“Like knowing your way around the citadel?” Warren nodded. “Well, your feelings are usually right, so I’ll take your word for it. Question is, if these are just parts, then where’s the actual body?” “Away from any of your possible meddling, mutant,” replied an all too familiar, electronically enhanced voice.
“Looks like somebody tripped a silent alarm,” Warren muttered. Betsy sighed. “Yes. I wonder who those ‘somebodies’ might be . . .” They slowly turned around. Standing behind them was three more guards—all dressed similarly to their now unconscious captain, Alecto, all brandishing swords. Behind them, arms folded across his armored chest, was the very tyrant the X-Men been looking for—and unconsciously hoping not to find.
“What have you done, von Doom?” Betsy demanded, gesturing at the cylinders. “And where’s Roma?”
“Doom answers to no one, mutant,” the dictator replied. “Least of all to genetic inferiors like you and your lover.”
“And here I’d always been under the impression you were too intelligent to be a racist,” Warren said heatedly. “Guess you’re not as smart as you think.”
Von Doom ignored the jibe. “Dispose of them,” he ordered the guards, “without damaging the equipment, or your lives will be forfeit. Then toss their corpses into the vortex. Doom has more important matters to which he must attend.”
And with that, he turned and walked away. He soon disappeared from sight over what appeared to be an artificial horizon, although Betsy was fairly certain it was just an optical illusion.
“Why, that arrogant—” Warren began, but she cut him off. “Warren, luv, I think it would be best if you concentrated on the matter at hand,” she suggested, just before the guards rushed forward.
She parried the first attack from the guard closest to her—Gorka, if she remembered his name correctly. He was a heavyset man in his thirties, with dark hair and a pencil-thin mustache, and he used his sword as though it was a natural extension of his arm. Betsy, on the other hand, was more comfortable with a Japanese katana, a weapon much lighter than the two-handed broadsword she’d appropriated from Alecto. This blade took greater strength to control, which meant she spent more time blocking Gorka’s attack than she did in pressing her own.
Stumbling back as she just managed to avoid a thrust aimed at her throat, Betsy caught a glimpse of Warren. The other two guards were concentrating on him, one feinting a charge while the other circled around.
It sounds rather strange, but I don’t know if I should feel grateful that I have only one of these idiots to fight, Betsy reflected as she blocked another strike, or insulted that they apparently consider me the weaker of the two . ..
Chauvinism aside, however, it was clear by the force of Gorka’s assault that he didn’t care whether she was a man, a woman, or the incredible Hulk—all he was focused on was killing his opponent to please his master. Not exactly her sentiments—she was more interested in incapacitating von Doom’s drone than decapitating him—but she could understand his mind-controlled point of view.
“Warren!” she cried. “Behind you!”
He glimpsed over his shoulder, saw the second guard running at him, and took to the air. As the armored duo passed beneath him, he lashed out and kicked them both in the head. The men lost their balance, crashed to the floor, and then immediately rolled back onto their feet, looking for their target.
But Warren had used the time to get behind them. He swooped down low, almost skimming the floor, and slammed into their legs, like a football player throwing a low tackle. The men cartwheeled through the air, then bounced hard off the floor; their swords went spinning away. Wings flapping, Warren dove in for another pass.
Gorka’s sword cleaved the air where Betsy had been standing a moment before, and she spun on the balls of her toes, inside his attack, to deliver an elbow strike to his ribcage, at a point where the front and back halves of his chestplate were joined by thin leather straps. He grunted and staggered back, and she followed through with a high heel kick that caught him below the left eye, then slammed the flat of her blade against his skull. As he tried to remain standing, she swung in low and delivered a scissors kick to his legs that toppled him like a redwood. He crumpled to the floor in a heap and lay still.
Dropping her sword, Betsy turned and launched herself toward Warren’s attackers. As she vaulted into the air, she summoned forth her psychic dagger, and then plunged it into the back of one guard’s head as she landed on his back. He moaned loudly and collapsed, smoke trailing from the mind-control device attached to his neck.
