Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men

by Christopher Golden

  Scott, she asked in his mind, sensing his distress, what is it?

  “It’s Nathan,” he answered, his own feelings so conflicted that he was sure Jean wouldn’t be able to get a clear reading of them. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was really feeling. But he wanted to sort it out.

  It was extraordinarily complicated. So much so that it hurt Scott’s head to think about it. But he had a son. A son grown to adulthood in the distant future, without the benefit of his father’s experience and wisdom. Now his son, Nathan, was back, and technically older than Scott himself. It was both bizarre and heartwrenching. They’d lost so much, the two of them.

  But Scott felt that Jean had lost something as well. She’d been thought dead when Scott had met and married Nathan’s mother. That was a whole other story, but the real point here was Jean. And Nathan.

  “Forget about it,” Scott said quickly. “I’m not even sure what’s happening in my head now. I just want us all home safe as soon as possible.”

  That wasn’t completely true, though. There were things he wanted to say to Jean. Why was it, he thought in frustration, that he could never come right out and say what was on his mind?

  “Scott …” Jean began.

  “Okay, let me see,” Scott said, realizing that he had to talk, just to sort it out, just to let her know. “I’m trying to deal with the fact that Nathan is my son. Not only what I lost in the years he was gone, everything I missed, but also the fact that he’s my son and not yours.”

  Scott paused a moment, unsure how to continue.

  “You know Nathan and I are close, Scott,” she said, and though they shared an extraordinary psychic bond, Scott knew that Jean was striving to understand, just as he was.

  “That’s not it,” he said. “I can’t escape the feeling that Nathan should have been our baby. That we should have children of our own.”

  Jean smiled. “Wow,” she said.

  “What’s funny?” he asked defensively.

  “You are,” Jean answered, touching his hand, letting him know with the gesture and the soothing psycho-babble of her thoughts in his head that she loved him deeply. “I understand what you’re saying, what you’re feeling. We’re staring death in the face again, and maybe this time it’s a little more real than before. Maybe because we have time, too much time, to think about life and death and consequences.”

  She stroked his hair lightly, then shook her head slowly, that little smile still on her face.

  “Scott, honey, putting aside the dangers we face every day, the dangers our children would face,” Jean said slowly, “did it ever occur to you that I might not want children right now? Or even anytime soon?”

  Scott’s eyes widened and his head moved backward almost imperceptibly. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “No,” Jean said, smiling even more widely now, “no, I can see that it hadn’t.”

  “Do you ever?” he asked, tentatively.

  “Sure,” she answered. “If we’re ever going to have a normal life, I definitely want kids to be a part of that. But it’s a long way off.”

  “I suppose,” he said. “I was just thinking about you and me and Nathan and started to think something was missing.”

  “Maybe it is,” she answered. “But that’s our life right now. Somewhere down the line, I would love to have children with you. But as Logan said to me once, ‘There’s a lot o’ miles between here and there, darlin’, and it’s gonna be hard travelin’.’”

  Scott snorted laughter.

  “Your Wolverine impression is improving, Jean,” he said, then grew quiet again. After a moment, he asked, “Do you remember Excalibur?”

  “I assume you mean the movie and not Nightcrawler’s team in England,” Jean answered drily. “Sure, why?”

  “There’s that scene, when Arthur is going off for his final battle, and he goes to see Guinevere in the convent?” Scott began.

  “I remember,” Jean said.

  “I’ll never forget what he says to her then, when he’s going off to die,” Scott continued, reaching out to hold Jean’s hand in his, unable to feel much through the thick pressure suit gloves. “Arthur says, very matter-of-factly, ‘I have often thought that in the hereafter of our lives, when we owe no more to the future, you will come to me and claim me as your husband. It is a dream I have,’” Scott quoted. “It’s an incredible moment, and horribly sad to think that these two people will have to die before they can find peace together.”

  The two of them were silent then, contemplating his words.

  I pray that’s not us, Scott thought clearly, knowing Jean would pick up the words.

