[EIGHT YEARS AGO: Plesetsk Cosmodrome, Russia…]
“Three, Two, One, Ignition!”
Mikhail Rasputin turned from the window and exited the shielded observation room. In ten seconds, his life would be over. There would be a state funeral, a hero’s send-off. His mother would weep. His father would stand in solemn silence. Illyana was too young, she would not be able to fully understand what happened. He wondered if Illyana would even remember him.
Seven seconds.
"We have liftoff!"
Piotr would take it very hard. His little brother always idolized him. Thankfully, Mikhail’s death would release Piotr from conscription. He’d be able to go to art school. The last thing he wanted for the boy was to be drafted into service. He was a gentle soul, and the military would snuff out a big part of what made him the person he is.
Four seconds.
It was the right thing. No one could know the mission he was about to embark upon. There was important work to be done.
Three seconds.
His family would understand.
Two seconds.
It was for the motherland.
One second.
Behind him, the windows rattled in their sills as the Soyuz-U rocket detonated in mid-air. A loud dismayed cry emanated from the control room as controllers stood in stunned silence.
Outside, a thunderous crash shattered those windows as the wreckage of the rocket began to smash back into the launch pad. The screams of a woman in the control center reached his ears as a lone soldier was crushed by a flaming piece of debris. That was the man that deserved a hero’s funeral. By now, the burning rocket fuel would be igniting the nearby pines in the forest, trees dating back before the last czars, that would be destroyed in the name of scientific advancement.
He wished he could see his family one last time. But his destiny lied elsewhere.
Mikhail Rasputin was going to Jupiter.
“Three, Two, One, Ignition!”
Mikhail Rasputin turned from the window and exited the shielded observation room. In ten seconds, his life would be over. There would be a state funeral, a hero’s send-off. His mother would weep. His father would stand in solemn silence. Illyana was too young, she would not be able to fully understand what happened. He wondered if Illyana would even remember him.
Seven seconds.
"We have liftoff!"
Piotr would take it very hard. His little brother always idolized him. Thankfully, Mikhail’s death would release Piotr from conscription. He’d be able to go to art school. The last thing he wanted for the boy was to be drafted into service. He was a gentle soul, and the military would snuff out a big part of what made him the person he is.
Four seconds.
It was the right thing. No one could know the mission he was about to embark upon. There was important work to be done.
Three seconds.
His family would understand.
Two seconds.
It was for the motherland.
One second.
Behind him, the windows rattled in their sills as the Soyuz-U rocket detonated in mid-air. A loud dismayed cry emanated from the control room as controllers stood in stunned silence.
Outside, a thunderous crash shattered those windows as the wreckage of the rocket began to smash back into the launch pad. The screams of a woman in the control center reached his ears as a lone soldier was crushed by a flaming piece of debris. That was the man that deserved a hero’s funeral. By now, the burning rocket fuel would be igniting the nearby pines in the forest, trees dating back before the last czars, that would be destroyed in the name of scientific advancement.
He wished he could see his family one last time. But his destiny lied elsewhere.
Mikhail Rasputin was going to Jupiter.
“WORLDS IN CHAOS”
[NOW: Weapon X…]
"Welcome back, Scott," Charles said, smiling at his protégé. "I've read the debriefing concerning Munich. It seems that Vermicom was much closer to the tipping point than we were aware of." {Any ill effects from the mission?} he sent telepathically.
"There had been an anomaly that may have contaminated the research, but it appears that all infected have been eliminated," Scott answered. {Well, Kitty may be having nightmares for a few months, but no.}
"Anomalies are our specialty." {She's more resilient than you give her credit for.}
"Speaking of which, I heard about Fred Duncan." {What happened to him, Charles?}
"Ah, yes, such a shock. A man in his prime, healthy, full of vigor one minute, and the next... well, you know what happened." {You know what he did to Jamie Madrox. You're not getting squeamish on me, are you, Scott?}
"Tragic. Official findings?" {This is going to complicate matters. They'll send someone to replace him, and they'll want to go over everything with a fine tooth comb.}
"Stress-induced brain aneurysm." {And they will find that it is due to discovering that one of his scientists betrayed him and left with years of research records.} "Leftwich resigned."
"Did he, now?" {So Leftwich is the badguy, eh? Are we sure it's just him we can't trust?}
"Indeed." {What are you implying?}
"So anyone else I should know about?" {When were you going to tell me about Jean?}
"Apparently there are a few disgruntled employees." {Probably just after you told me you were working with the disciples of an international terrorist zealot.}
"Not everyone likes their boss." {They are not him, Charles.}
"Personnel who share a company's vision usually climb the fastest." {They are some of his most trusted and loyal lieutenants, and he has sworn to destroy me and all those who stand at my side.}
"I'll chat with them, give them a pep talk." {Once they get to know you, they will see Magneto is wrong about you.}
"It's not that simple." {Is he?}
Scott stopped walking and look at Charles for a few moments. "Isn't it?" {Isn't he?}
"It never is." {I don't know anymore.}
Scott nodded. "I'll be available if you have anything else to discuss." {You should have told me about Jean. About her new powers.}
Charles nodded in return. "If there's anything I can tell you, I will." {It was not my secret to reveal.} "Just stay aware," he finished. {And be careful, Scott.}
"I always am," Scott said, walking away.
[EIGHT YEARS AGO: High Earth Orbit...]
Farewell, Comrade Rasputin_
Mikhail shook his head at the message on the monitor. "Comrade." What rubbish. Director Koptev, the highest ranking member of the Roskosmos, was blissfully unaware that Mikhail was even still alive, let alone about to embark on a journey unlike any other in the history of mankind. This was a message that came from far above, likely from an underling of President Putin, if not the man himself. Years ago, one would assume it was a KGB Chief acting outside the President's purview, but this was a different era, and Putin was a different man.
Mikhail pressed the ignition button, and the engines of his ship roared to life. Using the momentum of his orbit, the craft would slingshot towards Mars, where, in just one year, yet another slingshot maneuver would put him on his way to Jupiter.
His final destination would be a cold, lifeless moon of the gas giant, where the surface, though desolate and one of the most heavily cratered in the system, hid a rich ocean of liquid water, and was optimally positioned for a colony. Mikhail was to be the first. Although the custom was to send an entire crew on a mission of such magnitude, the fact that this mission was secret meant Roskosmos was only sending a lone man. His mission was to land successfully, establish a working base of operations, get the ship's robotic systems started on construction of the habitat, and contact them.
The rigors of such a mission would kill an ordinary human, but Mikhail was no longer sure if he could be considered human, let alone ordinary. The experimentation that he had undergone in the Red Room had transformed him into a sort of super-man. He had enhanced endurance, strength, stamina and agility, and had yet to see any of the "minor side-effects" the scientists had suggested may occur. He supposed he should be grateful that these abilities he had been given were being used for exploration, rather than for conquest.
He looked at the picture of his family. Baby Illyana, still so tiny and young. Young Piotr, lean and lanky, but beginning to fill out, the man he was to become visible just below the surface. Mama, with her kind and knowing eyes. Papa, looking every bit the old Russian Patriarch, with his farmer's cap pulled low over his eyes.
