Synopsis: Cracks begin to appear among the residents of
Graymalkin Lane, while Logan discovers an ancient mystery in
Alexandria, Egypt.
Disclaimer: This story was written purely to entertain, and
is rated PG-13 for language, mild violence and mature themes.
It utilizes characters and situations owned by DC Comics,
Marvel Comics, Stephen King and others without permission.
No challenge to their copyright is intended, and no profit
is sought or accepted through distribution of the work.
The prologue is available for your reading pleasure
at the Fonts of Wisdom (http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk/),
and at the Prince of Dreams archive
(https://www.angelfire.com/mn2/AlexSisterWolf/). I enjoy
reader criticism tremendously -- drop me a line at
XanderDG@hotmail.com with your thoughts.
_________________________________________________________________
X-Men: Half Lit World
by
Alexander Greenfield
Chapter I: The Library of Echoes
1_________________________________________________________________
There were nine rights of initiation in the Hellfire Club.
They dated back to the late eighteenth century, and were almost
entirely intact and unchanged. Some argued that the rituals
originated even earlier in history; that they were first bringing
the blind into the light before the Tudors tamed the Gael. A very
few of the most scholarly and aged members whispered that the
highest right of the order -- the ninth degree -- was first
practiced in the windy night of the desert long before the
Carpenter discovered his destiny and tried to save mankind that
first time.
With each initiation came a degree, and these were
hierarchical. No one except those enlightened to the
deepest and most ancient secrets were allowed to be the Knights
and Rooks, the Bishops and Queens of the most secret of societies.
Even among these masters of knowledge, discipline and power, there
was a pecking order. Only the handful illuminated by the ceremony
of the Ninth Degree were eligible to challenge for the Kingship of
the organization. Once ascended to the throne, this individual
set the policies of the powerful order, created the priorities and
strategies, and in some ways, governed the governors. One became
the man behind the curtain.
Long before that, though, there were the early degrees.
Since its modern conception, the Club had been home to the
highest strata of society. One of the great powers of the order was
its status as the most elite of the many fraternities of the rich.
Membership in the Hellfire Club was doled out by invitation only,
but these allurements were not jealously guarded. Though for
some time the Circle had been dominated by mutants whose genetic
makeup invested them with paranormal abilities, the same was not
true of rank and file members.
For the most part, these dues paying members consisted of
the rich and the bored: men and women who ran Fortune 500 firms,
commanded armies and held seats in government. For most of
their lives, everything had been handed to them, and now they
wanted a sense of danger and belonging. The Club provided them
with that. If the ultimate goals of the organization could be
shouldered by the occasional orgy, the modest use of S&M and the
utilization of imagery from DeSade, well, that was all right.
Sebastian Shaw, the Black King and Master of the order put the
combined membership funds of these dilettantes to good use.
After all, even he had to take the first degree once.
Shaw looked at his new Initiate. Certainly, they knew each
other well, and Shaw was convinced that this recruit would reach
far beyond any of the lower degrees. He knew that the Initiate
would one day join the Circle, perhaps even as his own
Lieutenant, dividing the spoils of one war or another. Despite this
surety, he ordered the Bishops to hold the Initiate (Shaw
was sure that, had he wanted, the Initiate could have dispatched
those two rubes with little thought) while the Rooks anointed the
man. The ritual of the first degree was designed mostly to produce
a blend of awe and intoxication that would be appealing to the
filthy rich.
Even though the Initiate had already seen far beyond the
veil that the first degree assumed was still in place, he reverently
went through the motions of the ritual. Shaw was pleased by this.
The Initiate might have demanded to leapfrog the usual steps --
Magneto had years ago, and the Order was still recovering from
that debacle. Instead, the new man tasted the small fruits of the
ceremony, designed only to convince the rich that they might find
a place to get their rocks off in the Club. When it was over,
the Initiate followed instructions and swore to allegiance and
secrecy. When he stood before Shaw and smiled, the Black King
knew that he had made the correct decision -- he knew that the
future of the Hellfire Club was assured.
2
Young Haroun Mohamad did not speak or read a word of
English, and even if he had, the thirteen-year-old almost certainly
would have had neither the time nor the inclination to bother with
Dickens. Still, if he did know the great British author, he would
have been happy to be called the Artful Dodger. Haroun was the
finest pickpocket on the docks of Alexandria, and now, with the
Call to Morning Prayer clearing the streets of the Faithful,
he prepared to ply his trade. Small, in little more than rags,
he practically disappeared in the abandoned doorway. He seemed
to be just another beggar boy too tired to harass the tourists.
Behind the facade, though, his keen and intelligent eyes scanned
the wealthy visitors as they walked in the Mediterranean breeze.
The early sun glinted off the water, and the temperature was close
to perfect. Haroun knew that today would bring a great catch.
Prayer time was always the best. Alexandria was a much
more devout city than Cairo, and when the mosques filled, the
streets were virtually cleared of the local populace.
Experience taught the boy that the worst thing one could
do was to touch a local -- doing so would earn an enemy for
life. One could never know when some angry shopkeeper or
laborer would appear around a corner, forcing an industrious
young man to make himself scarce. No, far better to focus
on the foreigners. He watched the oceanside road carefully,
looking for exactly the right mark.
There were three students chatting gaily in a language
whose guttural tones Haroun recognized as German. With heavy
backpacks forcing them to focus on their shoulders, one of them
would have made a perfect touch. You never went for more than
a pair, though. It was too dangerous trying to keep track of
that many eyes. Coming the other way, Haroun spotted an elderly
couple. They were white of hair and slow of foot, clearly agog
at the view of the crystal sea. Several teenagers ran up and
began conversing with the pair just as Haroun was ready to move.
A tour group was not impossible to touch, but better to take
them in the narrow streets of the city than a wide and empty
boulevard. Finally, Haroun's eyes fell on a fantastic mark.
American military guys were perfect. They walked with
their shoulders broad and chests puffed up, unafraid because
they were conquerors and protectors. Despite all evidence to
the contrary, they believed themselves to be the beloved of
the world, only moments from a private tickertape parade.
Of course, in their hearts, Haroun knew that they were always
on alert for a truckload or terrorists with rocket launchers.
This is why they were excellent sources of income -- the
slender boy was as far from a threat as one could be.
