GAMMA QUEST

BOOK 2

SEARCH AND RESCUE

GAMMA QUEST

BOOK 2

SEARCH AND RESCUE Greg Cox

Illustrations by George Perez

MARVEL*

BP BOOKS, INC. NEW YORK

BERKLEY BOULEVARD BOOKS, NEW YORK

They also serve who only stand and wait.” Milton’s immortal words came readily to Edwin Jarvis’s thoughts as he worriedly watched an emergency news bulletin on television. He often turned to that particular quotation in times of trouble; indeed, over the course of his long tenure as butler to the mighty Avengers, it had practically become his credo.

Alas, that seldom made the waiting any easier....

His hands kept busy polishing a silver tea service while his gaze stayed glued to a small television monitor mounted above the kitchen counter. The middle-aged Englishman wore an apron over his starched proper attire. At the moment, he had the spotless kitchen to himself, along with the rest of Avengers Mansion. On the screen overhead, live footage from Niagara Falls revealed that a trio of his superheroic employers were once more pitted against formidable antagonists in a battle of epic proportions; to be more specific, the combined strength and extraordinary abilities of the chamption of liberty, Captain America, the high-tech knight, Iron Man, and the synthetic human, the Vision, were now matched against both the notorious outlaw mutants known as the uncanny X-Men and the fearsome green man-monster called the incredible Hulk. A daunting combination, the butler assessed, although he clung steadfastly to his faith that the Avengers would emerge triumphant in

the end, as they so often had before. They have consistently prevailed over even greater odds, he recalled, and against far more merciless foes.

Both the X-Men and the Hulk, in fact, had sometimes fought beside the Avengers as allies, for all that such partnerships tended to be strained and somewhat fractious. Whatever cruel combination of circumstances had led to this present conflict, Jarvis held onto the hope that neither the Hulk nor the X-Men truly desired the Avengers’ total destruction, as might, say, the Grim Reaper or Ultron, although where the undeniably volatile Hulk was concerned, anything was possible. Nor could such reassurances rule out the possibility of a tragic accident, particularly in so hazardous a setting.

The awesome heights of Niagara Falls, over which torrents of frothing white water cascaded impressively, provided a scenic backdrop to the spectacular struggle, but also obvious opportunities for the various combatants to come to harm. Even now, as Jarvis methodically buffed the exterior of a tarnished tea kettle, the Hulk had fearlessly taken up a position along the very crest of the famed Horseshoe Falls, tempting fate, not to mention the raging current, to topple him from his precarious perch. Jarvis gulped involuntarily as the Vision alighted in the rapids above the Falls, only a few feet away from the bestial green goliath known as the Hulk. I certainly hope Master Vision knows what he is doing, Jarvis fretted. Never mind the Falls, for a moment; on his own, the Hulk could be as savage as he was inhumanly powerful.

TV newspeople speculated shamelessly about what might have brought all these costumed champions to this titanic clash, the reporters’s urgent voiceovers accompanying vivid action footage from cameras on the shore. Jarvis turned down the volume. He already knew far more than the commentators about the origins of this latest adventure.

It had all started yesterday, when Mistress Wanda, professionally known as the Scarlet Witch, failed to return from a morning’s outing to a local museum. Subsequent investigation revealed that the mutant heroine had been attacked and abducted by, of all things, one of the displays of a coterie of wooden marionettes. As though this were not puzzling enough, Iron Man’s sophisticated electronic sensors had detected lingering traces of radiation at the site of the Scarlet Witch’s disappearance. Gamma radiation, to be precise, of the sort associated with both the rampaging Hulk and his more rational alter ego, Dr. Robert Bruce Banner.

Led by Captain America, the Avengers had already resolved to seek out the Hulk and/or Banner to question him (them?) about the incident at the museum when word came that the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, airborne headquarters of the world’s premiere intelligence and anti-terrorism organization, had been invaded by several super-powered mutants linked to the X-Men. According to Nicholas Fury, the irascible director of S.H.I.E.L.D., the mutant renegades had stolen the top-secret prototypes of the Gamma Sentinels, a new generation of robot enforcers powered by the same form of gamma radiation that had created the Hulk. Given that the Gamma Sentinels were expressly designed to seek out and contain dangerous mutants, a preemptive strike by the X-Men seemed a plausible explanation for the assault on the Helicarrier, even if Captain America continued to entertain doubts about the X-Men’s guilt, judging them innocent until proven otherwise—according to the best tradition of British and American justice.

How very like the Captain to give the X-Men the benefit of the doubt, Jarvis reflected. But whatever could the stolen

Sentinels, and the X-Men, have to do with Mistress Wanda’s abduction, especially since the mutant-hunting robots were purloined several hours after the Scarlet Witch’s bizarre encounter with the animated puppets? Her Avenging teammates had been equally baffled by the peculiar chain of events.

Then the evening news had reported that Bruce Banner, a wanted fugitive, had been spotted in Niagara Falls, just south of the Canadian border. The three Avengers on hand, including Mistress Wanda’s estranged husband, the Vision, had immediately winged toward Niagara, only to land squarely in the middle of a tense confrontation involving the Hulk, the X-Men, and the armed forces of both the United States and Canada. Precisely whose side the X-Men were on remained unclear to both the on-the-air commentators and Jarvis himself; at various points in the ongoing crisis, they had appeared to be both allied and opposed to the Hulk, who seemed typically ill-deposed to all concerned. Jarvis did not know the X-Men well, having in the past had but fleeting contact with those of their number, but past encounters with the Hulk led him to suspect that the brutish Hulk was on the side of nothing save yet more chaos and strife. Jarvis had cleaned up after the Hulk enough to know that where that uncouth ogre went, violence and wanton destruction surely followed.

But although the faithful butler expected the worst of the Hulk, he was still caught by surprise when the great green monster ripped the Vision’s arm from its socket.

“Good heavens!” Jarvis exclaimed. The teapot slipped from his fingers, landing in a clatter upon the kitchen floor. Telephoto lenses caught an unmistakably human expression of agony upon the synthezoid’s sculpted features. A shower of sparks erupted from the Vision’s right shoulder. Oily lubricants and hydraulic fluid sprayed from severed tubing as the Vision’s head jerked spastically. The amber jewel embedded in his forehead flashed on and off, the solar glow within the gem flickering weakly. Crimson lips whispered some plaintive plea or warning, but all Jarvis could hear was the roar of the Falls and the breathless commentary of the stunned newspersons.

He watched in horrified silence as the Hulk callously discarded the Vision’s crudely amputated limb, hurling it over the edge of the Falls. Then the Hulk shoved the Vision and the tottering synthezoid followed his severed arm over the Falls. Jarvis prayed that the Vision would save himself by taking flight, reducing his artificial body’s density until it was lighter than air, but instead the camera tracked his terrifying plunge until the android Avenger vanished into the swirling mists at the bottom. Could even the Vision survive such a precipitous drop? Jarvis hoped for the best, but decided to have the engineering laboratories in the Mansion’s sub-basement up and running by the time the Avengers returned. Perhaps I should alert Dr. Pym as well, Jarvis thought, and want him to be on call. The brilliant scientist, now a reserve member of the Avengers, probably understood the Vision’s construction better than any other human on Earth.

With the maiming of the Vision, the ominous stand-off between the assorted heroes escalated into a veritable battle royal, fought on the land, the water, and the air. As the X-Men inexplicably came to the Hulk’s aid, for reasons Jarvis could not begin to imagine, the two teams came to blows. Darting TV cameras were hard-pressed to keep up with the conflict while the worried butler struggled to identify the principals and track the course of the skirmish. The silver teapot, now dented on one side, lay forgotten at his feet.

Iron Man was the first who sought to avenge the Vision by taking arms against the Hulk. Jetting above the Falls, he subjected the defiant green behemoth to a barrage of re-pulsor rays, until struck from behind by an unexpected lightning bolt. The jagged electrical spear came from a flying woman whom Jarvis swiftly identified as Storm, one of the X-Men’s leaders. Her tempestuous nom de guerre proved uncomfortably apt as she and Iron Man conducted an aerial dogfight that reminded Jarvis of the Battle of Britain, except that these flying aces jousted with beams of incandescent energy and electricity instead of old-fashioned machine guns. They proved well-matched in maneuverability and speed, although the female mutant had so far managed to keep one step ahead of her armored adversary', swooping and banking through morning skies that grew increasingly gray and thundery. Was the latter Storm’s doing? The butler suspected as much. The once-blue skies soon looked as dark and forbidding as the Hulk’s disposition.

The cameras quickly lost Storm and Iron Man amidst the roiling clouds, so the view switched to Goat Island, a small, wooded wedge of land nestled between the American and Canadian Falls. At the rocky tip of the island, the surrounding greenery laid waste earlier by the Hulk’s rampage, Captain America faced off against Cyclops, the grim X-Man known for his devastating eyebeams, which were even now directed against the Avenger’s stalwart leader. Cap (as his friends called him) blocked the crimson ray with his unbreakable metal shield, deflecting the attack back at Cyclops, who responded in turn by intercepting the returning beams with fresh blasts of ocular energy before unleashing new beams at whatever portion of Captain America’s anatomy appeared unshielded, only to have each new attack parried deftly by the agile Avenger. It hurt Jarvis’s eyes just to watch the coruscating beams bounce back and forth between the two rivals; it looked like some sort of newfangled videogame of the sort his nieces and nephews played, and each player seemed at the top of his game. The butler knew how skillfully Captain America could wield his shield, but he was surprised to see that the slender young X-Man seemed to be able to target his beams with equal precision and dexterity. What if he succeeds in getting past Captain America’s guard? he worried. He had heard that Cyclops’s eyebeams packed quite a punch. What’s more, he could not help noticing that one of the decorative eagle wings adorning Captain America’s blue cowl had already gone missing, no doubt the victim of a distressingly close call with a crimson beam. Master Rogers has a sturdy constitution, but he is not invulnerable. That’s why he carries a shield.

With the dueling heroes deadlocked for the nonce, the camera zoomed in on a faint blue figure lying in the background, where the desolate wasteland left behind by the Hulk surrendered to the encroaching woods. “My word!” Jarvis gasped, stricken by the distressing sight of former Avenger Hank McCoy, alias the usually ebullient Beast, trapped beneath the trunk of a fallen maple tree. The shaggy, blue-furred mutant lay sprawled upon his back, the substantial tree trunk stretched across his torso. A heart-wrenching close-up revealed that the Beast looked dazed and only semi-conscious. His eyelids flickered and his thick, mud-covered indigo pelt was soaked. Dear me, Jarvis thought, I hope Master McCoy has not been seriously injured. The Beast had once been a cheerful and welcome presence within the stately walls of Avengers Mansion, before he chose to return to his roots as a charter member of the X-Men. What a shame as well, the butler reflected, that the Beast should be incapacitated at so crucial a juncture; as a trusted member of both teams, Henry McCoy alone stood the best chance of bringing about a timely cease-fire between the two teams.

But could any individual, no matter how charming and sincere, quell the unquenchable fury of the Hulk? Before the loyal manservant’s anxious eyes, the Hulk leaped from the crest of the Falls, his unbelievably powerful leg muscles propelling him high into the sky before landing on the island, dramatically interrupting the duel between Cyclops and Captain America. Even the anonymous cameraman on the shore was rocked by the impact of the Hulk’s meteoric arrival on the island, as evidenced by the way the picture on the TV screen lurched awkwardly soon after the Hulk hit the ground. Jarvis well remembered all of Avengers Mansion shaking the same way whenever the Hulk threw a tantrum—which he did pretty much throughout his shortlived stint as an Avenger.

