While raw power had always been his strength, over the past few years, Magneto had attempted to learn precision as well. And precision was certainly necessary here. By manipulating the iron content of Javitz’ blood, he forced the mutant’s life fluids to coagulate. While the wounds were still grievous, they were covered in a crust of dried blood in mere moments.

  Voght stood quickly, but Magneto stopped her.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I am field leader,” she answered. “I must return to the battle.”

  “No need,” Magneto said. “The Sentinels will be ready in a moment. Stay and care for Javitz, then we will leave together.”

  * * *

  THE tide had turned. Storm had been handily beating the merged Kleinstock brothers, easily matching their plasma bursts with the lightning that was hers to command. They flew, and joined, their strength was far greater than her own. But Ororo Munroe controlled the wind itself, and so there was no chance that the Kleinstocks would get near her if she did not wish it.

  And she most certainly did not wish it.

  Storm blasted the merged brothers with gale force winds that shot them out over the forest where they crashed into the treetops. Before moving to help her teammates, Ororo wanted to be certain the Kleinstocks were down for the count. Gathering the winds around her, glorious aloft, weightless in the sky, she glided high over the trees. There was movement in the branches below, and she squinted in the dimming sunlight of near dusk to see what had happened to her enemy.

  A plasma blast jetted from the cover of the treetops, burning branches away as it shot toward her. Storm’s control over the weather was as fundamental to her as breathing, as speaking. She moved without thinking, but still the blast hit her thigh, singing her badly. Stunned, she fell toward the trees, but recovered quickly.

  As she regained her equilibrium, she saw the merged Kleinstocks flying at her from the forest, blasting her again. This time, she dodged easily, and lightning flashed from the sky at her nearly subconscious call. It struck, and only then did she realize that the Kleinstocks had shrunk. A heartbeat later, she knew what that meant.

  They had separated.

  Storm spun in the air and saw the other of the twins rushing toward her, yards away, clearly hoping for a surprise attack that would likely have ended her life. She evaded his plasma blast, but his brother had already recovered and was rising into the air on the other side. Storm called icy sleet down from the skies on either side of her, slicing at her enemies.

  Then she flew back toward the others, hoping for reinforcements. At the edge of the field, Iceman was attempting to keep Cargil, whom they had once known as Frenzy, at bay. But the woman was far too powerful, and continued to shatter whatever Bobby threw at her. Storm wanted to help, but she had to deal with her own problems first.

  Then she saw them. Hank and Logan, far below, waving at her with beckoning arms. It took her a moment before she realized their intent. The Kleinstocks would be right behind her, in hot pursuit. Wolverine and the Beast were not engaged in combat, at that particular moment. Storm was happy to provide them with playmates.

  Turning toward the Kleinstocks, she summoned all the strength of the winds, raised her arms and brought them down swiftly. Hurricane gusts threw the mutant twins at the ground with devastating force. If that did not take them out of the battle, and Storm doubted that it would, then Logan and Hank most certainly would.

  Now, she thought, to aid Iceman.

  * * *

  “YOU are a fool, Bishop!” Unuscione cried. “Don’t you see you are hopelessly outmatched?”

  The woman was right, Bishop had no doubt about that. But he did not relent. She had stripped him of his weapon in seconds. Now it was all he could do to simply survive the onslaught of her psionic exoskeleton. It surrounded her, enveloped her in a green glow, its edges shining brightly and showing the outline. It was constantly changing, its shape molded by her mind second by second. She was deadly.

  Bishop tried to duck as Unuscione’s exoskeleton morphed into the shape of a huge warhammer, and descended toward him. Try as he might, he could not escape. She pummeled him to the ground. Were it not that his mutant abilities absorbed some of the energies of the blow and the exoskeleton itself, it might have killed him where he lay.

  He struggled to his knees and let loose with a blast of energy, siphoned from her own powers. It dispersed harmlessly against the exoskeleton, might even have been absorbed back into it. Bishop wondered whether he might absorb enough of the exoskeleton, without returning it through energy blasts, that Unuscione might be drained dry of power.

