The Avalon Project: Chapter 1: Rubicon

Part II
by Chris Campbell

VI. January 31, 1995. 7:43 a.m. Westchester, New York

"Goddammit to hell!" Logan slammed his fist into the wall, letting the pain the action brought serve to diffuse his growing anger and frustration. He rest his forehead against the wall. "How could this happen? He has no friends left; who would do this for him?"

Bishop looked at the floor, his face set like stone. "I don't know, Logan." That wasn't entirely true. Something about Creed's abductor tugged at his memory, but he wasn't going to mention it until he had something definite. "Worse yet, I don't know where they've gone, and I don't have a clue where to begin looking for them. They could be anywhere."

Logan took a deep breath, and turned to regard the others. "I'll find him. One way or another, I'm bringing that bastard down." He said the last as he exited the room, a sense of purpose surrounding his movements. Moments later, they heard the screech of tires as his motorcycle tore down the road, heading into the city.

Professor Charles Xavier ran his hands over his face and sighed. "Bishop, please contact Shield and the FBI. Let them know that Creed has escaped, and give a description of his abductor. From the descriptions Scott and Henry gave, this girl sounds like Clarice Ferguson, so that should give the authorities some help. How she got here, where she came from, and what her interest in Creed is are all mysteries, so I don't see what else we can do for the time being."

Jean Grey spoke up. "Professor, Logan isn't in a very healthy mental state. If anyone gives him any trouble, I'm worried about the consequences."

"Agreed. I doubt he'll cause harm to anyone, but in his present frame of mind he might do things he'd have cause to regret later on. We'll keep tabs on him, in whatever ways seem appropriate at the time. In any event, you all have your duties for the day; until we have cause to do otherwise, it's business as usual."

VII. February 2, 1995. 11:27 a.m. 35 miles northeast of Indiannapolis

Victor Creed knew by the stabbing in his skull that opening his eyes would be a bad idea. He did it anyway, and quickly found his initial thoughts on the subject were quite correct. He squeezed them tightly shut, opening them again after a few moments. He looked around him and, as his eyes adjusted, wondered where the hell he was. It looked like a drainage pipe. Damn, it was cold! He didn't remember how he got here, but he wished he'd had more sense at the time. There was no snow on the ground, but it felt like the weather for it.

He turned his head to look around; ouch, big mistake. His head was not happy and it was being quite vocal about its displeasure; it was like every sinus headache he'd ever had all rolled into one. Why couldn't healing factors deal with those? At least he didn't feel like killing anybody at the moment, though, so that was a plus.

'Okay, Vic, we're alive. Good start. Looks like the runt was as worthless as usual; heaven forbid he stir the claw around a bit before he pulls it out! Oh no, wouldn't want that! Fucking useless bastard.' He massaged his temples. Kestral could have done it. She hated Creed with a passion, and had no compunctions against killing. Too bad she was dead. "Where the hell am I?" God *damn*, but that was loud. Okay, no shouting. He started to crawl toward the end of the drainpipe, head pounding all the way, and wondered whatever had possessed him to turn to the X-idiots for help when what he really needed was probably a good shrink. He remembered hearing something about a guy named Doc Samson; he'd have to look the guy up.

Reaching the end of the drainpipe, he stood up (ouch, quit it) and looked around. He was near a highway, and saw a road sign proclaiming it to be I-69. A sign further down said "Indiannapolis: 35 miles." Creed winced. "Indy-fucking-ana? What the hell am I doing in Hickville, USA?" It was then that he saw the girl heading toward him. Nice looking piece of meat, too. She looked a bit strange, so maybe she would have some answers.

Clarice beamed. "Mister Creed! You're awake!"

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Who the fuck are you and why did you bring me here."

Clarice's smile slipped and she said, hurt, "You don't... recognize me?"

Creed thought for a minute. She looked a bit familiar; where had he seen her before? Then it hit him. "Oh yeah, you're that skinny little bitch who disappeared during that Phalanx mess. Ferguson, I think it was. Still doesn't explain what we're doing in hayseed country."

Clarice groped for words, wide-eyed. Mr. Creed was gruff, but he'd always treated her kindly. He was probably just upset over all that had apparently happened to him lately; yes, that had to be it. She would just have to be patient. "I don't know exactly what happened to you, but I teleported into the mansion to find you and rescue you. I couldn't let you stay with that miserable Beast and those Prelates and..."

