The Legacy Quest Trilogy

by Unknown Author

  “I have nothing to say to you, Selene,” he snarled.

  “Oh, come now. I know you are making plans to celebrate the forthcoming solstice. You have been in contact with Kings and Queens of the Hellfire Club worldwide, and yet you have overlooked our most powerful branch. Why is that, I wonder?”

  Shaw bristled at the well-chosen words. Selene had been his Black Queen once; he had ruled the New York Hellfire Club with her at his side. Even after she had betrayed him, he had given her another chance. But now, the treacherous witch ruled in New York alone-and as much as he loved Hong Kong, it felt like a poor consolation prize.

  Shaw had spent most of his life moving forward; a few temporary setbacks had not worried him much at first. But increasingly, it seemed that he was having to fight harder and harder to keep what he had, let alone reclaim what had once been his. He had tried to rebuild his diminished power base, but his most audacious schemes had been thwarted by his many opponents, and his reborn Inner Circle had fallen apart around him.

  He had thought about giving it all up. He had almost resigned from the Club itself more than once, but that would have been a backward step. It would have meant throwing away a lifelong dream, and he hadn’t yet found a new dream, a new plan, with which to replace it.

  Three weeks ago, Shaw had taken a trip to the future. He had seen what he was destined to become, and he had been appalled. He had sworn to avoid that fate somehow.

  Selene moved closer to him, the lights from below shining through her black cloak and her faintly translucent body. “You can’t still bear a grudge against me for our last encounter?”

  “You stole something from me,” Shaw reminded her. “Something of great value.”

  Selene laughed. “The X-Men had backed you into a comer, Shaw. All the resources you put into finding a cure for the Legacy Virus, all the sacrifices you made, and they were about to take it from under your nose.”

  “I had agreed to share my discovery with them.”

  “You and I both know, Shaw, that that cure was only useful to our organization if we could exercise sole control over it.”

  “I see,” sneered Shaw. “You expect me to believe that you were trying to help me; that your theft of the cure was in some way staged to fool the X-Men?”

  “What use is the Hellfire Club if its branches cannot support each other?”

  It was an obvious lie-and all the more so because Shaw had seen the future, or at least a possible version of it. He had seen what Selene had intended to do with the Legacy cure, and he had seen himself humiliated by her. The memory of it sent a shiver down his spine. “It was thanks to your interference,” he said tartly, “that the cure was lost.”

  “We played the game,” said Selene as if it didn’t matter. “It ended in stalemate. At least the prize was not claimed by those whelps.” “You are a mutant, Selene, as am I. The Legacy Virus was designed to attack our kind. We are dying out because of it-and you snatched away our only hope of salvation.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “The strong will survive, as we always have.”

  “We may have been allies in the past,” said Shaw coldly, “but no longer.”

  She frowned. “You’re up to something, Shaw. I know it—and I will find out what it is.”

  “I am merely organizing a party,” he said with a false smile.

  He turned his back to her, and looked out across the island again. It was a calculated insult, about which Selene, in her insubstantial form, could only seethe. She couldn’t even read his mind. She couldn’t know that he had deceived her as she had tried to deceive him.

  She didn’t know that the cure to the Legacy Vims still existed after all.

  Eventually, sensing that the witch had gone, Shaw let out a controlled sigh. Selene had been right about one thing. He had been reluctant to deal with the X-Men—and her attack had presented him with a welcome opportunity. Now they, like she, believed the precious cure destroyed, and he was rid of their interference.

  To his continuing frustration, however, the prize was not yet his alone.

  In the course of his quest to cure the Legacy Virus, he had acted as he always did. He had made alliances where they seemed prudent, using and discarding people like pieces on a chessboard. But some pieces were more powerful than others, and more difficult to discard at the game’s end.

  Shaw had not intended to share his prize with anybody, but he had been outmaneuvered. And his current partner’s plans for the cure scared even him.

  He stayed in the pagoda for a few minutes longer, hands clasped behind his back, his expression stoic although nobody was around to see it. He listened to the calming orchestral music that drifted up from the Hellfire Club’s ballroom, and he breathed in the warm evening air and basked in a gentle breeze.

