One Last Measure

by Matt Nute

The white-haired man crested the sand dune slowly, shoulders hunched against the desert wind that whipped his hair around his face. The setting sun glared in his dull blue eye as he knelt, bracing himself on his staff. He was old, dying. A battle he had fought since his infancy was now claiming victory, but not before he would have one last fight. He had sworn revenge.

The death of a wife, too soon before her time, violently ripped away. The betrayal of a son to corruption and inevitable doom. The loss of a father, gone before the son could ever speak words that the years had since deemed unspeakable.

He had sworn revenge for all these, and for a world made hell. For this revenge he had conquered space and time in the pursuit of one single, solitary goal. Now, over twenty-five hundred years before his parents would even meet, Nathan Summers stood on the sands of Egypt, finally prepared to destroy the creature that had tainted every aspect of his life since infancy.

Gripping his psimitar tightly, he reached his bare hand to the hot desert floor, baked from the sun's rays. He let the sand filter through his fingers, feeling each grain over his skin. He wanted to take this moment before the end to savor his senses, to experience just one instant of peace before everything would end.

Nathan Summers, who once had been the hero known as Cable, meditated for a short moment before walking to his death.

He strode towards the horizon, instinctively guiding himself towards his destination. Centuries in the future, he had stood at the foot of the massive Citadel outside Akkaba. He had been inside, fought its master, and lost.

In this time, however, Akkaba was merely a collection of adobe huts and scattered tents some distance to his flank, and the Citadel was not yet erected. It mattered not to Nathan, what he searched for, what he hunted lay below the sands.

Once he thought of himself as a soldier. To some, he was a savior. To others, a friend and a comrade.

Today, on the last day of his life, Nathan Summers was a hunter.

Wading forward through the ankle-deep sand, he found himself leaning on his psimitar for support. Cable chuckled dryly to himself through cracked lips. Despite all his jaunts through time, despite all the changes he had undergone, time had caught up with him. While still physically hale and strong, he was dying from the inside out, his aging immune system no longer able to cope with the techno-organic infection that had plagued him all his life.

Time. The concept was almost an amusement now. Nathan had once believed that slaying Apocalypse in the past would prevent his dystopian future from ever occurring. Through the years, though, he had discovered that his assumption was incorrect; that changing the past he knew as history would merely fragment off a separate timeline in which history would take a different route. Nothing he could do would ever change what had already transpired, lest it wipe him from existence in a disastrous paradox.

Even though he knew nothing would change, even though he knew his mission to be an ultimately futile one, Nathan Summers walked through the sand to his final battle. This was not a holy crusade, nor a mission of mercy. This was vengeance, pure and simple. Vengeance for acts that had not even occurred in this time. And yet here Cable was, prepared to kill as his last act.

He would die, but not before honoring his final vow.

He would die, but Apocalypse would die first, here in the sands of history.

Two hundred and ten paces from the edge of the Akkaba camp. Staring into the setting sun, Nathan walked. Reaching his destination, he thrust the butt of his psimitar into the sand, collapsing to a knee. His breath sounded like thunder in his ears, drowning out the blowing sand that assaulted his callused skin. His fingers stroked the haft of his weapon, then he closed his eyes.

Turning his thoughts inward, Cable touched the core of the power he held within him. Feeling it uncoil like a river undammed, he guided the energy through his body, through the fibers of techno-organic tissue and into the psimitar. The device was not only a weapon, it was designed to channel his innate psionic ability. In the right hands, the psimitar was one of the greatest weapons ever to be designed.

As Cable grunted, the telekinetic pulse was released from the butt of the spear, energizing the very silicon atoms in the sand, rearranging them into an ordered structure of translucent crystal. For a moment, Cable knelt on a sea of glass that stretched for hundreds of meters. Gingerly, he stood, feeling the power flow through his nerves. He rose slightly, hovering above the baked glass ocean.

Then just as violently as before, he blasted downwards with the psimitar, vaporizing the glass into microscopic fragments, scattering the razor-sharp shards to the four horizons. When the maelstrom subsided, Cable stood in midair, looking down into a pit of charred sand, exposing a smooth surface at the bottom.

Nathan Summers descended into the pit and knelt, his techno-organic fingers dancing lightly over the smooth metal. He found the seam he was looking for and heaved, fingers augmented by telekinetic strength. His left eye glowed with power, hidden behind his wild hair as his body strained.

Like a can being opened, the hatch gave way, revealing a passage beneath the sands. Cable descended, his psimitar glowing like a torch. Feeling the solid floor beneath his feet, he began stalking the dimly-lit corridors, extending his telepathy outward like a net, searching for the prey he knew to lair in this anachronistic crypt.

