X-Men 2

by Chris Claremont

  “Is it time to find our friends?”

  Xavier’s heart leaped as though he had been empty and now had purpose. He’d never felt such glory, it was almost rhapsodic.

  “Yes,” he said, and meant it with all his heart.

  Stryker whispered to his son . . .

  . . . and Mutant 143, through the image of the girl . . .

  . . . whispered to Xavier.

  “All of the mutants,” she asked. “Everywhere?”

  “Oh, yes,” Xavier replied. Before him the path to fulfillment was laid out, as straight and clear as a highway. And yet . . .

  Always “and yet.” Try as he might to embrace this wonderful moment, something kept holding him back, trying with ferocious persistence to pull him away. It refused to be ignored, it wouldn’t be denied.

  Fortunately, the girl’s voice was stronger.

  “Good,” she said.

  “Good,” said Stryker, all to himself. He started to lay his hand on 143’s shoulder, came so close they almost touched—then pulled himself away and curled his fingers into a protective fist. For that moment, he had seen 143 not as a tool, a weapon in the fight to defend humanity, but as his son.

  That was uncharacteristic of him. It was weak. Now, more than ever, that was an emotion he could not afford and would not countenance.

  With military bearing and precision, Stryker turned on his heel and strode from the chamber. He didn’t look back. He would never have to see Mutant 143 again. The images of his son that he would keep with him would be from before, the mahogany-haired boy with round cheeks and a ready giggle who loved to ride on Daddy’s shoulders and who Stryker loved more than his own life.

  The world that was, the world that should have been, but for Xavier and those like him. The world he would pay any price to restore.

  If Jason knew any of this, he didn’t seem to care. What fascinated him was his new toy, and his mismatched eyes began to dilate and glow as he began to play.

  Xavier finished his preparations and smiled at his companion.

  “Just don’t move,” he warned the girl, speaking gently so as not to frighten her.

  He donned the helmet, settling it comfortably on his head and himself comfortably in his chair.

  The walls around him fell away, and just for a moment, as his perspective and perceptions expanded outward to encompass the chamber, he jumped. Because on the platform with him wasn’t a girl at all but the twisted horror that was Jason Stryker.

  No, he was wrong. It was only the girl. Strange how he never noticed her eyes before. One green, the other blue. Almost hypnotic in their brilliance.

  Around him appeared a holographic representation of the globe, just as he’d manifested for Logan only days before. He and the girl floated in its center, at the heart and core of the world.

  He exhaled, and as his breath rushed from his body it was as if he’d separated into a million million versions of himself, racing through fire and stone and steel and concrete, through earth and water and air, to every point on the planet where a mutant could be found. And not just the active ones, the comparative few who had manifested their unique abilities or were on the cusp of doing so, but the latents as well. Every person who possessed the mutator pairings in their genome, even if it was only potential and unlikely to be activated for one or two generations yet to come, was revealed to him. He’d never dreamed there could be so many.

  He found one sitting in a poker game in New Orleans, another wandering the Scots highlands picking heather to serve as a decoration at Moira MacTaggart’s dinner table; he found a spectacularly beautiful woman serving as a lifeguard on Bondi Beach and an ancient aborigine sitting cross-legged at the summit of Uluru, the sacred rock of his people. He found a young boy who looked like a bird and a quintet of ash-blond psychics who were perfect copies of one another yet wholly unrelated. He found telepaths and telekines, he found energy casters and others who absorbed energy as sustenance. He found mutants with strength, and mutants with skill, some who could fly or run like the wind or who made their home in the ocean. He found one who could fold herself flat as paper and another who could transform into any substance in the periodic table simply by tearing off her skin. He found some born to be predators, others who were prey, and a vast majority who hadn’t yet come to that crossroads.

  He saw a world ready to tear itself apart, poised on the cusp of what was and what might yet be—and knew in that blinding flash of insight that in his hands lay the responsibility to manage that change, to help determine whether the future was one of bright and infinite possibilities or one where the planet was covered pole to pole with graves.

