“I’m going to kill Ch’od and Raza when we get out of here,” Corsair growled, and Scott finally turned to see his father hanging in a restraint system not unlike his own. Hepzibah and a woman Cyclops assumed was Candide were there as well, but his first instinct was to be sure his father was okay.
“Nice to see you too, Dad,” Scott said, making the words a jibe.
It was the truth, though. Despite the circumstances, it was reassuring to see his father in the flesh. And a relief to observe that, though bruised in several places, he appeared none the worse for his ordeal. Corsair was roughly the same height as his son, but Scott outweighed him by a good twenty pounds. Father was also far more liberal than son. Cyclops had never been able to completely equate the gravely serious pilot and warrior he knew as his father with the roguish leader of the Starjammers. Corsair had a moustache and wore an earring, neither of which his son would ever have even considered.
Then there was Hepzibah.
Kate Summers had been a good mother to her boys, a good wife to her husband. Cyclops knew that his mother had died nearly two decades earlier. The world had moved on. The universe had opened itself up and swallowed father and son. They had both evolved. Perhaps it was as much of a shock for Corsair to meet his eldest son, now grown and a powerful leader in his right. But as long as Scott lived, he would not believe it was as big a shock as finding his father alive, and in the arms of a feline alien warrior.
In some ways, it was easy to separate the two. The past was so unlike the present, it seemed almost a sweet, idyllic dream. In other ways, however, the spectre of the past, of his mother’s death, of the perfect family life that ended so tragically, all cast a gloomy pallor over his current relationship with Corsair. Especially in light of his father’s love for Hepzibah.
She was a valiant warrior, and it was clear that she loved Corsair fiercely. In his years with the X-Men, Scott had seen many things and opened his mind enough to see why his father had been attracted to Hepzibah at first. With her cat’s eyes, her perfect grace, and her slim, supple form, she was unquestionably beautiful. The fact that she wasn’t human never entered into Scott’s appraisal of her.
Maybe he just didn’t like cats. Maybe it was the spectre of his childhood, the memory of his mother. Whatever it was, Cyclops and Hepzibah had never been able to really connect.
On this day, though, his heart went out to her.
“Hello, Scott,” she purred, wincing at the pain those simple words caused her.
Hepzibah was injured far worse than Corsair. Her fur was singed black in several places and matted with blood. He knew without question that the wounds weren’t merely from capture. Deathbird’s Inquisitors had been there, trying to elicit some kind of information about the rebellion, no doubt.
“Mademoiselle,” Scott said in greeting, and nodded as best he could. His father had used that form of address for Hepzibah so long, as a gesture of respect for her grace and beauty, it had nearly become part of her name. His use of it clearly touched her, and she closed her eyes and nodded in return.
They hung next to one another: Cyclops, Corsair, Hepzibah and Candide. When his eyes fell on the latter woman, a Kree half-breed, Corsair made the necessary introduction.
“Scott, this is Candide,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about her from the other Starjammers. Perhaps from the Kree themselves.”
Candide’s eyes narrowed at this last comment, clearly not pleased at Corsair’s implication that she was, indeed, part of the Kree rebellion on Hala.
“Candide, old friend, this is my son, Scott Summers, also known as Cyclops,” Corsair finished.
Candide’s eyes widened.
“You never told me you had a son,” she said, her attractive blue features drawn into an expression of incredulity.
Corsair laughed. It wasn’t the full-throated, good-natured bellow he’d come to associate with Corsair, but the quiet chuckle of his father. It brought a wave of sentimentality that Cyclops was unprepared for. He breathed long and deep, letting it pass.
“When you and I were working the trade passages together, I thought my whole family was dead,” Corsair said. “Obviously, I’ve learned otherwise. It’s a real blow to the ego to be forced to acknowledge your age, but it’s worth it when your son has become such an honorable, formidable man.”