Creed laughed, which made his head hurt. "All very nice, but it doesn't tell me why. What's your stake in me? What gives?"

Clarice frowned, her face drawn in thought. "It's a long story..."

Creed spread his hands wide and said, "We have time."

VIII. February 2, 1995. 9:02 a.m. Cybernet Industries, San Diego

Holly looked down at her screen and very much wanted to hit it. She didn't particularly care at that moment that Windows NT was a full 32-bit system, and that she had a nifty prototype of it. She didn't care that, once it got running, it was a monster, capable of doing just about anything. All she cared about at the moment was the fact that it was totally incapable of handling 16-bit programs (the norm right now, thank you very much) and that it was her job to make it do so. Bill Gates was creeping ever higher on her hit list. She heard a knock at the door and said "Enter at your own risk!"

A head of brown hair popped in the door and said "Ooh, grouchy. What's going on, sis?"

"Mikey!" She jumped up and threw her arms around her friend. As he wrapped his arms around her she said "It's horrible. Why did I ever agree to do this? Let me outta here!"

Mike's voice dropped an octave and he drawled "Yes, Microsoft engineering has claimed yet another victim." He struck a suitable dramatic pose, and she laughed. "The unspeakable machinations of Bill Gates continue their insidious plot to ruin all of the civilized world. They're out to destroy us all!"

Holly laughed again, and insisted "They are! No programmer should be subjected to such things. It's just wrong! And I still haven't come up with anything to do this weekend."

Mike smirked. "Well, there's always me." He waggled his eyebrows.

"You don't count. You're a relative."

"Not technically."

"Close enough. Besides, you're still a puppy."

"Arf!"

"So what's that Richards fool been doing to you? Is he stealing our secrets?"

"Nah. The guy's so cerebral he wouldn't know capitalism if it walked up and stomped on him."

"Boing!"

"Heh. He did all his tests and now I'm back for the foreseeable future."

"Yay!" Mike bowed. "Everyone else is down in the Hot Zone; I'll be down in half an hour or so once I either fix this glitch or give up trying."

"Don't be late, dear. Punctuality is important." She stuck her tongue out at him. He frowned in thought, then said very gravely, "Be careful. You wouldn't want your face to freeze like that, would you?" Her eraser slammed against the door as he quickly made his exit.

Ben Anderson looked over the command and control area known by the employees as "The Hot Zone." It was here that pioneering work in direct neural interface was being conducted, and this work was the reason for his being here. The professional reason, anyway. As head of security for Cybernet's home offices, he had to make sure the area was safeguarded against outside threats. As seriously as he took his tasks, though, his job was usually very boring. He liked it like that.

The room was circular, with 5 access terminals evenly spaced around the room and an interface platform in the center. A catwalk ran around the room, used for observation and security interests. Currently, the room was occupied by three techs and the test subject for the afternoon, Michael Harris. Mike was one of the personal reasons Ben was working at Cybernet. The two had been friends for 7 years, and despite Mike's being 9 years his junior the kid had bailed him out of trouble on more than one occasion. Mike had also gotten him his current job, a favor he wouldn't soon forget.

As his mind drifted, he thought of another personal reason for working here at Cybernet. Holly Majere. Despite their mutual friendship with Michael, he barely knew her. He very much wanted to change that fact, but was as yet unsure of how to go about it. He had quite a bit working against him, and he didn't want to scare her off before she had had a chance to get to know him. His approach would require a fair amount of delicacy.

Mike paddled his board a bit farther out, hoping for a really good swell. The salty water lapped against his legs, its coolness a vivid reminder of just why he craved the union with the tides. The sky was stormy overhead and he knew it probably wasn't a good idea to be surfing now; hell, even the gulls had turned in, but hey, no guts no glory, right? Besides, it'd been a long time since he'd been able to hit the waves, and he just couldn't pass up the opportunity.

He'd always loved the sea. There was something elemental about it, losing yourself to something so much more impressive and powerful than himself. He knew people who found peace and serenity in God, searching for solace and answers in prayers and meditations. It was different for him, though; all he needed was the rhythym of the waves on the shore and he was happy.