Using the distraction created by Betsy’s attack, Warren delivered a haymaker to his opponent’s jaw, followed by a combination of blows to the man’s face and ribs that quickly put him down for the count. As the guard fell bonelessly onto the floor, the winged mutant glanced at Betsy, who stood over her prey, smiling.
“Hey,” he said, pointing at the man and trying to sound hurt, “I was gonna take care of that.”
She smiled. “Never said you couldn’t, luv, but time waits for no one.”
“True,” he agreed. His eyes narrowed. “So, now that we’re finished with the preliminary bouts, I’d say it’s time for the main event—and I’m just in the mood to make Doom tell us everything he’s been up to since he got here.”
“Yes. And if we’re very lucky,” she added coolly, “he’ll even tell us how to free these other Romas—before I’m forced to tear that knowledge from his mind ...”
It wasn’t the first time Gambit had ever freed anyone from a jail cell— but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember trying it at 60 mph, on a crowded highway.
Following the armored car containing Rogue hadn’t been too difficult, considering every other car on the road gave it a wide berth. But following it and catching up to it without drawing attention to himself were two different things, and Remy had never learned to be much of a conservative driver when he was growing up. Of course, that was usually because the cars he’d driven then had been “boosted” from parking lots and curbside spaces so he could go joyriding through the streets of New Orleans. He’d always considered courteous driving and speed limits as things created for cowards and blue-haired old ladies, to keep everyone behind them as they slogged along on the interstate for ten miles or more, with the left turn-signal blinking the whole time. For him, there were two ways of driving: fast, and airborne; the latter only came into play when he was cresting a hill, with his foot crushing the accelerator to the floor—or when he lost control while negotiating a bad turn on a country road (he’d learned to stop doing that over time; keeping his hands on the wheel helped). Unfortunately, possessing all that questionable driving experience wasn’t doing him any good, under the current circumstances—his LeMans approach only alerted the driver of the transport to his presence.
And when the shooting started, Remy wasn’t all that surprised-— but he was annoyed that such a fine-looking ride was being tom apart by automatic fire.
Sure glad dis ain't my car, he thought with a wry grin. Den I’d really be in a bad mood . . .
Any other thoughts were shelved for the moment—he needed to concentrate on driving.
He roared across two lanes, swerved around a Sports Utility Vehicle, then stomped on the gas. His best bet was to get close to the transport, away from the gun ports that had opened on the rear of the car. After that... well, he’d figure out something; if there was one thing Remy Lebeau was good at, it was thinking on the fly. He knew better than to try ramming it, of course—the vehicle’s armored plating would tear apart his borrowed sportscar on first contact.
With a sharp twist of the wheel, he swerved back toward the transport, grimacing as he heard brakes locking behind him, followed by the squeal of tires and the impact of metal against metal. He glanced over his shoulder, and breathed a little easier when he saw that no serious accidents had occurred—there were a lot of bent fenders, but no injuries.
Turning his attention back to the transport, it to
ok him a moment to realize that, while he’d been averse to sideswiping the armored car, its driver had no such reluctance.
“Aw, damn ..he muttered.
The front left-side tire banged off the edge of the sportscar’s bumper, and Remy found himself fighting the wheel to keep from slamming into an eighteen-wheeled semi passing on his other side. He regained control—just as the transport swerved over again.
This time, the car did bounce off the semi, too close to the cab’s right-side fuel tank for Remy’s comfort. He gulped as the front bumper was stripped away by one of the oversized tires, to be flattened by the ones behind it. The left headlight shattered, spraying glass at him; idly, he wished he hadn’t put down the sportscar’s retractable roof before setting out on his rescue mission.
He spun the wheel, and smashed the convertible against the transport’s side—not trying to overturn it, but just to give him some breathing room. The armored vehicle shuddered, then slid over a hair, and Remy stomped on the brake, making the transport overshoot him on its next pass. It collided with the semi, its bumper punching a hole in the truck’s fuel tank, then screeched back into its lane. But not before the momentarily entwined metal scraped against each other—and created a spark.
