X-Men: Mutant Empire Omnibus E-Book

Christopher Golden

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Bringing the classic X-Men: Mutant Empire trilogy back into print in a brand-new omnibus MAGNETO'S EMPIRE WILL RISE… They live as outcasts, hated and feared by the very humanity they protect. They are mutants, born with strange and wonderful powers that set them apart from the rest of the human race. Under the tutelage of Professor Charles Xavier, they are more than mutants. They are—the X-Men. Magneto—the X-Men's oldest, deadliest foe—has taken over a top-secret government installation that houses the Sentinels, powerful mutant-hunting robots. The X-Men must fight to keep this deadly technology out of Magneto's hands and stop him from carrying out his grand plan: establishing a global Mutant Empire. The X-Men must join forces with old enemies to stop him—but in Magneto's brave new world, who can they trust?"

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Novels of The Marvel Universe by Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Book One: Siege

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Book Two: Sanctuary

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Epilogue

Book Three: Salvation

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS

Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr

Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

Captain America: Dark Design by Stefan Petrucha

Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

Civil War by Stuart Moore

Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

X-Men & Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox (January 2020)

ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS

Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies

Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak

Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas

The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

Ant-Man and the Wasp: The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special

Black Panther: The Official Movie Companion

Black Panther: The Official Movie Special

Captain Marvel: The Official Movie Special

Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years

Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special

Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special

X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus

Print edition ISBN: 9781789093322

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789093353

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: November 2019

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2019 MARVEL

Special thanks to Lou Aronica, Ginjer Buchanan, Ken Grobe, Steve Roman, Bob Harras, Julia Molino, Stacy Gittelman, Lara Stein, Mike Thomas, Steve Behling, John Conroy and the gang at Marvel Creative Services. Original trilogy edited by Keith R.A. DeCandido.

FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING

Jeff Youngquist, VP Production Special Projects

Caitlin O’Connell, Assistant Editor, Special Projects

Sven Larsen, Director, Licensed Publishing

David Gabriel, SVP Sales & Marketing, Publishing

C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

Joe Quesada, Chief Creative Officer

Dan Buckley, President, Marvel Entertainment

Alan Fine, Executive Producer

X-Men created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For my good friends

Steve Williams and Jeff Galin, the Xavier and Magneto of my life.

Neither of whom will have any idea what that means.

PROLOGUE

CLOAKED from all detection by its extraordinary technology, the space station Avalon described an elliptical orbit around the Earth. On her observation deck, a gleaming metal platform with little ornamentation to warm the cold expanse of space, Eric Magnus Lehnsherr stood alone, gazing down at the planet of his birth with a heavy heart. He was no longer welcome on Earth. More than a man without a country, he was a man without a world. And he feared that such would be the fate of all his kind.

Eric Lehnsherr was a mutant.

He was not an uncommonly large man, standing just over six feet tall and weighing just under two hundred pounds, but there was a quiet fury about him that gave even the bravest soul pause. His eyes were the blue-gray of an impending storm, his long hair an extraordinarily perfect white. Defined by his command, of himself and others around him, he was not given to frivolous commentary or physical expression. Still, he allowed himself a low sigh, a shake of his head, and then his hand came up to stroke his smooth chin.

Lost in contemplation, in waves of hope and grim determination, he barely noticed the hiss of expelled air as a door slid open behind him. There was no danger to him, here. On Avalon, he was …

“Lord Magneto, you summoned me,” Exodus said reverently.

Magneto felt a moment of regret for the day he chose that name. In his anger, his need to present himself to the world as a being of power, he had abandoned the name his parents had given him. It had set him apart from the humans, made them fear him all the more. But it had also made it easier for them to hate. That distance, that difference, also existed in the hushed reverence with which his Acolytes treated him. Fear, hatred, reverence … Magneto wondered if he would ever grow used to them, or to the solitary world they had built around him.

Exodus stood silently, patiently awaiting whatever response Magneto might provide. His robes flowed around him, reminding Magneto of a purple and black butterfly, such a contrast to the hard shell of crimson that he himself wore.

“Your tone reveals your hope that I have finally come to my senses, Exodus,” Magneto said. “I’m sorry to inform you that I remain dedicated to the Empire Agenda.”

