BOOK 2
Illustrations by Rick Leonardi and Terry Austin
BYRON PREISS MULTIMEDIA COMPANY, INC. NEW YORK
BOULEVARD BOOKS, NEW YORK
Scott Summers stood in the cockpit of the Starjammer and watched his father with growing dismay. Even as they had escaped through an Imperial stargate, the ship had been crippled in its battle with an armada of Shi’ar star cruisers. Now the Starjammer was dead, adrift near Earth’s sun. Auxiliary power and life support systems were the only thing between the ship’s passengers and the fatal vacuum of space.
As his fellow Starjammers, Raza and Ch’od, worked furiously to repair the hyperbum engines in the rear of the ship, Major Christopher Summers, known as Corsair, attempted to get their communications rig up and running. Watching his father work, Scott admired the man’s hope, dignity, and courage. Corsair’s brow furrowed in concentration, then his right hand slipped and his knuckles rapped on the comm board. He swore, and set right back to work.
Scott looked out at the vastness of space that stretched before them. One side of the viewport was lit up with blinding peripheral sunlight, but Scott could still see the field of sable and stars to the other side. He could not help but wonder if the infinite dark beyond the viewport would soon become a crypt to hold nearly all that remained of the Summers family.
If they didn’t make it, there would be no funeral, no grave, no marker of any kind that would enable people to know they had existed, had lived and died. Though he’d done his best to stave it off, doubt was beginning to creep up on him. More than that. It was threatening to overwhelm him. The realization unnerved him.
As Cyclops, the leader of the X-Men, Scott had been in more tight spots, close calls, and rough scrapes than any five career soldiers. But there had nearly always been the possibility of retreat, if it came to that.
There was no retreat here. If they were lucky, they would live. If not, they would die. A chillingly simple formula.
Slowly, however, Scott began to realize that his growing fear was not for his own life. He had regrets, certainly. Though he had never been overzealous in showing his passions, those whom he loved were aware of his feelings. That was vital. But there was so much more to life, and death. There were those left behind on Earth who would mourn him, and he grieved for their loss in advance.
The worst of it, however, was that there were far too many people he cared about on board the Starjammer, sharing his fate: Corsair, Raza, Ch’od, and the fourth Starjammer, his father’s lover Hepzibah, who was injured in their battle on Hala, the Kree homeworld. That would be hard enough. But there were four other X-Men on board as well. Rogue, who always made him smile, was tending to the injured Gambit. Warren Worthington, whose field name was Archangel, was one of Scott’s oldest friends in the world.
Then there was Jean Grey. Scott had loved her from the moment, all those years earlier, when he had first seen her standing in the foyer of Charles Xavier’s mansion. To his neverending astonishment, she had loved him in return, and still did. They were part of a greater family, a group of Earth-born mutants fighting for harmony between their race and humanity. They gave of themselves every day as X-Men, to the dream of their mentor Charles Xavier, and to each other. They had risked their lives on a quest to rescue his father from execution. And they had succeeded.
But if the cost was an ignoble death while lost in space, and grieving loved ones on Earth who would never really know what happened to them... it was too great. The others had come because they cared for him, and now they would all die because of it. Because of him. As Cyclops, the leader of the X-Men, they looked to him for answers. He wasn’t about to let them down. “Scott?” Corsair asked quietly. “What is it, son?” Scott turned toward his father, taking a deep, cleansing breath, and then he chuckled. He thought about telling Corsair about the weight of space and hopelessness that had pressed down on him, about his fears, and his new determination to see them through this, no matter what. But he didn’t. They just never had that kind of relationship.
“Nothing,” he finally answered. “Just trying to figure out if we have some kind of alternate power source.”
‘ ‘Not unless you want to hang your head out the loading bay and use your optic beams to give us some momentum,” Corsair laughed. “Your head would explode after the first millisecond or so, but at least we’d be pointed in the right direction.”
Scott pretended to think about it, then declined. He shared a laugh with his father that cleared the last cobweb of trepidation from his mind. That was for the best. He needed all his wits about him, now more than ever. “How’s it coming with the comm-rig?” he asked. Corsair grimaced, then stood, brushing himself off. “It’s totally fried,” he answered glumly. “We could be here for months, if we lived that long, and never fix it. If we’re going to get home, we’re going to have to
do it on our own.” Then his eyes widened, and he tilted his head slightly as he said, “Unless ...”
“Unless?” Scott asked.
Corsair leaned over the communications board that he had dismantled and rummaged around in its guts for a moment.
“Yes,” he said, almost to himself, “I think it might work.”
He pressed his lips tightly together as he spliced two charred wires together.
“What is it?” Scott persisted. “Have you fixed it?” “No,” Corsair said finally, looking up with a wry grin. “But at least I’ve got the emergency call beacon going. There isn’t much interstellar travel in this sector other than would-be world conquerors, but you never know. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Better than nothing, I suppose,” Scott answered. “I’m going to go back and look in on the others. Are you through here?”
“No, but you go ahead,” Corsair waved his son on. “I’m going to see if the navigational computers are in any better shape than the comm-rig. I don’t want to drain what little auxiliary power we have, but it would be good to keep some kind of flight path to Earth logged in, just in case we actually do repair the warp drive, or even the hyperbumers.”
“Sounds sensible to me,” Scott answered. He took a last look at his father, deep in concentration again, and realized that he had never seen Corsair more serious. Even when he was a boy, and Major Christopher Summers was one of America’s greatest test pilots. Those times were long ago, but there were moments, looking at his father, when they were fresh as yesterday.
Archangel hated to be confined. No matter that there was plenty of room for them all in the main cabin of the Starjammer. The simple knowledge that he could not spread his bio-metallic wings and take to the air was stifling. When he considered that there was no air beyond the ship’s hull in which to soar, the atmosphere became oppressive.
Even as a boy, Warren Worthington III had been a little claustrophobic. Not enough to affect his life, merely enough to unnerve him in cramped quarters, or bustling crowds. When he had reached puberty, and his original, natural wings had quickly grown from his back, he had at first been repulsed. But he quickly realized that his wings gave him freedom, that flight provided an ecstasy which was the complete antithesis of his claustrophobia.
The wings were a mutation, of course. All of the X-Men were mutants, homo superior, the next stage in human evolution. They were made so by an unknown variable, an x-factor, in their genetic constitution. Mutants were like snowflakes, the x-factor never creating the same variant mutation twice, save for rare cases when genetic heritage played a role.
The greatest scientific minds on Earth had never been able to discover precisely what influenced the x-factor, what defined a specific mutation. His own, angelic wings, had been in his genetic makeup from conception. While he had once believed the wings were a response to his need for freedom, Warren had realized that it was more likely that his claustrophobia was an awareness, on a cellular level, that he was not meant to be confined.
That he was meant to soar the blue skies, above the world.
Though his natural wings had been mutilated and amputated, and replaced with the deadly bio-metallic, razor-feathered appendages that now sprouted from his back, he still felt that urge. Confinement aboard the dead spacecraft gnawed at him. His muscles tensed, unable to relax, and Warren began to wonder exactly what the real symptoms of “cabin fever” were.
The cabin was still pressurized, they still had artificial gravity, but his body felt lighter, and chilly. He wondered if that was the first sign that the life support systems were going to give out.
“Jesus,” he hissed under his breath. “Get a grip, man.”
He stood and began to pace the cabin. Rogue sat on the edge of her seat next to a medi-slab, upon which Gambit lay unconscious. The Cajun had been electrocuted in battle with the Shi’ar Imperial Guard, and they had not yet been able to ascertain the extent of his injuries. He was still out like a light though, and Warren figured that could only be bad. Jean Grey was on the other side of the medi-slab, her hand on Gambit’s pallid forehead. Her eyes were closed as she psi-scanned him, and Warren envied her calm.
He breathed deeply, methodically, and pushed the suffocating atmosphere of the ship from his mind. After a moment, he stepped to where Rogue kept her vigil. It had been no secret amongst the X-Men that she and Gambit had been semi-involved for some time, but Warren had always wondered how serious it was. The terror, pain, and nausea visible on her face revealed that her feelings were very serious indeed.
