HALF A world away, the target of the Emperor’s ire shivered uncontrollably—an unconscious reaction to, as the old saying went, _ the feeling that someone had just walked across his grave.
An odd sensation, considering he was standing at the edge of a desert.
Body wrapped in a thin, coarse blanket, head covered by the red-and-purple-hued, metal, gladiator-style helmet that was his trademark, Erik Magnus Lensherr—the man more infamously known to the citizens of the Empire as Magneto—pulled the makeshift cloak tighter around his shoulders and gazed at the world around him. He stood on the outskirts of a village called Araouane, in the West African state of Mali— less a proper village, really, then a scattered collection of rough, mud-brick buildings now worn smooth and half-obscured by the constant ebb and flow of the dune sea around them as it washed against the decades-old constructs. Beyond the village was the vast wasteland called the Sahara—nothing but miles of sand stretching off to the horizon, the monotony of the less-than-impressive view occasionally broken by a blast of hot, dry air that created dust devils that danced and swayed across the landscape as though moving in time to a beat that only they could hear. If any spot in the world could truly be considered the last place in which one would expect to find the Empire’s greatest enemy, it was here, in this former oasis 160 miles north of Timbuktu.
And yet here he stood, and it was here that he had lived for the past year.
But it hasn ’t really been a year, Magneto thought. At least, I do not think it has... He frowned. Time in the desert was meaningless—the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening; what you did in between was pass the hours not so much living as merely surviving. But could enough days have passed to equal an entire year? Magneto shook his head. No, it’s less than that—I’m sure of it. But how long, then? Seeking some sort of proof for his belief, he opened the blanket and looked down at his body, and wasn’t pleased at all with what he saw: the chiseled, weightlifter’s form he once possessed had grown soft with disuse, and he had lost some weight. The washboard-like abdominal muscles and rock-hard pectorals that once had looked so striking coated in red spandex had lost their well-defined edges to a diet of coarse meats and rice, and a lack of exercise brought about by the fact that there was really nothing to do here.
“Perhaps it has been a year, then,” he muttered softly, then sighed.
He turned his gaze to the oasis, if only to take his mind off his current state of decay; it was in no better shape. The village was a far cry from the elegant splendor he had once enjoyed when he had been headquartered aboard an asteroid that he had forced into geosynchronous orbit around the Earth with his awesome powers. Christened “Asteroid M” in honor of its owner—for Magneto was never known for his humility—the hollowed-out rock had served as a space station of sorts... as well as a launching point for some of his most ingenious plots to seize control of the planet. Floating high above the Earth also had its defensive advantages, as his enemies had learned, since it was next to impossible to launch a counterattack when the mutant overlord could clearly see it coming and take measures to stop it. Sadly, though, that sense of luxury and security had come to an end the day the asteroid fell from orbit.
Lensherr shook his head. How the mighty have fallen, indeed... he thought ruefully.
He wiped away rivulets of perspiration that trickled down his face from beneath his helmet, reached up to remove it so he could run a hand through his matted, shoulder-length white hair, then stopped. No matter how uncomfortable it was to wear in the constant heat, the helmet was probably the only protection he had against von Doom’s much feared Psionics Division, its delicate micro-circuitry creating a “barrier” that shielded his thoughts from any unwanted mental probes. An ironic situation, he had come to realize, since he had originally created the circuitry to subjugate the minds of his own enemies, wiping hatred and bigotry from their subconscious as part of his ongoing efforts to make the mutant race the dominant species on the planet. He’d managed to create similar circuitry for the small bedroom of his house, which allowed him to remove the helmet so he could sleep with some sense of security, but he had run out of supplies before he could extend the barrier to encompass the entirety of the building.
A sharp wind from the east suddenly ripped through the village, threatening to tear the blanket from his grip. Lensherr tilted his head and body into the superheated gale, fighting for possession of his meager cloak—his only protection from the airborne grains of sand that punished his exposed skin with what felt like the sharp pricks of a million needles.
Gritting his teeth—a movement that afforded the desert sand yet another opportunity to try and pour into his mouth like an ocean rushing to fill a pitcher—the Master of Magnetism once more fought down the urge to use his powers to create some sort of barrier that would separate him from the granules that coated him in ever-thickening layers, even if only for a short time. Tempting as it might be—just to be able to breathe clearly for a few minutes!—he knew that any use of his mutant-spawned abilities would result in death; he was well aware of the satellites that orbited the globe, waiting for him to slip up and provide von Doom with his precise location. And once the “Emperor” had that, it wouldn’t be long before S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers and the other countless lapdogs who served von Doom would be sweeping across the dunes, like hounds bearing down on the lonely fox.
But this fox, as Magneto had been more than happy to demonstrate in the past, was a most dangerous animal when cornered ...
Nevertheless, as frustrating as the wind and sand and oppressive heat were, he was willing to tolerate them, if such resignation meant that he would have one more day to survive, if only to spite his enemy.
One more day, he thought darkly, to plot his revenge.
As suddenly as it had sprung up, the wind abated, and Lensherr was at last able to relax, the muscles in his arms now twitching uncontrollably and burning like fire after their battle with the elements.
I really do need to get back into shape ... he thought wearily, rubbing his limbs to alleviate the spasms.
A scraping sound from just behind him caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. As he had expected to see, the source of the small noise was no villain or Guardsman creeping up to attack, but a dark-skinned woman in her thirties, using an oversized bowl to dig away at a pile of windblown sand that had accumulated on her doorstep. She was wrapped in a flowing, colorful blanket of yellow, blue, and green patterns set on a red field. Wordlessly, the woman lifted her filled bowl, walked a dozen paces from her home to dump the load, then walked back to start the process again; this would continue until she had cleared the entrance to her satisfaction, then she would head over to one of the other houses to do the same. She was one of the village’s three “sand women” who labored from dawn to dusk, clearing the doorways and courtyards of the thirty buildings that had not yet been swallowed by the desert, as more than a hundred other homes—plus a mosque—had been over the years. It was a never-ending battle, and one they were ultimately destined to lose, but that knowledge did nothing to dampen their spirits, nor did it deter them from their task—not when the payment for such work was a small bag of rice or sugar. Enough food to go on working for another day; to keep their families alive for one more day.
Just past the woman, her daughter—a girl of three or four years— stood in the open doorway, sucking on a piece of raw lamb fat and doing her best to shield it from the grainy particles that still swirled in the air. Like her mother, the girl looked older than her actual age, eyes bright but somber, body as worn down by the elements as the building in which they lived. It was a sobering sight, this child with the eyes of an adult, and one that forced even the mighty lord of magnetism to turn his gaze elsewhere. He focused on the mother.
“Good day, Abena Metou,” Lensherr said pleasantly.
The woman looked up from her labors and smiled warmly. “A good day to you, as well, John Smith. The Bright Lady must smile upon us, for two things have now occurred: the wind has stopped so that I may work, and I see that you have begun to master our language.”
Lensherr shrugged. “Not as much as I would like, good lady,” he admitted. “But enough to hold a ... um ... a ...” He paused, suddenly unable to recall the right word for—
“A conversation,” Abena said.
Lensherr smiled lopsidedly. “Yes. That.”
Abena nodded in understanding and raised the sand-filled bowl, turning her attention back to the work; one never knew when the next gust of wind might race through the village and force her to start the cycle all over again, so she tried to move as quickly as the heat would allow. Lensherr watched in silence as she carried the pile from one spot to another, making no offer to help, for this was how the woman made her living and, as meager as the pay was, it still provided some comfort for her family. To interfere would have been akin to taking the food from her daughter’s mouth.
At least it would provide some exercise, he thought, his gaze drifting down toward his softened body. Granting harshly in disgust, he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.
Besides, he reminded himself, performing such menial labor was beneath the great Magneto, a man who could move entire buildings with the merest application of his powers, let alone a mere pile of dust. A man who dreamed of the day when all Homo sapiens were down on their hands and knees like this sand woman—though, under his rule, such a submissive position would be a sign that humanity had at last recognized him as their undisputed ruler, and that they had acknowledged the fact that they were an inferior race.
