StanLee

E d ito r

BYRON PREISS MULTIMEDIA COMPANY INC.

NEW YORK

BOULEVARD BOOKS,
NEW YORK
 (O IIflTS

INTRODUCTION
Stan Lee
Illustration byJoe St. Pierre
IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE ^ $ ****■ > '& ***>

eluki bes shahar

Illustration by Tom Grummett
GIFT OF THE SILVER FOX
Ashley McConnell
Illustration by Gary Frank
STILLBORN IN THE M IST ^*'6*'1
Dean Wesley Smith
Illustration by Ralph Reese
X-PRESSO
Ken Grobe
Illustration by Dave Cockrum & John Nyberg
FOUR ANGRY MUTANTS
Andy Lane & Rebecca Levene
Illustration by Brent Anderson
ON THE AIR .
Glenn Hauman
Illustration by Ron Lim
SUMMER BREEZE
Jenn Saint-John & Tammy Lynne Dunn
Illustration byJames W. Fry
 (OITtHTS

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM 205

Stan Timmons
Illustration by Rick Leonardi & Terry Austin
225
Evan Skolnick
Illustration by Dave Cockrum & John Nyberg
HOSTAGES
J. Steven York
Illustration by Ralph Reese
OUT OF PLACE 287
Dave Smeds
Illustration by Brent Anderson
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES 309

ii
iim u a io n

Stan Lee
Illustration by Joe St. Pierre
i n A WONDERFUL LlfE

eluki lies shahar

Illustration by Tom Grummett
r
oily miles north of New York City in the northernmost tip
of Westchester County lies the small town of Salem Cen­
ter, New York. Here vast tracts of gently wooded green­
sward cradle the sprawling estates; they are still mostly private
houses, though one of the stately homes that once boasted a
secret dock for smuggling Prohibition-era booze and still can
claim an unrivaled view of the Hudson River has become a
five-star restaurant, and another is now a thriving bed-and-
breakfast. The town of Salem Center is the kind of place that
driven Manhattan professionals like to escape to: surrounded
by riding academies and private schools, all the grace notes
of a life of wealth and privilege, it. is a community that values
privacy, where secrets are jealously guarded.
Although some secrets are bigger than others.
On Greymalkin Lane the houses are set far back from
the road. Their existence is proclaimed only by the pillars
flanking the iron gates of the widely spaced driveways. On
one gate in particular, as if identification of what lies within
is particularly important, there is a small brass plaque:
‘‘The Xavier Institute of Higher Learning.”
Once I had a normal life. The running man clung to that
thought as if it were a place he could go to hide. H e’d had
a normal life, a quiet life, a life where men with guns didn’t
come to his door, and then—and then—
His foot hit an exposed tree root and he was knocked
sprawling. He lay facedown, sucking the wet-earth-scented
air into burning lungs and wondering where he was. His
last ride had dropped him north of New York City some­
where; he’d thought it was safe enough to hitch again. The
 m oiTinm i-m
running man had never heard of Professor Charles Xavier
or his school, although he’d certainly heard of the X-Men.
He had no idea that he was less than a mile from possibly
the only people on earth who could help him. The running
man had given up hope of help long ago.
H e’d been standing at the edge of the road when he
saw the black sedan with the government plates cruise past
him In the southbound lane and then pull into the “ Official
Vehicles Only” turnaround. H e’d taken off cross-country;
when the landscape opened out into woods and fields, he
was sure h e’d lost them.
His breath rasped in and out of his lungs with a desper­
ate gasping sound as he lay there. His throat felt as if he’d
swallowed dry ice. Thoughts spun through his mind like
angry hornets.
Have to get up.
Almost finished.
Get up, dammit!
But he couldn’t. He could only lie there. A matter of
minutes now and Black Team 51 would have him.
If only he could be sure they’d kill him.
But they wouldn’t. That was the special hell of it. They
wanted him to work for them. And he was afraid, afraid of
what they would make him do. . . .
Once upon a time, the running man had possessed a
name. H e’d been David Ferris; twenty-nine, unmarried,
and—according to his now ex-girlfriend Alicia—looked a
lot like Fox Mulder on The X-Files. Until a week ago he’d
been just another teacher at Penrod High School in Indi­
anapolis, Indiana, brass buckle of the Corn Belt.
A normal life. Once he’d had a normal life.
 irs k woiDtnriL lift
* * *
It was August, and so it was hot, and the four men and one
woman could easily have sought the sanctuary of the air-
conditioning inside the sprawling mansion—or even the
pool on the other side of the house. Instead they sat in a
casual grouping upon the shady flagstoned terrace at the
back of the house, concealed from accidental view with a
caution that had become habit long since. The only sound
on the hot summer air was the rattle of ice in the tall lem­
onade glasses and the desultory sound of relaxed talk
among them. These five had passed through Life and Death
together, and the most important things they could express
to one another had already been said long ago.
They were all in their twenties, all at that peak of health
and conditioning that marks the professional athlete, whose
success or failure depends entirely on the educated body’s
response to the demanding mind. But these five were not
professional athletes, though one of them, at least, had ar­
rived at that peak of fame and adulation that only sports
stars and rock stars—and super heroes—know.
Once h e’d stood with the Avengers, Earth’s mightiest
heroes, in the days when there were no East or West Coast
Avengers, no first or second team. But before that his alle­
giance had been to another assemblage, in the days now
long past when that supergroup’s roster could be counted
on the digits of one hand: in that twilight moment between
their discovery that they were different from the rest of hu­
manity, and the mom ent the world learned to hate and fear
them.
His name was Henry P. McCoy, and he was the X-Man
known as the Beast.

II
 the omiun x-ntn

Of the five heroes gathered on that shady secluded ter­

race, Hank McCoy looked least human, though all five of
them had been able to pass for human once—had in fact
passed for human during one of those dark periods when
the X-Men were driven underground by a prejudice so deep
that even some of their fellow heroes turned against them,
and Hank McCoy had left them to pursue his first love,
biochemistry research. There, youthful pride and an exper­
iment gone wrong had trapped him forever in a shape as
bestial as his code name—the form of a burly blue-furred
monster with long, gleaming fangs. Since his transformation
Hank stood upright only with the greatest of effort, though
he could bound along on his knuckles and toes faster than
a racehorse could run.
At the moment Hank McCoy reclined in a specially re­
inforced lawn chair, the dark glasses balanced on the bridge
of his nose adding a note of absurdity to his broad inhuman
countenance. He perched his slippery tumbler of lemonade
on the tip of one taloned finger and studied it meditatively.
“I hate to mention this, Warren m ’boy, but you’re in­
terfering with my tan,” Hank said.
Behind the Beast stood his teammate, bio-mechanical
wings spread to block the sun. When Hank spoke, he spread
them wider, then turned aside so that his shadow no longer
fell upon the Beast’s blue-furred body.
“ Oh, well, excuse moi,” Archangel said with a grin, mak­
ing a big show of getting out of his teammate’s light.
Born Warren W orthington III, he had called himself the
Avenging Angel when Professor Charles Xavier invited him
to join the X-Men—and convinced him to shorten his name
to simply Angel. But the man now called Archangel had
 IT’ S A WOflDERFUl lift

drifted nearly as far from human as Hank had. Once great

white-feathered wings had sprouted from his shoulder
blades when the hormonal changes of puberty had brought
his m utant gifts to flower—though those were gone now,
irrevocably damaged in battle and amputated. In their place
Archangel now bore glittering metal wings, as intricately
feathered as his natural ones had been, and so bound into
his nervous system that he could launch their razor-feather
darts at will. The same dubious benefactor who had engi­
neered this transformation had also turned W arren’s skin a
cyanotic blue: stronger and tougher than ordinary human—
or even m utant—skin, it provided a great advantage to
Archangel in battle; at the same time it irrevocably marked
him out from the rest of humanity. Different. Alien.
David Ferris had always known he was different—
get up you have to get up
—but when he’d been a child a quarter of a century ago
the world had been different, too—
get up it isn’t that hard they’ll be here soon
—the superteams and lone costumed avengers that were so
much a part of modern daily life now—
you can’t let them take you
—were a thing of the future, or dim past-era memories in
the minds of those who had fought beside the more-than-
human in World War II—Captain America, the Sub­
Mariner, the first Human Torch—then called the Invaders.
The bitter enmity between homo sapiens and homo superior
was still years in the future—
come on; it isn’t that hard
—in those days, growing up in rural Shelbyville, David

13
 m umnm x-ntn
had known that other people bowed to the inevitable, ac­
cepted the fact that choosing one thing made all the others
impossible—
if you can’t walk, crawl!
—realized that life was a process of choosing one thing and
forsaking all the rest.
But David Ferris didn’t have to.
Years later, in his reading, he came across the words that
explained what he had known, instinctively, from birth: that
there wasn’t one reality, but millions—that every possible
choice that could ever be made was made somewhere, in one
of the parallel worlds that, to David’s m utant perception,
were as tangible and accessible as the books on the rack at
the soda fountain downtown. David could spin the wheel of
fortune and make those different worlds real.
Worlds where Hitler had won World War II. Worlds
where humanity had never evolved. Even worlds where hu­
manity was the only known sentient species—no Atlanteans
nor Kree, no Skrulls, not even Galactus to threaten sleep.
He might, with his mutant gift, have grown up to don a
gaudy costume, taken a romantic nom de guerre, and gone
on to fight crime an d /o r evil, as Benton Harper—Chicken-
Man—used to say on the radio. But David just didn’t have
a world-famous sort of nature, and when ultimate evil came
to the Midwest, the Avengers or the Fantastic Four were
almost always only half a jum p behind.
get up
hands and knees
crawl
c’mon David you have to keep moving
 IT’ S kW O l i D M lift

No one needed him to save the world. Not when others

were available to do it.
“Do you ever wonder why we do it? I mean, we could have
had normal lives,” the young man said pensively.
And in fact, the speaker looked normal—a slight twen-
tysomething with brown hair and brown eyes and a faintly
mocking smile—save for the thick coating of frost that cov­
ered his hand and turned the liquid in his glass to gelid
slush.
“That’s something you’d never have to worry about,
Robert m ’lad,” the Beast said. He regarded his glass medi­
tatively, tossed it up, caught it, and drank.
Bobby Drake—Iceman to his teammates and enemies—
slid his free hand unobtrusively below Hank’s line of sight.
At a mental command, snow began to form in his palm,
created from the moisture in the air by Iceman’s mutant
power: the power to create ice and project the cold needed
to keep it from melting under even the most adverse con­
ditions—like a hot August day.
“Knock it off, Bobby.”
The snow turned to water before Iceman could con­
sciously react. Save for his heavy dark glasses, Scott Summers
looked ordinary enough to be Bobby’s older brother, but
as Cyclops, he had been the X-Men’s first team leader, and
after so many years, the habit of obedience that had saved
Bobby’s life countless times was ingrained in the younger
m an’s mind well below the level of conscious thought.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” Bobby protested, more out
of habit than any hope of getting away with it.
“Yet,” the fifth member of the party finished for him.

15
 Tilt IHTIIUTf X-HEH
Cool and eye-catching in white tennis shorts and sleeveless
turdeneck, Jean Grey was a regal redhead, with a model’s
poise and flawless skin. Both a telepath and telekinetic, she
Was also now married to Scott Summers.
“Bobby, when are you ever going to grow up?” she
asked with an amused, long-suffering sigh.
“When somebody makes him ,” Archangel drawled in
his silver-spoon accent. The sunlight threw flickers of light
off the silvery metal of his wings. “And I think I just might—
What was that?”
All of them had heard it. A short, sharp, odd sound,
brief and loud.
Archangel turned in the direction the sound had come
from, his wings mantling for flight. “Maybe I’d better— ”
he began.
“It was probably just somebody’s arugula steamer mis­
firing,” the Beast said lighdy. “Warren, old friend, you re­
ally should— ”
“I’ll just go check it out,” Archangel said quickly. Step­
ping away from the others, he spread his wings to their full
span, and, with one powerful downbeat, Archangel was air­
borne.
Hank sat up a little straighter in his chair and regarded
the others quizzically from beneath furry beetling brows.
“Did it ever occur to anyone that we may be a wee bit
too hasty in borrowing trouble?” he asked.
“There’s never any need to borrow trouble,” Scott Sum­
mers answered grimly. “They give enough of it away free.”
“Besides,” Bobby Drake quipped, “what else do we
know how to do?”
* * *

16
 IT’S A W O M E I f U L lift

The running man crawled now. He didn’t know what else

to do. He was already half delirious with exhaustion; the
image of a long-ago Indiana summer came to him, of a day
on which any heroic dreams he’d had were quenched for­
ever. He’d been eight years old, and his dog had died. . . .
The flashback came easily, pulling him back into the
past when he knew that what he had to do was to get up,
to run, even though there was nowhere to run to. Even if
he Spun himself into one of those other worlds whose ever-
shifting reality he could sense, Black Team 51 might be wait­
ing for him in almost any of them, and he wouldn’t know
they were there until it was too late.
Grimly, David Ferris forced his body forward, though
the movie in his mind played on unchecked. He thought
about little else, now, but that moment when his life had
undergone an irrevocable . . . mutation.
It was August, and so it tuas hot. . . .
Penrod High School was a racially homogenous blue-
collar Indiana high school, proud of its football team and
with no more in the way of alcohol, drugs, firearms, and
teen pregnancies than plagued most American schools
these days. PFIS was an old building, dating from the early
1940s. Later architects could have told its designers of the
unwisdom of putting such a tempting ledge outside the
fourth-floor windows. Just six inches wide, purely ornamen­
tal.
Snow days had made the school year run all the way into
July, and the start of summer school had been correspond­
ingly delayed. It was twelve-thirty. Lunchtime. And David,
who was teaching English Comp in summer session, had
been heading for his car, thinking of nothing more exotic

17
 ME U lT IH A T f x-ntn

than the local Pizza Hut cuisine, when he heard a girl’s

shrill scream behind him.
He turned and looked, then looked where she was look­
ing.
Up.
From inside the classroom the ledge looked wide enough
to walk on. Until class cutup Martin Mathers actually got
out onto the ledge, away from the refuge of the classroom
window, and looked down—
David Ferris needed only a moment to take in the situation;
he could already hear the distant wail of the fire engines
coming to the rescue. They’d be here in a few minutes, only
Martin didn’t have those few minutes. Already David could
see him teetering at the edge of the ledge.
You can save him.
Was it some perfidious serpent that wrhispered those
wwds in the depths of David Ferris’s mind, some lingering
ambition to be a hero? Perhaps if David had dreamed big­
ger dreams, he would have had the skill and control when
it mattered. Or maybe the tragedy had been foreordained
from the moment that the baby Spun apple juice to orange
juice in its bottle.
I can save him.
Was it some primal hatred of homo superior for homo sap­
iens? Was it the need to justify his existence to a world that
saw his kind only as a threat? For two decades he’d been
careful to hide his mutant power, until now. Until once
again the stakes had been life . . . and death.
Was it an act of heroism? Or genocide?

ifi
 i n A W ONDERFUL LIEE
No one would ever know. The only thing that was cer­
tain, on that bright summer day, was that David Ferris
reached into the shadows of possibility to Spin a safer refuge
for Martin Mathers—a ledge that was wider, a world in
which the boy had never gone out the window at all—
And missed.
Because in all the myriad worlds of possibility, David had
forgotten that there was one in which no ledge existed at
all. . . .
Archangel lunged skyward with powerful beats of his deadly
silver wings. Like some fearsome bird of prey, he instinc­
tively sought the air currents that would pull him higher
into the sky. Hank was probably right, Warren mused, catch­
ing a thermal that swept him a dozen yards higher in sec­
onds. He felt the corresponding pull in the muscles of his
back as his wings spread and cupped the rising air. Almost
absently, his eyes searched the ground below for the source
of the sound, picking out with ease the flagstoned terrace
of Professor Xavier’s school and the four figures still seated
there. It probably was an arngula steamer misfiring. Not a job for
the X-Men.
It was just that Archangel couldn’t resist any excuse—
even a lame one—for taking to the air. The others just
didn’t understand. Couldn’t. None of the earthbound
could understand the glory of unaided flight.
W arren’s train of thought abruptly broke off and he
smiled wryly. Old habits died hard; in his teen years as a
student at the school, such thoughtless musings would have
earned him a severe rebuke from the X-Men’s mentor and
taskmaster, Professor Charles Xavier. From the very first,

19
 THE UtTIHATE X-HEtl
Xavier had insisted that his X-Men think of themselves as
human, not homo superior, as Magneto and some other would-
be m utant messiahs would have it. Human. Not better. Only
different.
But some differences were basic—as fundamental as the
difference between walking . . . and flying. His fellow X-Men
didn’t really understand that their teammate’s need to fly
was as basic as theirs to walk. Archangel banked, spreading
his wings wider and gliding in a slow spiral. His overflight
of Salem Center and its surroundings wouldn’t compromise
site security; he was high enough up that anyone watching
from below would probably take him for a kite or a plane.
H e’d stay up here long enough to be able to say he’d
checked out the area and then go back. It was the least he
could do, considering that his reconnaissance was really
only an excuse for a little harmless exercise.
Then Warren looked down at the ground below, and
what he sawr made him fling his wings forward, spilling the
wind through his pinions and bringing his body to a shud­
dering halt in the warm summer air.
The Indianapolis police kept him for endless hours before
deciding that they could not prove responsibility in Martin
Mathers’ death; could not prove that he had actually been
involved; could not even prove what everyone at the school
now knew to be the truth . . .
David Ferris was one of them.
He came home to an apartment that had been violated,
the furniture destroyed, the walls painted with slogans that
had used to be familiar only from the evening news. Die

n
 in A W O fiD E R flll l i f t
Mutie Scum—genejoke—read the letters in dripping paint,
and in that moment David knew that his life was over.
But his dying had hardly begun.
This is it. I ’m through. H e’d finally managed to stand, clutch­
ing at a tree trunk for support, but he knew that forcing his
exhausted body to run was beyond all possibility. And the
part of David Ferris that wanted to pay for his crimes—
rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft—welcomed the hunters who
followed him so relentlessly.
Black Team 51. Their names were Gilman and Egan,
and they’d come into his life a little over a week ago, while
he was still staring helplessly at the wreckage of his apart­
ment. They’d told him their names, but they hadn’t told
him anything else. Except the most important thing.
“There’s a man who’cl like to meet you. He wants you to work
for him. You’re special, David. He’s interested in your special abil­
ities. And face it, after yesterday how many choices do you have?”
Come with us, and Spin dross into gold, into fire, into
blood . . . And all across the Multiverse, a thousand David
Ferrises refused and died.
But David Ferris knew more about choices than any
other man alive. H e’d played along, played for time, and
when they’d let their guard down h e’d given Egan and Gil­
man the slip and fled to New York—hoping to get out of
the country—only to find that Black Team 51 had second-
guessed him, just as they had at each step down the line.
They’d been waiting at the airport.
H e’d panicked and run, hitchhiked, anything to find a
reality that didn’t place him in the back seat of that black
sedan. And for a few hours he’d thought he’d won, but

21
 Itlf ULTIMATE M I E H
every time he reached the road it seemed the car found
him again within minutes. Content to follow, playing some
sadistic game of cat and mouse, waiting for the moment
when David Ferris could run no longer.
Waiting for this moment.
W?hy were they so cautious? Were they expecting him to
fight back? David smiled without any particular humor. It
was true that they didn’t know what he was capable of, but
the real joke was: he didn’t know what he was capable of.
And it didn’t look like he was going to live long enough to
find out either.
There was a sound of tires on gravel on the road behind
him. David turned on unsteady legs to face it. The black
sedan’s side windows were tinted, and the windshield was
some sort of one-way glass. The car might be full of Mar­
tians, for all David could see, but in some universes the
windows weren’t tinted, and he knew it was Egan and Gil­
man. Who were through playing. David heard a faint hum
as the powered side window rolled down and some mon­
strous and evil machine of chrome tubes, flashing lights,
and wicked flanges poked out.
It looked as if it had been dropped here from some
alternate reality, like something out of a Star Wars movie,
something that could not possibly function. David stared at
it in disbelief. As it sighted on him a thin keening grew
louder, sliding out of audibility until it was only an ultra­
sonic pressure against his skin. And in a moment of de­
spairing clarity, David Ferris realized that he did not want
to die, that he would do anything to stay alive—and free.
H e’d even do what they wanted him to do.
The Wheel that hovered at the edge of his consciousness

n
 IT’ S I W O N D E R F U L LIFE

every waking moment came sharp. David reached for it,

Spun it into manifestation with the last of his mutant sta­
mina, braiding all the possible realities together as the
power surged through him into the woi'ld. His body cracked
like a whip as living flesh completed the circuit, and David
Ferris reached out from What Was to What Could Be—
And in the blink of an eye, Could Be became Was.
The summer sunlight went flatly yellow, and the stench
of burning sulphur seemed to hang on the air. Beneath the
wheels of the black sedan, the asphalt pulled and turned to
tar and stretched like hot taffy. . .
Until it burst.
Ropy tentacles the color of rotting eggplant slithered
through the tarry chunks of broken road, writhing them­
selves around the car, tightening and beginning to pull. The
hood gave a sharp ping! as it buckled, and under the un­
relenting pressure the tinted windows crazed, then shat­
tered, then spilled over the doors of the car like dangerous
candy.
Someone screamed. The weapon in the car slewed cra­
zily about, then fired, and for a brief instant David Ferris’s
body was outlined in a corona of multicolored light.
“ He’s been gone too long.” Bobby Drake’s voice was hard
and decisive. He stood up, taking a step toward the edge of
the terrace as though that would tell him where Warren had
gone.
“Jean?” Scott said.
I ’ll scan, the redhead answered through their psychic
link. Jean Grey got to her feet and closed her eyes, search-

23
 THE ULTirtATE im

ing telepathically for the imprint of W arren’s thoughts

through the background static of thousands of other minds.
It had been less than ninety seconds since Archangel
had departed on his aerial reconnaissance, but the outcome
of battles had been decided in far less time. Their former
teammate Kitty Pryde had once said that being an X-Man
was like wearing a psychic sign that read, come and kill me,
and those who had been X-Men longest had that worldly
wise paranoia burned into their very bones.
“Forget that. I’m going to look for him,” Bobby said.
lik e some illusion wrought by time-lapse photography,
a puddle first of frost, then of ice, spread beneath his feet,
broadening into a frozen wave that became an ice-slide
sweeping him aloft.
“Bobby!” Scott snapped in exasperation.
“Wait!” Jean Grey said. Scott, there’s—
And then everything happened at once.
There was a blinding flash of sunlight on silver wings—
Archangel’s return flight. There was wrarning in his very
bearing, from the low, fast flight barely above the tree line
to the way he kept looking behind him.
With a faint frosty crackle, Bobby Drake’s clothing froze
into brittle glassy shards and fell from his body. Iceman’s
body transformed into a glittering form of ice that melted
and reformed a thousand times a second over his entire
body, giving the unyielding ice the illusion of flexibility. The
sun glinted from his frozen form in a heliographic display,
and a wave of arctic cold cut through the baking August
heat.
At the same moment on the terrace below, Scott Sum­
mers got to his feet. From the table beside him he lifted
 i n A WONDER fill lift
what at first appeared to be a pair of fancy sunglasses; a
gleaming gold visor echoing the helm of a knight of old,
bisected horizontally by a thin line of brilliant ruby quartz.
A more delicate instrument than the blast goggles he had
been wearing, the battle visor allowed him to wield the full
force of his incredible optic blasts with the delicacy of a
surgeon. Closing his eyes tightly, the wiry and supremely
ordinary-looking young man first removed the bulky goggles
and slipped the gold-and-ruby visor into place. As the cy­
bernetic contact points touched his temples, the X-Man
known as Cyclops opened his eyes, and the annihilating
blood-red light of his destructive optic blasts washed over
the inside of his cybernetically controlled battle visor.
“Let’s go, folks,” the X-Men’s team leader said.
Beside him, Jean Grey’s body began to glow, and she
telekinetically launched herself into the summer sky.
As for Hank McCoy, he had no need for a flashy trans­
formation or display. He merely set down his lemonade
glass and removed his glasses as the shimmering figure
came crashing through the trees at the edge of the lawn.
Assuming they’d still been alive and in a talkative mood,
Egan and Gilman could have told David what had hit him—
and was about to cause the X-Men such trouble. The Moe-
bius Lance was, in fact, a weapon that had been specifically
designed to subdue supernormals with powers classified as
parapsionic, such as Gambit or the Scarlet Witch. It had
been developed during experiments conducted on the mu­
tant known as Angar the Screamer before his death, and
was supposed to scramble a parapsi’s nervous system, setting

I)
 Tilt u m n m m i e n
up a feedback loop that would render them the victim of
their own power for a short but undeterm ined period.
There were only two problems.
The Moebius Lance had never actually been tested on
the people it was supposed to control.
And its effects weren’t anything like the ones its de­
signer had predicted.
Thoughts and memories spilled through David Ferris’s
mind as his neurochemistry reconfigured, wiping memory
and personality from the intricate architecture of his brain.
All that he was drained away, the tangled skein of memory
unknotting into smoothness once more.
Above the other X-Men, Archangel braked and veered
groundward. He didn’t know what connection the glowing
man below him had with the wrecked car he’d seen back
on 9A North, but he did know that the car looked as if it’d
been bear-hugged by the Hulk and that even in Westchester
normal people didn’t glow in the dark.
Archangel and the former David Ferris broke through
the trees at about the same time.
A moment ago he’d been hungry, tired, and afraid. Now he
was none of those things. He no longer remembered that
he’d been fleeing, or from whom. The running man
stopped when he reached the edge of the trees. He didn’t,
in fact, remember being David Ferris very well at all.
Probabilities cascaded through David’s mind like a win­
ning hand of solitaire on Windows 95.
say something you have to
 IT’S A WOHDERFUl lift

So many ways to go, so many paths to choose, and who

he was had been lost forever, buried in a thousand might-
be-maybes, and who was he?
you have to remember it was important you were—you were—
“I am the Wheel of Fortune!” David Ferris shouted.
“In that case, I’d like to buy a vowel, Vanna,” the Beast
replied smoothly, loping forward. The glowing man was a
threat, but possibly not the main threat. In torn jeans and
ripped shirt, their little glowworm looked more like one of
the victims than like the vanguard of an attacking force—
but it didn’t pay to take chances . . .
“For God’s sake, Beast, be— ” Cyclops shouted.
The glowing man flung out his hand.
— killme goingtokillme extremism in the defense of liberty is no
vice—
And that was the last thing Hank McCoy saw.
In this world, at least.
“I said, ya gotta get over yerself, Torchy.”
Henry P. McCoy twitched ever so slightly as the unmis­
takable gravel voice of Benjamin J. Grimm cut through his
concentration.
There was a crash from the room beyond and the sound
of a rushing whoosh of flame. Hank sighed and pushed his
glasses farther up on his nose. Working as Reed Richards’s
research assistant wras a wonderful opportunity, it was true,
and if not for Stark International’s continuing-education
program, he wouldn’t have had it.
If only it weren’t so . . . stressful.
“Look here, brick-face— ” Another crash.
Hank winced. He sincerely believed that violence was

27
 l i t U l T M A T E X-HEfl
the last refuge of the incompetent; he abhorred physical
brutality and shunned strife in every form. H e’d managed
to forget that in addition to being one of Earth’s foremost
scientists, Dr. Richards was a lightning rod for trouble. Usu­
ally super-powered trouble.
And me without a supemormality to my name, Hank thought
mournfully. A litde agility hardly counted. In fact, it was a
positive prerequisite for his current assignment.
The building shook. Hank leapt to his feet with a yelp
of dismay. While h e’d been distracted, the chemical he’d
been timing had boiled over and was now foaming greenly
across the lab bench.
What you need, Henry old son, is a guardian angel. . .
A thousand presents, a thousand worlds; each as real as the
next. . . .
And the Wheel was Spinning. . . .
Cyclops was the farthest away of any of the team: Archangel,
Iceman, and Phoenix were airborne and in all the years
he’d known him he’d never been able to persuade Hank
that a full frontal assault wasn’t the best way to assess a new
and unknown threat. In the instant that the Beast disap­
peared in a flash of light, all the rules changed, and the
glowing man calling himself the Wheel of Fortune went
from potential victim to certified threat.
Making sure his teammates were out of the fire line,
Cyclops opened his visor far enough to emit a thin ruby
lance of raw power.
Split-second calculation raced through Scott’s mind:

28
 i n A W ONDERFU L U f E
Should, be enough to KO him if it hits; he looks human
enough—
There was a grinding crash from above. At the same
time a tree beside the stranger’s head exploded in a shower
of splinters. Chunks of ice fell out of the sky. A dozen dif­
ferent things clamored for Cyclops’ attention all at the same
time.
Bobby?
Missed!
How?
“X-Men—pull back!” Scott shouted.
Phoenix had chosen to come at the glowing man from be­
hind. She heard Scott’s shout through the link they shared,
and her automatic running assessment of the danger they
were in spiked. Hank had vanished, but the clean abrupt­
ness of it told Phoenix that it was probably some sort of
teleportation—
And if it weren’t, the years ahead would be time enough
to grieve.
There’s something wrong here. And whatever it is, it’s getting
worse.
When he’d first appeared, the stranger had been sur­
rounded by a chatoyant nimbus of biogenetic energy, al­
most a halo. Now the area of affect began to spread; the
figure inside it to blur, to multiply—and as it did, its psi-
signatures did as well. The sensation for Phoenix was similar
to being in a rapidly filling auditorium where everyone was
talking at once. Ten, a hundred, a thousand: the force of
his multiplied thoughts was drowning all other thoughts in
a wave of telepathic static.

29
 IRE OLimAIE im
Hoiv does he— ? There are more of him every instant.
Above and ahead there was the sound of an explosion;
Jean Grey swerved groundward to avoid the flying chunks
of ice. What had happened to Bobby?
What had happened to all of them? She could no longer
“hear” her teammates, nor any of the ordinary human
minds that made up the community of Salem Center—and
in fact, she was no longer sure any of them were there at
all. But above all things, Jean Grey was a professional, and
the Mission Objective came first. Stop the intruder; shut
him down.
Seconds before, Iceman had been twenty feet overhead.
Trained always to fight as part of a team, he’d kept a run­
ning check of where the others were—Warren was above
and on his left, Jean should be coming up from the bogey’s
blind side. Hank and Cyke were somewhere on the ground;
not in his attack path. Now was the time to put a set of ice
handcuffs on their unfair unknown and have him wrapped
up and ready to deliver.
Bobby angled his ice slide groundward—
—and smashed directly into Archangel below him, also
coming in for an attack run.
But that’s impossible—he was behind me—
“Drake, you—m oron!” Archangel shouted, silver feath­
ers chiming faintly as he battled desperately to stay air­
borne.
But Bobby Drake had troubles of his own. The collision
with Archangel’s wings had shattered his ice slide; Iceman
was four stories up with no visible means of support.
W here’s Hank? Bobby wondered as he fell. He didn’t

30
 ! H A W O N D E R F U L I I EE

want to nail him with an ice pylon if Hank was moving into
position to catch him, but at the same time, he didn’t want
to crash—
Snow. Just the thing on a hot day. With reflexes honed in
a thousand Danger Room sessions, Iceman flung out both
hands, making the air beneath him cold, colder, coldest. . .
It was only too bad that what was beneath him wasn’t
ground at all.
No! That’s impossi—
The rest of his life was going to be measured in seconds if
he didn’t time this just right. Bobby Drake drew a deep
breath and launched himself into space. A terrifying mo­
ment of free fall, and then the crossbar smacked into the
palms of his calloused hands. He was glad he’d taken the
time to apply the extra coat of rosin to his hands; it was
August, and sweat and high-wire acts didn’t mix. He pulled
himself up and over, taking a moment to steal a glance at
the audience in the seats far below.
The Big Apple Circus was one of the few tenting circuses
still working. Five years ago Bobby Drake had signed up as
a rigger. It was exciting to work a hundred feet above the
ground, but Bobby craved excitement the way a couch po­
tato craved junk food. He was always looking for the next
thrill.
Case in point. Bobby Drake, boy aerialist. He launched
himself from the trapeze to the slack wire ten feet below.
To the ringside audience, it looked as though he were jum p­
ing to his death. Angel bait, the others called him.
Bobby Drake always worked without a net.
* * *

31
 T H E U L T I M A T E M l Ell

It was the unexpectedness of the sound that made Cyclops

turn toward it. What he saw made his eyes widen with dis­
belief behind their ruby-quartz firewall at the sheer . . . idi­
ocy of it. Funny. I didn’t remember the swimming pool being on
this side of the house, Cyclops thought inconsequentially. But
if it hadn’t been, it was now; Scott could even see the place
on the concrete lip where Wolverine had etched graffiti
years before.
But what was by far the most interesting thing about the
swimming pool at the moment was the fact that every drop
of water it contained had been turned into a filtered, pH-
balanced, chlorinated block of solid ice. And Iceman was
frozen into the middle of it, entombed like a fly in amber.
Chipping him free would have been a delicate task at
the best of times, but as Cyclops turned back from his split-
second assessment, he realized that time had run out.
He was alone, facing the Wheel of Fortune.
And then he wasn’t there anymore.
And the Wheel of Fortune was Spinning.
I know every sound my ship makes. Scott Summers looked out
across the bridge with the satisfaction that came from the
awareness of being in his proper place. All around him,
overlapping holographic screens showed him images of a
starfield adjusted to compensate for redshift distortion and
modified with the data feed from the navigational comput­
ers.
What season was it at home? Scott shook his head, smil­
ing at the foolishness of wondering about a homework! he’d
left while still a child. The glory of that day was something
that would burn in his memory like a nova until the day he
 I T ’ S A W O N D E R F U L LI F E

died: Alex, the orphanage, the great golden god dressed in

polychrome buccaneer’s leathers, striding in to claim them
both, take them away. . .
Christopher Summers. Their father.
Still, Earth was his home; Scott had been born there, in
the Midwestern United States. He might go back there
someday. It was summer there now, he thought. What was
the name of the month? August, that was i t . . .
“ Shi’ar raiders detected by long-range sensors, Cap­
tain!” the helm said.
Scott Summers brought his mind back to the present
with a jolt.
“Battle stations, everyone—go to Condition Red. Okay,
Starjammers, it’s time to break up this little party— ”
A moment before, there had been five of them; now Phoe­
nix was alone. She reached out for the mind of the intruder.
A moment later she realized her chosen tactic was wrong,
and four seconds after she began her intervention, Jean
Grey knew that she’d just made a potentially fatal mistake.
In her years as an X-Man, she had probed the minds of
aliens, madmen, and demons, linked together members of
the team across both years and light-years, travelled from
the far side of the galaxy to a future that never was.
This was different.
This was like all of them at once.
With a dim, fading part of her mind, Jean Grey could
feel the earth beneath her feet, the warmth of the sunlight
beating down on her shoulders, the roughness of the tree
bark beneath her fingers. They were part of one reality.
But not the only one.

33
 T HE M m M l Ell
* ❖*
“If I had the wings of an angel— ” The melodious baritone
came to a distracted halt as the singer tried and failed to
remember the next line. Oh, well. Hardly matters, Warren
W orthington III told himself philosophically.
Below him the green of the Hudson River Valley un­
rolled in an immaculate carpet, and Warren almost felt as
if he could taste the wind on his face. This little flight up
to Albany was just what the doctor ordered to chase those
boardroom blues away.
Making a small adjustment, Warren maneuvered the
Piper Cub into a showy sideslip. H e’d always loved to fly . . .
I ’ve always loved to fly. Why did that simple statement fill
him with panic? Of course he did; been flying since he was
sixteen; his father had bought him his own plane for his
twenty-first birthday. Sailplaning; hang gliding; Warren had
always loved anything that would take him into the air.
My wings! He could feel his heart hammering in his
chest, racing faster and faster. Black spots danced before his
eyes and the Piper Cub’s stick slipped forward, taking with
it the nose of the small plane. Falling forward in an uncon­
trolled dive, the small plane began, lazily, to spin.
Where are my wings ?
The scream of air past the Cub’s cowling roused him to
his immediate plight. Frantically Warren clawed at the con­
trols, trying to pull the plane out of its deadly dive. He
heard the singing in the guide wires as the ailerons
snatched at the treacherous air. The surface of the Hudson
rushed closer with each passing second. Only the wings of
an angel could save him now.

34
 IT’5 A WOflDERfUl Lift
But Warren Worthington III didn’t have wings.
He never had.
And as the surging tides of David Ferris’s mind closed over
her, Jean Grey was linked to a universe in which every pos­
sibility was just as real as every other.
Every one.
August in New York, and even in the 1990s, some addresses
are still more fashionable than others. Submitted for your
approval: a particular Park Avenue penthouse, somewhere
in the East Seventies.
She called herself Jeanne Grey, having changed the
spelling of her first name to the more exotic French form
when she reached adulthood. She was born with the power
to read people’s minds—and cloud them too. She grew up
in a small town—Annandale-on-Hudson—knowing what
people were going to say before they said it.
Sometimes it was an advantage.
“Mrs. Byrne, how lovely to see you again. I’m so glad
you’ve heard from your son—didn’t Kra Tho tell you every­
thing would be all right?”
The regal redhead took the arm of the older woman,
and led her from the vestibule of the lavish penthouse to
the drawing room where the others were waiting for their
Wednesday-afternoon sitting. She smiled inwardly as Mrs.
Byrne’s surprise and awe reverberated through her mutant
senses. Amelia Byrne believed absolutely in the power of Kra
Tho, a disembodied being from ancient Atlantis who spoke
through his contact, Jeanne Grey, to bring messages of hope
and purpose to the modern world.

35
 I tit UlTIIIATf x n c n
Kra Tho did not exist, though he was a very lucrative
fiction. And an easy road to travel, for a young woman who
had never heard of either Professor Charles Francis Xavier
or his unique private school.
No. That isn’t me.
Although she knows it is.
I have to change it.
But how do you change the present?
That isn’t me. . . . Thrust into an alternate universe, her
ego merging with her body double’s, Phoenix fought des­
perately to free herself from the trap of David’s thoughts.
But she was only one person, trapped in only one possible
present. The Wheel of Fortune turned for them all. . . .
H e’d been sorry to have to leave the party, but he’d prom­
ised Barry he’d put in some hours this weekend. Too bad
he hadn’t been born rich instead of so good looking.
Scott Summers smiled at his own feeble joke and shifted
the briefcase to his other hand. Among his other regrets
was that there wasn’t a subway stop nearer to his job than
West Fourth Street; it was a long walk in this heat. Too bad
he hadn’t been born lucky instead of smart; luck would at
least have arranged things so he didn’t have to go in to work
on a Sunday afternoon in August. But the presentation to
the client hadn’t gone at all well, and Barry had promised
an entire new ad strategy by Monday. And that meant over­
time. A weekend full of it.
Scott sighed, welcoming the coolness in the lobby as he
went through the revolving doors at 375 Hudson. August in
New York wasn’t for sissies. The guard knew him and waved

Id
 in k w o n i t i m lift
him through, proof that he was putting in too many hours
at the job. And for what? Athletic shoes. An account as or­
dinary as the rest of his life . . .
Everything about him was ordinary, Scott Summers
thought to himself.
H orror lent her strength. He’s shuffling us farther and farther
away— into realities where mutants don’t exist at all— I can 7 let
him blot us out this way—David! David, listen to me! We aren’t
the enemy. We don’t zuant to hurt you . . .
. . net profits down every quarter for the last six years,
eaten alive by Korea and Japan; what did I expect?” Bobby
Drake sighed.
Not this. He scanned the “Help W anted” columns of
the Sunday New York Times again, although he knew he
wouldn’t find anything there. The available jobs for obso­
lete middle-management former programmers were few to
nonexistent, but nobody’d thought that IBM would make
the cuts it had.
Now he was out in the cold. Despite the August heat,
Bobby Drake shivered. He wasn’t even thirty yet—his life
couldn’t be over.
Could it?
Deliberately closing her mind to Ferris’s perception of the
world, Phoenix turned her thoughts away from the present,
sinking deeper into Ferris’s psyche. Into the only place that
help could come from. Into the past.
* * *

)1
 m U L T I H M X - HEI !

