The Legacy Quest Trilogy

by Unknown Author

  “What do you want?” asked the woman, regarding him through narrowed eyes.

  “I don’t recognize you,” said the older of the two men. “Where are you from?”

  Kurt tried to recall what little he knew of Genoshan geography, to find an area that was just far enough away. “Carrion Cove,” he hazarded.

  The mutates exchanged glances. “That’s a human stronghold!” exclaimed the younger man.

  Kurt nodded eagerly. “My friend and I were being held there. We were forced to keep serving the humans. We escaped two nights ago, and we’ve been on the run ever since. You don’t know how relieved I am to see friendly faces again.”

  “Your friend?” repeated the older man.

  Kurt took a deep breath before he told them about Logan—but he was winning these people over, and lying to them at this stage would only undo that. Still, he was deliberately vague about the nature and the cause of Wolverine’s injury. The older man rubbed his stubbly chin in thought. Then, finally, he nodded. “We don’t have much in the way of facilities, but we’ll certainly do all we can to help a brother.”

  Kurt let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he beamed. “God bless you!”

  He led the mutates to the alleyway, where they took in Wolverine’s condition. A sad shake of the head passed between the older man and the woman when they thought Kurt wasn’t looking. Nevertheless, they put Logan’s arms around their shoulders and lifted him between them. He groaned again, but didn’t open his eyes. “We’ll do what we can for him,” said the man. “We can make him more comfortable, at least. We’ll take him to our main base.”

  Kurt nodded dispiritedly, and returned to the street at the rear of the unlikely procession. They trudged along in silence for a few minutes, before the younger man fell back to walk beside him. “If you’ve come from Carrion Cove,” he confided, “you’ll find things a lot better here. The humans don’t come to this area much. Not if they know what’s good for them.”

  “I had heard that, in the rest of the countiy, the war was over,” said Kurt cautiously.

  The man scowled. “It will never be over until the last flatscan has left Genosha.”

  Ahead of them, the woman started and looked around, as if afraid that somebody might have overheard him. “The Savior has decreed otherwise,” she shot back.

  “Of course,” said the man hastily, “and I don’t mean to question his judgement.” Turning back to Kurt, he explained: “You probably know that our borders have been closed. Magneto doesn’t want any more of the humans to leave.”

  “We need their skills,” said the woman, “to rebuild.”

  “They kept us mindless, servile, for so long,” said the young man bitterly. “We only know how to do menial jobs. But now, Magneto has set up training facilities for us. Within a few years, we will be self-sufficient. We won’t need the flatscans any more." His tone made it quite clear how much he relished that prospect.

  “In the meantime,” the older man reminded him, beginning to struggle with Wolverine’s weight, “we have to be careful. The humans are still out there.”

  “The Savior has instructed that our two races shouldn’t mix,” said the woman.

  “But that doesn’t matter to the flatscans,” snorted the young man. “They’re animals! All they know is hating and killing. Some of them will work for Magneto, because they’re afraid, but secretly they still want us dead.” He puffed out his chest with pride as he added: “Fortunately, they’re weak and they're stupid. We’ve all but wiped them out in this area. This will be a pure mutate village soon, and we won’t have to put up with their stink.”

  Kurt wanted to say something, to tell the young mutate that hatred couldn’t be fought with more hatred. But, for Wolverine’s sake, he couldn’t afford to jeopardize his cover. He took Logan’s arm from the older man, shouldering the burden of his teammate even though he was still tired himself, and walked on in glum silence.

  Eventually, they turned into a narrow side street. There were streetlights here, but only one of them was still working, looking forlorn in the center of its orange circle. “No humans in the vicinity,” reported the woman, who must have had some kind of scanning ability—and the group approached a battered, two-story house about halfway along a terraced row. The door hung open, its blue paint peeling, and the dingy, musty hallway showed no signs of recent habitation. However, the older man led the way confidently toward a smaller wooden door beneath the stairs, which he unlocked with a large brass key.