“How is he?” Warren asked, as he slid into the seat next to Rogue,
She looked up, a little lost at first. Or maybe shellshocked, Warren thought. Then Rogue smiled, grateful for the question, and the respite from the silence, and the worry.
“Hi, Warren,” she said in a library whisper, her southern belle accent even raspier than usual. “Remy’s okay, as far as we can tell. Jean’s scannin’ him again, seein’ if she can find anything else wrong. He needs medical attention, that’s for sure. But if we can’t get movin’ again, it ain’t gonna matter one little bit.”
She leaned against the wall behind her and pushed her hands up through her auburn hair, and the white skunk-streak that ran through it. They were only friends, no doubt, but at that moment Warren could not help but notice how tragically beautiful she was. Rogue was a good, strong, decent woman. Once, she had been terribly misguided, trapped in her fear and the manipulations of others. Warren refused to believe that she had come out of all of that, that he had overcome his emotions regarding his own transformation, that they had all come so far together, only to die in the middle of nowhere. But it looked like Rogue needed a bit of reassurance. “Listen, lady,” Warren began, “the Starjammers have been in tighter spots than this. So have the X-Men. Before we start panicking, why don’t we see what Ch’od and Raza have to say about the hyperburn engines? Besides, we’ve got enough to worry about just making sure Gambit and Hepzibah are okay.”
Rogue looked at the prone form of Gambit, then glanced over at where Hepzibah slept soundly. Raza had sedated her in order to facilitate her recuperation, and
Warren was surprised at how peaceful she looked, despite the bloody bandages over the wound on her arm.
“Yer right,” Rogue agreed. “I just feel so damn useless.”
“Tell me about it,” Warren said. “But don’t worry, I’ve a feeling we’ll get our turn. We always do.”
There was silence for a moment, then Jean opened her eyes abruptly and turned to them.
“Well?” Rogue asked.
“There doesn’t seem to be any lasting damage,” Jean said. “Still, we’ve got to keep an eye on him. His heart has taken an incredible strain, and it isn’t out of the realm of possibility for him to have cardiac failure at this point.”
“A heart attack?” Warren asked, astonished.
“I’m not saying it’s going to happen,” Jean answered, her green eyes intense. “Only that it’s possible. We’ve got to watch him.”
“Thanks, Jean,” Rogue said earnestly. “And you, too, Warren. When you spend so much time fighting the kind of war we’re in, sometimes you forget that not all problems are solved with force. I appreciate y’all bein’ here.”
“Well,” Warren said magnanimously, “you’re welcome, Rogue—but it’s not like we have a choice.”
Jean smiled, and Rogue actually chuckled. In the cold confinement of the cabin, it was a welcome sound indeed.
“Well, you all seem to be taking our predicament rather well,” Cyclops said, as he emerged from the cockpit.
Jean stood and crossed the cabin to meet Scott. They shared a psychic bond, a special rapport boosted by Jean’s telepathic abilities. Without a word, they greeted one another, then embraced for a long moment. When she released Scott from her arms, Jean looked up at his face, at the ruby quartz visor that covered Scott’s eyes, allowing him to control the devastating optic blasts that were his mutant “gift.”
The barest hint of his eyes was visible behind their red shield, but Jean wished, as she often did, that she could truly see them. She yearned to look upon the face of the man she loved unimpeded. The eyes were the window to the soul, or so it was said. Jean consoled herself with the knowledge that no facial expression could ever tell her as much about her lover as their psionic bond. It told her more about his love for her than any look of longing.
But, somehow, it was still a poor substitute for gazing into his eyes.
“Is Corsair having any luck with the comm-rig?” Jean asked, reluctantly bringing them all back to their imminent danger.
“We’re broadcasting some kind of S.O.S. pattern, but that’s all we’re going to get. He’s working on the navigational systems now,” Scott answered.
“I just wish I was as confident as the rest of you,” Rogue said, her powerful fingers still holding Gambit’s limp hand. “I don’t know as we’ve got a chance in hell of gettin’ out of this alive.”
“Not to worry, Rogue,” Scott responded. “We’ll make it home in one piece.”
“In all seriousness, Scott,” Archangel said, standing up, “besides wracking our brains hoping for some kind of inspiration, can you think of anything we can do to help?”
Scott paused a moment, tiien shook his head.
“Come on, folks,” Jean said, exasperated. “Have a little faith, will you? Even if the Starjammers can’t get this ship repaired, both Professor Xavier and Lilandra know we were en route to Earth, and how we were traveling. As soon as they speak, it will be only a matter of time before they come looking for us. And now Scott tells us we’re broadcasting an S.O.S.”
“You make it sound so simple, Jean,” Warren argued. “But Lilandra isn’t going to send anyone after us, and the Professor doesn’t have any space-faring vessels.”
“So he borrows a spacecraft from Starcore or Stark Enterprises,” Scott said, and Jean wanted to kiss him for the way he made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, when they all knew that it was.
“Point bein’, if I ain’t mistaken, that we all gotta stay alive until then,” Rogue finished.
“Exactly!” Jean said. “And maybe we won’t have to wait. Ch’od and Raza have been holding this ship together with spit and bubble gum for years. I’d be surprised if they were unable to fix it.”
A sudden clamor arose from the back of the ship, and then there was the pounding of heavy footfalls through the cargo hold, approaching the main cabin.
“What the—?” Scott began.
“Fire in the hole!” Ch’od yelled as he and Raza burst into the cabin and dove for the floor.
Immediately, Jean followed their example, confident that the other X-Men would do the same. For good measure, she instinctively threw a telekinetic force shield over all of them.
The back of the ship exploded, shooting a fireball into the cabin and rocking the ship so hard that they were all tossed to the starboard side. Only when it had subsided, and Ch’od and Raza were already up and running for the cargo hold with some kind of firefighting equipment in hand, did Jean realize that the aft section of the ship hadn’t been vaporized in the blast. Of course, if it had, they would all have been dead. But the concussion had stunned her so badly that being alive wasn’t a factor in her thought process at the moment.
“What are we waiting for, people?” Scott asked, the crisis pushing him into leader-mode. “Let’s make ourselves useful!”
The four of them ran for the back of the ship, though Rogue stayed behind a moment to see that Gambit and Hepzibah had not been further injured by the blast.
“He may be a wiseguy,” Archangel said as they came upon Raza and Ch’od fighting a fire in the hatchway to the engine room, “but I wish Bobby was here now.” “Yeah,” Jean agreed, “there’s never an Iceman around when you need one.”
Archangel laughed, and the two of them followed Raza and Ch’od into the engine room. Warren beat his wings to clear the acrid chemical smoke from the room, even as Jean surrounded the blazing hyperbum engines with a telekinetic field, and then mentally forced all oxygen from within the bubble of power.
In seconds, the flames were out.
Scott stood behind her, looking relieved and a bit awkward. Then he bent forward and kissed her on the temple.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jean,” he said.
“Now we know why they call them hyperburners,” Archangel said, still reaching for levity to alleviate the tension of their situation.
“Now what?” Rogue asked, and it was the first time Jean had even noticed her in the room. She looked a little panicked, and Raza and Ch’od both looked up at the edgy tone of her voice.
“I’m dead serious,” she continued. “Now what do we do? Those were the hyperbum engines, right? Well they bum pretty good. But now what are we gonna do? I could take this ship apart with my bare hands, but I can’t do a damn thing to keep us alive.”
She looked directly at Jean, who wondered for a moment if Rogue was going to lose it. But then the woman took a deep breath, let it out slow, and shook her head with a sigh.
“Okay, okay, I know. I’m not helping,” she said, then turned to Ch’od. “But really, what now?”
“As I’m sure you all have guessed, the hyperbumers are now completely useless,” Ch’od answered, his yellow eyes calming despite the alarmingly savage appearance of his huge reptilian face. As he moved, the scales on his body rippled, and the webbed ears that poked from the sides of his head seemed to contract and expand like tiny Oriental fans. “What this means is that the warp drive is our only hope of getting this ship moving under its own power again. The good news is that Raza and I both feel this is possible.”