  Hong Kong, arguably, enjoyed its most pleasant weather in the final weeks of the year, when the burning heat of Summer had subsided. But Sebastian Shaw still yearned for the biting winds and the snow of New York.

  Shaw had kept his visitors waiting for over an hour. It was his way of showing his contempt for them, and his power over them.

  He greeted them, at last, in his office, seated behind his desk with his fingers forming a steeple in front of his nose and mouth. A ceiling fan beat the air and caused the bamboo blinds behind him to clatter against the window. The wall hummed with the continuing strains of the music behind it.

  The woman was well known to him: Emma Frost was another remnant of an Inner Circle that had once been unbeatable. She was wearing the white bodice, the thigh-length boots and fur-trimmed cloak of the White Queen. Her blonde hair hung straight down to her shoulders, framing a face that was young but already hard and cold.

  The man was less familiar, although Shaw recognized him. He too was dressed in white, but he seemed uncomfortable in the high collar and starched shirt of his formal Hellfire Club attire. He appeared to be a normal, middle-aged man with deep frown lines etched into a grim face and dark brown hair swept back from his forehead. But appearances were deceptive. Daimon Hellstrom was the mortal son of a powerful demon—and despite his calm demeanor, Shaw fancied that he could detect a hint of brimstone about him.

  His personal assistant, Tessa, announced the pair in her usual prim manner. She took up a position at her master’s shoulder, lips pursed, hands tucked into the sleeves of her kimono. Her innocent eyes betrayed none of the furious activity of her enhanced brain. Shaw thought of her as his living computer, possessed as she was of a phenomenal memory and analytical skills. She also had rudimentary telepathic abilities, and he could feel her presence in his mind. She had built a wall of static around it, boosting his psychic defenses. Frost was a more powerful telepath than Tessa-but if she wanted to read Shaw’s thoughts now, she would have to frght for them.

  Hellstrom extended a hand toward Shaw. He ignored it. With a curt, unsmiling nod, he indicated that his visitors should sit. He waited for them to break the awkward silence.

  “We want to talk to you about your plans for the solstice,” said Frost.

  “Oh?” Shaw raised an eyebrow. “And of what concern are they to you?”

  “I never formally resigned my post as White Queen,” she reminded him.

  “But you have shown little interest in Hellfire Club affairs of late."

  “Perhaps it is time that changed.”

  “Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your actions, Miss Frost?” Shaw twisted his lips into a smile, but he didn’t allow it to reach his eyes. “I spoke to your sister, Adrienne, only a few days ago. She is doing a fine job of rebuilding our London branch. Unlike you, my dear, she will make an excellent White Queen.”

  Her smoldering expression confirmed that he had hit a raw nerve. Was she regaining some of her old fire? He hoped so. Unlike many of his former allies, Emma Frost had nevei actually betrayed Shaw. She had simply disappointed him by proving to be weaker than he had thought. When her team of young mutants in training had been slaughtered, she had run into the waiting
arms of Professor Charles Xavier, the X-Men’s altruistic founder. Now, she trained another team of youngsters, inculcating in them not the proud beliefs and the will to succeed of the Hellfire Club but rather Xavier’s own naive principles. It gave her a sense of purpose, a way to redeem the mistakes of her past. She needed that for now. But Shaw wondered how much longer it could last, how long before she returned to the fold.

  “As for you, Mr. Hellstrom,” he continued, “you appointed yourself to the rank of White King of the Inner Circle in New York. Selene does not recognize your position, and nor do I.”

  Hellstrom spoke in a low, threatening rumble like a building storm. “I would have expected you of all people to appreciate the need for a balancing force to Selene’s Black house.”

  “And where were you, Mr. Hellstrom, when your Black Queen launched a brazen attack upon me and stole the cure to the Legacy Virus?”

  His eyes flickered downward. “I was... otherwise engaged.”

  “The point is,” said Frost firmly, “that we still have contacts in the Hellfire Club, and we are both concerned about the rumors we are hearing.”

