Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men

by Christopher Golden

  “Thou art right, Cyclops,” Raza said. “Also, we must needs not forget that, since the Starjammer wast being tracked ’ere we beamed down, ’tis likely they will have pinpointed our teleportational trajectory as well.”

  “So what you really sayin’, mon ami, is dat pretty soon we get some unwelcome visitors, eh?” Gambit said with a laugh. “In dat case, I’m with Cyclops. Allons!”

  “That’s a first,” Cyclops said, and Gambit nodded at him with a wink.

  The metalsmith, along with the burly pink-skinned Kree and several younger people, both male and female, pink and blue, were approaching now, and the time for chatter was over.

  Unconsciously, Cyclops touched a hand to the translator plug that sat in his left ear like a tiny hearing aid. Save for Raza, who spoke Kree and Shi’ar fluently, they all wore the device, which would allow them to hear any galactic language as if it were English, and would translate their words for those around them. It gave him a certain sense of security, and almost convinced him to attempt to speak to the gathering crowd.

  But that would be folly, he knew. They needed to find a place to get their bearings, and some clothes that would make them blend more readily with the locals. And fast. Corsair wasn’t getting any younger sitting in Deathbird’s dungeon, and Scott feared that if they didn’t hurry, his father would never get any older either.

  “Here, birdy, birdy!” The pink-skinned man was chanting, obviously trying to taunt Raza with derogatory references to his feathered head. “Come, little bird, I will fold your wings and make you fly.”

  “Move, people, now!” Cyclops ordered, and they began walking briskly in a tight group out of the center and into the back streets.

  Some houses still had their first stories, but most of their entrances were blocked. Charred craters might have been due to explosions or particularly nasty fire-fights. Rank odors crept from one huge pile of rubble that might have been anything before the war. None of them wanted to consider what was causing the stench.

  Archangel flew recon, low above the ruins, watching for any sign of approaching Shi’ar soldiers. Thus far, they had been lucky. The mob from the center of Ryn-Dak had not followed them more than a few yards, and neither Warren’s recon nor Jean’s psi scans had picked up anyone else following them. A small percentage of the city’s original population still survived, barely, in dwellings that were little more than hovels. Cyclops found it profoundly disturbing and terribly haunting to be among so much death.

  With Archangel darting in the air above, showing them the general direction of the gleaming spires of Kree-Lar that were their destination, the five of them walked side by side when possible, on down to single file when they had to force their way through blocked streets. They picked up articles of clothing here and there, ragged cloaks and mismatched boots, remnants buried in rubble or clutched in the hands of the dead. Soon they looked at least as poor as the surviving Kree.

  “Stop,” Jean hissed, and they all obeyed instantly.

  What is it? Scott thought, knowing Jean’s telepathy would pick up the question.

  We’re surrounded, she responded, her mental voice filling his head. More than a dozen. No immediate urge to attack, but definitely hostile.

  Cyclops considered their options, and realized there was only one. He motioned for the other X-Men and Raza to stand back, and took several steps forward.

  “We know you’re out there,” he said, his voice calm and confident. “Show yourselves and state your business. Only cowards hide in the shadows.”

  Immediately, there came a roar from the shattered second story of a building to their right. Three thudding footfalls resounded in the otherwise empty street and then the huge blue-skinned Kree metalsmith from the city center appeared above them. He vaulted from the second story and landed on his feet with a grunt just a few feet in front of Cyclops.

  “The Kree do not suffer cowards to live,” the man said, lip curling in disgust. “Or humans for that matter.”

  Yet, despite his threat, he made no move to attack them. Cyclops knew that the others, particularly Gambit and Raza, could not necessarily be counted on to restrain themselves. He held up a hand, a signal to them that they should make no move.

  The Kree noticed it as well. He whistled loud and long, and in the periphery of his ruby-shaded vision, he saw other figures, pink and blue, some badly deformed, emerge from the structures on either side of the street. Most of them were armed with plasma rifles, but several had crude battle axes or clubs. One carried a taser gun, which fired electrified projectiles—a formidable weapon. They formed a rough circle around the X-Men, but still Scott would not allow his team to react. He never took his eyes from the face of the metalsmith, undoubtedly the leader.