He had chosen to travel back in time to this particular point for a reason. He knew from legend and historical research that Apocalypse had spent the greater part of this century in a comatose torpor, allowing his immortal body to replenish its energies, and to bask in the rejuvenating energies of the Celestial artifact that empowered him to nearly godlike levels.

That, however, was not the sole reason that Cable had made this particular voyage. He also knew that, according to all records, at this time in history, Apocalypse operated alone, without heralds or servants. Nathaniel Essex would not be born for over two millenia, thusly Apocalypse had no Sinister to create hordes of biogenetic slave drones. And the Horsemen that Apocalypse had used to terrorize the world were beyond his reach in this century.

Casting his telepathic wave out once more, Nathan closed his eyes, drawing upon all his instinct as a soldier and a psion. He could feel faint echoes of the nomads in Akkaba, like the cries of birds from a faraway island. But he searched for something more.

Delving deeper into the astral, Cable stretched his mental senses. He felt for the peculiar ping of alpha waves, the unique signature of an individual brain pattern in the silence. Deeper still, like a diver into a blackwater trench, with no light to guide him but that of his own instinct.

In the physical world, Cable gripped his psimitar tightly. As his telepathic power began to focus, he started to release his constant control over his techno-organic flesh. Instead of crawling and spreading like before when his control had lapsed, the metal began shifting. As Cable bit his lip in concentration, eyes screwed shut, his left arm began twitching, the metal surface growing smooth, almost supple. The metallic ridges faded, melting into a silver-hued mimicry of natural human skin. Fingernails formed from the tips of his fingers as thin metallic 'hairs' sprang from the backs of his hands.

The techno-organic mesh wrapped around his neck, outlining the veins that stood there, pulsing with every beat of his heart. Nathan tossed his head back, letting his hair fall free as the mesh flowed upwards, transforming the chapped skin of his face into gleaming chrome. Like a wax statue dipped in purest silver, half of Cable's face took on the look of carved iron polished to a mirror. His perfect metal bicep flexed, fingers tightening on the psimitar.

Deep in the astral plane, he sensed movement. Drawing further into himself, he detected the familiar rhythms of alpha patterns, those of an individual deep in slumber. Despite himself, Cable grinned. Apocalypse was helpless, lying deep in restful repose. Now he was at his weakest, and now Cable would strike. Vengeance was his.

Then, like the whistle of a train in the distance, another thought pattern brushed Nathan Summers'. Nathan jerked back, forcing his defenses into place as he began the ordeal of returning his mind to his body.

The pain was like daggers of ice into his brain as he found himself suddenly thrust into alertness, the walls of the ship spinning around him. His psimitar flew from his hand as he was violently thrown by some unseen force. His vision blackened and pulsed, his heart hammering in his chest. Attempting to form coherent thought was like trying to grasp fire in his palm, it only escaped him and caused more pain.

Nathan recognized the symptoms. He had snapped his mind back to the physical plane too fast for his weakened body to compensate for. He'd just given himself the psychic equivalent of "the bends".

Forcing himself upright despite the agony pounding in his skull, Nathan reached out, summoning his weapon to his hand. Blinding light stabbed at the corners of his eyes as he gripped the familiar shaft of his psimitar, leaning heavily upon it for support. He cried out, his voice raw like that of an animal, totally inhuman. With every ounce of determination he possessed, he gathered his telepathic might and threw up a wall, a psychic bubble surrounding him completely.

And just like that, the pain ceased.

Cable stood, feeling the strength return to his muscles. He began to move, instinctively adopting an Askani battle stance, the psimitar angled away from his body, techno-organic arm extended palm outwards in a guard stance. Blinking, he cleared his vision and beheld the figure that stood before him.

Despite his years as a warrior, Nathan Summers was taken aback. The man before him stood over seven feet tall, and almost two thirds as broad. His arms were like bronzed tree trunks, and his legs like granite. Metal bands encircled his muscles at bicep, forearm, thigh, and shin. He was garbed in a vest of leather, inset with what looked like metal plates and shining stones. Leather bands wrapped his fists and feet, and his dark brown hair hung loosely in rough braids.

But his eyes… Cable shuddered. They were at once both the eyes of one years dead, but burning with a fanatic's fire. The man before him looked to be unarmed, but Nathan recognized the innate threat.

"You gonna stop me or what?" he growled, inwardly laughing at how much his raspy voice sounded like Logan's. Smoothly, he brought the psimitar up in a ready position, shifting his weight from side to side.

