Shadow of the Past

by Unknown Author

  Immediately, the professor knew that this time would be different. He found no formidable distractions in the retarded man's consciousness, no serious competition for his attention. If anything, the fellow's mind was even more open than Xavier remembered.

  Jeffrey? he thought It's ProfessorXavier-your grandfather's friend. I need your help.

  The young man stopped dribbling his basketball and listened to the voice in his head. There wasn't any fear or distress in him-no negative emotion at all, in fact.

  I'm sorry to bother you, the mutant thought. I know you're just getting used to your new home. However, this is a most urgent matter.

  Jeffrey didn't move. He just listened.

  You must make a long trip for me, Xavier told him. A trip that will take a great deal of courage and effort on your part. Unfortunately, there's no one else to whom I can turn. You may be my last hope.

  The retarded man seemed to understand how badly Xavier needed his help, if not the magnitude of the sacrifice that was being asked of him. What's more, he recognized the professor’s presence and trusted it as he would have trusted his grandfather's.

  After a moment, Jeffrey nodded. He seemed willing to do whatever his friend deemed necessary.

  Thank you, Xavier told him.

  But even as he projected the thought, he experienced a twinge of guilt. He was, after all, asking Jeffrey to take on a challenge he couldn't possibly grasp in its entirety. If the situation had been any less dire, the professor wouldn't even have considered the fellow an option.

  But the situation was as desperate as they came. Lucifer wouldn't hesitate to use every weapon available to him—and Xavier couldn’t afford to be any less hardnosed than his enemy.

  If we are to do this, he told Jeffrey, I need to assume control of your mind. I hope this isn't too uncomfortable for you.

  The retarded man didn't know what the professor was talking about, of course, so he couldn't exactly give his permission. Still, Xavier had felt compelled to announce what was coming.

  After all, Jeffrey wasn't a mindless pawn in this game. He wasn't one of the unwitting dupes Lucifer had used in the past. He was a human being ... and the professor was determined to treat him that way.

  Scanning the Nameless Dimension to make sure the Quistalian was nowhere in sight, Xavier tightened his grip on Jeffrey's consciousness. He proceeded quickly, firmly.

  Of course, he could have pursued the process slowly, allowing the younger man to gradually gain some understanding of what he was getting himself into. But like a parent faced with the removal of his child's adhesive bandage, the professor didn't want to give Jeffrey time to become frightened.

  As it happened, the retarded man became frightened anyway. His mind reeling like a wild, unbroken horse trying to throw its rider, he struggled against the psychic link-struggled so mightily, in fact, that Xavier almost lost contact with him.

  But in the end, the mutant hung on. Despite the tumultuous power of Jeffrey’s panic, despite the burden imposed on the professor by the dimensional barrier, he maintained control. Then, little by little, Xavier calmed the retarded man down. He showed Jeffrey that playing host to a telepath wasn't all that difficult once one got used to the idea.

  Xavier had the youth take a breath and let it out. Easy, he thought. There's nothing to be frightened of, nothing for you to worry about. Just allow me to guide you.

  And guide him the professor did.

  In accordance with Xavier's directions, Jeffrey took a look around to see if anyone was watching him. At the moment, every attendant in sight seemed to be taking care of one of the other residents. None of them was looking directly at Jeffrey.

  The professor knew he might never get a better opportunity. Without hesitation, he had Jeffrey fling his ball at the thick line of fir trees that bordered Westminister House to the south. Then, making certain that the throw hadn't roused anyone's suspicions, Xavier sent his host loping innocently after it.

  When Jeffrey caught up with the ball, he glanced around again. Still, no one had moved to stop him or even wonder what he was up to. And by then, he was only about ten yards from the trees.

  Going for broke, Xavier had him dash the rest of the way to the tree line and take shelter behind one of the thickest trunks he could find. After a moment, he had Jeffrey look back. No one was coming after him, it seemed. So far so good, the professor thought.

