X-Men 2

by Chris Claremont

  “Good-bye, Charles,” he said.

  Mutant 143, eager to begin, cocked his head to one side and glared once more into Xavier’s skull.

  Around them both the great globe flared once more brightly to life—only now, where its surface had been decorated by a random scattering of scarlet icons, representing the mutant population, now there was a multitude of pristine white ones, which stood for everyone else. Magneto had given them both access to every nonmutant sentient mind on the planet.

  The better to destroy them all.

  True to his nature, recovery for Logan was quick and complete. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but that was due to blood loss, as he could plainly see from the Jackson Pollock mess he’d made all around him on the concrete. He popped his claws and retracted them to make sure they were in good working order, and flexed his limbs and back to smooth out any kinks.

  He had one clue to Stryker’s trail: the man’s scent, heavy in the air. That was all he needed. Without any specific memory to back it up, he instinctively understood that a man like Stryker would cover every contingency, including failure. He wouldn’t want to be stuck here amid a whole passel of superpowered mutants who hated his guts. He’d have a convenient backdoor and waiting transportation. All he needed was time to make his getaway. All Logan had to do to stop him was catch up.

  Silent and purposeful as a hunting cat, only far more ferocious, Logan picked up the pace.

  * * *

  “Was ist?” Nightcrawler wondered as they rounded another corner in what was turning into an endless series of identical corridors—to find themselves confronting a slaughterhouse of a battlefield. Quickly the two adults blocked the children’s path and shunted them back the way they had come.

  After stern injunctions to the kids—especially Artie—to stay clear and, above all, not peek, Storm took another look, taking stock of the circular vault door that had obviously been ripped from its hinges, then just as obviously put back in place, much like a cork into a wine bottle.

  “What is this place, Storm?” Nightcrawler asked again.

  “Cerebro,” she replied, and she didn’t bother to hide her fear. Whoever had been here—and she needed no hints to come up with that identity—clearly didn’t want anyone else going inside. And if the ultra-low-frequency hum she could feel as much as hear emanating from within was any indication, the system was still very much operational.

  Of Xavier there was no sign, and she knew then that Magneto had remained true to his nature where the X-Men were concerned; he had found a way to betray their trust. No doubt for the most “noble” of reasons.

  She sensed movement in the air that warned her of others approaching well before they actually came into view, so that when Scott helped Jean around the corner, Storm was there to greet them and shoulder part of the burden herself.

  “Jean, what’s going on?” she demanded.

  Jean narrowed her eyes, holding her head for Storm as she had for Scott, so that her eyes were mainly masked in shadow.

  “The professor is still inside,” she told them, using both their shoulders for support as she hopped toward the doorway on her good leg and tried not to relate to the gore that surrounded them. “With . . . another mutant. Another psi, very powerful, very twisted. Very dangerous. I’ve got to steer clear of him, too much chance of being snared like Charles. There’s some kind of illusion, Charles is trapped, he thinks he’s home, at the school!” She focused some more, and when she spoke, the words came in a rush. “Magneto’s reversed Cerebro, it isn’t targeting mutants anymore.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” Cyclops muttered.

  “So who’s it targeting now?” Storm demanded at the same time.

  Who do you think, Jean thought, and said aloud, “Everyone else.”

  Of course Artie had ignored everything Storm told him, and as a consequence had just heard what the others said. He had his own instant solution.

  “You’ve got your optic blasts, Cyclops,” he piped up. “So blast the door open!”

  “I can’t,” was the reply.

  To the other adults, as much as Artie, Jean explained, “Once the professor’s mind is connected to Cerebro, opening the door could kill him.” There was a moment’s pause as all of them considered that as suddenly a very real possibility.

  “We’ll have to take that chance,” Scott told them, even though he loved Xavier as a son does his father.

  Abruptly, once more, Jean took charge: “Kurt, you have to take me in there. Now.”

  Cyclops, true to form, protested: “Jean!”

