HAVE YOU gone completely mad? What kind of plan is that?” Walking alongside Xavier’s hoverchair as she and the Profes-
_ sor made their way down one of the seemingly endless corridors
in the Starlight Citadel, Betsy threw her hands in the air in utter exasperation. “It’s insane, Professor!”
“No, Elisabeth,” Xavier replied. “It’s the best possible plan . . . under the circumstances.”
Betsy shook her head. “I’m sorry, Professor, but placing yourself in harm’s way by accompanying me to Earth is not the best possible plan. In case you’ve forgotten, Magneto and you haven’t exactly seen eye-to-eye in decades... except on those rare occasions when the two of you share a common enemy—like the Sentinels, or The Brood, or a roomful of Congressmen discussing the Mutant Registration Act.”
“I understand your concern, Elisabeth,” Xavier countered, “but we’re running out of precious time. By speaking with Erik directly, I may be able to make him come to his senses before it’s too late.” He paused. “I know it’s a longshot, but with the other X-Men incapacitated—”
“What about the Captain Britain Corps?” Betsy interjected. “Why can’t they come with me? After all, my brother is a member—they should be eager to help one of their own.”
The Professor shook his head. “I already discussed that possibility with Roma. She refuses to place any of her people at risk, now that the reality-cancer has started to spread throughout our universe. She doesn’t want to risk the chance of ‘infecting’ either the citadel or another dimension with the Cube’s taint.”
Betsy sucked on her bottom lip for a few moments, brow furrowed in concentration. “The Technet, perhaps? With the proper incentive, those disgusting little mercenaries could be quite an asset, especially Gatecrasher’s ’porting abilities; she could take me straight to Magneto. I could grab the Cube from him and have everything set right in time for brunch.” She frowned. “Oh, but they answer directly to Satumyne, don’t they? And she’d never allow them to accept any offer from us.”
“Not to mention she’s quite adamant that the only solution to the problem is to destroy our dimension. I also seriously doubt their tele-portational powers are greater than Roma’s; if she couldn’t place Scott and the others at the heart of the anomaly before, due to the interference created by the Cube’s energies, it’s unlikely the Technet would have any better luck.” Xavier flashed a wry smile. “And that, my dear Miss Braddock, brings us full-circle—”
“To a plan that relies far too much on you being able to reason with a man who has dedicated his life to making Homo superior the dominant lifeform on the planet. . . and who, now more than ever, has the power to annihilate anyone who dares to oppose him.” Betsy grimaced and rubbed her throat, remembering the moment back in Washington when she’d tried to attack von Doom while he held the Cube—only to suddenly find herself floating miles above the Earth. She would have died from lack of oxygen within seconds if the tyrant had been in the mood to end her life, and not merely teach her a lesson for her foolish action. She swallowed, hard. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I can’t let you take that sort of risk.”
“It is not your decision to make, Psylocke,” Xavier replied sternly. “In case you have forgotten, I have faced my own share of dangers as the founder of this group, from the N’gari to the unleashed fury of the Dark Phoenix, long before you were ever invited to join us.” He tapped the armrests of his hoverchair. “Just because I need to travel about in this, do not think for a moment that I am helpless.”
“ ‘Helpless?’ You, Professor?” Betsy smiled. “Of all the words that come to mind that I could possibly use to describe you, I’d find it very hard to include that one.” She traced the edge of one armrest with the tips of her fingers. “I’m not questioning your ability in the field . . .” She paused, catching sight of his bemused look. “All right, perhaps I am. Despite your incredible telepathic powers, even you would have to admit that your handicap does add a complication or two to the mission. But I’m more concerned about the danger you’d be putting yourself in by walking into the lion’s den—we both face the possibility that we could be killed long before we even get close to Magneto. I’d just like to better your chances for survival.” Betsy closed her eyes, tight enough to create flashes of color in the darkness; she imagined she could see
Warren’s face among the multi-hued lights that burst like fireworks. She drew a deep breath, then slowly released it and opened her eyes. “I’ve already lost enough people who are close to me.”
Xavier reached out to pat the back of her hand. “Elisabeth, if we fail, if we can’t prevent the Cube from destroying the protective barriers around our dimension, there will be no place to hide from the destruction, no place to call a safe haven. It will be the beginning of the end, not just for our world, but for every world across the countless dimensions. And if that were to happen, we both know I’d be in as much danger here on the citadel as I would on Earth.” He shook his head. “No, I’d much rather go out fighting, doing my best to end this perverted dream of Magneto’s once and for all, as I’ve tried to do for so long.” He smiled. “Besides, if Erik runs true-to-form, as most of his fellow would-be conquerors do, he won’t kill me . . . not right away, at least. After all, where would the glory of the moment be if he didn’t have someone to gloat to about his victory over mankind—especially if that someone happens to be his greatest foe?”
Betsy returned the smile, her brush with death at von Doom’s hand now cast in a new light. She slowly shook her head in amusement. “You’d think, with all those James Bond movies available on video and DVD, they would have picked up on the flaw of talking the ear off your enemy instead of killing him outright.” Her smile widened. “Not that I’m not grateful for their little egomaniacal rants, of course. Letting someone like Doom or Magneto prattle on about how insignificant we all are in relation to their vast intellects does give one more than enough time to think of an escape plan.” The smile faltered. “But, seriously, Professor. . .”
“Your objection has been duly noted, Elisabeth,” Xavier replied evenly, “but this discussion has reached its conclusion. We could debate the issue all day long, with arguments and counterarguments about the dangers involved in this mission, but I have made up my mind.” His chair slowed, then came to a soundless halt; Betsy stopped as well. The Professor pointed ahead of them. “And now, it is time to inform Roma.”
Betsy turned in the direction Xavier indicated. With a start, she saw that they had arrived at the entrance to the Supreme Guardian’s throne-room.
Three white marble steps, each ten feet wide, lay in front of them, leading to a set of ornate doors twenty feet high, made of solid gold; both were decorated with the image of a blazing sun, rays of light streaming out to all the edges of the panels. In front of the doors stood a quintet of male guards—the first line of defense between Roma and anyone foolish enough to attempt seeing her without permission. All were garbed in golden armor, white, ankle-length capes, and sky-blue tunics, the latter bearing the Guardian’s symbol: three golden, interlocked ovals surrounded by a white circle. It always reminded Betsy of a “Hazardous Materials” symbol. In addition to the uniforms, the men shared a common background: all had been members of the Captain Britain Corps, promoted to their current stations by Roma for services above and beyond the call of duty.
One of the guards—a man with a lantern jaw, and shoulder-length red hair tied in a ponytail—stepped forward. “Good morrow, Professor,” he said pleasantly, then glanced at Betsy. The smile he had shown Xavier flowed off his handsome features like ice melting under extreme heat. “Miss Braddock.”
“Good morning, Alecto,” Betsy replied, being overly polite. “Always nice to see you.” She grinned devilishly, well aware of how much he disliked members of her family. “How’s your hip? Still aching from the last time my brother came past here unannounced?”
The Captain of the Guard looked at her in disgust, then turned to the Professor. “Her Majesty is expecting you.” He glanced over his shoulder and nodded to his men. They responded immediately, pushing on the massive doors, which opened soundlessly, and with surprising ease.
Betsy and Xavier mounted the steps, the guards moving aside to let them pass.
“I’ll tell Brian you said ‘hello,’ the next time I see him,” she said softly, just loud enough for Alecto to hear. She turned and blew him a kiss as she followed the Professor across the threshold.
If she hadn’t been a hardened warrior, a woman trained in the ways of the ninja, and a powerful telepath who had been inside the minds of some of the world’s deadliest villains and survived to tell the tale, the choice invectives that filled the captain’s thoughts might have made her blush.
Inside, Betsy came to a sudden halt, mouth dropping open as she gazed in wonder at the throneroom. It had changed a great deal since the last time she had visited—when Brian had finally gotten around to marrying his shapeshifting girlfriend, Meggan—and she couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer size of the place. Clearly, Roma had picked up a sense of the dramatic from Merlyn, what with the massive design, cathedral-like atmosphere, and a ceiling that was lost in shadow. It gave the impression that you were about to have an audience with God.
