Generation X - Crossroads

by Unknown Author

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been the only one to see it, but Chill was staying with him until he could find a place of his own in town, and Pound was bunking on the foldout in the basement for a few days before going home to Indiana.

  The door opened and Chill popped in—still wearing his McCloud Cold Storage coveralls—greeted him with a nod, and fell heavily into his brother’s old bed.

  “So,” asked Recall, “how was the first day on the job?” “Backbreaker, man. I never knew frozen fish could be so heavy. Why couldn’t I have gotten some keen antigravity powers?”

  Recall had a sudden pang of guilt, not only because it was his father who had worked Chill so hard, but because he didn’t have to work through the summer to pay for school. “Sorry.” Chill managed a weary smile, “Hey, don’t take it wrong, pard. I’m grateful that your dad was willing to give me this job just on your recommendation, and I’ve had much worse jobs. Plus, I'll never have to worry about getting run off because of my genetic makeup. It took me a while to catch on, but it’s clear there is one unwritten and unbreakable rule at

  McCloud Cold Storage. We do not use the M-word in the workplace, not even me.”

  Recall blinked in surprise. “Huh?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just clear that everybody there knows about the boss’s kid, and they know not to talk about it if they want to keep their jobs.”

  Recall swung around and put his feet on the floor, leaning forward as though proximity might somehow help his comprehension. “Are you sure, because I must have been in there a hundred times and nobody—” He stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying, and what they never had.

  “There are some pretty rough customers down there in the warehouse, Recall. I bet some of them even go home and turn on Walt Norman every night, but they hold their tongues at work, you bet.” He chuckled. “It’s strange, it isn’t really right, but it is nice to see someone else discriminated against in the workplace besides me.”

  Recall wasn’t amused. “Chill, you’ve got to believe, I had no idea things were that way.”

  “Hey, spud, family is always the last to know. Your folks are just trying to protect you, I guess, even if they’re probably going about it all the wrong way.”

  Of course it was wrong, just as it was wrong that he should even need protecting because of a simple accident of birth. The whole situation symptomized a fundamental flaw in the world, one that he felt powerless to change, or even attack.

  There was a knock at the door. “You boys decent?” It was his mom’s voice.

  “Come on in, Ma.”

  Chill rolled off the bed and stood. “Hi, Mrs. McCloud.” She smiled at him. “Hello, Peter. Mr. McCloud says you did good work at the warehouse today. He thinks you’ll work out just fine.”

  He shrugged. “The work just comes naturally to me, of course.”

  Her face glazed over, and her voice suddenly became as cold as Chill’s hands on a first date. “It’s just a matter of applying yourself. Anyone can do it, really.”

  Chill gave him an / told you so look. “Listen, I should go grab a shower and change into my civvies. See you guys in a while.’ ’ He stepped out, closing the door after him.

  Recall’s mom watched him go. “He seems like a nice enough boy.”

  For a mutant? ‘ ‘Ma, why did you do that? Chill is a mutant, just like me. He can’t help it, it’s just what he is. Why is that so difficult to accept?”

  She looked uncomfortable, smoothing the legs of her jeans. “Of course there’s nothing wrong with that, Scooter. Peter is a very nice boy, and his genetic—differences don’t have anything to do with that. But simply because one is different is no reason to advertise it.”

  “Chill, Ma. He likes to be called Chill. I like to be called Recall. I don’t like Scooter. I’ve never liked Scooter, and I can’t imagine why you decided to name me that.”

  “Scooter is a perfectly fine name. It was your grandfather’s name, and it was good enough for him.”

  Recall laughed harshly. “If he didn’t hate it, too. I’ll disown the family.”

  His mother put her hands on her hips, her face hardening into a familiar, angry frown. “So instead you want us to call you by some kind of secret mutant name?”

  “It’s a nickname, Ma. That’s all. My friends gave it to me as a sign of affection, and I happen to like it, okay?’ ’

  She shook her head. “It’s not okay, Scooter. What if somebody found out your secret?”