The Hulk’s crash landing carved a crater in the soil of Goat Island, from which he emerged unscathed. His troglodyte-like visage filled the TV screen, conveying so much primordial menace that Jarvis stepped backward involuntarily, almost stumbling over the dented teapot. The Hulk glared malevolently at the world, baring jagged teeth the size of slates, and the camera itself retreated, drawing back to capture as well the more heroic figures of Captain America and Cyclops, who broke off their own contest to eye the Hulk uneasily. Their wary stances bespoke what Jarvis considered a prudent caution in the Hulk’s presence. I suppose it’s too much to hope, he thought wryly, that the Hulk simply wants to break up the fight between Cyclops and the Captain.

Not exactly. The other heroes’ apprehensions proved justified when the savage green gargantua lunged first at Cyclops, then Captain America. A single swipe from the Hulk’s huge hand downed the X-Man, forcing Captain America to come to the defense of his own opponent from moments before. The valiant Avenger fared little better than

Cyclops; although even the Hulk’s fantastic strength was not enough to bend Captain America’s indestructible shield, the monster took out his anger on the Captain’s more fragile human body. One gamma-powered blow sent Captain America skidding backward across the island and, before the groggy hero could recover, the Hulk seized him with both hands. Triumphantly, the Hulk raised his unconscious foe above his misshapen head, then flung Captain America over the American Falls.

Jarvis gasped in fear. He had once visited Niagara on holiday and well-remembered how dangerous those particular Falls were. Unlike the adjacent Canadian Falls, which emptied into a deep pool from which brazen daredevils were occasionally fished, the American Falls fell directly upon a shelf of deadly and unforgiving rocks. No one had ever survived a trip over that lethal cataract. No one could.

Not even Captain America.

Five thousand feet above Niagara Falls, Iron Man pursued Storm through black, swollen thunderclouds. All his attention was focused on the task of catching the mutant weather-witch within the purple radiance of his tractor beam, yet the female X-Man was proving devilishly hard to snare. I thought my armor was the latest thing in aerodynamic maneuverability, he thought, but Storm rides the winds like they belong to her, which, in a way, 1 guess they do. There was no question that her elemental ability to control the weather gave her a distinct advantage in this airborne chase; Storm literally had the wind at her back at every instance, while the armored Avenger was forever flying into the face of an opposing gale. Fortunately, I built this metal suit strong enough to ride out a hurricane.

Encased in gleaming gold and crimson steel, Iron Man zoomed through the sky like a humanoid missile. Powerful boot-jets kept him aloft as he searched the turbulent atmosphere for the attractive but elusive X-Man. He had lost visual contact with his target, who had vanished into the foggy terrain of her “pet” clouds, but kept track of her via his radar and other long-range sensors. Unfortunately, the dense nimbostratus clouds provided Storm an arsenal of sorts, as demonstrated by the bolt of lightning that suddenly struck his armor, producing a shower of sparks.

“Sorry, lady,” Iron Man muttered, “but you’re going

to have to do better than that.” Insulation within his armor protected Tony Stark from electrocution while the built-in energy conversion system absorbed the bulk of the thunderbolt’s voltage, channeling it into Iron Man’s own power reserves. Storm’s first few lightning blasts had thrown him for a loop, but now that he was ready for her, she was just feeding him more power. In fact, judging from the current readings, projected directly onto his retinas by virtual imaging units in his eyepieces, he was beginning to exceed capacity. At this rate, he thought, I’m going to have to start firing plasma blasts at random just to discharge the excess energy.

Perhaps realizing that her galvanic assault had lost its effectiveness, the unseen mutant crusader abruptly switched her tactics. Without warning, Iron Man found himself pelting with sleet, hail, and freezing winds. Fist-sized chunks of frozen rain pinged against his armor, already dented by a bumpy trip over the Canadian Falls, and ice began to form over his armor, including his boot-jets. The bitter cold penetrated sixteen layers of tesselated metal fabric, raising goosebumps on his skin. Brrr, he thought, cybernetically channeling some of that excess electricity to heat up the exterior of his armor.

The frosty coating melted away, but the instigator of the hailstorm remained out of sight, hidden behind billowing banks of fog. Iron Man felt like he was up against the meteorological equivalent of guerrilla warfare, with Storm free to strike out at him from the relative concealment of the cloud cover. Too bad Thor’s off on his own quest right now, he thought. We could use our own Thunder God at the moment.

Almost as elusive as Storm herself were the nagging questions behind the dogfight. Why had Storm come to the Hulk’s defense after he mutilated the Vision? What did the

X-Men have to do with Wanda’s abduction? Granted, the Scarlet Witch was the only daughter of the X-Men’s greatest enemy, Magneto, but Xavier’s mutant strike force had never held that against her before. The unsolved mysteries preyed on Iron Man’s mind; all his high-tech sensors and computer capacity could not illuminate why the X-Men and the Avengers were now at odds. Only by apprehending Storm and her companions, including the Hulk, did they stand any chance of finding out what had happened to the Scarlet Witch.

Peering through two rectangular slits in his gilded faceplate, he searched the churning mists for a glimpse of Storm. He tried to lock onto her body heat, and scan the skies with his sonar, but the icy winds and pounding thunder interfered with his sensors. She’s got to be here somewhere, he realized. I know it.

Eyes searching for Storm, the last thing he expected to see was Captain America’s shield, rocketing upward at, according to his radar, upward of fifty miles per hour. “What in the world ... ?” he asked aloud, quickly guessing that the Hulk was responsible. Who else could throw the shield this high? Then the full implications struck home: If his shield was way up here, what had happened to Cap?

Iron Man deftly snagged the ascendant shield with his tractor beam, catching the historic weapon before it went into orbit. The magnetic ray drew the shield closer to the armored Avenger, who grabbed it with one gauntlet, then interrupted his pursuit of Storm to check on his fellow Avenger. Not Cap. too, he prayed, remembering the Hulk’s brutal treatment of the Vision. He dived out of the clouds, just in time to see the Hulk, standing defiantly upon Goat Island, hurl a patriotically-garbed figure over the crest of the American Falls.

“No!” Iron Man gasped. He had already survived his own spectacular tumble over the Falls, but Cap wasn’t wearing an invulnerable suit of body armor. He had to catch Cap before he hit bottom, or the world would lose a living legend. The Golden Avenger went into a power dive, pushing his jets to the maximum, but wasn’t sure he could reach the falling hero in time. Blast it, he thought anxiously. This is going to be close....

The wind rushing against his face, plus the cooling spray of the Falls, woke Captain America, who discovered at once that he was in freefall. He reached instinctively for his shield, only to find it missing. That’s right, he remembered. The Hulk threw it into the sky when he couldn’t break it, then he— Cap winced at the memory of the Hulk’s mighty fist barreling at him with the force of an express train. How long was I out?

There was no time to worry about that. Well-trained reflexes responded to danger and he strove to control his fall, assuming a diving position, his arms spread out to slow his descent as much as possible. The wind whistled past his ears, merging with the roar of thousands of gallons of plunging water.

Every second counts, he realized, spying the daunting pile of rocks at the Fall’s base. He didn’t think his momentum could carry him past that lethal landing pad, but he owed it to himself, his teammates, and his country to try. Never give up, he resolved. That’s what America is all about.    .

A familiar thrumming sound made itself heard and Cap glanced back over his shoulder to see the shining figure of Iron Man swooping toward him, rockets blazing. A purple glow suffused the triangular beam projector at the center of his crimson chestplate, and Captain America felt a faint tug upward, but Iron Man was still too far away for his magnetic ray to do more than slow Cap’s descent; in the contest to decide the plummeting Avenger’s fate, gravity was definitely winning. Cap found himself wishing that his traditional uniform included a cape, just so he could try using it as a parachute.

How much longer until he hit the ground? Cap stared straight down, willing his eyes to stay open despite the damp air rushing against his face. The craggy rocks below looked like they were growing faster than Giant-Man on a tear, expanding upward at him, and Cap suddenly wondered if his entire life was going to pass before his eyes or just the post-World War II years? There was an awful lot of personal history to go through in the next split-second or two. If this is the end, he thought, at least I’m checking out on American soil, if only by a few hundred feet or so!

Then, only heartbeats before Cap’s flesh and bone collided with the stationary rocks, an unexpected gust of wind took hold of his body, lifting him up and away from the perilous rockpile. The powerful updraft seemed to come from nowhere, until Cap looked up to see Storm’s statuesque figure silhouetted against flashes of blue-white lightning. “Of course,” he murmured, grateful for the timely assist, “I should have guessed.”

Intent on rescuing Cap, Iron Man appeared oblivious to Storm’s presence in the skies above him. Nice to know the X-Men still draw the line at murder, Captain America thought, with the possible exception of Wolverine, and even he seldom kills without provocation. The life-saving zephyr held him aloft long enough for Iron Man’s tractor beam to latch onto him more firmly. A purple radiance enveloped Cap as he found himself suspended in the air, the magnetic ray tugging on the chain mail links in his lightweight metal tunic. A tingling sensation rushed over his skin, which he decided was vastly preferable to feeling battered and broken atop the rocks.

Let’s hear it for the miracle of American technology, he thought, not to mention the divine intervention of a certain mutant weather goddess.

“You okay, Cap?” Iron Man asked. Tony Stark’s usually urbane voice was amplified and electronically distorted by the mouthpiece in his steel helmet. Doubtful that Iron Man could hear him over the tumult of the Falls, Cap gave him an encouraging thumbs-up sign. He was relieved to see his faithful shield safe in the other Avenger’s iron grip. So far, so good, he thought optimistically. Now if we can only call off this senseless fight. . . !

Unfortunately, that meant calming down the Hulk, which made that a very big “if.”

For a terrifying second, Hank McCoy thought the Juggernaut was sitting on his chest. “Kindly elevate your Brob-dingnagian bulk from my hirsute and tortured torso,” he declaimed. Then the Beast opened his eyes and saw he was talking to a tree. “I stand corrected,” he said to the downed maple weighing heavily upon his ribs, “proverbially, if not literally.”

In fact, he was not standing at all, but rather lying flat on his back in the mud, with a rather sizable piece of lumber holding him down. His dark blue fur was soaked and plastered to his skin. Sniffing, he discovered that the wet fur was more than a little pungent. He blinked and shook his head, trying to remember how exactly he had come to abide in this supine and decidingly uncomfortable situation.

Thunder reverberated far overhead, reminding him of another explosion in the recent past, one far too close for comfort. Artillery? his muddled brain prompted and his memory began to reconstruct itself, picking up just before that exceptionally alarming dream about the none too jocular Juggernaut. Artillery it was, he recalled. The armies assembled on either shore of the Niagara River had opened fire on the Hulk, catching the X-Men in the crossfire. He had been helping a stunned Storm make her way to the shelter of the surviving woods when a shell detonated nearby and this very tree fell on top of him. After that, his recollections got a lot fuzzier; he must have segued in and out of consciousness, although he had vague memories of Storm coming to his aid, and of being drenched by an enormous wave of water.

Since when did the majestic Niagara fall up? he wondered.

His pointed blue ears perked up, the guns on the shore seemed to have fallen silent, although the pealing storm clouds above him more than made up the difference as far as ambient noise was concerned.

“Thank providence for diminutive dispensations,” he pronounced, anxious to determine the whereabouts and status of his esteemed fellow X-Men. He tried to look about him, but, pinned thus to the ground, all he could see was the blustery sky looming above him. The continued absence of both Storm and Cyclops while he lay incapacitated did not bode well for their quest to solicit the Hulk’s aid in finding Rogue, missing in action since yesterday afternoon. Something has gone amiss, he deduced, else I would not be left to my own devices.

Getting out from beneath the insistent weight of the fallen tree was clearly the first order of business. Still feeling a tad woozy, he braced his hairy palms against the bark-covered underside of the toppled maple and labored to lift the massive encumbrance off his somewhat squashed physiognomy.

