They were only minutes away from their destination when the Blackbird’s proximity alarms went off klaxons blaring.
“What the devil?” Scott glanced at the instrumentation, and saw the telltales of another craft coming in fast. He gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on the controls. “Hold on.”
Kitty gasped as Scott sent the plane into a tight roll, veering off to port just as the other craft shot past them. And just in case there was any doubt as to the newcomer’s intentions, tracer fire raked across the nose of the Blackbird, only narrowly missing puncturing the hull.
“We’re under attack,” Scott said, unlocking the Blackbird’s weapons systems.
“Gee, Cyke,” Logan said with a sneer, “you think?” “I didn’t get a good look at it, but it must be that UFO Lee mentioned.”
“I don’t think so, Scott,” Kitty said, holding a set of headphones to her ears, working the Blackbird’s communications controls. “I’m monitoring radio frequencies, and I’m pretty sure that bogey is local.”
To illustrate her point, Kitty reached over and toggled on the plane’s loudspeakers.
. . repeat, this is Colonel Alysande Stuart, of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, to unidentified craft. You are entering British airspace without clearance, and should you proceed on your present heading you will be shot down.”
“Um,” Kitty said, setting down the headphones, and turning to Scott. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Britain quite a bit that way?” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ,
“The Brits used to have an empire the sun never set on, pun’kin,” Logan said. “Don’t be too surprised they hung onto one or two bits of it.”
Scott kept one hand on the controls and used the other to set the headphones on his head, and switch the microphone on.
“This is Scott Summers, piloting private aircraft X-ray Alpha Victor out of Salem Center, New York, bound for Julienne Cay. This is a rescue operation. Over.”
A moment’s silence followed.
“Permission to approach denied. Proceed back along your previous course or you will be shot down.”
Logan growled, rubbing his knuckles, but Kitty waved him quiet.
“On what authority?” Scott demanded, trying to retain his composure.
“On the authority of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II,” came the answer. “These waters, and airspace, are part of the British Virgin Islands, and as such are under the jurisdiction of the British Crown. No unauthorized craft or personnel are permitted to approach.”
In a voice barely above a whisper, Kitty said, “Just what are they doing down there, anyway?”
“Askin’ for a world of hurt,” Logan growled, teeth bared.
“Look, Colonel Whatever-your-name is,” Scott said, his voice raising, “I’ve got friends down there who’ve called for help, and I’m landing this plane, whether you like it or not.”
After a momentary pause, the reply came. “Then you leave me no choice. Lieutenant, prepare to ...” Without warning, the voice on the other end of the radio broke off
Scott looked over at Kitty, confused. “Where’d they go?”
Kitty checked the radio instrumentation and shook her head. “They’re still there, and we’re still receiving.” Faintly, over the speakers, they could hear low voices muttering.
“Sounds like somebody had a dissenting opinion,” Kitty said.
“Very well!” The voice on the radio returned, sounding exasperated. “Private aircraft X-ray Alpha Victor. You have permission to land. Our fighter jet will act as escort. Follow him on the approach vector. However, if you deviate from that course, or your people step one inch out of line once you’re on the ground, I’ll order my men to open fire.”
Then the transmission ended, and the radio bled static.
“Well, you heard the lady,” Logan said. “So land already?”
“Lady?” Kitty said, turning around in her seat. “You think that was a woman?”
Logan retracted his claws back into his forearms, and then reached up to tug at one earlobe. “I’ve got pretty good bearin’, kiddo. That was a woman, no doubt about it.”
“Oh,” Kitty said, turning back around in her seat.
Scott watched as the British fighter jet approached on a heading parallel to theirs, the pilot giving him a thumbs-up.
“Don’t let that relax you any, though,” Logan said guardedly. ‘You know as well as me that a skirt can pull a trigger just as easy as anyone else.”
Colonel Alysande Stuart stood on the sandy beach of the atoll, looking across the waters at the unknown. Only a mile or so of unbroken sea separated her from the strange alien city that grew from the calm waters of the Sargasso like some sort of nightmarish tumor. The towers and obelisks and other protuberances that marked the city’s skyline were all of strange angles, of uncomfortably organic shapes and curves, and Alysande could not shake the sensation that as she was looking at them, they were looking back.