His name was Davey Ferris, and he was eight years old. Starbuck
had been his companion and best friend for as long as Davey Ferris
could remember, which was, why, it was years and years. Starbuck
was no particular kind of dog— a Heinz, as Davey’s father liked
to say, because he contained fifty-seven varieties of dog within his
rangy frame— but that didn I matter to Davey.
And then one day Starbuck died. Hit by a car.
“Daddy, where’s Starbuck gone?”
“Fm afraid he’s dead, son,” Davey’s father told him. But in
hundreds and hundreds of universes right next door Davey’s dog
was still alive . . .
“But he doesn’t have to be, Daddy!”Davey Ferris had tried, for
the first time, to explain.
“Hush, son. No one can bring back the dead. ”
“But, Daddy, he isn’t all dead. Not everywhere. ”
Davey Ferris wasn’t quite sure why his father said Starbuck was
dead, when Davey could see him, alive, in the universe next door.
He supposed that Starbuck had tracked mud in or broken some­
thing, and as he was a good boy, he thought he wouldn’t bring
Starbuck back until they’d gotten over being mad. But he was only
eight, and eventually he forgot. . .
His father’s fear had bridled David’s use of his mutant
power more effectively than any prohibition could, but he
hadn’t been able to bear to give it up entirely. Instead he’d
only used it for little things.
Until it was too late.
In his mind . . . the car. . . Black Team 51 ? Another government
agency or private corporation that desires to enslave the supernor­
mal for their own purposes? Weariness and anger threatened
to break her concentration: when would governments and
 i n A W ONDER FU L LIFE
would-be governments stop treating paranormals as mind­
less puppets to be exploited for some nationalistic agenda?
All we want is our own lives . . .
But David Ferris hadn’t been given the luxury of auton­
omy.
The Moebius Lance— energy weapon ? Drug-delivery system ?
Whatever it is, David didn’t mean to fight us at all—now, if I
can only make him see that!
Phoenix’s battleground was a world where will and de­
sire were weapons; where passion took all and good inten­
tions were the best defense. She no longer knew where she
was at all, in this psychic realm where every possibility was
as real as every other. All she knew was that she must suc­
ceed.
Come with me, David. Come back with me—
But the lure of Might Have Been was strong. . . .
Let’s get this over with so I can go home.
Parts of Long Island were scenic and pleasant and de­
lightful to visit. Stark Industries wasn’t built on any of them.
Though it had been years since this location was a partic­
ularly important manufacturing plant—or even the main
one, Morgan Stark having moved most of Stark Industries
assembly overseas—most of the administration for the Stark
financial empire was still located here. Despite the fact that
the corporation had been deprived of its guiding genius
with Anthony Stark’s death a decade earlier, Stark Indus­
tries continued to hold thousands of lucrative patents, and
a number of top-secret industrial processes too confidential
even to patent.
That was why she’d come.
 THE ULTIflATE M I E I I

It’s too bad my telepathy is so short range, Jean Grey thought

as she made her clandestine way as close to the fence as she
dared. If I had more range, I could do this from a hotel room in
Montauk and avoid all this mess.
But the fact of the matter was that telepaths were in
short supply in the competitive world of industrial espio­
nage, so as she sent her mind out to tap the minds of others
and began to speak her findings quietly into the small tape-
recorder she carried, she reflected that this truly was the
best of all possible worlds.
The helicopter that hung motionless in the sky over the
mansion on Greymalkin Lane was the same one that had
been following David Ferris all morning. It was stealth con­
figured, sonic suppressed, and transparent to nearly every
form of tracking and monitoring device that could be
matched against it by the major players in the field, but in
the end, technical superiority had come down to a simple
matter of looking out the window and keeping in radio con­
tact with the chase car below.
Sometimes the old-fashioned methods worked the best.
Ashton and Keithley were the sort of faceless profession­
als who populated the field arms of an uncounted number
of alphabet organizations from SHIELD to A.I.M. to SAFE.
It didn’t matter to them whether they were sent out to re­
trieve David Ferris or a quart of milk from the corner deli;
they did what they were assigned, collected their security
clearances, and, if they were lucky, their pensions.
As Egan and Gilman would not.
Ashton and Keithley’s first warning of trouble had been
the mirror flash of light that zeroed every bean counter in
 i n I W ONDERFUL LIFE
the bird. They didn’t see what happened to the chase car,
but when the light was gone, it was easy to see that the car
below had been crushed like a paper cup and sunk into the
roadway.
“Did they use the lance?”
“Do I look like a mind reader, Ash?” his partner said.
Once the sensors started mapping again, Techlnt told
them there was no one left alive below. Their quarry was
gone, but, flying a standard search configuration, they
found Ferris again without trouble—rather too easily, in
fact.
“W ho’s that guy with the wings?”
“Wait one . . . congratulations, Mr. Ashton,” Keithley
drawled. Like his partner, Keithley wore a dark suit and
dark glasses, his only concession to individuality being the
silver gargoyle earring dangling from his left earlobe.
“You’ve just won yourself your very own Archangel. Known
to be affiliated with both X-Factor and the X-Men, the da­
tabase says; also known to operate solo.”
“You mean there’s more of them ,” Ashton said resign­
edly.
“Look down there, off to the right,” Keithley said help­
fully. “One, two, three more that I can see. We’re blown.”
“Time to phone hom e.”
A shielded zip-squeal transmission to base, and a few
moments later the surviving members of Black Team 51 had
their new orders.
“It’s over. Shut him down.”
Slowly the blurring of possibility faded, leaving Phoenix
alone in her own mind once more. And with the lessening
 the liiiinA T E x - h e h
of that psychic din, the sound of other minds that was a
normal part of Jean Grey’s daily existence became audible
once more.
The sense of deadly purpose from the craft hovering
above her was unmistakable.
She looked upward through the trees, and instinctively
stepped away from David Ferris. When she used her powers
against the helicopter, she didn’t want him fried by the
backlash.
“Shut him down. ” She shook her head at the weird dou­
bling effect of hearing the words and hearing someone hear
them. Where were Scott and the others?
Then the helicopter fired, and she had her answer.
The bolt was as instantaneous as light and as colorless
as air: a carbon-dioxide laser, enabled for only one shot.
Not really that powerful—it wouldn’t even have slowed
Rogue down—but powerful enough. There wasn’t even
time for a scream.
As an X-Man, Phoenix had seen death too many times
to count, but m urder never lost its power to horrify her with
its very casualness. At the same moment that the laser pulse
reduced David Ferris and all his spectrum of possibility to
a smear of greasy ash, Phoenix launched herself skyward.
Intent on the copter and its cargo, she barely registered the
reappearance of the other X-Men or the reestablishment of
the psychic rapport that allowed her to brief them in the
space of a heartbeat on what she’d gleaned from David Fer­
ris’s mind.
It seemed wrong that it was still afternoon, still summer.
To live so many different lives should have taken more time
than this. But that didn’t matter now. She was nearly there.

42
 i n h W M D F R F I H LIFE

The skin of the helicopter was so close that her outstretched

fingertips almost skimmed it, and Iceman and Archangel
were only a second or so behind her. She’d tear the heli­
copter apart; they could catch the passengers. A maneuver
the teams had rehearsed a thousand times in every possible
combination of heroes.
But Ashton and Keithley—and their faceless masters—
had other ideas, and the black budget toys to implement
them.
The ultrasonic whine of the warp-gate enabling skirled up
past the range that bats and dogs could hear, crossed the
threshold of pain, and vanished into the hydrogen song of
space. The skin of the black copter began to crackle with
heat as its fusion generator ran flat-out, powering up for
Jump. The amount of energy that had to be wasted into the
environment when space-time was folded made the warp-
gate of very little use except as a last resort.
Or a weapon.
She felt the radiant heat of the helicopter’s skin on her
hands and face, and intuition deep as instinct made Phoe­
nix recoil. It’s a trap! she cried mentally, just as the chase
copter gave up its local space-time referents in an incan­
descent pulse of energy.
The shock wave gathered Phoenix into its superheated em­
brace and flung her backward. Protected from physical
harm by her telekinesis, she nonetheless crashed through
Bobby’s already-melting ice bridge, sending him flying as

43
 T HE U l T i n A T E X - H E H

well. Disoriented, she couldn’t see where her teammates

were, or even be sure in which direction the ground lay.
But Phoenix had shielded Archangel from the brunt of
the explosion. With less than five seconds to intercept both
his teammates before they hit the ground, Warren spread
his wings wide, angling each pinion for maximum drag as
he surfed the wave of sweltering air, and reached out to
snatch Iceman’s falling body out of the sky.
One.
Reaching out with the blind instinct of a seasoned aer-
ialist, Bobby grabbed W arren’s reaching hand.
Two.
Muscles and wings both creaked with the strain of ab­
sorbing the momentum of Bobby’s helpless plunge, and in
a moment more both men would fall.
But the air was Archangel’s element.
Three.
“ Heads up, Hank—catch!” he shouted. Using Bobby’s
own momentum, Archangel made his own body a fulcrum
to swing his teammate over and down into the Beast’s wait­
ing arms.
Four.
Converting the braking maneuver into a forward glide,
he slid forward with a raptor’s casual grace to intercept
Phoenix’s falling body less than a dozen feet above the
ground, carrying her safely to earth.
Five.
Down and safe.
“It’s wonderful to have wings,” Archangel said fervently.
He straightened out of his landing crouch, setting Jean Grey
lightly on her feet. She smiled at him and reached up to
brush back a stray curl of blond hair from his forehead.
“I know,” she said gently.
“How come I end up with you and Warren gets the
girl?” Iceman complained to the Beast.
“Because, Robert m ’lad, some things never change,”
Henry McCoy said absently. He set Iceman down and
stepped back, staring skyward with a frown and absently
brushing melting frost from his coat. He looked toward Cy­
clops, brows raised in puzzlement.
Scott Summers glanced at his watch. It was a quarter
after three; less than five minutes had elapsed since Arch­
angel had gone to investigate a peculiar noise.
And then. . .
And then whatf
Cyclops looked around, but as far as he could see and
hear, the threat was over. He allowed himself to relax
slightly; Bobby and the others were all right. None of his
team killed— this time, the ever-present fear reminded
him—no one captured, no one hurt. As fights went, that
was the best the X-Men could expect these days. The only
definite casualty of the engagement was one might-be in­
nocent man, the so-called Wheel of Fortune.
The faint wail of a siren in the distance warned that the
alarms and excursions at the mansion on Greymalkin Lane
hadn’t gone unremarked by the citizens of Salem Center.
“Just another Pleasant Valley Sunday,” Archangel said
derisively. “Business as usual for the X-Men, the Hard-Luck
Harrys of the super hero trade.”
Scott Summers glanced toward the edge of the trees,
 Itlt U l T l f W E im

where the only evidence that anything had happened at all

was one splintered tree and a charred spot on the ground.
No. Not the only evidence, Scott corrected himself. With a
profound sense of unreality, he stared at the swimming
pool, now located inexplicably at the foot of the terrace.
The water was liquid—had Bobby really fallen into it, or
had that been some bizarre sort of hallucination? He shook
his head in bafflement.
“Come on, team, let’s take this inside before the au­
thorities come looking.” He turned his back on the unac­
countable swimming pool and started up the steps. The
others followed as he opened the French doors and went
into the house.
The welcoming quiet of the mansion’s interior told
Scott that any alarms triggered by the intruder hadn’t dis­
turbed the mansion’s other inhabitants. The flash had been
visible for miles, though, which meant he’d better have
some kind of an explanation ready for any of the teams that
were heading home because of it.
“What the hell was that?” Bobby Drake demanded in­
dignantly, breaking into Scott’s thoughts. “Another nutty
government agency? A crazed multinational? Girl Scouts?”
“We’ll probably never know,” Cyclops answered. “ Go
and change, Bobby,” he added out of habit.
“Not if we’re lucky,” Iceman muttered under his
breath. He headed for the stairs to find his room and a
change of clothes.
The other four looked at each other.
“It’s a strange world,” Archangel said finally. The words
sounded hollow even as he spoke them.
“Maybe,” the Beast answered, as if Warren had said
more than he had, “but it’s a wonderful life.”

46
STILLBORN IN THE HIST

Dean Wesley Smith

Illustration by Ralph Reese
T
he swirling mist off the Mississippi gripped the narrow
streets of the French Quarter in a deadly blanket of si­
lence as her body was dumped out onto the black, damp
cobblestone like so much garbage. The last of her blood
dripped from the slash across her neck, adding only slighdy
to the bloodstain on her white prom dress.
She rolled once, ending up against the shallow curb,
eyes open, staring unseeing up at the moss- and vine-
covered buildings around her.
“Hurry,” a hoarse whisper said from the driver’s seat of
the black insides of the dented old Caddie.
“Done,” another voice from the black interior said.
“ Go.”
The rear door on the passenger side of the old car
slammed, sending a hollow echo down the narrow street.
Then, tires spinning on the damp surface, the car fishtailed
forward, disappearing into the mist like a fleeing ghost, leav­
ing behind only the echo of its passing.
The mist swirled in the faint light over the young
woman, closing down over her white face and dress as if
trying to protect her from being seen in the night. Only the
blue orchid corsage still pinned to her new dress marked
her location like a flower on a grave.
Two blocks away Remy LeBeau walked almost aimlessly
through the mist, not seeming even to notice the pre-dawn
night around him. His long brown raincoat was pulled tight
across his chest, the collar up as if protecting his neck from
unseen rain. A black headband held the long, unruly brown
hair out of his face. A lit cigarette drooped from his lips,
the orange glow of the ember giving his face sharp, deep

71
 ire u m n m i-m

shadows. In his left hand he carried a long staff, using it

almost as a cane.
His eyes seemed blank, as if he were walking the street
at a different time. In a sense, he was doing just that. He
was living the time of his youth. The time of his marriage.
The time of his banishment from this, his hometown.
The memories of those days swirled around him, mixing
with the mist, filling the streets and buildings with his past
life. This was his first night back in New Orleans in a very
long while, and he wasn’t sure why he was even here now.
Somehow, he just knew he was needed here. Over the years
he had learned to trust that feeling.
So now he walked in the mist through the streets of the
Quarter in the hours just before sunrise, the only time le
vieux carre ever was truly quiet, thinking of the past, of his
life as it had been, and paying very little attention to the
present.
Suddenly he stopped and glanced around. A few blocks
to his right a group of drunk tourists on Bourbon Street
laughed too loudly, sending echoes of their party through
the sleeping Quarter. Otherwise, the streets were empty.
Yet suddenly the present called to him, pulling him
from his memories of his wife and his family. He didn’t
know how, exactly, but he knew something was happening.
He turned away from the tourists and toward the edge
of the quarter where it was bordered by the projects. At a
fast run he followed his instincts, his raincoat flapping be­
hind him like wings.
It was only moments before he found her.
“ Oh, no, chere,” he said, kneeling beside her.
He ignored the gash across her neck and gently picked

n
 mmm in the h u t
up her head, looking into her open, staring eyes. Again his
memories took over and he went back to the moment he’d
last seen those eyes, beaming from the radiant face of a
sixteen-year-old girl standing beside her father while they
waited to board a plane back to New Orleans.
Cornelia Hayward, daughter of Julian Hayward, the
most powerful man in New Orleans, and one of the ten
most powerful people in the country. Rumors were that he
controlled the powers of the night, as well as the businesses
of the day. Even the assassins’ and the thieves’ guilds didn’t
cross Hayward and he in turn left them alone. But Remy
knew him and had helped him a number of times.
That day in the airport Remy had taken Cornelia’s hand
and kissed the back of it, and she had almost blushed. Her
father had smiled and shaken Remy’s hand. He had invited
Remy to visit, even though he knew Remy was an outlaw in
his own hometown.
Remy would never have guessed he had been drawn
back here because of Cornelia.
As if picking up a rag doll, he lifted Cornelia’s thin
young body from the damp street. Her head started to roll
back, exposing the huge slash across her neck, and he
quickly braced her head against his arm, making her seem
more like a lover passed out from too much drink.
He didn’t know how, but some way he needed to get
her to her father. Hayward owned a large home in the Gar­
den District, near where Remy used to have a home. A
home he had hoped to settle in with his wife. A home he
lost when he lost his city.
“Put her down, LeBeau,” a voice said from behind him.

73
 lilt U l T f t U T f M i r *
He spun and again her head lolled back, showing the
huge gash.
His hand under her quickly grasped the cards in his coat
pocket and waited as a figure stepped from the shadows of
a courtyard door.
Remy almost staggered back as the face of the intruder
came into the faint light.
Julian Hayward stopped a few feet from Remy, never
taking his gaze from the Cajun X-Man.
“Your daughter?” Remy said, lifting the light weight of
Cornelia slightly.
“I know, son,” Hayward said. “ But you are not the prey
we hoped to catch with this bait. Now put her down and
step in here with me. I will explain.”
“You killin’ your own children, hommeV’
Hayward laughed. “ Corey, honey. Reassure the poor
m an.”
Suddenly in Remy’s arms the girl’s body moved. It so
startled him, he almost dropped her.
Somehow she lifted her head, closing the huge gash
across her neck as she moved. “Thanks for caring,” she said
in a whisper. “You are a dear and I would enjoy staying in
your arms, but I can’t. Now please put me down.”
Then her head rolled back and she was again the body
of a dead girl. No pulse, no blood, no life. A huge gash
sliced across her neck.
Remy stared at the now lifeless body in his arms, his
mind not believing what he had just seen. Yet, it had hap­
pened. He glanced at Hayward and the father nodded, in­
dicating that Remy should put her down.

74
 STIltDORtl III Tilt BIST
Carefully, Remy placed the body of the young girl back
in the gutter and stood.
“Now, quickly,” Hayward said. “ Come with m e.” He
turned and moved back into the courtyard and the black
shadows beyond.
Dazed, Remy followed through the courtyard door.
There had been a number of times over the years in New
Orleans when he knew someone he had once thought dead
to be still alive. His wife, Belle, was one. But he had never
had a corpse come to life in his arms. At least not until
tonight.
And Hayward had used the term bait? His own daughter
as bait? And what was he trying to catch with a dead girl?
Who or what would want a dead girl?
Too many questions.
Remy, with only a glance at the body in the mist, stepped
through the dark courtyard door and was instantly blinded
by intense white light. One hand came up to shade his eyes
while the other went inside his pocket for his cards. He had
the ability to change the potential energy in an object to
kinetic energy, creating an instant bomb.
Crouching, he blinked hard and fast, forcing his eyes to
focus on his surroundings more quickly than natural.
There seemed to be no danger.
Slowly, he turned around. The door he’d stepped
through was nothing more than a black archway. He
couldn’t see anything through it, let alone the cobblestone
street and the girl’s body that he knew was only a few feet
away.
“ Over here, LeBeau,” Hayward’s voice said.
Remy hesitated while glancing around. The huge room

1)
 THE UlTMATE M l Ell
was filled with thousands of computers and machines and
at least fifty people, all wearing white lab coats. Only Hay­
ward and Remy and the computers broke the stark white­
ness of the room. Every person in the room seemed to be
focused on their own task. No one paid him the slightest
attention.
With one more glance at the blank door into the street,
Remy moved over where Hayward stood behind a row of
white lab coats sitting in front of computer screens. On the
one directly in front of Hayward, Remy could see Cornelia’s
body in the street.
Other screens showed the road and the surrounding
buildings. It was clearly a very sophisticated surveillance sys­
tem, one Remy bet even Wolverine would have been inter­
ested in studying.
Remy was about to ask Hayward what in the hell was
going on when a white-faced man in a white lab coat at the
end of the row said, “I have contact from the east.”
“ Good,” Hayward said.
Remy leaned forward as out of the corner of the screen
a shadow moved. And then another and another.
“There are nine of them ,” another white-faced man in
front of a screen said.
Suddenly, figures appeared out of the shadows around
Cornelia, almost as mysteriously as Hayward had appeared.
Remy had been raised in the thieves’ guild, trained in not
being seen. And he was impressed.
“Who are dey?” he asked.
Then he saw. They were children. The oldest didn’t look
more than sixteen; the youngest he guessed around ten.
They were all dressed in black and moved smoothly, almost
 h u l i o m in the h ist
as if they were floating. But he knew they weren’t. They just
knew how to move silently and quickly.
They surrounded Cornelia’s body and one of them
picked her up, her stained white dress a stark contrast to
their black bodysuits.
One of the older children motioned that they should
go and almost as quickly as they had appeared, the children
and Cornelia’s body disappeared into the shadows.
Beside Remy, Hayward let out a deep breath, as if re­
lieved. “They took her. Good.”
“You wanted dis?” Remy asked.
Hayward nodded, glancing away from the screen and
looking directly at Remy. “You look as if you could use a
drink. And I know I do.” He put a heavy hand on Remy’s
shoulder and turned him away from the monitor toward a
door on the far side of the room. “I will explain. But only
after a drink.”
Hayward’s private office looked nothing like his lab. Oak
shelves filled with leather books covered two walls. Expen­
sive paintings under spotlights dominated the other two. A
large desk filled one corner, but Hayward directed Remy to
the overstuffed couch and then asked him for his choice.
“Nothin’ ’til I get a few answers.”
Hayward nodded and punched a small button. A panel
and picture slid back and a well-stocked bar slid forward. In
silence he poured himself a Scotch and took a good portion
of it straight away. Then he refilled his glass and turned to
Remy.
“You almost destroyed my plan tonight, son.”
“I was t’inkin’ I was helpin’, m e.”

11
 Itlf O L im A T E X-ilfH
Hayward laughed, then dropped down into a large chair
that faced the couch. He took another sip of his Scotch and
then sighed. “Remy, you remember the last time Cornelia
and I saw you?”
‘Airport. ’’
Hayward nodded. “We were returning from the best
specialists in the country. Cornelia had only two months to
live at that point.”
“What?” Remy almost stood, but instead moved to the
edge of the couch.
‘Nothing anyone could do. Hereditary illness, the same
that killed her mother. I had always feared it would take my
daughter, too, and it did.”
Remy didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing as
Hayward again sipped his Scotch.
“I spent most of Cornelia’s life working on a way to save
her. When you last saw us, I had determined that I had
failed. There was no cure. So I went the next step. I figured
out a way to bring her back after she was dead. ’’
“De Elixir o’ Life?” Remy asked. For generations both
the thieves’ guild and the assassins’ guild had fought over
the Elixir of Life. It was the very reason Remy had been
banned from his hometown.
Hayward laughed, dismissing Remy’s question with a
wave of his hand. “Not hardly. You and your family made
sure that wasn’t possible. Besides, there was too much bag­
gage with that Elixir.”
“Den how?”
Hayward laughed, but this time his laugh sounded hol­
low and strained, as if directed at his own personal demon.

78
 5TILLD0RH in T i t HIST
“I mixed science with black magic,” he said. “ Simple, ac­
tually.”
“Voodoo?” Remy asked, his stomach sinking at the
thought of zombies.
“Not really,” Hayward said. “I just studied the princi­
ples behind the voodoo and the zombie legends and ap­
plied science to them. By the time Cornelia died, I had the
answer. I brought her back.”
Remy nodded. So the young girl he’d picked up in the
street had actually been dead. But somehow reanimated
with life. Science or black magic, she was still a zombie. One
of the walking dead.
Hayward downed the last of his Scotch and stood, mov­
ing over to the bar to make himself another. With his back
to Remy he continued talking. “I can tell you don’t under­
stand. I loved my daughter more than anything. The
thought of her dying was impossible for me even to con­
sider.”
“She still dead, homnie,” Remy said.
“Only technically,” Hayward said, spinning around to
face the X-Man.
Remy held the intense, blazing gaze of Hayward for a
moment. The man was obsessed with this topic, that much
was very clear. There seemed no point in arguing it. Inside
Hayward knew his daughter was dead and that knowledge
was eating at him like maggots in a coffin. And Remy knew
that the children, once zombies, were monsters. They might
look like the children they used to be, but they were just
dead flesh walking. Nothing more.
Remy stood and stepped toward the door through which

19
 THE U l T i n m X-flff!
they had entered. “ So why slit her t’roat an’ put her out,
bait for de other child’n? What went wrong?”
“My formula was stolen,” Hayward said. His shoulders
sagged and he moved over and sat down heavily in his chair.
“It was meant only for Cornelia. No one else.”
“Who stole it?
‘‘A lab tech,” Hayward said, almost laughing. ‘‘A nobody
who is now dead and will remain that way. ”
“But dose childr’n out dere de walkin’ dead.”
Hayward sipped at his drink, as if deciding to go on or
not. Then he asked, “You ever hear of the Arrington?”
Remy felt himself shudder at the mention of the name.
Arrington was a combination gang and family. Their leader,
a gentleman named Lang, claimed that the Arrington, un­
der old deeds dating from before the War between the
States, had title to most of the area where the newer sections
of the city had been built. Years ago the courts had rejected
the family claim. So the family and their friends, back be­
fore Remy was even born, had gone underground, working
to retake what they claimed was theirs without much caring
how, or who got killed. But for the last five years they had
been fairly silent members of the New Orleans crime world.
“Yeah,” Remy said, “I hear o’ dem. I don’ much like
w'hat I hear.”
Hayward nodded, staring down into the golden liquid
in his glass. “I agree. The stupid lab tech thought he could
sell my formula to them. They killed him and took it before
I could retrieve my property.”
“ So why children?”
“ My formula only works on children or young adults.”
Remy stood and began to pace, trying to give himself a
 S T I L L B O R N I I T HE H I S T

moment to think. H e’d just had two run-ins with the Ar­
rington, and both times people had been killed. There was
no telling what they’d do with the ability to raise dead chil­
dren. But one thing for sure, they’d use the children to take
parts of the city back by force, parts they felt belonged to
them.
Remy stopped his pacing in front of Hayward. “What
exactly dey plannin’?”
Hayward looked suddenly tired, his eyes glazed over, his
mind a long distance away as he slowly shook his head. “I
don’t know, but two weeks after they stole the serum, chil­
dren started turning up missing. Lots of children, mostly
from the projects. I never meant for my work to kill chil­
dren.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and then, in a
very soft voice, as if he were only talking to himself, said, “I
just wanted to save my own daughter.”
Now Remy understood even more. Not only were the
demons of his daughter eating at Hayward, but the deaths
of other children now rode his mind, smothering him slowly
but surely.
“So what’s Cornelia doin’?”
Hayward seemed to shake himself and glance up at the
X-Man standing over him. “ She’s locating their operational
headquarters for us. I have a force ready to move in when
she’s in place.”
Remy knew where the Arrington were mainly headquar­
tered. It was a huge old building just outside the French
Quarter. At one time it had been a warehouse, and from
the outside it still looked that way. H e’d been inside and
had no desire to return. But he said nothing.
 the m m x-nti
H a z a rd stood. “I think it’s time we go back to work,
don’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he moved through the
door and into the white lab beyond. Remy followed. There
was nothing else for him to do.
Twenty minutes later the signal came in.
“ On the big screen,” Hayward said, and on a nearby
wall a map of the city suddenly appeared. After a moment
a blinking light showed.
“That’s not possible,” one tech said. “That’s outside
our door.”
“What?” Hayward said. He stared at the huge map for
a moment and then made for the black arch leading into
the street. But Remy was faster and he broke through and
into the humid night air first, his hands on his cards, ready.
The mist still filled the dark street; again his eyes took
a moment to adjust to the extreme difference in light. He
moved against the building and crouched, letting all his
senses cover the area while his eyes adjusted.
There was no one moving. Nothing.
Hayward blundered into the street, followed by two of
his guards. It was then that Remy saw the head.
Cornelia’s head.
It sat on the shallow curb, blank eyes staring at the door­
way and her father.
Clamped in her teeth was a small golden button, most
likely the bug Hayward had been using to track her.
Now she was truly dead. There would be no bringing
her back this time. Not even the walking dead could con-

82
 STUUORH in Tlf HIST

tinue when their heads were cut off. No magic was that
powerful.
Hayward slumped to the sidewalk and picked up his
daughter’s head, cradling it against his chest as he sobbed.
There was nothing more Remy could do here. Hayward
and his men were out of the picture, at least for the mo­
ment.
Remy had discovered why he’d been pulled back to New
Orleans. Silently, he stepped back into the shadows and
moved away. As with any good thief, no one saw him go.
The mist covered the old cotton warehouse district like a
thick film. The biggest warehouse in the center loomed like
a block In the fog, massive and very dangerous. The wood
of the loading docks had decayed and rotted away. Some­
one long ago had boarded over the high windows on all the
buildings. For the untrained eye, the warehouse district
looked as if had been deserted for years, just another ex­
ample of the decay of the city, standing amid many other
deserted buildings.
But Remy’s eye was not untrained. Through the cracks
in the old wood he could see the reinforced steel and con­
crete walls of the main Arrington building. Hidden cameras
covered every inch of area around the building. Invisible
laser beam sensors crisscrossed the streets a block in both
directions. Even a rat couldn’t move in this area of aban­
doned buildings without being tracked.
But Remy had been trained in the thieves’ guild, his
skills honed as Gambit with the X-Men. He was much,
much better at getting in somewhere unseen than any com­
mon rat.

53
 T HE U L T I M A T E X HCH

Carefully, slowly, an inch at a time, he made his way

along a wall, passing over and under laser beams while
never moving fast enough to trigger a motion detector. He
stayed in the shadows of the wall knowing that, to anyone
watching a camera, he would be nothing more than shadow.
After leaving Hayward, he had considered just barging
into the main building, fighting. That was more his style,
more his recent training. But he didn’t know exactly what
was going on with the children and he couldn’t take a
chance of any of the live ones getting hurt until he knew.
It took him over an hour, but he finally made the rear
door of the building immediately next to the Arrington
headquarters. He knew of a tunnel leading from each of
the neighboring buildings into the main one. It would be
his best way in.
With an easy twist, he picked the complex lock of the
door and slipped inside. The place smelled of mold and
decay. It was the building closest to the river and farthest
from the normal traffic patterns of the French Quarter and
the main areas of New Orleans. It would be the least-used
building for entering the main compound. He counted on
that.
He crouched against the wall, waiting for his eyes to
adjust. His senses told him instantly he was not alone. “ So
much for goin’ in unannounced,” he said softly to himself.
“Remy LeBeau,” a voice said, echoing through the
darkness. “Nice of you to come back to see m e.”
Remy stood, his hands in his pockets on his cards. The
voice belonged to Lang, the fat, chipmunked-faced leader
of the Arrington. But it had been broadcast. Lang would
never risk himself in the open like this. Remy could see ten
 m i L I S O R l I III l i t IH 5 T

outlines in the dim light, all holding machine guns. Lang

had sent his goons. But he had underestimated Remy by
sending only ten.
“I’m so sorry, however,” Lang’s voice continued, “that
we won’t have a chance to chat.”
Remy jum ped, hard and fast, while at the same time
sending glowing cards at where he’d spotted the shadows.
First the explosions of gunfire, then of Remy’s cards
filled the huge, empty warehouse.
In a tight ball, Remy flipped over twice in midair before
landing and rolling behind an old column.
The bright orange flashes quickly showed Remy that
he’d taken out most of the men with his first throws.
But he needed a diversion for just a moment longer.
Flipping energized cards at the remaining Arrington
men as well as at distant walls and camera locations, Remy
moved quickly into a cloud of smoke from the explosions.
Then between explosions he slipped down the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs two men with guns ready
stood guarding an open tunnel. He was on them so fast,
they didn’t even get a shot off before he rendered them
unconscious.
Taking both the guns from the men, he quickly kineti-
cized the energy in them and then, With all his strength,
threw the guns down the dark tunnel toward the main Ar­
rington building.
He stood to one side as the explosion sent an impact
blast back his direction so hard, it destroyed the old wooden
stairs he’d just come down.
At a full run, flipping energized cards ahead of him into

35
the smoke as he went, he crossed through the tunnel and
under the main building compound.
A main staircase led upward, but it was blocked by a
huge steel door at the top. Five of Lang’s guards already lay
unconscious around the bottom of the stairs and still no
sign at all of the children. Or the zombies.
He needed to think of them as zombies, but somehow
he just couldn’t get the image of children out of his mind.
He glanced around* then picked up a metal folding
chair from a guard station. There was no point in being
subtle now, not after this explosive entrance.
He quickly changed the potential energy of the chair
into kinetic and, with a quick spin like a hammer throw,
flung it at the steel door at the top of the stairs.
The explosion sent the door smashing inward.
Immediately on the other side machine guns opened up
a deadly rain of fire.
Remy dove for a nearby tunnel and waited, tucked
against a wall, as the area under the building was riddled
with hundreds of bullets.
Finally the firing slowed and stopped. Six men, obviously
more of Lang’s stooges, appeared at the top of the stairs
and looked down.
Spinning out six energized cards with a quick flick of
the wrist, Remy took all six out. Then, flicking cards
through the opening above, he went up the stairs and to
the right, rolling to stay out of the line of fire, all the time
flipping card after card.
The firing stopped in a dozen explosions as he came up
hard against a concrete wall. He remained crouched, letting
his senses scan the smoke-fogged room. This assault felt like
 S T 1L L B 0 RR III TI 1 E H I S T

an evening in the Danger Room back at the Xavier Institute.

Here, just like there, you never knew what was going to
come at you at any moment.
Then, through the smoke, there was movement. Some­
one was slowly coming toward him. Remy crouched, ready
for anything.
It took a moment for his mind to register what was com­
ing at him, then a moment longer to get past the shock of
What appeared to be a young woman in a white prom
dress stumbled through the smoke directly at his position.
It was Cornelia. Or, more accurately, Cornelia’s body.
Her head was missing.
Her body stumbled forward, as if under mechanical con­
trol of a bad director in the worst B-movie.
Remy stared for a moment at where her head should
have been, remembering her smile at the airport and how
he had kissed her hand.
Then he realized that in her hands she now carried two
very large and very live explosive charges.
With a quick flip of two energized cards, he hit both
charges, while rolling as fast and hard as he could away to
the left.
The concussion from the huge explosion smashed him
against the wall. He banged his head hard on the concrete,
but managed to come up running. Ahead was a wide double
door made of ornate wood.
At a run he hit the door with both feet, sending it smash­
ing inward. If he remembered right, behind this door was
Lang’s personal office.
He had remembered right.

87
 Six guards flanked Lang, but before any of them could
even get off a shot at the intruder, Remy flicked energized
cards against their chests, sending each smashing backward
in a muffled explosion.
The explosions also knocked Lang backward and Remy
was over him in a flash, pulling him back to his feet and
holding him up above the desk. In the two years since Remy
had seen Lang, the man had gained another hundred
pounds. Now he seemed to be more a ball of flesh than
anything else.
“Dat. anyway to greet a guest?” Remy asked with a smile.
Lang shook his head no, his fat chipmunk cheeks fold­
ing and unfolding with the motion.
Remy dropped him into his overstuffed chair and with
one foot shoved him hard back against the wall. Lang’s
head banged the wood and then lolled forward. His eyes
were glazed and blood dripped from his mouth where he’d
bitten a fat cheek.
“My motto,” Remy said, bending down right into the
fat m an’s face, “is live and let live. Comprendez-vous?”
Lang took a moment, then finally nodded, his beady
eyes focusing on the X-Man.
“I’d never be here, but now I hear tell you take chil­
dren.”
“None of your business, thief,” Lang managed to say,
spitting blood as he did.
“Ah, dere you wrong. Children is all our business.
Harm in’ children harms me. Harms my family. Harms my
city. Now where are dey?”
Lang just spat out blood. “All dead and waiting to kill
you, LeBeau.”
 S T I L L D O R H III T H E H I S T

Remy grabbed the fat man by the collar and picked him
up with one hand, holding him pressed up against the wall.
With the other hand he took out a charged card and waved
it in front of Lang’s face before tucking it carefully into the
rolls of blubber around the fat m an’s belt.
At the sight of the card the m an’s small eyes grew large
and he swallowed. “We can talk, LeBeau.”
Remy nodded. “ ’Til my arm gets tired, fat man. But if
you give me a wrong answer, my arm gets real tired. Now,
de children?”
Remy saw the fat m an’s eyes flicker in the direction of
the main door. With a quick flick of the wrist, Remy sent
five charged cards spinning in that direction. The explo­
sions and a short, cut off scream made him smile at Lang.
“You a fat one. I t’ink I drop you now. Yes?”
“No!” Lang said. “The children are in the next build­
ing over, toward town. But they’i'e all dead. All zombies.”
Remy pretended to almost drop Lang and the fat man
squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them again.
“Sorry,” Remy said. “You sure need to lose de weight.
Now what else?” As he asked he took another charged card
out of his pocket, waved it in front of Lang’s face, and
slipped it into the fat m an’s belt beside the first.
Lang’s eyes got even wider than before. “Without an­
other dose of the formula real soon, they won’t even be
zombies. They’ll just be dead.”
“So where de medicine?”
Lang swallowed and glanced to the left at a wooden
door leading into a back room. “Back there, in the lab.”
“You lyin’ to me, homme?” Remy said, pretending to
drop the fat man.
 THE W if i ATE M l Ell
Sweat poured from Lang’s face as he shook his head.
“LeBeau, I’m telling you the truth. They’re already dead
and will be for certain in thirty minutes unless I take them
their next dose.”
Remy nodded and, with a flick of his arm, tossed the fat
man in a swan dive over his head into the center of the
office. The guy let out a short scream before he hit.
The resulting muffled explosion made Remy smile.
W ithout looking back, he went through the door into
the lab. The fat man had been telling the truth. The place
looked like a chemistry lab, with one large table running
down the middle. Beakers full of fluids filled the table.
Remy stood in the door studying it all, then stepped inside
and picked up a metal stool. Holding the stool up, he en­
ergized it until it glowed brightly.
And for a moment, he hesitated, thinking of the chil­
dren. But now they were already dead. All he was doing was
stopping monsters like Lang from using their walking bod­
ies for what ever purpose they wanted. Remy hated with his
deepest passion anyone who could hurt children.
With as hard a throw as he could manage he spun the
metal stool at the center of the chemicals.
Then he tumbled backward and out of the way of the
explosion.
Glass and smoke filled the room and he turned and ran.
There was no telling what sort of poisons were in there
burning now.
He paused in the outer area only long enough to make
a quick call to the police, telling them there was a fire and
where they could find the children.
At least this way their parents could give the kids a de-
 S T I L L S O R n III T i t n i S T

cent burial. That was more than Hayward would be able to

do for Cornelia.
Remy waited outside in the shadows of a nearby empty
warehouse until the police had fought their way inside.
Then Remy LeBeau turned away, heading back to the
X-Men, once again leaving his hometown. But this time he
left it just a little better than when he’d found it.
And, as with any good thief, no one saw him go.
 X-rRESSO

Ken drobe
Illustration by Dave Cockrum & John Nyberg
I ooking back, I’d say the second most exciting thing that
I happened to me today was getting hit in the gut with a
L fastball special. Well, maybe the third most. Ysee, being
an X-Man and all, improbable, unpredictable stuff happens
to us all the time. It’s just as likely that one of us gets spirited
away to another dimension as rip a pair of dungarees. But
what happened today was different. It was special. Still, I
don’t mind saying, it didn’t start out too pretty.
It began with a letter from my momma. She wrote to
tell me that my younger brother Josh had left the farm to
go to Nashville. I swear, when I read that, I felt my jaw hit
the floor. Ysee, since my daddy died and I went to study
with Professor Xavier, Josh has sorta been the “m an” of the
house, helping out my momma and the younger kids on
the farm. Up until I got that letter, I thought Josh’d always
stay on the farm, on account of he took such pride in it.
More than once w’hen I’d come home for a visit, Josh’d go
out of his way to tell me that he ’n ’ momma had the farm
well in hand, thrusting that fact in my face like a badge of
honor he’d won in a war I’d never fought. ’Course, he was
always a little jealous that our sister Paige and I had gotten
to leave the farm and go to private boarding schools. But
at that same time, he’d always take great pride in the fine
job he ’n ’ Momma had done in taking care of the farm and
our younger brothers and sisters. Besides, Paige and I only
went away for school because we’d discovered that we had
m utant powers, and going away to the Xavier Institute and
the Massachusetts Academy was the best way to deal with
them. Josh was pretty relieved that he didn’t have that par­
ticular curse.

9)
 I tit ULTIHATt MINI
’Cept maybe his singing. Lord, he has such a lovely sing­
ing voice, like no one I’d heard before or since. Oh, ’cept
for Lila. Or Alison Blaire. ’Course, they’re professionals.
What the heck did my dangfool brother know about “mak­
ing it” as a singer? How could he leave the farm to go on
some merry chase to be the next Garth Brooks? I love my
brother. But if he was standing in front of me when I got
the news, I swear I would’ve boxed his ears. How dare he
leave Momma alone to run the farm for something as friv­
olous as this? College I could understand. But a singing
career? With poor Joelle probably still recovering from
her run-in with that cult and the rest of the young’uns still
not big enough to handle the farm by themselves, and
Momma . . . well, I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had
to figure out what to do.
Now mind you, I ain’t ashamed to say that I had one or
two other things worrying me on a fair to regular basis—
not the least of which was my recent promotion from leader
of the X-Force team to a full-fledged member of the X-Men.
But dangit, family’s important. I couldn’t stop thinkin’
about Josh leaving the farm. And I couldn’t stop thinking
about my momma workin’ herself to the bone, with me
gone for years, Paige havin’ left only recently, and now Josh.
And I couldn’t help but feeling a symphony of guilt that
started as soon as I discovered my m utant powers and took
Professor Xavier’s offer. But most of all, I couldn’t stop
tryin’ to figure out what I could tell Josh to make him give
up this damnfool idea and get him to go back to the farm
where he belongs. And that’s what I was thinkin’ about
when the Beast threw Gambit at me.
For most of the week, Professor X had seen fit to pit

n
 mm
pairs of us X-Men against each other for practice. For this
particular Danger Room session, the Professor put the Beast
and Gambit on one side, and Archangel and myself on the
other. Two flyers against two walkers. Heck, I had Archangel
on my side, and he’s one of the original X-Men. I figured
we had it all over Hank and Remy. Of course, I didn’t ac­
count for how distracted I’d be over that letter.
The X-Men call it a “fastball special” : one member
throws the other one to take out one or several opponents.
Well, that’s all well and good if you’re fighting against the
Marauders or the Genoshan High Guard, but I guess I
didn’t expect it in a simple Danger Room sequence.
I’m invulnerable to dang near anything when I’m using
my blasting power. Gambit knew that, and it gave him free
reign to cut loose. Remy charged up his quarterstaff, filling
it to bursting with energy, and, with the force of the fastball
special behind him, brought it full-tilt into my solar plexus.
Now, it didn’t exactly hurt. But it bounced me off a couple
of the Danger Room’s walls and shocked me out of blasting.
I hit the floor, dislocating my shoulder.
Now, these Danger Room sessions are rough on pur­
pose. Professor X says it’s the only way to keep ourselves
sharp for real missions, and he’s right. But, damn, did my
shoulder hurt! Remy apologized, even though we both knew
we’re supposed to give it our all in the Danger Room. And
the Beast was even kind enough to reset my shoulder, which
didn’t make it hurt any less, but at least I could move it
around some. Then I went back to my room to nurse my
arm and my pride. I wouldn’t have minded a bit of time to
myself.
No such luck.

