by Greg Cox
“Good work,” said Cyclops, the source of the irresistible force beam. “Now keep moving. We haven’t got much time.”
I am quite aware of that, thank you, Storm thought, slightly irked by Cyclops’s tone. Sometimes, Scott Summers forgot that he was no longer the sole leader of the X-Men, that indeed Storm had earned co-leader status within the group. She didn’t take it personally, though, knowing that Cyclops drove everyone else almost as hard as he drove himself.
She raced over the squashed pipe, taking advantage of the sudden gale to literally take flight down the corridor, rising upon the wind currents until the vaulted ceiling hung less than an inch above her billowing crown of snow-white hair. Another flicker of claustrophobia stirred at the back of her mind, but she quashed it mercilessly. Now was no time to succumb to the terrors of the past. She looked for the Beast, but could not spot him ahead; he must have gained a considerable lead on them.
Godspeed, my friend, she urged him silently. May we meet again soon.
An airlock door slammed shut in front of her, the heavy bulkhead blocking her and Cyclops’s escape and cutting them off from the Beast.
An automated safety measure, she guessed. And a most inconvenient one. Landing gracefully before the door, her feet touching down upon the shuddering walkway, she tugged at the wheel-shaped handle with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge. The gray steel door remained fixed in place.
“Stand back!” Cyclops yelled, and this time she didn’t object. His optic blasts were their best chance now. She flattened her back against the adjacent wall, distressed to feel the convulsive tremors vibrating through the straining steel, and watched as her fellow X-Man approached the airlock. His costume, a streamlined variation on the same blue-and-gold uniform he had worn since the bygone days of the original X-Men team, did not call attention away from the gleaming metallic visor that covered his eyes. Inside the visor, only a single ruby quartz lens, about eight inches in length, held back the awesome energies contained within Scott Summer’s eyes.
The lens receded, unleashing a brilliant burst of energy that struck the sealed airlock with the force of a battering ram, knocking the airtight door off its hinges. The metal bulkhead, six inches thick, crashed onto the floor with a resounding peal that hurt Storm’s ears. Nevertheless, she and Cyclops had sped past the now-open doorframe before the reverberating echoes of the crash even began to fade. The ruby lens in Cyclops’s visor slid back into place, blocking his devastating eyebeams once more. A stray breeze rustled his short brown hair.
Storm galloped down the corridor as fleetly as the gazelles of the African veldt she had once called home. Her knee-high black boots pounded rapidly against the floor until, just around the next corner, she encountered a shocking sight that brought both she and Cyclops to an abrupt halt.
Bright Lady, no! she thought.
Three Brood warriors, their brown insectoid bodies hideous beyond belief, held the Beast at bay. Each hostile alien skittered across the floor on four spidery legs, hissing at the embattled blue mutant through gaping jaws filled with rows of needle-like teeth. Membranous wings vibrated furiously behind large triangular skulls. Their razor-sharp forelimbs slashed at the Beast, who hung upside-down from an exposed power conduit in the ceiling, batting away the stabbing thrusts of the Brood monsters with his disproportionally large fists.
“Paging Sigourney Weaver,” he quipped in the face of danger, glimpsing his comrades’ arrival out of the corner of his eye. “We appear to have an indisputable bug infestation problem on our hands.”
“Do not let the mammal escape!” the central insectoid commanded its fellow Brood. A throat not meant for human speech screeched every word. Its venomous, two-pronged stinger stood poised at the far end of its tail, but, focused exclusively on the Beast, the creature had not yet spotted either Storm or Cyclops. Its demonic, serpentine eyes were fixed on the hanging mutant. “His unique genetic material will strengthen our young!”
The unforeseen appearance of the Brood caught Storm by surprise. This is supposed to be a Shi’ar station, she recalled. What are the Brood doing here?
Her astonishment slowed her only a moment, though; reflexes honed against foes even more deadly than these sent her running forward to defend her imperiled ally. As yet, the Beast seemed to have avoided serious injury, but he was clearly outnumbered, fighting a losing defensive struggle against a half-dozen segmented spears. Its wings vibrating so rapidly that they were practically invisible, the nearest Brood began to lift off from the floor, taking the battle closer to the Beast.