She certainly is her father’s daughter. . . at least in tastes . . . Betsy thought dryly, willing her feet to start moving again. She trailed along behind Xavier, stealing glances at the shadows around them. If she looked out of the comers of her eyes, she could just make out the faint movements of creatures that lurked in the darkness—a second line of defense against the uninvited, it appeared. It seemed that Roma had upgraded, not just her private area, but her personal security, as well. A smile played at the comers of Betsy’s lips. I wonder if Satumyne knows about this . . . ?
Xavier stopped his chair at a respectful distance from the Supreme Guardian, who was standing at the darkened scrying glass, her back to them. It was the set of her shoulders that suddenly made Betsy feel uneasy—they hung loosely, as though slumped in defeat.
At Roma’s side was Satumyne, whose scarlet lips seemed chiseled into a permanent frown. She turned to face teacher and student, and grunted—a very un-Saturnyne-like response.
An inexplicable chill ran up Betsy’s spine. Instantly, she created a telepathic link with Xavier. Something’s wrong, Professor. . .
I surmised as much, Xavier replied. But I don’t think it’s the right moment to press for answers. We ’II just have to wait until—
“It’s all gone to hell!” Satumyne said loudly, her words reverberating around the chamber.
“I beg your pardon?” the Professor asked; Betsy could tell he was surprised by her comment through the link. She quickly disconnected it, not wishing to intrude on his thoughts.
“I knew this was going to happen!” Her Whyness replied, ignoring his question. She snarled, and pointed an accusatory finger at Xavier. “I knew it would happen, but you refused to listen! You’d rather sacrifice all of Creation rather than destroy your precious world, wouldn ’t you? And now see where your selfish actions have—”
A hand lightly touched her shoulder. Satumyne turned, eyes flashing with anger, only to see it was Roma who gently held her arm. Although Betsy couldn’t see the expression on the Guardian’s face, it seemed to quell the fire that raged within Her Whyness’ breast. The Majestrix fell silent.
“Satumyne, what are you talking about?” Betsy asked.
The white-haired lieutenant glanced at her superior; Roma nodded her approval, but said nothing. Satumyne stepped forward, boot heels clicking loudly as she made her way across the transept to join the X-Man and her leader.
“See for yourself,” Her Whyness said icily, gesturing toward the podium containing the omniversal crystals. Betsy and Xavier exchanged confused glances, then followed the Majestrix as she walked over to it, quickly mounting the short flight of steps right behind her.
As she reached the top step, Betsy saw Xavier’s eyes widen in shock. His skin took on a sickly-white hue as she watched the blood drain from his face.
“A very bad day, indeed,” he whispered hoarsely.
Seeing him like this made Betsy shiver; in all her time with the X-Men she couldn’t remember ever seeing him act in such a manner.
“Professor . . . ?” she asked haltingly. When he didn’t respond, she followed the direction of his unblinking gaze, to the collection of crystals that, as Brian had once explained to her, contained the life-forces of every dimension in the omniverse. These, too, she had last seen on his wedding day, and she had marveled at the purity of the quartz pieces.
But something was wrong with them now. A large number of the crystals—normally a brilliant white in color—were dotted with inky black spots.
“That doesn’t look right...” Betsy said.
“Of course it’s not right!” Satumyne roared. “The Cube has infected a hundred realities already, and the taint is spreading to others!”
Now the reason for Satumyne’s hostile behavior, for Roma’s solemn attitude, for Xavier’s shocked expression, became clear to Betsy—and it terrified her. Back on Earth, Jean and Scott had told her of the threat the Cube posed to the omniverse, of how Roma might be forced to destroy their universe to save others, but the impact of that statement hadn’t really struck her until now.
She began nervously chewing on her bottom lip as she gazed at the crystals. It was almost impossible to believe: a device no bigger than a child’s toy, capable of wiping out whole dimensions? It was like something out of Star Trek, or Doctor Who.
And yet, she had seen for herself what the Cube could do in von Doom’s hands, had fallen under the spell it had cast without even knowing it had happened. Was it so hard to believe, then, that the same wishbox that had so effortlessly made the villain’s dreamworld a reality could just as easily tear apart other continuums, exterminate billions upon billions of innocent souls as its cancerous influence penetrated dimension after dimension, until the omniverse was thoroughly consumed?
Unfortunately, no, it wasn’t.
The stains continued to spread across the infected crystals, further marring their once-pure facets. “Which is the one representing our dimension?” Betsy asked. She suddenly felt unable to breathe.
Satumyne snorted. “Does it really matter? At the rate the reality-cancer is spreading ...” The Majestrix slowly shook her head. “There’s no point in destroying 616’s crystal now. The damage is done. We’ve lost.” She gazed coldly at Xavier. “Are you happy now, Professor? Your world has been spared, for the moment. . . but millions more are now suffering because of our hesitation.”
“Satumyne, please believe me—this is not what I had in mind when I asked for the opportunity to send the X-Men back to Earth,” Xavier replied. “All I wanted was a chance to put things right. If I had known what might occur—”
“You still would have fought for the continued existence of your dimension,” the Majestrix interjected. She turned away from Xavier, head bowed. “I don’t fault your intent, Professor,” she said in a lower tone. “I have nothing against your world. I wasn’t looking to punish it for some perceived slight against the cosmos, and I took no pleasure in petitioning the Supreme Guardian for the eradication of your dimension. But it is my duty as Omniversal Majestrix to maintain order throughout the length and breadth of time and space. Your universe was a threat to that order, and it should have been dealt with immediately, instead of being turned over to a bunch of costumed do-gooders whose intentions were well-meant, but inadequate to the task.” She sighed. “I wanted your students to succeed, Professor. Unfortunately, they did not, and now we must pay the ultimate price for their failure.”
Betsy stared at the crystals, her mind still reeling from the realization of what the Cube was capable of doing to the fabric of reality. “But . . . how can this be possible? Doom said the flaw in the Cube only affected its possessor.”
“I thought you said you didn’t believe that,” Her Whyness responded, her back still turned to her and Xavier.
“I said I didn’t believe he couldn’t fix it,” Betsy shot back. “But the mind-scan proved me wrong.” She turned to Xavier. “Is it true, Professor? Are we too late?”
“No, ” said Roma, mounting the steps to join them. A look of fierce determination was etched on her exquisite features. “There is still time, my friends, but we must move quickly . ..”
He was alive; he knew that much. And for Victor von Doom, living meant there was still time. Time enough to learn all he could about this place to which he’d been brought; to learn about his captors, and how they had become involved in his affairs.
Time enough to plan his next strike.
The mutant telepath had come close to killing him, however; far too close for his liking. He hadn’t felt death’s gentle touch, coaxing him toward oblivion, in quite some time—not since his final battle with the Mandarin. What a glorious day that had been! The two longtime foes, soaring high above the Great Wall of China, unleashing the full power of their weapons upon one another: von Doom, with his armor’s death beams and concussive blasts; the Mandarin with his ten alien rings, each jewel-encrusted bauble capable of laying waste to an entire city. The war had gone on for days, neither combatant willing to concede defeat, neither side giving quarter, for both knew that only one man could rule the world. And in the end, that man had been Victor von—
But wait. That conflict had never actually happened. Von Doom knew this to be true—after all, it had been part of the history of the world he had formed with the Cube; a tiny bit of detailing added to fill a spot on the canvas on which he had created his masterpiece.
Why, then, should he be recalling some minor fantasy as if it were a true memory, when he already had a lifetime’s worth of them from which to draw? Why did it seem so ... so real.. . ?
“And how are we today?” asked a lilting male voice close by.
Von Doom slowly opened his eyes. A physician was standing over him, a broad smile lighting his elfin features; the tyrant surmised it was meant to be comforting.
He took an immediate dislike to the man.
“Doom lives,” he said, his throat thick with phlegm, “despite the best efforts of his enemies to alter that situation.”
“Excellent,” purred the physician. “I must admit, it was a bit touch-and-go there for a while, when you were first brought in—” his smile broadened “—but from what I’ve been told, you’re an extremely difficult man to kill.”
“Where is the mutant?” von Doom demanded.
