by Peter David
Tildie clutched at the fabric of Veeda’s white lab coat. It was just like the coat Tildie’s pediatrician had worn, back when Tildie had had a pediatrician and a mother to take her to him. Veeda wore it for the same reason: She was a doctor. That was all Tildie had needed to hear when they’d first met. Everyone knew doctors made you better, and if Veeda could make her better, that was all Tildie wanted.
“I don’t have ‘just dreams,’” Tildie whispered, her voice as ominous as any child’s could be.
“Yes. You do. Now you do, just like anybody else.”
“I don’t want it to come back.” She glanced around nervously, as if worried “it” might hear her.
“It never will, Tildie,” Veeda assured her. “It never will.”
DOCTOR Kavita Rao remained with Tildie, cradling Tildie’s head on her shoulder until the child drifted back into what Rao could only pray would be a dreamless sleep. Then she eased the girl back down onto the pillow. She didn’t turn the lights out immediately, though. Instead she remained there, watching the child, making sure there was no repetition of the episode before finally shutting off the lights and closing the door.
She then came around to the observation room. Her “associate” was standing there waiting for her, staring through the one-way mirror that allowed the girl to be observed without knowing it was happening.
“When was the last time you went home and got a good night’s sleep?” he rumbled. In some ways he was no less disconcerting than he had been the night he had first come to her.
“A lifetime ago,” she said, rubbing the fatigue from her eyes. She’d been monitoring all of Tildie’s vitals during the girl’s slumber and, to her shame, had drifted off, awakened by Tildie’s scream. Fortunately enough they didn’t have to do anything as intrusive as taping wires to the child to keep track of what was going on in her mind and body. The monitoring systems had been built into the bed.
He glanced toward the slumbering girl. “How bad was it?”
“Her REM sleep, you mean? As bad as it gets. Her brain activity was off the charts.”
“So there is every reason to believe it was identical to the dreams that caused the manifestations resulting in the termination of her parents’ lives.”
She stared at him. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that clinically, but yes. Based on what she told me—and I have no reason to think she was lying—she was experiencing the exact same dreams that killed her parents and the police officer.”
Her associate sniffed disdainfully. “The parents I could understand, but there was no excuse for the policeman. He was armed and a warrior. He had no business being killed by a girl’s dream manifestations.”
“I’m sorry not everyone can be on a par with you,” she said.
“It is not your fault, and thus you have no reason to apologize.”
There seemed no point in explaining concepts such as sarcasm to him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So,” he said briskly, “if her nightmares were going to manifest in any way, they would have done so during this incident.”
“Yes, absolutely.” She checked over the instruments. “But there was nothing. No psychokinetic manifestations at all. Her tank, so to speak, is empty. By every possible scientific measure, she’s free of it.” She took a moment to process the fact, closing her eyes, breathing deeply, letting it out. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, an uncharacteristically emotional response to the assessment of scientific data. “She’s free of it,” she said again.
“In that case, Doctor,” he said, “I believe it’s time you told the world, so that others know there is hope for them at last.”
“Yes. Hope. That’s exactly right. I’ll make the arrangements.” Then she paused and looked up at him tentatively. “Are you going to be there? Make your presence known? I could not have done it without you.”
“Remember our agreement, Doctor. Insofar as the world knows, that is in fact exactly what you did. I will not have it any other way. And besides,” and what passed for a smile played across his lips, “when you’re having your press conference, I have plans to be…elsewhere.”
“Do I want to know where?”
“I think it wiser that you do not.”
She took him at his word.
SIX
THE gentle rays of the morning sun filtered through the bedroom window. Emma was just beginning to awaken, but she had not yet opened her eyes. It was her experience that the moment she opened her eyes was typically the point at which the day began to head downhill. So she remained where she was, her right arm draped over the bare chest of the sleeping Scott Summers.
The sheets were twisted around her. This told her that Scott had had a restless night, which never boded well. It told her that Scott had had a lot of dreams, and he wasn’t someone who could typically shake them off come morning light. They usually wound up having an impact on the rest of the day, making him brood even more than usual.
Please don’t let it be about her.
That was Emma’s greatest fear. She knew perfectly well that yesterday had been the fifth anniversary of Jean Grey’s death. Scott’s great lost love, the red-haired, telepathic bint that he had been devoted to since practically the first day she’d walked into the school as a callow teenager. The woman he had loved, and married, and lost.
Scott had said nothing about it, though. Hadn’t waxed nostalgic for her, hadn’t stood longingly in front of her portrait that hung there in the den, a constant reminder of her absence. Emma wondered if it was possible that he’d forgotten. That would have been nice, a sign that he was finally, finally, moving on. Not being rooted in the past was the only way they, Emma and Scott, could have a hope of proceeding into a real future.
At least he hadn’t woken up shouting Jean’s name or something hopelessly melodramatic like that. Maybe he’d just had dreams of walking into a test unprepared, or standing on stage naked in the middle of a play he hadn’t rehearsed for and didn’t know any of the lines. Nice, mundane stuff like that, which wouldn’t have any impact on his mood.
It would be really nice if this were a good day for once.