“Cyclops,” Storm instructed hastily, “the one on the left is yours. I’ll take the right.”
Despite their occasional rivalry, Cyclops followed her lead without hesitation. His forcebeam lashed out again, smiting the armored carapace of a malevolent insectoid, who let out an inhuman squawk as it tumbled backwards down the corridor. The remaining drones turned their wedge-shaped skulls toward the mutant reinforcements. Slitted red eyes, strangely reptilian in appearance, glared at Storm with unremitting virulence. Their wings buzzed as loudly as a swarm of bees. To the Brood, as she knew only too well, other species were only fit to be the involuntary hosts of their vile, invasive progeny.
They shall plant no eggs in me, she vowed, caught up in the heat of the conflict, nor in the precious flesh of my friends.
The starboard Brood sprang forward with alarming speed, slashing out at her exposed midriff with a barbed forelimb. “We know you, X-Men!” it squawked. “You shall not defy us again!”
Storm barely threw herself backwards in time to evade a cutting blow across her abdomen. Gods of earth and air, defend me! she prayed, calling upon the tempest that was her namesake.
Electrical fury coursed through her, streaming toward her fingertips, from which a sizzling bolt of lightning leapt to strike the attacking Brood upon its brow. Sparks erupted where the thunderbolt hit, followed by scintillating white-hot traceries that spread over the electrified form of the alien parasite. The noxious smell of burnt insect flesh mixed with a trace of ozone in the air. The monster’s spindly legs gave out and it collapsed onto the floor, its impotent forelimbs still twitching spasmodically, its translucent wings folding in upon themselves.
Storm regarded her fallen foe with grim satisfaction. She generally strove to consider all living things sacred, but the Brood tested that resolve more than most. Not for nothing did Wolverine often refer to these beings as “sleazoids,” a colorful but apt description. They were unclean creatures, existing only to propagate themselves through the pain and exploitation of others.
Would that the whole of their breed could be defeated so readily… Storm thought.
Meanwhile, the Beast, no longer compelled to battle all three Brood at once, went on the offensive against the sole Brood still intent on skewering the hirsute X-Man. Letting go of the elevated power conduit with his astonishingly dexterous feet, he flipped through the air, landing piggyback on the short, stumpy neck that connected the insectoid’s flared skull to its squat torso. The Beast’s added weight sank the flying creature to the floor, while squashing its buzzing wings.
“Stop! What is this?” it screeched. “Get off me, mammal! Get off, get off!”
The warrior drone shook its head violently and hopped about like a gigantic grasshopper, hoping to buck the Beast from his perch, but failed to dislodge its unwanted passenger, nor could it get at the Beast with its now useless forelimbs, which flailed angrily at the empty air. Its lethal tail twisted backwards, its lethal stingers coming dangerously close to the Beast’s hairy back—until a precision blast from Cyclops’s visor shattered the bony spikes, disarming the tail.
The Brood hissed in agony. “You will suffer for this, you mutated mammal!” it vowed.
“Ride ’em, cowboy,” the Beast wisecracked, undaunted by the drone’s threats. He straddled the creature’s back, holding onto the upper portion of its skull as though it were the horn of a saddle. “I’ve heard of flea circuses, but this may
well be the world’s first insect rodeo. Assuming we were currently residing on a world, that is.”
Storm paid little attention to the Beast’s typically lighthearted banter. She would never entirely understand his predilection for humorous repartee even in the midst of the most life-and-death struggle, but she had long ago grown accustomed to it. Certainly, Henry McCoy’s perpetual witticisms had never interfered with his ability to hold his own in combat, at least not that she had ever been able to tell.
Perhaps he is merely blessed, she thought, with an exceptionally carefree spirit.
