Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men Page 3

  Yet, she had another power, one she could not control, which allowed her to temporarily steal the memories and abilities of an opponent, simply by touching his skin. It was often a devastating, even debilitating, experience for her. Tragically, this meant that Rogue could virtually never touch another human being without doing them harm, could never be intimate, never even share a simple kiss.

  The midday sun hung benevolently in the sky above the Xavier Institute. A cool breeze stirred in the trees, and the sunlight sparkled on the tiny waves the wind brought up on the lake. Laughter filled the air, the laughter of friends, nearly family. Scott knew Rogue as well as any of them except perhaps for Gambit, and at least enough to know that a day like today would let her forget, at least for a little while, the curse of her mutant powers.

  But nothing, not the most beautiful day imaginable, ever seemed to shake the grimly serious man known as Bishop. Scott watched as Storm served to Bishop’s team again, prompting a brief volley from Bobby to Hank, back to Gambit then Rogue, and finally to Bishop, who slammed it out of bounds again.

  “Good one, Bish!” Bobby shouted, good-naturedly mocking his teammate’s ineptitude.

  “You mean that was out as well?” Bishop asked in earnest amazement. “What, then, would be ‘in bounds?’ What a foolish game this is!”

  “You realize, Bishop,” Hank put in, walking across the grass on his hands, “that your protestations commenced immediately subsequent to the reversal of your team’s fortunes in this contest.”

  Bishop gritted his teeth, his temple pulsing under the scar of the letter M that had been branded onto his dark skin. His fists tensed and muscles bunched under his sky blue T-shirt, before relaxing again. He looked down at his sneakers amidst a pause in the day’s festivities—everyone seemed to be holding their breath, ever unsure of how the enigmatic man would react. Then, incredibly, a small smile crept across his face.

  “Serve the ball, Beast,” Bishop said. “I’m going to kick your fuzzy blue ass from here to Manhattan.”

  Scott laughed along with the others, as Hank assured Bishop he was more than happy to oblige. It was a refreshing moment, one of many that fine day. While the rest of them often had an edge, Archangel particularly, they were all capable of letting off steam from time to time. Until that moment, Scott had wondered whether Bishop would ever take a moment to relax.

  Not that his constant alarm and grim countenance were difficult to understand. Bishop had come from a future where the X-Men were little more than a legend to which one might aspire. It was a world gone drastically wrong, where mutants had been subjugated, hounded and destroyed, and had only begun to rebuild some kind of life on Earth before Bishop was lost in time. He had been a mutant policeman there, a member of the XSE, whose job was hunting outlaw mutants.

  They didn’t know if the world of Bishop’s time was an inevitability, but ever since his arrival in their own time, the X-Men had fought to make certain it never came about. Scott himself had often been accused of being far too serious, but he hadn’t heard that criticism very often since Bishop’s arrival. He hoped that they both were learning to relax when the opportunity came.

  “Uh-uh, Hank,” Wolverine said, his voice a low rumble as always. “It’s time for the ol’ Canucklehead to serve. Me an’ the Cajun got a score to settle.”

  “Ah, indeed,” Hank said with a smile, “how could we forget the little matter of the exploding ball from our last game? By all means, Wolverine. Your serve.”

  “Hey, no fair,” Bobby called. “You guys have been pretty strict with our team on the boundary lines. I don’t think you should serve out of order now.”

  “What’s the matter, Bobby?” Storm asked. “It’s only a game.”

  “Maybe to you it is, petite,” Gambit finally piped up, his Cajun patois marking every word with his New Orleans heritage, “but to us boys, winning ain’t everyt’ing, it de only t’ing.”

  “You’re such a sexist, Remy LeBeau,” Rogue snapped. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  “Must be love, chere,” Gambit said with a lustful grin, rubbing the ever-present bristle on his chin. “Got to be love.”

  “Heads up, Cajun!” Wolverine growled, then smashed the ball across the net.