A short distance off, one of her men was on the radio with the fighter pilot, guiding the interloping aircraft down to an amphibious landing. When it had finished, the fighter would return to the carrier group, and to the HMS Valiant, her base of operations, only a few dozen miles away. If circumstances demanded, Alysande could have an aerial strike force overhead in a matter of moments. But what circumstances those might be, she hadn’t a clue.
This isn’t what I signed on for, she thought, regarding the alien city. Not by half
A short distance off, the man in the plain black suit finished up his conversation with his distant masters, and shut his satellite phone down. Then, with the same unctuous smile that had been maddening Alysande all morning, he made his way back down the beach toward her.
“Downing Street is quite pleased with how you’ve handled matters so far, Colonel Stuart,” the man said, still smiling. “I’ll make sure your superiors get a full report.” “And what of your shadowy superiors, Mr. Raphael? What does the RCX have to say about all of this?”
“Oh, it’s just Raphael, Colonel,” he said, stopping just beyond arms reach, his hands tucked casually into his pants pockets. “And I’m obliged to remind you, of course, that I’m merely a simple servant of the crown. Even if such an organization as the RCX existed, there’d be no connection between it and myself” Alysande pursed her lips, biting back the answer that suggested itself
“Ri-ight,” she said simply.
She understood full well that the rank and file weren’t to know of the existence of the Resource Control Executive, but even any knowledge about the shadowy agency was on a strictly need-to-know basis, under the circumstances she herself surely needed to know.
“With any luck, Colonel,” Raphael went on, “we’ll have this mess sorted in no time, and you and your men can get back to your little launch, yes?”
Alysande bristled, holding her hands together behind her back to resist the temptation to throttle the little troll, and with a curt nod, said, “Yes, well...”
As though the most cutting-edge space plane yet designed, the result of billions of pounds and countless hours of effort on the part of the British Rocket Group, was nothing more than a “little launch.”
It was dumb luck that led Alysande to be in charge here, so far from home. She’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, to her way of thinking.
Colonel Stuart had been sent to these waters to command a security detail, responsible for safeguarding the launch of an experimental spacecraft. The launch was to have taken place from a floating platform anchored off the coast of the tiny island of Tortola, and up until shortly before dawn that morning, everything had proceeded exactly according to plan.
Then an unidentified object had appeared on their radar screens, moving impossibly fast, and touching down less than a hundred miles away from the launch site.
"Without hesitation, Alysande had ordered the launch scrubbed, and immediately notified her superiors, while the boffins in the British Rocket Group shouted their demands that her orders be contravened and the launch continue.
Following her superiors’ orders to hold position and wait for further instruction, Alysande spent the morning organizing her men into a search-and-rescue operation, should the need arise. Then, midmorning, a supersonic jet had boomed out of the east, and set down on the deck of Alysande’s command aircraft carrier. Besides the pilot, the jet had carried only one passenger, a squat little man, round and balding, wearing a black business suit. Wearing completely opaque wraparound sunglasses, he’d hopped down to the deck, extended his hand to Alysande, and introduced himself simply as “Raphael.”
Alysande recognized a spook when she saw one, as did most of her men, who eyed the stranger warily.
Raphael had presented his bona fides to Alysande when requested, a simple document printed on Downing Street stationery and bearing the personal signature of the prime minister and the head of the Ministry of Defense. However, though his paperwork practically granted him the latitude to buy and sell the whole carrier group at his whim, Raphael had insisted that he was present in a strictly advisory capacity, and that Colonel Stuart would retain operational authority in the area.
That was quickly put to the test, though, a short while later, as Alysande prepared to order an interloping aircraft shot out of the sky.
“Then you leave me no choice,” Alysande had said, when the pilot of the private plane had refused to break away. She turned to the officer at her side, who was in communication with the fighter pilot. “Lieutenant, prepare to...”
“Colonel Stuart,” Raphael had said in a stage whisper. “A moment of your time?”
Irritated, but knowing that the little troll had the authority to strip her of command if he so desired, Alysande had tossed the microphone to the lieutenant and stalked over to the man in black.
“Colonel ...” Raphael began, and then tilted his head to one side. “May I call you Alysande?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” she answered coolly. “Alysande,” he went on with a smile, “I hate to interfere with your duties—and you’re doing a superb job, let me state—but I feel compelled to point out that the gentleman to whom you’ve been speaking is not completely unknown to me.”