“The mu—? Oh, you mean the young lady who caused your mental seizure.” The Chief Physician shrugged. “I imagine she’s with the Supreme Guardian.” His voice lowered to a friendly, conspiratorial murmur. “I understand there’s some sort of omniversal crisis going on that requires Roma’s undivided attention.”
“Doom is aware of that, you fool,” the monarch replied testily.
The physician stared at him thoughtfully for a few moments. “Hmm ... I wonder if Doom is aware of other things ...” he said mysteriously, then flashed a bright smile. “Tell me, would you mind chatting with one of our specialists? We had some . . . unusual readings pop up during our examination of you, and we’re hoping you might be able to shed a little light on the matter.”
The elderly despot glared at the man. “I will tell you nothing.”
“I... see,” the physician said slowly. “Perhaps later in the day?”
“Leave me, ” his patient said with a sneer. “And do not return unless I have summoned you.”
The physician’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “Ah. I see. I’m being dismissed, is that it?” He chuckled softly. “You humans—your heightened sense of self-importance never ceases to amaze me.” He winked slyly at his patient. “I’ll check in with you in a bit, after you’ve had a spot of breakfast.” A wicked smile crawled across his features. “I’ll ask the nurse to increase your dosage of bran—considering your advanced age and increasingly overbearing demeanor, you could probably use a—”
“GET OUT!” the tyrant bellowed.
Laughing softly, the physician turned on his heel and hurried off, presumably to continue his rounds.
“Cretin,” von Doom muttered. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his right side, groaning softly at the momentary pain that flared up in his hip.
He was growing tired of this body, of its frustrating limitations— the slower speed, the blurring vision, the aches and pains in every joint. His mind was still active, still capable of orchestrating grand schemes, but the Cube had robbed him of his youth, his vigor. At the time, it had seemed a fair exchange—world domination for advanced aging—but that was before Lensherr and Xavier’s meddlesome students had disrupted what would have been his last order for the Cube in the coming days: to destroy the world the moment after he had drawn his last breath. After all, why allow the dream to die, to let others tear down what he had worked so hard to build, just because the dreamer had departed on his final journey?
The chance had been stolen from him, though, and he had been forced to withdraw because he could not defend himself—yet another damnable limitation of this withering husk in which his mind was trapped. Had he been at full strength, von Doom would never have left the field of battle; he would have fought Magneto for possession of the Cube ... and won. Instead, he had been struck across the face, cast aside like a piece of refuse, at the hands of a genetic inferior. The former emperor growled softly and pounded his fist once on the edge of his bed, more angry with himself for letting the Cube slip from his grasp than from any pain Magneto had been able to inflict upon him.
Patience, Victor, a voice suddenly whispered in his mind. You should not exert yourself so—not when there is still so much left to do.
Von Doom’s eyes flew open. He raised his head and looked around, but the physicians—including that Scottish-voiced buffoon—and nurses were quite a distance away, at a monitoring station, and the beds around him were empty.
“Braddock?” he rumbled softly. “Is that you, mutant, picking up where you left off? Invading my mind once more, seeking answers I do not have?” He closed his eyes, focusing his energies on erecting a mental barrier. “You will not find Doom unprepared this time.”
Listen to me, Victor, the voice insisted; on closer examination, much to his surprise, it sounded exactly like his own. Conserve your—our— strength; such actions will only weaken us further.
Who are you? von Doom demanded.
Were I to tell you, the voice responded, you would say I am lying. I am quite familiar with the workings of your mind, you see. But heed my words, it said sternly, or all will be lost. I am no creation of the Cosmic Cube, no figment of your imagination. It is only now, as this body slowly heals, with pain dulling your senses, that I have been able to pierce the layers of your mind and succeed in contacting you.
The despot grunted. And now that you have, phantom, of what use is a disembodied voice to me?
A soft chuckle echoed through the depths of the former emperor’s subconscious. A great deal, when that voice can relate information concerning a certain palace that floats at the center of time and space, and the Guardian who resides there—a god-like being whose powers give her complete mastery over the forces of Creation itself. . .
A sinister smile split the reed-thin lips of the elderly despot. Continue, then, phantom. I am listening . . .
“Pardon my ignorance, m’lady,” Satumyne asked, “but if the Cube has already begun ravaging the omniverse, how can you say there still may be time to combat its influence?” She glanced at the crystals, the one eye that was visible beneath her mountainous white hair widening in fear. “Unless you mean to destroy all the infected realities . . .” she whispered.
“Not at all, Satumyne,” Roma replied. “But my plan, you see, requires the use of the flawed Cosmic Cube.” She turned to Xavier and Betsy. “I will need one or both of you to return to Earth and retrieve it for me.”
“No, m’lady!” Satumyne interjected. “You’d only be worsening the dilemma! By bringing the source of the reality-cancer here, to the very heart of time and space, you run the risk of complete omniversal destruction!”
“I am all too aware of the possible repercussions, Satumyne,” the Guardian replied. “Unfortunately, if I am to have any chance of excising this cancer, it must be done here, where my powers are greatest, where I will be able to draw upon the energies generated by the countless dimensions and, hopefully, use them to destroy the Cube.”
“And if you’re not able to destroy the Cube?” Betsy asked, though she really didn’t want to hear the answer.
“It will be the end of everything,” Roma said. “The omniverse will collapse in upon itself, and in its place shall be . . . nothing.”
“Un-space,” Satumyne said cryptically.
Betsy nodded morosely. It suddenly felt like some massive weight had settled in the pit of her stomach. “I.. . thought as much ...” she murmured.
Roma turned to the Professor. “Are you ready to begin the journey, Charles Xavier?”
Betsy noticed that the color had returned to the Professor’s cheeks— a welcome sign in this troubling time. “You have merely to open the portal, Your Majesty,” he replied, “and Psylocke and I shall do as you ask.”
Roma nodded, a gentle smile bowing her lips; clearly, she was pleased by his enthusiastic response. “Then, my friends, let us begin . . .”
ONE HOUR later, they were ready to go.
Clad in black, bootcut leather pants, black Doc Martens, a _ white silk blouse, and round-lensed sunglasses, Betsy looked more like a resident of Manhattan’s trendy Upper West Side than a member of the X-Men. That was the idea, of course—the last thing she and Xavier wanted to do was draw attention to themselves by having Betsy walk around Magneto’s dreamworld in her eye-catching costume. Stealth was required for this mission, so plain clothes were the order of the day.
“Plain clothes.” Betsy smiled. She’d been watching Law & Order reruns once too often, it seemed. If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be referring to super-villains as “perps” and “skells.”
She’d thought about washing out the lavender dye in her hair as part of the disguise, going with her natural dark color, but found she didn’t have the heart to do it. After having worn it that way for so long—a curious affectation she’d acquired during her brief career as a model—it was now as much a part of her identity as the crimson tattoo splashed across her left cheek—and that wasn’t about to wash off. Besides, she still had four or five bottles of the hard-to-find dye under the bathroom sink, back in the apartment she shared with—
Betsy paused.
Say it, she told herself. With Warren. The apartment you shared with Warren. She exhaled sharply. There. That wasn’t so hard to do, now was it?
Actually, no, it wasn’t—which surprised her. She’d expected the ache that had tom at her heart to flare up again and send her spiraling once more into depression ... but it hadn’t happened. Maybe she was starting to heal, after all. Or maybe it was the mission; focusing on it, as she had surmised, was deadening the pain ... at least for a while.
Or maybe she was just holding back her emotions, waiting for the right moment to release them—like when she’d have her hands clasped around Magneto’s throat, finally able to make him pay for his crimes . . . “You look marvelous,” Xavier said, gliding up to join her.
Betsy shook her head to clear her thoughts, and smiled. “Thank you.” She noticed that he wore the same suit he had put on a short time earlier. “And you cut quite the dashing figure.”
“What? In this old thing?” Xavier asked, feigning modesty. He smiled warmly. “Thank you.”
The sharp sound of boot heels ringing on the tile floor caught their attention. They turned to see Saturnyne approaching. In one hand, she held a metal box no larger than a pack of cigarettes, its surface dotted with small lights, and one very large red button. She handed the box to Xavier.