This shouldn ’t be too hard, he thought; his brute strength 1 8

was nowhere near the Hulk’s class, but he was certainly stronger than the average beast. Straining his genetically-enhanced muscles, he managed to lift the dripping timber a few inches away from his chest, giving his half-crushed lungs a chance to expand. But he wasn’t able to slide out from underneath the tree and hold it aloft at the same time. Leafy branches scratched against his face and chest while rivulets of chilly water streamed down on him, making a difficult task even more unpleasant.

Just how, pray tell, did everything get so soggy and saturated anyway? he wondered. Did I miss a tsunami or two while I was hors de combat?

The Beast was beginning to wonder whether even Harry Houdini could have liberated himself from this particular predicament when he heard Cyclops call to him from several yards away. “Watch your head!” The Beast promptly sank the back of his head into the cold, squishy mud and covered his eyes with both hands. Even with his eyelids squeezed shut, a bright crimson glow suddenly lit up his view and he heard the heavy log shatter into splinters, the ill-fated target of Cyke’s attention. Just as suddenly the ruby radiance departed, as did the oppressive weight upon his body.

“Abundant thanks!” the Beast exclaimed, springing at once to his feet. Oversized toes sank into the liquified earth and his head spun momentarily before a preternatural sense of balance reasserted itself. “Your dynamic assistance is most enthusiastically appreciated!”

But the X-Men’s conscientious co-lcader was in no position to acknowledge the Beast’s effusively-expressed gratitude. The soaked, soggy mutant was chagrined to discover that Cyclops was under attack by none other than the intractable Hulk himself.

“Get ready to take the big plunge, Red-Eyes,” the Hulk bellowed at Cyclops. “I’m going to do to you just what I did to that star-spangled nuisance before!”

Star-spangled? The reference caught the Beast by surprise, until he remembered hearing Captain America’s voice shortly before the military bombardment of the island.

What is Cap doing here? he wondered. And what precisely is the Hulk claiming to have done to that most venerable of Avengers? The Beast almost didn’t want to find out.

Meanwhile, Cyclops had turned his fluorescent eye-beams against the advancing monster. The crimson rays, capable of punching through solid steel, broke against the Hulk’s broad chest like waves lapping upon an unyielding granite promontory. The concussive force of the beam only slowed the Hulk’s inexorable approach. His pitiless sneer only reinforced the menace inherent in his colossal fists.

Would that the Hulk were content to rebuff our entreaty with a mere exclamation in the negative, the Beast thought. Rather than providing the X-Men with valuable information and insights concerning Rogue’s unexplained disappearance, the jade titan seemed more intent on pummeling Cyclops within an inch of his life—or closer. The Beast prepared to spring to his friend’s defense, even while privately wondering what good his characteristic acrobatics and agility could do against so indomitable a foe. Ah, for the halcyon days of yore when all we had to sally forth against was the Toad or maybe the Blob....

Before his coiled leg muscles could propel him into the fray, however, the Hulk came under attack from another quarter. From above, coruscating orange rays, as resplendent in their own way as Cyclops’s eyebeams, slammed into the Hulk’s head and shoulders. “Arrgh!” the behemoth growled, sounding more surprised than stunned. A

scowl announced his displeasure. “What now?”

The answer came zooming out of the sky, wearing a one-of-a-kind suit of invincible armor. “Time for round two, Hulk,” Iron Man said, his amplified voice carrying over the din. Repulsor rays glowed from his gauntlets. Jets flared from the soles of his boots. “We’re not finished yet.” Nor was the Golden Avenger alone. Shield in hand, Captain America came charging across the island, only a few yards behind Iron Man.

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, the Beast thought, wondering exactly how many Avengers had accompanied Cap and Shellhead on this particular mission. His spirits lifted; with reinforcements such as these, he and Cyke no longer seemed quite so overmatched. Between the X-Men and the Avengers, the Hulk may actually have a fight on his hands, he thought.

But the Beast’s optimistic hopes were dashed when, rather than joining forces against the berserk Hulk, the newly-arrived Avengers took on the X-Men as well. His iconic shield held high, Captain America barrelled into Cyclops, knocking the slender X-Man off his feet, only to be driven back by a sizzling bolt of lightning that struck the ground between Cap and his downed adversary, the crackling thunderbolt turning a muddy puddle into a charred, steaming crater. The Beast looked up to see an ascendant Storm reigning over the tempestuous sky, her eyes glowing with elemental power. More than any expert meteorological report, he knew, those seething, incandescent eyes forecast dire weather ahead.

Never make Ororo mad, the Beast reminded himself, unless you’re ready for an honest-to-goodness hurricane.

Distracted by Iron Man’s repulsor rays, the Hulk forgot about Cyclops and turned his perennially hostile intentions toward the armored Avenger. His subsequent leap into the sky, catapulting himself fists first at Iron Man, made the Beast’s own prodigious bouncing look like baby steps. The bounding green monstrosity and the soaring ironclad hero collided in midair, with Iron Man getting the worst of the head-on encounter. The force and momentum behind the Hulk’s rock-hard knuckles sent Iron Man careening backward into the clouds, dozens of feet below Storm, who, though distant from the fray was far from detached from it. She flung raw electricity against Captain America, the Hulk, and Iron Man simultaneously, lighting up the heavens with constant flashes of jagged lightning. Thunder, incessant and deafening, gave voice to Storm’s unleashed ire and refusal to surrender.

No question, the Beast thought, aghast at the dismaying spectacle of a three-way battle between the Hulk, the X-Men, and the Avengers, I most indubitably missed something. What could have brought the two teams to blows like this? Having served under both banners in his time, he knew that neither group was predisposed toward senseless and unprovoked aggression, unlike, say, the Hulk. “Wait!” he shouted. “Kindly abandon this unseemly altercation!”

Sadly, his earnest effort at peacemaking could not be heard over the combined hubbub of Falls, tempest, and super-powered strife. Cyclops’s eyebeam ricocheted off the convex surface of Captain America’s shield, barely missing the Beast, who had to cartwheel out of the way so that the beam struck instead the river behind him, briefly parting the waters.

Quelling this cacophonous imbroglio with naught but softly-spoken words of sweet reason, he realized, may prove easier said than done. To his surprise, another voice, coming from the American side of the river, intruded upon the ear-bruising racket:

“This is Colonel Lopez of the U.S. Army, addressing the Hulk and the X-Men! Stand down at once, or we will take Goat Island by force. You have five minutes to surrender/’

The Beast recognized the amplified echo of an on-shore megaphone. ‘ ‘That is categorically what the physician prescribed,” he mused aloud. Glancing to the east, he contemplated the khaki-colored troops lined up along the far side of the cascading Niagara River.

I need to get over there posthaste, but how? he thought. The breadth of the roiling water exceeded his ability to transverse in a single leap. Here and there, the tips of a few defiant stones protruded above the foaming white water, offering a tantalizing, if potentially treacherous, route across the river, but the Beast hesitated before committing himself to that daunting choice. Jumping from rock to slippery rock only a few yards upstream of one of the world’s most impressive waterfalls would be a challenge even for him, with the consequences of a single slip inextricably terminal.

There was always the Blackbird, he recalled. Yet by the time he returned to the X-Men’s personal aircraft, parked elsewhere on the island, lifted off, then landed somewhere on the opposing shore, the heated struggle upon and above Goat Island might well have escalated to nigh-apocalyptic proportions, especially with powerhouses like the Hulk and Iron Man involved.

No, he concluded, there is not time enow for detours. He needed to get across that river and he needed to do so with all deliberate speed.

Gazing specuiatively, and with no little trepidation, at the nearest shard of exposed rock, he almost bounded from the island, when another idea occurred to him, one sparked by something he had witnessed mere moments before.

“Eureka!” he exclaimed, bushy blue eyebrows rising to commemorate his brainstorm. Like the proverbial crazy idea, that just might work!

Simian-like fingers dug into the battle-ravaged landscape and plucked a rounded pebble from the earth. Looking past the embattled Cyclops, the Beast observed that Captain America was, at least for the moment, fully occupied fending off Storm’s ground-seeking thunderbolts, giving the X-Men’s other leader a momentary breather.

Perfect timing, the Beast decided. A second later, the tiny stone bounced off the back of Cyclops’s head. Cyclops spun around. To the anthropoid X-Man’s relief, Cyke chose to determine the identity of the pebble-thrower before shooting.

The Beast didn’t waste time trying to vocalize his intentions over the sounds of rushing water and fierce battle. Instead he resorted to sign language, pointing first at himself, then at the troops across the river, and finally at Cyclops’s dormant visor. The crimson glow concealing Cyke’s eyes made it hard to read his expression, but the Beast hoped that years of teamwork, both in the Danger Room and in the field, would let him and Cyclops communicate silently, without need for a more extensive and elaborate round of Charades.

Why is there never a telepath around when you need one? the Beast lamented; regretfully, neither Professor X nor Jean Grey had accompanied them on this mission. When last heard from, both psychic prodigies were engaged in a vital expedition to the Savage Island, along with several more of their fellow X-Men. Perhaps it is just as well, the Beast thought. Too many X-Men, and several more Avengers, may have only added to the cataclysmic chaos of this free-for-all. Just imagine Wolverine or the mighty Thor adding their combustible tempers to the equation!

Right now, all he needed was Cyclops, provided the

X-Men’s most serious and sober soldier-in-arms deduced what the Beast had in mind. After a moment’s silence, Cyke nodded and gestured for the Beast to step aside. He pointed his visor at the turbulent river and raised the inner lens all the way open.

A wide red beam ploughed through the river, clearing a path all the way across to the other side. “Shades of Cecil B. DeMille!” the Beast enthused. “Not to mention that Dreamworks cartoon a few months back!” Cyclops had well and truly parted the waters before him.

Now came the uncomfortable part. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, the Beast hurled himself bodily into the path of the awe-inspiring beam. Countless newtons of force immediately slammed into his back, pushing him forward at breathtaking speed. It was like sitting in the driver’s seat of a Saturn rocket at liftoff. I’m going to be black and blue after this stunt, he thought, grimacing, not that anyone will be able to tell....

The intense pressure lasted only an instant. But, as he had hoped, the Beast found himself prone upon a grassy lawn overlooking the river. Several feet behind him, a protective metal railing had been bisected by Cyclops’s initial blast, leaving behind a ragged gap. Further back, in the river itself, the water filled the channel that Cyke had briefly carved through the flowing torrent.

Nice of him to clear the way before I jumped aboard the Eyebeam Express, the Beast thought, wincing as he sought to mobilize his badly-abused body. His entire back felt as though it had been pounded upon repeatedly by the Absorbing Man’s ball and chain.

He lifted his face from the damp, dewy grass to find a half dozen automatic rifles aimed at his head; the Beast suddenly envied Iron Man his impervious helmet. A squadron of nervous-looking soldiers peered down the sights of their M-16s, surrounding the Beast and leading him to hope, for his sake, that there were no trigger-happy mutant-haters among the assembled troopers, many of whom were staring at his bristling blue countenance as if he had just arrived from Mars.

“Er, take me to your leader?” he said weakly.

They didn’t have to. His rank announced by the black colonel’s eagles on his battle-dress uniform, their commanding officer came stomping across the lawn, a megaphone in one hand and a two-way radio in the other. Anxious subordinates, clutching charts and binoculars, trailed after him like a film star’s entourage.

Just the individual that I wished to behold, the Beast thought, encouraged despite the battery of automatic rifles aimed at his unusually well-educated brain.

“Colonel Lopez, I presume?” the Beast stalled to stand up, only to hear a dozen firearms lock and load. On second thought, he reconsidered, maybe I’ll stay right where I am for the time being. He entertained the notion of giving the soldiers a friendly smile, then realized that his bared fangs might be misinterpreted. Little do they know that I prefer a good salad to raw meat.

The Colonel shouldered his way through the crowd of young recruits. His lean face had been permanently furrowed by the responsibilities of command. “Identify yourself,” he barked at the Beast. “Are you with the X-Men or the Avengers?”

