Note: While I was writing this chapter, I happened to watch a show on the History Channel about mysterious small-aircraft disappearances in Alaska, which made me think of the Summers clan (of course!), and thus I include a ref to that here in the form of "Victor-319."

Larry had been in Stephen Lang's presence for less than fifteen minutes, but he was already tired of the man. Lang seemed intent on spending the entire descent chattering at Judge Chalmers about technical details that a former lawyer could not possibly appreciate. It was all consummate apple-polishing, done by a consummate master of the art.

Although if Lang had had any intelligence at all, he would've been sucking up to his boss' kid, Larry thought sourly. Strained relationship or not, a Trask was a Trask. And Trasks got things done.

That was obvious from the Sentinel factory; the facility extended far deeper than even Larry had expected, and never got any smaller than the massive ground-level entrance. They were hundreds of yards underground now and still had almost as far to descend before they reached the bottom- most floor. The levels they were passing were mostly open air, with a web of catwalks and assembly-line conveyor belts strewn across one end of the mammoth void.

The entire facility was built to the scale of the robots, he realized. More than that - it was built for the robots. Human accommodations were barely an afterthought.

"- converted from its former military use, so it's rather sub-par to our New York factory, but we take what we can get," Lang was saying, with a forced, nervous chuckle at his own humor.

"How many Sentinels have been produced?" Larry asked abruptly, turning to face the scientist.

Lang blinked, caught off-guard. "Ah - I think - That information is top secret, Mr. Trask."

"Two a day, for the last month," Larry guessed. He knew he was right; he could see that the production was slow and painstaking, that the assembly was inefficient because of the complicated design, that the robots were simply too big to allow quick work, that the facility looked too clean and new to have been in business for any real length of time. And he knew he was right because Lang's eyes widened briefly behind his glasses. He let arrogance seep into his next words: "Is that right, Mr. Lang?"

"Doctor," Lang corrected. His quick, oily smile did not quite conceal the irritation in his voice, or the dislike in his eyes. "And I really can't say. Mr. Trask."

Larry nodded, unfazed. He'd gotten in a point and they both knew it.

The lift shuddered to a halt. Lang punched a few buttons on his console and gave his two passengers a smile. "Here we are. Please watch your step. Judge Chalmers, sir, if you need a hand -"

"I'm quite fine, thank you," Chalmers said, politely waving away the offer of assistance with a genuine-sounding laugh. "I'm not that much of an old man!"

They stepped off the platform and onto solid ground. Lang laughed too, but it was not nearly as genuine. "Of course not. Dr. Trask is right over here."

Instinctively, Larry's steps slowed, and he fell back behind Judge Chalmers, behind Dr. Stephen Lang. He dreaded this meeting, and the closer he got, the more he felt like bolting.

Why? he chided himself. He hated his father - he wasn't afraid of the man. This was war. He was more than ready for war, especially after the medallion stunt.

Thus heartened, Larry managed to have his head up and a resolute cast to his expression when Lang announced importantly, "Dr. Trask, sir, excuse me, but your son and Judge Chalmers are here."

Bolivar Trask was standing amidst a cluster of lab-coated technicians, all bearing clipboards and PDAs, all talking over one another. At Lang's announcement, Bolivar turned and met the trio with a hearty, "Judge! You have my gratitude for undertaking this long trip to the middle of nowhere."

Neither Dr. Stephen Lang nor Larry Trask were worth a greeting, it seemed. They stood slightly behind Chalmers, suddenly united in their insignificance. Larry felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the slimy weasel; he knew too well what it felt like to fruitlessly try to impress a man who could not have cared less.

"No - no trouble," Chalmers said, casting a quick, concerned glance at Larry before resuming his politician's smile. "No trouble at all."

Larry superficially resembled his father - tall, with dark brown hair and dark eyes. But Larry was more slightly built than Bolivar, and he had most of his mother's features, and had not once created a machine to kill anything. He noticed now, though, that his posture was almost a perfect mirror of his father's. He hastily shifted position before anyone could see.

"Good," Bolivar said, smiling broadly at the older man. "Lang will take you back to the surface and see to it that you have a proper escort to San Fransisco. Thank you again, Judge Chalmers."

To his credit, Judge Chalmers looked reluctant, but Bolivar Trask was king of his domain and Lang had already begun walking towards the lift they'd just vacated. There was nothing for Chalmers to do but leave as well. Larry lifted a hand in a half-hearted farewell, mumbled some kind of good-bye, and forced his attention to his father as his one ally ascended out of range. Bolivar's warm smile had vanished into a more familiar mask of stone neutrality.