The man Haroun saw was out of uniform, in blue jeans and
a flannel shirt despite the heat, and he had wildly bushy hair
sticking out from under a johnwayne (what the boy called a
cowboy hat). Still, there was something about the way he carried
himself; this man was a soldier. With perfect calm, the boy
stepped onto the thoroughfare, trailing the short, muscular man
at a discreet distance. He walked just a hair faster, not enough
to charge the mark, but quickly enough that given time and
distance, the boy would be upon him. At one point, the man
stopped, tilting his head attentively. Could Haroun have been
made? Just in case, the boy sauntered to lean casually on the
ocean wall. In his peripheral vision he saw that the man was
only lighting a cigar -- definitely a soldier.
Carrying only a single small duffel bag, the man strolled
along at leisure. He did not look left or right, apparently
disinterested in either sea or city. Good, Haroun thought,
a man with places to go. The boy increased his pace slightly,
continuing to use the light step his father taught him. Once,
as a test, he filched a traffic officer in broad daylight and
the man never heard a thing. Haroun fell in immediately behind
the smoking man, matching him footstep for footstep. The bulge
in his hip pocket answered the only question that mattered:
no money belt; this man carried a wallet. Haroun grinned and
reached forward, tasting the lunch he would buy his family.
The world spun madly for only a moment, then he was
facing the soldier upside down. It took Haroun a moment to
realize that the man was holding him in the air by his ankle. He
grinned at the boy around his cigar, his eyes shadowed by the brim
of his hat. After puffing on the stogie and seeming to ponder the
predicament, he spoke to the child in a gravelly voice that was
perfectly friendly.
"You oughta be more careful, kid," he said. "You could
lose a hand that way." The man gently set the boy on the ground,
and Haroun jumped up, staring at the man in fear. Instead of
receiving the cuff around his ears he expected, the man tipped his
hat and turned around, continuing on his way. After considering
his options, the Artful Dodger of Alexandria, Egypt came to the
only sensible conclusion. He ran like hell in the other direction.
* * *
Logan heard the kid run away and chuckled to himself.
The truth is that the boy hadn't been half bad. Logan hadn't heard
him until he was maybe twenty yards out. There were seasoned
professionals in spandex outfits who couldn't say they had ever
matched that. A mutant, Logan's abilities were not flashy or
pyrotechnic. He could heal really fast. He could hear pretty good
(and the rest of his senses weren't half bad either). The truly
nifty stuff he could do wasn't naturally occurring; it was learned.
More or less. Logan grimaced and rubbed the back of his hand.
It had been a long stretch of years since he had been in
Alexandria, and that boy proved one thing beyond the shadow of a
doubt. A city could get image consultants, put tourism ads on
CNN and chase the hookers out of the town square, but you
couldn't change the soul of a town no matter how much you tried.
No, Logan thought, it didn't work in New York, and it wouldn't
happen here. He didn't put much stock in hoodoo or the
metaphysical, and understand, this from a man who had set his
own two feet in Hell. That Hell. Still, he knew a thing or two
about the vibes of places, and Alexandria would never be a resort.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the not entirely unpleasant
smell of the place. The salted air of the Mediterranean dominated
everything, of course, but there were plenty of other scents. As
with all cities of any size, there was decay. Decaying garbage,
mostly. Decaying plants and paint and food, too. Decaying people.
There were perfumes and spices indescribably exotic. He smelled
cooking stews and baking, sweating and labor, incense and
laundry. Underneath it all was the smell he liked the most about
the old world. It was a kind of olfactory sensation that he could
almost never find in America, except occasionally on hallowed
land in the Southwest.
Back in the States he had spoken about this once with
another spandex guy. The superhero, Daredevil had senses like
his, and like Logan, he'd spent some time in the Far East. The
men had agreed that there was a sensation they got in the ancient
cities they visited. They always identified it as a smell, but
it might have been something different that they were only reading
as a scent. It could have been something from the realm of the
sixth sense, some kind of collective memory tied inextricably to
place. Daredevil and Logan agreed that when they were in the houses
of the truly old that there was an undercurrent, a smell that read
a little bit like dust, or like the stacks of a library, or perhaps
like the unique odor of sand in the oven in the last seconds
before it transmutes into molten glass.
The odor beneath Alexandria was one of these smells.
They were fairly common all over what Kitty would have told him
at length was the classical world. Of course, Logan thought, here
there is an extra layer to the sensation. In this place there was
the undeniable aroma of soot, smoke and fire.
There had been several Egyptian governments since he had
last been in town, so naturally the names of all the streets had
changed. In his experience, Logan found that one of the first things
despots did when they came to power (always the result of being
"duly elected," of course) was to change the names of the streets to
whatever set of other despots they most revered. He pulled the slip
of paper with the address out of his shirt pocket and looked at it
carefully. Though he did not read Arabic, Logan had an excellent
memory of shapes, and could recognize the lines and circles of the
letters if he saw them again. His instinct proved correct, the
narrow avenue leading away from the ocean was his turnoff. He
ambled down the road into the heart of the ancient city.
* * *
Now, this was what Logan wanted out of an experience in
foreign lands. He walked through the bazar in the heat of the
noon sun. By the time he had passed all the way through, his
small bag could not zip shut, and he was eating a delicious
concoction that tasted of rosemary and cumin. He didn't know
what the paste consisted of, but thought that maybe it was
better that way. Logan looked again at his directions and
continued on his way.
As he moved through the living streets, he noted a
number of signs pasted to every possible surface -- from
telephone poles to the doors of shops. Some sort of political
leaflet, he supposed, but it struck him as odd nonetheless. Though
he did not know the language, it appeared to him that the notices,
which were becoming more and more frequent despite the fact that
he was moving away from the center of the city, were all upside
down. There was something else about them, too, but . . .
At last he arrived at the address he had been seeking.
Logan looked up at the building, and approved of the choice. It
was close to the dig site, but far enough away that it would not be
plagued by the constant clanking noise of the excavation. Better,
the apartment was situated above a bakery, and there was no better
way to awaken than that. The stairs to the apartment were right
next door to the entrance of the shop, and as Logan approached, a
little boy stepped out of the eatery. He was attempting to carry a
laden tray somewhat precariously balanced, and turned to take it
up the stairs. The child almost bumped into Logan, but smiled
when he looked up at him. Logan grinned back.
"That for the Doc?" The child burst into laughter, and
Logan raised an eyebrow, unsure of what the kid found so amusing
about the question. After a moment, the boy managed to stammer.
