SO THIS is how the world ends, thought Betsy Braddock. Not from nuclear warfare, or an asteroid strike, or even from a world. devourer like Galactus dropping by because he felt a bit peckish— but from a wish. A simple wish, and a scientific Aladdin’s lamp to make it come true . . .
The Earth was literally coming apart at the seams—or at least that was how it appeared to the lavender-tressed telepath who was usually known in super heroic circles by the more colorful codename “Psy-locke.” Dressed in a glamorous, black evening gown and opera gloves that had never been designed for combat conditions, she was standing in a sub-chamber of the White House, amid the rubble created during a clash between opposing bands of superpowered mutants—one, a group of villainous renegades called the Acolytes; the other, the heroic X-Men, to which Betsy belonged. Nearby lay the unmoving bodies of her teammates: Cyclops, Phoenix, Rogue, and Nightcrawler, all rendered unconscious by their enemies before they had a chance to defend themselves. On the far side of the chamber, the only other conscious X-Man—the always deadly Wolverine, who had arrived only moments ago—was engaged in battle with the green-garbed speedster called Quicksilver. Moving almost too fast for the eye to follow, the swiftfooted mutant easily evaded Wolverine’s claws as they sliced through the air near his chest. It was clear to Betsy—and, more than likely, to Quicksilver as well—that the feral Canadian scrapper was doing his best to gut his enemy and bring a decisive end to their fight.
Momentarily transfixed by the savage ballet that was being performed in front of her, Betsy shook her head to clear her thoughts. What
was she doing, just standing around while her friends had fallen around her?
She turned from the conflict, her attention brought back to the blindingly brilliant wall of light that had suddenly formed in the center of the room. Beyond that wall, she knew, was the device responsible for the madness unfolding around her. A device that—though small in size—contained enough power to transform an entire planet and its population into anything its owner desired. A device that, she had learned only a short time ago, threatened to tear asunder not only the Earth, not just the dimensional plane in which the world existed, but the length and breadth of the omniverse—an infinite number of parallel realities, each stacked one upon the other, separated by only the thinnest of celestial energy curtains.
A device called the Cosmic Cube.
But the Cube was not a living entity capable of restructuring reality on its own ... at least, not to Betsy’s knowledge. Rather, it was a tool whose energies were directed by whoever happened to be holding it. A paintbrush in the hands of an artist, as it were, if such an artist possessed the sort of vision and creative dedication needed to transform a simple canvas into an awe-inspiring masterpiece.
Of course, the quality of the final product would depend on who the artist was, and what their perceptions of beauty might be . . .
At the moment, that particular artist was a man known more for his acts of terrorism than his appreciation for the fine arts. A man who, like Betsy, was gifted with extraordinary powers, but whose all-consuming goal in life was nothing less than the total subjugation of humanity at the hands of mutantkind. A man by the name of Erik Magnus Lensherr, who, more often than not, preferred being addressed by his far more impressive—and fear-inducing—codename: Magneto. The self-proclaimed “Master of Magnetism.”
Just moments before, Betsy and her fellow X-Men had failed to stop Lensherr from taking possession of the Cube; failed in their mission to put an end to the threat posed by the device before it resulted in the destruction of all realities.
And now the entire world was going to pay the price for their mistakes. •
The energy wall surged forward, consuming everything in its path as it flowed across the chamber. Betsy could only stare helplessly as each of her friends were taken, absorbed by the power of the Cube to be reshaped, recreated, by whatever dark urges lurked within the mind of Erik Lensherr, driving him ever onward to attain his perverted dream of world domination.
Though it was difficult to see him clearly through the cosmically-charged barrier, Betsy could just make out the distinctive form of Magneto as he sat upon an elaborate throne, his hands wrapped around the Cube.
The throne, however, was not a construct of Lensherr’s mind, but of the mind of another power-hungry villain—the infamous Victor von Doom, dictator of the small European nation of Latveria, and the bane of almost every hero and heroine on the planet. It was his twisted genius that had created this latest version of the Cube, his mad desire to rule the world that had provided the Cube with the raw psychic material it required to fashion a suitable approximation of von Doom’s dream. Unfortunately for the super-villain-cum-Emperor, creating such a world had come at a terrible cost. ..
The wave moved closer. Betsy took a step back—knowing such a reaction was pointless, since there was nowhere on Earth she could go to escape the chaos forces bearing down on her—and gasped as a gaunt-leted hand closed around her ankle. She looked down to find von Doom staring back at her.
He was a disturbing sight to behold, this man who had, only a short time ago, held the power of a god in his hands. His body was withering away inside the gleaming, silver-hued battle armor that was obviously keeping him alive. The degree of physical decay he was suffering was plain to see just by looking at his face—the skin was wrinkled, waxy, and paper-thin; blue-tinged veins pulsed frantically, just below the surface. The villain had been aged at an alarming rate by the Cube, drained of his life-force by the device in order to maintain the reality he had created—a “perfect” world in which von Doom had defeated every one of his enemies, and taken Betsy’s fellow X-Man, Storm, as his bride. For a time, his plan had worked: for the past ten years (or so it had seemed to Betsy, and everyone else in the world) he had reigned supreme as Emperor, his long sought-after dream at last made reality by a device no bigger than a Jack-in-the-Box.
The dream, however, had come to an abrupt end when the X-Men had returned from a mission in another dimension and set out to put things right. At least, they had tried to put things right, and would have, if not for the untimely intervention of Magneto and his followers.
As she gazed down at von Doom, it was immediately clear to Betsy, just by watching how he labored for every breath, how he struggled to raise himself up on one elbow, that the strain placed on his body by the Cube—not to mention the abuse he had suffered at the hands of Magneto when the mutant overlord forcibly took possession of the device— was too much for the man once known as “Doctor Doom”; he was almost at death’s door. But in spite of his failing health, the anger, the sheer hatred he obviously felt toward those who had robbed him of his victory seemed to give him strength. Tightening his grip on her ankle, he glared up at the Asian telepath.
“Doom never concedes defeat, girl,” the prematurely old man said, eyes burning with rage. “Not while he still has one last hand to play.” He pressed a hidden stud on his armor’s chestplate.
The air around the villain and Betsy crackled with electricity. Her nostrils filled with the smell of burning ozone, and her skin began tingling as a powerful current ran through her.
A transportation device? she thought with some surprise. But where could Doom be taking us? And why me?
Before she had a chance to voice those questions, however, the room and everything in it—her colleagues, her enemies, the Cosmic Cube itself—faded into darkness.
And then, her ankle still held fast in von Doom’s grip, Betsy was yanked into infinity.
SUPREME GUARDIAN, we must destroy the crystal!”
Sitting on her throne in the highest level of the Starlight Cit-. adel—a city-sized collection of soaring metal towers and minarets that floated at the exact center of all Time and Space—Roma, the Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse, closed her eyes and tried to ignore the impassioned—and increasingly loud—pleas of her lieutenant, Opul Luna Satumyne.
She wasn’t having much luck.
“Enough, Satumyne,” she finally said, fatigue evident in her voice. “Your point has been made—emphatically so.”
“I apologize, Supreme Guardian,” replied Satumyne, speaking at a more tolerable volume. “I don’t mean to belabor the obvious, but under the circumstances...”
Letting her voice trail off, the white-haired, white-gowned woman gestured across the throne room toward a large crystalline globe that floated a foot above the highly polished marble floor. This was a scrying glass—a device Roma used to monitor the countless dimensions that fell under her protection. At the moment, the glass was dark, but not because it had been deactivated; quite the opposite, in fact. Humming softly, the cosmic viewer had been running nonstop for the past ninety-six hours (Earth time), tuned to events on the dimensional plane numerically designated as “616” by Roma’s father, Merlyn, the former Supreme Guardian who had created the citadel millennia ago.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to see. For reasons unknown to either Roma or Satumyne, something was preventing them from gazing upon the dimension that was home to an unusually high number of superpowered beings. Men and women like the members of the uncanny
X-Men had spent the past month aiding the Supreme Guardian end the reign of terror perpetrated on the inhabitants of Earth 794 by the mad dictator Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin, an alternate reality version of Roma’s second-in-command. The very same group of heroic mutants who had unhesitatingly volunteered to return to their home dimension in order to learn the source of the interference.