97
 THE U l T I H i T E i m

“Guthrie!”
I could hear my girlfriend hollering all the way from the
other end of the East Wing. For a pretty little thing of five
feet four or so, there was a danged good reason even aside
from her mutant powers that she took the code name Melt­
down. Even when she wasn’t trying, she was goin’ critical.
And this time, she was trying.
She burst into my room without knocking. “Where the
hell have you been? I do hope you realize that you just stood
me up for lunch!”
I slapped my head with my hand. “Tabitha, honey, I’m
sorry. I forgot. But we weren’t goin’ out for lunch or any­
thing . . . ”
“That’s not the point, Sam! We hardly get to see each
other as it is without you forgetting little things like ‘meet
me in the commissary at two.’ How hard is that to remem­
ber??!
I caught on quickly that there wasn’t no way I could blast
myself out of this particular doghouse. “Tab, I’m sorry. I’ve
got a lot on my mind and—
“Yeah, Sambo, I’ll just bet you do. I see you looking at
the other women on your team. You think I don’t notice
you and Psylocke making eyes at each other in the Danger
Room?”
And I thought I could only get blindsided in the Danger
Room. “What?”
“ I’ve got eyes behind these shades, Guthrie. Don’t you
dare try putting anything over on me. And don’t think I
didn’t notice that you were watching every move that she
made, that tramp . . . ”
Now, I know a lot about Tabitha. I know how she needs
 X-TRESSO

a lot of attention, ’cause she’s real insecure and all that—

problems with her dad and all. I also know that our rela­
tionship’s taken a few hits by my getting promoted to the
X-Men and her staying behind in X-Force. We go on
different missions most of the time and just can’t see each
other as much as we’d like to. But this just wasn’t a good
day to address it. And she obviously wasn’t in the mood to
listen—or even to stop talking!
My shoulder ached something fierce, my head throbbed
from the m orning’s events, and it got harder and harder to
listen to Tabitha’s ruckus. Now, I don’t like to speak ill of
anybody, least of all my girlfriend, but, w ell. . . she got ir­
ritating. Too irritating. So irritating that I found myself get­
ting up, grabbing her by the shoulders, and forcibly placing
her on the other side of my door. Then I slammed it right
in her face.
Of course, I used my bad arm, which made me even
madder. Bad enough I’d failed my family and embarrassed
myself in front of the other X-Men. But I wasn’t about to
stand there and listen to Tabitha’s paranoid rants. I can
only coddle her so much, you know? Sometimes I needed
understanding. This was one of those times and I just
couldn’t deal with Tabitha’s crazy accusations today.
I’ll never understand us. Meltdown ’n ’ I’ve fought side-
by-side against aliens, forces of nature, cold-blooded kill­
ers—you name it. We’ve been through more together than
most couples dream of. But one little domestic squabble
and both of us just go to pieces.
Well, I could hardly figure out what to do with myself
after that. I wanted to just take off through the ceiling, blast­
ing through floor after floor of the mansion and out into

99
 Hit ItTjflATE X-HEH
the sky. ’Course, I stifled that urge pretty quickly. I like to
think of myself as a strong man—heck, I’m a mutant, after
all. But that don’t seem to mean much in the face of family
troubles, girlfriend troubles, and dislocating your shoulder,
all in the space of a few hours. I didn’t want to talk to
anybody. I wTanted to be alone with my thoughts. And get­
ting out of the mansion seemed like a pretty good idea. The
Institute’s getting more crowded all the time, and as for the
woods outside the campus, well . . . Wolverine’s taken to liv­
ing out there these days. And he’s been scaring me lately.
I was on a train bound for New York City within the
hour. Now, you might wonder, What the heck was Sam think­
ing, going to the biggest city in the world when he wants to be
alone? And if you are, then you must not have been to New
York much. ’Cause there’s just so many people there, rush­
ing around, each in their own world. That makes for mil­
lions of little worlds in one city, and I figured it wouldn’t
mind one more. Besides, I wanted to be around normal
people and maybe, just maybe, not worry about being a
m utant for a while.
I started by just walking around downtown. I didn’t
much feel like going to any of the museums, and I like the
Greenwich Village area quite a bit. It’s kinda, well, alive.
Everyone’s in their own little world in New York, but the
Village is the best place to sit and watch ’em go by.
Another thing I like about the Village is it always looks
the same. I’ve seen pictures of the Village from the 1950s
and 1960s, and, well, there’s not much important about it
that’s changed. The buildings are all there, and even some
of the clubs and theaters are the same. But most of the
storefronts are flashier now, and today there’s a lot more
 mm
kids from the Empire State University campus running
around.
Now, while the Village isn’t exactly the best place for
solitude, it’s an ideal spot to lose yourself in a crowd. After
walking around aimlessly for a while, poking my head in
stores and checking out vintage record shops for old
George Jones albums, I decided to head up to Washington
Square Park. Washington Square Park isn’t exactly a park
like we had in Kentucky. After all, it’s mostly concrete, and
the places that have grass also have k e e p o f f signs. But
there’s no place better in the Village to entertain your eyes
for free. On a crisp, just-after-a-light-drizzle day like that
one, people from all walks of life hang out to meet, relax,
perform, or watch passersby, as I was doing that day. As I
entered the park, I heard dogs barking as they chased their
masters, their tennis balls, or each other in the fenced-off
dog run just to my left. Right in front of that was a group
of musicians playing and singing old Beatles songs. Way
over to the right was a man in a three-piece suit buying a
hot dog from a street vendor. Just past them was a single
guitar player singing love songs, surrounded by a few pretty
young college girls. Listening to that boy sing made me
think of Josh’s own glorious voice. I remember him even as
a young’un, using that voice of his to charm us all: singing
“Amazing Grace” in church, leading the family in sing-
alongs by the fireplace on cold winter nights, and entertain­
ing his friends at the soda shop like this young fellow in
front of me was doing. In fact, I got so caught up in the
flow of memories that I didn’t even notice until too late
that my pocket had been picked.
I felt light fingers cross my back pocket and immediately
 the u itih a tc x -ittn
reached to discover my wallet was missing. Looking up
quickly, I saw a kid in a yellow T-shirt and baggy jeans run­
ning away. “ Stop!” I yelled. I screamed for the police, but
there weren’t any around. Typical, ain’t it? So I took off
after the kid. That is to say, I ran after him. No sense in
using my m utant power in broad daylight, I figured.
Does anyone really think that yelling, “Hey! Stop,
thief! ” at a thief is really going to make them stop running
from you? Well, I did it anyway, and of course it didn’t work.
’Course, after chasing him for a few blocks, I realized that
I wasn’t going to catch up to him, and no one was willing
to help me. Maybe I looked too much like a tourist. I sure
don’t look like no New Yorker! I felt my heart beating faster
and I started to get a stitch in my side. But there was no
way I was gonna let that kid get away with my wallet.
Just my luck, the kid turned down a side alley. An empty
side alley, mind you. So I figured, what the heck, and took
off. I mean, really took off.
Lord, do I ever love flying. I so rarely get the chance to
really take off, to really soar. I feel such a rush from using
my powers. I guess regular folks find it scary that there’s
someone like me around, who can fly like I do. But if I
could give them the power for a day, I would, just so they
could experience the pure joy that goes with it. Sometimes
I feel sorry for them, ’cause they don’t get to shoot through
the air like me. Speeding through the air, seeing clouds and
rooftops whipping past—I tell you, it’s true freedom, if only
for a moment. But not that day. At that time, I just wanted
to teach this guy a lesson—Cannonball-style—for picking
my dang pocket.
Using my Cannonball powers, I caught up with him in

102
 x-rnmo
a second, yelling, “ Surprise, sucker!” as I grabbed him by
the waist of his baggy pants and took off into the air. He
began yelling in Spanish and twisting around so much, I
thought he might fall right out of those pants. I’d figured
it might be fun to put a little scare into him, but he wasn’t
scared at all. Also, my arm hurt like crazy. So I made a snap
decision and deposited him on the rooftop of the nearest
apartm ent building. I grabbed the wallet out of his hand
and took off just as he tried to throw a punch at me. So
that’s how he wants to play it? I thought. I blasted back down
to the alley and went looking for a phone to call the police.
It had occurred to me that they might be interested in a
trespasser on the roof of that apartment building. Hell,
there were a lot worse things I could’ve done to him.
I could hear him swearing and yelling to beat the band
as I flew down from the roof back into the alleyway. I’m
pretty sure I looked around to make sure nobody saw, but
I don’t completely recall. I didn’t really care at the time,
’cause, dang, after all that’d happened already, I didn’t
rightly care.
I came out the other side of the alley onto a street I
didn’t recognize. I thought I’d walked down most every
street in this area, but didn’t recall this one. I walked into
the first storefront I found. The words c o f f e e a - g o - g o were
stenciled on the storefront window in a cut-paper style that
reminded me of movie posters from the 1950s. I could sense
coffee and conversation before I even opened the door. But
there wasn’t much that could have prepared me for what I
saw when I walked in.
Across from the front door lay a small stage that barely
held five empty stools and a microphone stand. Next to it

10)
 lit ULTMM IM
hung a sign that said f r e e v e r s e p o e t r y r e a d i n g s F r id a y s
a t 9. Why would they need so many people onstage for a
poetry reading, I wondered?
Then I took a look around the place. Colorful Guate­
malan weavings, which I recognized from my art history
courses, hung from the walls next to wild canvasses that
looked like something Jackson Pollock painted in a bad
mood. People of all ages sat at the tables, mostly wearing
berets, porkpie hats, or black turtlenecks. Above them hung
strangely colorful mobiles composed of geometric shapes.
Many of the men had goatees and the women had long,
straight hair. Boy, did I feel uncomfortable in my slacks and
plaid shirt. I’ll tell you, it felt like I’d walked straight into
Greenwich Village in the 1950s. From the little I’d remem­
bered from movies and old magazines, I seemed to have
walked into a picture-perfect slice of beatnik culture. A
woman kept yelling for someone named “ Chester” until I
turned around and realized that she m eant me.
The lady who had finally caught my attention was
older—forty or so, it was difficult to tell. She wore a white
m en’s oxford shirt over a black leotard. She didn’t wear any
makeup and kept her dark hair, streaked with gray, pulled
back in a ponytail. The tray under her arm tipped me off
that she worked there. The one raised eyebrow told me that
she regarded me with some amusement. I tell you, that’s
the blessing and curse of being a mutant: I have this in­
credible power inside me, but on the outside, I still look
like a gangly farmboy. To this lady I must have looked like
I’d wandered in off the street, which, well, I had.
“W hat’s the Odyssey, Homer? You here for cheer or you
just come to do the pet shop window thing?”

184
 m ts s o
What language was she speaking? “Um . . . I, uh . . . is
there a phone here?”
She eyed me coolly. “ Smoke signals for paying Indians
only. Buy a cup or take your dime elsewhere.”
I sighed. “ Okay. Fine. One cup of Earl Grey, please.”
She nodded. “Phone’s in the back next to the Che Gue­
vara collage.”
I said thanks and made my way to the back of the cafe.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, incense smoke, and
a couple other kinds of smoke I wasn’t sure I recognized. I
caught snatches of conversation where words like words
classism, paradigm, Mugwump, and yage stood out to my virgin
ears. Also a name that I didn’t expect to hear. Mine.
“Sam.”
I turned to see him sitting at a dark table in the far
corner. Truth to tell, he was the last person I’d expected to
see in a place like this (aside from me, of course). He had
been in the first class at the Xavier Institute, back before
my time. And while I’m pretty much the last X-Man to date,
he’s the first, the best. But for the life of me, I couldn’t
figure out what he was doing sipping coffee in the back of
a beatnik coffee shop.
He waved me over. I joined him. Even his clothes, while
surprisingly stylish, seemed out of date. He wore a suit
nearly the color of the wet pavement outside, with a thin
tie, and while I hate to say it, he looked like a character out
of those Man from U.N.C.L.E. episodes my friend Roberto
likes so much. Mind you, it fit right in with the mood of
the cafe. But it seemed odd not to see him in his traditional
blue-and-yellow battle-duds, or in the sweatshirts and jeans
that he wears when he’s fixing the planes or the machinery

105
 the u r n n m i-m

in the Danger Room. Come to think of it, this was the only
time I could remember seeing him not working. A stray
beam of light glinted off of his red sunglasses as he took a
sip from his coffee cup.
As I walked to him, the cafe seemed to brighten up a
little, as a strange place only can when you spot a friendly
face. Although friendly generally isn’t the first word I’d use
to describe Cyclops. I found him a little intimidating.
’Course, if I had the power to kill people just by lookin’ at
them the wrong way, I don’t suppose I’d want to make too
many friends either. In many ways, the X-Men’ve never had
as capable a leader as him. But friendly? Heck, he’s always
been nice enough to me; just distant is all.
I shook his hand, always respectful of his authority as
leader of the X-Men.
“ Scott. W hat’re you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, I suppose. Care to sit down?”
My eyes flicked to the phone. Scott sat within spittin’
distance of it. “Um, in just a minute. I have to make a
phone call.”
Well, there was no way around it, sure enough. I didn’t
want Scott to know about my momentary lapse in judgment.
But I couldn’t leave that kid up on the roof to hurt himself
or cause who knows what kind of trouble. Facing away from
Scott, I placed the call to the police, trying to keep my voice
as low as possible without sounding too suspicious.
So much for that. I pretended to cough over my shoul­
der and caught a glimpse of him, staring at me intently.
Busted! I thought to myself. Not for nothing has he been
the field leader of the X-Men since I was in grade school.
He sussed the situation out pretty quickly. He had his lips
 mm
pursed and his arms folded, staring at my cup of Earl Grey
across the table from him as I approached.
He didn’t apologize for eavesdropping. He didn’t need
to. “You want to tell me how you know about this trespasser
on the roof?” He asked, catching my gaze and (I think)
looking me straight in the eye.
Briefly, and somewhat ashamedly, I told him what had
happened with the pickpocket. Cyclops isn’t one to show
emotion, but I did notice the corners of his eyes crease like
most people’s do when they go into a deep frown. Boy, just
seeing that made me feel lower than a Morlock in a cistern.
My head sank between my shoulders as I waited for a
reprim and from my team leader. I knew exactly what Cy­
clops was going to tell me: that we should only use our
powers in dire situations, that random displays of them only
elicit fear in the general populace, that if the wrong person
took a picture of me or even saw me flying that boy to the
roof, it could seriously compromise my privacy and that of
the X-Men as well. In my mind I pictured Scott and Profes­
sor Xavier calling me into the Professor’s office and telling
me that I just wasn’t working out with the X-Men, that I’d
made too many mistakes and would have to go back to X-
Force. I braced myself, practically feeling my shoulders
touch the bottoms of these big ears of mine. Scott aimed
an accusing finger at me and opened his mouth to give me
the lecture I deserved. But then he took a good look at me
(at least I think he did; it’s tough to tell behind those red
sunglasses of his), lowered his hand, and let out a long, low
breath.
What came from him didn’t sound like a scolding. It
came across as softer, more patient. “What you did wasn’t

107
 the d l t i h m x -n tn
too smart, Sam. Someone could have seen you. I thought
you knew better than that.”
“I know, sir. But I just haven’t been myself today. My
brother’s leaving the family and my girlfriend hates me and
I’m not measuring up and . .
Well, I try not to get to emotional in front of a senior
X-Man. Shucks, I’d only just been promoted to the big team
recently, and I still had to prove myself. But I couldn’t help
it. It all came pouring out: my brother, my screwups in the
Danger Room, my argument with Meltdown. I just couldn’t
help but tell my problems to a familiar face. Scott listened
to every word, brow slighdy furrowed about those ruby
specs, his chin resting in the crook between thumb and
forefinger, aiming the whole of his concentration at my tor­
tured monologue.
I talked and talked until I ran out of things to say. Then
I looked up at Cyclops, and caught him actually smiling. Or
was it a smirk? It’s difficult to tell with Cyclops. He doesn’t
smile much.
“ Sounds like a pretty bad day.” His voice was even and
calm.
“Yes, sir. It sure is.” I said, unsure. Here I’d poured out
my heart to the man—the leader of my team—and he re­
sponded by smiling? I wasn’t rightly sure whether or not he
was mocking me. And like I said, he wears those ruby quartz
sunglasses all the time, so it’s almost impossible to read his
face. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He raised his hand to signal the waitress. “ Zelda! An­
other espresso, please, and refill my friend’s tea. And some
biscotti. ’’
Zelda smiled and nodded across the restaurant to him.

108
 mm
“You got it, Slim,” she called back as she stepped behind
the brass espresso machine and began to pull levers.
Neither of us said a word as we waited. Scott folded his
arms again and stared straight ahead at me. I noticed that
he’d clenched his jaw and hadn’t said a word for what
seemed like a full two minutes. The whole effect reminded
me of the sort of expression one makes when trying to plot
a course on an unfamiliar road map.
I didn’t say anything either—heck, I didn’t have nothing
left to say. I looked at Scott’s glasses and thought of the
power behind them, how his optic beams could flare out
and tear the head from my shoulders before I could blink.
It’s not easy living with the X-Men. As many times as they
might save your life or you theirs, there’s always a possibility
in the back of your mind that Wolverine might snap, or that
you might accidentally touch Rogue and lose your identity.
I’ve been with ’em in one capacity or another for some years
now and I still find that hard to shake.
Zelda came over with a tiny coffee cup and a larger tea
mug, each with an Italian biscuit placed in the saucer. “ Uno
espresso a-go-go, bello—with nutmeg and cinnamon, just how
you like it. And some more Earl Grey.” I reached for my
wallet. W ithout looking at me, Zelda said, “Keep it in the
holster, cowboy—if you’re a friend of Slim’s, the bevvies’re
on the casa. Enjoy.”
Then she fixed Scott with a mocking smirk. “And as for
you, Slim, how’s it I hardly see your pan these days? All this
time and you’re too good for the A-Go-Go?”
Scott’s manner, while unsmiling, was easygoing. “ Come
on, Zelda. You know it’s not like that. It’s just that after the
last time, we wanted to spare you the ruckus.”
 THE U l I I I U T E X-HEH

Zelda’s eyes turned upward. “Don’t remind me! The last

time you people showed up, Drake brought some walking,
talking Mighty Joe Young-looking thing in here—and I
don’t mean Topo Gigio, shatz. He nearly caused a riot in
here with that animal.”
I realized that Zelda was talking about the Beast. I don’t
know how, but I could tell Scott was holding back a grin.
“Now, Zelda, no harm done. Didn’t Bobby promise not to
bring pets in anymore?”
“Yeah, and I haven’t seen his carcass since. What’s he
doin’, starting the next ice age early?”
“ Something like that. I’ll let him know he should come
by soon.”
“You do that, Slim. Tell him all is forgiven. Don’t think
I don’t remember how he used to be warm for this form
back in the days.” Zelda patted her hip, winked at me and
sauntered back to the counter, tray nestled under her arm.
She knew Iceman and—in a way—Hank too? Had they
come here before—and often? Why hadn’t I ever heard
about it? I couldn’t wait to hear the story. But even above
that, one nagging, burning, tantalizing question tugged at
my curiosity above all others.
I couldn’t bear not asking. I cleared my throat, turned
to him, and, with as much tact as I could muster, I asked,
“Slim?”
“ Old nickname. I know Zelda from way back.”
Way back? My mind instantly rang with question upon
question. How in the heck does the stoic leader of the X-
Men know this strange beatnik woman? It made me want to
imagine Scott before the X-Men. I couldn’t.
Scott could tell. He leaned toward me and said, “I take

110
 x-rntsso
the train in to New York fairly often, when I have time.
Sometimes I come with Jean, sometimes I go alone. The
mansion’s a great piece of land, but it’s not the best place
to take your mind off of your problems.” I nodded my head
in agreement and took a couple of sips of my tea. I realize
that anyone who actually knows Cyclops would have trouble
believing that he’s anything but businesslike, stoic, and,
well, cold. But I swear to you, sitting in that coffeehouse,
sipping from that tiny cup, he was downright gregarious.
For him, anyway.
Scott looked around the cafe and continued on. “This
cafe has a special place in X-Men history. Bobby and Hank
discovered it years ago, when we were just starting out at
the school. After a while, we all started coming here. As
important as our training was, we tended to lose track of
the real world. Coming here, we could let off steam—as
people—and feel like we had a part in the real world too.
It wasn’t like anyplace we’d ever seen before. It was so free
and accepting.
“You should have seen it then, Sam. Wall hangings and
Picasso prints, the whole place filled with smoke and wild
performances. On any given day you could find poets, danc­
ers, musicians . . . the place looked like, well, much like it
does today. The credit goes to Zelda for bringing back the
look of the place. She was just a waitress at the time. Now
she owns it.
“Eventually, the four of us graduated, and the new team
of X-Men came in, and the place was bought by new owners
and turned into a diner. Then, when Jean . . . came back
and we started X-Factor, we returned to the old spot to find. _
that it had become a sushi bar, of all things. A year ago,
 T i t ULTIMATE M I E N

that place went out of business. God bless her, Zelda got
some money together, bought the place herself, and re­
stored it to its former glory. Jean and I’ve both been coming
back ever since. As you heard, Bobby and Hank haven’t
been here in a while.”
That was the most I had ever heard Scott say at one
time—to anyone. I was flabbergasted. I think I was a bit too
obvious about it, as usual, because Scott looked a little taken
aback, and a little embarrassed, probably for having gone
on like he did. He cut himself off with a bite of his biscotti,
and gave me that road-map look again.
“But let’s see what we can do about your problems. The
first one’s easy: Fastball Special.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The next time an opponent tries that on you, use your
shoulders to sort of sidestep it in the air. ’’ He made a swing­
ing motion with his shoulders to illustrate. “ Quickly grab
your opponent and ride his momentum from behind. Then
he’s yours to drop or do with what you will.”
Of course. “Gee, Scott, you make it sound so simple.”
“No. You and I both know it takes hard work. I also
know that you’re no slouch. Schedule extra Danger Room
time and practice. You’ll get it. Let me know if you need
help and I’ll have Warren work with you.”
Now his voice started to fill me with confidence. This
was the Cyclops I knew. He was truly the best an X-Man
could be. For a moment, I couldn’t believe I was sitting in
Greenwich Village drinking with him.
He chewed and swallowed another bite of biscotti. “ Sec­
ond of all, forget about making your brother change his

112
 x-mmo
decision. If my experience is any indication, you have no
hope of telling your brother what to do.”
I’m not one to argue with someone like Scott, but what
he said just didn’t seem right. “H e’s making an absolutely
wrong decision! This—this Nashville thing—it’s idiotic! As
the eldest Guthrie male, it’s my responsibility to talk him
out of it. And I’ll tell you, Scott, I’m not the only member
of this family who— ”
He shot me a look that I could feel through those ruby
quartz lenses of his. “No, Sam, you’re not.”
Hearing him say that shut me up and made me feel
like a wet sack of feed. Ysee, I know about Scott’s past
from the computer records. And it’s just plain sad. He
grew up in an orphanage, not knowing he had any family
to speak of. He only found his brother after ten years, and
his father and his grandparents after twenty. And that’s it.
’Cept for his in-laws, that’s all the family Scott has, unless
you count the X-Men. And Scott’d had more than his
share of trouble with his brother. His brother ended up
discovering mutant powers as well, powers even more dan­
gerous than Scott’s.
“What you’ve got to understand, Sam, is people aren’t
going to change just because you want them to. My broth­
er’s spent half his life running around the world, trying to
figure out his place. And there wasn’t a single thing I could
do to change that. H e’s doing a fine job heading up the X-
Factor team now, and I’m proud as hell of him. But if he
decided to leave tomorrow, nothing I could say or do would
change that. Sam, if you love your brother, the best you can
do is stand back and catch him if he falls. If you’re lucky,

113
 T H E U l T I H A T E X-fiEII

he’ll make the change himself, or ask for your help. Or

maybe, just maybe, he’s made the right decision after all.
“Look at Magneto. How may times has Charles tried to
reform him? Wolverine? Sabretooth?”
He raised an eyebrow above its ruby lens.
“You?”
He was right. When I first discovered my powers, I threw
in with Donald Pierce, an old enemy of the X-Men, because
he paid well and I had to support my family. But when the
Professor uncovered what a rat Pierce was, the Prof invited
me to his school and welcomed me with open arms. H e’s
helped my family and me out ever since, and the farm’s
thrived besides. I made the best decision of my life when I
joined the Xavier Institute. And here I was trying to stop
my brother from making his own decisions.
“You don’t want to lose your brother, Sam.”
“You’re right, sir. Point well taken.”
He drained his espresso cup. “Third: Meltdown. Apol­
ogize to her.”
That suggestion set me aback. What did he mean, “ apol­
ogize to her”? Didn’t he realize all the neurotic trash she
was talking to me? Obviously he didn’t, so I related the rest
of our argument—or should I say her argument—to Scott,
point by point, and I really would have gotten my dander
up if Scott hadn’t raised his voice just enough to cut me off
and say,
“ Sam.”
I heard a bit of irritation in his voice. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you love her?
I let out a sigh or resignation. “Yes, sir.”
“Does she love you?”
 X-TRE550
“I believe so.”
“Then apologize, dammit. Life’s too short to waste your
time with laying blame and pointing fingers. You’re an X-
Man, Sam. Live your life the best you can with no regrets.
When you go on the kind of missions that we do, you can’t
afford those luxuries.”
I hate to say it, but he made a brick of sense. I really
did care for Tabitha, and when it came down to it, none of
that little stuff should’ve mattered. Suddenly I couldn’t wait
to find her and tell her. Scott must’ve picked up on this
because he was already standing up and pulling money from
his wallet for the tip jar.
“C’mon. If we catch the six-thirty, we can make it back
for dinner. Gambit’s making gumbo. Bobby’s doing des­
sert.”
Zelda waved us out with a wink and another reminder
to bring Bobby the next time we came. As we stepped out
into the crisp fall air, I felt just a little bit different. N othin’
to scream about. But I had learned a lot about myself, and
more than I’d ever hoped about the man whom I’d always
passed off as the most dispassionate X-Man.
We walked the thirty-odd blocks back to the train sta­
tion, talking all the way.
We missed the 6:30 and had to catch the 7:05 local in­
stead, but it was okay. That’s what happened to normal
people. And for once, there were no emergencies, no prob­
lems. No superpowers. Just a couple of friends killing time.
And feeling every bit as human as we had a right to.

115
A n i f Lane & Rebecca Levene
Illustration by Brent Anderson
I
ogan’s car was like Logan himself: brash, aggressive, and
powerful. Bobby Drake could hear it thundering along
the drive toward the Xavier Institute long before he
could see it. There was no doubt in his mind that it was
Logan. Who else would drive a car like that?
As he stared out from the window of Professor Xavier’s
study, a sense of foreboding weighed Bobby down for a mo­
ment. Of all the X-Men who could have returned to the
fold at that time, it had to be Logan. There would be no
sympathy for the ordeal Bobby was about to go through. No
understanding. Just sarcasm and a continual barrage of
jokes. Jean would have understood. So would Hank. But not
Logan.
There was a fine mist of rain in the air outside. Without
thinking, Bobby reached out through the window and felt
the shape of the water molecules, caressing them, altering
their energy levels until they sought each other out for com­
pany. Snow began to fall outside the window, each flake
unique.
Just like mutants: each cursed with his or her own sin­
gular abilities.
The car finally cleared the treeline and raced toward
the mansion, belching smoke from its exhaust. Crimson and
yellow flames had been painted along its sides. Logan had
the top down, despite the rain, and his abundant black side­
burns were whipping back behind him like a scarf as he
drove. He was smiling ferally, and Bobby could see the glint
of his too-white teeth in the morning sunlight.
“Bobby, you’re worried,” said a calm voice from the
room behind him.

110
 THE U lTIH A T E X -H EH

“With respect, Professor, it doesn’t take a telepath to

spot that,” he replied. As he turned away from the window,
the last thing he saw was Logan’s car slewing to a halt,
throwing up an arc of gravel, and the man himself vaulting
over the side and loping towards the door to the mansion.
“I just don’t see how I can do this and keep the X-Men out
of it. I’ve lied once already. If the authorities find out— ”
“I understand your concerns, Bobby,” the Professor
said. The light from the roaring fire in his study gleamed
off his hairless scalp, making him look like he had a crimson
halo. “But remember, you will be serving your country.”
“Professor, I’ve put my life on the line for my country
more times than I can count. I just— ”
The door slammed open and Logan strode in as if he
owned the place, almost glowing with health and animal
vitality. “Hi, Charley,” he interrupted, “hi, Bobby-boy.
How’s tricks?”
“I’m glad you’re back, Logan,” Xavier said. “I would
like you to drive me down to town tomorrow. There’s a case
starting at the Westchester County Courthouse I want to sit
in on.”
Bobby suppressed his anger at the change of subject,
although he knew that Professor Xavier must have spotted
the slight drop in temperature in the room.
Logan’s eyes gleamed. “Somethin’ to do with mutants,
huh? Warren been caught flyin’ past women’s bedrooms at
night?”
“Nothing like that,” the Professor said in his infuriat­
ingly calm way. “Bobby has been called up for jury duty,
and I want to see how things go.”

120
 fOUR APR! TOUTS
Bobby cursed silendy. H e’d been hoping that the Pro­
fessor wouldn’t tell anyone.
Logan’s gaze flicked across to Bobby. “Weeeellll,” he
drawled, “ defectin’ to the enemy, eh, bub?”
Bobby immediately felt his temper rise. “Hey, Canuck,
this is my civic duty, if you don’t mind. At least I’ve got some
feeling of moral responsibility!”
“Well ain’t we on our high horse?” Logan switched his
hunter’s gaze back to the Professor. “ Somethin’ ’bout the
way you’re talkin’ gives me the feelin’ there’s a problem,
Charley.”
Xavier nodded. “Your senses are as finely honed as ever,
my friend. We were hoping that Bobby’s case would have
nothing to do with mutants and he could sit on the jury
with no conflict of interest. Unfortunately, during the em­
panelling process yesterday it became obvious that the ac­
cused was himself a mutant—a man named Arthur Streck.
All the jurors were asked to declare whether or not they
themselves were mutants. Bobby had to lie, of course, given
that his powers and his identity as an X-Man are not widely
known.”
“ I asked the Professor whether or not I should find an­
other reason to get kicked off the jury,” Bobby interrupted.
“After all, I can fake a cold better than anyone—but he
said no.”
“ One juror did declare himself to be a m utant,” Xavier
explained. “He was immediately excused. The reason given
by the assistant district attorney was that a m utant would be
automatically biased in favor of another mutant. I find this
line of reasoning specious, and I wanted Bobby to remain
on the jury so I can monitor how fair the deliberations are.”

IZI
 I I M A T E X-E.EH
Logan nodded. “Most all juries I ever came across were
biased to the core,” he said. “So, what’s this Streck guy
charged with, anyhow?”
“First degree m urder,” Bobby said.
“ Should you be tellin’ us this?” Logan frowned. “Ain’t
you supposed to keep quiet ’bout what goes on in court?”
The Professor looked a little discomfited. “Bobby is in­
deed bound by an oath not to discuss the case outside the
courthouse, but I have persuaded him that his primary duty
is to justice, rather than to the letter of the law.”
“And besides,” Bobby added, “the case hasn’t actually
started yet. The jury were sent home today while the judge
considers points of law.”
Logan considered. “Y’know, I think I will drive you
down to the courthouse tomorrow, Prof. Might be interes­
tin’.”
Bobby sighed. This was exactly what he’d been hoping
to avoid. It was bad enough having to be on a jury, worse
having to lie about it, but to have Logan sitting there in the
public gallery—that was almost too much to bear.
Logan leaned back in his seat and hooked his hands behind
his head, suppressing a smile as he felt the woman beside
him shuffle surreptitiously farther away. He looked around
the chamber, assessing it and the people within it. The oak-
paneled room wasn’t grand, but it was trying very hard to
be, like a hick cousin dressed up for a night at the opera.
The people were the same—all the petty officials puffed up
with their own self-importance. Making the most of a small­
town case that had suddenly made the big time.

m
 F O U R AF 1 QRT nU T A F I T S

Almost unconsciously, Logan had chosen a position that

gave him a good view of the court proceedings while leaving
a clear escape route to the door. Something about the si­
lence in the chamber made him nervous. It was an expec­
tant rather than a peaceful silence, charged up with all the
things people weren’t saying.
Xavier, sitting calmly beside him, had seemed to under­
stand his motivation and hadn’t protested. Or maybe court­
rooms made him as uncomfortable as they made Logan.
There was certainly an animal edginess about this one. He
could smell the ghoulish interest of the press gallery behind
him, the animosity of the public, and the fidgety nervous­
ness of the jury.
Bobby didn’t look any happier than the rest. His usually
amiable face was pinched and worried. He constantly ran
his fingers through his sandy hair, while his eyes roved the
courtroom, carefully avoiding those of Logan and the Pro­
fessor. In fact, they setded most often on one of his fellow
jurors: a stately dark-haired woman Logan judged to be way
out of Bobby’s league—and Logan was an expert at these
things. Bobby was looking at her when the assistant DA rose
to make his opening statement, and at the squeal of the
prosecutor’s chair he jerked his eyes away with a start. Lo­
gan gritted his teeth. Drake was acting so guilty you’d have
thought he was the one on trial. Why didn’t he just wear a
sign? MUTANT IN DISGUISE— PLEASE LYNCH.
“Alan Wydell, a man with no few political ambitions,”
Xavier said quietly, nodding toward the ADA.
Logan studied the man. Medium height, middle-aged,
paunchy—not much good in a fight, but could probably

123
 nit u m n m i m
talk himself out of one. “I guess winning this case wouldn’t
hurt those ambitions none.”
The Professor smiled very slightly, his expression then
changing to a thoughtful frown as he gave his full attention
to the prosecution’s opening remarks.
“ . . . heard a lot about the m utant menace. And maybe
we’ve been told there isn’t such a thing. Well, if there isn’t
a m utant menace, there sure as hellfire are m utant men­
aces, and this— ” Wydell spun round dramatically to point
at the defendant “—this is one of the worst of them. Five
good family men, sons and fathers and brothers, have been
killed. Torn to shreds by the savage claws of a freak of na­
ture that some might say should never have been born. Mur­
dered in cold blood by this—this man, Arthur Streck.”
The emphasis didn’t escape Logan’s attention, and he
felt anger surge within him at Wydell’s blatant manipulation
of the court.
Streck shifted uncomfortably, as if the scores of eyes rest­
ing on him exerted some real physical force. Logan’s scalp
prickled with the fear he could sense emanating from the
defendant. Fear and, even more strongly, anger. The press
had dubbed Streck the Dinosaur Killer. His green-yellow
scales fitted this image, but Logan was put in mind more of
a cat. Streck’s frame was slender and looked agile. Flis face,
beneath the scales, was narrow and intelligent. Beside him,
the tip of a prehensile tail twitched its irritation. A cat, and
not a tame one.
The ADA had paused to stare at Streck, and Streck re­
turned the stare full force, his lips drawn back in a sneer
that was halfway to being a snarl. Wydell shifted away
slightly, his expensive lawyer’s suit rumpling as the muscles

m
 four m u nuiAftis
beneath it unconsciously tensed for action. All around the
courtroom Logan could feel the same reaction repeated.
The million-year-old fight-or-flight instinct of an animal con­
fronted with a threat.
“You may ask why we’re so sure we’ve found the rig h t. . .
m an,” Wydell continued after a moment in his deep, reas­
suring voice. “Motive, opportunity, and method, ladies and
gentlemen. Method—well, Mr. Streck couldn’t dispose of
his m urder weapons. He was born with them on the ends
of his fingers. Opportunity, then. This creature was present
at every single one of the crimes. And motivation. The ac­
cused, I guess you’ve probably noticed, is a m utant.” Wydell
paused for a wave of laughter to sweep the court. “The
victims were members of a group, the Friends of Humanity,
which has been fighting for the rights of ordinary folks
against the so-called m utant menace. Some time ago, there
was an incident involving the victims and Arthur Streck’s
sister. The victims were brought to trial—Streck claimed
they’d assaulted her—but the jury thought otherwise and
the case was dismissed.”
There was a note in Wydell’s voice that suggested this
was a cause of some satisfaction to him. Logan wondered if
he’d prosecuted that case too. And how fair the trial had
been if he had. Shifting to a more comfortable position,
Logan settled down for a long and depressing day. Justice
seemed about the last thing Xavier had brought him here
to witness.
Bobby pushed the remains of his lunch listlessly around his
plate and sighed. It hardly seemed possible, but this was
even worse than h e’d imagined, what with the claustropho-

125
 mt umnm m ini

bic, clinical little room they’d shut the jury up in for their
meal, the terrible quality of the meal itself, and the hushed
antimutant conversations he could hear going on among
his fellow jurors. But then, the prosecution case was so
strong that even he thought Streck was guilty. The guy
looked shifty, too, and this claim that he’d only been in the
areas of the crimes because he’d signed up with a new
agency specializing in mutants and he’d had job interviews
near each crime was so obviously fraudulent that Bobby
couldn’t believe Streck was trying it.
So here he was, sitting in this miserable little room with
a bunch of people he didn’t dare speak to. And there she
was: the gorgeous Rachel Mostel. He was sure there must
be all sorts of laws against having an affair with another
juror, but he just couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her.
Most of the rest of the jury seemed to feel the same way.
Trust him—unlucky at cards and unlucky in love.
He felt himself blushing fiercely as he realized that she
had noticed him noticing her. Worse, she was walking to­
ward him. He looked down at the unlovely remains of his
fried eggplant, and hurriedly shovelled in another mouth­
ful.
It was too late. His plate rattled as she sat down opposite
him. “You’re Bobby, aren’t you?” God, her voice was as
beautiful as the rest of her.
He began to answer, realized he still had a mouthful of
food, flushed again, and swallowed. “Yes, but my friends call
me Mr. Drake.” She looked confused. “Joke,” he said, wav­
ing his fork at her and, to his horror, splashing some egg­
plant juice on her cream-colored blouse.
She didn’t seem to notice. She smiled, and leaned fur-

126
 r o n AnoflY nuTAtirs
ther toward him. He wondered if she could hear his heart
pounding. “It’s such a waste of time, isn’t it?” she said
softly.
Bobby frowned. “I’m not sure what you m ean.”
“This trial. I mean, everyone knows he did it.”
“Do they?” Bobby said uncomfortably. “Do you really
think we should be discussing it?”
“Why not?” said a gruff voice at his shoulder. Bobby
twisted round to identify Joey, the jury’s foreman—a squat
bulldog of a man with a nicotine-stained moustache. “We
all think the same.” There were nods and grunts of assent
from several of the other jury members who had begun to
gather around. Most of them were staring at Rachel with
something approaching awe in their eyes.
Rachel smiled at them. “H e’s a m utie,” she said sweetly.
“As far as I’m concerned, they’re always guilty until proven
innocent.”
“Not much danger of that,” another juror interjected.
The grunts of agreement were more forceful.
Bobby felt about as out of place as a panda at a prayer
meeting. “Don’t you think we should wait till we see the
evidence ...,?” he began tentatively, trailing off as he felt
Rachel’s huge green eyes focus on him. He was still looking
into them when the bailiff summoned the jury back to the
courtroom. Even after he sat down, they remained in his
memory.
The afternoon brought a parade of witnesses willing to
testify that they’d seen Streck at the scenes of each crime.
The forensic evidence, too, seemed pretty conclusive. Xa­
vier projected a cautionary telepathic message— They’ve only
proved the murders could have been committed using Streck’s

12/
 T H E U l T I H A T E X- H EI I

claws, not that they were—but Bobby thought he was grasping

at straws. The pictures they showed the jury of the dismem­
bered carcasses of the victims turned even his stomach, and
he’d seen more death and pain in his lifetime than he cared
to remember. He felt a shudder running through the jury,
as if someone had just walked over all their graves.
Unable to stop himself, he turned his eyes to Rachel.
She was looking at one of the photos with shock and horror.
Bobby felt a wave of understanding sweep over him. So she
didn’t like mutants. So what? Would he like them if he
didn’t happen to be one himself?
The next photo they passed to the jury was of Streck’s
sister. It was taken shortly after her assault, and Bobby
winced at the contusions on her fragile body. But when the
photo was passed on he sensed it evoking an altogether
different kind of horror inside him. He glanced across at
the picture again as the next juror held it. She was pretty
frightening, he supposed: scaled and tailed like her brother.
Was it any wonder people didn’t feel much sympathy for
someone as freakish looking as she? And Bobby had seen—
had fought—plenty of evil mutants in his time.
But what about his fellow X-Men? They were okay,
weren’t they? H e’d had good times with them. They had
helped him over problems in his life. They had saved his
life too many times to count.
Except that Wolverine was dangerous—too close to the
animal within him to trust completely. And nobody really
knew where Gambit came from, with his glowing red eyes.
His demonic glowing red eyes.
Bobby shook his head, telling himself this was an absurd

125
 FOUR AtlfifU m um s
line of reasoning. But when the photo was passed back to
him again, he couldn’t feel anything except disgust.
Logan had chosen to wait in the narrow alley that ran be­
side the courtroom. The sun had sunk so low that its light
didn’t penetrate there, and water dripped down the dank
walls in prem ature twilight. There was no reason not to wait
out front; he just felt more at home here. His natural hab­
itat. Charley was snug back at the mansion, chauffeured
home by Cyke. But Logan had picked up the “ meeting
Bobby and sniffing around” detail. Just his luck.
There was Drake now, walking past the mouth of the
alley. He was looking off to the left, so rapt he didn’t notice
Logan saunter up beside him. It was that woman he was
watching, the good-looking juror. He was virtually drooling
over her. Logan studied her: mile-long legs, healthy from
working out rather than hard work. There was no denying,
she was easy on the eye. Logan realized he was staring at
her too, heart racing faster than his car, as she brushed past
Bobby, flicking him a quick come-hither smile.
For a second, he didn’t want anything in life more than
her. And then it was gone, and she was just another well-
groomed frail. And he had that feeling running through his
blood, that I-was-real-ill-but-now-I’m-well buzz that told him
his healing factor had done some work. Dammit, Drake
went and fell for a femme fatale. Worse, a super-powered
femme fatale.
He realized Bobby was about to walk off down the road
after her. Sighing, he snaked out an arm and grabbed the
scruff of his neck.