“My lord,” Exodus gasped, “you know that I would never think to question your will. I have not …”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Magneto assured him. “You have no fear that I will question your loyalty. Yet I know that you disapprove of this endeavor. Don’t think for a single moment that I don’t know, and understand, your feelings on this subject.”

Magneto walked to Exodus, whose eyes were downcast, and laid a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Avalon will continue to be a haven away from Earth for those mutants who accept our invitation, our challenge to live free,” Magneto said reassuringly. “And you, my friend, will continue to be the ferryman who guides those lost souls to their new lives, and the chief protector, other than myself, of all who reside here.”

Exodus nodded, but did not appear relieved.

“Please, Exodus, enough of this propriety!” Magneto said in frustration. “Ask the questions that weigh so heavily on you.”

“I know it isn’t my place, Magneto, but it all seems so unnecessary,” Exodus explained. “We have Avalon. What is keeping us from abandoning the Earth entirely?”

Magneto realized that Exodus simply could not comprehend his plans, and resolved to change that. True, Exodus would follow his orders to the letter, no matter what they might be, and he owed no one an explanation of his actions. But what good was blind obedience? Whoever followed him, Magneto had vowed, would not do so in ignorance. That was the human way.

“We are the next step in evolution,” he began, and turned to look back out at the vacuum of space, and the blue world spinning below. “We are homo sapiens superior. It is the destiny of the species currently referred to as ‘humanity’ to die out, to be replaced by our kind. It is natural that they should fear us, for we are the harbinger of their doom.

“I have spent my life trying to carve a place in the world for mutants. By natural law, we ought to be the sovereign race on this world. It is inevitable. Time and again, my efforts have been thwarted by Charles Xavier and his X-Men. Mutants themselves, these so-called heroes have naively worked toward Xavier’s dream that mutants and humans can peacefully co-exist.”

He paused, but when he spoke again, he no longer seemed to be speaking to Exodus.

“Xavier is a madman,” Magneto said, a strange sadness in his tone. “What creature ever embraces entropy? How can any rational being live side by side in harmony with the evidence of its impending death?”

“Yes, lord,” Exodus agreed. “But what you say only strengthens the case for Avalon as the haven for all mutants until we are strong enough to take the entire Earth, or until the humans begin to destroy themselves. Why continue to struggle for a refuge on Earth when we have one in the heavens?”

“Why indeed?” Magneto asked himself, a wistful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He brushed an errant lock of white hair from his face, then spun to look at Exodus once more.

“I must try, don’t you see?” he asked, suddenly vehement. “That ball of dirt and water spinning down there is our home, Exodus. We have a right to it as the next rung on the evolutionary ladder. The Earth is my home, for better or worse. Every moment of happiness, every ounce of agony, sprang from its soil. To abandon it to the new dream of Avalon means putting my vision of an Earth ruled by mutantkind on hold for an indefinable time.

“That may be what is necessary for the vision to become truth. If so, I am prepared for it. But before I am able to reconcile myself to that decision, I have to make one final effort to create a haven for mutants on Earth now, today! I put the Empire Agenda in place several years ago for just such an attempt. The moment has arrived. Do you understand that?”

Exodus cast his gaze at the floor again, and nodded. “Yes, lord,” he said. “I realize how foolish I was. Your courage is equaled only by your vast love and compassion for your fellow mutants. I am ashamed to have questioned you. What may I do to atone for my doubts?”

Magneto smiled now, like a proud and indulgent father. “The only thing I ask of you, Exodus, is to continue to populate Avalon with the seeds of the future of mutantkind and to protect her with your life until my return.”

“It shall be done, lord,” Exodus said.

“Excellent,” Magneto responded. “Now, please gather the Acolytes who will accompany me to Earth, and send Voght to me immediately.”

When Exodus left, Magneto’s spirits had risen considerably. Though he was born there, Exodus had no interest in Earth, but Magneto had been able to make him realize what the Empire Agenda meant to all mutants. To have faith. Faith was important. Magneto intended to carve a mutant haven out of the Earth, and from there begin a campaign to gradually take the entire planet. For the mission to succeed, all of his Acolytes had to be as confident as he was.