Even now, as he indulged in yet more adroit japery, the Beast grabbed hold of the irate drone’s upper and lower jaws, being careful to keep his oversized fingers away from the insectoid’s stiletto teeth. Powerful muscles flexed beneath a thick layer of blue fuzz as he strained his simian arms to pull the ferocious jaws apart. Storm found herself reminded unexpectedly of one of the Beast’s favorite old movies. King Kong, in particular, the scene in which the mighty ape wrestled thus with a voracious Tyrannosaurus rex. As in that classic film, the drone’s jaws broke apart with a brutal crack, and the injured insectoid fell limply onto the grilled metal floor, a repugnant green ichor leaking from its mouth. Storm could not tell if the creature still lived, nor, to be honest, did she care overmuch. The floor rattled beneath the vanquished Brood, lending it a semblance of animation while reminding Storm of the greater danger to the station itself. The telltale clangor of imploding steel beams sounded ever closer behind them. The walls around her groaned alarmingly, and the smell of noxious gases permeated the enclosed atmosphere.
This delay may cost us dearly, she realized.
Was the battle concluded at last? For a second, she dared to hope so. Then, on the opposite side of the corridor, the drone sent tumbling by Cyclops re-entered the fray. Lying awkwardly upon its back, its four tiny legs kicking at the air above it, it employed its coiled tail to flip right-side up.
“Watch out!” Cyclops shouted as the Brood warrior charged at Storm, ducking around its two insensate hive-mates to avoid Cyclops’s line of fire before sailing through the air at the mutant weather witch. The buzzing of the monster filled her ears.
Lacking a straight shot at the insectoid, Cyclops aimed upward, ricocheting his forcebeam off the ceiling so that it slammed into the drone from above, coinciding with Storm’s own defensive lightning bolt. Unable to withstand two such devastating assaults, the sleazoid’s mottled brown exoskeleton exploded, spraying the walls and ceiling with pulpy goo and bits of cartilage.
“Well, that’s quite revoltingly visceral,” the Beast observed. He stepped away from the fractured drone beneath him, being careful to avoid stepping into a spreading puddle of viscous green fluid. Wet, scaly flakes of Brood dripped from the ceiling. “I think I prefer trashing Sentinels. At least when they come apart, all that’s left are gears and computer chips.”
Cyclops didn’t crack a smile at the Beast’s levity. He seldom did. “Time’s wasting, folks,” he reminded them. His trim brown hair, visible above his visor, had not a strand out of place. He nodded in the direction of their waiting shuttle. “Let’s head out… pronto.”
But, before they could even begin to leave the trio of Brood behind, the grillwork under their feet snapped like a whip, throwing them all off-balance. Storm felt the floor yanked out from beneath her, and she hastily summoned a wind to lift her off the treacherous walkway. The wrenching sound of metal sheets tearing asunder came from directly below her.
“Goddess!” she exclaimed in horror, realizing at once that they had won their fight with the Brood only to lose their race against time. Aghast, she saw the hull of the space station break apart in a dozen places.
In space, it is often said, no one can hear you scream, but within the station Storm could still hear the agonized shriek of futuristic steel alloys pushed beyond the limits of their endurance, followed by a roaring whoosh that sounded in her ears like the coming of a hurricane. Their air supply rushed out into the vacuum, carrying with it bits of debris and broken insect parts. Although Storm exerted all her meteorological powers to hold in the fleeing atmosphere, she could not stop the freezing emptiness outside from greedily stealing away their oxygen and their lives.
Pieces of the collapsed walkway flew past her face. Fingers aching, she clung frantically to an exposed piece of piping, watching in dismay as first Cyclops, then the Beast were sucked into the void, so that only she remained aboard the disintegrating hulk of the alien space station. The suction pulled at her remorselessly, until her fingers began to slip free from her black gloves. The silver belt around her waist succumbed to the strain, breaking apart at its weakest link and flying off into space. An icy cold enveloped her, chilling her to the bone. Her lungs gasped for air.
I can do no more, she realized with fatalistic certainty. We have lost.
* * *
“END simulation,” she stated distinctly.
The disaster in space disappeared in a heartbeat, replaced by the familiar sights and sounds of the Danger Room. The fierce suction gave way to the ordinary pull of terrestrial gravity, and Storm found herself lying prone upon the floor. Exhausted by her ordeal, she climbed slowly to her feet, still feeling a lingering chill from the artificial environment. Shivering, her arms clutched tightly across her chest, she marveled once more at how astonishingly lifelike were the holographic simulations created by the advanced Shi’ar technology installed in the X-Men’s training facility.