Scott was thrilled. Though he and Corsair had formed a bond as comrades in arms and father and son, he had never heard his father speak of him with such pride. As a rule, he tended to internalize his own emotions. Yet he could not let Corsair’s comments pass unanswered. At the same time, their relationship called for a less than intimate response.
“Gee thanks, Dad,” he said with a genuine smile. “But you know, I’d be more flattered if you said such nice things about me when we weren’t about to be killed.”
There was a moment of silence in the room, a sober pause wherein they all recognized the truth of Scott’s words. Then, one by one, they began to grin, even to laugh.
“When we get out of here, I really am going to knock some sense into Raza and Ch’od for bringing the X-Men into this,” Corsair said good-naturedly. “Scott, I hate for you to be put in jeopardy on my account.”
“You or I would have done the same,” Hepzibah purred. “As would any of the X-Men.”
“That’s not the point,” Corsair mumbled, though it was clear he knew Hepzibah was right.
“I appreciate the concern, but I can take care of myself, thank you,” Cyclops said.
“As we can all see by how well you managed to get yourself captured,” Candide observed with a sarcastic chuckle. “And so quickly, too. I imagine it’s some kind of record.”
Hepzibah laughed and Corsair shot her an admonishing look.
“Hey, Candy, don’t worry,” he said. “Scotty’s the tactician of the family. I’m sure he’s got a plan to get us all out of here.”
The three of them looked at him gravely, then, not a trace of their former smiles in evidence. Candide’s eyes were narrowed in skepticism. Hepzibah’s ears pricked up, her eyebrows rose in an open, hopeful expression. Corsair raised an eyebrow and gave Cyclops a sidelong, conspiratorial glance.
“You do have a plan, don’t you Scott?” Corsair asked.
ELEVEN
THE media was in a frenzy. A fiasco like the one in Colorado could not be kept quiet for long. Once the troops were sent, a leak, perhaps several, was inevitable. The Secretary, who was also the Director of Operation: Wideawake, had known that, and had prepared for it. Of course, he couldn’t speak to the press himself. And Gyrich—well, over the years, the media had come to hate Gyrich as much as Val Cooper had, starting with his days as the somewhat volatile National Security Council liaison to the Avengers. And telegenic was one word that would never describe Henry Peter Gyrich.
That left her.
The Secretary had met with the President, and they had all agreed that, due to her public relationship with X-Factor, Val was the most logical choice to make a statement. She only hoped that they didn’t shoot the messenger. Val was escorted through narrow passageways in the White House that were not available to the public. Secret service agents so cold they reminded her of the T-1000 robot in the second Terminator movie flanked her on either side. She was used to the type, but they never failed to unnerve her.
The corridor opened into a large hall with French doors overlooking the south lawn, but the view was mostly obscured by bodies. Noisy bodies. As she entered, there was a roar of shouted questions that began with “Ms. Cooper” but then degenerated into gibberish. Val scanned the crowd and recognized some of the faces. Some of them were celebrities in their own right, and yet in here they devolved into a mob mentality, sharks fighting for the last scrap. She wondered if it would have been wise to wear riot gear.
And this was just the press. How would the average American citizen react? The question sent a shiver coursing through her, even as a hush fell over the room. Though the media would have no idea that
he, himself, was the Director of Wideawake, the Secretary welcomed them and introduced her. When Val looked at the sea of faces, cameras and microphones again, they seemed to melt into one another.
“I’ll read a brief statement, and then answer whatever questions I can,” she said formally.
“At approximately nine a.m., eastern standard time, an unknown terrorist group attacked and seized control of a federal research facility in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado,” she read. “The identity of this group is unknown, and it is not known whether there were any casualties. Federal troops were immediately dispatched to the site. They have surrounded the facility, but due to the likelihood that the facility’s staff may be hostages, they have as yet made no offensive move. We expect to receive demands from the terrorists within the hour.”
Val tried not to grimace while reading the last part, which was a bald-faced lie. Still, it would be what the media expected, unless they were able to figure out what was really going on.
