Chapter 14
"Dat enough, Jean?" Remy eyed the mound of grated cheese before him.
Jean looked over from her position by the stove. "Looks like it. Thanks."
"No problem." Remy set the remaining hunk of cheddar down in its wrapper and happily pushed the cutting board with the mounded scrapings away. That's what he got for hanging around in the kitchen while breakfast was in the works. It was a small price to pay for Rogue's company. She had breakfast duty today, along with Jean.
At the moment, the object of his attention was cheerfully ignoring him as she chatted with Jean about the day's plans. Remy didn't mind. It was a tease and they both knew it. So did Jean, and since she was tolerant enough to play the middleman, the atmosphere in the kitchen was festive.
Remy sipped his coffee. He was seated at the little breakfast bar that lined the back of one of the legs of the U-shaped counter. Rogue stood directly across from him, facing away as she rolled out the dough for her much prized scratch biscuits. Remy admired the view without comment, mostly for Jean's sake. Rogue's wardrobe had gone through a startling metamorphosis due to her new control of her powers. It was a subject of some spirited discussion among the male members of the household-- she was proving to be as showy in her tastes as Psylocke. This morning's short cutoffs and halter top were no exception. Jean noticed his attention and gave him a look of mock disgust that was spoiled by the smile that kept creeping onto her lips. Remy gave her his best "Who me?" innocent expression. Jean wagged her wooden spoon at him in silent warning.
With her back turned, Rogue was unaware of the exchange. She continued telling Jean about the play they were all supposed to be seeing that night. Remy and Jean both fought to keep from laughing out loud at her obliviousness. Remy was impressed when Jean managed to answer a question in a nearly-normal voice.
Rogue turned around. She put her hands on her hips, leaving flour smudges. "Y'all are havin' an awful lot a fun at mah expense," she said severely, but her smile belied her tone.
"I was just telling Remy to behave himself," Jean answered without a trace of remorse. "Defending your honor, as a good friend ought." Remy wasn't sure how she kept a straight face.
A familiar, wicked twinkle lit Rogue's eyes. "If ah was concerned about holdin' on ta mah honor, girl, ah'd be datin' somebody else." Both of Jean's eyebrows went up in surprised amusement at her implication.
"Is dat an invitation, chere?"
Rogue met his challenging stare without fear. "If ya think ya'all are up to it," she replied. Her smile was downright predatory. Then she gave him a last, sultry look and turned back to her biscuit-making.
Jean leaned against the counter, chuckling. "Remy," she told him in an undertone, "you are in so much trouble."
"Don' I know it," he answered in the same undertone. "But dat's de fun of it, neh?" Rogue's teasing was still only teasing, though the relationship was slowly working its way toward changing that. Remy didn't mind. Foreplay was entirely too much fun to rush.
Eventually, Rogue had all of the dough cut into rounds and laid out on cookie sheets that she stacked beside the oven, preparatory to baking. Then she crossed the kitchen to help Jean chop up the remaining omelet ingredients. That put the three of them in friendly proximity, with Remy facing the two women over the counter. Rogue's collar had been converted by Forge into a heavy but decorative necklace, which glinted in the light as she moved. She had three of them now, of various styles, and she and Jean were deep in a discussion about which would look best with a certain dress. Remy tuned them out. It was one of those mystifying female discussions, especially when they started talking about colors. He had yet to understand why they didn't simply call a blue dress "blue". It had to be teal or sea foam or some other such bizarre label, the true meaning of which he would never decipher.
He scraped the remains of a pepper into the bowl and looked up to see if Jean wanted any more. He froze in shock. Over Rogue's shoulder he could see a man standing in the doorway. But his mutant power hadn't detected anything, though he could feel other members of the X-Men moving around in parts of the house that were much further away.