  Then he turned the retarded man around and had him make his way through the untended woods. The ground was uneven and rife with exposed roots and rocks, but it barely slowed Jeffrey down.

  After a mile or so. the professor and his host came to a four-lane macadam highway. As before, Xavier had Jeffrey look around to make sure no one was coming after him. Then he stuck his thumb out and waited for a vehicle to come rolling by.

  The professor knew the retarded man was in exemplary physical condition. However, it was almost twenty-five miles from Westminster to Xavier's mansion. A lift from a passing motorist, especially at this early juncture, would go a long way toward ensuring the completion of Jeffrey’s journey.

  On the other hand, Xavier couldn't linger too long at the side of the road. Once the people at Westminster realized

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  their charge was gone, they would call the police-and it would only be a matter of time before the area was thick with patrol cars.

  The first two vehicles that passed him were family vans in bright metallic colors. Neither driver even glanced at him. The next vehicle was an expensive black sports car that slowed down but didn't stop.

  The professor had Jeffrey glance over his shoulder. No sign of a police car, he noted-at least not yet.

  He resumed his attempts to thumb a ride. Two more cars went by, a white station wagon and a small blue sedan. Then came a couple of motorcyclists, and a pizza delivery vehicle in what appeared to be a great hurry.

  Finally, an eighteen-wheeler with a red cab surmounted the rise in the highway. It slowed down as it got closer to Jeffrey. Then its driver pulled it off the road and onto the shoulder.

  Xavier had his host approach the driver's side of the cab. The trucker rolled down the window and stuck his head out. He was a burly black man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a beige and black baseball cap.

  He seemed to size up the hitchhiker at a glance. ‘Tm headed for the Taconic," said the trucker. “How about you?”

  The professor had Jeffrey assume a hopeful expression. Then he had him gesture down the road.

  The man's brow creased. "Can't you talk?"

  Xavier shook his host's head from side to side.

  "Really?" the trucker asked.

  The professor had Jeffrey nod.

  Frowning, the man appeared to weigh the information for a moment. Then he reached way over to the passenger’s side of his cab and swung his big, red door open.

  Xavier had his host walk up to the vehicle, climb in and

  puli the door closed after him. When he offered his hand to the trucker, the man shook it with a good strong grip.

  "My wife has a cousin who can't talk," the trucker explained. "His name's Reggie. Heck of a poker player."

  The professor nodded Jeffrey’s head, doing his best to make his host look interested in the trucker's comments.

  "If Reggie was havin' trouble," the man said, "I'd want someone to pick him up. Know what I mean?"

  Xavier made Jeffrey's head go up and down.

  "Tell you what," the trucker told him, putting his vehicle into gear and snaking back onto the road, “you see a sign for the place you want to go, you point to it."

  The professor was grateful for the suggestion. He made an “okay" sign with his thumb and forefinger.

  Then he and his benefactor went barreling down the road, leaving Westminster House behind.

  up

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  he Atlas Mountains loomed above Jean Grey, looking like giant camel gods resting after a journey across the sands of the Sahara. They were proud, angular,
devoid of color and life except for the few tenacious scrub plants hardy enough to survive on their flanks.

  “And I thought Columbia was hot," Bobby remarked, half his words stolen by the wind.

  Hank, who was lugging another bogus component in his backpack, combed some sand out of his fur with his fingers. "Professor X sends us to only the nicest places," he said.

  Jean heard the remark, but she didn't laugh. She didn't make any comments of her own, either. She was concentrating too hard on finding the Quistalian base buried in these sand-swept foothills.

  Scott stood beside her, watching her silently. Though he was the team’s field leader, he was also her husband. He knew better than to say anything until he saw an expression of triumph on her face.

  They had followed the professor's directions to the letter,

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  landing the Blackbird on a conveniently exposed table of rock almost a quarter mile away. But with the wind hooting at Jean and stinging her face with sand, it was harder to find the base than she had imagined.