  Nightcrawler was struck speechless again as he helped to haul Wolverine down a short flight of rickety steps. He was in what had once been a low-ceilinged cellar, but its side walls had been broken through to the cellars on each side, and he could see that the process had been repeated beyond them. The mutates had probably joined all the cellars on this side of the road together. Lighting was provided by bare bulbs strung on an electrical cord, which wended its way haphazardly through the base at head height. Most of them had been turned off for the night; either that or they weren’t working. Most of the available floor area, at least as far as Kurt could see, was taken up by old mattresses and dirty, tattered sheets.

  This room alone was home to at least twenty mutates, most of them still wearing the skinsuits that must have been permanent reminders of their days of slavery. Some of them stirred in their beds to look up at the new arrivals, but most slept on. A couple sat at a wooden table, devouring hunks of stale bread from cracked tin plates.

  The older man glanced back at Kurt, and he must have seen his appalled expression because he smiled tightly and without humor. “Welcome to our home,” he said. “We’re free citizens these days, so they tell us.”

  “Th-there was no need to murder that man.”

  The lynch mob had closed in around Iceman now, and he was tiying to stall them, trying to delay the moment when their gray-bearded leader would put the gun to his head too. He didn’t have the energy to transform himself again, and his ice armor probably wouldn’t have saved him anyway, not from a bullet at this range. Perhaps if he could buy a little more time, another minute or two, he might be able to gum up the gun barrel with slush. He might be able to take its wielder by surprise and run for it in the confusion. He might just stand a chance of escaping. A very small chance. But he couldn’t think of any clever words to say, so he had just blurted out the frrst thing that had come to him.

  The bearded man snorted with cruel laughter. “The only good mutant is a dead mutant!”

  “He would have killed you,” said a young, slim woman with dark hair, “without a qualm.”

  “Debs is right, love. It’s the only language those genejokes understand.” The elderly woman was waving her cane sternly, drawing Bobby’s attention to her. His lips tightened at the insult but he said nothing. “It’s kill or be killed these days, you mark my words!”

  “What did you do?” The bearded man sounded surprisingly genial. Iceman turned to face him again, confused. “To get the GUMPs on your case? You tried to get out?”

  “Um ... yes,” he stammered, guessing that the “GUMPs” were the border guards. “Yes, that’s right, I was trying to get out.” Bobby was beginning to realize that he had misread the situation. These people mustn’t have seen his ice slide, mustn’t have seen him at all until after his powers had given out. They had no reason to suspect that he, because of an accident of his birth, represented everything they hated. As far as they were concerned, he was just a fresh-faced young man dressed in a simple T-shirt and slacks. He made a mental note to thank Rogue for insisting that he wear civilian clothing on this mission.

  They were expecting him to say more, so, mentally crossing his fingers, he added: “I mean, I know Magneto doesn’t want people ... humans, I mean ... to leave the country, but... but, well, I didn’t think he’d go this far.”

  “He’s a mutant, isn’t he?” said somebody behind Bobby. “They’ll stop at nothing to make our lives miserable. They’re animals!”

  �
�What I mean is, I didn’t expect his guards to shoot to kill. I... I just wanted to get away from here.” To his relief, the general reaction to his story was one of sympathy rather than disbelief. Hoping to change the subject while he was ahead, he added quickly: “I was lucky you came along when you did. How did you manage to bring the aircar down?”

  “Sonic sphere,” said the bearded man proudly. “Old magistrate technology. We set it up a few days ago. Those genejokes flew right into it; it shook their car to pieces. That’ll show them who owns this town!”

  “The thing is, dear,” said the old woman, “even if we could leave Genosha, we’d never get away from them, not completely. They’re everywhere these days, the muties, waiting to strike. You can’t even tell who’s human any more. Not these days.”

  “No,” said Iceman, forcing himself to nod. He wasn’t enjoying the irony of the situation at all. “I know what you mean.”

  “Even America’s swarming with them,” agreed the teenaged boy. “You see it on the news all the time—at least you used to, before it was censored.”