The man was dressed in black combat fatigues and held a high power energy weapon. Heckler and Koch. A detached corner of Remy's mind identified the gun. He had a split second vision of what that gun could do-- of Rogue, head thrown back in agony as the beam lanced through her, the edges of the wound licked by flames as flesh and bone were consumed, and the air filled with the sickly sweet smell of burning meat.
"Get down!" Remy roared and dove over the counter at the two women. His speed and agility were such that neither woman knew what was happening until they were on the floor.
"Remy, what--?" Rogue struggled to roll over despite having had the breath knocked out of her. But Remy was already up and running for the doorway.
"Cerebro! Intruder on the grounds!" he yelled at the air, knowing the system would monitor him despite its invisibility. Immediately, alarms began to blare throughout the house.
Cards slipped easily into his hands as he ran. He charged them without thought, but his target had disappeared from the doorway. He dove through and rolled to his feet, aware of possible ambush, but there was no one in the hallway in either direction. His mutant power catalogued each of the X-Men, but nothing outside of that. Scott and Hank rounded the corner at a dead run, slowing when they saw him.
"What happened?" Scott demanded.
"Where is he?!" Remy was still searching the hall.
"Where is who? Cerebro isn't registering any unauthorized presence." Scott looked over Remy's shoulder to the two women who had emerged from the kitchen. Jean shook her head and Rogue shrugged.
"Sorry, sugar. Ah didn't see him."
"He was dere."
"Then we'll have to search the grounds." Scott began giving orders into his communicator. Cerebro had already locked the facility down, but Remy knew a few people who wouldn't be stopped by that. Still, there was nothing to do but search in the hopes that this man wouldn't be one of them.
The search took three hours and turned up absolutely nothing, even with all of the X-Men participating. Remy was in a black mood and beginning to doubt his sanity by the time they gave up and gathered in the war room.
"Can you describe this man?" the professor asked Remy.
"'Course. You t'ink I'm halucinatin', don' you." It wasn't really a question. He could hear the skepticism in the Professor's voice.
"Not necessarily." The professor raised a hand to forestall further protests. "But the physical evidence does not seem to indicate that there was ever anyone present in the house. Neither Cerebro's sensors nor Wolverine's nose could find traces of anything unusual. Also, considering the amount of psychic trauma you have been subjected to of late, I cannot rule out the possibility that this was a hallucination. However, this is the X-Men, and strange things often happen here. Please, describe the man you saw."
Only somewhat placated, Remy concentrated on the image of the man standing in the doorway. "He was 'bout six foot two, two hundred, maybe. Blond hair-- real short. Military style. Dark eyes, brown, maybe. Clean shaven. Had a scar at de corner o' his right eye." He indicated the location. "Prob'ly a knife wound."
"What makes you say that?"
Remy shrugged. "Straight an' clean. Might a been a bullet graze. Most everyt'ing else makes more of a mess."
The professor took a moment to consider the explanation. He seemed a bit surprised by the analysis. Eventually he indicated that Remy should continue.
"He was wearin' black fatigues. Didn' see no insignia. Pretty standard equipment, 'cept de gun-- dat was a Heckler and Koch energy rifle. De eighty-eight, wit an extended power pack."
Bishop leaned forward. "That is one of the most powerful hand weapons of this time period."
"Expensive, too," Logan agreed in his customary growl. "No punk off the street could afford something like that. This guy sounds like a professional."
"If he isn't just a figment of Gambit's imagination," Archangel amended.
"I know what I saw, Wings," Remy answered coldly. "He was dere."
"Enough." The Professor's tone silenced them both. "We can run Gambit's description through Cerebro and the various agencies to which we have access. Perhaps we can settle this mystery by identifying the man."
The Professor entered the information, then sat back and waited. A little yellow smiley face appeared on the screen-- Hank's addition to the programming-- which signaled that the machine was searching. After twenty minutes or so, the input screen disappeared and was replaced by a photograph of a man's face. Remy recognized him immediately. The photo retreated to the upper left hand corner of the screen. Data filled the rest.