‘Yes?| Alysande raised an eyebrow, regarding the little man.
“Which is not to say that I know him personally, of course,” Raphael continued, “but certain . . . elements ... of Her Majesty’s government have been aware of the activities of a Mr. Scott Summers, late of Salem Center, New "York for some time now.”
“And what’s this man done that’s of interest to your lot?”
“Well, Alysande, have you ever heard . . . that is to say”—Raphael looked to either side, almost comically, as though checking for eavesdroppers—“have you ever heard of an organization calling itself the ‘X-Men’?” Alysande had merely sneered, an expression of distaste passing quickly across her features like a cloud drifting over the face of the moon. “Mutants.”
Now, a short while later, Alysande stood on the beach, waiting for this Summers and his companions to arrive. She was curious to find out what their connection to all of this business was. So far as Her Majesty’s government had been able to determine in recent hours, no one had ever sighted this strange alien city before this morning. It didn’t appear on any maps, surveys, or satellite surveillance photos. For all that, it appeared, at the outset, to be unspeakably old, or it might just as well have been built overnight. What connection the city had with the impossibly fast flying object of the early morning hours, no one could say, but no one doubted for an instant that a connection existed.
So why was the leader of an international band of mutants—alternatively thought of as adventurers, heroes, or terrorists—flying here, and on this particular morning?
This Mr. Summers knew something about all of this, Alysande was convinced. And in short order, he’d share what he knew. Or Summers would, in turn, know Colonel Stuart’s displeasure.
As Scott brought the Blackbird in for an amphibious landing, Logan tugged on a pair of leather gloves and settled his cowboy hat on his head. He glanced over at Kitty, who was perched nervously on the copilot’s seat, her mask in her hands.
“Looks like we’re doin’ this one in civvies, darlin’,” Logan said, checking to make sure the three parallel slits cut into the backs of his gloves were lined up. “No reason to go in masked.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Kitty said, a little uneasily. “I still cling hopefully to the notion of a ‘secret identity,’ you know. If it gets out that a kid from Deerfield is traipsing around the Atlantic with British marines, it’s going to get a little difficult to explain to the folks.”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Logan said with a smile. “I’ve had to wipe out all manner of records and such, covering our tracks before, and I can do it again, if need be.” Kitty replied with a halfhearted grin, and tucked her mask into the pocket of her bluejacket.
“I suppose,” she said, shrugging. “At least my uniform passes as street clothes.” She gestured to her blue jacket, light blue tights and leggings. “I’m not sure what street your usual brown-and-tan getup would pass on.”
“Kid,” Logan said, clamping a cigar butt between his teeth, “you obviously ain’t been on all the streets I have.”
Scott swiveled the pilot’s chair around, having toggled the hatch open.
“Be ready for anything, you two,” Scott said, stepping over to the slowly opening hatch. He wore a black sweater and jeans, his wide red glasses covering half his face. “We don’t know what to expect from these people.”
“Relax, Cyke,” Logan said, coming to stand beside him. “Me and the Brits, we got a history. We won’t have any trouble at all.”
The hatch swung all the way open as Kitty came to stand between them.
“No sudden movements!” barked the marine standing just beyond the hatch, the barrel of his automatic rifle trained on them. Another half-dozen marines were at his side, their rifles likewise aimed and ready.
“Gee, Logan,” Kitty said with a smirk. “The way you make friends, I don’t know why I should have worried.”
The way Logan saw it, he was on his best behavior.
Scott and Kitty probably didn’t see it that way, but they always did tend to overreact. As for the marines? Well, it was pretty clear what they thought.
Logan had been the first to hit the ground, hopping down from the open hatch.
“Keep your hands where I can see them!” the young marine said.
“You mean these hands?” Logan answered, raising his fists.
“Lo-gan,” Kitty said, an imploring tone in her voice.
“No talking,” the marine barked. “We’re to escort you to the colonel, but we’ve got orders to open fire if you refuse to follow our instructions.”
“Look, bub,” Logan answered, treating the soldier to a humorless smile, “I’ll thank you not to wave that peashooter in my face, if you don’t mind.”
“Oi!” the marine answered, advancing, jabbing his rifle only inches from Logan’s nose. “I said button it, you.”
“Logan,” Scott said warningly, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder.
“Just a second, Cyke,” Logan said, and then exploded into motion.