But it wasn’t just the poor reception on her scrying glass that troubled Roma. There was the crystal, too.
Twelve inches high, six inches wide, it should have looked like an ordinary sliver of quartz—one among hundreds of similar pieces that jutted up from a podium-like structure that stood near Roma’s throne— and normally would have, were it not for the disturbing imperfection that had formed just below its surface only days ago: a black spot that continued to grow with each passing hour.
A black spot that only hinted at the chaos that had been unleashed upon the inhabitants of Dimension 616.
There was nothing ordinary about any of the other crystals, for that matter. Each contained the life-force of an entire dimension—a creation of Merlyn’s father, back when the omniverse was still young. Why her grandfather had done this Roma had never been able to discover; his son, Merlyn, liked to have his secrets, and there were some—far too many, in her opinion—that the technomage refused to pass on to his daughter, even after he had turned his duties over to her. And yet, despite Merlyn’s always infuriating silences about his reality-affecting schemes, it hadn’t taken long—a century at most—for Roma to truly understand the power contained within the crystals ... and what might happen if one were broken.
Such a tragedy had only happened twice in her lifetime, and both occasions were set in motion by unforeseen circumstances. The first came about when her father had made a poorly chosen move in “The Game,” the cosmic chess match Merlyn often played when he was in the mood to manipulate the lives of mortals. Sometimes, Roma was his opposing player; more often than not, he chose to play alone, as he did so in that particular instance, when Merlyn had focused his attentions on the Skrull Empire of Dimension 4872. As with most of their counterparts in other continuums, the Skrulls were a warlike race, constantly expanding the boundaries of their territory by conquering other worlds and enslaving their inhabitants, f/nlike their counterparts, though, these Skrulls were more highly developed on an intellectual level, their scientists working round-the-clock on the development of new and more powerful munitions that would aid the war effort.
One of these weapons was called the World Ripper.
Not a terribly original name for a weapon of mass destruction—in any dimension, the reptilian Skrulls had never been known for possessing a flair for the dramatic—but it was an accurate name, nonetheless . . . if it worked according to specifications. Truth be told, the scientists hadn’t been certain the device would ever work, since testing it would have required tapping into the Skrull homeworld’s molten core; a successful activation of the Ripper would have essentially turned the core into the most powerful bomb ever created and atomized the planet. Nevertheless, the technicians completed their work on the weapon, silently praying to S’lgurt, their god of war, that they would never have to learn first-hand if they’d done their work properly.
But then Merlyn moved one of his pawns—a green-and-white-garbed warrior named Mar-Veil, who belonged to the race called the Kree, the Skrulls’ oldest enemy—further across the game board, influencing the alien captain’s decision to infiltrate the research and development laboratories where the World Ripper was housed. A battle between the Kree soldier and a Skrull battalion soon erupted. So heated was the exchange of blaster fire that no one—not even Merlyn—was aware of the weapon’s activation by a stray bolt that hit its firing mechanism . . . until it was too late.
The resulting explosion not only shredded the Skrull homeworld, but the force of the blast tore apart the protective barrier separating Dimension 4872 from its neighboring realities. A ragged hole was created in time and space, causing the formation of a vacuum that began to suck in large sections of Dimensions 4871 and 4873, thus destabilizing their barriers, as well.
All too aware that this collapse of realities might become an unstoppable domino effect that would ultimately destroy the omniverse, Merlyn wordlessly removed the crystal containing 4872’s life-force from the podium—then smashed it on the floor.
And somewhere within the depths of time and space, a continuum died.
Billions of sentient creatures were wiped from existence within the space of a heartbeat. Merlyn spent the next two decades in a state of depression so deep it seemed as though he might never recover. Yet recover he did, and was soon hard at work on his next plot, acting as though nothing had happened. Watching her father return to his old form, Roma was never certain if his ennui had been caused by the realization that he had just destroyed an entire dimensional plane ... or because he never got to see his intended plan—whatever that might have been—come to fruition.
The second catastrophe took place shortly before Roma became
Supreme Guardian, when events on the Earth of Dimension 238 had gone horribly wrong. Surprisingly enough, Merlyn was not the cause of the trouble .. . this time. His attentions were focused elsewhere.
As Omniversal Majestrix, Satumyne had been—and still was, to this day—the one to maintain order throughout all dimensional planes, answering only to her superior; in this instance, Merlyn. Traveling to Earth 238, she was assigned the task of helping the planet reach its evolutionary potential—to give the inhabitants of this world “The Push.”
A less than awe-inspiring title, this Push—one would almost believe the Skrulls had a hand in assigning it its name—and yet, the procedure itself could affect entire populations. It was rarely used, though, since a Push carried out incorrectly might cause the inhabitants to go mad from the strain of having their consciousnesses expanded so rapidly. Nonetheless, there had been times when forcing a world to “grow up” virtually overnight became necessary for the good of the omniverse.
And so it was with Earth 238.
The “Earth series””—as the multitude of similar-yet-different planets became known—had always been Merlyn’s pride and joy, for the people of these alternate realities had always shown great promise as they constantly strove to attain enlightenment and peace. His 50,000-year program for the omniverse—the details of which had never been given to Roma—depended on all variations of the Earth achieving this goal by the year 2000, and almost all had managed to make significant headway along this path . . . with the exception of 238. It was the most primitive version of all the planets, with its focus on greed and war, its repression of basic human rights, and blatant misuses of power. With such a staggering amount of negative energy flowing through that dimension, the progress of the other Earths was being retarded. The master plan was in jeopardy of failing.
But Merlyn had a solution: Satumyne and her team would go to 238 and pour drumfuls of a special life-enhancing fluid into the drinking water. When the populace sat down in the morning for their first cup of coffee, first glass of water, first bottle of formula, every man, woman, and child in this nation would automatically leap up a few rungs on the evolutionary ladder. Within a year, the DDC would have done the same with every other city around the world, and 238 would have at last been able to join its counterparts at the dawn of a new Golden Age.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken long for matters to spiral out of control, almost from the outset.
It all started with a man named Jim Jaspers—Sir James Jaspers, to be precise. A member of Parliament, a man of great influence, a powerful, psycho-kinetic mutant. . . and a lunatic. It was he who initially turned the world against its super hero population. Earth 238 was his plaything, and he didn’t care much for people who tried to spoil his fun.
Yet even with all the troubles caused by Jaspers, the DDC partly succeeded in their goal. Earth 238 was on its way to enlightenment.
And then Jaspers pulled the plug on the operation by using his powers to turn the world inside-out.
It was called a reality storm. As Satumyne looked on in horror, the laws of physics were rewritten around them. Men burst into flame. Women turned into pillars of salt. Children melted into puddles of goo. Gravity ceased to function. The streets and buildings of London twisted into the sort of landscape one usually found in a Salvador Dali painting. And within the calm eye of the storm sat “Mad Jim” himself, calmly watching his universe tear itself apart.
It was all too much for Satumyne. Gathering her few remaining colleagues around her, she ordered the Avant Guard to teleport them all back to the Starlight Citadel.
Arriving at the citadel, Saturnyne was immediately placed under arrest by the Supreme Omniversal Tribunal. The Majestrix was charged with negligence on a cosmic scale: the Tribunal insisted that she had been the cause of the trouble; that, under her command, The Push had gone wrong, and her only (cowardly) solution had been to cut her losses and escape before Earth 238 came apart at the seams.