“Both, actually,” the Beast responded, more or less accurately. To be fair, he hadn’t enjoyed active status among the Avengers since that time-warping contretemps with Morgan Le Fey a few months back, but now did not strike him as the most politic occasion at which to point out that particular distinction. “You could check with the appropriate authorities regarding my various clearances and credentials, but I fear that we have precious little time to spare, Colonel, and I could definitely use your assistance.”

The scowling officer mulled the matter for only a few moments before nodding in the Beast’s direction. “I remember now. I saw you and the other Avengers fight Graviton in Times Square, back when I was just a private.” Following their commander’s lead, the uniformed riflemen backed away from the Beast, although a few of the more wary soldiers kept the Beast in their sights until the Colonel directed them to lower their weapons. ‘ ‘What can I do for you?” he asked the prostrate X-Man.

A couple of aspirin would he appreciated, the Beast thought. Slowly, keeping one eye on the potentially over-eager troopers, he lifted his aching body from the grass, leaving a squashed, Beast-shaped impression in the lawn. Grass stains streaked his blue fur. “In fact,” he explained, “I am desirous of requisitioning an item of communications technology. That megaphone, to be precise.” He pointed at the funnel-like apparatus gripped in the Colonel’s left hand.

“Go ahead,” Colonel Lopez said, handing the device to the Beast. “Lord knows it hasn’t done me a bit of good.” The Beast sympathized with the man’s frustration. There wasn’t much conventional armed forces could do against the X-Men, let alone the Hulk. Let us now ascertain whether my own powers of persuasion are sufficient to the task of restoring some degree of tranquility to Niagara. The Beast was by no means Killgrave the Purple Man, whose every utterance compelled obedience, but he might be Niagara’s last, best hope for peace. With apologies to a certain TV space station, he amended.

“Cap! Iron Man! Storm! Cyclops!” he called out, holding the megaphone before his lips. “This is your mutual acquaintance, the beneficent Beast. I believe an immediate truce is in order, the better to resolve whatever differences may have arisen. Allow me to offer myself as mediator, if such is required. I trust that will be acceptable to all concerned.”

Except the Hulk, mayhap, he thought. Still, it seemed Storm’s all-shaking thunder had lessened in volume and Iron Man’s fiery repulsor rays no longer glowed like bright orange neon against the angry clouds. Then abruptly, they ceased. His gaze switched to the embattled island and the tiny figures on it. “Your binoculars, please,” he requested from one of Colonel Lopez’s lieutenants.

Had Cap and Cyke acknowledged his plea as well? Resting the borrowed binoculars upon the bridge of his nose, the Beast spun the lenses until the tip of the island came into focus. To his relief, he saw Captain America cautiously lowering his shield even as Cyclops held back his trademark eyebeams behind his visor. “Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than war,” the Beast rejoiced in relief, quoting Milton.

“Huh?” the lieutenant asked, bewildered. Colonel Lopez gave the Beast a puzzled look as well.

Before the hirsute X-Man could helpfully attribute the quotation, an angry green figure shot like a cannonball away from the island, arcing across the sky until it landed with an earth-rattling thud only a few yards away from the Beast. The manicured lawn trembled beneath the mutant hero’s bare feet.

“Spoilsport!” the Hulk accused, shaking an enormous fist at the Beast. “Killjoy! Who gave you the right to play Mother Teresa at my brawl?” He stalked toward the Beast, glaring murderously at the X-Man. “As far as I’m concerned, this little donnybrook’s just getting started!”

The Beast gulped. The musclebound monster had crossed the river in a single leap. The Beast had known he would have to soon deal with the Hulk, but he hadn’t exactly planned on facing the Hulk quite so up close and personal, at least not right away. Oh my stars and garters! he thought. The herculean Hulk was even bigger and more intimidating than he remembered. He makes Colossus look positively ectomorphic.

The surrounding soldiers opened fire on the gigantic green ogre, determined to defend the park and themselves from the gamma-spawned gargantua. Automatic rifles rat-a-tatted and the smell of gunpowder filled the air as the frightened troopers fired clip after clip against one solitary figure, who laughed sarcastically at the fusillade.

'‘Mediate this, party pooper!” he challenged the Beast, sweeping aside a row of armed soldiers with one backhanded blow. Bullets literally bounced off the Hulk’s burly chest without leaving so much as a bruise.

“Cease fire!” the Beast shouted through the megaphone, making his voice heard over the blaring gunfire. He fretted for a second about usurping the Colonel’s authority, but the ricocheting bullets were more likely to hurt someone else than the Hulk. There was no point in endangering the soldiers’ lives, not when it was him the Hulk was after. “Lower your weapons,” he ordered. “Let me talk to him.”

Did I really say that? the Beast thought incredulously. I must be out of my famously learned head.

Confused soldiers looked to their commander for confirmation. “Fall back!” Colonel Lopez instructed his troops. “Let the Avenger see what he can do.” As his soldiers retreated toward the north end of the park, the Colonel gave the Beast a worried look. I hope you know what you’re doing, his eyes seemed to say.

No less than I do, the Beast thought as the Hulk approached, each step leaving enormous tracks in the ground. Arms as wide as telephone poles swung at his side. Faced with this brutish goliath, the Beast felt like David, sans sling.

“You want to talk?” the Hulk said skeptically. “Yeah, right.”

The Beast’s simian posture made him look shorter than he was, but the Hulk would have loomed over the beleaguered mutant even if he had stood as straight as the Washington Monument.

“So, what’ve you got to say?” the Hulk demanded. He looked more than ready to make the Beast eat his own words, one syllable at a time. “This better be good,” he dared.

Well, McCoy, the Beast asked himself, how do you get through to the Hulk? His mouth went dry while his brain raced faster than Quicksilver. Think! Put your intellect and erudition to work! He was hardly Doc Samson, the recognized shrink of choice to the superhero set, but he had reviewed much of the scientific and psychological literature concerning Bruce Banner’s metamorphic transformations. Current wisdom, he recalled, had it that the “Hulk” persona somehow provided an outlet for Banner’s repressed aggression. The Hulk thus embodied—and then some— Banner’s most primeval instincts. By that reasoning, threats, challenges, and ultimatums would only reinforce the Hulk persona and escalate the likelihood of violent confrontation. The trick, perhaps, was to reach the brain behind the bravado. . ..

“Yes, perhaps, you can assist me with something that’s been bothering me,” the Beast suggested, swallowing hard to moisten his throat. “What precisely is the isotopic coefficient of a controlled gamma reaction under standard atmospheric conditions?’ ’

Hostile green eyes blinked, caught off guard by the abstruse scientific question. The Hulk’s acromegalic fists, poised to pound the Beast into the ground, hesitated as the unexpected query circulated through his testosterone-swamped synapses. “What the heck—?”

Taking swift advantage of the Hulk’s momentary confusion, the Beast pressed ahead with his mind-tweaking gambit. “Think about it,” he urged. “If the ratio of the half-life to the atomic weight is directly proportional to the photonic energy emissions, then how do you factor in the quantum fluctuations caused by electromagnetic phase shifts? Especially when you initiate the chain reaction by bombarding processed vibranium with unstable molecules?”

“No, no!” the Hulk said impatiently. “You have to isolate the vibranium inside the magnetic constrictors first. Then you can worry about the quantum emissions!” Despite his surly tone, the Hulk’s arms gradually dropped to his sides. It’s working! the Beast thought. Now if he could keep coming up with genuine scientific conundrums relating to Bruce Banner’s field of expertise. It wasn’t enough to simply snow the Hulk with a blizzard of scientific queries; he had to stimulate the mind of the brilliant physicist trapped inside the Hulk’s grotesquely distorted body and psyche. “But are we talking about Wakandan vibranium or the Savage Land variety? As I understand it, the fundamental properties of each isotope differ significantly,” the Beast said.

As he posed this new dilemma, a metallic glint in the sky caught the Beast’s eye. He glanced up discreetly to see both Storm and Iron Man hovering overhead, ready to intervene should the Hulk lose all patience with his furry interrogator. For the time being, though, they seemed content to watch from above, waiting to see if the Beast could succeed in soothing the raging Hulk with nothing more than words. If not, he thought anxiously, there’s not likely to be

much left of Niagara when the fighting’s over.

“Different isotopes, sure,” the Hulk agreed grudgingly, ‘ ‘but the variation in atomic weights cancels out when you get rid of all those stupid neutrons.” He scratched his unkempt emerald hair with one hand. “You don’t really need to mess with the coefficient until after the nuclei collapse, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

The Beast wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn that the Hulk’s chartreuse flesh was starting to look a little pinker. Could it be that his improvised talking cure was bearing fruit?

Then again, the Beast thought, maybe all the Hulk really needs is a gallon-sized Prozac. He was tempted to address Banner by name, but, no, the Hulk might perceive that as an attack on his own identity and react accordingly. We definitely don’t want that, the Beast decided. Better to sneak up on Banner’s submerged personality by way of his copious scientific knowledge and insights.

“I see,” he conceded readily, “but doesn’t the nearly infinitesimal mass of the discarded neutrons contribute to an accumulation of dark matter at the reaction site? According to Reed Richard’s most recent paper on the effects of the Negative Zone on subatomic bonding....”

‘ ‘The Negative Zone has nothing to do with it, not on a macroscopic scale!” the Hulk insisted, suddenly more interested in convincing the Beast than crushing him. “We’re talking about a strictly exothermic fusion reaction, yielding a geometrical increase in gamma radiation by several orders of magnitude. The neutrons don’t mean jack.” The Hulk leaned forward, thrusting his glowering face at the Beast. “Got that?”

“Got it,” the Beast said hastily. On closer inspection, the Hulk didn’t look like he was likely to change all the way back to Banner anytime soon. Perhaps they might have to settle for a slightly calmer Hulk.

I can live with that, the Beast thought. Come to think of it, Doc Samson’s recent clinical studies suggested that the distinction between the Hulk and Banner had blurred over the years, evolving from the bad old days when they represented two diametrically opposed personalities. Maybe I’ve managed to drag just enough of Banner to the surface to make the Hulk think first and smash later. Much later, preferably.

Certainly, the Hulk looked less malevolent than a few moments ago. As the Beast held his breath, the volatile titan peered down at the comparatively puny X-Man, then shrugged his enormous shoulders. “What’s this all about anyway?” he asked reasonably. “Don’t tell me you and your mutant bodies came all this way just to quiz me on the finer points of gamma radiation?”

“As a matter of fact,” the Beast assured him, “we did.”

The stately Colonial manor on Graymalkin Lane looked innocuous enough. Sturdy red brick walls rose to meet gabled rooftops. Darkened windows looked out over a freshly trimmed lawn. Matching three-story wings flanked the large central building, from which a domed belltower provided an excellent view of the surrounding estate which included an Olympic-sized swimming pool, several acres of pristine woodlands, and a three-mile stretch of shore along Breakstone Lake. Nestled in the sylvan suburbia of Westchester County, the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning looked exactly like the ritzy private academy it was supposed to be.

Appearances can be deceptive, Nick Fury thought. The executive director of S.H.I.E.L.D., the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistic Directorate, knew for a fact that the venerable edifice ahead also housed the—for the most part—secret headquarters of the X-Men. He doubted if the townsfolk in neighboring Salem Center realized they were harboring a mutant hangout in their vicinity, but S.H.I.E.L.D. had known where Xavier’s super-powered proteges hung their hats for over a decade now. Fury had just never seen fit to crash the X-Men’s HQ—until now.

