X-Men; X-Men 2

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  . . . and then she was Jean again.

  He’d had enough. He hit her, palm of the hand, flat to her chest, with force enough to pop her off his lap and almost to the opposite wall of the tent. He’d caught her off guard, and there wasn’t time for her to recover. She landed in an inelegant sprawl, which only made her more amused than ever as she rolled over onto her belly and levered herself up on her hands.

  By the time her arms were at full extension, Logan was staring at William Stryker.

  “What do you really want?” Mystique asked him in Stryker’s voice.

  Face and body carved from stone, claws held in a defensive fist between him and the shape-shifter, Logan replied, “Get out.”

  She shook her head with a sneer and did as she was told.

  Only when he was alone did Logan withdraw his claws. He hadn’t been fooled from the very start—there was more to Jean’s scent than her perfume, and elements of Mystique’s that couldn’t be hidden, more differences between them now than the other woman could possibly suspect. He told himself there were all manner of sensible reasons for indulging in the fantasy, but he knew they were lies. It was a glimpse of what might have been, if life were more fair.

  Problem was, he’d already made a commitment and he would be true to it, no matter what, to the end. He’d been betrayed many times in his life. He swore he’d never be party to betraying another.

  He rubbed his left hand with his right, over the space between the knuckles where the claws extended, while the pain of their use faded away. There was never any visible scar, his healing factor saw to that, but each time the claws came out the pain was as fresh, as shocking, as the first. On one level they were as much a part of him as his natural senses. He accepted their presence wholeheartedly. But on another, they were close to the ultimate violation. Someone had put them inside his body, someone had stripped him of even the pretense of humanity by making him a hybrid cyborg construct. A literal machine.

  From a man like Stryker, if he was indeed responsible, it was no less than Logan expected. But if what Magneto said was true, if Xavier knew the truth and kept it from him, how could Logan trust the man ever again? Because the answer to that question begged an even darker one—was Xavier somehow involved in the process? Was he somehow responsible?

  What then, he wondered. And with a thought, triggered his claws once more.

  Snikt!

  What then, indeed?

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  The ladies worked straight through the night, and by morning the Blackbird was ready to go. As Logan finished zipping his uniform closed, he caught Rogue and Bobby eyeing him discreetly. They’d spent the night together, tangled up with each other in a pose that managed to be incredibly intimate while remaining wholly innocent. Rogue had taken great care to make sure no stray skin showed, other than her face, and she pulled her hood close around her head to minimize the risk of contact. Bobby wore his own gloves. Nightcrawler hung batlike from a branch above, as though he were the kids’ very own swashbuckler gargoyle saint.

  Only John Allardyce remained awake the whole night, sitting opposite Bobby and Rogue, staring at them across the campfire, continually flicking his lighter open and closed, open and closed.

  The kids weren’t interested in their classmate, though, which Logan knew was part of John’s problem. It was the uniforms they wanted.

  “Where’re ours?” Bobby demanded.

  Logan responded with a gruff snort that was echoed (in his ears or in his thoughts, he couldn’t tell) from up front by Jean.

  “On order,” he told them. “Should arrive in a few years.”

  Logan supervised the breakdown of the campsite, mainly to keep tabs on Magneto and Mystique. Magneto boarded the plane as if he owned it, but Mystique paused just a moment in passing and flashed Logan a secret little smile to remind him of what had happened during the night. As Logan closed the hatch, she made sure he caught her flashing the same smile at Jean, most likely to make him wonder if she’d pulled the same trick with her. And, of course, to imply that Jean had fallen for the masquerade.

  Even as their allies, she and Magneto were always trying to play the X-Men, to find the edge that would give them a tactical advantage. You could never let down your guard with them, on any level, because every encounter had to be some kind of challenge—and they always had to win.

  That’s what Rogue discovered right after takeoff, as she made her way back to her seat from the bathroom. Magneto was sitting across from John Allardyce, and he smiled at her as she passed. It was a genial smile, the kind you’d expect from family.

  “Rogue,” he said, by way of greeting, but when she didn’t respond, when she tried totally to ignore him, he continued without missing a beat, “we love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  Her lips, her whole body, went tight as a drawn bow, but she kept walking. She wouldn’t look back, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The device he’d intended to use months ago on the United Nations delegates had required his specific power to activate it. But doing so would have killed him, so he came up with what he felt was a far better idea: Allow Rogue to imprint his abilities, thereby enabling her to wield magnetism and take his place as the catalyst. Regrettably, she would have to die in the process. A tragic but necessary sacrifice for a noble cause.

  She didn’t see it that way. He didn’t care.

  Logan had saved her, first by destroying Magneto’s device and then by allowing her to imprint his healing factor. But the energies that had burned so fiercely through her system had left a lasting mark, her skunk stripe, the distinctive widow’s peak of silver hair springing from her forehead.

  John watched her strap herself into her chair, realized that Logan was glaring back at Magneto from the flight deck, and turned to observe that Magneto wasn’t bothered in the slightest by Logan’s fury. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy it.

  John was impressed, though he made sure not to show it. He sounded almost bored as he noted, “They say you’re the bad guy.”