  Scott watched the volley, dimly aware of Jean and the Professor behind him. He could hear nothing, but he assumed they were communicating telepathically. Charles Xavier was the most powerful psi the world had ever known, his telepathy unmatched anywhere. And he had spent years training Jean so that she was, if not gifted with as much raw power, then certainly nearly as adept at using those same powers.

  The game continued, Gambit’s natural agility helping his side immeasurably, though the entire team was in peak condition. Scott found Gambit fascinating, and strangely, had never been able to completely trust the Cajun. Like Rogue, he had done questionable things, his past shrouded in mystery and intrigue. When Rogue had reformed, there was no question in his mind about her sincerity. With Gambit however, a member of the New Orleans Thieves’ Guild for most of his life, it was another story. Though Gambit was an integral part of the team, and Scott was as certain as he could be of the man’s loyalty, there always seemed to be a hidden, personal agenda behind Remy LeBeau’s actions.

  Nothing of the sort could be said about Wolverine. What you saw with Logan was what you got. His heart was as bare as the gleaming adamantium claws that burst from his knuckles whenever he needed them. None of them knew his age, his full name, or more than the most significant details of his past before he joined the X-Men. But there was no deception involved, for Wolverine himself knew little more than they. He’d been a covert operative before he was experimented upon, by whom he did not know. He’d been nearly savage then as well, but had thankfully grown less so over the years.

  Unless, of course, he was pushed over the edge, into the berserker fury they had all witnessed, and found so disturbing that it was rarely discussed even when Wolverine was not around. He was fiercely independent, prone to acts and words of defiance simply to prove it, but just as passionately loyal when he was needed. As traumatic as many of his life’s defining moments had been, there was not a soul among them who put more energy into having a good time—in his own way—when the opportunity arose.

  “All right, Cajun, get ready,” Wolverine said as Bishop made a high, arcing hit, the ball sailing lazily, well above the net. “Here it comes.”

  Though short in stature, Wolverine was a powerful figure. He leaped high to spike the ball down on the other side of the net, most likely directly at Gambit’s face. Gambit was also aloft, hoping to deflect Wolverine’s shot. Logan’s arm shot forward, palm out flat, the ball inches from his hand …

  Snikt!

  Wolverine’s claws popped out, puncturing the ball with a whoosh of air. He dropped to the ground in a fighting stance, ignoring the cries around him.

  “What the hell do you call that, Logan?” Bobby yelled.

  “Now, that can’t be in the rules,” Bishop said reasonably.

  “Wolverine, what are you doing?” Storm asked. “You know that’s the only ball we got, sugar,” Rogue laughed.

  “Quiet,” Wolverine snapped. “All of you. Listen.”

  Scott was at attention immediately, as were they all. They knew that tone in Wolverine’s voice. Danger. Scott strained to listen, knowing how much more acute Wolverine’s feral senses were than his own. And then he did hear something. A low whine, or whistle, almost like a bomb falling …

  “Incoming,” Wolverine said simply.

  The whistle grew into a terrible, deafening screech, and all ten X-Men went on alert. Archangel, Rogue, and Storm took to the air while Bobby instantaneously transformed himself into the Iceman. Gambit uprooted one of the volleyball net posts and tore it free, prepared to use it in place of the bo-stick he usually carried.

  Wait, X-Men! Professor Xavier’s telepathic voice burst into Scott’s head, and he knew the rest of the team heard it as well. We are not unde
r attack. Look …

  “Up there!” Jean shouted, for clearly she had sensed it too. “It’s a ship!”

  Scott looked up, along the angle of Jean’s pointing finger, and saw it for himself. A silver dot, trailing smoke and growing larger, seemingly headed directly for the Xavier Institute. In that moment, Scott Summers was no more. He was Cyclops now, and in command.

  “Storm!” he shouted over the wail of the plummeting vessel’s engines, screeching as the pilot tried desperately to pull out of the dive. “Use the wind to try to slow their descent, and try to aim them for the lake! Bobby, get ready to ice down any flames on the ship.”

  He turned to Jean, far across the lawn from him now where she stood on the pier. Her fiery red hair shone in the sun, and she shielded her eyes as she watched the ship’s deadly descent. God, how he loved her. Though he knew she was just as capable as he, often more so, he could not help feeling a twinge of concern for her safety.

