Somewhere east of Billings, Sean discovered Monet’s Devo CD among the clutter on the dash. He held it out to Paige, who was riding shotgun in the passenger seat. “Devo. This is the stuff they were playing back at M.O.N.S.T.E.R. house, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Those kids’re a good bunch. I admire their spirit.”
“It’s got to be hard for them, all by themselves out there.” “They aren’t really alone, lass, none of us are. The X-Men, the school, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Professor Xavier knew he could never provide for the needs of all the mutants out there, so he helped establish a network, a mutant underground, to support the hundreds of mutants across the country and around the world. Now he wants to do more. That’s what this trip is about, for Emma and me, anyway.”
“But it’s not like we can be open about it. We’re hiding, all of us.”
“I suppose that's true enough, as far as it goes.”
“Our enemies don’t have to hide. They get elected to Congress. They get on the television, the radio.”
Sean gave her a concerned smile. “What brought this on, lass? You seem so dour. Aren’t ye having a good time on the trip?”
Paige had a sudden panic that she was letting their secret slip through her fingers.
There was a stirring from the couch behind them, where Angelo had been napping. He looked up groggily, but evidently he had heard enough of the conversation to come to the rescue, in true Angelo style. “She’s pining away about Jono. Young love. It ain’t a pretty thing.”
Paige didn’t know if she should thank him or kill him, so she settled on ignoring him.
As for Sean, his expression was of someone who had stepped in something unpleasant. “Sorry, lass, didn’t mean to pry.” He noticed the Devo CD, still in his hand, and looked for a place to put it.
Monet appeared, leaning between the front seats and plucking it from his fingers.
Sean glanced back at her. “Sorry. Yours, lass? I didn’t realize you like such music.”
Monet plopped back into her seat and tucked the CD under her coloring book. “Are we not M?”
Angelo lifted his head and stared at her, his mouth open. Then he smiled broadly. “Mother help me, Monet made a funny. Who’d a thought?”
It was near midnight when Ivan pulled into a rest stop off 1-90 and parked his car at the far end of the lot. He stepped out and walked purposefully toward the rest rooms, then dodged past the men’s room door at the last moment. He stopped to take a drink from the water fountain and used the opportunity to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Then he strolled into the truck parking area and to a familiar semitrailer parked among several others in the truck lot.
He stepped around the back and, careful not to be seen by passersby, tapped on the door. It swung open just enough for the steps to fold down, and he quickly climbed inside. The benches he had seen being installed earlier were now complete and fully equipped with tools and equipment.
He could see several technicians working in the background, including Dr. Bervin, who nodded to him, then went back to work on an electronic module. Though work on the package continued, he ignored it. That was not what he was here to see.
Instead, his attention was drawn to the far end of the bench, where a partially sculpted clay head was mounted on a turntable. The face was only vaguely human, with large, deeply set eyes, a wide, flattened nose, heavy brow ridges, and a large, thick-lipped mouth that projected out from the rest of the face, giving it a snoutlike appearance.
A man stood over the sculpture, a small wooden-handled tool in his hand. He was short, broad shouldered, and had a carefully waxed red handlebar moustache and goatee. As Ivan watched, the man leaned over, used the metal end of the tool to create some new lines under the eyes, then stood back to inspect his work. Ivan had not met him before, but knew him from photographs as Jimmy Scofield, the special effects man they’d hired from Hollywood.
Scofield looked up as he approached and smiled. “You must be the mysterious Ivan.” He offered his well-manicured hand.
Ivan studied the large gold rings on pinky, index, and middle fingers, the silk shirt unbuttoned to show several loops of gold chain, and did not return the handshake. Ivan had no love of Hollywood or the American decadence that it represented. Plus, he had heard things about Scofield’s troublesome personality, things that made it difficult for him to find work in the movie industry, things that had made him willing to take on unusual assignments such as this one. It was time to make sure that Scofield was firmly under his control, that there would be no problems.
