Unless, of course, he was pushed over the edge, into the berserker fury they had all witnessed, and found so disturbing that it was rarely discussed even when Wolverine was not around. He was fiercely independent, prone to acts and words of defiance simply to prove it, but just as passionately loyal when he was needed. As traumatic as many of his life's defining moments had been, there was not a soul among them who put more energy into having a good time—in his own way—when the opportunity arose.
"All right, Cajun, get ready," Wolverine said as Bishop made a high, arcing hit, the ball sailing lazily, well above the net. "Here it comes."
Though short in stature, Wolverine was a powerful figure. He leaped high to spike the ball down on the other side of the net, most likely directly at Gambit's face. Gambit was also aloft, hoping to deflect Wolverine's shot. Logan's arm shot forward, palm out flat, the ball inches from his hand ...
Snikt!
Wolverine's claws popped out, puncturing the ball with a whoosh of air. He dropped to the ground in a fighting stance, ignoring the cries around him.
"What the hell do you call that, Logan?" Bobby yelled.
"Now, that can't be in the rules," Bishop said reasonably.
"Wolverine, what are you doing?" Storm asked.
"You know that's the only ball we got, sugar," Rogue laughed.
"Quiet," Wolverine snapped. "All of you. Listen."
Scott was at attention immediately, as were they all. They knew that tone in Wolverine's voice. Danger. Scott strained to listen, knowing how much more acute Wolverine's feral senses were than his own. And then he did hear something. A low whine, or whistle, almost like a bomb falling ...
"Incoming," Wolverine said simply.
The whistle grew into a terrible, deafening screech, and all ten X-Men went on alert. Archangel, Rogue, and Storm took to the air while Bobby instantaneously transformed himself into the Iceman. Gambit uprooted one of the volleyball net posts and tore it free, prepared to use it in place of the bo-stick he usually carried.
Wait, X-Men! Professor Xavier's telepathic voice burst into Scott's head, and he knew the rest of the team heard it as well. We are not under attack. Look ...
"Up there!" Jean shouted, for clearly she had sensed it too. "It's a ship!"
Scott looked up, along the angle of Jean's pointing finger, and saw it for himself. A silver dot, trailing smoke and growing larger, seemingly headed directly for the Xavier Institute. In that moment, Scott Summers was no more. He was Cyclops now, and in command.
"Storm!" he shouted over the wail of the plummeting vessel's engines, screeching as the pilot tried desperately to pull out of the dive. "Usethe wind to try to slow their descent, and try to aim them for the lake! Bobby, get ready to ice down any flames on the ship."
He turned to Jean, far across the lawn from him now where she stood on the pier. Her fiery red hair shone in the sun, and she shielded her eyes as she watched the ship's deadly descent. God, how he loved her. Though he knew she was just as capable as he, often more so, he could not help feeling a twinge of concern for her safety.
Jean, he thought, knowing that the psychic bond that she had created between them would carry his words to her. Is there anything you can do to slow the ship's descent?
Not significantly, and not without risk. Certainly we could do no more for them than Ororo with her control of the weather. But Scott, you should know that I sense two beings on board that craft. Both are badly hurt, and I recognize their psychic auras. I know who they are, Scott! The ship, it must be ...
"The Starjammer!" Scott exclaimed as the craft finally dropped close enough for a clear view. Its back end was in flames, and Storm was attempting to guide it to the lake. It was going to be a close call, but it seemed as though the Starjammer would crash in the water after all.
"Jean! Professor!" Hank shouted from behind Scott. "Get off the pier! It's going to be very close!"
The rest of the team gathered round, ready to extract the ship's passengers and get them to safety in case they could not stop it from sinking, or the flames were out of control. An explosion was not out of the question.
Jean had said there were two passengers, which confused Scott, and worried him. The Starjammers were a band of interstellar pirates turned freedom fighters who stayed mainly within the confines of the alien Shi'ar Empire. Their presence on Earth always meant trouble, and usually some kind of off-planet travel for the X-Men.