“Well?” he asked. “Anybody home?” Together with an elite team of agents, he crouched in the shrubbery outside a heavy iron gate that guarded the front drive. Beside him, clad in a regulation dark blue S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, Agent 146, Matthew Bradley, scanned the mansion with a handheld motion detector. Five more agents, all level 4 or higher, kept low behind Fury and Bradley, sticking tight to the shade trees lining the road. A little further down the road, an armored van, camouflaged as an ordinary moving truck, contained their heavy artillery. Just in case.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell, sir,” Bradley reported. Stubbornly, he fiddled with the controls of the flashlight-sized instrument, only to shake his head in frustration. “I keep running into some sort of interference, jamming me on every frequency. I don’t know what it is; it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“Figures,” Fury said. His stubble-covered jaws clenched down on the stub of an unlit cigar. A simple black patch covered his left eye, but his healthy right eye showed no sign of surprise. “Reliable intel suggests that the X-Men have access to all sorts of advanced alien technology, specifically from the Shi’ar Empire. Probably rigged up something to shield the house from prying eyes, electronic or otherwise.”

I should have known this wouldn’t be easy, Fury thought. Not that he had much choice; the X-Men’s raid on the Helicarrier yesterday cried out for rapid retaliation, especially since the mutants made off with the experimental prototypes of what the lab boys and girls were calling the Gamma Sentinels.

I still don’t get it, Fury' thought. Why did the X-Men resort to a commando-style assault against S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place?

Fury didn’t expect them to approve of anything involving Sentinels, but why hadn’t the X-Men at least consulted with him first, before staging a preemptive strike in his own backyard? He and the X-Men had always managed to work things out “under the table” so far, like that time in Nebraska a few months back, when he looked the other way while the X-Men reined in that mutant firebug, Pyro. If he had been informed that S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists had been roped into another blasted anti-mutant research project, then maybe he could have nipped the whole dirty business in the bud. Before it came to this.

All in all, Fury thought, I'd rather be hassling Hydra, but sometimes you don’t get to pick your battles. And the X-Men started this one. Maybe he’d get some answers after he took them into custody, even though he hardly expected the X-Men to surrender without a fight.

“What’s next, sir?” Bradley asked. He replaced the motion detector in one pouch of his dark red supply belt, then drew a 5mm plasma beam projector from his side holster. “How’re we going in?”

“Hard and fast,” Fury answered. The more he thought about it, there was little point in trying to sneak up on the mansion, even if no activity could be glimpsed through the house’s windows. With all the enemies they had, the X-Men had surely wired the entire grounds with every type of security measure known to humanity—and a few more besides. A quick, surgical strike was the only way they were going to claim any tiny element of surprise, provided the X-Men didn’t already know they had company. “Alpha team ready to knock on the front door,” he whispered into a secure radio link. “Ail other teams hold their positions.” Taking no chances, he had agents stationed all around the estate, including underneath the surface of the lake, in the event that the X-Men tried to make a break for it.

“All right, you goldbricks,” he barked to the agents under the trees. “Here’s where you earn your combat pay.” He drew his own plasma beam handgun and stood up in front of the gate. Stiff legs gratefully stretched to their full height. Adrenalin rushed through his system, mixing with the Infinity Formula that had kept him relatively youthful for the last five decades. “Ready ... GO!”

Fury obliterated the lock on the iron gate with his blaster, then kicked the gate open with the heel of his boot. He led the charge across the spacious lawn toward the front of the mansion. No vehicles were parked in the driveway, he noted, but that didn’t prove anything. Rumor was there was a lot more underneath the mansion than anyone might expect; the X-Men probably had all kinds of facilities down there, including an underground garage or two. Maybe even a complete set of Gamma Sentinels, too.

Only if I’m lucky, he thought. Multiple footsteps pounded behind him as he raced up the front steps, past elegant Doric columns, to the entrance of the main house. A marble portico provided him with cover as he disintegrated the doorknob with another blast of hot plasma. -‘This is S.H.I.E.L.D.!” he shouted to whomever might be listening indoors. “Open up or we’re coming in!”

No answer came within the next five seconds, so Fury blasted open the solid oak door and stepped indoors. Bradley and the other agents poured past him, taking up strategic positions at every interior doorway. Despite the speed and efficiency of the operation, there was no way anyone inhabiting the house could not have heard the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents invade the mansion. A strident alarm sounded the minute Fury stepped across the threshold into the foyer. The harsh, high-pitched buzz hurt Fury’s ears, until Agent 132 swiftly located the security controls and silenced the alarm. He gave her a nod of approval even as he braced himself for the opening salvo in the X-Men’s defense: a bolt of lightning maybe, or a freezing spray of ice. His shoulder still stung where one of Archangel’s metal feathers had sliced into it the day before. How come nobody’s ever born with harmless mutant powers? he griped silently.

Several seconds passed, however, bringing no sign of resistance. His finger poised on the trigger of his blaster, Fury inspected his surroundings. From what he could see, the ground floor of the mansion perpetuated the illusion of genteel normalcy put forth by the Institute’s conservative facade. A crystal chandelier hung over the tiled floor of the foyer, which led to a wide stairway whose polished mahogany balustrade curved gracefully up to the floors above. Side'doors led to a library, a study, and, near the back, a good-sized dining room and kitchen, all apparently devoid of habitation at the moment. To Fury’s immediate right, a display case in the entrance hall exhibited an assortment of academic awards and graduation photos dating back to the Institute’s early years as “Professor Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.” Fury snorted; sounded like the Professor could teach government bureaucrats a thing or two about coming up with convenient euphemisms for awkward truths.

Whitewashed or otherwise, the X-Men’s home base was starting to look like it might actually be deserted, which wasn’t going to make finding the Gamma Sentinels any easier. “Fan out,” he ordered his team, taking a second to light his cigar. If Xavier or his students had any objection to him smoking indoors, Fury figured, then they’d dam well have to show up in person to complain. “Search everywhere, but remember, keep your weapons on stun. We want answers, not dead X-Men.”

Fury waited downstairs in the foyer, while his agents explored the upper floors. Blast it, he thought, frustrated by the X-Men’s seeming no-show. He wasn’t eager to return to the Helicarrier empty-handed. He had left Contessa Valentina de Allegra de Fontaine, sub-director of internal operations, in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s flying headquarters; hopefully, her on-site inspection of the evidence left behind when the X-Men raided the Helicarrier was yielding better results than his own fruitless search.

“Colonel Fury,” Bradley spoke up, one hand over the communications plug in his ear. “We have reports that a group of X-Men have been sighted at Niagara Falls. They appear to be engaged in combat with both the Avengers and the Hulk.”

Niagara? Fury chomped on his cigar as he digested Bradley’s unexpected news bulletin. What the devil were the X-Men doing in Niagara, close to three hundred miles from here? There was nothing up there but honeymooners and a whole lot of falling wet stuff.

“The Avengers, too, you say? That’s something, I guess,” he muttered to Bradley. Sounds like Cap and his costumed cutups are on top of things even if I’m cooling my heels here, getting nowhere fast.

He was tempted to leave the mansion and haul his butt toward the border as quickly as possible, but he doubted he could get to Niagara Falls in time to make any difference in the superhuman fracas going on there right now. For better or for worse, that was the Avengers’ show; the best thing he could do was finish sweeping the Institute for whatever clues might turn up. From the looks of things, he wouldn’t be getting up close and personal with the X-Men for now, anyway.

The crystal chandelier shuddered. Fury glanced quickly at the ceiling overhead; somehow he didn’t think any of his own expensively-trained people could be lead-footed enough to set the chandelier quivering. “Bradley?” he asked, but the younger agent was way ahead of him, his portable motion detector already aimed at the ceiling.

“I’m picking up an extra body,” he confirmed; apparently, the jamming field did not function indoors. “In the attic, I think.”

That was good enough for Fury. “Let’s go!” he shouted. He ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Drawn by his pounding footsteps, the additional agents joined him on the second and third floors, falling into line behind him as he reached the top of the stairs, where a simple wooden door barricaded his path. Fury checked the knob and found the door unlocked. Looking back over his shoulder, he shot Bradley a glance. Agent 146 pointed his motion-sensitive instrument at the door, then nodded his head. Their quarry was just beyond the door.

Doublechecking to make sure his plasma weapon was set on stun, he kicked open the door and pulled the trigger almost simultaneously. A blazing stream of ionized gas preceded Fury into the attic and he listened in vain for the sound of a body hitting the floor. No such luck; he didn’t even hear a single grunt of pain as he rushed through the door. His single eye swept the room from left to right, searching for a potential threat.

All he saw was green. Stepping from the stairwell into the attic was like leading a safari into a verdant jungle. Lush, abundant foliage surrounded him; the entire attic had been converted into an extravagant garden. Leafy fronds and blooming flowers lined every wall, vines and creepers spilling onto the wooden planks of the floor. More plant life sprouted from hanging flowerpots, suspended beneath sloping skylights that let in generous quantities of afternoon sunshine. The hothouse atmosphere within the garden was warm and humid; the fragrance of dozens of competing blossoms filled the air, to an almost overwhelming degree.

“Great, just great,” Fury groused. Trying to find a human target in this botanical explosion was going to be like looking for a pine needle in a rain forest. That’s the problem with jungles, he thought, remembering long-ago missions in the Pacific. They’re great for ambushes. Despite his annoyance, he was still impressed by the sheer accumulation of thriving flora packed into the attic. Somebody in the X-Men had a real green thumb, and he didn’t mean like the Hulk’s. Maybe that X-Men member, Ororo, he speculated; he seemed to remember something in her file about a fondness for gardening.

Bradley followed him into the lush attic, his eyes glued to the display panel on his motion detector. He shook his head. “No good. If he’s here, he—or she—isn’t moving a muscle,” he added, shrugging. Like Fury, he had his blaster ready.

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s executive director brushed a thorny branch away from his face as he advanced into the garden. Looking up, he spotted an open window among the glass skylights comprising the ceiling. Had Storm or some other airborne mutant flown in—or out—of the attic? His shoulder itched again where the high-flying Archangel had wounded him. Sunfire, Banshee, and Phoenix could also fly, and they had all been among the mutant strike force that had absconded with the top-secret Gamma Sentinels. “Head’s up, people,” Fury instructed his agents as they spread out through the densely-planted nursery. “Chances are, we ain’t alone.”

His opening plasma blast had left a horizontal trail of charred leaves, denuded branches, and other telltale residue. Tough, Fury thought coldly. He had more important things to worry about than a bunch of pulverized posies, like just who might be hiding behind the next stand of ferns. His gut feeling told him that their unidentified quarry had not yet flown the coop. He could practically feel hostile eyes scoping him out, but from what direction?

Wait! What’s that?

Fury couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn he saw a slight rustling behind a thick assortment of rose bushes. Red, yellow, blue, and violet petals drifted slowly to the floor in the wake of an almost imperceptible disturbance. Fury silently signalled Bradley, then nodded at the roses. Agent 146 dutifully swung his sensitive electronics toward the bushes Fury had singled out. “I think you’ve got something, sir,” Bradley whispered. “I’m definitely picking up—-”

Before he could finish, a compact figure sprang from the flowering shrubbery.

SNIKT!

Gleaming metal claws swiped at Bradley, slicing his handheld device in half. Another half an inch and the agent would have lost several fingers as well.

“Wolverine!” Fury shouted. The exposed X-Man wore a mask over his face, but Fury would know Logan anywhere. The short, scrappy Canadian had paid his dues in the spy game long before defecting to the superhero biz. Fury had worked with Logan plenty of times, and felt he could reason with the man, as long as the feral mutant wasn’t in one of his patented berserker furies. Then there was no getting through to him until blood was shed. ‘ ‘Back off, Logan!” he ordered. “Let’s talk.”

Wolverine crouched at the back of the greenhouse, ada-mantium claws extended from the backs of his hands. His yellow and blue uniform had blended effectively with the multi-colored roses. The letter “X” adorned the buckle of a pale red belt, advertising his current group affiliation. Fury knew that the twin blue peaks rising from his cowl concealed equally spiky hair, one of the outward signs of the X-Man’s animalistic nature. Right now, though, he needed to talk to the man, not the bloodthirsty beast he was capable of becoming. “Logan,” Fury urged him, “you know you can talk straight with me. You may be in a heap of trouble, but I’m willing to hear your side of the story.”

