Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men

by Christopher Golden

  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, then 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 hyperburn 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 hyperburn engines, right? Well they burn 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 hyperburners 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 o
f 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 Starjammers 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.”

  ONE

  THE constant thrumming vibration aboard the news helicopter began to give Trish Tilby a headache. The slashing sound of the rotors slicing through the air made easy communication with her camera crew impossible. None of that mattered. She was there to get the story. It was her job. She was good at it, and she loved it. The story was all that was important.

  In her relatively brief career, Trish had been more like a rocket than a rising star. From the courthouse beat, she’d begged to get a few crime stories. A couple of times, she’d been in the right place at the right time to report on the mutant crisis, the hottest topic in America. She quickly became New York’s most visible reporter on the subject, and more recently, the co-anchor of the local network affiliate’s evening newscast.

  Though she sympathized with the plight of mutants in America, the country’s sentiments were overwhelmingly at odds with her own. But it wasn’t her place to editorialize or offer her own opinions. She didn’t make the news, she just reported it. Trish had seen the anti-mutant attitudes in America grow into near hysteria.

  Now this. The biggest story of her career, and the one that could turn hysteria into anarchy. After what had happened in the past few hours, Trish realized, even those as liberal-minded as she was would be hard put not to join the anti-mutant cause.

  After all, even in this day and age, it wasn’t every day an entire city was held hostage.

  The copter had taken off from the helipad at the affiliate’s Bronx offices. Now, the pilot was navigating them straight down the East River, then around the Battery and up the Hudson River, making a circuit of Manhattan. She didn’t know what she expected to find. Riots, looting, the kind of insanity that took over South Central Los Angeles a few years back. They had seen several fires burning, but had not yet dared fly directly over the island.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped as they reached the George Washington Bridge. “Kevin, are you getting this?”

  The cameraman grunted behind her, recording it all. Beneath them, in the brilliant glow of the city and the subtle shine of the moon, people moved across the bridge in a solid wave. Where Trish might have expected chaos, however, this was an orderly exodus, the largest marching band in history.

  “They’ve all got suitcases or other bags,” Kevin said, and Trish envied him the telescoping capabilities of his camera. “Crying, frightened, but most of ’em look relieved.”

  “I just can’t believe they’re not running,” Trish said, still awed by the sight.

  “Magneto wants things orderly, I guess,” Kevin noted, then pointed to the spot he had just focused his camera. At the Manhattan side of the bridge stood a Sentinel, its operating lights glowing in the darkness.

  It was true, then, Trish realized. All true. Magneto had somehow commandeered an entire fleet of Sentinels from the U.S. government, and was using them to claim Manhattan island as a haven for mutants. The mutant outlaw, wanted in nearly every civilized nation for his crimes, had interrupted all broadcasts to announce the establishment of this haven, and to detail the rules for residency. Mutants were now the ruling class on Manhattan, and all mutants were welcome. Humans were invited to stay as long as they could live within the new hierarchy. If not, they could take their things and leave, on foot, calmly and without incident.

  Magneto and his mutant Acolytes would see that his instructions were obeyed, and the island’s perimeter would be patrolled by the stolen Sentinels. Trish had never seen one before, and she knew the sight would be with her always. It was colossal, at least eight stories high, and its robotic eyes burned with a cold, artificial intelligence. She had been stunned to see the orderly exodus on the bridge. No longer. She understood completely how intimidated those people must be.

  “The hell with this waiting around,” Trish snapped, suddenly angry. “Magneto didn’t say the media couldn’t enter the city. We’re going in.”

  “You sure you wanna do that, Trish?” Kevin asked, obviously against the idea.

  “Look, it may look all hunky dory down there, but there are fires burning, so obviously not everyone is meekly cooperating with this mutant terrorist’s orders. I mean, the guy stole a city. We’ve got to cover it,” she decided, and turned to Billy, the pilot.

  “We go in,” she ordered, and Billy nodded in response.

  Immediately, the helicopter lurched as it rose quickly over the buildings. Seconds later, they were flying south over Manhattan’s Upper West Side, trying to glimpse whatever activity might be taking place in the great steel canyons below. There were people milling about, but from what Trish could see, very little by way of chaos. It certainly wasn’t any riot, or mass destruction.

  As they approached the south end of Central Park, they saw the fire at the park’s southeast corner. She was going to instruct Billy to head for it, but he was already maneuvering them in that direction.

  “Ya gotta be kiddin’ me,” Kevin hissed, then uttered a small, incredulous laugh.

  “What is it?” Trish asked, trying to figure out what it was that was burning.

  “F.A.O. Schwartz,” he responded, the disbelief evident in his voice. “Who the hell would want to burn down a toy store?”

  “This is it,” Trish said. “Billy, set it down in the park, over by the skating rink.”


  “Set it down?”

  “We’re not going to get a story from up here, and the park’s the only open space you’re going to find,” she reasoned. “Set it down and we’ll find out what’s happening here.”

  Billy shrugged, and Trish wished she could tell him how strongly she shared his reluctance. She was afraid. Not only of Magneto and the Acolytes and the Sentinels, but afraid of anarchy. If Magneto was truly in complete control, they might actually be safer than if there were resistance. And after all, this was New York City. Chances were pretty good that there would be heavy resistance, much of it armed.

  Then there were the apathetic vultures who would use any situation to gain something, to pick off the corpse of a barely dead America. Trish figured that, somehow, looters and anarchists were responsible for the fire at F.A.O. Schwarz, and she wished she were far away from Manhattan. But she wasn’t. If there was danger, that was part of the job. The only way to face it, she decided, was to wade right in.

  She only hoped she wasn’t going to get herself and her crew killed in the meantime.

  * * *

  THE crowd in Washington Square Park was surpisingly orderly. A man dressed in preacher’s garb addressed the people from atop a park bench not far from the park’s familiar arch.

  “Brother and sister humans, flee if you must,” the man said with impassioned cadence. “But before you do, just think! Remember how the city was run when traditional bureaucracy was in charge! Were your needs attended to then? No!

  “Perhaps the mutants are the next step in human evolution. If so, it is only right that they should rule. But even if they aren’t, we’re certain to get better treatment at their hands than at those of our previous leaders, whose only concerns were for their own pocketbooks, rather than their people’s welfare.

  “Go, if you must!” the preacher yelled, waving his hands in a grand gesture of suffering. “But if we stay, we become citizens of the most powerful sovereign state in the world!”