But there were four members of the Starjammers, not two. The X-Men had fought at their side many times, and gotten to know them all quite well. Their ranks included Raza, a cybernetic swordsman; Ch'od, a huge amphibian alien; Hepzibah, a female of the feline Mephisitoid race; and Corsair, the Earth-born human who was their leader.
But Corsair was more than just another Terran, and more than the leader of the Starjammers. His real name was Christopher Summers. Cyclops was his son.
The Starjammer slammed hard into the lake, sending a huge wave of water up over its banks. There was no way Cyclops could know if his father was on board. And if he was, what kind of condition he might be in. With the staccato rap of sleet on pavement, liquid ice sprayed from Bobby Drake's frozen hands, solidifying in place to form a smooth ramp to the Stariammer's hull. With another burst from his hands, Iceman froze the ship's burning parts instantly.
As Cyclops pushed through his comrades and rushed across the ice bridge to the ship, he prayed for his father's safety. They'd had so little time together, and Cyclops could not bear to think that it might be all they would ever have.
"Get back!" he barked, then let loose with a finely honed optic blast, cutting through the hull like a laser with only the power in his eyes. Despite the bright, clear blue of the sky, the peace of the day, a terrible dread came over him as he looked into the darkened inner hull of the Starjammer. The smell of burning rubber and fuel was heavy in the air, blocking out the scent of the forest around them, and the wild lilacs that grew not far from the lake. An errant thought skipped through his mind: Jean loved lilacs. He tried to hold the thought, to focus on it, but could not.
Cyclops wanted to rush in, to search immediately for his father, but he held back. For years he had honed his skills and instincts as a warrior and a leader. It would benefit no one were he to abandon those hardwon instincts now. The X-Men were a team for a reason, and unlike many of the others, Cyclops never forgot that. Not even in times of personal crisis.
"Bishop, take point," he called, knowing that Bishop's ability to absorb energy made him the perfect human shield. "Wolverine, with me. Scout for scents. Gambit, take the rear and check all compartments."
Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Rogue, you and Warren flyrecon, make sure whatever did this to them isn't coming after them."
Bishop passed Cyclops on the bridge, barely acknowledging the team leader as he passed. Though in his time with the X-Men he had learned to relax somewhat, when danger presented itself, or a crisis arose, Bishop was all business. Fear, action, adrenaline were his world. Cyclops knew simply from observing Bishop during their missions together that the man only felt completely in control when all else was in chaos.
Wolverine appeared at his side, adamantium claws flashing silver in the sunlight. His eyes darted around in predatory fashion. Nearly a foot shorter than Cyclops, Wolverine weighed almost as much. He was broad and stout, and lightning quick. His brown hair was shaggy, swept back into two peaks like a wolf's ears.
"Stay frosty, Cyke," Wolverine snarled, an uncommon concern in his voice; uncommon at least when dealing with Cyclops. Scott and Logan had never been the best of friends.
"I can't say yet just who's inside," Wolverine added, "but not all of 'em are still breathin'."
Cyclops sniffed the air, trying to catch the scent of death that Wolverine had so obviously detected. He could not, and was glad. He set aside his fears for his father and the two mutants stepped aboard. Amoment later, he heard soft steps behind them, and Gambit's low voice rasped, "Right behind you, mon a
mi." Cyclops did not turn around.
Seen through his visor, everything inside the cabin had a dark, bloody red color to it. It was something about his daily life, his existence, the spectre of his mutant powers, that nobody ever considered. Certainly it was nowhere near the social handicap that Rogue's powers caused for her. It was also not as obvious, more easily dismissed, and painful for that.
Cyclops could not remember the last time he had seen any color other than red. His ruby quartz visor focused and controlled his optic blasts, and even in civilian garb, he had to wear glasses made of the same material. He was not the complaining type, so nobody had ever thought to ask what it was like, seeing only in shades of red.
He hated it. But he endured it. There was so much else to be thankful for.
"Cyclops, over here!" Bishop shouted from directly ahead. If Cyclops remembered the ship's layout correctly, it would be the main cargo hold. Gambit made a more complete search behind them, but Cyclops was certain that, if there were any danger in the staterooms and engine area, Wolverine would have smelled it before now.
