RogueStar

(brucepat@iafrica.com)

However, when they were driven into the ghettos by armies of Mutant
Peacekeepers and Sentinels, forced to leave home and wealth behind for
humans to occupy - and they believed that she could and would - it was
already too late. The leader of the last remaining rebellion had lived through
the mass exodus - old enough to remember and too young to make a
difference before then. That was why Remy leBeau fought - he was making up
for lost time, hoping desperately that if he did enough, everything would be as
it was. But the old saying came back to haunt him: "Too little, too late . . . ." It
echoed in his every dream, chanted by his slaughtered parents and siblings as
he ran through streets that were slick with blood. Held the body of his mother
in his arms and washed her with tears. Too little, too late. Sometimes, in the
dead of night, Remy wondered when he had become everything that he most
hated. Was it when he had killed his first man - an MPF private who had
come to spy on the rebellion? Was it when he had raided his first warehouse
and had not counted the casualties?

He knew that that day would be no different. That the recently captured
prisoner would be killed after being interrogated. That his body would be
placed somewhere for the local police to find. Remy sighed and rested his
head in his hands. He hated his job - would have much rather been a butcher,
a baker, a candlestick maker, than the leader of the rebellion. Remy looked at
the clock that stood on his desk, counting the seconds. Unuscione was with
the prisoner, a lieutenant Parker, at the moment. Unlike him, she loved her
work. Had a sadistic streak almost as large as her capacity for hatred.
Wanted every supporter of McTaggert - man, woman or child - to suffer. The
clock chimed 16:00 and he stood, pushing his chair into the desk with a hard
motion. He had to see the prisoner now.
 
 

Despite her years of training, Sabrina Parker was scared. Caught by the
rebellion and chained, with an inhibitor collar around her neck, she had no
options and no recourse save death. The other woman, a dark haired beauty
with a cruel smile, yelled at her for the twentieth time. Sabrina was blocking
the words by then - not understanding anything, save the pain in her ribs
where she had been kicked.

"ANSWER ME! WHAT WERE YOU DOING HERE?"

'Hold yo' tongue. Just like ya'd been taught to at th' Academy. Y'all were the
top pupil, remember? Best at everythin'. . . .' Sabrina consoled herself.

The woman kicked her again, catching her in the mouth. Her lip split and
blood spilled out onto the floor.

'Can't talk . . . .' the MPF lieutenant commanded herself, 'Think o' anythin'.'

An image of her dream came into her mind. The man with the dazzling eyes
that caught her when she fell. That loved her. The thought brought a smile to
her mouth which infuriated the woman even more.

"SMILING? I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO SMILE ABOUT. . . ."

Another blow to her ribs that knocked all the air out of her.

'This can't go on forever, can it?'

The door slid open with a hiss and Unuscione abruptly backed off, mouth
contorted in a grimace of rage.

"You're lucky, MPF dog," the brunette whispered, "Looks like he's come just
in time."

'Lucky?' Sabrina thought, 'Another person ta pick up where you left off . . . .
Lucky.'

"Ya be dismissed, Unuscione," the man's voice was foreign, strange,
something out of childhood, "I'll take over dis interrogation."

"Yes, sir."

The door closed behind her, leaving Sabrina alone with this strange man and a
pain that throbbed through her entire body.
 
 

The rebel leader folded his arms across his chest, trying not to show his
surprise. Thanking whatever instinct had made him choose reflective glasses
that hid his eyes. The MPF lieutenant was nothing more than a slip of a
woman, short and slender. Her face showed signs of a recent beating - red
marks on her cheekbones would become bruises, blood still flowed from a cut
in her lips and her eye was swelling up rapidly.

"Get it over with," the woman snapped, "Y'all are going ta kill me anyway.
Ah'm not tellin' you anythin', so you might as well finish th' job right now."

Nausea flooded Remy leBeau's body at the thought. So much killing . . . . So
many people over the years . . . . Now her . . . . Fighting the bile that rose in
his throat, he removed a small, sharp knife from his belt.