The dark man rolled his head to the side, as if he did not understand the words. Slowly, he bent at the knees, extending both arms at shoulder height. With a meaty smack, he drove one fist into the open palm of the other hand, grunting in challenge. Cable smirked.

"Primitives. I don't have time for you." With a thought, he pointed his psimitar and unleashed a mental blast, intended to fry the motor neurons of the man before him.

Instead, Cable found himself thrown backwards, the psimitar sparking in his grasp. For an instant, his mind touched that of the other, and he screamed in pain. It was like expecting to leap into a pool of water, and finding it instead filled with razor blades.

The dark man stepped forward, a low rumble echoing from his throat. Cable recognized the sound.

Laughter.

Anger growing, he leaped to his feet, his psimitar flying into his hand. "All right, you oathless son of a bitch. You want to take me man to man, let's go."

"You wish to kill the master." The man's voice was harsh and accented, tongue bending around the unfamiliar words. Cable blinked. The man had learned English from a mere second of mental contact, much as Cable had, decades before from Moira MacTaggart.

"Are you going to stop me?" he replied, his tone a challenge as he gripped his weapon.

"Yes."

"Flonq you, caveman." Cable spat. "I don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to."

"My name is Conan," boomed the larger man. "And I will kill you."

With a cry of rage, Nathan Summers lunged, lashing out with the psimitar. The barbarian before him danced backwards, narrowly escaping the wicked blow. Cable recovered, stepping forward and thrusting high, forcing Conan to dodge backwards. Not daring to use his telepathy to predict his foe's next move, Cable fought defensively, keeping the larger warrior at bay.

Conan smiled as he toyed with the old man. He recognized the style of a trained warrior, and this brought him joy. In his centuries of unaging service to En Sabah Nur, he had slain countless hundreds, both in defense of his master and in the search for the strong. Truly, this was one to be tested.

Nathan bellowed an Askani battle cry as he whipped the psimitar around his body, the angular blade gleaming with psionic power. The tip seared across Conan's chest, producing a sickening sizzle. The barbarian stepped back, his hand touching the wound.

Scorched skin peeled back, revealing musculature that no human genetics had produced. Metallic fibers interwove among the flesh, and polymers reinforced frail human bone. Conan's eyes briefly glazed, then refocused. His senses were exponentially more efficient and refined than any human's, and his reflexes even more so. Already healing from the wound, he circled his smaller opponent, hands outstretched as if to grapple.

"What are you?" Cable mouthed, astonished. He swung the psimitar in circles, keeping the larger warrior at a distance. Conan merely laughed again.

"I am of the strong. I am he who shall test those which will survive. I am he who shall separate the wheat from the chaff. I am the fight, I am the combat."

"You're a flonqing lunatic." Cable mumbled, steadying himself. He leaped, swinging the psimitar downwards in a death blow, aimed directly at his opponent's head.

Conan merely reached his arms up, catching the blade between his palms with seeming ease. He heaved, throwing Cable into an unyielding wall, hearing the satisfying sounds of bone cracking. He eyed the psimitar with the curious intent of a born fighter. It was a fragile weapon, unfit for the arena. With contempt, he cast it aside.

Cable scrambled to regain his concentration. He could feel the techno-organic mesh crawl under his skin, converting carbon-based cells to metallic nanomachines, cold and unfeeling. His entire face was growing numb. His thoughts were becoming colder, like mechanical ice. This was it, he swore. He would kill this obstacle, then spend his last dregs of life crawling if he had to, through this crypt to where Apocalypse lay, and kill him. Then he could die.

His fingers clawed at the cold metal ground. Finding purchase, he levered himself to a crawling position. If he could move, he could gain time. Time to regroup, gather his concentration, back to the battle. This last fight in his eternal battle. If only he could get time…

A rough hand at the back of his neck denied him that time. Nathan Summers felt himself yanked unceremoniously off the floor and slammed into another wall repeatedly. Stars swam in his vision as his hearing echoed with the resounding thumps. He coughed, spewing out a mixture of blood and some unrecognizable, thick, grey liquid.

"You don't know…what you're doing." Cable coughed, forcing the words out through a stiffening jaw. "You don't understand…"

"I know that I am killing you. You are not of the strong." Conan intoned. "You are chaff, and must be burned away, that you do not poison the fields with your weakness."

Cable's body twitched with unnatural strength, the techno-organic muscles heaving. Reflexively, he brought his hands up in a lock around the barbarian's wrist. Using his own weight for force and the wall as a lever, he twisted and heaved, in a desperate gambit for breathing room.