“And the bad news would be—?” Scott began, then waited for one of the Staijammers to finish.
Ch’od and Raza looked at one another, and in their moment of silence, Jean reflected that there were probably not two more dissimilar comrades in the galaxy. While Ch’od’s huge, reptilian body was frightening, he was an eternally hopeful, amiable creature. Raza was a Shi’ar cyborg who had an air of intelligence about him. He was arrogant, ill-humored, and often even hostile. Still, they were both unfailingly loyal to each other and to the other Starjammers as well.
“In truth,” Raza finally answered, “Ch’od and I hath discerned that yon warp drive canst not be repaired from within.”
“Y’all are sayin’ you have to fix the drive from outside the ship?” Rogue asked, incredulous.
“Indeed,” Raza responded. “And we hath not the ability to effect such repairs without aid.” “Marvelous,” Archangel mumbled.
“You’ll have whatever help you need,” Scott quickly assured them.
“We’re all in this together,” Jean added. “All of our lives are at risk, either when the life support systems shut down, or in some kind of accident outside the Starjammer. We’ve got nothing to lose.”
“There are spacesuits, of course,” Ch’od said. “As long as we take our time, and take great care with our movements, all should be well.”
A moment before he entered, Jean sensed Corsair in the cargo hold just outside the engine room. She did not try to read people’s thoughts or emotions without their permission, but he was so deeply troubled that it was impossible not to pick up on his distress.
“You may have to move a little faster than you’d like,” Corsair said as he entered the engine room, his face betraying his apprehension as clearly as his thoughts had.
“What’s the problem, Corsair?” Scott asked, and Jean noted how infrequently he called the man “Dad” in the presence of others.
“Whatever you’re going to do, you’ve got to do quickly,” Corsair said. “It’s going to get pretty hot in here, and I don’t even want to think about what the temperature will be like on the outside.”
“You’ve got the navigational computer working,” Scott realized aloud.
“Sure do,” Corsair confirmed. “Just as we thought, people, we’re drifting through space. Only problem is, we’re not drifting aimlessly. We’ve gotten too close to the sun. We’ve been snagged by its gravitational pull.” “Oh my God,” Jean whispered.
“It may take a bit, but if we don’t get out of here, we’re going to be roasted alive in this tin can.”
lesus, Trish,” Kevin hissed at her side, “he’s seen I us!”
“Just keep rolling tape, Kev,” she responded in a whisper. “Don’t let me down.”
Less than fifty yards from where Trish Tilby stood, the Acolytes had just murdered two people. Their leader, Magneto, one of the most feared men in the world, had then joined them. Almost immediately, Magneto had seen her and Kevin at the edge of the park. Now Trish waited, not breathing, for Magneto to act. She expected pain, some form of swift retribution. Perhaps even death.
What she did not expect was the way he smiled, and the charming little laugh he gave as he used the magnetic force of the Earth to lift himself from the ground and float toward where she and Kevin stood paralyzed with fear. The two Acolytes, one of whom Trish recognized as a woman named Amelia Voght, followed on foot, obviously awaiting their leader’s instructions as to how to deal with the presence of the media.
“You really got us in it deep, this time, Tilby,” Kevin whispered to her through clenched teeth. And she couldn’t argue.
“Well, well,” Magneto began, “what have we here?”
Trish flashed back, for a moment, to old man Gaines, who ran the country store in the small New England town where she’d grown up. Magneto’s manner and tone were eerily reminiscent of the pleasant old fellow, long since passed away. Mr. Gaines would smile brightly at her whenever she came in with her Dad. He would pat her on the head and give her a piece of licorice and then, instead of turning to business with her father, he’d spend
a few minutes actually conversing with her. She’d never forgotten it, that paternal curiosity and kindness.
Connecting Magneto with Mr. Gaines made Trish want to puke. But she couldn’t help it.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before some intrepid member of our media tracked me down,” Magneto said happily. ‘ ‘With a city as devoted to news and entertainment as New York, you would have thought some of the press would have stuck around to cover the story. But if they’re here, they’re not looking for an interview.”
The other Acolyte, the cowled man Trish now remembered was called Senyaka, remained with his head slightly bowed. Their friendliness was disarming. Even more so, it was disturbing.
“Wait just a minute,” Magneto said, eyebrows raised. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You are one of the locals, the woman who covers the so-called mutant crisis. Perfect. What was your name again, Ms.—?”
“Tilby,” she said calmly, coldly. She wasn’t going to let the man’s strength of character overwhelm her. Though she finally understood the expression, ‘ ‘cult of personality.”
“Of course,” Magneto said effusively. “Trish, isn’t it? Trish Tilby?”
Trish stared right into the man’s face, past the handsome features and the winter white hair, locking her gaze on the blue-gray eyes but ignoring the distinguished way they crinkled into tiny crow’s feet at the edges. She pretended not to notice his regal bearing, the almost armorlike quality of the crimson and deep purple uniform he wore.
“That’s right,” she answered. “And you are?”
She heard Kevin’s sharp intake of breath behind her as the mutant conqueror’s smile disappeared. The warmth leeched from Magneto’s face in an instant, like a glaring light that had not been turned off, but burnt out. He licked his lips, and Trish felt the strength of his personality in another way. There was a real, tangible danger in every breath this man drew.
“And I am?” he asked slowly, no mockery in his tone, but certainly in his manner. ‘ ‘Not amused, to begin with. Not amused at all.”
Trish looked past Magneto to see that Senyaka was glaring at her with hatred for her affront. The red-headed woman, Voght, was shaking her head in bemused astonishment.
“I had imagined you a relatively intelligent woman, Ms. Tilby,” Magneto said. “If I was mistaken, perhaps you would care to leave the city immediately. On foot, like the rest of the human cattle whom I have allowed to depart.”
She almost turned around then. Almost ran screaming in terror, the fear of death driving her to take whatever risk was necessary to escape. Though he was not pulling at her physically, Trish could imagine the mental urging that Kevin must have been focusing on her at that moment. But after a second, she knew she wouldn’t run. It was the story. Sadly, her job defined her life, and getting the story would define her job. But there was more to it than that. She couldn’t run from such malevolent actions.
“You’ll have to bear with me, Magneto,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m afraid I’m not really used to dealing with tyrants whose thugs murder innocent civilians before my eyes. Maybe that’s par for the course for in-temational war correspondents, but it’s just not been part of my experience up to now. I suppose I’ll have to get used to witnessing atrocities.”
Magneto’s right eye twitched with barely controlled fury and he seemed about to scream, or strike out at her. Then he let out a long breath, half sigh and half deflation, and nodded pensively.
“You shame me, Ms. Tilby,” Magneto admitted, and Trish didn’t know whether to be stunned or incredulous. “What do you know of my history?” he asked.
It took her a moment to realize what Magneto was referring to, and then it hit her. He was a Jew. As a child, Magneto had seen his entire family destroyed by the Holocaust. She remembered that from Magneto’s abortive appearance before the World Court.
“I’ve read your dossier,” she answered. “Your past gives me even greater reason to be—-* ’
“I have seen more atrocity in my life than any one man should ever have to endure,” he said. “When I was but a child, my family was murdered, because we were Jews. Throughout my adult life, I have been persecuted because I am a mutant.
“I will not allow it to continue,” he said, leaning forward and staring at her with those intense slate eyes.
“I do not condone murder,” he said, more calmly. “Even in self defense, or in the pursuit of greater justice, the taking of life, even human life, sickens me.” Magneto laid a fatherly hand on Amelia Voght’s shoulder, though the woman did not look at him. For a moment, Trish wondered whether the gesture was as paternal as she’d thought, or if there was some romantic involvement there.
“But this is war, Ms. Tilby,” he continued. “There
are casualties in war. I believe I have been more than fair in my edicts. No one who conforms to my law will be harmed in any way. In point of fact, the quality of life for those who remain within the city will likely improve. Those who do not want to live under my rule are free to leave.”
Magneto took his hand from Voght’s shoulder and leaned his head back, looking regally down on Trish. She could almost feel the arrogance that emanated from him, and yet, she also sensed that there was every reason for him to be arrogant.