Scofield stood awkwardly, his hand out, smile changing to a look of uncertainty. He quickly drew back the hand and wiped the palm on his jeans.
Ivan turned back to the sculpture. “It doesn’t look female,” he said.
“You said you wanted it ugly. After a certain point, it doesn’t really make any difference. It’s like putting an evening gown on the Hulk, you know?”
“Redo it.” '
Scofield looked horrified. “Are you crazy? You’ve got me on an impossible schedule already, trying to sculpt and do fine work while bouncing along in the back of this stupid truck. I’ve barely got time to finish this one.”
“It will have a female voice. People must accept the illusion.”
Scofield chuckled nervously. “Hey, illusions are my business. Trust me.”
Ivan turned back to him, gave him the killing look. “I am trusting you, Mr. Scofield, and I am paying you well for that trust. Do not disappoint me. Do this work as though your life depends on it.” He paused. “Because, trust me, it does.” Scofield stared at the sculpture as though he were seeing it for the first time. A sheen of sweat showed on his high forehead. “Yeah, it’s kind of androgynous, but we’ll give it nice long hair, and with the voice, that will sell it. Yeah, I’m sure it will.”
Dr. Bervin walked up, the electronic module she had been working on in her hand.
Scofield looked at her gratefully, as though he’d been pulled from the edge of a cliff.
“I’ve been working on the movement dampers. I think we can program in a certain grace, despite the bulk of the thing, that should help.”
“See,” said Scofield, “it’s not just me. It’s the whole package.”
Ivan was unrelenting. “Nonetheless, the responsibility for the illusion is yours, and yours alone. Do not disappoint.”
“I won’t.” '
“Of course.” .
Bervin handed him the module, which sat comfortably in the palm of his hand. A small speaker and a battery holder formed the bulk of the package, and since they were held to the circuit board with rubber bands, he assumed it was a temporary arrangement. She reached over and touched a tiny push-button with the tip of a red-polished fingernail.
The voice that came from the speaker was somewhat flat and spaced the words out unnaturally, like bricks in a wall, but it was recognizably that of “Peg,” their young caller. “Death. To. Norman. Victory. For mutants. Over. All humans.”
Bervin seemed to read his face, took the unit, and made a few adjustments, then handed it back to him. He pressed the tiny button himself.
This time the voice was higher pitched, faster. It sounded angry, or at least righteous. “Death to Norman! Victory for mutants over all humans!”
“The phrases here,” she explained, “are just for demonstration purposes. The circuit will be tied to the control menu on the unit’s status display, giving the operator a fair amount of flexibility.”
He handed it back to her. “Good. Keep working on it. We need to move up our schedule. Our teenaged pawns have been making better time than we had expected.”
“Impossible.” Scofield ignored Ivan’s angry look. “I have to finish the sculpture, then cure the molds, then pour and cure the latex, insert the hair, and attach the appliances to the unit and blend them in. There’s only so much flexibility in the schedule. I can’t change the laws of physics!”
&nbs
p; Ivan glanced at Bervin, who was nodding. “I might give you the first unit, maybe the second if I cut some comers, but the whole package just can’t be done any quicker than I promised.”
Though Scofield seemed sincere in this case, Bervin was the only one he really trusted. ‘ ‘We may have to arrange some sort of delay for our young friends, and that complicates matters. Still, I’m sure the Expatriate will think of something to keep them entertained.”
Paige rubbed her eyes and groaned. Boarding school life had made her soft. Back home, she’d been up with the chickens every morning. When she’d first come to the school, she’d been up jogging with the sun. These days, she wasn’t really human until nine, then only with the help of caffeine. It was really time to make some lifestyle adjustments while her family might still recognize her.
The girls had rolled out of bed early so that Sean and Emma could peel off for an appointment in Rapid City, South Dakota, while the kids took the Xabago to Devils Tower National Monument, or, as Jubilee called it, “that Close Encounters place.”
But with the exception of Jono, who was driving, most everyone had just eaten a donut or two and was dozing again. It was kind of disgraceful, when she thought about it. Maybe turning on the radio would wake everyone up.
