Cosmic rays? Kitty thought. Like those that gave the Fantastic Four their powers? And gamma radiation, like that which gave birth to the Hulk? Is this clown saying that all of those are mutations deriving from the same “randomizing element”—the X-gene—that gave me and the other mutants our abilities?
“The Kh’thonic Collective has reason to worry that, without supervision, augmented humans could one day pose a threat to the other civilized cultures of the galaxy, not least of which are the Kh’thon themselves. Certainly, recent history suggests that mutants, as you call yourselves, even present a danger to the civilizations of Earth itself.”
“Yeah?” Logan said, taking a step forward, but not too close. “So what are you gonna do about it, then?”
“This one?” Vox Prime pointed to himself confused. “This one does nothing.” He then turned slightly to one side, and glanced up with a worshipful expression at the inhuman creatures towering over him. “Our masters in the Collective, however, are inclined to eradicate humanity all together, wiping clean the face of the Earth, and starting over with a fresh crop of servants.”
“Alright,” Alysande barked, and took three long strides forward. “This has gone on quite long enough.”
Vox Prime was silent for a long, terrifying moment, and Alysande stiffened, half-expecting to be burned to ashes. When she wasn’t, she straightened, and plowed on ahead.
“Look, you lot.” She pointed a stern finger at the towering alien figures, ignoring Vox Prime entirely. “Forget what this pile of ashes told you. I am the legitimate representative of the British crown, and I’m here to tell you that we reject your claim to Earth and its inhabitants, full stop. No negotiating, no quibbling. This is our planet, not yours.”
Alysande glanced back at the trio of mutants behind her. Logan, spoiling for a fight, was kept in place only by Kitty’s hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, sure,” Alysande continued, turning back to the Kh’thon, “you think you’ve got concerns about unsupervised mutants? Well, chappy, just try living with them and see howyou feel. But it’s none of your blasted business. If the mutants are a problem, then they’re humanity’s problem to sort out. Not yours. Even if everything you say is true, you and your lot gave up any claim on the Earth or its inhabitants when you buggered off millions of years ago, so don’t come swanning around now like you own the place, demanding all the back rent. It’s our planet, and we’ll defend it, so why don’t you just bugger off and let us be?”
For a long moment, no one moved, and not a word was said. Vox Prime looked up at the seven monsters towering over him, and Alysande felt strangely nauseated, unbalanced. She remembered the “buzz” that Betsy Braddock had mentioned, the psychic spillover of the telepathic conversations of the Kh’thon, and realized that the aliens must be communicating with one another at a level beyond her perception or comprehension.
At last, Vox Prime smiled, nodded, and turned his attention back to Alysande and the others.
“The Collective has considered your suggestion, degenerate, and rejected it. They will not be buggering off, now or ever. Judgment will be carried out, immediately.”
40
“What do you mean, problem?”
Doug, Hank, and Rogue were standing at the center of the facility, the head of the Master Mold towering high overhead.
“Yeah, Doug, I’m with Hank. Seems to me that we’re not gummin’ up the teeth of a giant dino-bot, so I’m guessin’ that you got the computer to listen to you, at least, right?”
Doug glanced up at the mass of conduits, cables, and equipment that lined the inside of the Master Mold’s “skull.”
“Well, I was able to use my portable computer to hack into the Master Mold’s user interface, and while it was still in a suspend cycle I installed a radio frequency transceiver. Then I just had to prep it to receive vocal commands, do a bit of fiddling with its recognition protocols, and we were good to go. More or less.”
He held up his cellular phone, almost as though it were a consolation prize.
“But now we can talk to the Master Mold over the phone. That’s something, at least, right?”
Doug pressed a number on the cellular phone’s keypad, and a voice buzzed from the phone’s tinny loudspeaker.
“MasterMold online and awaiting instruction.”
“So you c’n just tell it what ta do and it’ll do it?” “Um, no, not exactly,” Doug said, sheepishly. “That’s the problem. See, I was able to hack the recognition protocols, so that the Master Mold and all the local sentinels won’t be able to detect the X-gene in our DNA They think we’re human. That’s why they’re not attacking us anymore.”
