“Tell me about it," said Bobby. He took a sip from his cobalt-blue coffee cup-a touch of the mundane in the midst of a bristling array of shining, otherworldly technology.
"And Professor X wasn't able to get a telepathic insight into either one of them?"
"He told you himself, didn't he? It was as if their minds were total blanks."
Hank shook his head. "Mysteriouser and mysteriouser."
Bobby sighed. "You know, you're the only one I've ever met who speaks that way. I mean ... 'mysteriouser'? Is that even a word?"
"It is now," Hank replied. He indicated his blue-pelted, lab-coated anatomy with a hairy, long-fingered hand. "I may look like the offspring of a blueberry and an orangutan, but I'm every bit as qualified a lexicographer as Noah Webster."
“What you are," said Bobby, "is weird."
“Says the man who turns into a popsicle at the drop of a degree," Hank countered deftly.
Still, he had to admit that his friend had a point. Even in as unusual a group as the X-Men, he cut a rather bizarre figure.
But then, Hank reflected, he had been that way from birth. Far from being a typical bundle of joy, he had resembled a strange cross between human and simian, with a squat, powerful body and unusually large hands and feet.
As he grew, he exhibited a strength and agility that was anything but normal. He could climb and swing on playground equipment the way a monkey might negotiate a stand of jungle trees, clinging by long, dexterous toes that were more agile than a normal person's fingers.
Shortly after he left the X-Men for the first time, he was transformed into something even more like his namesake. Now covered head to toe in shaggy blue fur, he was indeed more beast than man-at least in appearance. But in a final irony, his inhuman appearance housed a scientific mind as brilliant as any found on Earth.
"Might they have been robots?" Hank speculated, picking up his own coffee cup and taking a sip. “Or androids, perhaps?"
Bobby shrugged. “They might have been anything, pal. Neither of us got close enough to find out."
Frowning, Hank considered the collection of devices hanging over the table from a suspended Shi'ar power node. They included, in addition to the laser projector he had been using, a microwave emitter, an electromagnetic field generator and an x-ray gun.
"It sounds to me," he said slowly, "as if this was an effort at reconnaissance. In other words, Bobby, someone was attempting to gauge the extent of your combat capabilities."
"But why?" Bobby asked. "And who were they working for? And considering what pushovers we turned out to be, why didn't they just finish us off then and there? If somebody's planning to come after us, ail the attack did was serve to put us on alert."
Hank smiled at his friend. "Against..
Bobby thought about it for a moment, then made a sound of disgust. "All I know is if I see any guys wearing tinfoil suits coming at me, I'm going to hit first and ask questions later."
Hank chuckled, exposing his sharp, white canines. "A wise approach in our line of work. But I should remind you, the
mills IF HE PfiSI
outcome of your conflict could have been a good deal worse. After all, neither you nor the professor suffered any real damage."
Bobby sighed. "You mean other than the embarrassment of having my head handed to me? Nope. No damage.”
"Well,” Hank said, "as you point out, at least we've been alerted to a potential danger. However, barring a return engagement with your men in silver, it appears your encounter will remain a mystery.”
"I suppose." Bobby drained the last of his coffee and looked at his wristwatch. "Anyway, I better get back to work. I've got the computers running a check on the Shi'ar energy generator."
Hank tilted his furry head and looked at him askance. “I've known you since the first days of the X-Men, Bobby Drake and I can tell when you've got something on your mind besides work.”
His friend blushed. “Okay, so maybe I've got something planned for after I've checked the generator."
"And that would be?"
“Well," said Bobby, "I just installed our new oversized, state of the art, ultra-high-resolution video screen, and it’s been a while since I've had a chance to enjoy my favorite trilogy...”
Hank rolled his eyes. “Lethal Weapon 1, 2 and ... be still, my beating heart... 3? I thought you had gotten over that juvenile fare when you received your degree."