There was a rustling behind him, like wind in the fallen leaves, and Magneto turned to see the psychically projected image of the Acolyte called Scanner shimmer into existence.

“Yes, Scanner?”

“Voght has arrived, lord,” Scanner said, but did not wait for a response. Magneto watched as her psionic holo-body disappeared.

The door hissed open and Amelia Voght was there. She was a beautiful woman, with a mane of auburn hair that Magneto found quite alluring. There was nothing romantic about their relationship, yet there was a certain undeniable intimacy between them. Unlike the other Acolytes, Voght did not worship him as her lord and master. She believed in him and his vision, certainly, but when she spoke to him, particularly without the others around, it was with a familiarity that Magneto found refreshing.

“You rang?” she asked as she stepped into the observation deck.

“We will depart for Earth momentarily, Amelia,” Magneto said. “I thought it best to take you aside to inform you that I have decided to appoint you field leader for the duration of this operation.”

Voght was clearly stunned, and uncharacteristically speechless. The effect didn’t last long, however.

“I’m grateful, Magneto,” she said. “I’m assuming you’ve taken into consideration that the others will be less than pleased, particularly Unuscione?”

“I have confidence in you, Amelia,” Magneto said. “Now, shall we begin to enact the Empire Agenda?”

“Absolutely,” Voght said, her voice rising with excitement. “It isn’t every day you get to hold a planet hostage, after all.”

* * *

IT was just past seven o’clock in the morning, but the Rocky Mountains were alive with activity. Birdsong filled the air, the wind whipped through the trees, and animals prowled throughout the region. In a remote section of Colorado, on one of the many large sections of land the federal government still owned, a long, open field was surrounded by a touch-sensitive electrified fence, trimmed with razor wire. Inside the fence, a tiny bull’s-eye on the open field, was a two-story gray brick structure that would appear, to the uninitiated, as nothing more than an office building.

Beneath the field, however, there was something more.

A crackling sound drowned out the birds and the breeze and the choking stench of burning rubber suddenly filled the air, and was joined by the smell of scorched grass. Though it wasn’t more than seventy degrees, the air above the field warped and shimmered as if it were a summer swelter over heatwave-baked pavement. There was a loud, echoing bang, like the crack of a rifle, and birds fluttered in flocks from treetops around the perimeter of the fence.

Magneto and the Acolytes had arrived.

“You realize, my lord, that I could have teleported us here as easily as the technology of Avalon,” Voght said with a trace of annoyance.

Magneto turned, facing the zealous followers he had chosen for this mission, and nodded patiently. He wore the crimson helm that had covered his head, hidden his face, for so many years. It had come to represent terror in the hearts of so many humans, and majesty in the minds of the Acolytes.

“The last thing I want, Amelia,” he said after a pause, “is for you to expend energy needlessly.” He lifted his arms to include all of them. “Before this is over, each of you will be taxed to your limits. We must work together, or the dream will fail. Now, let us begin.”

The Acolytes tensed, moving into offensive positions in preparation for the moment when Magneto lowered their cloaking shield, allowing the base’s security sensors to register their presence for the first time. He surveyed the team he had chosen for this mission, and decided that he had chosen well. They looked organized and strong in their navy and crimson uniforms, and danger crackled in the air around them like heat lightning.

Senyaka’s face was hidden, as always, behind the cowl he wore, but Magneto did not need to see his face to know the blood lust in the man’s heart. Senyaka held a psionic whip, created by the power of his mind, which hummed with a paralyzing current not unlike electricity. Its every coil and snap was controlled by the Acolyte’s mind and Magneto allowed himself a moment’s sympathy for those who would feel the sting of Senyaka’s zeal.

Next to him stood Milan, who was invaluable to the Empire Agenda. Milan stood quietly, eyes covered by a visor whose sensors helped him to process incoming information instantly. His brain was like a computer, and could access both human and artificial intelligence, flesh and machine, with equal expediency.