With one hand he grabbed the marine’s rifle, pulling it forward, yanking it from the marine’s grip, and then he brought his other arm down elbow first, cracking it into the marine’s neck and sending him sprawling onto the sand.
The other marines tightened their grips on their rifles, but Logan quickly tossed the rifle to the ground and raised his hands in a posture of surrender.
“Sorry about that, fellas,” Logan said, smiling. “Reflex, I guess. Something about the way he was talking must have set me off. Now, take us to your leader, why don’t you?”
The marines left standing glanced at one another, uncertain what to do next.
“You heard the man,” Kitty said impatiently. “Let’s go, already.”
Logan glanced over at Scott, who scowled back at
“What?” Logan said innocently. “That was hardly even a love tap.”
Without further incident, the marines led the three X-Men to the tent they’d set up as a makeshift command center. Inside, a statuesque woman in the uniform of a marine colonel waited with a short, unpresupposing man in a cheap black suit.
“Colonel Stuart?” said their marine escort, shouldering his rifle. “These are the individuals you wanted to see.”
‘Yes, yes,” the woman said impatiently, waving them in. “We haven’t got all day.”
Scott moved to stand opposite the colonel, back straight as if he had something stuck up his backside, while Kitty found a folding chair to slump down into. Logan went over to lean against the tent’s center pole, his arms crossed lightly over his chest.
The colonel took them in at a glance, and then looked to the small man in the black suit. “These are the infamous X-Men?”
Logan chuckled. “See, kiddo,” he said to Kitty, “I told you not to worry about that whole secret identity business. Seems like someone already spoiled it for us, anyhow.”
The colonel turned, and narrowed her gaze at Logan.
“So you’d be the Canadian operative Mr. Raphael was telling me about, then?”
“Could be,” Logan said, fishing a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and clenching it between his teeth. “Depends on who Mr. Raphael is, I suppose.”
“Ah, that would be me,” said the man in the black suit, his voice as oily as the little hair he had left. “But it’s just Raphael, if you please.” He stepped forward, and extended a hand toward Logan.
Logan looked at the man’s hand before him like it was a dead fish, his only movement to shift the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Erm,” Raphael said uneasily, trying to shift his attention to Scott, but Summers had his attention fixed on the colonel. Raphael then looked helplessly over at Kitty, who just shrugged in response. “Yes, well..He backed away, stuffing his hands into his pants’ pockets.
For his part, Logan was busy eyeing the colonel, as well.
She’s a big one, and no doubt, he thought appreciatively. She’s got to be as tall as Petey, if she’s an inch.
Logan doubted she could turn into organic steel like Peter Rasputin, but she was an imposing figure, nonetheless. She hadn’t moved since they’d walked in, her hands clasped at the small of her back but Logan could tell by the way she stood that she was a trained fighter. She’d be something to see in a scrape, he was sure.
“In the interests of avoiding an international incident,” the colonel now said, fixing the three X-Men with a hard stare, “I’ve been dissuaded from shooting you on the spot. But I’d very much like to know what a group of internationally infamous mutants are doing violating British airspace, and if I don’t get the answers I’m after in short order, I might reconsider that decision.”
“You know,” Kitty said, sitting forward in her folding chair, “I’m not sure I like the way she said ‘mutant.’” She glanced at Logan, who nodded.
“There’s lots of bigots all over, kid,” Logan said.
The colonel stiffened, lips curled, and Logan was glad to see that he’d gotten a reaction. So she wasn’t made out of stone, after all.
“I’ll have you know that I don’t have a bigoted bone in my body,” the colonel said hotly. “And if you don’t believe me, I think you can ask your friend Mr. Cassidy, and he can set you right.”
“Sean?” Scott said, taken aback.
“Yes,” the colonel said. “Without going into unnecessary details”—she glanced over at the man called Raphael—“suffice it to say that there was a point at which I might have brought your ‘Banshee’ to account for a number of... legal questions ... that plagued him, and I chose instead to put him at his liberty. Which is not to say that there wasn’t unfounded prejudice against mutants involved in the incident, but that I was on the opposite side of that unfortunate line.”
‘Yeah, maybe,” Kitty said, “but when was that? Years ago?”
The colonel’s expression seemed to soften, but only for the briefest moment. ‘Years, and more.”
“Well, what have you done for us lately?” Kitty said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve been hearing rumors about the British rounding up mutant kids and putting them in special camps. Wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Colonel?”