"Doctor Faraway, yes. Yes." He degenerated into the
giggles again. Logan reached into his wallet and pulled out two
bills. He took the tray from the laughing boy and handed the child
the money. "No change," the boy blurted. He was nearly
hyperventilating with laughter.
"Uhm. Don't need any," Logan said.
"Can I?"
"Can you what?" The boy reached up, and Logan finally
understood. He sighed and squatted down on his haunches. The
child's chuckling subsided, and his face took on a look akin to
wonder. Reverently, he touched Logan's mutton chop sideburns as
though petting a rabbit. After a moment, he exploded with
laughter and ran back into the bakery. Logan stood, shaking his
head, and went up the stairs.
There was only one door, and he knocked on it.
"Yes, Akbar," came the familiar female voice. "Come in."
Logan opened the door and walked inside. The room was
filled with open windows that carried in the scents of the
city, gauzy curtains blowing gently in the breeze. Dominating
the view in the distance was the dig site. A red cloud hung
over it -- the dust raised by ceaseless activity. The space
was dominated by a large oak table completely covered by books.
Indeed, the entire room could pass for a library after an
earthquake. Yet even in the apparent chaos, Logan detected
patterns. This was a workroom.
"Just leave it on the table," came a voice from the
bedroom. Logan grinned and did as he was told, then he loudly
pulled out a chair and sat. "Your money is on the table, darling."
The voice originated in the bedroom, and it seemed distracted.
Logan tilted his head to look through the door and saw his old
friend's long gray hair. She was sitting at a small desk writing
furiously. He made no response, and there was silence. Finally,
after a minute or more, he cleared his throat. Apparently, that
sound was enough. The woman sat bolt upright, and slowly turned
around. Logan smiled at her from the living area, and she was up
in a flash.
"You son of a bitch," she cried. Even with reflexes as fast
as anyone on earth, Logan was barely up fast enough for Juniper
Faraway's charge from the bedroom. She grabbed him in a hug so
fierce it nearly took his breath, kissing him on both cheeks. Then
she grabbed his head in her hands and looked at him in the eyes.
"It has been an age, old boy!"
"That it has, darlin'." She touched her forehead to his, and
for a moment they just stood. Then she released him and moved
around into the kitchen. "This calls for a toast."
"We're in Alexandria," Logan said. "They tend to frown
on bars 'round these parts." Juniper smiled at him, and pulled
two glasses and a bottle of absinth out of the cupboard.
"You are right, or course, old friend. I had to pull a
number of strings to get this flown in from Greece. But I knew I
would need it for celebrating soon."
"Knew I was coming by, didja?"
"You flatter yourself, Logan," she laughed. "No, it is
synchronicity, I tell you. Absolute synchronicity! You have come
at a wonderful moment in archaeology, old friend." She came
back to the table and set down the glasses, her excitement
palpable. Logan couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm; she
was almost sixty now, but had the same excitement about her craft
as when he'd met her.
"What'd you find, Junie?"
"That's Doctor Faraway, to a heathen like you!" She
poured two fingers of the elixir into both of the glasses, then
corked the bottle and looked at Logan triumphantly. "But I'll
tell you anyway, purely for old times sake."
"Course," he responded. Faraway raised her glass, and
Logan responded in kind, clinking them together. She only smiled
at him for a long time.
"I've finally found it, Logan," she said at last. "I have
discovered the great hall of the library of Alexander . . . and it
is completely intact!"
3
"Oh, God, chere! Slow it down! You gonna kill me!!"
Kitty groaned. She put the pillow over her ears what
seemed like hours ago, but nothing was thick enough to drown up
the commotion. Back and forth they had gone, up and down the
hall outside her room, screaming and shouting at the top of their
lungs. It was Sunday morning, and Kitty Pryde wanted nothing
more than to go back to sleep. Not bloody likely.
"That's it, Cajun," Rogue shouted. "Ah can't stop this
time!" The noise grew as they came toward her room, and faded
as they continued down the hall. Doppler effect, Kitty thought.
That's the Doppler effect. Gambit screamed at the top of his lungs
and Rogue cackled evilly. Kitty decided then and there to ask
Professor Xavier if she could get a space in one of the outbuildings
on the grounds. Hell, even a garage would be nice. The happy
couple came back up the hall chortling all the way, and Kitty
pushed off the blankets back and sat up. She ran her fingers
through her short hair and rubbed her eyes, standing to stretch.
Her room had changed recently. Sure, there was the matter
of the mansion being destroyed, and the time in England, but for a
long time her domicile was the bedroom of a child. It was only
recently that Kitty (Katherine, Kat, something else damn it) took
the posters down, threw out the junk jewelry boxes and the frilly
pink things. There were a couple of bookcases overflowing. They
contained volumes on Jewish mysticism, cabbalah, the Torah. For
the first time since she was a child in Hebrew School Kitty had
been trying to discover something about her roots. While the rest
of the residents on the hall had gone to the City for the weekend,
she had stayed in, preferring to read.
There was only a single covering on the wall, a print by
Edward Hopper. The painting was of a nearly empty movie theater
cast in hues of red and gold, with a lone woman standing off to
the side. She wore a blue usher's coat, and looked down
distractedly, as though she were guilty about something. Maybe
saddened. Kitty stared at the lithograph as she slipped into
her pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. As always, her eyes were
drawn to the woman's hand. It was drawn close to her face, perhaps
caressing her cheek. On some level, a pre-conscious one, Kitty
thought that the hand held a secret, one she was always just
shy of understanding.
"Darlin' you are absolutely crazy!" The children came
down the hall again, startling Kitty out of her reverie. That they
were both older and more well-regarded than she only made things
more annoying. She looked at the painting one last time stepped
out into the hall.
The mansion at 1407 Graymalkin Lane was a well-appointed
place. The man who owned it had good taste and money to burn,
so the antique furnishings were somewhere north of expensive and
into the realm of precious. The first thing Kitty noticed was
that Rogue and Gambit had been wise enough to move all the
obstructions out of the dormitory hall. The second thing
she comprehended was Rogue's piercing screech.
