Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men

by Christopher Golden

  “He was so excited to know you were coming,” Caroline said, and Trish’s eyes widened.

  “You talked to him?” she asked, surprised Hank hadn’t blown the story.

  “Oh, yeah,” Caroline said enthusiastically. “He misses you, too, big time. I had to make sure you were telling the truth. He loves you, Trish. No question. You’re pretty lucky too. Up close, that blue fur is kind of sexy.”

  Trish smiled with pleasure and relief. Her feelings and her plans were getting way too complicated for her own good. Obviously, he’d been smart enough to go along with the story she’d told Caroline. Maybe some of those feelings were for real, for both of them, but she’d hurt Hank McCoy, and Trish didn’t figure he’d forgotten that just yet.

  Caroline had said something while Trish was musing on the subject of human-mutant relations, hers in particular. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said it must tick you off when other women flirt with him,” Caroline repeated.

  “You get used to it,” Trish said with a shrug, and they continued down the stairs, Caroline babbling on about this boyfriend or that and how badly they had treated her.

  Suddenly, it didn’t seem quite so harmless the way Trish and Kevin had been taking advantage of the girl. She hoped she could repay Caroline somehow, or at the very least that she could avoid getting the girl in too much trouble. Sure, she was one of Magneto’s mutant fascists, but Trish figured Caroline wouldn’t have known ideology from physiology. In fact, the more she talked about her boyfriends, it seemed that the girl felt the two were one and the same.

  The basement was a long, long way down. Like anyone whose career placed her in the public eye, the pressures of celebrity forced Trish to keep herself in shape. Despite that, and the fact that they were going downstairs, her legs were tired in no time. She had no faith in her ability to make the climb back up with any haste if the need arose.

  Finally, they reached an anonymous steel door crossed with a long red bar. Printed on the bar was a warning that an alarm would sound if the door was opened. It was for emergency use only. Apparently, it had been disconnected since Magneto had taken over, because Caroline pushed it open without a glance, and the expected wail of alarm bells did not come.

  They traveled more corridors than Trish thought ought to be in a basement, even for a building the size of the Empire State. Finally, Caroline hugged the cement wall as they neared a turn in the hall, and Trish followed suit. For a moment, she felt foolish. It was like she was seven years old again, playing army with her brother and his friends.

  Their version of army had been different, though. The Cold War was still on, but they weren’t fighting the Soviets, they were fighting a pack of werewolves. They took turns being the werewolves because, even though the army always won, the werewolves were cooler. Only, Trish never got a turn to play werewolf. She was just a girl, and girls weren’t strong and mean and nasty enough, or so her brother Billy always said.

  To hell with him, she thought now. If Billy had been there, with Magneto’s band of super-human terrorists lurking about, he’d have lost control of his bladder the same way he did in the fifth-grade spelling bee. Trish smiled at the memory. Telling that story—or threatening to—had been her favorite weapon when they were kids.

  Still, she had to wonder where her brother was now. In a way, she wished he were there. She had always felt better facing the werewolves when the two of them were soldiers together. And though he’d never admitted it, she’d known he felt the same way.

  Caroline peered around the corner carefully, her brow furrowed as if she were concentrating. It occurred to Trish that she very probably was concentrating, attempting to make sure that the guard she’d turned her forced-narcolepsy mutant power on had stayed under her spell. A moment later, she stepped out into the open, motioning for Trish to stay put. She took several steps down the hall, out of Trish’s sight.

  In that moment, Trish became afraid. Afraid it had all been a setup, that Magneto was testing her loyalty. Afraid that Caroline would be captured, that they would all be executed—for the Acolytes were notoriously fond of executions. Afraid that she had gotten herself into something she had no hope of extricating herself from, and was proceeding to get in deeper and deeper as the moments ticked past. And, finally, afraid that she would be able to do nothing for the X-Men. That Hank would soon be dead.

