“But we don’t license people to live, Senator,” Jean said.
Kelly said nothing.
“It is fact, Senator,” Jean said, pressing her point, “that mutants who have revealed themselves publicly have been met with fear, hostility, and even violence.”
The professor could feel that things were again turning against Jean. This time, though, as he scanned the crowd with his mind, he felt a new presence, a powerful and familiar one. He turned around in his wheelchair and studied the back of the room, which rose above him.
There, by the door, in the shadows where he couldn’t be seen, stood a dark figure wearing a very expensive suit.
It was his old friend Eric. What was he doing here?
The professor nodded, and Eric did the same. The professor turned back to face the front, his attention again on the crowd.
“It is because of that ever-present hostility,” Jean said, “that I am urging the Senate to vote against mutant registration. To force mutants to expose themselves will only further subject them to unnecessary prejudice.”
Senator Kelly smiled and wiped a drop of sweat from the side of his head. The professor could tell he was going to attack Jean, and attack her hard—as they had expected.
“Expose themselves?” Kelly asked, his voice calm and strong over the silent crowd as he played to the television cameras. “What is it that the mutant community has to hide?”
“I didn’t say they had anything to hide,” Jean said. “What I did say—”
“Let me show you what’s being hidden,” Senator Kelly said, talking over Jean without hesitation. He raised a blown-up photo of a car on a freeway. The car appeared to have been melted. “This was taken by a state police officer in Secaucus, New Jersey. A man in a minor altercation literally melted the car in front of him.”
Professor Xavier set his jaw. The crowd was again turning fearful, and hostile. More and more fans were back at work trying to cool the heat.
“May I see that photo, Senator?” Jean asked calmly.
He ignored her question and spoke to the cameras and crowd. “This is not an isolated incident, Ms. Grey.”
Kelly picked up the folder filled with documents and held it up for the crowd to see. “I have a list of names here. Identified mutants, living right here in the United States.”
“Senator Kelly!” Jean said, her voice becoming more forceful.
But he just ignored her. “A girl in Illinois who can walk through walls. What is to stop her from walking into a bank vault? Or even the White House?”
Senator Kelly, an intense look of concern pasted on his face, pointed out at the crowd and the cameras. “Or your house?”
Professor Xavier knew, right at that moment, that they had lost. The crowd’s anger and hostility were back in full force. Heated discussions and scattered debates erupted throughout the chamber. Senator Kelly was getting them to ignore the facts and focus on their own fears of the unknown.
Jean tried to shout over the noise, to engage the senator. “You are not being—”
“And there are even rumors, Ms. Grey,” Kelly said, turning to stare directly at her, “of mutants so powerful that they can enter our minds and control our thoughts, taking away our God-given free will.”
A number of people actually gasped at that statement.
“Ms. Grey, Americans deserve the right to decide whether they want their children to be in school with mutants. To be taught by mutants.” Kelly leaned forward. “You’re a schoolteacher. I would think that the rights of parents and students alike should be of paramount importance to you.”
“They are,” Jean said firmly. “But this is not the way to help them. I would like to see that folder.”
“Why?” Kelly asked, pounding the folder, then waving it in front of the crowd. “All I’m saying is that parents have the right to know the dangers to their children. That’s the purpose of registration.”
“It is not the purpose,” Jean shouted, clearly angry now. “Your purpose is to discriminate and torture a group of citizens, just because you are afraid of them. Now I would like to see your so-called list and evidence.”
She held her hand out.
Suddenly the folder flew from Kelly’s grasp toward Jean’s open hand.
Realization swept across her face, and Jean instantly closed her hand and let her arm fall to her side. But the professor knew the damage had been done. The folder dropped to the floor, photos and papers spilling out.
Around him, the professor could tell that everyone was uncertain what had happened. And they were very afraid at the same time. It was clear to all of them that something unseen had come into play in this hearing, though none of them knew what it might be.
The professor sighed and closed down his mind, shutting out the sensations of the people around him. They had lost this battle, that much was clear.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Senator Kelly said, now more than ever playing for the cameras. “The truth is that mutants are very real and that they are among us. We must know who they are, and above all, we must know what they can do.”
The crowd broke into cheering around the professor as he turned and moved his wheelchair up the ramp toward the exit. It had been a long shot, and he knew it.
From the almost-empty hallway outside the Hearing Room, the professor could hear the debate continuing as a few friendly senators tried to jump in to help Jean. But they were quickly overwhelmed. It was clear that this bill would leave this hearing and make its way to the main floor of the Senate. That would be the next point at which it might be stopped. But he was going to have to do better, if that was to happen.
In front of the professor, a man walked toward the main entrance. Eric Lehnsherr.
“What are you doing here?” the professor asked, just loud enough for Eric to hear.
Lehnsherr stopped and half turned, smiling.
“Why do you ask questions when you already know the answer?” Lehnsherr asked.
The professor moved up closer, until they faced each other there in the high-ceilinged, tiled hallway. “Don’t give up on them, Eric.”