“You are free to leave as well,” Magneto said. “Or, you may stay and get the ‘scoop’ of your career. You and your cameraman may record anything you wish, and I will see that it is taken by courier to your employers for broadcast.”
Trish looked at Kevin, trying to gauge what was going through his head. The cameraman had never been as career-oriented as she, but surely he could see the possibilities. At the same time, they both had to recognize the dangers involved.
“How about it, Kev?” she asked, and he did a double take, as if he was startled she would even ask.
“Trish, if you think for a moment I’m gonna back your action here, you’ve gotta be—” Kevin began.
“Before you continue,” Magneto interrupted, “I should mention that, if you decide to leave, you will not be allowed to do so the same way you came. For humans, Manhattan is a no-fly zone. That you were able to get past the Sentinels’ perimeter at all is a minor miracle. No, if you’re leaving, you’ll be on foot like all the other human emigrants.”
Magneto raised a hand and looked past them, then.
Trish followed his gestures, turning to see that their helicopter had lifted above the trees of the park several hundred yards north and was now moving slowly toward them. It was not in flight. It was being moved by Magneto’s power.
“No!” Kevin said suddenly, and Trish held up a hand to stop him from saying or doing anything rash.
“Our pilot, Billy, is probably still on board,” Trish said, by way of explanation. “If you detest murder as much as you claim, you won’t kill him as part of a simple exercise.”
Magneto nodded, turned his right hand in the air, and the helicopter flipped on its side in the air. After a moment, the door popped open and Billy slid his legs out, then quickly dropped, cursing, to the park below.
“Holy—,” Kevin hissed angrily.
Then they watched in astonishment as the helicopter seemed to implode, crushed into a ball of screeching metal like an empty beer can in a huge invisible hand. A ways away from where Billy had leapt out, the helicopter thudded to the ground.
Speechless, Trish turned to Magneto, who stood imperiously awaiting her reply. Without consulting Kevin again, she gave the only answer she could think of.
“We’ll stay.”
“Excellent,” Magneto said, smiling again. “Now go and see that your friend is unharmed, and if he wishes to remain with you. Then return here and we will all move on. There is much to be done before daybreak.”
With an enormous relief that they were to be allowed out of Magneto’s presence, even for a few minutes, Trish turned to follow Kevin back into the park, searching for Billy.
“Just a moment,” Magneto said, and her stomach lurched. “The camera.”
Kevin handed it over, as silent as Magneto’s two Acolytes, who had quietly observed the proceedings without comment. They were well trained, or very frightened of their leader.
Magneto passed a hand over the film cartridge, then returned it to Kevin.
“You might want to rewind and start again,” he said. “The tape is now blank.”
“What?” Kevin asked, obviously pissed off.
“You said we could record anything we wished,” Trish reminded him.
Magneto’s face remained impassive.
“Almost anything.”
* * *
During her years as a member of the X-Men, Ororo Munroe had established a reputation for extraordinary calm during battle. That was part of the reason that Charles Xavier had made her co-leader of the team. Ororo, also called Storm, had learned patience as a child thief on the streets of Cairo, Egypt. Now, though, her patience was wearing very thin.
And clearly, she wasn’t the only one.
“What is all this waiting?” Bishop snapped, pacing across the room with military stride, as he’d been doing for nearly twenty minutes. ‘ ‘What does Professor Xavier expect to gain from speaking with the government? It is their hatred of us that caused this crisis to begin with!” “Bishop,” Storm said, “we’re all on edge here, but let’s not forget that those Sentinels would still be sitting in a silo in Colorado if Magneto hadn’t hijacked them.”
Bishop turned to her angrily, about to issue some sharp retort she was sure, but then his features softened and he shook his head. Storm knew that look. It said that she didn’t understand, that none of them would ever understand. And she knew, as well, that it was true.
“You’re right, of course,” Bishop said. “But for how long, Ororo? For how long?”
The room was quiet for a moment. At the window, Wolverine stood looking out at the night. He didn’t tap his fingers, or his feet. He didn’t hum. He didn’t pace. Wolverine was a hunter, and though he lacked patience, and might voice his annoyance, he would never physically give himself away.
Bobby Drake was his opposite. He still sat at the table where they had met with Professor Xavier, but he was rapid-fire-drumming the Lone Ranger theme on the table with the fingers of both hands. From time to time, he would sigh, or mutter to himself. Storm couldn’t help but smile as she watched him in her peripheral vision. For Bobby, this behavior was amazingly restrained. Hank McCoy, was another story entirely.
“No matter what the government concludes, we cannot linger here,” Hank said hurriedly as he bounded from his chair to stand beside Storm. “The longer we tarry, the more mutants enter Manhattan, the stronger the opposition grows. Time is of the essence, Ororo.”
“Do not think for a moment that I disagree, Hank,” Storm said. “But without the Professor’s approval, I don’t think we should go anywhere.”
“Indeed,” the Beast said, obviously frustrated but not arguing. He reached to an intercom switch on the wall, and snapped it on.
“Time is wasting, Charles,” he said without preamble. “We must depart at once.”
“I’ll be right there,” Xavier’s voice came back, filtered into the room through the speaker, and the Beast looked back to Storm with an apologetic shrug.
“I am aware that this assemblage has never been a democracy,” he said. “But at times, there are certain imperatives of logic that must be addressed.”
When the door hissed open to allow Professor Xavier entrance, Storm could not have been more relieved.
“Finally!” Bishop exclaimed, as they all gathered round the table once more.
“What news, Charles?” Storm asked, and Xavier hesitated only a moment before answering.
“None, I’m afraid,” he began, and held up a hand to forestall interruption. “Valerie Cooper is meeting with the President as we speak, attempting to get authorization to officially work with the X-Men for the duration of this crisis.”
“Come on, Professor!” Bobby said angrily, leaping to his feet. “There’s no way in hell our old buddy Gyrich is gonna let that happen. Yeah, maybe we’re feeling pretty down about what went on in Colorado. But this is a whole new scenario. Every minute that ticks by just makes it harder to put an end to this thing.” “Bobby is correct, Charles,” the Beast said emphatically. “You must do whatever you may, secure what reinforcements you can, just as Valerie is doing what she may within the parameters the government has contrived for her. But we cannot delay.”
After a silent moment, Storm said calmly, “They are right, Professor. Though we stand very little chance of succeeding, we must go.”
“Don’t talk that way darlin’,” Wolverine snarled before Xavier even had a chance to respond. “We’ll take it to ’em hard, guerilla style. They won’t even know we’re they’re until it’s all over for ’em. Trust the ol’ Canucklehead, will ya? They’ve got way too much ground to secure. We leave now, we can have New York back in the hands of the thieves who’ve been running the place by first light.”
Wolverine looked at Professor Xavier, then, and Storm could almost hear the words before they came out of his mouth.
“Whaddaya say, Charley?” Wolverine asked, and Xavier winced. He had asked Logan dozens of times not to call him by that name. Storm suspected that Wolverine did it on purpose, just a little way to shake the balance of a man to whom equilibrium was everything.
“Storm,” Charles asked, “are you prepared for this suicide run?’ ’
“Completely,” she answered. “The Blackbird is ready to go, as are the X-Men. This may be the decisive battle in the war for your dream of harmony, Professor. It must be fought, though we are sadly outnumbered and outgunned.”
Professor Xavier nodded.
“With the Blackbird’ & VTOL abilities, you should have no trouble landing in Central Park,” Xavier said. “As you are all mutants, the Sentinels will not stop you. However, they may be programmed to notify Magneto if they detect you. There will be nothing you can do about this. Attacking the Sentinels openly is not an option.
“I will be in Jersey City, doing as much spin control as I can with CNN and the major networks. When I do reach Valerie, we’ll try to figure out if the X-Men and the government can work together. I’ve left a message for Scott and the others. If they return to Earth in time, we’ll need them desperately.”
He paused a moment, then gave the mission his final blessing in a mental message that entered the minds of each member of the team in the ready room.
What are you waiting for? Xavier’s voice said in Storm’s mind. Get moving, X-Men.
