by Stuart Moore
Juber turned to the navigation station at floor level. “Give me tactical.”
He leaned forward, steadying himself against the front railing. As a series of horrific images unfolded on the meters-high screen, Juber ran a hand through the dark feathers framing his head and neck. The feathers betrayed his people’s avian nature—the Shi’ar had evolved not from apes, but from birds.
A massive flare billowed out from the sun. The display followed the path of the flare as it passed by three inner planets, each identified by a computer overlay. A fourth world, blue and cloud-covered, lay directly ahead.
“The planet is D’Bari-d,” Eluke said. “Source of the transmission. That’s the heat flare, following the light they saw a few moments before.”
The flare struck the fourth planet. The blue world almost vanished in a flash of blinding light. A spray of atmosphere and elementary particles burst forward from it like a halo.
“The instant the flare struck, the atmosphere and oceans on the day side boiled away. The steam and superheated air whirled around the globe, obliterating everything in their path. The few people awake on the night side probably saw a spectacular Aurora Borealis before death claimed them.” Eluke’s voice faltered. “The rest died in their sleep.”
“The lucky ones,” Juber said. “Pull back the view to a distance of zero point one light-years.”
The image zoomed out. D’Bari’s star flashed bright, consuming everything in the system. Juber turned toward an elevated station studded with holographic displays.
“Science Officer?”
“Stellar expansion is slowing.” Sonneb, the science officer, ran her hands rapid-fire across the holograms. “Visible contraction now evident in the photosphere. It’s acting like a proper supernova, Milord, but at a fantastically accelerated rate.”
Juber paused, clenching his fists. The images were monstrous, almost beyond comprehension, but he kept his face stoic. He could not show weakness on the bridge of his ship.
“Explanation?” he asked.
“I have none, Milord,” Eluke said. “This was an average, G-normal star. A certain amount of flaring is to be expected, but this…”
“I have checked the morning’s scans,” the science officer said. “We charted no abnormal matrices in the star, on atomic or subatomic levels. This should not— could not have occurred.”
Juber stared at the star. It filled the screen now, pulsing and throbbing like a dying heart.
“Not by itself,” he murmured.
“Milord!”
Juber turned sharply. He’d never before heard such panic in Eluke’s voice.
“Sensors now register a field anomaly.” Eluke stood at his station, hands flashing over the controls. “Moving out from the core of the star. Registering up and down the spectrum… at levels so extreme, our instruments cannot get a fix on it—”
“It’s a life-form,” the science officer said.
Juber squinted at the screen. The star was contracting, its fires dying, and at its center he could see… something… As Eluke moved to join him, he heard the first officer’s sharp intake of breath.
“Full magnification,” Juber said. “There!”
On the screen, a young woman with flame-red hair soared toward them, arms spread wide. Her eyes betrayed a cruel, terrible ecstasy. Behind her, the star shrank and died, the last of its energies funneling into the massive energy trail left in her wake.
“It’s humanoid,” Eluke said, “but what sort of creature is it?”
I know, Juber thought. I wish I did not, but I do.
“The Phoenix,” he breathed.
Eluke turned to him. “That’s a legend.”
“A legend our people have dreaded since they first spread their wings and left the trees.” Again, Juber ran a hand nervously through his feather crest. “No judgment is more feared than that of the Phoenix.”
“Sharra and K’ythri preserve us,” Eluke whispered.
Juber turned. The crew were all watching him, from elevated stations and the security posts on ground level.
“Sound battle stations,” he ordered. “We will engage.”
Eluke placed a hand on his arm. “Is that wise, Milord?”
“It is a moral obligation.” Juber turned back to the screen. “D’Bari was an ally of the Empire. Five billion people, exterminated by that… thing. They must be avenged!”
“You heard the captain.” Eluke released Juber’s arm and strode across the bridge. “Battle stations!”
On screen, the entity paused in space. And smiled.
“Science Officer,” Juber said, “am I correct in assuming this creature is drawing its life-energy from the star it has consumed?”
