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  “Only thing worse than a flatscan,” Cargil sneered, “is a flatscan jarhead.”

  Magneto discouraged the use of such words as flatscan, a derogatory term which mutants had coined for those who did not show the essential x-factor that caused mutations on their genetic charts-in other words, “normal” humans. However, since the humans had chosen to make mutant the dirtiest of words, he could not bring himself to correct his Acolytes when they used such terms.

  Voght stepped forward into the aftermath of the violence and addressed the soldiers.

  “This facility and all of its contents are now the property of the lord Magneto. As you can plainly see, you have no hope of defeating, or even injuring us. For the duration of our visit here, you will be incarcerated. As long as you do not resist, you will survive,” she said, surprising Magneto, who had originally planned to simply expel the humans.

  “She said we could go!” one of the soldiers howled in complaint, pointing toward Unuscione.

  “That was before you decided to make our lives difficult,” Voght responded. “You’ve already taken up more time than you are worth. lt would have been more expedient to kill you. Keep that in mind, and get the hell out of the way.”

  Magneto smiled. Unuscione had overstepped her bounds, had taken the aspect offield leader for herself, and this was Voght’s way of reestablishing her primacy without showing the enemy that there was any dissension in the Acolytes’ ranks. He was proud of her.

  “It’s not what you think,” Voght said, as he approached, both of them watching the Kleinstocks herd the humans away. “I simply realized that it will be beneficial to keep our identity secret for as long as possible. If the military don’t know you are here, they won’t be as quick to reach a drastic decision like just nuking the whole place.”

  Magneto raised one eyebrow.

  “Very good, Amelia,” he said. “I often underestimate exactly how much they hate me.”

  “It isn’t the hate, Magneto,” she answered. “It’s the fear. Anyway, I imagine my test run is over with. Your turn to give orders again.”

  “My turn, Amelia?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “I always give the orders."

  “As you say,” she answered, and bowed her head in earnest acknowledgment of her error.

  “Round up the engineers and whatever other personnel are present and put them in with the soldiers,” he instructed. “I’ll meet you in the silo.”

  Magneto turned, his heels clicking on the cement floor and echoing through the chamber. He walked briskly, cape flying behind him, down the short hall that he knew led to what had once been an enormous nuclear silo. Now, it housed something far more dangerous, The silo doors were twenty feet high, the bare metal of their adamantium alloy gleaming dully in the false light. They were, of course, closed.

  Magneto’s stomach muscles tightened as he reached out with his heart, soul, and hands, with the complete and total mastery of the Earth’s magnetic fields that were his to command, and tore the doors from their frame with the echoing screech of a tanker striking an iceberg.

  A dozen more steps brought him into the silo. As he looked up, scanning the massive constructs that lined the sides of the silo, Magneto’s face Iit up with pleasure. For the first time in a long time; he actually grinned. Each of them was one hundred feet tall, equipped with destructive technology decades ahead of anything else in the world, the deep purple metal of their bodies gleaming in the burst of light coming from the door Magneto had tom open.

  “Magnificent,” he said under his breath, to no one but himself. And maybe, to them, though he knew they couldn’t hear him...

  Not yet. But when the twenty killing machines in that silo were activated, they would hear him. And obey.

  Humanity would forever regret that they had created such monstrous robotic weapons as the Sentinels.

  Chapter 1

  Smashing through Earth’s atmosphere, the starship’s hull burst into flames. The planet’s gravity pulled them ever faster toward the surface and the pilots struggled to slow the craft. They knew they weren’t going to die. Dying was not an option. They had to reach their destination, one way or another. They had to survive to pass along the message.

  Once they had completed that task, should their injuries be sufficient to take their lives, then so be it. But first, they had to regain control and guide the ship to their target location.

  They had to reach the X-Men.

  • • •

  It was a peaceful Sunday morning on the beautifully wooded grounds of the Xavier Institute in Salem Center, New York. Salem Center was a small community in affluent Westchester County, and Professor Charles Xavier, founder and president of the Xavier Institute, one of its most upstanding residents.

