Around them, the globe appeared to rush toward them, giving them a vastly expanded bird’s-eye view of the northeastern seaboard of the United States, the fabled BosNYWash megalopolis. Then Xavier blanked all the extraneous signals as well, leaving just a small scattering, which Logan deduced, from their placement and intensity, were himself, the professor, and the others who qualified as X-Men. There was also a jagged scarlet line running from Washington all the way to Boston.
“That trail,” Xavier pointed out, “represents the path of the mutant who attacked the President.”
“Jean said you were sending her and Storm after him.”
Xavier nodded. The scene above them resolved even more tightly on the Boston metropolitan area. Here, though, the trail, the contact waypoints, became more scattered and indistinct.
“I’m finding it hard to lock in on him,” he confessed.
“Can’t you just . . . I dunno, concentrate harder?”
“If I wanted to kill him, certainly.”
“You can do that?”
Xavier spared him a long and measured glance. “Easily.”
“Guys I know would pay a fortune for a skill like that.”
The scene changed again, zooming in again to a neighborhood in the South End.
The single scarlet light was blinking. After a moment, latitude and longitude points were displayed and, a moment after that, the appropriate cross streets.
“There,” Xavier said. “It appears our quarry has finally stopped running and gone to ground.”
He closed his eyes, and—presto!—the illusion vanished, and Logan found himself once more on the central platform with Xavier. An eddy of fresh air told him without looking that the door had cycled open. He wasn’t interested.
“I need you to read my mind again.”
Xavier took his time before replying, and Logan ignored the fatigue that caused it.
“And I told you it isn’t that easy,” he said at last. “I’m afraid the results will be no different than before.”
“We had a deal.”
“Logan.” Xavier spoke more sharply than he’d intended, and he took a pause to dial his irritation back a notch. “The mind is not a box to be simply unlocked and opened, its contents parceled out willy-nilly for the world to see. On one level, it’s a beehive, with a million separate compartments. Yet on another, all those compartments are bound together, interconnected in a multidimensional holographic maze that would put the Gordian knot to shame. One moment of your life, one image of your memory, doesn’t lead in sequential, linear fashion to the next. It splinters off into a thousand different directions, each valid, each needing to be investigated. That takes time, that takes care.
“And that’s just a normal mind.
“The problem with yours is, someone’s already taken the Alexander the Great approach to untangling the mysteries—or perhaps to tangle them beyond all recovery.”
“I’m messed up. So what else is new?”
“Logan, sometimes there are things the mind needs to discover for itself.” As Xavier placed the helmet back on its pedestal, Logan felt a faint tap on the inside of his consciousness, akin to someone rapping a knuckle on his forehead. You have a healing factor, he “heard” Xavier say without speaking aloud, a most remarkable ability. Trust it to do the same with your psyche as it does so well with your physical body.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Xavier finished aloud. “You might make things worse.”
There was a fresh scent in the doorway: Ivory Soap and Old Spice, with a faint Armani chaser that had to come from Jean. Scott was standing there expectantly, dressed for the road. He wasn’t pleased to see Logan in here, any more than he had been to see him with Jean. As if Logan gave a tinker’s damn.
“I promise you, Logan,” Xavier said as he wheeled himself from the chamber, “we’ll talk more when I return. In the meanwhile . . .”
“You need a baby-sitter, Storm mentioned.”
“If you would be so kind as to chaperone the children tonight, Scott and I are going to pay a visit to an old friend.”
“Yo, Charley,” Logan called as Scott pushed the chair down the hall. He knew Xavier hated such familiarity, but he figured, since he’d backed down over the smoking, he was entitled. “When you see Magneto, give him my regards. Tell him to rot in hell. For what he did to Rogue, he got off easy.”
Chapter
Five
As she strode a bit too briskly into the hangar, almost fleeing the exchange that had just taken place in the foyer, Jean Grey couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the magnificent aircraft waiting for her.