  Each mutant was a scarlet candle against the darkness of forever—yet beside them glowed the golden candle of those who weren’t mutants, equally bright, equally to be cherished. They were inextricably bound, these children of Mother Earth, and Xavier found here the proof of what he’d always known in his heart, what he’d always been unable to present to Eric Lehnsherr, that you could not safeguard the one without protecting the other.

  At his direction, Cerebro came fully on-line and up to speed, making its presence known with a deep and resonant hum that gradually increased in intensity.

  Hearing that hum, Stryker allowed himself a smile. He laid his hand on Lyman’s shoulder.

  “Guard this post, Mr. Lyman. That’s the order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From this point on, kill anyone who approaches. Even if it’s me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “God bless you, men. God give us this day!”

  Stryker returned Lyman’s salute as though they were on a parade ground at West Point, trooping the colors before the massed corps of cadets, did an about-face, and strode away, Yuriko marching alongside in cadence.

  Lyman watched them until they were both swallowed in darkness, then turned back to his men, to review their positions and their ammo loads. This would be a bear fight, he knew, but this was also what he and his men had trained for. They’d be ready, come what may, and they would prevail.

  The explosion caught Mystique by surprise: the demo team was quicker than she’d anticipated. The door buckled inward as if it had been punched by some monstrous fist, and her ears rang with the shock wave of the blast. She dove for the MP5 she’d set on the console. She had few illusions about her chances for survival, but she also had three full magazines and a couple of grenades. At the very least, she’d give Stryker’s bully boys a fight. She couldn’t help wishing to be a little more like Rogue, though, so that when she manifested another’s form and features, she also assumed their skills as well. Namely Wolverine’s. Now would be a nice time to possess the runt’s healing factor.

  The first detonation didn’t do the trick, it just warped the door in its frame and slightly popped one of the hinges. Mystique wondered what would come next and assumed it wouldn’t be pretty. Any explosive strong enough to breach this door would create a blast effect capable of squishing every living thing inside the room to jelly. Cheerful.

  Unexpectedly, the door started groaning as it was subjected to stresses well beyond its design tolerances. Like a cork from a bottle of heavily shaken champagne, it popped from its frame, outward into the corridor, to land against the opposite wall with a crash so resounding it shook this whole section of the complex.

  She didn’t need to be told who was responsible, and when Magneto stepped over the threshold, she greeted him with a round of heartfelt and appreciative applause.

  The demo team and the guards, Mystique saw when she peered outside, were safely in Jean Grey’s custody, squirming upside down in midair where her telekinesis was holding them. Their weapons, the young woman had separated into component parts and scattered. As Mystique watched, Jean tossed her prisoners against the wall. She didn’t do it so very hard, they couldn’t have been much hurt, but from the way they collapsed to the floor Mystique assumed she’d used her mental powers to render them unconscious.

  She reente
red the room to find Magneto staring at the console.

  “Eric,” she said to greet him as she joined him by his side.

  The look he gave her in return told her how glad he was to see her alive and unharmed.

  “Have you found it?”

  She called up the power grid on the main display.

  “The hydroelectric net is still functional and has been reestablished by Stryker, with a large portion of it being diverted”—she pointed to one of the sectors of the complex, an area where she had no video capability—“to this chamber. It’s new construction.”

  “My fault, I’m afraid,” Magneto conceded as the X-Men joined them. “Can you shut it down from here?” he asked Mystique.

  “No.”

  Logan held back, his attention caught by familiar figures on one of the active security screens: Stryker and Yuriko, both in a hurry. He opened his mouth to report the sighting, then reconsidered and tapped a location query into the system. He looked toward Jean, then back to the monitor, and his dilemma was obvious: Should he go for Stryker or stay with the X-Men? He owed Jean the world, but Xavier?

