There was one other thing that Xavier had, one other weapon in the war against Magneto’s twisted racist dreams of conquest. Power. Charles Xavier might well have been the most powerful mutant on Earth. His strict moral code governed the use of that power very closely. Yet always there were catastrophes that could be averted, wrongs that could be put right, should he decide to throw off the chains of that code and assert his full power. If it came to that, he believed he might be able to end the conflict himself, by altering the minds and thought patterns of all the combatants.
But that would be the most grievous, the most hideous, misuse of power, no matter how many lives might be saved. Even God gave his creations free will, and Charles Xavier knew that he was not God. Did not aspire to be God. His own power held responsibility enough.
Instead, he used his stature as a respected member of society to do as much damage control as possible. He would not allow himself to imagine Magneto victorious, and therefore he tried to prepare the world for Magneto’s downfall, tried to soften ahead of time the inevitable anti-mutant backlash.
Xavier was something of a celebrity, if you judged such things by how often a person made the news. Not like a sports star or a musician, an actor, or even a writer. Rather, he was a celebrity the way politicians and scientists became celebrities. They gained a certain status out of a sense of obligation—not because the majority of people really cared to hear about their actions and achievements, but because they felt they ought to care.
But never before had Charles experienced the kind of media feeding frenzy he had been subjected to in the past twenty-four hours. The sharks were tearing him apart, fighting for a piece, and it was his duty to oblige them, to utilize their need for his own purposes.
CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, Fox, WNN, E!, MTV, several local stations—and that was just the U.S. media—had all asked him to either be an interview subject or part of a debate. His main opponents in the latter were Senator Robert Kelly, whose own fear of mutants had been horribly detrimental to society, and wealthy independent politico and likely presidential candidate Graydon Creed. Strangely, however, Creed had all but disappeared from the media circus since the previous evening. Xavier suspected there was purpose behind his lack of visibility. The man knew that there would be backlash no matter what the outcome. Creed was likely preparing to take advantage of that backlash.
There were plenty of other names and faces on television—the networks were desperate to fill the tense hours with whatever spin doctors they could locate—but Creed’s absence meant that Xavier and Kelly were the most prominent among them. ABC had scored a coup by setting up a debate between the two men. Charles was not looking forward to it, but he could hardly back out of it. The opportunity was too great. Many viewers would ignore his words, but many others would not. There were still rational minds and understanding hearts in America. To believe otherwise was to admit that the struggle had all been for nothing. They’d already lost.
“Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?”
Charles started slightly at the voice, then turned to see Annelise Dwyer, the CNN anchor whom he’d become rather friendly with over the past few days, walking toward him. He turned his wheelchair to face her. Privately, he was surprised that she had been able to approach him without his sensing her first. He must really be tired.
“I’d love to, but these media vultures keep picking at my corpse,” he said with a grin.
“Tell me about it,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Teasing, flirting, silliness in general, these were things Charles did not normally allow himself to indulge in, leaving them instead to his X-Men, who were more than happy to oblige. Even so, and despite his relationship with Lilandra, he had found himself growing quite fond of Annelise. And now, lack of sleep was making him punchy.
“So,” Annelise continued, “I see you have a big date with the enemy.”
“It’s been one long nightmarish blind date with the enemy since this whole thing started,” Xavier responded.
Annelise laughed.
“I didn’t mean the media in general, Charles,” she said. “I meant my number-one enemy, ABC.”
“Ah.” Xavier nodded. “Yes, thrown to the wolves again.”
There was a silent moment, though he did not find it especially uncomfortable. The two of them merely regarded one another, each alone with their thoughts of the precipitous situation that surrounded them.
“When this is all over,” Annelise ventured, “I’d like to put business aside and take you to dinner some night. You game?”
Xavier was taken slightly aback. But only for a moment. “Without question,” he answered. “But let’s talk about it again, as you say, when this is all over.”
* * *
THROUGHOUT the debate, Xavier had been impressed, even stunned, by the self control Senator Kelly maintained. The man was calm, rational, and, despite his feelings about mutants, eminently responsible in the way he presented his arguments. Clearly, this was a man who understood the power of his words, and the potential for panic inherent in the current predicament. Charles was very pleased that Graydon Creed had not chosen to participate in the debate. His favorite pastime seemed to be fomenting anarchy.
“In closing,” Senator Kelly declared, “I will say only this. Our forefathers stated—and we have been fighting about these words for two hundred years—that all of us were created equal. You may call me a bigot if you wish, but I am not quibbling over such superficial differences as race, creed, or gender. Indeed, all men and women were created equal, even if they have not been treated so.
“They were equal—until the advent of mutants. Mutants are not equal to the rest of humanity. They are greater. I do not say better, but greater. More powerful, and thus inherently more dangerous. For the good of the entire world, all mutants must be registered and monitored. Mutants who prove hostile to authority must be dealt with in the harshest possible manner.”
The weight of expectation fell on Charles then. The cameras, and the attention of every person in that makeshift studio, including Senator Kelly, was on him, awaiting a response.
