While he’d been taking this in, Logan had been looking around—point man scouting the territory, he thought sourly. He was above a rusty-metal-and-rotting-wood platform. It circled the room, a giant, dark chamber that seemed to occupy most of the inside of the warehouse. The only illumination came from torches held by some of the hundred-odd congregation below. All looking at one man, the “preacher” on his stage, shouting out a sermon of hate against mutants. He finished some rousing phrase and they all cheered, lifting up their torches in an old salute. Logan remembered an SS meeting he’d broken into in a German castle, back in World War II. This was like that, only worse, because these people knew about that war and hadn’t learned from it.
There was no danger of being seen. No one was paying any attention to much except the preacher. Turning back to the window, Logan released one of his six adamantium claws out of its housing and carefully cut off the shards of glass until the entrance was clear. Logan went in, then summoned Iceman in after him.
Bobby’s eyes widened as he, too, took in the information that had intrigued Logan. He soon recovered himself and crouched down on the walkway beside him. “Gee, do you think we wore the right clothes for the party?” he whispered, smiling tensely. His expression became more serious. “But where’s Rachel?”
Logan had all but forgotten the frail In the excitement of his discovery. Now he looked carefully around the room, his keener-than-human eyes searching her out. And there she was, in the darkness by the door, surrounded by men whose faces looked strangely distorted.
The preacher finished, and the congregation turned their attention to the woman. As she approached them, not with any enthusiasm, Logan thought, they, too, put something over their faces. Gas masks, he realized—more World War II imagery. They looked both macabre and absurdly comic, like postapocalyptic carnival masks, but it made sense if Logan was right about her. And he was always right.
Just then, Logan sensed a flicker of motion beside him. He felt himself shouldered aside as Bobby lunged forward. Logan grabbed at him, catching him around the waist before the young fool could throw himself off the walkway. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” he hissed.
“I’ve got to help her!” Bobby returned, none too quietly. Cursing, Logan clapped his hand over Bobby’s mouth and fought to hold the young man’s squirming, cold body with his own. Below them, he saw two men in Friends of Humanity uniforms peering upward toward them. He held his breath, and tightened his grip on Bobby until he probably couldn’t breathe either. For a taut stretch of time, the men continued looking up, muttering to each other. Then the darkness defeated them and they turned their attention back to the woman.
Logan felt Bobby’s body relax beneath him, and he cautiously loosened his grip. “You got ahold of yourself, bub?” Bobby nodded, and Logan took his hand from his mouth. “I’m sorry, Wolvie. I lost it for a moment. I felt her drawing me in. I knew she was calling out for help, but I couldn’t stop myself.” He shuddered as if he was cold—an odd sight in one covered in ice. “My God, no wonder they’re scared of us.”
They both looked down at Rachel, who now stood sur-
rounded by a circle of Friends of Humanity soldiers. She didn’t look at ease—Logan could hear the scrape of her high-heeled shoes as she shifted from foot to foot. And the men surrounding her were laughing and jeering, like boys who’d found a frog and were working themselves up to pulling its legs off.
“So, we’re honored by the presence of the delightful Ms. Mostel.” The speaker had emerged from the darkness at the back of the stage so quietly that even Logan hadn’t noticed him. Although he wore nothing to distinguish him from the other men, Logan knew this was the leader of the pack.
Rachel’s eyes were fixed on him, as if she sensed the same thing. “You know why I’m here,” she said with a bravura that couldn’t disguise the tremble in her voice.
“Indeed.” The man looked at her a moment longer, his features hidden from her, as well as Logan, behind another gas mask. He seemed to enjoy whatever power it was he possessed over her, and they stood frozen for a moment in a tableau of domination. Then he made a sharp gesture at one of his men. “I guess it is time we paid the wages of sin,” he said smoothly.
The thug moved to a large box that stood to one side of the group. He yanked back the black sheet covering it, revealing a metal cage. Imprisoned within it, grasping its thick bars, was a tiny, bedraggled girl. She was shivering convulsively, and with each shudder the cage rang like a cracked bell. This time, it was Bobby who had to hold Logan back as all his muscles tensed in outrage.
Rachel rushed up to the cage and awkwardly embraced
the child through its bars. Her child, Logan was sure. He felt a rage so strong, it nearly overpowered him.
After a few seconds, the leader stepped forward and said coolly, “That’s very touching, but remember—it cost me a lot to get you appointed to that jury, and I need a conviction. If one is not forthcoming, well ...” He tailed off, and Logan could sense that behind the gas mask, he was smiling. “You saw the photographs of what happened to Streck’s sister. The same thing could easily happen to your daughter.”
Rachel twisted around to face him, still embracing the little girl. “They’re in the palm of my hand,” she said bitterly. “They’ll give any verdict I want.” She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them again with a desperate challenge. “Why? So you’ll get one more mutant sent to jail. Wouldn’t you rather find the real person who killed your friends?”
There were snickers from the men around her. “How charmingly naive,” the leader murmured. “But you see, I know who was responsible for their deaths. And since I have no great desire to serve a prison sentence, I certainly don’t want to bring him to justice.”
Rachel looked at him with genuine shock. “You killed five of your own people just to get a mutant convicted of murder?”
The leader jumped down from the stage and moved rapidly toward her. She flinched away, but not fast enough to stop him viciously grasping her chin. “I killed them because they disobeyed my orders. They attacked Arthur Streck’s sister, and worse, they allowed themselves to be caught for it. That court case was very damaging to our cause. It would
have been even more so, if there’d been any chance of a conviction.’' There was loud, ugly laughter. Rachel struggled in his grip. Logan could see white indentations in her face where his fingers were biting into her. “When they disobeyed me, they wrote their own death sentences. And when that uppity mutant Streck caused me problems, he became the perfect murderer.”
The FoH leader suddenly jerked his arm, flinging Rachel against the cage. “Now go and get some sleep. The prosecution case against Streck will be concluding tomorrow, and the defense will present their version of events. You’ll need all your energy to stop the other jurors from being swayed.”
Rachel reached through the bars to her hysterical daughter, but two thugs ran forward and dragged her from the room. The leader watched for a few moments, then turned and vanished back into the shadows at the back of the podium. The Friends of Humanity members were left standing around and looking vaguely unsatisfied. Bad stage management, Logan thought. Should’ve ended with a song.
He felt Bobby tense again under his hand, but he clamped down and extended his claws until they just nicked Bobby’s ice sheath. “Not yet, bub.”
“But—but they might be hurting her—”
“They ain’t gonna harm their secret weapon, now, are they? She’ll be all right ’til after the trial. So will the kid, but I wouldn’t give a snowball’s chance in hell of their surviving more’n five minutes afterwards.”
Bobby relaxed. “You’re right, of course.” He thought for a moment. “We need to tell the judge what’s going on. He can arrange for police protection.’’
