“'You degenerates are no match for the Judgment’s Watch Cohort,” boomed the voice of the Exemplar. With his lower extremities completely encased inside a sleek sled of some silvery metal, he looked almost as though he were seated in a motorcycle’s sidecar. If, that is, a sidecar could fly and had somehow managed to lose track of its motorcycle. “Stand down, and submit to the will of the Kh’thonic Collective.”
Scott didn’t respond, but opened the aperture on his visor, sending a wide beam of scarlet energy lancing toward the Exemplar.
In the split second before the beam connected, the Exemplar suddenly blurred into motion, moving blindingly fast for the briefest of instants, and then stopping again only a few yards away.
“What the blazes?”
“This resistance is pointless, and is an insult to our shared masters. Desist!”
Scott gritted his teeth. His first instinct was that the Capo had teleported the short distance, but there’d been no sound of inrushing air, no flash of energy discharged. It was only on reflection that Scott realized that the sled had simply moved, albeit extremely quickly.
“just what is your talent, anyway, Capo?” Scott taunted, darting to one side, looking for an opening. “Boring your opponents to death?”
“Mine is the power of mentation, degenerate.”
Scott opened the visor again, and another scarlet beam lanced out. Again, though, the sled moved at lightning speed, so that when the beam arrived the space in which the sled had been was now empty.
“A futile effort,” the Capo said.
“Maybe,” Scott said, and scarlet beam after scarlet beam shot from the visor, one after another after another. “But I’m not done trying.”
Scott’s powers flowed through his eyes, so that to look at a thing and to aim a beam at it were the same action. And yet, though he had only to glance at the Capo to send a beam of concussive force lancing toward him, still the beams always failed to connect.
The Capo made a sound something like laughter. “Fool. My cognition is so far advanced above your own that I stand in relation to you as you yourself do to a lowly amoeba.”
“Stop thinking, Scott!” came a voice from behind him.
Scott turned to see a man hanging from the side of a lamppost a short distance away, suit disheveled, tie askew, huge feet bare.
“Don’t think!” the man repeated. “Just keep shooting at random in his general direction.”
Scott nodded, then turned back toward the Capo, opened the visor, and let fly, one beam after another, not bothering to line his gaze up with the Capo, but simply loosing blast after blast in the Exemplar’s direction.
For a few seconds, it seemed as though this new strategy would be no more successful than Scott’s had been, when suddenly one of the beams struck home.
Scott stopped, and held his breath.
The Exemplar made a sound like a groan, as his sled listed slightly to one side.
“Quickly, Scott, hit him again!”
Scott didn’t waste time replying, but poured it on, his visor opened all the way, his eyes as wide as he could make them. For several seconds, scarlet force lanced out, and the sled-riding Exemplar was buffeted back, like a car slowly pushed across the pavement by the force of a fire-hose blast.
Finally, Scott could feel his power reserves begin to wane, the beam gradually reduced to little more than a red light, and he closed the visor’s aperture.
The blasts ceased, the Capo briefly surged forward, his resistance no longer finding anything against which to push. Then he hung motionless in midair for a moment.
“I am . . . the superior . . .” the Capo said, his voice faint and distant, and then his eyes closed, and he listed far over to one side.
As the Exemplar drifted high overhead like an errant balloon, Scott turned to the barefoot, suit-wearing gentleman who’d come to his aid at such a crucial moment.
“Good to see you, Hank,” Scott said, extending his hand and treating his old friend to his broadest smile. “What kept you?”
‘Ah, well,” the man named Hank McCoy said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I was down at the Coffee A-Go-Go in Greenwich Village, enjoying the pulchritudinous prose of Bernard the Poet, when his epic ‘Amorphous Ode to the Bebop Bonobos’ was interrupted by the sounds of invasion. I’ve been working my way uptown ever since, but traffic, as I’m sure you can imagine, has been a beast.” Scott grinned a bit wider, if such a thing were possible. “Have you heard from the others?”
