Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men

by Christopher Golden

  He was both pleased and saddened to know that it was not true. He made mistakes, as he had with Amelia. He felt pain when he remembered those mistakes. And he was filled with regret and self-recrimination as he wondered if that breach of the love and trust between them had been the thing to drive her, in time, to become one of Magneto’s followers. If that were true, he hoped that he never discovered it. Xavier suspected it might be too much for him to bear.

  As the world’s most powerful psi, a telepath to whom every mind was laid bare, the absolute truth regarding any subject was available to Xavier, awaiting only his whim to reveal itself. More than any other being on the Earth, he knew the power of truth. An extraordinary weapon, it could be used to free people of burdens, to frighten them into submission, or to cause extraordinary and intimate pain.

  Simply put, there were times when it was better not to know.

  “Look at it this way, Charles,” Cooper persisted. “If we can’t get the codes from Gyrich, then the ball is in his court. He’s going to go into Manhattan like a bulldozer and all hell is going to break loose. We can stop it before it gets that far.”

  Xavier knew she was right, but he would not compromise himself under any circumstances.

  “What of X-Factor?” he asked.

  “I tried,” Cooper snapped. “They’re unavailable.”

  A tense silence emerged between them. They shared a long history as allies, but they had never really been friends. Xavier began to see why the relationship had remained so strictly professional. For Val Cooper, the ends most definitely justified the means. The very thought was anathema to Charles Xavier.

  “I will consider your recommendations, Ms. Cooper,” he said, then turned and wheeled his chair away from her, heart heavy with thoughts of consequence.

  * * *

  AS he descended into the PATH station for the second time that day, Henry Peter Gyrich entertained several moments of unusual self-reflection. Normally, he was so caught up with his job that he never had time to consider his work, his future, his goals, no time for hollow shouts of victory or the tears of self-recrimination. But this was a rare, quiet moment before the start of what might be his greatest victory.

  Gyrich was more self aware than most people gave him credit for. He knew why he was almost universally disliked, knew why Val Cooper hated him so thoroughly. He represented the ugly truth that mutants, regardless of their initial intentions, spelled doom for the rest of humanity. They claimed to be the next step in human evolution, but Gyrich knew better. Mutants were a genetic aberration, as unfortunate and undesirable as Down’s Syndrome, but far more dangerous. If they were allowed to proliferate, to assemble, to present themselves as some minority group deserving of special consideration … well, by the time people woke up to reality, it would be too late.

  Gyrich genuinely felt bad for most mutants. It was not their fault they were born with that genetic x-factor, not their fault they had become part of the problem. It was also not their fault that, just as there were human madmen, lunatics like Magneto had come to represent the image of the mutant in popular consciousness. The sanctity of the American lifestyle had to be protected from the rise of mutants, but that didn’t mean that individual mutants were bad.

  Cursed, perhaps, but not bad.

  Not until they crossed the line. As far as Gyrich was concerned, that was inevitable. Along with their mutant gifts, he believed they received some kind of genetic trait which gave them a propensity toward violence and hostility toward authority. They believed their special powers gave them the right to do whatever they liked.

  That was the greatest evil of the mutant race. They were not human, and acted as though human laws did not bind them. That was the reason the Sentinels and Operation: Wideawake were so important. That was the reason Gyrich had pushed aside much of his other work for the CIA, NSA, and other agencies in order to put emphasis on the mutant problem.

  In no way did he want to see the nation torn apart by the issue. But such mutant uprisings had to be dealt with immediately and with extreme prejudice, before others began to get ideas. Already the government had brought mutants into the fold with X-Factor, which Gyrich thought was a major error. Due to their feelings of superiority, by their very nature mutants were not to be trusted.

  And for the President to countenance any contact by his people with the outlaws called X-Men, why that was simply outrageous!