  He jumped off the bed without even knowing why. “It’s not a secret! It’s what I am! I know it. You know it. Everybody in that warehouse of yours knows it, and pretending like they don’t won’t make it go away. I am not ashamed of what I am, Ma, and I’m not afraid of it either. You and Dad stop protecting me like I was some deformed infant or something. I can take care of myself!”

  He rushed past her, downstairs and out the front door without any idea of where he was going.

  Chill found him sitting on the end of the front walk, looking out at a tree-lined street full of neat houses and big cars where he’d once played, and where he no longer belonged. Chill sat down next to him, wearing the oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts that he favored, even in the dead of winter. He said nothing for a while, as though afraid Recall might bolt if he made a sudden noise. “You know,” he finally said, “I really can’t afford a place by myself. I could sure use a roommate to share the expenses. It’d be nice to have one I know I could get along with. I’d hate to wake up to Walt Norman on my roomie’s clock radio.”

  Recall sat up straight. “You mean me?”

  “You’d have to find some way to keep up your end of the expenses, of course.”

  “I’ll flip burgers if I have to.”

  Chill grinned. “Might do you some good.” He saw Recall’s reaction. “Hey, no offense, pard. Listen, I heard what you said to your mom in there. Takes guts to just come out and say the truth, especially to people you love.” He socked Recall playfully on the arm. “I’m proud of you, spud.”

  Recall smiled. “Thanks. You know what they say, the truth will set you free.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, why do I feel like I’m just getting started?”

  They pulled into an RV park outside Chicago just after five. The Xabago and its more elegant companion occupied two adjacent spaces near the back of the park.

  After settling in, Sean and Emma announced that they had a dinner appointment with a genetic scientist from a nearby university, an old friend of Hank McCoy’s. While Sean went to unhook the sports car, Emma gathered the kids in the big RV and gave them instructions for the evening.

  “Now,” said Emma firmly, “I want you to stay put. We’ll be here for several days, so there will be plenty of time for sightseeing later when Sean and I are around to go with you. If you get a craving for takeout, order in a pizza or something.” She headed for the door, but paused as though she’d had an afterthought. “Oh, and I’ll call occasionally just to check on you.”

  “Ms. Frost,” complained Jubilee, “we aren’t babies. Why are you treating us like we were? I mean, don’t you trust us or something?”

  Emma looked away evasively, knowing there was no right way to answer the question. “It’s just that we’ve run into a lot of trouble on this trip, under suspicious circumstances. If it finds us again, I’d just as soon Sean and I were around to help get you out of it.”

  Jubilee moaned dramatically.

  Emma frowned. “That’s enough of that. You kids find a movie on the dish or something and have a good evening. We’ll be back before midnight.”

  Paige watched out the window as they drove away. “Too bad my appearance on Walt Norman isn’t tonight.”

  Jubilee smiled knowingly. “And too bad they don’t have an appointment scheduled during the show.”

  Paige frowned at her. “Jubes, you’re up to something.” She looked around and saw the faces of the rest of the group, and realized that they were all u
p to something. “Okay, what’s the deal? How would you know when their appointments are, anyway?”

  Jubilee held up a small electronic device a little bigger than a compact. She flipped it open to reveal a keyboard and small screen. “It’s a pocket organizer,” she explained, “the same model Emma carries.” She grinned smugly. “Did you know you can download the files from one of these to another in just a few seconds? Somehow,” she looked up innocently, “I got copies of all Emma’s schedule files in here. I know everything she has planned for the rest of the trip, every phone number, every person she plans to contact.”

  Paige held her hand out. “Give.”

  Jubilee snatched it away. “Not so fast, girlfriend. You don’t just need information, you need a plan.” She gestured at the rest of the team. “We have a plan to cover your escape to the studio, but the catch is, we come with you.”

  “No.”

