THE CHAOS ENGINE TRILOGY
X-MEN® DOCTOR DOOM™ X-MEN® MAGNETO™ X-MEN® RED SKULL™
BP BOOKS, INC. new york
THE CHAOS ENGINE
T HE FORCE of the explosion roared outward from the lobby of the : ; General Electric office tower, toppling the gigantic lighted tree that I * I stood before the building’s glass doors, then continuing across the expanse of Rockefeller Center and through the wide walkway that led to Fifth Avenue; on .the opposite side of the street, the windows of Saks department store imploded, showering the colorful Christmas displays inside with shards of flying glass. Decapitated and amputated mannequins and dummies collapsed in plastic heaps among the bright ribbons and tangled blinking lights.
For a moment, a disturbing silence hung over the streets and sidewalks that, just moments before, had been congested with holiday shoppers and rubbernecking tourists—or was the quiet merely a result of the temporary loss of hearing caused by the blast? Whatever the reason, the icy December air was soon filled with a mind-numbing cacophony: the screams of the injured; the keening for the dead; the wail of sirens in the distance; the ear-piercing screech of car alarms.
And the peal of insane laughter.
For the few souls not suffering from shock or crippling injuries, the sight of the madman responsible for the debacle was more than enough to send their minds spiraling into a dark pit from which they might never recover.
Floating above the skating rink—which was now filled with the shattered remains of the mammoth Norway spruce tree that had, just moments before, towered above it—clad in garments of the bloodiest red, seemed to be none other than the devil himself, given human form. His yellow eyes fairly glowed with arcane energy from beneath the shadows of a gladiator-like helmet—shadows that did well to hide the features of this spawn of hell. Looking from one side of the plaza to the other, then out toward Fifth Avenue, he surveyed the damage wrought by his handiwork: the broken bodies; the blood that flowed like a river down to the skating rink, where it quickly congealed; the lopsided buildings and overturned vehicles.
And found it good.
Slowly, his lips split open to reveal yellowed, dagger-like teeth flecked with bits of blood ... and flesh.
“ ‘And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death,’ ” he said, voice rumbling like storm clouds. “ ‘And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.’ ”
“Not here they don’t, Magneto!” shouted a male voice from behind the costumed terrorist. “Not now, not ever!”
A predatory smile chiseled onto his features, the self-proclaimed Master of Magnetism turned in midair and looked down at the group of colorfully-garbed men and women gathered at the spot where the one-hundred-foot Christmas tree had stood. Six in all, they comprised the membership of Earth’s greatest team of super heroes: Storm—a tall, beautiful African woman, her flowing white hair in sharp contrast to the black leather outfit she wore, a billowing satin cape attached to her shoulders and slender wrists; Wonder Man—the world’s greatest superpowered adventurer, garbed in a black-and-red bodysuit, a stylized “W” emblazoned across his chest; Spider-Woman—a mysterious heroine dressed in black and silver, scarlet hair streaming out like a fountain of blood through the open top of her mask; the incredible Hulk—the green-skinned, gamma-spawned monster whose short temper was as well known—and feared—as his tremendous strength; and Iron Man— the Armored Avenger, resplendent in his red-and-gold battlesuit. Standing in front of the group was their leader—a man unafraid to put his life at risk in order to attain his ultimate goal of creating a world in which all men and women might live in peace. Clad from head to toe in gleaming armor, wrapped in a cape of the darkest green velvet, he was the world’s foremost scientific genius—and its all-powerful ruler.
“Doctor Doom,” Magneto said, the words spilling like curdled milk from between his rotted teeth. “I was wondering when you and your little band of merrymakers would show up to spoil my fun.”
Doom extended an arm and dramatically swept it across the plaza to indicate the chaos created by his enemy. “Fun?” he roared, the anger in his voice amplified by the speaker built into his helmet’s faceplate. “You injure and kill hundreds of my subjects, cause hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage, make a mockery of this festive season—all for your amusement?”
Magneto shrugged. “What can I say? I was bored.”
Doom started, as though he had been slapped.
“Oh, come now, von Doom,” Magneto replied. “You of all people should know how it is ruling over lesser beings—keeping the rabble in line, constantly guarding against possible invaders, oppressing personal freedoms. Sometimes a monarch needs to find a way to fight off the tedium.” He nodded toward the injured and dying below him. “This is mine.”
“Monster!” Spider-Woman cried, her cheeks almost as red as her mane of fiery tresses. “You’d destroy innocent lives just to pass the time?” Her hands clenched into fists, and she snarled. “I’ll give you something to fight off!” She tensed, preparing to leap at the red-hued villain.
A gauntleted hand gently placed on her shoulder, though, halted her ill-considered attack.
“No, Spider-Woman,” Doom said calmly. “We will not allow Magneto to force us into careless actions. Only a level head will prevail against such a madman.”
Behind them, the Hulk grunted. “Yeah, but I’d still like to smash in that bedpan he’s wearin’ on his skull,” he mumbled.
The black-and-silver-clad heroine glared at Magneto through polarized lenses, then turned to face Doom. Slowly, her muscles relaxed, fists unclenching. She exhaled sharply.
“All right, Doctor,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Sorry.”
Doom consolingly patted her on the shoulder, then looked toward his old enemy. “You’re wrong, Magneto. Latveria under my rule, as the rest of the world is today, has ever been governed with a caring, yet firm, hand. My subjects are as dear to me as my own children—” he glanced toward Storm, who smiled beatifically “—or my loving wife. What I do for them is no more than any father would do for his family, or a true monarch for his people: providing for their comfort, ensuring their safety, guiding them towards a bright future. But then, I am not surprised by your attitude—I have heard of the atrocities you enacted on the fair people of Genosha . .
“Lies! All lies!” Magneto barked. “I, too, did what was necessary for my subjects. I, too, provided for them, gave them safety and a future—”
“You gave them death!” Wonder Man interjected. “You took away their hopes, their freedom, their very lives!”
“Hope. Freedom.” Magneto sneered. “Mere words, you muscle-bound ape. What use has the typical man or woman for such concepts? Feed and clothe them, and they are happy. Protect their homes, and they are content. I did all that, and more, for my followers, yet still they turned against me. All I asked in return was—”
“Their children as fodder for your body banks?” Iron Man shouted. “Yeah, that sounds like a real fair deal to me.” Even through the metal helmet encasing his head, the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.
“Armored fool!” Magneto spat. “With but a thought, I could crush that tin can in which you hide, until flesh and bone ooze out upon the ground like the juice of a freshly squeezed orange. And then where would your much-vaunted technological strength be?”
“Good God, who writes this crap?”
Sitting in the darkened movie theater, Elisabeth Braddock turned to face the commentator to her left—her boyfriend, millionaire Warren Worthington III.
“Warren, please!” she whispered.
“Oh, come on, Betsy,” Warren muttered, leaning over to speak into her ear. Her skin tingled as his lips gently brushed the lobe. He pointed toward the movie screen, where Magneto continued to face off with Doom and his team. “Nobody talks like that! And besides, when’s all the hitting gonna start? This is supposed to be a big action blockbuster. It isn’t Shakespeare, for crying out—”
Betsy placed an index finger against his lips to quiet him. He smiled and kissed the tip of it, and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from giggling; she settled for smiling back. Silently, she gazed at the man sitting beside her.
