Remy LeBeau’s entire body went slack then, his face draining of all color. Archangel thought in that instant that Gambit’s heart might have simply stopped, so quickly did the Cajun’s energy seem to leave him. Warren realized it would be impossible for him to check Gambit’s temperature with both of them in pressure suits, but from the flush on Remy’s cheeks and his delusional rambling, he had to assume the man’s fever was extremely high.
Who in hell is Essex? he wondered to himself. “Gambit?” he ventured, moving his helmet closer to Gambit’s own. “Remy, it’s Warren. Are you awake? Can you hear me?”
Gambit’s eyes snapped open, black and red light pulsing where pupils ought to have been, a mist of crimson energy seemed to spark inside his helmet.
Rage erupted on his face as he looked at Archangel, and he growled that unfamiliar name again, “Essex!”
Gambit reached up, faster than Warren had ever seen him move, and latched his fingers onto Archangel’s helmet. Sparks flew and the helmet grew immediately hot.
Archangel cursed in a panic, fumbling for the latches of his helmet. “Gambit, what the—”
He didn’t finish his question, too caught up in his struggle to be free of the helmet. Gambit had used his mutant power to charge Archangel’s helmet with explosive energy. He had seconds to remove it, or it would explode, taking his head with it.
“Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man …” he chanted, until finally the snaps slid under his thumb, the entire helmet twisted sideways, and he whipped it off his head and across the cabin.
It hadn’t hit the floor when it exploded. Archangel shielded his eyes, and when he looked back, there was a huge black smear on the cabin floor. Gambit stood over him, glowering with righteous fury, feverishly unsteady on his feet.
“Back off, Gambit,” he said, scrabbling backward and attempting to stand. Within the pressure suit, he felt weighted down by his wings for the first time. “You’re not well, man. You shouldn’t be up.”
“I’m done wit’ you, Essex,” Gambit snarled, and took another menacing, shaky step toward Archangel. “You leave my family alone, now, oui?”
“Remy,” Archangel said, standing now and reaching out his hands in a gesture of comfort. “It’s me, Warren. Archangel. Snap out of it man, it’s the fever talking. I’m not this Essex guy, okay?”
“You don’ want to leave, you gonna have to die,” Gambit said, slurring his words a bit.
Archangel barely dodged as Gambit aimed a high kick at his face—a fairly weak kick by Remy’s usual standards. The Cajun followed through with a lunge at Warren’s throat, a clumsy move he would never normally have attempted, and Archangel easily sidestepped and batted him aside. Gambit stumbled toward the medi-slab where Raza lay, and fell over the wounded cyborg. He lay across Raza for a moment before returning to his feet.
When Gambit wheeled on Warren, he held a Shi’ar medical probe that Corsair had used earlier. Already, the red-tinged energy was sparking in his hands. The probe glowed with the explosive charge of Gambit’s mutant ability, and then the Cajun threw it like a dart at Warren’s chest.
Instinct alone saved Archangel’s life. Without conscious thought, his bio-metallic wings tore right through the pressure suit. They opened to their full span and wrapped themselves around Archangel in a heartbeat. The charged probe exploded upon impact with his wings, but Warren remained untouched.
He withdrew his wings, tucking them against his back, and Gambit was already rushing at him again.
“Remy, stop, dammit!” he shouted. “It’s me, Warren.”
Once more, he sidestepped, then slammed Gambit against the wall of the cabin. The Cajun fell to the ground, dazed by the impact. Archangel hoped that it might have shaken some of the fevered mania from the man.
“Come on, Gambit,” he pleaded. “Don’t make me hurt you worse than you already are.”
Gambit bobbed his head up, and squinted as he tried to see clearly.
“That’s it, man, look at me,” Warren urged.
“Essex,” Gambit breathed. “Time to die.”
As he pulled himself up, Gambit reached for a long metal tube strapped to the wall. Archangel had seen Ch’od use it earlier to put out the fire; some kind of chemical fire extinguisher then. The contents of which were more than likely under pressure. Gambit’s right hand was already glowing with volatile energy as he reached for the tube, and Archangel realized that Remy might very well blow a hole in the Starjammer’s hull with the combination of his power and that one metal cylinder.
