Generation X - Crossroads

by Unknown Author

  Sean stopped in midpace, and she felt as if his clear blue eyes could see right through her. She braced herself for the chewing out that would certainly follow.

  Then Sean cracked a smile. “Paige, lass, only you would think of asking a hundred strangers to keep a secret and expect that it could work.”

  She felt herself blushing.

  “The devil of the thing, no pun intended, is that it does seem to’ve worked, if only well enough t’muddy things so the press doesn’t know what it was that happened.”

  She looked up, surprised. “Then we aren’t in hot water?” “There was somebody in trouble, and you saw how you could help where nobody else could. That’s what the X-Men do, what Xavier’s dream is all about. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t advocate your going off without some backup, especially with such an audience as that, but ye did the best that ye could under the circumstances.” He glanced at Emma. “Ye did a good job of covering your tracks, even without scrambling anyone’s brains.” He nodded. “Ye did good.”

  Paige glanced at Emma, who seemed less enthusiastic than Sean, but she nodded.

  Sean turned to Monet. “But as for you, lass, we’ve got to get a doctor to look at ye about these spells of yours.” Monet looked alarmed. “I don’t need any doctor. I’m fine.” “Lass, we can’t keep lettin’ things like this happen.” Monet hung her head, and Paige thought that, for once, she looked very helpless, and very young. Even Jubilee looked

  worried about her. “It was just the Tower,” said Monet. “It called to me in a way I can’t explain.”

  Emma looked thoughtful. “It’s a very sacred place to the Native Americans. I’ve seen too much to simply dismiss such things, especially where telepaths are concerned.”

  Monet was too cowed to even deny it. “It was just that, somehow, the Tower reminded me of my brother.''

  Paige didn’t even think of questioning this. Considering that Monet’s brother was some kind of supernatural, hyperdimensional, mutant vampire, nothing about Monet and her family was too weird to be true.

  “Well,” said Sean, “maybe when we get back, I’ll ask Hank McCoy for a scientific opinion.”

  “Maybe,” said Monet.

  Sean looked slightly uncomfortable. “Well, we’re not get-tin’ near a doctor or anything else for a few days, that’s for sure. That little show at the Tower got far more attention than I’d be wanting, so we’ll camp around south of the interstate for a few days before going on to Rushmore. Let things cool off before we make another appearance. What’s say we get back to the campers and make some lunch.” He waved his arms. “Dismissed, the lot of ye.”

  The kids headed back toward the parking lot, Emma tagging behind at a more sedate pace. Sean waited for everyone else to leave before following, but Paige lingered. She’d figured they’d be in trouble for what happened at the Tower, and now it had her thinking about everything else that was going on. She didn’t like secrets, didn’t like lies. For her, they were dead-end streets, and sooner or later you saw there was only one way out.

  Sean saw something was bothering her. “Lass?”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  He sat on the end of the rustic wooden picnic bench, “Sure an’ you can. Have a seat.”

  She sat on the end of the other bench across the table from them. She used her fingernail to trace a pledge of love somebody had carved in the tabletop long ago. “You said we did the right thing out there, helping those people, but it really wasn’t our business, was it?”

  “I don’t follow ye.”

  “I mean, nobody asked us for our help. It wasn’t our problem. In fact, we had to put our necks on the line to do what we did. But it was still the right thing to do.”

  He chuckled. “That’s a statement, not a question, lass.”

  ‘ ‘But what if the circumstances were different? If we were aware of an injustice that was hurting a lot of people, and we could do something about it, it wouldn’t be right just to sit by and do nothing, would it? Even if it seemed a risky thing to do, and you weren’t sure how things would turn out?”

  “Of course not. If there’s a chance you can make things better, then that’s what you should do. Not that I can imagine you ever letting such a thing go by ye. Y’r a good lass, with a good heart. Trust that heart, it will serve you when your head fails.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Thanks. I’ve just been thinking about some decisions I’ve made in the past, wondering if I did the right thing, or if I was just being stupid.’5 “Want to talk about it?”

