New X-Men #7: “War Machines” (Part One of the Future War)
Rated PG-13 for violence and language

by R. John Burke

DISCLAIMER: The X-Men are a copyright of Marvel Comics. I don't own them, but this is only non-profit fan fiction. No money is involved and no infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place after "New X-Men #1-6" and X-Men Eternity: The Crossroads. Jean and Mindee's history is from “eXcalibur Eternity #1-6.” It is encouraged to read those stories first.

--

PREVIOUSLY IN NEW X-MEN: ETERNITY

An alternate ending to the House of M saw the reborn Jean Grey interrupt the Scarlet Witch's reality shift. Their collision scattered the X-Men across five timelines. One team, led by Storm, awoke 25 years into an alternate future where the mutant Gene Nation and human liberation army Invictus split the world with their endless war.

The greatest heroes of the mutant side were Jean and Scott Summers-- now deceased-- and Elisabeth Braddock, the ruthless general called Psylocke. During their stay in this timeline, Bishop and X-23 rescued Psylocke from her imprisonment.

Meanwhile, Storm learned that her alternate self was a traitor who used her great power to conquer the African nation of Wakanda. With the help of another mutant soldier, Victor Creed, Storm and her team set things right before returning home.

Shortly thereafter, the future reality's troubles came back to haunt the X-Men. Nathan Christopher Summers, this reality's version of Cable, kidnapped Professor Charles Xavier, whom he believes is the only man who can bring peace to his dying world. Now Scott and Jean have tracked their “son” to his dark future, intent on saving their mentor.

Meanwhile, a long-forgotten group of mutants is about to arise, a group dedicated to Xavier's principles and sworn to protect this reality as its new X-Men...

--

Los Angeles, California
July 2032
Alternate Reality #502

Outside Room 202 at the MacTaggart Medical Center, on the other side of an almost comical man-shaped hole in the wall, the world exploded with flame and light, and the earth itself trembled with the cosmic power of the Phoenix. That creature's scream rent the air, an outcry of terrible fury and boundless destructive potential. Inside the room, its newest visitor could only squeeze shut his eyes and wish he owned conventional ears, so he could cover those, too. It sounded like the end of the world.

It wasn't. (- as you know if you read about this battle in New X-Men #6 and The Crossroads) Ever so slowly, it turned into a regular scuffle between super-powered combatants, and then even that was done and the terror subsided. But the visitor to the hospital room, a pasty-faced mutant shapeshifter named Morph, remained thoroughly impressed as he quirked one eye open. His malleable jaw dropped straight to the ground, and the balloons he'd brought with him floated up to the ceiling as his grip slackened.

“Holy Mother McCree, that is one pissed-off birdie...”

He did not exaggerate, but the room's main occupant hadn't even stirred. Kurt Wagner remained lost in a fitful, pain-filled sleep as the battle raged around him. Only the shallow movement of his chest and the beeping of a heart monitor testified to Morph that his friend still lived.

Slowly, Morph shook off his astonishment and turned to the bed. “I'll bet this was Cable's fault, right? No, don't try to defend him, that boy's got a serious attitude problem. I've half a mind to take him over my knee and--” Morph thought again of the powerful telepath who'd just gone toe-to-toe with a Phoenix. “--and give him a nice backrub while somebody else gives him a PIECE OF THEIR MIND!”

Morph sighed. He knew his words would have fallen on deaf ears, even if Kurt had been conscious. The feud between aging X-Man and second-generation telepath had lasted more than twenty years, since that terrible day when the Sentinels tracked down Cable's parents. He blamed Kurt Wagner for that (- NXM #6), and Morph didn't know enough details to say who was right or wrong. He knew which one he trusted, though, and since he hadn't been a new X-Man for more than a day, he thought it terribly rude of young Summers to go punching holes in his boss already.

“Kids today. You feed 'em, you clothe 'em, you clean up after 'em when they leak protoplasm all over their centrifuge, and what does it get you? Heartache. And child-support payments, as though you had any IDEA a Changeling could be genetically compatible with a flatscan when you-- HEM! But enough about me, buddy, how are you feeling? A little under the weather? Want me to fluff your pillows? Make you a sandwich? Comb the nits out of your fur?”

Kurt didn't answer, but the sound of his own voice soothed Morph, as it always did. By the time the gaggle of nurses and orderlies showed up to see who was battering down their walls, he was ready to take command of the situation.

“Everybody stand back!” he snapped, turning himself into a giant “NO TRESPASSING” sign. “Official X-Man Business! Nothing to see here!”

Then the security guards arrived, and they seemed to disagree. Morph realized abruptly that he wasn't sure how many outstanding warrants might remain on Kurt from his days of fighting the Magnus regime. (For that matter, there might have been a few on -him- as well, stemming from less noble pursuits.) He came to a sudden decision and extended his arms into tentacles, grabbing Kurt off the bed and ripping him away from a passle of wires. That probably wasn't healthy, but it beat what would happen to the elf if, say, Emma Frost got her hands on him.

Slinging Kurt over his shoulder, Morph turned his feet into springs and bounded out through the hole in the wall. The security guards fired a few shots; their target was made of gelatinous white goo instead of flesh, so it didn't prove as effective as they'd probably hoped. In moments, Morph was fleeing the hospital grounds with alarms sounding in the background.