129
 int ifiTinm im
“What?” Bobby said irritably, halfheartedly trying to
shake Logan off. His eyes never left the woman.
“ Snap out of it, bub,” Logan grated.
Bobby jerked his head round. His face briefly contorted
into an alien mask of anger, like a pet that had unexpect­
edly turned rabid. Then it was just Bobby again. “Logan!
And there I was just about to call a cab.” As if he couldn’t
help it, he returned his gaze to the retreating woman.
“ She’s something, isn’t she?” he said softly.
Logan grunted. “I hear Hank says beauty’s in the eye of
the beholder. Maybe he oughtta change it to smell.”
“Is that some kind of joke I’m not getting?”
“Depends how funny you think controlling folks’ feel­
ings is.”
“What?” Bobby snapped. “Ground control calling Lo­
gan—what’s the matter with you, buddy?” His lake-blue
eyes looked into Logan’s with genuine concern.
“Let me put it so you can understand. She walks past
here, I feel drawn to her real strong, my healing factor kicks
in, and I don’t feel it no more. What does that sound like
to you?”
Bobby frowned. “You think she’s a mutant? Some kind
of pheromone-control power like Spoor’s?” He laughed
suddenly. “ You wouldn’t say that if you’d heard the things
she was saying about mutants!”
“Yeah?”
“All sorts of stuff in the courtroom. You know, the mu­
tant menace spiel. She was mouthing off to all the other
jurors. It was like some kind of Friends of Humanity meet­
ing in there.” His expression became more thoughtful.
“ She was saying all these things, and they were all agreeing,

130
 FOUR W lfiM N U T M T S

like they couldn’t help themselves . . . ” He looked after the

retreating figure speculatively. A slight blush crept across
his face. “I guess you think we should follow her, huh?”
An hour later, and they’d toured just about every street and
downtown alley there was. The rain had strengthened, and
after they’d slipped away to get into X-Men uniforms, Logan
almost hadn’t been able to pick up the trail again. It was
dark now, too, dismal as only the fall could be. But they had
found her, jittery and looking behind her every step, and
now she seemed to have gotten wherever it was she was
going.
They were in an old part of town: derelict warehouses,
big and ugly, and not much else. She’d slipped into one of
the most run-down buildings. It looked just as deserted as
the rest, but Logan could see light creeping out the edges
of the blacked-out windows, and he could smell people in
there. Lots of them.
“She’s definitely up to something,” Bobby hissed.
“And they say a college education ain’t worth any­
thing,” Logan said dryly. “We gotta get in there. How about
you take guard duty and I sneak around?”
“No way!” Bobby said indignandy. “You might need me
in there.”
Logan looked him over. He seemed more businesslike
and confident in his ice form. And he didn’t look like he
was going to change his mind. Logan sighed. “You keep
control of yourself, boy. If it looks like you’re falling under
that frail’s spell again, I’m taking you out.”
Bobby nodded sharply. Logan pointed out a broken win­
dow, somewhere on the fifth floor, and they headed for it.

131
 the u m n m x-nti
The night was very silent in that area, and Bobby’s ice-laden
footsteps echoed loudly in Logan’s ears.
Logan shook his head. He scaled the decaying building
with the ease of long practice and setded on a crumbling
balcony beneath the window. Bobby looked up at him with
some trepidation, his frozen hair gleaming silver in the ris­
ing moonlight. He looked so young: just a boy. Logan felt
a sudden, choking sense of responsibility for him. Then
Bobby grinned cheekily. He pointed at the wall in front of
him and a knob of ice grew out of it. Pulling himself up it,
he built another and then another. Mutant mountaineer­
ing.
Soon, they crouched together beneath the window. Muf­
fled voices trickled through the shattered pane of glass. One
voice, mainly, a deep confident one, and others joining in
at intervals. It reminded Logan of something. A prayer
meeting, he decided: the preacher leading the congrega­
tion.
Logan gestured Bobby to wait while he peered in
through the window. Making sure he couldn’t smell anyone
nearby, he pushed his head carefully through the broken
glass. An awkward shard gouged a deep cut in his cheek,
but the familiar stinging of his accelerated healing factor
knitting his skin back together, skin on muscle on bone,
didn’t distract him from what he saw. He let his breath out
gently in a silent whistle of recognition.
There was a flag opposite. Flags all around the room,
all showing the same thing: a flattened black cross on a red
background, and three letters. FoH. Friends of Humanity.
What kind of m utant would be meeting with a mutant-
hating rabble like that?

132
 fOllII A H O R Y n U T A f l T S

While he’d been taking this in, Logan had been looking
around—point man scouting the territory, he thought
sourly. He was above a rusty-metal-and-rotting-wood plat­
form. It circled the room, a giant, dark chamber that
seemed to occupy most of the inside of the warehouse. The
only illumination came from torches held by some of the
hundred-odd congregation below. All looking at one man,
the “preacher” on his stage, shouting out a sermon of hate
against mutants. He finished some rousing phrase and they
all cheered, lifting up their torches in an old salute. Logan
remembered an SS meeting he’d broken into in a German
castle, back in World War II. This was like that, only worse,
because these people knew about that war and hadn’t
learned from it.
There was no danger of being seen. No one was paying
any attention to much except the preacher. Turning back
to the window, Logan released one of his six adamantium
claws out of its housing and carefully cut off the shards of
glass until the entrance was clear. Logan went in, then sum­
moned Iceman in after him.
Bobby’s eyes widened as he, too, took in the information
that had intrigued Logan. He soon recovered himself and
crouched down on the walkway beside him. “ Gee, do you
think we wore the right clothes for the party?” he whis­
pered, smiling tensely. His expression became more serious.
“ But where’s Rachel?”
Logan had all but forgotten the frail In the excitement
of his discovery. Now he looked carefully around the room,
his keener-than-human eyes searching her out. And there
she was, in the darkness by the door, surrounded by men
whose faces looked strangely distorted.

133
 H E U L T M M M l Ell

The preacher finished, and the congregation turned

their attention to the woman. As she approached them, not
with any enthusiasm, Logan thought, they, too, put some­
thing over their faces. Gas masks, he realized—more World
War II imagery. They looked both macabre and absurdly
comic, like postapocalyptic carnival masks, but it made sense
if Logan was right about her. And he was always right.
Just then, Logan sensed a flicker of motion beside him.
He felt himself shouldered aside as Bobby lunged forward.
Logan grabbed at him, catching him around the waist be­
fore the young fool could throw himself off the walkway.
“What the hell d ’you think you’re doing?” he hissed.
“ I’ve got to help her!” Bobby returned, none too qui­
etly. Cursing, Logan clapped his hand over Bobby’s mouth
and fought to hold the young m an’s squirming, cold body
with his own. Below them, he saw two men in Friends of
Humanity uniforms peering upward toward them. He held
his breath, and tightened his grip on Bobby until he prob­
ably couldn’t breathe either. For a taut stretch of time, the
men continued looking up, muttering to each other. Then
the darkness defeated them and they turned their attention
back to the woman.
Logan felt Bobby’s body relax beneath him, and he cau­
tiously loosened his grip. “You got ahold of yourself, bub?”
Bobby nodded, and Logan took his hand from his
mouth. “I’m sorry, Wolvie. I lost it for a moment. I felt her
drawing me in. I knew she was calling out for help, but I
couldn’t stop myself.” He shuddered as if he was cold—an
odd sight in one covered in ice. “My God, no wonder
they’re scared of us.”
They both looked down at Rachel, who now stood sur-
 F O U R i n f i l l H U T A f 1T 5

rounded by a circle of Friends of Humanity soldiers. She

didn’t look at ease—Logan could hear the scrape of her
high-heeled shoes as she shifted from foot to foot. And the
men surrounding her were laughing and jeering, like boys
who’d found a frog and were working themselves up to pull­
ing its legs off.
“So, we’re honored by the presence of the delightful
Ms. Mostel.” The speaker had emerged from the darkness
at the back of the stage so quietly that even Logan hadn’t
noticed him. Although he wore nothing to distinguish him
from the other men, Logan knew this was the leader of the
pack.
Rachel’s eyes were fixed on him, as if she sensed the
same thing. “You know why I’m here,” she said with a bra­
vura that couldn’t disguise the tremble in her voice.
“Indeed.” The man looked at her a moment longer, his
features hidden from her, as well as Logan, behind another
gas mask. He seemed to enjoy whatever power it was he
possessed over her, and they stood frozen for a moment in
a tableau of domination. Then he made a sharp gesture at
one of his men. “I guess it is time we paid the wages of
sin,” he said smoothly.
The thug moved to a large box that stood to one side
of the group. He yanked back the black sheet covering it,
revealing a metal cage. Imprisoned within it, grasping its
thick bars, was a tiny, bedraggled girl. She was shivering
convulsively, and with each shudder the cage rang like a
cracked bell. This time, it was Bobby who had to hold Logan
back as all his muscles tensed in outrage.
Rachel rushed up to the cage and awkwardly embraced

135
 t h e u i t i h a t e x-nEn
the child through its bars. Her child, Logan was sure. He
felt a rage so strong, it nearly overpowered him.
After a few seconds, the leader stepped forward and said
coolly, “That’s very touching, but remember—it cost me a
lot to get you appointed to that jury, and I need a convic­
tion. If one is not forthcoming, well . . . ” He tailed off, and
Logan could sense that behind the gas mask, he was smiling.
“You saw the photographs of what happened to Streck’s
sister. The same thing could easily happen to your daugh­
ter.”
Rachel twisted around to face him, still embracing the
little girl. “They’re in the palm of my hand,” she said bit­
terly. “They’ll give any verdict I want.” She lowered her eyes
for a moment, then raised them again with a desperate chal­
lenge. “Why? So you’ll get one more m utant sent to jail.
W ouldn’t you rather find the real person who killed your
friends?”
There were snickers from the men around her. “How
charmingly naive,” the leader murmured. “But you see, I
know who was responsible for their deaths. And since I have
no great desire to serve a prison sentence, I certainly don’t
want to bring him to justice.”
Rachel looked at him with genuine shock. “You killed
five of your own people just to get a m utant convicted of
murder?”
The leader jum ped down from the stage and moved rap­
idly toward her. She flinched away, but not fast enough to
stop him viciously grasping her chin. “I killed them because
they disobeyed my orders. They attacked Arthur Streck’s
sister, and worse, they allowed themselves to be caught for
it. That court case was very damaging to our cause. It would

1)6
 f o u r a h o r y mum
have been even more so, if there’d been any chance of a
conviction.’' There was loud, ugly laughter. Rachel strug­
gled in his grip. Logan could see white indentations in her
face where his fingers were biting into her. “When they
disobeyed me, they wrote their own death sentences. And
when that uppity m utant Streck caused me problems, he
became the perfect m urderer.”
The FoH leader suddenly jerked his arm, flinging Ra­
chel against the cage. “ Now go and get some sleep. The
prosecution case against Streck will be concluding tomor­
row, and the defense will present their version of events.
You’ll need all your energy to stop the other jurors from
being swayed.”
Rachel reached through the bars to her hysterical
daughter, but two thugs ran forward and dragged her from
the room. The leader watched for a few moments, then
turned and vanished back into the shadows at the back of
the podium. The Friends of Humanity members were left
standing around and looking vaguely unsatisfied. Bad stage
management, Logan thought. Should’ve ended with a song.
He felt Bobby tense again under his hand, but he
clamped down and extended his claws until they just nicked
Bobby’s ice sheath. “Not yet, bub.”
“But—but they might be hurting her— ”
“They ain’t gonna harm their secret weapon, now, are
they? She’ll be all right ’til after the trial. So will the kid,
but I wouldn’t give a snowball’s chance in hell of their sur­
viving m ore’n five minutes afterwards.”
Bobby relaxed. “You’re right, of course.” He thought
for a moment. “We need to tell the judge what’s going on.
He can arrange for police protection.’’

13?
 lit DLTIHM MINI

“You’re not thinkin’ straight. You tell the judge what’s

goin’ on and there’ll be questions ’bout you an’ how you
know so all-fired much ’bout what’s goin’ on. At best you’ve
lied durin’ the empanelin’ process. At worst you’ve inter­
fered with the course of justice. We can’t go ridin’ rough­
shod over everythin’—we have to be subde.”
Bobby turned and gave Logan a sarcastic look. “Subdety
being your speciality7, of course. Any suggestions?”
Logan gazed down at the small girl huddled in the cage,
her arms wrapped tight around her knees, her shoulders
shaking. “ Strikes me that the key to the whole thing is that
kid down there. We get her out, then the FoH goons ain’t
got no hold over your lady friend, an’ she can stop mani-
pulatin’ the jury. With a bit of luck, justice’ll get done—
well, as much justice as ever gets done in a courtroom .”
“Then let’s go.” Bobby rose to a crouch.
“ No!” Logan snapped, but it was too late. The kid
must’ve still been affected by Rachel’s pheromone cry for
help. He needed to do something chivalrous and heroic—or
maybe just plain macho—and he wasn’t going to wait and
plan things carefully. With a sweeping gesture of his gloved
hand he crystallized the water vapor in the warehouse. Logan
watched as snow fell on the FoH thugs—not just in flakes,
not even in flurries, but in bucket loads. Their guttering
torches were extinguished within a moment, and they were
left floundering in a two-foot-thick freezing blanket.
“I’ll get the girl,” Bobby yelled. “You cover my back!”
“ Great,” Logan growled as Bobby created an ice ramp
from the platform down to the stage and slid down it, per­
fectly balanced.
Logan leaped down from the platform, his leg muscles

138
 rODR AHORY nUTAHIS
easily absorbing the impact as he hit the ground. Extending
his claws, he gazed round at the assembled Friends of Hu­
manity. “All right, gang,” he snarled, “you wanna put your
money where your mouths are?”
After a moment of astonishment, they came for him.
The first five jum ped him, trying to bear him to the
ground by force of numbers. They obviously didn’t know
with whom they were dealing. Logan crouched into a ball,
then flung himself back to his feet. The five thugs went
flying. Ten or twelve more hesitated, then piled in. Logan
picked the first one off his feet and used him as a flail to
beat the others away with. After a few moments the thug
went limp, so Logan threw him up onto the platform and
chose another one. “ Strike one!” he yelled as he used the
fresh club to knock another thug all the way across the
room. “ Strike two!” and another one went flying up onto
the stage, trailing a ribbon of blood behind him.
Out of the com er of his eye, Logan spotted Bobby. He
had frozen the lock of the cage and snapped it off, and he
was pulling the terrified girl to safety. She was beating at his
chest and generally making a nuisance of herself, and so
Bobby was completely unaware of the thugs running up be­
hind him.
“Iceman! Watch yer back!”
Bobby turned and extended his hand toward the run­
ning men. Icicles burst from his fingertips, slender spears
that crossed the distance between him and them within a
second. They ran onto the sharp points, then danced back­
ward to free themselves amid a fairy-tale tinkle of breaking
ice.
Something went bang! and Logan felt a hot stab of agony

139
 IRE U 1TIHATE X-flEfl
in his shoulder. His nostrils burned with the acrid tang of
cordite. He turned slowly, feeling the tissues knit together
and the red-hot lead slug being pushed to the surface. One
of the nearby thugs was holding a gun. In the time it took
him to register that his victim was still standing, Logan had
crossed the distance between them and slashed at his arm,
claws fully extended. The m an’s hand went spinning away,
still holding the gun, and the man sank to his knees. Logan
could smell two more coming up behind him, so he whirled
around, slicing parallel gashes across their faces. Blood
sprayed into the air, its hot, coppery smell almost over­
powering him. He took a deep breath and deliberately
pulled himself back from the brink of berserker fury. This
was no time to lose control.
“Hey, Frosty—time to make our apologies and leave.”
Bobby weighed up the situation, then took a few paces
toward the center of the room so that Logan was between
him and the door. Somehow he had persuaded the girl that
he was on her side, and she was clinging to his back like a
pigtailed rucksack. Bobby extended both arms straight out,
pointing past Logan and toward the door. A sudden hisss!
made Logan flinch, and when he looked up he was in a
tunnel of ice that ran from Bobby to the door. The Friends
of Humanity were just blurred figures rushing around on
the other side.
“Nice work,” he said as Bobby ran toward him. “ Ever
considered goin' into the construction industry in Canada?
There’s plenty of Inuits I know cl be pleased to come to
some kinda arrangement.”
“Enough with the jokes,” Bobby yelled, passing him.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”

140
 FOUR AD OUT nUTAflTS
“ Oh, yeah,” Logan said drily. “Thanks for rem indin’
me.” Turning, he noticed that a few of the thugs nearest
the cage had discovered the start of the frozen corridor and
were beginning to advance along it toward him. His ada-
mantium claws penetrated the ice on either side of him like
knives through soft cheese. Taking a step back, he pulled.
The ice crumbled in a wave extending back toward the cage,
burying them in jagged blocks. Smiling at a job well done,
he followed Bobby out of the warehouse.
As they ran across the neon-lit road and into an alley on
the other side, Bobby looked back. The Friends of Human­
ity were spilling out of the warehouse like ants from a dis­
turbed nest. He and Logan had barely even scratched the
surface. There were hundreds of them and they had raided
the armory. Most had handguns or rifles, a few were toting
machine pistols, and at least one had a rocket launcher.
“What do they think this is,” he said, aghast, “war?”
Logan glanced up at him. “Yeah,” he said simply. “They
do.”
Bobby concentrated on the air above the road, pulling
energy from the water molecules and condensing them
onto the road surface, then absorbing even more energy,
feeling it burn within him, as the water altered form again
until it was a thin sheet of ice. The Friends of Humanity
ran onto it unaware, and their arms flailed wildly as they
tried to keep their balance. The girl clinging to his back
giggled as they slipped, slid, and collided like something out
of a Keystone Kops film. Some of them accidentally tight­
ened their fingers on their triggers, and the night was shat­
tered by gunfire.
 IRE UlTIIU IE l-m

“Here,” Logan said, scooping the girl off Bobby’s back,

“let me take her. This might turn into a chase, an’ I tire
less easily than you, bub. ’Sides, you don’t wanna give her
frostbite.”
Some of the Friends of Humanity had made it across
the ice and were vanishing into the night.. Others were talk­
ing on portable telephones. For the first time since he’d
thrown himself down into the fray, Bobby stopped to think.
“They’ll be setting up roadblocks,” he said. “This area of
town is almost deserted, and they know we’re on foot. If
they can throw up a cordon fast enough they can search
systematically. They’re bound to find us.”
“So, any bright ideas?” Logan asked. There was a dis­
tracted tone in his voice, and Bobby turned to look. The
girl was riding high on his shoulders, pulling at the wisps
of his sideburns that had escaped around the edges of his
mask. The expression on the bottom half of Logan’s face
was a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
“How did they get here?” Bobby asked, indicating the
thugs who were still lingering in the vicinity of the ware­
house. “They don’t all live here, I guess. They must have
jobs, families, and lives.”
“ So they drove,” Logan said. “ ’Less they hired a bus.”
“Which means they parked somewhere.”
Logan nodded. “Let’s go look, then.” He twisted his
neck so he could look up at the girl. She gazed down at
him with wide, dark eyes: eyes just as beautiful as her moth­
er’s, Bobby reflected. “ Hey, munchkin—you’re gonna have
to keep very quiet if you want to get out of here and see
your momma again, and you do want to get out of here,
don’t you?”

142
 fOUR AtlORY IH IA R T S
She nodded solemnly.
“ Good girl. W hat’s your name, by the way?”
“I’m Sophie.”
Logan grinned. “Good girl, Sophie.”
The cars were parked in a deserted lot around the back
of the warehouse, and guarded by three armed thugs. Some
of the cars had been driven off to search for the escapees,
but there were enough left to cover Logan and Bobby’s ap­
proach. Logan had let Sophie scramble to the ground and
was about to launch himself at the guards when Bobby put
a restraining hand on his shoulder. Logan turned, a ques­
tion in his eyes, but Bobby shook his head and pointed
without even looking and froze the guards where they
stood.
“Ain’t that a little harsh, bub?” Logan said calmly as the
guards toppled like statues to the ground.
“Don’t worry—they’ll thaw just fine.”
Logan fixed him with a sardonic glance. “Hey—you
don’t have to prove anythin’ to m e,” he said. “I ain’t the
one with the pheromones.”
As Logan chose the car with the biggest engine, Bobby
allowed himself a moment of doubt. He thought he had
done what he had done in order to escape, but had he gone
too far? Were Rachel’s pheromones still buzzing around his
system, affecting what he did, biasing his decisions? Anger
flared through him. H e’d been controlled by a woman be­
fore and he had almost gone mad as a result. The thought
of having someone dictating his actions made his skin crawl.
What did it say about him that he was so susceptible?
Logan waved to him from a tow truck that looked as if
it had been made out of big sheets of iron soldered to-

143
 n it o m n m x-ntn
gether. He had picked the lock with one of his claws. “It
might hold us if we get into a firelight,” he said as Bobby
walked over with Sophie, “but I ain’t bankin’ on it. Some
ice arm or’d be a nice idea, don’t’cha think?”
Bobby smiled, and nodded. “No problem.”
Logan and Sophie climbed into the truck and shut the
door. As Logan hot-wired the ignition, Bobby set to work
swathing the bodywork in layer after layer of ice, leaving a
tunnel for Logan to see through. By the time he had fin­
ished, the tow truck looked like a giant snowball on wheels.
Walking up to the frozen surface, Bobby infiltrated his body
into the ice, becoming part of it, surrendering himself to it
and swimming through it until he came to the window on
the passenger side. He pulled himself through like a local­
ized avalanche and reconstituted himself into his ice-laden
human form.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Sophie asked.
He smiled, ice in his heart. “Everything hurts,” he said.
“You learn to live with it.”
Sophie stared at him uncertainly as Logan gunned the
truck to life. Like a ghostly tank, the ice-armored vehicle
rumbled toward the distant barricades.
Next morning, when Bobby Drake walked into the court­
house room where the jury was sequestered away before the
day’s business commenced, his eyes immediately went to
Rachel Mostel. She was sitting alone, her head in her hands.
It looked to Bobby like there was some kind of no-go area
around her: none of the other jury members were sitting
within ten feet of her, and nobody was even looking her
way. Bobby felt his own eyes sliding away, trying to look

m
 FOUR AUQRY nUTAHTS

anywhere else but at her, and he had to force them back

in her direction. It was those damn pheromones again. Con­
sciously or unconsciously, she wras forcing people to ignore
her. Perhaps the strain was getting to her.
He wished he could say something, tell her that her
daughter was safe and the Friends of Humanity had no
power over her anymore, but he didn’t dare. She wouldn’t
believe him, and he would have blown his cover completely.
No matter how much he wanted to comfort her, it wasn’t a
good move.
Within a few moments, the jury were escorted into the
courtroom by the bailiff. Alan Wydell was sitting at the pros­
ecution bench, thumbs hooked behind his lapels and a
smile on his face. He looked the complete picture of con­
fidence. Arthur Streck’s counsel, by contrast, was already
looking harassed.
Streck himself sat beside his counsel with his head
bowed. His scales were dulled and his ears were flat against
his head. He was beaten, and he knew it.
As they sat down in the jury box, Bobby shot a glance
sideways at Rachel Mostel. She was looking at Arthur Streck
and biting her lip. A pang of compassion shot though his
heart, and he knew it wasn’t just her pheromones. She
didn’t want to go through with it.
The bailiff announced the arrival of the judge, and
everyone in the courtroom stood, apart from the wheel­
chair-bound Xavier, as she bustled in and made herself
comfortable. The bailiff indicated that the court could sit
and they did, apart from one person: Sophie Mostel, stand­
ing between Professor Xavier and Logan. She waved at her

145
 Tilt U l T l t U T E i m

m other and grinned before Logan tugged her back to her

seat.
Bobby watched Professor Xavier’s face. His eyes were
fixed on Rachel’s, and when Bobby glanced back to her he
saw that she was staring at Xavier with an expression of
wonderment. A telepathic message telling her that every­
thing was okay and her daughter was in safe hands? It
seemed likely.
And a wave of happiness passed through the court.
Bobby could track its progress as person after person
grinned suddenly, then wondered why. Even Arthur Streck
looked up and smiled.
After that, the trial proceeded normally—for the first
time since it began, really. Alan Wydell, full of fire and brim­
stone, did his best to intimidate a series of defense witnesses,
but Rachel wasn’t cooperating. No longer influenced by her
mutant powers, the jury shifted restlessly as they heard his
words clearly for the first time. Wydell could tell something
was wrong: his glance flickered across their faces disbeliev-
ingly as he realized the adulation and approval he was used
to were missing.
And he kept looking at Rachel. Bobby filed that fact
away for later consideration.
The judge called an hour’s recess and the jury was sent
back to its claustrophobic room. Bobby walked over to
where Rachel was sitting, hoping that he could find out
what Xavier had asked her to do, but she was busy writing
a note. He took a step closer—or at least, he tried to—but
something stopped him, like an invisible barrier hanging in
midair. She didn’t want to be bothered.
Back in the courtroom, the judge cleared her throat. “I

m
 fOUR 411(1111 nUTAITS
realize that you will be expecting the counsel for the de­
fense to make his closing speech, but I’m afraid that I have
a matter of some gravity to discuss.”
Alan Wydell looked surprised. The counsel for the de­
fense just looked relieved.
“The bailiff has handed me a note from one of the ju ­
rors,” the judge continued. “This note alleges that there
has been interference with the due process of the law.
W hether or not this is true is a matter for the police to
determine, and I am forced, therefore, to declare a mis­
trial— ”
The rest of the judge’s words were lost in the tumult of
reporters trying to get to the door and of the rest of the
public talking and shouting. Bobby wasn’t sure who to look
at—Arthur Streck, who looked as if he'd just been sand­
bagged from behind, or Rachel Mostel, who had much the
same expression, or Streck’s defense counsel, who looked
like he was about to faint.
It was an hour before order was restored and the jury
was dismissed. When Bobby finally got outside onto the
courthouse steps, with the granite of the Westchester
County Courthouse building glowing in the sunshine be­
hind him, he felt happier than he had for days. The sky was
blue, the trees w7ere bowing slightly in the breeze, and the
air smelled as if it had just been freshly made.
Logan and Professor Xavier were waiting for him at the
bottom of the steps.
“So, you never got your moment of glory,” Logan said,
grinning. “I was expecting you to be foreman.”
“I’ll live,” Bobby replied. He turned to the Professor.
“What happens now?”

14/
 rut umtiiTt x-ntn
Xavier’s face was as imperturbable as usual. “There will,
of course, be an investigation into the tampering charge.
Mr. Streck will not be retried until after that investiga­
tion, if at all. There has been so much negative publicity
which, combined with the possible results of the investiga­
tion, would make a new indictment extremely difficult. Jus­
tice would, therefore, seem to have prevailed in this case,
and we have dealt another blow to the Friends of Humanity.
All in all, my friends, we have a positive result. Well done.”
“An’ it’s my opinion,” Logan added, “ that the first
thing the Friends of Humanity will do is lynch friend Streck
from the nearest tree. If they can’t get him one way, they’ll
get him another. So—did we do him a favor or not? I don’t
know.”
“And Rachel?” Bobby asked, “What happens to her?”
Xavier looked pained. ‘As I made clear to her in a tele­
pathic message, manipulation of a jury is illegal. She was
coerced into it, and that will form the basis of a good de­
fense, but in the interim she has been arrested. She under­
stood what would happen, but she knew that it was the right
thing to do. It is unfortunate, b u t. .
“And Sophie?” Bobby looked around wildly. “What
about her?”
“ I promised Ms. Mostel that we would look after young
Sophie until she was released on bail,” Xavier replied, “and
that the Xavier Institute would fund her own defense. War­
ren has already driven her back to the mansion.” Xavier
smiled slightly as Logan pursed his lips and looked away. “I
believe she is looking forward to playing with Uncle Wol­
verine.”
Bobby was about to make a crack at Logan’s expense

148
 FOUR M M ) MUm
when a sudden commotion at the top of the steps attracted
his attention. He turned, and his heart leaped within him.
Rachel Mostel was being led away from the courthouse by
two policemen, followed by a gaggle of reporters with flash­
ing cameras and working tape recorders, all asking ques­
tions so loudly that they wouldn’t have heard her even if
she had answered. The policemen were wearing gas masks.
Rachel was handcuffed, and she had been crying. Her eyes
passed over Bobby and there was a flicker of recognition,
but only as a fellow juror. She didn’t know what he had
done for her. She would probably never know, and he felt
empty and hollow at the realization.
Alan Wydell emerged from the courtroom door. He
stood nobly for a moment, the wind artfully disarranging
his hair, until the press noticed him. They ran back up the
steps, gabbling questions all the way.
“ Yes,” he boomed, “I am disappointed at the halting
of the trial, but I am confident that the culprit—this mutant
juror who has tried to influence the good people of the
jury—will be prosecuted with the full force of the law.
And— ” he rode magisterially over the clamoured questions
51—I am also confident that Arthur Streck will find himself
in another court, a fairer court, a court that will deliver a
true and just verdict of guilty! ’’
He strode off to a waiting car. Some cub reporters fol­
lowed; the older, wiser ones knew that they had all they were
going to get, and they left.
“And so it begins,” Xavier murmured. “Already he is
manipulating the facts: making it look like the jury was be­
ing influenced to find Mr. Streck innocent, rather than

149
 M E U l I I H A T E M l Eli

guilty. As Hiram Johnson once said, ‘The first casualty when

war comes is truth.’ ”
“Never mind that,” Logan said. “Bobby, does somethin’
strike you as familiar ’bout his little rabble-rousin’ speech
there?”
Bobby frowned, trying to remember. “Now you come to
mention it, yeah. He sounded a lot like that Friends of Hu­
manity guy.”
Logan nodded. “Yup. An’ besides—how did he know
Rachel was a mutant? I didn’t get a good whiff o’ his scent
in the warehouse, but the posture and tone match the guy
behind the gas mask.”
“I’ll check to see whether the employment agency that
sent Arthur Streck to those fake job interviews can be traced
back to Mr. Wydell,” the Professor said, “but I suspect I will
find nothing. He strikes me as the sort of man who is very
careful about not leaving traces.”
They were all silent for a moment, staring after Rachel
Mostel as the police car drove her away. How fair a trial
would she get, Bobby wondered, if the ADA belonged to
the Friends of Humanity? And was Logan right—would the
FoH also be out to get Arthur Streck one way or another?
It looked as if they had won the battle, but the outcome
of the war was still uncertain.
Together, the three of them moved off toward Bobby’s
car: Logan wheeling the Professor, Bobby walking along­
side. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps Bobby’s subcon­
scious mind playing tricks, or perhaps just a freak effect of
the weather but, as they reached the car, the first few flakes
of snow began to fall from a cloudless blue sky.

130
o n m t air

Glenn Hauman
Illustration by Ron Lim
T
hank you for ordering this transcript of the May 20th episode
of Viewpoints starring Archer Finchley. This is Episode #0418
and features Warren Worthington III as Archer’s guest. To or­
der other transcripts of Viewpoints, send a check or money orde
to the address posted at the end of each episode.
Finckley: Good evening! Welcome to Viewpoints, I’m your
host, Archer Finckley. Tonight, we have a very special guest:
he’s young, he’s handsome, he’s rich, and he’s got a pair
of wings. I’m talking about the high-flying Warren Wor­
thington III, the young head of W orthington Enterprises,
better known to many as the Angel.
Warren was born to Warren W orthington II and his wife
Kathryn, and was the heir to the W orthington Industries
empire. While attending a private school as a teenager, he
began to sprout wings from his back as he entered puberty.
He used these wings to save the lives of many of his class­
mates during a dormitory fire, using a long nightshirt and
a wig to disguise his idendty, giving him an appearance
which earned him the name the Avenging Angel.
At one point, he was a member of the infamous mutant
group, the X-Men, under the simpler codename the Angel,
but later left them to found the Champions, the first team
of heroes to operate on the West Coast. Just prior to his
time with the Champions, he revealed his secret identity,
becoming the most visible m utant in public life. After the
group disbanded, he later joined the Defenders, then re­
organized under the leadership of the former Avenger Dr.
Henry McCoy, also known as the Beast. He was also briefly

133
 I l f ULTIIUTE x-ncn

associated with a team of mutants calling themselves “ the

X-Terminators. ’’
Then tragedy struck when a crippling attack caused
severe damage to his wings, and amputation was deemed
necessary to prevent the spread of gangrene. Depressed,
W orthington was seen taking off in his private plane, which
then exploded in flight. He was believed dead, and with his
death his financial empire began to disintegrate, aided by
the discovery that he was funding the then-mutant-hunting
organization, X-Factor. Then, months after his funeral serv­
ices, he reappeared in the public eye, and we have him here
tonight in his first extended interview since. We’ll be taking
your calls later in the show. But right now, it is my pleasure
to introduce Warren Worthington.
Worthington: Thank you, Archer.
Finckley: Thank you very much for coming on the show
tonight, Warren. You’ve been something of a recluse—
Worthington: Recluse? I wouldn’t go that far.
Finckley: Well, this is the first interview you’ve given in
the last couple of years, ever since your little, ah, accident.
Worthington: Accident isn’t the term I would use. My
disability happened as the result of a deliberate attack.
Finckley: No, I’m not referring to the injur)? to your
wings, I’m referring to the plane explosion shortly
thereafter.
Worthington: Oh, I’m sorry—that.
Finckley: Yes, that. Once and for all, would you care to
set the record straight on what happened?
Worthington: As you said in your introduction, I’d been
injured while fighting an organization dedicated to wiping
out mutants, and had suffered severe damage to my wings.

I
 on TIE AIR
Most doctors were, to put it mildly, stymied—they had no
idea how to treat a body with wings attached. I felt the best
thing I could do was get a long rest. However, I was very,
very concerned that the same people who had injured me
in the first place would take another shot at me, or someone
else would take advantage. And I was incapable of defend­
ing myself, and any conventional form of protection would
have been useless.
So we resorted to misdirection. Sleight of hand. We
spread the story that my wings had been amputated, and I
killed myself because I couldn’t fly again. I was on a plane
and wanted to die in the air. Actually, I hid myself away and
waited for my wings to heal. And I broke off all outside
contact, because that was the only way I felt I wouldn’t be
tracked and killed. Unfortunately, while I was in seclusion
healing physically, one of my trusted associates decided this
was a good time to wreck me financially, and since I was
physically incapable and legally dead, there wasn’t much I
could do. When I was out of immediate physical danger and
my wings were as healed as they were going to get, I came
out of hiding and I started to rebuild my life.
Finckley: Since then, you haven’t been anywhere near
as public a figure as you were. After all, you are one of the
most prom inent “out” mutants.
Worthington: [laughs] Sorry, your choice of phrase—
“out” mutants.
Finckley: There’s something wrong with the phrase?
Worthington: It’s an interesting crossover from the gay
subculture. But unlike being gay, there are lots of mutants
who can’t hide who they are, regardless of whether or not
they might want to.

155
 THE OITIMATE X -H EH

Finckley: Yet you did for a long time. In fact, right now,
I can’t even tell there are wings underneath your suit.
Worthington: And don’t think my tailor comes cheap.
Look, such a nice blend of fabric—and these pleats!
[laughs] My tailor is a miracle worker.
Finckley: Why don’t you show your wings out more?
Worthington: The best answer—well, it’s kind of embar-
assing to look at it this way, but try to imagine walking
around with a hoop skirt strapped to your back, covered
with a cape.
Finckley: I can imagine it must be very clumsy.
Worthington: You bend down and knock over a table.
What a pain in the tailfeathers. Literally.
Finckley: So it’s not embarassment or a publicity thing,
or hiding your m utant ability?
Worthington: Now it’s a bit of vanity—my wings are not
pretty to behold anymore. But for the most part, it’s just
convenience for everybody else around me. I have nothing
to hide, it’s not like my face is unknown—God knows my
face shows up in the paper enough, between the business
section and the society pages, never mind the battles with
Professor Power and the Secret Empire on the front page.
Finckley: How do you conceal your wings?
Worthington: I wear a special harness that keeps them
flat against my back.
Finckley: Is it painful with your injured wings?
Worthington: I’ve learned to adjust.
Finckley: You were very publicly involved with two semi-
prom inent super-teams—the Champions and the Defend­
ers—but both were quite brief. What led you to get involved

156
 on th e air

in those endeavors? The world is, after all, full of super­

teams.
Worthington: Well, the Champions was made up of a
number of people who just had many different irons in the
fire. I got involved with them because—well, to be blunt, I
was there at the same time on the west coast. This was be­
fore the days of a West Coast branch of the Avengers. I like
to think we were a viability test. As for the Defenders . . .
again, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Finckley: Considering how long the Champions lasted,
I’d say they weren’t terribly viable. Then again, the Avengers
shut down their West Coast branch, too.
Worthington: The Champions served their need and
function at the time. I don’t know that it’s a good thing or
bad that they disbanded when they did; I’m sure that a lot
of people benefitted from them being together. For any
super hero group, you don’t measure success by long-term
cohesiveness or financial success, you measure it by the
quality of the work they produced and the lives they
touched. It’s kind of like a musical group. Besides, it was
nice to be in a group with people with bigger PR problems
than me.
Finckley: And who would that be?
Worthington: Ghost Rider, clearly. When you hang out
with someone with a flaming skull for a head, having a
sixteen-foot wingspan sort of fades into the background.
And of course Natasha [the Black Widow] was a Soviet de­
fector, which brought its own special problems.
Finckley: Which leads me to my next question . . .
Worthington: Oh boy.

157
 the nwm i-ntn
Finckley: You took quite a risk by publicly revealing your
status as a mutant. What led to that decision?
Worthington: I was tired of hiding it, really . . . after all
the entire issue of “protecting” my family seemed to be
moot after my parents died.
Finckley: W eren’t you worried about what it would do
to your social status, not to mention your business?
Worthington: You have to consider the time and place.
California is—or rather, was—more forgiving at the time of
people different than themselves. Plus, having the name An­
gel and the appearance to go with it isn’t what you might
necessarily call a minus in certain circles.
Finckley: Still, W orthington Enterprises’ stock did go
down significantly after you spread your wings, so to speak.
Worthington: Ehh—it goes down, it. goes up. I look at
the long term, not the short. We’ve run ourselves into the
ground as a country, as a people, thinking short term.
Finckley: Certainly that can’t be the only reason you
went public.
Worthington: No, it wasn’t. A big reason was to bring
home the fact that anybody could be a mutant, that it cuts
across race and class. Even the bluebloods can have a mu­
tant baby. It’s not a “ only gays, only Haitians, only poor
white trash, only Jews, only blacks” sort of thing.
Finckley: Was that a big problem?
Worthington: Yes, it was and is. I found out that one of
my oldest prep school friends, Cameron Hodge, a man I
trusted with my finances and my life, hated mutants with a
passion. He tried to destroy me and my friends numerous
times—first from the inside of my own company, with em­
bezzlement and spiteful PR while I was believed dead,

m
 OR IRE i l l
although I found out he’d been doing it ever since I
brought him into the company, then later by joining and
leading rabid anti-mutant groups.
Finckley: Why would a man like that—from your com­
ments, a man with the most pedigree of backgrounds—be­
have that way?
Worthington: I don’t want to speculate on him in par­
ticular, but why does anybody do that who should know
better? With some people if it’s not the mutants, it’s the
moneylenders, it’s the Masons, it’s the Mormon Tabernacle
Choir.
I’ve personally always been much more impressed with
Hank McCoy’s decision to go public. Hank has always been
a courageous soul in that respect—there was no reason for
him to reveal himself, he was unrecognizable.
Finckley: Ah, yes, you and Dr. McCoy served with the
Defenders together. Of course, he is heavily involved in the
current foofuraw over the so-called “Legacy Virus.”
Worthington: Yes, he is.
Finckley: Now, as a mutant, you are suddenly at risk of
contracting a deadly disease, in addition to any other prob­
lems being a m utant might cause.
Worthington: Believe me, catching a “mutant-killer” dis­
ease goes straight to the end of my list of problems. Being
audited— that worries me.
Finckley: How do you feel about the fact that the exis­
tence of the virus was kept hidden from the general public
for so long?
Worthington: I don’t think “kept hidden from the gen­
eral public” is an accurate phrase—it implies that there was
a deliberate cover-up. Just as with AIDS, it took a long time

159
 T H E U l T l f l A T E U lEtl

to track down that such a disease was in operation—it took

time to diagnose. The hysteria over making yourself known
to be a mutant—indeed, many of the people who con­
tracted it didn’t know that they were mutants themselves
until they became sick. Come to think of it, the first news
stories about the virus came out after the first infection in
the general population, when Dr. [Moira] MacTaggart
caught it herself.
Finckley: Well, let’s hope that your friend Dr. McCoy
and his colleagues can find a cure. Moving on to more
pleasant subjects, you were recently sighted at a Hellfire
Club reception with a very attractive young woman on your
arm. Might she be part of the reason why you’ve been less
public lately?
Worthington: Yes? Which one? [laughs]
Finckley: I believe we have a photo here—-Jim, can we
get that up on screen? Yes, I believe that’s her there.
Worthington: Oh, her! Betsy! [laughs] Boy, am I going
to get in trouble for saying that.
Finckley: [chuckles] In that case, I assume we can take
it as read that your social life has not suffered?
Worthington: Well, after the ordeal of putting my life
back in order after the damage to my wings, it was more an
issue of getting my head back together. But since then, I
haven’t lacked for a social life, no.
Finckley: Getting your head back together?
Worthington: For a while after the injuries to my wings,
I was really, really morbid. Preoccupied with death—that
and getting my wings back. If I couldn’t fly again, I didn’t
want to live.
Finckley: How are your wings now? There were reports
 OH T HE AIR

at the time that your wings had been amputated, and you
haven’t shown them in public since, yet now you’re claiming
you still have them.
Worthington: Functional, but not much more than that.
I can still fly, on occasion. But I really don’t see myself get­
ting involved in high-speed aerial combat as much as I used
to, if ever.
Finckley: A career-ending injury?
Worthington: It was bound to end, sooner or later, just
as with any athletic career. Well, any athletic career where
people shoot at you on a regular basis.
Finckley: I imagine dealing with super-villains can be try­
ing.
Worthington: Actually, I’ve never been comfortable with
that phrase.
Finckley: Huh?
Worthington: “Super-villain.” Dumb phrase. Simplistic
mentality. Think about it. Nikita Khruschev stood on the
floor of the UN and said he wanted Communism to encircle
the globe. Did anybody ever call him a super-villain? Of
course not. If somebody feels required to break a person’s
entire history and belief system into one word, I don’t want
to discuss politics with them.
By the same token, I’m not real thrilled with the abbre­
viation “m utant.” WTiat I am is a m utant human. The hu­
man part is very important. Just calling me a mutant, or
calling anybody a mutant, obscures the fact that we’re hu­
man at the core. Makes it easier to seperate us, deal with
us as something from the outside.
Finckley: Since you brought up politics earlier, what are
yours like?