Silhouetted by the flickering images cast from the projector at the back of the theater, his handsome features and shoulder-length blonde hair made her think of all the times they had lain by the fireplace in his Battery Park City apartment, staring out at the starry sky that was draped across New York Harbor like a velvet curtain. They were times she always wished would never end, even as the rising sun washed away the indigo color of the night, replacing it with the rosy pink of dawn.
It was on one such night, as the fire crackled and the city slept around them, that she realized she was truly in love with this man. A man who was always supportive, and understanding. Who let her live her own life, with no strings attached.
Who kissed her fingertips in dark movie theaters.
Apparently uncertain of what to make of her silence, Warren cocked his head to one side, a quizzical expression etched on his face.
“What is it?” he asked.
Her smile widened. “You’re incorrigible,” she said breathlessly.
“And you ’re a regular chatterbox,” said the man to her right. With a start, Betsy turned to face him. She recognized him as J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the New York Daily Bugle. Clad in an ill-fitting tuxedo, his stem features, salt-and-pepper crewcut, and Charlie Chap-linesque mustache contrasted sharply with the softer visage and stylish attire of his wife, Marla. “If you two lovebirds are more interested in each other than the movie,” Jameson continued, “get a room. Otherwise, let the rest of us watch this in peace.” His beady eyes narrowed. “All right?”
“Sorry,” Betsy mumbled. She turned back to Warren, who stuck out his upper teeth and crossed his eyes in a moronic expression. Betsy placed a hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh, then rested her head against his shoulder. He responded by placing his arm around her and drawing her even closer.
And there they remained until the end credits had rolled and the house lights had come on.
“I’m tellin’ you, Betsy, Doom’s Patrol is gonna be the movie event of the summer! I guarantee it’s gonna blow Titanic outta the water. . . figuratively speaking, of course.”
Smiling politely, Betsy gazed up at the chiseled features of Simon Williams, who, in both his personal and professional lives, was better known throughout the world as actor and box office darling Wonder Man. Standing well over six feet tall, dark hair dramatically swept back from his forehead, Williams was garbed in his traditional red leather safari jacket, with tight black slacks tucked into a pair of red boots; a pair of thick, red-lensed sunglasses covered his eyes so completely that Betsy had trouble telling if he even had eyes. He certainly cut an impressive figure, she thought—a combination of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body, Kevin Sorbo’s face, and Antonio Banderas’s hair.
Not that she was anything to sneeze at, though. Waist-length, lavender-colored hair piled stylishly upon her head, Betsy was clad in a body-hugging black velvet cocktail dress that accentuated her curves to the point of distraction for every man in the room. Her Japanese features were just as striking: high cheekbones; button nose; full lips; jade-green eyes that shone with the fires of life.
And having shapely legs that seemed to go up to her neck didn’t hurt, either.
But even in three-inch stiletto heels, the top of her head just even with Williams’ powerful jaw, she looked like a child in comparison to his larger-than-life appearance.
“I’m glad the picture turned out so well for you, Mr. Williams,” Betsy said. “Have there been any reports on what the Emperor thought of it?”
Williams grinned broadly, flashing an impressive set of capped teeth. “Not yet, but how could he not love it? Besides, von Doom had total script approval—even took the time to work with Val Kilmer on how to play him. He’s gotta be happy with the finished product. I gotta tell you, though,” he said in a conspiratorial murmur, “I thought Chris Walken spent a little too much time chewin’ the scenery as Magneto.” He shrugged. “But Naomi Campbell as Storm?” He exhaled sharply. “Talk about your major hotties! Man, I’d give my right arm for a chance to do a love scene with her!”
“Er.. . yes,” Betsy said, continuing to smile as she nodded. “An inspired bit of casting, I thought—I’m certain the Empress is pleased. Not that you were so bad yourself.”
“Thanks,” Williams said. The grin widened further, until it practically threatened to split his head apart. The image suddenly made Betsy think of a child set loose in a toy store on Christmas day.
“I’ve got one question, though,” Betsy said. “Don’t you find the whole thing somewhat. . . propagandist?”
Williams’s smile faded, and he tilted his head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I know Emperor von Doom’s had his share of problems with Magneto over the years, but would he really act so incredibly infantile, blowing up Christmas trees in the middle of New York and spouting lines from Edgar Allan Poe? I’d say that’s being more than a tad ridiculous with dramatic license—wouldn’t you? And the Emperor preserving the spirit of the holidays for all the good little children of the world—a bit much, don’t you think?” Before Williams could respond, Betsy continued. “And isn’t Magneto supposed to be a survivor of the Holocaust? What could really make a man like that—who’s already experienced, first-hand, the kind of horrors the human race can create— lower himself to the very depths of cruelty enacted by the Nazis, in order to terrorize the Empire? Now, that’s the sort of story I would have liked to have seen, not some senseless knockabout with flashy effects.” Williams’s head slowly swung from side to side. From similar conversations she’d had with other people over the years, Betsy knew he was looking for any sign of an armor-clad Guardsman—a number of them had been assigned as a security detail for the party—or a none-too-casual observer in the service of von Doom. Of course, Williams would be wasting his time if the stories Betsy had heard of the Emperor’s psychic watchdogs were true—with their mental powers, the Psi Division could be miles away and still eavesdrop on their every word.
“I-I wouldn’t know about any of that stuff, Betsy,” Williams said, a slight hitch in his voice. “I’m just an actor.”
A wicked smile played at Betsy’s lips, but she fought back the urge to let it transform into a full-out Cheshire Cat-like grin. It was childish, really, but seeing the massive actor squirm a bit almost made up for having to tolerate his overbearing personality.
Any sense of victory quickly faded, however, with the next words to spill from his mouth as he quickly changed the subject: “So, where’d you two meet—Tokyo, right?”
“I beg your pardon?” Betsy asked, startled.
“You and Worthington,” Williams said. An easy, knowing smile crept across his face. It was clear from his expression that he enjoyed catching Betsy off-guard—returning the favor for her Magneto comments, obviously. “Way I’ve heard it, you and Prince Charming met during one of his fact-finding tours of the Orient. You were working in some karaoke bar, cranking out ‘I Will Survive’ and ‘Boogie Nights’ for the locals, and he was meeting with some potential investors for his company. But he took one look at you, and it was love at first sight.” He shook his head. “You must feel like the luckiest girl in the world, meeting a guy who sweeps you off your feet and brings you to America. Even sets you up as the A-Number One singer in his nightclub.”
“B-but. . . I-I’m British . . .” Betsy said, voice trailing off. “A-and it never happened like that. . .” She felt her cheeks grow hot. How had this conversation taken such a bizarre turn? And, more importantly, when would this annoying man go away?
Williams shrugged. “Oh. Guess you can’t believe everything you read in the Enquirer, right?”
“I-I should say not..Betsy stammered.
Williams looked back over his shoulder, then turned to Betsy. He smiled his winnigest smile. “Hey, look—I’ve gotta go. My publicist hates it if I don’t try to mingle with every person in the room. Gets the idea I’m not doing enough of her job for her.” He grabbed Betsy’s hand, shaking it so hard she half expected it to snap off at the wrist. “Nice talking to you.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked off, the crowd parting around him like the Red Sea.