Kurt moaned softly and nearly rolled off Morph's shoulder. The shapeshifter grew some straps to hold him in place, then ducked down a side stride to throw off pursuit.

“Relax, buddy, we're almost home-free.” Or so he hoped. Kurt was badly wounded; Morph searched his memory for anybody he might know with the resources to heal a sick mutant and the discretion to keep it quiet from the feds. That was a toughie, but--

“By George, I think I've got it!” Morph said, snapping one set of fingers while he adjusted a hastily-adopted monocle with the other. “It's just a lucky thing for you I happened by, that's all. Heck, it's bowling night, so I almost didn't. I hope the guys can manage without me-- I'm our lucky ball!”

Trailing a steady stream of such meaningless chatter, Morph and his unconscious comrade disappeared into the night.

--

A Few Days Later
Immediately Following “The Crossroads”

--Charles? Can you hear me, Charles?--

Charles Xavier did hear the voice in his head, but it seemed to be coming from a very great distance. His mind felt fuzzy, slow to process information, and his arms were as reluctant as his crippled legs to respond to his commands. The last thing he remembered was... playing gin rummy?

The voice laughed. --Yes, Charles, I was sorry to spoil your game. Kitty Pryde picked gin, didn't she? Man like you, I'll bet you'd have preferred chess. All you eggheads seem to love chess.--

Xavier moaned softly. He was... lying down. It was dark. There was something covering his face, probably blocking his telepathy. Although his perceptions were skewed, Xavier thought he detected movement-- he was being taken somewhere against his will. He pulled himself together enough to respond: --Actually, Kitty's a wonderful chess player. It was I who chose the simpler game. I was... tired of thinking.--

Another bitter laugh. --Doesn't surprise me, after all those wheels within wheels. How -did- you save your people from the Slayer, anyway, Charles?--

A stab of pain, as Xavier's brain bumped up against a mental block he himself had installed. He -had- done something following the House of M, something from beyond time, and it was all somehow very important. And very secret. The immediate problem of the villainous Slayer had passed, but still he protected the secret, especially from... Cable?

No, not the Cable he knew. Another man, younger, the son of Scott and Jean from another dimension, who wanted him to... what?

--Oh, don't worry about that, Charles,-- said the voice in his head. --Don't worry about that at all. We'll keep you busy. For now, just... lay back and enjoy the trip.--

Most of the antagonists Charles Xavier had dealt with over the years-- and there had been many-- would have sounded smug, amused, even gloating. Cable's sense wasn't any of those things. Instead, he felt grimly certain he was doing the right thing. Perhaps the only thing. Somehow that frightened Xavier all the more.

--

Denver, Colorado
The M Building-- Seat of America's Mutant Government

Emma Frost knew someone was in her rooms before she opened the door, but she feigned ignorance. For one thing, it wouldn't do to make a scene. As Chancellor of the Exchequer, Emma held the second-most important spot in the entire mutant government-- a government thrown into chaos by the recent assassinations of Minister of State Katherine Pryde and unofficial (but much-respected) ambassador Henry McCoy (- New X-Men #3-4). They'd had more than enough excitement of late.

For another thing, she knew who it was almost instantly-- and though she was not particularly pleased to know the person, know them she did, and their presence now was not entirely a bad thing. It could even be made to work to Emma's advantage. Really, in the final analysis, everything could be made to work to Emma's advantage.

She turned to her aide-- now well into middle age, Emma still retained her blonde hair (which was every bit as natural as it had ever been, or so people said with a straight face) and the most regal appearance money could buy, but more and more she barely recognized herself in the mirror. Luckily she had her girls, whose cool blonde beauty reminded her more than a little of the White Queen she'd once been.

“That will be all for tonight, Sophie, thank you. Oh-- no comms tomorrow until at least noon. I'm not to be disturbed.”

Nothing unusual in that request-- Emma spent at least as much time tending to personal business as government business. Sophie nodded. “Of course. No one except the Prime Minister will--”

“Not him either, dear. We've had a falling-out.”

Sophie arched an eyebrow-- but if she was looking for gossip or an explanation, she would be disappointed. “As you wish. Good night, Miss Frost.”

“Good night, dear.”

Then she was gone, and Emma stepped into her chambers. She closed the door, consigning herself to darkness, and waited for her eyes to adjust. She moved toward her dresser as though she meant to change, but then just stopped and waited. Five seconds... ten...

-Now- she felt the blade across her throat. A harsh voice said: “Move once, you stupid bint. You'll make me very happy.”

“Sorry,” Emma said easily. “This is my best evening gown. I won't be providing you any excuses to spill blood all over it.”

She waited, hoping she hadn't misjudged her visitor too badly. After all, it had been a -long- time...

The other woman sighed and stepped back, removing her blade. Emma nodded and flicked on the light.

She turned. “Elisabeth Braddock, as I live and breathe.”

“You do both at my sufferance, Emma. Don't forget that.”