“Now, see here,” Raphael cut in haughtily. “The Warpies aren’t mutants, regardless of what you might have read, and besides, any stories you might have heard were doubtless horrible, groundless exaggerations.” He paused, and grinned, making an expansive gesture with his hands. “If anything,” he went on, his tone conciliatory, “the British government has only the best interests of the children at heart.”
“What?!” The colonel wheeled on Raphael, her mouth open in shock, and Logan could see that whatever the two Brits were to each other, they weren’t friends. And if they were allies, they were uneasy ones, at best.
Raphael shifted uneasily under the colonel’s hard gaze. “Colonel, perhaps we might discuss this at a later...”
“Mister Raphael,” the colonel said sharply, cutting him off. “Is it true that the RCX is really rounding up children?”
“Well,” Raphael said, suddenly the epitome of composure, “the issues aren’t nearly as black-and-white as they might sound.”
Logan realized that the slightly bumbling, stuttering act to which they’d been treated was just that—an act. This Raphael, whoever he might be, was a cool customer, in complete control of his reactions.
Before the colonel could do more than fume, Kitty interrupted.
“RCX?” she said, sitting up in her chair. She turned to Logan, then glanced at Scott. “Hey, I’ve heard Betsy talk about these guys. They’re some kind of British spookshow, totally top secret.”
“Ah,” Raphael said. He took a small notebook from his jacket pocket, and scribbled in it briefly with a pencil stub. He looked up under his brows at Kitty. “That would be Betsy Braddock, would it?”
“Why?” Kitty said, jumping to her feet. “You planning on putting her in a camp, too?”
“Hold on, now,” Scott said, placing a hand on Kitty’s shoulder.
“No, you hold on, Cyke,” Logan said, pushing off the tent pole and stepping forward. “I’m not too crazy about the idea of anybody put in a camp against their will. I’ve seen it before, just like I’ve seen friends turned into walking skeletons, and worse.”
The colonel looked at Logan, her expression softening momentarily. “The war ...”
“I’ve been in more wars than you can count, lady,” Logan said, “but don’t kid yourself it only happens in wartime.”
“Look, everybody,” Raphael said, raising his hands, “perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here . ..” Logan took a step forward, adamantium claws popped out of the backs of both fists.
“Bub, if you’ve got a wrong foot, I’d be happy to get rid of it for you.”
“Logan!” Scott barked.
Before Logan could respond, a marine appeared at the open flap of the tent.
“Colonel Stuart,” he said, snapping off a crisp salute. “I think there’s something out here you should see.” The colonel treated Raphael to a cold glance, then turned to follow the marine out onto the beach.
Scott didn’t waste a moment, but followed close on the colonel’s heels.
Kitty hopped up and followed them, glancing back over her shoulder. “If you’re going to kill that guy, Logan, hurry up and get it over with.”
His gaze on her retreating back Raphael chuckled, but the laughter stopped when he turned and saw Logan’s hard expression.
“She was joking?” Raphael said, and Logan thought he might see genuine fear somewhere behind the spook’s carefully cultivated facade. “Right?”
Logan glowered at the man in black for a long moment. “Another time, bub.”
The claws retracting back into his forearms, he turned and followed the others out of the tent, leaving Raphael alone.
The marines were spread out in defensive positions up and down the beach, looking toward the alien city, unsure whether to shoot or start running, and waiting for orders one way or the other. Kitty couldn’t blame them. Her own fight or flight instincts were currently duking it out in her gut.
There were a half dozen of the circular platforms, each about ten or fifteen feet across, skimming over the water toward them.
That they were moving without any noise, or any visible means of propulsion or support, came as no particular shock to Kitty. She’d seen more amazing things than that in the last few years. Heck, her best friends included a guy who could turn into solid metal and a girl whose skin could absorb memories and abilities on contact.
What was surprising, though, was to see what was riding on the platforms. Or rather, who.
People.
Just that. Not big bug-eyed monsters, or sentient robots, or humanoids with feathers instead of hair, not squishy piles of goo, or colonies of space whales, or giant insect things. Just people.
Sure, each of them had precisely as much hair on their heads as Professor X—which was to say, none at all—but that could be chalked up to simple fashion. Faulty genetics, at best. But aside from that minor characteristic, not a one of them would be unable to walk through the Salem Center mall without drawing comment or attention.