In seconds, they were racing down a corridor, boots slapping marble, toward the Institute’s hangar bay. Storm was grim, determined. The Blackbird had already been fueled and readied, and they were aboard with the engines fired up only minutes after their meeting had concluded.
Bishop took the stick, with the Beast in the co-pilot’s chair. Storm sat in back with Iceman and Wolverine. They lifted off in hover-mode, using the Vertical TakeOff and Landing mechanism the Professor had mentioned, and when they were clear of the Institute, they blasted south toward Manhattan. The trip would take only minutes, but urgency made the journey ahead seem much greater to Storm.
Aboard the Blackbird, the X-Men sat in somber, uncharacteristic silence. An arduous day had become a tense, dangerous night. Even on the hardest nights she had spent in Cairo, Ororo reflected, there had always been morning to look forward to. Tonight was different.
Dawn had never seemed such a distant dream.
* * #
“Gyrich, are you out of your damned mind?” the President of the United States shouted, red-faced, as he stormed over to the door of the Oval Office and slammed it shut.
The President spun on his heel and stared, and Valerie Cooper was pleased to notice that her rival, Henry Peter Gyrich, squirmed slightly in his seat. The Secretary sat just to Gyrich’s left. As the Director of Operation: Wideawake, he was immediate superior to both Gyrich and Cooper. Like Gyrich, he looked uncomfortable as hell.
Val felt fine, strong, almost smug. But she didn’t know why. It wasn’t like she wouldn’t get her ass kicked along with her comrades’.
“Mr. President,” Gyrich fumbled, “it’s the only way, sir.”
“No, Gyrich,” the President said stiffly, cutting the Secretary out of the conversation all together. “There’s got to be another way. I am not about to tell the American people that we’ve got a full scale war in the middle of New York City! The place is filled with civilians who’ve decided not to evacuate, not to mention those still in the process of doing so.”
“Mr. President, if I may, those who’ve stayed in New York could easily be construed to be traitors to our country. Just as the Confederate soldiers were during the Civil War,” Gyrich explained. “Same principle, sir.”
The President’s face went from red to purple, and Val expected him to explode in a tirade. Instead, he seemed almost to snarl as he bit down on every word.
“At this time, we will move troops and armaments to all logistically reasonable locations, where they will remain on standby. They are the final solution, and only on my specific instructions. I will not have a war on Manhattan island!” he hissed. “Do we understand each other, Gyrich?’ ’ The President leaned over Gyrich, who now looked very small in his chair.
“Mr. President, I—’ ’ Gyrich began.
Then the President did explode, shouting in Gyrich’s face. Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth.
“Do you understand what I have said, Gyrich?” he shouted.
“Y-y-yes, sir. Absolutely,” Gyrich said, stammering. Val was astounded. She had never seen Gyrich stammer. Had never even allowed herself the pleasure of imagining that it was possible.
Then the President turned to face the Secretary, still leaning over threateningly, though his tone had softened. He and the Secretary had known one another for years. The President had put him in the Cabinet, given him Operation: Wideawake to play with, and listened to his advice more often than not. Not today.
“You and your pit bull are still in charge of this one, Bob,” the President said. “Don’t mess it up. Keep him on a very short leash.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” was all the Secretary managed to say.
Relaxing somewhat, the President walked around his desk and sat down to face them. After glaring half a moment at Gyrich, he turned to Val and his face softened. She didn’t let it fool her. He was a tough bastard, and he’d take her head off in a heartbeat if he had to.
“Now, Ms. Cooper,” he said slowly. “Seems to me you’re the only one whose brain is half-functioning in this room at the moment. Barring full invasion or bombing the hell out of Manhattan, what have you got for me?”
“Yes, well, first, Mr. President, I’d like to note that I don’t believe either of those two options would work to begin with,” Val said confidently. “Unless you’re prepared to raze the city to the ground, forcing Magneto to simply find another to occupy, which would not solve the problem at all. The difficulty is the Sentinels. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t have the capacity to do limited, contained nuke strikes on one of them, never mind all of them simultaneously.”
The President didn’t smile, and Val took a mental step backward, cautioning herself not to be smug. He definitely wasn’t in the mood for smug.
“Go on,” he said, and Val nodded.
“The only chance we have of ending this thing without either giving up Manhattan or absolutely destroying it in an all-out war, is to get the Sentinels’ original programming back online,” Val concluded.
The President leaned back in his chair.
“Now we’re talking,” he said. “What’s the holdup?”
“Well, sir,” Val said, realizing the President didn’t understand what she was getting at, “the only way we can do that is at the source. Somebody has to get inside the brain of the Alpha Sentinel, and change the programming from the computer core.”
“Wait just a minute,” the President said sharply, getting angry again, this time at all of them. “You mean to tell me that there is no remote override capacity built into these monsters?”
“No sir, there isn’t,” the Secretary spoke up, much to Val’s relief. “It was thought that such an override would jeopardize the whole project. If anyone got hold of the code, they’d have been able to remotely hijack the whole Sentinel program.”
“Which they did anyway!” the President cried in exasperation. “Good God, you don’t know how grateful I am that the previous administration put this project together. I sure as hell don’t believe we can keep the damn robots’ origins a secret. But if we can solve this peaceably, it’ll be a hell of a coup.
“So, Cooper,” the President said, leaning toward her and resting his palms on his desk. ‘ ‘What do we do now? Obviously, we need to send a team in there, and we can’t wait for X-Factor to get back from Genosha. Do we have anyone else with any experience with this kind of thing?”
“Well, sir, that’s another problem,” Val said, mentally crossing her fingers as she waded into the most difficult part of her pitch. But she knew she had to succeed. It was the only way. Eventually, they’d all have to realize that.
“Any human being directly approaching one of the Sentinels will be warned off,” she said quickly. “And if they don’t respond, they’ll be incinerated.”
“Cooper!” Gyrich shouted, leaping to his feet as he realized what she was about to propose. “You can’t be serious! Even you’ve got to see that these are the monsters responsible! We can’t possibly trust—”
Gyrich sputtered to a halt when he realized that the President and the Secretary were glaring at him in incredulous anger. He began to explain himself, but the President stopped him.
“Mr. Gyrich,” the President began calmly. “You sit your ass down in that seat, and you don’t speak again until I ask you a question. And don’t you ever raise your voice in the Oval Office again.”
Gyrich sat down hard and began to sulk.
“Please proceed, Ms. Cooper.”
“Yes, sir, well, what I was about to say is that the only people who can get close enough to the Alpha Sentinel and distract it enough to get into the computer core are mutants. And with X-Factor unavailable, the only mutants we have any contact with that 1 know would be capable of the job, if anyone is, are the X-Men.”
The President rolled his eyes and cupped his forehead in his left hand as if massaging a headache.
“Ms. Cooper,” the Secretary said quickly, “don’t you realize the public opinion regarding mutants at this time? The American people would be appalled to learn that we were working with mutants to overcome Magneto. The President would likely be accused of being a mutant himself, and there goes the election. The people don’t trust any mutant, no matter how benevolent. And I don’t have to remind you, the X-Men have not exactly earned a reputation for benevolence.”
“Mr. Secretary, whatever their reputation, the X-Men have saved our collective asses more times than I can count,” Val countered. “We’ve got a number of instances in the video archives, should you care to take a look. And they’re the only ones who’ve ever had any tangible success against Magneto.”
Valerie turned to the President then, and was surprised to see the nearly pleading look on his face. He was at a loss.
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” he said quietly, almost to himself, and despite the man’s bluster, she felt for him.
“Mr. President, when it comes down to it, it doesn’t really matter what any of us think of the X-Men, or what the American public will think,” Val said finally. “Short
of full-scale war, they’re our only hope.”
“Bob, cut to the chase,” the President said, turning to his old friend and advisor. “No politics now, no diplomacy. Is she right? Is this truly our one realistic shot?”
Gyrich seemed about to speak, but then clearly thought better of it. Val assumed he had remembered the President’s warning. The Secretary seemed to weigh his words carefully, apparentiy searching for some answer other than the truth. Finally, he relented.
“Yes, sir, Ms. Cooper is correct,” the Secretary said. “God help us all.”