  Mutants were a human problem, for humans to solve. Bringing in more mutants was not a solution. Some kind of electronic tracking and power-restraining implant, that would allow the government to keep track of mutants while rendering them no more dangerous to humanity than humanity itself, that was what was necessary. In any case, the world needed to see that humanity could handle the problem on its own. If they relied on mutants to rescue Manhattan from Magneto, they would be starting down a dark path to their own extinction.

  More dedicated than ever to his chosen course of action, Gyrich reached the guarded door to the parallel access tunnel that would allow Surgical Ops Unit One to travel into Manhattan unnoticed by the Sentinels. Or at least, that was what he hoped would happen. If they were discovered and eliminated by the Sentinels, Gyrich would have to work on a backup plan. And that backup might be full-scale assault, if he could arrange it.

  He hoped SOU1, and Operation: Carthage, would be successful.

  As Gyrich entered the tunnel, Major Skolnick snapped to attention.

  “Sir, Surgical Ops Unit One prepared for deployment, sir. Locked and loaded, sir. Operation: Carthage is waiting for your word,” Skolnick barked, each word enunciated with military precision.

  “Excellent, Major,” Gyrich said, and nodded with pleasure. “Gather your men.”

  Skolnick disappeared into the tunnel, shouting commands with the confidence of one who is always obeyed. The tunnel was poorly lit, and there was a lot of rustling in the shadows, along with the clanging of weapons and equipment being hefted. In less than one minute, SOU1 had scrambled and presented themselves for attention in front of Gyrich as if he were the Commander-in-Chief himself.

  He liked that. It fit right in with his image of the future, of what he might obtain and attain once this mission had ended successfully. He reminded himself once again of Graydon Creed’s suitability as a Presidential candidate. The phrase “power behind the President” had always intrigued him. There was a definite allure to it.

  “SOU1, all present and accounted for, sir,” Major Skolnick barked, and the men and women of the team all snapped to attention right along with their commanding officer.

  Gyrich knew that he was expected to tell them to be at ease at that point. He didn’t. For one thing, he didn’t want the team getting comfortable with him, seeing him as just one of them, another soldier. He was hardly that. And for another, he didn’t want them at ease. He wanted them angry, furious, mean. That was how the day would be won. It had always worked for Gyrich.

  “As you all know,” he began, lingering with the words, allowing the rigidity of their attention to weigh on them, “you are about to embark upon the most important mission of your lives. I don’t want anyone underestimating what has to be done here today.”

  He scanned each face for any sign of debate, discomfort, annoyance, and found none.

  “Full-scale attack is not an option at this time, at least not one the President is yet willing to entertain. And if you fail, he may have to. That means death and destruction, boys and girls. Let’s not make any mistake about that. You can avoid that. That, in fact, is your job here today. That is the purpose of Operation: Carthage. To restore the public faith, both in the American government, and in humanity itself. The people of this country have got to know that when it comes to the mutant menace, we can take care of ourselves! We clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir!” they responded in unison, with enthusiasm that Gyrich felt was not merely trained into them, but genuine.

  “And what is the primary objective of Operation: Carthage?” Gyri
ch asked.

  “Terminate Magneto, sir!” they answered.

  “Excellent,” he said proudly. “You may begin.” “SOU1 deployed, sir!” Major Skolnick barked. “Operation: Carthage is under way.”

  The team hustled up their gear and disappeared back into the tunnel. In seconds, they were gone. Before they were out of range, Gyrich heard one of the grunts bragging to the others.

  “I’m gonna tear out that mutie freak’s terrorist heart and feed it to ’im for breakfast!” the man announced. “Nobody holds a city hostage in America. We just don’t go for that crap here!”

  As he made his way back up to the surface, where dawn was already beginning to lighten the sky, Henry Peter Gyrich began to smile.

  It was going to be a beautiful day.

