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She nodded solemnly.
“Good girl. What’s your name, by the way?”
“I’m Sophie.”
Logan grinned. “Good girl, Sophie.”
The cars were parked in a deserted lot around the back of the warehouse, and guarded by three armed thugs. Some of the cars had been driven off to search for the escapees, but there were enough left to cover Logan and Bobby’s approach. Logan had let Sophie scramble to the ground and was about to launch himself at the guards when Bobby put a restraining hand on his shoulder. Logan turned, a question in his eyes, but Bobby shook his head and pointed without even looking and froze the guards where they stood.
“Ain’t that a little harsh, bub?” Logan said calmly as the guards toppled like statues to the ground.
“Don’t worry—they’ll thaw just fine.”
Logan fixed him with a sardonic glance. “Hey—you don’t have to prove anythin’ to me,” he said. “I ain’t the one with the pheromones.”
As Logan chose the car with the biggest engine, Bobby allowed himself a moment of doubt. He thought he had done what he had done in order to escape, but had he gone too far? Were Rachel’s pheromones still buzzing around his system, affecting what he did, biasing his decisions? Anger flared through him. He’d been controlled by a woman before and he had almost gone mad as a result. The thought of having someone dictating his actions made his skin crawl. What did it say about him that he was so susceptible?
Logan waved to him from a tow truck that looked as if it had been made out of big sheets of iron soldered to-nit omnm x-ntn
gether. He had picked the lock with one of his claws. “It might hold us if we get into a firelight,” he said as Bobby walked over with Sophie, “but I ain’t bankin’ on it. Some ice armor’d be a nice idea, don’t’cha think?”
Bobby smiled, and nodded. “No problem.”
Logan and Sophie climbed into the truck and shut the door. As Logan hot-wired the ignition, Bobby set to work swathing the bodywork in layer after layer of ice, leaving a tunnel for Logan to see through. By the time he had finished, the tow truck looked like a giant snowball on wheels. Walking up to the frozen surface, Bobby infiltrated his body into the ice, becoming part of it, surrendering himself to it and swimming through it until he came to the window on the passenger side. He pulled himself through like a localized avalanche and reconstituted himself into his ice-laden human form.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Sophie asked.
He smiled, ice in his heart. “Everything hurts,” he said. “You learn to live with it.”
Sophie stared at him uncertainly as Logan gunned the truck to life. Like a ghostly tank, the ice-armored vehicle rumbled toward the distant barricades.
Next morning, when Bobby Drake walked into the courthouse room where the jury was sequestered away before the day’s business commenced, his eyes immediately went to Rachel Mostel. She was sitting alone, her head in her hands. It looked to Bobby like there was some kind of no-go area around her: none of the other jury members were sitting within ten feet of her, and nobody was even looking her way. Bobby felt his own eyes sliding away, trying to look
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anywhere else but at her, and he had to force them back in her direction. It was those damn pheromones again. Consciously or unconsciously, she wras forcing people to ignore her. Perhaps the strain was getting to her.
He wished he could say something, tell her that her daughter was safe and the Friends of Humanity had no power over her anymore, but he didn’t dare. She wouldn’t believe him, and he would have blown his cover completely. No matter how much he wanted to comfort her, it wasn’t a good move.
Within a few moments, the jury were escorted into the courtroom by the bailiff. Alan Wydell was sitting at the prosecution bench, thumbs hooked behind his lapels and a smile on his face. He looked the complete picture of confidence. Arthur Streck’s counsel, by contrast, was already looking harassed.
Streck himself sat beside his counsel with his head bowed. His scales were dulled and his ears were flat against his head. He was beaten, and he knew it.
As they sat down in the jury box, Bobby shot a glance sideways at Rachel Mostel. She was looking at Arthur Streck and biting her lip. A pang of compassion shot though his heart, and he knew it wasn’t just her pheromones. She didn’t want to go through with it.
The bailiff announced the arrival of the judge, and everyone in the courtroom stood, apart from the wheelchair-bound Xavier, as she bustled in and made herself comfortable. The bailiff indicated that the court could sit and they did, apart from one person: Sophie Mostel, standing between Professor Xavier and Logan. She waved at her
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mother and grinned before Logan tugged her back to her seat.
Bobby watched Professor Xavier’s face. His eyes were fixed on Rachel’s, and when Bobby glanced back to her he saw that she was staring at Xavier with an expression of wonderment. A telepathic message telling her that everything was okay and her daughter was in safe hands? It seemed likely.
And a wave of happiness passed through the court. Bobby could track its progress as person after person grinned suddenly, then wondered why. Even Arthur Streck looked up and smiled.
After that, the trial proceeded normally—for the first time since it began, really. Alan Wydell, full of fire and brimstone, did his best to intimidate a series of defense witnesses, but Rachel wasn’t cooperating. No longer influenced by her mutant powers, the jury shifted restlessly as they heard his words clearly for the first time. Wydell could tell something was wrong: his glance flickered across their faces disbeliev-ingly as he realized the adulation and approval he was used to were missing.
And he kept looking at Rachel. Bobby filed that fact away for later consideration.