Betsy’s eyes narrowed as she watched him stomp away. “Wish I could say the same ... you git, ” she growled softly.
Betsy closed her eyes and sighed. She’d forgotten all about those stories—the rumors of how she and Warren had met. Looking back, she had to admit that it had seemed the unlikeliest of pairings—the azureskinned millionaire playboy, and the purple-tressed British chanteuse who had been struggling for years to move beyond the small West Village clubs and Alphabet City bars in which she had been performing. “Worlds apart” was a mild description for the situation.
But then, Warren had never been a typical millionaire—as comfortable with old college friends in a smoky bar as he was when in control of Worthington Enterprises’ boardroom. And the fact that wings sprouted from between his shoulder blades, giving him the power of flight, also tended to make him stand out from the other CEOs listed in Fortune magazine. As for Betsy, she had never been a typical British singer—especially when one considered she was actually a member of the House of Braddock, one of Britain’s most prestigious families... though she tended to keep that information to herself. Only Warren and her brother, Brian, knew of her real origins.
Over the past three years, friends often said that she and Warren had been destined to meet from birth, even though they lived an ocean apart. And Destiny must certainly have been holding Warren by the hand, leading him on that night when he and two friends showed up at The Gilded Cage to hear a lavender-tressed nightingale sing.
And, she thought contentedly, her song had yet to end . . .
With a smile, Betsy opened her eyes and made a slow pirouette, hoping to catch a glimpse of Warren, wherever he might have gotten to in the spacious room. After the world premier of Doom’s Patrol at the cavernous Ziegfeld Theater in midtown Manhattan, the attendees had traveled uptown to a major celebration being held here at Tavern on the Green, a sumptuous restaurant on the western edge of Central Park. Despite her natural tendency to avoid large gatherings of people she didn’t know—and, therefore, people with whom she’d be completely uncomfortable—Betsy had put on her most supportive face and accompanied her beau to the festivities. Unfortunately, being one of the world’s foremost powerbrokers meant that anyone and everyone wanted to be Warren’s friend, so it was only moments after they arrived that Betsy suddenly found herself alone . . . and, thus, an easy target for Simon Williams and his inappropriate questions.
“Is he gone?” said a voice off to one side. Betsy looked out of the comer of one eye to find Warren standing a step behind her, tilting his head back just enough that his face was hidden from view by her sky-scraping hairstyle.
“And who would that be?” Betsy asked without turning around.
“Man-Mountain Marko over there,” Warren replied, pointing past her shoulder. She followed the direction of his index finger; it led straight to Williams, who was involved in another pointless conversation with some other poor soul unlucky enough to have lacked the speed to avoid him. With a bemused smirk, Betsy recognized the actor’s new sounding board: Jean-Paul Beaubier, the famed Canadian skier. She’d noticed the lithe athlete casting furtive glances at Williams from across the room while she was trapped in her conversation with him.
Poor dear, she thought. I’m sure “Wonder Man” doesn’t seem half as attractive now as he did before he opened his mouth. . . .
“You’re referring, of course, to the annoying Mr. Williams,” Betsy remarked to Warren. With a start, she saw the actor glance in her direction, as though he had heard her from across the room. She waved to him and smiled, silently praying he didn’t think it was an invitation to return to talk off her remaining ear. Thankfully, he only waved back and continued toying with his victim.
“Yeah,” Warren said, his voice slightly muffled by her hair. “That’s the guy.”
Teeth still locked in a sardonic grin, Betsy turned to face her boyfriend. “Warren, dear, how long have you been standing there?”
“Well, I’ve only been here a few seconds.” Warren gestured back over his shoulder, toward a gigantic ice sculpture of a swan, its long neck bent gracefully so that the bird’s beak could touch the surface of the large punch bowl beneath it. “But I was standing behind that swan, talking to Mary Jane Watson-Parker—she’s the actress who played Spider-Woman—and her husband for about five minutes. A really nice couple—no pretensions, unlike what you’d normally find in most Hollywood marriages.”
“And were you aware of the hell you were putting me through while you gabbed the night away with your new friends?”
“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad, honey. Right?” Warren paused. “You know, you’re starting to freak me out with that death’s-head stare you’ve got going. Didn’t your mother ever warn you your face could freeze like that?”
“That’s not the only thing that’s going to be cold tonight,” Betsy said in a warning tone.
Warren cocked his head to one side. “Huh?” Then his eyes widened as the realization hit him. He winced. “Ouch. Am I in trouble.” He flashed a warm smile, and lowered his head until his chin touched his chest. “What if I said I was sorry, and it’ll never happen again?”
The muscles in Betsy’s face slowly relaxed. “It’s a start.”
Warren beamed brightly, and raised his head. “That’s what makes me such a great warrior in the arena we powerbrokers call ‘global finances,’ Betts.” He leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Like any smart businessman, I know when to let the other party establish the ground rules for negotiations.”
Betsy smiled, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You mean you’ll take what you can get.”
Warren nodded. “Exactly.”
“Glad to be out of there?”
Staring off into space, Betsy started, then glanced around. She and Warren were walking hand-in-hand along Central Park West, the tree-lined, four-lane avenue that extended from Columbus Circle in the south to 110th Street in the north. To their left, the park—with its architectural symbiosis of nature’s rocks and trees combined with man’s winding footpaths and brass-plated lampposts—stretched out into the darkness; to their right, on the other side of the street, elegant, cream-colored, Art Deco-designed apartment buildings pierced the night sky, reaching up toward the heavens. For a Saturday night in late June, traffic—both vehicular and pedestrian—was surprisingly light in this part of Manhattan; occasionally, Betsy and Warren were passed on the sidewalk by another couple or the odd bicyclist.
And echoing in the night, the sounds of merrymaking from the restaurant could still be heard, even though it was blocks behind them. “I asked if you were glad to get away from the party,” Warren said. “Umm . . . yes, actually.” Betsy bit her bottom lip. She hadn’t meant to be that brutally honest, but there it was, out in the open with just two words. She gazed at her beau, then cast her eyes downward. “I’m sorry, Warren. I know how important it was for you to make an appearance tonight, what with the movie and all—”
“And I did,” Warren commented. “I showed up, shook some hands, let some wannabe movers-and-shakers suck up to me, made it clear how much I loved the movie . . .” He rolled his eyes toward the night sky. “I’ve done my part for the Empire tonight.” He gently took her chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted it so she could look directly into his cool, blue eyes. “And my reward for such dedication is to spend the rest of the evening with the most beautiful woman in this—or any other—world.”
Betsy’s lips parted, but she suddenly found herself at a loss for words. It was one of those moments when Warren was so completely serious—so confident in expressing his feelings for her—that she wasn’t quite certain what to say in response.
But really, though—there’s only one thing that needs to be said, isn’t there? she thought, reaching up to stroke his cheek.
“I love you,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “And I, you, Betts.” Warren smiled and shook his head. “You know, a few years ago, I would’ve been surprised to hear me say that. But when I first saw you, that night in the bar...”