But Wolverine was in no mood to talk. His only reply a savage snarl, he lunged at Fury, razor-sharp claws slicing through the hot, muggy air. Fury threw himself backward barely in time to avoid being disemboweled; even still, the claws left three parallel tears through the Kevlar fabric of Fury’s suit. Blood from a trio of superficial scratches dripped through the rips. He’s playing for keeps! Fury realized. “Open fire!” he commanded the other agents.

Wolverine’s superhuman reflexes were fast, but S.H.I.E.L.D. agents weren’t exactly slowpokes either. A barrage of stun beams chased the mutant as he ducked and weaved past a half dozen agents as he bolted for the stairs. Leaves and flowers bit the dust by the score as blazing streams of plasma crisscrossed the attic; Fury figured it would be a miracle if they didn’t set the whole place on fire. Shrugging off the blasts as if he scarcely felt them, Wolverine almost made it to the door, but, at the last minute, Agents 132 and 278 set up a crossfire that effectively sealed off the doorway behind a wall of searing energy that not even Wolverine could brave. Good work, Fury thought.

Unable to make it to the stairs, Wolverine leaped straight up instead, his claws digging into the vine-covered walls of the attic as he climbed toward the glass ceiling like a short, stocky Spider-Man. Stun beams slammed into Wolverine’s back and shoulders, but his inhuman endurance protected him from the worst of their effects.

Blast that mutant healing factor of his, Fury thought; it always had given Logan an unfair advantage.

Time to call in the big guns. Fury grabbed a communicator from his supply belt and barked his orders into it: “Omicron Team, mobilize at once. Converge on residence immediately. Target: Logan, codename Wolverine.”

“Acknowledged,” a voice responded crisply. “Omicron Team, out.”

So much for that, Fury thought, snapping the communicator back into place upon his belt. Determined to pursue Wolverine, he looked around quickly for a ladder, then realized that a gravity-defying gardener like Storm hardly needed one. “Fine,” he muttered. Wolverine had left him all the ladder he needed, in the form of deep incisions cut into the wall by the mutant’s thrusting claws.

Shoving his gun into his holster, Fury took off after Wolverine, using the hand and footholds that Logan had carved out. He climbed rapidly, keeping his eyes on the retreating soles of Wolverine’s blue boots. The X-Man had a good lead on him, but Fury gambled that the plasma blasts had to be slowing him down some.

You’re not getting away from me, Logan, he vowed, not until I get some answers.

Wolverine reached the ceiling and smashed straight through the pane of skylight glass. Shards rained down on Fury, who ducked to protect himself. “Watch out below!” he hollered. Bradley and the other agents scattered away from the falling fragments.

Once he was sure that the shower of glass had run its course, Fury clambered hastily up the wall. He fired his blaster through the shattered skylight to discourage any ambush attempts, then he pulled himself onto the roof, his heels finding precarious purchase on the sloping slate shingles that ran around the edges of the skylights.

Thank goodness it hadn ’t rained earlier; the shingles are slippery enough as is, ’ ’ he thought.

Fury looked around. The view from atop the main building was just as impressive as he had imagined earlier. Looking north toward Graymalkin Lane, he was gratified to see his secret weapons marching from the van to the manor at a rapid clip: three S.H.I.E.L.D. commandoes in deluxe Mandroid body armor. Each over seven feet tall, the Mandroids stomped across the lawn, their gleaming gold surfaces reflecting the sunlight beating down on them. Flexible power conduits linked their polished gauntlets and boots to the powerful thermoelectric generators built into the bulky shoulderpieces. There were no neckpieces as such; the mound-shaped helmets merged smoothly into the shoulders, giving each Mandroid an almost headless appearance. Only a narrow eyeslit, about six inches below the top of the mound, hinted at the presence of the human operator inside each Mandroid.

Just what the doctor ordered, Fury thought approvingly; the Mandroid suits had been designed by Tony Stark himself, specifically for operations against superhuman opponents. Three of them might be just enough to subdue Wolverine—if they were lucky.

“Over here!” he shouted to the Mandroids. He waved his arms and fired his blaster into the air to make sure he got their attention. The Mandroids responded by staking out positions at both ends of the mansion and right before the front entrance. Blast! Fury cursed. He could have used one more Mandroid to cover the back of the mansion. It was too late to do anything about that now, though. He’d have to make do with the mechanized reinforcements he had on hand.

But where was Wolverine? To his left and right, the rooftop sloped away towards empty air, but Fury couldn’t spot the X-Men’s halfpint hellion. Brick chimneys rose at regular intervals atop the Institute, but offered little in the way of shelter from Fury’s inspection. Where could he have gone in the few moments Fury lost sight of him? Logan was the best there was at what he did, Fury knew, but that didn’t include flying.

Fury’s gaze focused on the domed belltower jutting above the north end of the roof. The ornate cupola was not exactly the Washington Monument, but it was large enough to hide a grown man, especially a sawed-off runt like Wolverine. Walking a tightrope along the peak of the gabled rooftop, Fury stalked toward the tower.

“Give it up, Logan,” he called to his unseen quarry. He ground out the end of his cigar on the top of a chimney, then dropped the stogie down the smokestack. “You’re not getting away from here until I get some answers. Where are your mutant buddies? And what did they do with those Sentinels?”

Not a peep emerged from the other side of the tower, which puzzled Fury to a degree. Logan could be stealthy when he had to be, but Fury had never known the hot-tempered Canadian to run from a fight once his cover had been exposed. Right now, though, Fury' couldn’t even hear Wolverine’s characteristic growl. What’s up with him? he wondered.

Firing a warning shot around the southeast comer of the tower, Fury stepped carefully onto the righthand side of the roof, holding onto the tower’s wooden base with one hand while hefting his handgun in the other. The roof angled steeply beneath him. A loose shingle slipped under his feet and he almost lost his balance. I’m getting too old for this high-wire garbage, he grouched privately. Let Cap and Daredevil keep the whole running-around-on-ro'oftops routine.

Rounding the next comer, after prudently preceding his arrival with a burst of hot plasma, Fury saw evidence of Wolverine’s recent passing. Chips of broken glass and fallen flower petals seconded the message left behind by a fresh-looking scuff mark. Logan had definitely been here. Most likely, he was circling the tower in synch with Fury, keeping the ostentatious structure between them. “C’mon, you stubborn Canuck,” he said irritably, “let’s get this over with. I’ve got better things to do than ring-around-the-rosie with you the whole blamed afternoon.”

Fury eased cautiously around the next comer, bringing him right back to where he started, facing the rear of the tower. He listened carefully for any reply from the elusive mutant. At first he didn’t hear anything, but then, just in time, he heard something scraping against the copper dome of the tower. His gaze shot up and he saw Wolverine spring from the top of the cupola, claws extended.

“Holy cow!” There was no time to fire off a shot, but Fury managed to block the descending talons with his blaster. Shining silver adamantium sliced through the muzzle of Fury’s gun, which nonetheless deflected the claws enough to save him from turning into a S.H.I.E.L.D. shish-kabob. The force of Wolverine’s leap knocked Fury onto his back and, grappling with the homicidal mutant, he rolled down the side of the roof toward the ledge. Letting the truncated gun fall, Fury locked his hands around Wolverine’s wrists, in a desperate effort to keep those lethal claws at bay, while he dug in with his heels to slow his descent across the shingles.

Holding back the claws wasn’t easy; Fury had forgotten how strong Logan was. Fortunately, Wolverine couldn’t get much leverage while they were tumbling. Charting their downward transit out of the comer of his eye, Fury held onto Wolverine’s gloved wrists until the two men reached the bottom of the roof and were about to go over the edge.

Then he shoved the X-Man away with all his strength and reached out for the rain gutters running along the ledge. His fingers clamped around the side of the gutter, bringing his fall to a jarring halt. His legs dangling above the lawn two stories below, the flimsy metal of the gutter creaking unnervingly, Fury hastily pulled himself up onto the roof once more. Deep creases in the underside of his fingers stung painfully as he shook some circulation back into them and looked out over the last row of shingles, hoping to see Wolverine’s stunned body sprawled out on the grass below.

Ain’t no way a little fall like that’s going to take Logan out of the game for good, but maybe it knocked the fight out of him, Fury thought.

To his surprise and extreme disappointment, the only one he saw below was Agent 132, Sumi Lee, looking up at him with an expression of concern on her face. Heck, there wasn’t even a Logan-shaped depression in the lawn. “Where the devil is he?” Fury demanded. Lee pointed back up at him in time-honored he-went-thataway fashion.

Leather soles slapped against the shingles to his left. Fury looked south and saw Wolverine running, with astonishing confidence in his balance, toward the back of the roof. He couldn’t begin to guess how Wolverine had gotten back on the roof after going over the edge, but there was no time to figure it out. Snatching his communicator from his belt, Fury barked an order into the miniaturized mike. “Target is heading south on top of the central building. All teams converge on the rear of the house. Repeat, head for the backyard . .. pronto!”

Leaving his bisected gun lying in the gutter, Fury took off after Wolverine, but the agile mutant had too much of a head start, and too much preternatural dexterity. “Logan, stop!” Fury shouted, only seconds before Wolverine flung himself off the back of the roof. A blur of yellow and blue hung in the air for an instant before dropping quickly out of sight. Fury knew better than to think, even for a heartbeat, that the aggravatingly resourceful X-Man was committing suicide. Sure enough, a second later, Fury heard a resounding splash from the back yard.

That doggone Canucklehead dived all the way from the roof to the swimming pool. That’s one heckuva jump, Fury thought, impressed, and not one he’d want to attempt unless he absolutely had to. Fury knew he was in good shape for a man his age, or even any age, but he never forgot that he was still only human after all. Unlike some people.

Reaching the far end of the roof, Fury saw Wolverine rising from the deep end of the pool. The blue, chlorinated water sparkled beneath the noontime sun. I’m surprised he can float at all, Fury thought, with all that adamantium in him.

“Too bad,” Fury muttered, watching glumly as Wolverine paddled to the side of the pool. Fury saw Logan was heading toward several acres of dense woodlands that seemed to beckon from across the spacious back lawn.

He’s going to break for the woods, Fury knew with utter certainty, and there was no way Fury could stop him, at least not personally.

But maybe he didn’t have to.

A pair of Mandroids advanced on the pool from opposite ends of the estate. Whining servomotors carried their armored limbs swiftly across the grass until they reached the concrete walkway outlining the pool. By now, Wolverine had completely emerged from the pool and stood, dripping, on the sidewalk between the two Mandroids. His feral gaze darted from right to left, taking in both steel-jacketed titans. “Surrender and you will not be harmed,” one of the Mandroids announced. His electronically amplified voice held no trace of doubt or apprehension. “Don’t make us resort to force.”

Fury could have told the agent inside the bulky armor that he was wasting his breath, but couldn’t fault the man for following procedure, even if all his warning did was provoke Wolverine into striking first. The Mandroid stood more than a yard taller than the diminutive X-Man, yet you wouldn’t know it from the way Wolverine charged fearlessly at one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s state-of-the-art technological enforcers. Although he could not see Wolverine’s masked face from where he was standing, Fury could easily imagine the crazed, bloodshot ferocity in Logan’s eyes.

The Mandroid’s right arm swiveled upward so that the handmounted stun cannon in his metal mitt pointed at the onrushing mutant. The cannon emitted a high-frequency neuronic burst that struck Wolverine head on. An agonized howl escaped the X-Man’s lips, but he kept on coming, slashing out with his claws at the power cable connecting his target’s right gauntlet to the central chassis of the Mandroid’s armor. Sparks erupted as the adamantium razors severed the cable, cutting off the flow of power to the stun cannon. Fury grimaced and rummaged in his pockets for a fresh cigar, which he figured he was going to need. With one blow, Wolverine had already eliminated one of the Mandroid’s major weapons.