  Nightcrawler shook his head. “I told you, it’s too dangerous. I cannot teleport blind. If I can’t see where I’m going, I—”

  “Who is this guy?” Scott demanded.

  In part because he felt flustered and pressed and wanted to defuse the growing tension of the moment, Kurt launched into his spiel: “I’m Kurt Wagner, but in the Munich Circus—”

  “He’s a teleporter,” Storm said simply, holding up her hand to forestall Nightcrawler’s introduction.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Jean cried urgently.

  “Wait,” Storm said in a tone that wouldn’t permit argument, backed by a will that was a match and more for anyone present.

  Something in what Kurt had said, in the way Jean carried herself, caught Storm’s attention. She reached forward to take her friend’s chin in hand and turn her head up and around to meet her own eyes.

  What she saw there broke her heart. “Oh, Goddess,” she breathed, and didn’t know who needed comfort more right then, Jean or herself.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Nightcrawler.

  “Jean’s blind,” Scott said.

  “I’m a telepath, damn it! I don’t need eyes to see—” she began.

  “Great,” Scott snapped back at her. “So long as there are conscious minds around, you can tap into their visual receptors as surrogate eyes. But you’ve got a bum leg as well, remember?”

  “I’ll go,” Storm said simply, and when the others looked at her, she repeated it, an unassailable statement of purpose. “I’ll go.” And then, with a look straight at Nightcrawler, “We’ll go.”

  “Storm,” he pleaded, “I can’t!”

  “Kurt, I have faith in you.”

  “Kurt,” Jean said, “if Stryker’s replicated the Cerebro chamber, then where you’re going is essentially a huge, empty room. I’m projecting a mental image of the space into your head. Use that for your benchmarks. Stay clear of the walls, stay clear of the platform, you’ve got room to spare. Do you see it?”

  Nightcrawler nodded and gathered Storm into his embrace, arms around her shoulders, tail wrapped snugly around her waist.

  “One last thing,” Jean said, “don’t believe what you see in there. Remember, Charles’ adversary traffics in illusions.”

  “This just keeps getting better and better,” Nightcrawler grumbled in Storm’s ear.

  “If you’re not clear in five minutes,” Cyclops said warningly, “I’m coming in after you.”

  Storm nodded, and so—reluctantly—did Jean.

  “Are you ready, Kurt?” Storm asked him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but not because he was avoiding her. For the moment, his mind—and prayers—were elsewhere.

  “Our Father,” she heard him whisper, “Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth—”

  And just like that, they were gone.

  “—as it is in Heaven!”

  Just like that, they were somewhere else.

  Storm had never jaunted, and after this ride never wanted to again. She didn’t know how Nightcrawler could stand it. She felt like she’d been turned inside out and left a trail of body parts all the way back to where they started. It was like she’d thrown up, horribly, but only inside herself, and was left feeling all twisted and out of sync.

  They’d materialized right where Jean had suggested, in the air about half a body length above the g
allery. Storm was in no condition right then to notice, or do anything, so Nightcrawler continued to hold her as they dropped to a landing.

  They expected to find two figures: Xavier himself and the mutant who was controlling him. But—surprise—no Xavier, no command console, no command helmet.

  The only other presence in the vast and empty room was a young girl, standing right at the edge of the platform. She was all peaches and cream, her hair a glorious gold blond, pretty as a picture, sweet as can be, a dream made flesh. Her eyes, though, were an eerily mismatched blue and green that seemed to glow with some intense inner light, and her face was that of someone whose will was absolute.

  Having no idea what to expect, but taking his cue from Storm that something was wrong, Nightcrawler looked around, eyes narrowing at the way the curvature and coloring of the sphere made the room seem like a limitless space.

  “Hello,” said the little girl brightly, as though she was welcoming guests to her house.

  “Storm,” Nightcrawler wondered aloud, “have we come to the right place? Is this Cerebro?”

  She nodded, her attention focused, not on the girl, but on the space a little beyond her where normally Xavier would be sitting.