"Hey,” said Bobby, rising to the challenge, "it’s not juvenile at all. It's just... I don’t know. Action-packed."
"One would think," Hank replied wistfully, "that a fellow who battles Magneto and his intractable entourage on a regular basis would spend his free time on more staid pursuits."
X-lEi
“Don't you get it?" Bobby asked him. “That’s the point. Magneto is real. The Juggernaut is real. Lethal Weapon is just a movie."
“So’s Dr, Zhivago," said Hank. "Now there’s a cinematic work eminently worthy of an afternoon's-"
Behind them, the door to the laboratory hissed open and Professor Xavier glided in on his golden antigrav unit. "Good morning," Xavier said. He turned his eyes on Bobby. "How are you feeling?"
"Great," the X-Man replied. “Nothing like a good night's sleep to make a guy forget a bad beating. How about you?"
The professor nodded. "Much the same," he said in his deep, untroubled voice. "Though 1 am stilt puzzled by the assault, I did not seem to sustain any lasting injuries." He turned to Hank. “I trust you've reset the mansion's security system?”
“To priority one," the blue-furred X-Man assured him. "Just as you requested, sir. No one will be able to approach the grounds without setting off an alarm."
Xavier nodded. “Excellent. Thank you, Hank.” He turned his attention to the array of power-transfer components on the laboratory worktable. “Still working on the accelerator, I see?"
“That's correct,” Hank confirmed, picking up a cylindrical piece of titanium about two feet long. “Actually, miniaturizing a particle accelerator is proving to be more of a challenge than I expected."
“i'm not surprised," said the professor, "considering you’re attempting to do in twenty-five inches what has previously only been done in devices the length of a city block." "
Hank regarded the piece of titanium. “The difficulty lies
SifilllS 0F TIE PflSI
in generating a sufficiently strong magnetic field. Without it, I can’t propel the particles at the requisite speed."
"Is our Shi'ar technology not helpful in this regard?" asked Xavier.
“It is," Hank told him. "Infinitely so." He put the cylinder back on the lab table. "It's just a matter of time before I find a way around the magnetic field problem."
Xavier nodded approvingly. "The boon to physics research facilities around the world would be immeasurable."
"And Hank promises that he won’t be using Shi'ar parts in the final product," Bobby piped up. “That way, he can make it available without having to worry about alien technology falling into the wrong hands." He jerked a thumb at his friend. “At least, that's what he told me."
“And it's all true," Hank said. "I intend to use Shi'ar parts only to prove that my theory is valid. Once that's been accomplished, I can dedicate myself to finding an alternative power source."
“That may prove to be the most difficult task of all," the professor said in sympathy.
Hank picked through the pile of parts scattered across the table's stone surface. "No doubt," he conceded. "However, as a wise man once recommended, one step at a time."
Xavier seemed tempted to smile. "Touche," he replied.
After all, it was the professor who had given Hank that advice a long time ago, shortly after he had arrived at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. And the mutant known as Beast had never forgotten it.
Apparently, neither had Xavier.
"Well," said Bobby, getting up from the table, "I'd love to stay and hear about Hank's ground-breaking efforts to expand
the frontiers of science, but I've got to make sure our
Ml El
generator is stiil humming, it's a mundane job, I know... but someone's got to do it."
Hank grinned, unable to resist taking advantage of the straight line. “You said it, not me."
Xavier didn't intervene. He didn't even crack a frown. Nor was Hank surprised. After all, he and his fellow X-Man carried on this kind of banter ail the time.
Flashing a lop-sided smile at the professor, Bobby left the
lab.
Hank picked up his protective goggles and slipped them back over his eyes. "Care to lend a hand, sir?"
Xavier shook his head. "No, thank you. Perhaps some other time." He looked around at the laboratory, its walls lined with alien technology. “The Shi'ar have been quite generous," he observed, as if he was only noticing their contributions for the first time.
