Legends

by Unknown Author

  It was the picture he had drawn of her, the sections painstakingly taped back together. She laid it on the desk. “This is how he saw me. God knows why.”

  Gently Kitty stretched out a finger and smoothed it over the bottom comer of the drawing, leaving a faint smudge in the line. “Because,” she said, “that’s the kind of man he w ... was.” Her voice shook over the word, and the picture suddenly blurred. “He saw a woman worth befriending, a woman who could still care about people. And if he saw it, it must have really been there. Don’t make him into a liar by getting rid of that woman.” She walked to the door. “He deserves better than that.”

  Callisto picked up the drawing. “Yeah,” she said, looking at it with an odd expression, “he does.”

  Though she didn’t move, she seemed somehow to draw in on herself, and Kitty knew that the conversation was over. She phased and stepped through the door, leaving Callisto to grieve in private.

  Steel Dogs and Englishmen

  Thomas Deja

  Sean Cassidy was used to being watched. He had worn so many hats in his life—Interpol agent, New York City cop, super-villian, X-Man—that people tended to watch him furtively out of either arrogance or fear.

  And at this moment, in a nondescript pub in London, he felt himself being watched very closely indeed by everyone in the place.

  He made his way to the bar, raking his eyes across the place. Like dominoes, the gazes of the patrons fell away. There was a uniformity to their collected number, a mix of rumpled suits and white shirts and ultra-straight postures that screamed out intelligence agency. Sean knew the specifics varied. Some would be MI5, some MI6, a few from the paranormal investigative agency W.H.O. But all were agents, looking-glass warriors who somehow didn’t match the public’s concept of the spy. In Sean’s life, he’d met a couple of larger-than-life types— Nick Fury, head of S.H.I.E.L.D., came to mind—but no one as handsome, ruthless, and icily assured as Sean Connery or Roger Moore.

  One particular man, with skin the color of bittersweet chocolate and a twitch in his left eye, met Sean’s gaze. He sneered and mouthed an invective questioning Sean’s ruggedness and parentage. Sean considered saying something. He heard the scrape of chairs as he stopped and contemplated the man.

  Before a showdown was inevitable, a scotch-and-soda voice, smooth and rough at the same time, called out, “Oi, Cassidy—over here!”

  When the voice called out, the fight went out of Sean’s opponent.

  Turning, Cassidy saw a dark-haired man, handsome, with sharp features and a decided intensity. Like the others, the man was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and Oxford tie, the shirt’s collar unbuttoned. But there was something about the way this man wore them, a comfortable disdain suffusing the man that set him apart from his brethren. The man motioned to Cassidy with a long-fingered hand, said hand barely holding onto a cigarette with a too-long ash dangling on its tip. The man glanced around the bar and said, his voice dripping benign contempt, “It’s okay, people—the screw’s with me.”

  Sean walked over to the man’s table. “Peter Wisdom?”

  The slithering snakepit of gossip had fallen silent.

  The man dug into his jacket pocket and flipped open a leather case. Inside was a familiar ID. “Yeah . . . Weird Happenings Organization. Fancy a pint?”

  “No thanks,” Sean responded, eyeing Wisdom carefully. “I make it a point not to drink in front of spies.”

  Wisdom’s face curled into what possibly, after some debate, could be considered the thought of a smile. “Huh. I make it a point to always drink in front of spies.” He motioned to the barman.

  “So, Mr. Wisdom,” Sean asked as he slid into his booth, “What’s so blessed important that you had me come down to London?” Sean’s hand instinctively reached into his pocket and slid his house keys in between his fingers. After losing his mutant sonic abilities, Cassidy had learned to rely on his street fighting knowledge. Which meant improvising.

  Wisdom took a long drag off his silk cut. “The same thing we need every time we call on one of Xavier’s people.”

  “It’s been some time since—”

  “I am aware of that, Cassidy. It’s why I thought of you and not those Excalibur burkes.” The barman placed a pint of bitters in front of the agent, causing that not-quite-smile to surface on Wisdom’s face again. “Ta. You’re a man who’s been around Cassidy. You ever heard of Justin Hammer?”

  “Industrialist, isn’t he?”