  “Come,” Magneto said to Mystique. “We have little time.”

  Jean blocked him. “Not without us.”

  Mystique tapped the keyboard, and the kidnapped students appeared once more on their respective monitors.

  “My God,” Storm exclaimed, “the children! Kurt?” She didn’t need to ask any more than that; he knew what she wanted, and he answered with a nod.

  “Will you be all right?” Storm asked Jean, who was staring straight at Mystique. Jean knew exactly what was happening here, that Magneto had a private agenda, that Mystique had acted to divide the X-Men’s forces and limit their ability to forestall his plan, whatever it was.

  “Yeah,” she told her best friend. “I’ll be fine.” Because she had Wolverine as backup. “Logan?”

  No answer.

  “Where’s Logan?” Storm demanded when a look around the room and the hallway outside revealed no sign of him.

  Jean had to confess to herself she wasn’t surprised, but there was disappointment in her voice as she replied, “He’s gone. We’ll have to manage without him.”

  For Xavier, thanks to Cerebro, the psychic links he’d established with the world’s mutants were solid, had been from the first moment of contact. He’d never run Cerebro at such a level, nor stretched his power to such a degree, as much because of the risk to those he contacted as to himself. He knew already that the cost to himself when this session was over would be considerable, he already could feel the initial stages of what would be a killer of a migraine.

  He’d done what had been asked of him, what he knew was necessary, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell the little girl.

  “That’s odd,” he temporized. “I can’t seem to focus on anyone.” That was true. With all the contacts he’d made, none had been with any of his missing X-Men or with his students. He knew they were out there, he just couldn’t see them—which bothered him, considering how clearly he could interface with all the others.

  “Maybe you have to concentrate harder,” the girl suggested.

  Xavier increased the gain, and the hum from Cerebro grew deeper and more intense.

  “Wait,” Jean told her companions, holding out her hand to bring them to a stop. She, Magneto, and Mystique were deep inside the complex, a section that had been hollowed out of the rock right beneath the dam, which accounted for the dank air and never-ending seepage down the seams in the walls. She shut her eyes and concentrated a moment.

  “I feel something,” she said. And then brightened with a smile. “I think it’s—Scott!”

  Her call was answered with fire, a beam of glittering scarlet that erupted out of the darkness ahead to shatter a chunk of wall between Jean and the others with force enough to scatter shards of stone like shrapnel. As she dived clear of the beam’s path, Jean threw a telekinetic cloak over her companions, to deflect the brunt of the debris clear of them, trusting the body armor components of her own uniform to protect her.

  “My dear,” she heard Magneto call from behind, “this is the kind of lovers’ quarrel we cannot afford right now.”

  “Go!” she snapped over her shoulder. “I’ll take care of him.”

  She had sight of him now. His face showed no expression, no reaction whatsoever to the sound of her voice calling his name. She tried reaching him with her thoughts but encountered a void whose only awareness was of an icy oblivion that radiated outward from a point at the base of his skull. She didn’t need to see the circular scar on his neck to know that what had been done to Nightcrawler and to Magneto had now been done to Scott. Until the drug wore off, or she somehow broke its hold on him, he would keep fighting, without remorse or mercy.

  Magneto and Mystique started to back away, and their movement caused Cyclops to fire again. This time Jean was ready, deflecting the optic blast to one side so that it gouged a shallow trench along the far wall. At the same time, she gestured with her own hand, radiating her telekinesis outward to slap him invisibly in the chest, hard enough to throw him off his feet.

  She started running toward him, pushing him up and back through the air, increasing his speed as she did her own, gritting her teeth with the effort as he struggled—harder and with a lot more purpose than the soldiers earlier—to break her hold on him. Whatever control Stryker established allowed him to access all his victims’ skills and training. Scott and she had often practiced how best to use her powers in combat, in part by figuring out how to compensate for them. Now he was turning that knowledge against her.