“You’re not thinkin’ straight. You tell the judge what’s goin’ on and there’ll be questions ’bout you an’ how you know so all-fired much ’bout what’s goin’ on. At best you’ve lied durin’ the empanelin’ process. At worst you’ve interfered with the course of justice. We can’t go ridin’ roughshod over everythin’—we have to be subde.”
Bobby turned and gave Logan a sarcastic look. “Subdety being your speciality7, of course. Any suggestions?”
Logan gazed down at the small girl huddled in the cage, her arms wrapped tight around her knees, her shoulders shaking. “Strikes me that the key to the whole thing is that kid down there. We get her out, then the FoH goons ain’t got no hold over your lady friend, an’ she can stop mani-pulatin’ the jury. With a bit of luck, justice’ll get done— well, as much justice as ever gets done in a courtroom.” “Then let’s go.” Bobby rose to a crouch.
“No!” Logan snapped, but it was too late. The kid must’ve still been affected by Rachel’s pheromone cry for help. He needed to do something chivalrous and heroic—or maybe just plain macho—and he wasn’t going to wait and plan things carefully. With a sweeping gesture of his gloved hand he crystallized the water vapor in the warehouse. Logan watched as snow fell on the FoH thugs—not just in flakes, not even in flurries, but in bucket loads. Their guttering torches were extinguished within a moment, and they were left floundering in a two-foot-thick freezing blanket.
“I’ll get the girl,” Bobby yelled. “You cover my back!” “Great,” Logan growled as Bobby created an ice ramp from the platform down to the stage and slid down it, perfectly balanced.
Logan leaped down from the platform, his leg muscles
easily absorbing the impact as he hit the ground. Extending his claws, he gazed round at the assembled Friends of Humanity. “All right, gang,” he snarled, “you wanna put your money where your mouths are?”
After a moment of astonishment, they came for him.
The first five jumped him, trying to bear him to the ground by force of numbers. They obviously didn’t know with whom they were dealing. Logan crouched into a ball, then flung himself back to his feet. The five thugs went flying. Ten or twelve more hesitated, then piled in. Logan picked the first one off his feet and used him as a flail to beat the others away with. After a few moments the thug went limp, so Logan threw him up onto the platform and chose another one. “Strike one!” he yelled as he used the fresh club to knock another thug all the way across the room. “Strike two!” and another one went flying up onto the stage, trailing a ribbon of blood behind him.
Out of the comer of his eye, Logan spotted Bobby. He had frozen the lock of the cage and snapped it off, and he was pulling the terrified girl to safety. She was beating at his chest and generally making a nuisance of herself, and so Bobby was completely unaware of the thugs running up behind him.
“Iceman! Watch yer back!”
Bobby turned and extended his hand toward the running men. Icicles burst from his fingertips, slender spears that crossed the distance between him and them within a second. They ran onto the sharp points, then danced backward to free themselves amid a fairy-tale tinkle of breaking ice.
Something went bang! and Logan felt a hot stab of agony
in his shoulder. His nostrils burned with the acrid tang of cordite. He turned slowly, feeling the tissues knit together and the red-hot lead slug being pushed to the surface. One of the nearby thugs was holding a gun. In the time it took him to register that his victim was still standing, Logan had crossed the distance between them and slashed at his arm, claws fully extended. The man’s hand went spinning away, still holding the gun, and the man sank to his knees. Logan could smell two more coming up behind him, so he whirled around, slicing parallel gashes across their faces. Blood sprayed into the air, its hot, coppery smell almost overpowering him. He took a deep breath and deliberately pulled himself back from the brink of berserker fury. This was no time to lose control.
“Hey, Frosty—time to make our apologies and leave.”
Bobby weighed up the situation, then took a few paces toward the center of the room so that Logan was between him and the door. Somehow he had persuaded the girl that he was on her side, and she was clinging to his back like a pigtailed rucksack. Bobby extended both arms straight out, pointing past Logan and toward the door. A sudden hisss! made Logan flinch, and when he looked up he was in a tunnel of ice that ran from Bobby to the door. The Friends of Humanity were just blurred figures rushing around on the other side.
“Nice work,” he said as Bobby ran toward him. “Ever considered goin' into the construction industry in Canada? There’s plenty of Inuits I know cl be pleased to come to some kinda arrangement.”
“Enough with the jokes,” Bobby yelled, passing him. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Oh, yeah,” Logan said drily. “Thanks for remindin’ me.” Turning, he noticed that a few of the thugs nearest the cage had discovered the start of the frozen corridor and were beginning to advance along it toward him. His ada-mantium claws penetrated the ice on either side of him like knives through soft cheese. Taking a step back, he pulled. The ice crumbled in a wave extending back toward the cage, burying them in jagged blocks. Smiling at a job well done, he followed Bobby out of the warehouse.
As they ran across the neon-lit road and into an alley on the other side, Bobby looked back. The Friends of Humanity were spilling out of the warehouse like ants from a disturbed nest. He and Logan had barely even scratched the surface. There were hundreds of them and they had raided the armory. Most had handguns or rifles, a few were toting machine pistols, and at least one had a rocket launcher.
“What do they think this is,” he said, aghast, “war?”
Logan glanced up at him. “Yeah,” he said simply. “They do.”
Bobby concentrated on the air above the road, pulling energy from the water molecules and condensing them onto the road surface, then absorbing even more energy, feeling it burn within him, as the water altered form again until it was a thin sheet of ice. The Friends of Humanity ran onto it unaware, and their arms flailed wildly as they tried to keep their balance. The girl clinging to his back giggled as they slipped, slid, and collided like something out of a Keystone Kops film. Some of them accidentally tightened their fingers on their triggers, and the night was shattered by gunfire.
“Here,” Logan said, scooping the girl off Bobby’s back, “let me take her. This might turn into a chase, an’ I tire less easily than you, bub. ’Sides, you don’t wanna give her frostbite.”
Some of the Friends of Humanity had made it across the ice and were vanishing into the night.. Others were talking on portable telephones. For the first time since he’d thrown himself down into the fray, Bobby stopped to think. “They’ll be setting up roadblocks,” he said. “This area of town is almost deserted, and they know we’re on foot. If they can throw up a cordon fast enough they can search systematically. They’re bound to find us.”
“So, any bright ideas?” Logan asked. There was a distracted tone in his voice, and Bobby turned to look. The girl was riding high on his shoulders, pulling at the wisps of his sideburns that had escaped around the edges of his mask. The expression on the bottom half of Logan’s face was a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
“How did they get here?” Bobby asked, indicating the thugs who were still lingering in the vicinity of the warehouse. “They don’t all live here, I guess. They must have jobs, families, and lives.”
“So they drove,” Logan said. “ ’Less they hired a bus.” “Which means they parked somewhere.”
Logan nodded. “Let’s go look, then.” He twisted his neck so he could look up at the girl. She gazed down at him with wide, dark eyes: eyes just as beautiful as her mother’s, Bobby reflected. “Hey, munchkin—you’re gonna have to keep very quiet if you want to get out of here and see your momma again, and you do want to get out of here, don’t you?”