  Jubilee tucked the organizer in her pocket. “No pain, no gain. We go as a team, or we don’t go at all.”

  Paige sighed, looked them all over. “There’s no way I can talk you out of this?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Well, then, I guess we’re a team.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Somebody asked me the other day, ‘Walt, why haven’t you had any mutants on your show before?’ Simple, really, none of them ever call. I guess they’re afraid of mean old Walt Norman, [chuckles] I don’t know why. I’m not afraid of them. Am I, Mrs. Dale? No, of course not. If Magneto himself were to walk in here and ask to be put on the show, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I’m not afraid of him. Except for one thing. He might erase all our tapes, [laughter]”

  —transcript from The Walt Norman Show

  The Expatriate smiled at the e-mail on his screen. The World Federalists, the few of them that were left, were asking, no, begging, for his assistance in regrouping and gaining their revenge against the hated United States. They went so far as to offer to take him as their new leader, as though that were some sort of greatly desired plum.

  In fact, he didn’t find these remaining stragglers good recruits for his own organization. While some of them doubtless had useful skills, and perhaps were competent enough, terrorists were all, in their own way, idealistic fools. He found them to be neither dependable nor trustworthy in an organization such as his. Give him the lowest mercenary over an idealist any day.

  No, better to cut ties with them before they did him some real harm by association. This would be his last communication with the World Federalists. His finger was poised over the delete button when the phone rang.

  It was Ivan. “The Mandroids are fully operational. I’ve assigned the occupants, and we’ve been drilling in the warehouse all night. I will pilot the ‘Peg’ unit, of course.”

  “You’re sure your people are ready for this? These are complex weapons.” The Expatriate had spent some time running “Peg” through its paces the day before, and had had some opportunity to experience the difficulties firsthand. Despite his vast technical knowledge, combat experience, expertise with weapons, and quick learning skills, the armor had been a real challenge.

  “Of course, my friend. I’ve had fifteen candidates training on computer simulations for weeks and chose only the top six candidates for the mission. Three of them have previous powered-armor experience. Gonzalez was a Guardsman at the Vault before entering our employ.”

  “Excellent. How are our young mutants?”

  “Still at their RV park. We have them under surveillance, and will know when and where they move. Intercepting them shouldn’t be a problem.”

  The Expatriate looked at his watch. Ten minutes to the warehouse and ten minutes back. “I have a meeting with Norman in an hour, which gives me just enough time to brief our people personally. Have them standing by.”

  “Of course. This is a great day, ray friend.”

  “A great day indeed.” He hung up the phone, grabbed his coat, and rushed out the door. Only later did it occur to him that he’d forgotten to delete the message on his screen.

  Jubilee peered through the bedroom door to make sure Sean or Emma wasn’t close enough to hear, then put the phone back to her mouth. “Just do it, Recall. You’re in radio. You can disguise your voice, and you can sell Sean that it’s for real. You’ve got the number, right? Good, then call back in fifteen minutes. That should be early enough for them to change their plans, but late enough that they don't have too much time to think about it.” She smiled. “Great. Do a good job and I’ll fix you up with Paige.”

  Paige turned back from the bedroom window where she was keeping watch and gave Jubilee a dirty look.

  “Right, bye.” Jubilee closed the phone. “Okay, that’s taken care of. Now all we have to do is call their ten a.m. appointment and move it till lunch.”

  Paige looked skeptical. ‘ ‘What makes you think this guy is going to be able to move his schedule around at the last minute like this?”

  Jubilee rolled her eyes. “He’s like, some kind of writer. Those guys never work, and they’ll do anything for a free lunch.”

  Paige held out her hand. “You’d better let me make the call. Somehow, I don’t think you know enough about writers to pull it off.”

  She peeked out the window one last time, then opened the phone and dialed. She held it to her ear. “It’s ringing,” she said. “Mr. Berggren?” She tried to make her voice throatier, like Emma’s. “This is Emma Frost. Yes. Yes. There’s been a little problem with our appointment this morning. Could we possibly do lunch instead? Fine? Noon. Where?” She named an Italian restaurant they’d found in the phone book, one comfortably far from both the park where they were staying and the Norman studios.