The light in Betsy’s eyes suddenly dimmed, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?” Warren asked.
Betsy looked away. “It’s—”
“Don’t say it’s nothing,” Warren said. “You know it makes me crazy when you try to avoid discussing something that’s bothering you. So, out with it.”
Betsy took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly released it. There was no point in avoiding the issue, now that she’d allowed it to spring back into the front of her mind; Warren would just keep nagging her until she cracked. The best thing to do was to just say it, get it out of the way and move on.
“It was a comment someone made at the party,” she said at last. “Who?” Warren asked. “Was it Stark? He tried to come on to you, didn’t he?” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “It was that Rasputin guy, right? Wanted to show you his ‘etchings.’ ” He nodded, as though agreeing with himself. “Yeah, I’ve heard about him. ”
“It doesn’t matter, ” Betsy said, a tad too brusquely. “Besides, it’s the comment that bothered me, not the person who said it.”
“And that comment would be . . . ?”
Betsy stopped walking; Warren immediately halted.
“About us,” Betsy said. “About me. About my place in your life. In life in general.”
Warren exhaled. “Sounds pretty intense. What exactly did this anonymous person say that got you thinking about all this?”
Betsy grimaced. “He mentioned the rumors..
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Warren exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Betts, we’ve been through all of that before! It didn’t bother me back then what people were thinking, and it sure as hell doesn’t bother me now. Remember all the things I had to deal with even before I met you, just because I was, you know, different from all the other kids?” He shook his head in resignation. “They’re always gonna talk about us, hon—it comes with the territory when you’re a public figure.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve gotta put that kind of nonsense behind you, Betts,” he said gently, “before it destroys you.”
“I have put it behind me,” Betsy countered. She paused. “At least, I thought I had.” She gnawed on her bottom lip for a few moments;
Warren patiently waited for her to continue. “It’s just that. . . ever since we met, I stopped being Betsy Braddock; stopped being me. I had a career, a good bit of word of mouth going, a life that had its share of problems, but I was able to handle them.” She frowned. “Now, I’m just ‘Warren Worthington’s gal pal,’ jetting around the world, eating at the finest restaurants, doing five shows a week at the Starlight Room.” “And that’s a bad thing?” Warren said sarcastically.
“You know what I mean,” Betsy replied. “It’s wonderful—I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve spent together for anything in the world. But.. .” Go ahead, get it all out. “But the public doesn’t take me seriously as an artist; the press, too. They treat me like I’m some bit of Page Three fluff you’d find posing for the tabloids back home—just a pretty face and a nice pair of. . . legs.” She sneered. “As far as they’re concerned, I’m nothing more than window dressing for your arm.” “That’s not how I see you,” Warren said.
“I know that, and I appreciate it. I really do. You’ve always been there for me, always been respectful of my wishes, never interfering with my decisions, never using your station to force other people to do things for me.” Betsy looked up to meet Warren’s warm gaze. “But it all comes down to perceptions—how the public sees you. You know how important that can be.”
“True,” Warren said.
“And what people think of when they see you is a man who overcame adversity and prejudice, who rose to become the head of an international corporation.” Betsy’s head slowly dipped, until she was staring at her clasped hands; the knuckles were white from the pressure. “But when they see me. . . when they see me, they think of a hanger-on. An oriental. . . ‘golddigger,’ I think is the term. Anything but a singer.”
“Betsy . . .” Warren began.
She shook her head. “I’ve never made my mark, you see. My place in history. Never made people stand up and pay attention to me. I’ve always been relegated to the background—first with my brother, Brian, and his athletic awards. . . . That’s why I’ve never told too many people about my heritage—then I’d just be ‘Brian Braddock’s sister.’ ” She glanced at Warren. “And then it happened anyway . . . with you.” Betsy laughed curtly, a small, trembling note, as tears formed in the comers of her eyes. “Pretty silly, wouldn’t you say? The luckiest woman on two continents, with the most beautiful man in this—or any other— world, and she’s worried about having future generations remember her.” She sniffed loudly.
Warren reached out to brush away her tears. “I don’t think it’s silly at all,” he said softly.
Betsy reached into her small leather purse and took out a pair of Kleenex from a small portable dispenser. Wiping her nose, then dabbing at her eyes, she managed a small smile. “Oh, you’re just being kind,” she said in a phlegmy half-whisper.
“No, I’m entirely serious,” Warren said. “So, what do you want to do about it?”
“Do?”
“About making your mark in history.”
Betsy was confused. “I really hadn’t—” she began.
“What’s the matter—you talk a good game, but you never took the time to figure out how to make it happen?” Warren playfully pressed the tip of her nose with his index finger. “Come on, Braddock—what’s it gonna take for you to smack around all those half-wits to get their attention and then rub their faces in it?”
For the second time that evening, Betsy was at a loss for words.
“I... I don’t know,” she said softly.
Warren nodded. “Okay, okay . . . there must be something we can do about this . . He stared off into space, pinching his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. Betsy silently watched as his face underwent a series of comical expressions, the smooth, blue-tinted skin contorting and stretching as he reviewed whatever options were running through his mind.
“He puzzled and puzzled, until his puzzler was sore...” she thought, remembering a line from Dr. Seuss’s classic children’s book, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. She bit her tongue to keep from laughing.
Warren’s face suddenly brightened. “I’ve got it! How would you like an opportunity to perform for von Doom himself?”
“And how would I do that?”
“Well, next week is the tenth anniversary of his rise to power. And the celebration’s going to be held in Washington, right?”
Betsy slowly nodded in agreement. She had a feeling she knew where this was going, but decided to say nothing for the moment.
“So, what if you were picked to be on the entertainment bill that night?” Warren continued. “The ceremony’s going to be televised around the world—that’s over three billion people watching. And with your talent, they’ll have no choice but to see how wrong they’ve been about you. You’ll never have a better showcase in your entire life. Would that qualify as making your mark?”
Betsy frowned, then pursed her lips.
“What?” Warren asked.
“It’s a wonderful idea, Warren,” Betsy said hesitantly, “and I appreciate the offer, but it’s not the kind of thing that could happen to just any cabaret singer living in the West Village ..
Warren smiled. “Oh, I get it. Not without her well-respected boyfriend pulling some strings, is that it?” He drew an X across his chest with the point of an index finger. “I swear—” he glanced up at the night sky “—as God is my witness, I will in no way influence anyone’s decision to give you a shot at the anniversary performance. The Minister of Entertainment is in town for a couple of days to check out potential acts for the gala. All I’ll do is invite him to the Starlight Room; then we’ll see what happens after he’s heard you sing.” His smile widened. “You know me, Betts—I only use these powers of mine for good, not evil.”
Betsy raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Really?”
Warren patted the pockets of his tuxedo. “Well, I don’t have my Bible with me,” he mumbled, “but I am telling you the truth.”
Betsy stared at him for a moment, then walked over to a nearby park bench and sat down; the wood felt wonderfully cool against her legs. Hunched forward, elbows placed on her knees, she rested her chin in the palms of her hands to think.