She nodded solemnly.
“Good girl. What’s your name, by the way?”
“I’m Sophie.”
Logan grinned. “Good girl, Sophie.”
The cars were parked in a deserted lot around the back of the warehouse, and guarded by three armed thugs. Some of the cars had been driven off to search for the escapees, but there were enough left to cover Logan and Bobby’s approach. Logan had let Sophie scramble to the ground and was about to launch himself at the guards when Bobby put a restraining hand on his shoulder. Logan turned, a question in his eyes, but Bobby shook his head and pointed without even looking and froze the guards where they stood.
“Ain’t that a little harsh, bub?” Logan said calmly as the guards toppled like statues to the ground.
“Don’t worry—they’ll thaw just fine.”
Logan fixed him with a sardonic glance. “Hey—you don’t have to prove anythin’ to me,” he said. “I ain’t the one with the pheromones.”
As Logan chose the car with the biggest engine, Bobby allowed himself a moment of doubt. He thought he had done what he had done in order to escape, but had he gone too far? Were Rachel’s pheromones still buzzing around his system, affecting what he did, biasing his decisions? Anger flared through him. He’d been controlled by a woman before and he had almost gone mad as a result. The thought of having someone dictating his actions made his skin crawl. What did it say about him that he was so susceptible?
Logan waved to him from a tow truck that looked as if it had been made out of big sheets of iron soldered to-nit omnm x-ntn
gether. He had picked the lock with one of his claws. “It might hold us if we get into a firelight,” he said as Bobby walked over with Sophie, “but I ain’t bankin’ on it. Some ice armor’d be a nice idea, don’t’cha think?”
Bobby smiled, and nodded. “No problem.”
Logan and Sophie climbed into the truck and shut the door. As Logan hot-wired the ignition, Bobby set to work swathing the bodywork in layer after layer of ice, leaving a tunnel for Logan to see through. By the time he had finished, the tow truck looked like a giant snowball on wheels. Walking up to the frozen surface, Bobby infiltrated his body into the ice, becoming part of it, surrendering himself to it and swimming through it until he came to the window on the passenger side. He pulled himself through like a localized avalanche and reconstituted himself into his ice-laden human form.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Sophie asked.
He smiled, ice in his heart. “Everything hurts,” he said. “You learn to live with it.”
Sophie stared at him uncertainly as Logan gunned the truck to life. Like a ghostly tank, the ice-armored vehicle rumbled toward the distant barricades.
Next morning, when Bobby Drake walked into the courthouse room where the jury was sequestered away before the day’s business commenced, his eyes immediately went to Rachel Mostel. She was sitting alone, her head in her hands. It looked to Bobby like there was some kind of no-go area around her: none of the other jury members were sitting within ten feet of her, and nobody was even looking her way. Bobby felt his own eyes sliding away, trying to look
anywhere else but at her, and he had to force them back in her direction. It was those damn pheromones again. Consciously or unconsciously, she wras forcing people to ignore her. Perhaps the strain was getting to her.
He wished he could say something, tell her that her daughter was safe and the Friends of Humanity had no power over her anymore, but he didn’t dare. She wouldn’t believe him, and he would have blown his cover completely. No matter how much he wanted to comfort her, it wasn’t a good move.
Within a few moments, the jury were escorted into the courtroom by the bailiff. Alan Wydell was sitting at the prosecution bench, thumbs hooked behind his lapels and a smile on his face. He looked the complete picture of confidence. Arthur Streck’s counsel, by contrast, was already looking harassed.
Streck himself sat beside his counsel with his head bowed. His scales were dulled and his ears were flat against his head. He was beaten, and he knew it.
As they sat down in the jury box, Bobby shot a glance sideways at Rachel Mostel. She was looking at Arthur Streck and biting her lip. A pang of compassion shot though his heart, and he knew it wasn’t just her pheromones. She didn’t want to go through with it.
The bailiff announced the arrival of the judge, and everyone in the courtroom stood, apart from the wheelchair-bound Xavier, as she bustled in and made herself comfortable. The bailiff indicated that the court could sit and they did, apart from one person: Sophie Mostel, standing between Professor Xavier and Logan. She waved at her
mother and grinned before Logan tugged her back to her seat.
Bobby watched Professor Xavier’s face. His eyes were fixed on Rachel’s, and when Bobby glanced back to her he saw that she was staring at Xavier with an expression of wonderment. A telepathic message telling her that everything was okay and her daughter was in safe hands? It seemed likely.
And a wave of happiness passed through the court. Bobby could track its progress as person after person grinned suddenly, then wondered why. Even Arthur Streck looked up and smiled.
After that, the trial proceeded normally—for the first time since it began, really. Alan Wydell, full of fire and brimstone, did his best to intimidate a series of defense witnesses, but Rachel wasn’t cooperating. No longer influenced by her mutant powers, the jury shifted restlessly as they heard his words clearly for the first time. Wydell could tell something was wrong: his glance flickered across their faces disbeliev-ingly as he realized the adulation and approval he was used to were missing.
And he kept looking at Rachel. Bobby filed that fact away for later consideration.
The judge called an hour’s recess and the jury was sent back to its claustrophobic room. Bobby walked over to where Rachel was sitting, hoping that he could find out what Xavier had asked her to do, but she was busy writing a note. He took a step closer—or at least, he tried to—but something stopped him, like an invisible barrier hanging in midair. She didn’t want to be bothered.
Back in the courtroom, the judge cleared her throat. “I
realize that you will be expecting the counsel for the defense to make his closing speech, but I’m afraid that I have a matter of some gravity to discuss.”
Alan Wydell looked surprised. The counsel for the defense just looked relieved.
“The bailiff has handed me a note from one of the jurors,” the judge continued. “This note alleges that there has been interference with the due process of the law. Whether or not this is true is a matter for the police to determine, and I am forced, therefore, to declare a mistrial—”
The rest of the judge’s words were lost in the tumult of reporters trying to get to the door and of the rest of the public talking and shouting. Bobby wasn’t sure who to look at—Arthur Streck, who looked as if he'd just been sandbagged from behind, or Rachel Mostel, who had much the same expression, or Streck’s defense counsel, who looked like he was about to faint.
It was an hour before order was restored and the jury was dismissed. When Bobby finally got outside onto the courthouse steps, with the granite of the Westchester County Courthouse building glowing in the sunshine behind him, he felt happier than he had for days. The sky was blue, the trees w7ere bowing slightly in the breeze, and the air smelled as if it had just been freshly made.
Logan and Professor Xavier were waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.
“So, you never got your moment of glory,” Logan said, grinning. “I was expecting you to be foreman.”
“I’ll live,” Bobby replied. He turned to the Professor. “What happens now?”