But that didn’t mean the armored agent was down for the count. His left arm swung like a mace and knocked Wolverine onto the cement near the elevated diving board. But Logan sprang up again almost instantly. The Mandroid swung with his right arm, but Wolverine ducked beneath the blow. Instead the Mandroid’s reinforced steel arm smashed through the lightweight aluminum ladder supporting the diving board. Metal screeched in protest as the entire platform toppled forward into the pool.

Wolverine lashed out at the Mandroid’s legs. His claws grazed the omnium steel outer layer of the armor until the besieged operator activated his protective force field. Portable generators located in the Mandroid’s hip pods produced an intense electro-gravitic shield that deflected Wolverine’s claws before they could do too much damage. A shimmering purple aura outlined the Mandroid’s golden armor as Wolverine continued to flail away at his opponent, however, trying to overcome its defenses through sheer, savage persistence. Luminous blue flashes crackled wherever his claws came into contact with the glowing barrier protecting his foe.

Crouching on the rooftop, Fury struck a match against a slate shingle and lit his cigar. He took a deep puff to take the edge off his frustration at being stuck on the sidelines. He felt like an athletic coach forced to fight his battles from the bleachers. At least I’ve got a front-row seat, he thought as the fumes from his cigar filled his lungs; one of the distinct advantages of immortality was not having to worry about carcinogens. Let’s hope those Mandroids are worth everything we paid for them.

The force field could also be used as a tractor beam, as demonstrated by the second Mandroid, who, standing astride the hot tub at the shallow end of the pool, directed a ray of purple energy at the frenzied mutant. The beam, capable of lifting nearly a thousand pounds, seized hold of Wolverine and hoisted him into the air in front of the first Mandroid, who diverted his own force field to offensive purposes, catching the struggling X-Man in a crossfire of opposing tractor beams. Squeezed between glimmering rays of force, Wolverine was carried out above the center of the pool. He hovered several feet above the sparkling surface of the blue water, kicking and thrashing violently, but seemingly unable to break free from the high-tech trap. His claws couldn’t do him much good, Fury noted, if Logan couldn’t reach anything with them.

The third and final Mandroid, the one who had originally been stationed at the front of the mansion, stomped onto the scene, but it was starting to look like the extra man-machine might not be needed. “We’ve got you now,” the second Mandroid informed Wolverine, her voice revealing that there was a female agent inside that particular suit of armor. “You might as well stop fighting us. Resistance is futile.”

Somebody’s been watching too much Star Trek, Fury thought. Not that he cared much; the Mandroid operator could spend her free time vegging out on Teletubbies as long as she got the job done. He stood up, stretching his legs, and looked around for the best way down from the roof. The sooner he pried some answers out of Wolverine, the better.

Then, just when he thought the time-consuming conflict was finally over, something strange happened. Before his puzzled eye, the purple beams snaring Wolverine pulsed in a way he didn’t recognize. Peculiar ripples seemed to radiate from Logan’s trapped figure, flowing outward along the tractor beams toward the victorious Mandroids, who were now being pulled forward toward Wolverine. Immense metal feet scraped against cement as the Mandroids were dragged against their will toward the edges of the pool, leaving deep skid marks in the concrete behind them. Both Mandroids tried to cut off the beams at their source, but it was too late. Wolverine’s levitating form suddenly plunged into the water below, dragging both Mandroids with him. Seven hundred pounds of omnium steel alloys, not to mention two flesh-and-blood S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, crashed facefirst into the pool. The Mandroid at the deep end immediately sank to the bottom while the one at the shallow end smacked against the concrete floor of the pool.

Fury wasn’t sure which Mandroid had it better, but he hoped for their sakes that there was plenty of padding under the steel skin. Wolverine himself vanished beneath the frothing waves stirred up by the Mandroids’ spectacular splash landings.

That left one Mandroid up and about. The other S.H.l.E.L.D. agents dashed out of the rear of the house and joined the Mandroid around the rectangular basin. If nothing else, they had Wolverine surrounded. There was no way he could exit the pool without having to get by Fury’s dedicated people. Unfortunately, knowing Logan, he was perfectly capable of hacking his way to freedom through the mangled bodies of even the best trained field agents.

There was only one thing to do. “Boil him!” Fury barked into his communicator, and the remaining Mandroid responded. The Mandroid fired at the pool with a high-powered, 250 watt laser torch. The incandescent red beam raised the temperature of the pool to boiling point in a matter of seconds. Billowing clouds of steam rose from the pool, obscuring Fury’s view of the scene and forcing the non-armored agents to back away from the bubbling cauldron the pool had become. Fury could hear the agitated water seething from three stories away.

“C’mon, Logan,” he muttered. “Give it up.” He wasn’t worried about the two submerged agents. The Mandroid suits came complete with their own internal air supply and enough insulation and shielding to withstand extreme high temperatures and radiation.

Logan was another story. Not even that scrappy survivor could last long in that overheated stew. Fury peered through the rising mist, expecting to see a scalded figure leap, crawl, or scurry from the boiling water. Wolverine’s mutant healing factor was going to get a real workout here, but Fury knew that the X-Man stood a better than even chance of recovering from his injuries; he just hoped Logan would stay conscious long enough to cough up some solid info on what the X-Men were up to.

But what was taking so dam long? As two full minutes passed, Fury grew uneasy. He had wanted to drive Wolverine out of the pool and into his assault team’s clutches, not cook Logan within an inch of his life. Heck, judging from the quantities of steam spilling into air, there couldn’t be that much water left in the pool.

“That’s enough,” he ordered into his communicator. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The Mandroid promptly shut off its laser and stepped back from the pool. Tiny drops of condensation beaded all over the golden armor. Fury waited impatiently for the mist to clear, grinding his cigar between clenched teeth. As opaque clouds of steam thinned, he saw that close to two-thirds of the chlorinated blue water had evaporated, leaving barely enough to cover the bottom of the pool. Two overturned Mandroids lay amidst the shallow water, along with the torn and twisted remains of the diving platform. Sporadic bubbles percolated to the surface of the slowly-cooling water.

But Wolverine was not there.

“What in blue blazes—?” Fury exclaimed. His gaze swept the pool from the deep end to the shallow, but located no trace of the indomitable X-Man. He saw the agents below shake their heads in confusion as they rapidly came to the same conclusion: their quarry had gone missing.

Where did he go? Fury wondered. And, more importantly, how?

Logan was a crafty devil, with lots of hidden talents, but disappearing into thin air wasn’t one of them. It was like Wolverine had evaporated along with the liquid contents of the X-Men’s recreational reservoir, which was flat-out impossible. For that matter, Fury recalled, how had Wolverine kept from falling off the roof earlier? And how did he pull that stunt with the tractor beams? Since when has Logan been able to manipulate force fields?

“I don’t get it,” Fury muttered. “Something doesn’t add up.” He watched unhappily as the agents below checked on the fallen Mandroids, not even smiling when Agent Lee gave him the thumbs-up sign. Nobody had gotten hurt, but, even outnumbered and outgunned, Wolverine had given them all the slip, leaving behind only still more unanswerable questions.

“All right,” he barked to his team, “let’s keep searching this building. Look under every ashtray, rug, and mutant thingamajig. These are classified weapons we’re looking for, everyone, so I’m not leaving until we’ve checked out every square inch of this place.”

Ashes from his cigar dropped onto the shingled roof and Fury ground the smoldering embers out with his heel. Deep down inside, he guessed they wouldn’t find anything. The X-Men were long gone, and so were his hopes of easily recovering the lost Gamma Sentinels.

Fury turned north—toward Niagara Falls. He crossed his fingers and hoped that, whatever trouble they had gotten into, Captain America and his Avenger pals were getting closer to the truth than he was.

Och, ’tis about right, Bobby. Can ye lower the temperature a wee bit more?”

Dr. Moira MacTaggert, director and founder of the Genetic Research Centre, peered into the binocular lenses of an electron microscope whilst across the laboratory Bobby Drake, the mutant known as Iceman, laid his hand atop a sealed, transparent cylinder containing an open petrie dish. Waves of intense cold radiated from Bobby’s palm, frosting the exterior of the plexiglass cylinder. “How’s that?” he asked cheerfully.

“Perfect,” Moira replied, not lifting her eyes from her microscope, which was connected by hidden cables to the lighted platform on which the cylinder rested. Her voice held a distinct Scottish brogue. A brown-haired woman in her early forties, she wore a pristine white labcoat over her everyday attire. A pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses hung on a chain around her neck. “By coolin’ the sample to near absolute zero, you’ve slowed the chemical reactions to a point where I can actually watch the virus mutate.”

Bobby shrugged; the slim American youth was no scientist. “Whatever you say, doc. I’m just glad I could help.” He wore a two-toned blue uniform that left his head and short brown hair exposed. A crystalline layer of ice covered his right hand, extending partway up his wrist, but he didn’t look at all uncomfortable. He wasn’t even shivering.

“I don’t know how I’d manage without ye,” Moira insisted. “Your innate ability to generate cold lets me control the temperature of this experiment to an astoundingly fine degree. None of my very expensive refrigeration equipment is anywhere near as precise.” She looked up from her work to smile in Bobby’s direction. “Thanks so much for flyin’ ail the way from New York to assist me like this.”

“No problem,” Bobby said amiably. “I know how important your work is, trying to cure the Legacy Virus and all. I’m always happy to drop by.” He took a bite from the blueberry popsicle in his free hand; not surprisingly, Iceman had a weakness for frozen deserts. “What’s a little jet lag between friends?”

My sentiments exactly, Kurt Wagner thought, watching the scene from above. He hung by his prehensile tail from one of several sturdy metal rings he had personally installed in the lab’s ceiling several years ago, just to indulge his acrobatic proclivities. Moira’s research complex, located on scenic Muir Island, off the coast of Scotland, had been his home for many years, although he had recently moved back to the X-Men’s headquarters in America. His own mutant talents were not particularly required for Moira’s latest round of experiments, but he needed little excuse to visit an old friend and familiar haunts.

Somebody had to keep Bobby company on the flight over, after all, he thought. Too bad Kitty and Peter couldn ’t make it.

At the west end of the laboratory, beyond the banks of monitors and computerized controls, a large plate glass window looked out on the island and the sea beyond. Kurt twirled beneath the hoop, twisting his pointed tail, the better to savor the breathtaking view afforded by the window. The entire research complex was built atop a steep cliff overlooking Cape Wrath. From where Kurt hung, he saw a nar-

row strip of land extend for only a few paces past the base of the building before dropping off abruptly, falling dozens of meters to the rocky beach below. More cliffs flanked the harbor on both sides, their barren, gray faces hiding numerous small caves and crevices. Rolling green hills rose above the cliffs, dotted with abundant patches of violet heather and the occasional wandering sheep. In the distance, across the placid blue waters, Kurt could barely glimpse the Isle of Arran, their nearest geographical neighbor. Twilight gave the entire vista a rosy sheen. What beautiful country this is, he reflected. Why exactly did I leave it again?

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the huge pane of glass. Kurt Wagner’s appearance was just as striking as the rugged scenery outside, albeit in a radically different fashion. A coating of fine indigo fur covered a decidingly demonic visage, complete with pointed ears and lambent yellow eyes. Ominous shadows clung to his brow and the planes of his face, seemingly independent of whatever light source might or might not be available. Nor did his physical irregularities end with his satanic countenance or even his highly conspicuous tail; spotless white boots and gloves seemed to accent the fact that he had merely three fingers on each hand and no more than two toes per foot. The latter characteristic increased his resemblance to hell spawn by lending his feet an unmistakably cloven aspect.

That's right, he thought wryly. I’m a mutant, with an obligation to help make the world safe for mutants and humans alike. And, as he had long ago discovered, there was no better place to do so than among his fellow X-Men, where he fought the good fight under the colorful alias of Nightcrawler.