  She stood and shook her head. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Maybe, once I get it all sorted out.” She turned and headed back toward the RV. “I expect you’ll hear all about it."

  According to Ivan’s odometer, it was three and one half miles beyond the padlocked gate up a ratted and unpaved road to the abandoned ranch complex that the Expatriate had provided to the World Federalists as a staging area. As he drove up to the farmhouse, he could see an unmarked cargo helicopter, disguised by camouflage netting, parked near the bam. Through the barn’s open door, he could see that the interior had been converted into a bivouac for a group of bored-looking commandos who sat around an improvised table playing some kind of dice game.

  He pulled to a stop in front of the farmhouse, and a broadshouldered man dressed in dusty ranch-hand clothing, but with a decidedly military bearing, stepped out of the front door to meet him. The man was round faced and thick moustached. When he spoke, Ivan noticed a wide gap in his front teeth. ‘ ‘I am Field Marshall Duvall. The Expatriate told us to expect you.”

  “The equipment arrived in good order?”

  “Better than specified, actually. We are well satisfied in every way except for the waiting. My men are ready to go. Why this unnecessary delay? We were reluctant to align ourselves with your Expatriate’s unknown agenda. I still am.”

  Ivan studied Duvall. He had seen men like this before, small men with big ideas. The World Federalists had some plan to place the United States under the “democratic” control of Third-World nations so that it could be carved up like a roast. Much as he might dislike the Americans, Ivan recognized it for the absurd dream that it was.

  His own Soviet Union had proved that the United States could not be toppled from without, no matter the forces against it. It could only be slowly poisoned from within, as was the Expatriate’s dream. The idea that this relative handful of ragtag commandos could be a true threat was comical. Still, they might serve the Expatriate’s plan and, as a bonus, add to the climate of paranoia and distrust in which Walt Norman’s show thrived.

  But like all cannon fodder, they should be told no more than they needed to know about their coming demise.

  “The Expatriate has been quite generous with you, my friend, only because your interests cross with his in this instance. If he considers it necessary to inform you of those interests, he will do so. Until then, it is only necessary to know that the timing of your operation is quite important to him. We are waiting for a trigger event, which should happen shortly, in order to give a go-ahead for the operation.”

  Duvall leaned against the hood of his car and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked neither impressed nor happy. “We have waited long enough. Every hour we wait simply increases the chances that we will be detected. We are going today.”

  Ivan took a step closer to him. “You will go when I give the word.”

  Duvall looked at him, smiled, then laughed. He took his weight off the car. “You do not understand. We have what we want. We have what we need. You have no leverage with us.” He pointed at the open hayloft door of the bam. Ivan looked up and saw something glint there in the sun. “Sniper,” explained Duvall. “One of several that have had their weapons trained on you ever since you passed through the gate. If you are troublesome, it would require only a movement of my hand, or a threatening move on your part, to terminate our relationship.”

  Ivan slowly lifted his left hand up so that
Duvall could see the small device clutched there, nearly hidden in his fist. “It is you who do not understand. The Expatriate has not gotten as far as he has without learning to anticipate. This is a radio transmitter with a dead-man switch. This ranch was a safe-house for our organization and, as such, was wired for destruction should it no longer be useful to us.”

  Duvall frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “There is a crawlspace under that farmhouse. If you look underneath, you will see that it is packed with barrels. These are filled with explosives, wired to this switch. Should I relax my grip without taking certain precautions, this entire complex will be vaporized. There would be no time to run, and no place to run to. Trust me that, if they find any part of your body, it will not be in this state.”

  Duvall snorted. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Go inspect the barrels yourself, but be very careful not to disturb anything.”

  “You would not do such a thing,”

  “If your operation goes off early, it is a total loss for the Expatriate, and I—I am expendable.”

  Duvall licked his lips and took a deep breath. “We will wait.”