“It’s a recall device,” she explained. “The temporal engineers at the Dimensional Development Court assure me it will work, even in the heart of the anomaly. Press the button, and a portal will open, bringing you back here.”
“Simple enough to operate,” Xavier said pleasantly.
The Majestrix snorted. “Only at my insistence. I know how little boys are with their toys, and this mission is delicate enough without some giddy technician adding unnecessarily complicated bits to it, like racing stripes, or a death ray generator, or a mini-toaster oven. It’s a recall device, after all, not a Swiss army knife.”
Betsy eyed her suspiciously. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she commented. “Simple the device may be, but what trouble might we be getting into once we use it?”
“Oh. Well, it’s only good for one jaunt,” Her Whyness said. “So try to refrain from activating it until you’ve got the Cube.”
“And you don’t consider that a complication?” Betsy asked.
The Majestrix shrugged.
Xavier cast a warning glance at Betsy; he obviously didn’t want her to pursue the issue. “Thank you, Saturnyne—for both the device and the word of caution.”
“Seeing that you have returned to the citadel, successful in your mission, will be thanks enough, Charles Xavier,” Roma said as she joined the trio. “And now, it is time.”
She raised her arms, then closed her eyes in concentration. A pinpoint of light appeared just beyond the tips of her fingers. As Betsy watched, the point became a swirling, kaleidoscopic vortex that grew progressively larger until it was approximately the same size as the set of double doors leading into the throne room.
“Now, as I explained to your comrades when they embarked upon their mission,” Roma said, “I will be able to return you to your world, but the energies of the Cosmic Cube have created a great deal of interference—it prevents me from controlling the entry point of the portal. You might emerge right beside the Cube when you step from the vortex ... or find yourself on the wrong side of the planet.”
Behind the dark lenses of her glasses, Betsy rolled her eyes. Marvelous, she thought.
“Regardless of where we make our arrival, Your Majesty,” Xavier said, sounding cheerfully optimistic, “Psylocke and I will find the Cube. We will end this madness.”
The Supreme Guardian nodded appreciatively, and waved a hand toward the blindingly-bright vortex. “Then step through the portal, my friends . .. and good hunting.”
Xavier glanced at Betsy and smiled. “Are you ready to step through the looking glass, Alice?”
Betsy reached down to grab hold of the black carryall by her feet; it contained a few changes of clothes for them both, as well as a few choice weapons she had “borrowed” from an armory located near the citadel guards’ barracks. She had insisted on bringing them, despite Xavier’s protests about violence begetting violence; he was hoping to accomplish this mission through peaceful means. Betsy saw his point— really, she did—but, as she explained, she would have felt naked racing into battle without a razor-edged katana in her hand and a pair of sai hanging from her belt.
Of course, the Professor hadn’t understood—he was a man. The importance of properly accessorizing one’s outfits was lost on him.
Betsy’s eyes narrowed, and her jaw set in fierce determination. “Let’s finish this.”
Together, they entered the portal. An instant later, it closed behind them, and the throne room was once more plunged into semi-darkness.
“I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing, m’lady,” the Om-niversal Majestrix remarked.
“As do I, Satumyne,” Roma said softly. “As do I. . .”
“If this is as close to the Cube as she could get us,” Betsy snarled through gritted teeth, “then we’re in very big trouble . .
“I think you should be grateful the portal did not open above the Atlantic Ocean,” the Professor replied. “After all, Roma did warn us of her inability to control it.”
Betsy grunted, not really satisfied with that answer. While it was true the portal hadn’t placed them in any danger, they’d stepped into a situation that was just as bad... in her opinion, at least. She snarled, and gazed in disgust at their surroundings. The vortex had deposited them on the deck of a barge that was being pulled down the East River by a tugboat.
A garbage barge, to be specific—one filled to capacity.
In the middle of a hot, humid, summer day in New York.
“I’d wager this type of thing wouldn’t happen to one of the Avengers,” Betsy muttered, doing her best to breathe through her mouth. She sighed. “We’ll never get the smell out of these clothes.”
Xavier wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Indeed. But we have much greater concerns at the moment than the odor of rancid fried chicken settling into our wardrobe.”
Betsy nodded. “The Cube.” An inquisitive eyebrow rose above the frames of her glasses. “Well, since you’re mission leader, Professor, how do you think we should begin our search?”
“Well, I think the first order of business is to get off this barge—” Xavier grimaced as a gust of thick, hot air blew a moldy scrap of toilet paper past his nose “—as soon as possible. Then we’ll need lodgings, so we can set up a base of operation from which to work.”
“What about the mansion?” Betsy asked.
Xavier shook his head. “It may not exist in this reality, and we can’t spare the time to find out. But even if it does, I’m certain Erik has taken steps to pervert its use in some way, if only to spite me.” His lips drew together in a thin, bloodless line. “I... don’t really want to find out.” Betsy saw the haunted look in Charles’ eyes. The Westchester mansion—and the school for mutants that it housed—meant a great deal to him; probably more than she could imagine. It was the center of his universe—the place where he felt most secure; the launching pad from which his dreams of mutant equality had first taken flight. Having already lost his students to his greatest enemy, just the very idea that the school might have become a mockery of that dream seemed to have the Professor poised on the brink of a severe depression.
She loudly clapped her hands together, just once, to get his attention. “Right, then,” she said. “Time we were on our way.”
Placing her hands on the Professor’s hoverchair, she mentally summoned forth one of the powers she’d acquired from her exposure to the Crimson Dawn: the gift of teleportation. Tendrils of dark energy flowed from her pores, seeping through her clothing to pool at her feet. The substance spread outward, forming a perfect circle around her and the Professor as it pushed aside the foul-smelling trash that surrounded the duo. Betsy noticed, with some amusement, Xavier’s mildly concerned expression as he watched a midnight-black portal open beneath his chair. It was impossible to tell where it might lead—or what might lurk within its depths.
“Don’t worry, Professor,” Betsy said with a smile. “You won’t feel a thing.”
Xavier gazed at her suspiciously from the comer of his eye; clearly, he didn’t believe her. “You know, that’s exactly what my dentist said the time I went in for a root canal. I didn’t believe him, either—and I was right, unfortunately.”
They were moving downward now, sinking into the chilly darkness, Betsy glanced around at the garbage piled around them once last time, then turned back to the Professor. “Fried chicken, eh? I wondered what that was.” She grimaced. “Now I know why I had that sudden urge for mashed potatoes and gravy....”
Satumyne’s stomach growled.
Having left the Supreme Guardian in the throne room—per Roma’s request for privacy—Her Whyness was on her way to her quarters when the rumbling had started. She looked around to see if any of the staff or visitors passing her in the corridor had heard the sound; if they had, they were apparently wise enough not to comment on it. That lack of reaction—caused, more than likely, by the fear she generated among them—pleased Satumyne. It wouldn’t do for an Omniversal Majestrix to have the citadel buzzing with talk about how, though she could command legions of soldiers in battle, she had no control over the noises made by her internal organs. It might make her seem fallible. Commonplace. Mindnumbingly ordinary. Like she was one of them. And that would never do ...
“Special Executive?” called out a voice laced with more than a touch of the Scottish Highlands. “May I have a moment of your time?” Satumyne turned. Hurrying down the corridor after her was an odd little man in a surgical blouse and checkered pants. She recognized him as the Chief Physician from the medical wing, but couldn’t remember his name—she had far more important things to do than try to remember the names of everyone who worked for the Supreme Guardian.
“I haven’t gone by the title ‘Special Executive’ since I left the DDC, Doctor,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down her nose at him. “You must address me as ‘Your Whyness’ now.” “Ah!” The physician smiled broadly, grabbed her right hand, and began vigorously pumping it up and down. “Congratulations! It couldn’t have happened to a nicer Majestrix.” As Satumyne pulled her hand free, he bowed his head slightly. “I apologize for my faux pas. It’s just that it takes so long for news of anything to trickle down to the medical wing these days... I must never have received a copy of the notification.”
Satumyne frowned. “What did you wish to speak with me about?” she asked, hoping to move the conversation along before her stomach made another demand for food.
