No. She would not allow herself even to think it. Dead, lost in space, it meant the same thing. There was no way that Jean Grey was going to give up on the love of her life. No matter how vital the X-Men were, how important Professor Xavier’s dream was to the world, none of it meant anything to Jean without Scott Summers by her side.
Scott! she thought, sending the alarmed voice of her mind out into the ether of space. It was a wave of power from her brain, a huge net that she hoped would capture something, anything. She had heard his voice before, she was certain of it. So he had to be out there. But where, and how far? Would she be able to …
“Jean, is that necessary?” Archangel said from the cockpit hatch behind her. She turned to see that he was clutching his head with both hands. Blood flowed from his nose.
“Only if you don’t want Scott to die out there, Warren,” she snapped, perhaps more harshly than she wished.
Archangel only nodded and moved back into the cabin. Jean knew it was going to hurt them, all of them. But she had to try at least one more wide-spectrum mental sending, to try and get Scott to respond. She could sense him out there, in space. Knew that he was still alive. But she couldn’t locate him. She would need real communication to do that.
Scott, answer me, please! she sent, and heard a groan from the main cabin behind her.
Silence. Several painful seconds ticked by, and then Scott’s voice returned to her mind.
Jean, thank God! he said. Can you get us back?
She didn’t respond for a moment, spending the time instead tracking his mental voice back to its source. Then she had him. Had both of them. Scott and Ch’od were still hurtling away from the ship. Already they were more than a mile distant. On Earth, it would have been impossible for her to use her telekinesis over such a distance. But this was different. The same rules hardly applied. There was nothing separating them but the hull of the Starjammer, nothing interfering with her powers. She thought, or rather, she hoped, it would be possible. But she would have to combine her telekinesis with her telepathy.
Scott, listen, she thought, sending it as a narrowly focused mental signal that would not affect the others on board the ship. You’ve got to get hold of Ch’od. If I can catch you, it’ll be a whole lot easier if I don’t have to worry about two objects that need to be halted. Grab him and hold on tight.
Their minds linked and clear once again, Jean could sense the struggle Scott went through, reaching out for and latching on to the amphibious alien. She knew his hates and fears, knew that his first inclination would be some act of selflessness, some way to help Ch’od even at his own expense.
Don’t even think it, her mental voice called to him. Just hold on tight, and be ready for the impact. If I can stop your momentum at this distance, it might be a heck of a tug.
Whatever it takes, Scott’s mind responded. Got him!
All right, prepare yourself, she thought. Jean Grey reached out her mind again. She felt more than ever the dichotomous nature of her mutant mental abilities. It was, in that moment, as if her telepathy was one arm, pinpointing and targeting Cyclops and Ch’od at that great distance, and her telekinesis was another arm, the fingers of which gently wrapped around the two, closing into a protective fist around them.
Then, with that mental fist, she simply pulled. Jean Grey cried out in pain.
“Jean!” Corsair called, instantly at her side in the cockpit. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”
She waved him away without even opening her eyes, still focused on Scott and Ch’od, on the strain she felt as she tried to halt their motion. It felt as though someone were tearing her skull apart, some savage animal worrying at it to get to her mind.
Finally, she let go.
Scott, I think I could pull you back here if you didn’t have so much momentum, she sent, certain he would read the despair in her heart. But I can’t stop it, honey. God, I’m sorry. I can’t slow you down.
There was silence then, out in space, and through their rapport she could sense Scott’s mind churning, searching for an answer, a solution. When he found it, she felt that as well.
What is it? she asked, before he’d had time even to call her name.
It’s a long shot, Jean, but it’s all we’ve got, he said. Ch’od’s going to hold on to me, tight, from behind. With all the power I’ve leeched from our proximity to the sun, if I can let off every ounce of that in one optic blast, in the direction we are moving, it should act like a retrothruster. It should stop us, and it might even start us back toward the Starjammer.
But you’ll never be able to stay conscious, she thought, and felt despair creeping up on her, familiar as her shadow.