But as he observed Abena’s struggles against the desert, Erik Lensherr couldn’t help but wonder if his own efforts—to wrest power from von Doom, to establish Homo superior as the dominant species—might also be ultimately doomed to fail.
Lensherr grunted. It did no good to think that way—a man who had survived the Nazi death camps, who had eluded capture for years despite the best efforts of the Empire, should have no place in his mind for dwelling on negative thoughts; they merely wasted precious time better spent formulating a plan of attack. Now angry with himself, he shook his head to clear his mind and tried to focus on more important matters.
Like the dark form taking shape on the horizon, its features distorted by the waves of heat rising from the sands.
“Visitors,” Lensherr muttered, eyes narrowing. “Perhaps I might get some exercise today, after all. ..”
It took another two hours for the phantom-like shape to solidify into something far more recognizable: a silver-and-white-robed man—shoulders hunched, turbaned head resting against his chest—seated upon a camel. Even from the doorway of his home, Lensherr could see that the rider was dozing, more than likely lulled to sleep by the swaying motion of the beast as it lurched over the dunes.
Of course, it could be a trick—an apparently harmless wanderer on his way, perhaps, to the salt mines of Taoudenni, nine miles to the north, who feigns sleep in order to close in on his intended mutant prey before finally revealing himself to be one of von Doom’s superpowered hounds, come to run an equally-superpowered international terrorist to ground. It wouldn’t be the first time such a deception had been attempted.
Then again, it just might be a harmless wanderer seeking a brief reprieve from the searing heat. After all, Araouane had once been a regular rest stop for the trans-Saharan camel caravans that had 'moved through the area, before the desert began to extend its boundaries and consume everything in its path.
A grim smile etched itself across Lensherr’s weather-beaten features as an old joke flitted through his mind: “Just because I’m paranoid, that doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me.” He’d never figured out exactly who “they” were supposed to be—he’d always had trouble understanding humor—but after years of dealing with Victor von Doom and his government, he had a good idea of who “they” might be ... at least, in his case.
As the camel and its charge drew nearer, Lensherr stepped from his home, intending to meet it before it entered the village proper; though the oasis’s inhabitants were not of his own kind, the mutant terrorist had grown somewhat attached to them . . . despite their inferiority. They had given him shelter, shared their food, treated him with respect, and had accepted him for the person he appeared to be—John Smith, a wanderer in search of a peaceful existence—never questioning him about why he had come to Araoune, or why he had remained.
In Magneto’s case, however, that sense of attachment was more along the lines of the feeling an owner would have for a loyal, obedient pet.
They were just humans, after all.
Truth be told, it was not for any fear of destroying the crumbling houses around him or accidentally wiping out the village’s small population that caused the master of magnetism to approach the new arrival—casualties and property damage were just small parts of the larger game being played between the mutant terrorist and the Emperor he sought to overthrow, and Magneto had long ago stopped being concerned with the consequences caused by each roll of the dice; the winning of the game mattered far more than broken homes or shattered bodies. Paris was a prime example of that philosophy. Nor was it some misguided belief that he could reason with the man before matters turned ugly. What drew him out was a desire to avoid any prolonged battle that would force him to use his powers and give von Doom’s forces time to zero-in on him.
Of course, as Lensherr had come to realize long before the Emperor had come to power, it was that the use of his magnetic abilities should always be a last resort when it became necessary to eliminate an enemy; using common weapons, or even his bare hands, made tracing his movements around the globe far more difficult. And if there was one thing he had learned from the guards and staff at Auschwitz—as he had watched each member of his family slowly starve to death, or march into the infamous “showers,” or scream in agony and terror as they were used as part of some horrific eugenic experiment—it was the variety of ways available to kill another person without resorting to superpowers. The Nazis had been excellent tutors, and the boy who had become a man behind the guard towers and barbed wire fences of the camp had been most eager to demonstrate all that he had learned after the war . . .
on each and every one of them that he could find. Over fifty years later, some of those “lessons” still stuck in his mind.
The rider was closer now, and Lensherr quickened his pace. If he could get close enough before the man made his move, dismount him from the camel and slice his throat with the dirk concealed within the folds of his robes . ..
The man suddenly raised his head, and stared at him. Lensherr stopped, eyes narrowing as he tried to imagine who it was he was facing. It was impossible to figure out, though; the man’s features were covered by a pair of dark-lensed goggles, and a strip of cloth that concealed the lower half of his face.
The camel continued its slow pace, now angling toward the mutant fugitive. Acting nonchalantly, Lensherr raised a hand to wave to the rider, as though in greeting; the gesture concealed the movement of his other hand, which had slipped to the back of his robes, and the dagger that lay sheathed there.
As the beast finally drew alongside him, Lensherr’s hand closed around the blade’s handle. He smiled pleasantly at the man, who was now within striking distance. The fugitive’s hand started to come around with the dirk as he crouched, preparing to leap at the mysterious visitor—
And then the man was suddenly standing at his side, the dagger now in his hand.
Caught by surprise, Lensherr could not help but stand agape as the rider removed his headgear to reveal a younger version of the mutant criminal—or so it would seem to the casual observer: the same white hair, but cut short and spiky; the same angular features, but less lined, and pale in skin color, as opposed to the older man’s sun-darkened complexion. But this was no android built by von Doom to look like him, no laboratory-created clone dispatched to eliminate him and take his place.
This was Lensherr’s own flesh and blood—a son known by the more colorful codename “Quicksilver,” gifted, not with his sire’s magnetically-based abilities, but with the power of moving at incredible speeds; so fast, in fact, that Magneto’s attempt to attack him had seemed, to his eyes, to play out in slow motion. Dismounting from the camel and removing the weapon from Lensherr’s hand had all taken place in a fraction of a second—no challenge at all for someone capable of breaking the sound barrier, or performing a dozen or so tasks at the same time.
“Hello, Father,” the visitor said evenly. He held up the dirk. “Still lacking the basic social skills necessary for greeting a guest properly, I see.”
Slowly, Lensherr’s shocked expression dissolved into a broad, friendly grin.
“Pietro . . .” he said.
Night fell on the Sahara, and, after a veritable banquet of delicacies from around the world provided by Pietro—Lensherr had almost forgotten what knishes and caviar tasted like—father and son at last sat down in the psionics-protected bedroom to talk.
“So, Pietro,” Lensherr began, easing himself into a wicker chair, a glass of merlot in one hand, “how is your family?”
Pietro flopped down onto an assortment of oversized pillows piled near the door and stretched his legs. “My family? It’s only been six months since my last visit—not all that much has changed. Aren’t you more interested in what your Emperor is up to these days?”
Lensherr grunted. “ ‘My’ Emperor. Bah.” He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “There’s time enough to talk of that tinheaded despot. For now, I’d rather hear about more pleasant matters.” The look of anger carved into his features softened to a small smile. “So—how is my granddaughter?”
Pietro smiled, clearly beaming with pride. “As pretty as her mother, and growing more beautiful with each day. She misses her grandfather, you know.”
Lensherr’s eyes sparkled with joy. “Misses her grandfather... or the presents he brings her?”
Pietro laughed. “Well, she is a child. Sometimes choosing between the two can be difficult—especially when one considers the number of gifts you’ve showered her with over the years.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “You do have a tendency to spoil her.”
“As is my right as a grandparent,” Lensherr said firmly. He paused and stared into space for a moment, picturing Luna’s smiling face, then sipped at his wine before continuing. “And Wanda? Any word on her?” The white-haired speedster’s gentle expression suddenly transformed into a look of disgust. “Wanda is still one of von Doom’s lap-dogs, from what my contact in Washington has told me,” he said with a sneer. “She’s become quite the authority on you, Father—vOn Doom has come to rely on her knowledge of your motivations, your probable hiding places, the people to whom you might turn for help . . . although the information has become dated over the past year.” A mischievous smile played at the comers of his mouth. “They don’t know what to make of your prolonged absence. They’d like to believe that you’re dead, but with no physical evidence . . .”