She moved to the front, carefully stepping over Everett’s sleeping bag on the floor, not making eye contact with Jono. She bumped the passenger seat accidentally, and Monet blinked awake, quietly lifting the open calculus text that had been resting on her chest and returning to her reading.
Paige clicked on the radio and hit the scan button. Instead of music, the scan stopped on a news broadcast. There was a confused urgency in the female announcer’s voice.
“—helicopter. Unconfirmed reports are that the assassin who fired on the President this morning while he was participating in a charity run is a known associate of the terrorist group the World Federalists. ’ ’
Jono groaned. “Bleeding great. Norman will probably just blame it on a mutant.” He reached for the radio, but Paige stopped him.
The announcer continued. There was obviously confusion at the station, and Paige realized they were listening to a live news bulletin, not a regular news show. ‘ ‘As we have said, the President is safely on Marine One, the presidential helicopter, and being evacuated from the area. While some details are only still coming to light, one thing is clear: The hero of the hour is an obscure Arkansas costumed crimefighter who calls himself ‘Razorback.’ While jogging near the President, Ra-zorback threw himself in the path of the bullet. Apparently some part of his costume stopped the slug harmlessly, and Razorback was able to disarm and hold the assassin for Secret Service agents.”
Angelo rousted himself from under a blanket on the couch. ‘ ‘Razorback?’ ’
Jubilee, who had earlier drawn the long straw to get the bed, appeared from the door in the back of the Xabago. “Razorback? What about him?”
Angelo looked surprised. “You’ve heard of this guy?”
She squinted and lowered the sunglasses from her forehead. “Yeah, I saw him on an episode of America’s Strangest Super Heroes. Wears a huge pig head with tusks or something. Serious fashion victim. Drives a custom truck called the Big
Pig. We are talking lamest of the lame here. Whassup with that?”
Angelo shook his head and chuckled. “Mr. Pigback just saved the President’s life. All of a sudden he’s practically Captain America.”
They listened to the radio again. “We have now learned that Razorback’s real name is Buford T. Hollis. Well known in the region, Hollis has a reputation both as a crimefighter and for his support of charity events such as this one.” A pause. ‘ ‘We’ve just received word that the President has called Razorback from an undisclosed location to thank him personally, and that Razorback has been invited to the White House to meet the President face to face.
“We repeat, an unsuccessful attempt on the President’s life has been thwarted by costumed hero Razorback. A suspect is in custody, the President is safe, and America has a new—if unusual—hero. ’ ’
Jono reached to turn down the radio, and this time Paige didn’t stop him.
“So,” said Angelo, “Mr. Pigback saves the President, and he’s a hero. The X-Men save the world, and they’re outlaws. I don’t get that.”
“Razorback,” corrected Paige.
“Yeah, whatever. This guy wears a pig on his head?” Jubilee nodded and went to fish a soda out of the fridge. “With tusks, or whatever, like a wild boar or something.” Angelo snorted, obviously finding it hard to visualize. “So, is that his secret? Get some geek-show gimmick and people will love you?” He suddenly grabbed a handful of his scalp in either hand and pulled the skin out to arm’s length, distorting his head into an inverted triangle. “Look at me. I am Cheese Head, defender of justice.” He let go of his scalp, which snapped back into place, then reached up to pat Jono on the shoulder. “Allow me to introduce my companion, Broiler Boy. Together, we are cheese toast against evil!” Jubilee cracked up, and Paige found herself laughing as well.
“I’m serious,” he claimed. “These codenames we got are all wrong.” He looked at Paige. “Like ‘Husk.’ How about— Banana Peel. ‘Slip on over to the right side.’ ” He looked at Jubilee. “Or Spark Plug. Motto: ‘Don’t—’ ”
Jubes held up a finger, crackling with energy. “Don’t go there, Angelo.”
He held up his hands in surrender.