“Questions?” she said, and began to randomly choose hands. She concentrated on just answering the questions, wanting to be away from there as soon as possible.
“Exactly what is the purpose of this research facility?”
They don’t waste any time, Val thought, but was pleased that, to this question at least, she could provide an honest answer.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but that information is classified. I am permitted to tell you that this situation does not present any danger to the public, however.”
Okay, so her answer was only partially honest. It was better than they’d be getting for the rest of the session.
“What of the reports that a Syrian splinter group threatened to take precisely this action only days ago?”
“Fabrication,” Val answered, pointing to another hand.
“Are the terrorists mutants, Miss Cooper?”
“We are not eliminating any possibilities right now.”
“I’ve heard reports that the X-Men were involved, and that they’ve already engaged our troops.”
“That’s an unsubstantiated rumor,” Val snapped, sweating a little now. “I can say unequivocally that the X-Men are not involved with whomever has taken the facility.”
She was pleased with her answer, knowing how it would infuriate Gyrich. He was pissed off enough when Tomko reported that the X-Men had forced his troops to retreat. Val’s public declaration would enrage him even further. She both dreaded and greatly anticipated their next meeting.
“But you haven’t denied that the X-Men are somehow involved.”
“At this point, we don’t have enough information to answer that question.”
“Miss Cooper, Miss Cooper! Martha Powers, CNN. My producer has just informed me that an anonymous federal source claims that the terrorists are being led by Magneto …”
Silence. For the length of time it took the entire room to draw a surprised breath, the press was silenced by the awesome dread the mere name evoked. Magneto.
Then all hell broke loose. Decorum flew out the window. Journalists shouted questions, jockeying for position. Some of them ignored her and began calling in on cellular phones. The worst part of it all was that Val didn’t know the answer. Most of the other leaks had been accurate, which led her to believe this one probably was as well. And if it were … God, she didn’t even want to think about it.
Anti-mutant hysteria was bad enough as it was. Magneto attacking the U.S. government would bring it to epidemic proportions. And that was with a public who didn’t know what Val Cooper knew, didn’t know that the facility contained a fleet of Sentinels. She couldn’t even begin to fathom what he might want with the damned robots, and she hoped she would never find out.
“I’m afraid that’s all we have at the moment,” she said, trying to retain her composure.
The Secret Service hustled her back into the private hall that ran the length of the White House, and Val knew she had to find Gyrich immediately. The word crisis had taken on an entirely new meaning.
* * *
“CAN I get you anything, Professor?” a polite, neatly dressed young woman asked. “Soda? Juice? Water?”
“No thank you,” Xavier responded, smiling kindly, and falsely.
Xavier could not have produced a genuine smile at that moment if the fate of the world hung in the balance. In some ways, he could not escape the ominous feeling that it did. He was filled with concern for all of the X-Men, both Cyclops’ team on far-off Hala, and Storm’s team in Colorado.
When he’d been unable to raised Storm or the Beast on their commlink, and Val Cooper had not returned his calls, Charles had turned on CNN to see whether the crisis had become public. Indeed it had. Rumors were flying about a standoff in Colorado between mutant terrorists and the U.S. Army. There was supposed to be a press conference within the hour, and CNN had already scheduled interviews with Senator Robert Kelly, whom Xavier knew to be notoriously mutaphobic, and with Graydon Creed, the leader of a radical anti-mutant group called the Friends of Humanity.
The question had been a simple one. Stay at the Xavier Institute and hope that he was able to contact the X-Men, or get to the CNN studio in Manhattan as quickly as possible for some damage control. No contest, really. The X-Men knew how to take care of themselves. He could hardly hope to help them in the field. But as Professor Charles Xavier, world-renowned expert on mutants and mutant affairs, he could try to curtail Kelly’s fear and Creed’s anti-mutant propaganda.