“Merde!” Remy shouted, as a wall of flame suddenly erupted in the middle of the road.
Spinning the wheel, he stomped on the gas and swung the sportscar toward the transport’s right side—just as the semi’s cab and remaining fuel tank exploded. The trailer it had been hauling spun high on its rear tires, then crashed down, across the width of the highway, and detonated as well. The fireball it created could probably be seen from Manhattan.
“How’d I know dat would happen?” Remy asked himself with a smile. “Now, all Gambit needs is Sandra Bullock, an’ we got ourselves an action/’venture movie.”
More bullets pinged off the car, smashing through the windshield, and he ducked below the dashboard for cover. Steering with one hand, he felt in his pockets of his trenchcoat for anything that he might be able to use as a weapon.
But not something to shoot. Something to throw.
His hand settled on a hard plastic case, and he pulled out the macrobinoculars he’d used at the spaceport.
“Yeah, dese’ll do jus’ fine,” he said. “Bet dey was ’spensive, too.”
Falling silent, he concentrated on summoning forth the kinetic energy his body’s cells were constantly generating. First his hand, then the binoculars, began to glow with a pinkish-white light—one that grew stronger with each passing moment. When it had reached a certain level of intensity, he glanced at the transport.
“Rogue!” he called out. “Don’ know if you can hear me, chere— but DUCK!"
And with that, he hit the brakes and flung the binoculars at the transport’s rear doors as it passed.
The kinetically-charged explosive detonated on contact, blowing both doors off their hinges and sending the guards inside flying through the air as though shot from a cannon. It also sent the vehicle skidding across three lanes before the driver managed to regain control—perhaps, Remy considered, he’d made the charge a little too strong. But when the smoke cleared, he knew he had done all right, for he saw only one figure huddled on the floor—one with the most beautiful streak of white running through her hair he’d ever seen. He pounded the steering wheel and laughed uproariously as he saw her slowly pick herself up and look back at him. He knew that look of hers all too well—she thought she was dealing with a lunatic.
He pushed the convertible to its limits, bringing the edge of its hood as close to the blown-out rear of the transport as possible. “Rogue! You have to jump!”
She pulled off her mask and stared at him in disbelief. “Are you crazy?" she shouted back, and gestured to her chains. “I can’t do anything with these on!”
The wail of sirens in the near distance caught his attention. Looking to the right, he saw the familiar flash of red and blue lights just above the top of the highway’s concrete sound barrier. Glancing ahead, he realized that they were coming to an on-ramp; in a few moments, the road would be filled with police and armed forces vehicles.
“Chere, you gotta jump!” he demanded. “NOW!”
She glanced at the approaching lights, and he could tell she knew she had to do it, no matter how insane a stunt it might be. She looked skyward and muttered something—a prayer, probably, if he knew Rogue—and then she leapt from the transport.
He caught her with one hand as she bounced off the hood, then hauled her in. Once she was settled in the passenger seat, he hit the brakes, swung the car around, and tromped the accelerator. The sports-car bounced over the lane divider, then roared across the five east-bound lanes, away from Manhattan. In its wake were left one of the largest traffic jams in the city’s history—and a pursuit force now unable to catch up with the escaping felons.
Maneuvering the convertible through the streets of Queens a short time later, Remy grinned broadly at Rogue. “Now, dat’s what I call a jail-break, eh, chereT
She nodded noncommittally. “I s’pose.”
His smile faded as he took a closer look at her. She looked as though she’d been through all the tortures of hell, and was still suffering their aftereffects. When they stopped at a red light, he reached out to place a consoling hand on her arm. She pulled away from him so quickly, it took him by surprise.
“Hey, now, chere,” he said soothingly. “No need t’get all jumpy. Gambit didn’t mean no harm.”
“I... I just don’t like t’be touched,” she said hoarsely.
He smiled warmly, and nodded. “I know, fille. Sorry.”
The light changed, and he guided the car down another street. “Better ditch dis thing, ’fore we wind up gettin’ into any more trouble,” he said. “By now, de police’ve pro’bly got a good description of it from ’bout half de drivers in de state.” He pulled into a darkened alley between two factories, then hopped out, and motioned for her to do the same.