It was a short trial, to be truthful—Satumyne never had a chance to mount a proper defense. It took but a moment for her enemies to come to a decision about the fate of Earth 238.
With the simple turn of a crystal key, the dimension was eliminated, and whether the Tribunal’s judgment was brought about by a deep-rooted sense of duty to protect the other continuums before the “reality-cancer” spread, or simply to destroy any evidence that might have aided in Satumyne’s acquittal, was never made clear. Not that it mattered in the end—the inhabitants of 238 were still very much dead ...
And now, as she gazed at the darkened scrying glass, Roma knew she was faced with the possibility of having to condemn yet another reality to extinction. The difference this time was that her final decision would shatter the lives of people she knew personally—mortals, true, but ones unlike the majority of the beings on their world. Hated by most, misunderstood by all, feared because of their incredible abilities, the X-Men had never shirked responsibility, never refused to come to the aid of even those who so often sought to destroy them. Mortal they might be, but they possessed the kind of spiritual dedication to a dream of universal peace that was normally only found in more highly developed races. Even a celestial being like Roma could not help but admire their resolve, given the magnitude of the dangers they faced every day. To destroy such enlightened creatures was unthinkable ... at least in her opinion.
For the first time since becoming Supreme Guardian, Roma wished that someone else would have to pass judgment on the inhabitants of Dimension 616.
“I, too, hope you will not be forced to make a decision you will come to regret, Your Majesty,” said a deep male voice.
Roma started, her pale green eyes snapping open. Looking up, her gaze settled on a man seated a few feet in front of her. It was difficult to determine his age, since his head was completely bare, but there was a distinguished air about him that made him seem far older than his years—although, to an immortal like Roma, he was more like a child when measured against her own age, which could be counted in centuries. His expression as dark as the conservative business suit he wore, the telepathic mutant called Professor Charles Xavier, leader of the X-Men, sat—back ramrod-straight, hands folded across his lap—in the antigravity unit-propelled device in which he traveled: a hi-tech version of the sort of wheelchair to which he had been confined since losing the use of his legs, many years ago.
“I assure you, Your Majesty,” Xavier continued, “although the outlook seems bleak at the moment, my X-Men will yet prevail.”
Roma frowned. “I do not appreciate prying minds, Charles Xavier. My thoughts are my own, to be shared with no one else.”
“I understand your anger, Your Majesty,” Xavier replied politely, “but I would never presume to scan your thoughts without permission. However, in point of fact, you were broadcasting your concerns with such intensity that I could not help but detect them.”
“I. . . see.” Roma’s lips twisted into a brief half-smile as she brushed aside a strand of dark hair that had settled across her high forehead. “Then, in the future, I shall endeavor to ‘keep my thoughts to myself,’ as you humans say.” The smile quickly faded. “I admire the resolve you show for your students, Charles Xavier, but even you must admit that they have failed in their mission. In truth, they have exacerbated the situation through their attempted—though well-intentioned— intervention.” She gestured toward the scrying glass. “You have seen the evidence for yourself: Not only were they unsuccessful in reversing the effects of the anomaly created on Earth 616, but your world has undergone yet another change, further weakening that universe’s dimensional barriers.” She turned to face him, eyes full of life but devoid of emotion. “My father toyed with the fates and futures of worlds and peoples. Thousands of realities. Billions upon countless billions of sentient beings . . Her voice trailed off. “I played his games because he compelled me to do so . .. but the gameplay must now come at an end.” Slowly, Roma shook her head. “I am sorry, Charles Xavier—not just for you, or your students, or even the people of your world, but for the untold billions of souls I must eliminate in order to save billions more. I must destroy the crystal, rather than allow the anomaly to spread to other dimensions.”
Behind the Professor, Satumyne suddenly cocked her head to one side, and placed a hand to the tiny receiver/transmitter that dangled from the lobe of her right ear. A finely-shaped eyebrow rose in a quizzical fashion. “Is that so?” she muttered to the person at the other end of the transmission. “All right, then—stand by.” She looked up to find Roma and Xavier gazing at her.
“You have an update on the situation, Satumyne?” Roma asked. There was an unmistakable tone of hope in her voice.
“Indeed, Supreme Guardian,” Her Whyness replied. “I’ve just been informed by the DDC that their sensors have detected a signal being transmitted from Earth 616 .A transportation beam.”
“A traveler,” Roma whispered, her eyes widening slightly. “Tell them to intercept the beam. I would speak with this being.”
“At once, Supreme Guardian,” Satumyne said.
As the Majestrix conveyed Roma’s order to the Dimensional Development Court, the raven-tressed Guardian turned toward the professor. “Now, Charles Xavier,” she said, “we may at last have the answers we seek to the madness that plays out before us.”
Xavier nodded. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Answers . . . and perhaps a solution to our problem. . ..”
I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing here, Betsy thought as she and von Doom shifted across realities, moving away from their home dimension and the transmutational curtain of energy generated by the Cosmic Cube that had enveloped their world. I’m certain, though, I’ll learn why Doom wanted me to accompany him. . . eventually. Just as I’m also certain I won’t like the answer a single bit. . .
Looking around, Betsy stared in awe as time and space flowed around her like a surging river, giving her quick glimpses of the true length and breadth of the omniverse. In one reality, she saw the costumed adventurer Spider-Man as a member of the legendary Fantastic Four—or, rather, Fantastic Five, to be precise; in another, her fellow X-Men were engaged in a battle royal with the Hulk and members of Earth’s mightiest heroes, the Avengers, at the base of Niagara Falls. So many different versions of her own planet, most of them varying only by the slightest of degrees: the Confederacy winning the War Between the States in America; a World War II-era test detonation of the atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico, that—as the scientists on the Manhattan Project had feared might happen—ignited the world’s atmosphere, turning the Earth into a massive cinder hanging in space; a reality in which ninety-nine percent of the super hero population had been exterminated, and the major cities were controlled by their killers: giant robots called Sentinels; a certain type of butterfly accidentally stepped on at the dawn of mankind. Openly gawping at the sights, sounds, and colors flowing around her, Betsy couldn’t help but be reminded of the penultimate moment of the film 2001: A Space Odyssey, when astronaut Dave Bowman rushed along a special effects corridor to find himself within the world of the mysterious, alien-constructed Monolith. Not one of her favorite movies—Stanley Kubrick was always a little too “out there” for her tastes, though she had enjoyed seeing Tom Cruise’s bare bottom in Eyes Wide Shut—but it was the first thing that popped into her mind as she struggled to take in the spectacle of everything whipping past her.
The flow of the images began to accelerate, the windows to the various realities opening and closing so quickly that Betsy could no longer tell what she was looking at—it all became one blur leading into the next leading into the next, moving faster and faster until she felt her mind starting to close down from the visual overload—
And then it all disappeared, and Betsy suddenly found herself sprawled across a white-tiled floor. She panicked for a moment when she was inexplicably plunged into darkness; then she realized it was caused by her voluminous, lavender-hued hair falling in front of her eyes.
Wonderful, she thought dryly. Abducted to who-knows-where by one of the deadliest villains in human history, cut off from my friends and teammates, and I’m frightened by a curtain of “bedroom hair. ” Well done, Betsy .. .
Brushing her hair aside, she looked up to get her bearings. She was in a large, white-colored room; how large was impossible to say—the walls, floor, and ceiling were all curved and evenly lit, blending together to create an illusion of a chamber that seemed to stretch off toward infinity. If, that is, it really was an illusion, or even an actual room; for all she knew, she and von Doom could have materialized within the heart of the Cosmic Cube.
Betsy started, an unwelcomed chill suddenly working its way up her spine. Could that have been what von Doom meant when he said he still had one last hand to play? Could he have been that mad to think he could regain control of the Cube from the inside?