At bit of a loss, Hank nodded. “So they have, sir."
Without another word, the professor glided out of the room. The apelike X-Man watched him go and saw the door slide closed behind him. Then he reached for the laser again and returned to his work.
What's more, Hank McCoy didn't give his mentor's comment a second thought. After all, he was the same Charles Xavier whom the mutant had known since he was a raw teenager...
The one steady rock in an ever-changing flood of uncertainties.
The real Charles Xavier chafed with mounting frustration as he mentally watched the interaction between Hank McCoy, Bobby Drake, and the being they believed was him.
As Lucifer had promised, he could see the events unfolding in Salem Center. The dimensional barrier was strangely
SHflDSUJS flf HE PflSI
penetrable in that regard, if one put one's mind to it. But though the professor could see his X-Men, even hear them, he seemed incapable of connecting with them-incapable of sending them a warning about the grave and immediate danger they faced.
To Xavier's dismay, the doppelganger appeared to be a flawless recreation of the genuine article. It seemed likely that Hank, Bobby and their teammates would follow its orders without question, even if those orders led them to their deaths.
No, thought the professor. I can't allow it. I've got to try harder to break through to them.
He cleared his mind as thoroughly as he could. Then he concentrated on his task as he had never concentrated before, expending every last iota of psionic energy at his disposal. And for the briefest of moments, no more than a fraction of a second, he felt himself make a feathery connection with the world of his origin.
Hank, he thought, seeking out his protege's mind. Listen to me, please. It's Professor Xavier...
But despite the effort behind his overture, it didn't penetrate deeply enough into the X-Man's consciousness. It remained tangential, superficial. Something was stopping Xavier-and he knew what it was.
Hank's mind was too complex, too crammed with competing thoughts to hear a small voice crying out from another dimension. No doubt, the professor thought, I would run into the same problem if I tried to establish a link with Bobby. As fully-realized intellects, his X-Men simply weren't receptive to what he was transmitting.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the connection was gone.
Xavier went limp, exhausted and disappointed. After all, he had failed to obtain the results he desired. Still, he told himself, his undertaking had gone for something. He had proven to himself that he could punch through the interdi-mensional barrier, if only briefly.
It was the most modest of accomplishments, to be sure. In some eyes, it might not have been an accomplishment at all. But to Xavier, it was the first sign of hope that he had managed to glean from his situation, and he resolved to cling to it as tightly as possible.
Closing his eyes and concentrating again, the mutant tried to strengthen his link with Hank. But his efforts were distracted by a new vision in his head-that of the doppel-ganger entering Xavier's private office ensconced in Xavier's antigrav unit.
Without hesitation, as if he had spent every day of the past several years in this room, the energy construct went straight to the professor's desk. But then, this being was, for all intents and purposes, Charles Xavier. It knew all that he knew, responded as he might respond. Indeed, the only real difference between man and duplicate was the latter's slavish obedience to its Quistalian master.
Settling itself behind the desk and placing its fingers on the professor's computer keyboard, the doppelganger keyed Xavier's access code into his computer terminal. A menu flashed or> the screen before it and it purposefully selected an item.
The real Xavier wasn't able to divine the duplicate's thoughts, but he was able to peer over the imposter's shoulder and see the monitor screen. He was able to make out the item that the duplicate had selected: a database of alarm systems connected to a variety of sites around the world.
In the Nameless Dimension, the professor frowned. After all, he knew that database all too well.
Some time ago, he had listed the bases of operations
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used most often by his various adversaries. Of course, these facilities were deserted, abandoned long before. However, knowing there was a chance that his enemies would return to them, Xavier and his team had deactivated their offensive and defensive capabilities and left them standing.
Then they had hardwired miniaturized sensors into them and linked the sensors to the X-Men's security system through wireless modems. That way, if any of their vanquished foes happened to return to an old haunt, an alarm would sound in the mansion-alerting the X-Men and giving them advance warning of trouble.