And then a rough, growling voice shattered any hope of that.
“So tell me…”
Emma immediately sat up. Scott was instantly jolted awake, the glow behind his visor snapping on like a refrigerator light. A lethal, highly concussive refrigerator light.
Wolverine was perched on the footboard of the bed, the sun coming up behind him as if it were anxious to try to get a good view of what was going on. His feet were bare, enabling him to balance. His shirt hung open, revealing his hirsute chest. Alcohol rolled off his breath in waves; he smelled like he’d consumed an entire distillery.
“…which stage of grieving is this?” said Wolverine. “Denial?”
I’m going to kill him, thought Emma.
Scott, as it happened, was way ahead of her. His visor snapped open and a blast of pure crimson force erupted from his head. It slammed into Logan before he could move…
No, Emma thought. Nothing happens before he can move. He wanted to get hit. He wanted to fight…or maybe he just wants to be punished because he wasn’t able to save her…
…and sent Logan hurtling backwards. The glass in the window exploded outward as he soared through the air and landed heavily on the back lawn.
“Scott!” shouted Emma, but he was already gone, out the bedroom door. She heard his feet seconds later, pounding down the stairs. It was a damned good thing he was wearing pajama pants. If he’d been sleeping in the nude, the students would have gotten one hell of a show.
The students.
She closed her eyes in pain. Terrific. This was going to be a great start to the day.
Emma shifted her attention back out to the lawn, where Wolverine was bounding to his feet as Scott charged to confront him. She didn’t have to listen in through their minds; their voices were carrying across the lawn.
“Strike a nerve, Summers?” said Wolverine. Hi
s claws snapped out from his fists with their customary, unique snikt sound. “What happened? Emma Frost do a conscience-ectomy on ya?”
“This is good,” Scott retorted. “The guy who tried to steal my wife since the day he met us is gonna tell me all about what’s proper.”
Wolverine grinned lopsidedly. “Only reason Jean and you stayed together at all is she was too strong to give in to what she really wanted…and you were too scared.”
“Hey Logan,” said Scott as he reached for the side of his visor, “that healing power’s about to come in really handy.”
Wolverine leaped straight up to avoid the blast he knew was coming at him, but Scott knew Wolverine’s moves too well. He aimed his blast not at where Wolverine was, but where he knew the angry mutant was going to be. The crimson beam struck Logan broadside and sent him flying a half-mile into a thicket of large oak trees.
There was no movement for a long moment, and then leaves started flying everywhere. Wolverine was cutting his way out of the tangle of branches so he could get at Scott.
To hell with them. I hope they kill each other, Emma thought. And she was only partly joking.
HANK McCoy, whose suite of offices was directly across the hall from Scott and Emma’s, ran into the bedroom to see what was going on, unceremoniously clad only in an undershirt and boxers. He stopped short, staring at the shattered window and at Emma, who wore a white negligee with nothing under it. Quickly, out of a sense of decorum, he averted his eyes as Emma said drily, “Good morning, Henry. I see everyone’s getting the day off to an early start.”
He crossed quickly toward the window and stared out. Scott was standing in the middle of the lawn. A flood of students were pouring out, with what looked to be Kitty Pryde leading the pack. In the distance, there appeared to be some sort of mutant leaf blower trapped in a grove of trees, doing its best to denude the upper branches of Hank’s favorite oak. When Wolverine leapt out and started toward Scott, all became clear.
Except not really.
“What’s this all about?” Hank asked.
“What do you think?” Emma said. She was trying to sound indifferent, but the bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. “Super-powers, a scintillating wit, and the best body money can buy…and I still rate below a corpse.”
Then it became truly clear.
Hank McCoy couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, that he had actually felt sorry for Emma Frost. He tried to find the words to say, but hadn’t a clue what they would be.
“I don’t need your pity,” Emma said. “What I need right now is a shower. I suddenly feel unclean.”
She walked into the bathroom, and as the door clicked shut, Hank returned his attention to the battle outside. At that moment he didn’t know whether to go to the bathroom door and offer words of consolation…or go out and try to settle this stupidity down before someone got hurt…or just go nuke some popcorn, kick back and watch the show.
SCOTT’S fists were trembling with rage as he saw Wolverine heading toward him again.
The little bastard. Did he really think I’d forgotten about Jean? Did he really think she’s ever far from my thoughts? That I’m not haunted by her? This isn’t about me at all. This is about him trying to “prove” that he loved her more than I did. That he can’t do anything but drink to kill the pain while I’m busy trying to run a school and prepare young people for their danger-filled lives. He’s trying to show me up, just like he’s done from day one, and even though Jean’s gone five years, he’s still trying to impress her, to…
There was a loud clearing of a female throat.
Scott turned and saw Kitty standing there, her arms folded across the extra-large pink hockey jersey she wore. She was scowling fiercely, disapproval on her face. Other students had followed her out, gaping at the display in front of them.
Scott felt the weight of their stares upon him. Any number of times in the past, he’d squared off with Logan about something or other…usually the same thing. But most times either they’d been alone, or else there had been other members of the team present, trying to get between them…
The team.