“Readings confirm that, sir.”
“Then it is even more imperative that we stop it. Now— before it slaughters more worlds.” He paused. “Before its power becomes so great that no force in creation can stand against it.”
“Coming up on the entity,” Eluke announced.
The woman spread her arms, fiery wings mirroring her motion. The Phoenix energy seemed to burn away the space around her, wreathing her in flame.
“Main batteries,” Juber said. “Fire!”
A plasma bolt shot forth from the massive dreadnought. The Phoenix dodged the bolt easily, swooping at near-lightspeed in a loop around the red energy trail.
“She’s coming around again,” Eluke said.
The Phoenix flared bright, arcing wide in open space. As she turned to close in on the warship, the expression on her face turned to fury.
“Shields!” Juber ordered.
The Phoenix shot forward, gaining speed as she approached. She struck one of the ship’s propulsion nacelles, slicing through it in a shower of tachyon particles. The nacelle wing creaked, sparked, and snapped off.
The bridge exploded in chaos. Damage reports poured in: casualty counts, repair orders, energy readouts—a welter of overlapping voices. Eluke moved quickly to Juber’s side.
“Tachyon power down to forty percent,” he said. “Weaponry down by half.”
“Shields?”
“Failing,” Eluke said tersely. “We are lucky to be alive, Milord. We must flee while we can!”
Juber turned to him. “Do you honestly think we can outrun our foe, Eluke? Or that it will allow us to leave?”
They turned, together, to face the screen. The entity burned brighter than ever, blazing against the stars. It reached the farthest point of its arc, then veered again toward the Shi’ar dreadnought.
“Whatever our fate, my friend, we will meet it with honor.” Juber whirled to the communications station. “Prepare to dispatch log message to the Empress.”
A massive blast shook the bridge. Juber steadied himself against the railing. The screen was now filled with the fiery, terrible energy flare of the Phoenix.
“Heavy casualties,” Eluke reported. “Engineering section exposed to vacuum. We’ve lost hyperspace capability.”
“Log-recording at your command, Milord,” the communications officer called. Juber pressed a stud on the railing before him, activating the recording.
“Empress Majestrix,” he said, gesturing toward the screen in front of him. “I hope you receive this. We are beaten—no weapons, no power. Crew mostly dead. Ship a ruined, gutted hulk.”
“Entity closing,” Eluke said.
“Beware, my Empress,” Juber continued. “Beware the Phoenix.”
As if on cue, the bird of prey filled the screen. Its flame stretched for millions of kilometers now, a force capable of snuffing out whole stars—wielded by a single young woman.
“Dispatch log message,” Juber said. “Now!”
“Juber, my captain. My friend.” Eluke’s hand touched Juber’s, clasped it tight. “I believe this is the end.”
Juber squeezed the hand tight. He stared into the flames and saw, in their depths, the ruin of the proud Shi’ar civilization. A conflagration that could bring down an empire, that might even co
nsume the universe itself.
Empress Lilandra, he thought. I am your servant, now and forever. K’ythri grant that you receive my warning—
The Phoenix blazed once, twice. And Juber’s thoughts, his prayers, his proud Imperial warship—all vanished in a spray of raw atoms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“GENTLY DOES it… gently. Ach, no!”
The circuit board clattered to the kitchen floor. Nightcrawler let out a string of German curses, then lowered the soldering iron and turned to Colossus.
“Peter. This thing is hard enough to assemble without your clumsiness.”
“I am sorry.” Colossus held up his hands—even in his flesh-and-blood form they were huge. “I think perhaps I am not built for delicate work.”
Wolverine sat astride a folding chair on the opposite side of the kitchen, shaking his head back and forth. This is hopeless, he thought. No way we’re gonna beat Jeannie, ever again. If she’s even still on this flamin’ planet.
“Here, little brother.” Storm handed a tablet to Colossus. “You read Dr. MacTaggert’s instructions off to us. I will hold the circuitry steady.” The two of them switched places, both leaning against the kitchen table. Its surface was strewn with tools, clamps, nuts and bolts, and circuitry stripped from prototype versions of the Cerebro mainframe.