Well, their clothing might draw some comment or attention, Kitty supposed. The bright colors and oddly geometric patterns looked more like something out of an arabesque fantasy than the typical attire of a Westchester County shopper, but then it wasn’t so long ago that shoulder pads and neon colors were all the rage, for god’s sake, so it wasn’t that out of the ordinary.
Of course, typical Westchester County shoppers didn’t arrive at the mall in high-speed UFOs, or skim through the department stores on big floating platforms, so Kitty had to admit there was still something unusual about these people.
But still and all, they were people.
The nearest of the flying platforms stopped just short of the atoll’s beach, hovering in midair, and Kitty was able to get a better look. Two men and three women were standing on its featureless surface, each of them looking to be somewhere between their midtwenties and their mid-thirties.
The other platforms behind them veered off to either side, as though to circle around the small island.
The lead platform’s five riders regarded everyone on the beach, silently.
And then ...
Nothing happened.
Kitty thought she was going to scream. The bald platform riders were silent; the marines were silent; the colonel and the balding spook were silent; even Scott and Logan were silent. Kitty was tempted to shout, but knew better. She’d learned long before that when entering an unknown situation it was far better to keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. But what if everyone else had learned the same lesson? Would you just stand around forever, silently looking at each other?
The colonel motioned to one of her men. When he drew near, she said in a low voice, “Lieutenant, begin passive and active scans of those humanoids on all bandwidths and frequencies.”
Before the marine could reply, a voice range out in Kitty’s head.
“Oh, so you use verbal communications? How . . . quaint.”
Kitty winced. The mind-call was easily twice as “loud” as the ones Professor Xavier used to send out. From the expressions on everyone around her on the beach, she could tell she wasn’t the only one on the receiving end, either.
“Please,” blasted the mind-voice again, “allow me a moment to scan your language centers ...”
An instant later, one of the bald platform riders stepped forward, opened his mouth, and addressed
everyone on the beach in clear, unaccented English.
“This one bears the name Vox Tertius, servitor unaugmented clade, of the House Nine-Mirror-Eclipse, preeminent among the Collective. This one bears greetings in the name of the Kh’thon, supreme masters ofEarth.”
Okay, Kitty though. So maybe that’s a little surprising. ..
Colonel Stuart stepped forward to address the strange figure calling himself Vox Tertius, but before she could speak Scott pushed ahead of her.
“Where are our friends?” he demanded, stabbing a finger at the platform. “What have you done with Lee Forrester and her crew?”
“Summers,” the colonel said warningly, in a low voice, but kept her eyes on Vox Tertius, waiting to see how he responded.
The figures on the platform exchanged confused glances, and then Vox Tertius’s eyes widened, and he turned to look back down at Scott and the others on the beach.
“Oh, you refer to the individuals we seized,” he said.
“Yes,” Scott managed through clenched teeth, having to fight the urge to lift his ruby quartz glasses and give these guys the full brunt of one of his optic blasts.
Get it together, Summers, Scott thought. Logan’s supposed to be the one with the berserker rage, right? Not you. What is this reaction about, anyway? Lee’s in your past, isn’t she? Or she’s supposed to be. You’re with Jean now, aren’t you?
Scott’s musings were cut short when Vox Tertius replied, nodding serenely.
“The individuals you mention have been taken in hand for entering areas restricted to all servitors who do not bear appropriate proof of their master’s permissions.” Vox paused for a moment, and glanced at one of his fellows before looking back to Scott. “Do you claim these individuals as your own?”
“Listen,” Colonel Stuart said, “I’m here as a representative of Her Majesty’s ..
“Yes,” Scott said brusquely, interrupting. “They are our friends.”
“Ah,” Vox Tertius said, nodding. “Well, it would appear that the observance of protocols has lapsed somewhat in our absence, but such is to be expected.” He smiled indulgently, as though addressing misbehaving children. Tilting his head to one side, he said, “To which house and clade do we address ourselves?” Colonel Stuart and Scott both began to answer at the same time, but Stuart gave him a hard stare, conspicuously lowering her hand to the pistol holstered on her hip.
“Listen, Summers,” she hissed quietly, “this is a potential first-contact scenario, and I am not about to let it be handled by amateurs. We’ll get your people back, but we’ll do it my way.” Then, in a louder voice, she turned and answered Vox Tertius. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand the question. Can you clarify?”