The Chief Physician unclipped a small, hand-held computer from the belt he wore under the green scrubs. “Now, I realize you don’t have a full understanding of medical procedures, beyond whatever unnecessary bits of information the lads at DDC might have filled your head with when you worked with them ...” He grinned broadly, seemingly unaffected by the icy stare he was receiving. “. . . but I’d like you to take a look at these readings, before I bring them to the Supreme Guardian’s attention, and tell me what you see.”
Satumyne took the device from him and scanned the Information displayed on the small screen. “Who’s the patient?”
“That charming elderly gentleman Roma sent down to me for treatment,” the doctor replied sarcastically.
The Majestrix’s visible eye widened in surprise. “Doom? These are Doom’s readings?”
“Yes.” The doctor smiled slyly. “Quite interesting, wouldn’t you say?”
“You have a gift for understatement, Doctor,” Satumyne replied dryly. She pointed to one finding in particular. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“I really can’t say that I have, Your Whyness,” he replied. “But then, I’ve never met a man with two sets of thought patterns.” He pointed to the computer screen. “And if I’m right—which I am invariably am—then, based upon these readings, which, before you ask, my staff has already checked and rechecked a number of times, it would appear we have a case of two versions of the same man sharing one body.” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Do you think the Supreme Guardian might be interested in this rather intriguing situation?”
The only response to the doctor’s question came, unexpectedly and decidedly unwanted, from the Majestrix’s burbling digestive tract.
“Well, this is something I never expected to see,” Betsy commented.
From their vantage point on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, she and Xavier could see most of the island of Manhattan stretched out before them in the bright, noonday sun. The city didn’t look all that different from how it normally appeared in the “real world”—its streets congested with far too many vehicles, its sidewalks jammed with tourists, bike messengers, and food vendors—but there were changes, if you knew where to look for them. About the biggest that came to mind, once Betsy had focused on it, was the absence of superpowered beings. During the day, the skies were usually full of them—heroic men and women soaring high above the streets as they raced off to answer a call for help, or power-hungry villains recklessly zooming toward a confrontation with their most hated enemies. Now, though, the only occupants of the air were an assortment of birds and a number of traffic helicopters, the latter emblazoned with the logos of the television stations for which their crews were reporting.
The people were different, as well. Having lived in the city for a while now, Betsy had always been struck by the blase attitude of New Yorkers toward the unusual; not even the first arrival of Galactus years ago had closed down Wall Street. But now, it seemed, even the tourists were taking everything in stride—those gathered on the observation deck hadn’t reacted at all to the unexpected appearance of two mutants emerging from a pool of oily darkness right within their midst.
It was almost unnerving.
“I have to tell you, Professor,” Betsy said, “that, after all the clashes the X-Men have had with Magneto over the years, after hearing his endless diatribes about how Homo superior should be the dominant species on the planet, I was expecting concentration camps and armed stormtroopers, not clean streets and a harmonious society.” She glanced at her companion, and chuckled softly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were standing in the middle of your dream.”
“It is strange,” Xavier agreed. “Erik has been set in his ways for as long as I have known him. Based on our discussions, I never would have thought him capable of creating such a world.” He paused, and scratched his jaw, obviously deep in concentration. “However,” he said slowly, “now that I stop to think about it, there was a brief period, long before you joined us, when his views about dominating the world began to change. I had asked him to run the school during an extended leave of absence I was forced to take for health reasons.”
Betsy was nonplussed. “Just a moment. You put Magneto in charge of the school?”
Xavier nodded. “And he did an admirable job, from what the others told me . . . although it did take him quite some time to begin earning their trust.”
“No surprise there,” Betsy commented sarcastically. “It’s amazing, though, that Wolverine didn’t try to kill him, considering his intense hatred for the man.”
The Professor grunted. “Nevertheless, despite his initial setbacks, Erik was eventually able to work alongside Cyclops and the others. It seemed to have a beneficial effect on him—he changed. His obsession with punishing humanity for its harsh treatment of our kind began to dwindle, and, with the help of the X-Men, he focused his energies on finding ways to bring about peace between the races.” A wisp of a smile played at the comers of his mouth. “I imagine it had a great deal to do with having to interact with the students on a daily basis, with coming to better understand the very men and women he had been trying to destroy for so many years, and the dream in which they so strongly believed.” The smile quickly faded. “Unfortunately, it was not meant to last.” He sighed deeply, and gazed off into the distance.
Looking at his pained expression, it was obvious to Betsy that he somehow felt responsible for Magneto’s return to his old ways. That, maybe if he’d tried harder, his former friend wouldn’t have abandoned the slow, difficult path toward universal harmony that he’d started walking in favor of a far easier shortcut that led him back to violence as the best solution for eradicating prejudice toward mutantkind. She’d heard the Professor express similar thoughts over the years—absolute rubbish, in her opinion. Some people just couldn’t help being what they were, including super-villains. If subjugating humanity was the only way the mutant overlord believed that peace could be achieved, then that would forever remain his focus until he reached his goal, no matter how many times Charles Xavier tried to convince him otherwise.
“And yet, Professor,” she said, gesturing toward the city around them, “it’s clear your arguments about trying to find a peaceful solution to the man-versus-mutant problem didn’t fall on deaf ears.” She shrugged. “Maybe all it took was some time for him to eventually realize that you had been right all along. Maybe, once he had the Cube in hand, he realized he didn’t need to take out his aggressions on mankind; that he could do better than that. Maybe he just grew tired of all the fighting. The bottom line, though, is that he actually used the Cube’s powers to do some good. Magneto might be the one in charge, but this is the closest realization of your dream that I’ve ever seen.”
Xavier sighed. “Yes. And now, here I am, ready to tear down that dream because it presents a far greater danger than anyone could ever have imagined.” He glanced at his lavender-haired companion. “There’s a certain irony to the situation, don’t you think?”
“It’s not the dream that’s dangerous, Professor,” Betsy said, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s the dreamer. And this isn’t your dream, remember, no matter how close to it this world might appear;
good, bad, or indifferent, it’s all his. And that’s what’s endangering the omniverse—not anything you ’ve done.”
The Professor reached up to pat the back of her hand. “I suppose you’re right.” He looked up at her, and smiled. “Thank you, Elisabeth.” She grinned. “Better you hear an encouraging speech from me than, say, from Wolverine. Logan would just tell you to ‘get over it.’ ” Xavier chuckled. “Indeed.”
“Now, let’s see about setting up that base of operations, shall we?” Betsy said. She dramatically waved a hand at the metropolis below them. “Somewhere down there is a hotel room waiting to be booked, and a hot shower guaranteed to wash away both our troubles and the nauseating stench of rotted food that has worked its way into our pores.” She pointed to the crowd of tourists gathered around them. Both humans and mutants had drawn back as the hot summer sun warmed the X-Men’s clothing, increasing the eye-watering odor that wafted up from the garbage-stained material by a factor of ten.
Xavier nodded. “We appear to have overstayed our welcome.” “Then, we’re off,” Betsy said. Instantly, another portal began to form beneath their feet.
The Professor grimaced. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Elisabeth,” he said uneasily, “perhaps a taxi cab might be an easier mode of transpor—”
Any further words of mild protest that he might have been about to utter were quickly lost as the duo plunged into darkness.
The Stuyvesant Arms was not the type of hotel one would find listed in a visitor’s guide to New York. Located on East Houston Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, it had not yet benefited from the sweeping changes of gentrification that were slowly transforming its surrounding neighborhood. Once known for its high crime rate and drug trafficking, the area had become a mecca for trendy coffee shops, exclusive nightclubs, and chic, hole-in-the-wall art galleries. But the Stuyvesant— named after Peter Stuyvesant, the first mayor of New York, though no one on the hotel’s staff was aware of that fact, or even cared about the man’s place in history—was a throwback to an earlier time, when the city was a tad less civilized, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary to hear gunshots ringing in the hotel’s hallways, or hear of guests awakening in the middle of the night to find a rat the size of a mountain lion sitting on the edge of their beds, watching them with hungry eyes.
But that, of course, was back in the days when New York was nicknamed “Fun City.” Times were different now... or so the city’s administration often said. And yet, the more things change ...