“What about you, Kurt?” Moira called out, interrupting 58

his autobiographicai musings. “Are ye gettin’ bored yet?” “Nein, ” he insisted, his accent as German as his vocabulary. “I’ve been basking in the warm glow of nostalgia.” Swinging back and forth with his tail, he worked up enough speed to send him somersaulting through the air above Moira’s head. Just as gravity threatened to pull him down, he disappeared in cloud of billowing black smoke that seemed to materialize from nowhere. A sulfurous odor suffused the air-conditioned atmosphere of the lab,

BAMF!

A second burst of smoke exploded between Moira and Bobby, and Kurt emerged from the fumes about four meters below his previous location, stepping lightly onto the tile floor. Well accustomed to Nightcrawler’s unique mode of teleportation, neither Moira nor Bobby appeared startled by his dramatic vanishing act, although Moira wrinkled her nose and fanned the acrid smoke away with her hand. “One of these days, Kurt Wagner,” she declared, “I’m goin’ to figure out why you leave such a bloody stink behind whenever you pull that stunt.’ ’

“All part of my theatrical flair,” Kurt said, taking a bow. He had been a circus performer before he became a superhero, and some habits were hard to break. His dark blue uniform, similar in hue to his indigo fur, still sported flamboyant swatches of crimson better suited to life under the big top. “My apologies, though, for the pungent pyrotechnics. No doubt you’ve gotten used to a cleaner standard of breathing over the last few months.”

In fact, the noisome fumes were already dissipating. “To tell ye the truth,” Moira admitted with a smile, “I think I’ve actually missed the smell of brimstone in the air. The Centre has seemed awfully quiet and empty since Excalibur disbanded and you all went your separate ways. Brian and Meggan off being newlyweds, you folks back at Charles’s

Institute ... I have to admit the old place gets kind of lonely sometimes.”

‘ ‘All the more reason to make a habit of these little transatlantic jaunts,” Kurt reassured her. “Have no fear, meine freunde, you couldn’t cut yourself off from the X-Men if you tried.”

Indeed, he recalled, Moira MacTaggert's involvement with Professor Xavier’s crusade to make a better world for mutants predated the very creation of the X-Men. Her Genetic Research Centre had contributed greatly to modem science’s understanding of the causes and effects of human mutation, or so he had been told. Personally, he was more of a swashbuckler than a scientist.

“Thank you, Kurt,” Moira said, sounding slightly choked up. She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her labcoat. ‘ ‘And you, too, Bobby. I cannae tell you how much ye all mean to me.”

Especially now that you’re dying of the Legacy Virus, Kurt thought, unwilling to spoil the moment by voicing so somber an issue. He could only hope that Moira’s own unquestioned brilliance could find a cure before her time ran out.

An ear-piercing alarm interrupted their poignant reunion, causing all three of them to look up suddenly. “Vas?” Kurt asked. “A jailbreak?” At any given time, he knew, a variety of dangerous evil mutants like Spoor or Proteus were kept under observation in underground cells beneath the Centre. Could one or more of them have broken free?

“I don’t think so,” Moira stated, running to consult a computerized control panel next to the open entrance to the laboratory. “Most of the remaining felons were shipped to the appropriate authorities after Excalibur disbanded. Plus, all the containment cells are automatically flooded with tranquilizing gas at the first sign of a disturbance.” She examined a lighted display and nodded her head knowingly. “Nae, ’tis an intruder alert.” With the press of a button, she silenced the blaring alarm, then keyed in a series of preprogrammed security commands. A heavy metal door slammed into place, sealing the entrance, at the same time that clanking steel shutters descended over the large glass window. More commands caused a row of television monitors to light up along one stretch of the wall. Kurt stared at the screens, which showed only incomprehensible displays of electronic “snow.”

“Who is it?” Bobby asked. “Magneto? Apocalypse?” Like the laboratory, he readied himself for action. The icy sheath covering his hand spread quickly over his entire body, as ordinary flesh and blood metamorphosed into translucent, blue-tinted ice that looked as though it had been sculpted into the semblance of a humanoid figure. Frozen spikes grew like stalagmites along his arms and spine, whilst the floor beneath his feet took on a frosty sheen. “I kind of hope it’s the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants again,” Iceman quipped. His voice, now issuing from a throat of ice, acquired a peculiar crystalline ring. “I haven’t flash-frozen the Toad for ages.”

Moira glared at the TV screens in frustration as her fingers worked the controls. “Bloody hell,” she cursed. “Something’s interferin’ with the video transmissions from the security cameras.” She scrutinized the readings on a lighted display panel and a puzzled look came over her face. “Gamma radiation? Where the devil is that coming from?’ ’

Kurt peered over Moira’s shoulder at the security panel. He couldn’t make head nor tail out of the abstruse electromagnetic data, but he deciphered the primary security display easily enough; flashing red lights highlighted several locations on a mounted schematic diagram of the entire

Centre. “Looks like we have multiple intruders,” he announced gravely, “including one directly below us, in the medlab.”    •

As team leader of Excalibur, the X-Men’s defunct European division, Nightcrawler had learned to make command decisions quickly. “Iceman,” he instructed his refrigerated teammate, “you stay here and guard Moira.” He breathed a sigh of relief that Rahne, Moira’s adopted daughter, was visiting friends in Edinburgh; that was one less person to worry about. Rahne had her own lycanthropic abilities to protect her, but she was still only a teenager. “I’m going to investigate. We need to know who we’re up against.”

“Got it,” Iceman agreed. His breath chilled the air as he spoke, producing hazy puffs of fog with every syllable. Technically, he had seniority over Nightcrawler, having been among Professor X’s first generation of proteges, but he seemed content to let Nightcrawler take charge, perhaps recognizing Kurt’s greater familiarity with the premises. “Take care of yourself, pal.”

“DankeNightcrawler replied. Closing his eyes, he visualized the medical facility one floor below him and wished himself there. As usual, he experienced a momentary sensation of intense heat, as if briefly passing through some infernal other dimension. He opened his eyes to find swirling black smog obscuring his view, until he arrived in the medlab, accompanied by the inevitable burst of smoke and noisy bamf. He winced at the explosive and pungent nature of his advent. So much for stealth, he thought, wishing, not for the first time, that his ’ports were less attention-getting.

As the inky fumes cleared, he found himself standing at the foot of an empty sickbed in the Centre’s main infirmary. A half dozen more beds were lined up in a row along the northern wall of the chamber. Sophisticated diagnostic equipment, looking like something out of Star Trek, was mounted over the head of each bed. Closed supply cabinets ran along the opposite wall, behind Nightcrawler, while the scuffed tile floor revealed the tracks of a rolling equipment cart now parked neatly between two parallel beds. Sterilized surgical tools and bandages, wrapped in sealed plastic bags, waited atop the cart, ready for immediate use.

Fortuitously, no patients currently resided in the medlab. A devout Catholic despite his diabolic form, Kurt prayed that the crisis at hand would not fill the empty beds with casualties. He helped himself to a scalpel from the equipment tray, wishing that it were a full-sized rapier instead. Alas, his favorite swords were all on the other side of the Atlantic at the moment, far beyond the range of his talent for teleportation. Serves me right for traveling light, he thought.

But where was the mysterious intruder? Scalpel in hand, Nightcrawler scanned the seemingly empty infirmary. With the overhead lights turned off to save electricity, the only illumination came from the open doorway to the hallway beyond, but the dim lighting posed no difficulty to Nightcrawler, whose yellow eyes easily penetrated the darkness. Yet the silent medlab looked as lifeless as a morgue.

Suddenly Nightcrawler heard the sound of heavy footsteps echoing from the corridor outside, heralding the unknown invader’s return to the infirmary. “Mein gott,” Nightcrawler whispered to himself. The intruder sounded big, whoever he was. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, Nightcrawler leaped upward, attaching himself to the ceiling like a spider on a wall. His dexterous fingers and toes dug into the minute seams around a pair of dormant fluorescent lights while he gripped the scalpel between his fangs.

Hanging upside-down as he was gave him an inverted view of the doorway, so that the ominous figure who suddenly filled the entrance, silhouetted against the light of the hall, appeared to be standing on his head. At first, Night-crawler thought the inhuman outline belonged to Ch’od, the huge reptilian humanoid who served among that band of roving space pirates who called themselves the Starjam-mers; like Ch’od, the figure was at least three meters tall, with flared, wing-like ears and the muscular build of a gladiator on steroids. Despite the glare from the door, Night-crawler glimpsed a scaly green hide, a protruding brow, and a mouthful of jagged, shark-like teeth.

What on Earth is Ch’od doing here? Kurt wondered. Last he heard, the Starjammers were light-years away from Scotland, fighting for truth, justice, and plenty of plunder in the distant Shi’ar Galaxy.

It came as a relief to discover, however, that their unexpected visitors were old allies, as opposed to vile enemies bent on revenge. No doubt the additional intruders detected by Moira’s security setup were Corsair, Raza, Hepzibah, and the other Staijammers. Kurt wondered if Cyclops knew his father was back in the Milky Way again; Nightcrawler himself had not seen Corsair and his valiant crew since Jean and Scott’s wedding many months ago.

Nightcrawler’s tail plucked the scalpel from his jaws. “'Wilkommen, mein freund,” he called out, seeing little need for further discretion. Then the looming saurian figure stepped further into the medlab and Kurt realized he had made a dreadful mistake.

The silent newcomer bore a striking resemblance to Ch’od, it was true, but as Nightcrawler’s eyes compensated for the glare from the hall, he discovered significant differences as well. The intruder’s scales were darker than his alien friend’s, more olive-green than chartreuse, while the creature’s hairless skull was adorned by a plethora of bony knobs that Ch’od had never possessed. Even more significantly, the newcomer’s hostile sneer and malevolent red eyes conveyed an essential animosity that Nightcrawler would have hardly expected from the good-natured Star-jammer.

The immense, lizard-like biped locked its gaze on the imprudent X-Man. “Subject designate: Nightcrawler,” the monster intoned. Its deep, gravelly voice had an oddly robotic cadence, at odds with its primeval appearance; it was as though the Creature from the Black Lagoon had spoken with the mechanical monotone of Robby the Robot—or a Sentinel. “Aggressive action is mandated to neutralize mutant interference.”

Spoken like a Sentinel all right, Nightcrawler thought with a sickening sense of recognition. But why the organic-looking scales and fangs? Who was the Sentinel trying to fool, and what exactly was it pretending to be? Now that he could see past the creature’s superficial resemblance to Ch’od, Kurt thought the Sentinel’s reptilian facade looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t remember from where. He looked a little like a Skrull, with the green skin and bulbous, segmented brows, yet Nightcrawler had never seen a Skrull so large and impressively muscled, nor was the invader clad in anything resembling a Skrull military uniform. Like the Beast, the hulking creature wore only a pair of drab blue shorts. Not exactly standard attire for Sentinels, he thought, but, then again, neither are crocodile skin and teeth.

The Sentinel (if that’s what it truly was) gave him little time to search his memory. Clawed hands seized the foot of the nearest sickbed, wrenching the bedframe from the floor, then swung it like a gigantic flyswatter at Nightcrawler, who had to do a backflip across the ceiling to evade the blow. Missing the X-Man, the metal frame shattered the overhead light fixtures instead. Sparks flared briefly and bits of glass and plastic rained onto the floor. Nightcrawler hoped for a second that the Sentinel might electrocute himself, but no such luck; the mutant-hunting monster was better insulated than that. Fiery blue traceries ran down the length of the bedframe to the robot’s clawed fists, yet the electricity sputtered impotently around the scaly green hands.

• “Surrender, mutant,” the Sentinel commanded. Sheet
• Then the pain hit her, twisting her insides so har
• The Doc Samson-Sentinel added to Storm’s difficult