Archangel couldn’t allow that to happen. Gambit’s hand was only inches from the cylinder when Warren’s wings flashed out to their full span. He wasn’t certain whether he commanded them or whether they simply intuited and precipitated his actions. It didn’t matter. Only one thing did: stopping Gambit.
Wing knives flashed across the room and sliced through Gambit’s pressure suit, imbedding themselves in his flesh. Immediately, Remy LeBeau slumped to the floor, paralyzed by the chemicals secreted by Warren’s bio-metallic feathers.
Archangel rushed to his fallen teammate, lifted Gambit from the floor and put him back on the medi-slab. He tore away the pressure suit in a panic and began removing the wing-knives as carefully as he could. Normally, they were effective but ultimately not harmful. With Gambit’s previous injuries, however, there was no way he could be certain.
“Corsair!” he shouted, hoping he would be heard. “Jean! Someone! I could use a little help in here!” Silently, Archangel mumbled a prayer.
SIX
CHARLES Xavier stood in the middle of Exchange Place in Jersey City, New Jersey as the maelstrom of anarchy swirled around him. In his youth, he had reined in the burgeoning power of his telepathy, closed out the billions of mental voices on Earth. It was effortless for him now, but even so, even with his nigh-impenetrable mental shields in place, there was a low hum in his brain. It was the babble of thousands upon thousands of panicked minds.
They climbed up from the PATH train station into the safety of Jersey City, a sea of human flesh, awash with a relief and a sorrow unmatched in their prior existences. The media swarmed around them, picking at their remains with the cold distance of carrion birds.
Beyond the PATH station, past the Hudson River, the twin towers of the World Trade Center were still beacons, the lights of Manhattan still made for a breathtaking panorama. But it was the view of another world now, the alien vista across a hostile border, where an invisible wall was imprinted with invisible words, something like, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”
“I’m sorry, Professor Xavier, did you say something?” Annelise Dwyer asked.
“What’s that?” Charles Xavier responded, startled from his reverie.
“I thought you’d said something,” the CNN anchor said, then shook her head. “Never mind, I must be hearing things.”
They sat in an area cordoned off from the rest of the Exchange Place plaza, the entirety of which had become a media tent city. The scavengers descended upon the catastrophe of Magneto’s ascendance with a savage grace. Yet, despite his usual antipathy for news people, Xavier found himself strangely attracted to Annelise Dwyer. The hopeless optimist within him wondered if she had been able to reach the much-envied position of CNN anchor without becoming as jaded as the majority of her peers. She certainly seemed to care.
It did not hurt that Xavier found her attractive, in an odd sort of way. But then, he had long since established a history of being attracted to powerful, odd women. Moira MacTaggart, Gabrielle Haller, Amelia Voght, Lilandra … and thoughts of Lilandra brought back his concern for Cyclops and his “away team,” who had yet to arrive back on Earth. Quickly he sent a psi-probe out into the ether of Earth’s atmosphere, hoping against hope that there would be some response from Jean Grey.
There was none. They were either not yet within the range of his mental scan, or they had not emerged from the Shi’ar stargate alive. Another crisis, for another time. Now, the situation at hand had to be
dealt with.
“We’re on in fifteen seconds, Professor,” the news-woman said as she waved away a production assistant who was fooling with her hair. “I hope you can put some kind of positive spin on all of this. God knows, we need it.”
Xavier smiled at that. He’d been right about the Dwyer woman. She still cared.
“I’ll do my best, Ms. Dwyer,” he answered.
“Please,” she said, nodding her permission. “Call me Annelise.”
“In five, Annelise,” the production assistant said, holding up five fingers and counting them off with the seconds. “Three. Two. One.”
Annelise introduced herself to the CNN audience, then greeted Xavier formally.