  It’s not, Scott, her words whispered in his mind. I promise you it’s not.

  They embraced, and Scott was distracted by the odd crinkle of his pressure suit. Sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the ship only magnified by the additional layers.

  “Come on, Jean,” he said finally. “Help me get the helmet on, so I can make sure the Personal Atmosphere Unit is functioning properly. In fact, everybody should probably get into these suits, just in case something really goes wrong while we’re outside. If the life support systems were to fail, you all need to be ready.”

  “Excellent plan, Scott,” Corsair said from the open hatchway, and Scott bit back the urge to ask how long his father had been standing there.

  “Everybody set, Corsair?” he asked instead, and his father shot him the thumbs up sign. Back to business, now. No room there for “son” and “dad.” But, Scott thought, it was pleasant while it lasted.

  “Roger that,” Corsair said, nodding. “Rata and Ch’od are all suited up. Now if we can just tear Rogue away from Gambit’s side for a moment, we might actually be able to keep this ship from melting into slag around us.”

  Corsair was smiling, but Scott could see the worry in his father’s eyes, about their predicament, and about Rogue’s reliability. Scott made it his policy not to delve too deeply into the personal lives of the X-Men, particularly those relatively new to the team, but Scott also thought he was a fairly observant guy. How it happened, he had no idea, and he wasn’t certain about the rest of the team, but he hadn’t even noticed the relationship between Gambit and Rogue developing. One day it just seemed to appear to him, full bloom, and then a lot of little things had begun to make sense.

  Now, though, his job was to make sure that the relationship between his two teammates didn’t compromise their job. In the end, he didn’t think it would. All of their lives were at stake, and Rogue, headstrong though she unquestionably was, had always come through in a pinch before.

  “You want me to speak with her, Scott?” Jean asked, beside him, obviously sensing his hesitation.

  “Thanks, but no,” he answered. “Part of the job. I need you to focus fully on backing us up while we’re out there. Anything goes wrong, you’re our only safety measure.”

  “You got it,” Jean said, nearly in a whisper, and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

  She helped snap his helmet into place. It was constructed of an expanding mesh alloy of Shi’ar design. Rather than the traditional face plate, the helmet’s front section was wide open. When the final latch was closed, and the Personal Atmosphere Unit began to function, a force shield materialized in front of Scott’s face. It was impervious to solids, and yet it allowed Scott’s exhaled carbon dioxide to leave the suit even as it processed oxygen in from the depths of space. Fortunately, it would also allow his solar-based optic beams to pass through without breaching the containment of the suit. No matter how often he was exposed to it, Scott could only marvel at the technology of the Shi’ar.

  Scott, Jean, and Corsair made their way toward the main cabin. They passed Raza and Ch’od, who were moving to the back of the ship to get at the airlocks. Hushed words were exchanged between the two Starjammers and their captain, then Corsair smiled at Scott and Jean, and they continued on.

  In the main cabin, Archangel paced nervously, bobbing h
is head slightly with pent up energy. Scott wasn’t sure if Warren was even aware of the way his bio-metallic wings ruffled, spreading slightly, when he was on edge. Back when he was just called the Angel, Scott recalled, Warren’s real, natural wings had done the same thing. It was comforting, yet at the same time, disturbing, that the wings, which often seemed to have some kind of sentience, were so closely tied to Warren’s psyche.

  “Hey,” Scott said, quietly enough so that only Archangel could hear. “You okay, Warren?”

  “Little cabin fever is all, Slim,” Archangel answered, using Scott’s old nickname from their early days with the X-Men. “I’m trying to chill out, but I’m not doing such a great job.”

  “Try to focus, Warren,” Scott said, still in a hush. “You’re needed, here. You’ve got to make sure nothing happens to Gambit.”