Lensherr chuckled. “It must drive von Doom to the point of distraction, knowing that I must be out there somewhere, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the probes of even his most powerful telepaths, biding my time until the slightest opportunity presents itself to—what? Destroy another city? An entire country, perhaps?”
Pietro snorted. “You could start with his homeland. I doubt anyone would even notice the loss of such an insignificant spot on the map.” The mutant terrorist smiled wickedly. “I can almost imagine how that armored buffoon must have spent the past year, waiting for the moment when I might tip my hand and allow him the opportunity to strike me down and at last claim victory—only to realize with mounting frustration that that day has never come. ”
“Which is why he’s gathered together Wanda and his other advisers,” Pietro added. “With the anniversary of his rise to power being celebrated next week, I think it’s safe to assume that the entire world— von Doom included—is holding its collective breath, wondering if that is the time when the dreaded Magneto will at last reappear and resume his campaign of terror.”
Lensherr raised an eyebrow. “His anniversary, you say?”
Pietro nodded. “It will be ten years next Wednesday.”
“Ten years . . .” Lensherr frowned. “Ten years of attack and withdrawal; of hiding from superpowered dolts, prying telepaths, and armored buffoons wielding plasma weapons; of having my name made synonymous with the kind of atrocities perpetrated on my people by the Nazis.” His lips peeled back in a feral snarl. “All because of him. ”
The mutant overlord rose from his seat and began pacing the room. “Well,” he mused aloud, “if von Doom is so certain that I will try to eliminate him at his celebration, who am I to disappoint him . . . ?” “Are you mad, Father?” Pietro angrily snapped, leaping to his feet. “Do you think you can just step off a plane in America—let alone try to enter any airport around the world—and not expect to be assassinated the moment your identity is revealed?”
Lensherr nodded. “You are right, my son. I am all too aware of the dangers involved in this desire to confront the spider in the center of its web.” He sneered. “But I have had my fill of Victor von Doom and his much-lauded empire, and wish to bring a swift end to both. And now that you are here, I can proceed with the plans I have been formulating over these long twelve months.” He gestured toward the doorway. “Go forth this very evening and start contacting those mutants who are still loyal to the cause. Tell them I have said the time has come to excise the cancerous growth that sits upon the throne; that they must join me to at last bring to reality the dream we have held onto for so long.”
“And if they refuse to sacrifice themselves for the ‘dream’ ?” Pietro asked, a slightly sarcastic tone to his voice.
Lensherr eyed him warily. “If I did not know you better, my son, I would start to think that you were not raising that question as though you were playing devil’s advocate, but as an excuse to avoid joining your father on his—” he smiled “—quixotic crusade.”
Pietro said nothing.
“It is true, though,” Lensherr continued. “Not all of them will be willing to put their lives on the line, no matter how important the prize; that is to be expected. Regardless, there must be someone out there willing to join us in opposing that pompous, steel-faced egotist. Other members of our race who know that what von Doom has done to this planet is wrong, and are as eager as I to remove him from power.” He clapped Pietro on the shoulder, certain in his beliefs. “They are out there, my son, and they will answer the call to arms.”
“We shall see, Father . . .” Pietro replied, clearly unconvinced. “Tell your contact in Washington to make the necessary arrangements for my entry to America,” Lensherr said decisively. “The time has come for Magneto, Master of Magnetism, to step from exile and finally put an end to the tyranny of Victor von Doom.
“And this I swear,” he continued, his voice rising with a fanatical fervor. “Before the last hour of his ‘anniversary’ has passed into history, before the last drop of his blood has seeped into the ground, there will be a new order to the world, and humanity shall at last bow before the superiority of mutantkind, and acknowledge us as their true masters!” Not even Pietro could question that statement.
T WAS like looking out on an alien world.
Actually, it was more a case of looking out at the nexus of all
_reality—a point where Time and Space swirled and eddied like two
streams merging to form a mighty river—and realizing how small and insignificant you were, compared to the awe-inspiring majesty of Creation.
Humbling, to say the least.
Not that such a realization bothered the yellow-and-blue-costumed man who gazed at the roiling forces from one of the observation suites of the Starlight Citadel, that magnificent, city-sized construct that was home to the Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse. Arms folded across his broad chest, the man known only as Logan—who more often than not preferred being addressed by his codename of Wolverine—watched the perpetual clash of temporal and spatial energies with all the interest of someone who had visited a familiar tourist site they’d been to before, had seen all there was to see the first time, and was now eager to move on.
And since he was a member of the international group of super heroic mutants called the X-Men, it was a safe bet to assume that he had seen far more interesting sights.
Logan reached up and pulled back the mask that covered the upper half of his head to reveal sharp, weather-beaten features seemingly etched into a permanent scowl, and an unusual hairstyle that started as a widow’s peak above his furrowed brow and then expanded out to form a pair of immense tufts that stood up from the sides of his head, each tapering to a fine point; the mask had been constructed to fit around those tufts. It was a distinctive look, one as distinctive as the man himself. Standing just over five feet tall, in what appeared to be his midforties—although some people thought his real age might well be over a hundred, since he could recount tales of his world-spanning adventures that went at least as far back as World War II—Logan was a bom scrapper: the kind of man who would start a fight at the drop of a hat. . . or in retaliation to someone calling him “Shorty.” And he’d win every time, no matter how many opponents he faced, or how many beers he’d downed beforehand. As he often liked to say, “I’m the best there is at what I do,” and if what he did was brawl with a savagery unparalleled in the Great White North, then the owners and patrons of a vast number of roughneck bars and tumble-down saloons across his native Canada could attest to that fact.
Now, though, he was as far from the familiar streets of Vancouver and Montreal as one could possibly imagine; not just beyond the rim of the Milky Way, but beyond the boundaries of Time itself. A spot where an infinite number of alternate dimensions coalesced, all monitored by the Guardian who was also acting as host to Wolverine and the other members of his troupe.
And in one o ’ those alternate dimensions, Logan considered darkly, some other Canucklehead’s gettin’ the beer an’ stogie I oughtta be havin’. . .
Slowly, Logan’s eyes narrowed as he suddenly felt something intrude upon his thoughts, like a gentle tickle in the back of his mind. Tilting his head back slightly, he sniffed the reconstituted air that circulated throughout the citadel, then grunted softly in recognition of a familiar scent.
A few moments later, the door behind him irised open, and a tall, red-haired woman in her twenties entered the suite. She was clad in a form-fitting, green spandex bodystocking and gold opera-length gloves and thigh-high boots; a golden sash—its ends trailing around her ankles—was tied around her waist and held together with a bird-shaped clasp. Completing the outfit, set against a deep-blue triangle of cloth attached to the upper half of her costume, was a golden bird-shape, similar in design to the clasp, its wings spread across her chest, along the length of her collarbone. The stylized avian symbol was meant to be a representation of an Egyptian mythological bird known for its ability to live for five or six hundred years and then consume itself through the ritual of fire in order to start the cycle anew; a creature so powerful that not even death itself could hold sway over it for very long.
The Phoenix.
An appropriate codename for the woman—whose real name was
Jean Grey—considering the many times she had cheated death, either on her own or while standing beside her teammates in battle.
“Momin’, Jeannie,” Logan rasped, his voice made husky from a lifetime of cheap alcohol and even cheaper cigars.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, Logan,” Jean said.
Logan shrugged. “Just contemplatin’ my navel. .. which you already knew.”
Jean nodded in agreement, though his back was still turned to her. As a telepath, she had the ability to scan the minds of others, even from a distance—a talent she had possessed since turning fourteen. And after years of dealing with power-mad super-villains, renegade mutants, hate-filled humans, and a race of insectoid monsters that made the creatures in Aliens look tame in comparison, she always mentally probed any room she was about to enter; such precautions often spared her the painful experience of having a hidden enemy bring a metal pipe crashing down on her head, or being surprised by a psi-powered individual like herself.
Occasionally, though, it meant that she might accidentally stumble into her friends’ most private thoughts.