Sitting behind the registration desk in the hotel’s dimly lit lobby, safely protected by a wire cage that kept some of the more . . . colorful denizens of the neighborhood from getting too close to him, Marty Keeler was a man who liked to dream of a better life—one where he dined in the finest restaurants, owned three or four mansions around the world, and traveled in style wherever he went. And women—there were always plenty of beautiful women populating his dreams, and each and every one of them thought he was the hottest guy on the planet. It was all a big joke, of course; he never really expected to see those visions become a reality. But for someone who used to be a lowly Morlock—a mutant who once lived with others of his kind in the abandoned subway and maintenance tunnels that ran beneath the city—dreams of power and wealth were all he had had in the years before Magneto’s ascendancy to world leader.
Not that things had improved all that much for him since then.
That was another joke, that whole “equal partners” thing that Magneto and his followers espoused. The world might have become a much better place to live in, but that really only applied to the “beautiful people.” Morlocks like Marty Keeler—with his pustule-covered face, sallow skin tone, and grotesque lack of dental hygiene—were still struggling to eke out a living, taking whatever jobs were available. After all, what kind of high-paying gigs were out there for someone whose genetic “gift” was spewing forth a corrosive acid from the boils that rose like tiny volcanoes above his unhealthy-looking complexion? It wasn’t exactly the sort of power that got you a lot of dates; actually, Marty couldn’t even remember the last time a woman—human or mutant— had even just gone to dinner with him.
But he could always dream . . .
“Excuse me,” said a male voice from the other side of the cage.
Marty looked up from the tiny black-and-white television secreted under the desk ... and found himself looking at the type of woman that, until this very moment, he thought only existed in the more creative recesses of his mind. He didn’t care much for the purple dye in her hair, but, suprisingly enough, the unusual coloration didn’t detract from her beauty; in an odd way, it actually enhanced it. There was something familiar about her; he could swear he’d seen her someplace before, but couldn’t remember exactly where or when. A men’s magazine cover, perhaps? Or maybe on an MTV awards show? She was a looker, though, whoever she was—long legs, supermodel face (he wondered what color her eyes were, behind those dark glasses), and a great body. If only she didn’t smell like she’d been sleeping in a dumpster for a week.. .
“Can I help you?” he asked, leaping to his feet, his attention completely focused on her. Where had he seen her? Not knowing was starting to bother him, but he didn’t think it’d look cool to come right out and ask. Besides, from the way she kept glancing over her shoulder, checking the front entrance as though she expected someone she didn’t want to see to walk through the door, it was pretty clear she didn’t want anyone to know she was here.
Had she been on a TV show? Yes, maybe that was it. But which one ... ?
“We’d like a pair of adjoining rooms, if they’re available,” her male companion said.
Marty continued to stare at the woman, to the point where she began to appear uncomfortable. He couldn’t help himself, though—he knew he was close to figuring out her identity, if he had a few more seconds . . .
“Sir?” the man said, a bit more pronounced.
Reluctantly, Marty forced himself to glance toward the guy. He was bald and middle-aged, with piercing eyes and sharp features. The suit he wore looked as expensive as the woman’s outfit, and he was seated in some kind of wheelchair; the thing looked like it was actually floating a foot or so above the threadbare carpeting. Marty figured some women might consider the guy handsome; his sister, Estelle, certainly would want to have his baby if she met him. Still, he was nowhere as pleasing to the eye as the woman standing beside him.
“Huh?” Marty grunted.
“He said we’d like adjoining rooms,” the woman replied, her voice low and throaty. She removed her glasses and smiled. “Can you help us?”
“Uh . ..” Marty said, suddenly at a loss for words. She had the most incredible lavender eyes—he could almost feel himself getting lost in their depths ...
“The rooms?” the woman asked sweetly.
Marty shook his head to clear his addled thoughts. “Umm . . . sure, I can give you two together,” he finally managed to say. Actually, after the last sweep the police had made on the hotel, clearing out the few remaining drug dealers in the area, he could have given them half a floor to run around in, but why bring that up? As Jerry Mardeck, the surly manager/owner of the Stuyvesant often pointed out, telling guests about the hotel’s less than sterling reputation didn’t do anything good for business—it just sent them heading for the nearest Salvation Army shelter as quickly as possible. “Will that be for an hour, or do you plan on staying longer?”
The man blushed slightly, which looked even more amusing to
Marty because the entirety of his bare head turned a light shade of crimson. “We’ll be staying overnight, at least.”
“Cool,” Marty said. He pushed a well-worn book through the slot on the cage. “If you’ll just sign the register . ..”
The man did the honors while Marty treated himself to another eyeful of the Asian beauty. She’d slipped her glasses back on, and returned to her door-watching duties. Now that he really thought about it, he was sure she was some kind of actress on an action series—he’d seen it at least once ...
“You do have running water, correct?” she asked without turning around.
Marty nodded, then realized she couldn’t see his response. “Yeah.”
“Wonderful.” The woman turned to face him, sliding the glasses to the end of her nose with one shapely finger. “I’m absolutely dying to toss off these clothes and climb into a nice, hot shower.” She smiled wickedly. “I’m feeling ever so dirty.”
Marty felt his knees go weak. He just managed to grab hold of the edge of the desk to keep from collapsing.
“Elisabeth . . .” her companion said in a warning tone.
Elisabeth? With a start, Marty suddenly knew where he’d seen the woman before. The hair color should have been a dead giveaway, but he hadn’t been able to put two and two together until now—after all, why would a woman of her caliber be lurking around a skanky flop house just a few short blocks from The Bowery? But now it all made sense: the nervous glances at the front door; the sunglasses worn even in the semi-darkness of the lobby; the male “friend” who signed the register instead of her.
She was having an affair.
He didn’t know who the man was—her manager, maybe?—and he didn’t really care about his identity. What he did care about was the woman—now that he knew who she was, her presence here was definitely big news. Maybe It was even worth a few dollars to someone . . .
Flashing a shark’s-tooth smile, Marty unhooked a pair of keys from a set of hooks mounted on the wall behind him, and slid them across the desk. “Here you go. Rooms 524 and 526. That’ll be forty-five bucks.”
The man, of course, was the one who paid and took the keys. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy your stay,” Marty said brightly.
The man nodded pleasantly and turned to his companion. Together, they crossed the lobby and entered the dingy elevator—there was just enough space in the car to accommodate the bald guy’s wheelchair, or whatever the contraption was supposed to be. With an ear-piercing grinding of gears, the door closed, and the car began its ascent to the fifth floor.
As soon as the new arrivals were on their way, Marty reached for the phone and quickly dialed a number.
“Thank you for calling WSLP,” said a prerecorded female voice, “home of Viewpoints and the hard-hitting WSLP News Team. If you know the extension of the party you wish to contact, please dial it now. If not, stay on the line, and an operator will answer your call as soon as possible. And please be sure to watch Viewpoints with host Archer Finckley this Friday night at 9 p.m. on the East Coast, 6 p.m. on the West Coast, when his guest will be—”
“WSLP, how may I direct your call?” another female voice cut in; this one was live.
Marty looked over his shoulder, half expecting to find the woman standing on the other side of the cage. Thankfully, she wasn’t. “Yeah, I’d like to talk to somebody in the newsroom,” he said to the operator. “I think they might be interested in a story I’ve got to tell. It’s all about a major TV actress—who’s married—who’s doin’ the nasty with a guy—who’s not her husband—in the hotel where I work right now. ” He grinned broadly. “I’ll hold, if you want—I don’t think the lovebirds are goin’ anywhere anytime soon....”
SHE FELT almost like a new person.
