Josh Gould felt slightly less anxious when he exited the elevator onto the sixtieth floor of the Worthington Tower than he had during the ascent. He recalled Candy telling him to prepare to be shocked by the changes to the former executive suite. But the corridor appeared no different from what he remembered from occasional visits when he and Warren were in school together. The lack of windows was comforting, since he disliked reminders that he was in the upper section of a skyscraper looming over eight hundred feet above the streets of Manhattan.
He studied the Egyptian angels carved into the giant mahogany doors while pressing the rust-colored button that rang the chime. A slim, elegant, middle-aged man with a measuring tape draped around his neck answered. Josh recognized him - one of Warren’s tailors, Flitcroft or Thwaite. The last time he encountered them he was fourteen.
“Well, you’ve grown a little, Mr. Gould,” said the man, beckoning him inside.
Josh clutched the handle of his briefcase with his left hand. His right forearm, sheathed in a sling, tensed. “Whoa…” He almost fainted taking in the huge space. He guessed the ceiling peaked at thirty feet. He was ringed by large panes of glass. It was like being in free fall in the middle of Midtown.
“Josh!” Warren’s voice came from across the room.
Gould regained his composure and tried his best to stroll casually towards the tall, winged figure. “Hey,” he said, as he approached.
“Thanks for stopping by on a Sunday.” Warren stood by his desk with the other clothier. Perhaps this one was Thwaite. Swatches of fabric were laid out for perusal.
“No problem. Uh, could we pull down some shades?”
“Sure.” Warren touched his wristband and the bright sunny view of the city dimmed; the interior illumination increased to compensate.
“But, Mr. Worthington, you can only judge the true colors of these silks in daylight.” The partner who had let Josh in was somewhat annoyed.
“It’s okay. I’ve already made my choice. I like the gray with the white pinstripes.”
“Exquisite material.” The man next to the desk began collecting the samples and turned to the one with the tape measure. “Chum, have you finished your measurements?”
“Yes, Sinclair, I believe we are complete.” The tailors briskly gathered the rest of their paraphernalia. “Until our Wednesday fitting, Mr. Worthington,” Chum called back as the two swept into the hallway.
“Sorry, too many windows,” Josh explained. “I’d actually gotten a lot better about my acrophobia, and then the crane collapse happened…”
“It’s fine. We were done. How’s your collar bone?”
“Oh, it’s coming along really well. My doctor told me even though this type of fracture normally takes two months to heal, I can toss this sling tomorrow. You know it’s only been a week. It must be the blood you donated.”
“I wish Mr. Heifitz had accepted my help.”
“Warren, he’s doing fine. He wouldn’t be breathing if it weren’t for you.” Josh searched for a place to settle. His eyes darted quickly to avoid registering the darkened but still semi-translucent panels.
“Let’s go to the hanger,” Warren suggested. “You’ll prefer it up there. The walls are solid – no glass, except for the roof.”
“Hanger? What are you talking about?”
“I always wondered what was in between the view through these windows and the top of the Tower. Why was the roof so much higher? It turns out my grandfather originally designed this building to launch airships. I discovered this enormous hanger. It was the same night I found her.” Warren moved to the center of the office and gazed at the girl in the skylight.
“Wow,” said Josh, joining Worthington beneath the multicolored angel. “You found this?”
“Yeah. My dad put in that drop ceiling to hide it.”
“You’re going to be amazed by what I have to show you.” Josh held up his briefcase.
“Great. But let’s check out the hanger first.” Warren pointed to the intercom receiver in the corner.
Josh nodded. “Let’s go.” Warren took the briefcase in his right hand. The iridescent seraph slid aside revealing a massive sunlit area beyond. Angel extended his wings and reached around Josh’s waist from the left. “What are you doing?” asked Gould.
“Showing you the upstairs. Hold on to my neck.”
“Wait…” A loud whoosh cut off Josh’s protest. A second later he was in a vast hull-like chamber with walls that stretched higher than thirty meters. He fell backwards, landing on a white couch. Warren perched on a stool next to a counter which supported an ultra-thin laptop. The briefcase lay by Josh’s feet.