“Oh, I don't imagine you'll let me.” Emma looked her visitor up and down. Betsy Braddock, better known as the mutant general Psylocke, had been a prisoner of the humans for better than eight years. (Emma ought to have known; she'd had any number of opportunities to negotiate for the other woman's release, and had tactfully bypassed them.) She showed the wear of that experience-- there were bags under her eyes and a hundred scars visible on the once-alabaster skin of her arms and neck. Even worse scars could be felt in her mind if Emma had half an inclination to explore them, which she decidedly didn't. At least Betsy had found time to dye her hair purple before showing up here-- she wouldn't have been Psylocke without that gimmick.

“How did you know I was in the room?” Betsy asked, chagrined. “I was careful...”

“Yes, you're as powerful as ever, Elisabeth, but your psi technique lacks... sophistication. I suppose all those years out of circulation have dulled your edge.” Emma put a few steps of distance between them, just in case, but kept her expression neutral. “I heard a rumor you'd escaped. If I'd known it was true, I'd have prepared a more fitting reception.”

“No doubt,” said Betsy, her lips quirking upward. “Nathan helped rescued me. I suppose he didn't tell you?”

Emma shook her head. She'd all but raised Nathan Christopher Summers, the son of her dead lover Scott (- see NXM #6), but she'd thoroughly failed to instill in him a proper sense of self-interest. “We don't speak since he left the service. He has no use for my advice and I, no patience for tilting at windmills.”

“Pity. I knew I liked that boy.”

Emma glared-- mentioning Nathan was one of the few ways to get past her facade and under her skin, which no doubt was why Betsy had done it. “Elisabeth, luv, it's very late. Suppose you tell me what you want and I'll turn you down and we can go back to a pleasant state of denying each other's existence.”

Betsy took a step forward. The ferocity emanating from her took Emma off-guard. Just how much psychological damage had the humans inflicted?

“Careful, Emma. I'm here to do you a favor. I had a look at more than one tactical report before I arrived. I see the war is still where I left it.”

Emma tried on a sneer. “We wouldn't dream of finishing it without you.”

“Wouldn't you? From what I've seen, it's impossible to escape the conclusion that you're losing. You know I can change that.”

“Can you?”

Betsy nodded, a single sharp jerk of the chin. Her eyes shone with anticipation-- she'd always been a warrior, this one, even before the humans raised the stakes.

“Give me back my command,” she all but pleaded.

“You know I can't do that. I'm not the Minister of War.”

“Then call the sodding Minister of War,” Betsy said through gritted teeth. “Just get it done.”

Emma frowned. That would have been Raven Darkholme-- Mystique. Wouldn't -her- presence up here just complete a perfect night? She tried a tentative probe of Betsy's mind-- the other didn't try to stop her-- and shuddered. She saw what she expected, and more. Eight years of torture, of hating her captors with a zeal that bordered on the fanatical. Eight years of scheming, with nothing to do but dream up ways to hurt the humans, some of them fairly promising...

She stepped back and nodded to Betsy, acknowledging their mutual dislike of the enemy and her horror, however clinical, at what Betsy had suffered. Then she reached for the comm.

“Raven?” she said. “It's Emma. Will you come to my chambers, please? Yes, I know the hour. It's urgent. No, that's all right-- no need to call Shaw. We'll let it be just us girls, for now... call it a slumber party.”

Emma Frost smiled, both at Mystique's confusion and the possibilities this situation presented for them all. When the Minister of War demanded to know what was going on, Emma gave a wicked smile and said two words: “She's back.”

Raven Darkholme appeared at her door less than three minutes later.

--

Commonwealth of Wakanda

Victor Creed was pulling up stakes.

As a brigadier general in the Special Ops branch, Creed's job was to go places Invictus didn't want him and cause a great deal of damage when he got there. Most recently, that had meant landing a team in Wakanda to bargain with or, more probably, eliminate the Lady Ororo, a usurping weather witch who'd been getting entirely too friendly with the humans since deposing the nation's former (human) ruler, King T'Challa.

To all outward appearances, the job was done, and Creed hadn't had to lift a finger. First a version of Storm had appeared from another timeline to bump off the old Wind-Rider, then when she became a threat, her sidekick Bishop had turned around and tracked -her- down. (- see New X-Men #5-6)

Now it had been several days since either Storm was heard from. Reports were filtering in from the capital that Storm was gone for good, and T'Challa back in power. Creed had sent some scouts to confirm, but meanwhile he was left with loose ends-- an old lady named Callisto and the junior telepath she watched over, members of the good Storm's team who got left behind in all the hullabaloo. If Creed had his own way, he'd have iced -both- frails, but Callisto had connections to a member of the House of Lords and the kid was frankly a little scary, so the general supposed he'd let them live another day. Seemed like a pity, though.

Just when Creed was about to crack open one of the celebratory beers he wasn't supposed to have, his comm buzzed, and he slapped at it. “Go.”

“General,” said a nervous voice-- most of Creed's men sounded nervous when they talked to him, and for good reason. “It looks like Bishop's back with his team.”

Creed nodded, hoping for confirmation of the kill on Storm. “Tell him he did good. He gets back here on the double, there might even be an ice-cold beer with his name on it.”

“Yes, but sir... he's not alone.” The soldier swallowed hard. “Sir, there are two women with him. One of them...”

“Storm?” Creed guessed, suddenly alert.