  Jubilee paced while Paige talked. Paige signaled for her to stop. It was making her nervous. “What? You know a better place?” They’d already given the location to Recall. “Well, you are the local, but this is—uh—highly recommended.

  Um—Professor Xavier himself told me I should try it. What? It’s owned by his uncle, sir, he might take offense at that assessment.”

  Jubilee pulled aside the curtain and practically jumped back. She silently mouthed, Emma’s coming, even as Paige heard the RV’s door opening.

  “Mr. Berggren, I have to insist. There are things I can’t expain. This is a matter of— uh—life and death. Just meet us there, and be prompt!”

  She slapped the phone shut just as the bedroom door opened and Emma looked in. “Everything okay?”

  Paige slipped the phone behind her back and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans. It gouged her painfully, but she ignored it. Paige chuckled nervously. “Sure. Jubilee was just telling me how she likes—baseball. She sure would like to see a Cubs game while we’re here.”

  Emma looked at her curiously. “Baseball? I had no idea.” Jubilee shrugged. “It’s, uh, not the game, really, I just like the peanuts.”

  “Well,” said Emma, “maybe Sean can be talked into taking you, though I don’t think he knows baseball from rounders. I’ve never had much use for such things personally, unless of course one watches it from the owner’s box. I’m going to fix a watercress sandwich for lunch. Interested?”

  Paige and Jubilee looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Not hungry,” said Paige.

  “Not hungry,” echoed Jubilee.

  “We’ll just sit here and talk.”

  “About baseball.”

  “Baseball.”

  “Why don’t you close the door behind you,” suggested Jubilee, “so we don’t, like, bore you or something?”

  Emma looked at them curiously, but backed out of the room and closed the door anyway.

  Paige stared at the door until she was sure Emma was really gone, then let out a long sigh of relief. “That was close.” Jubilee looked at her. “Baseball? Why didn’t you use, like, golf or something? Go for the gusto. Geeze.”

  Walt Norman arrived at the studio early to find that, for once, McComb wasn't there. He
looked at his watch. They had a meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes, and Trent was nowhere to be found. This surprised him. McComb was normally there when he arrived in the morning, and there when he left at night. If he came in at odd hours, most often McComb was there. He even ordered his lunches in rather than going out with the rest of the crew.

  Norman made a mental note of it. If McComb was late, it was simply one more infraction that he could hold over him, use as a club to keep him in line. It was becoming increasingly obvious that such a club was needed. For the last six months, McComb had been drifting further into his own world, concentrating on some private agenda that Norman didn’t fathom. Norman didn’t like that. He needed McComb, if only to get through today’s broadcast. After that... Well, they'd see. Certainly, after today’s show, Walt Norman wouldn’t need anyone ever again.

  He looked around the empty studio, then had an inspiration. They were supposed to meet in McComb’s office. It would be more dramatic, a better display of dominance, if Norman were there waiting for him.

  He left the studio and walked down the hall to McComb’s office. The door was locked, of course, but Norman fished in his pocket and pulled out a key ring. He didn’t like McComb’s secretive nature, and he’d bribed a custodian for a copy of the master key months ago. He’d never used it until now, knowing that once he did, McComb would immediately change his locks. He’d been holding it in reserve for such an occasion.

  He chuckled as he felt the sharp, unworn key in his hand, the edges still polished from the grinder. He’d say to McComb that he’d found the office unlocked, not tell him about the key. Perhaps he’d buy that, and Norman would still have the key for another day.

  He entered the office and shut the door behind him, not bothering to turn on the lights. The computer monitor glowed in the darkened office, guiding him to McComb’s chair. He sat down and glanced at the document on the screen. He was about to look away, when the words World Federalist jumped out at him.