“I’m sorry about that, Logan,” Jean said. “Force of habit.”
“No big deal,” he replied. “Even without you rappin’ on my chamber door proper, I picked up the smell o’ yer perfume while you were still cornin’ down the hall.” He sniffed again. “Wings?”
Jean smiled. “It’s Scott’s favorite.”
Logan nodded, then turned to face her. “We ‘bout done here, Red? I ain’t had a beer in a month—” he waved a hand at the room around them “—and this place don’t even have a minibar.”
Jean laughed softly. The sound sent a pleasant shiver up Logan’s back. He’d fallen in love with that laugh when they’d first met at Xavier’s School for Gifted Mutants. Back then, he was the rough-and-tumble Canadian spy that the school’s director, Charles Xavier, had recruited to join his academy; she was one of the original students, using the less attractive name “Marvel Girl” during her exploits with her four fellow students—Scott Summers, Henry McCoy, Bobby Drake, and Warren Worthington III. It had been a long time since he’d felt like a nervous schoolboy around a pretty girl, but Jean Grey had had that effect on him, almost from the moment he laid eyes on her. And like any man who suddenly finds himself tongue-tied by the sight of someone so beautiful that he can’t bring himself to speak for fear of looking foolish and forever ruining the moment, Logan was never able to work up the nerve to tell Jean how he really felt for her; in fact, he made the situation even worse by eventually cutting himself off from the other X-Men, keeping to his own company, often leaving the school for long periods of time without telling anyone where he was going, or when he’d be back.
It was better that way, he often told himself. In his eyes, Jean was an unreachable goal; a woman who shone with the brightness of a sun. And he? He was Icarus, forever reaching for that shining star, basking in its warmth, only to be violently hurled to the ground, his once-lofty wings no longer able to support his weight.
Or his dreams.
An almost laughable situation, considering Logan had never been so hesitant—or outright smitten—during a lifetime of fighting and loving and, when the moment required it, killing.
The final, fatal blow to his heart had come on the day that he had found himself unable to hold back the truth—the hurt—any longer. It had been a brief conversation, for Logan had always been a man of few words, but the outcome had been as he’d always known it would be: she cherished his friendship, but her heart belonged to another.
To Scott Summers, in fact.
It had come as no surprise to Logan. Summers was the team leader, a twentysomething mutant with an ability to project powerful, destructive beams of force from his eyes. It had been determined through years of testing that he was actually drawing upon the energy of a “non-Einsteinian universe,” whatever the blazes that meant; Logan had never done well with science courses. Whether the power was a gift or a curse could only be determined by Summers, who had no control over it— merely opening his eyes when he awoke each morning would be enough to unleash an explosive force strong enough to level a good-sized hill... if he hadn’t trained himself to keep his eyes closed in such situations. The only way to harness the wild energy, he had learned early in life, was through the use of ruby quartz, which was why he wore specially-designed sunglasses wherever he went, day or night, and why, when he was dressed in his flamboyant costume of blue and yellow, his eyes were covered by a slitted visor—one that had thus provided him with an appropriate codename: Cyclops. Tall and handsome, soft-spoken yet confident, with an air of tragedy that seemed to constantly hang over his shoulders like a stifling cloak, Summers hadn’t pursued Jean—like Logan, he considered himself beneath her—but that hadn’t stopped her from going after him. They’d been through too much together through the years, she’d insisted, had shared too many secrets to treat their relationship as nothing more than a by-product of a lengthy working environment. Slowly, she reached the poetic soul that lay hidden beneath the stoic exterior he had always projected, cracked the shell of professionalism he had used as a barrier to protect himself from an often cruel world.
But, with Jean’s help, the walls around his heart eventually crumbled. Love followed soon after.
Logan never had a chance.
He’d gotten over the hurt, eventually. Showed up for their wedding day—though he’d kept to the shadows, away from the ceremony—even went so far as to pull her aside one day and utter “The Oath,” that dreaded special occasions’ pledge that has gotten more men into trouble over the centuries than any build-up to a war: wherever she was, he told her, whatever fix she might find herself in, all she had to do was call him, and he’d come running to her side. And being a man of his word, he’d meant every syllable of that promise.
Then he’d left to drown his sorrows.
After that, he’d given up any thoughts of trying to take Jean away from Scott—honor demanded it. But the ache was still there, sometimes, when he looked into her bright green eyes and saw the lively sparkle that had won his heart.
Or when she laughed that throaty little laugh of hers ...
“Penny for your thoughts, Logan?” Jean asked.
“Huh?” Logan started, then shook his head to clear it. “Nothin’ special, Red—my mind’s just wanderin’.” He glanced around the room. “Must be this smoke-free environment; all this clean air is messin’ with my head.”
A small smile played at the comers of Jean’s mouth. “Then I guess it’s even more important that we start heading for home. I wouldn’t want you passing out before you’ve had the chance to refill your lungs with the nauseating smoke of those carcinogenic materials you love so much.”
“That’s the beauty of havin’ a healin’ factor, Jeannie,” Logan replied, referring to his mutant ability to recover quickly from any illness or injury. “Can’t get sick from tobacco, can’t get too drunk from alcohol.” His facial muscles twitched into an approximation of a smile. “All the vices, none o’ the consequences.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I see you praying at the porcelain altar after one of your more . . . self-indulgent evenings,” Jean said sarcastically. She gestured over her shoulder, toward the hallway outside. “Right now, however, we’re needed in the throne room. Roma wants to speak with us one last time before she sends us back to Earth.”
“If it’s so flamin’ important, how come you just didn’t beam that message into everybody’s noggins, like you and Charlie usually do when you want our attention?”
“Because I didn’t want to come blaring into everyone’s minds like some overactive clock radio with the volume cranked to ten,” Jean replied. “Even though we’re outside the time stream, our bodies are still attuned to Daylight Savings—it’s about seven a.m. back home. Rogue and Gambit are still fast asleep, Scott was lightly dozing when I left our room, and the Professor was just sitting down to breakfast. But knowing your habits, I figured you’d already be up and about.”
“Where’s the elf?” Logan asked—his nickname for their blueskinned, pointy-eared teammate, Nightcrawler.
“Kurt’s been up for hours; actually, I’m not even sure he went to bed. He found a screening room on one of the citadel’s lower levels, and a collection of first-generation movie prints. He’s been holding his own, private classic film festival.” She shook her head in mild disapproval. “If he doesn’t wind up gorging himself on hot, buttered popcorn, it’s a certainty he’ll still get sick from all the jujubees.”
Logan grunted. “Let ’im have his fun. After all the fightin’ we’ve had to do against that crazy fascist broad, Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin, ever since we got here, catchin’ some downtime ain’t a bad thing. If the elf wants t’eat like a five-year-old an’ stay up all night watchin’ movies, that’s his prerogative ... long as he don’t wind up gettin’ sick all over my boots.”
Jean wrinkled her nose and grimaced, clearly imagining what that scene might look like. “Anyway..she said, quickly changing the subject, “I told him to save me a seat if he comes across a copy of Casablanca—especially one with Ronald Reagan as Rick. I’ve always wanted to see how his performance might stack up against Humphrey Bogart’s, since Reagan had been the original choice for the part back on our world.” She smiled. “One advantage of having access to the omniverse, wouldn’t you say? You can check out all the alternate versions of your favorite films.” She pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger, an idea obviously springing into her mind. “I wonder if there’s a lending library here? I’ve never seen Buddy Ebsen’s performance as the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz■ Jack Haley might never have gotten the chance to play the part in the final version if Ebsen hadn’t been allergic to the silver makeup . .Her voice trailed off, and she gazed at Logan. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
Logan shrugged. “I don’t mind. Never knew you were such a big movie trivia buff, though.”
“One of my few vices that Scott has learned to put up with. Sit me down on a couch with a bag of nacho-flavored com chips and a TV tuned to American Movie Classics, and I won’t even realize the world might have come to an end until the cable signal goes out.” Jean shook her head, a few scarlet strands of hair drifting down between her eyes. “Oh, well—there are more important things to deal with for the moment. We’d better wake the others and get to the throne room before Roma thinks we’re taking advantage of her hospitality.”