In a year, Illyana would be reading, maybe even attending school. Mama and Papa would not need to work the fields themselves, the pension they received from the government as compensation for their son's service would allow them to hire all the help they needed. Piotr would still be in his teens, younger than the men who were training for the second crewed follow-up mission that would launch around the same time that Mikhail would be using Mars' gravity to hurl himself at Jupiter.
By the time he reached his final destination, Illyana would be just entering her teens. He could imagine her as a young girl with her friends, perhaps joining a skating circle, or spending time at a shopping center with her friends, like American children tended to do. Piotr would be in his early twenties, perhaps married to a girl he met at wherever he would go to study art. Paris, maybe.
By the time the next manned mission arrived to greet him, Illyana would be a young woman in her twenties. Piotr may have children. Were Mikhail even allowed to come home again, his family wouldn't have seen him for almost twenty years. He knew his siblings and their children after them would continue to tell his story. But eventually, he would become just another legend, and the man he was would be lost, buried beneath the icy surface of his new home, forever one with another world, the Jovian moon Callisto.
[NOW: Westchester County...]
“So this is the School,” Bishop said in hushed reverence.
Logan ticked off a quick salute as Scott lifted the jet from the landing pad and turned it North. “Used ta be, back in the day. Worthington was gonna sell it to the President as his new vacation home, but they turned him down. Lucky us.”
He keyed in the entry code and walked in. Cable and Bishop followed after a moment.
“No, I think what he meant was that this will become a school in the very near future,” Cable replied. “Hundreds of students learning to harness their emerging abilities under the tutelage of Ch-”
“Let's cut through the crap, future boy," Logan interrupted, "There's something you ain't telling us, or there's something you don't know. There's a scent on both of you that tells me a story different than you're letting on."
“You said you could hear our heartbeats and that we were telling the truth, now you're saying it smells like we're lying?” Bishop asked as they entered the main hall and made their way towards the elevator.
“Yeah,” Logan said, keying the button for the lowest floor. “Those two ain't mutually exclusive. You may not know everything there is to know about the world you come from."
Cable laughed. "I think I know more about the world I come from than you do," he snickered condescendingly.
"Then why do I smell Raven Darkhölme on you, boy?"
Cable was silent for a long moment as the elevator opened up on the sub-basement and Logan walked out. "What?"
"It may be Raven's step-daughter," Bishop said, looking from Logan to Cable and then back at Logan. "In my future, she and I are together."
"Yeah, I smell her on you, too, but if she's a daughter of Raven's, there's no 'step' involved."
"So Raven is Anna's real mom?" Bishop asked. "She lied to me?"
"Or she was lied to," Logan replied, stopping outside a thick metal doorway. He turned his eyes back to Cable. "So what's your story? Is this mysterious Anna your bunk mate as well?"
"No," Cable answered defensively. "I- uh, I'm not sure I am supposed to tell you what happens-"
"Spill it, Radio Shack. Yer beddin' someone in the distant future."
Cable drew in a deep breath. "It's Kate Pryde."
Logan laughed. "I wouldn't tell that to the tin-man, or you'll be spare parts. Rasputin can get a little territorial when you start orbiting his world."
[SEVEN YEARS AGO: Somewhere Near Mars...]
Mikhail exhaled deeply as his ship accelerated away from Mars. With the gravity assist, the trip to Callisto was now on schedule. He released the catch on his harness and floated out of the pilot's seat. Drifting back towards the living compartment of the ship, he took a final look back at the red planet. His dream was to one day be the first man to land on Mars. It never occurred to him that he would bypass that world altogether, in favor of one of Jupiter's Galilean satellites. The deeply pragmatic Russian government felt that Mars was not the best choice for a colony, that Callisto, with its better opportunity for mining resources and strategic location would serve as the superior choice for a first step.
"Leave Mars for the Americans and the Chinese," Koptev had told him one night while discussing the mission. "They will waste their time building a glorified tourist hotel, and when they finally turn their attention to the rest of the solar system, they will find Russia has already been out there for decades." And because the mission was highly dangerous, and failure could be devastating for the national image, of course, the mission was classified.
Leave it to the Russian government to crush a young man's dreams of glory in favor of a better bottom line. Some American would likely be the one to plant their flag in Martian soil and the history books, another symbolic victory in a competition full of them, while the government that used to be all about displays of power and superiority had turned into a collection of brokers trying to find the best path to profit. A nation of heroes has become a nation of bookkeepers.
The stasis tubes would keep him in suspended animation for six of the seven remaining years of his trip. He would enjoy one last meal, and then prepare to sleep for over half a decade. He thought back to his mother's stew as he opened and dipped his fork into the small tin of dried beef, watching the ruddy sands of Mars recede in his window. He was moved by the sudden impulse to photograph what he saw, and thought quickly of retrieving his camera from its storage space beneath his stasis bunk, but then looked down and saw that the camera was currently attached by Velcro to the leg of his pants. He took it up and photographed a massive dust storm that was crossing Syrtis Major. He was about to capture a second picture when he paused and looked down at the camera.
He was certain the camera had been stowed beneath his bunk. He was not prone to lapses in memory or protocol, and that is where the camera would have been during any orbital maneuvers. He snapped the second picture, and then a third, before pressing the camera back against his leg, sticking it to the Velcro.
After another couple of fork-fulls of dried beef, he took a draw off the pouch of grape juice. The meal was not bad, by Roskosmos standards; it would never beat his mother's cooking, but at least they stopped packing him borscht. Despite the fact that it was a staple of the traditional Russian diet, Mikhail had never developed a taste for it. As a child he would always eat every drop of it, however, because it would earn him some of his mother's kosinaki, the special recipe she would use with cashews instead of walnuts. It was his favorite childhood treat. He smiled as he looked down to grab some cashews from the container, but that smile disappeared quickly and his eyes grew wide at what he saw. In the container designed for cashews, shards of brittle, diamond shaped amber clung together.
It was impossible. He had brought no kosinaki with him, nor would have anyone included it in his provisions; the honey base of the dessert made it a sticky mess that was impossible to deal with in micro-gravity. He tentatively touched a chunk of it and drew his finger back, watching in amazement as a small piece stuck to his finger before momentum carried it off, cartwheeling up in front of his eyes. He lunged forward, catching it in his mouth, and smiled. The sweet taste of honey and sugar filled his mouth, despite the micro-gravity congestion that came with space flight. The sharp flavor of the smoked cashews brought him back to his mother's kitchen, the smell of the wood stove filling his nostrils. He looked down again, and saw only cashews in the container. He touched his fingertip, still speckled with tiny sticky bits of baked honey, to a cashew, which stuck to the end of his finger. He put it in his mouth and tasted an ordinary nut.
After a long moment, he finished his meal in worried silence, suddenly concerned about what a year of isolation might have done to his mind.
[NOW: Weapon X...]
Charles sat behind his desk, glaring at the monitor. In the wake of Leftwich's departure, he had suspended testing on further subjects. They still had access to the Cytorite fragment that was the crucial key ingredient to the success of the treatment; it was under heavy enough guard that even Leftwich couldn't have taken it without someone noticing. But he had yet to absorb all of Leftwich's research, and did not yet fully understand how the radiation from the fragment allowed the treatments to work, therefore he could not take chances that another subject could be killed... or worse. There was also the matter of finding a new custodian for the subjects at Mercyhaven.
"Dr. Xavier," a voice said from his doorway, and Charles looked up.