"Look out, doll!" Kitty turned her head to see Gambit
coming up the hall in a wheelchair at a speed that looked to be
around sixty-five miles an hour. He had attained this suicidal
speed with Rogue's assistance. The young woman with the white
stripe in her hair was often his partner in crime these days. She
hovered behind the chair, flying and pushing it along. They were
going quickly enough that Rogues long auburn hair was billowing
behind her. Though all the boys whispered about how cute the white
streak running down the middle was, Kitty persisted in the opinion
that it made her look like a skunk. Naturally, the wheelchair was
aimed directly at her, approaching like some half-assed projectile.
Neither Rogue's flying nor the speed with which the chair
was bearing down on her particularly surprised Kitty. The
Graymalkin house may not have had the largest concentration of
mutants with superhuman powers in the entire world, but it had
to be somewhere in the top ten. Sure, Rogue could fly, she had
strength enough to juggle cars, and the faintest touch of her skin
was enough to suck your whole consciousness away. Remy, who
insisted on the arrogant code name Gambit, could endow normal
household objects with powerful energy and toss them around to
blow things up. This gift looked very cool, but it had little in
the way of practical application unless one was in the business
of super heroing. Of course, they were all in exactly that line
of work, and Remy contributed more to society here than he might
have if he were a bouncer on some Mississippi riverboat casino.
Kitty was not without extranormal abilities herself. Just as
they bore down on her, she glared at Gambit and Rogue as she used
her power and went out of phase with the rest of the world. The
chair and its occupant passed harmlessly through her while Rogue
continued her ceaseless laughter and flew overhead. She turned
around to grin at Kitty while she floated down the hall. For his
part, Gambit hollered like the devil when he thought he was going
to hit the wall. Kitty figured it would serve him right, but Rogue
caught him in time.
"Good Lord, mon chere, I t'ought sure we was gonna flatten you
out!" Gambit smiled broadly as Rogue wheeled him back up the
hall. The girl walked this time, perhaps finding bit more control
on two feet. Kitty crossed her arms and frowned at the couple.
"Ah'm so sorry, Kat! We jest got a little carried away!"
Kitty really wanted to lay into the terrible twosome, but somehow
she just couldn't find the fury it would have required. She was as
awake as she could be now, and besides, Remy looked pathetic
enough as it was. The device on his badly broken leg resembled a
large steel birdcage. It extended from the middle of his thigh to
his ankle with spokes running in and out like some obscene
Jacob's Ladder. Gambit's recent battle with a self-described "bad
guy" over some insult or slight that Kitty could not discern
(though it was probably something to do with Honor or Pride or
General All-Purpose Villainy), uncovered a heretofore unknown
weakness. Remy got hit by a car, shattering his leg. Though
Professor Xavier had access to healing technology far in advance
of the current medicine, Gambit's leg had been broken badly enough
that he would be wheeling himself around for some time to come.
Or Rogue would, anyway.
"We wake you up, sugah?" she asked. "You look real
tired."
"Thanks a lot. You guys are having some fun, I see."
"Yeah, Rogue here done took me hostage and made her
own Danger Room right here in da hallway. It's kinda like a
wheelbarrow race."
"Uh-huh. Well. That's just great, guys. Do you think you
could, I don't know, possibly go play outside? I believe I saw
some crawdads you can suck on in duh crick," she said, mocking
Remy's Cajun drawl. "It's early and normal people are sleeping."
"Really, Kat, Ah'm sorry. We didn't even know anybody
was still . . ." Rogue couldn't finish before Remy cut her off.
"We aren't normal people, anyway. We da X-Men." Kitty
looked at Gambit for a moment, realizing that even the shortest
time spent doing anything at all with him would be enough to drive
her absolutely insane. He smiled rakishly at her, and Kitty thought
of a line from "Pulp Fiction." That'd have to be one
motherfuckin' charming pig.
"Why are you even awake, Remy? She I understand;
Rogue's an early riser. But you? You realize it's before noon,
don't you?"
"I've gone and turned over a new leaf, Miss Pryde," he said.
"Hurtin' my leg has really caused me to reevaluate my sense of
priorities, you know? 'Sides, did you know dat on the Internet
you can gamble twenty-four hours a day?"
"That's just . . . sweet. You guys know what day it is, right?
Ding-ding! That's right, boys and girls, it is Sunday! And what is
Sunday? Hm? Come on, you both know the answer."
"Why don't you tell us, cherie? You was da child prostitute,"
Remy said. Rogue snorted and quickly backed away from the man in
the wheelchair, not wanting to be near him for the fireworks that
would certainly follow. Kitty, not fooled in the slightest by his
guileless face, only tilted her head and blinked at him.
"Child prostitute?"
"Ain't dat da word? Child prostitute?"
"Prodigy, Remy," Kitty said. "Child prodigy."
"Hm."
"Ah think what she's saying," Rogue offered, "is that
Sunday is the day of rest, so why don't we knock it off so Kitty
can sleep."
"Two points for the pretty girl with the stripe," Kitty
responded. "I'm up now anyway, guys. Have fun, uhm, running in
the hall. Just not with scissors in your hand; you'll put your
eye out." Kitty turned to walk down the hall to the stairwell.
Desire for sleep had given way to a need for breakfast.
"T'anks mama," said Remy.
"And don't jump on the bed," Kitty advised over her
shoulder.
"An' you better not go swimmin' for half-an-hour after
you eat!" called Rogue. Kitty walked down the stairs with a grin,
and before she had descended even one flight, she heard the pair
zooming up and down the hall again. Why begrudge them their
fun, she thought, at least somebody was having it.
4
The Happy Hippo Cafe practically glowed in the morning
sunshine. An airstream diner right out of the fifties, the sun
glinted off of it in such a way that the business people hustling
by were illuminated by the reflection off the chrome. There was
some level of modest perfection in its location. A squat
structure dwarfed by the Manhattan skyscrapers that surrounded it,
the eatery managed to find the only direct sunlight in the area.
All through the early hours of the day, it basked in the sun like
its massive African namesake.
Scott Summers watched the people moving by. He sat in a
window booth awaiting the arrival of his wife. A good-looking
man in his late-twenties, Scott was big enough that few people had
the inclination to ask him questions about the ruby red wrap
around shades that he always wore. His presence was aloof and
commanding, born of years of leadership experience and self-
discipline. This appeared to be a man without the time or patience
for silly questions, even if his shades were goofy looking. It
wasn't always the case, of course. There had been questions back
at the orphanage. Scott had been asked plenty of questions,
indeed.