“Then, let’s not keep the lady waitin’, darlin’,” Logan said. “You know how cross these goddess-types can get if us ‘mere mortals’ don’t come runnin’ at their beck an’ call.”
“Logan, you’re ... you’re incorrigible.” Jean wagged a disapproving finger at her teammate, but her broadening smile belied any hint of anger she might have been trying to show.
“That’s one’a my better qualities, Red,” Logan replied. “You oughtta know that by now.” He bowed slightly, and dramatically waved a hand toward the open door. “After you, darlin’.”
Jean politely curtsied, fingers delicately holding up the hem of an imaginary skirt, then turned to go. Instantly, the smile faded from Logan’s features as he mentally kicked himself. Letting his mind wander like it had in the presence of a telepath was a rookie mistake—one that would have cost him an advantage—or his life—had they been engaged in battle, and not in polite conversation. And considering the fact that the telepath in this case was Jean Grey, who was all too aware of how strongly he still felt for her, allowing his thoughts to bubble to the surface where she could easily detect them was almost certain to result in her avoiding any social contact with him for a couple of days.
It wouldn’t be the first time it happened; nor, probably, the last. Jean, however, had acted as though she hadn’t “heard” them, for which Logan had been grateful. But, he now wondered, was that because she had consciously tuned down her power before his mental slip, so as not to intrude on his thoughts again ... or had they come streaming into her mind, and she was trying to avoid discussing them, in order to keep from having to revisit the whole messy issue of the emotional triangle that had once existed among the two of them and Scott? He’d never know for certain, unless Jean mentioned it, but she was far too sweet a person to do that and possibly run the risk of embarrassing him.
Slipping his mask back over his head, Logan stomped out of the observation suite after Jean, hoping that an opportunity would eventually present itself so that he could unleash his self-directed anger on the nearest handy object.
Or person.
Located on the uppermost level of the Starlight Citadel, the throne room of the Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse was as opulent as it was immense. Containing sweeping stone arches and two-foot-thick marble columns that stretched so high that the ceiling could not be seen, the room seemed less like a seat of multiversal power and more like a vast gothic cathedral whose nave ran the length of two football fields, and whose transepts were as wide as a city block. On closer observation, visitors to this awe-inspiring place often wondered aloud how a room so huge could exist in such a finite area as the citadel; the answer they were given was that the citadel was, in scientific terms, “dimensionally transcendental,” which, roughly translated into English, meant that it was bigger on the inside than the outside. Truth be told, it was really built that way because Roma—like her father, Merlyn, before her— liked having a lot of space in which to think.
At the moment, Roma was doing a lot of thinking.
By human standards, she was an attractive woman in her early twenties, with an oval face and large, dark eyes. Her waist-length black hair was tied into a ponytail with a golden band, the better to display delicately-formed ears that tapered to small points at their tips. But referring to the Guardian in human terms would have been as insulting to her as someone making a vulgar comment about a friend’s mother. Roma was, in fact, an immortal, an inhabitant of the higher dimensional plane called Otherworld, from which her father also hailed. As immortals go, Merlyn was the grandest of manipulators, often going so far as to fake his own death in order to bring his plans to fruition, as he had done centuries ago, when it appeared he had been slain at the hands of the dreaded sorceress Morgana Le Fay, as the legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table have depicted. The strategy worked again hundreds of years later, when he put into play his greatest scheme: to turn an unassuming man named Brian Braddock into Captain Britain, the superpowered champion of the omniverse, and, in turn, influence Braddock to create a superteam called Excalibur—comprised of British heroes like himself, as well as former members of the X-Men—in preparation for the day when the omniverse would be threatened by a powerful sorcerer called Necrom. The plan had ultimately proved successful, and Merlyn had departed for other realms, leaving his daughter in charge of the Starlight Citadel as the new Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse.
It also left Roma as the focus of Braddock’s anger when he finally learned the truth about his role in Merlyn’s plans, and about his own real identity: that his late father, James, Sr., had actually been an inhabitant of Otherworld—had, in fact, been one of Merlyn’s chosen guard, sent to a specific Earth to set the Master Plan in motion. That Brian—like his sister, Elisabeth—was really half-human, bom with a genetic makeup that, in his case, provided him with tremendous strength and the power of flight.
The best that Roma could do when Brian and Betsy eventually confronted her with this information was to shrug and say that it had all been for the greater good of the omniverse.
Not quite “I’m sorry”; not quite “You’re welcome.”
But enough of a reply for an immortal.
Now, lounging in a comer of one of the throne room’s transepts, in a small, rock-lined pool that was constantly replenished by a quiet little waterfall that descended from the inky blackness high above, Roma stared intensely at an elaborate chessboard that floated in front of her, six inches above the churning, pale-green liquid. Its squares were made of ivory and black onyx, and scattered across them were a number of objects made of the same materials—not the traditional pieces of kings and queens, knights and pawns, but startlingly accurate representations of various individuals—both superhuman and nonpowered—from the world designated as “Earth 616.” The X-Men who were here as her guests were included in the collection; they comprised the set of white pieces on one side of the board. On the other side were half-a-dozen black figurines: scaled-down versions of Victor von Doom—with armor—Magneto, Quicksilver, Wanda Maximoff, Sebastian Shaw . . . and Ororo.
And in the center of the board stood a very odd piece. From a foot away, it appeared to be a representation of Betsy Braddock, dressed in a dark-blue swimsuit and matching thigh-high stockings, a Japanese sword—a katana—gripped in one hand; a garish red mark—possibly makeup, possibly a scar of some sort—glowed hotly under her left eye. On closer inspection, though, Roma could see the figure flicker and fade and change appearance, from lethal femme fatale to cabaret singer, the swimsuit changing into a full-length evening gown, the sword becoming a microphone. Then it would shift again, constantly in a state of flux, moving back and forth from one version to the other.
“This is not right,” Roma mused aloud, eyes narrowing to slits as she stared at the morphing game piece. “None of this is right. . .”
Rising from the water, she stepped from the pool and shrugged into a full-length, white silk robe; the chessboard automatically moved to remain in front of her, floating to a halt at chest-level. A deep frown creasing her flawless face, Roma quickly strode across the transept toward a platform near the apse which contained her throne. The board kept pace with her.
Sweeping up a short flight of steps to the platform, Roma stopped before a pulpit-like stand, into which was set an assortment of long, oddly-shaped white crystals. It was one piece of quartz in particular that immediately caught her attention—and sent a slight chill racing up her spine.
There was a spot of black in its center.
Roma’s eyes widened in surprise. Each crystal contained the life-force of an entire dimensional plane—millions of worlds, billions of lifeforms, all condensed to a single, six-inch-wide sliver of quartz. As such, the clarity of each piece reflected the fact that that segment of the omniverse was in complete working order—no flaws, no chips, no worn edges, so to speak. To have an imperfect crystal—especially one possessing such a disturbing bit of discoloration—was unacceptable.
One last thing to check.
Leaving the platform, Roma moved over to an immense, clear globe that floated above the highly-polished floor nearby. It was a scrying glass of sorts, used to peer into the events of any world, any dimension that Roma wished to observe. Waving a hand before its surface to activate the device, the dark-haired woman waited for an image of Earth 616 to appear and, possibly, confirm her worst suspicions.
But no image was forthcoming; in fact, the glass turned completely dark, not even providing a general overview of the dimension.
Roma frowned again, a knot of concern taking form in her stomach. Blocked from observing a part of the omniverse? Such an occurrence should have been impossible, given the powers possessed by a Supreme Guardian.
She touched a small contact on her robes. “Satumyne?”
“Yeeesss, m’lady?” muttered a sleepy female voice.
“There is a . . . problem . . .” Roma said slowly.
“I will be there immediately, m’lady,” the woman responded, all traces of weariness quickly wiped from her speech by the call to duty.