  Down at the lake that stretched across the center of his estate, Xavier’s comrades, most of them former students, prepared for a day of picnicking, swimming, volleyball, and other, more innovative sports. There was no reason, particularly, for the celebration. It was simply that the band of mutant heroes known as the X-Men found themselves a beautiful summer day without any crisis to attend to. Such an occasion was rare enough that they put all their energy into making the most of it.

  Cradling a decent-size watermelon on the tops of his thighs, Xavier gave one final shove of his wheelchair to get himself off the lawn and onto the wooden pier that jutted out into the lake. The gas grill was already on, and he caught a whiff of the tantalizing smell of hot Italian sausage, an especially spicy lamb and pepper blend that Remy LeBeau had picked up at a Greenwich Village butcher shop the day before.

  “Don’t do it, Hank!” Bobby Drake yelled from the end of the pier. Xavier looked up to see that Hank McCoy, called the Beast because of his extraordinary strength and agility—not to mention the dark blue-black fur that covered his body—was dangling Drake off the pier.

  Xavier’s first impulse was to intenupt the pair, to instruct Hank to put Bobby down. But it had been a long time since the two men had been his students. Hank was now a world-renowned biochemist (not to mention a former member of the Avengers in good standing). Bobby could stand a little more maturing, but that was their business now, not Charles Xavier’s.

  “My apologies, Bobby,” Hank said, the teasing obvious in his voice. “Was there something you desired to say to me? Some sort of repentance, perhaps?”

  “Not on your life, blue boy!” Bobby said in smug defiance. “And if you drop me, I’m not swimming all by my ... hey!”

  Hank let go of Bobby’s legs, a grin showing the elongated canines in his powerful jaws. He seemed about to make another comment when, in an instant, a huge hook made of already melting ice shot up from below, snagged Hank around the waist and pulled him into the water. Just as suddenly, Bobby appeared next to the pier on a pillar of ice, his body completely covered with it. There was a reason, after all, that he was called the Iceman.

  "You two will never grow up," Scott Summers said from behind the grill, where he was turning sausages and basting chicken breasts with his "Mad Dog" hot sauce. He tried to hide his amusement, ever the serious, mature field leader of the X-Men. But Charles knew Scott as if the man were his own son, had nearly raised him in his late teens, and right now Scott was doing his best not to laugh.

  When Hank pulled himself onto the pier, his blue fur soaked and sticking to his body, showing just how muscular he was, Scott did finally burst out laughing, along with the rest of them, Xavier included. It couldn't be helped.

  "You know," Hank said with a wry grin, "this isn't the sort of thing a reputable scientist does on his days off. I'm growing too old for this roughhousing."

  "Not too old, Hank, just too serious," Warren Worthington said amicably, and Xavier was glad to hear him speak up. Warren had once been the high-flying Angel, his mutant genes gifting him with a set of beautiful white wings. When those wings had been destroyed, then amputated and replaced with deadly substitutes formed of bio-organic steel, Warren's demeanor had changed drastically. Now called Archa
ngel, he had only recently begun to emerge from the dark cloud these events had cast over him.

  "Look who's talking about too serious!" Bobby cracked, and Warren smiled. Once he might have joined in their foolishness, but for now, Xavier thought a smile was better than nothing.

  "The more things change, eh, Charles?" a soft, beautiful voice said behind him. Xavier didn't need to turn to identify her. If Scott Summers was his surrogate son, then Jean Grey was a surrogate daughter. Years ago they had all come to him as his students, learning to live as mutants in a world that hated and feared them, learning to use their mutant-born abilities, and of course, simply learning.

  "It's always refreshing to note that some things never do, Jean," Xavier said, as Jean took the watermelon from his lap and put it on one of the two long picnic tables. He watched her move, in that elegant way of hers, to where Scott stood over the barbecue. Her long red hair was pulled back in an intricate braid, and it swung to one side as she leaned in to kiss Scott, the man she had loved since the X-Men began.

  Though the rest of the team was certain to make their way to the pier shortly, for the moment he was alone with his five original students. The first mutants to bear the name X-Men! It was a family, his family, and like every other they had their squabbles. It had grown as well, members coming and going, numbers rising and falling. But no matter what the future held, no matter how many new names were added to the roster of the X-Men, there would always be something special between Xavier and these five. There was no question that he loved the others just as much, but there was a difference.