He took another bite of the half-eaten danish in front of
him, chasing it with a swallow of the hot coffee that the
officious Asian waiter had been "warming up" every few
moments. Scott was still elegantly dressed, as he had been when
he left Jean the night before. He wore a black Armani with a
turtleneck underneath, looking to all the world like the richest
beatnik alive. He saw a flash of red move by outside, and
moments later, his erstwhile wife came in the front door.
Naturally, she didn't look around for the party she had come to
meet. She turned right to him and made a beeline for Scott
with a broad smile on her face.
"Hey, lover," she said. She kissed him before sliding into
the seat opposite, and he grinned at her broadly despite his subtle
annoyance. "Sorry I'm late. I went over to Graymalkin last night
and the Professor and I spent the whole evening in nostalgia land.
I didn't even get home until after three in the morning."
"Sounds exciting."
"That's a laugh." She lowered her voice. "Though I would
imagine that anyone else would have thought we were both nuts.
Two telepaths yakking at each other probably appears to have all
the animation of a wax museum." Like a teenager, her hand found
his on the table. Scott looked at her from behind his glasses for a
moment before smiling and lacing his fingers with hers.
"What about you," Jean continued.
"Hm?"
"How was the party?"
"Oh, you know. Once you've been to one bachelor party,
you've pretty much been to them all. Drinking, dancing,
strippers -- the usual."
"Scintillating. I've got to meet this guy sometimes."
"Absolutely. You and Rory would get along great." Scott
looked at his watch abruptly. "We really need to get going though.
We have to run the kids back to Xavier's."
"Oh. You're right, let me just . . ." Jean reached across the
table to grab a big hunk of Scott's danish, putting the massive bite
in her mouth. Scott smiled at her and walked up to the front of the
restaurant to pay at the register. He must not have noticed the
look of wide-eyed horror that came across Jean's face when she tried
to swallow.
She tried to call after Scott as he moved away, but no
sound escaped her throat. Desperately, her hands fumbled on the
table to grab the coffee, spilling more than she managed to keep in
the cup. She tried to swallow some, but the hot liquid only spilled
down her face, burning painfully. Jean tried to squeal at the pain
from the coffee, but no noise escaped. The pastry was lodged in
her throat, and nothing would get it free.
Jean used her telepathy to scream out at Scott. They had
enjoyed an easy rapport for many years, but this time her white
knight did not come running. Instead, he stood at the register,
oblivious to her psychic cries for held, calmly pulling out his
wallet. In a full on panic, instinctively clawing at her throat,
she did the only thing she knew how.
There was a long counter at the front of the restaurant
where single folks sat to eat the Happy Hippo's diner fare. With
the morning dragging on, there were only four men there now,
placidly chewing their cholesterol busting hash browns and
sausages. When all of their food flew away from them, smashing
into the opposite wall, the men drew back in horror. For a moment,
the entire space fell into chaos, plates and glasses flying as
though possessed by some mythical poltergeist. Several people
charged from the restaurant in fear, while others rushed to the
windows, convinced that some super hero duel must be right around
the corner.
Scott looked around at the commotion, his instincts for
battle honed. He finally turned back to where Jean was sitting,
and his eyes narrowed. The Asian waiter stood behind her. He was
manhandling her like a rag doll, jerking her up and down. Scott
battled through the crowd, pushing everyone out of his way with
ease. He arrived at the table with his hand cocked back, ready to
pound the slight man into oblivion. Jean was the worse for wear
from the attack, her normally beautiful pale skin giving way to a
sickly shade of blue. Objects flew through the air in a windless
cyclone.
"Let her go!" The waiter paid no attention to the tall man
in the wrap-around shades. Instead he continued the assault on
Jean, his face a mask of concentration. Scott lifted his hands,
prepared to pull Jean to safety and revenge her upon the little
man. Just as he stepped forward, a large piece of danish
exploded from her mouth, and Jean collapsed in the man's arms.
Scott frowned.
The waiter gently sank to his knees, taking Jean with him.
She coughed and gagged furiously, sucking in as much air as she
could. As quickly as the kinetic storm of material in the restaurant
had begun, there was a loud crash as every airborne object in the
place dropped to the floor. The remaining patrons and staff stared
at the trio with narrowed eyes, suspicious and frightened.
Scott kneeled down as well, and Jean lurched forward into
his arms. She wept, big wretched sobs of frustration and fear.
Scott ran his fingers through her long red hair.
"Shhh," he said. "It's all right. Come on, Jean. It'll be
okay." They rocked on the floor, oblivious to the commotion
around him. The waiter stayed on his knees, breathing heavily.
He puffed out his cheeks on a final exhale and stood slowly.
When the wait staff came forward, he waved them off to avoid any
more of a crowd forming around the couple.
"I'll make it," Jean said. "Just give me a second, 'kay?"
Scott only held her, his face miles away, unreadable. The waiter
reached down, offering the pair a hand up. Jean accepted, while
Scott stood on is own, continuing to regard the man with
consternation.
"You all right?" the waiter asked.
"I'm getting there. Thank you so much. You saved my
life."
"Nah. Your friend here would've done the same after he
punched my lights out." The waiter smiled at Scott, and after a
moment, the mutant smiled back from behind his glasses.
"Sorry," he said.
"No worries." The waiter grinned at Jean. "Let that be a
lesson to you."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't eat off of other people's plates. Next time," he
advised, "you buy your own."
Jean smiled weakly, and Scott pulled out his wallet in another
attempt to settle the tab. The smiling waiter waived him off. "On
the house."
"You sure? It's no problem . . ."
"Absolutely," the waiter interrupted. He turned his
attention to Jean. "You've had a rough morning. Just promise
to come back real soon."
"We will," she said. "Just make sure I stay away from the
pastries."
Scott and Jean made their way to the door under the
paranoid scrutiny of the other patrons. Jean became sure that
there was something otherworldly about the staring moon faces,
something sleek and stupid and hungry. Scott kept his arm
protectively around her as they exited, unafraid of anything. The
waiter stood looking silently after them. After a moment, he
began cleaning up the mess.
