How old was he? Storm couldn't even begin to guess, but if she had to, she would probably have started with a century and worked her way up. He'd had even more lives than she—soldier, spy, wildman, tavern owner, a million other things—but somewhere in the middle of it all, his life had been taken away. His memories had been erased, replaced, complicated, created. Then, of course, there was the adamantium.
Under the guise of the Weapon X project, a group of scientists had found a way to fuse the most powerful, unbreakable metal in the world with Wolverine's skeleton, making his bones themselves unbreakable and giving him claws that popped out from between his knuckles on instinct or command. He was a cunning, as he was so fond of saying, oftentimes what he did savage fighter, the best there was at what he did. But was not very nice.
There was more to him than all of that, though, as Storm had learned over the years. They had been X-Men together, had traveled some hard roads together, just the two of them. In his years he'd learned to offer respect due to ability rather than age, and so he was more of a brother than a father figure. They'd loved and lost, and stood by each other. Though he projected the image of a loner, needing no one and having a true distaste for being needed by anyone, that couldn't be further from the truth. His love for and loyalty to his friends was as fierce and unbending as his will.
"How you holdin' up?" he asked, referring to her claustrophobia. The others all knew, and assumed she was dealing with it, which she was. Logan was the only one who could tell when it was getting to her.
"I'm all right," she answered, and found that she was.
Wolverine looked at her a moment, then nodded, accepting her response. For no reason other than the tilt of his head, the narrowing of his eyes, she was reminded of a time they'd been to dinner together in Manhattan. Even in the melting pot, they made the oddest of couples, she with her milk chocolate skin and silver white hair, and he, more than half a foot shorter and very Caucasian. She was young, slender and stylish, while he was obviously older, with a mess of black hair and mutton chop sideburns, in leather jacket, jeans, and pointed toe cowboy boots.
If anyone in that restaurant had been able to simply look in their eyes, however, they would have seen the most important similarity: these were dangerous people, Storm wondered when that had happened to her, when she had become one of the dangerous people. She didn't wonder why, though. The answer was all around her, every day, and had been since the moment she met Charles Xavier. As Logan might put it, there were "things needed doin'," and they did them.
"Logan, let me ask you something," she began, suddenly thinking of something that had struck her as odd earlier that day. "You know that Cyclops and his team could have used you on Hala. Why didn't you volunteer for that mission?"
"I been to space, Ororo," Wolverine answered. "Ain't nothin' special. Anyhow, way I got it figured, Scotty and the gang know exactly what they're goin' up against. They get smoked anyway, won't be nothin' I could have done for 'em."
He leaned back and put a cigarillo in his mouth, then pulled out a silver lighter. They all hated the stench of the things, which looked like something out of an old Clint Eastwood western, but Wolverine insisted on smoking them. Besides, his healing factor negated any dangers. He bit the end off, spit it onto the floor as Storm rolled her eyes in disgust, and the lighter flared to life.
"The other hand," he said, smoke puffing from his mouth with every word. "We got no idea what's happenin' here in Colorado. Plus I ain't been out here for a while and I surely do love the mountains. Not to mention could be Bishop's right about all this, and we gotta put a stop to it. If you're headin' for trouble, I'd like to be there to back your action.
"Then again, it don't hurt that I'd rather call you 'boss' than Scott. He sort of expects it, but it surprises you every time, boss," he said, and smiled with the cigarillo pinched between his teeth.
Storm couldn't help but laugh, the grin looked so silly. She knew that all of his reasons were at least partially true, but decided that none of them mattered. She was just happy he had chosen to come along.
They heard the whine of the landing gear beginning to descend, and Bishop snapped to attention, stood and shouldered an enormous plasma rifle that was merely one of the weapons he had brought along. He reached a hand up and held on to the Blackbird's frame, nearly quivering with the tension in his muscles.
"I'm concerned about him," Storm said softly.
"Him an' us both," Wolverine answered, his voice a low growl. "Guy's wired to blow, Storm. We gotta watch that doesn't happen, or at least that nobody gets caught in the shrapnel."
Storm walked down the exit ramp even as it descended from the belly of the Blackbird. Wolverine and Bishop flanked her, then set about scanning the perimeter of their landing zone as she waited for Iceman and the Beast to emerge from the plane. It was still early afternoon in Colorado, and the day was cool and breezy. Almost perfect.
Hank and Bobby were talking quietly as they hurried down the ramp to the high grass of the field. As soon as his feet touched earth, Bobby iced up, and Storm couldn't help noticing how his once smooth ice-form had changed, gaining jagged edges and sharp icicles that represented his hair. There'd been a time when those changes would have looked foolish on Bobby Drake, but inside the shell of his humor and boyish charm, even Iceman had hardened somewhat over the years.
"Report, please, Hank?" Storm asked calmly.
"Mission objective is on the other side of that expanse of forest, perhaps half a kilometer," the Beast answered. "The aerial view reveals it to be surrounded by some form of energy, likely a force field. There do appear to be mutants within, but something from the base is jamming the mini-Cerebro unit on the Blackbird, so we can't pinpoint their energy signatures specifically enough to ascertain who it might be."