Magneto allowed himself a slight smile at the sight of the powerhouse Joanna Cargil, once known as Frenzy, attempting to contain her hyperactive personality. Cynical by nature, the black woman had nevertheless become one of the most devout among the Acolytes. She stood next to Javitz, who was equally powerful. At nearly nine feet tall, the gold headset and shoulder armor they all wore made him look even more imposing. The only flaw in the giant’s form was the bandage he wore to cover his useless left eye.

The Kleinstock brothers, Harlan and Sven, guarded their flank. The twins had once been triplets, but the third brother, Eric, had been lost on one of the Acolytes’ missions. Their power, hideous as it was, had been cut by one third then, but they were still effective. Unfortunately, the twins rarely thought ahead, and had to be kept tightly reined.

Voght was in the front—where she belonged as field leader—despite the displeased grunts with which several of the others had greeted the news of her appointment. By her side was perhaps the most dangerous of the Acolytes, and the one most startled and chagrined by Magneto’s choice of Voght, Unuscione. With the psychic exoskeleton her mind constantly emitted to defend her body, she was untouchable. She was even more dangerous, however, because she could bend, shape, and extend that shell as she wished, using it to capture, crush, or pummel an enemy.

They were young, yes. Magneto had seen too many young mutants lose their lives in this struggle. But they believed with all their hearts, and he could not have asked for a more dedicated team for this mission. He was proud to stand with them, though their near worship of him must ever keep him apart from them as well. All but Voght.

“Amelia,” he said softly, “on your word.”

Her eyes widened, the honor of command still taking her by surprise. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly, and barked out her orders.

“Cargil, Javitz, on the point. Kleinstocks through the back. Senyaka and Unuscione on the flank and Milan with me. On my word, shields down and attack,” she snarled, then paused a moment.

“Go!” Voght yelled.

Alarms shattered the air as the shields dropped. They moved as one toward the small building. Previously concealed weapons stations began to fire a tightly woven pattern of plasma bolts and laser bursts across the field. Harlan Kleinstock took several out with a plasma blast from his hands before Magneto caused the rest to simply explode with nothing more than a dismissive gesture and a light electromagnetic pulse, generated on a specific wavelength.

Javitz and Cargil didn’t bother knocking, choosing instead to simply crash through the front of the building. A heartbeat later, the Kleinstocks blew the rear wall out. As Voght and the others approached, Magneto held back, waiting to see what the next move would be. At the center of the nearly destroyed building was a massive, square, vault-like structure, perhaps eight feet wide, high and deep. To the right of the doors, which resembled those of an elevator, was a slot for a keycard and a keypad, which clearly implied a combination of some kind.

“Milan,” Voght barked. “Open it.”

Magneto was pleased. Most of the others would have simply smashed the vault, but there might be security or defense measures that could hold them up, or it might conceivably be tough enough to slow their advance just a little. Sometimes the light touch was the best way to proceed.

Milan walked calmly to the door, his dark, angular features only intensifying the oddness of the arrowhead tattooed on his forehead, pointing down at the bridge of his nose. He reached out a gloved hand and lightly touched the keypad next to the door, but did not enter any numbers.

“My friend,” Milan said to the computer. “I would be very grateful if you would let us inside.”

There was a pause, and the mutant cocked his head as if listening to a ghostly voice none of the others could hear. After a moment, Milan spoke again.

“Certainly,” he said. “I would be pleased to speak with you again when our business here is concluded. I know how lonely it must get.”

With a rushing sound like the fall of a guillotine, the door slid open.

“Thank you,” Milan said calmly, and moved into the shaft before addressing the others. “We will be taken to the main complex, but there will most certainly be guards waiting there for us.”

“Good!” the Kleinstock brothers said in unison.

The lift, a large, armored elevator, dropped rapidly down the shaft and came under fire the moment it appeared in the main complex area, though the guards doing the actual shooting must have known their plasma bursts would not penetrate the lift’s armored shell.

When the doors opened, Magneto stepped forward, motioning for the Acolytes to wait a moment. The predetermined schedule and his own impatience demanded that not another moment be spared. He set up an e-m field around himself, which deflected the many shots that now assaulted him. At his most imperious, Magneto raised his arms as if conducting a symphony, and each of the guards—he counted an even dozen—jumped back as their firearms shattered in their hands.