“So, what have you got?” Warren’s sky blue irises were piercing.
Josh opened the leather valise. “Are we in this space because you don’t trust Viktor?”
“I have no idea how much he tells my parents and I haven’t replaced the old intercom system down there; he can listen in whenever he wants to. He may have been monitoring the conversation Candy and I had on Friday. No one else can hear us here.”
“You sound kind of paranoid.” Gould flipped through the contents of the briefcase.
“Wouldn’t you be paranoid?”
“You have to trust someone, Warren.”
“I trust you. The will you sent me, could it withstand a court challenge?”
“Yes. Your grandfather covered all the bases.” Josh presented a thick document. “First, he had the district attorney and a former federal prosecutor as witnesses. Second, Cromwell, Ferris and my dad scrutinized the language and directed the whole procedure so those aspects are flawless. And most importantly, your father and your uncle signed this.”
Warren received the papers. “I have an uncle?”
“His name is Burtram, or ‘Burt’ Worthington. No one has seen him for more than twenty years. Every month the firm sends a check for fifty thousand dollars to a post office in Corfu.” Gould waited while Warren scanned the words.
“Could you explain this part? 'Conditional upon existence of an heir…’”
“I’m quite certain your grandfather was worried he wouldn’t have any grandchildren. Uncle Burt was in his late thirties and single. Your dad was forty at the time. Probably he’d just married your mom; anyway, he didn’t have any kids yet. So the old man made his sons agree that whoever produced the first descendant would get control of the entire estate, as well as the voting stock for the corporation. The following paragraph says, like it does in the will, that fifty percent of the shares plus half the value of the personal fortune must be maintained for the future child, or children. When you turned twenty-one this past May, you became entitled to your inheritance.”
Warren left the stool and walked several feet away. He tilted his head to contemplate the clouds passing over the glass rooftop. Half a minute passed; he circled to face Josh. “This isn’t a joke?”
“No joke.”
“A guy named Giles Tareyton called me earlier today. He said he was Dad’s new executive assistant. Have you heard anything about him at the firm?”
“He supposedly came out of nowhere. Some sort of wunderkind. I hate people like that – young overachievers.”
“Uh huh.” Warren’s stern expression broke into a slight smile, which faded rapidly. “I was informed my father will be in town in two weeks, and I’m required to join him Sunday after next for breakfast at Falkenmore. I bet he’ll give me an ultimatum.”
“You think he’s going to try to force you into having surgery?”
“Maybe, or if I luck out, I’ll be allowed to join my uncle in Corfu.”
“Why don’t we surprise your dad? He’s actually arriving that Saturday afternoon for a meeting of the board of directors at the Corporate Center on the Circle…”
“You want to crash the conference room?”
“I’ll back you up, Warren. I’ll bring all the documents. He won’t be able to deny us a seat at the table. Might give you some leverage.”
Angel sat down on the other end of the couch. “It’s going to be the worst weekend of my life.”
Josh shifted to make way for Warren’s right wing. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“I agreed to go to this event at the Hellfire Club with Candy; it’s the Friday before.”
“The mutant rights thing?”
“Yeah.”
“You should go. Don’t stay out late though. We’re going to deal with one of the most powerful businessmen in the world on Saturday.”
Warren looked directly at his friend. “Josh, did you help Candy get that information on Worthington Labs’ cybernetic patents and defense contracts?”
Gould’s eyes stayed fixed on Warren’s. “Yes.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m asking because I need to know how much stuff you share with her, generally.” Worthington’s azure irises had an icy quality.
“From now on, I’ll disclose nothing which concerns you to the slightest degree,” Josh responded.
“You’re okay with that?”
“Warren, I’m your attorney. I won’t betray your confidence. But Candy really loves you. She always has and she’s on our side.”
Angel returned to the laptop on the counter. “There’s something more I want to talk about. Come see this.” Josh stepped towards the computer. The Pacific Coast of Canada spread across the screen. Warren pointed to a marker amid a range of high peaks north of Price Island. “It’s called Mount Verloren.”
