In any case, he was stuck with the colonel. He would have to make the best of it.
He took two steps down and opened the trailer door. As Tomko moved to enter, Gyrich blocked his way and stepped outside instead. He closed the door, and checked to see if Tomko looked offended. He saw no sign of such a reaction, but knew it had to be there. Gyrich didn’t care. His trailer was off limits to everyone but himself, the Secretary, and the President. To hell with anyone else.
“You called for me, Mr. Gyrich?” Colonel Tomko asked.
“Indeed I did, Colonel,” Gyrich responded. “This is not my operation, as you know. You are not under my command. I will not be giving any orders here.”
Gyrich thought he caught a slight smirk of pleasure on Tomko’s face, but then wondered if he wasn’t just being paranoid.
“Still,” Gyrich continued, “I wanted to make you aware that I am urging the President to immediate action. There is no time to waste. I thought you should be aware of that, and prepare accordingly.”
Colonel Tomko did not respond immediately. He looked past Gyrich, and seemed to be contemplating what had been said.
“You have a problem with that, Colonel?” Gyrich asked, hostile, ready for an argument.
“Not at all,” Tomko answered. “I was just wondering, if the President does order us to attack, do you think we’ve got anything in the arsenal that is even going to be a nuisance to one of those?”
Tomko pointed east, and Gyrich turned and looked out over the Hudson River. A Sentinel stood there, certainly aware but completely unconcerned about the massive military buildup across the river. The sun gleamed on its metal body. It did not seem quite so sinister, quite so dangerous, in the daylight. But Gyrich had seen the schematics on the massive robots. He knew what they were made of, what they were capable of, and he had to admit he had no answer for the colonel.
If he were able to convince the President to attack, he could not be absolutely certain that they would win.
FOURTEEN
THE first things Scott Summers became aware of were the motion of the Starjammer as it sliced through space, and the hum of the hyperburners that traveled through the entire vessel as tiny vibrations. In fact, he could feel the vibrations against his cheek, which lay on cool metal. There were voices, but his brain hadn’t woken up enough for him to focus on any one in particular, so he had no idea what they were saying.
His eyelids opened a crack, almost of their own volition, and light flooded in. Annoyed by the sudden light, he closed his eyes tight, then began to open them more slowly.
Scott? He heard Jean’s telepathic voice, felt her probing to see if he was awake. Then he heard her true voice, speaking to him, and of him.
“Scott?” she asked aloud. “Corsair, I think he’s finally coming around.”
Scott opened his eyes fully, and was immediately reminded, as he was every time he awoke, of the limitations of his vision. Through a red veil, he saw Jean’s face above him. He opened his eyes as wide as they could go, scrunched them shut, and opened them wide again, trying to fight off the urge to sleep once more.
“I’m awake,” he said in confirmation. “I’m still here, I guess.”
Jean smiled, and Corsair stepped up next to her.
“We’re all still here thanks to you and Rogue,” Corsair said happily. “I’m proud of you, son. How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been running with the bulls, Dad,” Scott answered, and pulled himself up to a sitting position. He stretched out his arms, testing his muscles and back, then rolled his head around to work the kinks out of his neck.
“I’m a little bruised, and I’ve got a bit of a headache, but nothing compared with the migraine I was expecting,” he said. “More importantly, how are we, really? What’s our status?”
“We’re doing okay, Scott,” Jean began. “We—”
“Listen, I’ve got to check on Ch’od and Warren, then see about waking Hepzibah up for re-entry,” Corsair interrupted. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”
He moved off into the cabin, and Scott looked around for the first time. Raza and Hepzibah were still on the medislabs in the cabin, with digital lifesign readouts displayed above their heads, now that the ship had much of its power back. On the other side of the cabin, Rogue spoke quietly with Gambit, who seemed to have made a complete recovery.
That was when Scott realized that he had not noticed a major change on board. None of them were wearing their space suits. Even his had been removed sometime while he was unconscious. He remarked on this to Jean.