"I'll make dis as quick as possible."

"Do it, sugah," she didn't flinch, "Ah'm prepared ta die foh mah beliefs."

"Bien," he moved closer and took her chin in his hand, feeling the pulse
beneath the warm skin that quickened. A bird fluttering against the bars of a
cage. A butterfly in a steel cocoon.

"Sorry, McTaggert," he heard her whisper, "Ah failed."

Remy closed his eyes, bracing himself for the killing stroke, moved and
stopped. He could not kill her. Would not. She was nothing more than a pawn
in McTaggert's game, as unwitting and unwilling as he was. He opened his
eyes and saw, for the slenderest of split seconds, the terror in her green one's
before it was replaced with cynical amusement.

"Prolongin' it, huh? Like a cat an' a mouse. Playin' with me. Makin' me suffer."

"Non," he shook his head, "I can't kill ya."

"That woman was more'n'ready ta," she winced as the muscles in her ribs
moved, "Guess she's the leader's favorite, sugah. You failed him, just like Ah
failed mah leader."

This lieutenant Parker did not know who he was, then, did not recognize him
for the leader of the rebellion.

Remy stood and, walking to a small closet set in the wall, removed medical
supplies - gauze, hydrogen peroxide, bandages, salves and swabs.

"Stolen?" she asked, with what looked like a conspirital grin but was probably
a contortion of pain.

"Oui. McTaggert blocked off all medical supplies f'r mutants. Dese be stolen
from a human hospital."

"So . . . what's yo' plan? Fix me up so Ah trust you an' then sic Unuscione on
me again."

"Non," he walked back to her, "Hold still, mademoiselle Parker."

The lieutenant lifted an eyebrow, "Don't have much choice, sugah."

"Dis could sting," Remy told her as he dipped a swab in the hydrogen
peroxide and applied it to her face. She recoiled slightly at the first contact,
gasping slightly at the sharp pain.

"Could sting?"

He laughed, "Dat's what de doctors always say."

Sabrina recognized his ploy - he sensed instinctively that it was one she had
used many times herself. Get the prisoners in your confidence and they'd
reveal everything that they knew unwittingly. She refused to let herself be as
easily fooled.

"So, doesn't leBeau have th' guts ta come see me himself? Does he enjoy
gettin' other people to do his dirty work?"

"Does McTaggert interrogate her prisoners?" he asked with an amused look
on his face.

"O' course not!"

"Why should leBeau be any different?" he shrugged, "Chere, ya be lovely but
ya ain't dat important in de great scheme o' t'ings. A pawn in her game."

She flushed, "Ah'm . . . ."

"All ya MPF soldiers are. She'd sacrifice ya wit'out t'inkin' about it. Wouldn'
shed a tear at your memorials neither."

"And your leader would?"

"Oui. He would," the man stood.

"Gawd. Don't give me that holier-than-thou bulldust. In th' end, you rebels
aren't that different from us soldiers, followin' a leader, followin' commands
issued from someone too scared ta get his or her hands dirty," she said and he
could feel the anger radiating from her, "Tell me, sugah, has leBeau ever fought
at your side? Ever gone hungry and cold with you? Ever held th' dead body of
a friend an' wondered if it really was worthwhile?"

Remy was silent, noting with detachment the triumph in her smile, wondering
how she could reconcile her obvious bitterness with her complete loyalty.

"Oui, he has. He doesn' like it, but den who in de rebellion does?" he looked
directly into her green eyes, "Who would fight if dey had a choice t'live in
peace?"

"Ah would," she said without pause, without reflection. The instinctive
response of a trained killer.

"Den ya be a better warrior dan dis cajun, mademoiselle Parker," his voice
was filled with pity, "Or even more brain-washed dan I t'ought."

"Huh," she grunted, "How did a pacifist like you get involved in this mess?"