  “And they’ll destroy the proud United States as surely as they’ve destroyed our country,” said the bearded man as if making a casual statement of fact. “That’s why you can’t run, son. Oh, plenty have tried—many families made a run for it as soon as they heard we’d been sold out. They escaped before that mutant fascist arrived, and good luck to them. But what kind of a legacy are they leaving for their kids, huh? Somebody’s got to make a stand. Somebody’s got to draw the line somewhere, or human beings will end up as extinct as the caveman!”

  “This used to be a green and pleasant land,” said the old woman wistfully.

  “And it will be again,” the bearded man promised her, “if we can stand together!” He extended a hand toward Bobby. “The name’s Hendrickson. Are you with us, son?”

  Iceman stared at him, then realized that his uncertainty was drawing suspicion. “Bobby,” he said quickly. “Bobby Drake.” And he reached out and took the proffered hand, hating himself for doing it but knowing that he had no other option. “I’m with you.”

  The mutates had taken Wolverine into a former wine cellar, one part of which was sectioned off by high shelves and equipped with four real beds. He had been lain in one; the other three were unoccupied. His wound had been washed and redressed, and he had been given antibiotics and plenty of water. Nightcrawler hoped it would be enough. At least his friend appeared to be sleeping peacefully now.

  He had insisted on staying with Logan. The chair beside his bed was uncomfortable, but Kurt had fallen into a light doze anyway. His dreams were populated by the mutates. Even when they had been slaves, they had at least been kept in comfortable conditions. But the civil war had bankrupted Genosha, and their current lives of poverty seemed a high price to pay for liberation. He only hoped that, one day, it would prove to be worth it.

  Woken by a scuffling sound, he saw that several people had joined him at the bedside. The three mutates from outside were among them, but Kurt’s eyes were drawn to a thin, bald-headed man with sunken eyes and bloodless, disapproving lips, who stood a head above the others. The man wore white robes-made out of a bed sheet, he fancied-over a yellow and black skinsuit. Looking at Kurt, he twisted his mouth into an approximation of a smile, exposing black-capped teeth, although his eyes had a steel glint. “I am sorry to disturb you,” he said in a low voice that seemed to reverberate inside his chest, “but I believe your friend is in need of assistance.”

  “You’re a doctor?” asked Kurt hopefully.

  “In a manner of speaking. I tend to the immortal soul.” The other mutates had gathered around the bed, and Kurt stood at its foot. This placed him directly opposite the bald man, who took Wolverine’s head in his huge hands, rolled his own head back and closed his eyes. His thin lips fluttered as he recited incantations to himself. Then, he said: “The life force of our brother is weak. We must pray for him.” Nightcrawler’s heart sank. Much as he believed in the power of prayer, he had hoped for-expected, for a moment—more practical assistance. He had hoped that this newcomer was a healer, if not by profession then by virtue of a mutant gene. Nevertheless, he bowed his head respectfully, as did the mutates, and clasped his hands in front of him. He concentrated on the words of the prayer and offered up his own plea to God.

  “Lord, we beseech you to heed the words of your humble priest, and the hopes of your loyal supplicants. We, who have suffered so much and yet believe that you will lead us to a brighter tomorrow, ask that you show mercy upon our fallen brother. We ask that he be made well and strong again, that he might assist in the rebuilding of your green and pleasant land. We pray that you might grant him a small portion of your infinite power of magnetism.”

  Nightcrawler blinked, and his stomach performed a cartwheel. “Amen,” said the Priest and the mutates in unison.

  The Priest reached out in front of him, his hands hovering above Wolverine’s chest. And something crackled beneath his downtumed palms: a bright blue discharge of energy, which grew to encircle his sleeping patient and then faded as if it had been absorbed into his body. The Priest’s face softened into a beatific expression, and he whispered: “Thank you, Lord.”

  Then, his blue eyes snapped open, seeming to drill into Nightcrawler’s head as if they could see the uncertainty, the discomfort, he was feeling.

  “All praise to the Savior,” intoned the Priest. “All praise Magneto.” “All praise Magneto,” the mutates repeated. “All praise Magneto.” Nightcrawler tried to join in the chant, but his throat had stopped. He moved his lips instead, hoping that his inability to give voice to the words would not be noticed.