“All right then,” the President said, sitting back in his chair. “Cooper, track down the X-Men and get them into action. It’s your ball, woman. Don’t drop it or we’re all screwed. Not to mention all the people in Manhattan who’ll die if you blow it.
“Bob, you’re to stay here and coordinate this thing for me, and the pit bull here is going to be on location with the troops,” he continued. “You’ll answer to me, but coordinate it all for me, including Cooper’s little infiltration unit. Gyrich is still number two man on this job, but Cooper reports directly to you, Bob. Any problem with that, Gyrich?” the President asked.
Gyrich shook his head.
“Good,” the President said. “’Cause if Cooper does blow it, there’s only one failsafe left before we launch an assault and end up leveling the damn city. That’s you. If Cooper’s plan doesn’t work, you’re to be prepared with a sanction team to go into New York and terminate Magneto.”
Gyrich grinned. It gave Val the chills.
“Sir, don’t you know how many times that’s been tried?” she said, unable to stop herself.
“Whatever it takes, Ms. Cooper,” the President said. “If you do your job, it won’t come to that, and we’ll never have to find out if it would have worked this time.
“Now, you’re all dismissed. Get to work,” he said.
They stood and walked to the door of the Oval Office. The President pressed something under his desk that buzzed the door’s security locks open, and Gyrich feigned enough courtesy to hold the door for the Secretary and for Val.
“One last thing, Ms. Cooper,” the President said, just as she was about to pull the door shut behind her.
“Yes, sir?” she asked.
“Don’t ever question me, again,” he said coldly. “I’m the Commander-in-Chief of this country. You’d do well to remember that.”
The temperature had already begun to rise aboard the Starjammer. It was not yet truly uncomfortable, but it was noticeably warmer inside the ship. And if they could feel the difference inside, Scott considered, how much warmer would it be outside the Starjammer?
He’d find out soon enough. Raza and Ch’od were planning a spacewalk to repair the warp drive externally. Scott and Rogue were supposed to be their backup team, making certain they remained tethered to the ship and coordinating their tools. It was by no means his first time in space, but Scott did not think he would ever be able to venture out into that infinite void without some trepidation. It wasn’t fear, though he was not so foolish as to deny fear when he felt it. Rather, it was an almost overwhelming respect, awe. In the immensity of what surrounded them, what difference did it make whether they survived or not?
Thing was, it did make a difference. No matter how insignificant they might be in the grand design, their tiny lives meant something. When he was a boy, looking up at the stars would put things in a different perspective for him. Compared to them, nothing that he did or said, nothing that happened to him was important. As an adult, that perspective had been dramatically altered. Everyone mattered to someone. Every action had an impact.
Scott was determined to see the Starjammers and the X-Men returned safely to Earth, no matter what the cost. He would revel in the beauty of the infinite, in his awe of space, but he would not fear it, or be intimidated by it. He was a human being, with a mind and a heart. Both of which he had freely given to another. That was all the perspective he would ever need.
You’re drifting again, Scott, Jean said telepathically, even as she helped him secure the deep space pressure suit that he would need to wear for the walk.
‘‘Sorry, sweetheart,” he answered out loud. “I guess I’ll just never get over all of this. Space, I mean.”
“I know,” she nodded. “No matter what wonders, or horrors, we’ve faced on Earth, it’s still such a small portion of... well, everything. We’re very fortunate to have been able to experience space travel, Scott. And further than any authorized mission has ever traveled.
“If people on Earth ever realized just how vastly populated our galaxy is—’ ’ she continued, but Scott cut her off. '
“It would frighten them to death,” he said, with a hint of a smile.
“Still, we are very fortunate,” Jean said, returning the smile.
Scott turned to her, and was struck once more by how beautiful she was. As long as he lived, he didn’t think he would ever tire of simply looking at her. So good and kind, intelligent and noble, and so intimidatingly gorgeous that in another age, songs would have been written about her. Her hair was fire red and her eyes a brilliant, emerald green, but Scott’s visor kept him from seeing those shades without a reddish tint. It didn’t matter.
Jean had a way with a look, the crinkle of her nose or narrowing of her eyes, the twitch of her lip that was barely a smile. She could speak volumes without opening her mouth, without using an ounce of her incredible psi talent. Scott didn’t ever want to be without her.
They’d been through that once, and he didn’t want to even consider what it might do to him to lose her again. And yet, be that as it may, he was extraordinarily grateful to have her with him then. Whatever dangers they faced, they should do so together.
“Scott,” she said in a hushed voice, her face reddening, “you’re embarrassing me.”
“Oh, come on, honey,” Scott laughed. “Can’t a man gush over his lady once in a while? Besides, they were just thoughts. There isn’t even anybody else in here, and nobody on the ship has psi talents but you.”
“Still,” she said, in a girlish way that was uncommon for her. It enticed him more, the way she was always so full of surprises.
They had the secondary passenger cabin to themselves for the moment, as the other X-Men and Starjammers were busy elsewhere, preparing for the space walk. Scott was glad. Their predicament had put a thought in his mind that he had not been able to shake from it. He knew it would nag at him until he addressed it, until he discussed it with Jean.
Scott, she asked in his mind, sensing his distress, what is it?
“It’s Nathan,” he answered, his own feelings so conflicted that he was sure Jean wouldn’t be able to get a clear reading of them. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was really feeling. But he wanted to sort it out.
It was extraordinarily complicated. So much so that it hurt Scott’s head to think about it. But he had a son. A son grown to adulthood in the distant future, without the benefit of his father’s experience and wisdom. Now his son, Nathan, was back, and technically older than Scott himself. It was both bizarre and heartwrenching. They’d lost so much, the two of them.
But Scott felt that lean had lost something as well. She’d been thought dead when Scott had met and married Nathan’s mother. That was a whole other story, but the real point here was Jean. And Nathan.
“Forget about it,” Scott said quickly. “I’m not even sure what’s happening in my head now. I just want us all home safe as soon as possible.”
That wasn’t completely true, though. There were things he wanted to say to Jean. Why was it, he thought in frustration, that he could never come right out and say what was on his mind?
“Scott...” Jean began.
“Okay, let me see,” Scott said, realizing that he had to talk, just to sort it out, just to let her know. “I’m trying to deal with the fact that Nathan is my son. Not only what I lost in the years he was gone, everything I missed, but also the fact that he’s my son and not yours.”
Scott paused a moment, unsure how to continue.
“You know Nathan and I are close, Scott,” she said, and though they shared an extraordinary psychic bond, Scott knew that Jean was striving to understand, just as he was.
“That’s not it,” he said. “I can’t escape the feeling that Nathan should have been our baby. That we should have children of our own.”
Jean smiled. “Wow,” she said.
“What’s funny?” he asked defensively.
“You are,” Jean answered, touching his hand, letting him know with the gesture and the soothing psychobabble of her thoughts in his head that she loved him
deeply. “I understand what you’re saying, what you’re feeling. We’re staring death in the face again, and maybe this time it’s a little more real than before. Maybe because we have time, too much time, to think about life and death and consequences.”
She stroked his hair lightly, then shook her head slowly, that little smile still on her face.
“Scott, honey, putting aside the dangers we face every day, the dangers our children would face,” Jean said slowly, “did it ever occur to you that I might not want children right now? Or even anytime soon?” Scott’s eyes widened and his head moved backward almost imperceptibly. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“No,” Jean said, smiling even more widely now, “no, I can see that it hadn't.”
“Do you ever?” he asked, tentatively.
“Sure,” she answered. “If we’re ever going to have a normal life, I definitely want kids to be a part of that. But it’s a long way off.”
“I suppose,” he said. “I was just thinking about you and me and Nathan and started to think something was missing.”
“Maybe it is,” she answered. “But that’s our life right now. Somewhere down the line, I would love to have children with you. But as Logan said to me once, ‘There’s a lot o’ miles between here and there, darlin’, and it’s gonna be hard travelin’.’ ”
Scott snorted laughter.
“Your Wolverine impression is improving, Jean,” he said, then grew quiet again. After a moment, he asked, “Do you remember Excalibur?”