They entered the cargo hold and found Bishop kneeling beside a pair of dead men, laid one on top of the other. They wore tight, alien military body armor. Their eyes were surrounded by tattoo-like markings, beautiful and flowing, that would have been strange to most Terrans, but were familiar to the X-Men. Where humans had hair, these aliens had a high ridge of long, thin, radiant feathers.
"Shi'ar," Wolverine said, and Cyclops only nodded.
"High charge plasma burns," Bishop said succinctly, indicating that the pair had been dead long before the ship had crashed to Earth.
"Keep moving," Cyclops ordered, and they went up through the companionway that led to the forward section of the ship, the main cabin and the cockpit.
At the top they were met by a sealed hatchway. Bishop reached out to open it. He grunted in surprise as a burst of electricity shot through him with an audible crackling noise. He was blown back against the wall, but did not fall down.
"Bishop?" Cyclops asked in surprise. With Bishop's power to absorb energy, it had to have taken quite a jolt to create such an intense reaction.
"I'm all right," he answered, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows in appreciation of the shock he'd gotten. "Intruder security, so the ship wouldn't be looted in case of a crash just like this."
"Better you than me," Wolverine said, without a trace of a smile.
"Very true," Bishop answered. "Now I can use the same burst of energy, multiplied many times over, to short the whole system."
The broad-shouldered man slid past Cyclops again, planted his feet and slammed his hands down on the hatchway. What emerged from those hands was not exactly electricity, but something else, something completely different that had been metabolized by Bishop's body and returned in a highly destructive form.
The hatch blew in, tearing right out of its frame, and clattered to the metal floor of the cabin ahead.
Bishop stood aside for Cyclops, who had begun to walk forward when Wolverine said, "Get back!" and dove ahead of them.
In a flurry of white fur, arms lashing, claws slashing, a small alien beast fell upon Wolverine in a rage. Cyclops was stunned, watching Wolverine try to beat the thing away, and so for a moment did not recognize it. Then, as Wolverine reached a hand behind his head and tore the thing from his shoulders, cocking back his right hand to tear it open with his claws, Cyclops finally did realize what, or who, the little beast was.
"Logan, no! It's Cr+eeee!" he shouted.
Though he could not hold back the momentum of his slashing fist, Wolverine's reflexes and instincts were far faster than those of mere humans. As his blow fell toward Cr+eeee's head, his adamantium claws retracted, snapping into place as the skin healed instantly over the holes they left behind.
Cyclops breathed a sigh of relief as Wolverine held Cr+eeee at ann's length, the little beast still chattering away but no longer attempting to harm them. It must finally have recognized them as well, Cyclops reasoned. Cr+eeee was from the distant planet Lupus, and had been with the Starjammers since long before their first contact with the X-Men. The creature was a constant companion to Ch'od, who claimed to understand its chittering language, and that it was as intelligent as any other sentient being they had encountered.
"Cr+eeee, what happened to the Starjammers?" Cyclops asked.
The little alien reached a furry paw up to scratch at his long, pale proboscis.
"You t'ink maybe he pilot de ship, mon ami?" Gambit purred, his sarcasm unwelcome and ill-timed.
"He understands," Cyclops said coldly.
"Maybe so," Wolverine added, "but will you understand him if he answers?"
Cr+eeee cocked his head to one side.Iistening to this exchange, then dropped to the ground from Wolverine's shoulder and raced to the cockpit door. Bishop was already there, prepared to endure whatever defense mechanisms the space pirates had built into the passage. When he reached out a hand, Cr+eeee started to screech wildly, and Bishop paused a moment.
"I don't think he wants us to go in there," Bishop said, studying the alien with new appreciation.
"I don' t'ink it matter what he want," Gambit said, striding forward.
"Gambit, wait ... " Cyclops began, but Wolverine stood in front of both of them, his claws popping out with a clang.