The shower had been an absolute godsend after that unex-. pected visit to the garbage scow; she hadn’t even been bothered by the brown-colored water that spewed from the showerhead when she first turned the faucet. Now squeaky clean, lightly perfumed, and with a fresh shade of lavender applied to her hair, Betsy was ready to face the world once more . . . even if it wasn’t really her world. Tucking a new silk blouse into the leather miniskirt she now wore, Betsy slipped into a pair of black leather high heels and headed for the door, grabbing her sunglasses along the way. She didn’t really want to leave her belongings in a room with a lock on it that a child with a safety pin could open, but carrying around a bagful of weapons all day had become a burden—the muscles in her back had already started to protest, and her hands were reddened and tender from the straps cutting into her palms. She could do with some time off. Besides, she and the Professor would only be gone for a few hours while they did their research—the bag should be safe enough under the bed until she got back. And if anyone really wanted to steal from her, she had been nice enough to leave her previous outfit draped across a weatherbeaten armchair in a corner of the room—that should fetch a few dollars. She doubted anyone would want something that odorous, but then, this was New York. . .
She stepped into the hallway to find Xavier also exiting his room. His skin was still a little rosy from the heat of the shower, and he had changed into a light gray linen suit, white shirt, and dark blue silk tie. “Ah,” he said. “I was just coming over to see if you were ready.” “As ready as one can be, considering the conditions of this place.” Betsy waved a hand toward the worn carpeting—it may have been burgundy in color when it was laid down, but it was hard to tell from the decades of dirt and food ground into its fibers—and the faded, peeling wallpaper. “Really, Professor—I know you wanted to avoid the more expensive hotels that would have required credit cards, and I know you want to avoid running into a situation that might make Magneto aware of our presence ... but I think this is going too far.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Xavier replied, “once you get past the cracked plaster and roach droppings. I’ve stayed in far worse surroundings. Remind me sometime to tell you about my lodging experience in Marrakech— you may wind up thinking this place is a paradise by comparison.” Betsy wrinkled her nose in disgust. “No thanks—this experience is quite enough for me.” She looked up and down the corridor. “So, now that we’ve showered and changed our clothes, what’s the next plan of action?”
“Intelligence gathering,” the Professor replied. “We need to know how this world functions, where Erik is keeping himself, and how we might be able to get to him.”
“Well, I doubt this cozy little hostel has Internet access,” Betsy said, “so our best bet is a library or some sort of cyber-cafe. And given the neighborhood we’re in, there are probably a half-dozen of the latter within walking distance.”
“Excellent,” Xavier said. “I’m in the mood for a latte and a bit of web-browsing.”
They walked to the elevator, and Betsy pressed the down button. A few moments later, they were rewarded with the familiar sound of gnashing gears that heralded the car’s arrival. Thankfully, no one was inside, so Betsy was able to squeeze into the tiny space left unoccupied by the bulky hoverchair. She pushed the button for the lobby, and the car began its slow descent.
“I hope that desk clerk has gone off-duty,” Betsy commented. “Did you see the way he was staring at me?” She shivered. “I was beginning to feel like a prize mare on the auction block. I’m amazed he didn’t ask to see the condition of my teeth!”
“I would imagine the notion of a woman of your obvious beauty coming into such a disreputable place such as this is unheard of,” Xavier said. “And, given the poor man’s physical condition, having such a woman carelessly throw double-entendres his way must have been a shock.” He frowned and shook his head. “ ‘I feel ever so dirty.’ It’s a wonder you didn’t send him into cardiac arrest.”
Betsy flashed that wicked smile of hers again, and chuckled in a most sinister fashion.
Xavier sighed. “It seems I can’t take you anywhere . . .”
With a jolt, the elevator came to a halt at the first floor. Poorly greased rollers moved along their tracks, opening the door—and plunging the two X-Men into madness.
Lights flashed. People screamed. Momentarily blinded by the explosion of a strobe close to her face, Betsy staggered back, shielding her eyes with one hand while she fumbled in the breast pocket of her blouse with the other to grab her sunglasses.
“W-what’s going on?” she stammered as she bumped into the back wall of the elevator.
“It appears we’ve been discovered,” Xavier said morosely.
Blinking rapidly to clear her vision, Betsy began to make out a group of hazy shapes huddled in the lobby, all pushing and pulling and straining against one another. It reminded her of the strange creatures she had glimpsed lurking in the shadows of Roma’s throne room. As her eyesight slowly returned to normal, she realized these shapes were actually dozens of people holding photographic and television cameras— and they were all calling her by name.
“Reporters . . . ?” Betsy muttered.
Beyond the legions of press and paparazzi, out on the sidewalk, was what seemed to be a street full of people. Like the news folk, they pushed and fought for the best position that would allow an unobstructed view of the hotel interior. Someone pressed up against a picture window pointed in Betsy’s direction, and the crowd cheered.
Close the door! Xavier told Betsy through the mind-link.
She stabbed at the button, and the door started moving. But before it could separate them from the howling mob, a dozen arms slipped between the frame and the padded emergency panel that prevented the door from trapping passengers halfway in or out. The door opened wide, and the press corps poured in, pinning the two X-Men against the wall.
“Betsy! What brings you to New York?” asked a man with thinning hair sculpted into a hideous comb-over—a vain attempt to hide his increasing baldness.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in New Zealand right now, working on your series?” a woman with collagen-injected lips demanded, shoving a microphone in Betsy’s face.
Another man pointed an accusatory finger at the Professor. “Is it true that this is the man you’re sleeping with?”
The question was like a slap in the face. Startled, Betsy looked to Xavier—he seemed to be in as much a state of shock as she.
“Does your husband know you’re having an affair?” the reporter asked, following up his first unexpected question.
Betsy started. “Husband?”
“Get back, all of you!” Xavier roared. Much to Betsy’s surprise, the mob complied, moving back a couple of steps. Elisabeth, get us out of here!
But what about—
If Erik doesn ’t know we ’re here by now, he will soon enough, Xavier interjected. Now, do as I say.
All right, Betsy replied, and triggered her ’porting ability. This should make for some interesting headlines . . .
It also made for interesting television, especially when the broadcast was seen by members of the teaching staff at the Lensherr Institute for the Genetically Gifted.
Unlike Charles Xavier’s Westchester-based facility, this school was not only public knowledge, but after Jean Grey and Scott Summers’ appearance on Viewpoints only a few days past, its web site and toll-free number had been flooded with an astonishing number of requests for more information from parents of mutant children. The institute was located on Ellis Island, near the New Jersey shore at the entrance to New York Harbor, and the buildings now housing its classrooms and dormitories had originally been used—from 1892 to 1954—for processing newly-arrived immigrants who had come to America in search of a new life. Erik Magnus Lensherr, his wife, Magda, and their daughter, Anya, had been among those “huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,” as Emma Lazarus’ 1883 poem “The New Colossus”—inscribed on a plaque on the nearby Statue of Liberty—had described these travelers arriving on a foreign shore. And when Lensherr eventually became the world’s leader, he had commanded his “subjects” to transform the island into a learning center for his kind, partly from a sense of nostalgia, but mostly to send the message that the institute was a gateway, as Ellis Island had once been, to an amazing and wondrous new life; this entry point, however, would be used solely for ushering the genetically gifted into a wondrous new world.
A world controlled by the one mutant who had made it all possible.
Classes ranged from the basics—reading, writing, and arithmetic— to advanced Physical Education and science levels, all of which were designed to help the students understand what they were and how they could best reach their potentials in using their new powers. Based on their individual abilities, students were taught to fly, or run faster than the speed of sound, or teleport short distances with just a thought, or even read minds.
And then there was the final test. Ten levels below the Main Building was an area called the “Danger Room,” where the most advanced students were expected to show how well they had learned to control their abilities during their time at the institute. It was a two-hour session in the Danger Room at the end of four years that separated the graduates from those who would be left back. An inexperienced mutant, the faculty often pointed out, was a danger not only to the mutant, but to the rest of society as well, and a student who didn’t learn that lesson the first time would not be allowed to graduate until it had fully sunk into their minds.
Dozens of powers to work with; thousands of young minds to mold. It was a terrifying responsibility, but Lensherr knew just the mutants for the job. He had personally selected the staff members—why he had chosen the people he had was a topic he refused to discuss—and was pleased to see how well they responded to his orders, and how successful they were in keeping the spirit of his dream alive.
Cyclops. Phoenix. Nightcrawler. Rogue. Storm. In the past, they had all sided against him as members of the X-Men, causing him no small amount of trouble over the years. But now, their codenames forgotten, their identities reconstructed, their minds reconditioned, they worked for Magneto—their greatest enemy—and followed his instructions with blind obedience . . . because he willed it to be so. And the Cube had made it all possible.