“I assume you mean the movie and not Nightcraw-ler’s team in England,” Jean answered drily. “Sure, why?”
“There’s that scene, when Arthur is going off for his final battle, and he goes to see Guinevere in the convent?” Scott began.
“I remember,” Jean said.
“I’ll never forget what he says to her then, when he’s going off to die,” Scott continued, reaching out to hold Jean’s hand in his, unable to feel much through the thick pressure suit gloves. “Arthur says, very matter-of-factly, ‘I have often thought that in the hereafter of our lives, when we owe no more to the future, you will come to me and claim me as your husband. It is a dream I have,’ ” Scott quoted. “It’s an incredible moment, and horribly sad to think that these two people will have to die before they can find peace together.”
The two of them were silent then, contemplating his words.
I pray that’s not us, Scott thought clearly, knowing Jean would pick up the words.
It’s not, Scott, her words whispered in his mind. / promise you it’s not.
They embraced, and Scott was distracted by the odd crinkle of his pressure suit. Sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the ship only magnified by the additional layers.
“Come on, Jean,” he said finally. “Help me get the helmet on, so I can make sure the Personal Atmosphere Unit is functioning properly. In fact, everybody should probably get into these suits, just in case something really goes wrong while we’re outside. If the life support systems were to fail, you all need to be ready.”
“Excellent plan, Scott,” Corsair said from the open hatchway, and Scott bit back the urge to ask how long his father had been standing there.
“Everybody set, Corsair?” he asked instead, and his father shot him the thumbs up sign. Back to business, now. No room there for “son” and “dad.” But, Scott thought, it was pleasant while it lasted.
“Roger that,” Corsair said, nodding. “Raza and Ch’od are all suited up. Now if we can just tear Rogue away from Gambit’s side for a moment, we might actually be able to keep this ship from melting into slag around us.”
Corsair was smiling, but Scott could see the worry in his father’s eyes, about their predicament, and about Rogue’s reliability. Scott made it his policy not to delve too deeply into the personal lives of the X-Men, particularly those relatively new to the team, but Scott also thought he was a fairly observant guy. How it happened, he had no idea, and he wasn’t certain about the rest of the team, but he hadn’t even noticed the relationship between Gambit and Rogue developing. One day it just seemed to appear to him, full bloom, and then a lot of little things had begun to make sense.
Now, though, his job was to make sure that the relationship between his two teammates didn’t compromise their job. In the end, he didn’t think it would. All of their lives were at stake, and Rogue, headstrong though she unquestionably was, had always come through in a pinch before.
“You want me to speak with her, Scott?” Jean asked, beside him, obviously sensing his hesitation.
“Thanks, but no,” he answered. “Part of the job. I need you to focus fully on backing us up while we’re out there. Anything goes wrong, you’re our only safety measure.”
“You got it,” Jean said, nearly in a whisper, and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
She helped snap his helmet into place. It was constructed of an expanding mesh alloy of Shi’ar design. Rather than the traditional face plate, the helmet’s front section was wide open. When the final latch was closed, and the Personal Atmosphere Unit began to function, a force shield materialized in front of Scott’s face. It was impervious to solids, and yet it allowed Scott’s exhaled carbon dioxide to leave the suit even as it processed oxygen in from the depths of space. Fortunately, it would also allow his solar-based optic beams to pass through without breaching the containment of the suit. No matter how often he was exposed to it, Scott could only marvel at the technology of the Shi’ar.
Scott, Jean, and Corsair made their way toward the main cabin. They passed Raza and Ch’od, who were moving to the back of the ship to get at the airlocks. Hushed words were exchanged between the two Star-jammers and their captain, then Corsair smiled at Scott and Jean, and they continued on.
In the main cabin, Archangel paced nervously, bobbing his head slightly with pent up energy. Scott wasn’t sure if Warren was even aware of the way his bio-metallic wings ruffled, spreading slightly, when he was on edge. Back when he was just called the Angel, Scott recalled, Warren’s real, natural wings had done the same thing. It was comforting, yet at the same time, disturbing, that the wings, which often seemed to have some kind of sentience, were so closely tied to Warren’s psyche.
“Hey,” Scott said, quietly enough so that only Archangel could hear. “You okay, Warren?”
“Little cabin fever is all, Slim,” Archangel answered, using Scott’s old nickname from their early days with the X-Men. “I’m trying to chill out, but I’m not doing such a great job.”
“Try to focus, Warren,” Scott said, still in a hush. “You’re needed, here. You’ve got to make sure nothing happens to Gambit.”
“Remy?” Archangel asked. “But what else would—” Scott turned away from Archangel and moved to where Rogue held vigil over the unconscious Gambit. On the other medi-slab, Hepzibah was recovering well but was being kept sedated to speed her healing. But Gambit had simply never revived from the shock of his electrocution. Looking at Rogue now, Scott didn’t know how he had ever failed to see the flowering of the relationship between the two.
“Rogue,” Scott began, “we need to talk.”
“No,” Rogue said quickly. “No we don’t.”
Scott was surprised. He was about to launch into a speech about responsibility, to make her see that they all needed her, that Gambit would die anyway if she didn’t help. Then Rogue got to her feet and looked down at him. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a mane, its white streak only adding to her unique beauty. She was a relatively tall woman, but very petite. Still, the power within her was unmistakable.
“Let’s go,” she said simply.
“But I thought—” he began, stumbling in a manner that was unusual for him.
“Seein’ Remy like this is tearin’ me apart, Cyclops,” Rogue admitted. “I’m not gonna lie to ya about it. It kills me to leave his side. But you don’t grow up as hard as I did without leamin’ when it’s time for action. The time is now. Just let me suit up, and I’ll be with you.” “As Scott already pointed out, we all need to suit up,” Corsair said. “Anything happens to this ship, we’ll need more than our uniforms to keep us alive.”
“You go on ahead,” Archangel urged. “I’ll keep an eye on our little sick bay until you get back.”
Rogue walked to where Archangel stood, sentinel over Gambit and Hepzibah. She squeezed his shoulder.
“I know you’ve never been real fond of Remy, Warren,” Rogue said. “But I really care for him. Watch over him for me, will ya?”
“We’re X-Men,” Archangel said, smiling warmly, “we take care of our own.”
Scott could have hugged Warren for that endorsement. He needed Rogue completely together on their space walk, and Archangel’s reassurance was more valuable than he could possibly know. After all, with Corsair keeping watch over Hepzibah and the ship’s heat shields, and Jean making sure the space walk went off without a hitch, Archangel was the only one who could watch Gambit. Rogue needed to know that Warren was committed to that duty.
The relief on her face showed very clearly how much weight had been lifted from her.
“Y’know, Warren, they all said that when you got your new wings, your personality changed too,” Rogue said. “I don’t know ’bout any of that, but it seems to me that, wherever the real you, the person inside, went away to... well, it seems like you’re back now. I’m glad.”
“Me too,” Archangel said slowly, brow furrowing.
“I only wish everyone else could see it as clearly. Thanks, Rogue.”
“Thank you,” she said, and finally turned to walk from the cabin.
There was so much on his mind that Scott didn’t really have time to digest their exchange. But somehow, some way, he felt like he’d let Warren down. He promised to himself that, if they survived this, he would try to figure out how, and rectify his mistake.
But then, first things first. Survival.
* * *
He’d always thought of it as the cold expanse of space. Scott supposed that, nearly anywhere else, that would be about right. But this was different. This was death on the horizon. The irony was not lost on him. The sun was vital to all life on Earth, and the battery that powered his own optic beams. It was the symbol of life, growth, power. But move too close, and it became a voracious inferno, consuming all.
Sweat trickled down Scott’s forehead, underneath the lip of his ruby quartz visor, and he blinked it away. There was sweat on his back as well, and he could feel the disorienting fatigue that extreme heat always seemed to bring on. He wondered for a fleeting moment if his face would blister, even through the force shield, this close to the sun.
He didn’t intend to find out. They’d been very careful to make certain none of them would have to discover the effects of such exposure. Twenty minutes of complex navigational maneuvers, without the real power to make them, combined with brute force to allow them to turn the Starjammer so that the area where they would be working was not directly in the path of the sun’s burning glare.