"Simple, chere," he replied as he smeared soothing salve across her
cheekbone, "Get ya parents killed in front o' ya eyes den have a need t'get
revenge. Find an accomodatin' rebel leader t'adopt ya an', voila, ya be me."

She looked sympathetic, "Ah'm sorry, ummmm . . . Ah'm afraid Ah don't
know yo' name."

"Remy."

Her entire body tensed and, for a brief second, he wondered how much she
hated him - hated the name of Remy leBeau - then she laughed uneasily and
he relaxed.

"Family name, huh? Ah'm Parker. Lieutenant in the MPF."

"'Parker'?"

"Mah surname. That's how you always introduced yo'self."

"Here we go by first names, Parker."

She sighed, "Sabrina Celine Parker."

"Bien. Pleased t'meet ya."

Remy stood and threw the used supplies into a large, metal container for
disposal.

"Ah don't know why you're bein' friendly ta me. I won't tell you anythin'."

He grins, "I'm a sucker f'r a pretty face, Sabrina."

"Even if'n it does belong to a killer?"

"Oui," Remy smiled, "Au revoir, 'tite. See ya tomorrow."

"You never told me your surname?" she called after him as he walked out the
room.

"leBeau. Remy leBeau."

The door closed.

Kitty Pryde flopped down on the bunk, relaxing her tense muscles. The scene
of the MPF Lieutenant's capture played over and over in her head. She
searched her cybernetic memory for a name to match the face. The storage
chips whirred and a name came to the forefront of her mind. Parker, Sabrina
Celine. The top pupil at the MPF Academy in all aspects of their training -
stealth, subterfuge, hand-to-hand combat and shooting. An alpha-class mutant
in her own right. Kitty tossed and turned uneasily - why would someone like
that get captured? How could someone like that be captured so easily?

"Pryde?" Lila asked from the bunk above, "You're rocking the bed. Is
something wrong?"

"Just wondering how someone like lieutenant Parker could make a mistake
and get caught."

"You think it's deliberate?" Jubilee asked, "She's spying? Like in James
Bond?"

"There is a 67,45% chance of that," Kitty replied despondently, "But . . . I
could be wrong."

"I knew Sabrina," Mystique said slowly, "I was her sponsor for the MPF
training. I vouched for her skills before I defected to the rebellion. She's
deadly and I wouldn't trust her as far as I could throw her."

"But loyal?" Lila asked.

"Completely," Mystique answered grimly, "She'd die for the Emissary without
batting an eyelash."

"I thought she was cute," Iceman volunteered, "Apart from the G.I.Jane look."

"You would think that anything female was cute," Jubilee deadpanned.

"I don't think Unuscione is cute," Iceman retorted.

"It's part of Sabrina's arsenal of weapons," Mystique added, "She uses it to
twist men around her little finger, gets them to trust her, then as soon as they
do . . . ." She paused meaningfully, "Bang. They're dead."

"Do you think she'll try it on the leader?" Iceman asked, suddenly interested.

"U would be bummed if she ever did. She's had her eye on that place at his
side for quite some time now," Jubilee commented, "And I don't mean in a
platonic way."

Kitty rolled over onto her stomach to look at Mystique, "Should I go warn
him about her?"

"Yes. You should," the older woman nodded her head, "The sooner he
knows, the longer he has to steel himself against her."

Pryde climbed out of the bunk and began the long walk to the leader's
quarters.
 
 

The leader of the rebellion fished a cigarette out of the packet that he had
retrieved from the prisoner's pocket and lit it with a finger. He sighed, inhaling,
letting the smoke soothe his troubled mind. He had not expected lieutenant
Parker to be as young as she was lovely. Had not expected the fragile
vulnerability that had emanated from her, despite her hard shell of anger and
hate.

"Gettin' soft, leBeau. She's one o' de Emissary's flunkies, jus' like de others
dat you've . . . ." he paused in his self-chastisement, feeling sick to his stomach
at the recollection, "Killed. Ya know ya have t'do de same t'her once she's
told ya what ya need t'know."