  “I’d have used the phrase ‘rat-faced git,’ but tastes vary. Interesting one, he is. His company was going under, so he plundered some Stark International technology and sold it to various sorry super-types across the world. Well, Iron Man put a right stop to that, and Hammer’s decided to run back to Europe and set up shop here.”

  Sean studied the man across from him. There was something off about Peter Wisdom, besides his atrocious mode of dress. The way he talked, the way he carried himself, seemed designed to keep a lot of space—physical and emotional—between him and those around him. Sean tightened the grip on his keys.

  “That’s quite nice and all,” he told the agent, “but why come to me?” Peter met Sean’s gaze and smirked. He produced a manila enve-

  lope and slid it Sean’s way. “Take a look at this and ask me the same question.”

  Sean undid the clasp on the envelope. Inside were photos, grainy but recognizable for what they were: schematics, electronics diagrams, and blueprints. As Sean took in the distinctive purple color scheme, Wisdom added, “These were forwarded to us by MI6. The photographer, who was a decent sort, even if he did have a lousy taste in Scotch, was found drowned in the middle of a field. We figure one of Hammer’s clients put him down as a make-good.”

  The plans Cassidy studied were for Sentinels—towering, mutant-hunting robots created years ago by an anthropologist named Bolivar Trask. They’d been re-created several times since by a variety of lunatics who wanted to wipe out mutantkind—the U.S. government being among that number. A wave of bad memories washed over Cassidy, and he muttered quietly, “Jesus wept.”

  “According to reports, Hammer sees us as the next big market for paranormal armaments. You’ve had firsthand experience with these things, Cassidy; just knowing their reputation, we want them to stay away from our shores. If we arranged a properly enormous payment for you and your ladyfriend’s institute, could you help us shut the blighter down?”

  “Has the Master Mold been built?”

  “Intelligence indicates it has”

  “Then it’s deep, Mr. Wisdom. Master Molds have a way of getting away from their creators.”

  “Then help me, Mr. Cassidy.”

  Sean looked at the photos again. “May I keep these? I wish to consult with a friend of mine.”

  Wisdom waved them away and stubbed out his silk cut. “If your friend will help us wreck this one, go ahead.”

  Sean took another look at Peter Wisdom. The man was already reaching into his jacket for another cigarette. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t go to Excalibur with this, Mr. Wisdom. There are people on that team with more experience than me.”

  With a slight, satisfied curl of the lip, Wisdom uncovered a small silver lighter. “May be true, Cassidy, but they don’t have your knowledge of covert intelligence. Besides . ,

  Wisdom leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. “I’ll tell you a secret, shall I? W.H.O.’s on its last legs. They’re being restructured, and there’s been a lot of confusion as to what situations get looked at. Some files are falling through the cracks—”

  “This isn’t sanctioned, is it?” Cassidy said, meeting Wisdom’s furtive glance.

  There was a pause. Something flickered in the younger man’s eyes—an odd darkness that made Cassidy pull back. Wisdom’s face softened. His arrogant and obnoxious air seemed to evaporate in the dim lights of the pub. Still speaking in a conspirator’s whisper, Wisdom simply stated, “It needs doing, don’t it?”

&nbs
p; The W.H.O. operative pulled back almost immediately. He took a long, deep drag of his silk cut and blew a plume of smoke. “Hammer isn’t a fool. He’s expecting Excalibur, not a retired leprechaun and a chain-smoking salary man. Can I count on you?”

  Cassidy sat in the plane and wondered why he said yes. The plane, dark and sleek and vaguely manta-like in form, was waiting for him at an airstrip in Cardiff. Sean had dug an old S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform out of his closet, a relic from a long-ago training program. It still fit, even with the alarming snugness around his shoulders. Wisdom seemed to be wearing the same outfit as the day before, only more rumpled. He also seemed to have the same unpleasant attitude.

  Cassidy and Wisdom sat opposite each other as a balding man in shirtsleeves rolled up beyond his elbows handed the agent a blue diskette. The man, whose name was Cully, was responsible for the relative lack of luxury they were sitting in. The dankness of the place, with its exposed struts and the constant thrumming of the baffled engines, made Cully’s skin seem pale and ghost-like.