  But he felt cold and sick inside.

  t sim

  SUNLIGHT SHONE through Rogue’s eyelids. The air was warm, and moist with morning dew. She didn’t know where she was at

  _first; she couldn’t work out why there was hard soil beneath her

  cheek. But then, feeling an insistent toe between her ribs, she forced her eyes open, raised herself up onto her hands and found herself looking into a gun barrel. And behind it, the image still blurred, she could see magistrates’ uniforms.

  “On your feet, mutie,” somebody snarled, “and don’t try nothing. We got guns!”

  “I can see that,” said Rogue, picking herself up wearily. “Don’t worry, I don’t have the energy to make a break for it. So easy with those trigger fingers, you hear?”

  “Well, this is a real find, isn’t it? A real live mutie, lying in this field by herself. Where are your genejoke friends, mutie?”

  Rogue blinked, and brought her captors into focus. There were six of them, their faces concealed by blue metal gas masks, each armed with rifles. Behind them, the sun was rising over Hammer Bay, washing its fractured buildings in a bloody shade of red that seemed unnervingly appropriate. “You aren’t mutates?” she ventured.

  The group’s apparent leader spat through his speaking grille. Rogue saw stripes of rank on his shoulder. “We’re human beings, you mutate bitch: pure, decent people. We’ve nothing in common with your kind.” His comrades murmured agreement.

  “What makes you think I’m a mutate?” asked Rogue. She tried to sound aggrieved at the accusation, but she was struggling to keep her temper.

  “You came down with the aircars, didn’t you?” said another man, nodding toward the wreckage that strewed the field behind her. “Only a freak could have survived that. Look at you-there’s not a scratch on you!”

  “I guess I must have been lucky,” said Rogue evenly. “I must have been thrown clear. Anyway, you’re the ones who are dressed like Magneto’s militia!”

  The magistrates’ leader slapped her across the face. Fortunately, his hand was gloved. Rogue flinched as if the blow had hurt her—so long as they didn’t know anything about her powers, she had an advantage-but she fixed him with a baleful glare.

  “These uniforms used to be a symbol of authority,” he snarled. “The magistrates used to keep o
rder in these parts; we had respect. Now, we’ve got stinking gene freak terrorists and human traitors running around in our clothes.”

  “Magneto calls them the Genoshan Unified Military Patrol-what a joke!”

  “Well, that’s gonna change. We’re gonna take back our uniforms and we’re gonna take back our country!” A ragged cheer greeted the leader’s words.

  “Well, bully for you!” said Rogue diyly. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, sugar, I’m not wearing anybody’s uniform, and I don’t want any part of this here squabble of yours.”

  She had intended to say more. She had concocted a stoiy about how she, a normal human being going about her lawful business, had been kidnapped by fanatical mutates, how she had taken them by surprise and knocked their flier off-course. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell the lie, to toady up to scum like this. Anyway, she was feeling better now: well enough, she was sure, to take them on if they came at her. The odds were only six to one, after all.

  “I know you!” said one of the magistrates suddenly, stepping forward. The voice sounded female, although the heavy, padded costume made it hard to tell for sure. “You came here a few weeks ago. I saw you flying over Hammer Bay!” She turned to the others excitedly “She is a genejoke, she is! She’s one of those American mutants-X-Men, they’re called.”

  “As if we don’t have enough freaks of our own,” somebody muttered.

  “That skunk hair is a dead giveaway, honey!” said the woman.

  Most of the magistrates took fearful steps away from Rogue, tightening their grips on their weapons. She shrugged as if she didn’t care that they had seen through her deception. “So, you know who I am. Now, what do you think you’re going to do about it?”

  “Same as we’d do with any other freak,” said the leader. Then, raising his voice, he barked out the command: “Fire at will!”

  Ororo Munroe stirred in her sleep. She was distantly aware that she was being held fast by something cold and hard, which encircled her midriff and trapped her wrists and ankles. Part of her knew that she ought to wake up, but she was plunging back into warm darkness before she could even make the effort. She surfaced amid the bright colors and disconnected recollections of dreams, discomfited that her mind’s eye had chosen to replay the details of her recent defeat to her.