"Colonel Stryker," Charles said, dusting off his best fake smile. He stood and walked around his desk, extending his hand. Stryker shook it briskly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'll be frank, Charles. There are some ugly allegations surfacing here. Four agents defecting, another one de-powered and released into the wild, Fred Duncan turning into a vegetable, and now we have word that Leftwich is A.W.O.L. with our research."
"Leftwich took the files, but we still have the hard data backed up. It is just a matter of reconstructing the database. As far as the subjects departing, it's-"
"Defecting," Stryker interrupted.
Charles looked at the man carefully and continued. "It's a matter of both legal and moral questions. We do not have ownership of these people."
"Don't be naive, Charles. We own the tech that gives them their abilities, and they signed agreements to be subjects. We own them. The law doesn't even begin to cover what's going on here. Regardless, I've been sent here to assess the continued viability of your operation and make corrective action."
"I understand," Charles nodded. "You will, of course, have my full cooperation for your inquiry."
"No, Charles," Stryker said, "it's more than just an inquiry. I am here to take over. This project is now officially under the direct jurisdiction of the United States Military. You've allowed things to become too slack under your watch. You've allowed billions in research to simply walk away, and we're not confident that you can control this little science experiment anymore. Sergeant!"
A soldier strode into Charles' office and snapped to attention. "Sir, yes sir!"
"At ease. Sergeant Magnum will be part of the security detail that has been assigned to the lab. We can't have anyone else walking off with our research. I'll be taking over operations, and working out of Fred Duncan's old office. Sergeant Magnum will follow you down to the lab so you can introduce him and his team to the other scientists."
"Ten-{forty}, Colonel. Sergeant, let's show you to the lab." Charles nodded.
"That's ten-four, Charles," Stryker said, amused. "Ten-forty means 'run silent.' "
"Of course," Charles turned and nodded. "I meant 'ten-four.' How foolish of me." He turned again, exiting the office with Magnum in tow. Stryker stayed a moment longer, watching the two leave and then made his way to Fred Duncan's office.
[FIVE YEARS AGO: Somewhere Beyond The Asteroid Belt...]
Mikhail sat in the command seat of his ship, staring out at the stars in the unfathomable distance. Dark circles had formed underneath his eyes, and his complexion was extraordinarily pale. He was supposed to be asleep. He was supposed to be asleep for about a year now, but there was still so much to learn before he reached Callisto. How he was still alive, for one thing.
One of the reasons there were stasis chambers on the ship was that there were not enough provisions on the ship for a person to survive an eight year trip. There was enough for the one year trip to Mars, the final year of prep work on approach to Jupiter, and a year for the robots to establish a viable habitat and food source. That meant, had he eaten the entire time he was awake, he would have run out of food three weeks ago. That was not his current problem, however. He hadn't had a bite to eat in eleven months.
After a few months of being too frightened to even think about it, he had experimented again with the cashews, and managed to bring back the kosinaki on two occasions. He had also managed once to somehow turn his grape juice into cognac.
The incident with the camera had also repeated itself, appearing at hand when he thought about it. Each time, he would check the drawer beneath his bunk, and as soon as his eyes left the device, there it would be, returning itself to its resting place with new pictures he had taken. Pencils appeared in his hand when he needed to write. He unpacked and animated one of the construction drones, making it dance. He replicated a pair of boots out of nothing. But his experiments focused mainly on his food supply. Changing the flavors of his freeze dried ice cream, turning dried chicken into clay, moving a bolus of free floating water just by thinking about it. He was actually having fun with it, until one of the shrimp in his shrimp cocktail regrew its appendages, shell, and eye stalks and began to move of its own accord. It died again after just a few seconds, floating there in the zero gravity in front of Mikhail's face, but it was at this point that he decided the isolation of the solitary journey from Earth to Mars had broken his mind, and he was no longer having anything resembling fun.
He hadn't eaten anything since then. He tried, three days later, nearly mad from hunger, but he found himself shaking so badly he couldn't hold the food properly. He feared what would happen when eventually his body used up what nutrients he had within him, and suddenly, his hunger went away. Just thinking about sustenance had apparently been enough for his powers to simply take care of him. He would think about thirst, and suddenly he was quenched.
What in God's name had they done to him?
[NOW: Westchester...]
"Funny thing is," Logan continued, entering the mansion's infirmary, "I don't smell her anywhere on you, at least not the Kitty Pryde I know. Something isn't adding up, and we're going to get to the bottom of it."
"How do you propose we do that?" Bishop asked.
"Tell me about this Kate. What do you know about her?"
Cable shook his head. "She was recruited into Weapon X at a young age because she was a hacker. They gave her powers, and she was with them until the fall of Weapon X. She was with the X-Men for a while, and then the Apocalypse War happened. She gathered a bunch of the surviving mutants and tried to rebuild society deep within an underground series of tunnels. She reorganized the new X-Men as a peacekeeping police. We patrol the tunnels, and search for any sign of other survivors. Mostly, it's a lot of monitor watching."
"No," Logan said, "tell me a detail about Kitty that she would only tell someone she trusted. Someone she loved."
Cable looked to his left and then back at Logan. "It's not really like that. We don't really talk that much. We talk about the mission, we talk about the war. We talk about survivors. But she didn't really ever tell me much about her."
"Convenient," Logan chuckled.
"She did tell me about you, though. Trained killer. Ruthless and fearless. That you would stab your own mother if she stood in the way of a mission. But that you had a strong sense of loyalty, tradition and honor."
Logan's eyes narrowed.
"Anna had much the same opinion," Bishop agreed. "You were a legendary influence, Logan."
"Well, ain't I special?" Logan grunted.
"Aren't Canadians supposed to be polite?" Cable's face contorted in confusion and annoyance.
"I never told Kitty I was Canadian."
"Well, at some point she must have found out," Cable retorted.
"Unless she's not Kitty."
"Who else would she be?"
"If my nose is telling me the truth, she's the same woman Brother B here is shaggin'."
Bishop's eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility. "Anna told me she once had the ability to absorb the powers of others. She also took on their appearance. Perhaps one of the people she absorbed was Kitty Pryde?"
Cable looked dumbfounded. "No, it can't be. I've known her for years. Years! Are you telling me that I've been sleeping with a pod person?!"
"Be careful what you say about her," Bishop said. "Anna is not a pod person. She's a good woman. Her powers caused her a great deal of anguish and pain, and her step-mother- or mother, whomever Raven is to her- was not a great role model."
"She's not even the same 'Anna' as yours, even if they are technically the same person," Cable replied. "God-damn it, this alternate timeline stuff gives me a headache."
"Yeah, imagine how I feel?" Logan quipped. "I got two of ya to keep straight. But I think I may have this just about figured out. I got good news for ya, Bish. Cable isn't tappin' yer lady. Bad news is neither are you. You've been played, boys. There's no trace of Kitty Pryde on you, Radio Shack. I'm not saying that you knew otherwise, but it's the truth. Problem being, the scent of the woman you are going at it with is identical to the scent of Brother B's babe. That scent screams Raven so much that I was convinced it was her blood relative. But it's not, because there's no trace of another parent in there. It's only her."
"You're both being played by Raven Darkholme."
[THREE YEARS AGO: In Orbit Around Jupiter...]