“Senator Kelly is an intelligent man, wisely concerned for the welfare of the American people, and the future his children and grandchildren will inherit,” Xavier began, playing to those millions already swayed by Kelly’s speech.
“After what we have seen Magneto and his followers do, we should all be concerned,” he continued. “We should all be afraid. But, I must say, no more afraid of mutant terrorism than we are of other terrorists. The men who set off a bomb in Oklahoma City, or New York’s World Trade Center, are also dangerous people, not because of whatever power or weapons they might have at their disposal, but because of the hatred in their hearts.
“Magneto and his followers have not merely proven hostile to authority, they have violently usurped it. I applaud whatever measures can be taken to end this standoff quickly, and to punish those responsible for it.
“But I will not stand by while the senator, in spite of all his wisdom, suggests that we withdraw the civil rights of all mutants. There are many people proficient with guns, or martial arts, many people with extraordinary financial power or great intellect, who could be considered more than equal to the rest of us. No one has suggested we take away the civil rights of those people, who might use their special abilities in ways that make them dangerous to the general public.
“Every American has the right to a certain amount of privacy, the right to freedom of speech, the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These are not empty words, but the defining concepts of our nation. For them to work, they have to stand true for everyone.
“Yes, I implore you, punish criminals and terrorists, mutant or otherwise, to the full extent of the law. But protect the rights of innocent civilians who only want to live good, decent lives. These are your friends, your family, your neighbors, and you don’t even know it because they are terrified of being discovered. If there were some great
conspiracy, if mutants were the evil some claim, they would already rule the world. The majority of mutants wish for nothing more than to live in peace.
“Whether that will happen is really up to you.”
There was silence for a moment after he’d finished. The commentator thanked Kelly and Xavier, and then signed off from the live broadcast. The moment the cameras were off, Senator Kelly crossed the short distance between the chair where he’d been seated and Xavier’s wheelchair.
“Professor,” he said, by way of acknowledgment.
“Senator,” Xavier answered, and after a pause added, “was there something you wanted?”
“Only …” Kelly began, paused, and then began again. “Only to say that I know you’re right. But I believe in the old axiom that sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” the senator said.
“Indeed?” Xavier asked, raising an eyebrow. “What you seem to have missed, Senator, is that mutants are part of the many you refer to. Part of the human race. It is you, and people like you, who are pushing them away, forcing them to splinter off, to see themselves as something else entirely. Perhaps that is your goal, but if so, you should ask yourself a question.
“If you succeed in alienating mutants, making them feel as though they are another tribe, warring with so-called ‘normal’ humans, what happens when enough time passes so that mutants have become ‘the many,’ and ‘normal’ humans have become ‘the few’? What happens then, Senator?”
“I take your point,” Kelly answered.
“I pray that you do,” Xavier said.
“No matter what,” the senator finished, “I hope that this whole debacle is resolved quickly, and as painlessly as possible.”
Professor Xavier held up his hand. Surprise evident in his face, Kelly clasped it. They shook.
“That, at least, is something upon which we can agree,” Xavier said.
Once again, his thoughts returned to hope.
* * *
“I’M gettin’ a little tired o’ this sittin’ around crap,” Wolverine snarled.
“You’re not alone, old friend,” Storm said, “but it isn’t as if we are free to simply walk out and rejoin the fight. Not yet, at least.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Bishop said.
The Beast said nothing, his mind still rapidly creating and discarding plans for their escape. They had made several attempts already, all halfhearted at best. Nothing any of them had thus far contrived had had even a chance of success.
Each of them would be a formidable opponent, even without their mutant abilities. Bishop was a battle-hardened soldier, Wolverine a savage fighter without peer. Storm had spent quite a bit of time stripped of her mutant powers, and had become a hand-to-hand combatant of the first order. And the Beast’s greatest asset, his intellect, was not a mutation.
Unbound, they might have fought their way to freedom without any genetic gifts at all, but the same technology that had temporarily stolen those gifts also imprisoned them.
Hank thought of Trish once again, and wondered, for the first time, if telling her to stay away had been a mistake.
* * *
THE Sentinel at the Brooklyn Bridge had turned out to be a drone. With Archangel flying above them, Gambit raced his stolen Harley up the elevated FDR Drive as fast as he dared, while Cooper held on to his chest with a painful grip. It was taking too much time. They only had to get to the Sentinels, and have Val take a look at them with the infrared scope she had on, but still it was too time consuming.
If the Alpha Sentinel was on the other side of the island, if they had to go all the way around Manhattan before they reached it … there just wasn’t enough time. Gambit could feel the ticking of their seven-hour time limit, could hear it as clearly as if a clock had been set next to his ear. Time was running out.
They were headed for the Williamsburg Bridge, just south of Houston Street and Alphabet City.
“Gambit, hold up!” Archangel’s voice erupted from the commlink they all wore. “Pull over a minute.”
“What de hell’s de problem now, ’Angel?” Gambit asked. “We got no time for foolin’ …”
“In the park, to your left,” Archangel replied.