Physics won out over brute force, as Conan's grip was broken, sending Cable tumbling down the wall. Immediately, he rolled forward, psychically searching for his psimitar. As it slid towards him, he saw Conan slowly drop to a knee. The immense warrior placed his hand to the metal floor, and Cable saw a faint glow develop.

Like a baker pulling bread dough, Conan drew his hand upwards, pulling a gob of metal from the floor. Before Nathan's eyes, the metal swam and flexed, folding over itself repeatedly, lengthening and thickening. Conan grunted, and it sprang forward, developing a point and an edge.

Cable raised his psimitar one last time as Conan wielded his newly-forged broadsword. The two men regarded one another with mixed gazes of hate, desperation, and contempt.

"You want to test me?" Cable spat, voice marred by blood clogging his throat.

"The strong shall survive." Conan replied. "You shall die."

"Bring it on." The snow-haired man taunted, gripping the shaft of his weapon. Concentrating with all his might, he built up a telekinetic charge within the psimitar All it would take was one mental command, and he could release enough force to shatter omnium steel. Any remorse he would feel at the act was locked away in some deep corner of his psyche, this was necessary.

He needed to survive, if only for the next few moments.

Conan merely shifted his stance, raising his sword in challenge. A wry grin crossed his face. He raised the sword to his face, eyes glaring out from either side of the wide blade. A warrior's salute.

A gladiator's salute.

To Cable, it was a mockery of his mission. With a cry like a lion, he sped forward, swinging the psimitar in a killing maneuver, willing the release of the pent-up energy within.

Conan met the blow with a downward chop, the edge of his blade meeting the haft of the psimitar between Cable's hands.

The weapons met with unearthly force, and a noise like planets colliding. Future technology and psionic power met pure, unrestrained strength and steel.

Technology gave, and the psimitar broke cleanly in half.

The telekinetic pulse erupted like a bomb in the enclosed corridor, drowning out the screams of both combatants. For miles in every direction, sand flew into the air as if in a desert twister. The settlement of Akkaba was rocked with tremors, sending camels sprinting wildly, and flattening tents and huts. The very heavens were split, as if by invisible lightning and roaring thunder.

Then, all was silent.

The buried Citadel rang with the force of the explosion. The walls vibrated with absorbed force, but did not yield. Their construction was of a science beyond the stars, and no earthly force could distort their surface.

Two figures lay unmoving amidst the smoke. Slowly, one moved. He stood, his long hair matted with blood and fluids not human. Looking down at his opponent, he rolled him over. Slowly, like the plates of the earth shifting, Conan smiled.

Cable was still alive, if only barely.

The Askani'son moaned as the barbarian lifted his body high. He felt himself pressed into the wall, and groaned in agony. Looking down at himself, he shuddered.

His abdomen had been flayed open by the blast. But instead of leaking blood and oozing intestine, tendrils of techno-organic crust trailed from the wound. As if searching for purchase, they crawled across the still-human flesh of his stomach, transforming the skin in their wake.

Nathan looked his foe in the eye, mustering up all his will. "You can't do this…" he gasped. "You don't… don't know what he'll do. You don't know what he is."

Conan reached to the floor, recovering his sword. "I know what he is." He whispered, propping Cable up against the wall. The aged mutant managed to brace himself, to stand on his own feet as the barbarian turned his back.

"He is evil." Cable coughed. "You can still be free of him. You don't have to live by his credo. He is wrong, man. He. Is. Wrong." Nathan Summers hacked out the words with bursts of bile, grasping for consciousness. Slowly, he saw the warrior before him turn. For one small moment, he saw recognition in his eyes.

"He is the strong." Was all Conan said as he lunged forward, burying the broadsword in Cable's chest. Techno-organic flesh parted before cold steel, which flowed back into the wall behind Cable. Nathan cried out, his voice weak with fatigue.

"No…" he moaned, as his life ebbed away.

"Yes." droned Conan, as he gripped the pommel of his weapon with both hands. Exerting superhuman force, the barbarian cried out, infusing his weapon with the otherworldly energy animating his massive frame. The blade burst into flame, incinerating the body impaled upon it.

Flames danced and reflected down the corridor as the body of Nathan Charles Summers was immolated without ceremony or memorial. When the pyre faded, a large hand reached down to the pile that was left.

Conan stepped into the light, holding the remains of a skull, part bone, part metal. With a grunt, he reached down, attaching it to his belt. This would be but the first. The first of many.

He would endure many more in his service to the High Lord.

The strong would survive.

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