Vox Tertius sighed dramatically. “Which master-strain do you serve?”
“Master-strain?” Kitty said.
When Vox Tertius spoke again, his words were slow and deliberate, as though he were addressing an animal, or an imbecile. “To which House of the Kh’thon do you owe fealty?”
Colonel Stuart opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and then turned to Raphael, who shrugged.
“What the flamin’ heck is a Kh’thon?” Wolverine said, voicing the question foremost on Scott’s mind.
Vox Tertius screwed his face up, looking perplexed and more than a little alarmed. As he stood silently regarding those gathered on the beach, one of the women behind him on the platform stepped forward, lightly touching his elbow.
“Vox Tertius,” the woman said in the same unaccented English, “the servitors in the city of Dis report no sign of habitation, and considerable entropic damage to the city’s systems and services. Further, we detect no Kh’thonic emanations from anywhere on the planet.”
Vox Tertius looked from the woman to the people on the beach, shocked. When he spoke, he addressed her, but kept his eyes on them. “Then this world has been entrusted solely to the keeping of servitors?”
The other male platform rider stepped forward, and pointed a long, slender finger toward Logan. “And clearly, Vox Tertius, some of the servitors are augmented phenotypes, perhaps even Exemplar-class.” “This ...” Vox Tertius began, shaking his head. “This won’t do at all.”
Without another word, he gave a brief sweeping motion with his hand, and the platform spun around and sped back toward the city. The other platforms followed close behind, skirnmingjust above the waves.
“Well,” Kitty said, stepping forward and draping an arm over Scott’s shoulder. “For a first-contact situation, I think that could have gone a little better, don’t you?”
Bloody cheek, Alysande Stuart thought, but didn’t allow herself the luxury of responding. If these so-called X-Men hadn’t interfered, she was convinced she’d have had this mess sorted by now. Instead, the situation was deteriorating quickly.
“Corporal!” Alysande barked. “Initiate airborne pursuit.”
A few yards up the beach, a marine wearing a bulky metal pack on his back snapped off a crisp salute, and turned to two others, each wearing an identical pack.
“You heard the colonel,” the corporal said. “Up and at ’em.”
Without another word, the three marines unshipped their assault rifles, took three running steps toward the shoreline, and then leapt into the air. Gouts of blue flame blazed from the metal packs, and the three marines shot off jetting after the retreating platforms.
“What the heck... ?” the American girl named Kitty said in amazement.
Clasping her hands behind her back, Alysande glanced over at the girl. ‘You’ll find that Her Majesty’s government is quite prepared for any eventuality, young lady. If you could content yourself with letting the professionals handle this, we’d have matters well in hand in short order.”
“You think?” the man called Logan said, and pointed with the stub of his cigar toward the alien city.
As the platforms reached the city itself, having crossed the mile of open water separating it from the atoll, a shimmering energy field sprang up. In the afternoon light it flickered multicolored, like a frenetic rainbow.
The jetpack-wearing marine in the lead had very nearly reached the city himself, only lengths from the energy field.
“Colonel?” A lieutenant, in his hands a radio connecting him to the airborne marines, looked to Alysande questioningly.
Just then the marine slammed into the energy field, and was instantly engulfed in coruscating energy that danced over his body like lightning trapped in a bottle. •
“Break away!” Alysande shouted, and spun around to the lieutenant with the radio. “Order them to break away, now!”
The lieutenant immediately began relaying the orders over the radio waves in breathless tones, but it was already too late.
The second jetpack-wearing marine had already flown too close, like Icarus brushing too near the sun, and as he attempted to veer away slammed bodily into the energy field, and was consumed by the same corns-eating energy as his companion, like an insect caught in the blue light of a bug zapper.
The third marine, for his part, managed to change direction just before reaching the field, and jetted back toward the atoll at speed.
“Damn,” Alysande swore under her breath, hands tightened into white-knuckled fists.
“Weren’t your fault, Colonel,” Logan said, in all sincerity. “There was no way of knowing they’d be able to throw up a defensive shield that quick.”
“Perhaps,” Alysande said through gritted teeth, “but my role is to anticipate and account for the unexpected, and I neither request nor desire your permission to fail in that obligation.” .