"Well, whaddaya know," Logan said.
"Is this the man?" the professor asked. Remy nodded.
The man's name was Edward Toussant. He was a professional mercenary, currently known to be a member of the Star Company.
Remy felt a strange stab of relief, followed by more confusion. He had been secretly afraid that he had been hallucinating. But the man he'd seen was real. And in the business, though what a mercenary company would want with the X-Men, he couldn't guess.
"If this Toussant was here in the house, he wasn't alone." That from Logan.
"How y' figure dat?"
Logan fingered his watch. "I've run across Star Company before. I know their breakers-- they're good enough to get in here. But this guy ain't one of 'em. He'd have to have help."
"What do you know about Star Company, LeBeau?" Bishop's tone was completely flat. It set the hairs on the back of Remy's neck bristling. Bishop knew something.
"Nothin'. I heard de name b'fore, but dat's it."
Bishop eyed him as if trying to decide whether to believe him or not. He didn't seem to reach any definite conclusion. There was a great deal going on behind those eyes, Remy thought. Bishop wasn't very good at masking his emotions. He knew something about Star Company, something that he thought tied in to Remy.
Remy kept the thoughts to himself. It wasn't something he wanted to ask about with the other X-Men present.
Hank had taken over the keyboard, and appeared to be searching for further information on Toussant or Star Company. He found what he was looking for and sat back.
"Both SHIELD and our very own CIA report that this Star Company is currently in the employ of the nation of Zair, as auxiliaries in their little border dispute. I cannot imagine what interest they would have in the X-Men." He resettled his glasses on his nose.
"Nor can I," the Professor agreed. "However, we will go to alert status for a few days, just in case." He surveyed the gathered X-Men. Cyclops was nodding, his expression thoughtful as he mentally rearranged schedules and plans to accommodate the professor's order.
"Otherwise," the Professor continued, "I think we will be forced to put this incident down in the 'Unexplained' category until and unless something else happens." He glanced questioningly at Remy, who nodded. He couldn't really ask for anything more. As certain as he was that the man had been in the house, he couldn't prove it. Not even to himself.
The X-Men dispersed slowly. Jean and Rogue headed for the kitchen with complaints of all the food that had gone to waste. Neither sounded particularly serious. Rogue smiled at Remy as she passed.
Remy caught up with Wolverine as he was leaving the war room. "Hey, Logan."
Logan stopped and turned.
"Can I ask a favor?"
"You c'n ask, kid. Don't mean I'll say yes." Logan's response was gruff as usual. Remy ignored the "kid". Logan was pushing to see how upset he really was.
"Will y' check de kitchen again?"
One bushy eyebrow rose. "This thing's got ya rattled, Cajun. You imagined the guy."
"How c'n I imagine somebody I never seen b'fore?"
Logan's expression grew thoughtful. "I thought that was a line fer the Prof. You really never crossed paths with these guys?"
Remy shook his head. Logan didn't speak for several minutes, but their course through the house had changed. They were now headed for the ground floor, probably the kitchen. Remy was surprised how reassuring it was to know that Logan believed him.
"Ya said ya'd heard of these guys, at least. How much d' ya know about them?" Logan finally asked.
Remy shrugged. "Almost nothin'. I've heard dey're worth de money, if y' can afford dem."
"They are. They're one of the best merc outfits around. The Colonel's smart about the jobs he takes, too."
"De Colonel?"
"Yup. Used ta be with the Marines, back when. Retired with full honors, then decided to go private. He kept the rank. Most folks just call him Snow, though--" Logan paused. "You o.k., Cajun?"
Remy was staring at nothing. He'd had an instant's flash of recognition-- an image of a tall, impossibly pale man staring at him without anger or compassion from the other side of an automatic pistol. He couldn't place the image, couldn't recognize where or when he might have seen the man.
"Dis Snow--" Remy knew he sounded scared. He was scared. "He an albino, right? Real tall?"