“I guess we’re doing okay,” he added.
“We’re not out of the woods, yet,” Jean answered. “There are a number of variables that have come up.” “Well?” Scott urged.
“For starters,” Jean began, “and the real complicating factor, is that, now that we’ve got the hyperburners engaged, we can’t afford to slow down until we’re well within Earth’s atmosphere. The engines could cut out at any time, and we’d either be back where we started, floating in space, or we’d be making an unguided descent through the atmosphere, which has all sorts of problems of its own.”
“That’s not good news,” Scott agreed. “An unguided descent would more than likely mean crashing the. ship. Of course, if we can’t slow down, that’s going to put a huge strain on the heat shields. We might melt into slag before we ever shut down the engines.”
Jean nodded solemnly, then took in a long breath.
“That was my next point,” she admitted. “Add to that the fact that, though we can’t slow down, we also can’t be sure the navigational system is working correctly.”
“So we could hit the atmosphere at the wrong angle, slice right through and be back in space,” Scott said in realization. “Which might not leave us enough power to turn around.”
“Actually,” Jean said, “it might force the engines to cut out again, which would leave us stranded one more time. I don’t know about you, but I don’t relish trying that jumpstart stunt again any time soon.”
“No,” Scott agreed. “It’s not first on my list of things to do. But Corsair said Ch’od and Warren were piloting. What’s going on?”
Jean cocked her head slightly to one side and her face was transformed into a look that Scott had become familiar with over the years. He was missing something, something obvious. He looked around the cabin again, anywhere but at Jean. Then he saw Hepzibah, lying prone on the medi-slab. Alone.
“I thought she was going to be okay?” he said, realizing immediately that Corsair would stay by his Mephisitoid lover’s side until she had recovered.
“She is,” Jean answered. “In fact, we’re all a little surprised she hasn’t come around already. We had thought to keep her sedated, in case there are any injuries we’re unaware of. But Corsair said he didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, that if anything went wrong, we had to be able to move as fast as possible. That means Hepzibah’s got to be up and around.”
“I understand his concern, his needing to be with her,” Scott said. “I know how I’d feel if it were you on that medi-slab. But Warren, good as he is, isn’t half the pilot my father is. Isn’t that more of a risk than anything else?”
“Ch’od’s piloting,” Jean answered. “Warren’s copiloting. If anything happens, if they really need him, Corsair will be there as always. You know that.”
“You’re right,” Scott said, nodding slowly. “I just wish we had a little more going for us on this one.”
Look at it this way, sweetheart, Jean’s mental voice said in his head. It’s amazing we’ve lived this long. I can’t believe the powers that be would get us this far if we weren’t meant to go all the way.
“Faith,” Scott said. “I thought we’d used up our supply on this trip.”
“Not quite yet,” Jean answered.
“Good,” Scott said, and smiled. “We’ll need it.”
* * *
“I guess I missed a whole lot, eh chere?” Gambit said, and smile
d.
“Y’ain’t exactly been the life of the party, sugar,” Rogue replied. “But don’t worry none, Remy. As long as you ain’t glowin’ after that shock you got, I’d say you’re doin’ pretty good.”
They shared a knowing look, a slightly forced chuckle, and slowly, their hands crept across their laps to meet in the middle and intertwine. Gambit was greatly disturbed that he had been unconscious for so long, that he had been so useless to his teammates. Not that he was any expert on space travel or repairing starships.
He was also more than a little embarrassed by his attack on Archangel, and the way he had snapped at Jean earlier. Something had been shaken loose in his head when Warstar electrocuted him. It had sent him into dreamland, yes, but it had also brought him great hostility and anxiety. Something told him it would be best not to share his concerns with the X-Men, even with Rogue, but it would be on his mind every moment. He would have to watch himself for odd behavior.