He entered his private quarters, stubbing his cigarette out on the door as he
did so. The desk was covered with plans of facilities and warehouses with all
their weaknesses circled in red ink. Red, like blood. Like Sabrina's blood. He
shook his head, snapping himself out of his melancholy bent. A neat bunkbed
was made up in the corner with a blue blanket folded at its head and a crate
next to it for a table. An oil-lamp burnt on the impromptu nightstand, providing
some light in the dim tunnels. Remy yawned, exhausted by his previous night's
watch and determined to catch a few hours of sleep before the next morning.
Callisto always said that a tired rebel was a dull rebel was a dead rebel. He
had just gotten comfortable on the hard steel frame when a knock sounded at
the door. Sitting up and cursing, he ran a hand through his russet hair in an
attempt to smooth it back.

"Come in," he called as he sat at his desk, pretending to be industrious.

The door slid open and Kitty Pryde entered, an apologetic smile on her face.

"Sorry, sir, did I disturb you?"

"Non. Was jus' goin' through de plans of de facility."

"I need to talk to you about that prisoner."

"Sabrina?" he raised an eyebrow, "Why?"

"I don't think you have any idea of who this Parker woman is."

"Ya do?"

"Yes, she was the top pupil at the MPF academy. Rose to the rank of
lieutenant, at age 22, in the shortest time ever recorded. She just received her
promotion a few months ago," Kitty recited as if reading it off a page, "She's
deadly, sir. A trained killer who is completely loyal to the Emissary."

"Ya be wrong," he cut her off coldly, "She didn' seem dat way t'me."

"Sir, she's a past master at deception."

"I'm empathic," leBeau stated baldly, "Ya couldn' fool me 'less ya were psionic
yaself an' even den I'd sense it."

"Why won't you listen to me?" Kitty hissed, "Stop letting your feelings get in
the way of your rational judgement."

"Ya be way out of line, Pryde," he snapped, the rebel leader once more, all
traces of the man vanished.

"Sorry, sir," she said mulishly, "But one final question: are you attracted to
her?"

"M****, woman. Ya t'ink dat even if I was I'd put m'self before de
rebellion?"

"Are you?" Pryde's cool eyes met his in a robotic stare.

"She's a beautiful woman. Inside an' out," he sighed, "Sabrina . . . Sabrina's so
different. So conflictin'. I can't explain it t'ya."

"Try."

"Bien," he lifted his hands in defeat, "On one hand, she's de trained killer dat
ya talk about. Cold, calculatin', merciless an' completely loyal t'McTaggert.
But all o' dat is superimposed, skin-deep. Inside . . . inside dat skin, she be
desperately unhappy, lonely, searchin' f'r somet'ing dat she'll never find or
have - an idealist an' romantic."

Kitty sniffed, "That idealist will have your lungs on a plate if you aren't careful."

"Again, Miss Pryde, ya be out o' line," his eyes crinkled in the corners in
amusement, "Good. Don' want sheep, I want soldiers who c'n think f'r
demselves."

"Sir?"

"Call me Remy."

"Be careful, Remy."

"Don' worry, chere. I won' act on it. I can't," he grimaced, "I'm de leader of
dis rebellion first an' a man second. Gave up all hopes of love and a family
when I took on dat title."

She touched his shoulder gently, seeing the man behind the mask for almost
the first time, the bitterness at being forced to accept a role for which he was
not ready.

"Don't. You could have both, but not with her. Not with Sabrina."

Remy smiles, "Dat's de problem, chere. I've always wanted what I couldn'
have."

"Get some sleep," Kitty said, "You look exhausted and I'm scared that you'll
do something crazy, the way you are talking."

"Hah!" he laughed, "I t'ink you're goin' t'be good t'have around."

"Sweet dreams, leBeau."

The door shut with a hiss behind her and Remy leBeau, leader of the only
surviving rebellion, returned to bed.
 
 

To be continued . . . .