“No, sir... General, I think-- I think it's the Phoenix!”

Victor Creed swore-- in colorful terms, he questioned the legitimacy of all his soldiers, everybody in Wakanda, and all of their ancestors going back several generations. Then he vowed to kill something. Because really, in a situation where even beer couldn't make him feel better, that was the only cure.

--

-Welcome to the future, Jean Grey,- the redheaded woman quoted to herself, -hope you survive the... aw, never mind.-

When she'd first been invited to be part of the team that would travel to Reality 502 in search of the alternate Cable and his captive, Jean Grey's main concern had been for her personal life. Of course she wanted to help Charles, but serving on this team meant working with Scott, and ever since the whole psychic cheating/skanky girlfriend/sudden and horrible death... thing... well, to put it mildly, the magic had gone out of Jean's relationship with the man she'd once loved more than anything in the world.

Besides, she'd only just come back to life! How often did that happen? To an X-Man, not more than five or six times, tops! There were so many things she wanted to do, people she wanted to see... she hadn't even checked in with her family yet, mostly because she didn't know what to tell them. “Hiya, folks, I'm undead again!” didn't seem to cut it. Jean needed time to think, to find herself, to determine what the hell a semi-retired ex-Phoenix was supposed to do with her third go-'round.

Maybe it was to avoid those questions that she'd jumped at this mission. One thing X-Men weren't generally cursed with was that pesky time to think.

Or maybe she really -wanted- time with Scott. Time away from Emma, to find out whether this new arrangement was what he really wanted or just some horrible misunderstanding caused by his grief over Jean's death. It wasn't that, of course-- Jean could tell with the barest mind-touch that his feelings for Emma were real, which made the dissolution of their marriage equally real. But maybe some part of her needed to be sure.

Or maybe she was just a sucker. Whatever her reason for accompanying Scott, Bishop, and the others into this future reality, one thing Jean had never really worried about was her own safety. Why should she? Apparently she couldn't die if she -tried,- so what could this future hold that would present a threat?

The answer to that question, which she might have calculated herself if she'd really put her mind to it, was: “A bunch of angry, war-weary people with fantastic weaponry, nothing to lose, and a healthy fear of unanticipated threats.” Even Jean couldn't deny that her connection to the Phoenix made her a threat to those around her, so she couldn't blame the denizens of Reality 502 for their caution.

But she sort of wished they'd limit themselves to aiming less than 30 guns at her.

Along with X-23 and Bishop, she strode through a clearing toward a line of their soldiers, all of whom were locked and loaded, with an alternate Victor Creed-- in Jean's reality, the murderous Sabretooth-- in the middle. Jean aimed herself at him, figuring that if things got really unpleasant and she ended up having to break things, well, he would be the thing she'd regret breaking least.

“Easy,” Bishop murmured. “This guy's a little intense, but he's not full-on psycho like our Sabretooth. He may not want a fight.”

“He does,” X-23 whispered. As a clone of Wolverine, she had more reason than any of them to be wary. “I can smell it...”

They stopped in front of Creed. He motioned to his soldiers. Apparently the gesture didn't mean “lower your weapons,” because none of them did that.

“Where's the witch?” Creed asked. At least there was no awkward small talk.

“She went home,” Bishop said, which was the literal truth. Actually, Storm was off with Logan now in yet another reality. (- see our X-Force series) Close enough. “We're just here to collect our people and get out of your hair.”

Creed turned to Jean-- then he approached entirely too close and -smelled- Jean, right at the nape of her neck. She shuddered violently, but didn't lobotomize him, for which she thought she deserved some kind of medal.

“I don't believe it. You're really Lady Grey...”

Jean saw respect in his eyes-- a most unfamiliar expression on Sabretooth's face. It lasted about four seconds. Then--

SHIKT. Two adamantium-laced claws appeared between them. Creed looked down-- down-- down at their pint-sized teenage scrapper.

“Help you with something, kid?”

“Guess,” X-23 said, and gutted him without preamble.

Creed howled and fell on his knees. His soldiers opened fire-- Jean stopped their bullets with a telekinetic shield. A few of them had energy weapons, and Bishop stepped in front of her to catch those bolts. They could hold out for a few minutes.

But Creed was already healing. Would they be able to stop him, when he did? If Jean lost concentration for even a moment...

--What do you think, Miss Grey?-- said a voice in her head. --Time for a do-over?--

Jean almost jumped-- it was the telepathic voice of Mindee Cuckoo, whom they'd come to Wakanda to retrieve. When Jean had last seen the girl, she'd been in a puddle of her own blood, brutally murdered in one of the other realities. It was actually her sister Esme whom Storm had left here, but a bit of telepathic body-swapping during that business with the Slayer had left Mindee as the Stepford Cuckoo in this timeline. (- see NXM #5, eXcalibur #5-6, and The Crossroads.)

It was good to see her for more reasons than one: Even Jean couldn't track all these bullets -and- blank dozens of minds at the same time. But two telepaths, working together...

--Let's try it,-- she decided, and they went to work.

It took an effort-- far more effort than Jean had expected to make when she woke up this morning-- but she expelled the airborne bullets as hard as she could, buying herself a second, and then linked minds with Mindee, spreading their area of influence outward... further...