  No matter what had passed between them, the idea that Hank might die filled her with a terrible dread unlike anything she had ever experienced. He was the most unique individual she had ever encountered, a fact that had little or nothing to do with his status as a mutant. His intelligence, his humor, his gallantry—she treasured them all, as friend or lover.

  Caroline whistled, low and short, and Trish responded by popping out into the hallway. A bald, stocky man in leather sat on a chair, his head back against the wall and his mouth open in a silent snore. Beyond him, Caroline held open another steel door, and beckoned rapidly with her left hand. Trish rushed down the hallway, and turned into the room where the X-Men were being held captive.

  She didn’t know Bishop well, though she certainly knew who he was. It was her business to know such things. She had known Storm and Wolverine for years, by reputation and personally. Then there was Hank. As Trish looked at his face, at the concern etched there, she worried that he might think her a traitor now. He was captive, she was free, within limits, to do as she pleased. That meant reporting the story as accurately as Magneto would allow. She feared Hank would brand her a collaborator. So, for a moment, she could think of nothing to say except …

  “Hank.”

  “Trish,” he said, an amused acknowledgement that begged her to continue, to lead the conversation. This was, after all, her show. Caroline was standing by, expecting to witness the drama of lovers reunited, of a woman weeping for her doomed man.

  “Oh, God, Hank!” Trish said in a grateful rush, then hurried to where he hung suspended from the techno setup on the wall.

  Even as she moved to him, embraced his blue, furry form—though he was unable to return the embrace—Trish was marveling at the technology and wondering how the hell she might be able to break the X-Men out of their restraints. She knew one thing, it wasn’t going to happen right then. She held out hope that Hank might be able to direct her.

  “I missed you, darling,” he said, and she couldn’t help but notice the trace of irony in his voice. He had missed her. Just as, in her way, she had missed him. But she didn’t want to mistake a crisis for a reunion.

  “Caroline, could Hank and I just have one final moment to ourselves?” she said, trying not to be too dramatic, though the girl probably expected something out of a soap opera. “It might be our last chance.”

  “What about them?” Caroline asked, pointing to the other three X-Men with a quizzical look.

  “It isn’t as if we can go anywhere,” Bishop said angrily, and though Trish winced at the thought that he might alienate Caroline, she was glad his anger was unchecked. It was good for realism.

  “We will respect the Beast’s right to privacy as much as we are able, though we cannot leave the room,” Storm said, her voice confident and reassuring as always.

  “Besides,” Wolverine growled cynically, “we’re like family.”

  After a moment of uncertainty, Caroline turned and left. Trish thought the girl looked a little disappointed that she was going to miss what she obviously considered the best part. Tough.

  “You’re placing yourself in tremendous peril, just being here,” Hank said when Caroline had gone.

  “So what if they catch me?” Trish asked. “They put me down here with you. I might as well be restrained, for the amount of freedom Kevin and I are allowed.”

  “We appreciate the effort, Ms. Tilby,” Storm said, “but the Beast is right. You are a single, human woman. Despite your formidable will, you are weaponless in a city filled with powerful mutants who range from legitimately evil to sadly misled, all at Magneto’s command. With all
due respect, what do you hope to accomplish?”

  Trish knew that Storm was right. It pissed her off.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said, her voice rising just a touch, not enough to alert Caroline that anything but a sweet reunion was happening inside that room. “You think I’m just going to keep doing my job while the four of you rot down here, waiting for Magneto to decide on a whim to execute you? I don’t think so.”

  Trish glared at Storm, then at the others. Hank was last. He said nothing.

  “Ms. Tilby,” Bishop began, “while your intentions are honorable, putting yourself in unnecessary jeopardy would be—”

  “Unnecessary?” she snapped. “The only way it would be unnecessary would be if you all had figured out a way to escape without my help. I assume you haven’t, given that you’re still here. Now, if you can honestly say that each of you would not do the same in my position, I’ll go back to my little cage and not bother you again. But if you’re just treating me like I’m useless because I’m human, you’re just as bigoted as Graydon Creed and the rest of them. As anyone who ever thought someone couldn’t do a job because of their race or gender.”