“Their protocols call for them to defend human life,” Hank said, his tone suggesting he was remembering something long ago and far away.
“Exactly.” Doug nodded enthusiastically. Then he added, less so, “But we still can’t give them any instructions.”
“Why not?” Rogue asked.
“Because we’re not Bolivar Trask” Hank answered. Doug looked at Hank impressed. ‘Yeah, that’s it exactly. Or a genetic relative, at least. Even as weird as these Sentinels look this is a Mark I Master Mold, the original Bolivar Trask model. The Cadillac of mutant-killing machines. And it has all of Trask’s original security protocols still running.” He glanced at the giant head high above them, and slumped his shoulders, defeated. “It’ll take orders from a Trask and only a Trask” “Wait a blamed minute,” Rogue said, her tone disbelieving. ‘You’re saying that you’re smart enough to trick this thing into thinking you, me, and him are human, but you can’t make it think we’re one human in particular?”
A blush rose in Doug’s cheek, and he averted his eyes. “I... I just...” He shook his head. “No, I can’t.” Then, after taking a quick, deep breath, he looked up, defensive and perhaps a touch defiant. “But it’s not my fault. It isn’t! Without a sample of Trask DNA to use as a model, I’ve got no idea what kind of spoof to input.” Hank rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “But wouldn’t there be a record of Trask’s genetic makeup on file? The Master Mold has to be using something as a basis of comparison, right?”
Doug nodded. “Yeah, I tried that. And found it. But it’s got 256-bit encryption on it. There’s no way we could crack it in time.” He looked from Hank to Rogue and back again. “Not unless one of you has suddenly developed the mutant ability to guess decryption keys at random.” “No,” Hank said, impatient but somewhat strained, like a teacher trying to lead a student to a troublesome answer. “But if you know where the Trask DNA is stored in the system, couldn’t you simply replace that file with a sample you do have, and then use that as your mask?” Doug’s eyes brightened, and his mouth opened wide. “Hey!” He snapped his fingers. “I could. It’d be kind of backwards, but it could work.” He smiled, and then added, “Heck, I could use mine.”
Doug punched in a series of numbers on the cellular phone, and then began speaking into the mic, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rogue shook her head, her brows knit. “I don’t follow” “Well,” Hank said, professorially, “since Doug doesn’t have the information he needs to convince the Master Mold that he is Bolivar Trask, he’s instead going
to overwrite the file copy of Trask DNA, essentially convincing the Master Mold that its creator was Doug Ramsey all along.”
Doug had the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, fishing in his leather satchel for something.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing over at Hank and Rogue. “It won’t hold for long, though. The next time the Master Mold does its schedule system restore, it’ll overwrite any of my temporary edits and the Trask DNA file will be back in place.”
“It doesn’t have to work forever,” Hank said. “Just so long as it works long enough.”
Doug finished up rattling off a sequence of base pairs into the phone, and then said, “Execute.”
“I don’t like the sounds a’ that.”
Hank reached over and patted Rogue�
��s shoulder, an avuncular gesture.
“Master Mold,” Doug said into the phone, raising his voice and glancing overhead. “Identify.”
A long moment of excruciating silence followed. “Vocal identification: Trask. Prime command protocols search: online: Running protocols: stop. Preserve Trask DNA ” Doug looked over to Hank and Rogue and smiled broadly. “Folks, I think we’re in business.”
“Well,” Hank said, sounding for all the world like a proud father. “What are you waiting for?”
Doug smiled, and shifted the cellphone to his other ear. He held up a finger, asking the others to hold on, and flashed them a sly grin.
“Master Mold?” he said. “I’ve got a little assignment for you.”
41
“Hey, Forrester, aren’t I supposed to be rescuing you?” “Ah, you know me, Scott, I’ve never been very good at living up to other people’s expectations.”