161
 i t i t uum iTE x-ntfl
Worthington: Libertarian, basically. The right to swing
your fist ends where my nose begins. I don’t believe the
government should get in the way of my life, whether it’s
the IRS, the FTC, or the FAA. [laughs] In my public ap­
pearances, I always want to talk about the tax code and the
business climate in this country, yet everybody always wants
to hear me talk about, “Mutant rights! Mutant rights!”
Finckley: Okay, what’s your opinion on m utant rights?
Worthington: A tough sell.
Finckley: Why is that?
Worthington: The problem with trying to rally behind
“m utant rights” is that it’s such an encompassing theme,
and it’s difficult to find a common theme to rally behind.
Finckley: I’m not sure I follow you.
Worthington: Well, let’s say that every mutant had wings.
If a hundred thousand people had them, there’d be a com­
mon thread among them. Somebody would start selling
feather groomers, to add fluff and luster. People would join
“Birds of a Feather” societies, and there would be a new
variation on the Mile High Club.
But we don’t all have wings. Some have tails, some have
fur, some have glass skin. Other mutants have no unique
exterior features at all, just an extra ability that marks them
as different. But almost every mutation we’ve seen evidence
of seems to be unique. So there isn’t a common element to
rally behind.
I’m in favor of equal rights and equal treatment under
the law. Special treatment, I don’t know if we need it.
Finckley: Are you implying that you can defend yourself
by taking matters into your own hands?
Worthington: No, not at all. It’s a personal belief. I don’t
 on t h e air

see how beating a person with a tire chain because he’s a

m utant is better or worse than beating a person with a tire
chain because he’s human. Somebody’s still being beaten.
Finckley: Do you believe that mutants are human and
deserve protection under human law?
Worthington: I believe m utant humans are sentient and
deserve protection under sentient law. Human, m utant hu­
man, mutated human, self-aware computers like the Vision,
and resident aliens like Centuiy should all be bound by the
laws of the society they’re in. - ' ' "'
Finckley: Does being a m utant affect the way you con­
duct your business in any way? Do you find yourself shying
away from any business deals, losing clients, things like that?
Worthington: Well, in our financial holdings, we’ve had
to be very careful. In the eighties, we had some significant
holdings in biotechnology stocks, just like every other large
financial player in the market. Our problem was the im­
pression started by some fundamentalist wackos that our
investments in these companies were covers for secret re­
search to turn out more mutants. Patently ridiculous, but
we divested anyway.
Finckley: What else?
Worthington: Other than that—it’s more the life I’ve
led, it’s led me to a wider variety of experiences than most
people. I take advantage of the fact that I’m much more
widely travelled, that I’ve seen so much more than most
people. And of course, being shot at or kidnapped by de­
mons makes the average business negotiation look easy.
Finckley: Do you know of cases where people don’t
do business in your companies because they’re led by a
mutant?

163
 THE ULTIMATE X-HEH

Worthington: A m utant boycott, you mean?

Finckley: In essence, yes.
Worthington: I know of a few, sure, they’ve been
brought to my attention. And I know of people who won’t
do business with Japanese companies, or companies with
South African holdings, or Jewish owned or Arab owned. I
don’t apologize for who I am or the life I lead; all someone
who does a deal with me should care about is will I honor
the deal? The smart ones do.
Finckley: Do you use your money to advance a mutant
agenda?
Worthington: Didn’t I just answer that?
Finckley: Not really.
Worthington: I use it to advance my agenda, and my
clients and my stockholders. I believe that a more peaceful
world is more successful, financially and otherwise, and any­
thing that I can do to promote smoother running of the
world is a plus. If that means donating to peace activities, I
do it. If it means hiring a super-powered individual to do a
job because he underbids everybody else and I can use the
savings elsewhere, I do that too.
Finckley: Are you saying you support the Genoshan so­
lution?
Worthington: Hell, no! I said hire, not enslave. Geno-
shans use slave labor, pure and simple. It’s reprehensible
whether it’s blacks or mutants doing it. I can’t even com­
pare the two.
Finckley: What about X-Factor? Was that part of your
agenda, to publicly hunt down mutants?
Worthington: X-Factor was intended to help deal with
the sudden emergence of mutants, of people who suddenly

m
 on the mu

developed mutant abilities. Take the example of Rusty Col­

lins, a pyrokinetic. His abilities developed spontaneously
and he had very little idea how to control them, and in that
state he was a danger to himself and to anybody else
around. We were able to subdue him without killing him,
and later taught him how to control his abilities, effectively
“neutralizing a m utant threat.”
Finckley: You were later charged with fraud by a number
of X-Factor’s clients, who claimed that you bilked people
out of exorbitnant amounts of money for putting on a dog-
and-pony lightshow.
Worthington: I can’t comment too deeply on that, as
some of those lawsuits are still pending. But I can say that
we have been vindicated in all of the cases that have been
completed, and also that two of the lawsuits were thrown
out because the opposing parties wanted a m utant corpse,
and felt that we didn’t do the job because there wasn’t one.
Finckley: If it wasn’t a secret agenda, why was your in­
volvement and financial backing kept quiet?
Worthington: The main reason was that it was felt that
if a mutant was shown to be doing this, it would be per­
ceived as a consolidation, mutants banding together to get
normal people. We wanted to avoid that.
Finckley: But isn’t that what you did?
Worthington: We tried to defuse the tension between
mutants and humans.
Finckley: By running inflammatory ads trumpeting the
m utant menace?
Worthington: That was the work of the aforementioned
embezzeller, backstabber, and all-around traitor to the hu­
man race—please, don’t get,me started on Cameron again.

165
 m uumATE i-m
Suffice it to say it got out of hand. Look, it had a solid
reputation as doing good for human-mutant relations, or
else the U.S. Government would never have acquired the
rights to the X-Factor name for their own usage.
Finckley: The X-Factor debacle pretty much bankrupted
you.
Worthington: Most of my personal holdings, yes. Be­
tween the costs of running X-Factor, the embezzlement, and
my inability to be direcdy involved with the running of my
holdings, combined with the death of my financial man­
ager, my personal financial picture was a mess for a while.
It didn’t directly affect W orthington stock, except as a result
of associations in people’s minds with my problems.
Finckley: You’ve gotten a measure of that back, though,
haven’t you?
Worthington: I’ve rebuilt really rather nicely, although
I’m not in the personal weight class I used to be. Lots of it
is tied up in existing businesses, the occasional ongoing
trust, things like that. The way I look at it is I now have to
ask permission before I try to take over a company.
Finckley: Do you miss that level of wealth? Do you ever
wish you had all that back?
Worthington: Hmmm . . . I like the quote, “Don’t worry
if you’re rich or not, as long as you can live comfortably and
have everything you want.” And I guess it’s hard to feel pity
for someone who’s lost so much, but he’s still got a few
million in assets.
Finckley: Have you learned anything from going from
riches to rags to riches?
Worthington: I’d like to think I’ve stopped behaving like
the money’s never going to run out—it’s happened once,

166
 on the mi

and I’m litde more aware of that. I always knew that appli­
cation of money was a powerful ability, I guess I’ve just
learned not to be so profligate with it. A little more judi­
cious.
I also learned that living comfortably and having every­
thing I want is not a function of having a million dollars
any more than it is having a hundred dollars or a hundred
million dollars. There are some things money can’t buy, and
the best way for me to find that out was to see what I could
still get when I was broke, and what I really wanted. I wanted
my wings so badly that I lost millions of dollars over them.
Finckley: So what are you doing with your money now­
adays?
Worthington: The most important things I’ve done in­
clude starting up a venture capital firm, W orthington En­
terprises—one devoted to causes I personally believe will
improve the world, mainly focused in high-tech. What most
people know as W orthington Industries is now on its own;
although I still maintain a seat on the board, I’m no longer
chairman and I’m no longer principal stockholder. The VC
firm is a size I can control no matter what happens, and I
want to keep it that way. I’m also keeping it closely held.
The W orthington Foundation is still going strong, funding
a number of worthy activities and super hero groups, as well
as education activities, m utant anti-defamation, that sort of
thing.
Finckley: How do you respond to charges that you’re a
dilletante super hero, only in it for the kicks?
Worthington: Sure, that’s me. I stand in front of ray guns
because I’m bored and looking for excitement, [laughs]
I used to be much more frivolous about my behavior in

\bl
 T ilt U l T I M A T E M I E N

general, but hey, I was young—don’t forget, I was dodging

bullets when most kids my age were dodging classes in high
school. In my old age—
Finckley: Old age? You’ve only been doing this for a few
years.
Worthington: Sometimes it seems like I’ve been at this
for well over thirty years. Anyway, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve
taken my responsibilities much more seriously—and I now
realize I can make as much of an impact working within the
existing structure.
Finckley: It sounds as if you’ve caved in and taken the
easy way out.
Worthington: Not at all. I can do as much good by ap­
plying financial savvy and good will to the world’s problems
as I can by punching out a super-villain—often much more.
Finckley: Let’s change the subject.
Worthington: Please.
Finckley: You mentioned the FAA earlier. Do you have
a pilot’s license?
Worthington: Why? I don’t fly a plane. Well, not really
well. They tend to explode, [laughs]
Finckley: Don’t they give you grief about your flying
around?
Worthington: Do they ever. I have an ongoing lawsuit
pending stating that I should be allowed to fly wherever I
wTant, and I’ll win it, because the laws cover vehicular flight
only, not unaided personal flight. Unfortunately, the inju­
ries have limited that somewhat, and the plane explosion
really ticked them off.
Finckley: They didn’t take kindly to that, eh?
Worthington: Oh, no, not at all. So the battle continues.
 on t h e a i r
Finckley: At least you don’t have to worry about being
pulled over while you’re flying.
Worthington: True. This may be the penultimate case
of, “The law’s on the books, but they lack the means to
enforce it.”
Finckley: Let’s take some calls. We have Audrey on the
line from Long Island, New York.
Audrey: Didn’t I hear a few years ago about a paternity
suit against you?
Finckley: The boy born with wings, right?
Audrey: Yes, him. Was he your son?
Worthington: Absolutely not. A DNA test proved that.
The argument that because he was born with wings he was
my son didn’t hold up. I mean, my father didn’t have wings,
does that mean the stork had an even bigger hand in deliv­
ering me?
Finckley: Thank you, Audrey. Crystal from Alabama,
you’re on the air.
Crystal: Mr. W orthington, I just really want to know what
is it like to fly?
Worthington: You know, everybody asks that question,
and I’ve never really been able to put it into words. I’ve
talked it over with lots of other fliers—pilots and super­
heroes—and I’ve never found anybody who quite gets it.
Finckley: Surely there’s a common language of flight
between you and, say, Iron Man?
Worthington: Not really. Iron Man isn’t flying under his
own power, he’s got little boot jets that push him around.
I’m the only person I know who flies under his own muscle
power, pushing against gravity by flapping my own wings.
Finckley: Is it anything like deep-sea diving?

m
 T H E U l T M A T E X HEfl

Worthington: Darned if I know, I can’t do it.

Finckley: You can’t swim?
Worthington: Not well, no. Even as a child, I could never
go underwater—I found out later that my body was adapt­
ing itself to flight, and I’ve got things like hollow bones, just
like a bird has. I just floated. And once my wings grew out,
it became next to impossible to navigate on water.
Let me ask you, Crystal, what is it like to swim under­
water?
Crystal: Gee, I don’t know, I never thought about put­
ting it in words before.
Worthington: You see my problem.
Finckley: What about hang gliding?
Worthington: Never tried it, couldn’t see the point, re­
ally—I’ll strap my own wings flat against my back so they
don’t get in the way and I’ll glide on canvas instead. No
thanks, sounds dangerous, [snaps fingers] You know what
it’s a little like? Roller coasters!
Finckley: You’re kidding.
Worthington: No, really! A slow steady buildup to a high
altitude, then off you go, up, down side to side, hard bank,
maybe a loop, wind rushing through your hair—it’s not that
far off.
Finckley: Thanks for your call, Crystal.
Worthington: Good night, Crystal.
Finckley: I’m curious. As a super hero yourself, who are
your heroes?
Worthington: Oooh, tough question. Captain America,
certainly. He was willing to take a chance on two mutants
who wanted to do good when nobody else would, Quicksil­
ver and the Scarlet Witch, and they went on to save the

I/O
world time and again. Hercules once told me that on Olym­
pus the gods measured wisdom against Athena, speed
against Hermes, and power against Zeus—but they mea­
sured courage against Captain America.
Finckley: Goodness.
Worthington: Great quote, isn’t it? I marked the way
h e’d said that, it’s always stuck in my mind.
Finckley: Who else?
Worthington: Charles Xavier, for constantly espousing a
view of a world where mutants and nonmutants can live
together with a minimum of conflict, despite great personal
inconvenience, cost, and threats.
Finckley: Let’s go back to the phones. Hallie from Cal­
ifornia, you’re on.
Hallie: Yes, just a silly question . . . you’re so beautiful.
Worthington: Why, thank you, I’m flattered.
Hallie: Your eyes are so piercing . . . do you wear tinted
contacts?
Worthington: Nope, this is my natural eye color. Baby
blue all over.
Finckley: Thanks for your call, Hallie.
Worthington: [laughs]
Finckley: What, did I miss something?
Worthington: Never mind—private joke.
Finckley: Care to explain it?
Worthington: Not on this show!
Finckley: Fine, be that way! Next caller, Rudy from
Oregon, hello.
Rudy: Archer, I want to ask you a question.
Finckley: Go ahead.
Rudy: Are you familiar with the book of Jude?
 Tilt U l f l l U T E X - n t H

Finckley: Nope, can’t say that I am.

Worthington: I don’t have it memorized cold.
Rudy: “And the angels which kept not their first estate,
but left their own habitiation, he hath reserved in everlast­
ing chains under darkness unto the judgm ent of the great
day.
“Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about
them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication,
and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example,
suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.
“Likewise also these filthy dreamers defile the flesh, de­
spise dominion, and speak evil of dignities.”
Worthington: I believe that’s followed by “Yet Michael
the Archangel, when contending with the devil he disputed
about the body of Moses, durst not bring against him a rail­
ing accusation, but said ‘The Lord rebuke thee’.”
Rudy: What about Isaiah? “But your iniquities have sep­
arated between you and your God, and your sins have hid
his face from you, that he will not hear.”
Finckley: Do you have a question, Rudy?
Rudy: Yes, why do you have this inhum an blasphemer
on your show, this fr—
[LINE DISCONNECTED]
Finckley: I’m terribly sorry about this, Warren.
Worthington: It’s all right, I knew it might happen.
Finckley: Still, it an unconscionable thing to have to en­
dure,
Worthington: “ Out of the mouths of babes and suck­
lings.” Psalms, chapter 8, verse 2. Remember earlier in the
show when I said there wasn’t anything universal to mu-

1/2
 OH IDE AIR
tants? Actually, I take that back. Mutants do have a common
element—bozos like that.
Finckley: In light of the last caller, and with the nom-de-
guerre Angel, I have to ask: are you religious? Do you follow
a particular faith?
Worthington: [pause] I’ve known women who believed
they were goddesses, beings who have been called gods for
centuries, and creatures who might as well be demons be­
cause I can’t think of anything else to explain them. But as
for actually knowing God— [pause] the best answer I have
is that I believe that the closer you get to understanding
God, the farther away He slips from you. My belief is that
the mind of God is perpetually unknowable, and forever
changing. Change is God, probably.
Finckley: But do you follow a particular faith or religion?
Worthington: My religious beliefs have been hard
thought out and are constantly under revision. I suspect
that every holy person has gotten a chunk of it and passed
on what he could; I think every religious belief has a hunk
of truth, an d /o r every religion is true for the one who be­
lieves in it.
But I’ll tell you this much—I used to be a hell of a lot
more tolerant of organized religion before I heard of Wil­
liam Stryker.
Finckley: Obviously. Reverend Stryker tried to wipe out
every m utant in the world.
Worthington: When a man takes out a loaded gun in the
middle of Madison Square Garden on public television and
gets ready to shoot it at friends of mine, I get disgusted.
And more, I get scared.
Finckley: Scared?

173
 T H E U L T I t i m X- HEI I

Worthington: Are you kidding? The people who scare

me the most, at least on the domestic political front, are
the people who think nothing about doing exactly that,
shooting us down to win an argument, and their various
banner-carriers, including Stryker and his ilk. They scare me
because they want to make Christianity the national reli­
gion, and my experience with monotheocracies is that they
are intolerant, hypocritical, and often violent. The founding
fathers, I think it was specifically Jefferson, said that the
reason the first thing in the Bill of Rights was that Congress
shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion
was “in order to avoid the very tensions that have kept Eu­
rope awash in blood for centuries.” Awash in blood.
Finckley: Powerful phrase.
Worthington: I know that Stryker doesn’t represent a
majority of Americans, or a majority of Republicans, or a
majority of Christians, or a majority of anybody. Still, I wish
more people who are marginally on his side would take him
to task for being a bigot.
Finckley: What about the argument that superhuman
powers are on loan from God, and only God is die source
of all power?
Worthington: Okay, let’s take that point of view for a
second, in fact, let’s take it a step further. I, Warren Wor­
thington III, am blessed by the Lord God Almighty, and
further have been given the appearance of a cherubim to
help spread the Lord’s word as foretold in Exodus 23:20,
“ I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way.”
Luke 2:10, “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for,
behold, I bring to you great tidings of joy, which shall be
to all people.” And I preach tolerance from Malachi 2:10,

IN
 Oil TIE III
“Have we not all one father? Hath not one God created
us?”
Man, it sure doesn’t seem to be working, does it?
Finckley: Guess not.
Worthington: Granted, I’m not pushing the metaphor
hard—you wouldn’t believe how many quotes there are re­
garding angels in Revelations. I wish we hadn’t lost the
connection with the last caller, I would have loved to match
him on scripture. I think the next verse in Jude is, “But
these speak evil of those things which they know not: but
what they know naturally, as brute beasts, in those things
they corrupt themselves.”
Finckley: One more call for the night—Ethan from Min­
neapolis, hello.
Ethan: Hey, Warren, dude!
Worthington: Hello, Ethan.
Ethan: I gotta know, dude—do you molt?
Worthington: Oh, man! [laughs] You know, when some­
body asked the President on live TV whether he wore box­
ers or briefs, I wondered what was going to be my boxers
or briefs question tonight.
Finckley: I think we have the winner.
Worthington: No, I use Prell to keep my feathers soft
and managable. Do I molt—sheesh.
Finckley: On that note, I guess we should start to wrap
up.
Worthington: Yeah, I’d like to go out on a somewhat
higher note.
Finckley: What haven’t we touched on? What do you
think is the most pressing issue facing mutants today?
Worthington: To my mind, the most pressing issue fac-

m
 tie iim nm x-ntn
ing anybody, m utant or otherwise, is that the world has got­
ten to the point where everything matters, and yet we as a
people totter somewhere between apathy and anarchy. We
have now reached a point in our evolution as a society
where anybody, any ope individual, can wreak havoc on doz­
ens, hundreds, even millions of people. If somebody feels
that they’ve been wronged, because they were beaten as a
child or their people are being persecuted or their nation
lost the last war or they hear voices from aliens, they will
lash out—and it doesn’t matter whether it’s homo superior
using power blasts or homo sapiens using a sniper rifle. And
they’re all motivated by fear, fear, fear—fear that a town is
going to stone a mutant to death, fear that one m utant is
going to destroy a town. But it doesn’t even have to be a
mutant—a computer hacker with a grudge can destroy the
world by cracking the Pentagon and setting off nukes.
This is the most urgent message I can make to everybody
listening tonight, male or female, white, brown, black, or
blue. Every decade is a scientific and social milestone, which
means that every year counts as well, and every month, every
week, every day. You, yes you, are needed, right now, to
make a difference. Large quantities of plutonium, the most
explosive element known to humanity, the critical ingredi­
ent in nuclear bombs, are unaccounted for, and not a gov­
ernm ent on earth can tell you where all of it is. A cheerful
organization calling itself Mere Humans Plotting To Over­
throw The World Next Tuesday After Lunch is distributing
plans describing how to build your very own thirty-megaton
bomb. Terrorism proliferates, from people of all races,
color, and nationalities, whatever, against anyone and every­
one. And so many people are so filled with pain and fear,

1/6
 OH T H E AIR

that some can’t help but bubble over and cause tragedies.
Nobody is safe anymore, rem em ber Patty Hearst getting kid­
napped or Tony Stark being shot. Society can no longer
afford to let people be abused, persecuted, or ignored, or
even feel that they are; the stakes, the consequences are way
too high. We all need every available hand we can get—you,
if you’re not busy and give a damn about your world—and
we need you immediately. Every act of our lives is either a
step toward the achievevment. of all our hopes and dreams
or a step back toward the stupidity and self-pity that can
destroy us. Any single act of love and hope may be the grain
that tips the scale toward survival, and any single act of cru­
elty or injustice may be the scale that tips the balance the
other way. We need to start working together to prevent
those tragedies and make the world a better place, a hap­
pier place, one where no one feels jealous or slighted be­
cause somebody else is rich and I’m not, someone else has
a home and I don’t, someone hurt my friend so I’ll kill him.
„ Utopia or oblivion is the only choice we have left. We have
to take responsibility' for our own actions, instead of blam­
ing it on the other guy.
We were talking about religion before and how muta­
tions fit into all of it. Kurt Vonnegut said, “A great swindle
of our time is the assumption that science has made religion
obsolete.” I really believe that. There is nothing in science
that contradicts the works of mercy recommended by St.
Thomas Aquinas—teaching the ignorant, consoling the sad,
bearing with the oppresive and troublesome, feeding the
hungry, sheltering the homeless, visiting prisoners and the
sick, and praying for us all. We all need you—on the side
of the angels.

177
 I RE U L T I H A T E i m

Finckley: On the side of the angels?

Worthington: Precisely. On the side of the angels.
Finckley: I can’t think of a better note to go out on.
Thank you for coming on the show tonight, Warren.
Worthington: Thank you for having me here, I really
enjoyed myself.
Finckley: Join us here tomorrow night, when our guest
on the show will be New York District Attorney Blake Tower.
Does the high-profile DA plan on throwing his hat in the
ring for Mayor of New York? Tune in tomorrow and find
out. See you then. Thank you for watching, good night.

178
 SOnnER BREEZE

jenn Saint-Jolin & Tammy Lynne Dunn

Illustration by James W. Fry
 1 1 r- Jerome Watkins took a deep breath in a vain attempt
I I to calm his racing heart. The pipette in his hand held
l r the latest strain of the bacteria he’d spent his entire
professional life developing, ready for its greatest and final
test.
Maybe I really have it this time, he thought. All those years
of research and study, all those compromises I made, and it comes
down to this moment.
He carefully transferred the contents of the pipette into
a petri dish containing a small plastic block, and took a
deliberate step backward to observe the effects. Arms
crossed, he nervously sucked his lower lip into his mouth
and began chewing on it absentmindedly, waiting.
He didn’t wait long. In less than a minute, the square
began to dissolve. Tiny streams of fluorescent green plastic
goop became miniature rivers, and within two minutes, the
block was gone. Were it not for the half ounce or so of
green liquid the consistency of milk, one would never have
know'n the block had been there.
Suppressing his desire to cheer and dance, Dr. Watkins
allowed himself only a brief smile of joy and relief before
turning to the computer to enter the test data and begin
the modeling for the next stage of the experiment.
“I knew it could work,” he told himself. “And no matter
what else may happen, these bacteria will solve so many
landfill problems. The ecological benefits are well worth-
risking the other outcome. And the other won’t happen.
No sane person would let it happen. They won’t. They
couldn’t.”
Without warning, the laboratory door burst open and
 T HE U L T I H A T E M l ED

two strangers stormed into the room. Startled, Watkins

jum ped out of his chair and moved protectively toward the
experimental area.
“Who are you? What do you want here?” he cried.
Baring his teeth in a feral grin, the one who resembled
an olive-furred baboon replied, “Not much. Just your life’s
work, flatscan.”
The creature had to be a mutant, since he used the
derogatory term many mutants used for “norm al” humans.
He moved slowly and steadily towards Watkins, the dank
scent of rotting mushrooms intensifying the nearer he
came. Watkins moaned softly as the world around him be­
gan to swim. Erratic, brightly colored circles of light rotated
around his head, making him dizzy. He felt a wave of nausea
crash over him, and he clutched the edge of the lab
counter, desperately fighting to stay upright.
He lost the battle and sank to his knees, retching help­
lessly. The nausea completely enveloped him, making him
unable to think or speak. He vaguely saw the other mutant,
the one who looked like a bedwarfed giant with mechanical
arms, working the computer and transferring disk after disk
of files. He fought for speech, forcing out each word be­
tween waves of nausea.
“You . . . can’t . . . do . . . this. Mustn’t. The . . . danger.”
His voice trailed off again as he emptied the contents of his
stomach onto the floor.
“Too late, flatscan,” the m utant at the computer
sneered as he gathered up the disks he’d copied.
The last thing Watkins saw before he finally succumbed
to blessed unconsciousness was a small cyclone of papers
from his desk formed as the cool summer breeze blew in

102
 sonnfR mm
from the lab door left open in the haste of the mutants’
exit.
Dr. Hank McCoy m uttered to himself in frustration as he
looked at the latest column of figures from his test data.
The member of the X-Men team known as the Beast would
seem so close to finding a cure for the Legacy Virus, only
to see his hopes turn to despair. Stryfe, the villain who had
originally engineered the virus, had anticipated all the ma­
jor routes a scientist would take in trying to construct a cure.
He sighed heavily.
“Discouraged, Hank?” Storm asked as she quietly en­
tered the room.
“Indeed, I’m afraid that I am, Ororo. It’s times like this
that I know exactly what Keats meant when he said, ‘There
is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.’ ”
“I have another problem for you, my friend. Turn on
the TV, Channel 7. There’s something you need to see.”
When the image settled, Beast saw a m utant of obvious
Slavic origin, large boned, but squat. The arms with which
he was gesticulating emphatically were mechanical, and he
had the wild-eyed fanatical expression Hank had come to
associate with the Acolytes, the fanatic followers of Magneto,
who shared drat villain’s desire for m utant conquest of the
world.
“That’s Katu, isn’t it?” he asked.
Storm nodded. “Turn it up. You need to hear what he’s
saying to understand our newest problem .”
Once the volume was up, they could hear Katu in mid­
sentence. “ . . . you flatscans have no choice but to give in
to our demands if you wish your society to remain intact.

103
 T I E U l T i n A T E X-ElEfl

We have obtained and duplicated one of your biological

weapons, a bacterium that consumes plastic. We’ve placed
the bacterium, in sufficient quantity to destroy your so-
called civilization, in a bomb located for ideal worldwide
dispersal. The bomb will be detonated within three days if
our demands are not met.
“First, all mutants currendy held against their will are
to be released immediately to the Acolytes. We will no
longer permit you to torture and experiment with our
brothers and sisters.
“ Secondly, all human occupants of the northwestern
states of Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana in the
United States of America are to be evacuated and relocated.
The states will be turned over to the Acolytes for the for­
mation of a m utant nation.”
Katu looked up from his notes and faced the cameras
direcdy. “We know you will not submit to these demands.
We also know you will underestimate the amount of destruc­
tion these bacteria can cause. Your financial structures will
crumble as your computer disks and tapes are destroyed.
Your vehicles and construction equipment will be inopera­
ble. Your factories will require complete overhauls before
they will be able to produce again. Millions will fall ill or
die because crucial medical supplies are stored in plastic
containers. Once the bacteria have contaminated your wa­
ter supplies, those humans with plastic in their bodies—
such as pacemakers—will flood and overwhelm your hos­
pitals. How many millions will be killed or injured in the
inevitable riots and panic, do you think? There is no aspect
of your lives that will remain as it was.”
Katu smiled. That the smile was genuine neither Beast

184
 m m BREEZE

nor Storm doubted for a moment. It was an unscripted,

sincere expression of enjoyment, and it sent chills down the
spines of both X-Men.
“We will laugh and celebrate as your society falls. Then
we shall build our society—a mutant society—out of your
ashes. It’s been well over a century since Darwin first de­
scribed to you the process of evolution, and you still have
failed to grasp even its simplest principles. Now you’ll see it
in action.”
Bishop strode into the room as Katu’s final words cast a
deeper pall over the two X-Men. “It’s being continually
broadcast via satellite all over the world. I see no reason to
believe he’s lying to us, although we’ve found no record of
such a bacterium.”
Beast breathed out a deep sigh and spoke slowly. “ Oh,
my stars and garters. H e’s not lying.”
Startled, Bishop stared at Beast. “What? How do you
know?”
Beast made his way over to the conference table, sat
down, and gestured to the others to join him. “About two
years ago, a Dr. Jerome Watkins consulted with me on the
production of just this type of bacteria. I wasn’t able to com­
mit to working with him full-time on the project, but I have
helped him with a few problems he’s encountered here and
there. The bacterium was being created to reduce plastic
waste materials.”
“Is it possible that Watkins was secredy working for the
Acolytes on this project?” Storm queried.
“I don’t think so, Ororo. First, Watkins has been work­
ing for the U.S. government for the past decade doing en­
vironmental research. I checked his credentials most

185
 mt uifm m m i tii

thoroughly before I agreed to do any consulting work for

him. H e’s a good man. Secondly, I don’t think the Acolytes
would ever consider working with a hum an,” Beast turned
to Bishop, who nodded.
“Such an alliance would be most uncharacteristic of the
Acolytes/' Bishop agreed. “It’s much more likely that they
got wind of the project somehow and decided to turn it to
their own ends.”
“No matter how the situation has developed, though,”
Beast stated, “we must find a way to stop it.”
Storm looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then the
question is how the Acolytes obtained the bacterium, assum­
ing it is the same one, and if it is the same, where is Dr.
Watkins now, and does he know how to stop it?”
Beast walked over to the communications console and
had it dial Watkins’s home and lab. There was no response
at either location. “Jerom e worked out of a lab in Dallas.
I’ll fly down diere and see if I can locate him. Maybe he
has some answers for us.”
Storm nodded and glanced over at Bishop. “ Good. In
the meantime, Bishop and I can try to trace the Acolytes to
their newest base of operations. If our deadline is only three
days away, we don’t have much time.”
In just a few hours, Beast stood outside the open door to
Watkins’s laboratory. Alert, not knowing what to expect, he
cautiously made his way toward the observation window of
the main room, where he saw what appeared to be the
wreckage of an experiment. He was mentally taking notes
on the extent of the destruction when a faint, low moan
sent him toward the storage cabinets.

186
 stinncn mm
“ Dr. Watkins? Jerome? Is that you?”
Hearing another moan, McCoy used his superhuman
strength to pull the storage cabinet out of the way. There,
in a space he would have thought too small to hide anyone,
sat Watkins. Curled up in a fetal position, he shook with
convulsions, occasionally giving voice to the pitiful moans
that had led Beast to him. He turned his face toward Beast,
who had extended a hand to him, and instantly recoiled.
“No! No! Just leave me alone!” he begged. “You already
got what you came for.”
“Jerome, it’s me,” McCoy said kindly. “ Hank McCoy.
You know me. I’m here to help you.”
“ H-H-Hank?” Watkins asked, and blinked several times,
as if trying to clear his vision. This time when Beast ex­
tended his hand, it was accepted. Watkins tried to stay up­
right, but leaned heavily on Beast as he launched into an
explanation of what had happened.
“I was entering the final data on the bacterium when
two mutants burst into the room. They took everything . . .
the research data, the samples . . . everything.” He looked
at Beast, his eyes clouded and anguished. “I tried to stop
them, Hank. But one of them . . . he . . . he . . .” Watkins
broke off his sentence and began sobbing softly. “ I thought
vou were another one of them .”
Beast laid a comforting hand on Watkins’s shoulder and
pressed it gently. “I know this is hard for you, Jerome, but
you have to tell me everything. What did he do?”
“ He used some kind of hallucinogenic power on me.
I’ve never felt such a thing in my life. Pain, nausea, dizzi­
ness . . . I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything as they

15/
 T ilt uitiiute x-ntit

stole my life’s work!” Watkins began sobbing again. “They

took everything.”
Beast gripped Watkins’s arm and helped him into a
chair. “Jerome, let me dress your wound, and then you
must come back with me to the Xavier Institute. Right
away.”
When Watkins started to protest, Beast held up a hand
to silence him. “Hear me out before you decline, if you
please. The men who stole your research are members of a
group called the Acolytes. They have taken the materials
and research stolen from you and have somehow modified
it into a bomb.” He saw Watkins blanche but did not stop.
“The Acolytes have taken the bomb and have placed it in
an unknown location where it will disperse the bacterium
around the entire globe. They have threatened to detonate
the device should their demands not be met within seventy-
two hours.” Briefly, he recounted the Acolyte demands.
“ Oh, Lord,” Watkins groaned. “No government would
ever agree to those conditions.” His voice became resigned.
“And that mutant, Katu, could well be right. The destruc­
tive power of this organism . . . human society will be hard­
est hit by the damage. Mutants will be able to use their
abilities to work around the more obvious difficulties.”
“ And no doubt they’ve been planning this for some
time,” Beast added drily, “ and so are prepared for the dev­
astation they intend to wreak upon humanity. The only
chance we have is to develop a counteragent and find the
device before it is detonated. My teammates are working on
that end even as we speak.”
“They took all my notes on the bacterium, but I should
 mm BREEZE

be able to reconstruct it from memory; I’ve been working

with the same agent for months now.”
Beast helped Watkins to stand. “We’ll use the Institute
lab. My friends will be waiting for us. Besides, you won’t get
better health care in any hospital, and I’m afraid you really
need it.”
Thousands of miles away, Storm and Bishop had tracked
down the last known location of Katu and the Earth-
stationed Acolytes, deep in the Great Sandy Desert of Aus­
tralia. Although the buildings appeared deserted, Bishop
took no chances as he entered the main building. Plasma
rifle at the ready, he entered quietly, Storm close behind
him. The room was empty except for some furniture and a
few pieces of scrap paper, left behind when the Acolytes
closed down shop. Storm picked up a loosely wadded piece
of paper from one corner and spread it open on one of the
desks.
“Bishop, look at this. An aviation weather report. If I’m
reading this correctly, the Acolytes were getting weather
conditions and information on the area surrounding the
Bahamas.” She pointed to a faint penciled circle on the
sheet. “It appears that they were especially interested in
the conditions around Cat Island.”
“Good. That’s somewhere for us to start. And look at
this.” He held out a sheet of paper he’d recovered from
one of the other desks. “Evidence that the Acolytes have
the bacterium Hank told us about. It’s a printout of some
test results. Look at the header: Project XFS1147, Chief Re­
searcher, Dr. Jerom e Watkins.”
 THE U l T in A T E X-NEH

“We’ve found what we came for,” Storm said. “ Let’s go

back and see if Hank was able to locate WTatkins.”
When Bishop and Storm arrived back at the Institute,
they found Beast and WTatkins hard at work in the labora­
tory.
“Who is this person?” Bishop demanded as he eyed
Watkins with obvious mistrust.
“Storm, Bishop, may I present to you Dr. Jerom e Wat­
kins, the researcher I told you about earlier,” Beast replied.
Bishop’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “The doctor re­
sponsible for creating the bacterium the Acolytes are going
to use to try and destroy us all?”
Before Beast could confirm the query, Bishop crossed
the room, taking Watkins by the lapels and shoving his back
against a wall. “How much did the Acolytes pay you?” he
demanded.
Watkins struggled ineffectually against Bishop’s iron
grip. “Nothing. I wasn’t working for them, I swear it!” His
voice came out high, with a note of panic, and he looked
pleadingly at Beast. “ Get him off of me, Hank, please!”
Storm laid her hand over one of Bishop’s. “Let him go,
Bishop. I believe he’s telling the truth.”
Beast nodded his agreement. “He came here of his own
free will to help me try to find a containing agent.”
Bishop let go of Watkins and stepped back a few paces
but still glared at the small man in suspicion. “ I don’t like
his being in the mansion. How do you know he isn’t just
pretending to help you—that he’s not really leading you in
the wrong direction? How are we to know that we can trust
him?” He crossed his arms in front of him as if daring Wat­
kins to prove him wrong.

190
 mm drcize
Ever practical, Beast replied, “How are we to know that
we can’t? I think I would know if I were being led down the
proverbial primrose path, Bishop. Besides, this is the best
place for us to work. Surely you are aware of that.”
Bishop relaxed his stance somewhat and moved a few
steps farther away from Watkins. He reached into his pocket
and pulled out the papers he and Storm had taken from
the deserted Acolyte hideout, handing them to Beast.
“From all indications, we believe them to be heading to the
Bahamas with the bacterial bom b.”
Beast scanned the papers quickly. “We know they have
the bacterium, we think we know where they’re taking it.
Now Jerome and I must work hard to find a neutralizing
agent before they decide to detonate the bomb.”
Storm moved toward the door. “You and Dr. Watkins
keep working, Hank. Bishop and I will fly to the Caribbean
and check out Cat Island.”
Beast nodded as he turned to continue his lab work.
“That would seem the most logical way to proceed. We’ll
keep you informed as to our progress.”
Beast and Watkins had little success. When their latest ex­
perim ent failed, Watkins pounded the table in frustration.
“We’ve tried everything I know to do, Hank. I’m all out of
ideas.” Watkins removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge
of his nose, “I should never have gotten involved in this
project in the first place. I knew what could happen. No
matter what they said, or how much money they gave me
for research, I should have known better. It’s not worth the
consequences.” He paused and closed his eyes for a mo­
ment. -‘Nothing could be worth that price.”
 Tl j f U L T i r i A T E i r n

Beast’s furry blue brow wrinkled in confusion. “What

consequences are you talking about, Jerome?”
Watkins blinked rapidly and nervously cleared his throat
several times before answering. “The bacterium can do
more damage than I’ve told you, Hank.”
“ How? Tell me, Jerome. You need to tell me every­
thing.” McCoy’s voice was low, almost soothing, as he
sensed Watkins’s fear.
“When the government found out, on its completion,
how successful the bacterium was going to be, they com­
missioned me to make certain ‘improvements’ on it. Purely
hypothetical, they said. Just in case. They told me to turn it
into a biological weapon—one never to be used, but avail­
able for possible use against cybernetic soldiers. That’s a
definite concern in this day and age.” Watkins took a deep
breath before continuing, and when he spoke, his voice was
shaky. “The reproductive rate is phenomenal. It’s highly
resistant to conventional antibacterial agents. It maintains
integrity when absorbed through the skin or by consump­
tion of contaminated food or water. Frankly, it would be
virtually impossible for a society to contain it if released. ’’
Beast made a soft, strangled sound of protest. “Jerome,
did you stop to think what the consequences of the use of
an agent like that would be? Of the millions of innocent
lives that would be lost in the panic as their society was
destroyed? Noncombatant lives?”
“I didn’t let myself think about it, Hank. I told myself
that it would never come to that, that no sane government
would ever unleash such a monstrosity. I told myself that
the benefits of the bacterium—the ecological benefits—out­
weighed all other considerations. With modifications, it can

192
 m m iitH t
still be used as I originally designed it. I told myself that it
was all in the name of research.” Watkins covered his face
with his hands, letting self-pity overwhelm him. “I suppose
the truth of the matter was that I didn’t want to know what
they were going to do with it. I was going to take the ad­
ditional research funds they promised to give me when this
project was finished and go away someplace where I
wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of my crea­
tion.”
Both men were silent for several minutes before resum­
ing their work.
To all appearances, Cat Island was picture-postcard perfect.
“This is the last place I’d suspect of having a devastating
biological weapon on it. It’s almost annoyingly beautiful,”
Bishop said sternly.
Storm extended her hands and felt the warm summer
tropical breeze flow through her fingers as a wind current
gently first lifted, then deposited her on the ground next
to Bishop. “The air circulation pattern is unique here.
Should the bacteria be released, the wind currents would
quickly carry it to all corners of the globe. I seriously doubt
any area would remain unaffected for long.”
Bishop started walking up the beach from where they’d
landed the Blackbird. “I say we start searching for the Aco­
lyte base. It won’t take long, considering how small this is­
land 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.”

193
 THE ULTMATE M l til
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 Aco­
lytes 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 m om ent’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 pro­
ducing a counteragent. Watkins piped a dab of liquid onto
a slide treated with the bacterium and looked into the mi­
croscope. He shouted and gestured excitedly to Beast, mo­
tioning 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

194
 mm BREEZE

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 deterio­
ration 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 situa­
tion; 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

195
 THE U T I I U T E M l t l l
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 num­
bered, 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 dis­
tance of the bungalow.
“We managed to produce a counteragent for the bac­
terium, 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

196
 mm BREEZE
the bomb and disarm it. If everything goes well, we won’t
need the counteragent. Good work, Beast. You, too, Doc­
tor.”
“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 w o n d e r...” 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 at­
mospheric anomalies that countered them. Within seconds,

19?
 THE ULTIMATE X-MEN
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 him
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.
 sunntR mm
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 con­
trol 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 m utant 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 Wat­
kins. Bishop deposited Spoor in the room off the main en­
trance 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
 the ui T i n ATt x-ntn
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 bac­
teria should the bomb accidentally detonate during the dis­
arming 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 combina­
tions. 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, Wat­
kins failed to notice Spoor’s stirring in the room behind
him. W ithout 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

200
 mm iu eze
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 re­
flected 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 harm ed 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

201
 the u m n m i-m

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 fur­
ther 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-

202
 m m BREEZE
kins was still and silent, his goal accomplished and his con­
science, 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 m utant 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 them­
selves. 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 mouth worked
furiously, and out of a sense of morbid curiosity, Beast
turned up the volume.

203
 TI E ULTIHATE M l Ed
“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 mom ent he felt a pang of
sorrow that so many humans saw things in the same light
as Creed. Then he remembered Jerom e 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.