  ELEVEN

  FOR Storm, the coming of the dawn had a glory unequalled anywhere else in nature. As a child, she had watched the sun rise over the desert sands of Egypt. As a young woman, she had witnessed dawn breaking over the African plains. It was the triumph of light over shadow, the renewal of the spirit, the radiant hope of the future. The sun rose with power enough to send the shadows scurrying underground until it had passed over and night approached once again.

  In Manhattan, the arrival of dawn was an altogether different thing, the victory of the light hesitant and uncertain. It was inevitable that the sun would rise, that the shadows would be beaten back. But in the darkened canyons created by row upon row of towering structures, there was a moment each morning when the outcome seemed questionable.

  That moment had come. As Storm glided upon the winds at her command, sunlight crept over the tops of buildings, shone down on entire blocks where few walked alone. Guerrilla warfare ensued between light and dark, and finally, the dawn’s light flowed like liquid gold through the streets of the city.

  Another day was won, another in an endless series of tiny, meaningless battles. But night was not far off, and that would bring another battle, another chance to lose.

  Storm marveled, as she always did, about the wonders of nature. She prized the dawn as it charged the city with gold light and blue sky, with bird song even in this polluted environment. And yet, the eternal balance was always in place. Without the night, there would be no day to cherish, without the day, no shadows to fear. It meant everything, and nothing. The two gave each other meaning, but the cycle was so equally balanced that each became almost meaningless.

  Were they a part of a similar cycle? she wondered. With the Professor as the day and Magneto as the night, were they fighting an uncertain battle that was merely a tiny part of a ceaseless struggle? Did it matter, in the end, who won the day, when the struggle would go on?

  Inhaling deeply, Storm ran her slender fingers through her long silvery white mane of hair, felt the warmth against her face despite the wind. Dawn had always been a moment of freedom for her, as well. Freedom from the special terror the night held for her personally. Though she might be in open air, no walls in sight, she could not avoid a small tinge of her radical claustrophia when it was dark. She might not be enclosed in any small space, but the darkness felt confining, restrictive, and that was enough.

  And if the day surrendered, determined that the fight was useless and withdrew from battle? Why then, the night would win. There would be no day. She would be forever cloaked by darkness, and Storm did not think she could retain her sanity in such a forever night.

  In a sense, the struggle was nearly as important as victory.

  “Any sign o’ Drake, Ororo?” a gruff voice asked over the comm-badge she wore on her clavicle.

  “None,” she responded, touching the badge to transmit her voice. “I think we’d better discuss this.”

  At her mental instruction, the wind whipped around her, turning Storm and propelling her back the way she had come. Two blocks ahead, she saw her teammates awaiting her in the shadow of a newsstand. Wolverine and the Beast remained close to the small structure, attempting to be inconspicuous. Though he had more formal training than any of the X-Men, except perhaps Wolverine, Bishop did not make any effort to conceal himself. He stood rigid with tension, his backup weapon ready in his hands to eliminate any sudden threat.

  Storm had to wonder whether Bishop was going to be able to handle the mission. Though he had been able to maintain his control when it counted, he had already shown himself prone to frenzied overreaction. It was understandable, given the part the Sentinels played in his upbringing. But it could also be dangerous. Storm had to make sure that didn’t happen. She could not allow Bishop’s fears of the future to cost one, or all of them, their lives.

  Storm had created an updraft beneath her, and now she slowly lessened its intensity until her feet touched the ground. Wolverine moved silently to where she stood, their time together as teammates and as partners on the road having long since eliminated the need for useless chatter and ponderance. Bishop was silent as well, and so flush with nervous energy that Storm could nearly see it emanating from his skin. He was more on edge than she had ever seen him, and with Bishop, that was saying something.

  The Beast, on the other hand, was rarely without an opinion.

  “Not a solitary indication regarding Robert’s fate or present position,” the Beast said, his tone betraying obvious concern for Iceman’s welfare. “I ought never to have deserted him. If any ill has befallen him, I—”

  “Drake can take care of himself, Hank,” Wolverine grumbled. “You know that even better than I do.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Bishop added without venom, but Storm saw the way Hank and Logan looked at him.