Scott chanced a quick glance and a smile, then fired off an optic blast at a tall, thin Exemplar with bat wings and huge fangs. Lee, who’d fought her way through the melee and was now standing at his side, countered with a torrent of white light from her crystal rod, hitting an Exemplar with arms like a fiddler crab, sending him spinning back out of reach.
“You know, Lee,” Scott said out of the side of his mouth, while he sighted on another target, “most damsels in distress wait patiently in their dungeons, and don’t come rushing to their rescuer’s aid with their own personal army in tow.”
“What, these guys?” Lee pointed to the seven mutant newcomers, who were hungrily laying into their former captors. “I thought they were with you.”
Scott laughed—actually laughed—and spared a brief instant to look her way. With her crystal weapon in hand, hair flying behind her in a blond nimbus, she looked like some kind of Valkyrie, like a warrior princess. He felt a quick pang, one he’d not felt since he’d seen her last. It had been a long, long time ago, before he’d gone to Anchorage and all that had come after, but suddenly it felt like only moments had passed.
“It’s good to see you, Lee,” he said.
Lee glanced his way, a wry expression twisting her lip. “Was that sentiment? From the man of stone himself? Somebody pinch me...”
An Exemplar with the head of a man and the body of a tiger lunged at them, and Lee barely managed to repel him with a well-placed blast from her crystal rod.
“Lee, I’m sorry I never...”
From the opposite side, a flying Exemplar who seemed to be sheathed in blue flames threw a fireball in their direction, which would have impacted with the side of Scott’s head had Lee not pulled him aside at the last instant.
“Apologize later, Scott.” Lee wore a weary smile, but her tone was grim. “Assuming we live that long.”
The melee was not long contained in the courtyard, however enormous it was, and soon ranged all over the alien city In the shadow of immense, inhuman statuary, grotesques from out of prehistory, man and mutant fought side by side against the army of Exemplar.
Eventually, at least...
“Watch it, Paolo!” Frank shouted, and inexpertly fired a blast from the crystal rod that, though clumsily aimed, was still well placed enough to fend off the Exemplar who was preparing to decapitate his fellow crewman from the trawler Arcadia.
“Watch it yoursel’, Frank,” Paolo replied, and with his crystal rod in a two-handed grip sent a burst of light lancing toward another of the Exemplar.
The efficacy of the crystal rod bursts seemed to vacillate widely, but were still proof enough to keep the Exemplar at bay, even if none were incapacitated for long.
“Aw, heck!” Frank raised his weapon, sighting it past Paolo’s shoulder. “There’s another’n.”
“Hey!” Paolo lunged forward, shouldering Frank’s weapon away, sending the burst firing harmlessly into the open air.
“What’s the big idea, Paolo?!”
“Ya blamed wharf rat.” Paolo grabbed Frank’s arm and dragged him near, and pointed in the direction Frank had been firing. “That’n’s on our side.”
Frank sneered. “Yeah? Well he’s got blue fur and a blasted tail, so’s far as I’m concerned, he ain’t on no side a mine.”
Bamf
Without warning, Kurt Wagner teleported within arms reach. Frank’s eyes widened with fear, but Paolo remained calm and steady.
“Good hearing.” Kurt twanged one of his pointed ears. He inclined his head toward Paolo. “My thanks for deflecting your friend’s shot.”
“He’s no friend a mine,” Paolo answered. “He’s just part a the crew. But he’s a blamed idiot.”
Frank narrowed his eyes, regarding Kurt suspiciously.
“Well, your fellow crewman seems not to like my appearance.”
Paolo just shrugged.
“And does my having blue fur and a tail not bother you?”
Paolo cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips thoughtfully. lcWell, does my bein’ an old drunk bother you?”
Kurt smiled slightly, and shook his head.
“Well,” Paolo answered, and turned back to face the enemy. “I don’t figure we’ll have a problem, then.”
Kurt smiled more broadly. He gave Frank a jaunty little salute, and with a bamf teleported back into the fray.
“I don’t know, Paolo ...”
“Shut up and shoot, Frank.”