204
lift IS BUI A DREAM

t o n Timmons
Illustration by Rick Leonardi & Terry Austin
A
ll of this happened, give or take.
The sun was shining and a brisk wind blew marsh­
mallow 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 sched­
uled 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 unbro­
ken string of notes. Somewhere down the neatly manicured
block, in a tree in a yard bordered by just-cropped shrub­
bery and a newly painted white picket fence, another bird
answered.
There was a steady whip and whir of a lawn sprinkler,
and, in someone’s backyard, on an orderly red brick patio,
hamburgers and hot dogs cooked over an open grill.
The sun broke from behind the last of the clouds and
its light on the water of the backyard pond looked like scat­
tered coins.
It was one of those rare and perfect days, thought
Rogue, that couldn’t go any farther toward proving God’s
existence than if He had left His fingerprints all over every­
thing.
Rogue looked away from the window' set above the
kitchen sink and adjusted the flow of water from the faucet.

m
 THE UlTIIKTt l-m

She was scrubbing and peeling potatoes, starting to get

things ready for tonight’s dinner. She had already put the
rack of lamb in the Dutch oven and basted it once with a
mint sauce she had made, but she would need Remy’s help
if she was going to have supper ready, the table set, and
have a hot, relaxing bath before the guests arrived.
Behind her, the Frigidaire clunked as it proudly made
another ice cube and started cheerily on making another,
not content to rest too long upon its laurels.
At the thought of Remy, she glanced at the drain board
of the double sink and the simple gold ring sitting there,
where she had put it when she started supper. Apart from
these rare times, she had not taken it from her hand since
that day when, for better or worse, for richer or poorer,
Remy had placed it there.
“We’ve had the worse and we’ve had the poorer,” she
spoke to the sun-washed, airy kitchens, “ now we have the
better and richer to look forward to.”
She was pulled from her reverie by the crack of a softball
against a bat and the cheers of children. She looked out
the window just in time to see Remy waving the runner on
to second. He was always involved with the neighborhood
kids in some fashion, refereeing them in a game of touch
football or coaching them in a game of softball. He was
surprisingly at home with children—the kid in him, Rogue
supposed. She didn’t mind him spending his Saturday af­
ternoons with them, since it seemed most of the other par­
ents were too busy for them, but she absolutely drew the
line at his trying to teach them to gamble.
“ Life’s a big gamble,” he had said trying to sweet-talk
his way around her when she put her foot down. “Don’

208
 lift 15 b u t 4 nm
think so? Then how come half of ‘life’ is made up of ‘if’? ~ '
Hey, why you t’ink life is but a dream?”
Rogue had laughed and responded, “I can play that
one, too, swamp rat. ‘God is love, love is blind, Ray Charles
is blind, therefore, Ray Charles is God.’ ”
“He is God!” Remy replied then. “Ray an’ Charlie Par­
ker.”
“ Head for home! Head for home!” Remy now shouted
at the runner. The boy crossed the plate to the sound of
cheers, just a split second ahead of the ball.
“Remy!” Rogue called from the opened back door.
“Time f’you t’head home too, lover.”
Remy smiled and waved at her across the vacant lot.
“Right dere, petite filleV' He said something else to the
children and started jogging for the house. The sun, sailing
toward the west where clouds waited to devour it, threw
Remy’s shadow out long behind him, like a small, fright­
ened child racing to catch up.
“Forks on de left or de right?”
But Rogue didn’t hear him. She was too busy checking
the last of the arrangements. For the hundredth time.
“Sweet—forks—left or right?”
“That’s fine,” she answered distractedly.
“We havin’ red wine or white wit’ de elephant?”
“Nowy’bein’ silly; y’know we ate the last of the elephant
weeks ago.”
“Ah, so you are in dere somewhere!”
“Sorry, sugar. I just want everything to go all right to­
night.”
Remy set the silverware aside and stepped around the

209
 the u m n A T E x n tii
dining room table to where Rogue stood, rearranging the
fresh-cut flowers in the centerpiece. For the hundredth
time.
“Everyt’ing be fine, chere. We’ve had plenty o’ parties.”
She smiled crookedly and corrected him. “We’ve been
to plenty of parties, Remy. This is the first one we ever
gave.”
“ Every day a party in de Big Easy,” he said, taking her
hand, feeling the warmth of her flesh next to his. “ Every
day a party if you live to de fullest.” And he nestled his
cheek to hers, closing his eyes and slow-dancing to a music
only he could hear. God, perhaps, or Bird. Or Mingus. “Po’
darlin’. Want so bad for us to fit in. Want so bad for us to
be normal.”
“ Is that so wrong?”
He looked at her and she could feel it then, building
between them: a spark, an ember, slowly building, rising,
threatening to catch their whole world ablaze.
“You already fit in, chere, where it matters most. In
LeBeau’s eternal heart.”
He kissed her then and was still kissing her when the
doorbell rang. Their guests had to wait a few minutes on
the porch, and dinner was slightly dry, but Rogue found she
somehow didn’t mind.
Scott and Jean Summers owned the mock-Tudor style house
next door to Rogue and Remy; they had lived in the neigh­
borhood for quite awhile before the LeBeaus, and naturally
took them under their wing. It turned out they had all at­
tended, at various times, the same exclusive school for gifted
individuals, and that only helped to cement the blocks of

210
 I l f E IS B U T 4 D R E A H

their friendship. Jean once asked Rogue how she had gotten
that name, and Rogue replied, “ M’mom’s like that.” That
offhanded comment had sealed their fate and they were
inseparable companions thereafter. Scott and Remy, two
men unaccustomed to expressing their emotions, main­
tained a guarded but solid acquaintanceship, partly based
on their mutual love of cooking. Remy had to admire a man
who could go back for seconds on his four-alarm crawfish
bisque. “Dat about de bravest t’ing Remy ever seen anyone
ever do, mon ami,” LeBeau had said, only half-jokingly, and
Scott had nearly smiled.
The Summerses often entertained, inviting Remy and
Rogue over when they did, and they knew a wide assortment
of people: Bobby Drake, a CPA frozen in the past, with a
glacial heart that couldn’t be moved or warmed by all the
lights of Christmas, it seemed; Henry McCoy, an obsessively
brilliant but apish biophysicist who hid his insecurities be­
hind a constant barrage of big words; Warren W orthington
III, a foppish millionaire who tried to show the world he
deserved his enormous wealth by giving vast fortunes away
to charity and who tried to show he deserved love by being
with a different girl every week.
All of them, it seemed to Rogue, were the walking
wounded, all suffering some ancient, buried tragedy with
an impossible grace and nobility.
But tonight, ah, tonight the Summerses had brought
with them Logan, an odd, bestial, frightening, earthy,
hugely lusty man who ate his meal ravenously, attacking it
with his bare hands and issuing barely human grunts as he
gnawed and tore the meat from the bone.
“Dat a man who know how t’grab life by de t’roat!”

21!
 THE UITIHATE X MEH
Remy exclaimed admiringly. “You grab ’im one for Remy,
eh?”
“Grab ’im yourself, bub,” Logan replied around a
mouthful of food, grease, and blood running down his chin.
“I got some throat-wringin’ o’ my own t’do.”
Rogue started to laugh, needed to laugh very badly—he
rem inded her of the Tasmanian Devil from the old Bugs
Bunny cartoons, all teeth and claws and appetite—but then
their eyes met—locked like magnets slamming together—
and Rogue felt herself deflate like a pricked balloon. He
smiled, a smile that never quite reached the eyes, and she
had the feeling that it was her throat he had grabbed, and
he was grinding her to bone and blood and paste.
“Where on earth did y’ever find him?”
“Who? Logan?” Jean asked. She was helping Rogue
clear the decimated table. “Friend of Scott’s. Met him in
the Canadian woods. Don’t really know much about him .”
She shrugged dismissively. “I think he might have been in
some sort of intelligence outfit—maybe part of some top-
secret experiment. H e’s odd, but he’s harmless—if you’re
on his good side.”
“W here’s that? Couple hundred miles away?”
Jean laughed and saw then that Rogue was serious; she
was deeply disturbed by Logan.
“ Sweetheart, I wouldn’t let him come around my house
if he wasn’t harmless. We wouldn’t have brought him here.
You know me; I’ve always been good at reading people.”
Rogue touched Logan’s plate, littered with picked bones
like a miniature desert, and shuddered. She quickly
dropped the plate into the pile, as if touching it too long

m
 l i f t IS B U I A D R E A M

would cause an empathy to form, somehow contaminate

her, taint her, make her like him.
“And I can read you too,” Jean said, tipping Rogue’s
chin up with her finger, forcing Rogue to look at her, look
her in the eyes. “There’s something else at work here,
something more than just feeling uncomfortable around
Logan. Is it anything you want to talk to me about?”
“It’s nothin’, it’s . . . When you find the man you love,
how come the honeymoon doesn’t last f’rever?”
Jean traced her finger along the contours of Rogue’s
high cheekbones, a sister comforting her sibling, a mother
soothing her child. “Welcome to marriage, phase two,” she
said.
“Does it have t’be that way?” Rogue asked, and there
was something like terror in her voice.
And now it was Jean’s turn to look away. “You wouldn’t
be normal if it weren’t,” she said. “This wouldn’t be real
life.”
“Well, like th’man says, ‘reality bites.’ ”
“It can,” Jean agreed, with her words at least, but not
her voice. “It cuts and bites and tears, this life, but take
heart. It only gets better.”
“You and Scott—y’all seem so happy. . . what’s y’
secret?”
Jean considered this for a long moment before answer­
ing. “Well, Scott’s my world—but he’s not my whole world,
you understand? That’s too big a burden to put on him—
or anyone.”
Rogue thought about that while Jean finished busing the
table. There were greasy, bloody fingerprints on the table-

213
 THE ULTIflATE I - HEH
cloth where Logan had sat. He would never take the place
of a strolling violinist at dinner, that was for sure.
“I’ll help you with dessert,” Jean offered.
“What about kids?”
“I guess—but, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’d
rather have cake and coffee.”
Rogue looked puzzled, then exploded with laughter, the
first honest laugh Jean had heard from her all night.
In the den, lushly paneled and appointed with built-in
bookcases containing many folios and first editions, and one
wall comprised of a giant screen television, the latest stereo
equipment and shelves bowed in the middle from the
weight of jazz, blues, R&B, and rock CDs and vinyl, a room
largely given over to the intellectual and emotional, Logan
was holding court over Sazerac and cigars (Scott had nei­
ther), regaling the other men with his bawdy jokes and
impossible exploits.
He had told them of hunting leopards with the Maha­
raja of Mysore and his subsequent dalliance with the em­
peror’s harem and barely escaping detection by the guards,
of his time in Japan, and sailing from Nice to Morocco
through a freak storm that nearly sank his small ship, and
of owning a bar in Madripoor.
As Rogue and Jean entered the den bearing a tray of
satsuma cake and coffee, Logan was in the middle of his tale
of running with the bulls in Pamplona. He had been doing
well, he said, until the man in front of him slipped on the
wet cobblestones and Logan fell over him. The first of the
bulls rolled over them both like a wave of hooves and horns.
To save himself, Logan said, he grabbed on to the bull’s
underside and held on for a mad, miles-long run through

m
 l if t \S OUT I s r a
the streets of Spain. “ It was that, or get trampled by Spain’s
supply o’ toros.”
“That sounds like a lot o’ bull,” commented Rogue, a
wry smile creasing the corners of her mouth, and everyone,
even Scott, laughed.
“Good one, gal,” Logan said, puffing deeply on his
smelly cigar. He took the dessert plate Rogue offered, sur­
reptitiously stroking her finger with his. She withdrew as if
she had just thrust her hand into a sack of squirming snakes
and maggots. “You got a funny girl there, Gumbo. You bet­
ter w'atch somebody doesn’t take ’er away from you.”
‘‘How ’bout it, chfre? Was it worth it?”
Rogue paused in the brushing of her hair, watching
Remy in the mirror of the vanity. “Yeah, I think so.”
Remy laughed. “Dat Logan, he a character, don’ you
t’ink? De stories he tell, chere, you wouldn’t believe. He stop
jus’ shy o’ claimin’ credit for advisin’ God on dat sun in da
m ornin’, moon at night t’ing. He want Scott an’ Remy t’go
huntin’ wit’ him sometime, get in touch wit’ our ‘hairy
homme.’ ”
Irrational fear squeezed her heart with icy, skeletal fin­
gers. “I don’t want you to go,” she said hurriedly, breath­
lessly.
''Qjioi?”
“I don’t like him, Remy. There’s somethin’ about him,
he makes me feel so— ” {alive) “—afraid. Please . . . prom­
ise me . . . stay away from him .”
“You serious?”
He saw she was.
“Okay. I promise.”

215
 ME IILTItlATt M ltll
She seemed to relax, visibly, and returned to brushing
her hair. Remy stood behind her, watching her silently, like
a ghost. “Is dat all? All dat’s bothering you, I mean?”
That was a good question, the only one. Was that all
that was bothering her? Really?
No. No, she couldn’t honestly say it was. But how could
she tell him that, although she loved him more than ever,
more than anyone or anything, something had begun to
feel wrong between them? Something she herself would be
hard pressed to name, other than to say he wasn’t the man
she had met and fallen in love with. Some vital, elemental
spark had seemingly gone out of him and somehow ended
up in Logan.
And could she honestly say it was only Logan whom she
didn’t trust?
Was there any reason the honeymoon couldn’t last for­
ever?
But that wouldn’t be normal. Jean had told her so. It
wouldn’t be real life, and, in real life, things change. People
change.
“ Chere? Somet’in’ else botherin’ you?”
The look on his face, so like a lost little boy, and she
felt love for him well up from the bottom of her heart and
soul and spread out and engulf the both of them.
“N othin’ as bad as all that, sugar,” she said with a barely
contained enthusiasm. “I just wanted to wait till the right
time t’tell you—I’m pregnant!”
Remy’s jaw dropped and his mouth worked without
forming words. He tried again and did marginally better
this time.

m
 l i f t IS BUT A DREAM
“Remy a daddy? How? When? How long you known,
gal?” ‘
“I just found out m ’self.”
Remy moved to her, where she sat on the seat before
the vanity, took the golden brush from her hand and set it
aside.
“A baby, chere,” he said softly, wonderingly, in awe of
this oldest everyday miracle of all. “Remy a daddy.” This
time it was not a question, but joyful declaration. He held
Rogue to him and she thought she felt the warm salt of a
tear on her exposed neck and shoulder.
“It best be a girl, fille, so it get her mama’s beauty. Dou­
ble Remy’s joy.”
“Double or nothin’, huh?”
“Remy bet on worse odds,” he said, and something else
occurred to him then. “Hey, but what you ain’t tol’ LeBeau
is when? When de baby due?”
“W ell. . . ” She smiled enigmatically, and when he
looked at her again, he wondered how he had not noticed
her enormous girth before. Was he that blind? “As a matter
of fac t. . . ” she said.
“Push harder! Push!”
“I am pushin’!”
“You squeezin’ Remy’s hand kind o’ hard, chere—”
“As bad as this hurts—y’lucky—y’hand is all I’m squee­
zin’!”
“There’s the head! Doctor Xavier, there’s— ”
“Remy can see the head, cherel I t . . . i t . . . oh!”
“ Somebody revive that man and get him out of the
way.”

m
 THE OLTIIWf X-HCf!
* * *
“I tell you, it was Remy’s low blood sugar . . . ”
But nobody was paying any attention to the proud fa­
ther; all eyes were on the m other and the small tenant who
had just been evicted from his tiny amniotic apartment, re­
clining in their hospital bed. Through the unrolling of the
day, Rogue had had several visitors, her own mother, Raven
Darkholme, first among them. She had given her pro­
nouncem ent that the baby—a boy—was “good—he doesn’t
look a thing like his father and, mercifully, nothing like his
uncle.” After her visit, Rogue assured Remy that was simply
her m other’s way of expressing her approval.
“What she say ’bout Remy wrhen you marry him, den?”
“Oh she really expressed her approval then,” Rogue an­
swered, and they both laughed.
There had been others, and Scott and Jean had been
by twice. On their second visit, Rogue and Remy asked them
to be the baby’s godparents.
The day nurse, Ororo, brought Charlie (they had de­
cided to name the baby Charles because he looked like Xa­
vier—bald and serious) in for his afternoon feeding. Ororo
was Rogue’s favorite of the nurses because she was like a
grace note in the discordance of the hospital.
“H e’s such a good baby,” Ororo said, smiling. “ So per­
fect. He never cries, even when he’s hungry or wet. W hat’s
your secret?”
“ No secret,” offered Remy. “He got perfect parents.
Don’ you know7we ain’t human?”
Rogue shivered, then. The baby was perfect. Remy was
almost giddy. Her mother was pleased. Even the nurse ad­
mired their happiness. So why wasn’t she content?

218
 lif t IS BUI 11 DREAfl
A shaft of late-afternoon sunlight angled through the
window and fell on the family tree, painting everything in
the room the color of fool’s gold.
She returned home with the baby. Her crusades were little
ones, waged against grass and chocolate stains, dingy floors,
and balancing the checkbook. Day after meaningless day
blew past with the bland uniformity of sand.
She was dusting the gilt-framed portrait of Remy, Char­
lie, and herself when the doorbell rang. She returned the
photograph to its place on the piano and answered the
door. She was expecting it to be Jean, dropping by with
the new Crichton book she’d promised to lend her, but her
heart gave a wild, surging leap, banging against her ribs like
a wild bird in a cage when she saw her caller was—
“Logan?”
He was wearing a black tank top, exposing his hirsute
arms and shoulders, his back and chest. He was leaning
easily against the door frame, never taking his eyes from
Rogue.
“Remy— ” she started, and had to back up and try
again. “Remy, he ain’t here.”
“I didn’t come t’see Gumbo boy,” he answered. “I came
t’see you. T ’give you whatcha need.”
She told herself that she should slam the door in his
face, but she didn’t move a muscle.
“I can smell it on you, darlin’. Smell the disappointment
an’ frustration an’— ”
Whispering, she finished, “Yearnin’.”
“Got it in one,” he answered with a feral grin. “You’re
yearnin’ for the wild side. For a man.”

219
 T I E UlTIMATE M I E N
“I—I already got a m an.”
“You,” he said, lighting a cigar, “got a watered down
copy of a man.”
He stepped closer and she could smell the beer on his
breath, the stale cigars the stink of sweat: the smell of life.
She could feel these scents enfolding her and at the same
time, felt her senses expanding outward like ripples in a
pond. She became aware of the sound of her own excited
breathing, the sound of the blood drums pounding out a
Charlie Watts solo in her ears; she could feel the weight of
the air on her skin, the bead of sweat behind her left ear;
she could see the slow dance of the dust motes in the late
afternoon sun and the lazy flight of the honeybee in her
front yard, and the individual leaves of grass, all part of
some great, cosmic puzzle.
Logan moved closer to kiss her.
“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’m the best there is that at what
I do.”
Again she told herself she should do something. Again
she didn’t move a muscle, but allowed him to move close
enough to kiss her.
“Dat’s not what Remy hear!” the Cajun said, striking
Logan a staggering blow from behind with his softball bat.
Logan spun around in one fluid motion, swinging with his
claws at the same time Remy brought his bat up. The blades
buried themselves deep in the soft ash and Remy wrenched
the staff away, declawing Logan in the same movement.
Unluckily, Logan didn’t need the claws to be an animal,
and his blocky right fist looped in and landed solidly on
Remy’s nose, mashing it flat against his face. Remy used the
move to trap Logan’s arm under his left arm, and simulta-

220
 l if t IS BUI A DREAM
neously brought up his leg to strike Logan repeatedly in the
side of the head and neck.
By this point, both men were snarling, growiing, word­
less creatures, rolling on the floor, punching, kicking, bit­
ing. Remy slammed Logan’s head into the piano leg, over
and over, making the keyboard issue a crazy, jangling chord
than hung in the air forever. The family portrait slipped
down the side of the Steinway and smashed on the floor.
Rogue had, in some secret room of her heart, wanted
to have two men fight over her, but not like this. It was
impossible to tell where one man began and the other left
off with the cutting and growiing and biting, and so Rogue
did the only sane and sensible thing she could—she
laughed.
She laughed so hard that tears streamed down her
cheeks and prismed her vision, and she had to force herself
to stop laughing long enough to say, “ End program .”
And at her command, the walls and furniture of the
home dissolved around her, replaced by the bulwarks of the
mansion’s Danger Room, cold and gray and uniform. Noth­
ing comforting there, other than its familiarity.
“Who writes y’dialogue?” Rogue asked the men, as frag­
ile and translucent as figures carved from soap bubbles.
“ Some love-starved little girl?” They didn’t answer as they
vanished with a cold, hard snap, but then, there was no
need. She wrote their dialogue, their life-scripts, with the
help of the incredible alien computer of the Xavier Insti­
tute, a gift from the empress of a society whose technology
far outstripped Earth’s. She had been trying to pretend to
have a normal life through the holographic images of the
Danger Room, had been hoping to lose herself, if only for

221
 tie m a t e m in i

a moment, in the fantasy, to achieve some m anner of epiph­

any. She had the computer program images of her team­
mates, but without powers, extrapolate how they might have
been if they weren’t all mutants—if they were normal.
But neither she nor the alien computer had a true idea
of what normal was. As a result, whenever the program got
too tricky to navigate—too real or hum drum —she simply
fast-forwarded over that particular glitch into a new scene
or situation.
She had hoped for a chance to realize her dream of
being able to touch and hold and love Remy, something
she could not do with anyone thanks to her m utant power
that forced her to absorb the powers and memories of any­
one she made flesh-to-flesh contact with. But she felt only
the more empty and cheated for her efforts. What good
were dreams if you could only hold them in your sleep?
Although the Danger Room could replicate perfecdy
feel and texture, even though it could create images that
looked and sounded and behaved like the originals, it
couldn’t capture the little things, the burning passions and
buried hurts that made the people real and unique and
alive. The memories were real; it was just that the events
never happened, and the fire and hum or she loved about.
Remy simply couldn’t be captured by a holographic con­
struct.
Even if she couldn’t touch the man she loved in this
reality, in this imperfect world, at least it was Remy.
It was impossible to guess whether she would ever get
her powers under control to the point of having a normal
life, but it was worth hoping she would.

Ill
 l if t IS BUT 4 DRtAfl
After all, half of “life” is made up of “if,” and some­
times, in the end, hope is all we really have.
“And all we need,” she said with a firm voice to that
quiet room. “If life was perfect, if life was easy, we’d never
dream, an’ it was a dream that built this mansion.”
She set a smile on her face, squared her shoulders, and
left the room without a backward glance.

m
order rnon amos

Ivan M m i

Illustration by Dave Cockrum & John Nyberg

T
awfiq Badr’s expression as he tumbled through the hot
Egyptian air told the whole story. Yes, h e’d been a pick­
pocket for a very long time. Yes, he’d honed the surrep­
titious art to an exacting science, here in the controlle
mayhem of Cairo’s bustling open-air market. Yes, he’d ha
his fair share of close scrapes and run-ins with the loca
authorities.
And, no, he’d never had a victim literally blow him off
his feet.
But that’s exactly what was happening. To Tawfiq, the
two American women had looked like easy prey—or at least
the younger one had: a pale, spoiled, overdressed, and com­
plaining teenager lugging far too many suitcases through
the tightly packed bazaar. Her companion—a tall, serene
and confident-looking white-haired black woman wearing a
sensible khaki outfit—seemed much more at home in this
pungent sea of human motion. But even if the African Am­
azon saw him snatch the girl’s wallet, what could she do
against a wily, seasoned professional like Tawfiq?
The answer, apparently, was that she could cause motion
in the very air, summoning a hot desert wind of such force
that it lifted and tumbled Tawfiq as if he were a feather
caught in a sirocco. The wallet he had just purloined from
the girl’s garish yellow overcoat dropped from his own
pocket and onto the dusty ground—as did four other wal­
lets he had lifted earlier that afternoon.
“Freakin’ animals!” the pale girl snapped, dropping her
suitcases and rushing over to retrieve her wallet, as Tawfiq
landed in a dusty heap about ten feet away. “I hate this
place already, Storm!” she complained to her companion,

111
 I tit I ETUI ATE M EII
who was already striding purposefully toward the shaken
pickpocket.
With scores of slack-jawed Egyptian dealers and inter­
national tourists looking on in disbelief, “Storm” grabbed
the man by the coat and easily lifted him to his feet. Tawfiq
looked into her eyes, and saw that her blue irises had com­
pletely disappeared, forcing him to stare at an eerie, all­
white gaze that chilled his soul. “Who do you work for?”
she asked him in perfect Egyptian Arabic. ‘‘El-Gibar?”
“N-no,” Tawfiq stammered in his native language, feel­
ing the hackles on his neck involuntarily rise—almost as if
electricity were being pumped into him by the very touch
of the woman. “Don’t work for anyone, not for a long
time— ”
“Well, if you see Achmed,” she interrupted Tawfiq, in­
explicably smiling now, “tell him I said hello. H e’ll know
who you mean,’’ she added, releasing her grip on the pick­
pocket’s collar. Dazed, Tawfiq instinctively backed away
from her, his eyeballs darting around the immediate area
for signs of police—then he fled, expertly disappearing into
the crowd of flesh within seconds.
Storm sighed as she walked back toward her companion,
who was now standing there, with five wrallets in her hands.
“I’d forgotten how much I miss this place, Jubilee,” Storm
told her in English, with an ironic smirk,
“Yeah, cool home turf, Storm,” Jubilation Lee answered
with a snort, pocketing her own wallet and eyeing the other
four. “Makes Sarajevo look like Disney World, y’know?
Maybe if we’re lucky, the local Mickey Mouse’ll stop by and
beat the crap out of us.”

m
 order non chaos
Smiling, Storm retrieved their luggage. “I know this isn’t
the easiest or safest route to our hotel from the airport,”
she admitted, “but I couldn’t pass up the chance to take a
walk through my old stomping grounds.”
“You mean ‘old stealing grounds,’ ” Jubilee grumbled,
buttoning her wallet pocket shut. “I know you grew up
around here, used to be a pickpocket yourself—heck, /used
to be a packrat hangin’ out in Hollywood Mall, I know what
it’s like—but this place is just nasty!”
“You get used to it, Jubilee—people are remarkably
adaptable creatures,” Storm answered, taking the four extra
wallets from her dark-haired companion and swapping
them for a couple of suitcases. “We’ll return these wallets
to the authorities when we get to the hotel.”
“What about the smell?” Jubilee asked, wrinkling her
nose as she and Storm moved farther into the bazaar. “Do
you get used to that? And how about the flies? And the
sweat? And the camels spitting? Yeccch! And every guy
lookin’ at you like you’re on sale? And what ab o u t. . .”
Jubilee’s ceaseless complaining faded into the recesses
of Storm’s consciousness, as feelings of nostalgia once again
overwhelmed her. It didn’t seem like very long ago that five-
year-old Ororo Munroe, the Manhattan-born daughter of
an American photojournalist and a Kenyan princess, had
found herself orphaned on these rough streets of Cairo.
She remembered being taken in by Egyptian master
thief Achmed el-Gibar, who had a whole troop of children
who stole for him. Ororo quickly became his prize pupil,
and within a year, she was considered by el-Gibar (and,
more importantly, by the police) to be the most accom­
plished juvenile thief and pickpocket in all of Cairo.

m
 THE M T I I U T E X-HEU
Seven years of O roro’s life—nearly her entire child­
hood—were spent this way, in this place. Lifting wallets,
darting into and out of crowds, picking locks, duping tour­
ists—it wasn’t a bad life for a child who had known little
else. But when she was twelve years old, Ororo suddenly felt
a strong desire to go south, to seek out her African ances­
tors.
Leaving Cairo and her life of petty crime behind, young
Ororo trekked across the Sahara on foot. It took her nearly
a year to reach the Serengeti Plain, home of her m other’s
tribe. And during that long journey, Ororo’s womanhood
blossomed—as did her uncanny ability7 to control the
weather.
Upon rejoining the tribes of her m other’s youth near
the base of Mount Kilimanjaro, Ororo learned that she and
her mother, N ’Dare, were descended from a line of African
witch-priestesses that could be traced back to the dawn of
humanity. All the women in this line of descent had white
hair, blue eyes, and the potential for magical abilities.
O roro’s newfound power to control the weather, how­
ever, was neither magical nor mystical. Rather, it was the by­
product of a random mutation of her DNA. Like so many
others, Ororo was a mutant, a member, not of homo sapiens,
but of the newly emerging subgenus homo superior.
Ororo used her weather-altering abilities to help several
local Kenyan tribes in times of need. In return, they wor­
shipped her as a goddess. Money, theft, conflict, fear—all
these things became little more than fading memories to
her. More contented than she had ever been, Ororo spent
much of her young adulthood fully enjoying the life of a
deity7. Indeed, who wouldn’t?

m
 ORDER F ROU ( H A O S
Then came the day Professor Charles Xavier came to
O roro’s African home and persuaded her to use her mutant
powers to benefit all humanity. Xavier, a mutant himself,
had used his telepathic abilities, technological expertise,
and diplomatic skills to found the X-Men—a group of mu­
tant heroes whose mission was to find and protect emerging
young mutants from prejudiced humans, and to educate the
mutants in the proper control and use of their powers, so
that they would be a danger neither to themselves nor any­
one else.
Ororo agreed to accompany Xavier back to her native
New York. There she was given the code name “ Storm” and
enlisted in the X-Men. Over the years, she and her team­
mates had many adventures, and saved the lives of countless
humans and mutants. Eventually, the X-Men lineup grew,
changed, and split into subteams. The latest spin-off team
was called Generation X, a group of younger mutants under
the tutelage of Sean Cassidy and Emma Frost. It was to this
latest X-team that the m utant firecracker Jubilation Lee was
assigned.
“ . . . not like I exactly asked to come along, y’know,” Ju­
bilee’s still-whining voice penetrated Storm’s reminiscenses,
as the two women emerged from the far side of the bazaar
and turned toward the Corniche, Cairo’s traffic-clogged
main avenue. “ ‘It’ll be good for you to get away for a few
days,’ ’’Jubilee quoted Emma Frost, while doing a passable
impersonation of the blonde leader’s icy tone,
“ Aye, ’t’will at that, darlin’, good experience f’r ya,’ ”
Jubilee continued her solo conversation, now imitating Cas­
sidy’s thick Irish brogue. Then, switching to her own Valley
Girl singsong accent: “Yeah, like I can’t figure out that you

l)\
 THE U L T i n m M tffl
and die rest of Gen X just want this spaz out of your hair
for a few days. Not too obvious . . . ”
“Jubilee, stop acting like Oliver Stone,” Storm chided
her gently. “There’s no conspiracy here,”
Jubilee’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Whoa, re­
ality check—was that a semihip pop-culture reference?
From you?”
“See? I have been in America too long.” Storm smiled.
She could see their hotel in the distance, not more than
ten blocks away. “Almost there now, Jubilation.”
“Jubilation is right” Jubilee grumbled, hoisting her bags
to a more comfortable position, blowing sweat-drenched
hair out of her eyes, and pressing on. “ Can’t believe we
didn’t get a taxi, had to hoof it right through Body Odor
Central, get my wallet picked, you showin’ off your powers,
swear I never should’ve let myself get talked into . .
Storm found herself tuning Jubilee out again, as the
sights of the Corniche evoked other, more recent—and
more disturbing—memories. The previous week, Storm had
received a letter from her childhood pickpocket friend Alia
Taymur. Years earlier, the two girls had been semiregular
partners in crime; one would cause a distraction, while the
other picked the tourists’ pockets clean. Both had escaped
the life of crime before it consumed them. Storm had grad­
uated first to goddess, then to full-fledged heroine. Alia had
gone back to school and become a prom inent Egyptian
mathematician.
But the letter Storm had received via Federal Express
wasn’t from a dignified, reserved mathematician, it was from
the frightened little girl Ororo remembered from her child­
hood. Ororo, please come back to Cairo. Meet me at our old secret

1)2
 O R D ER EROE1 CHAOS
cache, next Friday at 9 p.m. I need your help. I can’t do this alone
—Alia
The thirty-story Cairo International Hotel loomed large
above Storm and Jubilee as they approached its revolving
doors. “You see, Jubilee?” Ororo said. “We survived.”
“Aces,” Jubilee moaned, limping up the steps while
stubbornly refusing to let the bellboy help her with her lug­
gage. “Now, if we can only find a toilet I don’t have to hover
over . . .”
It would be wrong to say he saw them enter the city, check into the
hotel, unpack their bags. Or that he saw them at all.
No, he simply sensed two new variables entering the equation;
strange attractors invisibly pulling the data in a new direction. He
felt the numbers changing, the future shifting. Everything is num­
bers, he reminded himself. Reality is math. Nothing is random.
There are no accidents.
Damian Sharpe breathed shallowly, blinked sweat from his eyes,
and tried to stay focused on his meditation. But standard perception
of reality kept penetrating. It was too small in here, not at all
comfortable.
Of course it’s uncomfortable, he nearly blurted to himself
It’s a damn tomb!
He blinked again, found himself coming out of the trance. The
candles had burned about halfway down, and outside the sunlight
was fading fast. Staying in his cross-legged yoga position, Sharpe
looked down at the ancient Egyptian tomb’s stone floor. Carefully
arranged around him were the nine artifacts he’d worked so long
and hard to gather. Six years of scamming university research
grants, tracking down talismans, translating ancient glyphs, learn­
ing incantations, studying chaos theory . . .

m
 l i t illTIHATE X-HtH
//e stood at the brink of impossibility itself, grasping at science
so advanced it seemed like magic, and effectively was magic. Prac­
ticing ancient spells that bridged the gap between science and the
supernatural. Decrypting the work of mathematicians who used
chaos theory over two thousand years before Western science even
noticed or named it.
What it came down to was simply this: all things are predict­
able, if you know the initial conditions and understand physics to
an infinite degree. Everything that seems random is just the inter­
action of so many variables that we can’t keep track of them, so we
write them off as being random. But they ’re not. And he who can
keep track of all the variables can predict the future with one hun­
dred percent accuracy.
Predict the future— and control it.
Sharpe sighed and began meditating again, trying to achieve
affinity with the nine chaos talismans. Their power, though hobbled
by the lack of the tenth and final artifact, was still great. And soon,
very soon, he would use the combined power of the nine to locate
and retrieve the tenth.
Once the two new variables were factored out of the equation,
of course . . .
“Thank God the concept of a bath is universal,” Jubilee
sighed from the hotel bathroom.
“Glad you’re enjoying it,” Storm called back while fin­
ishing her unpacking.
“Totally,” Jubilee replied, blowing bubbles across the
bathwater’s gently undulating surface. Then, realizing she
might not be the only person feeling the need for cleanli­
ness after their midafternoon trek, she added, “Hey, you
waiting for the tub?”

m
 O R D E R FROII CHAOS
“No, you relax,” Storm told Jubilee almost absentmind-
edly, as she closed her bureau drawer, then looked out their
tenth-floor window at the darkening Egyptian sky. Cairo, the
Jewel of the Nile, was starting to glisten as, one by one, city
lights were turned on. “I want to feel like a native right
now,” Storm continued, as much to Jubilee as to herself.
“Well, you’re sure gonna smell like one,” Jubes whis­
pered, but Storm’s acute hearing picked up on it. She was
too distracted to chide the youth on her manners, however;
Jubilee was deep in the throes of culture shock, and Ororo
knew she wras secretly loving every minute.
Besides, O roro’s mind was otherwise occupied. The orig­
inal note from Alia was disturbing enough, and the message
left at the hotel’s front desk—in which Alia had mysteriously
changed tonight’s meeting time and place—only added to
Storm’s uneasiness.
But there was something else too. Something wrong out
there. Waiting. Watching. And, most of all, calculating.
Ororo knew she wouldn’t get any answers sitting around
the hotel room for the next three hours, waiting for the
rendezvous with Alia. And she wanted more information
before she walked right into what might turn out to be some
kind of trap.
“Jubilation, I’m going to go out and get some air,” she
called out. “I’ll bring something back for dinner, and then
we can meet up with Alia.”
“Fine by m e,” Jubilee called back as Storm headed for
the door. “Don’t drink the water.”
Storm chuckled, then left Jubilation to relax in the tub.
* * *

235
 THE ULTIMATE M l EH
Ororo walked out into the rapidly cooling Egyptian air,
watching the sky turn a hundred shades of red, orange,
blue, and purple as the sun mercifully withdrew, giving the
desert city some respite from the day’s searing heat.
She wished she could fully appreciate the sunset’s
beauty, but that strange feeling of wrongness was growing
more intense, almost as if it wrere watching her. There was
a coldness to it, the kind of razor-sharp logic and order you
feel when confronted by a dizzying mathematical equation
you can’t solve.
Mathematics—was it Alia herself who was the threat? That
hadn’t even occurred to Storm until she arrived at the ho­
tel, and felt the bizarre oppressiveness of the city. She’d
never experienced anything like it before, and barely even
understood why she associated these feelings with numbers.
But Cairo had changed little since she last called it
home, at least in the important ways. Ororo still knew where
to go to get the word on the street, without getting her
throat slit. She had been more than capable of taking care
of herself as a gawky street urchin; now, returned as a virtual
goddess, Storm knew the city’s secrets would soon reveal
themselves to her probing eyes, one way or another.
She ducked into a dark alley. . . .
Towels aren’t too shabby, either, Jubilee silently admitted to her­
self as she pulled a comfortable oversized sweatshirt over
her black tights and hung the fluffy white hotel towel up to
dry. This place is starting to look up.
She flopped onto one of the queen-sized beds, fearing
the worst—and finding herself once again pleasantly sur­
prised by the mattress’s enveloping softness. “This’ll be

m
 ORDER EROH CMOS
m urder on my back,” she muttered to herself, her face half­
buried in a pillow. “But that’s what vacation’s all about,
right?”
It was starting to feel like a proper vacation, too, instead
of the hellish obligatory field trip Jubilee had thought it was
going to be. She almost wished the rest of Generation X
were here so they could all do a way-cool night on the
town. . . . But she knew was too tired for that, anyway.
Noticing the old-fashioned-looking television remote
control on the bed table, Jubilee rolled over lazily and
grabbed it, turning on the small TV across the room. “ For­
eign TV—cool,” she told herself, until she realized that
there were only five channels, and they were all in Arabic.
“My best friend in the whole wide world, turned against
m e,” she sighed, turning the TV off and rolling again onto
her back. “Maybe I’ll see if there’re any cute guys . . . down
. . . stairs. . . . ” Her voice trailed off as the long day’s journey
and jet lag caught up with her, and she dropped off to
sleep.
At first Jubilee thought the buzzing was her alarm clock.
Through a fog of half-sleep, she reached over to the night
table, and began her usual ritual of flopping her hand
around until the offending noise stopped. She knocked the
TV remote onto the floor, smacked the phone, and banged
her hand into the bedside lamp. But the buzzing was com­
ing from the other direction.
Then Jubilee remembered that her alarm clock was over
five thousand miles away.
Her sticky eyelids blinked reluctantly open as she turned
to see what was making the buzzing, crackling noise. It

m
 THE ULTIMATE X-HCH
seemed to be coming from outside, or from near the win­
dow. But she didn’t see anything there. Jubilee wondered
if maybe there were an electrical short-circuit in one of the
walls, or—
Her eyes caught movement. Sitting up, she kept her
gaze focused on the window. The air was undulating, crack­
ling, moving. Like the heat distortion she’d seen in the de­
sert from the jet, or like the kind of fluid distortion you
might observe underwater.
It was moving toward her.
Flowing through the cracks in the multipaned window,
the boundaries of its amorphous form were now becoming
clearer to Jubilee. It was like the thing from that old Blob
movie, except that it was nearly invisible and hovering in
the air. The crackling noise it made was definitely getting
closer. Tendrils of the thing reached toward Jubilee, who
scrambled to get off the bed while grabbing for the phone.
She suddenly felt a sharp stinging sensation on her
lower right leg, and yelped as she instinctively pulled away
and fell onto the floor, with the phone falling on top of
her. “ Help!” Jubilee screamed into the phone receiver, not
waiting for the front desk to pick up. She saw that the skin
on her leg where the tendril had touched her had exploded
outward, as if a microscopic firecracker had been implanted
under her skin and detonated.
“ Firecrackers, huh?” she asked herself as she watched
the thing still pulling itself through the spaces between the
window panes, still reaching for her. “Two can play at that
game, Sparky,” she answered herself, pointing at the bizarre
phantom and letting her m utant ability handle the rest.
Bursts of brightly colored energy shot from her out-

238
 ORDER non ( HAOS
stretched hand and exploded in and around the faceless
thing. Jubilee was used to seeing the bright flashes of her
infamous “ energy plasmoids”—they’d saved her skin on
more than one occasion—but right now the dazzling display
was making it hard to see what (if any) effect her attack had
had on the creature.
“Hello?” the front desk clerk’s voice came through on
the phone, in heavily accented English. “What is going on
up there?”
“Your freakin’ see-through curtains are tryin’ to eat me,
dude!” Jubilee yelled back into the mouthpiece, ceasing fire
and trying to see if the phantom was still there. “If you’ve
got cops in this town, you better send for ’em, pronto!”
The confused clerk started asking more questions, but
Jubilee had stopped listening as she let the receiver drop to
the carpeted floor. The barely discernible phantom had
been blown into several chunks by her onslaught of
“fireworks”—and now they were all converging on her!
To the chaos spirit, Jubilation Lee was nothing more than a stream
of data that was to be moved to another section of the master equa­
tion. From the spirit’s purely mathematical point of view, she was
a virus in the program of reality itself. The chaos spirit had only
one goal— to rewrite the code of Jubilation Lee so that she would
function, not as a living, breathing, active variable, but as a dead,
cold zero.
“ Cornin’ through!” Jubilee’s voice pierced the early-
evening bustle in the hotel lobby. “Heads up!”
Heads obligingly turned as Jubilee, still clad in her over­
sized sweatshirt and firing barrage after barrage of fireworks

m
 Jilt ULTIMATE X It ED

behind her, blew into the main lobby, still pursued by the
indistinct, globulous thing. The tourists and native Egyp­
tians, seeing explosions and fearing terrorist gunplay,
screamed and scattered or dropped down behind furniture.
Jubilee’s eyes had started to adjust to the thing’s energy
signature; she could see it more easily now. She knew that
it always coalesced back into its original single form no mat­
ter how many times she tried to blow it apart. And she knew
that it was moving a lot faster, here in the open air, than it
had been when trying to sift itself through the hotel room
window.
It was faster than Jubilee, and she knew that too.
Her only chance was to somehow find Storm. Once Ju­
bilee got outside, she could send up a fireworks flare as high
as possible, and hope that Ororo saw it from wherever she
was.
The thing touched Jubilee again, and the back of her
neck erupted in pain—she could feel blood trickling down
her neck and back. She instinctively threwTherself forward
onto the marble floor, rolled once, and fired back with her
maximum-force fireworks. The detonation was deafening,
like a small bomb. The thing was shredded-—along with
most of the front lobby. Jubilee herself was blown backwards
along the floor, toward the front doors. More screams from
terrified tourists followed the still-echoing reverberations of
the blast.
Jubilee, holding the back of her neck and applying pres­
sure to stop the bleeding, staggered out through one of the
hotel’s revolving front doors. Once outside, she risked a
glance behind her, and saw that the thing was again reform-