Unuscione was the first out of the elevator, in advance of Voght’s signal, and he made a mental note to punish her later for that transgression. With her psionic exoskeleton forming a huge battering ram, she reached out with her mind and slammed the woman who appeared to be captain of the guard into a low cement wall and held her there.

“Listen up, flatscans!” Unuscione yelled. “As much as it pains us to say it, none of you have to die here today. All you have to do is leave, immediately and without a word, and you will live.”

“You’re dealing with the U.S. Army here, mutant scum,” the captain croaked. “Withdraw now, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Don’t you worry about us, G.I. Jill,” Unuscione said. “I’ve been paying that bill since the day I was born.”

The green energy that formed Unuscione’s exoskeleton changed shape then, twisting, folding, and snapping the captain in two with a sickening crunch.

“Die, you mutie freaks!” a soldier screamed as he leaped for Unuscione, singling her out for her actions even though his comrades stood frozen with fear and horror. Though her exoskeleton shielded Unuscione from any such attack, Cargil stepped forward, corn-rowed hair jingling with her movement, and slammed her fist into the soldier’s chest, shattering his ribcage. The man crumpled to the ground, wheezing in pain. He would not live out the hour.

“Only thing worse than a flatscan,” Cargil sneered, “is a flatscan jarhead.”

Magneto discouraged the use of such words as flatscan, a derogatory term which mutants had coined for those who did not show the essential x-factor that caused mutations on their genetic charts—in other words, “normal” humans. However, since the humans had chosen to make mutant the dirtiest of words, he could not bring himself to correct his Acolytes when they used such terms.

Voght stepped forward into the aftermath of the violence and addressed the soldiers.

“This facility and all of its contents are now the property of the lord Magneto. As you can plainly see, you have no hope of defeating, or even injuring us. For the duration of our visit here, you will be incarcerated. As long as you do not resist, you will survive,” she said, surprising Magneto, who had originally planned to simply expel the humans.

“She said we could go!” one of the soldiers howled in complaint, pointing toward Unuscione.

“That was before you decided to make our lives difficult,” Voght responded. “You’ve already taken up more time than you are worth. It would have been more expedient to kill you. Keep that in mind, and get the hell out of the way.”

Magneto smiled. Unuscione had overstepped her bounds, had taken the aspect of field leader for herself, and this was Voght’s way of reestablishing her primacy without showing the enemy that there was any dissension in the Acolytes’ ranks. He was proud of her.

“It’s not what you think,” Voght said as he approached, both of them watching the Kleinstocks herd the humans away. “I simply realized that it will be beneficial to keep our identity secret for as long as possible. If the military don’t know you are here, they won’t be as quick to reach a drastic decision like just nuking the whole place.”

Magneto raised one eyebrow.

“Very good, Amelia,” he said. “I often underestimate exactly how much they hate me.”

“It isn’t the hate, Magneto,” she answered. “It’s the fear. Anyway, I imagine my test run is over with. Your turn to give orders again.”

“My turn, Amelia?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “I always give the orders.”

“As you say,” she answered, and bowed her head in earnest acknowledgment of her error.

“Round up the engineers and whatever other personnel are present and put them in with the soldiers,” he instructed. “I’ll meet you in the silo.”

Magneto turned, his heels clicking on the cement floor and echoing through the chamber. He walked briskly, cape flying behind him, down the short hall that he knew led to what had once been an enormous nuclear silo. Now, it housed something far more dangerous. The silo doors were twenty feet high, the bare metal of their adamantium alloy gleaming dully in the false light. They were, of course, closed.

Magneto’s stomach muscles tightened as he reached out with his heart, soul, and hands, with the complete and total mastery of the Earth’s magnetic fields that were his to command, and tore the doors from their frame with the echoing screech of a tanker striking an iceberg.

A dozen more steps brought him into the silo. As he looked up, scanning the massive constructs that lined the sides of the silo, Magneto’s face lit up with pleasure. For the first time in a long time, he actually grinned. Each of them was one hundred feet tall, equipped with destructive technology decades ahead of anything else in the world, the deep purple metal of their bodies gleaming in the burst of light coming from the door Magneto had torn open.