“Recently, you did a three way forum here on CNN with Senator Robert Kelly and Graydon Creed, Professor,” she pointed out. “Though the men seemed, at least in that debate, to be at odds, both have held press conferences recently advocating the use of armed force to take Manhattan back. Creed has even gone so far as to call for the rounding up of all known mutants into detention centers, similar to those used to hold Japanese-Americans during World War II. Would you care to comment on any of their points?”
“Absolutely,” Xavier said sternly, in his best administrative tone. “To begin with, I want to show my complete support of the President’s policies in this matter. He wisely proceeds with caution over a course that is both new and treacherous. While Senator Kelly and Mr. Creed do have different motives—one makes choices informed by fear, the other by hatred—their advocacy of a military solution is, simply put, ignorant of the situation.”
“That’s a rather inflammatory statement, Professor,” Annelise said, her surprise obviously genuine.
“Not at all,” Xavier countered, looking directly at the camera now. “I am here, as you can see. Neither Senator Kelly or Graydon Creed is in Jersey City, or anywhere near New York at the moment. Obviously neither of them has studied the capacity of these Sentinels as I have. In short, no massive military onslaught has any hope of achieving anything but mass property damage and probably the deaths of a great number of innocent civilians.”
“You have another solution, Professor?” Annelise asked. “We can’t just allow terrorists to claim our cities with impunity, can we?”
“Not at all, Annelise,” Xavier agreed. “And I’m told the President does have a plan. Also, I’m not saying incisive use of force is unwarranted, only that a mass attack would be useless. But, on to an even more disturbing issue, Graydon Creed’s detention center idea. This, as I’m sure you and all good Americans will realize, is nothing more than a concentration camp, though we should expect no less from a fascist whose communications on the Internet have revealed that he supports the idea of genetic cleansing through the genocide of mutants.”
“That is a stunning charge, Professor,” Annelise commented, though they had already discussed the point before broadcasting it.
“All supported by documentation available on the Internet, I assure you,” Xavier answered.
“Well, Professor,” she continued, “what of the media videotape of Magneto’s Acolytes killing humans in cold blood, and of Magneto’s abduction of local reporter Trish Tilby and her cameraman.”
“Despicable events indeed,” Xavier responded, treading carefully now. “Despite common opinion, however, Magneto is not a cold-blooded murderer. Fanatic he may be, terrorist, call him what you will, but he would not have committed the kind of cold-blooded murder we saw on that tape. Which seems to indicate that Ms. Tilby and her cameraman will be relatively safe so long as they accompany him. On the other hand,” he continued cutting Annelise off before she could, understandably, object, “all moral guides indicate that Magneto must be held responsible for the murderous actions of those who act on his behalf. He had foreknowledge of his Acolytes’ penchant for death when he became their leader.
“In addition, Annelise,” he said, and turned to the camera again as he relaxed into a paternal role and voice. “The American people have also seen the heroic actions of the X-Men, a band of mutants largely considered outlaws who are obviously attempting to put an end to Magneto’s ‘Mutant Empire’ before it really gets going.”
“Now that you mention it, Professor,” Annelise began, and seemed to hesitate a moment, as if unsure she wanted to pursue her question. “Well, what of your rumored connection to the X-Men? Is it true you are working with them?”
“Please, Annelise,” Xavier said with an exasperated sigh. “It is true that I have, in my life, met several members of this group. In fact I know Dr. Henry McCoy, the renowned biochemist, quite well indeed. But I am, as you well know, among the foremost experts on mutation in the world. I understand how certain things might be misconstrued, however. It comes with the territory.
“But, listen,” he said, and turned once more toward the camera with his best paternal manner, “what the American people need to know right now, more than anything, is that they are safe. For the time being, they need not be concerned that there will be some sudden mutant uprising. The majority of the world’s mutants are law-abiding citizens. Those who aren’t may very well be making their way to Manhattan even as we speak. And if that is the case, well, at least they won’t cause any additional trouble.
“No, though Graydon Creed may attempt to foment some kind of genetic civil war, as long as the American people keep their wits about them, the only thing we have to worry about is how to get Magneto out of Manhattan.”