"Yeah. I thought you didn't know these guys." Logan's expression was curious, wary, and even a little concerned.
"Neither did I." Remy let go of the image. It didn't make sense. None of it made any sense.
As if sensing that Remy didn't want to say anything else, Logan changed the subject. "We're almost to the kitchen. Ya still want me ta take another look?"
Remy nodded. "T'anks."
As before, Logan found nothing. No sign, scent or trace that anyone besides the X-Men had recently been there. Remy wasn't surprised. Eventually, Logan gave up and joined the others for a somewhat belated lunch. Remy ducked out. He wasn't hungry, and he didn't want to see any more X-Men with their quizzical stares. Especially when he didn't have a single answer for their questions.
#
Bishop settled himself on the remains of a fallen tree and stared at the tranquil water before him. He had taken a liking to the spot as a place to rest, to think. He and Storm had stopped to talk here during his first day at the mansion. He had been furious that the X-Men were holding a lakeside picnic despite his claims that they would one day be betrayed by one of their own. He had, in fact, accused Gambit of being the traitor. Everyone had ignored him.
Today, he was no longer so sure. The evidence still seemed to point to Gambit-- even more so if Star Company was involved. But he couldn't figure out the Cajun's game. He was beginning to think it just might be possible that Gambit didn't know any more about what was going on than he did. That didn't mean he didn't do it. Only that he was not yet involved. Bishop didn't for one second consider that Gambit might be innocent. The Witness had admitted to being there when the X-Men were betrayed. Knew it... Saw it... What of it? The Witness' words echoed in Bishop's mind. He had always thought he'd have another chance to ask him what he'd meant by that. Another chance to dig information out of a senile old shark he now knew was anything but.
How much had the Witness used him? he wondered. He couldn't possibly have arranged the events that led to Bishop's travel to the current time, yet he seemed to have counted on exactly such an occurrence. He had spent years planting that code in Bishop's mind. Was there more, perhaps? Was Bishop himself serving the Witness' plans without intending to?
Bishop tossed a small rock into the lake. It disappeared beneath the water's surface with barely a splash and sank quickly out of sight. Then he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, chin in hand. What did Star Company have to do with it?
Memory drew Bishop back to his childhood. He was sixteen. The Witness had left on some kind of mystery errand, and he and Shard had decided to go snooping. Even they had never been allowed into the Witness' private suites. They were curious why.
"You realize we are dead if he catches us." Shard leaned against the doorframe, watching the hall.
Bishop continued to work on the lock. It had been a long time since he'd done anything like this. He'd refused to learn the "business" once he realized what that business really was. But he had learned a few things from the Witness before that. The lock was more decorative than anything else, considering who lived there.
"Relax, sis," he answered her. "Archie says he won't be back 'til late. We've got plenty of time. I just want to look around."
Shard didn't answer. The door opened with a whisper of wood on the heavy carpeting. The room beyond was dark. Bishop stepped inside and turned on the lights. Shard followed him, closing the door behind her.
The suite was luxuriously decorated, as Bishop had expected, but with far more taste. He had been expecting something cheaper, less refined. Like the decor of an upscale whorehouse. Instead, the room was oddly comfortable. A writing desk occupied one corner of the large main room, surrounded by bookshelves. The desk was teak and glowed with a dark luster that testified to its quality. The bookshelves were wood as well, stained the same dark color. A small couch and chairs formed a conversational group in another corner, their style Victorian. The chairs had their backs to a brick fireplace that dominated the far wall, but it was the painting hung above the mantle that drew Bishop's eye.
"You're drooling, bro." Shard stepped up behind him and studied the picture. "Guess she was something, though." It was the closest she would come to a compliment.
"Do you think he knew her?"
Shard shrugged. "If the rumors are true, he knew all of them." She wandered off to examine the rest of the suite, no longer interested in ghosts from the past. Bishop stared at the painting for a while longer.