  Come on, she told herself. Reach deeper.

  Warren circled overhead like a white-winged vulture. But he was only exploring, having never visited a place like this before.

  Deeper, Jean urged herself.

  And suddenly there it was, something hard and unyielding, something vertical and perfectly flat. She felt along its smooth, unpitted surface and made certain of her discovery. Only then did she turn to Scott.

  "I've got it," she said.

  But he was smiling already. "1 know," he told her.

  Hank gestured to Warren. "Paydirt!” he bellowed.

  Of course, Jean's job wasn't over yet. Locating the base was one thing. Exposing its entrance was another.

  Again, she applied her telekinetic abilities-but this time, she didn't focus any deeper than a foot or two. Dig, she thought. Suddenly, the sand in front of her began to fly away in frantic haste. It looked as if some desert genie were blowing on the spot with all his strength.

  Bobby chuckled. "You go, girl!"

  Jean kept blasting away, digging deeper and deeper, driving the sand out of the hole she was making faster than the desert could pour it back in. Her progress was slow but steady.

  Three feet. Four. Five ...

  And then she saw it-a dark, oily-looking metal surface. The same kind of door they had found in South America, except this one was below the level of the ground. Of course, Jean reflected, the sands probably shifted all the time here,

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  so the entrance might have been above ground when the Quistalians first built it.

  She continued to dig, exposing more and more of the alien metal, until she could begin to make out the door's outlines. But at the same time, it got harder and harder for her to keep the sand back.

  “Bobby," said Scott, "we need some ice walls."

  "Coming right up," said his teammate. "But don’t expect them to last too long in this place.”

  A moment later, he was driving icy wedges into the hole Jean had created, securing the product of her labors. The last wedge, which faced the aliens' door, had chiseled-looking steps so the X-Men could descend into the hole without any trouble.

  Scott was the first one down. Opening his pouch, he took out the Quistalian key he had used to gain entry to the Columbian base. Then he located the tiny hole in the center of the door.

  Inserting the tool the professor had given him, he pressed the stud on its side. Jean saw a green glow emerge from the aperture. Almost instantly, the slab of alien metal slid down out of sight.

  Bobby chuckled. "Gotta love that thing."

  Scott beckoned. “Let's go."

  As before, Warren darted inside to reconnoiter. Then the others followed him, glad to be out of the arid wind.

  As Scott put away his "key,” Jean probed the corridor for signs of life. She only needed a moment to satisfy herself that there weren't any-and to inform her husband of the fact.

  "I don't hear anything either," Hank reported enthusiastically. "But as we've learned the hard way, that doesn't rule out intruder-killing spider-robots.”

  "True," said Scott. "And if one base had them, there's a

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  good chance the others will too. So we'll have to be on our guard."

  “No problem," Bobby told him with forced cheer. "Being on guard is one of my specialties."

  Again, Scott led the team inside. Jean trailed in his wake through bend after bend, scouring the alien venue for living antagonists she might somehow have missed.

  She found that the experience wasn't any less ominous for her having been in a similar facility so recently. The narrow, echoing passageway and its dark, serpentine bundles of circuitry still sent chills up and down her spine.

  Then, all at once, the telepath realized that Warren was on his way back, his reconnaissance of the place complete. She inspected his mind for signs of anxiety, but she couldn't find anything specific-just a general undercurrent of wariness.

  Hank cocked an ear. "Here comes Warren," he announced.

  A moment later, Jean heard it too-the soft, slightly sibilant sound that their teammate made when he flapped his majestic white wings. Before she knew it, Warren swooped around a bend in the corridor and alighted on the floor in front of them.

  "Any surprises?” asked Scott.

  "None that ! can see," Warren told him. "I checked the ceiling and there wasn't any sign we'll be attacked from above." ■

  Jean read his mind. "But you're still not confident about our entering the chamber," she said.

  Warren looked at her. “That's right."