  Shaw got to his feet abruptly. “As these ‘contacts’ of yours have no doubt told you,” he said with an air of scorn, “the Hellfire Club is indeed planning to mark the solstice in two days’ time. At the hour of midnight in each of their respective time zones, our major branches will launch specially designed fireworks that will erupt at the upper edge of the atmosphere. Each firework will create a pyrotechnic display in the shape of a giant Hellfire Club trident. As one trident fades, another will be created as midnight strikes in another locale. From Sydney in the east to Hawaii in the west, our symbol will light the night as it moves across the sky. It will be visible to all.”

  “And this... this cheap publicity stunt is so important to you that you have traveled the world to supervise the preparations in person?” Hellstrom’s disbelief was plain.

  Shaw clasped his hands behind his back and walked around his desk. “Our organization has been sorely tested in recent years. I felt it was time to make a statement, to boost the morale of our remaining loyal members.” He reached the door and opened it, giving his visitors a meaningful look. The pair rose from their chairs, but they made no move to leave.

  Frost shook her head. “I know you, Shaw. You are power-hungiy but never this vain. You would not go to this much trouble simply to massage your ego. You are hiding something.”

  Shaw gave an indifferent shrug. “To our pagan ancestors, the winter solstice—the shortest day of the year—was a time to celebrate the rebirth of the sun. Here in the southern hemisphere, of course, it is the height of summer; nevertheless, what better time to reaffirm our allegiance to a proud tradition and to announce our own symbolic rebirth?”

  Frost fixed him with an icy glare, and he had no doubt that she was worming her psychic tendrils into his mind, looking for the information that he was keeping from her. By now, she would have found Tessa’s shields. She could choose to withdraw quietly or she could show her hand by bludgeoning her way through them and taking what she wanted by force. Once, she would have done the latter without hesitation. Shaw was faintly saddened, then, when she dropped her gaze to the floor, defeated. She had spent too long with Xavier and his ilk.

  “On the night of the twenty-first of December,” said Shaw, “the wealthy elite of every civilized country in the world will enjoy the biggest and best party that even the Hellfire Club has ever thrown. Neither of you, I regret to say, are invited.”

  Hellstrom’s eyes flashed as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “We will find out the truth, Shaw, one way or another.”

  “You are welcome to try.” Shaw was well aware that Hellstrom had the physical power to destroy him. Like Frost, however, he did not have the will to use it. He held the inner rage that was part of his demonic heritage at bay. He was not ruthless enough. That was why the Black King would always better his rivals in the long run.

  “Your arrogance will be your undoing one day,” snarled Hellstrom. “So I am often assured. Now, if there is nothing more, I am extremely busy...

  With a tight smile, Shaw motioned his visitors out through the door—and this time, they took the hint and left.

  The White King and Queen swept out of the Hellfire Club building, framed by the light from its veranda behind them. They marched down a short flight of wide steps and passed the fire-breathing stone dragons that stood sentry at the entranceway. Their anachronistic costumes drew hardly a glance: this area of Hong Kong was relatively secluded, and most of the people on the street were Club members joining or leaving its night-long revels. The balmy air deadened the harsh sounds of slamming car doors and drunken giggling.

  Hellstrom let out a sigh of exasperation. “That man tries my resolve. I have half a mind to go back in there and coax his secrets from his lips with hellfire.”

  “Patience, Daimon,” said Frost. “The way to deal with Shaw is not with physical force. He will already have set his scheme in motion. Unless you are prepared to kill him-and perhaps not even then-you won’t stop it.” She allowed the hint of a smile to tug at her lips. “In any case, we never expected him to confess to everything, did we?” “I presume you weren’t able to read his mind?”

  “As we anticipated, his lapdog shielded it from me.” Hellstrom looked despondent, until Frost continued: “However, young Tessa is not as adept a telepath as she would like to think. I did glean one important fact.”

  Hellstrom raised an eyebrow in her direction. “You don’t sound entirely happy about it.”