Shard had gone through the room's other door, presumably into the bedroom. Bishop followed her. Unsurprisingly, the bedroom was dominated by a huge four-poster bed that looked soft enough to swallow a person whole. The bedspread was made of satin the color of midnight sky. Bishop trailed his fingers across it as he walked by. Shard was looking in the closet, her expression one of surprised approval.
"I wonder how old this stuff is," she said, pulling a shirt out to examine it. "I sure haven't seen the old man in anything like it. He always looks like a beggar."
"Yeah. One of the richest old geezers around, and he can't remember to wear decent clothes."
Shard's smile turned deprecating, matching her brother's tone. "So where d'ya think he keeps the ragamuffin getups?"
Bishop shrugged. "The dresser, maybe?"
Together, they began to investigate the contents of the ornate bureau. Their caution had fled, both because they hadn't been discovered and out of their shared disgust with the Witness. There was little of interest to be found. The bureau was filled with common items of clothing. The top drawer was more interesting, though. It was filled with junk. Bishop found a scattering of pre-war currency, loose rounds of ammunition from various types of weapons, old photographs and holopics of no one he recognized, and even a couple of pieces from a puzzle. At least it looked like they might belong to the same puzzle. There was also a stack of yellowed papers that Bishop took out to look at more closely. Shard sat opposite him, peering at the pages upside down. The papers were an assortment of essays-- possibly even first drafts-- written by Genesis himself. Bishop handled the pages with reverence. Genesis and Cable were the founding fathers of the mutant nation.
"Wow. These things ought to be in a museum." Bishop put the pages back in order. Shard just shrugged. She didn't share his love of history. She returned her interest to the bureau drawer while Bishop set the Genesis papers gently on the carpet beside him. After a moment, she sat back down. She held a wooden box in her hands. The top was inlaid with gold in an abstract pattern, and there was no lock. Shard set it down on the floor between them and lifted the lid.
Bishop stared in surprise. The little box was full of medals. From the war. One in particular caught his attention. It was given no more concern than any of the others, so the ribbon was badly wrinkled, but Bishop could tell that that was made of silk the moment he touched it. The simple emblem that hung from it, cast in silver, was an X enclosed in a circle-- the standard of the X-Men. It was the highest honor Magneto could have bestowed on anyone in his army.
"I didn't know the old man was in the war," Shard said. She took the medal from Bishop. "And a hero, too."
"Don't bet on it, sis," Bishop told her. "He probably stole this stuff."
"Hmph. Maybe." She laid the medal out on the carpet where the X-Men's sacred symbol flashed dully in the light.
Bishop dumped out the rest of the box's contents. There were several other medals and honors, a Colonel's rank insignia, and a collection of battle pins, each identifying a major engagement. Some of them Bishop recognized. Sioux Falls. Medan Plain. Manhattan. He couldn't imagine that the Witness might actually have been in all of those battles. He couldn't see the Witness as a soldier.
A piece of black cloth fluttered down on top of the pile. It looked like it had been ripped from a uniform, except for the color. It bore a simple insignia patch-- a black five-pointed star, outlined in gray. Part of the gray outline was darkened. Bishop studied it until he realized the stain was blood. When he rubbed his thumb across it, the blood flaked off in tiny black specks.
"An' jus' what do y' two t'ink y' doin'?" The Witness' voice was coldly furious. He stood in the bedroom doorway, power crackling around his hands.
The piece of cloth slid from Bishop's nerveless fingers. Shard had gone completely white, her eyes wide with guilty fear. They both stared at the Witness in silence. Bishop watched the energy glow that surrounded both of the Witness' hands. He had never actually seen him use his powers, but he had heard of what the man could do. The Witness had never punished them physically as children, and for the first time, Bishop was truly afraid of what their adopted father might do to them.
"Get out!" the Witness rasped.
Bishop and Shard looked at each other, uncertain.