"Lawrence," Bolivar said. In the single word, the name that he knew Larry hated to be called, he managed to convey a lifetime's disappointment and disapproval. I ignore you because you aren't worth being noticed, it seemed to shout.

"Father," Larry answered, trying to keep all traces of emotion out of his voice. Better to be cold than quaking. Sarcasm, hurt and bitter, crept in anyway. "I can't imagine why I'm here. Did you want to ignore me hourly?"

"You're too dramatic for your own good. Just like your mother." Bolivar waved a hand and the lab coats scattered like a disrupted flock of birds. He started striding along the metal-paneled floor, moving away from the lift and into what seemed to be a warren of rooms. The armed soldier stationed at the entrance of the corridor saluted stiffly. Bolivar ignored it. "Come with me, Lawrence."

Anger bubbled up, a wellspring of dark poison in his heart. That name - and the disparaging comment about his mother - when Bolivar hadn't even come to her funeral -

He followed after his father, glowering, imagining one of the robots turning on its master and creator and blasting Bolivar Trask into ashes. The picture was inordinately satisfying, even if it did bring to mind the firebird image he'd seen earlier. Ashes. That was what the man deserved.

Once inside the maze of small rooms and narrow corridors, Bolivar led him into a surprisingly large office that was plainly his and his alone. There was another soldier stationed near the door, which sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss. As he entered behind his father, Larry had a moment to look around at the big computer console, the blueprints and scale models scattered over every surface, the shelves of technical books (from hefty engineering tomes to a battered 'Origin of Species'), the miscellaneous errata of a genius. A cold, uncaring genius.

Then Bolivar stopped in his tracks, turned, and swept Larry into a fierce embrace. "My boy," he said, and this time there was pain and regret in his voice. "You have no idea how difficult these last years have been - not being able to be there, watching you grow, watching your mind and your talents expand -!"

Larry thought he ought to feel something, but all he was capable of summoning was a kind of hollow shock, as though he was a shell with an echo reverberating around and around inside of him. "My boy" -? What? This could not be the same man who'd missed every defining event and moment of his life. This could not be the same man who'd sent a terse note reading, "The situation here will not allow me to leave at this time," when his son had written to him, pleading, begging, for a father's presence in the wake of a mother's death. The man in Larry's lifetime of memories had never hugged him, never touched him affectionately, never showed the slightest hint of favor.

Astonishment made the words impossible to understand for several heartbeats. Then the meaning began to sink in, and the hollow echo inside Larry became a dull, angry thud. He jerked back, breaking the contact as roughly as he could. "You have no idea how difficult it was knowing that my father loved machines more than me."

Bolivar shook his head, looking sorrowful. "Who told you that, Lawrence? Your mother?"

The use of his full name made it even easier for Larry to spit out, "I could see it for myself."

"She agreed to leave, you know," Bolivar said, moving to the computer console and typing in a string of commands. "She thought it was for the best. My work is and was dangerous. A family would have been an inviting target."

"For who, Dad? For what?" Larry shot back, anger making his tone louder than he intended. "The mutants? The mutants nobody knew about for decades, because they're such menaces to society?"

Bolivar drew himself straight, eyes snapping in annoyance and hands momentarily stilled. "Yes, the mutants. Don't pretend to be on their side. You are my son, after all."

"I never tried to start a gene war," he said, but Bolivar was right and they both knew it. Larry made an attempt to bolster his position by resorting to an unimpeachable argument. "Mom never tried to start a gene war."

"Your mother -" Bolivar began, then chuckled softly. "Your mother was an early contributor to the Sentinel project. She designed the containment units for the fuel cells."

Uncertainly, Larry said, "She was a radiation expert."

"She became one, when we needed to find a way to neutralize mutant powers." Bolivar had finished typing and now stood back from the monitor, gesturing at Larry to come closer. "Ultimately an unsuccessful approach, but profitable nonetheless. We all change through our mistakes, even the Sentinel project. This is the next generation."

Larry peered at the images on the monitor, eyes darting over all of the many details. He saw what it was immediately: "A space station?"

"If we'd had one during the Apocalypse debacle, nine of my Sentinels would still be operational. Mutants are everywhere on Earth, Lawrence," Bolivar said, not bothering to hide his disgust - or his pride. "Space is a more... exclusive dominion, where I can build freely."