240
 ORDER EROK CHAOS
ing itself. She had perhaps ten seconds before it would be
back on her.
Gathering her strength, Jubilee raised both arms sky­
ward and fired off one huge fireball toward the sky. She
mentally willed it to keep rising as high as possible before
detonating in a dazzling burst of color about two hundred
feet in the air.
She looked back toward the hotel, and saw that the
whatever-it-was had already reassembled itself, and was ooz­
ing through the cracks in a revolving door.
She staggered across the Corniche, dimly aware of the
cars honking and steering crazily to avoid hitting her. She
ducked into an alley, hoping it wasn’t a dead end.
The alley led onto a quiet side-street, but Jubilee knew
she was running out of time. She didn’t even risk looking
behind her, for fear it would slow her down. Instead, she
left a trail of exploding fireworks behind her as she ran,
hoping it would slow the pursuit, but knowing that the thing
was recovering from the blasts at an ever-increasing rate.
“Storm!” Jubilee called hoarsely, dodging into another
alley, emerging onto another road. “ Storrrrm!” she
screamed, not wanting to die alone on these unfamiliar
streets, so far from home. Hearing no response, she risked
a quick look over her shoulder, and noted with some satis­
faction that it was still a good thirty feet behind her.
Jubilee suddenly cried out in pain as her shin smashed
into a garbage can and she went sprawling onto the cobble­
stone sidewalk. The early evening sky whirled crazily above
her as she rolled painfully onto her back. She tried to scrab­
ble to her feet, already knowing that it was over, she was
dead—

241
 I tit U l I M A I t im

—and then she noticed the hooded figure in white des­

ert robes standing right next to her. But rather than run
away from her as everyone else on the street had been do­
ing, this person stepped between Jubilee and the rapidly
approaching energy, as if to intervene.
“Wait, you don’t know what you’re doing— ” Jubilee
started to warn.
“Yes, I do, child,” a woman’s voice answered sternly
from under the hood, in English laced with a slight Egyp­
tian accent. “Now, stay down!”
Dumbfounded, Jubilee complied—not that she was in
any shape to do much else—as the thing moved ever closer
to them. The robed woman raised her right arm toward it,
and Jubilee thought she might’ve been holding something
in her hand.
As her pursuer approached within five feet, a series of
bright white lines began forming in the air, all seemingly
emanating from the woman’s right palm. More and more
straight lines burned themselves into the air, forming a ge­
ometrically perfect spiderweblike pattern between the
women and the indistinct energy form, which stopped its
forward movement and hovered in the air before the grow­
ing web of light.
The lines continued to appear, now reaching up and
around the thing to form a more three-dimensional pat­
tern—like old-style computer graphics, Jubilee thought
numbly. There were dozens of lines, then scores, then hun­
dreds, creating a delicate-looking cage of light around the
now-motionless phantom.
A tendril of energy extended from the creature between
the “bars” of its rapidly forming cage, almost experimen-

242
 ORDER E ROn CflAOS
tally—and was abrupdy recoiled. The light-cage continued
to form around it. Then, finally complete in breathtakingly
perfect symmetry, the cage began to shrink.
Jubilee slowly got to her feet, awed by the clashing of
forces she did not comprehend. The cage’s rate of implo­
sion seemed to increase exponentially, until it winked out
of existence in a pinpoint of light, apparently taking its pris­
oner with it.
“Wicked,” Jubilee muttered, looking at the mysterious
woman as she pulled back her hood to reveal a beautiful
Egyptian with pitch-black eyes and matching long hair.
“Thanks, I don’t know how you knew about— ”
“I’m O roro’s friend, Alia Taymur,” the woman an­
swered solemnly. “You must be Jubilee. I had hoped we
wouldn’t meet this way.”
“ Hey, better this way than at the funeral parlor,” Jubilee
answered ruefully, holding out her right hand to Alia, then
pulling it back on finding that it was covered in her own
blood, “ (jeez.”
Alia held out in her right palm the object with which
she had subdued the energy thing. Jubilee could now see
that it was a flat stone disc, an ancient artifact of some kind
inscribed with Egyptian hieroglyphics. It had four hooklike
extensions that fit between the fingers of Alia’s hand, allow­
ing her to hold on to it even when her palm was open.
Alia held the artifact close to Jubilee, who assumed the
woman was simply showing it to her. But then Alia whis­
pered something in a language Jubilee hadn’t heard before,
not even in the cacophony of the bazaar. Jubilee pulled
back slightiy as the enigmatic symbols on the disc’s face

m
 THE U L T I H M X HEH
glowed with the same bright white intensity that the cage
had emitted earlier—then faded back to ordinary stone.
Jubilee looked at her right hand again. It was clean. She
felt the back of her neck, and found no trace of the wound
that had been stinging only moments before. Her leg, too,
had been miraculously healed, and her black tights had
been repaired.
“What the— ” Jubilee marveled. “How’d you do that?
W hat’s goin’ on here?”
“The fractal disc can be used to retroactively alter very
small, simple variables in the equation of reality—especially
those that were artificially manipulated in the first place,”
Alia answered. “Because the chaos spirit was unable to alter
any major variables, I can cancel most of the minor ones
out.”
“Right, should’ve known,” Jubilee said with mild sar­
casm. “And as for w'hat’s going on . . . ?”
“We’ll go to the rendezvous point first,” Alia answered,
taking Jubilee by the arm and leading her into a dark alley.
“Once Ororo’s joined us, I’ll be able to tell you both why
I need your help.”
“Why you need our help, huh?” Jubilee asked ironically,
rubbing the back of her neck again.
Jubilee pulled her hands into the long sleeves of her sweat­
shirt and shivered a little, sitting cross-legged on the dock
and looking out onto the Nile. She couldn’t believe how a
city that was so hot by day could be so chilly by night; in
this respect, Cairo was even worse than the Australian out­
back, where she had lived alongside the X-Men for a while.
It was about ten-thirty at night, and Storm and Alia

m
 ORDER fROfl CHAOS
were just ending their trip down Memory Lane, and none
too soon for Jubilee. She had listened at first to the street-
urchin tales of wonder and woe, but talking over old times
and old friends quickly loses its appeal if you weren’t actu­
ally there in the first place.
According to Storm, she had returned to the hotel and
found no evidence of the damage caused by Jubilee’s en­
counter with the thing that Alia called a “ chaos spirit”—
just a missing Jubilee. Alia had apparently used that disc of
hers to undo most of the aftereffects of the chase, and had
also left a phone message at the front desk letting Storm
know that Jubilee was safe.
Alia’s stern m anner was replaced by childlike giddiness
when Storm showed up at the preappointed meeting place
on the docks of the river. Storm, too, let a good portion of
her guard down upon seeing her childhood friend. They
had written each other a few letters over the years, but that
didn’t mean there wasn’t a lot of catching up to be done.
And that’s what the two old pickpocket partners had been
doing for the past half hour, talking and laughing while
Jubilee pretended to listen and stared out at the dark sur­
face of the river.
She wished she had had such a girlfriend when she had
been younger—or even now, for that matter. It seemed like
such a special kind of friendship, but female bonding was
something that Jubilee’s childhood as a homeless mutant
orphan in Beverly Hills hadn’t lent itself to. Even now, the
only person who seemed to really understand Jubilee was
Logan, the berserker m utant who called himself Wolverine.
And what did that say about Jubilee?
“All right, enough old stories, Alia,” Storm decided, no-

245
 THE UlTlflATE M I E H
ticing Jubilee’s uncharacteristically quiet demeanor. “We
need to talk about why you asked me out here.”
“You’re right,” Alia admitted, the smile fading from her
face and her big dark eyes looking down almost in shame.
“It’s just—I’ve been facing this alone for so long, it’s so
nice to have someone to talk to.”
Jubilee looked over at Alia again. Maybe they were more
alike than Jubes had realized.
“It’s all right, Alia,” Storm comforted her. “But I don’t
want to wait for another of those so-called ‘chaos spirits’ to
come looking for us.”
“There are far worse things that could come looking,
believe m e,” Alia answered, meeting her friend’s eyes again
with her own. “ Over the past three months, I’ve fought off
a bizarre array of these ‘mathemagical’ creatures, as I call
them. In fact, I had to delay our meeting tonight in order
to deal with one of them. And they’re all after this,” she
added, holding out the fractal disc she had used to save
Jubilee.
“Can you tell us what that thing is, now?” Jubilee asked,
not unkindly but a little impatiently. She didn’t want to wait
for another creature to show up, either.
“I’ve had this artifact for nearly twenty years,” Alia told
them while running her fingers over the disc’s engraved
hieroglyphics. “ I lifted it off a man who must’ve been an
archaeologist. When I first saw it, I figured it was just some
kind of souvenir. I knew el-Gibar would have no use for it,
and I thought it might come in handy as a concealed
weapon,” she said, palming the disc and swinging her open
hand in the air to demonstrate its damage potential.
“Sensible,” Ororo commented, to Jubilee’s surprise.

m
 ORDER f R O H CHAOS
She still wasn’t used to seeing this side of Storm. “Almost
invisible until it’s being used.”
“Exacdy,” Alia agreed. “It was only later, when I was
studying the physics of chaotic systems, that I saw an article
theorizing that the ancient Egyptians had dabbled in some
kind of supernatural approach to chaos theory.”
“I’ve heard of that, but I never really got it,” Jubilee
broke in. “Fractals and stuff like that, right? What is chaos
theory, anyway?”
“It’s a new kind of science that helps us understand the
properties of irregular fluctuations in nature,” Alia told her,
as if reading from a mathematics texts. ‘A chaotic system is
simply one that’s sensitive to initial conditions. For example,
the Earth’s weather systems are chaotic—that’s why they’re
so hard to predict.”
“Because there are so many variables?” Storm asked,
also curious.
“That, and the fact that even the slightest miscalculation
at the outset will lead to results that diverge farther and
farther from what you predicted,” Alia explained. “For ex­
ample, a butterfly flapping its wings on the United States’
west coast might have what appears to be an infinitesimally
small effect on the weather system there, correct?”
“A butterfly?” Jubilee asked, chuckling despite herself.
“Yeah, I think you could pretty much count that effect as
being zero.”
“Ah, but you can’t,” Alia told her with a smile. “The
effect might be almost zero, and totally negligible for all in­
tents and purposes right there and then. But the slight
breeze from its wings would affect the air molecules around
it, which would in turn slightly alter the courses of the air

m
 TIE ULTIMATE X HEfl
molecules next to them, and so on. By the time a month
had passed and the weather system had made its way around
the world and back, that slight change in initial conditions
could’ve helped cause a thunderstorm that would otherwise
never have happened.”
“Whoa,” Jubilee said. “Heaviness.”
“That’s why, despite all our recent advances with satel­
lites and radar technologies, weather prediction beyond a
day or two will never be one hundred percent accurate, nor
even come close. It’s impossible to know all the starting
variables to an infinite degree—and even the slightest mis­
calculation on Monday can grow to a huge miscalculation
by Friday.”
“ So it is just a theory,” Storm concluded, “with little
practical basis in reality.”
“ Scientists are still exploring the ways chaos theory can
be applied to help our understanding of turbulent systems
like the weather, electrical currents, heart arrythmia, epilep­
tic seizures, the movement of the planets. . . . ” Alia an­
swered, trailing off.
‘‘But what does that have to do with this disc, and with
that thing that came after me?” Jubilee asked impatiendy.
She had never been much of a math whiz.
“Like I was saying, I did some research and found that
the ancient Egyptians w'ere apparently dabbling in this area
over two thousand years ago,” Alia told them. “They had
more of a supernatural approach, of course, but I believe it
all comes down to the ability to comprehend and actually
rewrite the mathematical code that we call reality. ’’
“Mathematical code?” Storm asked. “I don’t under­
stand.”

248
 ORDER FROM CHAOS
“If you accept that all matter in the entire universe is
composed of atoms and subatomic structures that follow
very strict physical laws,” Alia continued, “ then it’s possible
to see those atoms as being numbers in a huge cosmic equa­
tion, which all fit together to form what we perceive as re­
ality. Now, if it were possible to read those numbers, to see
the equation, to understand the mathematics of it— ”
“You could change some of the numbers and alter re­
ality?” Jubilee finished. “Wow.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Alia contended. “Both you and
Ororo display m utant powers that may very well be tapping
into this ‘mathemagical’ sphere of influence. Especially you,
Ororo—your ability to affect a chaotic system like the
weather may involve your m utant x-factor helping you ret­
roactively change initial conditions on a truly cosmic scale.”
“Intriguing,” Storm admitted, “but you still haven’t told
us who—or what—is sending these creatures after you and
that artifact.”
“I believe it’s an American archaeologist named Damian
Sharpe,” Alia answered.
“Damian? Ooh, that’s a bad Omen,” Jubilee joked half­
heartedly.
“There are a total of ten fractal talismans listed in the
historical records,” Alia continued. “Over the past decade,
Sharpe has been involved in the recovery7of the other nine.
It’s said that the talismans can’t be destroyed by conven­
tional means—that if you try to do so, they’ll simply reap­
pear someplace else. That’s why I haven’t just thrown this
disc away or smashed it—it’d show up somewhere else, and
h e’d find it. He only lacks this one. And he’s willing to do
almost anything to get it.”

m
 THE OLTIflATE MIEN
“Why?” Storm pressed. “What will he do?”
“If he’s able to bring all ten talismans together?” Alia
asked ruefully. “Anything he wants, O roro.”
He was just about to call it a night, when they silently beck­
oned to him.
His candles were extinguished and packed, the nine tal­
ismans were safely stored in his beaten-up leather backpack,
and Damian Sharpe had concluded that the numbers fa­
vored a morning attempt to rework the variables. He was
just opening the door to his dirt-encrusted Jeep, knowing
that tonight’s failure to eliminate one of the strange attrac­
tors would make tomorrow’s efforts doubly challenging.
But the talismans called to him in a way they never had
before. Something was happening, the numbers were
changing, right now.
He looked up at the stars, and for a moment just stood
there in the deep desert, dumbfounded. It appeared as
though some cosmic prankster had decided to draw lines
between the stars—as if to give official weight to the ancient
astrological signs that had been founded so close to this very
site, in ancient Babylon, thousands of years before.
Then he realized the lines were not in fact connecting
the stars, but were coalescing into a geometically perfect
pattern, which was growing and moving directly toward
him.
The tenth talisman, he realized in awe, dropping his back­
pack and fumbling to get it open. She’s bringing it right to me!
He yanked the bag open, and was surprised to see that
the stone artifacts were glowing with an eerie green light.
He reached for the largest of them, the fractal breastplate—

250
 O R D E R f R O U CHAOS

—and was smashed backward as the glowing flat stone

flew out of the backpack and into his chest!
Burning, screaming, Sharpe was only dimly aware of the
other talismans also impossibly leaping toward him nothing
is impossible painfully grafting themselves to his knees, el­
bows, waist pain is mere perception feeling his conventional
grasp of reality fade an illusion no more real than a picture on
TV overwhelmed by his dream-state image of the master
equation.
The numbers continued to change.
“There he is!” Jubilee yelled to Storm and Alia as the three
women floated high above the craggy desert. “ Gotta be,
right?”
Storm concentrated on keeping her compatriots and
herself afloat on mutant-controlled desert winds as they fol­
lowed the geometric light pattern emitted by Alia’s fractal
disc. The talisman was building a bridge of light across the
sky, a fiery white latticework that was leading them toward
a glowing green figure wTithing on the ground, next to a
Jeep parked near the entrance to some kind of archaeolog­
ical dig.
“It looks like he is in pain,” Storm observed as they
descended on Damian Sharpe’s twitching body. Nine glow­
ing stone talismans were attached—no, fused to him: a hel­
met, a breastplate, a backplate, shin-and thigh-guards, a
medallion at his throat, and a fractal disc identical to Alia’s
in his left palm. “A lia. . . ?” Storm started to ask.
But Alia was screaming, her right palm crisping as her
fractal disc began to glow with the same green energy that
was emanating from Sharpe’s adornments. “Their energy is

251
 I E ULIIHATE X-HEfl
building,” Alia managed to choke out as the women landed
and Storm caught Alia before she fell to the ground. “ Can’t
hold out long before they’re drawn together.”
Sharpe stopped twitching. He leapt to his feet with un­
natural speed and agility, turning to face the newcomers.
His body seethed and crackled with green energy, and the
talismans on his body now resembled the ancient Egyptian
battle armor after which they had obviously been patterned.
“It’s sucked him in,” Alia explained, fighting the green
energy creeping up her right arm. “H e’s lost all sense of
reality—all he sees is the equation! And if he gets the last
talisman, he’ll be able to change it in any way he wants!”
“Then he shall not have it,” Storm declared. She raised
an arm toward Sharpe and, like Zeus himself, fired off a
lightning bolt. But the jagged arc of electricity somehow
raced around Sharpe’s body, as if purposely avoiding him.
Or as if its trajectory had been recalculated at the last
millisecond.
“That can’t be good,” Jubilee said, trying to blitz Sharpe
with a barrage of fireworks—but they exploded almost im­
mediately after Jubilee created them, blowing the surprised
teen off her feet and temporarily blinding her.
(Sharpe laughed maniacally, watching the numbers change
and shift light before him. It was within his grasp, he could almost
taste full comprehension of the equation— if he could just remove
those annoying extra variables. . . . )
Raising the fractal disc in his left hand, Sharpe aimed it
at Storm and Alia and released a cone-shaped beam of en­
ergy with the same liquid-air consistency of the chaos spirit
that had chased Jubilee earlier. Alia quickly countered with
a spiderweb shield, which seemed to absorb the assault. But

m
 O R D E R f R O U ( tl AOS
Alia screamed in pain as the talisman’s green energy con­
tinued to flow up her arm. She was losing the ability to hang
on to reality.
Storm floated up into the air again, and summoned a
gale-force wind to blow7 Sharpe back. But he seemed totally
unaffected by it, as if the air itself were moving around him,
not into him. Jubilee risked another volley of fireworks, with
no discernible effect on their opponent. Seemingly oblivi­
ous to the m utant heroines and their desperate attacks, he
started walking toward Alia.
He fired another energy beam at her, and she blocked
it with another spider-web shield—but just barely. Though
her knowledge of mathematics served her well, Alia still pos­
sessed only one of the talismans, against the combined
power of Sharpe’s nine. And she somehow sensed that the
artifacts wanted to come together—they hungered to rewrite
the equation of reality, over and over, forever.
In a last-ditch effort, Storm used her control over the
wind to lift Sharpe’s Jeep into the air, then brought it crash­
ing down on him. “Nowr, Jubilee!” Storm called, and the
teen launched a maximum-power fireburst into the twisted
wreckage, detonating it from within. The vehicle’s gas tank
ignited, answering Jubilee’s controlled explosion with an
even louder one.
Ororo bent the winds, protecting Alia, Jubilee, and her­
self from the flying metal shrapnel. The wind also served to
blow away the smoke that enshrouded the remains of the
Jeep.
And, glowing more brighdy than ever, Damian Sharpe
emerged smiling from the wreck, reaching for Alia with his
left hand. A tendril of bright green energy started to form

253
 Tilt U L T I H M M l til
in the air between his fractal disc and Alia’s. Still fighting
the energy of the talisman in her right hand, Alia started
reluctantly to stagger toward him.
“We’ve got to get you out of here!” Storm realized,
swooping down on Alia to lift her away. “Come on!”
“No!” Alia protested, grabbing hold of Storm’s arm and
forcing her hand dowrn to touch the fractal disc. Storm
screamed, as much from the intense supernatural heat as
from the thought that one of her oldest friends was betray­
ing her to chaos itself!
Storm gasped, unable to remove her hand from the
blinding disc. Reality started to warp, twist, become a
strange mass of color. She felt sick as her perceptions
lurched and shifted to another plane.
She felt light. Saw silence. Heard coldness. Sensed noth­
ing but variables, numbers, possibilities. They would drown
her before she could comprehend them.
She tried to focus on the familiar. The sun. The rain.
The wind.
Just more numbers.
She cried out in despair, unable to accept a universe
laid bare to its pure mathematical core. No beauty, no
grace, no justice. Just numbers. Her very soul rebelled, with­
drew, surrendered, inverted.
Sun. Rain. Wind. Nothing but numbers.
She was drowning.
But she would not die like this! She would not be can­
celled, rounded down, written off. The world may have
been nothing more than a massive equation on God’s
pocket calculator—but she was more than that. She was
alive!

254
 O R D E R FROM CHAOS
She shifted the numbers then, feeling the rush she knew
so well, the rush of wind through her hair. She was Storm.
Chaos knew enough to arrange itself to her liking.
Now she saw the nine offending points of light. They
had possessed a man, driven him to madness, used his body
as a conduit through which they could infect reality.
He wasn’t the target. They were.
She reached for their numbers, too, and told them
where to go.
They hissed in protest.
“Hey, I think she’s waking up,” Jubilee noted with a smile.
“Looks like we get our lift home, after all.”
“Ororo?” Alia called gentiy to her, as she lifted her
head slowly from the sandy rock. “Praise Allah.”
“Yeah, all’a that,” Jubilee said, bending over Storm.
“You okay, chief?”
“I—I believe I am,” Storm ventured, never more
pleased to see Jubilee’s mischievously smiling face. She sat
up, trying to figure out just what had happened.
“You used Alia’s disc to eighty-six all of Sharpe’s little
toys,” Jubilee answered O roro’s unspoken query. “Don’t
know how you did it, Storm, but it was rad.”
“I’m not sure how I did it, either,” Storm admitted,
allowing Alia and Jubilee to help her to her feet. Alia’s right
arm was back to normal, and the fractal disc—no longer
glowing—lay on the ground, looking much like the inno­
cent desert souvenir for which Alia Taymur had first
mistaken it.
Storm looked around for Sharpe, but there was nothing.
Not even a body. “What happened to him?” Storm asked.

255
 THE UlTIMATE X-HEH
“We were hoping you could tell us that,” Alia admitted.
“With your natural ability to affect chaotic systems, Ororo,
I suspected you would have greater control over the fractal
talismans than either Sharpe or I ever could. You’d only
been touching the disc for a second when a flash of light
shot out from my disc and into Sharpe. Then he was gone
with the talismans, and you were unconscious.”
Storm struggled to piece her memory together. Here in
the world of flesh, form, and feeling, it wras already hard to
shift her perceptions back to the nightmarish digital world
that had almost swallowed her soul. “I—I believe I used the
fractal disc to retroactively eliminate the other nine artifacts
from ever having been constructed,” she said. “It couldn’t
affect or unmake itself, but at least the threat is largely di­
minished.”
“What about Sharpe?” Jubilee wanted to know. “Is he
toast, or—?”
“I think I simply ‘reset’ him, Jubilee,” Storm recalled.
“H e’s alive, out there somewhere. None of this ever hap­
pened to him. H e’s never heard of the chaos talismans, be­
cause the only one that ever existed is that one.” She
pointed at the stone disc on the ground.
Alia picked it up and studied its encrypted surface, as
she had done a thousand times before. “So there’s no way
to eliminate this last one,” she ventured. “I guess I’m stuck
with the last fractal artifact in the world.”
“The only one,” Storm corrected. “ Most people would
have a hard time using it to predict or control the lottery
numbers, let alone alter reality to their liking,” she said.
“But in the wrong hands, its power could still be more than
a little dangerous.”

256
 ORDER n o n (NA05

“Then I’ll have to protect it vigorously, and use it wisely,

eh?” Alia smiled at the two mutants. “Maybe that break­
through in accurate wreather prediction is just around the
corner.”
Storm laughed, sweeping her arm in the air and sum­
moning a wind gust that lifted the three women into the
cool night air, back toward Cairo.

2)1
 HOSTAQtS

). Steven York
Illustration by Ralph Reese
T
he hunt. Logan paused at the edge of a snow-covered
meadow, his body motionless yet tensed. All his senses
were sharp, hyperaware. The golden light of morning
filtered through the last remains of the clouds that had
posited the snow late the previous night, traces of tiny fo
prints left by birds and other small animals, and a well-wo
scar of a game trail, where a herd of deer must have recen
passed. He sniffed, breathing their lingering musk, the
sweetness of spruce and evergreen, and the cool, fresh smell
of the snow itself.
He sniffed again. There. He sorted though the scents:
rabbit, field mouse, the overpowering musk of deer, and
there, nearly lost in the riot of nature—a hint of herbal
shampoo, a floral perfume, and human sweat. Prey.
He quickened his pace, cold air burning in his lungs,
snow crunching softly under his boots, hands out and ready,
the corded muscles in his arms—the ones that would pop
his razor claws out through the backs of his hands—flexing
unconsciously, teasing just short of the release point.
The hunt. This was when he felt truly alive, when he
could shed the tangled life of the man called Logan like an
ill-fitted coat and earn his other name: Wolverine.
The trail followed the deer path, and even his keen
senses were able to follow it only in spots, like an invisible
dotted line across the snow-covered fields. Then, the dots
came closer, stronger, not just perfume and sweat, but the
new leather of her shoes, the worn denim of her jeans.
He climbed the tree quickly, quietly, careful not to dis­
turb the snow-laden branches. The woman was there,
crouched in a clearing, throwing out handfuls of seed to

261
 THE UITIHS1E M l EH
hungry birds. She was beautiful, long red hair spilling over
the fleece collar of her coat. Though a few flakes of snow
had begun falling, none of it seemed to touch her, as
though nature itself stood in awe of the woman.
Wolverine was not immune to her charms. He watched,
transfixed, and took a deep breath, softly releasing it, before
popping his claws. The sting of the blades piercing his skin
brought his instincts back to razor clarity. He judged the
distance to the woman, and tensed to leap.
Just then, the woman smiled without turning, and he
felt a familiar touch inside his mind. You really didn’t think
you could sneak up on a telepath, did you, Logan ?
He relaxed and sheathed his claws. “Least you could
have done, Jean darlin’, was to let me tag off and say,
‘You’re it.’ Some things, the Danger Room just ain’t no
good for practicing. Did you follow that deer trail on pur­
pose? If so, I give you credit for good instincts.”
Jean turned toward him and laughed softly, her eyes
twinkling with inner light. Come down so we can talk.
An invisible force tingled around Logan, and he felt
himself lifted from the tree, to float, softly down next to
Jean.
“I’ll confess, you did surprise me, at least in that I didn’t
expect to see you, or anyone, out here. How did you find
me?”
“I got back from Muir Island and the mansion was
empty, but I found your note and figured I’d just missed
you.”
“But I just said I was going out for a few7hours. I didn’t
say where, and we’re miles from the mansion.”
“ Charley’s Rolls was missing, so I figured you took it. 1

m
 HOSTAGES
called the cell phone in the car, and back-traced the signal.
A little spy trick I picked up from Nick Fury.” He looked
down at the birds. Frightened by his presence, they hopped
skittishly away from the bounty of seed on the snow. “You
come here often?”
She brushed her hair back around her right ear and
gazed off at the horizon. “Sometimes, when the Institute
becomes too familiar, and the din of telepathic voices in my
head unbearable, I come out here to be alone, to escape,
and to think. Our lives— ” the words seemed to catch in
her throat “—our lives are so full of chaos and horror.
There’s so little time to think and reflect. I need this time
alone.”
Logan suddenly felt like an intruder. He still had feel­
ings for Jean, feelings that had led him to her on the chance
they could spend some time alone together. Now it seemed
that he’d invaded something important and private. “Hey,
I didn’t know. I got stuff to do back at the ranch.”
He started to turn, but she reached out to touch his arm.
“No, stay. This is a wild place, as much yours as mine.” She
smiled. “I’d be glad to share it with a friend.”
Logan hesitated. What could he read into that touch?
Had there been something in her eyes, something in her
voice? Jean was married to Scott now, but he knew their
attraction had once been mutual. There was a dark aspect
to Jean not unlike his own. Had he only imagined this new
spark between them? For all his hypersenses, he couldn’t
read minds.
“Walk with m e,” she said.
They were silent for a while. The hunt was over for now,
the hunter’s sensibilities submerged. Now he could see the

263
 THE UlTIH AT E X-HCH

forest through Jean’s eyes, the white blanketed hills, the

snow-draped trees, the soft sound of the wind. It relaxed
him, and heightened his awareness of Jean. Her sidelong
glances created an uncomfortable tension. “We really are
alone out here,” he said.
She glanced around casually, her eyes focused on infin­
ity, and he knew that she was telepathically scanning their
surroundings. “There’s only one person within three miles
of us—a hiker.” Her smile flashed and boiled over into a
laugh. “It’s just so quiet. I can hear myself think, Logan. I
wonder if you can even know what I’m feeling.”
But he did, or thought he did, the way he felt sometimes
when he escaped the cacophony of human civilization for
the wild places.
“I can relax for once,” she went on, “let down my psy­
chic shields and . . . ”
Logan wasn’t looking at her the precise instant she
screamed, his gaze having drifted to the trail ahead. His
reaction was instant and automatic, his claws out and up,
flashing in the sun as he spun, seeking the threat. But there
was nothing, only Jean on her knees in the snowT, sobbing
in horror, and staring at her empty hands.
“No,” she said, “no.” Abruptly, she seemed to remem­
ber herself. “We’re too late!”
She reached up and clutched his forearm. W hether it
was to calm him, for comfort, or to help pull herself back
to her feet, he couldn’t be sure. She stood, wobbling for a
moment, then she began to run, unsteadily at first, then
faster. “This way!”
Logan followed, more out of concern for her than any­
thing else. They were running toward nothing as far as he

264
 ItOSIAOfS
could tell, a section of tree line like any other, about a quar­
ter mile distant. They’d covered perhaps a dozen yards
when Logan felt the familiar tingling around him, and the
snow fell away under his feet. Whatever had happened to
Jean, she was recovering. They soared over the tree line and
a ridge beyond. He could see the highway curving ahead
where he’d left his Jeep.
They dropped down near a junction between two hiking
paths, both well marked with fresh prints and the tracks of
cross-country skis. But Logan’s attention w'as drawn imme­
diately to a dark heap just visible in the shadow of a trail
marker, half under the low limbs of an evergreen. It looked
like nothing, perhaps a pile of rags, but it was the smell. He
signaled Jean to stay back as he crouched by the body. It
was a young woman in her twenties, small build, red hair
only a shade or two darker than Jean’s. Someone, some­
thing, had gutted her like a fish. She’d been dead only a
few minutes.
There was no helping her. He could only find the killer.
Now that he knew what to look for, the trail should be easy.
The killer would be covered in fresh blood, a strong smell,
easy to track. It took only a moment to pick it up and follow
it up the trail toward the highway. He zigzagged up the trail
like a bloodhound on the scent, moving rapidly because
there were few places where the killer could part from the
trail without leaving obvious tracks.
Then Logan stopped, puzzled, and doubled back for a
few yards. He sniffed deeply. The blood trail was fading,
almost gone. But that was impossible. Blood is not easily
washed off. It should remain in the clothes, the hair, the
skin, under the nails. Nevertheless it was fading, and what

265
 T H E U L T I M A T E X-MEII

remained under it was strange and difficult to follow, a faint

tang of human sweat, adrenaline, ozone, and an undeniable
something else.
Logan knew he was losing time. Ignoring caution, he
charged ahead, checking the scent only w7hen there was a
very obvious possibility the killer could have left the trail.
Better to risk a chance of losing him than the certainty of
falling hopelessly behind.
He went on for several minutes until the trees thinned
ahead, and he heard the sound of a truck downshifting on
the highway. It was then he knew he was too late. The trail
ended in a roadside turnout, at fresh tire tracks and a fading
cloud of exhaust fumes. “Damn,” he said, the word swal­
lowed in a sudden gust of frigid wind.
He was worried that Jean hadn’t contacted him tele-
pathically, and it was some relief when he found her kneel­
ing quietly by the body.
She looked up at him, the tear streaks already drying on
her cheeks, a burning anger in her eyes. “Her name was
Petra. I was in her mind when she died.” She swallowed,
struggling for control. “It isn’t the first time, but you can’t
imagine anything more terrible. I saw her killer, a big man,
silver hair, with— ” her brow furrowed, as though she were
trying to remember the image “—knives of green fire.”
Logan knelt next to her. “I lost him. He took a car. No
way to track him on the highway. You sure about those
knives?” The look in her eyes said she was very sure. He
nodded. “It would fit. This ain’t no ordinary killer, that’s
for sure.”
“I couldn’t read him, Logan, not at all. I didn’t even
know he was here until the moment he struck. Then it was

m
 ilOSTAOfS
as if a cloak were thrown aside for a moment, just for a
m om ent.”
“You get anything?”
She frowned. “It was confusing, not like one person, but
several voices, three or four, talking at once, some to me,
some among themselves. It was all a jumble, so difficult to
sort out. One of them is a killer, a serial killer, and he’ll kill
again. One of them, well, I think our killer may have a hos­
tage, Logan. And this was the really strange thing. I’d swear
that one of them, only one of them, was a m utant.”
They returned to Logan’s Jeep and called the state police
from his cell phone. Jean knew someone in the department,
a woman whose brother was a low-level mutant, to whom
she could tell their whole story with some expectation of
being believed.
She clicked off the phone and looked at Logan.
“ Drive,” she said. “We can’t leave this to the police.”
He looked up and down the empty highway. “Which
way?”
“ There are only two to choose from.” She hesitated only
a moment before glancing back over her shoulder. “That
way. ’’
He was already turning. “You know something, darlin’?”
“I’m just guessing, Logan. Fifty-fifty chance, and God
forgive me if I’m wrong.”
Logan drove as fast as he dared on the slick road. The
Jeep was surefooted but top heavy like most four-by-fours.
He knew its limitations, and pushed every one. What he
didn’t know was where they were going, or what they were

m
 THE i L f l H A T E X-HEH

looking for. He glanced over at Jean, uncertain if she was

scanning, or just watching the scenery.
“ My friend on the state police said there were three
other killings in this part of the state last year, all outdoors,
all around the time of the first heavy snow. Not as brutal as
what we just saw, and no evidence of anything supernatural
or superhuman, b u t. . . these crimes often escalate as the
killer gains confidence. The police considered the idea that
there was a new serial killer operating, but they found no
solid evidence to link them, and the files are still open.”
The sun flashed through the trees into her eyes, making
her blink and turn away. “The code name on the file is
‘Snowman.’ ”
“Well, when we meet the devil, at least we know what
to call him. ’’ Logan tapped an index finger against his tem­
ple. “You gettin’ anything?*’
She shook her head. “I can’t read him, Logan. Maybe
he was distracted by bloodlust and lowered his defenses for
a m om ent.”
“Great. So all we gotta do is wait for someone else to
get killed.” He saw the hurt in her eyes, and regretted his
words immediately. “Sorry, darlin’. I know you’re doing the
best you can.”
She put her fingertips over her mouth. “Unless,” she
said. “Unless. I said there were several voices. One was a
killer, one was a hostage, the others, I’m not sure about.
It’s like one of them might be trying to help us.”
Logan shook his head. “None of this makes sense. I
followed one trail back to the highway. He didn’t have a
flamin’ entourage with him .”

265
 HOSTAGES

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure,

Logan?”
And of course, he wasn’t. The scent had been strange,
unlike anything he’d encountered before. There had been
that extra something he’d detected, but still only one trail
of scent. “If there was more than one, they must have been
ridin’ piggyback.”
“I have another idea, too, about how7 the Snowman
picks his victims. Some killers go for a particular physical
type—children, or women with long, straight hair—but
there was nothing like that in the first three killings. Differ­
ent sexes, different ages, but I do see something now they
may have missed. All of them could be seen as weak or
infirm in some way. The last victim was a small woman. One
of the earlier ones was in a wheelchair, another an old man
with a cane, and so on. For all his apparent power, he preys
on the weakest. . . ” Just then she glanced up.
“ Logan, stop!”
He slammed on the brakes, and the Jeep w^ent into a
four-w7heel skid. He turned with it, powering it through a
full circle. For a m om ent he thought they’d get to try out
the roll bar, then they w7ere stopped, right in the middle of
a five-way intersection. He spun his head from side to side,
looking both for cross traffic and less conventional threats,
“m a t? ”
Jean already had the door open, and had dropped to
the icy pavement. “I know this. I’ve seen it before through
someone else’s eyes. No, not seen; remembered, or maybe
thought. That jumble of images I saw—this was one of
them, not a memory, but a plan. He came this way and

m
 the u m n i T f i - m

turned.” She turned in a complete circle, looking down

each road. “But which way?”
A metallic glint caught Logan’s eye, and he climbed out
of the Jeep to investigate. At the far right of the intersection
the metal support for a stop sign had been bent flat by some
impact. “We didn’t do that.” He knelt to examine the post
where it has been scraped down to shiny metal, sniffing the
exposed surface. “Fresh. Done in the last hour.” He in­
spected a lone tire track, far enough onto the shoulder not
to be lost among the hundreds of others. “It matches what
I saw at the turnout.”
He stepped back to the fallen sign, popped the two
outer claws on his right hand, and brought it down hard.
Jean flinched at the sound of shearing metal, but the post
sliced like butter. He tossed her a three-inch section of
metal.
She looked at it, puzzled.
“ Now we know something else,” he explained, pointing
a claw at a smear of pale green paint. ‘‘We know what color
his wheels are.”
Back in the car, Jean glanced down at the piece of metal
resting on the dash. “Not very stylish, is it?”
“Good for us. Easier to spot. Besides, this isn’t a new
car. No catalytic converter. I could smell that much back at
the turnout. Look for a beater. This is getting better. Half
an hour back I didn’t think we had a prayer.”
“You aren’t smiling.”
“This business is too serious for smilin’, but you’re right.
Stupid mistake clipping that sign. No reason for it. Good
light, not much traffic, and we weren’t right on his tail.

Z70
 HOSTAGES

Stupid move with us after him, but probably useless if any­

one else were doing it. You got something from him during
your contact—you think he knows about us too? Him, or
our invisible ‘helper’?” That part still didn’t make sense to
Logan. Were they talking about one person? Two? Four? A
busload? And just who was siding with who?
Jean seemed confused too. She shook her head.
“Maybe, I don’t know. I keep moving the pieces around in
my head, and I keep coming back to one result. It doesn’t
make sense, but I think the hostage is the m utant.”
Logan gripped the wheel tighter. A nonm utant killer
with super powers, a nonexistent hostage who was a mutant,
and a mystery cast of equally nonexistent supporting char­
acters. They were coming into a village, and Jean was look­
ing around anxiously.
“This could be it,” she said. “Slow down.”
“I don’t see any cars the right color.”
“There,” she pointed at a directional sign, “ that way.”
Logan read the sign as they turned: c o m m u n i t y s e n i o r
c e n t e r V* m ile . “Another guess?”
She shook her head. “Logic.”
The center was a converted school building, two stories
of brick and marble blackened with age. Though the sign
out front advertised a potluck lunch to have been held only
a few hours before, the place was nearly deserted now.
There was no sign of the green beater they were looking
for.
“ Go around the block,” Jean suggested.
Still no sign of the car. They were cruising slowly
through a tree-lined residential street when Jean’s face went

271
 T H E I I I T I I I AT E M E It

ashen. “I can read them, Logan, like someone opening a

door. H e’s stalking his victim now!”
She directed him through several turns toward a block
several streets east.
“It’s an elderly woman walking home from the potluck.
I’m going to try and warn her telepathically. I only hope I
don’t frighten her into inaction.” Jean’s eyes closed and she
frowned with concentration. “She understands. She’s trying
to get to safety, Logan, but she’s too slow! The Snowman is
moving toward her!”
“She only needs ta buy us a couple seconds, darlin’.”
He wrenched the wheel to the right, sliding into the empty
driveway of a brick rambler, into the backyard, and straight
through a picket fence. They hit a snowbank and cleared a
frozen drainage ditch by at least six feet.
Logan’s head hit the roll-bar as they landed, but he
hardly noticed. Ahead he could see the old woman trying
to run across a stretch of park meadow, an overturned two-
wheel cart abandoned behind her. And he could see the
killer, the Snowman, only a few yards behind. He threw the
door open and jum ped out while the Jeep was still slowing.
The Snowman stopped his advance when he spotted
Wolverine, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he reached into
his belt, cross-armed, with both hands, and drew a pair of
ordinary looking hunting knives.
So much for “knives of green fire, ” Logan thought. He un­
sheathed his claws, anticipating his strike. He thought of
the gutted young woman, the terrified old lady, the three
bodies from last year, and mercy was not foremost on his
mind.
Logan leapt, claws out. He hit, and hit hard. His claws

in
 flOSTAOES

raked off something invisible, millimeters from the Snow­

m an’s skin, leaving behind streaks of green electricity.
His momentum carried him past the killer; he landed
off-balance and tumbled twice before coming up in a
crouch.
He spun. The killer stood his ground, sheets of green
lightning dancing around his body. In the background, he
could see Jean helping the woman to safety. He had to keep
the Snowman’s attention distracted. Logan growled deep in
his throat, and charged for another attack. He moved in
close, slashing with what should have been killing strokes.
They skittered off harmlessly, stirring up the lightning,
which flowed up the Snowman’s arms and into his knives.
The Snowman laughed and brought down his left arm.
The thick leather of Logan’s jacket sliced like tissue pa­
per, and he felt the knife bite deep and jam between two
of his ribs. He grunted as the knife pulled free, and tried
to return a blow of his own. Ineffective. The Snowman’s
other knife fell. Logan tried to stop it, and the blade sliced
his forearm to the bone. He staggered. Before he could
recover, the first blade stabbed completely through Logan’s
left thigh.
Logan fell, rolling clear of his attacker. The green fire
wrent with him, burning deep in his wounds, fighting his
healing factor. The effort of the struggle dropped him to
his knees, near unconsciousness.
He looked up, and through his blurry vision, the Snow­
man seemed to be running away. Logan could hear laugh­
ing. “Did he get her?” he hissed through clenched teeth.
She’s safe, Jean’s thoughts reached him as a note of bell­
like clarity in a pool of pain and confusion. I ’m going to try

m
 the iimnATt i m

to stop him telekinetically if I can, and probe him at close range if

I can’t.
“ Don’t,” Logan managed to whisper. Then the scream­
ing began again.
Logan leaned against the fender of the Jeep, trying to clear
his head.
Next to him, the elderly woman was beaming at Jean,
seemingly unfazed by the attack. “She’s my guardian an­
gel,” the woman kept saying, “I saw her in a vision.”
Whatever gave comfort, Logan supposed, though right
then her “guardian angel” looked like she’d been dragged
through the deep end of the pool. Jean sat in the Jeep’s
passenger seat, dazed and bedraggled, her hair wet with
melting snow. H e’d found her fallen in a snowbank and
carried her back to the rig.
Jean shook her head slowly, stringy ringlets of hair tum­
bling over her face. Speaking telepathically, so as not to let
the old woman know more than she needed to, she said,
Got to stop them, Logan. They ’11kill again unless we can stop them.
He reached out and brushed the hair back from her
eyes. You sure you’re okay, Red? You’re talking “them” and “they”
again.
She looked up, and met his eyes with a tired, but lucid,
stare. I understand now, Logan, what we’re dealing with in the
Snowman. The true horror of it nearly flattened me. The killer, the
hostage, the mutant, and two others, the little boy and the old
woman, all in one body.
Logan raised an eyebrow. Multiple personalities ? No ivay.
Mutant isn’t personality, it’s genes. I don’t have to be the Professor
to know that.

m
 IOSTMK
I didn’t understand it at first either. But the mutant isn’t an
aspect of the killer’s shattered personality; he’s the killer’s third vic­
tim. She sighed, and wiped the moisture from her eyes.
Imagine a young mutant, his power not yet expressed, a very un­
usual power. He was a symbiont, capable of surviving the death of
his physical body by bonding with another being at the moment of
death. Now imagine he becomes the victim of a serial killer, and at
the moment of his death . . .
Logan’s thoughts wTent grim. He jumps straight into the
body of his own killer.
He can’t control the host body, and his power makes him a true
symbiont, not a parasite. His power “pays the rent” somehow.
Maybe by making the host better at what he does. In this case, he
certainly made the Snowman into a better killer, maybe a perfect
one.
So, the victim, the mutant, he’s the “hostage”? He’s the one
that’s been helping us?
Yes, he’s the hostage, and it makes sense that he’s the one help­
ing us. Maybe he can control the body, but only when the host is
sufficiently distracted. She hesitated. During a killing, for in­
stance.
Logan just grunted.
I ’m also worried, Jean continued, about what will happen if
the symbiont draws too much attention to himself.
What do you mean ?
I mean, if you already have three personalities, what’s the big
deal if another one shows up ? But if you learn that one of those
personalities is an alien from outside ? He might be able to kill the
boy, or wipe his personality and take his powers. We just don’t
know.
Logan looked down at his shredded and bloodied

275
 I K E U L I I H A T E X- HEI l

clothes. His wounds were completely healed. The effects of

the green fire had burned themselves out in a few minutes.
Still, it made the Snowman one of the more formidable
opponents he’d ever faced. He sighed, and climbed into
the driver’s seat of the Jeep. “Ma’am,” he said to the smil­
ing woman, who probably had no idea why the two of them
had been so quiet for the last few minutes, “you head home
now.” She nodded, and watched as they drove off across
the park.
They had picked up one other useful piece of infor­
mation: Logan had recovered soon enough to catch a
glimpse of the Snowman’s vehicle as it drove away across
the park, a vintage green Corvair van, ancient and spotted
with rust. They were building the clues to run the Snowman
down, but could they find him before he killed again, and
what would they do with him when they had him?
Logan stopped at the main road and looked both ways.
“I need some help, Red. Which way?”
She shook her head. “You know I can’t track him, Lo­
gan.”
“We know somebody in there is tryin’ to help you, and
you’ve already been inside his mind now. Give it a try.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated, teeth gritted,
breath held, her face lined with the strain. This continued
for thirty seconds or so. Then her eyes snapped open. She
blinked. “ I saw something, just a flash, it could have been
another victim. I couldn’t tell anything except—it was a
man walking a dog.”
Logan unfolded a map and scanned the surrounding
area. A small notation caught his eye. “A dog? Like a seein’-
eye dog?”

