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  The stars. So vast the stars!

  Her blood shifted, mutating. Like the blood, the cells, the waters of ancient Earth—

  Jean! Please!

  Scott!

  She shook her head, blinked. Forced herself to withdraw from his mind, confining her consciousness to the interior of the cockpit. She focused on the damaged control stick, the flickering readouts, and the static-filled screens.

  Jean, don’t do this!

  She cut the connection with Scott’s mind. She could feel the others back in the life-cell, too: Logan, Storm, Nightcrawler, Corbeau, and the unconscious Professor. But the one mind she couldn’t deal with right now was Scott’s. If she made contact with him again—if she allowed his grief and his fear and, yes, his love to distract her—she knew she would break down and lose control.

  You’re going to die.

  This time she didn’t argue. This time she knew.

  Yes, she thought, I am. But I won’t let him die, too.

  Sweating, skin crawling, she reached up to the open ceiling plate and resumed her work.

  * * *

  One hour earlier

  “YOU ARE not doing this.”

  Cyclops’s words hung in the air. Jean stood very still, avoiding his gaze. Corbeau and Nightcrawler moved away, trying to give them some privacy in the cramped cockpit.

  She felt more comfortable with Scott than with anyone she’d ever known. In a world of tormented minds—of stray thoughts, intrusions, mental noise she’d had to endure all her life—his mind was an oasis of calm. The easiest one to slip in and out of, a source of constant comfort and support.

  Until now.

  To her shock, he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Do you really think you can survive a record-level solar flare?”

  Anger, then, inside of her. Sudden, unexpected. When she spoke, her voice was cold.

  “My telekinesis will keep me safe.”

  “For how long?” He gestured past her. “You heard what Corbeau said about the radiation.”

  Dr. Corbeau stared at his own hand. “I’m not even a mutant, and I think I can feel it working.” He shrugged. “Might just be hubris.”

  Jean ignored him, looking up at Cyclops with steel in her eyes. He stared back for a moment, then released her.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s just too dangerous. We’ll come up with something else. I need you to back my play here.”

  “I’ve always backed your play.”

  A clatter from outside of the shuttle’s cockpit. Cyclops whirled to look, crimson sparks dancing on the surface of his visor. Nightcrawler leaped into position, facing the door, while Jean moved to cover Dr. Corbeau.

  “Don’t shoot, bub. It’s us.”

  Wolverine lumbered in through the hatch, the unconscious Professor X slung over his shoulder. Storm followed Logan inside, floating on the warm air currents that flooded in from the space station.

  “The fire is almost here,” she said.

  With surprising gentleness, Logan set the Professor down on a small table. Cyclops and Nightcrawler moved to examine him, almost shoving each other out of the way.

  “He is not moving,” Nightcrawler said.

  Cyclops turned to Wolverine. “Is he all right?”

  “I ain’t no doctor, Summers.” Logan shrugged. “Sentinels clipped him pretty good.”

  Jean reached out mentally. The Professor’s brainwaves were dormant, but the electrical activity was constant.

  “He’ll recover,” she said.

  “The Sentinels?” Cyclops asked.

  “Defeated.” Storm spread her dark arms, lightning flashing in her eyes. “They experienced an electrical failure.”

  “But that fire’s still out of control,” Wolverine said. “So can we get this bus out of the station before we all fry to death?”

  Corbeau stared at Jean. “We were just… discussing that.”

  “Logan,” Cyclops said, “take the Professor back to the life-cell. Secure him… better use restraints.”

  “I warned you before we came up here, Summers.” Wolverine paused, his hands twitching. “I don’t like takin’ orders.”

  “Logan.” Cyclops’s visor flared. “Not now.”

  Logan smiled, feinting forward as if ready for a fight. Then he stopped. His eyes narrowed, as if his acute senses had picked up some deadly scent on the wind. He shrugged, placed Xavier over his shoulder again, and stalked off.

  Cyclops turned to Storm. “Ororo, give him a hand?”