5
He knew it was coming long before he even rounded the
corner. He knew it was coming because it had come so many
times before, from around so many different corners and curves,
alcoves and doorways. There were a number of signs. The other
kids would desperately attempt not to look at him, and their
painful efforts at being inconspicuous made them all the more
noticeable. People had always stared at Kenny Thompson. He
was not unusual looking in any obvious way. Perhaps he was
small for his age, and his hair had the tendency to stand on end
all winter long, but nothing more than that. No, when the other
boys and girls set their jaws and furrowed their brows in
concentrated effort not to look at him, it meant something bad
was headed his way from just around the bend.
Kenny's backpack was slung over one shoulder, and he
looped his arm through the other side, making sure that it was
zipped up. Whatever was coming, he wanted to make sure that his
stuff didn't blast all over the hallway again. Whatever torture
was awaiting him would only be worsened if he had to spend the
aftermath picking up his books.
Worse than the laughing classmates were the helpful ones.
There was always some girl, a pretty one who was ready to help
him pick up his books and give him a smile of commiseration.
"You'll get through this," the look always seemed to say. Or
maybe it was saying, "boys will be boys, keep a stiff upper lip."
Or possibly, "why don't you stand up for yourself you miserable
little shit?"
With his blond hair long and unruly, the boy didn't look
anywhere near his thirteen years. He was smart, but more and
more, he regretted skipping to high school. He was freak enough
around kids his own age. Kenny wore corduroys more and more
often, and with what was coming, he did not regret that decision at
all. The gentle zwhip-zwhip sound of the fabric on his legs acted
as a calming noise, like one of the goofy tapes dad listened to
when he was trying to quit smoking. As he came to the corner in
the third floor hall, he felt the tingling feeling of his hair
standing up. Despite the fact that he could expect to be the
recipient of a wedgie or get stuffed in a locker again when he
rounded the bend, Kenny sped up, keeping his legs close together.
By the time he came to the corner, his hair was almost sticking
straight up.
As soon as he came around, he saw Bruce Moyers in his
letter jacket. The large senior was standing with his posse,
talking in a forced and ridiculously affected ebonics entirely
out of keeping with the traditional accent of a Weschester kid.
Regardless, Bruce had some kind of internal radar at work.
Without ever turning from the chick he was scamming on, his right
foot came out to trip Kenny and send him sprawling to the floor.
The other kids watched in unapologetic fascination.
Kenny saw the foot in plenty of time to avoid it if he
wished, but now he no longer wanted to. Indeed, he veered toward
Bruce to be absolutely sure of falling flat on his face. In the
scant moments before the contact, he noticed the other kids' grins.
He saw Sheila Lancaster lean to whisper in Doug Philips' ear.
More than anything else, though, Kenny focused on the
outstretched foot of Bruce Moyers.
The very instant that his foot struck Bruce's, there was a loud
pop in the hall. The noise echoed like a backfire, or the sound of a
starter's pistol. Kenny felt he was falling in slow motion, a smile
spreading on his face. The other kids instinctively flinched at the
loud crack, and Bruce made a high-pitched screech that made
Kenny think of the time Mrs. Hanahan found a frog in her desk in fifth
grade. An ozone smell filled the air, and the flash of static charge
when their legs met was as bright as the bulb on a camera. The pale
flourescent lights dimmed for a moment as Kenny was falling.
Kenny's face struck the floor hard enough that he was
dazed for a moment, his ears ringing. He tasted blood, and a
search with his tongue made him realize that his lip was split
pretty good. After a moment, he realized that the ringing in his
ears was only part of the noise filling his consciousness. The fire
alarm was going off as well, and there was the ceaseless sound of
Bruce's screaming. Kenny looked up and saw four or five
members of the boy's posse carrying the writhing boy away. His
leg was smoking slightly.
Kenny was peripherally aware of Sheila leaning down to
see if he was all right. To say something profound to him about
how this wouldn't last forever, about how boys will be boys, and
Bruce isn't usually such a creep. He looked at her, and saw her
pert little smile fall away. She stood and backed away from the
boy with his hair standing perfectly on end. There was something
about the way he smiled at her despite the blood flowing freely
from his nose and mouth. It frightened her. It scared Sheila badly.
6
The kitchen was on the west side of the main house, and
with the lights off it was still dark at this time of day. The space
was fit for a gourmet, featuring the finest cookware and most
elegant cutlery. However, this was the home of a rotating cast of
young people ranging from their early teens to their mid-twenties,
so the implements that received the most use were the microwave
and a large pot that was permanently stained ramen noodle brown.
Kitty dug around in the freezer, finally settling on some waffles for
her morning nosh. She shut the door and turned around to drop
her food in the toaster and pour herself a cup of coffee.
There was a large round table in the breakfast nook, and
Kitty went to sit down. Xavier subscribed to a variety of
newspapers from around the country, and he always left them
conspicuously on the table. It was an attempt to get his students to
focus on the world outside. She sat with her hands steepled in front
of her, fingertips touching lightly, paying focused attention to the
slim ray of sunlight that had just begun its slow trek across the
room. Dust motes crisscrossed the sunbeam, each individual
particle identifiable among the uncountable number that filled it.
From Kitty's position across the room, the thin column of light
almost appeared to be a solid, dancing thing. Her brow
furrowed when she considered how like the column of light she
became when she used her power to become insubstantial. She
was in the world, perhaps, but not of it.
Kitty sipped her coffee and looked through the papers. In
all her years around Graymalkin, only she and Scott ever really
seemed interested in the outside worlds of politics, culture and the
universe at large. Certainly, there was a great interest in the place
of mutants in society, but this was really a part of their own milieu.
No, for the most part, the X-Men, canny and otherwise, all lived in
an ivory tower. Judging from the front pages of the papers, if
Professor Xavier's intention was to pull their minds away from
stratospheric super hero concerns, then the daily news was the
wrong way to go about it. Heroes and villains were everywhere,
fighting in the streets, in the air and on the sea. She groaned, and
thought about taking a vacation.
Finally, she settled on the Village Voice -- it could always
be trusted to act as a diversion from weighty issues. When in
doubt, the editorial staff down in the Village would just make up
their own righteous indignation. As always, she opened the paper
to the ribald advice columns in the back ("I'm A Left-Handed
Lesbian, Where Do I Find A Good Vibrator That's Easy To
Hold?"), followed shortly thereafter by the mildly titillating "entre
nous" personal ads ("Dom Seeks Sub For Torturous Good Time").
While she was scanning the pages in the back, she came across an
advertisement that captured her eye. It was sandwiched between
the more and more ubiquitous advertisements seeking human
guinea pigs for clinical trials, and the equally suicidal ones
seeking bike messengers in Manhattan. Judging from the first line
of the ad, Kitty was exactly the target audience.