And then, suddenly, it was done. The clearing fell eerily silent as all of Creed's soldiers stood slack-jawed and helpless. It would only last a few minutes.

And Creed wasn't affected. He still kneeled before him, growling impotently while he waited for his stomach to stitch back together. He glared at X-23 and she looked a challenge back at him, until a strong hand came down on her shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” Bishop growled.

“I was saying hello.” She glanced at Sabretooth. “Was that not clear?”

He snarled. “Go. Get the hell outta here. If you weren't with Lady Grey, I'd...”

Jean blinked. She got automatic deference from -Sabretooth- here? She'd been to some screwed-up realities in her time, but that might take the prize.

“She won't mind,” said X-23. “I need two seconds to finish.”

“Grrraaaaaarrrrr...”

Before Creed could work up a good berserker rage, Bishop stepped between them. “X, stand down!”

“But he--”

“Stand down! You listen to me, and listen good: This is your -only- warning. It was my idea to bring you back here, and the next time you pull a stunt like that, I will ship your butt back home with a note to have you declawed. We should all be dead right now!”

“Not too late,” Creed rumbled.

“TRY i--” X-23 began, but again her way was blocked.

“You want to fight him, you go through me. I know you heal, girl. Don't think I won't blast you.”

X-23 glared up at Bishop. He towered over her-- the contest of wills would have seemed comical if it wasn't in such deadly earnest.

“You'll lose,” she said quietly. “We fight, you lose.”

“Want to bet?” Bishop said, sounding out the words. “I am not playing with you, X. That was damn stupid. Do -not- do it again.”

For a moment, Jean thought the girl would attack. Then she snarled something unintelligible, turned, and walked back the way she'd come. Jean Grey hadn't known X-23 long, but she got the distinct impression that was the first time she'd ever backed down from anything.

She glanced sideways at her friend. “Lucas Bishop, Parental Authority Figure?”

“Authority, hell,” he grumbled. “Somebody's got to keep that kid alive.”

“Keep her away from me, then,” Creed said, finding his feet and gathering as much dignity as he could. “That goes for -all- of you.”

“We'll remember,” Bishop promised. He turned back to Jean. “And speaking of our protégées...”

“Miss Grey!” cried an enthusiastic voice. Mindee plowed into her at Quicksilver speed, nearly knocking the other woman down and dislodging their telepathic control. Jean held on, though, and so did Mindee, in a fierce hug. “I thought I'd never see you again...”

“I could say the same,” said Jean. She took another look around at the soldiers, their murderous general, and the devastated countryside around them. “Come on-- let's hold the reunion somewhere else.”

Mindee nodded. She said Callisto was waiting in their ship, just over the rise...

--

Which was true, Callisto was. But she wasn't thinking about Jean Grey, her friends, or anything else in Wakanda at the moment. Instead, she was phoning home as part of her day job, as bodyguard and retainer to the Lady Sarah-- Marrow, one of this world's unlikely mutant nobles. (- NXM #2)

“You heard from WHO?!” she said for the third time, and Sarah repeated herself. “I'll be damned...”

“Just get back here,” Sarah said. “We have a lot of plans to make.”

Callisto glanced out of the cockpit, and saw Bishop and the others coming over the rise. Then she caught the red hair on the one, and whistled softly. To Sarah, she said, “WHOLE lot of plans. You'll never guess who they brought with 'em this time...”

Sarah heard her out, then agreed that Jean Grey's reappearance could lead to some interesting plans, to say the least...

--

September 2032
Invictus Military Command
The Baxter Building, New York

Colonel Matthew Gregson felt as though he were being dissected.

A tall man in impeccable uniform with a neat blond beard, Gregson didn't often get nervous. He was a fixer, an agent commissioned and trained to hunt down mutants, and he was far better accustomed to inspiring nervousness in others. Now he was on the spot himself, and didn't like it one bit.

James Rhodes was a three-star general, a middle-aged black man with a strong jaw and piercing eyes. The left eye sported a scar that ran down to his cheek; he'd made his reputation as one of Tony Stark's War Machines during the first of the human-mutant conflicts, which meant he was no fool like the majority of IMC brass. At least, Gregson hoped that was what it meant.

His gaze shifted, to the map of North American that took up the better part of one wall. Reed Richards had thoughtfully left this building equipped with all manner of cutting-edge holographic technology before the old quack had croaked. Now his invention, no doubt designed for some peaceful application, was being used to keep score between humans and mutants.

Not that anybody expected much to change. Decades of warfare had left the battle lines pretty well drawn-- Asia and Australia and most of Chile and Argentina belonged to the good guys, Europe and the balance of South America to the freaks. Africa was a charred-out cinder that nobody wanted anymore, but everybody fought over. And in North America, the same basic stalemate had held for years: Invictus had reclaimed the eastern half of the continent, out to the Mississippi River. West of that was territory still in the muties' grasp, although human forces had been making impressive inroads. Emphasis on the “had been.”

The glowing points on the map glared at him in accusation. Mississippi in flames as that swamp rat LeBeau and his Thieves' Guild mounted raid after raid from Louisiana. Most of Ontario experiencing open rebellion, thanks to their damn Alpha Flight. Wisconsin cut off from the rest of the US, as Gene Nation forces struck out from Minnesota and Iowa, driving hard for Chicago. And speaking of Chicago...