Well, yes, he could, she knew all too well. After all, hadn’t he elected to continue using the reality-changing device that he had created, fully aware of its defective assembly—that, because of a miscalculation by one of his technicians (or so he had said), the Cube now relied on the power of its possessor’s life-force to maintain the vision of the world they so desired? Of course he had, even though his aging process had been accelerated at an alarming rate, even though each moment he selfishly held onto the Cube brought him that much closer to death. And what had been his ultimate wish for the Cube to carry out just before he died? To destroy the world, so that no one else would be able to rule it.
Mad enough to wrest control of the Cube from within? There was never a doubt in Betsy’s mind. She was more surprised by the notion that he might actually be able to pull it off... if, indeed, that’s where they had landed.
Not to say his madness wasn’t catching, Betsy had to admit. It wasn’t all that long ago—ten or fifteen minutes at most, by her reckoning—that she had been willing to take von Doom’s place; to take possession of the Cube and maintain the reality he’d created, in exchange for the chance to bring Warren back to life.
“Warren . ..” Betsy whispered. She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears that now burned so hotly behind the lids.
Warren Worthington III had been her world: best friend, confidante, lover. A founding member of the X-Men, Warren had started out in life as the quintessential playboy—rich, handsome, and quite full of himself—but he had taken to the role of costumed adventurer like he’d been bom to it. When he wasn’t busy saving the universe, or trying to spread Charles Xavier’s message of peace and understanding between man and mutant, he dined in the finest restaurants, drove the fastest cars, traveled everywhere he went in style. Between battling supervillains and living the high life, it was a wonder he’d ever found time to sit still for a moment.
But then he had met Betsy—a British telepath whose big brother, Brian, happened to be England’s premiere super hero, Captain Britain, no less—and his life had changed. Hers, too. For Betsy, merely being around Warren made her feel as though her chaotic life at last had some sense of stability. She drew strength from him, and he from her. They’d started out as teammates—kindred souls facing constant peril from an intolerant world—but soon had become so much more. There had never been a man in her life like him.
And yet, her love for Warren was never to last. Dashed to pieces with the impact of his body on the grounds of The Mall in Washington, D.C., all because of a misguided, stupidly heroic attempt to protect von Doom—Emperor von Doom, Betsy angrily reminded herself—from an attack by Magneto. The mutant overlord had blasted Warren with a powerful bolt of magnetic energy, then moved on to refocus his attentions on his intended target. Warren had died in her arms, in the middle of a battlefield, and she’d been grateful that he’d never seen the futility of his efforts, for the man he’d tried to save had been nothing more than an android stand-in for the real monarch. A pretend emperor, through which a pathetic creature huddled in a sub-basement of the White House could vicariously live his life. A handsome, department store dummy that took the place of a withered, angry old man who ultimately sought to destroy the world, rather than see his dream come to an end.
Nevertheless, her thoughts in chaos, consumed by grief, Betsy had been more than willing to sacrifice herself if it meant that Warren might live one more day. She had foolishly agreed to von Doom’s proposal, had even gone so far as to reach for the Cube. If it hadn’t been for the timely arrival of the X-Men . . .
A loud groan from behind caught her attention. She glanced over her shoulder to find von Doom lying face-up on the floor, his metal-encased hand still gripping her ankle. A bit too tightly, Betsy realized— her foot had gone numb.
She pulled back on her leg to get von Doom’s attention, then pointed to her restrained ankle. “Do you mind?”
The old man stared blankly at her for a moment, as though he didn’t recognize her, then followed her gaze down to her foot. “Ah,” he said, and opened his hand.
Sitting up, Betsy reached down to restore the circulation to her leg. She winced as the first pins-and-needles sensation of a properly working bloodstream raced through her foot.
Struggling to a sitting position, von Doom looked around, his rheumy eyes widening with surprise. “This is not my castle,” he said with more than a trace of indignation. “What is the meaning of this?” He pounded his gauntleted fists against the floor; the room echoed with the hollow sounds of his feeble protestations.
“Who dares meddle in the affairs of Doom?” he demanded.
As if in response, a doorway suddenly appeared a few feet away, and a phalanx of Union Jack-garbed men and women poured into the room. Wordlessly, they formed a rough semicircle around the two travelers.
“The Captain Britain Corps?” Betsy said in astonishment.
The guards by the door stepped aside to admit a willowy, elfinfaced woman dressed in flowing white robes, her waist-length black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She came to an abrupt halt as she spotted her lavender-tressed “guest,” and a shapely eyebrow rose in mild surprise.
“Elisabeth Braddock,” she said evenly.
“Hello, Roma,” Betsy replied, a smile slowly coming to her lips. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you. . . .”
P ROM BEHIND Roma stepped another woman, wearing a white p gown that accentuated her curves as much as Roma’s attire hid I * I hers. White hair cascading over the right side of her face in a Veronica Lake fashion, she peered at Betsy with her one visible eye; the pupil seemed to bum with cold, blue fire.
Betsy’s smile quickly faded. “Satumyne.”
The Omniversal Majestrix haughtily looked down her nose at the X-Man. It was the sort of disgusted, look-at-that-grotesque-little-bug stare that suddenly made Betsy extremely self-conscious of her appearance, with her rumpled evening dress and disheveled hair. I must look a sight, she thought grimly.
“The sister, ” Her Whyness said with a sneer. “Given the circumstances, I should have known you’d somehow be involved in the thick of things.” Satumyne practically spat out the words, which came as no surprise to Betsy. There was no great love lost between the two women, considering all the trouble the former had caused Brian/Captain Britain over the years (at least, in Betsy’s mind), and Lady Braddock had never been shy about reminding Satumyne of that fact... as often as possible. The thin layer of civility projected by tyrant and telepath whenever they met tended to transform lively parties into tension-filled evenings. Simply having them in a room together caused the temperature to difop.
This occasion was no different, though neither woman was foolish enough to start an altercation with the Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse standing right in front of them.
“May I enter, Your Majesty?” asked a familiar—and most welcome—male voice.
Roma motioned for the guards to move from the doorway, and Charles Xavier glided into the room, his hoverchair humming softly.
I “Professor!” Betsy exclaimed, and leapt to her feet. She stepped over to join him—hobbling a bit on her tingling foot, the blood flow not yet fully restored to her insensate toes—and clasped his hands in hers. “I didn’t know you were here. When Jean and Scott briefed me on the details of their mission, it must have slipped their minds.”
A flicker of hope shone in Xavier’s eyes. “You’ve seen them, then.” He looked to Roma. “There is still a chance, Your Majesty, that my students might succeed. All they need is time.”
“Time the omniverse can ill afford, Charles Xavier,” the Guardian replied. “As much as I respect the sacrifices that your X-Men have often been willing to make in the cause of justice, despite the fact that they did not hesitate to place their lives in my hands, my foremost duty is to the protection of the omniverse. I allowed your students an opportunity to set things aright, and they have failed. Now—”
“I implore you to wait just a little while longer, Your Majesty,” the Professor insisted. “Now that Psylocke has joined us, we can use her knowledge of events within the anomaly to formulate a new plan of attack.” His steely gaze locked on the Guardian’s dark eyes. “Need I remind Your Majesty that you gave your word to my students that they would have one standard Earth week in which to stop this terrible threat, yet only four days have elapsed. Would you now go back on it, before learning the nature of this destructive force that threatens us all? Would you deny them the chance to set things right in the time that remains?” Roma’s eyes flashed with unbridled anger. “You play a dangerous game, Charles Xavier, with one who has learned everything there is to know of games from her father, the greatest player of all. The word of Roma has ever been her bond, but the daughter of Merlyn was not raised without the understanding that there is a time and a place when a bond can be broken. Know this: To preserve the safety of all creation, I would be willing to do whatever is necessary.” She paused, the anger draining from her face. “But I hope it will not have to come to that unfortunate conclusion. For now, I would be willing to listen to any alternate plan you may devise after you have spoken with Elisabeth—but be quick about it.”