  Storm raised an eyebrow and lifted her chin slightly, a motion that gave her an incredibly haughty appearance. Bishop appeared to consider her words. Hank’s expression had not changed.

  “She’s right, Ororo,” Wolverine said quietly. “Any one o’ us would do the same.”

  The Beast began to smile.

  “What the hell is so funny, Hank?” Trish demanded.

  “Not a thing, my dear,” he answered, still smiling warmly. “It just occurred to me how elated I am that you are on our side in this conflict. I would loathe having you as an opponent.”

  Despite herself, Trish had to smile at that. She detailed everything she had gleaned about Magneto’s operation and plans from her observations. Sadly, she feared very little of it was helpful, but she was as thorough as possible.

  “Do you imagine you might arrange to visit us again?” he asked her.

  “Might be tough, but probably,” she answered.

  “Excellent,” Hank said. “Whatever else you discover between now and then will doubtless prove invaluable. If you can contrive a strategy for our emancipation, pass it on then.”

  “But …” Trish began, and then kept silent. She didn’t know what she could say. At the moment, she didn’t know how she might be able to free the X-Men. All she did know was that she would not stop trying.

  “Otherwise,” Hank continued, favoring her with a look of crushing benevolence, “we will simply incorporate you into our deliberations of potential liberation schemes.”

  “But …” she said again.

  “Please, Trish,” Hank said, his voice urgent, for they both knew Caroline would not stay in the hall forever. “Be content with the knowledge that you have our trust and faith. We shall all endeavor to do what we are able.”

  The door opened as Trish was about to protest once more. Caroline hissed that the guard would not sleep much longer. Apparently her control over her powers was as limited as she had feared.

  Trish moved to embrace Hank once again. She looked into his eyes, so familiar, so intimate in memory.

  “I love you, Hank,” Trish said.

  “And I you, my dear,” he responded.

  For a moment, they were transported back in time to the day, months earlier, when they had first exchanged such promises. Vows so easily broken.

  Trish turned and rushed from the room, partially feigning the appearance of being overcome with emotion. But only partially. She was fleeing, as well, from the moment itself. She and Hank were through. She knew that. But a part of her wanted to forget, wanted to go back.

  If there was one thing Trish Tilby knew, there was ever and only one direction in which time flowed. It wasn’t so much forward, it seemed to her, as it was away from the past.

  Yet, despite what was in the past, and their current situation, she knew she wanted Hank to be in her life in some fashion for as long as he was willing. They had shared too much to drift away from each other, to sacrifice their friendship on the altar of broken romance.

  One way or another, Trish was determined, the X-Men would be free.

  THREE

  “I can almost hear that Mission: Impossible theme song,” Rogue said, and followed the comment with a laugh as gentle as her lilting Southern accent.

  Nobody else laughed. Professor Xavier even gave her something of a dirty look, that little frown he had practiced so often when the Xavier Institute was still teaching academics.

  “Just tryin’ to lighten the moment,” she added.

  Then she shut up.

  In silence, she, Cyclops, and Jean finished the meal that had been hastily cobbled together from the mess tent in the section of Exchange Place that had been taken over by the military. None of them had eaten for a while, and it was good to have something in her belly. Not to mention sitting down for a few minutes. It was almost time to go, to put their collective heads in the proverbial lion’s mouth. As far as Rogue was concerned, another few minutes would be welcome.

  But she didn’t want to wait too long. If she really started to analyze the situation, to calculate the odds, she might head west rather than east when the team began to move out. Gambit and Archangel had already departed with Val Cooper, trying to track the Alpha Sentinel. It would be just the three of them, then—she and Scott and Jean—against the mutant army Magneto was amassing.

  They didn’t stand a chance.

  But they were going anyway.

  That’s what it meant to be one of the X-Men.