“Magnificent,” he said under his breath, to no one but himself. And maybe, to them, though he knew they couldn’t hear him.

Not yet. But when the twenty killing machines in that silo were activated, they would hear him. And obey.

Humanity would forever regret that they had created such monstrous robotic weapons as the Sentinels.

ONE

SMASHING through Earth’s atmosphere, the starship’s hull burst into flames. The planet’s gravity pulled them ever faster toward the surface and the pilots struggled to slow the craft. They knew they weren’t going to die. Dying was not an option. They had to reach their destination, one way or another. They had to survive to pass along the message.

Once they had completed that task, should their injuries be sufficient to take their lives, then so be it. But first, they had to regain control and guide the ship to their target location.

They had to reach the X-Men.

* * *

IT was a peaceful Sunday morning on the beautifully wooded grounds of the Xavier Institute in Salem Center, New York. Salem Center was a small community in affluent Westchester County, and Professor Charles Xavier, founder and president of the Xavier Institute, one of its most upstanding residents.

Down at the lake that stretched across the center of his estate, Xavier’s comrades, most of them former students, prepared for a day of picnicking, swimming, volleyball, and other, more innovative sports. There was no reason, particularly, for the celebration. It was simply that the band of mutant heroes known as the X-Men found themselves a beautiful summer day without any crisis to attend to. Such an occasion was rare enough that they put all their energy into making the most of it.

Cradling a decent-size watermelon on the tops of his thighs, Xavier gave one final shove of his wheelchair to get himself off the lawn and onto the wooden pier that jutted out into the lake. The gas grill was already on, and he caught a whiff of the tantalizing smell of hot Italian sausage, an especially spicy lamb and pepper blend that Remy LeBeau had picked up at a Greenwich Village butcher shop the day before.

“Don’t do it, Hank!” Bobby Drake yelled from the end of the pier. Xavier looked up to see that Hank McCoy, called the Beast because of his extraordinary strength and agility—not to mention the dark blue-black fur that covered his body—was dangling Drake off the pier.

Xavier’s first impulse was to interrupt the pair, to instruct Hank to put Bobby down. But it had been a long time since the two men had been his students. Hank was now a world-renowned biochemist (not to mention a former member of the Avengers in good standing). Bobby could stand a little more maturing, but that was their business now, not Charles Xavier’s.

“My apologies, Bobby,” Hank said, the teasing obvious in his voice. “Was there something you desired to say to me? Some sort of repentance, perhaps?”

“Not on your life, blue boy!” Bobby said in smug defiance. “And if you drop me, I’m not swimming all by my … hey!”

Hank let go of Bobby’s legs, a grin showing the elongated canines in his powerful jaws. He seemed about to make another comment when, in an instant, a huge hook made of already melting ice shot up from below, snagged Hank around the waist and pulled him into the water. Just as suddenly, Bobby appeared next to the pier on a pillar of ice, his body completely covered with it. There was a reason, after all, that he was called the Iceman.

“You two will never grow up,” Scott Summers said from behind the grill, where he was turning sausages and basting chicken breasts with his “Mad Dog” hot sauce. He tried to hide his amusement, ever the serious, mature field leader of the X-Men. But Charles knew Scott as if the man were his own son, had nearly raised him in his late teens, and right now Scott was doing his best not to laugh.

When Hank pulled himself onto the pier, his blue fur soaked and sticking to his body, showing just how muscular he was, Scott did finally burst out laughing, along with the rest of them, Xavier included. It couldn’t be helped.

“You know,” Hank said with a wry grin, “this isn’t the sort of thing a reputable scientist does on his days off. I’m growing too old for this roughhousing.”

“Not too old, Hank, just too serious,” Warren Worthington said amicably, and Xavier was glad to hear him speak up. Warren had once been the high-flying Angel, his mutant genes gifting him with a set of beautiful white wings. When those wings had been destroyed, then amputated and replaced with deadly substitutes formed of bio-organic steel, Warren’s demeanor had changed drastically. Now called Archangel, he had only recently begun to emerge from the dark cloud these events had cast over him.