He’d already been in the studio, a makeup assistant dusting his head with powder so his bald pate wouldn’t reflect the megawatt lights, when Val Cooper made her speech. When it was over, Xavier knew that coming down to Manhattan had been the wisest thing he could ever have done. Kelly and Creed were going to have a field day, and anti-mutant sentiment would become mania if someone did not take on the role of the voice of reason.
It was a role Charles had played before. Disturbingly, where he had often hoped he would never need to do so again, now he only prayed that, after today, there would be an opportunity to do so.
“Ignore the crew and the cameras, Professor,” an assistant producer told him. “Just keep your eyes on the monitor and speak as if you were talking directly to the TV set, okay?”
Xavier nodded and studied the monitor. The host was a CNN political reporter he recognized but could not name. She was tall and thin, imperfectly attractive, and much too serious about her work to have gotten a job with any of the broadcast networks. Creed and Kelly were to her left. The three of them, in CNN’s Washington studio, would have a monitor which showed Professor Xavier back in New York, while viewers at home would see Xavier in a split screen whenever the conversation turned to him. It paled beside the technology the X-Men had access to, but it was all the mainstream world could handle for the moment.
“This is Annelise Dwyer for CNN,” the host began. “In the wake of that White House press conference, and in light of what we heard and, perhaps more importantly, did not hear, CNN has gathered three of the nation’s most outspoken figures on the mutant issue.
“To my immediate left, author of the Mutant Registration Act, Senator Robert Kelly,” she said, and welcomed Kelly. Xavier could see that the man was anxious, likely unnerved by Val’s press conference. The kind of fear that filled Senator Kelly’s eyes could be very dangerous.
“To his left, one of America’s most popular captains of industry, and author of the controversial new book, Being Human, Graydon Creed. Welcome, Mr. Creed.”
“Thank you, Annelise,” Creed replied, though the woman had clearly not meant for him to do so. “In a time of crisis such as this, when the world’s attention is turned to the mutant problem here in the U.S., I feel it is my duty to stand up and issue a call to arms, to urge all Americans to make a stand, to protect their country from the vile plague that has befallen all of humanity.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Creed,” Dwyer said without conviction. “We’ll get to that in a moment. Finally, my third guest,
joining us live from our studio in New York City, is Professor Charles Xavier, world renowned expert on mutants and founder of the Xavier Institute. Thank you for being with us on such short notice, Professor.”
“My pleasure, Annelise,” Xavier said respectfully. “And, if Mr. Creed’s words are any indication, I’m here to fulfill my duty to the people of the world as well.”
“Really?” Dwyer asked, her eyebrows raised. “How so?”
“Mr. Creed is peerless in the field of business,” Xavier said quickly, taking advantage of the opening he had succeeded in creating with his opening statement. “Yet that doesn’t mean his political views, or his intolerant, bigoted opinions have any purpose but to drive the public into a frenzy with misinformation and hate-language.”
“Now, Professor,” Senator Kelly said swiftly, “don’t you think you’re carrying this a bit far? Your views on this subject are well known, but you cannot deny that, if it is indeed Magneto leading this band of terrorist mutant rabble—and for that matter, whoever it is—such a direct strike at the federal government could signal a wave of mutant-generated terrorist activity toward the government, and the American public?”
Before Xavier could respond, or Dwyer interject, Creed jumped in.
“Your suspicions are leaning in the right direction, Senator, and your fears certainly well founded,” Creed began, emphasizing the words suspicions and fears. “Unfortunately, you are too naive to see the big picture. This is a government project so secret that, even now, with it under attack and possibly already in the hands of mutant terrorists, the President still won’t tell us what it is.
“Don’t you see what that means?” Creed asked, playing to the camera now, ignoring the other guests. “That means that the muties have people already inside the government, infiltrating and corrupting our country, stealing our secrets. Not to sell them, no sir. As we’re seeing at this very moment, they are going to use our technology, our tried and true American know-how against us!
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