  “Yeah, I know Logan,” the Beast said, for once lapsing into more colloquial language. “But if anything happened to my little buddy, mother McCoy’s bouncing boy would still feel responsible.”

  “We’ll find him, Hank,” Storm said, and offered a smile in appreciation for Hank’s attempt at levity.

  “We have another problem none of you seems willing to address,” Bishop said, his tone harsher than ever. “If we cannot find Drake, that means we have no way of effectively tracking Magneto. This is a very big city, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’re playin’ this one wrong, Bishop,” Wolverine said, a trace of menace appearing in his voice.

  “Indeed, Bishop,” Storm agreed. “I understand the kind of stress you must be under, but—”

  “You have no idea what’s in my mind, Storm!” Bishop snapped. “There is no possible way for you to understand the dread that has frozen my heart since we left Colorado! You have not lived death on the scale I lived it, felt fear with every breath! You could not even conceive of the consequences of your actions today, and you stand here and worry about the X-Men’s ‘class clown’ because he has lost his way! We have a job to do!”

  Storm had heard enough.

  “That will do, Bishop,” she said curtly. “Do not presume to tell me my job. You claim to have been such a model soldier. Good—see if you can follow orders. I am your superior in the hierarchy of this little army called the X-Men. When I issue a command, you snap to it. If I say we look for Iceman, then we look for Iceman. I don’t know how you did things in the future, but you’re an X-Man now, and we take care of our own.”

  “Conversely, Ororo,” the Beast interrupted, “it would not do to linger a moment longer than necessary. While we are in motion, there is less risk of being discovered. Without any means to track Bobby, we probably should move on. Once Professor Xavier contacts us again, we can request that he do a psi-search for Magneto in the area wherein Bobby originally noted his presence.”

  “But we can’t go too far,” Storm protested, all the while astounded that the Beast would voice any agreement with Bishop after the future X-Man’s behavior.

  “I vote we get movin’, ten blocks south, then find an out o’ the way place to sit an’ wait for Charlie’s next contact,” Wolverine said. “I’ll take point, see if I can’t pick up the scent o’ Magneto or one o’ his lapdogs. It’s the best we’re
gonna do, right about now, ’roro.”

  “Agreed,” Storm said, and nodded slowly.

  “One last thing,” Bishop said, and Storm could hear the hesitation in his voice. “I recommend that you remain with us. With daylight upon us, you would be a very clear target in the air.”

  Storm shared Bishop’s hesitation, then released the anger she felt toward him. It would work against them when the time for battle came. She smiled at him, and he returned the favor. Storm touched his elbow and moved him along beside her.

  “Let’s go,” Storm said. “Time’s wasting.”

  They had not taken twenty paces when Wolverine came to a dead halt in front of them.

  “Logan,” Storm said worriedly. “What is it?” Wolverine turned slowly, an amused smile spread across his features. He shook his head incredulously, then he issued a small chuckle.

  “We got company,” he said in a low growl. “An’ you guys ain’t gonna believe who it—”

  Before Wolverine could finish his sentence, chaos erupted out of the hot glare of the morning sun. The Acolytes were attacking, but they were not alone.

  * * *

  THE Beast was astonished. He was one of the first generation of X-Men, and had seen members of the team come and go over the years since he had first joined, including himself; indeed, he was the first X-Man to leave the fold, not returning to the team for many years. The opposing side had also gone through an evolution. Early on, Magneto had gathered around him a small group who gave themselves the unlikely name of “the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants.” That was the means to his hoped-for end, at least early in his career. Later, those mutants had gone their own, separate ways, and it had been Hank McCoy’s understanding that there was no small amount of animosity between them.

  But here were the Toad and the Blob, two of Magneto’s original allies, and their teammate in a more recent incarnation of the Brotherhood, Pyro, working alongside Magneto’s present Acolytes Unuscione and Cargil.