“Thank you, Professor Charles Xavier,” Annelise said. “This is Annelise Dwyer, live in Jersey City, New Jersey. We go back to Greg Lombardi at CNN Center in Atlanta. Greg?”
Xavier sighed as Annelise pulled off the staid jacket she had donned for the broadcast. He felt slightly nauseous, and slumped back in his wheelchair a bit, trying to shake loose the than that had drawn the muscles in his back tighter than guitar strings.
“Professor Xavier, are you all right?” Annelise asked.
“Please,” he answered kindly, “call me Charles. And the answer to your question is that I am most definitely not all right. I feel quite ill, in fact.”
“Is there anything I can do?” she offered.
“Certainly,” he chuckled drily. “You can lie and tell me I didn’t sound like a politician just now. That’s the one thing I promised myself I would never be. Politics means compromising your beliefs and goals, Annelise. I hope to God I haven’t come to that.”
“Don’t worry, Charles,” she said softly, gently comforting him. “As long as you feel like throwing up every time you placate the masses, you haven’t sold your soul yet.”
* * *
AS Charles Xavier wheeled himself away from the CNN remote setup, he scanned the rest of the media tent for Valerie Cooper. Upon his arrival, he’d had no time to even touch base with Val before CNN hustled him off for his interview. He knew that if there was a solution to their predicament beyond that espoused by Graydon Creed, it would lay either in the hands of his badly outnumbered X-Men, or in the product of Val’s experience, knowledge, and skills combined with his own.
Even before he heard her call his name, Xavier felt the mental recognition of his presence in Val’s mind. Some emotions were too powerful to screen out, and her volatile mix of relief and frustration was like a beacon. He turned to see her striding purposefully through the media circus, ignoring the pleas of desperate reporters alerted to her position of authority by the federal badge she wore. It allowed her entrance into any building or situation during this crisis, but it was also little better than a bull’s-eye when dealing with the press.
“Professor Xavier,” she said, with a pleasantness Xavier knew was forced. “How good to see you again. Do you have a moment? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this whole mess.”
“Absolutely, Ms. Cooper,” he answered, just as pleasantly. “Let’s find a quiet place to chat, shall we?”
Xavier hated such falsehood, but every reporter around them, from the lowest viper to the most scrupulo
us journalist, was listening to their every word. They had to take their conversation elsewhere.
Though Xavier preferred not to rely on people to push him in his wheelchair, it was a welcome break when Val stepped behind him and began to do just that. When help was offered by anyone other than one of his X-Men, or someone equally close to him, he usually declined. In this case, however, he was glad that she had not asked. While at the Institute, he generally used the hoverchair that Lilandra had given him as a gift. But in public, he was forced to use the conventional chair.
It was really quite ironic, in a very cruel way. Xavier had been crippled as a young man, but later, in a miraculous series of events aided by the extraordinary technology of Lilandra’s people, he had been given the ability to walk once more. For a time, he had lived in peace as Imperial Consort to Lilandra on the Shi’ar throneworld of Chandilar, for all intents and purposes married to the empress of a culture for whom marriage was the most sanctified of events.
But his heart had never been torn. He loved no other above Lilandra. Yet there was a growing crisis for mutants on the world of his birth. The X-Men needed him, desperately. And, in fact, he found that he needed them as well. He had responsibility, duty, and though they both hated to part, Lilandra understood the concept. It was the very thing which kept her from accompanying him to Earth. The very thing that was, even now, blanketing their relationship in a terrible chill that had nothing to do with distance and everything to do with philosophy.
So he had returned to Earth, to the X-Men, and almost immediately fate had stepped in, in the form of his old enemy Amahl Farouk, the Shadow King. One moment, he stood proud as any other man, strong and able. The next, he was crippled once more, his body cruelly twisted, and he was confined to a chair again.
Perhaps that was the price he paid for his dream. He had long since decided that the dream was worth any price, however. As long as it came true. He and Val Cooper had to make certain that Magneto’s fantasies of empire did not get in the way. Though, Xavier thought, he would be fooling himself if he did not recognize how much damage had already been done.
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