He was right—performing for the Emperor on a worldwide telecast would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She’d be an utter fool to pass it up, even if Warren went back on his promise . . . which she half expected him to do, anyway. It was just that, when one came right down to it, she had always been reluctant to accept help from anyone—family, friends, even lovers. It made her feel beholden to them, even if they expected nothing in return for their actions; made her feel as though she were incapable of achieving her goals on her own. And Warren was no exception.
Still and all, it was the Emperor. And three billion TV viewers . . .
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll do it.”
Warren clapped his hands. “Excellent!” He strode over and helped Betsy to her feet, then embraced her. “But it’s all going to be up to you, hon. I’m just gonna take a seat in the back and watch.”
Suuuure, you will.. . Betsy thought, her chin happily resting on his shoulder. But she didn’t mind at all.
“Warren?” she said softly.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Do you really consider me the most beautiful woman in the world?”
Taking a step back, Betsy smiled wickedly as she stared at her lover. Her eyes narrowed, daring him to change his earlier comment.
“Well... sure,” Warren slowly replied. “With the exception of Claudia Schiffer, of course.” He started to look away, then paused. “And Cindy Crawford.” A boyish grin slowly spread across his face. “And—” He tapped the side of his head with the knuckle of one finger, as though trying to shake loose a hidden memory. “What was the name of that cute little red-headed waitress in Glasgow . . . ?”
The scarlet lips that playfully covered his mouth to silence him soon made him forget about any woman but the one in his arms.
MORNING IN America—and another work day for the citizens of Washington, D.C.
_ At Union Station, the first trains were arriving, full of high
school students—and their teachers—excited about leaving behind the familiar surroundings of their New York and Philadelphia and Boston neighborhoods for an opportunity to tour the district that had become home to the undisputed leader of the world. Government employees hurried to their jobs at L’Enfant Plaza and Federal Center and Judiciary Square, while tourists lined up to visit Ford’s Theatre and the Smithsonian Institute and the Jefferson Memorial. On The Mall—the expansive parkscape that stretches from the Capitol building in the east to the Lincoln Memorial in the west—Parks Department workers moved across carefully-tended fields of green in small hover-vehicles; from the bottom of the craft, whirring blades dipped down to trim the grass to a uniform height, while water and nutrients were pumped directly into the soil from large drums built behind the drivers’ seats.
At the Latverian Monument—once a monolithic structure named in honor of George Washington, and now referred to as “The Monument of Doom” only by those who ran the risk of punishment for their disrespect—armed guards dressed in deep-blue armor patrolled the grounds, occasionally stopping people—even small children—to run quick scans for weapons or explosives. Golden Age of Mankind though it might be, these were still times for caution—one never knew when one of Emperor von Doom’s cowardly enemies—few though they were—might come out of hiding long enough to threaten the lives of the noble citizens who lived under his protection. And a child—even one possessing the sweetest of smiles and the face of an angel—was just as capable of carrying a bomb as any crazed adult bent on destruction.
Cautious times, indeed.
And at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in the master bedroom of the White House, in private living quarters once occupied by forty presidents and their families over a 193-year span, the planet’s Empress slowly awoke to face the new day.
As resting places go, the room was somewhat at odds with what one would normally expect to find in a mansion that, for nearly two centuries, had been a representation of the hopes and dreams of the country’s population. Its walls a deep blue, its carpeting a lush red, the sanctum’s furnishings were a strange mixture of antique fittings— French settee, Viennese crystal chandelier, Louis XVI-era chairs and sofa—and hi-tech gadgetry—viewing screen, holographic projector, a cell phone or three—though, oddly enough, the combination seemed to go well together. To the left of the Empress’s oaken four-poster bed, on the western wall, hung an ornate tapestry of the coat-of-arms of Latveria—a golden eagle, wings spread wide, beak open as though it were shrieking a cry of victory over its fallen enemies; below it, an ornate “L.” And all set against a blood-red background. On the eastern wall was a 4' X 6' oil painting of Victor von Doom, his strong, handsome features those of a stem, but loving, father—a likeness of the subject perfectly recreated by the artist who had been assigned the daunting task of capturing the power and majesty of the Lion of Latveria on canvas. Indeed, there was almost a lifelike quality to the hypnotic brown eyes that stared out at the room—watching, always watching.
Rubbing her own sleep-crusted eyes with the edges of her hands, Ororo I—the sovereign formerly known as Ororo Munroe—blinked three times to clear her blurry vision, then sat up in bed. But even before she could look up to face the northeastward window that stood across from her to greet the sun, she was plunged into darkness once more as a mountain of white hair cascaded down over her face.
I really should start tying it back before I go to bed . . . she thought with a chuckle. But then, Victor always preferred her hair loose.
Throwing back her head, Ororo kicked away the white satin sheets that covered her and sinuously stepped onto the lush carpeting; her feet sank deep into the pile. She crossed the room quickly, stepping into the light that poured through the window; the warmth of the rays made her skin tingle.
She smiled. Mild, bright mornings like this reminded her of her years as a “goddess” on the plains of Kenya, in East Africa—back when she really thought she might be some sort of Earth-bound deity, pos-
sessing an innate ability to control the weather; how this might be so, considering both her parents had been “mortals,” had never troubled her. But whatever the source of her powers, if drought threatened the land, it only took a single thought to summon a modest-sized storm that prevented the crops—or her faithful worshippers—from dying; too much rainfall, and she could banish the clouds before the precious top-soil was washed away. It was a simple life, with simple responsibilities—one light years away from the days she had spent as a child on the streets of Cairo, Egypt, following her parents’ deaths.
Ororo frowned, her thoughts turning dark from the unbidden memory. And above the streets of Washington, a thundercloud suddenly formed, its icy fingers reaching out to block off the sunlight; it was quickly joined by another. The sky filled with an ominous rumbling.
A knock at the bedroom door snapped Ororo out of her reverie.
“W-who is it?” she asked.
“Paterson, Your Majesty,” replied a deep, male voice. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Joseph,” Ororo called back. “Why do you a—” Her attention was drawn to the dark clouds that continued to form in the skies directly above the historic mansion, threatening to wash out the streets of the world’s capital in a deluge of biblical proportions. Wincing slightly, she realized that she’d allowed her wandering mind to affect the weather patterns in the area. “Oh. I see what you mean.”
Closing her eyes, the dark-skinned maharani cleared her mind, letting her psionic powers reach out, beyond the mansion, to the farthest edges of the district, searching for—
There.
A jet stream of air coming down from Canada. She could practically feel the cool wind playing across her skin; goose flesh prickled its way along her arms and legs. It would miss Washington by a few miles . . . unless it had some help.
All it took was a thought.
Outside the White House, trash receptacles overturned, spilling their contents; papers and food containers fluttered down Pennsylvania Avenue, then leapt skyward like a murder of crows taken flight. Caught in the sudden gale, the storm clouds swiftly retreated from the capitol, bound for the Atlantic Ocean.
Eyes still closed, Ororo smiled as warm sunlight once more bathed her face.
“Ma’am?” Paterson asked.
“It is all right now, Joseph,” Ororo replied, opening her eyes. “I have taken care of the situation. And please—stop talking to me through the door. You know how much I find it distasteful. Come in.”
