Sanctuary (28 page)

Several dozen people, among the hundreds gathered, glanced toward him, then looked away just as quickly. They were ignoring him, unaware of the insight he had to offer, or simply uncaring. Which meant that Magneto had already won. The future that Bishop had vowed to prevent seemed, all at once, to be inevitable. It was not merely going to happen, it was happening. The Sentinels were already in use, and as soon as the government got them back under control, they would be turned on mutants the way their creator intended.

It was over.

"Noooooo!" Bishop screamed in despair. "Listen, I said! You all must listen to me! I have seen the future, I have lived it! Magneto cannot succeed! The Sentinels will be used to destroy him, to destroy the X-Men, to destroy you all! Don't you understand what he's done, what you're doing? I know you only want freedom, but you are bringing about your own terrible destiny! You must fight him, you must show the world that mutants do not have to be feared! And then the Sentinels must be destroyed!"

There was silence for several moments. Somewhere, Bishop heard a bird singing. Overhead, cottony wisps were all that marred the perfect blue summer sky. It was warm enough already that he had begun to sweat in his heavy XSE uniform. His heart beat loudly in his ears as he sent a prayer up to a god he was not even sure existed, a hope, a dream, that these people would listen.

Someone in the crowd began to snicker, and one by one, the gathered mutants erupted in a deafening roar of laughter.

All the energy left Bishop. He went slack in his restraints, hanging from the clamps that held his hands. Desperately, he searched for some shred of hope to cling to, and found none.

For the first time, it occurred to him that the only hope of avoiding the catastrophic future might lie with the X-Men's greatest enemy. If Magneto were to triumph, were truly to conquer the world for mutants, Bishop's future would never be.

Yet, who was to say if that future would be any brighter?

• • •

Surgical Ops Unit One had not reported in at the assigned time. Operation: Carthage was a failure. Gyrich had no idea what happened to his team, but it didn't matter. They had been expendable from the beginning, but he had hoped they would be able to achieve their goal before they were decimated by the mutants gathered in New York.

Gyrich sighed. He did not relish the idea of a fullscale attack on Manhattan any more than the next guy; despite Val Cooper's claims, he was no warmonger. Yet he was, above all, a realist. He was willing to make the tough decisions. He only wished they were his to make. Instead, he would have to begin in earnest his attempts to. convince the Secretary and the President that there was no other way.

Every second that passed further jeopardized their chances of success.

There was a knock at his trailer door.

"Who is it?"

"Colonel Tomko, sir."

Tomko. The same idiot soldier who'd screwed up the Colorado operation. If he'd done his job, none of this would have been happening. But the President did not see it that way. In fact, Gyrich thought the President might have assigned Tomko as some kind of reprimand directed at him, personally. Granted, the man had more experience with mutants than most officers. But ...

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.

T
he 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 anyone 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 medi-slabs 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 co-piloting. 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 smiled.

"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 1 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.