IU
 m u tis

She nodded. “It would fit the killer’s pattern.”

“There’s a training academy for ’em in the next town
east of here, ’bout six miles.” He tossed her the map with­
out folding it and punched the accelerator. They skidded
onto the highway.
Jean threw the map in the back, and drew herself up in
her seat. She was finally recovering from their battle. “We
still don’t know what to do with the Snowman when we find
him. My TK seems to be as useless against him as your claws,
and even if we could harm him, we don’t know what it
would do to the innocent m utant trapped inside his body. ’’
“ Could be,” suggested Logan, “ that he’d just jum p to
a new host.”
“We don’t know that. It could be he can make the trans­
fer only once. Our best bet is to find a way to contain him
and take him back to the Institute—maybe the Professor
can help him .”
“Whatever,” Logan said as he skidded the Jeep around
an especially sharp corner, but he remained unconvinced.
While he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of the symbiont set­
ting up housekeeping in Jean’s or his body, there were
worse alternatives.
They soon found the Oltion Dog Training Academy, but
no sign of the killer’s van or a man walking with a dog.
Logan had another idea. “That man you saw must have left
here not long ago with a dog. We don’t have to find the
hunter if we can track the prey.”
They left the Jeep in front of the academy while Logan
attempted to pick up the trail. H e’d circled only a part of
the building before finding it. The nice thing about dogs

277
 THE U l T I H A T f X-HEH

was that they were very easy to track by smell, especially

when they were wet.
The trail led away from the road, through the academy
grounds, and into the back country. They were headed up
a steep grade paralleling a stream when Jean glanced back
over her shoulder and pointed. Visible through the trees,
parked next to a side road, was the light green van.
Logan picked up his pace, and trusted that Jean would
keep time. As they rounded the next bend, the trail crossed
from one side of the ravine to the other, via an arched
concrete bridge that soared high over the rocky stream.
“It’s happening,” Jean cried.
On the center of the bridge Logan could see three fig­
ures: two human and one canine. As they came closer, it
became apparent that the dog was trying to defend its fallen
master from the Snowman. It was a battie as brave as it was
hopeless. Only the dog’s speed kept it from being cut to
ribbons. That was a lesson Wolverine took careful note of
as he broke into a full sprint.
Logan, he heard her in his thoughts, while you attack on
the physical plane, I ’m going to attempt to contact the mutant by
deep probe. There may be a way we can help you from inside, or at
least learn something useful.
He didn’t even think, Be careful. The time for care was
past. This was war.
Logan ran onto the bridge just in time. The dog was
withdrawing in defeat, bleeding from several seemingly mi­
nor cuts. The dog hunched down near the railing where
his master had fallen. The man seemed disoriented, if un­
hurt. Logan placed himself between the killer and his in­
tended victim, but kept his distance.

m
 m um
They danced a dance of death for a moment, then the
Snowman struck. Logan stepped just outside the knife’s arc,
then replied with a thrust of his own, aiming not for the
vitals or limbs, but for the eyes. As always, the Snowman’s
bioelectric field protected him from the blow, but he still
instinctively pulled back, trying to protect his face.
Made you jump, thought Logan. It was a small victory, but
he’d settle for anything at this point. The strike also had an
unanticipated secondary effect. The green fire lingered over
the Snowman’s face, interfering with his vision.
WJiile he’s confused, Logan, I ’m going in .. .
Then things went terribly wrong. Jean’s psyche was sud­
denly sucked inside the Snowman, and, through their con­
tact, a part of Logan as well.
It was a strange sensation, to see his physical self still
doing battle with the Snowman, to still be a part of that,
and yet to exist on this inner plane as well.
He and Jean were falling, though he had no fear of it.
They were falling down a long shaft, like the vent of a deep
volcano. He could see a shrinking circle of blue sky, wispy
with cloud, far above, dwindling to only a spot as they
reached the bottom. He had no memory of stopping, and
yet they were there.
As he looked around the dark, fog shrouded plane, he
saw four others besides Jean and himself standing there.
One of them, a thin teenage boy with dishwater-blond hair,
stepped forward. The symbiont, Logan knew.
“You came,” the symbiont said, his eyes wide with won­
der. “Tommy said you’d come, but I didn’t believe .him.”
A flash of pain pulled Logan back into the part of his
consciousness existing in the physical plane. The batde had

m
 ItlE U l T l f l A T E X- HEI I

gotten close and bloody while his attention was elsewhere,

and, from his current perspective, seemed to move in slow
motion. Fury and confusion marked the Snowman’s face as
he slashed at Logan, flashes of green fire illuminating his
face in stark shadows.
A spray of blood arched through the air, his own, Logan
realized. Got to pull back, get room to move. As he did, he saw
Jean standing at the end of the bridge, frozen in midstride,
the blind man still propped against the railing, and the
Snowman, moving toward him. Logan moved to protect the
helpless man.
Snap. He was back on the astral plane. Jean emerged
from the shadows, holding the hand of a young black boy
of about nine. “This is Tommy,” she said. “He wants to
help us end the killing.”
The boy’s eyes were large and gende, and it was hard to
believe that he was part of the Snowman. He looked up at
Logan and nodded sadly. “We done some bad things, mis­
ter. Got to make it stop. That’s why I brought your lady
friend to help our friend Roger,” he pointed at the sym­
biont, “and you, Mr. Wolverine, to help fight our Snow-
beast.”
The nameless old woman glanced at Logan contemp­
tuously, then turned her back on him. Three aspects of the
Snowman, Jean had said. Tommy was one, this woman an­
other, and the third . . . Something roared behind him. He
turned to face a child’s nightmare: a buffalo sized lion made
of soiled velvet drapery fabric and old buttons, held to­
gether with crude hand stitchery, its back crusted with fallen
snow, as though it had just shambled out of a snowbank.
Despite its bulk, it moved with easy grace, its eyes glowed

280
 m um
with green fire, and when it roared, it revealed a maw stud­
ded with very real teeth.
This was it, the killer’s dark soul, the inner beast. Logan
knew it well, knew what could happen if it were set loose.
Tommy stepped forward, challenging the beast. “Got to
stop it! Got to stop the killing, Snowbeast! Got to make it
end!”
“Nooooo,” the Snowbeast roared, brushing the boy aside
with his paw. “Kill the weak! Kill the weak!” He turned toward
Roger, the symbiont. ‘‘Kill— the outsider?”
More pain, as his claws locked with the killer’s knives
and the blades slid down to bite into his knuckles. Too close.
Too close again. He shoved the Snowman backward, stepping
back himself.
He was bleeding from a dozen places, none too serious,
but the green energy was sapping his strength, and imped­
ing his healing. He needed the breather.
The Snowman leaned back against the bridge rail, ca­
sually wiping a little saliva from the corner of his mouth.
He looked at Logan and laughed. Then, too quickly for
Logan to act, he grabbed the terrified blind man by his
collar, pulled him up onto the bridge railing, and climbed
up after him.
The concrete railing was only four or five inches wide
and covered with snow. Using strength that could only have
been granted by his symbiosis, the Snowman held the strug­
gling man out over the drop.
“No!” cried Tommy. The Snowbeast lumbered toward
the young mutant. Logan popped his claws, relieved that
they worked here as well as the real world, plunging his
right claws into the Snowbeast’s side, ripping down in a long

281
 the uitinate x-ntn
stroke. But there was no blood, just more of the green fire,
spewing out, burning where it touched.
“Tommy,” urged Jean, “you have to help us.”
The boy just sat watching the battie, arms curled around
his knees. “Can’t do nothing without Auntie.” He gestured
at the old woman. “Her and me could outvote the Snow-
beast, but she won’t vote. She don’t care. It’s always that
way.”
Logan leapt and rolled beyond the Snowbeast’s claws.
“We need help, Red, or the m an’s gonna die. What about
Blondie there?” He nodded toward the young symbiont be­
fore having to fend off another of the Snowbeast’s attacks.
Roger shook his head. “I can’t control his powers. I’ve
tried, but I can’t.”
“Then,” said Jean, “ control yours. I’ll help you see your
true nature.” She waved her hand toward the three aspects
of the Snowman. “You have the ability to enhance your
host, compensate for his shortcomings, to make him better
at what he is. But you didn’t understand that when you were
suddenly cast into this poor shattered creature. You made
him a better killer, and that’s all, but Roger, you can make
him whole.”
The Snowbeast stopped for a moment, looking up in
response to the words, then redoubled his attack on Logan.
“No,” said Roger, “I don’t know how.”
“I’ll help you,” said Jean.
Some part of Logan could see the Snowman’s fingers
loosening from the m an’s collar, even as the Snowbeast
landed on top of his chest, huge jaws snapping shut just
short of his throat.

m
 II ( M A G E S

“Now would be a good time,” he growled, freeing an

arm to fend off another bite.
Then the Snow'beast was screaming, joining the chorus
of Tommy and the old woman, with Jean, and with the mu­
tant teenager, and finally with Logan himself, an animal
howl rising from deep in his throat.
The weight lifted from Logan’s body as the Snowbeast
and his other aspects were drawn together into a boiling
ball of green anger and rage. Then the color warmed, to
yellow, and then orange, and the ball coalesced into a single
figure, the silver-haired man they had called the Snowman.
Suddenly, Logan was back in the real world. The Snow­
man still stood on the railing, a look of growing realization
and horror on his face. In the corner of his vision, Logan
saw Jean stagger from the psychic backlash of returning to
her own body.
“Help m e,” the blind man croaked, and the Snowman
seemed to notice for the first time the helpless victim dan­
gling from his hand. He placed the m an’s feet back on the
railing, but did not release him.
“What have we done?” asked the Snowman. “What have
I done?” The Snowman turned his face toward the bright
sky, the wind plucking at his short white hair.
“Justice,” he whispered, then pushed the man back
onto the bridge, straight into Logan’s arms. Days later, Lo­
gan would still be wondering if that move, or what followed,
was intentional, for just then, the Snowman’s feet slid from
the icy railing and he tumbled to the sharp rocks waiting
below.
There was a wet crunch, and then silence.
The injured dog stepped fox-ward to join his master, and

25)
 m o iT in iT t x-ntfi
Logan left them to comfort each other. He glanced over
the rail at the broken body. The sharp angle of the neck
left no doubt that the Snowman was finally dead.
Jean walked slowly toward him across the bridge. “ Oh,
Logan, it’s terrible. Once he was psychically healed, the
Snowman couldn’t live with what he’d done.”
“Who could, darlin’? The kid?”
She shook her head and sniffed. “ Gone, I think. That
makes two lives sacrificed today.”
He put his hand on her arm. “And two saved. Prob’ly
more. You did good.”
But Jean drew away, turning her attention to the fallen
man. She knelt next to him, picking his dark glasses up
from where they’d fallen in the snow.
He moaned softly, and his eyelids fluttered. The dog
whined and licked his face. He chuckled softly and started
to push the animal away. Then his eyes opened, “You’re
hurt,” he said to the dog. He gingerly explored the dog’s
injuries with his fingers, but there was more than that.
“You can see!” she exclaimed.
“I can see,” the man parroted flatly. He repeated the
words with more emotion, like an infant trying his second
spoonful of ice cream. “I can see. I can’t believe it.” He
climbed unsteadily to his feet, refusing Jean’s offer of the
glasses. He picked up his white cane, perhaps merely as a
familiar comfort, since he seemed at a loss as to what to do
with it.
Logan watched as the man walked to the far railing,
leaning over to look down at the body. Jean followed the
man, taking his arm to steady him. “Are you all right?”
“We’re better now—both of us.” He nodded downward.

284
 HOSTAOtS

“Even he was better in the end.” He turned and smiled.

“Thank you, Jean, for everything.”
“I don’t know your nam e,” she said.
“My name is Roger Besda. Our name is Roger.” He
chuckled. “A nice coincidence, isn’t it?”
Jean laughed, squeezing Roger’s hands.
Logan drifted back, feeling an outsider in this moment
of warmth and renewal. He and Jean could never be to­
gether. He knew that now. H e’d battied the beast today,
knowing he could never win. That was how it would ever
be.
He stood at the far end of the bridge, looking out into
the wild places beyond. That was where his destiny lay, with
the inner-beast, and the battle that he must ever fight—
alone.

285
OUT Of riACt

Dave Smeds
Illustration by Brent Anderson
n
ank McCoy knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t
quite pin it down. He glanced at his shoes, brushed a
hand across his white linen smock, and lifted his pen
off the lined page of the patient medical file in front
him. He stared at the sentence he’d just written, sudden
uncertain that the handwriting was his.
“Is something wrong, Dr. McCoy?”
He turned to the patient on the exam table. The unfa­
miliarity faded. Of course. Mrs. Wilson. Age forty-one. H e’d
just removed a mole from her shoulder for a biopsy.
“Not to worry. As I said, your body is positively brim­
ming with puissance and vitality,” he said in his most sooth­
ing tone. “My apologies. I was thinking of something
entirely unrelated to your visit.”
Mrs. Wilson settled back into the relief of a person who
has just been told the growth she feared was malignant is
surely nothing of the kind. She fastened the last button of
her blouse and, at the doctor’s reassuring gesture, exited
the exam room.
As soon as the door closed, Hank stood and gazed into
the mirror above the sink. Slowly, unsteadily, his fingers
made contact with the smooth flesh of his cheeks, then rode
down to his chin, the nubs of his beard resisting the action
like sandpaper.
“In the proverbial pink,” whispered Hank. Not a single
blue hair or elongated canine tooth could he find—just the
brown hair and ruddy complexion he’d once owned, before
the experiment that gave him his feral appearance. He was
staring at a face that belonged in old photographs.
He turned away, hissing between his teeth. H e’d been
 THE UlTIIUTE M I N I
taunted this way in the past, only to see his human form
vanish—the last time stolen away by an evil m utant who
called herself Infectia. But hands, not gorilla paws, still jut­
ted from his sleeves, and his body no longer exuded the
aroma or held in the heat of a thick indigo pelt. It didn’t
feel like a trick.
The Beast had disappeared. In his place was a totally
different Hank McCoy. He squeezed his temples, trying to
force the unfamiliar, m id memories from the confines of
his skull. The office in which he stood was his own, located
outside Boston, shared with three other general practition­
ers. It was not the Brand Corporation labs, and he was not
a biochemist. He was just a regular doctor, seeing ordinary
patients in a peaceful suburban neighborhood. The mem­
ories were complete—all the way back to childhood, up
through med school, and into private practice.
Nowhere in that life history was there any manifestation
of m utant abilities in high school, no entry into a facility
run by Charles Xavier, no charter membership in the X-
Men, no details of a thousand incredible events since then.
In fact, any recollection of being the Beast was growing
muted, as if banished to the same place that had claimed
his fur and the points of his ears.
He glanced at his watch. Another dozen people to see
that morning. He stepped toward the door, to head to the
next room, where another patient was no doubt waiting.
Then, with a low, Beastlike growl, he stopped. Such a pow­
erful, persuasive milieu. At every turn it was seducing him
into forgetting who he was.
What could this be? Some sort of alternate universe?
Another timeline? Certainly the X-Men had encountered

290
 m of ru(E
those before. Yet every7 other trip to such places had in­
volved a transition of sorts, such as a jum p through a portal.
Even teleportation left momentary tingles. This time he had
simply become aware, at nine fifty-one in the morning, that
something was wrong with the context around him.
A dream? Dreams didn’t feel like this. The clipboard was
firm in his grip, the floor solid, the sunlight out the window
crisp and bright. Like his strange new memories, this place
had the aspect of reality. Something told him whatever hap­
pened here would have genuine effects. This was no fantasy.
Desperate to break the routine that was making this
place so compelling, he made his way to the nurse’s station,
where he found a receptionist whom he’d never met before,
yet whom, paradoxically, he’d known for two years.
“Developments have arisen,” he said, measuring the
words out with forced calm. “Kindly cancel the rest of my
appointments today.”
“Mr. Grauehe’s already in room three,” she said.
“My regrets,” Hank replied, and turned his back on her
worried frown.
Back in the exam room, alone, he slid out of his shoes
and socks. Bounding forward, he somersaulted onto the
exam table. There. He still had his m utant agility. But his
leg muscles quivered, overtaxed by the effort. He over­
balanced, and had to hop to the floor to avoid falling. He
had congratulated himself prematurely. Yes, his powers
were there, but they had faded. Were fading.
He looked again at his human body. Perhaps miracles
did occur, after all.
* * *

291
 THE M A T E M l t l

Scott Summers was walking across the campus when he

tripped on the flagstone path. Suddenly the lawns, the land­
scaping, the vine-cloaked brick buildings of the university,
took on a numinous clarity. That was all the more alarming,
because he was certain the scene had to be false.
He sat down on a bench, trying to sort out particulars
of two separate lives: one as Cyclops, co-leader of the X-
Men, the other as Scott Summers, PhD, assistant professor
in an excellent, but typical, chemistry departm ent at a mod­
est undergraduate school in Illinois. The former seemed
more true, but the latter was more vivid. He recalled ver­
batim sentences from the class he had just taught; he could
cite the names of pupils h e’d had over the last several se­
mesters, complete with the grades they’d received. He knew
that his excursion was taking him to the library in order to
pick up an abstract not yet available by modem. These were
all the sorts of evidence he could easily track down and
confirm. Their undeniability confronted him.
One fact stunned him more than any other. He wore no
visor or glasses, yet he was viewing the world with eyelids wide open.
“ Can’t be,” he muttered. He peered at a blade of cut
grass lying on the flagstones, examined an individual petal
of a flower growing beside the walkway, and scanned a leaf
in the nearest tree, a young Japanese elm. Not only did his
gaze lack its usual destructive effect, what he saw only af­
firmed the palpability of the place. He recalled, for in­
stance, that the tree had been planted two years before. The
campus’s handsome American elms had succumbed to the
infestation that was destroying the variety throughout
the continent. The details couldn’t have been more clear.
Suddenly he began to chuckle. How blue the sky was.

m
 OUT Of r i i ( E

Clouds hung like decorations placed by a divine hand. How

fine the architecture of the campus buildings—such hand­
some lines of brick and mortar, laced with shrubbery.
To see. To see as he had not seen since childhood. It
was grand, potent, compelling. . . .
But it was not right. He was Cyclops, and long ago he
had become reconciled to living without normal vision. He
struggled to his feet, fighting off the complacency this en­
vironment evoked.
Keening his mind for the telepathic whisper of Jean or
of Professor X, he heard nothing. Was he the only X-Man
affected? He reached out, but even his psionic rapport with
his beloved proved insufficient to achieve contact.
One obvious test remained. He concentrated on the
building site across the quad. The new student union. The
structure was unoccupied; the construction crew had sus­
pended work, unable to do more until a state inspector
made a visit. There. That spot—where the upper-story win­
dow was due to be installed.
A familiar, momentary blindness seized him. He heard
the moan of an optic blast. As his vision returned, he saw
girders and concrete collapse within the building site. Dust
poured out of the window he’d aimed through.
Students nearby gawked and pointed. Fortunately the
burst had been too fleeting, and its effects too distracting,
to mark Scott as the cause. He listened to the outbursts,
taking strange comfort in the tones of dismay, fear, and
excitement. The reaction was familiar to the part of him
that remembered being an X-Man.
He waited for the inevitable exclamations— “Must be
mutants! What are those freaks up to now?” No one uttered

293
 T H E l l T I H A l t X-flEII

them. Instead, the talk buzzed with phrases like, “ Political

protest?” and “Gas leak?” and “Never seen anything like
it.”
Brows furrowing, Scott headed for the newspaper dis­
penser outside the library doors. The headlines contained
no references to X-Men or their splinter teams, to rene­
gades such as the Mutant Liberation Front or the Acolytes,
or to any mutants at all. He pored through the entire edi­
tion page by page. There weren’t even any articles about
the latest doings of the Avengers, Spider-Man, or the Fan­
tastic Four. The only thing that seemed right was the date
on the masthead.
Shifting to the phone booth in the foyer, he began leaf­
ing through the Yellow Pages, but under “Attorneys,” he
found no ubiquitous advertisements by shysters offering to
file personal injury claims on behalf of bystanders caught
in the crossfire during fights between super heroes and
super-villains.
“ Can’t be,” he said again, and called Information.
“What city, please?” asked a voice that might, or might
not, have been a recording.
“ Salem Center, New York. I want a num ber for the Xa­
vier Institute for Higher Learning.”
“I’m sorry1. No such listing.”
“Thanks anyway,” Scott said, the sinking feeling in his
heart advising him not to protest. He waited a moment,
breathing unevenly, and punched in the num ber he knew
should work. An obnoxious mechanized voice began,
“We’re sorry. The num ber you have dialed . . .” He clanked
down the receiver.
The rules were different here. This was a reality in which

m
 m or riKf
mutants, super heroes, and their powers were unknown. He
shook his head, trying to deny what his surroundings were
telling him, but the more time that passed, the more con­
vinced he was that these new conditions were how things
should be.
His optic blast had not been as powerful as usual. Given
the amount of focus and intention, it should have pulver­
ized objects that had only been dislodged. The suspicion
grew that if he were to try again, his powers would prove to
be reduced even further.
Leaving him as what? A human?
If only it could be true.
While there was any vestige of Cyclops left, he couldn’t
just stand by passively. He had to contact the others. How,
he didn’t know. Perhaps if he . . .
Llis concentration faltered. Shouldn’t he just go upstairs
and pick up the abstract, make some photocopies, and pre­
pare the handouts for his one o’clock class? No, that wasn’t
right. There was something nagging him—an image of a
red-haired woman.
He rose, and instead of continuing into the library, as
Professor Scott Summers would have done, he wandered
outside, unsure where he was going, or what he was doing.
Jean Grey set her fork down on her plate, swallowed the
bite of mashed potatoes she had taken, and tried not to
show the alarm she was experiencing.
At the table with her sat her parents, John and Elaine,
and her sister, Sara. The familiar walls of her childhood
home enclosed her, the dining room arrayed with family
photos. It was all as it should have been. She was a lawyer

295
 T H E D L T I H & T E X- t l E H

specializing in environmental issues, enjoying a lively but

not overly taxing career, home for a long weekend with the
folks—a regular occurrence, now that she had passed the
bar and set up her practice only a two-hour drive away.
The part that didn’t fit was the recurring impressions of
another life, far removed from this calm, nurturing scene.
She closed her eyes and saw starships explode, buildings
crumble, colleagues fall, witnessed a woman with white hair
riding the winds, and a man with claws slash through steel
cables. She remem bered the tug of a uniform against her
skin, and the highly trained muscles beneath that fabric.
When she asked herself who she was, she was tantalized with
names like Marvel Girl and Phoenix.
“Jean? Are you all right?” Sara asked.
Jean flinched. Her gaze roved over her sister’s face, not­
ing the tiny mole on her right cheek, the precise shade of
her irises, the sheer . . . health . . . of her complexion.
“Sara? You’re supposed to be dead.”
Sara’s mouth dropped open. “Jeannie!” blurted her
parents simultaneously. And Jean, blushing, suddenly had
no idea what had prompted her throat to produce such a
statement.
“I’m . . . sorry. I was recalling a dream I had last night,”
she lied. “Didn’t know I was saying anything out loud.”
As the heat dissipated from her cheeks and the meal
resumed, the cordiality1 and sense of security Jean had felt
earlier took on a brittle quality. The X-Men identity solidi­
fied, and though it was as faint as the nightmare she had
invented to excuse her faux pas, it didn’t waver. It was no
hallucination. Jean guarded her reaction carefully, until the
plates were cleared and she could excuse herself.

m
 out of mi
“I think I need a nap,” she said, and disappeared into
her bedroom.
First, the tests. She gestured, trying to telekinetically lift
a chair. It rose. Frowning, she deposited it where it had
been. Six inches? She had meant to raise it to the ceiling.
Still, even a minor amount of levitation proved she
couldn’t be plain old Jean Grey, attorney-at-law, no matter
what her memories said. Time, then, to explore the
“dream ,” and come up with some explanations.
She lay back on her bed and focused. Her last distinct
memory of her existence as an X-Man surfaced: she and
Scott had shared a cup of coffee after breakfast, savoring a
little domestic ritual before suiting up for a session in the
Danger Room. Professor X was out of town. The X-Men in
residence that morning included herself, Cyclops, Wolver­
ine, Archangel, Psylocke, Iceman, Beast, and Rogue.
That group would be easiest to make contact with, as­
suming they were still in close proximity. If that failed, she
could try the Professor or more distant comrades, but given
her depleted resources, she didn’t want to attempt too
much.
Naturally she tried Scott first. All that came back was an
odd sort of echo—enough to confirm that he was alive and
unharmed, but not enough to permit verbal messages, and
not enough to fix his location relative to her.
She sagged back on the mattress, already wearied by the
attempt. What was it about this world that sapped her pow­
ers so insidiously?
She had to try the others. No choice about that. Either
she would succeed, or she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t go

29/
 T i t ULTIMATE M I E N

down without a struggle. One by one, she reached for

them. .. .
Logan crashed through the front window of the hardware
store/lumberyard, landing on the balls of his feet on the
sidewalk, defdy avoiding the shards of glass he’d caused.
Flaring his nostrils to take in scents, he glanced about,
requiring no more than the span of a heartbeat to orient
himself. To his left the main street led to the town square
and courthouse. To his right the community trailed off into
the taiga forest of northern Canada.
He sped off toward the forest, snarling at the storefront
facades beside him, the electric lines snaking from poles to
the eaves of the buildings. The call of native, untamed
spaces overwhelmed any coherent thought he might have.
A woman passerby backpedalled into the street, shriek­
ing as she caught a glimpse of Logan’s savage expression.
He ran by, caring nothing about her as long as she wasn’t
in his way, but ahead, a policeman on the corner turned,
saw the commotion, and reached reflexively for his pistol.
Logan closed the gap between himself and the man be­
fore the latter could unsnap his holster. Logan swiped, and
his claws ripped through the leather, knocking the gun to
the concrete. He scooped up the weapon, tossed it onto the
roof of the next building, and raced into an alley that led
to the fringe of the wood.
The shrill call of the cop’s whistle faded as Logan lost
himself amid boughs heavy with pine needles and trees
higher than the town’s tallest building. Finally he slowed,
though he was only mildly winded. His first truly conscious

298
 out of nm
act was to bring up the hand that had torn the pistol loose
and stare at it.
The hand was scarred, powerful, with fingernails sharp
and thick. But no claws protruded, as they had they when
he slashed at the holster, no matter howr fiercely he flexed
and squeezed.
He growled, trying to drive from his mind the memories
of a life where he was a cutter in the lumberyard from which
he had just fled, one of a series of jobs he’d held during a
life spent entirely in the Great White North. H e’d often
imagined such a life—one he might have lived had he not
been a mutant, and never been the subject of Weapon X
experiments.
The false identity clung to his mind, eroding the essence
of his Wolverine self. He had endured many kinds of mad­
ness, but this was new. He wasn’t sure how to fight it. He
had done the one thing that made sense—got out among
the trees, away from the stench of civilization. What now?
A weak telepathic voice called from deep in his brain—
a shout reduced to a whisper.
“Red? ’Zat you?” He asked aloud because he couldn’t
remember how to answer mentally.
An image came to him of a face. He knew' he should
know her, but her name wouldn’t surface. He felt that if he
tried too hard to recall it, he would forget his own.
The hunter in him recognized that she was that direc­
tion—over the hills, through more forest, and then who
knew what. Far away. Hopelessly far.
Yet lurking here, passively accepting a transformation
into a new self, was not something he would tolerate. He

299
 T H E U L T I I U T E M l Ell
needed to take action. Until he could think of something
better, at least he could run.
He set off, the trail seeming more faint with every tree
passed.
Hank McCoy, still ensconced in his office, unwound the cuff
of a blood pressure gauge and tossed the device in its
drawer. Once more he checked the printout of the tread­
mill test he’d performed on himself.
The proof was right there, stark and irrefutable. An
hour earlier he had still shown indications of mutant, Beast­
like physiology. Now his scores had fallen to levels within
the reach of a trained athlete. At this rate another hour
would bring the results down to a point that could only be
described as “norm al.”
And it was getting so, so hard to recall why that should
bother him.
Bobby Drake lifted the ice cream cone to his mouth. How
fascinating the cold felt as it caressed his tongue. The flavor
almost seemed superfluous. Temperature mattered far
more.
On the other side of the parlor, the freezer case beck­
oned. He had half a mind to crawl right in there among
the tubs of Rocky Road and Orange Sherbet. Was that
weird? Quickly he checked the faces of the servers and the
other customers. They weren’t looking at him.
He laughed inwardly. Who the hell would care what off-
the-wall ideas he had, as long as he kept them to himself?
No one. Strange, then, that his paranoia lingered. Some
part of him was accustomed to people staring at him, at-

300
 OUT Of ru(E
tacking him, or running as fast as they could away from him.
The eerie depth of the perception sent chills up his spine.
Chills were good, though. He relaxed. Get real, Drake.
Just who or what do you think you are? The windows reflected
back the image of a healthy, young, all-American guy. Noth­
ing strange whatsoever.
Just hanging out, having a cone. A zen moment. Life
didn’t get much better.
He licked again, letting the dollop of full-sugar, all-the-
fat Mocha melt on his tongue until nothing remained but
a tiny speck of ice that had crept into the mixture. Now,
what was so hypnotic about ice?
The carousel sounds and popcorn aroma of a carnival sur­
rounded Rogue as she took a place in line for the fourth
time. Beneath her feet, straw kept the dust down; she liked
the way it tickled her bare feet. The sun of the Deep South
kneaded her skin—and there was a lot of that showing
around her halter top and cutoff denim jeans. She treas­
ured the heat with a fervor that verged on nostalgia. Now,
why should that be? She'd lived in Dixie her w'hole life,
hadn’t she?
“Back again?” asked an old lady with a wink.
Up ahead a sign read “ k is s e s —$2.” Rogue blushed,
then grinned. “ Can’t seem to get enough,” she admitted.
“H e’s quite a hunk, isn’t he?” remarked the matron.
The dark-haired, muscular occupant of the booth, just
then lending his wares to a plump lady in a summer dress,
was indeed a fine specimen of manhood, but Rogue didn’t
really care about that. It was the kissing itself that compelled
her to fork over her cash so generously. The contact of flesh

301
 THE O L T i n m M l EH
against flesh, even in such a relatively chaste, public way,
gave her an indecently intense satisfaction.
The hunk finished with his chubby customer and, scan­
ning down the line, saw Rogue. He winked.
She grinned back. Funny thing, after their first kiss, h e’d
seemed rather pale. She’d thought he might faint. But the
color was back in his cheeks. The second and third times
had been fine.
Why did that make her feel so good? So . . . forgiven?
Scott stood at a revolving display rack in a drugstore, trying
out various pairs of sunglasses. He felt like a kid let loose
in a toy store, though why all these silly little plastic shades
should appeal to him so much he didn’t quite understand.
After all, he’d never needed prescription lenses in his life.
He could have bought any style he wanted at any point in
the past—what was the big deal about them now?
As he selected a gray-lensed, bronze-frame aviator pair
and set them on his nose, an image of a great-looking red­
head popped into his mind. He hardly paid attention, since
her description didn’t match any of his friends or acquain­
tances. Then he remembered that this was the fifth or sixth
time he’d thought of her that day.
And then he remem bered much more.
Steeling himself against the delicious contentm ent he’d
been feeling, he finally succeeded in framing a reply to
Jean’s psionic query: “How many of us are here? Is anyone
missing?”
In the bedroom at her parents’ home, Jean Grey heard
Scott’s question. Though it was a reply to her own, it came

302
 out or r u a
back as if it were nothing more than television-show dia­
logue overheard from the living room, having nothing to
do with the here and now.
A cozy, soothing mood possessed her. She wanted to go
downstairs and play cards, or simply indulge in the com­
panionship of her family, especially with Sara. What a silly
question, anyhow.
Is anyone missing? The voice said it again, insistently.
Jean frowned, got a grip on her X-Man self, and labo­
riously combed her chaotically jum bled memories for the
answer. Yes, other members of the team were “here” in this
reality. She’d touched their minds, even if the brief com­
ments of Logan and Scott were the only distinct examples
of contact.
Or rather, she’d touched six out of seven. She’d com­
pletely failed with . . . Psylocke.
A cold sweat burst on her brow. Psylocke was another
telepath. With the exception of Scott, with whom Jean
shared a psychic rapport, Psylocke should have been the
easiest to contact, even with weakened powers. Jean brought
what little reserves she had left to bear, and from the place
in her mind where she should have received a response—
nothing.
“That’s the key,” Jean murm ured to herself, and real­
ized then how little time she had left to do anything. This
new world had almost swallowed her true identity, and those
of the others. If she were going to save the group, she had
to find the answer to a puzzle quickly.
One option made the most sense. Before she lost track
again, she broadcast a set of insistent telepathic instructions,
but this time it was not toward Psylocke.

303
 t i l u tT iH iif x-ncn
* * *
Warren W orthington III was flying a small airplane, and
having a great time doing it. Barrel rolls and sudden
swoops—they felt like second nature to him. His aircraft
behaved like an extension of his body. He laughed out loud
as he climbed through a layer of thin, scattered clouds, re­
gaining altitude in order to try more antics. He couldn’t
remember an hour in his life when flying had seemed so
grand. As an heir of wealth, he had always enjoyed taking
the plane up; it got him away from corporate boardrooms
and obligatory high-society gatherings, out where he could
be himself. Today, though, his piloting skills seemed almost
more than human.
The “almost” part struck him as particularly important.
The seat beneath him, the cockpit around him, comforted
him with their separateness from his body. It was a strange
emotion, but he didn’t dwell on it. He had only a few more
minutes until he’d have to land and immerse himself once
again in the details of his busy life.
Warren! called a voice so clearly that he looked behind
him to see if he had a stowaway. Only when it came a second
time did he realize it was in his head.
“Jean,” he said. The knowledge of who Jean Grey was
poured into him, and with it arrived the memory of being
Archangel.
Go to Betsy, Jean said. She’s . . . she’s . . . The voice fell be­
low7 the level of intelligibility.
Warren wasted no time. He wasn’t sure how long he
could retain this sense of his proper identity. He brought
his plane down low7over the landscape. As his altitude plum-

304
 out o f ru (t
meted, that landscape began to shift, becoming the familiar
settled woodlands surrounding the town of Salem Center.
A large set of buildings emerged from the leaves.
Emerged was precisely how it appeared. He was certain the
structures hadn’t been there until he willed them to be. He
banked the plane and straightened to attempt a landing.
As he settled in, the aircraft dissolved. His back tingled
fiercely. The wings used to land himself on the broad lawns
were no longer propeller-driven. Down and on his feet, he
flapped them twice just to reinforce his m utant identity.
The ivy-encrusted walls of the Xavier Institute wavered,
threatening to fade out of this world once more, but Warren
didn’t let them disappear. He rushed inside, making
straight for the quarters of Elisabeth Braddock.
Psylocke woke on an exam table in the infirmary. Warren
was leaning over her, his somber expression easing as they
made eye contact. Several other X-Men hovered in the back­
ground. The Beast switched off a monitor, having obviously
tended to her.
“How do you feel?” Warren asked.
“Awful.” She coughed. Her muscles seemed to be slung
on her bones like overstuffed luggage, and her skin itched
as if bathed in grit and insecticide. Even lifting her tongue
to form words proved taxing.
“You had a tremendous fever,” Warren told her. “ It
created some interesting effects.”
“I think I rem em ber,” Betsy said. “ It was like I was do­
ing psi-probes of each of you. You were in places you have
tucked deep in your minds. Except you weren’t there by
choice. You had been forced there . . . by m e.”

305
 TIE UlTtHATE Ml Ell

“That is our working hypothesis,” the Beast confirmed.

“While in the midst of your fever, instead of simply reading
minds, you projected something—call it a fervent wish—
into everyone in the building. Thanks to the abundant vigor
of your psionic abilities, you overlaid alternate realities
upon us all, each one a mixture of your own desires and
those of the individual affected.”
Added Jean, “The illusions were so strong that we
couldn’t break free of them until my telepathic red alert to
Warren shook him awake here, in the real world, where we
had all been rendered unconscious. He woke everyone up,
then Bobby iced you down. We carried you to the infirmary,
and Hank’s treatments brought your fever down the rest of
the way.”
“I’m . . . sorry,” Betsy said. “I didn’t have any control
over it. I don’t even know how it started. I’ve often had
dreams where I was living in a world where I wasn’t a mu­
tant—-where no one was. But I always woke up, same as ever.
I had no idea anything like this would develop.”
“It was a narrow escape. This occurrence, thanks to the
fever, activated a variation of your psychic knife,” Jean
added, referring to Psylocke’s ability to telepathically “ carve
out” a person’s memories. “Those false memories we all
experienced were given such a boost, they would have soon
taken root permanently in our brains.”
“But when Warren realized that I was in distress, he
found a way to get to me,” Betsy said, turning to gaze at
him again. They clasped hands.
“Least I could do for my favorite ninja,” he replied. The
words were flip, but the tenderness in the delivery was like
a cool cloth on her forehead. It brought a romantic smile

305
 OUT O f fLACE
to her lips, and worked to ease the guilt at having endan­
gered everyone.
“Jean and Professor Xavier will do some scans of us all
during the next few days, and make sure any residual effects
are minimized,” Cyclops said.
“Well,” Iceman said, “I guess we can consider it a case
of ‘no harm done.’ ”
Most of the group filed out, leaving Psylocke to recu­
perate. Archangel remained with her, trying out a joke or
two to further revive her spirits.
No harm done? wondered Hank McCoy as he sequestered
himself in the med lab next door. In the gleaming metal of
a cabinet, his blue-haired face projected back, as brutish as
ever.
A narrow escape? questioned Rogue. Bobby strode beside
her down the corridor. She wanted very much to be able to
take his arm in hers, laugh a little at another rescue accom­
plished, maybe even give him a peck on the cheek. All with­
out having to restrain herself for fear that her power would
drain him of things it shouldn’t.
In her and Scott’s bedroom later that day, Jean Grey
picked up the picture of her sister that she kept on the
dresser. She traced the edges of the frame, and sighed. A
pair of tears fell from her lashes.

30?