Hank shook his head. “Bobby was down in Texas, as I understand, while Warren and Jean were answering a call in Detroit.”
A cloud passed over Scott features, if only momentarily. “They’re big enough to take care of themselves,” he said, his tone strained.
Hank reached out a massive hand, and laid it on Scott’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine, Scott. We’ve faced worse and gotten through it unscathed.”
Scott looked at the confusion of Times Square, the pitched battle still going on here and there.
“Have we? This was all done by six extraterrestrial mutants, Hank. How many do you suppose they’re keeping in reserve up there?”
The two men looked skyward, where only the brightest stars were visible through the city’s light pollution. Neither of them had an answer to that.
20
All around the world, battles broke out and fires raged, as more and more of the landers touched down, each disgorging a cadre of the super-powered Exemplar. By now, there was not a man, woman, or child on Earth who had not heard the news of the invasion. In many areas, where the combined might of the police and military were insufficient to combat the invaders, and where no powered individuals stood in the breach, the populations had already been herded into hastily erected containment centers, just hours after the first of the alien landers touched ground.
But in other places, where the local authorities were sufficiently well armed and organized, or where superheroes or other powered adventurers were on hand, resistance was still being mounted.
On the astral plane, Doug Ramsey stood, holding hands with an angel.
Well, he wasn’t really standing, as such. This was some sort of idealized self-image, projected telepathi-cally from his mind, that only seemed to be standing. If
Doug had a greater degree of self-control, he was sure, then his body could take on any shape he imagined, could fly, crawl, or swim. But Doug imagined himself standing, just as he always did, and so that’s what he appeared to be doing.
But it was an angel at his side, that much was certain. An angel, strangely, with a butterfly over her eyes.
“What?” Betsy had asked when he’d pointed out the butterfly. He’d just noticed it, as they materialized side by side here on the astral plane, and couldn’t help but mention it.
“It’s almost like a domino mask,” Doug explained, “but it seems to be made out of light, and is glowing. Orange, pink and other colors I can’t even describe.”
“How strange ...” Betsy reached up and touched her face, and again Doug remembered that this was not her body, but merely a memory of it. “Let me see, if you don’t mind.”
Doug felt something brush against his mind, like butterfly’s wings, and he realized that Betsy had just reached out and touched his thoughts, briefly.
“Very strange, indeed,” Betsy mused. “But a mystery for another time, I think. Now, though our bodies are still in that little room off the headmaster’s study, so long as my powers are amplified by Cerebro and you remain in contact with me, our astral forms are free to travel whatever distance we like, to whatever destination we wish.”
“Understood.” Doug nodded, marveling at the sensation of moving a body that wasn’t there.
“Very well,” Betsy said, clapping her hands together.
“I was able to make contact with my brother in England, and the New Mutants in Colorado, because I have an image of them in my mind. Cerebro appears to work on a system of sympathies, somehow checking that
image against all of the minds on the planet, like a fingerprint matched against all the entries in a database, until it finds the one it’s searching for. In order for us to contact the X-Men’s allies around the world, you need only imagine them, one at a time, and via our psychic connection I’ll be able to do the rest.”
Doug thought for a moment, and then nodded again. “Seems simple enough. So where do you want to start?”
Betsy shrugged. “Distance is no object, and any place is as good as another.”
“Fair enough,” Doug answered. “How about we start close to home, then?”
In Boston, a group of young mutants wearing uniforms of red and black stood in Quincy Market. Doug identified them as the Hellions, students at the Massachusetts Academy, and rivals to the students at the Xavier School. There’d been bad blood between them and the New Mutants, and bad blood between their headmistress the White Queen and the X-Men, but now that the Earth was under threat of invasion from forces beyond the stars, such grudges and jealousies could be put aside, at least temporarily. Against a common foe, mutant stood with mutant, to protect the world itself.
If they survived, perhaps, then they could return to their old war. For the moment, they were allies, of a sort.