  “Humans are not welcome on Hala,” the metalsmith said evenly, the threat implicit and genuine, and therefore unembellished by detail.

  “We have no quarrel with you,” Cyclops declared. “Deathbird has several of our friends and plans to execute them. We plan to stop her.”

  There was a rustling amongst the Kree. A whispered argument erupted behind him, he thought between Gambit and Rogue. Presumably, they were arguing about the wisdom of his revealing their cause so readily, but their dissent would be seen as a sign of his, and their, weakness by the Kree.

  Silence, both of you! Jean chided them mentally, and Scott breathed a sigh of relief. He tensed a moment, expecting Gambit to make some comment to prove that he was not afraid to fight these Kree, but it never came. Perhaps, Cyclops mused, he had underestimated the Cajun after all. There were times when Gambit appeared to be even more clever than he boasted, and that was saying quite a bit.

  “Why should I believe you?” the metalsmith asked. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you, now, since your goals benefit us not at all.”

  “One of our friends is to be executed because she has been accused of smuggling weapons to the Kree rebellion on Hala,” Jean said, and though they both paid close attention to her words, Cyclops and the Kree leader continued to stare at one another.

  “Her name is Candide,” Jean continued. “We travel to Kree-Lar, in disguise, and offer our own lives to prevent her execution.”

  “Yon Kree art a prideful race,” Raza said, and this time the metalsmith did look away from Cyclops, to focus eyes blazing with hate on their Shi’ar companion.

  “Do not speak again, birdy!” the metalsmith snarled.

  “If Candide doth take part in thy rebellion, thou art honor-bound to do all that is practical to prevent her death,” Raza proclaimed, heedless of the metalsmith’s threats. “If she is not, thou art equally bound not to allow an innocent to die in thy stead.”

  The metalsmith considered Raza’s words, looking down a moment before facing Cyclops again.

  “What makes you think we are part of the rebellion?” he asked, a small smile coming over his face. “Or that we have ever heard of Candide.”

  “Are you going to prevent us from reaching Kree-Lar, or assist us in freeing our friends?” Cyclops asked, his patience waning. “I do not brag when I say we could have destroyed you several times over rather than waste precious minutes in debate. But your assistance could make our mission that much easier.”

  Cyclops knew such threats were a risk. But his words were perfectly true. They had no more time to waste with these rebels, if rebels they were.

  The metalsmith’s eyes narrowed, and Cyclops heard Jean send him some brief, cautionary words in his mind. The Kree took a step toward him, and the circle around the X-Men began to close. Cyclops was prepared to attack, and as he watched the metalsmith clench his fists at his sides, he realized that battle was inevitable.

  “Kam-Lorr!” a voice shouted, and they all turned to see a pink-skinned Kree boy running down the street toward them.

  “Kam-Lorr!” the boy shouted again, and Cyclops realized it must be the metalsmith’s name. “They are coming. The soldiers are coming.”

  Kam-Lorr cursed viciously, then turned to Cyclop
s, his face showing every ounce of hatred he had for the Shi’ar army that ruled his homeworld.

  “Follow me, fast, in single file …” he sputtered into silence as Archangel appeared above the building to his left and glided to the ground beside Cyclops.

  “How many are there, Warren?” Cyclops asked calmly.

  “More than fifty,” Archangel answered. “Well armed, too. It’s one thing if we have to fight our way out, Scott, but if we have to fight our way in, we’ve probably already lost.”

  Cyclops nodded, put a hand on Warren’s shoulder in a gesture of thanks, and turned back to Kam-Lorr. “Lead on,” he said.

  For a moment, Kam-Lorr looked from Cyclops to Archangel, still startled by Warren’s sudden appearance. Scott could see that the Kree had a sudden and grudging respect for these strangers to his world. As they entered one of the crumbling buildings and descended into a sub-basement there, Cyclops realized that respect might be just the thing to keep them all alive a little longer.

  * * *

  DEATHBIRD lay in peaceful repose on a chaise in her private aerie. She stretched her body and spread her arms out straight from her sides, natural wings fanning out beneath her. There was a slight chill in the breeze blowing through the vast open window of the turret room, and a delicious shiver went through her.

