Generation X - Genogoths

by Unknown Author

  Jubilee was looking at a brochure. “A truck stop that honors Doctor Doom, Razorback, and has a water ride themed around Monster Island.” She squinted at a picture. “They’ve got like, giant, talking monkey-pirates. That’s class.”

  There was a knock at the door. Angelo threw the safety latch and opened the door enough to look out. “Well, well,” he said, peering around to see if their guests had brought additional company. Satisfied, he closed the door, threw back the latch, and opened it wide. Espeth stood at the door, along with a creepy looking beatnik that Angelo hadn’t seen before. He gestured them in dramatically. “So,” he said, “the prodigal daughter comes crawling back.”

  The 1962 Volkswagen De Luxe microbus had twenty-one windows, which was Styx’s lucky number, and though it looked relatively stock, the engine, suspension, and running gear were transplanted from a Porsche roadster. It would cruise comfortably at a hundred miles per hour on the freeway, and could do a hundred and twenty in a pinch.

  None of which was nearly as impressive as what was hidden behind those twenty-one, deeply-tinted windows. Though the equipment that Styx had installed in Leather’s command van was sophisticated, next to the gear in the Styx-wagon it looked like some kid’s science project. With the exception of a few exotic long-wave frequencies used by the military and S.H.I.E.L.D. he could tap into virtually any electromagnetic communication. The sunroof had been replaced with a elec-tronically-steerable, planar, satellite panel with a capacity of several gigabytes per second. A handy little black box installed in his multi-processor computer array quickly factored hundred digit primes. According to its supplier, it was of extraterrestrial origin, salvage from some race called the “Kree,” and had resisted all efforts at duplication, but it allowed him to crack virtually any code, scramble, or encryption at will.

  All of which suited Styx. He liked to know things. He liked to know everything, though knowledge occasionally came at a price. Sometimes just knowing things wasn’t enough. Sometimes it begged him to act. and then it became a burden. This was one of those times.

  As he pulled his van into the airport passenger pickup lane, he considered his options. For days, he had been monitoring the communications of his Genogoth superior. Leather. He knew what he was planning, what he said about Black. Styx had known Leather for several years now, and had met Black exactly once, a few days before. But he thought he was a good judge of character, and of course, Leather’s communications weren’t the only ones he’d been monitoring.

  A tall man dressed in a cowboy hat, black jeans, and a rodeo shirt walked up to the passenger door. Despite the get-up, Styx’s eyes were immediately drawn to the silver slide on his bolo-string tie, one in the shape of the crossed helix. He’d never met Smokey Ashe before either, but his exploits from his younger days were the stuff of Genogoth legend. He defined bravery, honor, and devotion to duty.

  Ashe tossed his bag between the front seats, took off his hat, and climbed into the bus. He put the hat in his lap and closed the door. “Appreciate you giving me a lift, Styx.”

  Styx studied the man. Ordinarily, he’d have been full of questions about the jamming device he’d designed, and that Ashe had tended with the devotion of a lighthouse keeper. Why had it failed? How could it be fixed? Instead, he thought about Leather, Black, and the confrontation that was coming. Time to choose sides.

  “Mr. Ashe, you’ve known Black for a long time, haven’t you?”

  He bobbed his head, “Since our Rover days. Know him like a brother.”

  “Well*” said Styx, “you have about five minutes to convince me that he’s worth saving.”

  The Hound designated as Three-dog-night scanned the darkened interior of the observation deck. The way that it curved around the core of the Space Needle made it impossible, even with the advanced optics and sensors built into his helmet, to take in all at once. It was as though a dog had chased a squirrel onto a tree trunk, and the squirrel managed to hide by always being behind the tree.

  Three-dog-night might have felt annoyance, if he were even capable of that emotion any more. But that, as with may other parts of his thought processes, had been suppressed, shut down. He knew only the cold logic of the hunt. There was a target, a dangerous target, one he had to bring down at all costs.