In Ottawa, in the Canadian province of Ontario, a group of heroes gathered in the shadow of the Parliament Buildings. Led by a woman wearing a power suit emblazoned with the red and white of the maple leaf flag, they numbered a pair of mutant speedsters, a goddess, a shaman and his daughter, a man of metal and a master of metal, and a feisty little person. Together, they were Alpha Flight. In their time, they had been allies, then enemies, and then allies again of the X-Men, and while the mutants ofXavier’s school ranged all over the world and beyond, the men and women of Alpha Flight were dedicated to securing the borders of their native land. But threats to the world at large were threats to their homeland, as well, and in the face of an alien invasion the Alphans would not consider surrender.
They stood, shoulder to shoulder, as a phalanx of invading Exemplar approached, prepared to raze the house of Canadian governance to the ground. Alpha Flight had no intention of allowing that to happen.
Across the Atlantic, in Glasgow, Scotland, a motley assemblage of scientists and civilians, human and mutant alike, had gathered together, armed with weapons, powers, and determination. At their head were a human woman, Moira MacTaggert, and the man she loved, Sean Cassidy. Once a mutant, his abilities stripped from him years before, Cassidy had been a tearaway, a policeman, an unwitting criminal, an adventurer, and a hero. For a time, he’d even been an X-Man. But now, he was simply a man, looking to protect what was his, in which count he included the woman at his side. The head of the Muir Island research facility, Dr. MacTag-gert had long been a friend of the X-Men, and longer a friend to their founder, Charles Xavier.
With them was an army, but an army of one man. Numbering in the dozens, and growing by the moment, the bodies of Jamie Madrox, the Multiple Man, spilled out into the surrounding streets. Any impact, any kinetic energy, was transformed by Madrox’s unique mutant makeup, creating a complete and autonomous duplicate of Madrox himself These duplicates could be reabsorbed by Madrox’s body at will, but if he chose, he could let them continue their independent existence indefinitely. Each body, on its own, was unremarkable; no stronger than the average man, nor faster, nor smarter. But taken together, in their dozens, or even hundreds, the army of Madroxes could be formidable, indeed.
Two lovers and an army of one. They stood together, Scotland’s last line of defense against the invaders.
In Tokyo, in the middle of the normally crowded Ginza Strip, two mutants stood back-to-back. Cousins and sometimes enemies, the two now shared a common enemy, their feud momentarily forgotten. Both were scions of the Clan 'Yoshida, both born with abilities that set them apart from their families and their fellow Japanese. Sunfire, for a brief moment a member of the X-Men, controlled the nuclear fire that burns at the heart of the sun itself. Silver Samurai, frequent foe to Wolverine and his teammates, could direct strange energies into the sword he wielded, making it capable of cutting through virtually any substance short of adamantium.
In the shadows, far from the bright neon lights of the Ginza, a woman named "¥11130, with no particular powers or abilities beyond an aptitude with knives, the ability to pick locks, and a complete lack of fear, eyed the advance of the Exemplar, wondering how to turn the situation to her advantage, and considering, for perhaps the first time, if this might not be the time to do something selfless. To try, for once, to be a hero.
Into the small hours of the morning, Doug and Betsy moved hand in hand through the astral plane, touching first one mind and then another. Coordinating the efforts of the X-Men’s allies around the world, sharing strategies as to the best ways to defeat the alien invaders, the two persevered, hoping against hope that this might not be mankind’s final stand.
21
So the kid can change into any kind of animal, looks like.
Logan faced off against the green-skinned Exemplar. In those rare moments when his body reverted to a humanoid shape, while transforming from one animal shape to another, he looked like the Hulk’s scrawny kid brother. Couldn’t weigh more than one hundred and fifty pounds, tops, standing only a couple of inches taller than Logan himself Where all the extra mass was coming from for each of the transformations, Logan couldn’t say, but it didn’t seem to matter much. All that mattered was that the kid was proving to be more difficult an opponent than Logan would have guessed.
That’s alright, Logan thought with a tight grin. I’ve got some animal in me, too.