Xavier’s face was as imperturbable as usual. “There will, of course, be an investigation into the tampering charge. Mr. Streck will not be retried until after that investigation, if at all. There has been so much negative publicity which, combined with the possible results of the investigation, would make a new indictment extremely difficult. Justice would, therefore, seem to have prevailed in this case, and we have dealt another blow to the Friends of Humanity. All in all, my friends, we have a positive result. Well done.”
“An’ it’s my opinion,” Logan added, “that the first thing the Friends of Humanity will do is lynch friend Streck from the nearest tree. If they can’t get him one way, they’ll get him another. So—did we do him a favor or not? I don’t know.”
“And Rachel?” Bobby asked, “What happens to her?”
Xavier looked pained. ‘ As I made clear to her in a telepathic message, manipulation of a jury is illegal. She was coerced into it, and that will form the basis of a good defense, but in the interim she has been arrested. She understood what would happen, but she knew that it was the right thing to do. It is unfortunate, but. .
“And Sophie?” Bobby looked around wildly. “What about her?”
“I promised Ms. Mostel that we would look after young Sophie until she was released on bail,” Xavier replied, “and that the Xavier Institute would fund her own defense. Warren has already driven her back to the mansion.” Xavier smiled slightly as Logan pursed his lips and looked away. “I believe she is looking forward to playing with Uncle Wolverine.”
Bobby was about to make a crack at Logan’s expense
when a sudden commotion at the top of the steps attracted his attention. He turned, and his heart leaped within him. Rachel Mostel was being led away from the courthouse by two policemen, followed by a gaggle of reporters with flashing cameras and working tape recorders, all asking questions so loudly that they wouldn’t have heard her even if she had answered. The policemen were wearing gas masks. Rachel was handcuffed, and she had been crying. Her eyes passed over Bobby and there was a flicker of recognition, but only as a fellow juror. She didn’t know what he had done for her. She would probably never know, and he felt empty and hollow at the realization.
Alan Wydell emerged from the courtroom door. He stood nobly for a moment, the wind artfully disarranging his hair, until the press noticed him. They ran back up the steps, gabbling questions all the way.
“Yes,” he boomed, “I am disappointed at the halting of the trial, but I am confident that the culprit—this mutant juror who has tried to influence the good people of the jury—will be prosecuted with the full force of the law. And—” he rode magisterially over the clamoured questions 51—I am also confident that Arthur Streck will find himself in another court, a fairer court, a court that will deliver a true and just verdict of guilty! ’ ’
He strode off to a waiting car. Some cub reporters followed; the older, wiser ones knew that they had all they were going to get, and they left.
“And so it begins,” Xavier murmured. “Already he is manipulating the facts: making it look like the jury was being influenced to find Mr. Streck innocent, rather than
guilty. As Hiram Johnson once said, ‘The first casualty when war comes is truth.’ ”
“Never mind that,” Logan said. “Bobby, does somethin’ strike you as familiar ’bout his little rabble-rousin’ speech there?”
Bobby frowned, trying to remember. “Now you come to mention it, yeah. He sounded a lot like that Friends of Humanity guy.”
Logan nodded. “Yup. An’ besides—how did he know Rachel was a mutant? I didn’t get a good whiff o’ his scent in the warehouse, but the posture and tone match the guy behind the gas mask.”
“I’ll check to see whether the employment agency that sent Arthur Streck to those fake job interviews can be traced back to Mr. Wydell,” the Professor said, “but I suspect I will find nothing. He strikes me as the sort of man who is very careful about not leaving traces.”
They were all silent for a moment, staring after Rachel Mostel as the police car drove her away. How fair a trial would she get, Bobby wondered, if the ADA belonged to the Friends of Humanity? And was Logan right—would the FoH also be out to get Arthur Streck one way or another?
It looked as if they had won the battle, but the outcome of the war was still uncertain.
Together, the three of them moved off toward Bobby’s car: Logan wheeling the Professor, Bobby walking alongside. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps Bobby’s subconscious mind playing tricks, or perhaps just a freak effect of the weather but, as they reached the car, the first few flakes of snow began to fall from a cloudless blue sky.
Illustration by Ron Lim
Thank you for ordering this transcript of the May 20th episode of Viewpoints starring Archer Finchley. This is Episode #0418 and features Warren Worthington III as Archer’s guest. To order other transcripts of Viewpoints, send a check or money order to the address posted at the end of each episode.
Finckley: Good evening! Welcome to Viewpoints, I’m your host, Archer Finckley. Tonight, we have a very special guest: he’s young, he’s handsome, he’s rich, and he’s got a pair of wings. I’m talking about the high-flying Warren Worthington III, the young head of Worthington Enterprises, better known to many as the Angel.
Warren was born to Warren Worthington II and his wife Kathryn, and was the heir to the Worthington Industries empire. While attending a private school as a teenager, he began to sprout wings from his back as he entered puberty. He used these wings to save the lives of many of his classmates during a dormitory fire, using a long nightshirt and a wig to disguise his idendty, giving him an appearance which earned him the name the Avenging Angel.
At one point, he was a member of the infamous mutant group, the X-Men, under the simpler codename the Angel, but later left them to found the Champions, the first team of heroes to operate on the West Coast. Just prior to his time with the Champions, he revealed his secret identity, becoming the most visible mutant in public life. After the group disbanded, he later joined the Defenders, then reorganized under the leadership of the former Avenger Dr. Henry McCoy, also known as the Beast. He was also briefly
associated with a team of mutants calling themselves “the X-Terminators. ’ ’
Then tragedy struck when a crippling attack caused severe damage to his wings, and amputation was deemed necessary to prevent the spread of gangrene. Depressed, Worthington was seen taking off in his private plane, which then exploded in flight. He was believed dead, and with his death his financial empire began to disintegrate, aided by the discovery that he was funding the then-mutant-hunting organization, X-Factor. Then, months after his funeral services, he reappeared in the public eye, and we have him here tonight in his first extended interview since. We’ll be taking your calls later in the show. But right now, it is my pleasure to introduce Warren Worthington.
Worthington: Thank you, Archer.
Finckley: Thank you very much for coming on the show tonight, Warren. You’ve been something of a recluse—
Worthington: Recluse? I wouldn’t go that far.
Finckley: Well, this is the first interview you’ve given in the last couple of years, ever since your little, ah, accident.
Worthington: Accident isn’t the term I would use. My disability happened as the result of a deliberate attack.
Finckley: No, I’m not referring to the injur)? to your wings, I’m referring to the plane explosion shortly thereafter.
Worthington: Oh, I’m sorry—that.
Finckley: Yes, that. Once and for all, would you care to set the record straight on what happened?
Worthington: As you said in your introduction, I’d been injured while fighting an organization dedicated to wiping out mutants, and had suffered severe damage to my wings.
Most doctors were, to put it mildly, stymied—they had no idea how to treat a body with wings attached. I felt the best thing I could do was get a long rest. However, I was very, very concerned that the same people who had injured me in the first place would take another shot at me, or someone else would take advantage. And I was incapable of defending myself, and any conventional form of protection would have been useless.