“Look who’s talking about too serious!” Bobby cracked, and Warren smiled. Once he might have joined in their foolishness, but for now, Xavier thought a smile was better than nothing.

“The more things change, eh, Charles?” a soft, beautiful voice said behind him. Xavier didn’t need to turn to identify her. If Scott Summers was his surrogate son, then Jean Grey was a surrogate daughter. Years ago they had all come to him as his students, learning to live as mutants in a world that hated and feared them, learning to use their mutant-born abilities, and of course, simply learning.

“It’s always refreshing to note that some things never do, Jean,” Xavier said, as Jean took the watermelon from his lap and put it on one of the two long picnic tables. He watched her move, in that elegant way of hers, to where Scott stood over the barbecue. Her long red hair was pulled back in an intricate braid, and it swung to one side as she leaned in to kiss Scott, the man she had loved since the X-Men began.

Though the rest of the team was certain to make their way to the pier shortly, for the moment he was alone with his five original students. The first mutants to bear the name X-Men! It was a family, his family, and like every other they had their squabbles. It had grown as well, members coming and going, numbers rising and falling. But no matter what the future held, no matter how many new names were added to the roster of the X-Men, there would always be something special between Xavier and these five. There was no question that he loved the others just as much, but there was a difference.

Hank and Bobby were trying to get Warren into the water. Jean and Scott spoke softly, the sun reflecting off the ruby quartz glasses he had to wear to keep his mutant energy beams from bursting uncontrollably from his eyes. In the field, Scott wore a visor made of the same material, thus his codename, Cyclops.

Xavier leaned back and took it all in, glad to have that moment with this group. The summer sun was warm on his face and his bald pate, countered by a fine breeze and the coolness of the lake. From somewhere on the estate, he smelled freshly mowed grass, even above the scents of the barbecue.

He closed his eyes and, for a moment, Charles Xavier was truly able to remember what it had been like to be a boy. What it had been all about. Many claimed to remember, but those spontaneous moments when the past was there, just within reach, when all senses combined with the sense of childhood self to remind you what it was like … those moments of clarity were extraordinarily rare, and sadly fleeting.

But they felt wonderful. With all that he had experienced as an adult, Charles Xavier rarely had time to miss the innocence of his youth. Even when he did, it was usually accompanied by a wistful mood that was unlike him. This was different. This was a feeling of well-being he had not experienced in many years. Other than the day, the company, the memories, there was no tangible reason for it. That made it all the better.

Five minutes later, when Storm, Rogue, Gambit, Wolverine, and Bishop had all arrived, he had reason to be proud and content all over again.

When Rogue demanded a volleyball rematch to avenge the trouncing her team had been given the month before, the entire group was happy to oblige.

After lunch, of course.

* * *

“WHAT do you mean, ‘out of bounds,’ Rogue?” Bishop growled.

“Which word didn’t y’understand, sugar?” Rogue teased, her Southern accent adding a gentleness to her sarcasm that always made it much easier to withstand.

“Our serve, I believe,” Storm said, a wry smile on her face as Rogue passed her the ball.

Scott Summers smiled as well. All of the X-Men dealt with the pressures they lived under differently, and it always amazed him to see how those pressures had shaped their personalities. Over time, as Cyclops, the co-leader of the X-Men, Scott had come to know them all.

Storm, with whom he shared leadership duties, was grand and as blustery as the weather she commanded in battle, yet in calmer times she was quiet, almost shy. Her chocolate skin and silk white hair combined with her regal manner to give her statuesque quality. A proud woman, she often seemed cold to those meeting her for the first time. In truth, though, Storm cared very deeply for those around her as well.

Rogue was the polar opposite of Storm’s profound calm and control. Her auburn hair had a skunk trail down the center that added to her natural flamboyance. She was quick with a jab, physical or verbal, but nearly always in good humor. A humor that was, in truth, often a thin veil covering the pain she felt regarding her mutant abilities. Gifted with extraordinary strength and the ability to fly, not to mention being nearly invulnerable to harm, Rogue was one of the most powerful X-Men.

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 under 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?” Cyclops 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.