Gregson hissed. Perhaps the most damaging loss of all had come this summer, when mutant rebels had struck out of nowhere to destroy the Mutant Processing Facility in Galena, Illinois. (- New X-Men #2-3) Dozens of telepathic Hounds, lost forever-- or worse, retrained and let loose on them as agents of the enemy. No, Gregson's superiors in IMC were not at all pleased, and he didn't blame them.

He only wished they weren't blaming -him,- personally. He wrung his hands together, the soft leather of his gloves pressing against his skin. It might have been a soothing sensation, if he'd been in the mood to be soothed.

“What was it you said in your report, Colonel?” Rhodes asked, deceptively polite. “Unremarkable beta-class mutants? Nothing better to do than send them to the camps? Weren't those your words?”

“Yes,” Gregson sighed. No use denying it-- the report was on file. All Invictus knew by now how he'd had the mutants called Bishop and X-23 in his grasp and allowed them to escape-- and they, in turn, had sparked the uprising in Galena. If he was going to be cashiered for that, or worse, better to have it over with.

“Do you think, just possibly, you may have been in error?”

“No, sir,” said Gregson stiffly. The older man frowned at him. “Those muties -were- unremarkable. One of them was even a clone.”

“You underestimate all your enemies like that? If you'd taken her a bit more seriously, you might have seen this coming.”

“Maybe so, sir--” although Gregson didn't believe it as he spoke, “but those two mutants weren't the problem. I used to crush a hundred like them every day. Sir, we both know the real problem.”

“Psylocke,” said the general in an angry growl.

Practically nobody-- nobody -human-- spoke of Elisabeth Braddock in anything but an angry growl these days. The mutant general had pioneered the alliance with the Thieves' Guild, rebuilt Alpha Flight, and personally spearheaded the Chicago offensive... all their problems, including the groundswell of mutant morale after they'd nearly beat the freaks into the ground, could be traced to her. And Gregson wasn't the idiot who'd left her under loose supervision for eight long years at Galena, just waiting for someone like Bishop to come along and offer her a shot at revenge. To Gregson's thinking, -that- fool was the one who deserved to be cashiered-- assuming he wasn't dead already, and considering the attitude at IMC these days, one never knew.

“She's only one woman,” said General Rhodes. “I won't allow my soldiers to be frightened by a legend, nor can I give up the whole game because of one angry telepath.”

“No, sir, but Braddock is considerably more than just a legend. She's the best they have.” Gregson straightened his collar. “I've fought against her, sir. I -know-.”

The general frowned, steepled his fingers in front of his face, and said, “If you have a suggestion, Colonel, now's the time.”

Gregson smiled. Here was where he turned the tables. “I have a plan, sir.”

“As effective as your last one?”

“Sir, my plan succeeded. Your -guards- failed. And this time, there won't be any mistakes because I'll see to it personally. I'm still a fixer, sir. I will get you Psylocke. I will bring her to you on a platter.”

Rhodes narrowed his eyes. “I sense a 'but,' Colonel.”

“-But-... I need the authority to make it work. It's your call, sir. I'm sure the President won't be -too- displeased if Braddock wins a few more battles before she's caught... will he?”

The General looked distinctly uncomfortable. Then he studied the map himself and said, “What do you need?”

Thirty minutes after he'd entered the Baxter Building with his career in the balance, Matthew Gregson exited with a brevet rank of major general. He also left with one other small thing he had requested from James Rhodes, something he hoped would make even Psylocke sit up and take notice...

--

St. Louis, Missouri

The man at the bar was either a mutant or a good-sized defensive tackle. You couldn't always tell in St. Louis, which was in its second month as an “open city” on the border. It was technically in mutant territory, but in the wake of Minister Pryde's death, Gene Nation's parliament had finally signed off on one of her pet projects-- preserving the hotly contested Gateway City by making it a place where humans and mutants could mingle, interact, and even trade freely. Both sides benefited, and the peacemakers got to feel like they'd accomplished something while the world around them fell apart.

Ironically, when they'd signed off on the treaty, Parliament had looked to be getting a pretty good deal-- Invictus raids had been pounding St. Louis into rubble, and they'd been only days away from taking the city straight-out.

That was before Psylocke. Now it appeared the flatscans had pulled off a swindle, negotiating a foothold in an area they'd otherwise had been kicked out of-- probably with a bloody nose.

The man at the bar grunted. Didn't make much difference to him, either way. Let the half-wits in this screwed-up reality kill each other. He was here to settle a family obligation, and that was all.

The man's name was Cain Marko, and once upon a time, he'd been the embodiment of a rather disagreeable demon named Cyttorak, who had turned him into a human Juggernaut. Unfortunately, Cain's temperament was such that not even mystical demons could abide him for long, and he didn't have much use for them, either. Now he was just a really big, really strong guy with a chip on his shoulder and the vague idea that he might want to do something decent before he died. He wasn't sure if rescuing his stepbrother, Charles Xavier, from this latest mess would qualify as decent, but hell, a guy did have to look after his own. Even when he couldn't really stand his own.