Ah, he often wondered, what would Charles think of his most trusted followers now . . . ?
The answer would not be long in coming.
It was just after four o’clock that the day became really interesting. Classes had ended. And as the students filed back to their dorm rooms to eat and begin their homework assignments, some of their teachers headed for the staff lounge to unwind, catch up on small talk with their peers, and watch a little television before heading for their apartments on the other side of the island, or traveling to Manhattan for a quick dip in the nightlife.
Acrobatics instructor Kurt Wagner was one of those teachers. In his mid-twenties, dressed in a skintight uniform—consisting of a red bodysuit, over which were worn purple gloves, boots, and trunks—he was one of the more unusual members of the staff, and it had nothing to do with his clothing, since all the teachers wore the same type of outfit. It did, however, have everything to do with the fact that his hair and the short, fuzzy fur covering his body were colored a deep blue, his hands and feet only had three digits each, and he possessed a three-foot-long, prehensile tail, which had grown from a spot just above his buttocks. Combined with bright yellow eyes and sharp, white fangs, his overall appearance was less like that of an educator, and more like that of a demon set free from hell.
Oddly enough, it was a look that made him incredibly appealing to women—something about “good” girls being attracted to “bad” boys, he’d once been told. He’d never understood that particular psychological aspect of dating, but he did know that his sinister appearance seemed to fill all the requirements. And, even though he was really the epitome of an old-fashioned gentleman—well, who was he to disappoint a lady and her expectations?
He was a rare catch, indeed: suave, well-mannered, highly romantic, he had an adorable German accent, and, most importantly, he was single. What woman didn ’t want to bed him?
Well, for one, there was the woman he found sitting on the leather couch in the lounge. Boot heels resting comfortably on the teak coffee table in front of her, a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips in her lap, Rogue—no one had ever been able to find out if that was her real name—thought Kurt was cute, maybe even sexy, but she just wasn’t attracted to him; and he, being a gentleman, never pressed the point.
Like her blue-furred peer, Rogue wore a red-and-purple uniform, but hers was complemented by a worn, brown leather aviator’s jacket, befitting her title as “Flight Instructor” for those students capable of defying the laws of gravity, but still getting used to their powers. Her waist-length mane of dark-brown hair—its color offset by a large patch of white that started just above her forehead and ran down the center— was in a state of disarray, which was to be expected, considering the amount of time she spent during the course of the day zooming through the skies above the island with her classes.
Shoveling another handful of chips into her mouth, Rogue chewed noisily, her attention focused on the flatscreen television mounted on the wall across from her. There was some sort of courtroom scene being played out in the broadcast she was watching, the cameras focused on a female judge who was yelling at one of the two litigants standing before her.
“Hey!” the judge barked. “You think I was bom yesterday?” She pointed to her forehead. “Does it say ‘STUPID’ here?”
“Catching up on the latest adventures in jurisprudence, meine freunde?” Kurt asked with amusement.
Rogue turned from the set and smiled wearily. “Hey, Kurt—how’d it go today?” she asked, her normally throaty Southern drawl sounding unusually flat. Picking up the remote from the cushion next to her, she lowered the volume on the television. As he drew closer, Kurt could see her features were strained, a dull light shining in her eyes. She looked exhausted.
“Better than it did for you, it seems,” Kurt replied. He sat down beside her. “What happened?”
Rogue brushed broken pieces of chips off her uniform and, groaning softly, shifted position to face him. “Well, a couple’a the kids decided to have a race t’see who was faster when my back was turned. I didn’t even notice they were gone ’til they were almost halfway t’Manhattan, an’ then I had t’go an’ chase ’em all the way to Battery Park.” She reached up to rub the area between her shoulder blades; the pain was apparently severe enough to make her bite down on her bottom lip and grunt. “Got so focused on gettin’ my hands ’round their scrawny little necks I didn’t even see that freighter cornin’ down the Hudson ’til it was too late.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I would not think something as large as a ship would be difficult to miss.”
Rogue glared at him. “I told you I wasn’t payin’ attention.”
“So you did,” Kurt said hastily. He knew all too well that flight was not the only mutant power his friend possessed: she was also virtually indestructible, and had enough strength that, if she became angry with him, could easily result in him being thrown through a wall—and into the harbor. “Are you in much pain?”
“It only flares up when I’m movin’ around,” Rogue said through gritted teeth. “Or breathin’.”
Kurt smiled warmly, and waved his hands at her, indicating she should turn around. “May I?”
Rogue grinned and nodded gratefully, then moved to turn her back to him. Kurt began easing the walnut-sized knots out of her back with the skill of a trained masseur. She moaned softly in appreciation.
“So, what did your hellraisers say when you finally caught up with them?” Kurt asked.
“ ‘We’re so sorry, Mistress Rogue,’ ” she said in a whiny, nasally voice. “ ‘We’ll never do it again.’ ” She snorted. “Like I’d believe the little polecats after this.”
Kurt’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ” ‘Mistress Rogue’?”
“Yeah,” she said wearily. “It’s somethin’ the boys started callin’ me, an’, y’know, I’m gettin’ kinda tired of that crap. Makes me sound like a dominatrix or somethin’.”
Kurt playfully hung his head over Rogue’s right shoulder to gaze down at the latex-like uniform she wore, and the way it hugged her considerable curves. “I do not know where they’d ever get that idea.” Rogue laughed. “You’re one t’talk, Kurt Wagner. I’ve seen the way
the girls in your classes look at you when you’re hoppin’ all over the gymnasium.” She reached back to poke his knee with her thumb. “That outfit don’t leave a whole lot t’the imagination, either.”
“Yes, I know.” Kurt sighed dramatically. “But if I am to be objectified by young women, then it is a burden I am willing to bear for the good of the school.” Still working on her shoulders, he shifted his gaze to the flatscreen television. “What exactly are you watching now?” Rogue turned her head in the direction of the set. “Hey, that ain’t Judge Judy.”
A ruggedly handsome, sandy-haired man sitting at a news desk had replaced the courtroom scene. In the upper right-hand comer of the screen, near the reporter’s head, was a publicity photograph of a woman with light purple hair and a jagged, J-shaped mark across the left side of her face, dressed in what looked like a blue swimsuit, and holding a pair of samurai swords, the blades crossed in front of her chest to form a razor-edged “X.”
Kurt leaned forward, his attention focused on the story. “Could you raise the sound, please?” Rogue pushed the volume control on the remote.
“—we’ll have a story about television star Elisabeth Braddock’s unexpected appearance in a Lower East Side hotel this afternoon, and her mysterious disappearing act before a roomful of reporters,” the broadcaster was saying. The newsroom shot cut to a videotaped replay of a bald-headed man and the same, lavender-tressed woman in an elevator; they were trying to conceal their faces from the camera, but there was nowhere for them to hide in the cramped space.
Rogue pointed at the screen. “Hey, it’s that girl from that. . .” She paused, waving a hand as though encouraging a memory to come to the front of her brain. After a couple of seconds, she snapped her fingers. “Yeah, I know—that Kwannon, Bushido Mistress TV show! The kids are always talkin’ about it.”
“Freeze that picture!” Kurt yelled, gesturing wildly at the television.
Rogue punched another button on the remote, and the jumpy image recorded by the hand-held camera providing the shot came to an abrupt, slightly unfocused halt. “What’s the matter?”
Kurt slowly rose from the couch and moved toward the television, staring hard at the screen. “That man . ..” he said quietly. Eyes widening in surprise, he pointed to the grainy image of the man in the hi-tech wheelchair. “It is him!”
“Him who?” Rogue asked.
Kurt turned to face her. “Don’t you remember the man Erik warned
us about? The mutant terrorist he said would try to tear down everything Erik has spent a lifetime building? The one who’d send us plunging back into the old days of prejudice and hatred?”
“Xavier..Rogue whispered.
Kurt nodded. “We’d better inform Scott and Jean of this. If Xavier is here, in New York, then it must mean he’s getting ready to strike.” His jaw set in determination. “We ’11 have to strike first...