The judge called an hour’s recess and the jury was sent back to its claustrophobic room. Bobby walked over to where Rachel was sitting, hoping that he could find out what Xavier had asked her to do, but she was busy writing a note. He took a step closer—or at least, he tried to—but something stopped him, like an invisible barrier hanging in midair. She didn’t want to be bothered.
Back in the courtroom, the judge cleared her throat. “I
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realize that you will be expecting the counsel for the defense to make his closing speech, but I’m afraid that I have a matter of some gravity to discuss.”
Alan Wydell looked surprised. The counsel for the defense just looked relieved.
“The bailiff has handed me a note from one of the jurors,” the judge continued. “This note alleges that there has been interference with the due process of the law. Whether or not this is true is a matter for the police to determine, and I am forced, therefore, to declare a mistrial—”
The rest of the judge’s words were lost in the tumult of reporters trying to get to the door and of the rest of the public talking and shouting. Bobby wasn’t sure who to look at—Arthur Streck, who looked as if he'd just been sandbagged from behind, or Rachel Mostel, who had much the same expression, or Streck’s defense counsel, who looked like he was about to faint.
It was an hour before order was restored and the jury was dismissed. When Bobby finally got outside onto the courthouse steps, with the granite of the Westchester County Courthouse building glowing in the sunshine behind him, he felt happier than he had for days. The sky was blue, the trees w7ere bowing slightly in the breeze, and the air smelled as if it had just been freshly made.
Logan and Professor Xavier were waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.
“So, you never got your moment of glory,” Logan said, grinning. “I was expecting you to be foreman.”
“I’ll live,” Bobby replied. He turned to the Professor. “What happens now?”
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Xavier’s face was as imperturbable as usual. “There will, of course, be an investigation into the tampering charge. Mr. Streck will not b
e retried until after that investigation, if at all. There has been so much negative publicity which, combined with the possible results of the investigation, would make a new indictment extremely difficult. Justice would, therefore, seem to have prevailed in this case, and we have dealt another blow to the Friends of Humanity. All in all, my friends, we have a positive result. Well done.”
“An’ it’s my opinion,” Logan added, “that the first thing the Friends of Humanity will do is lynch friend Streck from the nearest tree. If they can’t get him one way, they’ll get him another. So—did we do him a favor or not? I don’t know.”
“And Rachel?” Bobby asked, “What happens to her?”
Xavier looked pained. ‘ As I made clear to her in a telepathic message, manipulation of a jury is illegal. She was coerced into it, and that will form the basis of a good defense, but in the interim she has been arrested. She understood what would happen, but she knew that it was the right thing to do. It is unfortunate, but. .
“And Sophie?” Bobby looked around wildly. “What about her?”
“I promised Ms. Mostel that we would look after young Sophie until she was released on bail,” Xavier replied, “and that the Xavier Institute would fund her own defense. Warren has already driven her back to the mansion.” Xavier smiled slightly as Logan pursed his lips and looked away. “I believe she is looking forward to playing with Uncle Wolverine.”
Bobby was about to make a crack at Logan’s expense
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when a sudden commotion at the top of the steps attracted his attention. He turned, and his heart leaped within him. Rachel Mostel was being led away from the courthouse by two policemen, followed by a gaggle of reporters with flashing cameras and working tape recorders, all asking questions so loudly that they wouldn’t have heard her even if she had answered. The policemen were wearing gas masks. Rachel was handcuffed, and she had been crying. Her eyes passed over Bobby and there was a flicker of recognition, but only as a fellow juror. She didn’t know what he had done for her. She would probably never know, and he felt empty and hollow at the realization.
Alan Wydell emerged from the courtroom door. He stood nobly for a moment, the wind artfully disarranging his hair, until the press noticed him. They ran back up the steps, gabbling questions all the way.
“Yes,” he boomed, “I am disappointed at the halting of the trial, but I am confident that the culprit—this mutant juror who has tried to influence the good people of the jury—will be prosecuted with the full force of the law. And—” he rode magisterially over the clamoured questions 51—I am also confident that Arthur Streck will find himself in another court, a fairer court, a court that will deliver a true and just verdict of guilty! ’ ’
He strode off to a waiting car. Some cub reporters followed; the older, wiser ones knew that they had all they were going to get, and they left.
“And so it begins,” Xavier murmured. “Already he is manipulating the facts: making it look like the jury was being influenced to find Mr. Streck innocent, rather than
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guilty. As Hiram Johnson once said, ‘The first casualty when war comes is truth.’ ”
“Never mind that,” Logan said. “Bobby, does somethin’ strike you as familiar ’bout his little rabble-rousin’ speech there?”
Bobby frowned, trying to remember. “Now you come to mention it, yeah. He sounded a lot like that Friends of Humanity guy.”
Logan nodded. “Yup. An’ besides—how did he know Rachel was a mutant? I didn’t get a good whiff o’ his scent in the warehouse, but the posture and tone match the guy behind the gas mask.”
“I’ll check to see whether the employment agency that sent Arthur Streck to those fake job interviews can be traced back to Mr. Wydell,” the Professor said, “but I suspect I will find nothing. He strikes me as the sort of man who is very careful about not leaving traces.”