"Door's mine," Wolverine said, just as Cr+eeee leaped from the floor, sank his claws into Wolverine's flesh and clothing, then bounded onto a nearby control panel. His claws began to tap out a numbered sequence on the keypad even as Wolverine's adamantium claws raked a gaping hole open in the cockpit door.
A shock ran through the metal claws and up his arms. Every muscle in his body tensed with its power. Wolverine bared his teeth and a low growl emitted from deep in his throat as he shook with the energy of the door's protective field.
Cr+eeee finished entering the code, and Wolverine seemed to deflate slightly, a hiss of air coming from his mouth. He kicked through the torn apart cockpit door, then turned to look at his teammates, motioning toward Cr+eeee as a bemused grin lifted one side of his mouth.
"Furball's not as dumb as he looks," Wolverine said with a chuckle, then entered the cockpit.
"Damn!" he swore softly. "Looks like we got a situation here."
Cyclops steeled himself against what he would find, then went in, Bishop and Gambit following quickly behind. The grotesque tableau that awaited them filled his heart with a nauseating mixture of dread and relief.
Ch'od lay slumped across the ship's instrument panel. The steering column had broken off, and its shaft impaled the Timorian's scaly, reptilian hide. A pool of green, brackish liquid had formed under his seat, and a darker, sticky looking green lay at the center of several charred wounds on his back.
Raza, the Shi'ar cyborg, looked even worse. He lay on his back on the cold metal floor, one hand covering a gaping wound in his belly. There was a laser-clean slice in the cyborg side of his face, and his biomechanical left arm was nowhere to be seen. Only a sparking, smoking stump remained, emitting a noxious chemical smell and the sickening sound of gears that ground on despite his unconsciousness.
Cyclops was deeply concerned for them, but the dread and relief he felt came from the same bit of information. His father, Corsair, was not among them. For the moment, at least, he forced himself to take that as good news.
"If dis green stuff is blood," Gambit said in wonder as he crouched next to Ch'od, "den de big guy seem to 'ave lost an awful lot of it."
His words spurred Cyclops into action. Wolverine and Bishop were attempting to lift Raza in order to carry him back through the hold.
"No time for that," he said sharply, then focused his fear and uncertainty into an optic blast that took out the entire glass observation shield at the front of the cockpit. It exploded into shards and he shouted for Iceman to get a ramp up to them immediately. Only then did he notice that the ship had sunk so far into the lake that the cockpit was mere inches from the surfa
ce of the water.
Cyclops reached for Ch'od, and Gambit began to pull on the nearly quarter-ton reptilian alien.
"No, Gambit, wait," he said. "Wepull him off of there now, and whatever blood he's got left is likely to pump out at our feet."
"We goin' to leave 'im 'ere, den, Cyclops?" Gambit snapped.
"Relax, Remy. We just have to take it another way." Cyclops focused his optic blast into a tight beam, the thinnest of lasers, and burned through the shaft of the steering column where it met the ship's controls. Ch'od slumped back in his seat, no longer hung on the stake that had impaled him. Then Iceman was at the blasted hole in the front of the cockpit, slippery ramp ready to get the wounded Starjammers to land. Wolverine and Bishop took Raza out, and Iceman came inside to help with Ch'od.
As they lifted him, muscles straining, Ch'od's eyes opened. Cr+eeee, who had been watching the proceedings in silent fear, begin to chitter with pleasure that his friend was not dead. Ch'od's gaze seemed to waver, unfocused, and then suddenly found the face of Cyclops.
"Scott ... " he croaked softly. Cyclops tried to shush him, but Ch'od forced himself to go on. "... must get ... Corsair before ... his execution."
Then his immense, amphibian head fell back and Ch'od slipped into unconsciousness once more.
Chapter 2
Inside the government installation that was home to Operation: Wideawake, silence reigned. Magneto stood in the control center, built into the silo wall, and looked down at the fleet of Sentinels that would soon be at his disposal. He could not help but recognize the irony in his plan, to turn humanity's terrible, ultimate weapon against mutants back upon themselves. Rather than being amused by this irony, however, Magneto was profoundly unsettled. The Sentinels were one of many signs that, just as he had always said, humans and mutants could not live in peace.
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