Still, he felt fine, so maybe it was all over. On the other hand, fine was a relative term. Every single muscle ached, as if he’d been bent over hauling nets of crawfish into his Uncle Louis’ fishing boats all day. But he was really okay, he knew it. And just seeing the sweet relief in Rogue’s eyes, knowing that she had been worried about him, well that was worth what little pain he had left.
“I feel like I missed a lot, Rogue,” he said. “I can’t believe dat Cyclops stuck his face in de engine. I might butt heads wit’ im now and again, but dere’s a man wit’ more guts den I ever seen before. I don’ know if I could have done dat.”
Rogue looked at him with scolding eyes.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Remy,” she chided. “Scott Summers is a brave man, sure. And maybe you’re a little rougher around the edges, but you’re cut from the same cloth. When there’s trouble, y’come through for the people y’care for, the people who care for you.”
Gambit said nothing. He valued Rogue’s good perception of him too much to argue, but her words rankled within him. He was a good man, a courageous one as well, given the chance and no time for second thoughts. But he had not always been there when he was needed, not for his family, nor his ex-wife, Belle. He had reasons for everything he had done, had never had a choice. But still he was haunted by the times he had let other people down. Silently, he vowed that would never happen with Rogue. He would always be there when she needed him. Remy only wished he could do something to help her now. To help them all.
Corsair appeared from the cockpit, checked on Hepzibah briefly, then turned to address the X-Men.
“We’re getting close, folks,” he said. “We’ll be scratching the atmosphere in just under four minutes. Time to get strapped in.”
Gambit looked at Rogue, saw anxiety and regret in her eyes and realized that, with all her power, she must be feeling as helpless as he was. Probably more so. He squeezed her gloved hands between his own and realized, finally, that there really wasn’t anything either of them could do except hold on tight to one another.
Just hold on.
Once he was certain that Scott, Jean, Gambit, and Rogue were strapped in, Corsair returned to the medi-slab where Hepzibah lay. He stood over her prone form and looked, for just a moment, at her peacefully unconscious face. For a moment, he wished his lover could find such peace in her waking times. More often than not, she could barely rein in her ferocity, her hostility.
Corsair had been fascinated with Hepzibah the first time he had seen her, when they had been slave-prisoners of the Shi’ar Empire together. She had already formed an unbreakable bond with Raza and Ch’od, and when Corsair met the three of them, despite their differences, it felt as though the last pieces of a puzzle had been put in place. And a big part of that feeling had to do with Hepzibah.
Not that he did not have his misgivings. In truth, Christopher Summers had always worried that Hepzibah had returned his affections because it was convenient, because they were a team. He believed that she loved him, but he could never quite understand why. Beyond that, however, was something more. Something perhaps more troubling.
Corsair had led them to become the Starjammers, interstellar pirates, out of need. Certainly they needed to survive in a system still ruled by the Shi’ar emperor D’Ken, who had murdered Corsair’s wife. There was that need. But it was more than that. He had fancied himself some kind of galactic Robin Hood, a rogue hero. It felt good. Necessary.
For Hepzibah, however, Corsair had come to suspect more and more over the years that the fight itself was the thing. She seemed to thrive on combat, to hold eternal grudges. There were times when he believed she incited battle where it had not been necessary. It was all far from the way he wanted to live his life, from the philosophy to which he had attempted to remain faithful.
There were things about this woman that Christopher Summers did not like very much at all. But when he heard her soft, trilling laugh or her intimate purr, when he saw those blue feline eyes sparking, when they surged into battle side by side, he knew beyond any doubt that he loved her. It was a conundrum, but such was the nature of love, he believed.
Corsair ran his fingers over the light fur on Hepzibah’s face, just as he felt the first rumble of atmospheric turbulence beneath his feet. The ride was about to get very rough, and he cursed himself for delaying so long. Quickly he turned his attention to the medical readouts on the display above Hepzibah’s chest. He entered a series of commands that would introduce adrenaline into Hepzibah’s system, eliminating the sedative.
The Starjammer shimmied slightly.
“Corsair,” his son warned from the other side of the cabin. “Get strapped in, now. You don’t have time for anything else.”