“Ain’t y’all forgettin’ somethin’?” she asked, her voice a bit stronger, and held up her chains.
“Oh, right.” He scratched his chin for a moment, thinking of a solution, then: “Can ya open de glove compartment? Might be sometin’ in dere I can use t’open de locks.”
Rogue popped open the small hatch and rooted around for a few seconds. She tossed the contents on the driver’s seat. There wasn’t much.
Remy picked up a slip of paper and opened it—a statement of ownership. He whistled when he saw the signature at the bottom. “Commander Carter’s gonna be mighty angry when she hears ’bout dis ...” He shook his head sadly. “An’ it’d just rolled outta de factory, too.” He tossed the paper aside, then retrieved a small packet of thin, curved metal rods from the collection of items on the seat. “Bobby pins?” he asked. “T’ought filles didn’t use dese t’ings anymore.”
“’Course, they do,” Rogue countered. “Jus’ like garter belts an’ silk stockin’s—” she sniffed derisively “—if yer inta those sorta things.” Remy’s eyes sparkled, and he flashed a wolfish smile. “You ever meet a man who’s not, chereT’ He awkwardly cleared his throat when she glared at him, and held up the packet. “Uh . . . dese’11 do de trick jus’ fine.”
The work went quickly, and Rogue was soon rubbing the circulation back into her wrists and ankles. Remy tossed the chains onto the back seat and pocketed the bobby pins. He walked to the alley entrance, looked up and down the street to make certain no one was around, then nodded to Rogue. She hurried to join him.
Remy shrugged out of his trenchcoat and held it out to her. “I t’ink it’ll draw less attention den dat outfit o’ yours, chere,” he explained. She hesitated, then accepted the offering and draped it over her shoulders.
They walked slowly down the street, trying to act nonchalant, though neither of them could resist occasionally glancing around to make sure they weren’t being followed.
“Some night, eh?” Remy commented, smiling.
Rogue nodded solemnly, but a hint of a smile was pulling at the comers of her mouth. “Never had one like it, that’s fer sure,” she said.
“Bet you never t’ought you’d see ol’ Gambit again, eh, chereT He chuckled. “Tell ya de truth, ol’ Gambit never t’ought he’d see ol’ Gambit again.” He gazed at her, and saw the confused expression that was furrowing her brow. “Bet you got a lotta questions on yer mind, huh?” “Jus’ one,” Rogue said. “Who the hell are you . . . ?”
SO, THE name Erik Magnus Lensherr means nothing to you.” Wolverine shrugged. “Didn’t the first time ya said it, when we . were runnin’ through the woods. Still don’t.” He raised an eyebrow in an inquisitive fashion. “Is it s’posed ta? You some big-time Jewish leader I shoulda heard of that got locked up ’cause ya honked off the ‘Emperor’?” He gestured at the few furnishings of the cabin in which they stood. “If ya ain’t noticed already, I ain’t exactly got a radio or one’a them television sets everybody else has t’keep up with world events.”
“I gathered as much,” Lensherr replied.
He gazed at their surroundings. It was an old, one-room log cabin that Wolverine used as his sanctuary, one he had crafted by hand, as he’d explained when they arrived. The furnishings were, indeed, sparse: some chairs—including a musty-smelling, weather-beaten easy chair that must have been thrown out with the camp’s refuse—a long table, a bookcase with a number of military titles on its shelves, and a bed. The kitchen consisted of a pot-bellied stove, a sink, and some cabinets attached to a wall. Water came from a nearby spring. As for the lack of a bathroom, Logan’s only comment was, “Y’know where a bear does his business ... ?”
“So . .. you’ve been living here since the end of World War II?” Lensherr asked.
Wolverine nodded. “Built it before the war, but—yeah. After D.C. got hit with the bomb, it was pretty clear the fightin’ was over. An’ then the squad I was with got butchered in Poland; we were tryin’t’ liberate one’a the big camps there.”
chaos engine trilogy Page 88