  “I am not,” said Frost shortly. “I don’t know what Shaw’s plans are, but he has not formulated them alone. His partner’s name was close to the surface of his thoughts.” She shook her head and muttered to herself: “I can hardly believe he would trust him again. I was there the first time, I remember what happened. But then Shaw has always been one to make a bargain of necessity. Always playing his games----”

  Hellstrom cleared his throat, and Frost’s eyes focused upon him as if her mind were returning from a faraway place. He didn’t have to put his question into words.

  The White Queen took a deep breath and said: “Shaw has allied himself with Magneto.”

  When Raul Jarrett had closed his eyes, he had expected it to be for the last time.

  He had settled into a deep, dreamless sleep, his fear of the unknown tinged by relief as the pain had ebbed from his body at last. He had known little but pain all his adult life, and in some ways he had felt that death would be a blessing.

  As a carefree child growing up in the prosperous city of Hammer Bay, he had never given much thought to the people who tended his garden, swept the streets and drove the trains and buses. He had known that his country, the East African island nation of Genosha, was blessed to have such individuals, such willing slaves whose paranormal abilities made them ideally suited to their menial tasks. But he had never spoken to one of these so-called mutates. He had never wondered where they came from, nor where they went to after sundown.

  He had never imagined that he, Raul Jarrett, the youngest son of a well-heeled, well-connected family, could have become one of them.

  The darkness lightened, and he was aware of himself again, lying on his back. His eyes were still closed, and he could hear nothing over the sound of his own breathing. This in itself was a puzzle: when consciousness had slipped away from him, he had been sprawled across a gumey in a filthy, narrow corridor in an overcrowded hospital, his ears ftill of the coughs and groans of the dying. Doctors and nurses had hurried by, but there had been too few of them and too many patients for them to spare time for a lost cause. His lungs had burnt as he had sucked in air, but now his chest felt as if a weight had been lifted from it. His muscles no longer ached. He began to wonder if he still had a body at all, or if he had passed into an afterlife. The thought unnerved him, and he didn’t dare look to prove or disprove his theory. He remembered his mother bursting into tears as the magistra
tes arrived at his home, brandishing his test results. Gene-positive. He had been numb, disbelieving. There had been no history of the mutant gene in his family; surely there had to have been a mistake?

  He hadn’t really understood what was happening at first-but he remembered the moment of sheer terror as they wheeled him into the operating room, the anaesthetic fighting to take hold. He had glimpsed the blurred face of the feared Genegineer above him and he had realized that, mistake or not, this was happening. It was happening to him. Just one moment. And after that he had felt nothing else, no strong emotions of any kind, for over a decade.

  They had altered Raul Jarrett. They had activated his latent mutant gene and sculpted it, controlling its effects upon his body. They had needed somebody to speed up mining operations beneath the Ridge-back Mountains—somebody who could chase seams of iron ore into areas that even the air could hardly penetrate-so they had given him the power to stretch himself into a narrow thread and to store oxygen reserves in his stomach. They had bonded a skinsuit to his flesh, to afford him protection from the harsh conditions underground and to mark him out inexorably as a creature without rights. They had shaved his head and tampered with his brain so that he had accepted his new station unquestioningly. He had followed the magistrates’ orders and devoted himself to his country even though his bones had protested with each use of his newfound abilities. He had ignored the shooting pains and the knowledge that the work was killing him. And only in his feverish dreams had he recalled the life that he had once lived.

  To all intents and purposes, Raul Jarrett had been dead then. He had become Mutate #6014.

  It was an unbearable irony to him that he had clawed his way back to life only to be singled out by a cruel Fate-or a vengeful deity-again.

  In truth, he had seen little of the mutate rebellion. He had spent most of that bewildering, turbulent time cowering in his squalid little cell in the settlement zone in the Genoshan Highlands. He had not joined in the fight against the magistrates, he had not risked his life— but at least he had won the inner struggle against their conditioning, and he had been proud of his small triumph. And if his countiy had no longer been the Utopian land of his youth, if its slave-based economy had collapsed and its streets had been claimed by fear and looting and arbitrary death, then at least he had been Raul Jarrett again. He had been free.