The Ultimate X-Men (10 page)

He shot me a look that I could feel through those ruby quartz lenses of his. “No, Sam, you’re not.”

Hearing him say that shut me up and made me feel like a wet sack of feed. Ysee, I know about Scott’s past from the computer records. And it’s just plain sad. He grew up in an orphanage, not knowing he had any family to speak of. He only found his brother after ten years, and his father and his grandparents after twenty. And that’s it. ’Cept for his in-laws, that’s all the family Scott has, unless you count the X-Men. And Scott’d had more than his share of trouble with his brother. His brother ended up discovering mutant powers as well, powers even more dangerous than Scott’s.

“What you’ve got to understand, Sam, is people aren’t going to change just because you want them to. My brother’s spent half his life running around the world, trying to figure out his place. And there wasn’t a single thing I could do to change that. He’s doing a fine job heading up the X-Factor team now, and I’m proud as hell of him. But if he decided to leave tomorrow, nothing I could say or do would change that. Sam, if you love your brother, the best you can do is stand back and catch him if he falls. If you’re lucky,

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he’ll make the change himself, or ask for your help. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s made the right decision after all.

“Look at Magneto. How may times has Charles tried to reform him? Wolverine? Sabretooth?”

He raised an eyebrow above its ruby lens.

“You?”

He was right. When I first discovered my powers, I threw in with Donald Pierce, an old enemy of the X-Men, because he paid well and I had to support my family. But when the Professor uncovered what a rat Pierce was, the Prof invited me to his school and welcomed me with open arms. He’s helped my family and me out ever since, and the farm’s thrived besides. I made the best decision of my life when I joined the Xavier Institute. And here I was trying to stop my brother from making his own decisions.

“You don’t want to lose your brother, Sam.”

“You’re right, sir. Point well taken.”

He drained his espresso cup. “Third: Meltdown. Apologize to her.”

That suggestion set me aback. What did he mean, “apologize to her”? Didn’t he realize all the neurotic trash she was talking to me? Obviously he didn’t, so I related the rest of our argument—or should I say her argument—to Scott, point by point, and I really would have gotten my dander up if Scott hadn’t raised his voice just enough to cut me off and say,

“Sam.”

I heard a bit of irritation in his voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you love her?

I let out a sigh or resignation. “Yes, sir.”

“Does she love you?”

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“I believe so.”

“Then apologize, dammit. Life’s too short to waste your time with laying blame and pointing fingers. You’re an X-Man, Sam. Live your life the best you can with no regrets. When you go on the kind of missions that we do, you can’t afford those luxuries.”

I hate to say it, but he made a brick of sense. I really did care for Tabitha, and when it came down to it, none of that little stuff should’ve mattered. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to find her and tell her. Scott must’ve picked up on this because he was already standing up and pulling money from his wallet for the tip jar.

“C’mon. If we catch the six-thirty, we can make it back for dinner. Gambit’s making gumbo. Bobby’s doing dessert.”

Zelda waved us out with a wink and another reminder to bring Bobby the next time we came. As we stepped out into the crisp fall air, I felt just a little bit different. Nothin’ to scream about. But I had learned a lot about myself, and more than I’d ever hoped about the man whom I’d always passed off as the most dispassionate X-Man.

We walked the thirty-odd blocks back to the train station, talking all the way.

We missed the 6:30 and had to catch the 7:05 local instead, but it was okay. That’s what happened to normal people. And for once, there were no emergencies, no problems. No superpowers. Just a couple of friends killing time. And feeling every bit as human as we had a right to.

Anif Lane & Rebecca Levene

Illustration by Brent Anderson

Iogan’s car was like Logan himself: brash, aggressive, and powerful. Bobby Drake could hear it thundering along the drive toward the Xavier Institute long before he could see it. There was no doubt in his mind that it was Logan. Who else would drive a car like that?

As he stared out from the window of Professor Xavier’s study, a sense of foreboding weighed Bobby down for a moment. Of all the X-Men who could have returned to the fold at that time, it had to be Logan. There would be no sympathy for the ordeal Bobby was about to go through. No understanding. Just sarcasm and a continual barrage of jokes. Jean would have understood. So would Hank. But not Logan.

