X-Men; X-Men 2

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  She shook her head in dismay. If she’d wanted complications, she’d have gone into psychiatry. Oddly, but understandably for some whose powers were wholly invisible to the naked eye, she preferred tangible solutions to tangible problems. Like fixing a broken leg.

  Push the process now and she risked messing up all her good work, leaving herself functionally lame.

  Thank Heaven, she thought of Scott, for having you to lean on, baby.

  And immediately felt a rush of shame, as though she’d been caught cheating on a commitment that wasn’t even formal!

  Worry about that later . . . if there was a later.

  Nightcrawler was praying, curled into a ball of indigo, borderline invisible where the dim light from the corridor bulbs ran out of energy, hands curled protectively around his head, which, in turn, lay against his knees in a pose of abject supplication.

  “What’s he saying?” Artie asked.

  “Our Father,” Storm replied, “Who art in Heaven . . .”

  “That’s not what it sounds like.”

  “He’s praying in German, and French, and in Latin.”

  Storm winced as she rose to her feet, trying to ignore the rude smells rising from the back of her uniform where the lightning had struck. Her nerves were a mess, as though a legion of fire ants were roaming beneath her skin, leaving a trail of itches the size of a superhighway that she couldn’t scratch. She moved gingerly, like an old woman, taking care with every step and gesture—especially any that required turning her head—lest she lose a precariously maintained balance. She envied the children their resilience and used that as a goad to maintain a confident and solid facade.

  She knelt beside Nightcrawler and stroked her hand down his back from neck to the middle of his shoulders, enjoying the richly delicious sensation of his luxurious skin. She’d never felt anything so smooth or plush, even the fur of newborn lion cubs.

  He caught her with his tail, taking a couple of wraps around her palm and giving her a gentle squeeze of thanks and reassurance that he was all right.

  She turned to look at Artie and past him to the others.

  “Everyone else okay?” she asked. Whether they were or not, they’d be moving in a minute, faster than before. The sooner they were quit of this place, and far away, the happier she’d be. Unless, in departing, she could scourge the landscape with her lightning right down to the bare rock, wiping away all trace that the Alkali Lake installation had ever existed. That would be a real pleasure.

  And if William Stryker happened to be inside at the time, so much the better.

  Stryker’s escape tunnel ended at a small clearing on the periphery of the main complex, about a mile downriver from the dam. A helicopter was waiting, gassed and ready to go.

  Quickly, because he was never a man to waste time, Stryker released the chains that anchored the vehicle to the landing stage. He pulled the safety flags free of all the flight control surfaces, cleared the air intake of the twin jet engines, and at the last, removed the wooden chocks from the landing gear.

  In a matter of minutes, he would be safely away, and not long after, if his mental estimates were correct, the dam itself would eliminate all evidence of what had happened here.

  Perfect.

  Magneto spared Mutant 143 a momentary glance and smiled humorlessly at the creature’s evident frustration.

  He tapped his helmet and said, “You can’t come in here.”

  Then, drawing a magnetic field close about him, he rose into the air to the core of the holographic globe, doing a slow pirouette and letting his excitement show as he beheld all the mutants revealed on the display. He’d never dared dream there were so many, and he remembered how people felt in the internment camps after the war—on the one hand, cut to the soul by the realization that so many had perished in the camps, and yet at the same time restored by the discovery that, despite the Nazis’ best efforts, there were survivors. Enough to form the bedrock of a nation. He thought then of Moses, standing on the shores of the River Jordan, gazing across a promised land that he would never reach.

  How would posterity judge him, he wondered.

  If that posterity was mutant, he didn’t mind. That he had succeeded, that they survived and prospered, was satisfaction enough. If it wasn’t, he didn’t care, because that meant he had failed. Either way, he would do today what needed doing.

  Xavier paid no notice of him, so entranced was he by the glamour cast by Stryker’s pet mutant.

  Magneto shook his head in sorrow. “How does it look from there, Charles?” he wondered aloud, and while there was pity in his voice for his old friend, there was also an edge to his words, a contempt for the weakness that had brought Xavier to such a state. Here was a rich irony. If not for Xavier, Magneto would not have been captured and used by Stryker to crack open the secrets of Xavier’s School—and most especially, of Cerebro. Yet, that selfsame act had in turn presented Magneto with the means to deliver his people forever from the threat of annihilation. Each act required the sacrifice of the same man. To Magneto, that was a more than fair exchange.

  “Still fighting the good fight?” he mocked, turning away from Xavier to examine the device around him. His assessment completed, he used his power to begin a global reconfiguration. At his direction, Cerebro began to deconstruct and rebuild itself, the air filling with ceiling panels, metal braces, conduits, cabling, every key component that went into the construction of the machine, all moving swiftly and purposefully to their new destinations.

  “From here, old friend, it doesn’t look like they’re playing by your rules.”

  The work finished to his satisfaction, he descended to the platform.

  “Perhaps it’s time to play by theirs.”

  On the far side of the doorway, Mystique smiled and strode briskly into the chamber. By the third step, when she emerged from the shadows, she was a perfect match for William Stryker.