“Sorry, Ma’am,” Paterson said. The door opened, and Ororo’s personal bodyguard entered the room. At six feet, five inches, and 240 pounds, forty-year-old Joseph Paterson cut a dashing figure in his emerald Guardsman armor, which shone brightly in the restored sunlight. The protective helmet that normally covered his head was tucked under his arm, allowing Ororo to see his rugged features: squarish jaw, piercing blue eyes, a slightly off-center nose that showed signs of having been broken a time or two, and closely-cropped dark hair. A former field operative of the international law enforcement organization called S.H.I.E.L.D.—an acronym for Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistic Directorate—he had been assigned to the Empress by Doctor Doom himself on the basis of Paterson’s service record, having fought against such terrorist groups as Hydra and A.I.M.—Advanced Idea Mechanics—when they had attempted to overthrow the Emperor on more than one occasion. It also didn’t hurt that Paterson had been recommended for the job by S.H.I.E.L.D.’s beautiful and oh-so-deadly director, Viper . . . though she had wisely neglected to mention to von Doom that she and the handsome agent were lovers.
Neither the Emperor, nor Joe’s wife, Maria, would have understood that to refuse the director’s bed was to invite an early retirement—at the wrong end of a gun.
But for all the dangerous situations in which he’d been involved, none had prepared Joe Paterson for the sight that greeted him when he walked into the master bedroom: his Empress in puris naturalibus. And facing him.
“Ah, jeez!” he cried, eyes wide and cheeks turning a bright red. He quickly averted his gaze, concentrating instead on the portrait of von Doom to his left.
Ororo raised a hand to suppress a laugh. No matter how long she lived in the United States, she would never become used to its conservative climate. Back in Kenya, no one worried about such inconsequential as modesty, not when there were far more important concerns to address. Certainly, her people would never have asked their goddess to cover herself up with strips of cloth—it would have been an insult.
Of course, her attititude toward clothing had eventually changed, once she had met. ..
Had met. . .
Ororo frowned. How odd that she couldn’t remember the name of the man who had come to visit her in Kenya four years ago; who had explained that she was no deity, but a mutant—a “child of the atom,” as others of her kind were later referred to. A human being, not a goddess, gifted with wondrous powers that could help shape the future of the world. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to conjure up a mental picture of the strange man who had changed her life. But none came.
“Umm . . . bad dreams again, Ma’am?” Paterson kept his eyes fixed on the painting ... and the stem face that seemed to glare down at him.
Ororo shook her head to clear her thoughts. The identity of her visitor back then didn’t really matter; he was probably just one of the many Imperial bureaucrats working for Victor. There were so many of the annoying little drones—constantly hovering around the White House, eager to please their master—that one face just seemed to blur into another.
“In a way,” she said to Paterson, shrugging into a floor-length silk robe that was draped over a chair by the bed. “I have to stop letting my thoughts ran away from me like that. After all, how can the people feel secure when their Empress has such trouble keeping her emotions in check?”
“It doesn’t happen that often, Your Majesty, but you’ve got a point,” Paterson said. “Then again, it does keep the weathermen on their toes. And it lets everybody know when it’s a bad time to ask you for something.”
Ororo laughed. “So, that is why the staff avoids me on rainy days.” She tied the robe’s belt tightly, then smoothed the flowing garment with the palms of her hands. “You can turn around now, Joseph.”
Paterson hesitantly pivoted on one foot, momentarily staring down at his feet before working up the nerve to look at her. When he at last saw the robe, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“I apologize for making you feel uncomfortable, Joseph,” Ororo said, smiling warmly. “It will not happen again.” Paterson smiled sheepishly, and glanced back at the painting of von Doom. Being the wife of the most powerful man on the planet, Ororo knew what that look meant. “And don’t worry. This is the only room in the house that isn’t monitored by Security, so no one will have to know of my . . . indiscretion. I certainly would not think of ever mentioning this to Victor.”
Paterson visibly relaxed, a smile lighting his face. “Thank you, Ma’am. You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”
Ororo nodded benignly. She also knew what that comment meant. For all the good things he had brought to the world—the abolishment of crime, an end to homelessness and hunger and war—still was Victor von Doom a man to be, not just respected, but feared . . . even, sometimes, by his own wife and children. His rage could be a terrible thing to see when unleashed—a roiling, thunderous darkness that rivaled the most powerful storm she could create; to be caught in its fury was an experience few survived. And not even a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent would be foolish enough to tempt fate by openly gazing at the undraped form of the wife of such a man.
“Leave me now, Joseph,” Ororo said. “I have much to do for my people today, and I need time to prepare. I will summon you when I am ready to depart for my first appointment.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Paterson said, clearly grateful for the dismissal. Bowing sharply, he marched backward to the hallway, exited the room, and closed the door.
Chuckling softly, the image of her bodyguard’s shocked expression still fresh in her mind, Ororo I slipped out of her robe and headed for the shower.
Outside, Joe Paterson drew the thumb of a gauntleted hand across his brow, wiping away the sweat that had accumulated there. He felt drenched inside his armor, and his left eye had suddenly developed a nervous twitch—a tic that hadn’t bothered him since he’d left behind the world of international espionage for what he’d always thought would be far less strenuous palace duties.
“More thought, less reaction, moron,” he said, quietly admonishing himself. “That’ll teach you to go barging in to the Royal Chamber.” He tightly squeezed his eyes shut and gently rapped his forehead with a metal-encased fist, trying to force the vision of the breathtakingly beautiful woman in the next room from his thoughts. The Psi Division could be making one of its periodic mental sweeps of the grounds for possible intruders at any moment; it would only end in tragedy if one of the “mentos” happened to detect any impure images playing on the projection screen of his mind.
What the Empress probably had not realized was that it wasn’t his own life for which he had been concerned; rather, it was for the lives of his wife, Maria, and their son, Gregory. Joe had heard the stories over the years—stories of what had happened to some of the unfortunate souls punished by von Doom for perceived transgressions: their children abducted, never to be seen again; wives or husbands forced to watch helplessly as their spouses were killed before their eyes; entire families slaughtered. He had the feeling that the Empress was aware of the severity of some of the punishments her husband meted out, but chose not to question them; after all, any doubt shown by the royal family toward its monarch’s decisions would be seen as a sign of weakness— and neither von Doom nor Ororo could ever be described as “weak.”
But as terrible a man as Magneto might be—and based on his actions in Paris, “terrible” was a mild description for the international terrorist—his most savage reprisals paled in comparison to those inflicted by Victor von Doom upon his enemies. If anyone doubted that was so, they had only to ask of the fates of the Thing, or the Human Torch. Or Captain America.
Or Susan Storm-Richards.
The Invisible Woman. Joe felt a shiver run along his spine. He’d heard that her husband lost his mind when he saw what von Doom had done to her.
And the Emperor had laughed.
Rumor had it that Reed Richards was locked away in a nuthouse back in Latveria, scribbling jagged 4s on the walls and floor of his cell— and on himself—with a broken blue crayon all day long; his nights were spent screaming his wife’s name over and over until he finally cried himself to sleep.
Could something like that be his own fate, for such a harmless mistake as seeing the Empress unclad?
Yes ... if the Emperor were ever to find out.
For a moment—one that seemed to last an eternity—Joe formed a mental picture of arriving home at the end of the day, only to find his modest apartment in Georgetown wrecked, his family missing.