There was a fine mist of rain in the air outside. Without thinking, Bobby reached out through the window and felt the shape of the water molecules, caressing them, altering their energy levels until they sought each other out for company. Snow began to fall outside the window, each flake unique.

Just like mutants: each cursed with his or her own singular abilities.

The car finally cleared the treeline and raced toward the mansion, belching smoke from its exhaust. Crimson and yellow flames had been painted along its sides. Logan had the top down, despite the rain, and his abundant black sideburns were whipping back behind him like a scarf as he drove. He was smiling ferally, and Bobby could see the glint of his too-white teeth in the morning sunlight.

“Bobby, you’re worried,” said a calm voice from the room behind him.

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“With respect, Professor, it doesn’t take a telepath to spot that,” he replied. As he turned away from the window, the last thing he saw was Logan’s car slewing to a halt, throwing up an arc of gravel, and the man himself vaulting over the side and loping towards the door to the mansion. “I just don’t see how I can do this and keep the X-Men out of it. I’ve lied once already. If the authorities find out—” “I understand your concerns, Bobby,” the Professor said. The light from the roaring fire in his study gleamed off his hairless scalp, making him look like he had a crimson halo. “But remember, you will be serving your country.” “Professor, I’ve put my life on the line for my country more times than I can count. I just—”

The door slammed open and Logan strode in as if he owned the place, almost glowing with health and animal vitality. “Hi, Charley,” he interrupted, “hi, Bobby-boy. How’s tricks?”

“I’m glad you’re back, Logan,” Xavier said. “I would like you to drive me down to town tomorrow. There’s a case starting at the Westchester County Courthouse I want to sit in on.”

Bobby suppressed his anger at the change of subject, although he knew that Professor Xavier must have spotted the slight drop in temperature in the room.

Logan’s eyes gleamed. “Somethin’ to do with mutants, huh? Warren been caught flyin’ past women’s bedrooms at night?”

“Nothing like that,” the Professor said in his infuriatingly calm way. “Bobby has been called up for jury duty, and I want to see how things go.”

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Bobby cursed silendy. He’d been hoping that the Professor wouldn’t tell anyone.

Logan’s gaze flicked across to Bobby. “Weeeellll,” he drawled, “defectin’ to the enemy, eh, bub?”

Bobby immediately felt his temper rise. “Hey, Canuck, this is my civic duty, if you don’t mind. At least I’ve got some feeling of moral responsibility!”

“Well ain’t we on our high horse?” Logan switched his hunter’s gaze back to the Professor. “Somethin’ ’bout the way you’re talkin’ gives me the feelin’ there’s a problem, Charley.”

Xavier nodded. “Your senses are as finely honed as ever, my friend. We were hoping that Bobby’s case would have nothing to do with mutants and he could sit on the jury with no conflict of interest. Unfortunately, during the empanelling process yesterday it became obvious that the accused was himself a mutant—a man named Arthur Streck. All the jurors were asked to declare whether or not they themselves were mutants. Bobby had to lie, of course, given that his powers and his identity as an X-Man are not widely known.”

“I asked the Professor whether or not I should find another reason to get kicked off the jury,” Bobby interrupted. “After all, I can fake a cold better than anyone—but he said no.”

“One juror did declare himself to be a mutant,” Xavier explained. “He was immediately excused. The reason given by the assistant district attorney was that a mutant would be automatically biased in favor of another mutant. I find this line of reasoning specious, and I wanted Bobby to remain on the jury so I can monitor how fair the deliberations are.”

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Logan nodded. “Most all juries I ever came across were biased to the core,” he said. “So, what’s this Streck guy charged with, anyhow?”

“First degree murder,” Bobby said.

“Should you be tellin’ us this?” Logan frowned. “Ain’t you supposed to keep quiet ’bout what goes on in court?” The Professor looked a little discomfited. “Bobby is indeed bound by an oath not to discuss the case outside the courthouse, but I have persuaded him that his primary duty is to justice, rather than to the letter of the law.”

“And besides,” Bobby added, “the case hasn’t actually started yet. The jury were sent home today while the judge considers points of law.”

Logan considered. “Y’know, I think I will drive you down to the courthouse tomorrow, Prof. Might be interestin’.”

Bobby sighed. This was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. It was bad enough having to be on a jury, worse having to lie about it, but to have Logan sitting there in the public gallery—that was almost too much to bear.