True, he responded. But Ch’od will. As long as he can hold on to me while I try this stunt, you can pull us both in by locking on to him.
It might work, Jean thought. Then, in unison, their mental voices said, It has to.
* * *
CYCLOPS explained his plan to Ch’od quickly. They had not a second to spare, as each moment moved them further from the Starjammer, and closer to the outer limits of Jean’s power to retrieve them.
“Get around behind me,” Scott barked, and, using the X-Man’s body to guide himself, Ch’od spun around with startling speed and efficiency. Normally he was extremely congenial and inquisitive. But in an emergency, he was all business. Corsair had told Cyclops that many times, but this was the first time Scott had really seen it in action.
Ch’od wrapped his arms around Cyclops’ chest, even as their legs twined together. It was as if he were giving the huge Timorian a piggyback ride, something that would have been physically impossible in normal gravity.
“Is this too tight?” Ch’od asked, ever courteous, even in the worst of times.
“A little uncomfortable,” Cyclops admitted. “But I’ll live. Whatever you do, don’t let go. And don’t squeeze too tight, or you’ll have nothing left to hold on to. Just mold your body to mine. Do as I do, and brace yourself.”
They were spinning, end over end, and Cyclops knew they were only going to get one chance at this. It had to be timed perfectly, and his aim was vital to their survival. In this he relied on a special talent that had nothing to do with his mutant abilities. For, ever since childhood, Scott Summers had had an innate skill that had always helped him during battle. Some kids were natural spellers. Scott had an almost uncanny knack for spatial geometry.
He prayed that extended to outer space. Jean had planted in his mind the direction of the Starjammer. She held onto him like a dog on a leash, so he knew where they needed to go. He tucked his legs under himself, and Ch’od did the same. Their roll brought them around one more time.
“Straighten your legs on my mark,” he said. “Now!”
Cyclops and Ch’od shot their legs out simultaneously, so that their bodies lay on a flat plane parallel to the direction their momentum was pulling them. In that instant, Scott looked down along the line of his body, and, head cocked uncomfortably, let loose with every ounce of power he could summon to his optic beams. It was an extraordinary catharsis unlike anything he had ever experienced, a complete emptying of his reserves that he had never dreamed possible. His eyes burned and his mouth was dry. For some reason he thought he ought to have a headache, but he didn’t.
He could feel their momentum slowing, the pull on their bodies was tangible, and he believed they actually began to move in the opposite direction.
Finally, the well ran dry. Suddenly spent, his eyes rolled up into his head and even the stars disappeared.
* * *
CORSAIR ran through the main cabin, careful not to stumble in the awkward pressure suit he wore. There were three medi-slabs laid out in the cabin now, one each for Gambit, Hepzibah, and now Raza. Raza’s arm had been badly injured, and they had been forced to sedate him to speed the healing process, but both he and Hepzibah were likely to be up and around soon. Gambit, on the other hand, Corsair wasn’t willing to take any bets on. None of them were certain how
badly the Cajun X-Man had been injured. Only time would tell.
While Rogue stood by the medi-slab where Gambit lay, Archangel checked the instruments reading Raza’s life signs. The Starjammer was in bad shape, and there was no telling what was working properly or not. All Corsair knew was that life support systems were slowly failing. They had two or three days at best, and then they’d be dead.
If the sun didn’t torch them first.
“Rogue,” he snapped into the comm-unit in his helmet. “Jean’s bringing Scott and Ch’od into the airlock. I need your muscle.”
She turned, startled out of her preoccupation, and blinked twice. Archangel looked at him as well, and it suddenly struck Corsair that each of them was with one of their wounded comrades, but his own lover, Hepzibah, was untended, alone. He knew he should be at her side, yearned to be there. But he was captain of the Starjammer. Survival had to be his priority. Silently, he sent her his love.
“Rogue,” he snapped. “Let’s go!”
“But Remy—” she began, and Corsair wondered if she was still disoriented from the explosion, not even five minutes ago.