The wind had whipped the waves into a frenzy, and the swells were pretty high. Not bad for February. He started paddling as a monster wave came in, one that'd do Hawai'i or Australia proud. As he caught the wave, he turned to face the beach and found to his dismay that he'd misjudged his position. The wave was carrying him right toward the O.B. pier, and if he hit it would hurt like hell...assuming he lived. He thought about just wiping out, just letting it go and moving farther up the beach, but with the water as turbulent as it was now he knew the tide would just smash him into the pier. So he tried to ride it out, hoping for the best.

The wave steered him past the first pylon, then curled to force him into one further down. The water slapped him against its hard surface, the barnacles tearing at his skin as the wave crushed the air from his lungs and replaced it with water. Finally, he was ripped from the pylon and forced into the sandy bottom, his vision fading to black as his consciousness dimmed...

He sat bolt upright, gasping for breath on the central platform of the Hot Zone. His skin intact, his vision clear, he said "God, that was incredible. It felt so real...like I was really doing it. How can anything be that real?"

Sarah Mitchell, project coordinator and aide to CEO Seth Encarres, smiled. "Isn't that the point?" she asked. "Direct Neural Interface isn't just for file transfers and encryptions and what have you; it's for experience, too. All part of the market, after all..."

"Yeah...but it was so intense. You're gonna make a fortune off of this, easily. Unbelievable."

"Assuming we can figure out a way to do it non-invasively."

Mike fingered the data-socket on the back of his neck, the annoyance which kept him from surfing for real. "Yeah...I'm not sure it's worth it, now that I think about it."

"Wasn't that what Richards was trying to find out? Some alternate way to gain access?" This from David Carney, one of the techs.

"Yeah, but he didn't find anything terribly conclusive. 'We must run more tests,'" he mocked, "' before we can make any real progress.' Tests, tests, tests. That guy lives for science."

"Oh, come on. He can't be that bad." Sarah said.

"I'm serious! The guy redefines the term 'boring.' His idea of a good time is researching space/time distortions. I told him to relax and he looked at me like I was speaking Swahili. He'd probably tie himself in a knot if he wasn't studying something."

"Cute. You know, some people get an awful lot out of life without resorting to cheap thrills."

Mike assumed a wounded expression. "Hey, I resent that. My thrills aren't cheap."

David assumed a thoughtful look. "What if he's so studious because of his personal life?"

Mike looked puzzled. "Huh? What d'ya mean?"

David continued, his features becomming more animated as he went on. "Think about it; can you imagine what a rubber man must be like in bed? I'll bet he studies so much during the day because he knows what's waiting for him at night: a very eager wife."

Mike frowned, a look of distaste crossing his face. "You are one sick puppy."

Sarah grinned wickedly. "Perhaps he should be enrolled in obedience school."

David's face beamed. This was fun. "Maybe so. Are you the trainer?" He leered suggestively.

She sniffed. "I'm afraid not. Puppies have short attention spans and don't stick around long. Dogs may be man's best friend, but a woman needs a bit more."

Mike howled, licking his finger to mark an imaginary tally. Dave was saved from replying by the opening of the Hot Zone's doors. Holly came in, saw that everyone was ready, and said "So, David, you embarassing yourself again?" It was understandable. Dave was so very, very eager and Sarah was wise to it all. It probably made for an entertaining show.

"Um, kinda."

Sarah laughed, a rich, full throated sound, and Holly smiled. "Ready for your first real run, Mikey?"

"Yes ma'am." He was red with laughter, and David looked like he wished he was elsewhere. Holly felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor guy; Sarah must have gotten in some good digs.

Encarres' aide spoke. "Okay, this is just a dry run." They knew this, but she had to say it anyway. "We're not looking for anything specific, we're just looking for response times and user/coordinator interaction. If we're lucky, we'll all be home for dinner," She arched a brow, "assuming certain techs can keep their minds on the task at hand?"

Dave gulped. "Um, not a problem."

"I'm so glad. Let's get started then, shall we?"

IX. February 2, 1995. 2:30 p.m. Long Island

Logan tore up Highway 678, heading into Queens. He didn't know where Creed was, but he was pretty sure New York was out, at this point. Where the hell could he be? All of his known safehouses had been compromised; all were shut down. He had no safe haven in the country, possibly the world. Where could they have gone?

'It doesn't make sense. He disappeared right off the map!' Logan refused to believe Creed was up and active. The damage to his brain had been too intense, and it hadn't all been repaired yet. Fully aware and functional, yeah, he could avoid detection as long as he wanted to. But unconscious? It just didn't fly. His thoughts were interrupted by a call in his mind.