Josh was puzzled. “Verloren. That means ‘lost,’ doesn’t it? What do you want with a ‘lost’ mountain?”
“There’s a cavern at 2900 meters where I spent a couple of days some time ago. I want to build there.”
“You want to buy a mountain?”
“Just the rights to put up a structure. No roads, no trails, no ski lifts. It will only be accessible from the air.”
“Okay. But you’re going to need one hell of a pilot to deliver construction supplies.”
“I’m hoping you can find that person - someone discreet, who has no connection to the family or the company. And I don’t want anybody from the region who might talk to the locals.”
“All right. A clandestine operation.” Josh went back to his briefcase and removed a folder. He handed it to Warren. “Here’s one last item for you. There were some clippings in the files. They’re pretty interesting.”
Warren opened the folder on the countertop and sifted through the yellowed strips of newspaper. He picked out a 1933 society column from The New York Herald Tribune which described a benefit for the Martha Graham Dance Company. There was a photograph of a young woman with pressed wavy hair posing with a man wearing formal attire. The caption under the image read, “Shipping and Aircraft Entrepreneur Warren Worthington meets Principal Dancer Rosalind Grey.”
“This isn’t possible.” Warren stared at the picture.
“What?” asked Josh, closing the valise.
“The girl in this article looks exactly like... Never mind. It doesn’t make any sense. She must be a relative.” Warren placed the slip of newsprint aside from the rest. “You’re probably ready to leave.”
“Please tell me there’s a way down that doesn’t involve flying.”
“There’s the maintenance chute. But with a sling, it’d be difficult. It really requires two hands.”
Josh rubbed his forehead. “Wonderful.”
Jean Grey gazed across West 120th Street at the dormer windows jutting out from the roof of Teachers College from her chair in Professor Steiner’s physics seminar on the twelfth floor of the Fermi Building. Her brain wasn’t working right. She no longer found anything appealing about the old red brick edifice, tinged with the smoke of late nineteenth century industrial New York. Even the morning sunlight, dancing in the antique glass panes, seemed merely incidental.
The view had meant so much to her on that first day of classes. She was a known mutant, looking beyond the campus she shared with thousands of normal students and faculty to the great city that encompassed millions. Now the rooftops that stretched out from Morningside Heights into Harlem were simply shapes to distract her from Professor Steiner, who was droning on and on in the front of the room.
Turning from the exterior world, Grey tried to pay attention to her instructor. She might find his lecture interesting, if she could hear it properly. His words sounded distant and unclear. It was like her ears were stuffed with cotton.
She caught Peter Wyngarde sitting nearby in the corner of her vision. He smiled. But he wasn’t particularly interesting anymore either. His gray eyes didn’t gleam like they had before and he appeared older; there were lines cutting into his face.
Something was very wrong. She was exhausted and she didn’t understand why. It took effort to remain at her desk and not slump onto the floor. Her shoulders were sore from the weight of the adamantium vest, which was much heavier than it used to be. It was pressing down on her lungs, making it difficult to get enough air… She pinched her upper arm. Wake up!
It’s the pills. She had taken three since she left Xavier in the recovery bay on Sub Level 1. “Every twelve hours,” was the prescription. Her neurochemistry was adjusting to the compound. That’s what was going on. She’d be fine in a few days, a week at most. Maybe…
A man she hadn’t noticed earlier walked over to Steiner. The professor patted the man’s shoulder.
“Okay everybody, this is Dr. Alain Corbeau. He is a very good friend and he is also a leading researcher at Starcore. In our last class, we discussed the Scharnhorst effect and the possibility of photons traveling faster than the speed of light in a vacuum. Well, Dr. Corbeau and his team have discovered a superluminal phenomenon that can’t be explained away as a quibble over terminology. During his presentation, I want you to ask yourselves: Is this an anomaly? Or do we need to change the rules?”
The lights dimmed. A star field filled the projection wall. The glowing points captivated Jean as she watched successive slides zoom in on a large bright object.