  “Remy?” Archangel asked. “But what else would—”

  Scott turned away from Archangel and moved to where Rogue held vigil over the unconscious Gambit. On the other medi-slab, Hepzibah was recovering well but was being kept sedated to speed her healing. But Gambit had simply never revived from the shock of his electrocution. Looking at Rogue now, Scott didn’t know how he had ever failed to see the flowering of the relationship between the two.

  “Rogue,” Scott began, “we need to talk.”

  “No,” Rogue said quickly. “No we don’t.”

  Scott was surprised. He was about to launch into a speech about responsibility, to make her see that they all needed her, that Gambit would die anyway if she didn’t help. Then Rogue got to her feet and looked down at him. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a mane, its white streak only adding to her unique beauty. She was a relatively tall woman, but very petite. Still, the power within her was unmistakable.

  “Let’s go,” she said simply.

  “But I thought—” he began, stumbling in a manner that was unusual for him.

  “Seein’ Remy like this is tearin’ me apart, Cyclops,” Rogue admitted. “I’m not gonna lie to ya about it. It kills me to leave his side. But you don’t grow up as hard as I did without learnin’ when it’s time for action. The time is now. Just let me suit up, and I’ll be with you.”

  “As Scott already pointed out, we all need to suit up,” Corsair said. “Anything happens to this ship, we’ll need more than our uniforms to keep us alive.”

  “You go on ahead,” Archangel urged. “I’ll keep an eye on our little sick bay until you get back.”

  Rogue walked to where Archangel stood sentinel over Gambit and Hepzibah. She squeezed his shoulder.

  “I know you’ve never been real fond of Remy, Warren,” Rogue said. “But I really care for him. Watch over him for me, will ya?”

  “We’re X-Men,” Archangel said, smiling warmly, “we take care of our own.”

  Scott could have hugged Warren for that endorsement. He needed Rogue completely together on their space walk, and Archangel’s reassurance was more valuable than he could possibly know. After all, with Corsair keeping watch over Hepzibah and the ship’s heat shields, and Jean making sure the space walk went off without a hitch, Archangel was the only one who could watch Gambit. Rogue needed to know that Warren was committed to that duty.

  The relief on her face showed very clearly how much weight had been lifted from her.

  “Y’know, Warren, they all said that when you got your new wings, your personality changed too,” Rogue said. “I don’t know ’bout any of that, but it seems to me that, wherever the real you, the person inside, went away to … well, it seems like you’re back now. I’m glad.”

  “Me too,” Archangel said slowly, brow furrowing. “I only wish everyone else could see it as clearly. Thanks, Rogue.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and finally turned to walk from the cabin.

  There was so much on his mind that Scott didn’t really have time to digest their exchange. But somehow, some way, he felt like he’d let Warren down. He promised to himself that, if they survived this, he would try to figure out how, and rectify his mistake.

  But then, first things first. Survival.

  * * *

  HE’D always thought of it as the cold expanse of space. Scott supposed that, nearly anywhere else, that would be about right. But this was different. This was death on the horizon. The irony was not lost on him. The sun was vital to all life on Earth, and the battery that powered his own optic beams. It was the symbol of life, growth, power. But move too close, and it became a voracious inferno, consuming all.

  Sweat trickled down Scott’s forehead, underneath the lip of his ruby quartz visor, and he blinked it away. There was sweat on his back as well, and he could feel the disorienting fatigue that extreme heat always seemed to bring on. He wondered for a fleeting moment if his face would blister, even through the force shield, this close to the sun.

  He didn’t intend to find out. They’d been very careful to make certain none of them would have to discover the effects of such exposure. Twenty minutes of complex navigational maneuvers, without the real power to make them, combined with brute force to allow them to turn the Starjammer so that the area where they would be working was not directly in the path of the sun’s burning glare.

  An additional half hour had passed, and they toiled away in the shade provided by the Starjammer itself. Tethered together like mountain climbers, with Raza tethered to the ship itself, they used their respective knowledge and skills to make what repairs were possible to the hull and warp drive of the vessel.