A nauseating weight suddenly settled in the pit of Betsy’s stomach. Until now, she’d been under the impression that, given Xavier’s presence, other members of the X-Men might also be on board the citadel. But to realize that the success or failure of this mission—more than that, the safety of the universe itself—might depend on her alone . . . “Who’s your friend, Psylocke?” Saturnyne asked, gesturing toward von Doom. “Some half-dead geriatric paramour you picked up along the way while you were fleeing your Earth?”
“What insolence!” the old man snapped. “You dare speak of your betters in such disrespectful tones, woman?” He struggled to his feet. “Though Doom is well known for his benevolence towards the most ignorant of creatures, not even he should have to tolerate such an affront.” At last standing erect, the monarch raised a gauntleted hand and pointed it, palm forward, at the Majestrix.
But nothing happened.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Grandfather, ” Satumyne commented dryly, “but the Starlight Citadel exists in a state of temporal grace. Any weapons your armor may possess won’t function here.”
The former emperor raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Indeed.” Slowly, he lowered his arm, and a sly grin illuminated his sharp features. “But do not delude yourself into thinking such measures will protect you for long, woman. Doom has ever been resourceful—he will find a way to instruct you in proper etiquette . . . and soon.”
Satumyne sniffed. “I shall count the—” She halted, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Who did you say you are?”
The armored tyrant drew himself up to his full height, head held high. “I am Doom the First, you cretin—the Lion of Latveria, and rightful ruler of the planet Earth.”
The Majestrix turned to Betsy. “Does he mean to say that he’s your Doom? The one from Earth 616?” She snorted. “Impossible.”
“He is Doom,” Betsy replied. “His rapid aging is a side effect of using a defective Cosmic Cube.”
“Cosmic . . . ?” Satumyne glanced at Roma, who looked surprised by this news—and terribly worried. “M’lady . . .”
“Yes, Satumyne,” Roma said. “At last we know the source of the anomaly.” Her brow furrowed. “And yet, never in the history of the omniverse has such a device caused the amount of damage we have witnessed.” She turned to Betsy. “You said this Cube was defective— how so?”
“Tell them nothing, mutant!” von Doom ordered. “The true genius of Doom’s work cannot be comprehended by lesser beings such as yourself.” A thoughtful, condescending smile cracked his withered features. “However, hearing your explanation might, indeed, prove interesting— though purely for entertainment value, of course, since it would irrefutably prove your lack of understanding.”
Betsy snarled in disgust. “I’ve had all I can stand of you, ’Your Highness.’ Without your weapons, without the Cube, you’re no threat to anyone. And as for comprehending the ‘true genius’ of your work, if that included having Magneto backhand you onto the floor of your chamber so that he could take possession of the Cube, then you’re absolutely right—I do fail to see the ‘wonder’ of it all.”
Von Doom sneered. “Bah,” he muttered, then fell silent.
Betsy turned back to Roma. “To be quite honest, I haven’t the slightest notion what’s wrong with it. Doom mentioned a miscalculation of some sort that was made during the Cube’s creation, but beyond that. ..” She shrugged. “I can tell you he doesn’t know, either.” She cast a heated glance at the old man. “At least, that’s what he claims.” A disturbing light suddenly shone in her eyes. “I’d be more than willing to find out the truth for you, though.”
“Elisabeth . . .” Xavier said, his tone low and warning.
Without taking her eyes off von Doom, Betsy said, “Don’t lecture me on the abuses of power, Professor. You don’t know what this monster did while he held the Cube—no idea of the lives he ruined, the misery he caused, the ... the ...” She bit her bottom lip as she turned to face him. “The people he allowed to die . . .” she whispered. Xavier’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “The X-Men . . . ?”
“I... I don’t know for certain,” Betsy admitted. “Before we teleported, they’d been captured by the Acolytes, and the Cube was in the hands of Magneto.” She ignored the Professor’s shocked expression. “But.. . Warren ... Warren .. .” She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, slowly released it through her nostrils. “Warren was... killed—” she waved a hand at von Doom “—trying to protect this filth.”
Xavier said nothing in reply. He just sat quietly, eyes closed, gripping the edges of his seat until his knuckles turned white.
Betsy knew it wasn’t the first time the Professor had received such disturbing news. In his years as founder and leader of the X-Men, he had watched far too many of his students die “on the job,” as it were. Like firemen or police officers, they faced risks each day of their lives, never knowing if their latest mission would turn out to be their last.
Warren, however, was special. Like Jean, and Scott Summers, and Hank McCoy, and Bobby Drake, he’d been one of Xavier’s first—and still greatest—successes. Those original five members were not just part of a team, they were the closest the Professor had to a family.
“Elisabeth ... I’m sorry,” Xavier said at last. “I know how close you and Warren had become over the past year.” He opened hi's eyes, and Betsy saw the fires of determination that burned deep inside them. “But we shall have to put aside our grief for the time being. Although Roma has managed to entrap the man responsible for our predicament, we still lack the means by which he twisted our universe to suit his purposes. The Cosmic Cube is our focus now. And with someone as powerful as Erik in control of such a device, with his desire to live in a world run by mutants blinding him to the dangers involved in operating the Cube—not just to himself, but to everyone in our universe— there’s no telling what further damage he might cause.”
“Which brings us back to my original argument, m’lady,” Satumyne said to Roma. “If that destructive little box continues moving from one owner to another, each use of its power restructuring 616 to suit the whims of whichever costume-draped buffoon happens to be holding it at the time, then it’s imperative that you remove that continuum from existence before the reality-cancer spreads.”
“Fascinating,” von Doom commented. “Then, Xavier’s costumed whelps were telling the truth.”
“Of course they were, von Doom,” the Professor replied. “Unlike you, my students feel no need for subterfuge. What Satumyne has said is accurate: Our universe is quickly unraveling, and your Cosmic Cube is the cause of it.”
“And now you’re going to tell us how to counteract its effects,” Betsy said. “You didn’t actually believe for a moment that I swallowed your story about not knowing what’s wrong with the Cube, did you? The great and powerful Doctor Doom, a man who claims he’s the intellectual superior of Reed Richards of the Fantastic Four—” she ignored the warning growl that issued from the monarch’s throat “—at a loss to explain the flaw in his most fantastic creation? Don’t make me laugh, von Doom.” She took a step toward him, teeth bared. “Now, tell us what to do to repair it, or—”
“Or what, mutant?” von Doom asked. He smiled malevolently. “Your tiresome hero’s code of ethics prevents you from forcing me to provide whatever information you think I might possess—though, I assure you, I have none to give.”
Betsy glared at him, reining in her growing desire to use her martial arts skills to shatter every bone in his body—without allowing him to lose consciousness. “What you say is tme, Doctor,” she finally said. “Most members of the super hero community would be loathe to sink to your level, to pay such utter disregard to basic human rights that they’d be willing to blacken their souls by crawling into the dark comers of your mind and tearing out the knowledge they seek.” A disturbing smile slowly twisted her beautiful features. “However, I fancy that none of them are former members of Britain’s S.T.R.I.K.E. Psi Division, trained to extract information by any means necessary. ” Her lavender eyes flashed brightly. “But I am.”
Von Doom suddenly cried out in great pain and clutched the sides of his head.
Tell me what I need to know, Doctor, Betsy ordered through the telepathic link she had created. Tell me quick . . . before I burn out every synapse in your twisted little mind.
ELISABETH—STOP! roared a voice in her head.
Betsy staggered back as though she’d been slapped across the face, her link with von Doom shattered by the sheer force of Xavier’s mental command. The Latverian monarch groaned and sank to his knees; he was kept from striking the floor only by the timely assistance of two members of the Corps. One was a woman with a shock of white hair erupting from the top of her mask, whom Betsy instantly recognized as Linda McQuillan—the Captain U.K. of Earth 794, the world to which the X-Men had been summoned by Roma, in the days before von Doom’s reign of terror in their home dimension had started. Their task had been to aid Linda against Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin, a goal which the team ultimately achieved. Betsy had wanted to assist them, if only as a way to thank Linda for all the help she’d provided Brian over the years as he became acclimated to his role as Britain’s foremost protector, but the Professor had ordered her to stay behind so that his school, the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning in Westchester County, New York, would not be without a telepath in residence ... in case of any trouble.