Mikhail sat staring out the window at the gas giant planet that he should have still been four years away from. His face was haggard and unshaven, his hair tousled and unkempt. He had not slept in over a year, had not eaten in three.
It occurred to him more than once on this journey that perhaps he had actually died in that rocket explosion at Plesetsk, that his death was not, in fact, a hoax to anyone other than himself, and that he was now living in Hell. How else could he explain what was happening to him? His fuel, air, and chronology all seemingly suggested he was still three years away from his destination. Yet his instrumentation still showed he was in orbit around Jupiter, approaching Callisto. His family were Atheists, but he was beginning to doubt that the believers in his Collective had been wrong all these years.
He had been a good man, or at least tried to be, not out of fear of any reprisals from an angry God, simply because he believed in doing the right thing. What sin would he have been guilty of to end up in a torturous afterlife such as this, where you seemingly went on forever without sleep, without food, never dying? Could simple Atheism be enough? He supposed he could try to kill himself, but if the believers were right, and he should he prove successful, would he even know it? If this hellish existence wasn't actually Hell, he could think of no more fitting a punishment for suicide.
The scientist in his mind spoke up at last. He could think of no scientific possibility for what had happened, what could have transported him to his destination in half the time, but neither could he have offered any scientific rationale for the abilities he had developed since his treatment in the Red Room. If he were still alive, then there must be a rational explanation to his being this far ahead of schedule. The biggest unknown in this equation was the strange abilities the Red Room had given him. Perhaps they gave him, in addition to augmenting his physical attributes, the ability to bend space? That would account for the rapid transit to Jupiter. There would be other scientific effects that could be measured, but he wasn't prepared for those experiments.
What he had prepared for, what he had trained for, still lay ahead of him; establishing a colony on Callisto. Emerging from behind the shadow of the gas giant, the glittering surface of the moon came slowly into view, like a flower in bloom. He could sit and wonder what the Red Room had unleashed within him, getting nowhere, or he could move forward and let his mind come to terms with this new reality while he focused on completing his mission.
[NOW: Weapon X...]
"Dr. Hank McCoy, Sergeant Magnum," Charles said. "He will be taking over security here in the lab. Effective immediately, Colonel William Stryker is in charge of Weapon X." {Henry, we need to activate the Exodus Protocol.}
Hank offered an indigo-furred handshake, which Magnum took tentatively.
"Sergeant Magnum," he smiled. "Don't be alarmed. I can assure you my bark is much worse than my bite." {What exactly are we talking about here?}
"Doctor," Magnum nodded.
{There isn't much time to explain.} "Yes, Hank is our leading geneticist here, one of the most brilliant minds of our generation." {I've placed a suggestion in Stryker's head to give us forty minutes, so we have roughly thirty-eight minutes left until Stryker locks the base down.}
"Forgive him, Sergeant," Hank chuckled, "Charles is prone to bouts of exaggeration." {Who's on the guest list?}
"Now, don't be modest." {Scott, Jean, Bobby, Kitty, Sean and yourself. I haven't had time to test the others.}
"We owe most of our work here to your ingenuity," Hank countered. {What about-}
{No,} Charles interrupted mentally, {he hasn't undergone treatment yet, he can still leave without complication.} "Regardless, you have taken the ball and run quite admirably."
"So maybe Colonel Stryker can authorize you finally taking a vacation?" {Okay, so seven of us. Do you have an exit strategy?}
"I'm not going anywhere, Hank."
Hank waited for Charles to follow up telepathically, but with dawning dismay realized that the response was two-fold. "Ever the workhorse," Hank said, feeling his smile falter. {Charles, they'll kill you. Or worse.}
"Just dedicated to the cause," Charles finished. {I'm willing to take that chance.}
"Well, then," Hank said, placing a hand on Charles' shoulder. "I'll let you get back to it." {Understood. I'll make preparations.}
"Thanks, Hank." {Thank you, Henry.}
"Sergeant Magnum." Hank turned and walked out of the lab. Secreted in his belt buckle was a tiny switch, and he gingerly pressed it down. Elsewhere in the compound, five others would be receiving a signal that they knew would come one day; it was time to leave Weapon X.
[NOW: The Jovian Moon Callisto...]
Cosmonaut Boris Turgenov spoke softly into the ship's comm system as he stepped out of the landing pod. "Bozshe Moi! It's... magnificent. I did not realize the design was so large."
"Yelena, still no word from Mikhail?" Alexi asked.
"Nyet," Yelena's reply came from the command module. "The automated beacon is still in place and transmitting, but there is no new communication. Where could he be?"
"Mikhail is a dedicated worker, Yelena. We will find him with his head buried in one of the machines. Perhaps he is creating a way to make vodka out of water," Alexi smirked.
"Belay that, Shostakov," Boris scolded. "Belova, continue to monitor for life signs. Once we ascertain where Rasputin is, we can bring down the rest of the supplies."
"And then you can come down in the main lander and be the first woman to visit another world!" Alexi chuckled. "Another proud first for the Roscosmos!"
"We are approaching the airlock to the agricultural module," Boris stated. The tiny window in the airlock door beamed a brilliant golden light, making it nearly impossible to see within. "We may lose comms for a moment. If the robots have been able to follow the scheduled time frame, there should be a small crop of potatoes, corn, wheat..." He fell silent as the airlock cycled and the doors opened. "Shto?!?"
Beyond the doors of the airlock, the surface gave way to a valley of immense dimensions. Within, a golden field of wheat swayed in an impossible breeze. An orchard was visible in the distance, it's branches laden with ripe fruits of great variety. Apples, pears, oranges, peaches, a vineyard of grapes, fields of berries, pumpkins. Boris struggled to make his mouth work, his jaw hanging agape at the wonder before his eyes as he removed his helmet. "How... how is this possible?"
"Amazing!" Alexi said, following suit. "He must have planted everything he had the minute he landed!"
"No," Boris said, "the supplies on board weren't enough to create this."
"What are you talking about? This is fantastic! Look! There's a pineapple grove!"
"Shostakov, pineapples weren't even in his supplies-" He stopped again as a bumblebee, fat and loud, lazily drifted through the air before him. "This is impossible! It can't-" Boris stammered. He looked up to the top of the agricultural module and fell silent again.
The top of the space, which seemed like it rose for miles, was dominated by what appeared to be a mid-day sun.
"The impossible," Mikhail said from behind them, startling the cosmonauts, "is what I do."
"Mikhail!" Alexi exclaimed, thrilled to see his fellow cosmonaut for the first time in almost a decade. "it is good to see you comrade!"
Mikhail merely stared at Boris.
"Rasputin... how is this possible?" Boris finally asked him.
"The Red Room. They didn't send me here to create a colony. They sent me here to exile me."
"Are you mad?" Alexi asked incredulously. "Tovarisch, if they were exiling you, why would they send us?"
"Who is to say? Perhaps they are exiling you as well. The minute the ship left Mars, the computer locked out manual control. As soon as we touched down, the robots began their work. I didn't even get a chance to activate them. They accepted no input, they obeyed no command. They simply built. I realized rapidly that this mission could have been accomplished without a human pilot. And I discovered that the command to reawaken me from stasis was flawed. I was not supposed to wake up. Had I actually put myself in stasis, I would still be there, locked up inside the ship."
"You didn't go into stasis?" Alexi asked, clearly confused. "That is not possible, comrade, you would have starved to death."