Cyclops breathed a sigh of relief as Wolverine held Cr+eeee at arm’s length, the little beast still chattering away but no longer attempting to harm them. It must finally have recognized them as well, Cyclops reasoned. Cr+eeee was from the distant planet Lupus, and had been with the Starjammers since long before their first contact with the X-Men. The creature was a constant companion to Ch’od, who claimed to understand its chittering language, and that it was as intelligent as any other sentient being they had encountered.

“Cr+eeee, what happened to the Starjammers?” Cyclops asked.

The little alien reached a furry paw up to scratch at his long, pale proboscis.

“You t’ink maybe he pilot de ship, mon ami?” Gambit purred, his sarcasm unwelcome and ill-timed.

“He understands,” Cyclops said coldly.

“Maybe so,” Wolverine added, “but will you understand him if he answers?”

Cr+eeee cocked his head to one side, listening to this exchange, then dropped to the ground from Wolverine’s shoulder and raced to the cockpit door. Bishop was already there, prepared to endure whatever defense mechanisms the space pirates had built into the passage. When he reached out a hand, Cr+eeee started to screech wildly, and Bishop paused a moment.

“I don’t think he wants us to go in there,” Bishop said, studying the alien with new appreciation.

“I don’ t’ink it matter what he want,” Gambit said, striding forward.

“Gambit, wait …” Cyclops began, but Wolverine stood in front of both of them, his claws popping out with a clang.

“Door’s mine,” Wolverine said, just as Cr+eeee leaped from the floor, sank his claws into Wolverine’s flesh and clothing, then bounded onto a nearby control panel. His claws began to tap out a numbered sequence on the keypad even as Wolverine’s adamantium claws raked a gaping hole open in the cockpit door.

A shock ran through the metal claws and up his arms. Every muscle in his body tensed with its power. Wolverine bared his teeth and a low growl emitted from deep in his throat as he shook with the energy of the door’s protective field.

Cr+eeee finished entering the code, and Wolverine seemed to deflate slightly, a hiss of air coming from his mouth. He kicked through the torn apart cockpit door, then turned to look at his teammates, motioning toward Cr+eeee as a bemused grin lifted one side of his mouth.

“Furball’s not as dumb as he looks,” Wolverine said with a chuckle, then entered the cockpit.

“Damn!” he swore softly. “Looks like we got a situation here.”

Cyclops steeled himself against what he would find, then went in, Bishop and Gambit following quickly behind. The grotesque tableau that awaited them filled his heart with a nauseating mixture of dread and relief.

Ch’od lay slumped across the ship’s instrument panel. The steering column had broken off, and its shaft impaled the Timorian’s scaly, reptilian hide. A pool of green, brackish liquid had formed under his seat, and a darker, sticky looking green lay at the center of several charred wounds on his back.

Raza, the Shi’ar cyborg, looked even worse. He lay on his back on the cold metal floor, one hand covering a gaping wound in his belly. There was a laser-clean slice in the cyborg side of his face, and his biomechanical left arm was nowhere to be seen. Only a sparking, smoking stump remained, emitting a noxious chemical smell and the sickening sound of gears that ground on despite his unconsciousness.

Cyclops was deeply concerned for them, but the dread and relief he felt came from the same bit of information. His father, Corsair, was not among them. For the moment, at least, he forced himself to take that as good news.

“If dis green stuff is blood,” Gambit said in wonder as he crouched next to Ch’od, “den de big guy seem to ’ave lost an awful lot of it.”

His words spurred Cyclops into action. Wolverine and Bishop were attempting to lift Raza in order to carry him back through the hold.

“No time for that,” he said sharply, then focused his fear and uncertainty into an optic blast that took out the entire glass observation shield at the front of the cockpit. It exploded into shards and he shouted for Iceman to get a ramp up to them immediately. Only then did he notice that the ship had sunk so far into the lake that the cockpit was mere inches from the surface of the water.

Cyclops reached for Ch’od, and Gambit began to pull on the nearly quarter-ton reptilian alien.

“No, Gambit, wait,” he said. “We pull him off of there now, and whatever blood he’s got left is likely to pump out at our feet.”

“We goin’ to leave ’im ’ere, den, Cyclops?” Gambit snapped.

“Relax, Remy. We just have to take it another way.”