  Storm frowned. She adjusted her headband, then crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Jean,” she said. “What are you planning?”

  Jean forced herself to smile. “Go on,” she said. “Make sure Logan doesn’t accidentally skewer the Professor with his claws.”

  “Or un-accidentally,” Cyclops added.

  Sorry, Ororo, Jean thought. You’re a good friend, but we’ll have to discuss this later. If there is a later, for me.

  When Storm was gone, Nightcrawler eyed Jean and Cyclops for a moment. Then he leaped over to the copilot’s seat and began a low, intense discussion with Corbeau. Cyclops moved closer to Jean and let out a long, low sigh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded, not looking at him.

  He touched her cheek and smiled. That smile had always melted her heart, made her believe that anything was possible.

  “Can we just figure out a plan?” he asked.

  “This is the plan.”

  The telepathic bolt shot out from her, into Scott’s brain. He slumped toward her, instantly unconscious.

  So easy, she thought. He’s always trusted me. He let me into his mind without hesitation, without putting up any defense.

  She hoped he would forgive her.

  Nightcrawler materialized in a puff of brimstone, his bright yellow eyes wide. Before he could speak, she pressed Scott’s limp form into his arms.

  “Take him aft,” she said. “Secure yourself and the others, and prepare for takeoff.”

  Nightcrawler hesitated. “You are certain you can survive this?”

  “I’ll get us down.”

  The blue mutant grimaced, wrapped his arms tightly around his leader’s body. Then he teleported away, taking Cyclops with him.

  “You too, Doc.” Jean started toward the pilot’s seat. “Make sure that life-cell’s locked up tight. This might get bumpy.”

  Corbeau opened his mouth as if to protest. Then that fear crept into his eyes again, and he rose from the chair. He edged around her and scurried, catlike, toward the aft compartment.

  Jean was alone. Alone with a deadly mission, a deep feeling of dread… and something else, too. A sense of control, of power that she’d never known before. An inner strength, bubbling up from deep inside. Whatever it was…

  …it had made itself known, she realized, the moment she’d rendered Scott unconscious.

  Trembling, she lowered herself into the pilot’s seat and toggled the engines to life.

  * * *

  Now

  THE SHUTTLE swooped downward, its nose dipping toward the ground. Jean swore as she lurched forward in her seat. She reached out to activate the restraints—and screamed as a wave of radiation blasted through her.

  Curling up in a ball, she willed her telekinetic shields to full strength. The agony receded as her mutant power filtered the radiation, but some of the blast had made it through. She could feel it roiling inside her, burrowing in, slithering around her DNA.

  Stupid! She’d lost concentration, allowed her shielding to weaken. One more lapse like that and she’d be…

  …well, she’d be dead a little bit sooner. Maybe before she could finish her mission.

  Jean.

  She jumped. Scott?

  No. This “voice” was sharper, clearer. The deep, cultured tones of a telepath.

  Professor, she replied.

  I’m so sorry, my child. His thoughts were so clear, he might have been sitting beside her instead of lo
cked up in the life-cell. It should have been me. I should have been the one to—

  To sacrifice yourself?

  Well…

  Professor, I’m flying blind here. I’ve tried to reboot the sensors, but it’s no use. I don’t know if I can do this!

  Jean, listen to me. You are the most powerful telepath on Earth.

  Ha! Next to you.

  The. Most. Powerful. He paused. You have all the information you need.

  She closed her eyes, turned her mind again to everything she’d absorbed. There was so much of it! Corbeau’s memories were a mass of information, a sea of data. There was no time—

  Jean, listen! Do you remember the meditation exercises I taught you?

  She nodded instinctively.

  Use them now.

  Professor, it’s so hot in here. My face is on fire. My stomach feels like a pretzel—

  JEAN.

  His thoughts were louder now, and cold, like those of a disappointed teacher. He’d only taken that tone with her a few times before, when—as a young pupil, overwhelmed by the thoughts of those around her—she’d allowed self-pity to interfere with her studies.