For the last few minutes, Logan had been tussling with an oversize apelike creature with talons for fingers, and big scalloped ears like batwings. With a bellowing roar of rage, the green ape-thing lunged at Logan, but the X-Man danced easily out of the way
Thing is, it isn’t the animal that counts, most of the time. It’s the man.
Evidently deciding it was time to try a different strategy, the Exemplar retreated, and transformed, first into a skinny, green-skinned kid, and then into some sort of green-furred bear. Its snout open wide, revealing double rows of vicious teeth. It was even taller than the ape-creature had been, taller than Logan and Peter Rasputin put together. And on the end of its powerful arms were long, razor-sharp claws.
Logan smiled. He’d faced bears once or twice in his time.
Bears, I know how to handle.
Before the newly transformed Exemplar could move in to attack, Logan surged forward, and swiped his adamantium claws downward in a wide arc, connecting with the bear-creature’s right arm.
The unbreakable adamantium blades cut through the green-furred arm like a hot knife through warm butter, and as Logan’s swing continued its downward arc, the severed limb flopped onto the pavement at his feet.
This’ll be easier’n I thought.
But then, as Logan watched, the severed arm skittered across the pavement, like some sort of strange, fur-colored crab. When it touched the bear-thing’s foot, it suddenly flowed like mercury, reabsorbed back into the body.
For a brief instant, the Exemplar reverted back to human shape, a momentary expression of discomfort flashing across his features, and then he treated Logan to a wicked smile. Without preamble, he transformed again, this time into a giant scorpion, as big as a Cadillac, its tail raised and poised to strike.
Or maybe not.
Kurt Wagner crouched low, legs compressed like springs, and then leapt high in the air, just as the beams of black light blasted chunks of asphalt out of the pavement where he’d stood.
“You’re getting closer, mein Freund,” Kurt laughed. He dangled from a traffic light, suspended by his prehensile tail. “Keep trying, you’re bound to hit me sooner or later.”
The pale-skinned, green-eyed Exemplar replied with a wordless moan.
“What’s the matter? Wake up on the wrong side of the sarcophagus this morning, mummy?”
&nb
sp; The Exemplar raised his hands, palms first, and black light leapt out, lancing directly at the spot where Kurt dangled.
Bamf.
Kurt displaced a few dozen yards to the north, appearing in a buff of brimstone and smoke on top of an abandoned yellow cab.
“Missed ... again ...” Kurt said, out of breath.
For all his cocksure bravado, this constant ’porting and acrobatics was taking its toll. He’d so far managed to keep a step ahead of the pale-skinned Exemplar, providing a distraction while giving the civilians who’d previously crowded the street a chance to get to safety. But now that the streets were almost empty, Kurt wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep it up.
Then, like clockwork, the Exemplar swung around, and fired another pair of black light beams in Kurt’s direction. He teleported out of harm’s way, but when he appeared halfway up the block, he had to hold his side, doubled over, like a marathon runner reaching the end of the race.
Okay, Kurt thought, ruefully. This is growing tiresome. .. .
Peter Rasputin, meanwhile, had problems of his own.
At the moment, he clung to the shoulder of the giant woman like a tick, as the Exemplar batted at him with her massive hands, trying to knock him loose. When they’d first set to, he’d been worried about her treading on innocents underfoot, but in the time that he’d been occupying her, most of the pedestrians had fled to the safety of the surrounding buildings, or down into the subway tunnels, beyond the Exemplars’ immediate reach.
Now, of course, Peter had to work out what to do next. Sadly, his strategy had not extended much beyond harassing the giant, and he wasn’t quite sure what his next course of action should be.
The woman had grown to such a size that Peter was no taller than one of her fingers was long. He’d contented himself with tugging at her earlobe and delivering punches to her neck and jaw, but they’d proven little more than irritants. If he was going to end this skirmish, he’d have to find a way to do a bit more damage.
And then he saw it.
The Return Page 10