Those two words exploded in Scott’s mind with the same intensity of light as his eye beams. They reminded him of various thoughts that had been rattling around in his head lately. An unease, a frustration that had been growing daily, a conviction that the X-Men might be going in the wrong direction. That they had the potential to accomplish so much, and none of that potential was being tapped.
The words reminded him of what he truly had in mind for the current faculty, and he felt annoyed that he had allowed himself to be so easily distracted from his true objectives. Mentally he kicked himself…
His head whipped around. Wolverine was upon him. Scott had been so lost in thought that he had lost track of Logan.
His reflexes, honed by thousands of battles, served him well. A heartbeat before Wolverine’s claws reached him, he fired off another blast. Wolverine had been leaping toward him in an arc; the beam caught him at its apex, blasting the tattered remains of his shirt right off him. Wolverine spiraled through the air and hit the ground.
“We’re done,” said Scott crisply.
“Oh, no we ain’t.” Wolverine got to his feet. He was unsteady, but Scott knew that would pass. He did not, however, care.
“You want to stab me in the back? Be my guest if you’re that desperate to prove you’re the better man.” He turned and walked away from Wolverine without giving him a second glance.
Wolverine took two quick steps after him, but Kitty Pryde interposed her body between the two men. “Don’t even,” she said.
Wolverine stopped in his tracks, regarding her with faint annoyance. Then he sheathed his claws and muttered, “Y’know, half-pint, you still ain’t too grown-up for me to give ya a good paddling.”
“Better than you have tried,” she said. Then she turned and ran after Scott.
She caught up with him as the rest of the students were left milling on the front lawn. “So…I missed the memo about morning calisthenics. Maybe you should have gone for jumping jacks to start, and then worked your way up to trying to kill each other…”
“Not now, Kitty.”
“Yes, now, Scott,” she said in a low, frustrated voice. “How the hell are we supposed to drill any sense of community into these kids if we can’t even—”
“I’m away ahead of you.”
“We have to stand for something!”
“As I said, way—”
Henry wants to know if you’re quite through making fools of each other while the new students look on? Emma’s irritated voice sounded in Scott’s head. Or are you and Mr. Pointy planning to take this indoors so we can have some more property damage? Because if so, then by all means, go to it. With every tenth insurance claim, we get a free toaster, and I think this’ll be number nine…
He ignored her obvious frustration. He understood it. Hell, he was responsible for it. Senior staff, he said telepathically, in the Danger Room in ten minutes.
To hell with that. It was Logan’s voice. Obviously Emma had instantly conveyed Scott’s sentiments to the others, and Logan was making his feelings known through the shared mental link. I don’t feel like sittin’ down in a room with One-eye right now. Forget it.
Emma’s voice snapped back at him. You want to talk about forgetting things, Logan? Either you be there, or else you’re going to forget everything you ever knew about yourself. I’ll construct an entirely new identity for you and send you out into the world to find your new destiny.
You can’t do that. But he sounded slightly uncertain.
I guarantee you, in your next life, you will be a musical-theater god. And I’ll make sure we have front-row seats for every performance.
There was a pause. Scott wouldn’t have thought it was possible to growl telepathically, but apparently it was. Fine, Logan growled.
Good. I’ll have Henry prepare the Danger Room.
Scott wasn�
�t wild about the sound of that. He liked Emma’s unpredictability. It was part of what made their relationship stimulating. This time, though, he was a little concerned with what she was going to come up with. Especially if she was putting her head together with the formidable Doctor McCoy.
* * * *
“I still can’t believe I was seeing what I was seeing. And in front of the students!” said Hank McCoy as he stood knee-deep in the Pacific Ocean.
Like modern-day Gullivers in the land of the Lilliputians, Scott, Kitty, Logan, and Emma towered over an assortment of Hawaiian islands. Clouds danced around their heads as a three-dimensional relief map of Hawaii was spread out all around them. Scott imagined he could hear teeny tiny Hawaiians running, screaming in terror as the gigantic mutants sat on the various islands.
Hank continued venting his frustration over the recent display. “And if Emma’s little game yesterday didn’t wind them up enough, they have to see their administrative staff trying to kill each other! These kids are supposed to look up to you!”
“I hate this,” said Emma.
“Well, I know you weren’t responsible for their wretched behavior, Emma, but yesterday was your responsibility—”
“No, it’s not that. How did I wind up on Oahu?” She looked down, annoyed, at the island she was sitting on. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in Oahu. Honolulu is where all the tourists go because the cheap resorts are here. When I go to Hawaii, I stay in Maui. Katherine, switch with me.”
“Screw you,” Kitty retorted, holding firmly on to Maui. “I’m busy trying not to step on Lana’i and Kahoolawe. You’d just wipe them out with your big feet.”
“My feet are not big.”
Hank scowled fiercely. “Ladies, I don’t do well with being ignored—”
“Kauai’s nice,” suggested Logan who was cooling his heels on Molokai. “That’s free. You could move one over.”
“Absolutely not. I had the worst dinner of my life there. I was sick for three days.”
“Fine, whatever.” He glanced across the ocean at Scott. “Of course he gets the Big Island. Compensating much there, Slim?”