Linda’s teammate was a bear of a man, his bare chest and arms covered with a matting of hair that curled around the edges of his white gauntlets and the stylized “X” formed across his pectorals and over his shoulders by the arms of the Union Jack. The bottom half of his face was exposed beneath the mask he wore, although it was hard to tell at a distance, considering his jawline was hidden beneath a thick, brown beard and mustache. Though she didn’t know him all that well, Betsy knew he was Captain England from another of the multitudes of Earth; it was difficult to keep them all straight. He clearly required no assistance in handling the weight of von Doom’s armor, yet he politely allowed Linda to help him lower the tyrant to the floor.
Xavier ordered his hoverchair forward, placing himself between his student and her victim. “I empathize with your situation, Elisabeth— your anger, your sense of loss—but such actions will not be tolerated, for any reason.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not place me in a position where I would be forced to shut down your powers—and you know I am quite capable of doing that.”
Eyes closed, Betsy slowly massaged her temples, head still aching from the psychic blast. “My TK powers, perhaps, but not the abilities I acquired from the Crimson Dawn.” She opened her eyes, and immediately saw the stem look on her mentor’s face. “Not that that was meant as a challenge, Professor,” she added coolly. “Merely a statement of fact.”
Xavier frowned, then turned his chair toward von Doom. The tyrant lay on the floor of the chamber, wheezing hoarsely with each breath. Wisps of snow-white hair were plastered across his deeply creased face, soaked in sweat that had beaded across his forehead and poured down in rivulets to the collar of his armor. Beside him knelt Captain U.K., gloved fingertips lightly touching the carotid artery in his neck.
“What’s his condition?” Xavier asked.
“Not good,” said the Captain. “His pulse is erratic, breathing is shallow. From what I’ve been overhearing, his body was already starting to break down as a result of the Cube’s influence.” She cast a withering glare at Betsy. “That mental attack only made things worse. He needs immediate medical attention.”
“Take him to the infirmary on Level 492,” Roma commanded. “Have the physicians stabilize his cellular and psychic damage, and then post guards outside his door. Severely aged though this one may be, the Victor von Doom of any reality is neither a man to be trusted, nor left to his own devices. He is not to leave the infirmary without a direct order from myself or the Majestrix.”
“Understood, Supreme Guardian,” both Captains responded.
“Then, go. I shall speak with him once he has sufficiently recovered.” Roma waved a delicate hand at them. They and their charge vanished in a burst of light, presumably teleported to the medical center by the Guardian’s immeasurable power.
“M’lady,” Satumyne said. “The crystal. . .”
Roma gazed at her lieutenant for a moment, then slowly nodded; she suddenly looked extremely fatigued to Betsy. “Yes, Satumyne. I have not forgotten.” She turned to Betsy. “Elisabeth, I ask that once you and the Professor have drawn up your ‘new plan of attack,’ as it were, you both join me in the throne room. But do not take too long in doing so. Cliched though the saying may be, time truly is of the utmost importance . . . and it is running out for your world.” She paused. “For all of us.”
“I understand, Roma,” Betsy said solemnly.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Xavier said. He turned a heated gaze toward his former headmistress. We shall discuss your reckless behavior another time, Elisabeth, he warned her telepathically. For now, though, take some time to rest. We have a great deal of work ahead of us.
Yes, Professor, Betsy thought sullenly. Head bowed, she watched Xavier follow Roma from the room. The coterie of Captain Britains fell in step behind them, and soon Betsy was left alone with her thoughts . .. and Satumyne.
“So . . . did you learn anything?” Her Whyness asked.
“Not much,” Betsy admitted. “Nothing helpful to our problem, at least. . . Doom really doesn’t know what’s wrong with the Cube. But I did find out why he brought me along.” She slowly shook her head in bemusement. “A crazy idea, really.”
“And that would be ... ?” Satumyne prompted.
“Well, his transmat beam was aimed at his castle in upstate New York. He was planning to use the time platform he keeps there to send me back to prevent Magneto from getting his hands on the Cube.” Satumyne grunted, her perfect teeth gnashing loudly. “Oh, you fools and your notions of time travel!” she bellowed. “When will the people of your dimension come to realize that, when you try to affect past events, you don’t change your present, you only create a divergent timeline. You have no idea how mind-numbingly tiresome it becomes policing every new reality that’s created because someone tried to go back and prevent John F. Kennedy’s assassination, or because they wanted to warn the captain of the Titanic to watch out for icebergs.” Satumyne paused, then glanced sideways at the Asian mutant. “Do you have any understanding of what I was just saying, Braddock?”
“I’m not an imbecile, you bleached-blond cow, despite what Doom might say to the contrary,” Betsy sniped playfully. She smiled broadly. “I saw Back to the Future 2. I know what you’re talking about.”
The Majestrix sighed. “You’re as frustratingly obtuse as your brother, Elisabeth.”
Betsy turned her nose up at her chic adversary, imitating Satumyne’s haughty attitude. “Sticks and stones, old girl. You’re really just angry because having me around reminds you of all the times Brian refused to sleep with you . . . which, if memory serves me right, was about as numerous as the ways in which you threw yourself at him.” Satumyne frowned. “You are aware that I absolutely loathe you.” “And I, you. With every fiber of my being.” Betsy smiled.
The Majestrix nodded. “All right. Just so we’re clear on that point.” She gazed at Betsy’s disheveled appearance, and wrinkled her nose. “Well, the best thing to do now is make you look somewhat more presentable for your meeting with m’lady in the ‘morning.’ Sleep would be a good start; I’ll escort you to one of the chambers formally occupied by a member of your group. After that...” Satumyne shrugged and smiled beatifically. “Well, let’s just say I’ll keep you in my prayers tonight.” She gestured toward the doorway. “Follow me.” Without waiting for a response, Satumyne turned on her heel and strode past her, into the adjoining corridor.
Delicately grasping the folds of her evening gown between her index fingers and thumbs, Betsy politely curtsied. “Why, thank you, Your Whyness,” she said happily.
Your Whyness. Not for the first time, she wondered about the origins of that ridiculous-sounding title. She had asked about it, though, and why it applied equally to a man as much as a woman—it’s just that no one seemed willing to give her an answer. Satumyne had simply turned up her nose on the last occasion the question had been put to her and walked away—one of those cases, Betsy had assumed, where, if you had to ask, you simply weren’t part of the right social circles. And Brian had been no help whatsoever because he’d never given it a moment’s thought; but then, that was Brian—he’d never really been one for details. However, based upon her dealings with the Majestrix, the sole conclusion Betsy had been able to reach was that the title must be given to only the most conceited members of Roma’s staff—if so, Satumyne was more than qualified for the position. Betsy shrugged. Titles had never impressed her, but it probably looked quite impressive on a resume . . .
“Are you coming, Braddock?” Satumyne called back from the hallway. “Some of us do have more important things to do, you know.”
“Egotistical cow,” Betsy muttered, and grinned.
Holding her head high, determined to look every bit the manor-bom English lady that she was, Betsy set off, ready and eager to engage in another battle of wits with her guide. It was childish behavior, she knew, but she always enjoyed seeing the bright shade of red that painted Satumyne’s cheeks when the right buttons were pushed. . . .