It was black as deep space, a paint scheme perfected by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to make a plane visually undetectable once the sun went down. The lines of the great jet were so sleek she seemed to be cutting through the air even while standing still, the slightly canted nose flowing aft past where the fuselage flared naturally into the main body of the hull above air intakes for the tremendously powerful ramjets. These engines were so powerful that Jean could stand upright in the intakes with room to spare. The wings themselves were swept sharply forward, in defiance of traditional design philosophy, creating an airframe that compensated for its inherent instability with the ability to perform combat aerobatics over a breadth of speeds and altitudes that its nearest rivals couldn’t hope to match. If it had any rivals worth the name.
They called her the Blackbird, as a tribute to the greatest achievement of one of the premier designers in aviation history, the justly famed Kelly Johnson, head of the equally renowned Skunk Works aeronautics team of Lockheed Aircraft. In the early 1960s the Skunk Works built an aircraft that was a generational leap ahead of anything else in the air. Only in retrospect, as years turned into decades, did the flying community realize just how spectacular an achievement that was. For the whole of its operational life, which extended right to the dawn of the twenty-first century, the SR-71 regularly flew higher, faster, and farther than pilots had ever gone before.
This vehicle was what came next, the product of a bunch of geniuses with a crazy idea and a man with the wherewithal to bankroll it to fruition. The geniuses were aeronautical engineers, downsized with their industry as the Cold War gradually came to an end. The money, of course, came from Xavier, who required something quick and stealthy, with a host of revolutionary capabilities, to transport his prospective team of heroes.
As before, the gearheads built far better than they realized. This Blackbird could take off like a helicopter and punch her way into a suborbital trajectory at velocities that would take her from one side of the globe to the other in barely an hour. Even better, the same structural integrity that allowed her to traverse the atmosphere to near-Earth space and back again also permitted a moderate immersion in shallow water. She couldn’t move well beneath the surface, but you could definitely hide her there.
Jean was a competent pilot, but Scott and Storm were the ones who loved to fly. It was a toss-up which of them could handle the plane best. Scott had the knack for teasing the best out of the machine, but Storm’s elemental powers gave her an awareness of the atmosphere the others could only imagine, allowing her to instinctively find the ideal path through the air.
She was in the left-hand pilot’s seat as Jean climbed aboard, pulling the hatch closed behind her.
“Where we at?” Jean asked, taking the copilot’s seat and locking her four-point harness closed. They’d both changed for the flight, into their X-Men uniforms, snug-fitting suits of what looked and felt like designer leather but which also served as highly effective body armor. For some reason, Storm had chosen to accessorize hers with a cloak that Jean had to concede looked pretty damn good on her and didn’t seem to hinder her movements in the slightest. Jean had left her own outfit as is. It made her smile to recall that Logan had hated his on sight, though he didn’t look half bad in it, either.
She caught Storm staring and blushed, realizing she hadn’t heard a word th
e other woman had just said to her, or sensed a thought.
“Checklist,” Storm repeated, shaking her head in amusement. In all the years they’d known each other, Jean had never let herself become so flustered.
They were a well-practiced team, and their work was quickly done. After making sure there were no planes in their vicinity, they damped the interior lights and cracked the surface hatch. Overhead, the basketball court in the athletic yard split in two and slid apart, allowing the great aircraft to rise almost silently into the night sky. Both women gave a wave to the kids they knew would be watching from their upstairs bedrooms, and then, as they cleared the surrounding trees and the roof of the mansion, Storm turned the nose toward Breakstone Lake and shifted to horizontal flight mode.
In less than a minute they were a mile high and miles removed from the school, slipping into the stratosphere at a speed that would carry them to Boston in a quarter hour, tops. The shape of the Blackbird made her as impossible for a radar to detect as the paint scheme foiled visual sighting. This meant plane and crew had to be extra vigilant for any other aircraft sharing the increasingly crowded Northeast sky. Occasionally that meant taking a more circuitous route, to avoid even the risk of contact.