MUTANTS
Writer seeks interviews with demonstrable mutants about growing
up different for upcoming fiction project. Previously published in
The Atlantic, Maxim, Playboy, others. Discretion assured.
Below that there was a number to call. She stared at the ad
for some time. Obviously, she couldn't yak with some soapbox
rider about the pain and angst of a mutant youth. She was an X-
Man after all. She had a higher calling. Still, the Dream of
mutant-human harmony was more achievable through talk than
through explosive battles in the middle of Times Square. The
Professor might not even mind; Kitty was articulate, cultured and
intelligent -- who better to act as a sort of stealth spokesperson
for the cause. Besides, how many kids can say that they've been
to other planets before their twentieth birthday. Before their
fourteenth, to be technical about it. Kitty had a childhood
that made running away to join the circus look like a prudent and
conservative decision. More than that, though, there was the
burning desire to simply talk to somebody who was not directly
involved in the mad opera of life that seemed to revolve around
Graymalkin Lane.
It was only a quick conversation on the phone. What could
be the harm in that?
Just that fast, the potent cocktail of being angry, tired and
bored had convinced her. Kitty crossed the kitchen, retrieved her
lukewarm eggos and picked up the phone. She dialed, nearly
hanging up after the first ring. She persisted instead, and after the
fourth ring, an answering machine picked up. Kitty had already
formed a mental image of the ad writer -- a sort of John Updike
clone with John Grisham eyes. She imagined a man looking to
write a Great American Novel, a post-modern Gatsby about the
alienation of the most marginalized group in contemporary society.
Rather than the gruff, Hemingway voice she had been expecting,
she was amused to hear a young woman who sounded rather like
herself.
"Hi. You've reached Rose Walker. Leave me a message
after the beep." After the tone, Kitty did just that.
7
"There were three fires, each more intense than the last,"
Juniper said. "People have always been frightened of knowledge.
They have always preferred to live their lives in the dark, unaware
of the true nature of their half lit world. The Library of Alexandria
was the greatest repository of knowledge that the world has ever
known."
"So naturally every third tyrant 'round these parts wanted it
gone."
"Worse than that, old friend. Every third despot tried to
erase its very existence from the history of the earth. The first was
Rome, of course. Old Julius himself burned the library to the
ground out of love for Cleopatra. The last time was in the fifth
century. Do you know Hypatia?"
"Nope," Logan said. "I knew one once, but I don't tell the
tale in mixed company."
"She was a mathematician -- the very paradigm of evil in
that day and age. A group of angry monks burned her to death on
the ashes of the library for her heretical teachings. They say that
she had discovered the basic algebra of the universe using the
Great Hall of the library as a guide. This shook the foundations
of the Faith so that they felt the only rational response was to
burn the whole thing to the ground and salt the earth where it
stood. For fifteen-hundred years the notion that Hypatia's
discovery was lost to the ages has been treated as doctrine. Now, I
know differently."
The wind shifted, carrying in the sounds of pick and shovel
from the dig site. Juniper split her lunch with Logan, a delicious
concoction of garbanzo beans and spices spread over pita. The
food had long since been consumed, as had half of the powerful
absinth. Though he enjoyed drinking, it was virtually impossible
for Logan to become drunk due to the peculiarities of his
physiology. For her part, Juniper's tolerance was born only of
years of practice. Even so, the combination of opiates and alcohol
that made up the legendary liquor had certainly served to loosen
the both of them. Both taciturn by nature, Logan and Juniper had
indulged in a marathon of conversation, and the high Mediterranean
sun had already given way to the more subdued tones of early
evening. She smiled at him and refilled their glasses.
"Okay, Junie, what'd you find?"
"We were digging at the site of one of the grain depots
where volumes were hidden from the Caesars when I discovered
something . . ." She paused, attempting to find the word "I found
something incredible. I found a map to the Great Hall of the
Library of Echoes."
Logan frowned. In his brief time spent among
archeologists years ago, he heard whispers of the Library of
Echoes, but it was treated as myth, or fantasy. He looked at
Juniper intently. "You sure you want another glass, darlin'?
You're talking about finding a legend. There wasn't ever really a
fourth library in Alexandria."
"No? Come now, old friend. The greatest minds of
geometry and cosmology were in residence here for hundreds of
years. Yet while every other discipline in Alexandria produced the
most important works of classical culture, their combined efforts
led to nothing? No, Logan, what they produced was incredible.
Perhaps more important than anything else in antiquity."
She leaned forward, looking deep into his eyes in the
fading light. Logan smiled uncomfortably at his old compatriot,
taken aback by her intensity. "What'd they find? That earth ain't
the center of the universe?"
"Close, Logan. I believe that they found the thing that is
at the center. Not just the center of the universe, no. They found
the center of everything." She stood and came around the table.
"Come, I'll show you."
* * *
The streets were quieter as they moved through them.
Shopkeeps were closing, and the vendors were folding their tables
and pulling in their wares for the night. As they moved closer and
closer to the dig site, there were more and more of the odd
handwritten signs glued up. The strange inverted arabic continued
to strike Logan, but Juniper paid the signs no mind. He brushed
off his concern. Too much time in the spandex club, he figured.
As they walked through the twilight, Juniper continued
talking about the importance of the discovery of the library.
She told him that it might be the most important discovery ever,
that it might turn modern science on its ear. Logan loved Juniper
like a sister, but at a certain point his brain just shut down.
He did the same thing when Charlie Xavier or Hank McCoy got their
panties in a bunch about this or that. Go on auto pilot and nod
in the right places. Logan was a visceral man. He wanted to smell
it, taste it or touch it. Thinking about it was almost always
overrated.
He was lost in his own thoughts when he saw the car.
Logan frowned at the strange vehicle, both for the way it looked
and the odd smell it was giving off. He glanced at Juniper, but she
seemed not to pay it even peripheral attention, then he looked back
at it. He realized that what was strange was not the smell as much
as the complete lack of it. Normally, just about everything gave of
a scent of one kind or another. This big, pretty beast gave up
nothing. It was there, but it wasn't.
The vehicle looked a great deal like a 1958 Plymouth Fury.