Logan leaned back in his seat and hooked his hands behind his head, suppressing a smile as he felt the woman beside him shuffle surreptitiously farther away. He looked around the chamber, assessing it and the people within it. The oak-paneled room wasn’t grand, but it was trying very hard to be, like a hick cousin dressed up for a night at the opera. The people were the same—all the petty officials puffed up with their own self-importance. Making the most of a smalltown case that had suddenly made the big time.

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Almost unconsciously, Logan had chosen a position that gave him a good view of the court proceedings while leaving a clear escape route to the door. Something about the silence in the chamber made him nervous. It was an expectant rather than a peaceful silence, charged up with all the things people weren’t saying.

Xavier, sitting calmly beside him, had seemed to understand his motivation and hadn’t protested. Or maybe courtrooms made him as uncomfortable as they made Logan. There was certainly an animal edginess about this one. He could smell the ghoulish interest of the press gallery behind him, the animosity of the public, and the fidgety nervousness of the jury.

Bobby didn’t look any happier than the rest. His usually amiable face was pinched and worried. He constantly ran his fingers through his sandy hair, while his eyes roved the courtroom, carefully avoiding those of Logan and the Professor. In fact, they setded most often on one of his fellow jurors: a stately dark-haired woman Logan judged to be way out of Bobby’s league—and Logan was an expert at these things. Bobby was looking at her when the assistant DA rose to make his opening statement, and at the squeal of the prosecutor’s chair he jerked his eyes away with a start. Logan gritted his teeth. Drake was acting so guilty you’d have thought he was the one on trial. Why didn’t he just wear a sign? MUTANT IN DISGUISE—PLEASE LYNCH.

“Alan Wydell, a man with no few political ambitions,” Xavier said quietly, nodding toward the ADA.

Logan studied the man. Medium height, middle-aged, paunchy—not much good in a fight, but could probably

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talk himself out of one. “I guess winning this case wouldn’t hurt those ambitions none.”

The Professor smiled very slightly, his expression then changing to a thoughtful frown as he gave his full attention to the prosecution’s opening remarks.

“. . . heard a lot about the mutant menace. And maybe we’ve been told there isn’t such a thing. Well, if there isn’t a mutant menace, there sure as hellfire are mutant menaces, and this—” Wydell spun round dramatically to point at the defendant “—this is one of the worst of them. Five good family men, sons and fathers and brothers, have been killed. Torn to shreds by the savage claws of a freak of nature that some might say should never have been born. Murdered in cold blood by this—this man, Arthur Streck.”

The emphasis didn’t escape Logan’s attention, and he felt anger surge within him at Wydell’s blatant manipulation of the court.

Streck shifted uncomfortably, as if the scores of eyes resting on him exerted some real physical force. Logan’s scalp prickled with the fear he could sense emanating from the defendant. Fear and, even more strongly, anger. The press had dubbed Streck the Dinosaur Killer. His green-yellow scales fitted this image, but Logan was put in mind more of a cat. Streck’s frame was slender and looked agile. Flis face, beneath the scales, was narrow and intelligent. Beside him, the tip of a prehensile tail twitched its irritation. A cat, and not a tame one.

The ADA had paused to stare at Streck, and Streck returned the stare full force, his lips drawn back in a sneer that was halfway to being a snarl. Wydell shifted away slightly, his expensive lawyer’s suit rumpling as the muscles

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beneath it unconsciously tensed for action. All around the courtroom Logan could feel the same reaction repeated. The million-year-old fight-or-flight instinct of an animal confronted with a threat.

“You may ask why we’re so sure we’ve found the right. . . man,” Wydell continued after a moment in his deep, reassuring voice. “Motive, opportunity, and method, ladies and gentlemen. Method—well, Mr. Streck couldn’t dispose of his murder weapons. He was born with them on the ends of his fingers. Opportunity, then. This creature was present at every single one of the crimes. And motivation. The accused, I guess you’ve probably noticed, is a mutant.” Wydell paused for a wave of laughter to sweep the court. “The victims were members of a group, the Friends of Humanity, which has been fighting for the rights of ordinary folks against the so-called mutant menace. Some time ago, there was an incident involving the victims and Arthur Streck’s sister. The victims were brought to trial—Streck claimed they’d assaulted her—but the jury thought otherwise and the case was dismissed.”