  “Of course.” Ivan smiled, just a little. He enjoyed these little games of bluff. The basement of the house was indeed packed with barrels, but they contained drinking water and emergency food, not explosives, and the device in his hand was a pocket pager, nothing more. As with many things, reality mattered less than what people thought.

  Suddenly, the device in Ivan’s hand began to beep. Duvall’s eyes went wide, and Ivan thought for a moment that he might faint dead away. Ivan calmly looked at the display on the top of the pager. The code number there indicated that the young mutants had passed one of their listening posts and were on the way to Rushmore.

  Ivan slid the pager into his coat pocket without explanation. “Good news, my friend. The time is now.”

  Devo’s “Girl U Want” blared from the Xabago’s speakers as Jono leaned on the wheel. On the road ahead, a solitary buffalo was taking its own sweet time crossing to the safety of the trees beyond. Jono was grateful that the girl he wanted was in the other RV following a few miles behind, that the passenger seat was empty, and that Everett and Angelo were, for the moment, leaving him some privacy with his thoughts.

  He considered the irony, that he, a man without a face, was on his way to see four of the largest, most beloved faces in America. He had mixed feelings about it personally, especially about Washington and Jefferson. They were rebels, free thinkers, and revolutionaries, all qualities that he could admire, but they were also traitors to the Crown. It seemed to sum up the curious relationship between the U.S. and his own England. It made him think of storm-tossed gulfs that could never really be closed, only crossed, gulfs between countries, and gulfs between people. The whole thing was bloody depressing.

  The bull bison, fully the size of Emma’s sports car, paused at the edge of the road and stared at him with a baleful eye. Like him, it just wanted to be left alone. As he watched, the beast tossed its great head and ambled resentfully off the right of way and into the trees beyond.

  Jono released the brake and began accelerating, uncertain if he was glad to have the moment end or not. For a second there, he thought the big animal and he had an understanding, a kind of mutual contempt that bordered on intimacy. Dog Pound, he thought, isn ’t the only one who can commune with the animals.

  If only he could commune with Paige as easily. Right now, it didn’t even seem as if he could talk with her. They communicated in uncomfortable silences, and Jono realized that it wasn’t as different from his encounter with the buffalo as he’d initially thought.

  But even if he could talk with her, he didn’t know what he’d say to her. She was mad at him about Phaze, the genogoth he’d been dancing with back in Seattle, and part of him felt the anger was deserved. He’d enjoyed it, maybe a little too much. Ever since his power had first manifested itself by blowing his face and chest apart, he’d felt like a freak, isolated from even those closest to him. Even from Paige.

  And here, suddenly, had been this stunning woman who wasn’t repelled by his disfigurement, but was turned on by it. She could look at him without pity, without flinching. She could look at him like she was hungry for him, and that was an intoxicating feeling. Part of him wanted to stay there in that guarded basement, shut out the world, and dance away till the end of time.

  Later, thinking about it, he’d only gotten her name because he’d asked for it, and she’d never asked him his. He didn’t think she’d cared. She wasn’t attracted to who he was, only to what he was. Her behavior was, in its own way, worse than pity.

  But by the time he’d realized how empty the moment had been, Paige was suddenly attracted to someone else, someone with everything going for him, including a face that didn’t look like it had escaped from a horror movie. Jono didn’t, couldn’t, bring himself to hate Recall. Paige could do a lot worse, and more than anything, he wanted Paige to be happy. Never mind that losing her would tear him apart more thoroughly than his powers ever had.

  “Girl U Want” had hit the chorus, and he reached over and slammed the CD eject button. The disc popped out, and it seemed that the machine was sticking its tongue out at him.

  Everett looked up from the couch, where he was stretched out reading some magazine about hot-rodding Volkswagens twenty years older than he was. “Hey, I was listening to that.” “Well, I’m bloody sick of it.”

  “You’re the one that put it on in the first place.”

  “I’ll turn on the radio.”