Immediately after takeoff, both women felt the familiar presence of Xavier’s thoughts among their own.
I’m sending you the coordinates of your target’s current location, he told them telepathically. Scott and I are en route to Mount Haven Prison. We’ll be incommunicado until we leave the facility. Once you land, you have to rely on your own skills to track him.
“We’ll be fine, sir,” Storm assured him aloud.
“Let’s hope he cooperates,” Jean muttered, thankful for the refuge of potential action as she struggled to keep her conflicted thoughts to herself.
Storm engaged the autopilot, but Jean paid no attention as she stared out the canopy window. For all she actually noticed, a blank wall would have served just as well.
Storm’s eyes narrowed as the tempo of the great ramjets increased, the surge of power making itself felt as vibration through the body of the aircraft as well as through sound. She checked the throttles and the flight dynamics liquid crystal display for a status update on the engines.
The airframe shuddered slightly as they passed the sound barrier, and miles below, amid the hills that crowded the Connecticut and Massachusetts border, she knew people would be looking around in surprise at the distant thunder of their sonic boom.
Storm disengaged the autopilot, shifting to manual flight mode, and retarded the throttles, but that did no good; their speed continued to increase, and at the rate they were gaining altitude, the Blackbird would be suborbital in mere minutes. Great for a hop over the pond to London and the professor’s Scots associate Moira MacTaggart; utterly useless for a short-haul trip of a couple of hundred miles to Beantown.
The problem, she realized, wasn’t with the controls. Someone was bypassing them to manipulate the airframe and mechanical systems directly.
“Jean,” she said, and when her friend didn’t reply, she repeated herself, a little more loudly, accompanying her call with a touch of Jean’s arm that carried with it just the gentlest shock of lightning.
Jean jolted awake like a student who’d been caught napping in class, denial vying visibly on her face with embarrassment for prominence.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, “I’m sorry,” shaking the cobwebs from her brain and releasing every hold her teke powers had placed on the aircraft.
This time, when Storm slowed down the engines, they complied, and she turned the Blackbird into a sweeping descent out over the Atlantic that would quickly bring them to their destination.
“You okay?” Storm asked Jean, who at first didn’t seem quite sure how to answer.
“All of a sudden,” Jean replied, trying to make what had just happened a joke, “damned if I know.”
“Something wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” Jean shook her head, wriggled in her sheepskin-covered seat to make herself more comfortable, even though both of them knew it was anything but. “I was thinking, y’know, if only we could make the flight go faster. I guess my wish fulfillment kinda got . . . carried away.”
“Ah” was Storm’s only comment. It spoke volumes.
“What?” Jean demanded.
“Nothing. I asked, you answered, end of story.”
“What, Ororo, for God’s sake!”
The other woman shrugged. “Maybe it’s just that Logan’s back in town.”
Jean slumped in her chair, as much as her harness would allow. “Oh, God, it shows.”
“Jean,” Storm said flatly, “the sun ‘shows’ every morning when it rises. It has nothing on you.”
“Why me?” Jean muttered, covering her eyes with her hands. “Why him? It isn’t fair.”
“You annoyed or tempted?”
“Truth, both.”
“Ouch!”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He has the look,” Storm agreed with a throaty chuckle.
“Then take him off my hands, please, before there’s a disaster.” To illustrate her point, she waved her hands to encompass the flight deck and remind Storm what had nearly happened mere minutes before.
“Grown woman like you, grown man like him, you saying you can’t set a proper example for the children?”
“You’re gonna bust my butt forever about this, aren’t you?”
Storm turned serious. “I like him, Jean. But what I feel, it’s minor league. You two, you’re the show.”
“It’s pure chemistry,” Jean told herself as much as Storm. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. I see him, and the brain disengages completely. It’s”—she searched for the right word—“primal. And I can’t hide it from him, I can’t bluff that nothing’s happening—or that nothing’s going to happen. And then there’s Scott . . .”