  It might have been the breeze. Just as likely, she derived her pleasure from the knowledge that Lilandra was incensed and powerless. Certainly, the prisoners had to be executed for their crimes and their likely connection to the growing rebellion. But Lilandra’s concern for Corsair and Hepzibah would make their executions that much sweeter.

  A tinkling of chimes alerted her that someone was at the door to her aerie. Deathbird sighed, considering the burden of leadership, and rose to greet her visitor. When the door slid aside, Captain Lyb’Dyl nervously entered the chamber.

  “I can see from your quiver that you bear bad tidings, Captain,” Deathbird said. “My first guess would be that you did not retrieve the rebels who had the audacity to teleport onto Hala in the midst of a battle. However, you’d best be done with it. Give me your report and I will decide whether or not to let you live.”

  There was no threat, nor even hostility, in her tone. Rather, she knew she must have sounded somewhat bored. She was used to the type of deference Captain Lyb’Dyl gave her, and to the punishments that she was too often forced to mete out.

  “Viceroy,” he began rather breathlessly, “we searched all the inhabitable sections of Ryn-Dak but found no trace of the incursion force.”

  He waited, head down, to see if Deathbird would maul him to death on the spot. When she did not strike, he continued, with an air of relief about him.

  “We did, however, get full descriptions from several citizens, which were confirmed by our spies in Ryn-Dak,” Captain Lyb’Dyl said proudly.

  As he described the newly arrived rebels, Deathbird’s calm amusement began to dissipate. In moments, she was transformed, hands hooked into savage talons and eyes narrowed in predatory fury. Captain Lyb’Dyl barely noticed, so pleased was he with the detailed descriptions he had obtained.

  When Deathbird’s left talon wrapped around his neck, claws biting skin, his eyes bulged in shock. Her right talon drove into his chest, tearing through flesh as she got her grip. The Captain shrieked in pain and terror as Deathbird lifted him above her head and carried him to the turret window of her aerie. She looked up into his eyes. Blood dripped from his neck onto her face.

  “You fool,” she said in quiet rage. “The X-Men have come to Hala, and you failed to even locate them.”

  Then she dropped him. Deathbird shook her head in disgust as Captain Lyb’Dyl plummeted, screaming, from the window. She licked his blood off her talons and went out the door, his screams diminishing but still audible in her chambers.

  “Get me Gladiator!” she commanded. “Have the Imperial Guard report to me at once.”

  * * *

  THE sub-basement in Ryn-Dak had a hidden tunnel that opened into a virtual warren of such passages. Cyclops had the feeling they had been there long before the Shi’ar took power on Hala, perhaps the lair of some criminal element. Now, however, the tunnels were home to a literal underground rebellion.

  They had followed Kam-Lorr in silence for the better part of an hour, in what Scott believed to be the general direction of the capital city. Then they had come upon a large cavern whose dimensions, according to Scott’s natural talent for spatial geometry, were something like twenty-five feet wide by thirty-seven feet high. There they had rested, replenished their supplies, and moved on to what appeared to be a natural fissure.

  They found a set of crude stairs cut into the stone, and followed them up and into a bustling marketplace. The majority of the war’s survivors had camped as close to Kree-Lar as they could get, living off the scraps of life the city left behind.

  “All de hagglin’ and tradin’, plus de smells of so many differen’ foods cookin’ remind me of de French Market in New Orleans,” Gambit said quietly.

  For Cyclops, the market was more reminiscent of the Egyptian bazaar he had seen when he and Storm had been in Cairo some years back. It wasn’t just foods they smelled, but incense and perfumes, and less pleasant smells including animals and their offal. The combination was not completely repulsive, but Scott had no nostalgic fondness for the place the way Gambit did.

  They gathered in the dimly lit back room of a small shop where Kam-Lorr sold the things he had made at his forge. It was uncomfortably small, which only fueled the tension in the group, but after a moment, Kam-Lorr sighed and began to speak.

  “To say nothing of the Shi’ar who accompanies you, to whom none of us will speak, Kree have long held a hatred for Terrans,” he began gravely. “The humans our race has encountered have ever stood in the path of Kree destiny, despite that they are far lesser beings.”