"That was their fail safe. But they didn't fully understand what I had become. I am a being who needs no food, no sleep... no air. They have turned me into far more than a man."
A small blip of static interrupted their discussion. "Turgenov, this is Belova. Have you made contact?"
Mikhail stared intently at Boris, who made no motion to reply to his fellow cosmonaut. "Aren't you going to answer her?"
Boris stared back at Mikhail for a long moment before his hand finally moved to his headset. "Belova. Rasputin is here. He is alive."
A long silence answered them. "Understood."
Mikhail smiled.
[NOW: In Orbit Around Callisto...]
Yelena Belova sprang into action, keying in an emergency code and preparing to hit the execute button. They had been prepared for this eventuality- well, she and Turgenov had been, Alexi had not been briefed as to their true mission- and the scenario now called for a hasty retreat combined with a nuclear bombardment of the colony. As her right index finger lunged toward the screen, she stopped just short of it. Frantically, she pushed harder, but her finger was suspended mere inches from the spot where her print would activate the escape command. She struggled as she felt the invisible force begin to immobilize more of her hand. Her other hand shot out as if to help the first and then swerved, gripping her right wrist tightly. Her eyes grew wide as she began to pull her own hand away from the screen. Seeing motion in the reflection on the monitor, her head spun quickly and her eyes grew wide in shock.
"Nyet, Comrade Belova," Mikhail said, smiling as he stood behind her. "There is still so much for us to do. The ship is already under my command. Let's get you to the main lander, so we can properly begin our new training. Welcome to your new home."
[To Be Continued!]
"Welcome back, Scott," Charles said, smiling at his protégé. "I've read the debriefing concerning Munich. It seems that Vermicom was much closer to the tipping point than we were aware of." {Any ill effects from the mission?} he sent telepathically.
"There had been an anomaly that may have contaminated the research, but it appears that all infected have been eliminated," Scott answered. {Well, Kitty may be having nightmares for a few months, but no.}
"Anomalies are our specialty." {She's more resilient than you give her credit for.}
"Speaking of which, I heard about Fred Duncan." {What happened to him, Charles?}
"Ah, yes, such a shock. A man in his prime, healthy, full of vigor one minute, and the next... well, you know what happened." {You know what he did to Jamie Madrox. You're not getting squeamish on me, are you, Scott?}
"Tragic. Official findings?" {This is going to complicate matters. They'll send someone to replace him, and they'll want to go over everything with a fine tooth comb.}
"Stress-induced brain aneurysm." {And they will find that it is due to discovering that one of his scientists betrayed him and left with years of research records.} "Leftwich resigned."
"Did he, now?" {So Leftwich is the badguy, eh? Are we sure it's just him we can't trust?}
"Indeed." {What are you implying?}
"So anyone else I should know about?" {When were you going to tell me about Jean?}
"Apparently there are a few disgruntled employees." {Probably just after you told me you were working with the disciples of an international terrorist zealot.}
"Not everyone likes their boss." {They are not him, Charles.}
"Personnel who share a company's vision usually climb the fastest." {They are some of his most trusted and loyal lieutenants, and he has sworn to destroy me and all those who stand at my side.}
"I'll chat with them, give them a pep talk." {Once they get to know you, they will see Magneto is wrong about you.}
"It's not that simple." {Is he?}
Scott stopped walking and look at Charles for a few moments. "Isn't it?" {Isn't he?}
"It never is." {I don't know anymore.}
Scott nodded. "I'll be available if you have anything else to discuss." {You should have told me about Jean. About her new powers.}
Charles nodded in return. "If there's anything I can tell you, I will." {It was not my secret to reveal.} "Just stay aware," he finished. {And be careful, Scott.}
"I always am," Scott said, walking away.
[EIGHT YEARS AGO: High Earth Orbit...]
Farewell, Comrade Rasputin_
Mikhail shook his head at the message on the monitor. "Comrade." What rubbish. Director Koptev, the highest ranking member of the Roskosmos, was blissfully unaware that Mikhail was even still alive, let alone about to embark on a journey unlike any other in the history of mankind. This was a message that came from far above, likely from an underling of President Putin, if not the man himself. Years ago, one would assume it was a KGB Chief acting outside the President's purview, but this was a different era, and Putin was a different man.
Mikhail pressed the ignition button, and the engines of his ship roared to life. Using the momentum of his orbit, the craft would slingshot towards Mars, where, in just one year, yet another slingshot maneuver would put him on his way to Jupiter.
His final destination would be a cold, lifeless moon of the gas giant, where the surface, though desolate and one of the most heavily cratered in the system, hid a rich ocean of liquid water, and was optimally positioned for a colony. Mikhail was to be the first. Although the custom was to send an entire crew on a mission of such magnitude, the fact that this mission was secret meant Roskosmos was only sending a lone man. His mission was to land successfully, establish a working base of operations, get the ship's robotic systems started on construction of the habitat, and contact them.
The rigors of such a mission would kill an ordinary human, but Mikhail was no longer sure if he could be considered human, let alone ordinary. The experimentation that he had undergone in the Red Room had transformed him into a sort of super-man. He had enhanced endurance, strength, stamina and agility, and had yet to see any of the "minor side-effects" the scientists had suggested may occur. He supposed he should be grateful that these abilities he had been given were being used for exploration, rather than for conquest.
He looked at the picture of his family. Baby Illyana, still so tiny and young. Young Piotr, lean and lanky, but beginning to fill out, the man he was to become visible just below the surface. Mama, with her kind and knowing eyes. Papa, looking every bit the old Russian Patriarch, with his farmer's cap pulled low over his eyes.
In a year, Illyana would be reading, maybe even attending school. Mama and Papa would not need to work the fields themselves, the pension they received from the government as compensation for their son's service would allow them to hire all the help they needed. Piotr would still be in his teens, younger than the men who were training for the second crewed follow-up mission that would launch around the same time that Mikhail would be using Mars' gravity to hurl himself at Jupiter.
By the time he reached his final destination, Illyana would be just entering her teens. He could imagine her as a young girl with her friends, perhaps joining a skating circle, or spending time at a shopping center with her friends, like American children tended to do. Piotr would be in his early twenties, perhaps married to a girl he met at wherever he would go to study art. Paris, maybe.
By the time the next manned mission arrived to greet him, Illyana would be a young woman in her twenties. Piotr may have children. Were Mikhail even allowed to come home again, his family wouldn't have seen him for almost twenty years. He knew his siblings and their children after them would continue to tell his story. But eventually, he would become just another legend, and the man he was would be lost, buried beneath the icy surface of his new home, forever one with another world, the Jovian moon Callisto.
[NOW: Westchester County...]
“So this is the School,” Bishop said in hushed reverence.
Logan ticked off a quick salute as Scott lifted the jet from the landing pad and turned it North. “Used ta be, back in the day. Worthington was gonna sell it to the President as his new vacation home, but they turned him down. Lucky us.”
He keyed in the entry code and walked in. Cable and Bishop followed after a moment.
“No, I think what he meant was that this will become a school in the very near future,” Cable replied. “Hundreds of students learning to harness their emerging abilities under the tutelage of Ch-”
“Let's cut through the crap, future boy," Logan interrupted, "There's something you ain't telling us, or there's something you don't know. There's a scent on both of you that tells me a story different than you're letting on."