So we resorted to misdirection. Sleight of hand. We spread the story that my wings had been amputated, and I killed myself because I couldn’t fly again. I was on a plane and wanted to die in the air. Actually, I hid myself away and waited for my wings to heal. And I broke off all outside contact, because that was the only way I felt I wouldn’t be tracked and killed. Unfortunately, while I was in seclusion healing physically, one of my trusted associates decided this was a good time to wreck me financially, and since I was physically incapable and legally dead, there wasn’t much I could do. When I was out of immediate physical danger and my wings were as healed as they were going to get, I came out of hiding and I started to rebuild my life.
Finckley: Since then, you haven’t been anywhere near as public a figure as you were. After all, you are one of the most prominent “out” mutants.
Worthington: [laughs] Sorry, your choice of phrase— “out” mutants.
Finckley: There’s something wrong with the phrase?
Worthington: It’s an interesting crossover from the gay subculture. But unlike being gay, there are lots of mutants who can’t hide who they are, regardless of whether or not they might want to.
Finckley: Yet you did for a long time. In fact, right now, I can’t even tell there are wings underneath your suit.
Worthington: And don’t think my tailor comes cheap. Look, such a nice blend of fabric—and these pleats! [laughs] My tailor is a miracle worker.
Finckley: Why don’t you show your wings out more?
Worthington: The best answer—well, it’s kind of embar-assing to look at it this way, but try to imagine walking around with a hoop skirt strapped to your back, covered with a cape.
Finckley: I can imagine it must be very clumsy.
Worthington: You bend down and knock over a table. What a pain in the tailfeathers. Literally.
Finckley: So it’s not embarassment or a publicity thing, or hiding your mutant ability?
Worthington: Now it’s a bit of vanity—my wings are not pretty to behold anymore. But for the most part, it’s just convenience for everybody else around me. I have nothing to hide, it’s not like my face is unknown—God knows my face shows up in the paper enough, between the business section and the society pages, never mind the battles with Professor Power and the Secret Empire on the front page.
Finckley: How do you conceal your wings?
Worthington: I wear a special harness that keeps them flat against my back.
Finckley: Is it painful with your injured wings?
Worthington: I’ve learned to adjust.
Finckley: You were very publicly involved with two semi-prominent super-teams—the Champions and the Defenders—but both were quite brief. What led you to get involved
in those endeavors? The world is, after all, full of superteams.
Worthington: Well, the Champions was made up of a number of people who just had many different irons in the fire. I got involved with them because—well, to be blunt, I was there at the same time on the west coast. This was before the days of a West Coast branch of the Avengers. I like to think we were a viability test. As for the Defenders . . . again, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Finckley: Considering how long the Champions lasted, I’d say they weren’t terribly viable. Then again, the Avengers shut down their West Coast branch, too.
Worthington: The Champions served their need and function at the time. I don’t know that it’s a good thing or bad that they disbanded when they did; I’m sure that a lot of people benefitted from them being together. For any super hero group, you don’t measure success by long-term cohesiveness or financial success, you measure it by the quality of the work they produced and the lives they touched. It’s kind of like a musical group. Besides, it was nice to be in a group with people with bigger PR problems than me.
Finckley: And who would that be?
Worthington: Ghost Rider, clearly. When you hang out with someone with a flaming skull for a head, having a sixteen-foot wingspan sort of fades into the background. And of course Natasha [the Black Widow] was a Soviet defector, which brought its own special problems.
Finckley: Which leads me to my next question . . .
Worthington: Oh boy.
Finckley: You took quite a risk by publicly revealing your status as a mutant. What led to that decision?
Worthington: I was tired of hiding it, really . . . after all the entire issue of “protecting” my family seemed to be moot after my parents died.
Finckley: Weren’t you worried about what it would do to your social status, not to mention your business?
Worthington: You have to consider the time and place. California is—or rather, was—more forgiving at the time of people different than themselves. Plus, having the name Angel and the appearance to go with it isn’t what you might necessarily call a minus in certain circles.
Finckley: Still, Worthington Enterprises’ stock did go down significantly after you spread your wings, so to speak.
Worthington: Ehh—it goes down, it. goes up. I look at the long term, not the short. We’ve run ourselves into the ground as a country, as a people, thinking short term.
Finckley: Certainly that can’t be the only reason you went public.
Worthington: No, it wasn’t. A big reason was to bring home the fact that anybody could be a mutant, that it cuts across race and class. Even the bluebloods can have a mutant baby. It’s not a “only gays, only Haitians, only poor white trash, only Jews, only blacks” sort of thing.
Finckley: Was that a big problem?
Worthington: Yes, it was and is. I found out that one of my oldest prep school friends, Cameron Hodge, a man I trusted with my finances and my life, hated mutants with a passion. He tried to destroy me and my friends numerous times—first from the inside of my own company, with embezzlement and spiteful PR while I was believed dead,
although I found out he’d been doing it ever since I brought him into the company, then later by joining and leading rabid anti-mutant groups.
Finckley: Why would a man like that—from your comments, a man with the most pedigree of backgrounds—behave that way?
Worthington: I don’t want to speculate on him in particular, but why does anybody do that who should know better? With some people if it’s not the mutants, it’s the moneylenders, it’s the Masons, it’s the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I’ve personally always been much more impressed with Hank McCoy’s decision to go public. Hank has always been a courageous soul in that respect—there was no reason for him to reveal himself, he was unrecognizable.
Finckley: Ah, yes, you and Dr. McCoy served with the Defenders together. Of course, he is heavily involved in the current foofuraw over the so-called “Legacy Virus.”
Worthington: Yes, he is.
Finckley: Now, as a mutant, you are suddenly at risk of contracting a deadly disease, in addition to any other problems being a mutant might cause.
Worthington: Believe me, catching a “mutant-killer” disease goes straight to the end of my list of problems. Being audited—that worries me.
Finckley: How do you feel about the fact that the existence of the virus was kept hidden from the general public for so long?
Worthington: I don’t think “kept hidden from the general public” is an accurate phrase—it implies that there was a deliberate cover-up. Just as with AIDS, it took a long time
to track down that such a disease was in operation—it took time to diagnose. The hysteria over making yourself known to be a mutant—indeed, many of the people who contracted it didn’t know that they were mutants themselves until they became sick. Come to think of it, the first news stories about the virus came out after the first infection in the general population, when Dr. [Moira] MacTaggart caught it herself.
Finckley: Well, let’s hope that your friend Dr. McCoy and his colleagues can find a cure. Moving on to more pleasant subjects, you were recently sighted at a Hellfire Club reception with a very attractive young woman on your arm. Might she be part of the reason why you’ve been less public lately?
Worthington: Yes? Which one? [laughs]
Finckley: I believe we have a photo here—-Jim, can we get that up on screen? Yes, I believe that’s her there.