“Archangel will watch Remy,” Corsair said sternly. “We’ve got our friends to attend to.”
He set off deeper into the ship, past the cargo hold and toward the airlock. Rogue fell into step behind him and kept pace all the way. They stopped short at the small window and instrument board that manually controlled the airlock. Hands on either side of the clear surface, Corsair peered into the small cubicle that separated the airlock door from the outer hull door.
That outer door was already open, waiting for Jean Grey to telekinetically reel Cyclops and Ch’od in from space. Corsair stared out at the stars, feeling helpless and frustrated. It wasn’t enough that they were dead in space, that the ship was becoming a furnace where they might well be boiled alive by the heat of the sun. It wasn’t enough that nearly half of them had some injury or other, some quite serious. No, that wasn’t enough. The warp drive had to misfire, throwing Corsair’s best friend and his eldest son out into the ether of space.
But as angry as he wanted to be at God, as much as he wanted to shout curses to the heavens, something he’d become quite proficient at over the years, Corsair couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. It was only, after all, through the sheer will of a young woman named Jean and by the grace of God that Scott and Ch’od were alive.
Then they were there, growing quickly larger in the window, hurtling toward the Starjammer so fast that Corsair thought they might actually slam into the ship. At the last moment though, and with some reserve of strength that Corsair found incredible, Jean must have used her psi skills to slow them. Ch’od and Cyclops drifted into the airlock cubicle, the amphibious Starjammer clutching on to the unconscious leader of the X-Men even as he reached for some purchase within the small space.
“My Lord,” Rogue said, and Corsair wasn’t sure if the hushed words were a prayer or merely astonishment. “I don’t guess I ever expected to see either of them again. Not in this life, anyway.”
But Corsair’s joy was short lived. He had ever been the pragmatist.
“Let’s hope we haven’t gotten them back just so we can all die together,” he said, then slammed the button that would seal the outer hull door and cycle air into the cubicle. Moments later, the airlock hissed loudly as the inner hatch released, and Corsair slid it aside.
Ch’od, who had been using the door to brace his weary body, stumbled and fell to the deck of the Starjammer with Cyclops in his arms.
“Ch’od!” Corsair called, kneeling by his friend.
“Not to worry, Corsair,” Ch’od said quickly, though still taking quick breaths within his pressure suit. “I shall be fine in a moment. Your son also, if I’m not sorely mistaken. Which is excellent news, for we don’t have a lot of time to devise an alternate plan.”
Corsair stared at Ch’od, then at Scott’s unconscious form. It seemed surreal to him, Ch’od adapting so easily to the aftermath of such a trauma. But he was right, they had to move on, and quickly. Corsair even chuckled slightly, as Rogue helped Ch’od to his feet. He would never cease to be amazed by his friend’s extraordinary constitution.
But what of his son?
“Scott?” he asked. “Can you hear me, son? Scott, are you awake?”
Behind the helmet of his suit, behind the ruby quartz of his visor, Corsair thought he saw his son’s eyes flutter momentarily, opening slightly, and then they were closed again.
“You’ll be all right, Scott,” Corsair said softly. “We’ve had far too little time together, son. You have to be all right.”
His arms and shoulders taut with the strain, Corsair lifted his son into his arms. For a moment, he was struck by a memory of Scott as an infant, crying with fever and unable to fall asleep unless his father held him. As much of a strain as being a new parent had been, as frustrating as it had been, there had been a certain joy in rocking his baby boy to sleep.
He felt that again, now, and it brought back the pain of his wife’s death, and all the years he and Scott had spent apart. Ch’od rose to his feet, and steadied himself against the bulkhead.
“We have no time to lose,” Ch’od said. “Corsair, we must try again to repair the warp drive. And now, or it may well prove too late.”
Rogue moved to help Corsair with the burden of his son’s weight, but he ignored her. The terror he had felt every moment since the explosion abated slowly, leaving him nearly breathless. After a moment, Scott groaned in a low, guttural voice, and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the light that filtered through his helmet and visor.