“You said you could hear our heartbeats and that we were telling the truth, now you're saying it smells like we're lying?” Bishop asked as they entered the main hall and made their way towards the elevator.
“Yeah,” Logan said, keying the button for the lowest floor. “Those two ain't mutually exclusive. You may not know everything there is to know about the world you come from."
Cable laughed. "I think I know more about the world I come from than you do," he snickered condescendingly.
"Then why do I smell Raven Darkhölme on you, boy?"
Cable was silent for a long moment as the elevator opened up on the sub-basement and Logan walked out. "What?"
"It may be Raven's step-daughter," Bishop said, looking from Logan to Cable and then back at Logan. "In my future, she and I are together."
"Yeah, I smell her on you, too, but if she's a daughter of Raven's, there's no 'step' involved."
"So Raven is Anna's real mom?" Bishop asked. "She lied to me?"
"Or she was lied to," Logan replied, stopping outside a thick metal doorway. He turned his eyes back to Cable. "So what's your story? Is this mysterious Anna your bunk mate as well?"
"No," Cable answered defensively. "I- uh, I'm not sure I am supposed to tell you what happens-"
"Spill it, Radio Shack. Yer beddin' someone in the distant future."
Cable drew in a deep breath. "It's Kate Pryde."
Logan laughed. "I wouldn't tell that to the tin-man, or you'll be spare parts. Rasputin can get a little territorial when you start orbiting his world."
[SEVEN YEARS AGO: Somewhere Near Mars...]
Mikhail exhaled deeply as his ship accelerated away from Mars. With the gravity assist, the trip to Callisto was now on schedule. He released the catch on his harness and floated out of the pilot's seat. Drifting back towards the living compartment of the ship, he took a final look back at the red planet. His dream was to one day be the first man to land on Mars. It never occurred to him that he would bypass that world altogether, in favor of one of Jupiter's Galilean satellites. The deeply pragmatic Russian government felt that Mars was not the best choice for a colony, that Callisto, with its better opportunity for mining resources and strategic location would serve as the superior choice for a first step.
"Leave Mars for the Americans and the Chinese," Koptev had told him one night while discussing the mission. "They will waste their time building a glorified tourist hotel, and when they finally turn their attention to the rest of the solar system, they will find Russia has already been out there for decades." And because the mission was highly dangerous, and failure could be devastating for the national image, of course, the mission was classified.
Leave it to the Russian government to crush a young man's dreams of glory in favor of a better bottom line. Some American would likely be the one to plant their flag in Martian soil and the history books, another symbolic victory in a competition full of them, while the government that used to be all about displays of power and superiority had turned into a collection of brokers trying to find the best path to profit. A nation of heroes has become a nation of bookkeepers.
The stasis tubes would keep him in suspended animation for six of the seven remaining years of his trip. He would enjoy one last meal, and then prepare to sleep for over half a decade. He thought back to his mother's stew as he opened and dipped his fork into the small tin of dried beef, watching the ruddy sands of Mars recede in his window. He was moved by the sudden impulse to photograph what he saw, and thought quickly of retrieving his camera from its storage space beneath his stasis bunk, but then looked down and saw that the camera was currently attached by Velcro to the leg of his pants. He took it up and photographed a massive dust storm that was crossing Syrtis Major. He was about to capture a second picture when he paused and looked down at the camera.
He was certain the camera had been stowed beneath his bunk. He was not prone to lapses in memory or protocol, and that is where the camera would have been during any orbital maneuvers. He snapped the second picture, and then a third, before pressing the camera back against his leg, sticking it to the Velcro.
After another couple of fork-fulls of dried beef, he took a draw off the pouch of grape juice. The meal was not bad, by Roskosmos standards; it would never beat his mother's cooking, but at least they stopped packing him borscht. Despite the fact that it was a staple of the traditional Russian diet, Mikhail had never developed a taste for it. As a child he would always eat every drop of it, however, because it would earn him some of his mother's kosinaki, the special recipe she would use with cashews instead of walnuts. It was his favorite childhood treat. He smiled as he looked down to grab some cashews from the container, but that smile disappeared quickly and his eyes grew wide at what he saw. In the container designed for cashews, shards of brittle, diamond shaped amber clung together.
It was impossible. He had brought no kosinaki with him, nor would have anyone included it in his provisions; the honey base of the dessert made it a sticky mess that was impossible to deal with in micro-gravity. He tentatively touched a chunk of it and drew his finger back, watching in amazement as a small piece stuck to his finger before momentum carried it off, cartwheeling up in front of his eyes. He lunged forward, catching it in his mouth, and smiled. The sweet taste of honey and sugar filled his mouth, despite the micro-gravity congestion that came with space flight. The sharp flavor of the smoked cashews brought him back to his mother's kitchen, the smell of the wood stove filling his nostrils. He looked down again, and saw only cashews in the container. He touched his fingertip, still speckled with tiny sticky bits of baked honey, to a cashew, which stuck to the end of his finger. He put it in his mouth and tasted an ordinary nut.
After a long moment, he finished his meal in worried silence, suddenly concerned about what a year of isolation might have done to his mind.
[NOW: Weapon X...]
Charles sat behind his desk, glaring at the monitor. In the wake of Leftwich's departure, he had suspended testing on further subjects. They still had access to the Cytorite fragment that was the crucial key ingredient to the success of the treatment; it was under heavy enough guard that even Leftwich couldn't have taken it without someone noticing. But he had yet to absorb all of Leftwich's research, and did not yet fully understand how the radiation from the fragment allowed the treatments to work, therefore he could not take chances that another subject could be killed... or worse. There was also the matter of finding a new custodian for the subjects at Mercyhaven.
"Dr. Xavier," a voice said from his doorway, and Charles looked up.
"Colonel Stryker," Charles said, dusting off his best fake smile. He stood and walked around his desk, extending his hand. Stryker shook it briskly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'll be frank, Charles. There are some ugly allegations surfacing here. Four agents defecting, another one de-powered and released into the wild, Fred Duncan turning into a vegetable, and now we have word that Leftwich is A.W.O.L. with our research."
"Leftwich took the files, but we still have the hard data backed up. It is just a matter of reconstructing the database. As far as the subjects departing, it's-"
"Defecting," Stryker interrupted.
Charles looked at the man carefully and continued. "It's a matter of both legal and moral questions. We do not have ownership of these people."
"Don't be naive, Charles. We own the tech that gives them their abilities, and they signed agreements to be subjects. We own them. The law doesn't even begin to cover what's going on here. Regardless, I've been sent here to assess the continued viability of your operation and make corrective action."
"I understand," Charles nodded. "You will, of course, have my full cooperation for your inquiry."
"No, Charles," Stryker said, "it's more than just an inquiry. I am here to take over. This project is now officially under the direct jurisdiction of the United States Military. You've allowed things to become too slack under your watch. You've allowed billions in research to simply walk away, and we're not confident that you can control this little science experiment anymore. Sergeant!"
A soldier strode into Charles' office and snapped to attention. "Sir, yes sir!"
"At ease. Sergeant Magnum will be part of the security detail that has been assigned to the lab. We can't have anyone else walking off with our research. I'll be taking over operations, and working out of Fred Duncan's old office. Sergeant Magnum will follow you down to the lab so you can introduce him and his team to the other scientists."
