"Mr. Trask, why didn't you move those mutants out ahead of time?" Senator Haydon asked, puzzled.
The diminutive Bolivar Trask gave a wry laugh. "It wouldn't have helped. Files on many of the mutants had already been exposed. If they weren't found inside Aldrich Psychiatric Hospital today, I'm afraid Stark would simply have kept digging. A number of my own researchers were trapped in there too—we couldn't get them out."
Reading the confusion on the others' faces, Bolivar explained, "Spider-Man's been posted at Aldrich since last night. By this point the hospital floor is probably covered with people knocked flat, every one of them dropped by a neural-pulse weapon."
"Here's what I don't understand," a general said, frowning. "If Stark opposes joining our project, why did he go and develop the neural-pulse weapon in the first place? He must know what the Department of Defense buys those weapons for. Isn't that a contradiction?"
"That's probably just the ordinary calculus of an arms dealer," Bolivar sighed. "Let's set Tony Stark aside for now. Let's talk about how we actually get the Mutant Exclusion Bill passed."
"It's hard. The military has its own mutant units," a general said, rubbing his chin, resigned. "They've bled for America, earned commendations. The rank and file may treat them as freaks, but they still acknowledge what mutants have contributed to this country."
"It's no easier on our side. Open discrimination against mutants is one thing. But legislating them straight out of the category of human beings—"
Here Senator Haydon shook his head with a wry smile and went on, "That kind of move is too extreme. The risk is too high. In a peaceful climate like this one, the public has no appetite for extreme political positions. The moment I put a bill like that forward in the open, my whole career might go up in smoke—we senators live and die by the ballot box, remember."
"We've reached out to well-known business leaders—from Stark Industries, Oscorp, Rand Enterprises, Hammer Industries, that tier," said a middle-aged man in an immaculate suit. "The results were dismal across the board. It's not that they oppose the bill—even Old Howard never came out flatly against it—we just wanted them to wave the flag and shout for it. Heh. Every damn one of them is a cagey old fox. Shrewd as they come."
Bolivar scratched his head, troubled, and pressed on with an earnest, almost pleading tone. "Gentlemen—we all know this little circle of ours doesn't gather here to line our own pockets. To put it bluntly: yes, mutants could advance our companies' work in genetics, but if you actually wanted to make money off it, you'd honestly do better buying Stark Industries stock. The margins are damn near zero."
"So why do we sit here plotting against mutants? Because they threaten our survival? Heh—we're men who've lived most of a lifetime already. Are we afraid of that? No. We don't fear death, and we don't fear the mutant threat. But science doesn't lie. The genetic data isn't wrong: we ordinary humans truly are not as gifted as they are. None of us here is illiterate—we all know Darwin, we all know natural selection. We don't fear death. Our weapons can handle any mutant alive. But what about our children? Our children's children? If we don't act now, then as these genes spread, mutants grow more numerous—and stronger."
"Sociology teaches us that once a population reaches a certain size, it forms groups; once those groups grow large enough, they form a society, naturally; and once that society takes shape, it develops at breakneck speed. Technology, culture—all of it advances faster than the human mind can picture. This isn't some damn armchair theory. It's the sum of lived experience. Anyone here who passed a history class knows the trajectory of our own development. In the 19th century, a single century was worth as much as the several thousand years before it. In the 20th, a single decade matched the whole of the 19th. As for the 21st—I can't even imagine it."
Bolivar had said a great deal, yet showed no fatigue at all—if anything he grew more feverish. "Why is that? To hell with the 'natural laws of scientific progress'—the real reason is that our human social organization has grown more advanced. Once, a research project might not produce a single expert in decades. But now we humans are more connected, we command more resources, and we allocate those resources more rationally. Every field of research can cultivate its own reserve of talent as needed—and on it goes, a virtuous cycle, science accelerating faster and faster."
"And all of that is a product of social development. So think about it: mutants are no dumber than we are—they've got all manner of strange abilities on top of it. So why are they treated like pigs and dogs? By us?"
Before anyone could answer, Bolivar answered himself. "Because they haven't formed a society. Because they haven't shifted their thinking yet—they still believe themselves members of ordinary human society! But at the rate mutants are awakening now, if we don't suppress them—once they grow in both numbers and strength, once they form groups, form a society, form a mutant culture all their own—heh. At that point they'll retrace the entire path of our development. And with our history to light their way—ha ha ha—we ordinary-human monkeys will be replaced by the new humanity!!"
The more Bolivar spoke, the more feverish he became, until at last he threw back his head in a raving laugh. And none of the others showed the slightest distaste—because what he said was exactly what they all feared. A single mutant is nothing to dread, even a so-called Level 5 mutant. Even 100,000 mutants are nothing to dread, so long as they stay scattered across the map.
But let 1,000 mutants coalesce into a group, give them a self-governing, self-sustaining piece of ground, and grant them a little time to grow—and a true war of extermination becomes inevitable.
Bolivar and many of the men at that table were farsighted thinkers, their thinking already reaching beyond the mere problem of striking down powerful individual mutants. At least half of them were sincerely afraid for the future of ordinary humanity—not, like the others, driven to oppress mutants out of simple envy of their powers.
The men around the conference table sat with their brows knotted, sunk in hard thought. For a moment the room went silent.
"Gentlemen—I, I've got an—an idea!"
At that, an unremarkable soldier standing in the corner rose to his feet.
Standing around the table were a scattering of aides, the underlings the various big shots had brought along. So when the man spoke, more than one brow creased in displeasure.
"William, what do you think you're doing? Do you have any right to speak here?" a gray-haired white general hissed under his breath. "I brought you along because I saw promise in you—I wanted to broaden your horizons, and you—"
But Bolivar, chairing the meeting, waved a hand and cut off the general's rebuke. He turned, glanced at the man's shoulder insignia, and asked, "Major—do you have a good idea? Come over here, closer to the table, let everyone hear you out. Here—first, tell us. What's your name?"
The trim, powerfully built man hurried forward, and said excitedly, "Yes, Mr. Trask. My name is William—William Stryker. I'm currently a major in the United States Army."