  “Cyclops,” Ch’od’s voice slithered into his ears from the comm-link in their suits. “Raza and I seem to be doing fine here, perhaps you and Rogue ought to attempt to repair some of the more serious structural damage.”

  “You’re sure you don’t need the backup?” he asked, doubtful.

  “You are out here, if we really need the help,” Ch’od asked. “That is enough. While you are repairing, you should also look for any stress points that look as if they might lead to a pressure breach.”

  “You got it,” Cyclops said, listening to the tinny sound of his own voice filtered back to him. “Rogue, you catch that?”

  “Sure did, Cyke,” she said. “I s’pose it’s time for a little spot-weldin’, huh?”

  Cyclops was floating free of the ship, drifting along with it, secured only by his tether to the others. The slightest motion was magnified by the gravity-free environment of space, so Scott was very careful and measured with his actions. He had dealt with anti-gravity in other situations as well, and not just in space.

  Rather than kick his feet as if he were in a swimming pool, which had been his inclination the first time he’d experienced the sensation, he performed a slow, forward somersault. A few moments later, he came around to face Rogue only a few feet from the Starjammer’s hull. As he had expected, she reached out a hand to arrest his motion, and reeled him in.

  “This ain’t the time for showin’ off, Cyclops,” Rogue admonished, and Scott smiled despite their plight.

  She might not be able to conduct herself as though this were all business as usual—not that anyone could have—but at least she was trying. Scott had to give her credit for that.

  Together, they examined the section of the hull that had experienced the worst damage.

  * * *

  ROGUE felt particularly parched. Dehydration was no fun, but she knew they wouldn’t get a break until they’d finished what they’d come on their little space walk to do. It was hard for her to deal with their situation. Not merely the danger of it, but the entire reality of space travel, space walking. Of course, the danger was there too, helping keep her mind off of Remy.

  She didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t. Rogue kept telling herself that if they could just get home, get back to Earth, that Gambit would be okay. She kept reassuring herself, but a little voice inside her head called her a liar every time. Truth was, she didn’t know if he’d be okay or not. It was all in God’s hands, now, she figured. Rogue had never been
much for prayer, but she’d always believed in God. She figured, out there in the middle of space they had to be closer to him than ever, and hoped that meant he’d hear the prayers that were screaming through her head right then.

  “Watch it, Rogue!” Cyclops snapped at her side, and she looked up to see the warning in his eyes, then back down at what she was doing. They’d been working together, her trying to bend back into shape portions of the hull that had been damaged, so that Cyclops could attempt to weld these breaches closed with his optic blasts. But when she looked down, she pulled her hands quickly from the ship with a frightened gasp.

  The material of her pressure suit around her hands had been too near a sharp edge of metal hull. Had she continued to press, distractedly, on the torn section, she might well have ripped a hole in her suit. Back on Earth, Rogue thought herself nearly invulnerable to injury. But without the pressure suit, she guessed that she’d be dead just as quickly as any of them.

  “Thanks a lot,” she said, sighing in relief, then grabbed hold of the hull yet again.

  “No problem,” Cyclops answered. “I know you’re tired. We all are. And you’ve got a lot on your mind. But let’s just be careful, okay? We can’t afford any accidents out here.”

  “You said it,” she agreed.

  She finished reshaping a small hull breach, and pulled herself along the surface of the ship so Cyclops could move into place. While his optic beams were normally concussive in nature, when tightly focused, they could burn as hot as the nastiest laser. And with the sun so close, Cyclops seemed to be brimming with nearly inexhaustible power. A reddish glow filled the inside of his helmet, and a small cloud of energy was constantly flowing through it, only to dissipate in space.

  “It’s a wonder your head doesn’t explode with all that energy you got stored up in there,” she said in amazement.

  “Well I suppose there should be some benefits to being so close to the sun other than working on our tans,” Cyclops responded, keeping his attention on the job at hand.

  “My goodness,” Jean’s voice filtered into Rogue’s helmet on the comm-link. “Did Scott Summers just make a joke?”