“I just need a moment,” he responded.
The adrenaline kicked in, and Hepzibah opened her eyes with a feline hiss of anger.
“Sorry, m’love,” Corsair said gently, even as Hepzibah’s features softened with affection at the sight of him. “We need you up and around now.”
“What’s happening?” she asked, obviously confused. “Where are we?”
“Entering the atmosphere of Sol-3,” Corsair answered. “Hyperburners only, and they’re so fried we can’t slow down or they might shut down. Just stay there and hold on tight.”
“Set … VTOL … for landing,” she muttered.
Corsair had thought Hepzibah still seemed disoriented, and her nonsense words confirmed it. She seemed to drift away slightly, but did not lose consciousness. That was good enough, he thought. As long as they didn’t have to carry her in an emergency. Though, of course, if it came to that Corsair would accept the burden of her weight without a second thought.
The Starjammer lurched, as though it had slammed into a barrier and broken through, and Corsair stumbled several steps toward the cockpit. Before anything further could happen, he pulled himself along the cabin to his seat, right by the medi-slab, and strapped in.
* * *
ARCHANGEL knew he was a hell of a pilot. He’d trained on planes at the age of nine, flown solo at thirteen, and had his own jet when he turned eighteen. All thanks to the Worthington family fortune. Part of his mutant gift, so that he could understand how to use his wings, was an instinctual comprehension of the laws of flight. He had flown the X-Men’s Blackbird dozens of times, had a higher performance rating on it than anyone else on the team. But this was much different.
Once, in a crisis, he had flown a Starcore space shuttle. But that had been several years earlier, and the Starjammer was a much bigger ship. Still, as copilot, which meant watching the instruments and backing up the pilot’s judgment calls, he seemed to be doing okay. Just as long as Ch’od held it together.
“You’re doing great, big guy,” Archangel said. “How are you feeling?”
“To be honest, my friend, not so well,” Ch’od admitted. “I am afraid the explosion during my spacewalk might have left me with what you would call a concussion.”
Warren felt slightly nauseous.
“You can’
t be serious,” he said.
“Of course I can,” Ch’od replied, unaware of the sarcasm in Archangel’s voice. “Though I urge you not to worry. I am confident that I will be able to complete this mission without succumbing to disorientation.”
“Oh,” Warren said, raising his eyebrows, “that makes me feel so much better.”
An alarm sounded on the command control readout. A red light began to flash rapidly, then burnt out with a small puff of smoke.
“What the hell was that?” he asked, then proceeded to check the instruments himself. Ch’od was busy trying to keep them on course, and Warren didn’t dare interrupt him again.
He scanned the instruments, and was appalled by how fast things had gone from bad to worse. The communication system had never been repaired, but it had been left on. The resulting power drain had gone unnoticed until, with maximum demands placed on the ship, the comm system had shorted out, taking the navigational computer with it. When he informed Ch’od, the reptilian alien only nodded his huge head and kept glancing back and forth from the space-window to the readouts still on his display board.
“More good news,” Archangel said. “Heat shields are at 91 percent capacity, but they’re already placing a drain on life support.”
“Brace yourself,” was all Ch’od said by way of an answer.
The Starjammer lurched as if it had smashed into the ocean. The seat harness was the only thing that kept Archangel from smashing his face into the command control unit. Momentum threw him forward, whipping his head toward the viewport, then back with a tearing of muscle tissue. Warren felt the pain immediately, and held his neck as straight as possible. After a moment, when the worst of it had subsided, he turned his head from side to side and found that only a little pain remained.
Then he noticed the instruments, flashing lights, warning him of impending danger.
“Ch’od,” he said softly.
There was no response. Archangel turned his head gingerly, so as not to exacerbate his injury, and saw that Ch’od was limp in his harness. The pressure, the whip-crack of striking Earth’s outer atmosphere at that speed had taken its toll. He was unconscious.
Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men Page 48