  “So, we’re sure the others are being kept in the Empire State Building?” Jean asked. “I’ve tried a psi-scan, but I’m being blocked.”

  “I’m getting a bit of static myself, Jean, but I did get through,” Professor Xavier said. “Storm, Wolverine, Bishop, and the Beast are all still alive and well and Magneto’s captives. You three alone will not be able to win the day. Your teammates must be freed before you truly enter into the battle.”

  “Though I doubt Magneto’s hordes are just going to let us walk in,” Cyclops said cynically.

  Another long silence.

  “Have you all read Norse mythology?” Jean asked, a non-sequitur that caused them all to look at her askance.

  “The gods and the giants spend tens of thousands of years fighting one another, neither ever really gaining the upper hand. Then the apocalypse comes, only they call it Ragnarok. It’s their final battle, and they pull out all the stops. It’s total chaos.”

  “I always enjoyed the stories, Jean,” Professor Xavier said. “But is there a point to this?”

  “Just that, in the end, neither side is victorious. They are all destroyed.”

  “And y’think that’s us?” Rogue asked, surprised at her teammate’s pessimism.

  “I hope it’s not,” Jean said.

  “And on that happy note,” Cyclops said, shaking his head, “let’s get going. We’ve got some X-Men to liberate, and a city to save.”

  “I don’t suppose we can get a cab to the Empire State Building?” Jean asked, making her own attempt at levity.

  Rogue was relieved to see that she wasn’t the only one whose jokes were bombing. She understood, though. There just wasn’t much to laugh about.

  “Jean?” Professor Xavier asked.

  “I know, Professor,” Jean answered, tapping her temple. “We’ll keep in touch.”

  * * *

  AMELIA Voght stood side by side with several of her fellow Acolytes, including Senyaka, Cargil, and the Kleinstock brothers, and looked out over a veritable sea of Alpha- and Beta-level mutants. They had gathered for the first formal explanation of how, exactly, Haven was to be governed. What were the laws, they all wanted to know. Voght wanted to know as well.

  Magneto had delegated the duty of presenting his imperial decrees to Major Skolnick, who would serve as a sort of governor for Haven. The gathered mutants s
eemed somewhat disappointed that Magneto would not be there, but Voght saw the logic.

  Better that he remain apart from the others, above and beyond their reach. He was the emperor, after all. The Acolytes had always afforded him the obedience and respect due an omnipotent ruler. But this was different, Voght thought. For the first time, Magneto actually had an empire to rule. Or, at least, the beginnings of one.

  Skolnick called for attention, and a hush fell over the gathered mutants. Voght marveled at the sheer power gathered in that room, and felt something akin to awe beginning to grow within her.

  One would have to be completely insane to willingly enter into battle with the forces Magneto had at his beck and call. But Voght had to remind herself that she lived in a world with no shortage of insane people.

  “Is it me,” Rogue asked, “or are we completely out of our minds?”

  Jean grinned and Scott actually cracked a smile.

  “It isn’t you,” Jean answered.

  “Thank you.”

  They had emerged from the Holland Tunnel to find Manhattan’s lower west side almost completely devoid of life. The Sentinels had not moved to stop them because the X-Men were, of course, mutants. Still, passing beneath the gargantuan robot had given Rogue a feeling of terrible dread. They were behind enemy lines, now. Anything could happen.

  “Talk about The Twilight Zone,” Jean said quietly.

  “You too?” Scott asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “With the sun high in the sky, and nobody around, it’s like we’ve been shunted to some side dimension where we can’t see or hear anyone else in the city.”

  “Ain’t you two forgettin’ somethin’?” Rogue asked. “I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but do we really want t’ see anyone else?”

  They hugged the buildings, taking advantage of what few shadows the midday sun offered. Not far off, Rogue could smell something good cooking, and her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t had enough to eat before leaving New Jersey.

  “Smell that?” Cyclops said. “Obviously, some people are getting on with their lives.”