Her voice trailed off. Storm reached across the center console and gave her friend’s hand a squeeze, but she knew that was scant comfort.
“Have faith, Jean. You’ll find a way to work things out.”
“I hope so, Ororo. Really I do. For all our sakes.”
The radio crackled with Xavier’s voice. Storm answered.
Washington is a company town, that “company” being the federal government. And despite the promises and strenuous efforts of both political parties and numerous national administrations over the past few decades, the sheer size of that government has grown well beyond the physical capacity of the District of Columbia. Nowadays, working Washington is considered anything inside the Capital Beltway, with associated office parks springing up even farther out from the city itself, in such bedroom communities as Rockville and Gaithersburg and Reston.
In Rockville, Maryland, there was a new clutch of moderate high-rise buildings, ostensibly associated with the National Institute of Standards and Technologies, a couple of miles and one town over. Impersonally modern, they looked just like a score of similar structures scattered across the nation. Midlist government glass boxes.
This time of night, the only staff on duty were the security officers and the cleaning crew. Even in an age of terrorist threats and heightened awareness, these weren’t considered viable targets. The bulk of the surveillance was handled remotely, at a central office keeping watch through a phalanx of cameras slaved to a computer monitor system. There was a manned reception desk in every ground-floor lobby, another couple of uniformed security guards to patrol the floors, but that was it. Big Brother was responsible for the bulk of the work.
The officer at the desk didn’t think twice when Yuriko Oyama strode through the doors. Her group were the odd ducks among the building’s federal tenants, working all hours of the day, all days of the week; something to do with auditing, they explained. The guard didn’t figure he was paid enough to be more curious, especially since all their credentials were in order. He did figure this was his lucky day, a treat for the eyes
just before his shift changed.
Yuriko flashed her ID and strode to the waiting elevator, totally aware of how intently the desk guard was staring at her backside. She was a fine-looking lady, and the guards had eagerly added the many sequences of her coming and going to their pirate surveillance disk of local hotties. The guard paid her the compliment of never taking his eyes off her, waiting till the elevator doors were closed to pack up his station and prepare to hand it off to his replacement.
On the top floor, Yuriko passed the cleaning crew without a second glance. At the end of the hallway there was a single door as nondescript as the building itself. No lock, only a hand scanner. She pressed her right hand against the plate and the door obligingly unlocked.
Inside was a suite of offices that could have belonged to any midlevel bureaucrat working for any midlevel agency. The only personality to the rooms was that there was no personality whatsoever.
As she proceeded to her destination, she passed behind an opaque glass wall divider, and a remarkable transformation occurred. With each step, Yuriko’s features began to ripple and flow like wax exposed to direct heat. Black hair took on the color of flame, amber skin darkened to a blue that was almost midnight. Features that were pleasantly Asian became haughty and aristocratic and altogether Caucasian, a face as predatory as a hunting eagle yet possessing beauty enough to launch the thousand ships of fabled Ilium. The clothes seemed to flow into the body until what was left seemed mostly naked, save for an arrangement of ridges and scales that afforded a measure of protection and the illusion of propriety.
Her eyes were chrome yellow. Her name was Mystique.
In William Stryker’s office, she sat in Stryker’s chair and activated Stryker’s computer monitor. On its screen appeared the legend >VOICEPRINT IDENTIFICATION PLEASE.
In Stryker’s gravelly voice, Mystique replied, “Stryker, William.”
Obligingly and instantly, the monitor flashed >ACCESS GRANTED.
Working fast, because that was her nature and because she was on a clock, Mystique called up the directories, selecting RECENT ITEMS from the main menu and then a folder labeled simply 143. That in turn led to a series of files: FLOOR PLANS, LEHNSHERR, INTERROGATION SUMMARIES, AUGMENTATION . . .
X-Men; X-Men 2 Page 25