  “Right,” Cully said before wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “This virus should effectively slag any electronics run from Hammer’s computer systems—including the Master Mold. Hammer’s floating villa is anchored outside the five-mile limits, and our satellite is picking up cellular transmissions; he’s making appointments with England’s worst and ugliest—Slaymaster, the Crazy Gang, Jackdaw, the Hellfire Club ... the whole lot.”

  Wisdom looked at Sean. “You’ve had experience with criminal masterminds; how can they think they’re traveling secretly when they’re in a floating villa?”

  Cassidy ignored the question. “When’s the first client showing up?” he asked Cully.

  “Late this afternoon. Tennis is apparently involved,” Cully said between sniffles. “Time is of the essence, gentlemen. You will need to introduce that virus quickly, as well as destroy any hard copies in evidence.”

  “Fair enough. How d’we do it?” Cassidy adjusted the collar on his uniform; it was biting into his neck. Faith, Fm gettin’too old for this, he thought.

  “Plan is,” Wisdom said, “you and me drop down under radar cover and do a seek-and-destroy. We got W.H.O. helicopters waiting to close in for cleanup. You can support the two of us with that sonic scream, can’t you, Cassidy?”

  Cassidy leaned back and chuckled. “I would if I still had powers.” “Pardon?”

  “My vocal chords were wrecked a while back—I overextended myself trying to save the world from another industrialist, name of Moses Magnum. Wasn’t that mentioned in rriy file?”

  Wisdom threw a nasty glance at Cully. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I—I’ll get the parachutes,” Cully stammered.

  As Cassidy took a secret pleasure from his discomfort Wisdom muttered, “I hate bollocky paratrooping insertions. Ruins all my silks.”

  “Half a bleedin’ pack, lost!” Wisdom complained to Cassidy as the two men climbed out of their paratrooper overalls.

  Cassidy wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy being overwhelmed by the scale of Justin Hammer’s efforts.

  Back on the plane, when references were made to Hammer’s villa, Sean thought it was some sort of euphemism. But, as they approached their target, just before he and Wisdom parachuted out of the stealth fighter, Cassidy realized he meant it literally.

  Justin Hammer had brought his home along with him, carrying it on his back like a turtle.

  The barge was a quarter of a mile long, a low, heavy thing of steel with a discreet wheelhouse at one end. Piled on top of the barge was an actual Victorian villa, riding on a gently sloping artificial hill that afforded the occupant marvelous sight lines. Surrounding this architectural anomoly was a landscaped topiary—hedges and trees and quaint dirt paths, all beautifully kept up. It was as if Hammer had taken a piece of the New England countryside whole and set it down on top of a ship.

  Cassidy stashed his parachute in the nearby brush, all the while looking about. “This is madness.”

  “It is that,” Wisdom said as he came up behind Sean. “And it works to our advantage, leprechaun. Nice thing about Hammer’s taste for greenery is it provides wonderful cover.”

  “D’ye mind not calling me leprechaun?” Cassidy said after a pause.

  Wisdom clapped him on the back. “Right, according to surveillance, the patrol’s on the other side of the ship around this time—it’s fairly minimal as it is. So let’s see if Hammer wants some Girl Guide cookies.”

  Cassidy drew his pistol. “I’ll go first.”

  Before Wisdom could respond, Cassidy took his first tentative steps into the brush. He wondered almost immediately if Wisdom should have been leading him; the man was a full-blown secret agent, and as such was still in touch with the latest techniques. But that jangling sense of distrust still occupied Sean’s mind. Whoever Peter Wisdom was, he was only interested in his own counsel. And Cassidy wasn’t willing to put his total trust in a man who seem to trust no one save himself.

  They moved through the well-sculpted landscape quickly. Cassidy was awash in a sea of greenery lacking one thorn, one dead branch. Behind him, the W.H.O. agent kept pace. The man was good; if Cassidy wasn’t aware of his presence going in, he would not have known Wisdom was there.

  Their progress seemed to take a tension-filled eternity. As he made his way closer, Cassidy caught glimpses of the mansion. Cassidy went through possible Master Mold hiding places in his mind, wondering what access would be available. He wanted to get as much of the thought done in his head before the time came to destroy the thing.

  It was during Cassidy’s musings about the Master Mold that the guard got the drop on him.