Worthington: Oh, her! Betsy! [laughs] Boy, am I going to get in trouble for saying that.
Finckley: [chuckles] In that case, I assume we can take it as read that your social life has not suffered?
Worthington: Well, after the ordeal of putting my life back in order after the damage to my wings, it was more an issue of getting my head back together. But since then, I haven’t lacked for a social life, no.
Finckley: Getting your head back together?
Worthington: For a while after the injuries to my wings, I was really, really morbid. Preoccupied with death—that and getting my wings back. If I couldn’t fly again, I didn’t want to live.
Finckley: How are your wings now? There were reports
at the time that your wings had been amputated, and you haven’t shown them in public since, yet now you’re claiming you still have them.
Worthington: Functional, but not much more than that. I can still fly, on occasion. But I really don’t see myself getting involved in high-speed aerial combat as much as I used to, if ever.
Finckley: A career-ending injury?
Worthington: It was bound to end, sooner or later, just as with any athletic career. Well, any athletic career where people shoot at you on a regular basis.
Finckley: I imagine dealing with super-villains can be trying.
Worthington: Actually, I’ve never been comfortable with that phrase.
Finckley: Huh?
Worthington: “Super-villain.” Dumb phrase. Simplistic mentality. Think about it. Nikita Khruschev stood on the floor of the UN and said he wanted Communism to encircle the globe. Did anybody ever call him a super-villain? Of course not. If somebody feels required to break a person’s entire history and belief system into one word, I don’t want to discuss politics with them.
By the same token, I’m not real thrilled with the abbreviation “mutant.” WTiat I am is a mutant human. The human part is very important. Just calling me a mutant, or calling anybody a mutant, obscures the fact that we’re human at the core. Makes it easier to seperate us, deal with us as something from the outside.
Finckley: Since you brought up politics earlier, what are yours like?
Worthington: Libertarian, basically. The right to swing your fist ends where my nose begins. I don’t believe the government should get in the way of my life, whether it’s the IRS, the FTC, or the FAA. [laughs] In my public appearances, I always want to talk about the tax code and the business climate in this country, yet everybody always wants to hear me talk about, “Mutant rights! Mutant rights!”
Finckley: Okay, what’s your opinion on mutant rights?
Worthington: A tough sell.
Finckley: Why is that?
Worthington: The problem with trying to rally behind “mutant rights” is that it’s such an encompassing theme, and it’s difficult to find a common theme to rally behind.
Finckley: I’m not sure I follow you.
Worthington: Well, let’s say that every mutant had wings. If a hundred thousand people had them, there’d be a common thread among them. Somebody would start selling feather groomers, to add fluff and luster. People would join “Birds of a Feather” societies, and there would be a new variation on the Mile High Club.
But we don’t all have wings. Some have tails, some have fur, some have glass skin. Other mutants have no unique exterior features at all, just an extra ability that marks them as different. But almost every mutation we’ve seen evidence of seems to be unique. So there isn’t a common element to rally behind.
I’m in favor of equal rights and equal treatment under the law. Special treatment, I don’t know if we need it.
Finckley: Are you implying that you can defend yourself by taking matters into your own hands?
Worthington: No, not at all. It’s a personal belief. I don’t
see how beating a person with a tire chain because he’s a mutant is better or worse than beating a person with a tire chain because he’s human. Somebody’s still being beaten.
Finckley: Do you believe that mutants are human and deserve protection under human law?
Worthington: I believe mutant humans are sentient and deserve protection under sentient law. Human, mutant human, mutated human, self-aware computers like the Vision, and resident aliens like Centuiy should all be bound by the laws of the society they’re in. - ' ' "'
Finckley: Does being a mutant affect the way you conduct your business in any way? Do you find yourself shying away from any business deals, losing clients, things like that?
Worthington: Well, in our financial holdings, we’ve had to be very careful. In the eighties, we had some significant holdings in biotechnology stocks, just like every other large financial player in the market. Our problem was the impression started by some fundamentalist wackos that our investments in these companies were covers for secret research to turn out more mutants. Patently ridiculous, but we divested anyway.
Finckley: What else?
Worthington: Other than that—it’s more the life I’ve led, it’s led me to a wider variety of experiences than most people. I take advantage of the fact that I’m much more widely travelled, that I’ve seen so much more than most people. And of course, being shot at or kidnapped by demons makes the average business negotiation look easy.
Finckley: Do you know of cases where people don’t do business in your companies because they’re led by a mutant?
Worthington: A mutant boycott, you mean?
Finckley: In essence, yes.
Worthington: I know of a few, sure, they’ve been brought to my attention. And I know of people who won’t do business with Japanese companies, or companies with South African holdings, or Jewish owned or Arab owned. I don’t apologize for who I am or the life I lead; all someone who does a deal with me should care about is will I honor the deal? The smart ones do.
Finckley: Do you use your money to advance a mutant agenda?
Worthington: Didn’t I just answer that?
Finckley: Not really.
Worthington: I use it to advance my agenda, and my clients and my stockholders. I believe that a more peaceful world is more successful, financially and otherwise, and anything that I can do to promote smoother running of the world is a plus. If that means donating to peace activities, I do it. If it means hiring a super-powered individual to do a job because he underbids everybody else and I can use the savings elsewhere, I do that too.
Finckley: Are you saying you support the Genoshan solution?
Worthington: Hell, no! I said hire, not enslave. Geno-shans use slave labor, pure and simple. It’s reprehensible whether it’s blacks or mutants doing it. I can’t even compare the two.
Finckley: What about X-Factor? Was that part of your agenda, to publicly hunt down mutants?
Worthington: X-Factor was intended to help deal with the sudden emergence of mutants, of people who suddenly
developed mutant abilities. Take the example of Rusty Collins, a pyrokinetic. His abilities developed spontaneously and he had very little idea how to control them, and in that state he was a danger to himself and to anybody else around. We were able to subdue him without killing him, and later taught him how to control his abilities, effectively “neutralizing a mutant threat.”
Finckley: You were later charged with fraud by a number of X-Factor’s clients, who claimed that you bilked people out of exorbitnant amounts of money for putting on a dog-and-pony lightshow.
Worthington: I can’t comment too deeply on that, as some of those lawsuits are still pending. But I can say that we have been vindicated in all of the cases that have been completed, and also that two of the lawsuits were thrown out because the opposing parties wanted a mutant corpse, and felt that we didn’t do the job because there wasn’t one.
Finckley: If it wasn’t a secret agenda, why was your involvement and financial backing kept quiet?
Worthington: The main reason was that it was felt that if a mutant was shown to be doing this, it would be perceived as a consolidation, mutants banding together to get normal people. We wanted to avoid that.
Finckley: But isn’t that what you did?
Worthington: We tried to defuse the tension between mutants and humans.
Finckley: By running inflammatory ads trumpeting the mutant menace?