Cain gulped down his drink, just as another man sat on the stool beside him and cleared his throat. “How many of those have you had?”

“What're you, my nanny?” The Juggernaut rolled his eyes and ordered another round.

The man beside him, who looked pretty ridiculous with a wig and false scar to hide his famous face, toyed with the frames of his ruby-quartz sunglasses. “No, I'm your team leader. That means your problems are my problems, and Cain, I don't know if you've noticed, but you have an anger-management problem.”

“Go to hell,” Cain said, by way of conceding the point.

“It's worse when you're drunk-- or when it's Thursday. Now, I can't stop it from being Thursday, but I can stop you from being drunk, so I repeat: How many have you had?”

Cain frowned down at the smaller man. He'd got along pretty well with his previous team leader, who happened to be this guy's brother, but then Alex Summers was just a little uptight and insecure, whereas Scott was all-out bitter and repressed. Alex had accepted Cain on his team almost from the first day he'd wanted to be an X-Man; Scott had turned him down cold. -And- for years, Scott had been the prize pupil of his beloved step-brother, upon which the old geek could spend all the familial warmth that had been wasted on Cain. There was no love lost between the Juggernaut and Cyclops, and probably never would be.

But this was business, and Cain Marko was a professional-- of a sort-- so he could live with it. For a while. Getting between a guy and his beer, though, that was low.

“Relax, Scottie,” he said as he quaffed the latest round. “This is only my third. Or so.”

Cyclops sighed, looking slightly pained. “I knew it was a mistake to bring you here.”

“What're you, kiddin' me? This place is -great!- They can hardly agree on any laws at all! An' the stuff you can get... d'you know this is the only place west of the Mississippi where they sell human movies? Saw me one last night with Mary-Jane Parker in it. Whoo! You talk about a babe... she's got this one scene where she-- aww, whatsa matter, Scottie?” Cain trailed off, seeing his leader's annoyance. “She not your type? I -know- ya like redheads...”

“Cain, I want you to understand something,” Scott spoke very slowly, eyes invisible behind his shades. “I brought you here because of your relationship to the professor. You're family; it's your business. My personal life is -not- your business, and the next time you bring it up, I'm going to blast you another two decades into the future, and you can look for Xavier there. Now, are we clear, mister?”

Cain stared at the Cyclops for about ten seconds, his face turning beet red. Then he couldn't hold it in anymore; he let out a thunderous guffaw of laughter and thumped Scott several times on the back. Then he ordered two more drinks.

“Cain--” Scott warned him.

“Aw, shaddup, Scottie. I'm buyin'.”

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Yeah. No buttin' into each other's personal life. Fair enough. But Scottie... this is it.”

The bartender placed a round in front of Scott, and he frowned. “Your personal life is... beer?”

“Yup.”

“Wow. That's... wow.” Scott shrugged. “You desperately need a woman. This explains a lot.”

“Tell me about it, but She-Hulk ain't returnin' my calls. Guess it's just me an' Mary Jane for now, eh?”

Scott looked down at the beer, sipped it, then frowned at Cain. “Maybe we shouldn't talk -at all-.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

--

A little distance away, another man wasn't making nearly so much progress on his drink. He was a Cheyenne Indian with a bionic hand and a noticeable scowl. It was the kind of scowl a man might wear if he'd spent all day hunting for something-- like a lost wallet or a birthday present or a power coil for a multidimensional crossover matrix. He'd been led to believe recent advances on the human side of the border might have made the kind of cutting-edge merchandise he needed available here in the Open City... for the right price. Not that he actually -had- the right price, but if the man called Forge could have even gotten a good look at such a device, his instinctive understanding of machines would have taken it from there. That was what it meant to be the Maker.

Another thing it meant was, people expected you to be able to give them whatever they wanted, yesterday. They didn't understand the time factors involved in even -his- process of creation. Forge was here for one reason: To develop a dimensional teleporter they could use to pass between their various timelines at will, instead of needing a telepath all the time. (- see The Crossroads) He knew some of his teammates were disappointed in his relative lack of progress over the last two months. Well, tonight, Forge thought they could just kiss his...

“Hey, stranger,” said a voice beside him.

Forge found himself staring into pale green eyes, attached to a shapely lilac body. Clarice Ferguson-- Blink-- had been an X-Man only since the start of the business with the Slayer (- in Uncanny #1), but her experience in hopping to strange timelines had already proved invaluable. She took a seat next to Forge without being asked, and waited for him to say something. When he didn't...

“You looked like you could use a friend.”

“Just tired,” Forge said. He toyed with the idea of lifting his glass, but did not. “How'd it go today?”

“Nothing. Nowhere. Zero. -Damn- Cable.”

Forge arched an eyebrow. “Don't hold out, Blink. Tell me how you really feel.”

She grunted. “I feel like I'm wasting my time. First we looked for your professor at Cable's base in Iowa-- abandoned. Then we tried LA-- no luck. Then the seat of government in Denver-- tossed out on our ears. Meanwhile, my friends in the Exiles have probably been to a dozen worlds by now, and for all I know they're dying without my--”

“I know!” Forge snarled, lashing out and knocking his glass off the table. It shattered with a satisfying -crunch.- He offered no apologies while they cleaned it up. “I know. I'm sorry.”