  You must do this. There is no one else. If there were…

  She stared at the screens, at a cloud of static.

  I understand, she said.

  Grab hold of the control stick, the Professor instructed. The time is coming. She reached out with both hands and grasped the stick like a lifeline—which, she realized, was exactly what it was.

  Now, he continued. Breathe.

  She stared straight ahead, willing her consciousness to remain within this confined space. That was a lesson he’d taught her. For a telepath, control is essential. Containment is everything.

  I’ve taught you everything I can, the Professor sent. Now it’s up to you.

  She caught a flash of pain. His injuries, she realized. They must be worse than he let on.

  It’s nothing, he said. And then, again: I truly am sorry.

  Xavier broke the connection. The entire exchange had passed in a matter of seconds.

  Fighting back the sense of being alone again, Jean willed herself to breathe regularly. In, out. In, out. She focused on the control stick, firm and unyielding in her hands. Forced herself to ignore the raging energies all around.

  For a third time, she saw herself under the trees, Scott’s hand warm in hers. “I love the fall,” she said again.

  Scott turned to her, nodding, smiling a tight smile. This time, when he spoke, she remembered his words.

  “It’s when things start to die.”

  At the time, she’d laughed. So dour, her boyfriend. So serious! Scott was a sensitive soul, a gentle man who probably would have been happier living a quiet life. Yet he’d agreed to lead the X-Men because someone had to, and because he was the best choice for the job. And since that day, every decision—every sacrifice—had taken a toll on him. Every loss was a blow to his heart.

  He was about to receive another blow.

  A strange tingling sensation manifested on her skin. She looked down at her hands, still locked around the stick, and gasped.

  Her flesh was… unraveling. Cracking, splitting, peeling away before her eyes. The skin was turning odd colors: mold green, neon blue, deep red. She could feel the radiation seeping past her shields, spreading throughout her body. Muscles straining and stretching, cellular walls distending and breaking down. Bones straining to break free.

  One of the cracks on her palm grew wider. A little flame rose up, crimson red, spreading outward like avian wings. When she leaned down to stare at it, it vanished.

  What was happening to her?

  She remembered the Professor’s words. The time is coming.

  There was nothing to do but wait.

  * * *

  One hour earlier

  JEAN RAN through the prelaunch procedures, eyes darting from one screen to the next. Cabin pressure: nominal. Landing gear: operative. Surface actuators: online. The engines thrummed in her ears—a bit uneven, but growing louder. In a few minutes, they’d be ready for launch.

  The remote manipulating arms were shot, but that didn’t matter. She stood up and moved to the side bulkhead, running a quick test on the exterior cameras. The aft cam had an off-center view of the hangar bay’s door. She could see the leading edge of the fire that was consuming the station, flames licking at the doorway.

  “What you doin’, Jeannie?”

  She whirled around. Wolverine crouched there, as if ready for battle. His eyes were hidden behind the white lenses of his mask.

  “You startled me,” she said.

  “First time ever,” he replied. “Ain’t easy to get past your defenses.”

  She grimaced. Innuendo aside, Logan was right. Telepaths were notoriously difficult to surprise.

  “I was distracted.” She sighed. “I told Corbeau to lock the life-cell.”

  “I got lockpicks.” He grinned, held up his fist, and unsheathed one of his six deadly claws with an audible snikt. “Built in.”

  “What do you want, Logan?”

  “I want you to get back in the life-cell and let me take the wheel.”

  She said nothing. Her eyes flicked to one of the screens. Fuel supply at two-thirds…

  “I ain’t kiddin’, Jean. You know about my healing power… I can bounce back from just about anything. That flare ain’t gonna unravel my genes.”

  “Logan, we don’t have time for this.”

  “And what about your boyfriend?” He jerked a thumb back toward the aft compartment. “Cyke’s about to start bawling, and I can’t take a whole hour of that.”