Logan shrugged, and blew out of a cloud of cigar smoke that hung around his head like a halo. “Suit yourself.”
“Colonel Stuart,” Scott Summers said, hurrying to her side. Alysande noticed that he’d replaced his red sunglasses with some sort of yellow wraparound visor, his eyes faint red glows behind a narrow red lens. “My people have experience dealing with these sorts of things, and with all due respect I think your men are out of their depth.”
The third of the jetpack-wearing marines was now landing on the beach, looking shaken.
“We are marines, Mr. Summers,” Alysande snapped back. “I think you’ll find that, land, sea, or air, we are well trained to handle whatever depths we might encounter.”
“Excuse me? Colonel?” Raphael was approaching, coming from the direction of the helicopter transports that had carried Alysande and her men to the island. He carried in his hands a device the size of a portable computer. “I’ve just had a peek at the scanner readings your men did of the . . . individuals ... we so recently encountered.”
“Yes?” Alysande replied impatiently. “What of it?” “Well,” Raphael said, tilting his head to one side, “there’s definitely some strange aspects of their physiology, no doubt about it, which at first guess I’d take to be surgical alterations. But in terms of genetics, well...”
The man in the black suit trailed off “Well, spit it out, man!” Alysande barked. “Genetically,” Raphael answered, “they’re nothing more unusual than baseline Homo sapiens.” He glanced across the water at the alien city, now safely ensconced inside its dome of coruscating energy. “They’re human.” Well, of course they are, Alysande thought. They looked human, didn’t they? But then she reminded herself that humans, in her everyday experience, don’t typically fly out of the sky from parts unknown in impossibly fast spacecraft, take up residence in previously unknown nightmarish cities in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, and issue cryptic pronouncements while riding atop levitating metal platforms. Which, taken all together, suggested there might be something unusual about them being strictly human, after all.
“Look!” Kitty shouted, pointing at the sky.
Alysande looked up, shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun, and saw a glint of silver.
‘Another craft,” relayed the lieutenant with the radio gear, hand to his headphones. “The carrier group reports that it’s on an approach vector, traveling at supersonic speeds but quickly decelerating.” He listened carefully, and then added, “Trajectory suggests it just came in from high orbit.”
Between one eyeblink and the next, the glint of silver became a large craft, easily the size of a troop carrier helicopter. Without making a sound, it stopped dead in midair directly over the city, just outside the reach of the defensive force field. Though constructed of some smooth, unmarked metal, its shape was almost organic in design, looking like an internal organ removed under dissection, or some microscopic bacterium.
Alysande turned to her second in command, standing nearby. “Major! Tell the men that I want all safeties off, all weapons hot, but that they are to fire only on my command.”
“Yes, sir,” the major snapped back, taking to his heels to relay the orders down the line.
“What’s it doing up there, anyway?” Kitty asked, squinting up at the strangely shaped craft.
As if in answer, the craft rotated slightly in midair. Then, as Alysande and the others on the beach watched, it began to unfold—that was the only word for it—to unfold, sections opening up and curling back, looking more like the petals of a blossoming flower than anything man-made.
Without warning, from the top of the blossoming vessel, five figures emerged. They were all roughly human-shaped, but while each was as hairless as the platform riders had been, there the resemblance ended.
“Blimey,” Alysande swore under her breath.
They were flying under their own power, for starters. That was the first thing one noticed. And they were coming straight for them.
As they drew nearer, more details emerged. All of them were dressed in strange, metallic formfitting clothing, but their appearances were anything but uniform. One had wings; another seemed to be covered in a sheath of green flame; another seemed to be made entirely of stone; still another had pointed ears and blue fur.
The lead figure, a massive, heavily muscled male whose skin appeared to be made of highly reflective metal—organic steel?—hovered in midair above the atoll, addressing Alysande and the others on the beach.
“I am Invictus Prime of the Exemplar, augmented clade, and you are hereby ordered to vacate this area.”
“On what authority?” Alysande shouted back.
The steel-skinned figure regarded her coolly before answering.
“The Exemplar carry out the will of the Kh’thon Collective, former occupants and rightful owners of the planet Earth.”
Before Alysande could voice a response, or give orders to her men, Raphael tapped her on the shoulder. He stuck the scanning device in front of her face. “Now that’s interesting,” he said, an unexpectedly jolly tone to his voice. “These new blokes? They’re mutantsl”