Larry was awed and humbled despite himself and didn't catch the use of his full name. Twenty- foot-tall hunter-killer robots were one thing; fully automonous space stations were another. He didn't know what "the Apocalypse debacle" had been, but he supposed it was tied in to the worldwide mutant phenomena that had occurred recently. "Does anyone know about this?"

"Only the robots. As we speak, two Sentinel units are finishing construction." Bolivar dropped a hand on Larry's shoulder. "That's why I brought you here."

Larry halfway wanted to shrug off the hand, but his curiosity stopped him. "Oh?"

"As the project becomes larger, the danger increases," Bolivar explained, gesturing with his free hand. "I want you to be safe when the new Sentinels launch, and you can't be safe unless you're here. All I've ever wanted was your safety, Lawrence, you must believe that."

Now he did shrug off the hand. With a touch of both mockery and bitterness, he clarified, "Safe from the mutants."

Bolivar, apparently missing the fact that his son was actively scorning him, nodded gravely. "They know who I am. Anyone named 'Trask' is at risk now, especially engineers specializing in robotics and artificial intelligence."

Larry stared for a moment, startled all over again. "You know what I'm specializing in?"

"The day I found out was one of the proudest of my life, son," Bolivar said. The fine words were somewhat spoiled by the absolute lack of any real emotion behind them, and Larry was about to say so when the space station blueprints abruptly blanked out and were replaced by a flashing red icon.

Bolivar leaned over and tapped the keyboard; a video image expanded to fill the monitor. Larry recognized the soldier in the video as Galindez, from the checkpoint.

"What is it?" Bolivar asked, irritated.

"Sir, the patrol in Victor-319 has apprehended a mutant," Galindez reported. He didn't look as worried as the news would seem to deserve.

"Give me a visual," Bolivar ordered. Obligingly, the screen split into two pictures - Galindez filling one half, three figures walking down a hallway in the other. Two of the figures were soldiers. In between them, hands shackled behind her back, head bowed, was a teenage girl. Larry recognized her with a small internal start - the hitchhiker his car had blown past hours ago. She was a mutant? She looked like a homeless kid. He understood why Galindez wasn't worried; the girl didn't look like she could rob a convenience store, let alone pose a threat to a Sentinel factory.

"Powers?" his father was demanding.

Galindez said crisply, "Psi-shields have registered a few hits - just pings, sir, nothing major."

The other half of the screen suddenly zoomed in on the girl, until her face filled most of the frame. Although still grainy, the resolution was good enough for Larry to easily make out her features. The dull red fuzz of closely-shorn hair, the pale skin, the scuffed, drab olive clothes, the lines of fatigue around her eyes... her incongruously bright, alert green eyes that glowed with an inner light when she lifted them to the camera. She seemed to look straight at him, straight through him, and Larry felt an involuntary shiver run down the length of his spine.

"Good God," Bolivar muttered, squinting at the picture as though he recognized the girl but wasn't quite sure of it. He straightened and, with a great deal more urgency, told Galindez, "I want the base moved to lockdown and all units ready to be deployed immediately. All units. Put a collar on the girl and kill her if so much as a teacup rattles around her."

"Sir, the neural inhibitor collars are still experimental-"

Bolivar cut the soldier off with a roared, "Do it!"

"Yes sir," Galindez replied, loud and brisk and official, and the screen went black.

"What's going on?" Larry ventured.

Bolivar held up a hand for patience, although he wasn't exhibiting any himself. The other hand was rapidly scrolling through video feeds from the base's cameras, which appeared to number in the thousands. Larry saw nothing, but his father obviously did. He slammed a fist on the console, making the grainy video images jump and distort.

"For every one in the light, there's a hundred hiding in the dark," Bolivar said, eyes sparking with a glittering, all-consuming rage that Larry had previously only seen in his own reflection. "Blast it! I should have known they'd come here!"

Larry watched in bemusement as Bolivar began hurriedly bundling up physical blueprints, computer discs, and scale prototypes, and throwing them all into a metal briefcase. He was reminded of his own forced exodus from his home in San Francisco just hours earlier, on his father's orders. Now it was Bolivar's turn.

The universe, Larry thought, had a funny sense of humor. His mother would have appreciated it too. "Who, Dad?"

Bolivar closed the briefcase with a definitive click of the latches and scowled at nothing. "Who else? The X-Men."