That was almost too convincing, she reflected.
Several yards away, across the empty gymnasium floor, her “deceased” teammates were recuperating as well. Judging from the deepening scowl on Cyclops’s face, he was not at all pleased by their performance in this latest exercise, designed to keep their survival skills, as well as their ability to function as a team, in peak condition.
Nor should he, Storm thought, although she allowed that there were extenuating circumstances. Where are Rogue and Wolverine?
“Not good, people,” Cyclops pronounced soberly. Storm could not see Scott’s eyes through his visor, but she could imagine how frustrated and unhappy they must look. “If that had been a real space mission, we’d all be dead now.” His fists remained clenched at his sides, his posture taut and unyielding. Sometimes, Storm worried about Cyclops—all the pressure he imposed on himself could not be good for his health. “I blame myself as much as anyone, of course.”
“It may be that no one is to blame,” Storm said evenly. She recovered her broken belt from the floor, then walked across the chamber to join the Beast and Cyclops. After the clamorous demise of the space station, the Danger Room felt as quiet and still as a museum after hours. “As I recall, Shadowcat programmed that scenario to include Logan and Rogue, as well. With five X-Men we might well have defeated the Brood in time to reach the shuttle.”
Cyclops shook his head. “That’s not good enough. You know as well as I do that we can’t count on having a full house the next time we come under attack.” Storm noticed that some of the pouches on his yellow bandoleer and utility belt had been tom open by the holographic space station’s spectacular decompression. She imagined that they all had acquired some new bruises beneath their uniforms or, in the Beast’s case, below his fur.
“Take now, for instance,” Cyclops continued. “Jean and the Professor and half the team are off in the Savage Land, helping out the Fall People, so they’re essentially incommunicado for who knows how long. Bobby is way off in Scotland, assisting Moira’s research, and none of this is very unusual. We can hardly expect our enemies to wait until everyone is home before they stage an assault on one or more of us.”
“Granted,” Storm said. “I was merely observing that, in this particular instance, the odds were—by design—against a successful outcome.” She made no attempt to conceal a trace of irritation in her voice; although she sympathized with Cyclops’s concerns, she disliked being lectured to. Storm suspected Jean’s prolonged absence might also be c
ontributing to her husband’s bad mood.
Perhaps to change the subject, the Beast somersaulted through the air, landing precisely between Storm and Cyclops. “That reminds me,” he said. “Where are Rogue and Logan, anyway?”
A good question, Storm thought. “As you know, Wolverine could be almost anywhere.” By temperament and inclination, Logan went his own way, and was very much in the habit of indulging his wanderlust without notice, sometimes for lengthy periods of time; this was an intrinsic aspect of his personality to which they had all become accustomed. “Rogue’s absence puzzles me, however. She left this morning for a shopping expedition in the city, but I believe she had every intention of returning in time for this scheduled exercise program.”
Cyclops’s expression grew even more somber, if possible. “I don’t like the sound of that.” He adjusted his uniform as best he could, then headed for the exit. “These are dangerous times for any mutant to go AWOL. Especially an X-Man.” A pair of gleaming metal doors slid apart, permitting them to leave the deceptively-empty Danger Room. “Who knows what kind of trouble she might be in this very minute?”
A healthy degree of paranoia, Storm reflected, was perhaps essential to life as an X-Man, especially for a team leader. And yet…
“We should not leap to the conclusion that Rogue is in danger. She may have simply lost track of time, or perhaps missed a connection at Grand Central.” Then again, she thought, even if the train left without her, Rogue could have always flown home under her own power. “I share your concern, however.”
“Might I suggest we resolve this conundrum by efficiently ascertaining the present location of our elusive Southern belle?” the Beast proposed. His knuckles brushed against the floor, his simian stance making him seem shorter than he actually was. Unlike the others, he wore only a pair of blue trunks, just a shade darker than his own indigo fur; with his dense, hairy pelt, he had little need for clothing, except for the minimum modesty required. A large capital “X” adorned the buckle of a bright yellow belt.