  Scott frowned. "It's not as if we've got a choice."

  One of the things Jean loved about the X-Men's field leader was his ability to cut through doubt and uncertainty, reducing a situation to its most basic premise. Another was his understated courage.

  "Let's continue," Scott told them.

  The team moved through the corridor without incident and arrived at the Quistalians' chamber. It was just like the other one—immense and cylindrical in shape, illuminated by long iridescent strips, its dark walls crowded with twisted circuitry.

  Jean looked across the chamber and saw the collection of smaller cylinders that made up the base's communications system. One of the cylinders was a muted gold with veins of scarlet running through it.

  “There it is," Scott said, his voice echoing wildly.

  "Right where it's supposed to be," Bobby added.

  Again, Jean cast about for sentient life. As far as she could tell, they were still alone.

  Scott didn't like the silence any more than the rest of them. His wife could tell. "Same positions as last time," he said.

  Warren went aloft as the others spaced themselves around the chamber. Jean positioned herself along the right-hand wall, just beyond Bobby. Then Hank looked to Scott and got a nod.

  "Here goes nothing," said the furry X-Man.

  He crossed the chamber more cautiously than the last time, his blue hide gleaming sleekly in the alien light. On reaching the communications cylinders, he removed the professor's substitute component from his backpack and placed it on the floor.

  You're okay so far, Jean assured him teiepathically.

  So far, Hank echoed fatalistically.

  Wresting the gold cylinder from the system's embrace, he tucked it into his backpack and tossed the pack over his powerful shoulder. Then, every muscle in his amazing body alert, he picked up the bogus cylinder and placed it in the empty slot

  This time, Jean noticed, Hank didn't pause to report his success. He just took off for the exit, moving briskly on palms and feet.

  But before he had advanced halfway to his goal, a series of pits opened in the floor-and a fleet of small, dark figures floated up from them. Machines again, Jean determined instantly. Each of them featured a glowing yellow orb, the purpose of which wasn't immediately clear to her.

  She sampled Hank's thoughts and found her teammate w
as actually relieved. To this point, he hadn't known what kind of defense the chamber would spring on then. Now he knew-and to Hank's mind, at least, the hovering machines didn't look all that formidable.

  Then, as if in response to the mutant's thought, their yellow eyes pulsed with power and unleashed a barrage of sizzling, white energy beams. Just in time, Jean threw herself to the hard, smooth floor-and saw a beam wallop the wall behind her.

  It didn't do any damage to the dark bundles of circuitry there-possibly because they generated some kind of protective force field. But if it had hit a flesh and blood target____

  Jean didn't want to contemplate the possibilities. Instead, she went into action-not with her body, but with the power of her mind. Taking hold of one of the assault machines telekinetically, she sent it slamming into the nearest of its fellow defenders.

  The impact ruined both machines' aim. However, they didn't have enough mass to do any damage to each other, so the maneuver didn't really accomplish anything. Jean had to find another way to put a dent in them.

  It occurred to her that she could tamper with their insides, as she had done to the spider-robots in Columbia. But as she looked around, she saw that her teammates were

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  in bad straits, the Quistalians' energy beams keeping them on the run.

  Bobby, for instance, was too busy erecting ice shields to go on the offensive. Hank was leaping and tumbling at a frantic pace, pushed to the limits of his considerable agility, and Warren was slicing through the air so fast he was just a blur.

  None of them could keep it up for long. If Jean was going to make a difference in this battle, she would have to do it quickly.

  Then she caught sight of Scott. Of all her teammates, he was the only one holding his ground, using the bludgeoning power of his optical beams to go after one attack machine after the other.

  And to Jean's surprise, he was making some progress. Whenever her husband hammered one of the chamber's defenders, the thing sparked and fizzled and fell to the floor, inert. If only the rest of us had Scott's kind of power, she told herself.

  Then it came to her. They did have that kind of power. All they had to do was apply it.