  He adjusted controls and managed to find an AM station with only a little static. The announcer seemed to be in the middle of some sort of entertainment report. “—once again headlines are being converted into ratings, with reports that the top three broadcast networks are in a bidding war for the rights to a new series to be called Buford and Taryn, the New Adventures of Razorback. The show will reportedly focus on the romantic rather than the heroic aspects of Razorback’s life. Casting is not complete, but Tom Selleck— ”

  Jono stabbed at the radio’s power switch. “Bloody hell. That’s all we need.”

  Everett again looked up from his magazine. “Ease off, Jono, you’re gonna eject a warp core or something. Besides, you’ll wake Angelo. I let him ride in the top-gun seat, and in two minutes he’s out like a light. Waste of a good view, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.” Jono said it, and immediately felt bad about it. Everett was just trying to help. He was always trying to help, trying to take care of all of them. ‘ ‘Hey, sorry about that, mate. Girl problems, you know?”

  “I’ve got eyes. You want my advice?’*

  “Gonna get it anyway, aren’t I?”

  “Tell Paige how you honestly feel. Girls like that.”

  “You learn that on Oprah, or what?”

  “Hey, you could learn a thing or two from Oprah,” Everett said with mock indignation.

  He was about to make some crack about being more at home with Jerry Springer when the view through the windshield totally derailed his train of thought. “Bloody hell.” Everett groaned and rolled off the couch. “What’s set you off now?” Then he looked out and saw the police cars blocking the road ahead of them. As Jono pulled the Xabago in the end of a line of vehicles stopped at the roadblock, he could see Synch digging to find the image inducer and get it to Angelo. Jono could only hope this wasn’t going to be an un-happier version of their encounter with Ranger Timmons. It would be too much to hope for two mutant-friendly cops on one road trip. Then he could see that they weren’t just stopping traffic, they were turning it back.

  Rather than reach the roadblock, Jono pulled the Xabago as far onto the shoulder as he could and parked. ‘‘Synch, get out and see if you can find out what’s going on.”

  “Did I miss something?” asked Angelo, his voice still groggy.

  Everett glanced up at him. “Only everything.” He turned his attention back to Jono. “I can do
better than that. I think Ms. Frost is close enough for me to synch her telepathy. I should be able to tune in one of those state troopers up there and—’ ’ His mouth made a little O and he blinked in surprise. “There are a bunch of terrorists at Mt. Rushmore. They’ve got hostages up there, and rocket launchers. If their demands aren’t met, they’re going to blow up Mt. Rushmore!” “Demands,” asked Angelo, “like money?”

  Everett looked grave. ‘ ‘Like surrendering Florida to the Cubans.”

  The larger RV rolled in behind them, and Jono felt Emma's telepathic touch. Synch’s already relayed the situation to us. There’s a turnoff a few miles back. We’ll meet there. Meanwhile, get your uniforms on. This is going to be a business call.

  Jono glanced at Everett. “She was sending to us all. Oh, boy. Looks like Devils Tower was just a warm-up.”

  Angelo threw aside a seat cushion from the couch, found a uniform underneath, and sprinted for the back of the RV. Everett looked around for a few more moments before shouting after him, “Angelo, that’s mine!”

  As for Jono, he focused on the difficult job of getting the large rig turned around in a tight space. Drivers in both directions honked at him, but he tuned them out. In his mind, he was already at the mountain. Right now. Jonothan Evan Stars-more was just dazed and confused, but Chamber, Chamber was ready to kick some butt.

  Ivan stood in the parking lot of a little store and gas station that catered to the tourist crowd. Signs advertised maps of THE BLACK HILLS, PROPANE & PROPANE ACCESSORIES, and coffee always hot. The coffee, he observed as he took a sip of the dark, bitter fluid from a foam cup, was hot, if terrible by what he gathered were American standards. His tastes were for dark and bitter, and roadside establishments like this were generally accommodating.

  This cup was especially satisfying, practically a victory banquet for him. Radio triangulation showed that the mutants’ vehicles were both stationary off the road and only a few miles from Mt. Rushmore. Days of work and planning had come to fruition, the timing had been perfect, and their targets had taken the bait.