Roma broke the connection, then glanced at the scrying glass once more. After all the X-Men had just done for her, how was she going to break the news that their world faced possible destruction . . . again?
“You wished to speak with us, Your Majesty?” asked a deep, male voice from behind her, the sound echoing and reechoing in the vast chamber.
Roma turned. Standing at the crossing—the part of the throne room where the nave and transepts met—was an odd collection of costumed men and women, grouped around a baldheaded man wearing a conservative business suit: Professor Charles Xavier, teacher and spiritual guide in their ongoing quest to create peace and understanding between mutantkind and humanity. He was seated in a machine that resembled a wheelchair; it silently floated a good foot and a half above the floor, supported by a series of small, but powerful, anti-gravity beam's projected from the underside of the seat. Among the group were Wolverine and Jean Grey; her hand was lightly resting on the arm of Scott Summers, the tall, sandy-haired man beside her, whose eyes were hidden from view by a gold-colored visor that partially wrapped around his head. Just behind Jean and Scott was another twentysomething couple: a ruggedly handsome man with scraggly brown hair, and an easy smile;
and an attractive woman with waist-length hair, its dark-brown color offset by a large patch of white that started just above her forehead and ran down the center, giving the flowing locks an almost skunk-like appearance. His codename was Gambit—real name Remy LeBeau, a former member of the Thieves Guild, back in his native home of New Orleans, Louisiana—and he was dressed in a black-and-maroon costume, over which was worn an ankle-length leather coat, its wide collar turned up. She was Rogue—whether or not that was her real name had never been determined—and she wore a form-fitting yellow-and-green bodysuit—an “X” emblazoned over its left breast, as well as on the buckle of the leather belt that hung loosely around her waist—with bright yellow leather boots and matching kid gloves; a brown leather bomber jacket, its sleeves rolled back to her elbows, completed the colorful ensemble.
“Yes, I did,” Roma replied to Xavier’s query. “I had wanted to thank you once again for providing Captain U.K. with assistance in bringing an end to the reign of terror perpetrated on Earth 794 by Mas-trex Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin—” she glanced toward the chessboard —but far more troubling matters have arisen of late. Matters that involve your world—and, quite possibly, the omniverse.”
“Somethin’ dat needs de X-Men to set right?” Gambit asked in his Cajun drawl. “Well, just point us in de right direction an’ let’s get to fixin’. Dat’s what we specialize in, y’know.” He grinned broadly. “Just ask yer ol’ pal, Opul.”
A trace of a smile whispered across Roma’s face. “I wish it were as simple as that, my friend.” She gestured toward a set of chairs that had suddenly appeared at the foot of the steps leading to her throne. “Please, be seated, and I shall explain the situation as best I understand it.”
As one, the group moved forward to take their seats, an intense look of concern shared by them all.
Well... all but one.
With an explosion of air and a burst of brimstone-laced smoke—a peculiar sound that registered to the eardrum as a loud BAMF!—the final member of the X-Men made his appearance. Tall and lean, with an acrobat’s physicality, Kurt Wagner was the most unusual member of the team . . . and an almost perfect, living definition of the word “mutant”: his hair and skin were a deep blue, the sclera and irises of his eyes a bright yellow, and he sported a set of sharp, white fangs in his mouth; his hands and feet each contained but three digits, and a prehensile tail—like those found in certain species of monkey—had grown to a three-foot length from a spot just above his buttocks. From a quick glance, a casual observer might mistake him for a demon straight out of a devout Roman Catholic’s nightmares of hell; in reality, though, he was a kind, loving man, and a well-respected member of the group.
When he didn’t show up late for an important meeting, that is.
“Nice’a you t’join us, elf,” Wolverine grumbled.
Nightcrawler bowed deeply, then straightened. “I apologize for my tardiness, my friends,” he said in his clipped, German accent, “but it is extremely difficult to tear oneself away from the radiant beauty that is Hedy Lamarr to attend a farewell party.” He glanced at his teammates, and immediately noticed their somber expressions. “Or is something far more sinister in the works .. . ?”
“You got that right, sugah,” Rogue said in her husky, Southern voice. “Pull up a chair—we were just about to get the lowdown from Roma.”
Nightcrawler quickly joined the others, and turned to face their host.
Roma looked at each of them in turn, saw their bodies already tensing as though they were preparing for battle.
“I have detected an . . . abnormality in your home dimension,” she began.
Gambit, who had been using his feet to rock his seat back and forth, groaned loudly and set the chair down with a sharp clang that reverberated across the throne room. Everyone turned to look at him, especially Xavier, who glared at him with an intensity that could melt steel.
Clearly wishing to avoid eye contact with his mentor, Gambit quickly lowered his gaze to the floor and shrugged. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just annoyin’ as hell that, after de mess we done finished cleanin’ up here, we don’ even get a chance to just go home an’ relax a spell.”
“I understand your frustrations, Remy,” Xavier said, his rich baritone voice seeming to fill the vast space around them. “We all do. But our duties as X-Men often require that we put aside our disappointments, our grievances, and concentrate on far more important matters.”
“In other words, Cajun,” Wolverine harshly translated, “ ‘Stuff Happens.’ Live with it.”
Gambit sighed and turned to Rogue, who sat beside him. “So much for dat Harry Connick, Jr. concert tonight, chere. ”
“You can make it up to me another time, Remy,” Rogue said, and gently patted him on the arm.
Xavier turned back to Roma. “Please, Your Majesty—continue.”
The dark-haired woman nodded. “As I was saying, something has occurred with Earth 616 that I am at a loss to explain.” She gestured toward the chessboard, which hovered within arm’s reach. “It is the custom of the Supreme Guardian—my father before me, and now I— to use this board in our work. It is set with pieces representing those mortals from across the multitude of dimensions with whom we are currently dealing.”
“Manipulating, you mean,” Logan grumbled softly.
“When your work was completed on Earth 794,” Roma continued, choosing to ignore him, “the board automatically reset itself to begin the next... game. New pieces then appeared, replacing the previous set. All was as it had been for countless millennia.
“But then I noticed this. ” She pointed to the Betsy Braddock piece, which was still shifting between its torch singer and female ninja forms.
The X-Men rose from their seats and moved to gather around the board. Jean leaned forward to stare at the morphing figurine.
“It’s Betsy!” she said in astonishment. “But why is it doing that? Is something wrong with her back on Earth?”
“I do not know,” Roma replied. “I have attempted to determine the cause of the abnormality—and the reason for the unusual effect it has had upon the board—but for reasons I cannot fathom, I have been unable to look upon Earth 616. Nor can I determine the length of time the abnormality has existed, since I have been more concerned with events on other worlds as of late.”
“So, you have no idea what might be happening back home,” Cyclops said.
“None,” Roma admitted.
“Has this ever happened before?”
“It has never happened before, Scott Summers. Despite the increasing number of omniverse-threatening events that have taken place on your world since the first appearance of superbeings like yourselves, never have I, nor my father, Merlyn, been prevented from gazing upon it when we desired to do so.”
She paused, letting her words sink in. The X-Men looked at one another uneasily.
“Okay, so we know the questions,” Wolverine said finally. “How do we go about gettin’ some answers?”
Roma pursed her lips and silently gazed at the chessboard for a few moments. Even though she was an immortal—someone who had lived a lifetime even before Dimension 616 had been born, and would continue to exist long after the X-Men had turned to dust—she suddenly felt the first disturbing twinges of fear. It was a sensation she had not felt in . . . well, a very long time.
The Supreme Guardian studied the expectant faces of the X-Men. They were all looking to her for answers, but she had none to give. The only comforting thought she had was that Merlyn almost certainly would have been stymied by the same predicament, though he would likely have settled for a more direct solution, like unleashing the full complement of the multidimensional Captain Britain Corps on Earth 616 and letting them tear the planet apart until they found the cause of the disruption.
Not very practical, but such a plan did have its charms .. .
“If I may be so bold, m’lady,” said a female voice from the shadows of the nave, “I do know of a solution to the problem.” As the group turned to face her, the speaker stepped into the light.