  “Hold on there, sugar,” Rogue said. “Don’t start playin’ victim now that you had your butts whupped. You all were tyrants long before this latest war, and us ‘Terrans’ didn’t have anything at all to do with that.”

  “You go, chere,” Gambit muttered under his breath.

  Cyclops cringed. All of the X-Men knew the value of diplomacy, but each of them had their own limits as to how much crap they were willing to take, even for diplomacy’s sake. Perhaps because he, Jean, and Warren had been at it so much longer …

  “We’re wasting time,” Warren said, cutting off Cyclops’ conciliatory words before he could even voice them. “Shall we cut to the chase here? We’re going in. If you’re the rebels we’ve heard so much about, and Candide’s one of yours, we were hoping for some assistance. If you don’t plan to help, why don’t you just point us in the right direction and get out of the way?”

  Cyclops dropped his head and his eyes darted over to Warren, who stood as if to leave. Archangel glanced at him and shrugged.

  “Sorry, Scott,” he said. “But it’s your father we’re here for. We just don’t have time for this tiptoeing around.”

  “Your father?” Kam-Lorr asked in surprise. “Who is your father?”

  “Corsair, leader of the Starjammers,” Cyclops replied, his voice and countenance hardened by Warren’s blunt words. Archangel was right. He’d been trying to do things by the book, not let his emotions regarding his father make him lose control and ignore common sense and caution. But maybe, he thought, maybe there were times throwing caution to the wind was the only sensible course of action.

  “Starjammers?” Kam-Lorr snarled, rising to his feet. “The Starjammers were part of the Shi’ar effort to unleash the nega-bomb. And you want us to help you free this man?”

  Before Cyclops could move, Raza had launched himself across the table with surprising speed, knocking Kam-Lorr to the ground.

  “Stay thee back!” he yelled, holding the gleaming sharp edge of his sword under the Kree rebel’s throat even as the X-Men took up defensive positions.

  “Raza?” Cyclops said tentatively.
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  “A moment, young Summers,” Raza said, then leaned in and spoke softly to Kam-Lorr, venom dripping from every word.

  “Thou know as well as I, blue-skin, that the Kree Supreme Intelligence wast ultimately responsible for the nega-bomb’s use,” he began. “I be Raza of the Starjammers, and I wast one of those who didst reluctantly shepherd the nega-bomb. So wast Hepzibah, who is a captive of thy current ruler. Corsair, however, wast not among us that day. Thou wouldst do well to remember this. Remember also that, no matter the sides we didst choose in a long-ended struggle, now doth we share an enemy, and a cause in common.”

  Raza sheathed his sword and offered his hand to Kam-Lorr, who looked at it with loathing. He rose to his feet without Raza’s aid.

  “If you will vow to rescue Candide as well as your comrades,” Kam-Lorr announced, “though the idea of helping you nauseates me, I will show you how you may enter Kree-Lar undetected.”

  Cyclops was about to offer his thanks when he heard a crash outside and the scuffle of running feet. Several people shrieked and there was a pounding on the door.

  “What is …” he began to ask.

  “Everybody outside!” Jean cried. “Move!”

  Gambit was at the back of the pack. The shop exploded in a burst of flame and ash, throwing him a dozen yards. Rogue caught him and went down hard in the street.

  “Surrender, X-Men, or be executed where you stand!” a deep voice boomed above them.

  Cyclops searched the sky for the source of the command. He saw Starbolt, and realized it was he whose power had destroyed the shop. Even before he saw Gladiator flying through the rising smoke, he knew the danger the X-Men faced.

  “Imperial Guard!” Rogue shouted, and flew to confront Gladiator.

  He knocked her out of the sky.

  EIGHT

  CHARLES Xavier sat in his private study sipping mint tea. All communications were relayed to him there. Still, he felt detached from both the crisis on Hala, which he could not monitor at all, and the one in Colorado. At the moment, however, the situation in Colorado concerned him the most. Hank ought to have reported in by now, but Xavier had heard nothing. He tried to calm himself, to reassure himself that the X-Men were more than capable of dealing with whatever dangers came their way.