  She paused for a cruel and dismissive glance at Xavier, still oblivious to everything other than what 143 was feeding him. Then, she crouched beside 143, taking care not to touch him as she whispered into his ear: “There’s been a change of plans. . . .”

  As she spoke with Stryker’s face, in Stryker’s voice, 143’s eyes bulged and a measure of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. He actually looked excited by the prospect.

  Still presenting her masquerade, Mystique returned the way she came, reverting to her true form only after she was clear of the chamber.

  Magneto stood before his friend one final time and tried to think of something to say. At Ellis Island, he’d been willing to sacrifice a child—Rogue—to achieve his goals. Now it was a friend. Nothing he could say, precious little he could imagine doing, would ever make that right. Some scales simply could not be balanced.

  “Good-bye, Charles,” he said.

  Mutant 143, eager to begin, cocked his head to one side and glared once more into Xavier’s skull.

  Around them both the great globe flared once more brightly to life—only now, where its surface had been decorated by a random scattering of scarlet icons, representing the mutant population, now there was a multitude of pristine white ones, which stood for everyone else. Magneto had given them both access to every nonmutant sentient mind on the planet.

  The better to destroy them all.

  True to his nature, recovery for Logan was quick and complete. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but that was due to blood loss, as he could plainly see from the Jackson Pollock mess he’d made all around him on the concrete. He popped his claws and retracted them to make sure they were in good working order, and flexed his limbs and back to smooth out any kinks.

  He had one clue to Stryker’s trail: the man’s scent, heavy in the air. That was all he needed. Without any specific memory to back it up, he instinctively understood that a man like Stryker would cover every contingency, including failure. He wouldn’t want to be stuck here amid a whole passel of superpowered mutants who hated his guts. He’d ha
ve a convenient backdoor and waiting transportation. All he needed was time to make his getaway. All Logan had to do to stop him was catch up.

  Silent and purposeful as a hunting cat, only far more ferocious, Logan picked up the pace.

  * * *

  “Was ist?” Nightcrawler wondered as they rounded another corner in what was turning into an endless series of identical corridors—to find themselves confronting a slaughterhouse of a battlefield. Quickly the two adults blocked the children’s path and shunted them back the way they had come.

  After stern injunctions to the kids—especially Artie—to stay clear and, above all, not peek, Storm took another look, taking stock of the circular vault door that had obviously been ripped from its hinges, then just as obviously put back in place, much like a cork into a wine bottle.

  “What is this place, Storm?” Nightcrawler asked again.

  “Cerebro,” she replied, and she didn’t bother to hide her fear. Whoever had been here—and she needed no hints to come up with that identity—clearly didn’t want anyone else going inside. And if the ultra-low-frequency hum she could feel as much as hear emanating from within was any indication, the system was still very much operational.

  Of Xavier there was no sign, and she knew then that Magneto had remained true to his nature where the X-Men were concerned; he had found a way to betray their trust. No doubt for the most “noble” of reasons.

  She sensed movement in the air that warned her of others approaching well before they actually came into view, so that when Scott helped Jean around the corner, Storm was there to greet them and shoulder part of the burden herself.

  “Jean, what’s going on?” she demanded.

  Jean narrowed her eyes, holding her head for Storm as she had for Scott, so that her eyes were mainly masked in shadow.

  “The professor is still inside,” she told them, using both their shoulders for support as she hopped toward the doorway on her good leg and tried not to relate to the gore that surrounded them. “With . . . another mutant. Another psi, very powerful, very twisted. Very dangerous. I’ve got to steer clear of him, too much chance of being snared like Charles. There’s some kind of illusion, Charles is trapped, he thinks he’s home, at the school!” She focused some more, and when she spoke, the words came in a rush. “Magneto’s reversed Cerebro, it isn’t targeting mutants anymore.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” Cyclops muttered.

  “So who’s it targeting now?” Storm demanded at the same time.

  Who do you think, Jean thought, and said aloud, “Everyone else.”

  Of course Artie had ignored everything Storm told him, and as a consequence had just heard what the others said. He had his own instant solution.

  “You’ve got your optic blasts, Cyclops,” he piped up. “So blast the door open!”

  “I can’t,” was the reply.

  To the other adults, as much as Artie, Jean explained, “Once the professor’s mind is connected to Cerebro, opening the door could kill him.” There was a moment’s pause as all of them considered that as suddenly a very real possibility.

  “We’ll have to take that chance,” Scott told them, even though he loved Xavier as a son does his father.

  Abruptly, once more, Jean took charge: “Kurt, you have to take me in there. Now.”

  Cyclops, true to form, protested: “Jean!”

  Nightcrawler shook his head. “I told you, it’s too dangerous. I cannot teleport blind. If I can’t see where I’m going, I—”

  “Who is this guy?” Scott demanded.

  In part because he felt flustered and pressed and wanted to defuse the growing tension of the moment, Kurt launched into his spiel: “I’m Kurt Wagner, but in the Munich Circus—”

  “He’s a teleporter,” Storm said simply, holding up her hand to forestall Nightcrawler’s introduction.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Jean cried urgently.