  Despite herself, despite the impending tragedy of the situation, she laughed. Wolverine was one of the newer X-Men—she hadn’t known him very long. He was crude, rough, and prone to disregard orders. She knew very little of his background, other than a few vague references to the Canadian special service. His claws resembled some sort of cybernetic implants, as opposed to a natural mutation.

  What she did know was that he’d been nursing a serious crush on her for months. She’d resisted allowing any such feelings in return. What a cliché—the woman with the dependable boyfriend, attracted to the bad boy! But she couldn’t deny the strange rapport they seemed to share.

  “My power will protect me,” she said. But her voice sounded weak, even to herself.

  “Jean, you got a lot of years ahead of you.” He took a step forward—blocking her way to the pilot’s seat. “Me, I’ve lived long enough.”

  “I feel like I’ve been alive forever,” she whispered.

  He frowned.

  “Logan, I can fly the shuttle—you can’t. That’s all that matters.” She smiled, trying to keep the tears out of her eyes. “This is our only shot.”

  The engines hummed louder. Two beeps from the flight console indicated that the prelaunch was almost complete.

  “This isn’t you, kid.” Wolverine balled up his fists. “You ain’t made for this.”

  Again she felt a burst of anger. Just like Scott, she thought. They don’t understand. They’ll never understand.

  She took a step forward, challenging Logan directly. He snarled, looked into her eyes—and stopped in his tracks.

  “Huh,” he said.

  “You’re right,” she said, keeping her voice even. “It’s not me. But if I’m me—if I follow orders, if I hang back and let someone else drive—then we’re all dead.”

  He stared at her. His eyes shifted to the flight console, pausing on the aft-camera viewscreen. The fire had reached the hangar deck, blazing across banks of computers and monitor screens. It would reach the shuttle within seconds.

  His head swiveled back. “I could stop you,” he hissed.

  She just stared back.

  A sharp chime went off. She turned to see the same text displayed on all ten of the screens:

  LAUNCH ENABLED

  When she turned back, Logan was gone.

  Trembling, she seated herse
lf in the pilot’s chair. Logan was a loose cannon, probably the most dangerous mutant the X-Men had ever recruited. And he hadn’t been bluffing. Jean’s power was formidable, but if he’d decided to move her by force, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him. Logan was a killer, but she’d stood her ground—shown him determination that matched his own. She’d forced him to make a choice, and he’d chosen to back down.

  She sat alone for a moment, thinking of a good man whom she loved very much, sitting in agony in the life-cell. And another man who loved her exactly as she was—whose touch she’d never know, but who’d just made the agonizing decision to let her die.

  Scott would survive. He’d be devastated, and it might take years for him to recover from the loss. But eventually he would put her memory aside and move on.

  Logan, though…

  Somehow she knew: This will cost him.

  An alarm rang out: the fire had reached the outer hull. Jean Grey hissed in a deep breath. Then she shook her head, reached for the controls, and fired off the engines.

  * * *

  Now

  ALL AT once the flare passed. The shuttle’s engines coughed; instruments began to click and reboot; screens flickered brighter. The comms system blared to life with a hundred overlapping messages.

  “—ust coming back up now—”

  “—Tower One, do you read—”

  “—ergency broadcast system, back online—”

  Jean shook her head, struggling to clear her thoughts. The fires dancing across her skin had receded, the air felt cooler. But the radiation still boiled within her body.

  “—flare has receded—”

  “—ease keep all channels clear—”

  Telekinetically she toggled the comms system off. Her hands were still wrapped around the control stick. She tested it, tugging slightly, and a message appeared on the nearest screen.

  ENGINE CONTROLS REBOOTING

  The Professor’s words echoed in her mind: The time is coming.

  The center screen flickered to life. A haze of red and yellow began to resolve, to take shape. Autumn leaves—hanging from a grove of trees, hundreds of them. Directly below, in the shuttle’s path.

  And another voice, from the depths of her memory: When things start to die.

  A beep from the flight console. New text appeared on the smaller screen.