"Now!"
They scrambled to their feet and ran, ducking through the doorway, past the Witness, with the anticipation of a blow that never came. Bishop stopped running outside the doorway to the suite. Shard never even paused. He waited a moment, catching his breath, then peeked back into the room. Through the far doorway, he could see the Witness kneeling among the scattered items as if he were staring at the shattered remains of a precious sculpture. He held something clenched in one fist and stared at it with empty eyes. After a few moments, Bishop realized that it wasn't one of the medals the Witness had picked up, but that little piece of black cloth with the star patch.
#
It took him a while, but Bishop finally found the star insignia in the historical accounts of the mutant-human war. It was the insignia of something called Star Company, a mercenary band that had fought for the Consortium in various parts of Europe.
"Have you ever heard of Star Company?" he asked Micah the next day. Micah was his tutor. His, Shard's, and Shackle's. Micah was an old man, though not as old as the Witness. Bishop loved to sit and talk to him because he knew so many stories from the war, bits of trivia that weren't in the histories. He'd been there.
Micah's eyebrows rose. "Where did you hear of Star Company?" There was an edge to his voice Bishop recognized. It meant that he didn't much like the direction the conversation was headed. Usually, he only sounded that way when he was forced to deal with the dirtier side of the Witness' business dealings. Micah was something of a romantic, intensely loyal to the Witness because of something that had happened between them when Micah was young. He didn't like to see his employer's failings.
"I found an insignia patch from a Star Company uniform in with some old junk that was left over from the war. I was curious how the Witness got it. I didn't even know he was in the war." It wasn't exactly a lie, Bishop told himself. What he said was all true, in essence. It just made the Witness sound better than Bishop believed. But that would make Micah more likely to answer the question.
Micah eyed him as if he might be thinking the same thing, but eventually he answered, "Your father never met Star Company during the war, as far as I know. Though, that might explain his actions." Micah's lips pursed as he considered something.
"What actions?"
Micah returned his attention to the present. His gaze, when he looked at Bishop, was flat and as solemn as Bishop had ever seen him. "A little more than ten years after the war ended, your father had every single member of Star Company executed. He never gave any explanation."
Bishop stared at him in silence for several moments. "How do you know he did it?"
Micah's expression didn't change. "Because I led that raid." To Bishop's shocked expression he added, "I fought in the war, boy. I even met Magneto himself, once. You didn't think the Witness would entrust me with his children if I weren't a whole lot more than just a scholar, did you?"
#
Bishop stood and stretched, wincing. He was stiff from sitting in one position for so long. The sound of the water lapping against the bank seemed mournful now. He hadn't thought about Micah in years. Even now the memory was painful. When Micah had died, it was the first time Bishop really felt like he was losing a member of his family. He'd been too young to really understand when his parents were killed.
He began to retrace his route back to the mansion, but his mind remained wrapped in his musings. Mostly, he wondered if the Witness was anything like he had always thought. He'd learned so much about him lately, more than during his entire time living in the same house with the man. But the person he was seeing now wasn't anything like the man he grew up with, and he didn't know which was the real thing. If either of them was.
He wasn't entirely certain he believed the Witness' claim that he had had a part in establishing the mutant nation. But he couldn't deny the logic of it, and both Cable's and Forge's actions were well documented. Those parts of the story were true, at least. It was beginning to seem like the Witness had justifiable reasons for all of the despicable things he'd done. Star Company could well be just another example of that. If they were involved with the murders of the X-Men, he could well understand the Witness seeking revenge. Of course, the Witness could also have had them killed to keep them from ever telling anyone what his real role was in the deaths of the X-Men, too.
Bishop ground his teeth in frustration. There just weren't any answers! The Witness-- or Gambit, however you wanted to look at it-- could be the traitor or not, and the facts could support both arguments. Bishop had no idea how to decide which was the truth. More striking than that was the fear that he might never know until it was too late.