“Perhaps Cyclops could help,” Colossus offered.
“He knows no more about mnemonic circuitry than you or I,” Storm said, “and he may have a concussion. Let him rest.”
Logan turned away, tuning out the chatter. Three snapshots kept replaying in his mind—three memories of Jean Grey’s face, in succession, like a slide show. The first was when he’d burst into the sanctum of the Hellfire Club. Jean, in her Black Queen regalia, casting a glare of challenge at him. In an instant, he’d recognized the barely contained fury inside her. He’d seen the damage done by Wyngarde’s manipulations.
The second memory had come just a few minutes later. He’d heard the clicking of Cyclops’s collar opening, understood that Jean had freed him with her telekinesis. Her eyes had locked onto his, letting him in on her plan—to keep sparring to distract the Inner Circle, while Cyclops freed the others.
Her expression then had been… strange. A hint of a smile, a touch of satisfaction at the deception. But a spark of anger, too—a flame that burned bright within her. A hint that all was not well, that the worst was still to come.
The third memory made him shudder. Jean in midair, hovering over Central Park in the driving rain. Her costume dark and savage, her face twisted into a mask of rage, contempt, and utter dismissal. With a wave of her hand, she’d knocked him out of the sky.
That’s when he’d known, beyond a hint of a doubt, that Jean was gone. There was nothing human in that expression, nothing left of the woman he’d known. The woman he’d loved.
She swatted us down like flies. Her friends, her teammates—and, not incidentally, one of the most powerful hero teams in the flamin’ world. He shook his head, remembering. You were right, Chuck. Damn you, anyway. Why’d ya have to be right?
* * *
Three days earlier
“I AM not calling to compliment you,” Professor Xavier said. “I need the Wolverine for a mission.”
Xavier’s face glared out of the small television screen. Wolverine drained his beer and slammed the cup down on the bar in Angel’s underground den.
“You got him.”
“I am about to become the consort to an empress,” Xavier said. “In preparation for this honor, I have undergone schooling in the mythology and traditions of the Shi’ar.”
“Sounds boring as hell.”
“Actually, it’s easier than you might think, for a…” Xavier tapped his bald head. “Anyway. One legend of the Shi’ar people particularly struck me. Their earliest records speak of the Phoenix… an unstoppable force known as ‘the end of all that is.’”
Logan hissed in a breath. “I don’t like where this is goin’.”
“Believe me, neither do I.” A pained look crossed Xavier’s normally stoic face. “I was prepared to dismiss the story as a coincidence, until I received Moira’s new data. Her analyses show Jean’s power increasing along a geometric curve, with no end in sight.”
Wolverine grimaced. More than anything in the world, he wanted another beer. But he felt rooted to the barstool, unable to move.
“As I said,” Xavier continued, “I will be returning to Earth at the earliest opportunity. At that time, I believe I can evaluate Jean’s situation and, with a bit of luck, assist her in controlling her rapidly evolving power. But I cannot make the journey until after Lilandra’s coronation. Moira’s readings leave me worried that— well, that I may be too late.”
“Chuck.” Wolverine’s throat was dry. “What are you trying to say?”
“That Jean Grey, my prize student and a young woman I love like a daughter, is dangerous. Very, very dangerous.”
“Got it. I’ll let Cyke know—”
“Cyclops’s love for Jean is deep and uncompromising. This is not a matter he can deal with.” Xavier’s eyes glared out of the screen. “Logan, you and I have not always seen eye to eye—”
“That’s puttin’ it mildly.”
“—but I trust you.”
Xavier paused, letting his words hang in the air.
“I trust you to do what must be done.”
Ice ran up Logan’s spine. Charlie, he thought, you cold bastard. Damn you. His claws clicked free, then slid back into their sheaths. Damn you forever for layin’ this on me.