  Then she hit him again, and he had to shake his head to clear his thoughts. Disoriented, he had neither the time nor the mental cohesion to consider a move against her. He’d been put almost completely on the defensive. He still had his wits, though, his experience and his fear. That he could share with her, and hope.

  “You are the greater fool, Acolyte!” he cried. “No matter whether the Sentinels are slave to your master, or another. Eventually, they must employ their prime directive, which is the subjugation of all mutants on Earth.”

  For once, he was able to avoid her attack, and Bishop thought she might actually be listening. And if she would listen, he might actually have a chance.

  “You know who I am,” he called to her. “You know I come from the future. The Sentinels will not only subjugate us; they will attempt genocide! Unuscione, the Sentinels must be destroyed if my future is not to come about. If they are set upon the world, you and the rest of the Acolytes will be destroyed.”

  “Liar!” Unuscione screamed, and slammed Bishop to the ground again, a loud crack telling him that this time, he had not been so lucky. When he moved, there was a stabbing pain in his side.

  “It’s history to me, don’t you see?” he shouted at her, clutching his side.

  But clearly she didn’t. In her eyes, Bishop saw only madness. Her exoskeleton flared and he let off what saved energy he had in one blast at her head. It barely made her blink. He knew then that Unuscione was going to kill him.

  * * *

  ICEMAN had fought Joanna Cargil before, back when she’d gone by the name Frenzy. He hadn’t had much better luck then. She was an Amazon, or at least, that’s the way Bobby thought of her. He figured her to be about seven feet tall, with the muscles to match. None of that counted, though. It was her sheer strength that made her a threat. Raw, unadulterated physical power.

  Cargil had a constant scowl on her face. Otherwise, Bobby thought, her African features would have been strikingly attractive. Her black hair had white streaks on the sides, but he thought they were dyed rather than natural.

  “Great,” he mumbled. “Here I am playing hairdresser while she’s trying to kill me. You need a date, Drake.”

  Bobby often talked to himself during a battle. Particularly when none of his teammates was close enough to hear, or to help.

  “Time to say goodbye, Frosty,” Cargil sneered, and shattered the block of ice h
e had imprisoned her in. “I’m getting a little numb, but otherwise, you’re only slowing me down.”

  He encased her again, and poured on the ice, hoping it would hold her a bit. But he built her cage too slow, and she shattered it again. There was only so long he could keep her away from him. When she caught him, he worried that she might shatter him as easily as she did the ice that he whipped up around her.

  Unconsciously, he began to build an ice platform beneath him, and he moved away from her on it without taking a step.

  “That’s right, human lover, you run away,” Cargil laughed. “But don’t run far. I’ll have to kill you eventually.”

  With a half-hearted punch, she smashed his platform to bits and brought him crashing to the ground amidst hundreds of pounds of ice chunks and shards. Cargil stomped toward him, and Bobby glared at her.

  Bobby Drake had never liked to fight. His parents had instilled that in him at a young age. He was going to grow up, get married, have two point five kids, own a house, be an accountant. American dream. The word mutant had never entered the equation. In truth, he didn’t think he’d ever heard the word before his first day at Xavier’s School. He’d never really been in a fight in his life.

  Until the X-Men first went up against Magneto. He held his own in battle, did fine as the Iceman, learned to use his powers. But he never, ever, wanted to fight. For a long time he secretly worried that he might be a coward, but as he’d matured he realized he was just smart. That nobody in their right mind wanted to fight. So he held his own.

  But the X-Men quickly learned that, despite the way he belittled himself, if they were really in trouble, Iceman would rise to the occasion. Many times he had surprised even himself. If his friends were in trouble, he became a whole different class of warrior. If his friends were in trouble… or, if he was really pissed off.

  And Joanna Cargil had really pissed him off.

  “Enough, you lunatic!” he snapped.

  Bobby Drake was never entirely sure what happened when he became Iceman. Was he flesh still, under the ice, or did his entire body transform? Sometimes, he was certain the latter was true. When he was fed up enough to strike out in true anger, Bobby had a subzero heart. His eyes crackled with breaking ice as he moved and his breath turned to mist as it hit the air.