  “Is it broken?”

  “No.”

  “What are you looking for?” asked the girl.

  “Professor!” Storm called. “Charles!”

  The girl smiled sweetly, but there was a hollowness to her eyes, an edge to her stance, and the whole shape of her face around that smile, that made that sweetness a lie.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “he’s busy.”

  For Charles Xavier, every time he synced Cerebro was as marvelous and exciting as the first. It was the ultimate rollar-coaster ride against a backdrop as varied and spectacular as the clearest of night skies, if only the naked eye came with the range and sensitivity of the Hubble telescope.

  His eyes and mouth opened in amazement and delight as he beheld the globe of the world from the inside; it circled serenely around them, its surface covered with a multitude of white lights, creating a display more crowded and, in its way, more beautiful than the stars. There were more than he could count, so he didn’t even try.

  He heard a great pulse from the heart of the machine, and the lights on the globe grew brighter, in tandem with the deepening pitch and increasing frequency of the pulses.

  “Professor,” he heard from the greatest distance imaginable, “Charles!”

  He heard her as a whisper among the multitude, just as he had years ago during a trial run of the Cerebro prototype when his questing consciousness discovered a long, lean whip of a girl sitting on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, taking a break from herding cattle by tossing snowballs and seeing how far her winds could take them. (She’d already reached the Indian Ocean, now she was throwing the other way and trying for the Atlantic.)

  “Did you hear that?” he asked excitedly.

  “No,” said the girl, shaking her head for emphasis.

  It made Xavier’s heart sing to know Storm was alive, but that awareness only increased his frustration when he couldn’t lock in on her position. There was too much interference from these other voices. He had to find a way to screen them out.

  Storm stepped toward the little girl.

  “Professor, do you hear me?” she called, more loudly than before. “Listen to me, Charles! Whatever you’re seeing, whatever you’re experiencing, it’s an illusion! You’re in an illusion!” She heard no reply, and when she spoke again, there was a faint roll of thunder to her voice. “You have to stop this—you have to shut down Cerebro—now!”

  The girl actually laughed.

  “Who are you talking to?” she asked, in all innocence and rich amusement.

  Xavier shook his head, as the word “now” echoed and reechoed through the spherical vault of the Cerebro chamber. For a moment he was sure Storm was right in front of him, close enough to touch—but all he could see was empty air. Save for the little girl, he was alone. His X-Men were lost, they were in deadly peril, he had to find them, save them.

  And yet . . .

  Always, his thoughts circled like vultures back to this same persistent, nagging question.

  And yet . . .

  Suppose he was the one who was lost?

  “I hear them,” he repeated, before voicing his own frustration. “But—I can’t find them.”

  “Then concentrate harder,” the little girl replied in a firm and commanding voice, in that special way that girls have that makes them sound as if they’re merely stating an irrevocable natural law.

  How could he be lost? He was in the heart of his mansion, of his school. He knew what had to be done.

  Storm thought for a moment that she’d gotten through to him, but then the breath gusted out of her in a huff as she met the girl’s gaze.

  She wondered for a moment why the girl wasn’t doing something more serious to stop them and answered her own question just as quickly. She probably needed most of her energies to maintain her hold on Xavier. As far as the girl was concerned, they posed no significant threat. All she needed to do to win was delay them long enough for Xavier to finish his work. After that, it wouldn’t matter.

  Nightcrawler started forward, intending to confront the girl physically—perhaps considering teleporting her out of the chamber—but Storm stopped him.

  “Kurt, don’t move,” she told him. There were better ways to tempt the Gorgon.

  “She’s just a little girl,” he said.

  “No,” she said flatly, “she’s not.” Because any entity capable of suborning Charles Xavier had to be considered as supremely dangerous as Magneto.

  “Oh.”

  “Good advice,” said the girl.