The professor had established this kind of precaution in Lucifer's Quistalian base in the Balkans-the site of the alien's second defeat at the hands of Xavier's fledgling X-Men. It was that site that the energy duplicate was accessing now.
And not Just accessing. As the real Professor X looked on, the doppelganger tampered with the site's sensor reports.
Lucifer, through the actions of his Xavier-puppet, was wasting no time putting his revenge scheme into motion. He was planting a seed that he could harvest at a later time.
And all the true Charles Xavier could do was bear witness to it as he floated helplessly in the Nameless Dimension.
obby? said a voice.
Bobby Drake turned over and swiped sleepily at his ear. Maybe he could make it go away, he thought.
Bobby? the voice said again.
He burrowed his head deeper into the pillow. But he had a sinking feeling that the voice wasn’t going anywhere.
Bobby? it demanded.
He sighed. I'll get up in a second, Mom.
I am not your mother, Bobby, said the voice.
Not his mother? Then who ...
Grudgingly, Bobby opened his tired eyes and saw that he was in his bedroom at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. And with that realization came a second one.
“Professor?" he said out loud.
Yes. And I require your presence in my study.
Heaving a sigh, Bobby tossed his covers off, threw his legs over the side of his bed and raked his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair. Then he glanced at the digital alarm clock on his nightstand and saw that it was barely six in the morning.
He groaned. "I hope the fate of the world depends on this, sir."
It may indeed, Xavier replied telepathically. Please dress quickly, Bobby. I await your arrival.
The mutant stretched and yawned. “I hear you loud and clear, Professor. On my way."
Padding across the cold wooden floor on bare feet, he went into his private bathroom and splashed some water on his face. Then he brushed his teeth, threw on a pair of well-worn jeans and a longsleeved white tee shirt and made his way to the stairs.
Bobby knew, of course, that Professor Xavier wouldn't have summoned him at this hour if it weren't a matter of importance. But even though he was a working super hero, part of a team that had, time after time, battled to save
the world from death and destruction, a guy needed his sleep.
Bobby had barely completed the thought when he saw a flash of blue and almost collided with his friend Hank. Clad in oversized red gym shorts and a black tank top, the furred mutant was also hurrying out of his room in response to the professor's summons.
“Sounded urgent," Hank muttered, latching onto the rounded post at the top of the banister and swinging around it.
"It always does," Bobby replied. Then, giving in to a sudden, antic impulse, he added, “Race you!"
With that, he shot a spray of super-cooled moisture at the stairs, creating an ice slide beneath his feet. Then he slid down the chute like a snowboarder on a wintry hillside.
Not to be outdone, Hank twisted through the air beside him and landed on the floor below. But before he could
sinews fif HE PfISI
change direction, Iceman had zipped by on a high bank of his ever-extending slide.
"Really, Bobby," his furry friend called out as he bounded after him, "you're not a callow youth anymore. I don't see why you still feel compelled to engage in these childish contests."
“You're just afraid you'll lose!" Bobby tossed back as he negotiated an icy path through the living room.
"Afraid?" Hank growled incredulously.
Suddenly, Bobby heard a quick series of thuds. Before he knew it, his friend had somersaulted over his head and was surfing the ice slide ahead of him. Unfortunately, the thing wasn't quite sturdy enough to hold someone of Hank's considerable weight.
As it began to crack, Hank sprang forward onto his hands and vaulted off the slide again. However, Bobby didn't have that option. Instead, he had to lay down an icy detour-one that threatened to smash him into a wall full of original Currier and Ives prints.
With no other recourse, he curled the end of his slide back and executed a tight loop-the-loop. However, he couldn’t slow himself down as much as he would have liked. The next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor, his head spinning wildly.
Abruptly, a big, blue paw materialized in front of him. "Need a hand?" asked Hank McCoy, exposing long, sharp canines as he grinned from ear to pointed ear.
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