Dressed in flowing robes that were as white as her shoulder-length hair, Opal Luna Satumyne was a stunning figure to behold—a flawless combination of icy professionalism and red-hot sensuality. Her official title was Omniversal Majestrix, which meant that she was responsible for maintaining order and reality throughout all dimensional planes... under the direction of Roma, of course. It was one of the many alternate versions of Her Whyness that the X-Men had been recruited to battle, and Satumyne had been pleased by the outcome.
It cut down on any possible competition for her job.
“If I may remind the Supreme Guardian,” Satumyne said, “you have at your disposal the means to end this... imperfection before it can spread across the entirety of that reality, and thereby threaten the omniverse.” She gestured toward the black-tinged quartz on the dais. “All it would take is to shatter the crystal containing that dimension’s life-force; remove the entire plane from existence—”
“You mean destroy our reality?” Jean interjected, barely controlling the anger in her voice. “Isn’t that like killing a patient in order to stop a cancerous growth from spreading throughout their body?” She shook her head emphatically. “No. There has to be another way.”
“I agree, Jean Grey,” Roma said. “But there are few options. I could isolate the plane of Earth 616, let the ‘infection’ run its course; it would ultimately result in your dimension collapsing in upon itself, eons before its natural end. Or I could set into motion forces that would destroy your world without harming the rest of reality; using your medical analogy, that would be akin to amputating a diseased limb to save an otherwise healthy patient.”
“But think of the billions of lives lost!” Jean insisted.
“Think of the countless billions more saved, ” Satumyne countered. “An’ what would happen to us, Roma?” Rogue asked, her voice strained. “Would we just up an’ disappear when any of that happened?” Roma shook her head. “No, friend Rogue. The state of temporal grace generated by the citadel ensures that no harm would come to any of you, should either your world or dimension cease to exist.”
“And then?” Nightcrawler asked. “Not to sound ungrateful, but where does one go, Your Majesty, when one no longer has a home to go to?”
“You could work for me,” Satumyne replied. “The responsibilities of my office often require me to use superpowered agents, like the Captain Britain Corps, or the mercenary band Technet, to handle the more—” her nose wrinkled with obvious distaste “—physical solutions often required to readjust the inconsistencies that tend to pop up throughout reality. And you’ve already proven your effectiveness against one of my more . . . embarrassing counterparts.”
“Sure you don’ want a couple ref’rences t’ check before givin’ us de job?” Gambit muttered. Rogue playfully punched him in the upper arm to silence him. She just managed to avoid breaking the humerus with her incredible strength.
Nightcrawler frowned. “I appreciate the offer, Satumyne, but after the brief mn-ins the two of us have had during my time with Excalibur, I find it a bit difficult to tmst you—you work far too hard at manipulating people to make me all that comfortable in your presence.” He flashed a brief smile. “No offense.”
Her Whyness said nothing, a mischievous gleam in her eye. Clearly, she considered his words to be more complimentary than critical.
“There’s another solution, Roma,” Cyclops said. “You could send us in to find out what happened. With your help, and a bit of luck, it shouldn’t take long to track down the source of the disturbance and find a way to correct it.”
“It makes sense, Your Majesty,” Xavier said. “If the trouble our world is experiencing is, in a manner of speaking, some sort of disease, then the logical course of action is to fight that disease from within— like antibodies rallying to overcome an infection.”
Roma paused to consider this option, then slowly nodded in agreement. “You are right, Charles Xavier, but I can offer no aid. Since I am blocked from viewing the events taking place in your dimension, I cannot determine the point of origin for the disturbance. The most assistance that I can provide is to open the gateway that will send you back to your world.” She smiled thinly. “After that, you shall have to rely on your ‘bit of luck.’ ” The smile quickly faded. “I am sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Yer Highness,” Wolverine said. “We’ve been in tougher scraps ’n this. We’ll make do.” 1
“I would expect no less of you, my friends,” Roma said.
“Then the matter is settled,” Xavier stated. He looked to Cyclops. “Scott, you will lead the mission. Start at the mansion; see what information you can gather using Cerebro. Try to discover the locations of
the other X-Men if they are not there—I imagine they’re already working on their own to find the source of the disturbance. If they’re not. . .”
Cyclops nodded. “Then we’re on our own.” He flashed a brief smile. “We’ll get the job done, Professor. Don’t worry.”
“Sure you don’t wanna come along fer the ride, Charlie?” Wolverine asked, a trace of a wicked smile splitting his rugged features.
Xavier shook his head. “No, Logan; my presence is not required.” He gestured down toward his high-tech wheelchair. “Besides, since a certain degree of stealth may be required, it will be far easier for all of you to move about without having to see to my needs.” He smiled broadly as he gazed at Wolverine. “I imagine, though, Logan, that you in particular will have difficulty staying out of trouble without my guidance.”
“That’s what I’m countin’ on, Charlie,” Wolverine replied with a wink.
“A final warning, X-Men,” Roma said. “Given the severity of the situation, and the effect it will soon have upon the omniverse if it is not checked, I can only allow you a limited amount of time in which to resolve the matter.”
“Here it comes . . .” Gambit mumbled. “I was wait in ’ for de other shoe to drop.”
“How limited?” Cyclops asked.
“One week, by your standards of time,” Roma answered.
“And if we haven’t made things right by then?” Jean asked, though it was clear from her expression that she already knew the answer.
“Then,” Roma said slowly, “I shall have no choice but to shatter the crystal and remove your reality from the omniverse.” She smiled warmly, reassuringly, pausing to gaze at each of them.
“Move swiftly, my friends,” she said. “There are forces at work here beyond even my ken, and they cannot be allowed to extend their influence to other worlds. The safety of the omniverse rests squarely on your shoulders.”
Nightcrawler raised an expressive eyebrow, then looked to Jean.
“No pressure, eh, mein freund? ” he asked, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
Jean smiled uneasily. “No pressure, Kurt,” she replied. Her gaze drifted toward the ever-changing game piece that represented one of her closest friends, and her smile faded. “No pressure at all. . .”
THE MAN in the Moon was angry.
It could be considered a certainty that, in an age of telecom_ munications, superpowered men and women, extraterrestrial visitors the size of mountains, and time travel, not many people still remembered the classic fable; knew that he did, indeed, exist on that airless satellite that constantly circles the Earth like an eternal dance partner; or that he was an actual man. Nor were they aware that he did not really spend his time moving about in the moon, but on its surface, in an area of what is referred to as its “dark side,” because it cannot be seen from Earth. And, contrary to fanciful beliefs, he lived, not in some brick-and-mortar castle with flying buttresses and colorfully-draped minarets, but within the metal walls of a half-dozen drab, nondescript buildings. Oblong in shape, their surfaces pitted and scored by hundreds of microscopic meteorites pushed along by the solar winds, they were linked by a series of long metal tubes, the top halves of which protruded from the gray, barren ground; seen from space, the overall shape of the grouping was somewhat akin to that of a starfish, the extended “arms” connected to a central hub.
This was—as one could readily determine upon seeing it—a man-made installation; a military base, built by human hands at the peak of one man’s overwhelming desire to conquer first his own planet, then the trackless void, laying claim to worlds beyond number in his mad dream to create a star-spanning empire. That dream had never come to fruition, of course—not yet, anyway—but the base still had a full complement of workers, well-paid to work in such an inhospitable place and perform the duties assigned to them without question.
And, just to prove that he was prepared to greet any potential interlopers from Earth, or one of the many celestial visitors who tended to see the people of this magnificent blue-and-white planet as either guinea pigs for scientific experiments or appetizing hot lunches, the installation also had a full complement of weapons, from conventional handguns to laser projectors—so-called “death beams” powerful enough to annihilate large sections of the planet even from this great a distance. At the moment, every single one of those projectors was trained on a different location around the globe, their targeting systems automatically recalibrating to zero-in on new strike zones with each rotation of the planet.
The Man in the Moon hated unexpected guests.