  Hank and Bobby were trying to get Warren into the water. Jean and Scott spoke softly, the sun reflecting off the ruby quartz glasses he had to wear to keep his mutant energy beams from bursting uncontrollably from his eyes. In the field, Scott wore a visor made of the same material, thus his codename, Cyclops.

  Xavier leaned back and took it all in, glad to have that moment with this group. The summer sun was warm on his face and his bald pate, countered by a fine breeze and the coolness of the lake. From somewhere on the estate, he smelled freshly mowed grass, even above the scents of the barbecue.

  He closed his eyes and, for a moment, Charles Xavier was truly able to remember what it had been like to be a boy. What it had been all about. Many claimed to remember, but those spontaneous moments when the past was there, just within reach, when all senses combined with the sense of childhood self to remind you what it was like ... those moments of clarity were extraordinarily rare, and sadly fleeting.

  But they felt wonderful. With all that he had experienced as an adult, Charles Xavier rarely had time to miss the innocence of his youth. Even when he did, it was usually accompanied by a wistful mood that was unlike him. This was different. This was a feeling of well-being he had not experienced in many years. Other than the day, the company, the memories, there was no tangible reason for it. That made it all the better.

  Five minutes later, when Storm, Rogue, Gambit, Wolverine, and Bishop had all arrived, he had reason to be proud and content all over again.

  When Rogue demanded a volleyball rematch to avenge the trouncing her team had been given the month before, the entire group was happy to oblige.

  After lunch, of course.

  • • •

  "What do you mean, 'out of bounds,' Rogue?" Bishop growled.

  "Which word didn't y'understand, sugar?" Rogue teased, her Southern accent adding a gentleness to her sarcasm that always made it much easier to withstand.

  "Our serve, I believe," Storm said, a wry smile on her face as Rogue passed her the ball.

  Scott Summers smiled as well. Allof the X-Men dealt with the pressures they lived under differently, and it always amazed him to see how those pressures had shaped their personalities. Over time, as Cyclops, the co-leader of the X-Men, Scott had come to know them all.

  Storm, with whom he shared leadership duties, was grand and as blustery as the weather she commanded in battle, yet in calmer times she was quiet, almost shy. Her chocolate skin and silk white hair combined with her regal manner to give her statuesque quality. A proud woman, she often seemed cold to those meeting her for the first time. In truth, though, Storm cared very deeply for those around her as well.

  Rogue was the polar opposite of Storm's profound calm and control. Her auburn hair had a skunk trail down the center that added to her natural flamboyance. She was quick with a jab, physical or verbal, but nearly always in good humor. A humor that was, in truth, often a thin veil covering the pain she felt regarding her mutant abilities. Gifted with extraordinary strength and the ability to fly, not to mention being nearly invulnerable to harm, Rogue was one of the most powerful X-Men.

  Yet, she had another power, one she could not control, which allowed her to temporarily steal the memories and abilities of an opponent, simply by touching his skin. It was often a devastating, even debilitating, experience for her. Tragically, this meant that Rogue could virtually never touch another human being without doing them harm, could never be intimate, never even share a simple kiss.

  The midday sun hung benevolently in the sky above the Xavier Institute. A cool breeze stirred in the trees, and the sunlight sparkled on the tiny waves the wind brought up on the lake. Laughter filled the air, the laughter of friends, nearly family. Scott knew Rogue as well as any of them except perhaps for Gambit, and at least enough to know that a day like today would let her forget, at least for a little while, the curse of her mutant powers.

  But nothing, not the most beautiful day imaginable, ever seemed to shake the grimly serious man known as Bishop. Scott watched as Storm served to Bishop's team again, prompting a brief volley from Bobby to Hank, back to Gambit then Rogue, and finally to Bishop, who slammed it out of bounds again.

  "Good one, Bish!" Bobby shouted, good-naturedly mocking his teammate's ineptitude.