  The corridor ended in a wall. She slammed him into it as hard as she could. Trouble was, he was wearing his uniform, and it protected him from the impact same as it had her from the shrapnel.

  He fired again, forcing her to duck, and he hit a Humvee parked in an alcove, flipping the four-ton vehicle over onto the one parked next to it. As she scrambled up, she lost her hold on him, and Scott flipped himself over the balcony railing.

  She rushed after him and found herself overlooking darkness, a room whose dimensions were totally hidden in shadow. Muttering a string of passionate curses that would have impressed Logan, she started to contact the others, to warn Magneto that she’d lost Cyclops. Only then did she realize that in the chaos of the moment, she’d lost her com set.

  She stepped back from the railing and hunkered down to reduce her target profile while she considered her next move. She still had a sense of Scott’s thoughts, enough to know he was unhurt and mobile, but she couldn’t pinpoint his position. Worse, she still couldn’t reach him, and the sound of gears and motors grinding from below would make the hunt downstairs even more difficult.

  “Oh, Scott,” she sighed. He was the strategist, the natural combat leader. It was more than training; it was something he excelled at, that he was born to do. She was the doctor, her role had never been more than backup. Every time they’d ever sparred, loser buys the beer, she was the one who ended up buying.

  Slowly she got to her feet. It wasn’t as if she had any real choice.

  The kids were scared. The kids were bored. The kids were angry—at being left behind, at hearing no word, at not knowing when (not if, but when) some mook of Stryker’s was going to find them. The grown-ups had promised to keep them in the loop, but all they heard from the radio was static.

  John decided he’d had enough.

  “That’s it,” he announced, and pressed the switch that extended the main ramp.

  “Where d’you think you’re going, John?” Bobby challenged.

  “Where d’you think, moron? I’m tired of this kid’s table shit.”

  Bobby started to his feet: “You’ll freeze,” he said, “before you make it to the spillway.”

  “I don’t think so,” John retorted.

  “John, they told us to stay here,” Rogue protested.

  For a moment the two boys glared, ready to take out their tensions and frustrations on
each other. Rogue wondered if Bobby really would use his ice power to stop John, and how hard John would use his flames to fight back.

  “John!” she called, pleading, deliberately stepping between them.

  That broke the moment. The look John gave Bobby was ugly and filled with warning, but what he offered Rogue was a grin, just like the Johnny of old, complete with a wink.

  Then he was gone, at a trot across the hard-packed snow, defying the arctic temperatures. Rogue stepped past Bobby to the controls, but she made no move to raise the ramp. She knew how John felt, and a large part of her wanted to follow.

  Jean descended the staircase at a run, hitting the floor in a roll that took her to cover amid the ranks of hulking, spinning generators, each the size of a modest one-story house.

  She knew he’d be waiting and had an idea where he’d be. Most of all, she was fairly certain what he’d do.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  There were two ways down to his level: either pitch herself over the balcony, as he’d done, or use the stairs. He’d want a position that gave him a ready line of sight of both options. Taking her on the fly was risky. Better to wait until she landed and was trying to get her bearings.

  As she came up into a crouch, he fired, from off to her right. For anyone else, the time you saw his beam—moving at the speed of light—was the time it hit you. In Jean’s case, her parry occurred at the speed of thought. Concept and execution happened instantaneously, so that Cyclops’ optic blast crashed against the invisible barrier of her telekinesis.

  The problem was, since his beam was trying its best to make like an irresistible force, she needed a way to brace the wall that protected her, to make herself the next best thing to an immovable object.

  Didn’t work. The telekinesis held, her feet didn’t, and she felt herself slide backward along the floor.

  Cyclops advanced on her, implacable as an automaton, adjusting his visor to hone his beam to maximum intensity.

  The point of intersection where his energies met hers began to glow, like steel in a furnace, generating a radiance so bright Jean had to cover her eyes.