  That amused Magneto, who kept his gaze on Logan.

  “Is that what they say?”

  John started flicking his lighter, the reassuring click going almost unheard against the sound of the Blackbird’s swift passage through the morning sky.

  “That’s a dorky-looking helmet,” he said. “What’s it for?”

  At last he’d caught Magneto’s attention—an interest, though John didn’t know it, that he’d had from the start—and as that noble head turned toward him, he suddenly wished he hadn’t.

  “This helmet,” Magneto informed him quietly, “is the only thing that’s going to protect me from the real bad guys.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the lighter flew from John’s hands to his. With a practiced flip, Magneto ignited a flame.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “John.”

  “What’s your name, John?” he asked again. John almost made the mistake of thinking the old git was deaf or senile, or stupid, asking the same question twice, until a flash of intuition told him it was some kind of test.

  John reached across the aisle, extending the tip of his forefinger to touch the small flame and lift it from its cradle. Fire never burned him; the most he ever felt from the flames he manipulated was a warmth that reached deep inside his body. In his imagination he’d tell himself that it was the same kind of glow the sun felt high in the heavens. It was his secret, his special pleasure, and he’d always resented the fact that Charles Xavier’s telepathy might have pried it from him without his knowing.

  “Pyro,” he said, absently rolling the flame between his fingers like a coin.

  “That’s quite a talent you have, Pyro,” Magneto said. The way he said John’s code name gave the boy a thrill of pleasure, like it was a title of some kind. But outwardly, his mouth twisted downward in irritation.

  “I can only manipulate the fire,” he confessed. “I can’t make it.”

  He clo
sed his hand around the flame, and it was gone.

  “You are a god among insects,” Magneto said. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  With that, he opened his own hand and used his magnetic power to float the lighter back to its owner.

  John didn’t flick the cap anymore, he just held the lighter and stared at his blurred reflection in the stainless-steel surface. Xavier had never said such things to him. At the school, the endless official mantras were “responsibility” and “control.” He was almost a grown man, yet when it came to his mutant powers it was just like being in kindergarten. The teachers weren’t impressed with the things he could already do with fire, they were more concerned with ethics and behavior. They were afraid of what they were, they wanted to hide.

  He snorted—helluva lot of good that did. Maybe, if the soldiers had known what he could do, what Bobby could do if he weren’t such a terminal wuss, what any of the kids could do, they’d have backed off and left them alone.

  Magneto wasn’t scared. That was obvious. He was ready to fight for what he believed in. Even though Charles Xavier was responsible for his capture and imprisonment, he was flying with the X-Men to the rescue. How, John wondered, Pyro wondered, could that possibly make him one of the “bad guys”?

  And if Xavier were wrong about him, maybe the kids were wrong in their assessment of Xavier.

  At Alkali Lake, William Stryker reviewed the security procedures from the control room. He wanted nothing left to chance. Electronic sensors were on line, video surveillance active and tracking, sentries posted, fast-reaction combat teams armed and ready.

  He couldn’t employ an AWACS here as he had over Westchester, but he had sufficient ground radar capability in place to create a secure airspace better than a hundred miles in diameter, backed up by Doppler imaging systems that would detect the heat signatures of any jet engine or the ripples in the air caused by its wake. He was confident nothing could approach them undetected, even so advanced a stealth airframe as Xavier’s.

  He didn’t acknowledge it as the door opened behind him. He didn’t have to. As Lyman and his escort entered the room, Yuriko Oyama stepped out of the background shadows to put herself between them and Stryker, poised on the balls of her feet, her fists clenched.

  “Sir?” Lyman called to announce himself. Stryker shook his head ever so slightly at the faint tremolo to the man’s voice. Yuriko had that effect on people when she was at ready to fight. They didn’t know what to make of her, only that she was supremely dangerous.

  Stryker spared a glance at their reflections in the inactive display screens mounted on the wall before him. He didn’t reply at once, while he and Wilkins, the duty officer, continued through the checklist, and when he did his tone was curt and dismissive.

  “Your men can wait outside, Mr. Lyman.”

  “Sir,” Lyman acknowledged, and the others took up station outside. At a cue from Stryker, Yuriko stood down as well.

  “The machine has been completed to your specifications,” Lyman reported.

  “Good.”

  “If I may ask, sir . . .” Lyman paused as though he’d come to a kind of inner crossroads. “Why are we keeping the children?”

  In quick succession, Stryker activated the monitors. Six screens, six holding cells, six mutants, none of them very happy to be where they were. By contrast, Stryker was almost jubilant.

  “I’m a scientist, Mr. Lyman,” he replied. “When I build a machine, I want to know that it’s working.”

  Lyman didn’t understand.

  “Consider them a . . . control group. Our living benchmarks. What happens to them shows us what’s happening outside. If necessary we can adapt settings and protocols according to their reactions, for greater efficiency, greater potency.”

  “Sir, they’re children,” Lyman blurted out, a reflex that was more surprise than actual protest, and the instant Stryker met his eyes he regretted every word.