“I know.” Xavier’s voice cracked, ever so slightly. “I know what this means to you, and I shudder to imagine what you must think of me at this moment. But this is much bigger than you or me, or even the team.” He regained his composure. “‘The end of all that is.’”
Logan didn’t respond. He sat perfectly still, letting the rage and frustration wash over him. He shivered, recalling the cruel, desperate training that had been forced upon him in times past. As much as his life with the X-Men, that too was a part of him. A part of who he was.
Like it or not, he would always be Weapon X.
When it was done, he rose to his feet. “Chuck,” he said, “I sure hope you’re wrong.”
He left without waiting for Xavier’s answer.
* * *
FOR THE past three days, he’d clung to a single hope: that he wouldn’t have to do the unthinkable. Even when Jean succumbed to the lure of the Hellfire Club, a part of Logan had believed she’d ultimately claw her way back.
Another dream dead and gone, he thought.
“This diagram is gibberish,” Colossus protested. “Have we tried bringing in an expert?”
“Hank McCoy is not available,” Storm replied.
The door creaked open. Cyclops stepped into the kitchen wearing civilian clothes and his ruby-quartz sunglasses. He held a hand against his bandaged head, staggering as he pulled up a chair.
“You look like hell, boss,” Wolverine said.
“Scott?” Nightcrawler moved to his side. “What is it?”
“I can feel her,” Cyclops said. “Somehow… a small trace of our psionic rapport is still active.”
Wolverine leapt to his feet. “And?”
“She’s far out in space. But she’s returning to Earth… and she’s hungry.” Cyclops turned toward him with a blank red stare. “Again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SHE STOOD on the lawn of a large, well-kept house in Annandale-on-Hudson, a sleepy college town fifty miles northwest of the X-Men’s Westchester mansion. Drawn here by a need she could not name, a craving wholly different from the hunger that had taken her to the stars.
The house where I—where she—was born.
The Dark Phoenix unclenched her fists, willing the flames around her to subside. The night grew dark again, lit only by a few distant streetlights. She glanced briefly at the garage, then walked up the front steps.
The door was unloc
ked, as she knew it would be.
As she stepped into the dark living room, a rush of sensory impressions washed over her. Shelves of books, the accumulation of her father’s career as a professor at Bard College. Plants all around—crocuses and herbs and cacti, seedlings in pots, and an aged miniature bonsai tree in its own terrarium. All tended and grown by her horticulturist mother.
A faint smell of garlic chicken in the air. That was her sister’s favorite.
Sara must be visiting, she thought.
The look, the feel of everything was familiar, unchanged. But the memories seemed distant, as if they belonged to someone else.
Just like on the shuttle. When she… I… accessed Dr. Corbeau’s knowledge. The same sense of intrusion, of discomfort. But these memories don’t belong to some stranger. They’re mine.
Aren’t they?
She strode over to a table and picked up a framed photo. Young Jean Grey, wearing a bright green minidress—her second Marvel Girl uniform. Holding her mask off to the side, sticking her tongue out at the camera.
A single snapshot, she thought, tucked away on a table. They knew of my life with the X-Men, but they never fully accepted it.
A pile of cardboard boxes lay on the floor next to the sofa. The Greys must have been doing some housecleaning. She knelt down, started digging through the top box. Papers, notepads… a faded inkjet-printed photo of Sara at a party, years ago. Souvenirs, mementoes of two young women and their college lives.
She pulled out a notebook with a handwritten label on the front.
J.G. – SENIOR YEAR (IF I MAKE IT!)
On the very first page, an entry in Jean’s handwriting read: Interview, Pendant Publishing. Saturday 3 PM, Chancellor’s Hall. Don’t screw it up girl!
She flipped the pages. Another entry detailed the trial of writing a sample piece for a reporter’s job. A third listed an interview with Goldman Sachs; that one had been violently crossed out in ballpoint pen. Yet another described—in hopeful terms—a Skype meeting for an internship at Doctors Without Borders.
I never made that meeting, she remembered. That was the weekend we first fought Mesmero.