And one of Maria’s severed fingers on the kitchen table; the blood seeping from the digit was still warm.
Joe violently shook his head, trying to dispel the nauseating image. Where had that come from?
And then he felt it—an itching at the back of his mind, like a spider crawling along the base of his skull. An involuntary tremor ran through his body, and he listened in horror as a small, sinister voice quietly echoed in his mind.
It “said” only two words, but they were enough to make him fall to his knees and weep, body hitching uncontrollably as tears streamed down his cheeks. Two words that let him know he should never have allowed his thoughts to wander, as his Empress had done before. Two words that made it clear that, even if he abandoned his post now and raced for home, he would still be far too late.
Two words—that heralded the end of his world.
We know.
It was a good day to be king.
Strolling through what had once been known as the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, located on the east side of the White House, Victor von Doom paused long enough to feel the warmth of the sun upon his bare face—a rare moment of pleasure for a man whose days were normally spent constantly tinkering with the smallest parts of his near-perfect world, trying to smooth over the imperfections, few though they were. Dressed in a dark, pinstriped business suit—o, to at last be free of that damnable armor!—the purple silk sash of royalty draped from his right shoulder down to his left hip, he looked every part the strong leader that he was; after all, it was more than a mere suit of metal that made the man—it was the strength of his character, his sheer determination to overcome adversity, his constant drive for perfection . . . and the satisfaction of knowing he could thoroughly destroy his enemies.
A slight breeze ruffled his dark-brown hair; he smoothed it back into place with a well-manicured hand. Each finger of that hand contained a ring, as did the other; ten baubles in all, possessing an amazing variety of powers, despite their outward gaudiness—prizes recovered from the corpse of the Chinese warlord called The Mandarin after von Doom had stripped the flesh from his bones with an earthshaking blast of cosmic energy collected from the spent bodies of alien creatures like Annihilus, the self-proclaimed ruler of the anti-matter universe called The Negative Zone, and the brutish Blaastar, “the Living Bomb Blast.” In the early days of von Doom’s regime, a great many of Earth’s so-called “super-villains” had made various bids to depose this modern-day Alexander the Great; all had failed, their rotting corpses raised high for all to see. Matters had quieted down quite a bit after that, though every now and then some misguided fool had to be reminded of his or her place in this brave, new world.
More often than not, that place was a grave.
Dispelling the pleasant but utterly useless memory of his many victories with a slight wave of his hand—for only the weak-minded lived in the past—von Doom turned his attention to the work that his wife had done on the garden in just a few short months: rose and oleander bushes were bursting with color, the sweet fragrances of their blooms mingling with those of hyacinth and hibiscus and gladiola; and somehow, despite the severity of Washington’s summers and winters, Ororo had even found a way to maintain a row of megaflora normally found only in the hothouse-like environment of the Savage Land, that bizarre world beneath the snow and ice of Antarctica where native tribes still fought for survival each day, and all manner of dinosaurs still roamed, apparently unaware that they were supposed to be long extinct.
The Emperor nodded, pleased with what he saw. It was an orderly garden, one that quietly reflected the world around it.
His order. His world.
“Master?”
Von Doom turned. Just inside the doorway of the Garden Room stood a skittish, unassuming little man in a charcoal-gray suit. Of average height and build, thinning brown hair plastered across the top of his egg-shaped skull, he had about him the look of a frightened animal normally accustomed to hiding from the predators of the world—a nonentity destined to forever remain in the shadows. The Emperor made no attempt to recall his name.
“What is it, lackey?” he demanded. “Who are you, to disturb Doom in his hour of contemplation?”
“I-I m-meant no disrespect, Master,” the man stuttered. Head bowed, eyes lowered, beads of sweat started to form across his brow, but he made no move to wipe them away. “I-It’s just that your military advisers have arrived.”
“Excellent,” the Emperor said. “Tell them Doom will meet with them in the war room.”
“Very good, Master.” With a quick bow, clearly overjoyed that he had been given permission to leave, the aide backed away until he had stepped from sight.
Off to one side, an auburn-haired young woman dressed in a black leather bodysuit—one of a half dozen similarly garbed men and women who skirted the edge of the garden, ever alert for any sign of trouble— touched a hand to a small receiver tucked into her left ear, listened for a few moments, then nodded.
“Speak, Lancer,” von Doom said.
Lancer—who normally went by the less dramatic name of Samantha Dunbar—turned to face her liege. “It’s Phillips. They’ve responded to the tip from the Psi Division, and they want to know what they should do now.”
Von Doom paused, considering his options. “Have the child taken to the Academy. He’ll make a passable future soldier for Ms. Frost to shape.”
Lancer fell silent. From the corner of his eye, von Doom watched her nervously chew on her bottom lip for a moment.
“The wife?” she finally asked.
“She is of no use to Doom,” the monarch replied immediately. “Kill her.”
Lancer winced, as though she had been struck. It annoyed von Doom that, after all her years of service, this woman, whom he had taken from the Earth of an alternate reality, to whom he had gifted incredible powers, in whom he had given a modicum of trust, could still be so weak. So . . . imperfect.
He might have to do something about that situation one day. . . .
“And Paterson?”
A half smile came to the Emperor’s lips; a contortion of facial muscles that seemed as uncomfortable for him to assume as it was for an observer to look upon. There was no warmth in the expression-only a burning malignancy. “He has seen the elegance and beauty of his Empress—a magnificent sight reserved for Doom, and Doom alone. Let that be the last thing he ever sees.”
Lancer swallowed, hard. “You want him killed, as well?”
Von Doom shook his head. “Not at all. He is to be released, unharmed—” he slowly opened the palm of his hand “—after his eyes have been presented to me.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgment of his commands, the Emperor strode from the garden, knowing that not even Lancer would be foolish enough to consider defying him.
Truly, it was a good day to be king.
When Ororo exited the master bedroom—dressed in a flowing burgundy gown that swirled around her long legs, an ornate, black metal tiara holding back her hair—-she was surprised to discover that Paterson was absent from his post outside her door; in his place was another armored guard, one who smartly snapped to attention at her approach. Ororo could immediately tell that it wasn’t her constant companion—the new man’s body language was too stiff, too formal, and his powerfully-built upper torso looked as though it had been crammed into the emerald-hued metal suit.
Another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? Perhaps, but more likely than not he was a former “super hero” or “super-villain”—the kind of gaudily-attired individual whose practices had been outlawed by Victor a year after he came into power. The smart ones had registered their powers with the government and joined the Imperial armed forces; the rebellious ones had been eliminated by their own kind, per von Doom’s mandates. As for the majority, most had gone into early “retirement,” never to be seen again. It all worked out in the end, though—no longer would cities be transformed into battlefields by testosterone-driven egotists bent on flexing their overly-developed muscles for all to see, nor would the people of the world live in fear that some madman might one day destroy the planet as an act of revenge for some perceived slight. Nowadays, the only costumed men and women on display for the public were those featured in movies, like the one that had premiered in New York the night before.
“Your Majesty,” the guard said, equally as stiff, through the speaker in his helmet. There was a heavy Japanese accent to his voice.