The younger mutant frowned. “I wasn't blaming. Honest.”

“Weren't you?” Forge rubbed at his eyes. “I don't fly or heal or phase, Clarice. My mind is the only mutation I have... and it is failing you. All of you. It's difficult.”

“You think -you're- dead weight? That's ridiculous! I used to team with Morph; believe me, I know from dead weight.” Clarice seemed to be waiting for something, then laughed uncomfortably. “Little joke. Not funny. I keep forgetting most of you people never met Morph. Your loss. He was... wow. I need to be nursing a drink if I'm going to justify this kind of rambling. Waiter!”

While Clarice signaled for service, Forge stared into space. He said quietly, “I know what it means to be part of a unit. I -will- get you back to them, Clarice. I promise.”

“I know,” she said, and squeezed his hand.

Forge wasn't really looking for a bonding moment, but it was starting to happen until a loud CRASH! interrupted. Forge and Blink were instantly on their feet, the former reaching for his gun and the latter, for one of the javelins that allowed her to teleport objects. Across the room, Scott Summers and the Juggernaut likewise came alive. Fights were common in St. Louis, where humans and mutants sometimes gathered for the express purpose of ticking each other off, and they could get bad.

There wasn't any fight to be seen now-- a server had simply dropped her tray when she saw what was on TV. A concerned-looking mutant announcer said, “Surprising news from the Open City tonight, where WXMU cameras have captured thispicture...”

The picture shifted. Forge cursed. The fuzzy female image on the screen was mostly notable for its long hair. Fire engine red, and it didn't even come out of a bottle-- Forge ought to have known, since he shared a sink with the lady herself.

“Sources inside the M building now concede this is not the first they've heard of the possible return of Lady Jean Grey, the mutant warrior known as 'Phoenix' who was thought killed by Sentinels some 25 years ago. They are quick to point out that as yet there remains no physical proof, however hopes are high: Lady Grey's kill total under General Magnus is estimated in the hundreds of thousands.

“In international news tonight, dignitaries are swarming to the Commonwealth of Wakanda, where King T'Challa is set to resume his throne after a lengthy incarceration by rebel forces. Acting Minister of State Ramsey described the event as 'A shining moment of...'”

Forge tuned the rest out. He shouldered past drunken patrons with Blink at his side, making their way to the others. He noticed the humans in the room mostly stared with open-mouthed expressions. Kind of like largemouth bass about to be filleted. Meanwhile, one of the mutants bought drinks for the house.

“Awright,” said the Juggernaut when Forge got where he was going. “Who's the squealer?”

The Cheyenne sighed “We had to expect this, sooner or later. We knew Jean was big news here. In that light, we're pretty lucky they haven't recognized--”

That's when one of the humans, her memory perhaps jogged by a long-standing mental association between the Cyclops and the Phoenix, pointed at Scott and screamed.

“Yeah,” said Blink. “This kind of thing is always awkward. I remember the world where Cal had won the Nobel Prize for...”

“Just take us back to Jean,” Scott sighed.

“Right. Sorry,” said the lilac mutant, and even as one of the patrons reached out for them...

BLINK!

--

Cape Canaveral, Florida

Matthew Gregson and James Rhodes stood side-by-side, overlooking a pad that had once been used to launch space shuttles-- back in the days when things like science and the thirst for knowledge still mattered to mankind. That was a sad thought, until you remembered that the space program had owed as much to the Cold War and the ongoing search for an advantage over the other guy as it did to the thirst for knowledge.

The pad-- and dozens of others in the newly expanded complex-- was still full of futuristic aerospace machines, but now with a lethal edge: Dozens, hundreds of gleaming man-sized objects brimming with all the weaponry that could possibly be packed into them. These were the War Machines, Tony Stark's great contribution to the cause, based on his advanced Iron Man prototype. Back in Rhodes' day, each machine would have had a soldier inside and been painted in multicolored hues reflecting its pilot's own taste. All that was simplified now, the machines controlled by remote, and their plating glittered a uniform silver.

Gregson hoped the muties who confronted these machines would have too many other worries to nitpick their paint jobs.

“I don't like it,” Rhodes was saying. “There were -reasons- we didn't send these things en masse before... I don't know how you expect to get them past the Keepers.”

“Oh, don't worry, sir,” Gregson replied. “Everything's been worked out to the moment... I think you're going to be very impressed.”

“I'd better be,” Rhodes said. “If this doesn't work, we won't have the resources to try it twice.”

Gregson arched an eyebrow at his superior. “And how many resources will we have left once the Phoenix pays her respects?”

Rhodes shuddered. Every man of his age remembered Jean Grey's first sortie into human territory with a terrifying clarity. The thought of her attempting another was the stuff of nightmares. Slowly, the older general squared his shoulders, exhaled, and turned to Gregson.

“At your discretion, General.”

“Yes, sir,” he beamed, and raised a comm to his lips: “Control, this is Gregson. The light is green. Launch all units.”

END

In Issue #8: "Along Came a Spider-Girl” (finally)
See the other Eternity series: Uncanny X-Men, GenE, X-Factor, & X-Force, online now!
Up Next: New X-Men #8: “Masks”