  She breathed a small prayer of thanks that her own elemental powers—mainly her ability to wield lightning—created a level of background “static” in her own head that made it virtually impossible for a telepath to pick her thoughts. The first times that Xavier tried he came away with a devil of a headache.

  With any luck, her adversary would have no idea of what was happening until it was too late. But this would be an all-or-nothing play. Once she acted, and revealed herself as a legitimate threat, the girl would have to strike back just as ruthlessly.

  The girl smiled. “I’ve got my eyes on you!”

  Stryker had his hand on the door handle when Logan’s fist caught him upside his face. It was worse than being hit by an iron bat. Stryker dropped, stunned, his thoughts reeling before a fresh avalanche of incredible shock and pain, blood thick in his mouth from a broken lip, and he thanked whatever fates there were that Logan’s punch hadn’t shattered teeth and jaw as well.

  He didn’t wonder why the mutant hadn’t used his claws. That reason was made plain when Logan rolled him over on his back and dropped beside him in a duck squat, almost daring Stryker to make a move to defend himself.

  “Now,” Logan said, with an edge of threat to his voice, “you were about to tell me something about my past?”

  Looking up at him, William Stryker began to laugh.

  “Why did you come back?” he asked, spitting blood.

  “You cut me open! You took my life!”

  “Please,” Stryker said, and for the first time he looked actually disappointed. “You make it sound as though I stole something from you.” He smiled suddenly, acknowledging a sudden surprise memory, or perhaps inspiration. “As I recall, it was you who volunteered for the procedure.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Just an experiment,” Stryker told him, playing every card in his hand, “that failed. If you really knew about your past, what kind of person you were, the work we did together—” He took a breath, wondering if he’d pushed Logan too far, if this would be his last. “People don’t change, Wolverine. You were an animal then, and you’re an animal now. I just gave you claws.”

  Throughout the control room, there wasn’t a green light to be seen. The telltales on every console were fl
ashing red, with alarm chirps and honks and sirens to add to the din. A set of displays showed the inside of the vast generator room, and a secondary phalanx of monitors presented data to show how dire the situation was.

  The initial cracks had grown exponentially, in perfect concert with the original computer stress model. The jammed spillway had caused Alkali Lake to fill to the danger level, placing the dam under tremendous stress to begin with. Given the circumstances, it was already only a matter of time before it failed. The blast in the generator room had served to accelerate the process. Now, thanks to the relentless and incredible pressure of all that water, the worst-case scenario was about to reach fulfillment.

  The complex shuddered—not very much, hardly enough to notice, just enough to stir some dust into the air—as blocks of stone the size of sofas crumbled from the ceiling. Then, as water jetted across the room with the force of a high-pressure fire hose, masonry fell in chunks the size of cars. Pipes, wrenched from their mountings, ruptured. Gas lines failed, filling the air with a heady mix of steam and other elements. Severed electrical conduits showered the room with sparks. Hydrogen ignited, setting off thunderclap blasts that only added to the chaos and destruction.

  A torrent of water and stone and reinforced rebar cascaded onto one of the generators, jamming the turbine blades, which not only shattered but tore the whole assembly loose from its axis. Those blades flew every which way like scythes, and in their wake came a chain reaction of explosions that nobody in the complex failed to notice.

  There it was again.

  “Professor!”

  Storm.

  He still couldn’t find her. Hardly surprising, considering the din. Voices in his head, the hum of Cerebro deafening in his ears, this was proving far more challenging and arduous than he’d ever imagined.

  “Professor!”

  Strange that the voices he was hearing seemed to be in pain. That couldn’t be right. Cerebro was never intended to cause anyone harm. That was where he and Eric Lehnsherr had had their final falling out: What Charles Xavier saw as a tool, a means of bringing the human family together, Magneto wanted to use as a weapon, to cleanse the planetary genome once and for all. Having lived through one Shoah, he had vowed never to allow another, by whatever means were necessary. He understood the irony full well, this child of the Holocaust using the same methods as his own oppressors, the murderers of his family.