X. February 2, 1995. 1:14 p.m. 35 miles northeast of Indianapolis

Creed stared at Clarice, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You're serious." He'd been sitting there for the last 4 hours, listening to the wildest tale he'd heard in quite some time. It could be true, of course...he'd lived through enough crazy shit to believe in must about anything. But man, what a trip. This was one messed up bitch who sounded like she'd had an LSD trip gone sour.

"I know it sounds crazy, but..."

"Crazy? Noooo!" He was openly mocking. "Let's see, you're from an alternate reality--kudos for the explanation, doesn't require a shred of proof--where Apocalypse is king of the world, all the X-Men are bad guys, and I'm Mr. Sunshine."

"I wouldn't go that far." She didn't like being mocked, she found. Even by Mr. Creed.

"You're right. Let's see...how about 'gruff old guy who's a nice, stable parental figure'?"

"Well, you were," she said sulkily.

"So tell me something; why, exactly, was I like this? I'm really curious. 'Cause by the late 40's, when all this supposedly started, I'd already been mind-fucked all the way to hell and back by more people than I care to remember. What gave me such a wonderful change of heart?"

"I told you! Magneto--"

"Yes, yes, Magneto. Magneto the wonderful, who took up Baldy's pathetic dream and gave me something to live for. Gimme a break, sister. Why would Magnus do that, anyway? He always seemed to have some sense in his head, always saw through that 'peace on earth and goodwill toward man' bullshit Chuck's always spewing. Get it straight--I don't need anybody, I never have, and nothing could make me change that. Especially not some slavering fan of Xavier's!"

Clarice fidgeted for a minute, then said "I don't think it was the dream that got you to change, really. Apocalypse screwed you over. Magnus was the only other game in town, and he lived by his word. Maybe it was secure enough that you could stand it for awhile, and maybe it just grew on you. Maybe you decided there was more worth living for than the next hit."

Creed rolled his eyes. "Oh, please." Not in this lifetime. No way in hell he was going to bother with that shit ever again. Raven Darkholme and her manipulations were quite enough, thank you very much. No, his options were scaring the shit out of everyone he could and forcing something halfway decent or letting everyone from here to China stomp all over him. Tough choice. "So why do this now? What did you expect, that we'd go Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid or something?"

Clarice looked at her hands, which were fidgeting. "I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far. Everything's so different..."

"Uh huh." Y'know, any other day he'd probably have gutted her by now. That blind rage that normally consumed him seemed to have evaporated, though; he felt like he was high on Birdie's glow, but he hadn't had that in weeks. Maybe the runt did something useful after all. "Indiana. Why Indiana?"

"I don't know. It was the first place I thought of. I can only teleport to places I've been, and I was there recently, so..." She shrugged.

"Yeah." Indiana. They were walking northeast along 69, heading toward a county road junction. "So tell me,--"

Creed was interrupted by a siren behind him. He turned to see a State Trooper patrol car right behind them.

"Aw shit, who's that?" She had a mouth on her, he had to give her that.

"Cops. You know, law enforcement?" The trooper got out of his car, levelling a shotgun at them.

"Both of you get on the ground and put your hands behind your head." The cop was a good 15 feet away; Creed didn't particularly feel like dealing with a load of shot right now, so he made to do what the cop said. He could deal with him later, he was sure.

Clarice didn't seem to feel the same. Creed saw a flash of light to his right and she reappeared behind the patrolman, swiftly jabbing the end of one of her javelins into the base of his neck. The cop crumpled. She looked his way. "I don't like cops."

Huh. On second thought, she might be useful. He thought about killing the cop, but it went against the grain. Money or revenge, those were the standards. Anything else got way too messy way too quickly.

The car radio indicated that the trooper had already called for backup; Creed took off down the county road, heading for I-70. If they were lucky, all the troopers would be coming in on 69 and he could bypass them by taking 70 straight through Indianapolis, catching 65 and heading up toward Chicago. He knew some people in Chicago; that might work alright.

XI. February 2, 1995. 7:23 p.m. Cybernet Industries, San Diego

Ben filed the last of his reports for the day; things had been uneventful for the most part. The run had gone without incicent, and security details had gone smoothly. He thought he might go for a run tonight, perhaps work on applying his abilities in creative ways. One of the things very few people knew about him was that he was a mutant; this was part of the reason Encarres hired him. His powers were very potent, yet passive, mainly defensive in nature. He had to come up with better ways to use them if he was going to be useful to his employer.