  Jean, he thought, knowing that the psychic bond that she had created between them would carry his words to her. Is there anything you can do to slow the ship’s descent?

  Not significantly, and not without risk. Certainly we could do no more for them than Ororo with her control of the weather. But Scott, you should know that I sense two beings on board that craft. Both are badly hurt, and I recognize their psychic auras. I know who they are, Scott! The ship, it must be …

  “The Starjammer!” Scott exclaimed as the craft finally dropped close enough for a clear view. Its back end was in flames, and Storm was attempting to guide it to the lake. It was going to be a close call, but it seemed as though the Starjammer would crash in the water after all.

  “Jean! Professor!” Hank shouted from behind Scott. “Get off the pier! It’s going to be very close!”

  The rest of the team gathered round, ready to extract the ship’s passengers and get them to safety in case they could not stop it from sinking, or the flames were out of control. An explosion was not out of the question.

  Jean had said there were two passengers, which confused Scott, and worried him. The Starjammers were a band of interstellar pirates turned freedom fighters who stayed mainly within the confines of the alien Shi’ar Empire. Their presence on Earth always meant trouble, and usually some kind of off-planet travel for the X-Men.

  But there were four members of the Starjammers, not two. The X-Men had fought at their side many times, and gotten to know them all quite well. Their ranks included Raza, a cybernetic swordsman; Ch’od, a huge amphibian alien; Hepzibah, a female of the feline Mephisitoid race; and Corsair, the Earth-born human who was their leader.

  But Corsair was more than just another Terran, and more than the leader of the Starjammers. His real name was Christopher Summers. Cyclops was his son.

  The Starjammer slammed hard into the lake, sending a huge wave of water up over its banks. There was no way Cyclops could know if his father was on board. And if he was, what kind of condition he might be in. With the staccato rap of sleet on pavement, liquid ice sprayed from Bobby Drake’s frozen hands, solidifying in place to form a smooth ramp to the Starjammer’s hull. With another burst from his hands, Iceman froze the ship’s burning parts instantly.

  As Cyclops pushed through his comrades and rushed across the ice bridge to the ship, he prayed for his father’s safety. They’d had so little time together, and Cyclops could not bear to think that it might be all they would ever have.

  “Get back!” he barked, then let loose with a finely honed optic blast, cutting through the hull like a laser with only the power in his eyes. Despite the bright, clear blue of the sky, the peace of the day, a terrible dread came over him as he looked into the darkened inner hull of the Starjammer. The smell of burning rubber and fuel was heavy in the air, blocking out the scent of the forest around them, and the wild lilacs that grew not far from the lake. An errant thought skipped through his mind: Jean loved lilacs. He tried to hold the thought, to focus on it, but could not.

  Cyclops wanted to rush in, to search immediately for his father, but he held back. For years he had honed his skills and instincts as a warrior and a leader. It would benefit no one were he to abandon those hard-won instincts now. The X-Men were a team for a reason, and unlike many of the others, Cyclops never forgot that. Not even in times of personal crisis.

  “Bishop, take point,” he called, knowing that Bishop’s ability to absorb energy made him the perfect human shield. “Wolverine, with me. Scout for scents. Gambit, take the rear and check all compartments.”

  Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Rogue, you and Warren fly recon, make sure whatever did this to them isn’t coming after them.”

  Bishop passed Cyclops on the bridge, barely acknowledging the team leader as he passed. Though in his time with the X-Men he had learned to relax somewhat, when danger presented itself, or a crisis arose, Bishop was all business. Fear, action, adrenaline were his world. Cyclops knew simply from observing Bishop during their missions together that the man only felt completely in control when all else was in chaos.

  Wolverine appeared at his side, adamantium claws flashing silver in the sunlight. His eyes darted around in predatory fashion. Nearly a foot shorter than Cyclops, Wolverine weighed almost as much. He was broad and stout, and lightning quick. His brown hair was shaggy, swept back into two peaks like a wolf’s ears.