Paige slumped against the wall. “Let’s face it, the reason he’s a hero and the X-Men aren’t, that we aren’t, is because he isn’t a mutant.”
Paige heard a zipper, and Everett crawled out of his sleeping bag. “He is a mutant,” Everett said.
“No way,” said Jubilee.
“Way,” said Everett. “Back at the school. I’ve been studying up on all the files on known mutants, in case I needed to, you know, synch with them someday. He’s in there. His power is—” he drew his knees up to his chin and thought for a minute “—he instinctively knows how to operate any vehicle. Yeah, that’s it. I’m sure of it.”
Jubilee picked up her Danger-boy and fiddled with the controls. “If he’s a publicly visible mutant or in any way associated with the X-Men, he should be in the database here.” Angelo tilted his head and scowled. “What? That’s it? He has the mutant power to drive? Oh, man, no wonder he wears a pig head. Maybe he should try a paper bag.”
A small figure appeared on the Danger-boy’s holostage. “He is in here, look!” It was a man, built like a wrestler, wearing a green-and-yellow costume and the previously described headpiece.
“He drives,” repeated Angelo. “That’s all?”
Everett shook his head. “Any vehicle. Truck, car, aircraft carrier, space shuttle.”
Angelo brightened. “Well, that's convenient, in case you need to chase down a villain, and the only thing handy is a Rose Parade float.”
Jubilee snickered. “Or a 1928 Porter. Or a Spider-Mobile. Or a Big Wheel. Or one of those little cars at Disneyland.” Paige wasn’t laughing though. She was thinking. “So,” she finally said, “this guy is a mutant, and they—” she gestured at the radio “—they don’t know.”
Jubilee held up the Danger-boy. “The database is of mutants known publicly, not publicly known mutants. There’s, like, a difference. Get it?”
Angelo considered this. “So, what you’re saying is, Mr. Pig Hero is a closet mutant?”
Paige nodded.
Angelo shook his head sadly. “He gets to talk to the President, gets to be a Betty with the media, all because he doesn’t tell ’em he’s a mutant? Man, that sucks.”
“Sucks rocks,” agreed Jubilee.
They were all quiet for a while—stunned, really. Sometimes, things just didn’t make any sense at all.
The Expatriate considered the e-mail on his screen. By all rights, he should simply delete it and move on to more important business. The message was from the World Federalists, a desperate request for advanced weaponry,
including automatic rifles, rocket launchers, and a helicopter.
Not that the Expatriate couldn’t provide these things. In fact, all the items except the helicopter were in stock in the Idaho warehouse, and the helicopter could easily be diverted from one of several legitimate sources, its identifications removed, and be delivered within a day’s time.
The problem was the World Federalists themselves. When he’d started dealing with them, they’d been well financed and well organized, even if their political aims were confused and unclear. Their basic philosophy was that the United States possessed too much of the world’s wealth and that it should be forcibly distributed to poorer countries, but the details shifted like the wind. They’d recently lost several of their leaders to an internal struggle and a federal raid on one of their compounds. Since then, their fortunes and their strategy had been in a death spiral. They were desperate to pull off some spectacular terrorist act with which to deliver their poorly defined political message, but they lacked the resources or the leadership to do so.
The Expatriate had reluctantly supplied them with automatic weapons and explosives for use in the Seattle airport raid, but only because he could use it as a distraction for his own smuggling operation. It had come as a complete surprise when only days later they’d made their bungled and ill-conceived attempt on the President’s life. Now they had an impossible plan to hold the Washington Monument hostage, which, if allowed to proceed, would certainly be the end of the organization.
But perhaps, as with the airport situation, there was some way to use the World Federalists for his own purposes. He considered his present situation. Norman was relatively content at the moment. Though the mutant girl had not called in a number of days, the listeners seemed nearly as happy to talk about her as to actually listen to her. Better than half the calls related either directly to her, or to issues raised in her calls, and Norman was expertly milking anticipation of her next call. In some ways, it was better to delay her next call, not to overuse their golden goose.
Generation X - Crossroads Page 13