Gambit looked, and didn’t see anything at first. Then Val tapped his shoulder and pointed to a group of people in the midst of a fight. At least a dozen people, maybe more, were beating on two or three others that he could barely see. Any other time, Gambit would naturally have interfered. But time was of the essence. He didn’t understand why Archangel was taking such an interest.
Until he saw that one of the people being attacked had large, leathery bat wings protruding from her back.
The Harley’s rear tire screeched and Gambit could smell burning rubber as he swung the bike into a stop. Val jumped off and Gambit laid the Harley down on its side as he ran for the guardrail of the elevated highway.
“Warren?” he said into the comm.
“Got it,” Archangel replied.
“Sorry, Val,” Gambit said without turning around. “We’ll just be a minute.”
Without hesitation, without slowing, he put one foot on the guardrail and dived over the edge. Warren grabbed him from behind. Without a word, they flew to where the three mutants were being beaten by the mob. Above the crowd, Archangel simply dropped Gambit.
Somersaulting in the air, Remy LeBeau threw four playing cards into the group, which exploded with a minor charge on impact, clearing a spot for him to land and clearing the mob away from the mutants. A moment later, Archangel landed on the other side of the bloody and beaten mutants, and the mob cleared off even further, then began to close once more.
“Just a couple more muties,” one man shouted. “No problem.”
Archangel took him down with a flash of silver knives, which flew from his wings and sliced into the big man, immediately and temporarily paralyzing him. The musclehead went down like a sinking stone.
“What the hell is the matter with you people?” Archangel yelled.
“You!” a woman screamed back. “You’re what’s wrong. All of you muties playing stormtrooper for Magneto. We caught these three on their own, figured it was time for some payback, a little vengeance for the Big Apple!”
Gambit looked back at the trio of mutants, the winged one and two others whose mutant powers or enhancements were not immediately visible.
“I was born and raised in New York,” one of them said, his accent proving his claim. “We was just tryin’ to leave, ’cause we didn’t want no part of what Magneto’s doin’ here!”
“Yeah, right!” a slim Latino man cried, and tossed a hammer he’d been waving right at the mutant who had spoken.
Gambit telescoped out his bo-stick and knocked the hammer from the air, then stepped forward and whacked the Latino man on the shoulder. He hit a nerve cluster, and the man grunted in pain and fell to his knees.
“We’re not afraid of you!” another man shouted.
“You idiots!” Gambit hissed. “Don’ you even pay attention? You may not be afraid of us, but de t’ree mutants you attackin’, dey very afraid of you, vous comprenez? Don’ you t’ink you should maybe make sure you fightin’ the enemy before you waste your time beatin’ on innocent people?”
“They’re muties, they’re not innocent!” the same man cried.
“That’s their curse,” Archangel said. “They’re mutants. Your curse is that you’re a bigot. Unfortunately for them, they can’t change what they are. The question is, can you?”
The man started to bluster something else, when a teenaged boy spoke up.
“I’m no bigot, mister,” he said. “We live here. Magneto and the rest, they’re trying to take our homes away.”
“But these people were trying to leave, they don’t want to live under Magneto any more than you do,” Archangel said.
The boy was quiet then, they all were, except the bigot in the back, who grumbled under his breath but dared not say anything. The mood of the
group had changed.
“Me an’ Archangel, we mutants too,” Gambit said. “But we come ’ere, to Manhattan, jus’ to try an stop Magneto. We puttin’ our lives on de line for a city dat ain’t even home to us. You goin’ to stomp us a little bit, too, mes amis?”
Even the bigot was quiet, then.
The three injured mutants said nothing as they got up and continued on their way out of the city. The Sentinels would not stop them. Gambit only hoped they did not run into any other overzealous citizens.
After they were out of sight, Gambit turned to the mob again. Nobody would look at him. When he wasn’t paying attention, the bigot had slipped away, and Remy couldn’t help but think he had instigated the beating. He wished he could think of something more to say, but he was disgusted, and they had no time for preaching.
Warren lifted him. As they flew off, he thought he heard the teenaged boy say something that might have been, “Thank you,” and might have been something else entirely, something vile.
Gambit wished he could have been sure, or that he had faith enough in humanity to merely assume the best. But he couldn’t. Not today.
* * *
LIEUTENANT Jack Mariotte was a career soldier. The Army had put him through college, and by the time he’d finished paying them back with his service, he realized he had forgotten how to be anything else. He was old enough to know he’d never be a general, but young enough to believe if enough conflicts presented themselves, he might retire as a colonel, which meant a sweet pension and all the respect that came with the rank.
But he’d never counted on fighting Sentinels.
His squad stood ready at a battery of plasma cannons on the Jersey side of the Hudson, slightly north of the Holland Tunnel but well within range of the Sentinel who towered in silent menace over the river far below. Lieutenant Mariotte had stared at that Sentinel through part of the night, into the dawn, and throughout the morning and early afternoon. He was intimate with it now, knew every contour of its cold and sinister form.
Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men Page 62