An additional half hour had passed, and they toiled away in the shade provided by the Starjammer itself. Tethered together like mountain climbers, with Raza tethered to the ship itself, they used their respective knowledge and skills to make what repairs were possible to the hull and warp drive of the vessel.
“Cyclops,” Ch’od’s voice slithered into his ears from the comm-link in their suits. “Raza and I seem to be doing fine here, perhaps you and Rogue ought to attempt to repair some of the more serious structural damage.” “You’re sure you don’t need the backup?” he asked, doubtful.
“You are out here, if we really need the help,” Ch’od asked. “That is enough. While you are repairing, you should also look for any stress points that look as if they might lead to a pressure breach.”
“You got it,” Cyclops said, listening to the tinny sound of his own voice filtered back to him. “Rogue, you catch that?”
“Sure did, Cyke,” she said. “I s’pose it’s time for a little spot-weldin’, huh?”
Cyclops was floating free of the ship, drifting along with it, secured only by his tether to the others. The slightest motion was magnified by the gravity-free environment of space, so Scott was very careful and measured with his actions. He had dealt with anti-gravity in other situations as well, and not just in space.
Rather than kick his feet as if he were in a swimming pool, which had been his inclination the first time he’d experienced the sensation, he performed a slow, forward somersault. A few moments later, he came around to face Rogue only a few feet from the Starjammer's hull. As he had expected, she reached out a hand to arrest his motion, and reeled him in.
“This ain’t the time for showin’ off, Cyclops,” Rogue admonished, and Scott smiled despite their plight.
She might not be able to conduct herself as though tiiis were all business as usual—not that anyone could have—but at least she was trying. Scott had to give her credit for that.
Together, they examined the section of the hull that had experienced the worst damage.
« * •
Rogue felt particularly parched. Dehydration was no fun, but she knew they wouldn’t get a break until they’d finished what they’d come on their little space walk to do. It was hard for her to deal with their situation. Not merely the danger of it, but the entire reality of space travel, space walking. Of course, the danger was there too, helping keep her mind off of Remy.
She didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t. Rogue kept telling herself that if they could just get home, get back to Earth, that Gambit would be okay. She kept reassuring herself, but a little voice inside her head called her a liar every time. Truth was, she didn’t know if he’d be okay or not. It was all in God’s hands, now, she figured. Rogue had never been much for prayer, but she’d always believed in God. She figured, out there in the middle of space they had to be closer to him than ever, and hoped that meant he’d hear the prayers that were screaming through her head right then.
“Watch it, Rogue!” Cyclops snapped at her side, and she looked up to see the warning in his eyes, then back
down at what she was doing. They’d been working together, her trying to bend back into shape portions of the hull that had been damaged, so that Cyclops could attempt to weld these breaches closed with his optic blasts. But when she looked down, she pulled her hands quickly from the ship with a frightened gasp.
The material of her pressure suit around her hands had been too near a sharp edge of metal hull. Had she continued to press, distractedly, on the tom section, she might well have ripped a hole in her suit. Back on Earth, Rogue thought herself nearly invulnerable to injury. But without the pressure suit, she guessed that she’d be dead just as quickly as any of them.
“Thanks a lot,” she said, sighing in relief, then grabbed hold of the hull yet again.
“No problem,” Cyclops answered. “I know you’re tired. We all are. And you’ve got a lot on your mind. But let’s just be careful, okay? We can’t afford any accidents out here.”
“You said it,” she agreed.
She finished reshaping a small hull breach, and pulled herself along the surface of the ship so Cyclops could move into place. While his optic beams were normally concussive in nature, when tightly focused, they could bum as hot as the nastiest laser. And with the sun so close, Cyclops seemed to be brimming with nearly inexhaustible power. A reddish glow filled the inside of his helmet, and a small cloud of energy was constantly flowing through it, only to dissipate in space.
“It’s a wonder your head doesn’t explode with all that energy you got stored up in there,” she said in amazement.
“Well I suppose there should be some benefits to being so close to the sun other than working on our tans,” Cyclops responded, keeping his attention on the job at hand.
“My goodness,” Jean’s voice filtered into Rogue’s helmet on the comm-link. “Did Scott Summers just make a joke?”
“I try,” Cyclops said in response, and Rogue was warmed by their exchange. Though Jean was inside, the communications setup that linked them all reassured her that their resident psi would be on hand if anything went wrong. Not that it was likely to. The work had reached the point where it was almost boring.
“I feel like an egg fryin’ on the sidewalk in July,” Rogue said, then lapsed into silence as she watched Cyclops at work again.
His optic beam melted the metal edges of the hole together like a soldering iron. Rogue was reminded of the time Fred Dukes, a mutant who called himself the Blob, had bragged one too many times about his invulnerability. Nothing could hurt him, Dukes had boasted. Cyclops, usually the picture of calm, had used that tight focus beam to bum a hole right through Dukes’ shoulder. Far as she could tell, Cyclops had felt guilty about it later, but Rogue still chuckled as she remembered the look on the Blob’s face. Served him right.
When Cyclops finished, they moved on to the largest hull breach. Rogue did what she could, but when she was through the hole that remained, it was too large for Cyclops to simply weld closed. Rogue looked around the ship’s hull for something to use as a “band-aid,” but didn’t see anything immediately.
“Ch’od,” she said on her comm-unit. “I need somethin’ to patch this dang hole. Any ideas?”
“Give me just a minute, Rogue,” Ch’od said, and the sound of his voice made Rogue realize that all this time he and Raza had been working together in near absolute silence. After years as Staijammers together, it seemed they had reached the point where they functioned together as smoothly as clockwork without having to ever say anything
That was the X-Men at their best. Apparently, the same applied to the Starjammers. No wonder, she thought, since both teams were led by men of the Summers clan. Even if she hadn’t been involved with Gambit, Cyclops would never have been Rogue’s type. Too squeaky clean, straight and narrow for her tastes. Yet those same traits made her admire him greatly.
“Now, Rogue, what was it you wanted?” Ch’od asked on the comm-link.
Rogue boosted herself up lightly to see where Ch’od had turned away from the warp drive to address her directly, though their voices did not carry in space. The Starjammer had two enormous “legs,” each of which ended with an engine well, similar to the turbines on a jet airplane. Those were the hyperburners, she knew, the Starjammer’s main propulsion system. With them out of commission, they were forced to rely on warp drive. She guessed that, with it fixed, they could warp into an appropriate navigational pattern, come out of warp just above Earth’s atmosphere, shut down the ship and let momentum take over.
If they could get the warp drive fixed.
Raza and Ch’od worked at the burnt and shattered casing of the warp system, further up on the starboard leg from where Rogue and Cyclops labored. While she and Ch’od spoke, Raza continued to work, a greenish glow from the broken casing reflected off the force field that covered his face.
“I got a major breach here, and I gotta patch it,” she repeated.
“That certainly is a problem,” Ch’od answered. “I’ll have a look.”
Ch’od pushed away from the ship in a movement calculated to bring him directly to where Rogue clung to the ship’s hull. As she watched him, her peripheral vision picked up movement beyond him. Raza’s head snapped back in a defensive motion as sparks flew from the drive system, alighting on his suit. He shook his head, obviously annoyed, and brushed them away. Rogue almost looked back at Ch’od then, her mind consumed with the need to finish with their repairs and get back inside the ship, to see if they could get home.
She didn’t turn away, however. Instead, she saw Raza lower his head once more over the shattered casing, only to draw it back again, more slowly this time.
“Sharra and Ky’thri,” Raza’s astonished voice whispered in Rogue’s ears.
“Raza?” Ch’od began, turning toward his friend clumsily, losing the careful control of his motion. ‘ ‘What is—”
The warp system seemed to explode in Raza’s face, blasting him backward as his tether snapped like a whip and slammed him against the ship’s hull. Simultaneously, blue flames shot from the engine well just behind Rogue and the ship began to spin with extraordinary speed. The misfiring of one half of the warp drive lasted only a moment, but it set the Starjammer moving like a maniac top, trailing Ch’od, Cyclops, and Rogue behind it—