Except that it wasn't. The fins were too big, for one thing. They
were overextended and too tall for the chasse of the car. The front
was wrong, too. It was boxy and streamlined instead of defined by
the curves that made American cars in the 1950s so appealing.
There was more, as well. A number of small inaccuracies that
made the automobile seem like a fake. Not to speak of the fact
that it was painted an almost atomic green. And that it was sitting
on the edge of a desert in Alexandria, Egypt, shimmering.
Logan frowned at the vehicle as they passed close by it. It
was idling quietly, but instead of the heat Logan usually felt
lightly on his skin when near a running car, he felt only a
disquieting sense of cold. The windows were tinted black, and
he couldn't see into the green monstrosity, but Logan got the
feeling that he was being watched. He realized he was stopped,
staring at the vehicle with something like rage when Juniper
called to him.
"Logan? You all right?" He turned to look at her, and
forgot why he was so angry. He looked back at the car for
only a moment before jogging to catch up with his friend.
* * *
They had to descend a number of ladders to reach their
destination. The room was so large that their footfalls echoed
in the growing darkness. There were only shafts of natural light in
this cavernous room at brightest noon, not to speak of that late
dusk when the sun finally dips below the horizon. Logan saw well
in the dark, but even with his advanced senses, all he could make
out were shapes and shadows. There was a monolithic column in the
center of the room with spokes or bridges leading away from it to
recesses high on the sandstone walls.
"They called it the Library of Echoes not because of the
sound," Juniper said. Logan turned to the sound of her voice to
find that she was only a shadow standing by equipment on one
edge of the cavernous room. "They gave it that name because they
believed that what they had discovered would ripple out across the
world and change everything it touched.
"That it would ripple out across every world." Juniper
threw a switch, and a series of massive halogen lamps sprung to
life around the room. Logan was awestruck at the enormity of the
space, and the complexity of the work required to put it together.
The surface of the floor was covered by a writing unlike any
hieroglyphic that he had ever seen. The strange, crosshatched
markings were everywhere. Logan kneeled down to look at the
intricate filigree and was astounded by the level of detail in each
and every mark. It reminded him of Japanese calligraphy, but even
more delicate. Juniper came to stand beside him, the pair dwarfed
by the sheer size of the room. She pulled her long gray hair back
into a simple ponytail and painfully kneeled beside him.
"It's amazing, Juniper."
"I have been over this entire space a hundred times, Logan,
and do you know what I have found?"
"What?"
"I cannot find the repetition of a single character. Not even
one."
"That's impossible," Logan said, standing to look around
the room. It was nearly the size of a football field, and the
pictograms on the floor only took up a few inches each. There had
to be hundreds of thousands.
"Except for there." She pointed to the center of the room.
A massive obsidian column rose from a depression, a black
Goliath dominating the entire space. At some point in the past,
the very top of the dark tower had been broken, and it laid off to
one side glittering under the lights. Seven ebony spokes radiated
off of the tower and into recesses in the wall, and at the
termination of each of these beams there was another symbol, this
one different stylistically than the writing on the floor. The most
fascinating work was on the tower itself. A repetitive pattern of
traditional hieroglyphics, Greek, Hebrew and Arabic lettering
spiraled up the column. Logan turned to Juniper.
"What does it all mean?"
"I don't know yet, but I'm close. I am very . . ." She was
cut off by chirping. They both turned to see a single cricket
at their feet. It seemed to look up at them. It ran its
legs together, singing a gentle song that echoed time and again in
the empty chamber. Logan kneeled and held out his finger. The
small creature obligingly jumped on, continuing its tune. Logan
turned to look at Juniper in the eyes.
"How do I help?" he asked.
8
If the first degree served principally to part the wealthy and
bored from their money, then the second was a more martial
initiation right. The Hellfire Club had long since learned the
painful lesson that paid mercenaries were useless to any long term
plan of operation. They had a tendency to value their own lives
more than the lives they were meant to protect, an unacceptable
quality for any organization's expendable pawns. Under Shaw's
leadership, the Club had begun a campaign to recruit the young
toughs of New York who fancied themselves magicians. These
youths were taken from every tradition, youthful voodoo bocors
from Harlem, magik boys from the Goth scene in Manhattan, even
the skinheads out of Staten Island with their creepy white power
rituals.
Shaw saw to it that these diverse youths were given just a
taste of real power in addition to being taught how to use a gun.
They were mostly weak of will -- joiners typically were -- but they
made ideal foot soldiers during those times when more physical
interventions were required. They certainly did not run at the first
signs of trouble like the rent-a-guns the Club had used in the
eighties. The second degree was as high as any of these kids had
ever made it. High enough that they could be bonded to the order
for all time through the use of ancient ritual, but low enough on
the totem pole that they could never make decisions. Best of all,
the kids felt a debt of gratitude to Shaw as an individual, and acted
as a sort of Pretorian guard whenever the need arose.
The ritual itself was simple and standard. It consisted of
imagery from the Western Magickal Tradition of Crowley coupled
with some American Indian elements of Shaw's own selection. In
theory, it would endow whoever successfully completed it
with an aura of invincibility so complete and awe-inspiring that
nobody would dare to raise a hand against the initiated. Of course,
Shaw and his Queens knew that this was testosterone appealing
poppycock no more powerful than the Lord's Prayer prior to the
big game, but it had its uses. The Initiate was likewise aware of
the intricate fallacies in which he was preparing to participate.
Over many long years, he had defeated a great number of
the Club's muscle. Whatever power might be gained through the
ritual of the second degree was no match for skill, wit and a
powerful mutant ability. Nonetheless, it pleased to Initiate to be
taking the degree because he knew better than most that ends
almost always justified means. He allowed the Queens to inflict
their little tortures; indeed, the Initiate might have obtained some
pleasure from them. He bowed when appropriate, and spoke the
right words, but through it all, his mind was elsewhere. The
Initiate thought mostly of the whispers in the darkness he had
heard, and how events were already hurtling forward at an
unlimited clip. When he rose before the Inner Circle, sweaty
and out of breath, his smile was broad and genuine. Things were
already beginning to move on, and he was at the center of it all.
To Be Continued
_________________________________________________________________
NEXT: Events begin to converge as Logan mines the library's
secrets, Kitty has lunch with a familiar redhead and Xavier
receives a most peculiar warning. Come back again for . . .
Half Lit World
Chapter II: The Broken Surface
Go to Chapter 2!