Far more important than the potential offensive uses of the installation, however, was the fact that it was located two hundred and fifty thousand miles from the world ruled by Victor von Doom—and therefore unaffected, for the moment, by whatever forces had transformed Earth 616 into the hazard it now presented to the continued well-being of the omniverse.
The Man in the Moon, of course, knew nothing of the danger presented by these very same forces that now threatened to destroy an entire dimensional plane, but he was very much aware of the current status of the world that was oh so far away, yet tantalizingly still within striking distance.
Truth be told, he was not even the beloved figure depicted in the children’s fairytales, but he had lived on this cold, barren planetoid for so long, plotting his nefarious plans and continually stoking the boilers of his undying hatred for all those he considered lesser beings, that he often felt as though that had become his true identity. He half expected to see a cow leaping above him some day.
He found such thoughts troubling—a sign of weakness that could not be tolerated. He would have to do something to counteract this feeling of complacency that threatened to wash over him and pull him down into the depths of despair.
Not yet, though. Not yet.
But soon. When he did, at last, move to strike down his enemies, it would be a killing blow—one that would leave no doubt as to the identity of the final victor in this cosmic game of chess. And once victory was his, once he again held the reigns of absolute power, then the world would truly come to know the level of strength he possessed ... and come to fear it.
An approximation of a smile twisted his grotesque features with that consoling thought.
His spirits now buoyed by the mental image of his enemies laying beaten and bloodied, life flowing from their shattered bodies to momentarily quench the eternal thirst of the ground beneath them, the man known only as “The Controller” gazed at his surroundings. He was seated on a plush leather chair in his private office, which was located in the command center, the largest—and connecting point—of the six linked buildings; not exactly a spot from which one would expect to launch an empire, but it was a start. The lively strings of Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik softly issued from the speakers of a small entertainment center, providing a touch of Old World civility amid the New World Order’s sterile technology and artificial environments. The music did wonders for him, soothing his tensions as he forced himself to heatedly glare at the wall-sized viewing screen across from his desk; the crisp, almost three-dimensional image being broadcast on it was of the Earth, provided by cameras on the side of the moon closest to the planet.
Von Doom’s planet, the Controller reminded himself with a snarl.
“But not for much longer,” he whispered. “Soon. Very soon .. .”
A knock on the door harshly shook him from his reverie.
“Enter!” the Controller barked.
The door opened, and a young man hesitantly stepped inside the office. Garbed in a dark green uniform, black leather jackboots polished to a glaringly bright shine, he was in his early twenties, tall and athletically built, square-jawed and straight-backed, his blond hair cut short and stylish—all in all, the very model of a proper Generation-X toady. Under one arm he carried a large stack of papers.
“What is it, Lawrence?” the Controller asked.
“I have the latest intelligence reports, sir,” his assistant replied, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Let me see them,” the Controller said. He waved Lawrence over, and his assistant placed the stack of printouts on his desk. Red-rimmed eyes studied each page, scanning the pages of information that had been compiled by his computer experts—men and women of Lawrence’s age, who had hacked, first into the Empire’s vast satellite network, then into the very heart of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top secret files and defensive systems. With such limitless knowledge at his disposal, there was nothing that the Controller did not know about the world of Victor von Doom.
“Fascinating,” the Controller said, glancing at one report in particular. “I had no idea the mongrel could maintain this level of influence over the planet for such a lengthy period of time. It cannot last, though, for he is a weak man, and like all weak men, he is destined to fail.” He grinned, lips pulled back in a feral snarl. “I, however, am not a weak man; I am his better, as von Doom well knows. That is why he has feared me all these years, why that gypsy pig has never been able to truly defeat me in battle, though he would never admit to it. But he will, in time . . . just before I end his worthless life.” The Controller nodded, as though in agreement with himself. “What a sight that will be, eh, Lawrence? The oh-so-mighty von Doom, brought to his knees by a true warrior, forced to call him ‘master’ and beg for his life, only to choke on his own blood, his pleas for mercy unheard, as my sword slices through the pale skin of his throat.”
“Yes, Controller,” Lawrence agreed. He gestured toward the reports on his superior’s desk. “Your orders?”
“All in good time, Lawrence. All in good time.” The Controller eased back in his seat, placing his elbows on the padded armrests and steepling his fingers in front of his face. Closing his eyes, he listened as the CD player replaced Mozart’s soul-stirring violins with even sweeter, though far more melancholy, strains. The music seemed to flow through him, and a faint smile split his thin lips.
“Do you know what this is, Leonard?” he asked, eyes still closed.
“Umm ... no, I don’t, Controller,” the young man admitted. A faint sheen of sweat suddenly appeared on his brow.
The Controller chuckled—a dry, mirthless note that sounded like swatches of sandpaper being rubbed together. “I imagine they did not teach ‘Music Appreciation’ in whatever backward Englischer school you attended in your youth.”
“No, Controller,” Leonard responded.
“It is called Kol Nideri, for Violoncello and Orchestra, Opus No. 47, by a composer named Max Bruch. You did not know that, did you?” The Controller’s eyes suddenly opened, and he stared coldly at his assistant.
“N-no, C-controller. I d-did not,” Leonard stammered, unconsciously taking a step back. His gaze shifted to the office door; he appeared to be measuring the distance from his superior’s desk, as though contemplating the possibility that he might need to move quickly in the next few seconds.
The Controller ignored Leonard’s panicked expression and slowly shook his head. “That is the trouble with your generation—no desire in your meaningless, pathetic lives to try and appreciate the finer things: Art. Music. Dance.” His eyes sparkled. “And finer still: The chill that runs up the spine as you feel the life slipping away from an enemy, your fingers clamped tightly about his throat; feel his last breath whistle softly through stilled lips to brush your cheek like a shy lover’s kiss. The sight of freshly-spilled blood on virgin snow, its warmth spiraling like a fine mist in the cold, mountain air.
“But, no; your generation has no time for such pleasures. Always flitting about from place to place like hummingbirds, never taking the time to slow down long enough and discover what it is to truly live. It is these moments, these sensations, these testaments to man’s creativity and destructive powers that keep us from falling to the level of the beasts; and it is these very things that we must strive to preserve, after we have destroyed our enemies, and I have taken my rightful place as master of the world.
“For now, though,” the Controller continued, “we shall wait and see what develops in the days ahead. Patience, it is said, is a virtue; and it is the patient man who learns to spot his enemies’ weaknesses, and know the right moment to exploit them.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes, Controller. You’re right,” Leonard said quickly, nodding his head.
The Controller gazed at his assistant for a few moments, and knew that he had been wasting his time talking to this cipher. Like the other men and women of his generation, sage advice gathered from a lifetime of experiences did not seem to interest him. All the young fool understood were his own pathetic yearnings to attain power of any kind. No, that was not entirely true; he also understood that his superior possessed power in abundance—so much, in fact, that he could declare unquestioned mastery over even life and death themselves. The Controller nodded silently. He had been like that once, ages ago—an intellectual midget, destined for a lifetime of menial labor and mindless toil—until his eyes had been opened to the world around him by a man of seemingly infinite power.
Such comparisons, though, meant little to the Controller. Unlike his own mentor, he had no time to waste on trembling lackeys. The fool wasn’t even worth wasting a bullet on to put a quick end to his meaningless existence.
“Continue to monitor the situation,” the Controller replied gruffly. He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Now go. Do not disturb me unless you have something important to tell me.”
“Yes, Controller,” Leonard said, clearly pleased for the opportunity to exit the office under his own power. “Thank you.”
The Controller watched his assistant scurry from the office, and a look of unbridled disgust contorted his already twisted features.
“Bah,” he muttered. “Idiots. Everywhere I go, I am constantly burdened with idiots.” With a contemptuous sneer, he swiveled his chair around to gaze at the wall-sized projection of the Earth. His eyes nar-
rowed to slits as he studied the contours of a world that should belong to him, and would ... in the end.
“Soon, von Doom,” the Controller said softly. “Soon, the dreamer must awaken, and it shall be I who takes the greatest pleasure in rousing him from his slumbers—before sending him to his final rest. ..