  Surrounding the edge of the enclosed deck was a sweep of large windows. Beyond that, a curved outside deck open to the elements, and beyond that, the glittering skyline of Seattle and its environs. Towering skyscrapers clustered to the south, several rising above the once mighty Needle. A few large, black spots interrupted the rolling diamond carpet that was the, city, Lake Union to the east, the Ship Canal to the north, and to the west and northwest Puget Sound itself, a vast emptiness marked only by the lights of an occasional ferry boat or freighter.

  Three-dog-night moved slowly, silently, the synthetic rubber treads on the bottom of his boots moving across the smooth floor without the slightest sound. He turned up the gain on his audio sensors. He could hear traffic moving on the streets, five-hundred and twenty feet below, the horns of ferry boats crossing the Sound, the roar of a float-plane lighting gently on the Lake Union. One by one he tuned out the sounds. Listening.

  This would be much easier with the help of Bloodhound. But Bloodhound, he reminded himself, was down, a victim of the very mutant he sought out. All the more reason he had to move carefully, and when the opportunity presented itself, to take the target down hard.

  A sound! Not a person, but a mechanical sound, automatic doors opening and closing. His mutant powers made him keenly sensitive to the temperature change of a sudden draft. Just ahead, someone had gone onto the outer deck.

  He moved, not toward the sound, but away from it. Around the inner deck, a series of doors led to the outside. At each of these he hesitated, using his enhanced-mutant ability to freeze the door shut. Finally, after having traveled completely around the deck, he stepped through the one remaining door. This, he carefully froze shut from the outside.

  An unseasonably warm breeze blew in from the Sound, and a gentle mist fell from the solid deck of clouds above. Again, Three-dog-night summoned his powers, but instead of focusing them, he let them spread out, chilling the molecules in the droplets, so that each one, as it touched a solid surface such as a deck or railing, turned instantly to ice.

  He waited. The target was on the deck somewhere, even if it couldn’t be seen, even if it wasn’t moving. He waited. The decking at his feet was thick with ice crystals, the railings and supports beginning to glaze over. It was time.

  Three-dog-night began to walk, quickly, steadily, around the observation deck. With each step, his power caused his foot to be frozen solidly into position, even as the ice under the other foot melted to allow it to move. It was only a matter of time now.

  He heard a thud, a cry of pain, as someone fell. Around the curve of the deck he saw a man in a loose fitting peasant tunic struggling to regain his footing on the icy deck, his hands, all four of them, gripping the handle of one of the frozen doors.

  The man looked up, his eyes wide and glittering with the reflected light of the city. His feet scrambled, like a cartoon character, but he found no purchase. He didn’t look dangerous, but Three-dog-night knew different. Perhaps this was exactly how he had lured in the others.

  He moved purposefully forward, grabbed the man by his arm and the leg of his pants, and hoisted the struggling figure over his head. He turned. The railing loomed immediately ahead.

  The man struggled weakly. He looked up. The face. The face.

  Sharpe leaned forward in his seat. “What’s happening? Finish him.” He snapped on the communications channel to the Hound. “Finish him,” he shouted into the console mike.

  The virtual Hound stood motionless on the screen. Sharpe punched up a biometric display and saw the blue line spiked and plateaued at a high level. He checked the controls.

  “Happersen, did you turn this EMP gain back down?”

  Happersen frowned. “I was conce
rned we’d damage the subject. I thought—”

  “The subject!” He reached over and pushed the control up to full gain. “And never think.”

  The face. The face. The—

  Three-dog-night blinked, for a moment disoriented. Then everything became clear. “Target acquired. Dispatching subject with extreme prejudice.” With the incredible power his 'armor-boosted limbs now possessed, he threw the target through the safety fence. Wire and metal snapped, the target tumbled through the air and landed on one of the decorative spines that projected from the Space Needle like a crown of thorns.

  The target slipped, held on with his fingers. One of the four hands slipped, then regained purchase. His legs and body swung as he tried to get enough momentum to swing a leg back up.

  Three-dog-night pointed. Ice formed out of thin air, coating the spine, making tired fingers grow numb. One hand slipped. Then another. And another. Then the last.

  The audio gain was still on maximum. He could hear the screams all the way down.

  Then the impact.

  “Target terminated.”