"Ten-{forty}, Colonel. Sergeant, let's show you to the lab." Charles nodded.
"That's ten-four, Charles," Stryker said, amused. "Ten-forty means 'run silent.' "
"Of course," Charles turned and nodded. "I meant 'ten-four.' How foolish of me." He turned again, exiting the office with Magnum in tow. Stryker stayed a moment longer, watching the two leave and then made his way to Fred Duncan's office.
[FIVE YEARS AGO: Somewhere Beyond The Asteroid Belt...]
Mikhail sat in the command seat of his ship, staring out at the stars in the unfathomable distance. Dark circles had formed underneath his eyes, and his complexion was extraordinarily pale. He was supposed to be asleep. He was supposed to be asleep for about a year now, but there was still so much to learn before he reached Callisto. How he was still alive, for one thing.
One of the reasons there were stasis chambers on the ship was that there were not enough provisions on the ship for a person to survive an eight year trip. There was enough for the one year trip to Mars, the final year of prep work on approach to Jupiter, and a year for the robots to establish a viable habitat and food source. That meant, had he eaten the entire time he was awake, he would have run out of food three weeks ago. That was not his current problem, however. He hadn't had a bite to eat in eleven months.
After a few months of being too frightened to even think about it, he had experimented again with the cashews, and managed to bring back the kosinaki on two occasions. He had also managed once to somehow turn his grape juice into cognac.
The incident with the camera had also repeated itself, appearing at hand when he thought about it. Each time, he would check the drawer beneath his bunk, and as soon as his eyes left the device, there it would be, returning itself to its resting place with new pictures he had taken. Pencils appeared in his hand when he needed to write. He unpacked and animated one of the construction drones, making it dance. He replicated a pair of boots out of nothing. But his experiments focused mainly on his food supply. Changing the flavors of his freeze dried ice cream, turning dried chicken into clay, moving a bolus of free floating water just by thinking about it. He was actually having fun with it, until one of the shrimp in his shrimp cocktail regrew its appendages, shell, and eye stalks and began to move of its own accord. It died again after just a few seconds, floating there in the zero gravity in front of Mikhail's face, but it was at this point that he decided the isolation of the solitary journey from Earth to Mars had broken his mind, and he was no longer having anything resembling fun.
He hadn't eaten anything since then. He tried, three days later, nearly mad from hunger, but he found himself shaking so badly he couldn't hold the food properly. He feared what would happen when eventually his body used up what nutrients he had within him, and suddenly, his hunger went away. Just thinking about sustenance had apparently been enough for his powers to simply take care of him. He would think about thirst, and suddenly he was quenched.
What in God's name had they done to him?
[NOW: Westchester...]
"Funny thing is," Logan continued, entering the mansion's infirmary, "I don't smell her anywhere on you, at least not the Kitty Pryde I know. Something isn't adding up, and we're going to get to the bottom of it."
"How do you propose we do that?" Bishop asked.
"Tell me about this Kate. What do you know about her?"
Cable shook his head. "She was recruited into Weapon X at a young age because she was a hacker. They gave her powers, and she was with them until the fall of Weapon X. She was with the X-Men for a while, and then the Apocalypse War happened. She gathered a bunch of the surviving mutants and tried to rebuild society deep within an underground series of tunnels. She reorganized the new X-Men as a peacekeeping police. We patrol the tunnels, and search for any sign of other survivors. Mostly, it's a lot of monitor watching."
"No," Logan said, "tell me a detail about Kitty that she would only tell someone she trusted. Someone she loved."
Cable looked to his left and then back at Logan. "It's not really like that. We don't really talk that much. We talk about the mission, we talk about the war. We talk about survivors. But she didn't really ever tell me much about her."
"Convenient," Logan chuckled.
"She did tell me about you, though. Trained killer. Ruthless and fearless. That you would stab your own mother if she stood in the way of a mission. But that you had a strong sense of loyalty, tradition and honor."
Logan's eyes narrowed.
"Anna had much the same opinion," Bishop agreed. "You were a legendary influence, Logan."
"Well, ain't I special?" Logan grunted.
"Aren't Canadians supposed to be polite?" Cable's face contorted in confusion and annoyance.
"I never told Kitty I was Canadian."
"Well, at some point she must have found out," Cable retorted.
"Unless she's not Kitty."
"Who else would she be?"
"If my nose is telling me the truth, she's the same woman Brother B here is shaggin'."
Bishop's eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility. "Anna told me she once had the ability to absorb the powers of others. She also took on their appearance. Perhaps one of the people she absorbed was Kitty Pryde?"
Cable looked dumbfounded. "No, it can't be. I've known her for years. Years! Are you telling me that I've been sleeping with a pod person?!"
"Be careful what you say about her," Bishop said. "Anna is not a pod person. She's a good woman. Her powers caused her a great deal of anguish and pain, and her step-mother- or mother, whomever Raven is to her- was not a great role model."
"She's not even the same 'Anna' as yours, even if they are technically the same person," Cable replied. "God-damn it, this alternate timeline stuff gives me a headache."
"Yeah, imagine how I feel?" Logan quipped. "I got two of ya to keep straight. But I think I may have this just about figured out. I got good news for ya, Bish. Cable isn't tappin' yer lady. Bad news is neither are you. You've been played, boys. There's no trace of Kitty Pryde on you, Radio Shack. I'm not saying that you knew otherwise, but it's the truth. Problem being, the scent of the woman you are going at it with is identical to the scent of Brother B's babe. That scent screams Raven so much that I was convinced it was her blood relative. But it's not, because there's no trace of another parent in there. It's only her."
"You're both being played by Raven Darkholme."
[THREE YEARS AGO: In Orbit Around Jupiter...]
Mikhail sat staring out the window at the gas giant planet that he should have still been four years away from. His face was haggard and unshaven, his hair tousled and unkempt. He had not slept in over a year, had not eaten in three.
It occurred to him more than once on this journey that perhaps he had actually died in that rocket explosion at Plesetsk, that his death was not, in fact, a hoax to anyone other than himself, and that he was now living in Hell. How else could he explain what was happening to him? His fuel, air, and chronology all seemingly suggested he was still three years away from his destination. Yet his instrumentation still showed he was in orbit around Jupiter, approaching Callisto. His family were Atheists, but he was beginning to doubt that the believers in his Collective had been wrong all these years.
He had been a good man, or at least tried to be, not out of fear of any reprisals from an angry God, simply because he believed in doing the right thing. What sin would he have been guilty of to end up in a torturous afterlife such as this, where you seemingly went on forever without sleep, without food, never dying? Could simple Atheism be enough? He supposed he could try to kill himself, but if the believers were right, and he should he prove successful, would he even know it? If this hellish existence wasn't actually Hell, he could think of no more fitting a punishment for suicide.
The scientist in his mind spoke up at last. He could think of no scientific possibility for what had happened, what could have transported him to his destination in half the time, but neither could he have offered any scientific rationale for the abilities he had developed since his treatment in the Red Room. If he were still alive, then there must be a rational explanation to his being this far ahead of schedule. The biggest unknown in this equation was the strange abilities the Red Room had given him. Perhaps they gave him, in addition to augmenting his physical attributes, the ability to bend space? That would account for the rapid transit to Jupiter. There would be other scientific effects that could be measured, but he wasn't prepared for those experiments.