  “Stay frosty, Cyke,” Wolverine snarled, an uncommon concern in his voice; uncommon at least when dealing with Cyclops. Scott and Logan had never been the best of friends.

  “I can’t say yet just who’s inside,” Wolverine added, “but not all of ’em are still breathin’.”

  Cyclops sniffed the air, trying to catch the scent of death that Wolverine had so obviously detected. He could not, and was glad. He set aside his fears for his father and the two mutants stepped aboard. A moment later, he heard soft steps behind them, and Gambit’s low voice rasped, “Right behind you, mon ami.” Cyclops did not turn around.

  Seen through his visor, everything inside the cabin had a dark, bloody red color to it. It was something about his daily life, his existence, the spectre of his mutant powers, that nobody ever considered. Certainly it was nowhere near the social handicap that Rogue’s powers caused for her. It was also not as obvious, more easily dismissed, and painful for that.

  Cyclops could not remember the last time he had seen any color other than red. His ruby quartz visor focused and controlled his optic blasts, and even in civilian garb, he had to wear glasses made of the same material. He was not the complaining type, so nobody had ever thought to ask what it was like, seeing only in shades of red.

  He hated it. But he endured it. There was so much else to be thankful for.

  “Cyclops, over here!” Bishop shouted from directly ahead. If Cyclops remembered the ship’s layout correctly, it would be the main cargo hold. Gambit made a more complete search behind them, but Cyclops was certain that, if there were any danger in the staterooms and engine area, Wolverine would have smelled it before now.

  They entered the cargo hold and found Bishop kneeling beside a pair of dead men, laid one on top of the other. They wore tight, alien military body armor. Their eyes were surrounded by tattoo-like markings, beautiful and flowing, that would have been strange to most Terrans, but were familiar to the X-Men. Where humans had hair, these aliens had a high ridge of long, thin, radiant feathers.

  “Shi’ar,” Wolverine said, and Cyclops only nodded.

  “High charge plasma burns,” Bishop said succinctly, indicating that the pair had been dead long before the ship had crashed to Earth.

  “Keep moving,” Cyclops ordered, and they went up through the companionway that led to the forward section of the ship, the main cabin and the cockpit.

  At the top they were met by a sealed hatchway. Bishop reached out to open it. He grunted in surprise as a burst of electricity shot through him with an audible crackling noise. He was blown back against the wall, but did not fall down.

  “Bishop?” Cyc
lops asked in surprise. With Bishop’s power to absorb energy, it had to have taken quite a jolt to create such an intense reaction.

  “I’m all right,” he answered, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows in appreciation of the shock he’d gotten. “Intruder security, so the ship wouldn’t be looted in case of a crash just like this.”

  “Better you than me,” Wolverine said, without a trace of a smile.

  “Very true,” Bishop answered. “Now I can use the same burst of energy, multiplied many times over, to short the whole system.”

  The broad-shouldered man slid past Cyclops again, planted his feet and slammed his hands down on the hatchway. What emerged from those hands was not exactly electricity, but something else, something completely different that had been metabolized by Bishop’s body and returned in a highly destructive form.

  The hatch blew in, tearing right out of its frame, and clattered to the metal floor of the cabin ahead.

  Bishop stood aside for Cyclops, who had begun to walk forward when Wolverine said, “Get back!” and dove ahead of them.

  In a flurry of white fur, arms lashing, claws slashing, a small alien beast fell upon Wolverine in a rage. Cyclops was stunned, watching Wolverine try to beat the thing away, and so for a moment did not recognize it. Then, as Wolverine reached a hand behind his head and tore the thing from his shoulders, cocking back his right hand to tear it open with his claws, Cyclops finally did realize what, or who, the little beast was.

  “Logan, no! It’s Cr+eeee!” he shouted.

  Though he could not hold back the momentum of his slashing fist, Wolverine’s reflexes and instincts were far faster than those of mere humans. As his blow fell toward Cr+eeee’s head, his adamantium claws retracted, snapping into place as the skin healed instantly over the holes they left behind.