  Leather pulled into one of the vast parking lots that surrounded Little Latveria. As a Genogoth hiding from another Genogoth, he’d gone to some effort to disguise himself by trading in his van for a teal-colored, rental Neon, and his signature black leathers for blue-jeans and a tie-dyed tee-shirt. He cruised the parking lot, and soon found Black’s Thunder-bird parked near the entrance of the Doomstadt Hotel.

  That, by itself, was not damning. The truly damning evidence came when he circled around the complex, driving between the legs of the enormous statue of Dr. Doom, to the RV parking lot. There, almost hidden between two larger and more luxurious coaches, was the garishly decorated RV belonging to the fugitive mutant teenagers. He paused to study the plastic dome on the roof, the steer horns over the grill, and the red “X’s” spray painted on the nose and sides.

  There could be no doubt. The mutants were here, Black had found them, and he had failed to call in the troops for the capture. He picked up his phone and dialed. “The target is confirmed. Black has gone traitor on us. Move in and surround the place. This time they’re not getting away.”

  Espeth frowned at Angelo. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is, Espinosa.”

  “Hey kids,” shouted Angelo from the door, “we got company.”

  Jono and Ev were already there. Jubilee bounced off the bed and joined them. There was a muffled curse from the far bathroom. The door to the nearer one opened, and Monet emerged, dressed in the training uniform which she had been wearing under her street clothes, and combing her freshly washed hair. Jubilee glanced at her. “That was quick,” she said. “Super-speed,” replied Monet.

  Another curse, and Paige emerged from the other room, her hair wet and matted. She gave Espeth the evil eye. “Your timing sucks,” she said.

  Angelo eyed the older man with Espeth. “So this is your bad hombre, Black, huh?”

  He nodded. “I am Black.”

  “Yeah,” said Ev, “and I am Donny Osmond.”

  Jono stepped between them. “Back off, mates. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  Black gestured at a stool in front of the bar. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Angelo shrugged. “Yeah, I guess, but no RC Cola for you.” Black smiled slightly. “A sense of humor under fire. Espeth had told me about that. It’s a characteristic I admire. I’m afraid I’m not much of a humorist myself.”

  Jubilee popped a bubble loudly. “You might try dressing in pastels sometime.” She plucked a sheet of pink gum off the tip of her nose and shoved it back into her mouth. “Does wonders for your disposition."

  Black seemed to take an extreme interest in the suite’s decor as he scanned the various items on the walls. “He was one of ours, you know.”

  Angelo looked at the portrait on the wall. “Pigback?” “Razorback.” Paige corrected.

  “Whatever.” '

  '“I prefer,” said Black, “his given name of Buford T. Hollis. He’s one of the little mutants.’’

  Jubilee had walked up and was reading one of the clippings on the wall. “Says here he’s six-foot-six, and that’s without the pighead."

  “By ‘little,’ " explained Black, “I mean the less powerful mutants, one without a large and visible power that would normally attract the likes of Xavier or Magneto, searching for soldiers in their respective armies.”

  “Hey,” said Jubilee, “watch what you say about the Prof.” He looked at her. “It’s true, child. Look at yourselves. Xavier seeks out the powerful mutants, the ones who are most capable of taking care of themselves, ignoring those with lesser abilities. People like your friends Chill or Dog Pound are passed over.”'

  Paige crossed her arms across her chest indignantly. “The professor can’t help every mutant individually, but he’s tried to help, build up organizations, get the word out.”

  “Oh,” said Black, “he’s certainly ‘gotten the word out.’ Through the public antics of his X-Men, his X-Factor, and others, he’s fanned the flames of hate. Not in the way that, say,

  Magneto has with his terrorist activities, but it’s a matter of degree, not kind. He has made life harder for all mutants, especially those without the power to care for themselves, those for which he will not take responsibility himself.” Angelo scowled, something his mutant skin made him exceptionally good at. There had to be some flaw in Black’s argument. He looked at the portrait again. “You say old Pig-back is one of your ‘little’ mutants, right?”