“This is HD 2261.” Corbeau moved aside to allow everyone a full picture. “It’s about seventy-seven light years from Earth and it’s the most brilliant star in the constellation Phoenix. Traditionally it’s known as the ‘Head of the Phoenix,’ or Ankaa, which means ‘firebird’ in Arabic. We also refer to it as Alpha Phoenicis. Scientists regarded this star as a common orange giant with no exceptional characteristics. Then we detected this.”
A tiny spot in the lower left section of the fiery sphere increased in magnification. Jean bit her lip.
“This small stellar companion to Alpha Phoenicis is designated Starcore Anomalous Object 13; and, by the way, the other twelve are purely theoretical. This is one of the most bizarre bodies ever observed. After pulsation pattern analysis, we realized we’d found a very unique formation: a crystallized white dwarf variant. But soon there were more surprises."
The broad screen displayed charts comparing the cosmic fingerprint of the orange giant to that of the degraded companion.
"We checked additional spectroscopic measurements. I didn’t believe it at first, but the readings said Object 13 was the same age as Alpha Phoenicis. In fact, the two had once been practically identical binary suns. What force in the universe could have transformed a massive class K star into a moon-sized diamond?”
This was too much. She wished she was still hazily staring out the window or had stayed in bed. Then she wouldn’t be witnessing evidence that her nightmares were on the verge of coming true…
“A few months ago, while my team was investigating how the life span of a star could possibly be altered so significantly, we saw this.” A slide showing the expanse of the Phoenix Constellation featured a red circle in the far upper right of the frame. “The white speck there, that’s Object 13, five light years outside its predicted orbit. This thing covered a distance of five light years in a single month.”
A wave of gasps followed. Jean felt chilled.
“That was back in July,” Corbeau continued. “Since then it’s gone an additional twenty light years along the same trajectory. It’s currently approaching Upsilon Aquarii.”
One of the young men who always sat close to the front asked, “Dr. Corbeau, are you claiming this object is on a planned course? What is it? An alien space ship?”
“Aliens are unlikely, I’d say. I’ve seen nothing definitive supporting the conclusion its movement is ‘planned.’ But obviously some immense power is propelling it through the galaxy. And its heading has been consistent. Perhaps it is being directed somehow, or it’s attracted to something.” The lights went on.
“It’s coming here.” Jean instantly regretted speaking out loud. The class broke into laughter.
“It does sound funny, everyone. But, Miss…?”
Steiner introduced her. “This is Jean Grey.”
“Well, Miss Grey, Object 13 is getting closer. I hope it comes near enough for us to find out everything we can about it.”
Steiner signaled his colleague that it was time to curtail the discussion. Jean zipped up her vest and grabbed her computer. Feeling nauseous and weak, she wanted to leave quickly. But to exit she had to get beyond a growing group of her classmates gathered around Alain Corbeau. She sensed the scientist’s eyes on her as she passed.
“Jean, Miss Grey…” he called, ignoring the other students’ questions.
“Yes?” She turned. Come on, let me out of here.
“Sorry, to keep you.” Corbeau moved towards her. “I’m going up to the Institute in a couple of hours, to meet with Dr. McCoy and Professor Xavier. Hank has been telling me about your studies. I’m sure being here hasn’t been easy for you.”
“Oh, it’s been fine. Really. Your presentation was fascinating. Nice to meet you.” Grey stepped backwards and left the room.
The white streaks on the black floor tiles guided her to the elevator waiting area at the end of the hall. The shoes belonging to the person standing next to her were familiar. She looked up and saw Peter Wyngarde. His brow was smooth again and his gray eyes were shining.
“I won, Xi’an,” he said, and smiled at Jean.
Xi’an leaned against him. “Hi Jean. I was so hungry for lunch I came up here to rush you guys. Peter said you were still in there talking to Dr. Corbeau. I was about to pass out, but he assured me you’d get here before the ‘lift.’” As if on cue, the brass elevator doors slid apart. “And now I owe him a french fry.”
Jean immediately felt better. Maybe the M56 levels in her blood stream were subsiding. Or maybe it was Peter and Xi’an. She sensed some kind of strange, wonderful energy radiating from them.