"Mutants?" Storm asked, taken aback by the news. "If they're mutants, this might not be a theft attempt as much as a sabotage mission, a mutant terrorist attack."
"Mutant Liberation Front, you think?" Iceman asked, also curious.
"There are too many candidates to contemplate," the Beast answered. "We haven't been confronted by Sinister for some time. It might well be him, or any number of others."
"We won't know until we get there," Storm said. "Any sign of the military?"
"There's definitely something happening in the woods outside the fence, but that jamming signal I mentioned defeated every endeavor to pin down details," Hank answered, stroking the blue fur at his chin. "We must presuppose that they've arrived before us, particularly since Val Cooper has informed us that she believed they would."
Storm considered his words, but there was really only one way to go about this operation with prudence.
"Bishop, Wolverine," she called, and in a moment the two had returned to the center of the clearing in which they'd landed. "We move out now, as a unit, non-threatening. Shoulder that weapon, Bishop. Bobby, power down. Logan, take point but only by a few yards. If the army is here, we want at least the opportunity to cooperate."
"And if they don't accommodate us with that opportunity, Storm?" the Beast asked.
"Simple, Henry," she replied. "We assert ourselves."
The Beast hung his head, sighed and said, "I was afraid of that."
"Wind's at our backs," Wolverine said as they entered the forest. "Could be anything up ahead and I wouldn't smell it."
"Lions and tigers and bears," Bobby said softly, to which Hank replied, "Oh, my."
Though there was no real path, they kept very rigidly to the trail blazed by Wolverine. Less than ten minutes later they could see the brightening of the sun that told them they were approaching the open field where the installation that housed Operation: Wideawake lay. Beyond the sunlight, there was a dim green glow that could only be the energy field the Beast had warned them about.
Without warning, Wolverine stopped dead in his tracks.
"Logan, what is it?" Storm asked.
"Wind's finally shifted," he answered. "And ju
st in time. We got a sizable welcome wagon up ahead, Ororo."
Without a word, Bishop slung the plasma rifle off his shoulder and ratcheted back the safety. It was the kind of reaction Storm had both dreaded and expected.
"Shoulder that weapon, Bishop," she said, spinning on him. "Were you not listening when I said we'd go in non-threatening?"
His eyes scanned the woods ahead for a moment longer, then snapped toward Storm, He tried to stare her down but she knew he would capitulate. He'd been a soldier and a lawman in his future, so authority meant something to him. Add to that the fact that, in his lifetime, the X-Men had been nothing more or less than wondrous legends, and she knew his loyalty was unquestionable.
His ability to remain calm, on the other hand, was unpredictable.
"Move together," she said, and as a group, they walked into the lion's den. At the last minute, she began to worry that their welcome wagon wouldn't be the military at all, but part of the group that had taken over the base. She said nothing, however. It was too late for such concerns, and her gut told her that her first instinct was right.
It had to be the army.
And it was.
Wolverine stepped out of the woods a half dozen yards from the fence and energy field that surrounded the base. To their great surprise, it was little more than a shattered one-story concrete structure, and they realized that the base itself must have been underground.
Less of a surprise was their greeting. As they followed Wolverine into the clearing, they were surrounded by armed soldiers. In seconds, a pair of troop transports came around either side of the compound and skidded to a halt in the scrub only feet away. The transport to the west was followed very quickly by a fast-moving tank.
A man in the front of the eastern transport stood with a bullhorn in his hand, and began to address them just as the clattering of dozens of weapons being cocked and readied for firing echoed off the trees behind them.
"Attention X-Men," said the man in the transport, "this is Colonel Tomko, United States Army. You are trespassing at a top secret federal facility. Throw down your weapons and surrender or you will be fired upon."
"Seem a little anxious to shoot a couple mutants, don't they?" Wolverine said under his breath, but Storm put a hand on his elbow to prevent any reaction.
Out of the comer of her eye, she saw Bishop begin to bring his plasma rifle around to firing position.
Chapter 6
Magneto was aware of the presence of the U.S. military outside the perimeter fence. But he was unconcerned. Granted, they had arrived roughly half an hour earlier than he had expected, but that was well within the acceptable parameters for the Empire Agenda. The magnetic force shield with which he had surrounded the base was performing its function admirably, and the jamming signal Milan was broadcasting from the computer seemed to be working, for none of the radio contact they had tapped into amongst the troops signaled any knowledge of who had captured the facility.
For the moment, he was content. Soon, he would have the means at his disposal to attain the goal he had worked toward for so long: mutant domination of humanity. He would prove to Charles Xavier once and for all time whose philosophy was not only the best, but the most pragmatic. The next twenty-four hours would be glorious, the weeks, months and years afterward, nothing short of utopian. For mutants, of course.
Xavier would see the light at last. That was important to Magneto. Once, they had been the best of friends, but their divergent dreams tore them apart. Ever the idealist, Charles would argue with him hour after hour, day after day, until finally Magneto realized he must act to make his dream real, rather than simply debate its finer points.