  Black nodded. “His mutant abilities are minor and easily hidden. His rural upbringing made him an ideal vessel to safely pass on the so-called X-gene. We’d been watching him, without his knowledge of course, for years, even placed one of our people close to guard his safety. But then, despite our best efforts, he developed his obsession with becoming a so-called ‘super-hero.’ ”

  Angelo found himself, for the first time, developing some -admiration for Razorback. “So, you’re saying he should have just stayed down on the farm, slopped hogs all his life, married his high-school sweetheart, and made lots of little X-babies?”

  “Not in so many words, but—”

  “Looks to me,” said Angelo, “like Mr. Razorback is a dude who can take care of himself, ‘big’ power or not. Seems like he’s just trying to do what he thinks is right, that maybe his dreams are a little big for the old farm, you know?” He pointed an accusative finger at Black. “So who are you to decide what he’s supposed to do with his life? Sounds to me, too, that you’re just as guilty of picking and choosing as anyone.”

  Black looked uncomfortable. “I really didn’t come here to debate my life’s work. I came here because I care about your safety.”

  Paige tapped her foot. “Or our genes ’ safety.’

  “Is there a difference?”

  “You can’t see it,” said Ev, who was looking out the window, “we sure can’t show it to you.”

  “I came to try and convince you that this mission is a fool’s errand.”

  Angelo chuckled sourly. “Stop with that sweet talk.”

  “Your friends are lost to you. They’re being controlled, used to hunt other mutants. We’ve already lost one of our charges to them. I don’t want to lose you as well. At this point, I am willing to accept your vow that you will keep our existence secret, allow you to return to your school unmolested.” “My,” said Paige, icily, “what a generous offer.”

  Black scowled. “It is much more magnanimous than you imagine. Historically, the Genogoths have maintained their secrecy at any cost. Any cost. I fear a dark time is coming, and I’m attempting to change with those times. The preservation of your genetic line is more important than anything, even our secrecy.”

  Espeth looked desperate. “He means it. Maybe—” She chokcfl on her own words. “Maybe it would be better to leave them be. We’d only be making things worse, for you, for all mutants.”

  Jono had been listening to the argum
ents quietly, but finally he stepped forward. “Espeth, bloody listen to yourself. Black says they’re being used to hunt other mutants, that they’ve already captured one. You think it will just stop there? You say they’ve already taken a mutant under your protection? You can’t protect one, what makes you think you can protect any of them.”

  Paige nodded. “You know our buddy Recall. His ‘little’ power is to find things, people, near or far. We don’t know what the limits of his power are. I don’t think he knows himself. But if the bad-guys have harnessed that, then none of your ‘little’ mutants are safe, no matter how you hide them.” “I know those three,” said Ev. “If they can turn the ‘Mutant Musketeers’ against other mutants, then they can turn any mutant against any mutant. This could be just the trickle that starts the avalanche. It could make the Sentinels look like nothing.”

  Jubilee popped another bubble. “What they said.”

  Black said nothing, his skin more ashen than usual.

  Espeth hung her head, chewing her lip. She shook her head sadly. “They’re right, Black. I’m sorry.” She stepped away from him, and stood with the rest.

  Ev paced back to the window. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Black brought company.”

  Black jumped off the stool. “What?”

  “The parking lot down there is crawling with Genogoths.” “I didn’t authorize this,” said Black. “It must be Leather.” “Likely story,” said Angelo. Then he turned and nodded at Monet. “Good call on wearing the battle togs, by the way.” “You heard him,” called Paige. “Wear 'em if you got ’em.” “You, little man,” said Monet to Black, “are starting to annoy me.” .

  Sharpe removed the VR glasses and put them on the console. “Excellent simulation, Happersen. It almost redeems what happened earlier.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. Virtual reality always made the back of his eyes itch. His mood turned somber. “Don’t ever reverse my orders again. I may not have a uniform with stars on it any more, but don’t let that confuse you as to our relative positions here. We’re still soldiers, and these—” He pointed out through the glass at the two figures strapped into their chairs. “These subjects, they’re not people, they’re weapons. You don’t waste time wondering if a bullet is going to get a headache. Understood?”