“So, the Astral again, girls?” Wyngarde asked once they were in the lobby. “They do have the best fries.” He grinned at Xi’an.
“I don’t know. I’m not feeling very good.” Jean watched their faces sharpen with concern.
Disappointment darkened the tenor of Peter’s voice. “I thought you seemed a bit run down in class.”
“You have a cold?” asked Xi’an.
“No. The past two days were really rough. I had to deal with a lot of stuff. Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry, I totally forgot to get you those notes yesterday…”
“I’ll forgive you if you come to lunch with us.” Peter beamed another warm smile. “You have to eat sometime.”
“Jean, have you eaten anything recently? You seem really thin. Like too thin.” Xi’an assumed a clinical tone. “Brain needs food.”
“You’re right. I did pretty much forget about meals.” Grey had barely consumed anything for almost forty-eight hours and the soup at the Astral was delicious.
They sat in the same booth as before. The scene on Broadway was different though. Instead of drenching rain, sunshine gilded the storefronts and parked cars. After mouthfuls of soup, Jean felt restored. She laughed at the elaborate performance Xi’an made of feeding Peter his honorably won french fries.
Wyngarde blocked his fiancée’s final fry volley. “That will suffice, darling. Jean, you have a lovely laugh. It’s good to hear it.”
“What happened over the weekend, anyway? You can tell us.” Xi’an stroked Jean’s shoulder.
“It’s complicated. But basically I’ve been having trouble controlling my telepathy and someone got hurt as a result. So, I’m taking medication.”
“Psychic medication, really?” Peter cocked his head in surprise.
“You mean drugs to ‘cure’ your telepathy?” Xi’an did not approve.
“It was kind of a last resort. The techniques I used to use don’t work anymore.”
“Find a new technique then. But stop the drugs. They’re making you sick.” Xi’an took Jean’s hand and reached for Peter’s. “We can try something right here.”
“Xi’an’s a comparative religion major.” Peter stretched his arm towards Jean’s other side. “She won’t shut up about Ajivikan meditation and mystical projection…”
Jean withdrew her hands. “Thanks guys, but I’m pretty sure Professor X and I have tried every kind of meditation and mental exercise there is.”
“Well, Peter and I aren’t Professor Xavier, we aren’t even mutants. That might make all the difference. And come on, it’s just for fun, it can’t make things worse.”
“Okay.” Jean liked the feel of Xi’an’s silky fingers.
“It’s a simple thought experiment. I’ve been reading these ancient texts that were recently discovered in Bihar, India, from this lost sect called the Ajivikas. They believed in a cosmic principle called Niyati, which means the ‘self beyond the self.’”
Jean had never heard of Niyati, but she liked the way Xi’an pronounced it. The word twirled off her tongue.
“The Ajivikas used Niyati as a method of self-discipline. The idea is to create another awareness, a metaphysical twin. So, shut your eyes.”
“I see french fries. I think I ate too many.”
“That’s great, Peter. Just keep your lids closed and listen…”
After a minute, the babble of the lunchtime crowd faded into a wash of non-distinct background noise. Grey heard the sound of her heart beat getting louder. Soon it was joined by two other rhythms. Within moments Xi’an and Peter’s heart rates fell into synch with her own.
“Imagine me, Jean, as I am now, sitting next to you. See me without using your eyes. Now think about Peter. Peter, you envision the two of us.”
The image of Xi’an beside her and Peter across the table formed in Grey’s thoughts.
“Jean, see yourself in your mind…here in the diner. You do the same, Peter. This is who you are. But not all you are. You are not just the person in the restaurant. You are also the person who sees yourself. These three people, named Xi’an and Peter and Jean, we can let them go. Let go of all their problems, all their pain.”
Jean watched her body get smaller as her consciousness drifted above the Astral Diner. The three of them were together in a place where fear of mutants, Object 13, and the X-Men could not touch them.
“Those bodies down there. We can operate them like puppets. We can make them talk and move. But we live up here. We don’t feel their cares or their suffering.” For us, those emotions do not exist…