  "You mean that was out as well?" Bishop asked in earnest amazement. "What, then, would be 'in bounds?' What a foolish game this is!"

  "You realize, Bishop," Hank put in, walking across the grass on his hands, "that your protestations commenced immediately subsequent to the reversal of your team's fortunes in this contest."

  Bishop gritted his teeth, his temple pulsing under the scar of the letter M that had been branded onto his dark skin. His fists tensed and muscles bunched under his sky blue T-shirt, before relaxing again. He looked down at his sneakers amidst a pause in the day's festivities—everyone seemed to be holding their breath, ever unsure of how the enigmatic man would react. Then, incredibly, a small smile crept across his face.

  "Serve the ball, Beast," Bishop said. "I'm going to kick your fuzzy blue ass from here to Manhattan."

  Scott laughed along with the others, as Hank assured Bishop he was more than happy to oblige. It was a refreshing moment, one of many that fine day. While the rest of them often had an edge, Archangel particularly, they were all capable of letting off steam from time to time. Until that moment, Scott had wondered whether Bishop would ever take a moment to relax.

  Not that his constant alarm and grim countenance were difficult to understand. Bishop had come from a future where the X-Men were little more than a legend to which one might aspire. It was a world gone drastically wrong, where mutants had been subjugated, hounded and destroyed, and had only begun to rebuild some kind of life on Earth before Bishop was lost in time. He had been a mutant policeman there, a member of the XSE, whose job was hunting outlaw mutants.

  They didn't know if the world of Bishop's time was an inevitability, but ever since his arrival in their own time, the X-Men had fought to make certain it never came about. Scott himself had often been accused of being far too serious, but he hadn't heard that criticism very often since Bishop's arrival. He hoped that they both were learning to relax when the opportunity came.

  "Uh-uh, Hank," Wolverine said, his voice a low rumble as always. "It's time for the 01' Canucklehead to serve. Me an' the Cajun got a score to settle."

  "Ah, indeed," Hank said with a sm
ile, "how could we forget the little matter of the exploding ball from our last game? By all means, Wolverine. Your serve."

  "Hey, no fair," Bobby called. "You guys have been pretty strict with our team on the boundary lines. I don't think you should serve out of order now."

  "What's the matter, Bobby?" Storm asked. "It's only a game."

  "Maybe to you it is, petite," Gambit finally piped up, his Cajun patois marking every word with his New Orleans heritage, "but to us boys, winning ain't everyt'ing, it de only t'ing."

  "You're such a sexist, Remy Lefseau,' Rogue snapped. "I don't know why I put up with you."

  "Must be love, chere," Gambit said with a lustful grin, rubbing the ever-present bristle on his chin. "Got to be love."

  "Heads up, Cajun!" Wolverine growled, then smashed the ball across the net.

  Scott watched the volley, dimly aware of Jean and the Professor behind him. He could hear nothing, but he assumed they were. communicating telepathically. Charles Xavier was the most powerful psi the world had ever known, his telepathy unmatched anywhere. And he had spent years training Jean so that she was, if not gifted with as much raw power, then certainly nearly as adept at using those same powers.

  The game continued, Gambit's natural agility helping his side immeasurably, though the entire team was in peak condition. Scott found Gambit fascinating, and strangely, had never been able to completely trust the Cajun. Like Rogue, he had done questionable things, his past shrouded in mystery and intrigue. When Rogue had reformed, there was no question in his mind about her sincerity. With Gambit however, a member of the New Orleans Thieves' Guild for most of his life, it was another story. Though Gambit was an integral part of the team, and Scott was as certain as he could be of the man's loyalty, there always seemed to be a hidden, personal agenda behind Remy LeBeau's actions.

  Nothing of the sort could be said about Wolverine. What you saw with Logan was what you got. His heart was as bare as the gleaming adamantium claws that burst from his knuckles whenever he needed them. None of them knew his age, his full name, or more than the most significant details of his past before he joined the X-Men. But there was no deception involved, for Wolverine himself knew little more than they. He'd been a covert operative before he was experimented upon, by whom he did not know. He'd been nearly savage then as well, but had thankfully grown less so over the years.