The last time they had parted as friends, at peace with one another, the argument had reached new heights. Inthe heat of the Israeli summer, desert sand flying in the sweltering wind, bodies baking inside uncomfortable clothing as their Jeep bounced on rutted unpaved roads, their already-tattered friendship was torn asunder. Finally, Magneto had insisted that Charles recognize the primary flaw in his philosophy.
"And what might that be?" Charles had asked, eyes narrowing at this new approach to the debate.
"It's so obvious, Charles," Magneto had answered. "You see it around you every day, in every newspaper, in every city. It's something I learned in war that you have yet to accept. Human society needs someone to hate. There must be a bottom rung on the ladder. Right now, mutants are it, and I don't see anyone else climbing up after us. Therefore, as long as human society exists in it's current form, humans will hate and fear mutants."
Charles was quiet for a long time after that, his face darkened by the shadow of his consternation. When he met Magneto's gaze again, he seemed unsettled, yet determined.
"There are certainly humans who need to hate," Charles began. "But I do not believe that is true of humanity as a whole. Humans and mutants can live in peace, Magnus. I will never believe otherwise. Never."
That stubborn quality had blinded Charles from the beginning, and Magneto believed that it still did. But not for long. In one day he would teach Charles Xavier what he had not been able to in all the long years since they had first met. In one day. Today.
Magneto was alone in the Sentinel control center, except for Milan, who could hardly be counted as his consciousness was completely integrated into the computer core at the moment. He was still slumped like a corpse over the console, jacked into cyberspace, and his presence gave an almost ghostly feel to the room.
"Lord Magneto," Voght's voice crackled suddenly from a speaker nearby. Magneto walked to a comm-console near the observation window of the command center and slapped a yellow button before talking into a speaker on the wall.
"What is it, Amelia?"
"In the forest outside the perimeter fence," she said quickly, obviously alarmed, "the X-Men are approaching."
"Thank you," he said calmly. "Please keep me up to date."
"Yes, Lord," she replied calmly, but it was clear that Magneto's reaction had surprised her. He had, of course, expected the X-Men, or one of their splinter groups, to make an appearance during this operation. He was prepared for that eventuality. Voght should have known better than to think he could be taken by surprise.
"Now then, Amelia, report to the control center at once," he said in his normal voice. No additional urgency was required for his commands to be carried out. He was their Lord, after all.
• • •
As she made her way to the Sentinel command center, Amelia Voght wondered, not for the first time, how she had ended up an Acolyte of Magneto when she had turned down a similar role in the life of Charles Xavier. Perhaps, though, the answer lay in the manner in which she had phrased the question. As an Acolyte, Magneto was her lord and master. Xavier had been her lover. When he began to build the foundations for the X-Men, their relationship became ... well, competition was the only word she could think of.
If she had wanted to continue her relationship with Xavier, she would have had .to throw herself wholly into his dreams for the X-Men. Voght hadn't been prepared to do that. She had known, better than any of them, what would happen. Xavier would gather his XMen—like-minded individuals or young people whose opinions were not yet fully formed, whom he could then sculpt to his needs—Magneto would do the same, as would others she was certain would pop up eventually.
It was asking for trouble, she had thought then. She knew better now, knew that hiding her head in the sand was not the answer, that she could not live in fear and shame simply because she was a mutant. But then she had been afraid, and her fear had made her self-righteous and indignant. Xavier had chosen his path, irrevocably, and Voght did not wish to follow it. It had ended that simply.
Years later she had realized it was too late to make a choice. She was afraid again, but this time, there seemed only one way to survive, and that was to fight back against the swelling tide of human loathing. Mutants had to prevail. Magneto was the living essence of that conviction, and therefore Voght had thrown
in with him.
Though she thought him foolish, she still had a soft spot in her heart for Charles Xavier, a nostalgia for the innocence of their first days together in India, he only newly crippled, and she his vigilant nurse. That modicum of good feeling did not, however, extend to the X-Men. They were hopeless fools all, seduced by romanticism and wallowing in ignorance. Amelia Voght would be more than happy to teach them the error of their ways.
The command center door slid aside with a hydraulic hiss. Magneto stood at the observation window staring out at the fleet of Sentinels that would soon be his to command. Milan was still psych-surfing the net, out like a light. Voght waited a moment, but Magneto did not turn to address her.
"You rang?" she said finally.
He started slightly, as if he hadn't heard her enter, then turned slowly to face her.
"Ah, yes, Amelia," he said absently. "I'm sorry. I was just running over the Agenda in my head. Everything seems to be running perfectly well, but there are a couple of things we need to be wary of. Including, of course, the arrival of the X-Men."
"You don't seem too concerned," she said. "I had hoped to keep our presence here unknown for as long as possible, but it seems I have failed."
"Not necessarily," Magneto answered. "It is entirely possible that they know of the Sentinels kept at this location, and mean to prevent anyone from possessing them."
Voght realized that Magneto was right. At least with the Sentinels in the hands of the federal government and Operation: Wideawake, the X-Men knew what they were up against. Better the devil you know, as they say. Xavier would have sent them to investigate no matter what the circumstances or the identity of the potential thieves.
Siege Page 9