What he had prepared for, what he had trained for, still lay ahead of him; establishing a colony on Callisto. Emerging from behind the shadow of the gas giant, the glittering surface of the moon came slowly into view, like a flower in bloom. He could sit and wonder what the Red Room had unleashed within him, getting nowhere, or he could move forward and let his mind come to terms with this new reality while he focused on completing his mission.
[NOW: Weapon X...]
"Dr. Hank McCoy, Sergeant Magnum," Charles said. "He will be taking over security here in the lab. Effective immediately, Colonel William Stryker is in charge of Weapon X." {Henry, we need to activate the Exodus Protocol.}
Hank offered an indigo-furred handshake, which Magnum took tentatively.
"Sergeant Magnum," he smiled. "Don't be alarmed. I can assure you my bark is much worse than my bite." {What exactly are we talking about here?}
"Doctor," Magnum nodded.
{There isn't much time to explain.} "Yes, Hank is our leading geneticist here, one of the most brilliant minds of our generation." {I've placed a suggestion in Stryker's head to give us forty minutes, so we have roughly thirty-eight minutes left until Stryker locks the base down.}
"Forgive him, Sergeant," Hank chuckled, "Charles is prone to bouts of exaggeration." {Who's on the guest list?}
"Now, don't be modest." {Scott, Jean, Bobby, Kitty, Sean and yourself. I haven't had time to test the others.}
"We owe most of our work here to your ingenuity," Hank countered. {What about-}
{No,} Charles interrupted mentally, {he hasn't undergone treatment yet, he can still leave without complication.} "Regardless, you have taken the ball and run quite admirably."
"So maybe Colonel Stryker can authorize you finally taking a vacation?" {Okay, so seven of us. Do you have an exit strategy?}
"I'm not going anywhere, Hank."
Hank waited for Charles to follow up telepathically, but with dawning dismay realized that the response was two-fold. "Ever the workhorse," Hank said, feeling his smile falter. {Charles, they'll kill you. Or worse.}
"Just dedicated to the cause," Charles finished. {I'm willing to take that chance.}
"Well, then," Hank said, placing a hand on Charles' shoulder. "I'll let you get back to it." {Understood. I'll make preparations.}
"Thanks, Hank." {Thank you, Henry.}
"Sergeant Magnum." Hank turned and walked out of the lab. Secreted in his belt buckle was a tiny switch, and he gingerly pressed it down. Elsewhere in the compound, five others would be receiving a signal that they knew would come one day; it was time to leave Weapon X.
[NOW: The Jovian Moon Callisto...]
Cosmonaut Boris Turgenov spoke softly into the ship's comm system as he stepped out of the landing pod. "Bozshe Moi! It's... magnificent. I did not realize the design was so large."
"Yelena, still no word from Mikhail?" Alexi asked.
"Nyet," Yelena's reply came from the command module. "The automated beacon is still in place and transmitting, but there is no new communication. Where could he be?"
"Mikhail is a dedicated worker, Yelena. We will find him with his head buried in one of the machines. Perhaps he is creating a way to make vodka out of water," Alexi smirked.
"Belay that, Shostakov," Boris scolded. "Belova, continue to monitor for life signs. Once we ascertain where Rasputin is, we can bring down the rest of the supplies."
"And then you can come down in the main lander and be the first woman to visit another world!" Alexi chuckled. "Another proud first for the Roscosmos!"
"We are approaching the airlock to the agricultural module," Boris stated. The tiny window in the airlock door beamed a brilliant golden light, making it nearly impossible to see within. "We may lose comms for a moment. If the robots have been able to follow the scheduled time frame, there should be a small crop of potatoes, corn, wheat..." He fell silent as the airlock cycled and the doors opened. "Shto?!?"
Beyond the doors of the airlock, the surface gave way to a valley of immense dimensions. Within, a golden field of wheat swayed in an impossible breeze. An orchard was visible in the distance, it's branches laden with ripe fruits of great variety. Apples, pears, oranges, peaches, a vineyard of grapes, fields of berries, pumpkins. Boris struggled to make his mouth work, his jaw hanging agape at the wonder before his eyes as he removed his helmet. "How... how is this possible?"
"Amazing!" Alexi said, following suit. "He must have planted everything he had the minute he landed!"
"No," Boris said, "the supplies on board weren't enough to create this."
"What are you talking about? This is fantastic! Look! There's a pineapple grove!"
"Shostakov, pineapples weren't even in his supplies-" He stopped again as a bumblebee, fat and loud, lazily drifted through the air before him. "This is impossible! It can't-" Boris stammered. He looked up to the top of the agricultural module and fell silent again.
The top of the space, which seemed like it rose for miles, was dominated by what appeared to be a mid-day sun.
"The impossible," Mikhail said from behind them, startling the cosmonauts, "is what I do."
"Mikhail!" Alexi exclaimed, thrilled to see his fellow cosmonaut for the first time in almost a decade. "it is good to see you comrade!"
Mikhail merely stared at Boris.
"Rasputin... how is this possible?" Boris finally asked him.
"The Red Room. They didn't send me here to create a colony. They sent me here to exile me."
"Are you mad?" Alexi asked incredulously. "Tovarisch, if they were exiling you, why would they send us?"
"Who is to say? Perhaps they are exiling you as well. The minute the ship left Mars, the computer locked out manual control. As soon as we touched down, the robots began their work. I didn't even get a chance to activate them. They accepted no input, they obeyed no command. They simply built. I realized rapidly that this mission could have been accomplished without a human pilot. And I discovered that the command to reawaken me from stasis was flawed. I was not supposed to wake up. Had I actually put myself in stasis, I would still be there, locked up inside the ship."
"You didn't go into stasis?" Alexi asked, clearly confused. "That is not possible, comrade, you would have starved to death."
"That was their fail safe. But they didn't fully understand what I had become. I am a being who needs no food, no sleep... no air. They have turned me into far more than a man."
A small blip of static interrupted their discussion. "Turgenov, this is Belova. Have you made contact?"
Mikhail stared intently at Boris, who made no motion to reply to his fellow cosmonaut. "Aren't you going to answer her?"
Boris stared back at Mikhail for a long moment before his hand finally moved to his headset. "Belova. Rasputin is here. He is alive."
A long silence answered them. "Understood."
Mikhail smiled.
[NOW: In Orbit Around Callisto...]
Yelena Belova sprang into action, keying in an emergency code and preparing to hit the execute button. They had been prepared for this eventuality- well, she and Turgenov had been, Alexi had not been briefed as to their true mission- and the scenario now called for a hasty retreat combined with a nuclear bombardment of the colony. As her right index finger lunged toward the screen, she stopped just short of it. Frantically, she pushed harder, but her finger was suspended mere inches from the spot where her print would activate the escape command. She struggled as she felt the invisible force begin to immobilize more of her hand. Her other hand shot out as if to help the first and then swerved, gripping her right wrist tightly. Her eyes grew wide as she began to pull her own hand away from the screen. Seeing motion in the reflection on the monitor, her head spun quickly and her eyes grew wide in shock.
"Nyet, Comrade Belova," Mikhail said, smiling as he stood behind her. "There is still so much for us to do. The ship is already under my command. Let's get you to the main lander, so we can properly begin our new training. Welcome to your new home."
[To Be Continued!]