Worthington: That was the work of the aforementioned embezzeller, backstabber, and all-around traitor to the human race—please, don’t get,me started on Cameron again.
Suffice it to say it got out of hand. Look, it had a solid reputation as doing good for human-mutant relations, or else the U.S. Government would never have acquired the rights to the X-Factor name for their own usage.
Finckley: The X-Factor debacle pretty much bankrupted you.
Worthington: Most of my personal holdings, yes. Between the costs of running X-Factor, the embezzlement, and my inability to be direcdy involved with the running of my holdings, combined with the death of my financial manager, my personal financial picture was a mess for a while. It didn’t directly affect Worthington stock, except as a result of associations in people’s minds with my problems.
Finckley: You’ve gotten a measure of that back, though, haven’t you?
Worthington: I’ve rebuilt really rather nicely, although I’m not in the personal weight class I used to be. Lots of it is tied up in existing businesses, the occasional ongoing trust, things like that. The way I look at it is I now have to ask permission before I try to take over a company.
Finckley: Do you miss that level of wealth? Do you ever wish you had all that back?
Worthington: Hmmm ... I like the quote, “Don’t worry if you’re rich or not, as long as you can live comfortably and have everything you want.” And I guess it’s hard to feel pity for someone who’s lost so much, but he’s still got a few million in assets.
Finckley: Have you learned anything from going from riches to rags to riches?
Worthington: I’d like to think I’ve stopped behaving like the money’s never going to run out—it’s happened once,
and I’m litde more aware of that. I always knew that application of money was a powerful ability, I guess I’ve just learned not to be so profligate with it. A little more judicious.
I also learned that living comfortably and having everything I want is not a function of having a million dollars any more than it is having a hundred dollars or a hundred million dollars. There are some things money can’t buy, and the best way for me to find that out was to see what I could still get when I was broke, and what I really wanted. I wanted my wings so badly that I lost millions of dollars over them.
Finckley: So what are you doing with your money nowadays?
Worthington: The most important things I’ve done include starting up a venture capital firm, Worthington Enterprises—one devoted to causes I personally believe will improve the world, mainly focused in high-tech. What most people know as Worthington Industries is now on its own; although I still maintain a seat on the board, I’m no longer chairman and I’m no longer principal stockholder. The VC firm is a size I can control no matter what happens, and I want to keep it that way. I’m also keeping it closely held. The Worthington Foundation is still going strong, funding a number of worthy activities and super hero groups, as well as education activities, mutant anti-defamation, that sort of thing.
Finckley: How do you respond to charges that you’re a dilletante super hero, only in it for the kicks?
Worthington: Sure, that’s me. I stand in front of ray guns because I’m bored and looking for excitement, [laughs]
I used to be much more frivolous about my behavior in
general, but hey, I was young—don’t forget, I was dodging bullets when most kids my age were dodging classes in high school. In my old age—
Finckley: Old age? You’ve only been doing this for a few years.
Worthington: Sometimes it seems like I’ve been at this for well over thirty years. Anyway, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve taken my responsibilities much more seriously—and I now realize I can make as much of an impact working within the existing structure.
Finckley: It sounds as if you’ve caved in and taken the easy way out.
Worthington: Not at all. I can do as much good by applying financial savvy and good will to the world’s problems as I can by punching out a super-villain—often much more.
Finckley: Let’s change the subject.
Worthington: Please.
Finckley: You mentioned the FAA earlier. Do you have a pilot’s license?
Worthington: Why? I don’t fly a plane. Well, not really well. They tend to explode, [laughs]
Finckley: Don’t they give you grief about your flying around?
Worthington: Do they ever. I have an ongoing lawsuit pending stating that I should be allowed to fly wherever I wTant, and I’ll win it, because the laws cover vehicular flight only, not unaided personal flight. Unfortunately, the injuries have limited that somewhat, and the plane explosion really ticked them off.
Finckley: They didn’t take kindly to that, eh?
Worthington: Oh, no, not at all. So the battle continues.
Finckley: At least you don’t have to worry about being pulled over while you’re flying.
Worthington: True. This may be the penultimate case of, “The law’s on the books, but they lack the means to enforce it.”
Finckley: Let’s take some calls. We have Audrey on the line from Long Island, New York.
Audrey: Didn’t I hear a few years ago about a paternity suit against you?
Finckley: The boy born with wings, right?
Audrey: Yes, him. Was he your son?
Worthington: Absolutely not. A DNA test proved that. The argument that because he was born with wings he was my son didn’t hold up. I mean, my father didn’t have wings, does that mean the stork had an even bigger hand in delivering me?
Finckley: Thank you, Audrey. Crystal from Alabama, you’re on the air.
Crystal: Mr. Worthington, I just really want to know what is it like to fly?
Worthington: You know, everybody asks that question, and I’ve never really been able to put it into words. I’ve talked it over with lots of other fliers—pilots and superheroes—and I’ve never found anybody who quite gets it.
Finckley: Surely there’s a common language of flight between you and, say, Iron Man?
Worthington: Not really. Iron Man isn’t flying under his own power, he’s got little boot jets that push him around. I’m the only person I know who flies under his own muscle power, pushing against gravity by flapping my own wings.
Finckley: Is it anything like deep-sea diving?
Worthington: Darned if I know, I can’t do it.
Finckley: You can’t swim?
Worthington: Not well, no. Even as a child, I could never go underwater—I found out later that my body was adapting itself to flight, and I’ve got things like hollow bones, just like a bird has. I just floated. And once my wings grew out, it became next to impossible to navigate on water.
Let me ask you, Crystal, what is it like to swim underwater?
Crystal: Gee, I don’t know, I never thought about putting it in words before.
Worthington: You see my problem.
Finckley: What about hang gliding?
Worthington: Never tried it, couldn’t see the point, really—I’ll strap my own wings flat against my back so they don’t get in the way and I’ll glide on canvas instead. No thanks, sounds dangerous, [snaps fingers] You know what it’s a little like? Roller coasters!
Finckley: You’re kidding.
Worthington: No, really! A slow steady buildup to a high altitude, then off you go, up, down side to side, hard bank, maybe a loop, wind rushing through your hair—it’s not that far off.
Finckley: Thanks for your call, Crystal.
Worthington: Good night, Crystal.
Finckley: I’m curious. As a super hero yourself, who are your heroes?
Worthington: Oooh, tough question. Captain America, certainly. He was willing to take a chance on two mutants who wanted to do good when nobody else would, Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch, and they went on to save the world time and again. Hercules once told me that on Olympus the gods measured wisdom against Athena, speed against Hermes, and power against Zeus—but they measured courage against Captain America.
Finckley: Goodness.
Worthington: Great quote, isn’t it? I marked the way he’d said that, it’s always stuck in my mind.
Finckley: Who else?
Worthington: Charles Xavier, for constantly espousing a view of a world where mutants and nonmutants can live together with a minimum of conflict, despite great personal inconvenience, cost, and threats.