  “Wait,” Storm said in a tone that wouldn’t permit argument, backed by a will that was a match and more for anyone present.

  Something in what Kurt had said, in the way Jean carried herself, caught Storm’s attention. She reached forward to take her friend’s chin in hand and turn her head up and around to meet her own eyes.

  What she saw there broke her heart. “Oh, Goddess,” she breathed, and didn’t know who needed comfort more right then, Jean or herself.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Nightcrawler.

  “Jean’s blind,” Scott said.

  “I’m a telepath, damn it! I don’t need eyes to see—” she began.

  “Great,” Scott snapped back at her. “So long as there are conscious minds around, you can tap into their visual receptors as surrogate eyes. But you’ve got a bum leg as well, remember?”

  “I’ll go,” Storm said simply, and when the others looked at her, she repeated it, an unassailable statement of purpose. “I’ll go.” And then, with a look straight at Nightcrawler, “We’ll go.”

  “Storm,” he pleaded, “I can’t!”

  “Kurt, I have faith in you.”

  “Kurt,” Jean said, “if Stryker’s replicated the Cerebro chamber, then where you’re going is essentially a huge, empty room. I’m projecting a mental image of the space into your head. Use that for your benchmarks. Stay clear of the walls, stay clear of the platform, you’ve got room to spare. Do you see it?”

  Nightcrawler nodded and gathered Storm into his embrace, arms around her shoulders, tail wrapped snugly around her waist.

  “One last thing,” Jean said, “don’t believe what you see in there. Remember, Charles’ adversary traffics in illusions.”

  “This just keeps getting better and better,” Nightcrawler grumbled in Storm’s ear.

  “If you’re not clear in five minutes,” Cyclops said warningly, “I’m coming in after you.”

  Storm nodded, and so—reluctantly—did Jean.

  “Are you ready, Kurt?” Storm asked him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but not because he was avoiding her. For the moment, his mind—and prayers—were elsewhere.

  “Our Father,” she heard him whisper, “Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth—”

  And just like that, they were gone.

  “—as it is in Heaven!”

  Just like that, they were somewhere else.

  Storm had never jaunted, and after this ride never wanted to again. She didn’t know how Nightcrawler could stand it. She felt like she’d been turned inside out and left a trail of body parts all the way back to where they started. It was like she’d thrown up, horribly, but only inside herself, and was left feeling all twisted and out of sync.

  They’d materialized right where Jean had suggested, in the air about half a body length above the gallery. Storm was in no condition right then to notice, or do anything, so Nightcrawler continued to hold her as they dropped to a landing.

  They expected to find two figures: Xavier himself and the mutant who was controlling him. But—surprise—no Xavier, no command console, no command helmet.

  The only other presence in the vast and empty room was a young girl, standing right at the edge of the platform. She was all peaches and cream, her hair a glorious gold blond, pretty as a picture, sweet as can be, a dream made flesh. Her eyes, though, were an eerily mismatched blue and green that seemed to glow with some intense inner light, and her face was that of someone whose will was absolute.

  Having no idea what to expect, but taking his cue from Storm that something was wrong, Nightcrawler looked around, eyes narrowing at the way the curvature and coloring of the sphere made the room seem like a limitless space.

  “Hello,” said the little girl brightly, as though she was welcoming guests to her house.

  “Storm,” Nightcrawler wondered aloud, “have we come to the right place? Is this Cerebro?”

  She nodded, her attention focused, not on the girl, but on the space a little beyond her where normally Xavier would be sitting.
>
  “Is it broken?”

  “No.”

  “What are you looking for?” asked the girl.

  “Professor!” Storm called. “Charles!”

  The girl smiled sweetly, but there was a hollowness to her eyes, an edge to her stance, and the whole shape of her face around that smile, that made that sweetness a lie.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “he’s busy.”

  For Charles Xavier, every time he synced Cerebro was as marvelous and exciting as the first. It was the ultimate rollar-coaster ride against a backdrop as varied and spectacular as the clearest of night skies, if only the naked eye came with the range and sensitivity of the Hubble telescope.

  His eyes and mouth opened in amazement and delight as he beheld the globe of the world from the inside; it circled serenely around them, its surface covered with a multitude of white lights, creating a display more crowded and, in its way, more beautiful than the stars. There were more than he could count, so he didn’t even try.

  He heard a great pulse from the heart of the machine, and the lights on the globe grew brighter, in tandem with the deepening pitch and increasing frequency of the pulses.

  “Professor,” he heard from the greatest distance imaginable, “Charles!”

  He heard her as a whisper among the multitude, just as he had years ago during a trial run of the Cerebro prototype when his questing consciousness discovered a long, lean whip of a girl sitting on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, taking a break from herding cattle by tossing snowballs and seeing how far her winds could take them. (She’d already reached the Indian Ocean, now she was throwing the other way and trying for the Atlantic.)

  “Did you hear that?” he asked excitedly.

  “No,” said the girl, shaking her head for emphasis.

  It made Xavier’s heart sing to know Storm was alive, but that awareness only increased his frustration when he couldn’t lock in on her position. There was too much interference from these other voices. He had to find a way to screen them out.

  Storm stepped toward the little girl.