“What would you have me do, Charles?” he asked. “I’ve heard all these arguments before. Used very well, if I remember.”
“That was a long time ago,” the professor said. “Mankind has evolved since then.”
“Yes,” Eric said. “Into us.”
The professor paused a moment, musing, then decided to seek out what he wanted to know. Slowly and carefully, he reached out.
Eric put a palm against the side of his head, then smiled. “Are you sneaking around in here, Charles?”
Eric clenched his fist, and the professor’s chair pressed inward, as if it had suddenly been gripped by a giant hand. Then the chair seemed to lift ever so slightly off the ground, as if in a subtle warning.
“Whatever are you looking for?” Eric asked, still smiling, but adding an edge to his words.
“Hope, Eric,” the professor said calmly. “I’m looking for hope.”
The chair settled back to the tile floor, as if the hand had released it.
“I will bring you hope,” Eric said. “And I only ask one thing in return: Don’t get in my way.”
Eric Lehnsherr turned and walked away. Without looking back, he said, “We are the future, Charles. Not them. They no longer matter.”
Behind him the professor could hear the debate continuing as his former ally pushed open the door and left. He hadn’t responded to that last comment, because there was nothing left to be said. He didn’t agree, and Eric knew it.
Regular people did matter. Now more than ever.
Chapter Two
Alberta, Canada
The snow was falling steadily, a light powder—the only kind that could fall in such extreme temperatures. Even though it was still daylight, the spotlight over the front door of the Lion’s Den Bar and Grill was on. It cut through the snow but did little to illuminate the few cars in the lot, the four eighteen-wheelers that had been pa
rked along the road, or the beat-up camper that was sitting axle-deep in a small drift. Attached to the back of the camper was an old trailer full of cord wood and a rusted motorcycle. A small hand-lettered sign on the trailer read, “Firewood for Sale.”
The inside of the Lion’s Den was as anyone might expect from the outside: low lighting, smoke filled, far too many calendars decorating the walls beside old signs, and animal heads covered in dust and grease. This place was divided between a cafe on one side and a bar on the other, with dirty bathrooms through doors in the back.
Logan had been in a hundred places just like this one. They all had decent food that the locals liked, served in large portions. The drinks were strong, and the regulars didn’t much like strangers. In every one of the places, Logan had been a stranger, stopping to eat and have a few drinks, then moving on. He couldn’t imagine ever settling down long enough to become a regular anywhere.
He had just finished eating on the cafe side of the joint, sitting in a booth, downing three cups of coffee with his steak. Now he was at the bar, two stools down from an old, very unused jukebox. A few drinks and he would be headed down the road again. There was still plenty of time left in the day to make some miles. He had nowhere in particular he was going; he just liked to keep moving. It felt better that way.
Unlike the cafe side, with its smell of French fries and chicken-fried steak, the bar stank of stale beer and too many cigarettes. The floor was a dirty tile, and the tables were all scarred with carved-in initials and epithets. At the moment there were four patrons sitting at two tables, staring at him. They were clearly regulars.
Drunk regulars.
He had ignored them when he came in, and he did the same now, sitting with his back to the main room and the main door. He knew he looked weird to most people: too much hair, an animal-like face. He got a lot of stares and had long since given up caring.
The bartender, a man with a round, scarred face, moved in behind the bar. Logan was just about to motion him over when some loud, foot-stomping truck drivers came in. There was a grimy mirror set in the wall behind the bottles of booze at the bar, and Logan could see that there were four truckers, big gutted and no doubt smelling of too many miles on the road. Logan was glad he wasn’t close enough to catch that odor.
The four were escorting a girl. Clearly she had been riding with them. They were all laughing, paying no attention, but Logan watched as her eyes quickly sized up the place. No smile ever crossed her face. He guessed that she was a runaway, and she was dressed in rags, head to toe, with almost every inch of her skin covered. Only her face and hands showed any exposed skin. He wondered what she was hiding—then reminded himself to mind his own business.
For Logan, minding his own business was what kept him going.
He tapped his after-dinner cigar in the ashtray, then motioned for the bartender.
“Yeah?” the scarred man asked. He moved toward Logan, while nodding to the truck drivers over Logan’s shoulder. “What can I get you?”
“Something on tap,” Logan said.
“What kind?”
“Surprise me,” Logan said wryly.
The bartender turned away without so much as a blink. He was a big guy who nonetheless moved smoothly, which gave the impression he was moving slowly instead. Logan had no doubt the bartender had taken care of himself in more than one fight in this place.
The truck drivers crowded into a booth, with the young girl sitting on a chair facing them. Logan could hear them laughing again, but he paid no attention at all to what they were saying.
In front of him, a TV was bolted to the wall in the corner above the back bar. The news was on.
“Preparations are nearly completed for the upcoming United Nations World Summit,” the announcer said. “With nearly every invitation confirmed, the event promises to be the largest single gathering of world leaders in history.”
Logan watched as the image on the screen changed from the announcer’s bland face to an aerial shot of Ellis Island, with the Statue of Liberty and Liberty Island close by in the background.