One hundred levels below the women, in the medical wing of the citadel, the former emperor of Earth 616 and his guards materialized to find a battery of physicians awaiting their arrival. The infirmary was roughly the length and width of an aircraft hanger, with rows of empty beds stretching off in all directions as far as the eye could see. Captain U.K. had been here only once before, when she and Brian Braddock were recuperating from injuries received during the chaos created by “Mad” Jim Jaspers, in the days following the annihilation of Dimension 238. She wrinkled her nose in disgust—the place still smelt heavily of antiseptics and pine-scented cleaning solutions.
“Who’s in charge?” she asked the men, women, and various creatures assembled before her.
“I imagine that would be me, young lady,” answered a smallish, wide-eyed man wearing green surgical scrubs and gray, checkered pants, his voice tinged with an unmistakable Scottish burr. “I’m the Chief Physician.” He gestured toward a diagnostic table. “If you’d be so kind as to place the patient on the bed, we can start treatment immediately.” Scooping von Doom into his arms, Captain England carried the tyrant to the bed and placed him on the soft mattress. The weight of the despot’s body immediately activated sensors in the table that began monitoring von Doom’s vital signs. The doctor watched the readouts for a few moments, then pinched his lower lip between thumb and index finger and nodded slowly.
“Yeessss . . .” he muttered. “Very interesting.” He turned to a tall, balding, stem-faced man who was watching him with a measure of disdain—it seemed that, even at the center of time and space, such a concept as the “disgruntled employee” was not an unfamiliar one. “Doctor Stanton, we have a man here suffering from severe mental trauma. Be a good chap and ran down to the Psionics Wing—tell them we need a Level Two empath to help ease the man’s pain.”
“And what would you like me to do for the patient?” Stanton asked cuttingly.
The Chief Physician slowly smiled. “Still working on our sense of humor, I see, Doctor. Well, keep at it—I know you’ll be successful one of these days.” He waved his hands at his colleague, shooing him away. “Now, off with you, and don’t come back until you have an empath by the hand ... or tentacle.”
Lips pulled back in a sneer, Stanton turned and stomped off toward the exit.
“A good chap, that Stanton,” the doctor said once he had left the room. “A bit on the unapproachable side, though. Terrible bedside manner.”
“He’s a troublemaker, that one,” commented Captain England. “I can tell right off. Best keep your eye on that one, Doctor—he’s got a bit o’ the devil in ’im.”
“Oh, I shall,” the Chief Physician replied. “Thank you, Captain.” Lightly grasping an elbow on each Captain, the doctor gently moved them away from the patient. As he did so, a half-dozen nurses—some human, some not, but all attired in full surgical gear—moved in and started removing von Doom’s armor, while the other physicians began administering the first stages of treatment.
“Now then, if you don’t mind,” the doctor explained, “I think it would be best for all concerned if you were to step into the observation lounge, where you’ll have an unobstructed view of your prisoner—I assume this man is a prisoner, given the nature of his escort?” Captain
U.K. nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, an unobstructed view of your prisoner without—”
“Getting underfoot?” asked the Union Jack-clad heroine.
The doctor smiled broadly. “Precisely.”
The captain nodded. “The observation lounge.”
“Two-and-a-half levels up, one level sideways,” said the doctor. “We’ll see you in a bit, then.” He reached up to his head as though to politely tip a hat, realized he wasn’t wearing one, and slowly lowered his hand.
Chuckling softly at the strange behavior of the little man, Captain U.K. cast a bemused glance at Captain England, then turned and led her teammate from the infirmary.
Almost immediately, a soft, chiming alarm began sounding. “Doctor, I think you may want to look at this . . .” burbled one of the nurses, an octopoidal creature with thick tentacles and a rheumy eye the color of runny egg yolk.
Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, the Chief Physician walked back to join his team. “Yes, Nurse, what is it?”
The caregiver gestured toward the monitors displaying von Doom’s vital signs. The doctor’s eyes widened in surprise as he stared at one in particular.
“That can’t be right. . .” he murmured, then stood silently for a few moments, pulling at his bottom lip and watching the stream of data that flowed across the monitors. “This man is human, isn’t he?”
“All evidence—genetic, psychological, chronal, dimensional—indicates that he is,” replied a fresh-faced, blond-haired physician. “Except . . .”
“Except we shouldn’t then be seeing what we are seeing,” interjected the doctor. “Yes . . .” He grimaced, scratched the top of his head, and sighed. Then, hands clasped behind his back, he turned to face his troops. “It seems as though we have been presented with a riddle, doctors . . . and I’m quite certain our esteemed Supreme Guardian, Roma, will not be gladdened by our answers . . .” He slowly shook his head. “No, she won’t be pleased at all...”
Dr. Henry P. Stanton was not a happy man.
As he stomped through the corridors of the medical center, heading for the Psionics Wing, his mind swirled with dark thoughts—about his life, about his work, about the pompous attitude of that grinning jackass called the Chief Physician. Not for the first time, he grumbled over the decision that had led to the comical little Scotsman being appointed to that lofty position, and Stanton being left standing by the side of the road (metaphorically speaking, of course), wondering how he could have lost a job that was supposed to have been his from the start. At least, that had been his understanding when Merlyn recruited him, taking him away from a lucrative medical practice on Earth 1629.
It had been shortly after the events of the “Jaspers’ Warp” incident, when Merlyn had appeared in Stanton’s Los Angeles office to make his offer. After dealing with Henry’s volatile receptionist, Helene—for Merlyn had tried to barge in without an appointment—and then making a suitable display of the powers he possessed in order to prove he was for real and not some lunatic wandering in off the street, the Guardian of the Omniverse began interviewing his job candidate. Why he wanted Stanton in particular was never made clear; as the doctor later found out, Merlyn never bothered to tell anyone, including his daughter, the details of any of his plans. That didn’t mean Henry didn’t have his own ideas about the selection process, of course. Always willing to fall back on his overinflated ego, he eventually came to the conclusion that he had been picked because he was just too good a physician to ignore, even among the millions of other Henry P. Stantons in the omniverse.
Whatever his reasons, the technomage had made it quite clear that Stanton was his choice for the position—once he’d been properly trained in treating the illnesses and injuries of the myriad races that visited the citadel. No surprise there—after all, what good was a Chief Physician to his patients, or his staff, if he knew nothing of their physiology? And so Stanton willingly, eagerly, abandoned his practice and plunged into his studies, determined to answer this higher calling.
But then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, that infuriatingly smug little man had appeared, and Stanton saw the prize quickly slipping from his fingers.
It had all been Roma’s doing, of course. Apparently dissatisfied with her father’s candidate, she had found one of her own, and called him in from whatever godforsaken comer of the omniverse in which he’d been living. The bothersome gnat had even managed to charm Merlyn with his encyclopedic memory and smug wit in record time.
So what if he could rattle off the symptoms and treatments for a hundred different ailments that were commonly—and not so commonly—found in a handful of dimensional planes? Given enough time, Stanton would have been able to do the same. Who cared if he had a superior bedside manner? Patients were supposed to be healed, not coddled. Where was the logic in talking to the staff as though they were his friends? Nurses and orderlies, medical interns and administrative workers—they weren’t peers, they were subordinates, and should be treated as such.
Stanton should have seen it coming, should have taken steps to prevent the Fates from abandoning him in his hour of need. But he was so absolutely certain that he was the only sentient being for the job that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Roma might take advantage of her closeness with her father to turn him against the physician.
It could have been avoided. Perhaps if he hadn’t insulted her, calling her a “child” in the heat of an argument over the treatment of a visiting Z’Nox dignitary from Dimension 8158 who’d mysteriously fallen ill, he wouldn’t have fallen so far out of favor, and caused her to go looking elsewhere for a suitable applicant. Come to think of it, the doctor had to admit to himself, labeling her a “naive little girl” on one occasion because she obviously didn’t understand the intricacies of medicine probably hadn’t done anything to help his case. But, so what if he’d momentarily forgotten that she was older than he by centuries—physically, she looked barely mature enough to have graduated college yet. Besides, neither of those unfortunate incidents would have come to pass if she hadn’t tried to second-guess his diagnoses—“I don’t tell you how to run the universe,” he’d commented sharply during the second contretemps. “Don’t presume you can tell me how to practice medicine.”