Elsewhere in the raging melee, friends were reunited, however briefly, and acquaintances became cocombatants.
Peter Rasputin hurled one opponent out of his way, and turned to find himself facing a tiny green hummingbird hovering in midair before him. He was startled, set aback at seeing something so delicate, so beautiful, in such strange, forbidding environs. Then, in the blink of an eye, the tiny hummingbird was gone, and an enormous green elephant towered over him instead, verdant tusks aimed directly at his steel heart.
“Perdao, ” said a voice at Peter’s elbow, and a diminutive figure who seemed cloaked entirely in shadow stepped into view. The shadowy figure grabbed hold of the elephant by the trunk, and with surprising ease yanked the elephant off its feet. Though no more than five feet tall, the shadowy figure, around whom little motes of black seemed to dance like crackling energy, sent the elephant hurling through the air. In midair, the elephant shape-shifted into a small bat, but its flapping wings were unable to overcome its inertia and it slammed into a wall with a sickening splat.
“Sunspot?” Peter said, recognition dawning.
“Sorry to steal your sparring partner,” Sunspot said, eyes white in a jet black face. The young mutant, one of the new class at the Xavier school, had the mutant ability to convert sunlight into tremendous strength; while using his powers, his body absorbed all frequencies of light with one hundred percent efficiency, making him appear completely black. “I have been caged, and have some aggression to work out, clearly.”
Peter smiled. “I take no offense, tovarisch. Come.” He laid an arm across Sunspot’s shoulders. “Allow me to introduce you to an Exemplar upon whom you might vent your frustrations. He has a thunderbolt on his clothing, and can take an impressive amount of damage.”
On and on the battle raged, as day turned to evening. Combatants shifted from one side of the alien city to the other, exchanging opponents, altering tactics. Flickering here and there, like fleeting mirages glimpsed from the corner of one’s eye, a streak of black-and-white and one of yellow appeared, for the briefest instant, then blurred into invisibility, only to appear hundreds of feet away in the next instant, only to vanish again. The Canadian hero Northstar and the yellow-clad Exemplar speedster engaged in battle, moving so much faster than the rest of the combatants that they occupied a reference and a battlefield all their own.
Wolfsbane, the Scots werewolf, faced off against the lithe, blue-furred acrobat with long bony talons growing from her fingertips. They cut and slashed, each bearing the marks of the other’s attacks, but neither yielding ground for long, snapping and snarling like wild animals vying for the
same territory.
Thunderbird, the Native American Hellion, found his considerable strength and endurance put to the test when he went toe-to-toe with a woman who appeared to be made of solid stone, like a massive statute of granite towering ten feet tall, but surprisingly fast in her movements and attacks, for all of that.
Others of the escaped prisoners took more defensive postures. Mirage, the Xavier student and member of the Cheyenne nation, used her mutant ability to create convincing three-dimensional illusions to help protect the innocent and injured, those human prisoners who hadn’t the strength or will to fight, or the mutants who needed time to rest or recuperate from their injuries. By projecting an illusion of a wall where none existed, she was able to shield these from harm, at least temporarily.
And Jetstream, the Moroccan Hellion, used his power of flight to ferry injured combatants from the field, when necessary, taking them behind Mirage’s walls of illusion and tending to their injuries as best he was able.
And on the battle raged.
As the Sun dipped lower in the sky, Scott and Lee still fought side by side, trying to find some way of transporting the freed prisoners from the island.
“The dome’s still active,” Scott said, firing an optic blast upward as an experiment, and watching it deflect harmlessly off the coruscating field of energy that blanketed the city.
“If we could get it down, we could fit some of the prisoners on the Arcadia.” Lee grimaced, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Assuming, of course, that these bastards haven’t sunk her.”
Scott found time to give her a ragged smile. “I haven’t seen any sign of it. But then, I haven’t seen any wreckage, either, so there’s still a chance.”
Lee fired off a blast of energy from her crystal rod, and grunted. “Damn. I loved that boat.”
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