“The leaders of over two hundred nations will discuss issues ranging from the world’s economic climate and weapons treaties, to the mutant phenomenon and its impact on our world stage.”
Logan snorted, then shook his head. This mutant thing really had people spooked if it was coming down to discussing it at a world conference. And scared people had a habit of becoming dangerous.
The bartender put Logan’s beer down in front of him, then turned to move away.
“There anything else on?”
The bartender shrugged and headed for the television. “Satellite’s busted. Only got two channels.”
He changed it from the news to a fuzzy image of a rerun of some stupid sitcom.
“That all right?”
“Perfect,” Logan said, taking a swig of his beer. It was cold and tasted fresh. At least places like this usually had good local brews. Good food, good beer—what more could a guy ask for?
“Hey, Joe,” one of the drunk-sounding regulars shouted.
The bartender looked up and frowned.
“You ever seen a mutant, Joe?” the regular asked, pointing at the television and slurring his words.
Joe casually tossed the towel over his shoulder as he moved to take the truck drivers’ order. “There’s no mutant dumb enough to walk in here.”
“Got that right,” the drunk agreed.
Logan watched in the mirror, sipping his beer and smoking his cigar, as the bartender talked with the drivers. He asked the young girl if she wanted something. She shook her head, then stood and came toward Logan and the bar.
He masked his curiosity as she moved in close to him. He could smell her unwashed odor. Clearly she had been on the road for some time and hadn’t been out of the clothes long enough to clean them.
He could also sense the fear in her. Deep fear.
“Listen, can you help me?” she asked quietly. “Please? I was hitchhiking and these guys won’t let me go. I think they’re gonna try to—”
“Hey!” one of the truck drivers said loudly.
Logan watched him in the mirror. He was a big guy, and he stood and moved toward the bar. This guy moved like a lumbering elephant, though. Logan sized him up and decided that even the girl could take him.
“I thought you were just going to the bathroom,” the trucker said to the girl. The tone of his voice clearly indicated that he had decided the girl was his property.
The girl looked at Logan, panic showing clearly in her eyes, the smell of fear spreading from her like a wave of sickness, choking the air.
Logan just sipped his beer, trying to ignore her. Minding his own business was how he managed to get along, and minding his own business right now was exactly what he was planning to do. He had his own troubles, and she had hers.
Life was just tough that way.
“Come on, honey,” the truck driver said. He reached out and grabbed her arm.
She pulled back, hard. Freaked. “Don’t touch me! I told you, don’t touch me!”
He grabbed at her again, catching her hand. “I said come on. Do as I say!”
The instant he touched her hand, there was a flash. Not much of one, but enough to surprise Logan.
Then the trucker’s eyes went wide, as if he was in shock. An instant later, he collapsed with a thud into a heap on the floor.
Logan glanced down at where the trucker lay twitching. His mouth and eyes were open, but his expression was blank. Then Logan turned his attention back to the girl, who was shaking in fear and anger. “Nice job,” he murmured.
“I told him not to touch me,” she said softly.
The other three truckers had realized what had happened, and they moved fast for an overweight bunch of middle-aged rednecks.
“Hank?” one of them said tentatively, kneeling beside the twitching body on the floor.
The girl instinctively stepped closer to Logan, standing between the
bar stools. Her stink was putting him right off his beer.
“Get his head up,” one of the other truckers ordered anxiously.
Logan laughed inwardly. That was always good advice if a person might have a broken neck. It would kill them instantly.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Joe the bartender said in an almost bored fashion, then he turned to the phone on the back bar. Logan was starting to like good old Joe more and more.
While two of the big guys tried to get their friend breathing regularly again, the third stood and moved up to Logan. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
Logan shrugged, tapping his cigar in the ashtray and glancing down at the still-twitching trucker without turning fully around. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” the guy demanded.
Logan watched the guy’s hands clench up into fists. Clearly the man wanted a fight. This just might turn out to be a good day after all.
“Maybe he’s sleepy,” Logan said sarcastically. “How would I know?”
The trucker grabbed the back of Logan’s shirt and spun him around on the stool. “What? Are you trying to be funny? Come on, just give me an excuse to stomp your ass.”
Logan put his cigar down in the ashtray. It still had half way to burn, and he didn’t want to waste it. Then with a quick spin, he drove his elbow directly into the trucker’s face. The feeling of smashing flesh and the sound of the guy’s nose breaking were beautiful. Pure poetry.
The trucker dropped to the tiled floor faster than his friend had. Logan shook his head. These guys were big, which meant they had more weight pulling them down. And clearly they had no threshold for pain.
“That excuse enough for you?” Logan asked the driver as he lay there, clutching at his nose.
The other two were on Logan quick, considering their size. He let them pin his arms, let them think they had him, as they held him one on each side. If they really wanted a fight, he might as well enjoy himself a little. Might not get this chance again for a while.
The guy with the busted nose slowly climbed to his feet and faced Logan, who was now pinioned between the trucker’s two friends. Blood streamed down the guy’s chin and dripped on his fat gut, turning his already stained shirt dark.
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