They were all silent for a moment, staring after Rachel Mostel as the police car drove her away. How fair a trial would she get, Bobby wondered, if the ADA belonged to the Friends of Humanity? And was Logan right—would the FoH also be out to get Arthur Streck one way or another?
It looked as if they had won the battle, but the outcome of the war was still uncertain.
Together, the three of them moved off toward Bobby’s car: Logan wheeling the Professor, Bobby walking alongside. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps Bobby’s subconscious mind playing tricks, or perhaps just a freak effect of the weather but, as they reached the car, the first few flakes of snow began to fall from a cloudless blue sky.
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Glenn Hauman
Illustration by Ron Lim
Thank you for ordering this transcript of the May 20th episode of Viewpoints starring Archer Finchley. This is Episode #0418 and features Warren Worthington III as Archer’s guest. To order other transcripts of Viewpoints, send a check or money order to the address posted at the end of each episode.
Finckley: Good evening! Welcome to Viewpoints, I’m your host, Archer Finckley. Tonight, we have a very special guest: he’s young, he’s handsome, he’s rich, and he’s got a pair of wings. I’m talking about the high-flying Warren Worthington III, the young head of Worthington Enterprises, better known to many as the Angel.
Warren was born to Warren Worthington II and his wife Kathryn, and was the heir to the Worthington Industries empire. While attending a private school as a teenager, he began to sprout wings from his back as he entered puberty. He used these wings to save the lives of many of his classmates during a dormitory fire, using a long nightshirt and a wig to disguise his idendty, giving him an appearance which earned him the name the Avenging Angel.
At one point, he was a member of the infamous mutant group, the X-Men, under the simpler codename the Angel, but later left them to found the Champions, the first team of heroes to operate on the West Coast. Just prior to his time with the Champions, he revealed his secret identity, becoming the most visible mutant in public life. After the group disbanded, he later joined the Defenders, then reorganized under the leadership of the former Avenger Dr. Henry McCoy, also known as the Beast. He was also briefly
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associated with a team of mutants calling themselves “the X-Terminators. ’ ’
Then tragedy struck when a crippling attack caused severe damage to his wings, and amputation was deemed necessary to prevent the spread of gangrene. Depressed, Worthington was seen taking off in his private plane, which then exploded in flight. He was believed dead, and with his death his financial empire began to disintegrate, aided by the discovery that he was funding the then-mutant-hunting organization, X-Factor. Then, months after his funeral services, he reappeared in the public eye, and we have him here tonight in his first extended interview since. We’ll be taking your calls later in the show. But right now, it is my pleasure to introduce Warren Worthington.
Worthington: Thank you, Archer.
Finckley: Thank you very much for coming on the show tonight, Warren. You’ve been something of a recluse—
Worthington: Recluse? I wouldn’t go that far.
Finckley: Well, this is the first interview you’ve given in the last couple of years, ever since your little, ah, accident.
Worthington: Accident isn’t the term I would use. My disability happened as the result of a deliberate attack.
Finckley: No, I’m not referring to the injur)? to your wings, I’m referring to the plane explosion shortly thereafter.
Worthington: Oh, I’m sorry—that.
Finckley: Yes, that. Once and for all, would you care to set the record straight on what happened?
Worthington: As you said in your introduction, I’d been injured while fighting an organization dedicated to wiping out mutants, and had suffered severe damage to my wings.
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Most doctors were, to put it mildly, stymied—they had no idea how to treat a body with wings attached. I felt the best thing I could do w
as get a long rest. However, I was very, very concerned that the same people who had injured me in the first place would take another shot at me, or someone else would take advantage. And I was incapable of defending myself, and any conventional form of protection would have been useless.
So we resorted to misdirection. Sleight of hand. We spread the story that my wings had been amputated, and I killed myself because I couldn’t fly again. I was on a plane and wanted to die in the air. Actually, I hid myself away and waited for my wings to heal. And I broke off all outside contact, because that was the only way I felt I wouldn’t be tracked and killed. Unfortunately, while I was in seclusion healing physically, one of my trusted associates decided this was a good time to wreck me financially, and since I was physically incapable and legally dead, there wasn’t much I could do. When I was out of immediate physical danger and my wings were as healed as they were going to get, I came out of hiding and I started to rebuild my life.
Finckley: Since then, you haven’t been anywhere near as public a figure as you were. After all, you are one of the most prominent “out” mutants.
Worthington: [laughs] Sorry, your choice of phrase— “out” mutants.
Finckley: There’s something wrong with the phrase?
Worthington: It’s an interesting crossover from the gay subculture. But unlike being gay, there are lots of mutants who can’t hide who they are, regardless of whether or not they might want to.
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Finckley: Yet you did for a long time. In fact, right now, I can’t even tell there are wings underneath your suit.
Worthington: And don’t think my tailor comes cheap. Look, such a nice blend of fabric—and these pleats! [laughs] My tailor is a miracle worker.
Finckley: Why don’t you show your wings out more?
Worthington: The best answer—well, it’s kind of embar-assing to look at it this way, but try to imagine walking around with a hoop skirt strapped to your back, covered with a cape.
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