“Scott,” Corsair said. “You did it son. You’re all right.”
“For the moment, Dad,” Scott answered. Like father, like son, ever the pragmatist.
“Corsair, did you not hear me?” Ch’od asked. “We’ve got to—”
“I heard you, Ch’od,” Corsair answered. “And I’ll join you on the hull, since Raza cannot. Scott’s in no condition to—”
“I’m okay, Corsair,” Scott said, sitting up. “You’re going to need backup out there, and Rogue and I are all you’ve got.”
Corsair did not fail to note the change in his son’s tone. He merely nodded, resigned to their fate. His fear for Scott had never interfered with their ability to work or battle side by side in the past, and he would not allow it to do so even in this crisis.
“I’m happy to go back out there with y’all,” Rogue said with a smile. “But this time, let’s be a little more careful, okay?”
* * *
JEAN lay in the cockpit, recovering, and Archangel found himself in the unusual role of duty nurse for the wounded members of the Starjammer’s crew. He wasn’t terribly concerned for Hepzibah or Raza; when they awoke from their sedation they would be greatly weakened, and temporarily unable to use their injured limbs, but awaken they would.
Gambit was another story. The on-board Shi’ar medical computers could have done a simple diagnostic program, but the system had shorted and crashed, along with most of the Starjammer’s programming. If they were certain of the voltage, or even the nature, of electric current Gambit was hit with by Warstar of the Imperial Guard, they might be able to guess at what Remy was going through, and what the long term effects of his electrocution might be. But Warstar could have fried every synapse in Gambit’s brain, and they wouldn’t know it until they got him back to Earth.
If any of them got back.
A sobering thought, and one that Archangel had been trying to avoid. Dwelling on his “patients” had given him a momentary respite from their situation, and from his growing case of cabin fever. He was definitely getting a little stir crazy, cooped up in the ship. It helped a bit that he was the only person walking around in the main cabin, but that was a superficial improvement at best.
He felt that nervous energy building inside of him once again, and found, to his surprise, that he’d been tapping his foot for a while without realizing it. The cabin was
n’t shrinking. Archangel wasn’t delusional. But it certainly felt smaller. He closed his eyes a moment and he could feel it pressing in around him. The cabin, the ship, and space beyond.
A ruffle of fear went through his bio-metallic wings where they lay flat against his back beneath the pressure suit. Archangel felt the twinge of muscles that would spread them to their full span, and he mustered what control of them he had to keep them from tearing apart the Shi’ar space garb.
Turning away from Gambit’s prone form, Archangel began to pace the cabin. He had never felt so completely useless. And not since his days with Apocalypse had he felt so close to the edge of losing control. But he wouldn’t lose it. Absolutely would not. He had been twisted into something that just wasn’t him, wasn’t Warren Worthington, and it had been a long road back. He still had yet to completely convince his oldest and best friends in the X-Men that he had recovered, that he was flying high again.
“Just suck it up, Worthington,” he muttered to himself, then took a long slow, breath and released it. He stretched, slowly, trying to relax the tension in his body.
“ … no …”
The word was spoken very quietly, gruffly, with a dreamy quality that only the exhausted, the dying, or the feverish could muster. Archangel spun around, prepared to defend himself, though he suspected there would be no need. His suspicions proved correct a moment later, as he hurried to the medi-slab where Gambit lay, twitching as if in the grip of some horrid nightmare.
“ … no …” Remy mumbled again, though more forcefully this time. Then his face and his tone changed dramatically. Gambit’s breath came faster, more frenetically, and his facial features contorted as if he were in pain, or adamant denial. Perhaps both, Archangel considered.
“No, Essex!” Gambit snarled, still less than conscious, his attitude reflecting a savagery that Archangel had never seen in him. “You wan’ Gambit do a little t’ing for you, maybe dat seem okay before. But no more, Essex! You hear me, homme? Gambit not gon’ let you hurt anybody, ’specially not …”
Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men Page 35