He turned out the lights and shut the door, heading down the hall past the labs to the main entrance. As he passed the doors to the labs, he noticed they were open; since it was past business hours, he decided to investigate.

As he entered the room, he saw Holly Majere working at her terminal. She looked up and smiled wearily, looking very much like she wanted to be elsewhere.

"It's after hours, Holly." It felt awkward to be so familiar, but Ms. Majere seemed a bit stiff. "What's going on?"

"I work late sometimes; it's easy to fall behind, and if I left all my work for the day I'd be swamped in no time. Right now I'm doing some background work on a project Mr. Encarres set me on a couple of weeks ago. It's tedium incarnate, mostly because I can't find much of anything."

"I see." He paused, unsure what to say. Then, "Is it true what some of the techs say--that you can interface directly with the computers?"

She looked at him for a minute, then, apparently deciding he wasn't trying to harass her, said "Yeah. I'm a mutant. I hope that's not a problem?"

"No no!" Hell. "I was just curious, that's all."

She glanced at him again, then smiled and returned to her work. "I can interact via direct feed, but it's not necessary when I'm just the operator. It mostly comes in handy programming and such, because I can do a lot in a very short period of time and in very innovative ways. It's easier to just surf like everyone else when I'm using the net."

"Wouldn't an ability like that really speed up access times, though?"

"It would, but I can operate at speeds most computers can't hope to handle. Since I'm limited by their constraints, the tech we have here gives about the same response time and lets me keep in touch with the real world." She continued typing, and he sat mutely, trying to think of something to say. Suddenly, she stiffened, staring in surprise at the screen. "That id... what's it doing there?" Ben's security instincts came to the fore. Before he could ask what she knew, however, she said "Hey, do me a favor. Make sure I don't slam my head through the monitor."

"What?" He was taken aback.

She didn't answer; instead, her eyes glazed over and her body shuddered as her mind entered the network of computers that was the internet, accessing dozens of sites in the time it would take a fully stocked Pentium to access one. After 7 minutes, Ben was getting concerned. Suddenly, her body jerked and he knew what she meant about slamming into the monitor. He held her in place while her mind returned to its body.

"Well?"

She turned to face him, her eyes wide in shock. She tried to speak one, twice, then finally managed "We...we have to get Encarres."

XII. February 2, 1995. 7:54 p.m. Seth Encarres' Apartment

"Everything. Defense computers in the Pentagon, at Langley, in Norfolk; medical computers at Harvard, Yale, UCSD, Jons-Hopkins; banking systems in Geneva, New York, the Cayman Islands, Hong Kong; credit card companies, DMVs, even private individuals. Including Essex. Absolutely everything of significance that I looked at had the same trail. These people have hacked into everything, and they've left backdoors everywhere. I don't know who they are or what they're up to, but they're the best I've ever seen. It's like someone's ready to grab the industrialized world by the balls and let it know who's in charge, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it."

She looked around the room at the others gathered there: Mr. Encarres, Ben, Sarah Mitchell. All had grim looks on their faces.

"Do you have any idea who it was?"

"I finally tracked the user id. It belongs to a cyborg named Hard Drive, who until recently belonged to a mercenary group calling itself the Riders of the Storm. They disappeared about 6 months ago, and aside from this haven't shown up anywhere since."

Encarres furrowed his brows in thought. "What files were actually copied?"

"Only files from Mr. Essex so far. I don't know why." She handed him a disk. "Sir, we have to be careful. If we probe too deeply, they could shut us down so quickly we'd never know what hit us. I'm taking steps to prevent it, but they could nail our credit rating, all of our accounts, wipe them from existence. They could end us as an institution in less time than it takes to tell." She was clearly shaken by what she'd learned.

"Then we must use caution. And we must make contingency plans. I have someone I must speak with. I'll brief you all in the morning on what needs to be done. Good night."

An hour later, he picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. It was answered on the third ring.

"Yes?"

"It's me. We have to talk, Nathan."

"Yes. The place in the mountains, in an hour. You remember?"

"I remember. An hour then." As he hung up the phone, Encarres thought of all he'd learned tonight. and he began to plan.

Feedback is always welcome! Please send e-mail to sankarah@ix.netcom.com
Last updated 4/10/96.

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