She’d reacted as though he’d slapped her across the face, and stormed out of his office. Given the power she possessed, he was lucky that she hadn’t wiped him out of existence right there on the spot; instead, she’d settled for knocking him down a peg or three, and denying him the chance of becoming Chief Physician.
Stanton had never gotten over that snub. After all, was being truthful about Roma’s lack of medical training any reason to cheat him out of a job? Of course not. However, as the doctor had quickly come to learn, despite their immortality and seemingly limitless wisdom, despite their mastery over the forces of time and space, despite the power they held over every living creature throughout the omniverse, both father and daughter tended to let their emotions get in the way of important decisions.
Damned unprofessional, in Stanton’s opinion—not that anyone ever asked for it.
And now, here he was, running errands for that blasted Highlands jackanapes—a menial task that an orderly could have carried out. His vast medical talents going to waste, while the Guardian’s pet caregiver grabbed all the glory for himself.
This nonsense—this indignity—had to end. There had to be some way to prove his worth, to show how wrong Merlyn and his spiteful little whelp had been in slighting him. Some method that could be used to hurt them as much as he had been hurt.
Admit it, Doctor, he told himself. You ’re just looking for a way to get back at Roma and her favorite clown. You don’t want an apology from them—you want revenge.
Or retribution; either one was good. Such thoughts were certainly foremost in his mind while he made his rounds each day. How many hours had he spent replaying the same scenes over and over again in his dreams? The Chief Physician misdiagnosing a patient, and Stanton coming to the rescue at the penultimate moment, before death could claim its latest victim. Roma apologizing for her behavior and awarding him his rightful position, while that Scottish buffoon was run out of the citadel in disgrace.
The doctor sighed. If only there really was a means by which he could find the sort of justice he’d only been able to have in his dreams. At least, there were no means to be found on the citadel; he’d searched long and hard, to no avail. Perhaps he just needed to look elsewhere.
Stanton smiled mirthlessly. Daydream though it might be, he’d still give just about anything to see the look on the Guardian’s youthful face if the opportunity to make it a reality ever presented itself. . . .
“I feel like bloody hell,” Betsy muttered as she and Satumyne walked along one of the countless beige-colored corridors that ran throughout the citadel. “It’s like my mind is racing a hundred kilometers an hour, but my body can’t get past the starting gate.”
“It’s called ‘universe lag,’ ” Satumyne explained, coming to a halt before one of the many doors lining the corridor. She waved a hand in front of an electric eye, and the door irised open with a soft hiss of air. “A few hours of rest, though, and you’ll be back to your old, insufferably-annoying self.”
Since her head was aching so, Betsy decided to ignore the playful jibe and stepped into the room, Her Whyness close behind. The chamber was roughly the size of a loft in a New York commercial building, its walls colored a mellowing cream shade, the lighting globes scattered about the spacious area dimmed to a pleasant softness. To the right of the door, at the end of a short corridor, stood a bathroom, complete with shower; to the left were the living quarters proper, complete with chairs, couch, writing desk, oval-shaped bed, and a large, wall-mounted view-screen that received the over one hundred and seventy-nine billion (and still growing) television channels that were broadcast throughout the omniverse. On the far side of the room, running the length of the suite, was an enormous observation window that allowed a staggering view of the powerful, multi-hued energies that comprised all of time and space as they swirled around the citadel.
But it wasn’t a front row seat to the wonders of Creation that caught Betsy’s attention as she looked around the room.
“Ororo stayed here,” she said softly, and smiled.
Saturnyne cast a sideways glance at her.
“I can sense the remnants of her thoughts,” the lavender-tressed telepath explained. “Like a lingering trace of perfume in the air.” Catching sight of the Majestrix’s suspicious expression, she gently patted her verbal sparring partner on the arm. “Don’t worry, Satumyne, I have no interest in scanning your mind to gather information. With all the clutter in there. I’d be afraid of stumbling over some unpleasant memory and stubbing my toes.” She smiled. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.” Her Whyness snorted.
Betsy closed her eyes as she stepped into the room, allowing the essence of her teammate to drift into her mind. It was a pleasant sensation, sending an invigorating chill up her spine. “I’ve never known anyone so at peace with everyone—with every thing—in the world like Ororo. Her thoughts, her feelings, her outlook on life—it’s all so . . . refreshing.”
“Then you should have no trouble sleeping,” Satumyne commented sarcastically. “With all that love and happiness permeating the air, I’m certain you’ll soon be dreaming of cherubs and puppy dogs.”
Betsy gazed evenly at the Majestrix. “Don’t you ever grow tired of making snide comments all the time?”
“I only make them when the opportunity presents itself,” Satumyne replied haughtily. She smiled frostily. “It just so happens that practically every word that tumbles from your mouth makes for such a delicious set-up line.” She snorted. “I imagine your boyfriend considers that one of your more endearing ...”
A melancholy expression darkened Betsy’s features; she suddenly looked twice her age.
“. . . qualities . . .” As Satumyne’s voice trailed off, it was obvious from her shocked expression that even the Majestrix realized she had gone too far with her caustic remarks. “E-Elisabeth . . . I’m sorry,” she said haltingly. “I-I didn’t mean to ...”
Slowly, Betsy reached out to take Satumyne’s right hand, then gently clasped it in both of hers. “Satumyne, I know we’ve had our differences of opinion over the years—it’s to be expected, I imagine, when a sister tries to protect her brother from what she perceives to be the ‘wrong sort of woman.’ ” A wisp of a smile came to her lips as she saw the Majestrix wince as though lightly slapped. “But I also know that, beneath that cool, professional, infuriatingly superior attitude you constantly throw in everyone’s faces is a caring, loving woman.”
“Not according to your brother. . Her Whyness muttered.
“I truly do hope that, one day, you’ll find someone special,” Betsy continued. “Someone you can share your hopes, your dreams, your love with, as I did with Warren. And when you do, don’t ever let a minute pass without letting them know how wonderful it feels to have them in your life.. . because you never know how little time you may have together, in the end.”
For what must have been the first time in years, the Omniversal Majestrix suddenly seemed to be at a loss for words. Her one visible eye widened in surprise, she stared at Betsy for a few moments; her lips moved, but she appeared to be unable to form any words.
“Umm ... I’d ... I’d best be going,” she finally stammered.
Betsy nodded and released Satumyne’s hand. Then she headed across the chamber toward the bed, pausing only long enough to slip out of her opera-length gloves and once-elegant gown before climbing under the covers.
“Good night, Elisabeth,” Saturnyne said as she walked to the doorway. She paused for a reply, but received none, and the door irised shut behind her.
Alone in the dark, Betsy pulled the gown close to her and buried her face in the material, inhaling the few traces of Warren’s cologne that still clung to it. She’d been able to maintain a cool facade in front of everyone—well, except for that momentary display of anger toward von Doom, of course—but only through the greatest of efforts. It was expected of her, she knew—wasn’t she the mighty Psylocke, telepathic femme fatale who was as deadly as she was beautiful? Who never allowed personal matters to cloud her judgment?
Absolute rubbish, of course, but it wouldn’t have done any good to allow the weight of her grief to overwhelm her in front of a roomful of people and force her to go running to Professor Xavier for support. No—now that she had some understanding of the severity of the situation, she had to concentrate on helping Charles; he needed her to focus on the mission that lay ahead. So, for the time being, she would “keep a stiff upper lip,” as the old saying went... at least in public. Warren would have been proud of her.
Warren. . .
Betsy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and the tears that had been building for the better part of an hour at last found release.
And as she drifted off to a troubled sleep, Betsy couldn’t help but wonder what sort of horrific punishments her other friends might even now be suffering at the hands of their oldest enemy. . . .