Finckley: Let’s go back to the phones. Hallie from California, you’re on.
Hallie: Yes, just a silly question . . . you’re so beautiful.
Worthington: Why, thank you, I’m flattered.
Hallie: Your eyes are so piercing ... do you wear tinted contacts?
Worthington: Nope, this is my natural eye color. Baby blue all over.
Finckley: Thanks for your call, Hallie.
Worthington: [laughs]
Finckley: What, did I miss something?
Worthington: Never mind—private joke.
Finckley: Care to explain it?
Worthington: Not on this show!
Finckley: Fine, be that way! Next caller, Rudy from Oregon, hello.
Rudy: Archer, I want to ask you a question.
Finckley: Go ahead.
Rudy: Are you familiar with the book of Jude?
Finckley: Nope, can’t say that I am.
Worthington: I don’t have it memorized cold.
Rudy: “And the angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitiation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day.
“Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.
“Likewise also these filthy dreamers defile the flesh, despise dominion, and speak evil of dignities.”
Worthington: I believe that’s followed by “Yet Michael the Archangel, when contending with the devil he disputed about the body of Moses, durst not bring against him a railing accusation, but said ‘The Lord rebuke thee’.”
Rudy: What about Isaiah? “But your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you, that he will not hear.”
Finckley: Do you have a question, Rudy?
Rudy: Yes, why do you have this inhuman blasphemer on your show, this fr—
[LINE DISCONNECTED]
Finckley: I’m terribly sorry about this, Warren.
Worthington: It’s all right, I knew it might happen.
Finckley: Still, it an unconscionable thing to have to endure,
Worthington: “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.” Psalms, chapter 8, verse 2. Remember earlier in the show when I said there wasn’t anything universal to mu-
tants? Actually, I take that back. Mutants do have a common element—bozos like that.
Finckley: In light of the last caller, and with the nom-de-guerre Angel, I have to ask: are you religious? Do you follow a particular faith?
Worthington: [pause] I’ve known women who believed they were goddesses, beings who have been called gods for centuries, and creatures who might as well be demons because I can’t think of anything else to explain them. But as for actually knowing God—[pause] the best answer I have is that I believe that the closer you get to understanding God, the farther away He slips from you. My belief is that the mind of God is perpetually unknowable, and forever changing. Change is God, probably.
Finckley: But do you follow a particular faith or religion?
Worthington: My religious beliefs have been hard thought out and are constantly under revision. I suspect that every holy person has gotten a chunk of it and passed on what he could; I think every religious belief has a hunk of truth, and/or every religion is true for the one who believes in it.
But I’ll tell you this much—I used to be a hell of a lot more tolerant of organized religion before I heard of William Stryker.
Finckley: Obviously. Reverend Stryker tried to wipe out every mutant in the world.
Worthington: When a man takes out a loaded gun in the middle of Madison Square Garden on public television and gets ready to shoot it at friends of mine, I get disgusted. And more, I get scared.
Finckley: Scared?
Worthington: Are you kidding? The people who scare me the most, at least on the domestic political front, are the people who think nothing about doing exactly that, shooting us down to win an argument, and their various banner-carriers, including Stryker and his ilk. They scare me because they want to make Christianity the national religion, and my experience with monotheocracies is that they are intolerant, hypocritical, and often violent. The founding fathers, I think it was specifically Jefferson, said that the reason the first thing in the Bill of Rights was that Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion was “in order to avoid the very tensions that have kept Europe awash in blood for centuries.” Awash in blood.
Finckley: Powerful phrase.
Worthington: I know that Stryker doesn’t represent a majority of Americans, or a majority of Republicans, or a majority of Christians, or a majority of anybody. Still, I wish more people who are marginally on his side would take him to task for being a bigot.
Finckley: What about the argument that superhuman powers are on loan from God, and only God is die source of all power?
Worthington: Okay, let’s take that point of view for a second, in fact, let’s take it a step further. I, Warren Worthington III, am blessed by the Lord God Almighty, and further have been given the appearance of a cherubim to help spread the Lord’s word as foretold in Exodus 23:20, “I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way.” Luke 2:10, “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring to you great tidings of joy, which shall be to all people.” And I preach tolerance from Malachi 2:10,
“Have we not all one father? Hath not one God created us?”
Man, it sure doesn’t seem to be working, does it?
Finckley: Guess not.
Worthington: Granted, I’m not pushing the metaphor hard—you wouldn’t believe how many quotes there are regarding angels in Revelations. I wish we hadn’t lost the connection with the last caller, I would have loved to match him on scripture. I think the next verse in Jude is, “But these speak evil of those things which they know not: but what they know naturally, as brute beasts, in those things they corrupt themselves.”
Finckley: One more call for the night—Ethan from Minneapolis, hello.
Ethan: Hey, Warren, dude!
Worthington: Hello, Ethan.
Ethan: I gotta know, dude—do you molt?
Worthington: Oh, man! [laughs] You know, when somebody asked the President on live TV whether he wore boxers or briefs, I wondered what was going to be my boxers or briefs question tonight.
Finckley: I think we have the winner.
Worthington: No, I use Prell to keep my feathers soft and managable. Do I molt—sheesh.
Finckley: On that note, I guess we should start to wrap
up.
Worthington: Yeah, I’d like to go out on a somewhat higher note.
Finckley: What haven’t we touched on? What do you think is the most pressing issue facing mutants today?
Worthington: To my mind, the most pressing issue fac-
ing anybody, mutant or otherwise, is that the world has gotten to the point where everything matters, and yet we as a people totter somewhere between apathy and anarchy. We have now reached a point in our evolution as a society where anybody, any ope individual, can wreak havoc on dozens, hundreds, even millions of people. If somebody feels that they’ve been wronged, because they were beaten as a child or their people are being persecuted or their nation lost the last war or they hear voices from aliens, they will lash out—and it doesn’t matter whether it’s homo superior using power blasts or homo sapiens using a sniper rifle. And they’re all motivated by fear, fear, fear—fear that a town is going to stone a mutant to death, fear that one mutant is going to destroy a town. But it doesn’t even have to be a mutant—a computer hacker with a grudge can destroy the world by cracking the Pentagon and setting off nukes.
This is the most urgent message I can make to everybody listening tonight, male or female, white, brown, black, or blue. Every decade is a scientific and social milestone, which means that every year counts as well, and every month, every week, every day. You, yes you, are needed, right now, to make a difference. Large quantities of plutonium, the most explosive element known to humanity, the critical ingredient in nuclear bombs, are unaccounted for, and not a government on earth can tell you where all of it is. A cheerful organization calling itself Mere Humans Plotting To Overthrow The World Next Tuesday After Lunch is distributing plans describing how to build your very own thirty-megaton bomb. Terrorism proliferates, from people of all races, color, and nationalities, whatever, against anyone and everyone. And so many people are so filled with pain and fear,