  Cassidy had just emerged from a thicket of trees onto a tamped down dirt trail. The hoofprints of shod horses ruined the perfect symmetry of the raked ground. Judging from the sounds of Wisdom’s footfalls, he was a few feet behind.

  “Hold it right there!” a voice barked at Cassidy’s right. The accent was American, Brooklyn. . . . there was indication that the man’s throat had been rubbed raw by too much alcohol and too many smokes.

  Cassidy tinned slowly, calculating his options. He held his pistol lightly, making sure his finger was nowhere near the trigger, and raised his hand. The man wore a battlesuit of green and teal l real!) that obscured his features; even his eyes were concealed by opaque ruby goggles. He held a submachine gun tightly in his hands, keeping it trained at chest level.

  The guard took in Cassidy’s appearance and let loose with a particularly vile curse. “You’re S.H.I.E.L.D.! What are you doing here?”

  “‘Looking for a fourth for bridge, lad.” Inwardly, Cassidy winced. Did I actually say that? His eyes scanned the area for something, anything he could use to his advantage. “It is ‘lad,’ isn’t it? You don’t sound verra old.”

  For a moment Cassidy swore he saw the guard take his attention off him. Then there was a crackling whistle to his right. A wave of warmth raked itself over Cassidy’s rib cage. Streaks of bright orange flame resembling Day-Glo stained glass whipped past Cassidy and through the guard. Wisps of smoke rose from the thin bum marks, accompanied by a charred meat smell. The guard convulsed, his gun clattering to the ground before he collapsed.

  “Might want to trade up,” Wisdom suggested. Cassidy turned and saw the agent standing behind him, the fingers on his left hand slowing a deep, bright red.

  “That explains the ‘it needs doin’ garbage,” Cassidy mumbled as he went to examine his attacker. It was a formality. Cassidy had seen many dead bodies, some displaying wounds even more bizarre than the guard’s. A series of very thin scorch marks, still painfully hot to the touch, riddled the man’s chest. Judging from the damage and the smell, the boy was roasted from the inside.

  Wisdom walked up behind him. “Take his submachine. It has to be better than what you’re carrying. And see if he’s got any cigs, eh?”

  Cassidy faced the agent. Wisdom was casually rolling up his shirtsleeves.
A chill climbed up the Irishman’s spine by millimeters.

  “D’ye mind? You killed the lad.”

  “I killed a threat to our mission.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him, you idiot.”

  Wisdom met Cassidy’s gaze. That softness Sean had seen at the pub had found its way to the surface again. “You were in trouble, leprechaun. I don’t have pinpoint control over my powers. He would have killed youf

  “You call me leprechaun again and I’ll rip out your heart,” Cassidy said quietly. “And saying that boy could’ve killed me is not the point.” “It is everything and the point, Cassidy,” Wisdom said, closing distance. “You’ve been the prisoner of the Sentinels, what, twice now?” Cassidy nodded.

  “Well, I’m thinking at this moment that this burke is one of the burkes that are close to releasing that sort of pain on me and mine, Cassidy—and all in the name, not of some misguided vision, but of commerce! If I have to kill some guard who’s just doing his job to keep the Sentinels from marching on Trafalgar Square, I’m going to bloody well kill him, age be damned.” In spite of the vehemence of his words, Wisdom’s voice was level, controlled, quiet.

  “You’re a cold monster, you are.”

  s‘Call me what you like. This needed doing.”

  There was movement in the brush, stealthy, careful movement. Sean Cassidy, former police detective, former Interpol agent, former subversive, a man who spent most of his life living under fire, registered it in the back of his head. It stayed in the back of his head, the anger boiling up inside him because of the man he was working with.

  “I don’t think you know what that means,” he spat out. An expression of dismay flickered across Wisdom’s face.

  Tree branches rustled. There was the whispering shurr of dust being kicked up.

  Wisdom brought up an accusing finger. “You don’t know me. Remember that.”

  And then it was too late. Something padded into view behind Wisdom. It loped onto the path on thick, canine paws, an ill-formed skull resembling a pit bull’s riding low on his thick neck. A massive barrel chest tapered into a slim abdomen. The two red glowing slits in place of eyes were the sort of thing every mutant brought with him to his nightmares, the misbegotten sons of Bolivar Trask come hunting. . . .