  “They’re mutants, Mr. Lyman,” said the older man. “And this is war.”

  At that moment, the plane Stryker was so concerned about was sitting within a few miles of where he stood, in a patch of snowy woods. Yes, he’d modified his systems to compensate for the Blackbird’s stealth capabilities, but he hadn’t taken into account the fact that Magneto’s power deflected the radar pulses long before they reached the aircraft. Or Storm’s control over the weather, which allowed her to smooth the air behind them and counteract the heat of the jet’s exhaust.

  They’d come in low and slow, taking the notion of nap-of-the-Earth flying to its extremes as they skimmed treetops when they had to and dropped beneath their branches when they could. Helicopter pilots would have thought twice about some of the maneuvers they employed. Jean spent most of their approach with her teeth gritted with determination—and her fair share of delight—because they were in violation of so many fundamental flight safety protocols that the computers refused to handle the approach. She was forced to fly the plane manually. At the same time, she’d cast her telepathy ahead of them, much like her own personal form of radar, to prevent them from stumbling over some stray sentry or other.

  Once they were down, the stealth netting was once again deployed to cover the plane, to hide them from both visual and electronic detection. Internal systems were kept to a minimum to guard against any stray emissions. Given the terrain, the likelihood of them being spotted was minimal, but recent experience had inspired them all to be prudent.

  Aboard, they integrated the data stolen from Stryker’s offices by Mystique with the information Logan had brought back from his visit to construct a three-dimensional map of the installation, then projected it as a hologram for all to see.

  There was nothing aesthetic about the dam, no attempt at the grandeur of Grand Coulee or Glen Canyon or Hoover. Engineers had thrown a massive wall across the valley, and that was that, although they’d constructed the dam in the shape of a shallow L. There were two active spillways along the long face of the dam, and another on the short leg, pouring a continual flow of water downriver. As well, two huge concrete trenches had been dug on each bank. One was dedicated to the hydroelectric generators that had originally provided power to the base; the other, which began where the short leg of the dam ended, was for safety, to allow for a controlled release in the event of a significant snowmelt.

  The X-Men turned some of the government’s technology to their own purposes by tapping into one of the same keyhole surveillance satellites that had spied on the mansion and downloading current pictures of Alkali Lake. Presumably, when the complex had been abandoned, the emergency spillway had been intended to bleed off the excess capacity of the lake behind the dam. However, over time, it had become blocked by an accretion of broken timber and boulders from a succession of rock falls. Water hadn’t flowed down that trench in a long time, and as a consequence, Alkali Lake itself had risen to dangerous levels.

  The power trench looked clear, but the depth of snow that was visible made it plain that nobody had opened those gates in quite a while, either. Beyond, in an oval of land that had been stripped bare of trees, lay the surface structures of the Alkali base that Logan had explored only days before. As with every other aspect of the valley, there was an obvious air of abandonment.

  “Surface scans are cold,” Storm reported. “No electronics emissions, no power, no heat signatures. As far as the keyhole is concerned, this place is dead. Apparently for years.”

  “We’re shielded,” Jean pointed out.

  Storm shrugged, tapped the control keypad, and the scene before them changed, presenting a different perspective of the base.

  “The first image was a topographic representation of the area. This one”—she indicated various points on the display—“shows the density changes in the terrain. The lighter the coloration, the heavier the repetitive activity.” To the naked eye, the right-hand spillway, the power trench, was covered with virgin snow. Under the enhanced imagery of the spy satellite, however, a vastly dif
ferent picture emerged. The trench was covered with literally hundreds of colored lines, running the length of the spillway and up a ramp to the single road that terminated at the Alkali base. It didn’t need a glance at the legend for everyone to realize that this was extraordinarily heavy activity, not simply in terms of raw numbers of vehicles but of their weight as well.

  “Somebody’s been very busy,” murmured Jean.

  “And it’s fresh,” Storm echoed.

  “That’s the entrance,” Logan told them. When both women looked at him in curiosity, he shook his head. “I remember, okay? Sue me.” Instead, they chuckled along with him.

  Once more, Storm switched perspectives and focused on the spillway. Below the dam, the trench was displayed in varying shades of blue, whereas the surrounding landscape appeared in those of white.

  “The legend tells us the depth of snow and ice that cover the ground,” she said. “There’s been recent water activity.”

  Jean sounded worried as she leaned close to the image. “If we go in there, Stryker could flood the spillway.”

  Storm looked to Nightcrawler. “Kurt, could you teleport inside?”

  He shook his head. “I have to be able to see where I’m going. Otherwise, I might materialize inside a wall.”

  Logan stretched, cracking his joints in sequence. “I’ll go,” he said as casually as anyone else might announce they were going out for a carton of milk. “I have a hunch Billy will want me alive.”

  At last Magneto strolled into the cone of light thrown out by Storm’s holograms.

  “Logan,” he said with so natural an air of command that all present automatically gave him their full attention, “whoever goes inside that dam needs to be able to operate the spillway mechanism and neutralize any other defenses. What do you intend to do, even if you knew what to look for and where to find it? Scratch the box with your claws?”