“I do not see Agent Paterson,” Ororo said. “Can you tell me why he is not at his post, Agent. . . ?”
Eyes front, back ramrod straight, the guard hesitated for a brief moment before responding. “Kenuichio Harada, Your Majesty. Agent Paterson was ... called away.”
“By whom?”
Again, a hesitation. “By the Emperor, Your Majesty.”
Ororo frowned. She didn’t know which she found more annoying: the fact that Victor would call away her personal bodyguard without telling her, or the way in which this new guard seemed to be hiding something.
“And why was that?” she pressed.
“I-I do not know, Your Majesty,” Harada replied. Ororo could almost see the sweat pouring down his face inside the helmet as he fought to remain composed. “I was merely told to take his place until further notice . . . and to notify you that the members of the Emperor’s council have arrived. They will be meeting with him in the war room.”
Ororo arched an eyebrow. All right, then—if she was going to learn anything, she would have to ask Victor directly ... but later.
She turned on her heel. “Very well, Agent Harada, come along. I have duties of my own to which I must attend today. I shall speak with my husband when he next makes himself available.” Head held high, Ororo strode down the hallway, bound for the private elevator that would take her to the ground floor.
Like a well-trained dog, the metal-garbed bodyguard hurried from his post and fell into step behind his mistress.
As the Empress made her way downstairs, her husband’s war council was already convening.
Constructed in a sub-sub-basement of the mansion, the war room was a two-level, block-long bunker constructed of adamantium, the hardest, strongest metal on Earth. The lighting was intentionally kept low, so that the dozens of technicians and systems operators working there could concentrate solely on the monitors and computer stations at which they sat, processing data collected by the Langley, Virginia-based Psi Division—formerly the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency—and the hundreds of international agents around the world who kept the peace established by the Emperor a decade ago. There was no camaraderie here, no gentle buzz of office chatter, no personal items adorning the work areas; the only buzzing came from the banks of computers that lined the walls of the upper level, the only personal item belonged to the Emperor: a large, round, marble table adorned with the coat-of-arms of Latveria, sitting in the center of the lower level.
Seated around this table were two men and three women of widely diverse backgrounds—so diverse, in fact, that it would normally have been impossible to imagine them gathered in the same room, had it not been for the man who had brought them together.
First, there was Dorma, the Minister of Defense. A blue-skinned, red-haired amazon clad in green-and-gold battle armor that revealed far more of her body than it concealed, she was the former queen of Atlantis, hailing from the same parallel Earth on which von Doom had found Lancer. As a denizen of the ocean, Dorma could not survive long above water, so a clear plastic mask covered her nose and mouth, constantly recycling the sea water contained in her lungs. Her strength was as impressive as her temper was short—each fearful to behold, especially in the heat of battle, when her bloodlust would often build to such levels that she would become possessed by what in Norse legend was called a “berserker rage”: a mindless, relentless, savage attack that would not end until the last of her enemies had been eliminated, and her desire for blood had at last been sated. Though there were times when she thought of von Doom as a weak man—why create alliances with former enemies when it was far easier to kill them and then take possession of what they had owned?—she respected him ... and his power. The Emperor, she knew, was not afraid to dirty his hands by personally slaying anyone foolish enough to challenge his rule, as the Wizard, and Attuma, and the Master had learned. And his Psi Division allowed him to know of any future attacks before they developed beyond the planning stage, as so many others had discovered over the years—before they died.
Dorma was also well aware that, should the day come when she might attempt to cross swords with von Doom, there was no certainty that she would be the victor, for though she might find a way to best the Emperor, there was still his wife to contend with .. . and she commanded the elements. A difficult problem to consider, but Dorma had always enjoyed a challenge. . . .
Possessing the ability to absorb kinetic energy—thus making him virtually indestructible in any fight—Sebastian Shaw was the Emperor’s expert on Earth’s mutant population ... not that he thought of himself as just another child of the atom, though. Bom into a poor family in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Shaw was the Horatio Alger of mutantkind, pulling himself up by his bootstraps from the depths of poverty to become a millionaire by age twenty, then parlaying that fortune into the creation of Shaw Industries, a multinational corporation contracted by the pre-von Doom U.S. government for the development of cutting-edge weaponry. Though there was no real need for a munitions designer— for, after all, who could create weapons superior to those built by Doom himself?—it was Shaw’s contacts in the mutant communities scattered around the globe that made him invaluable to the Emperor. Often, they had provided better information about any superpowered dissenters among them than that gathered by S.H.I.E.L.D., especially when it came to the doings of the man who called himself Magneto; over the years, they had tipped off Shaw to the fugitive’s various plots to strike against the government, which were then nipped in the bud by the Avengers, or even by von Doom himself.
Except for that one instance, in Paris, of course.
Strangely, though, there had been no reports about the “Master of Magnetism” for some time now....
Industrialist Anthony Stark originally made a name for himself as a weapons manufacturer for the United States government long before von Doom had taken power, or Shaw Industries had signed its first contract with the military. Unlike Shaw or the Emperor, though, he had been bom into money, which seemed to naturally result in Stark’s eventual transformation into a millionaire playboy, jetting around the world, dining at the finest restaurants, dating the most beautiful women. These days, when he wasn’t overseeing the work performed by his company, Stark Solutions, he was von Doom’s expert on the super hero community, having overseen the formation of the Avengers just before the Emperor’s rise to power; he had even gone so far as to donate the Stark family mansion on New York’s Fifth Avenue to the group as their headquarters. Because of his involvement with this team of “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes,” it was the millionaire industrialist’s job to keep the Emperor apprised of all government-sanctioned super hero activities, and to make him aware of any new superpowered individuals who might pop up; in a world in which radioactivity seemed to trigger a recessive gene in some unsuspecting man or woman every other day of the week—and who knew what even sitting too close to a TV set might do?—it was only a matter of time before that person got up the nerve to sew together a formfitting costume of some eye-catching hue and parade around in public to demonstrate their powers—illegally, of course.
Oddly enough, though it was the kind of work one would expect to see performed by a flunky, interviewing these new “Marvels” was a job that Stark actually enjoyed. Then again, considering his handsome, Errol Flynn-like features, and the fact that nine out of every ten new “super heroines” were young, pretty, and had the kind of perfect figure made for skintight spandex, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that “growing up” to become the CEO of a worldwide corporation had done nothing to affect the playboy’s charm ... or his libido.
And speaking of sexual drives . . .
As the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Viper was the expert on international espionage, having been the leader of Hydra for a few years before switching her loyalties to von Doom—and then helping him to destroy the organization. A combination of femme fatale and superspy, she was the living embodiment of the type of woman Hollywood movies once referred to as “the bad girl”: clad in an emerald-hued latex jumpsuit and opera-length gloves that seemed spray painted on her, she was tall and sleek, with flowing, jet-black tresses that cascaded over her right eye in a Veronica Lake coiffure, and the kind of smoldering, high-cheekboned Asian features that one would expect to find on the cover of a fashion magazine. It was widely known that if Viper couldn’t use her “feminine wiles” to obtain information, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill to get what she wanted. No one trusted her, not even von Doom, for anyone willing to switch sides so quickly in order to rise to a higher position of power could only be biding their time until their next upwardly mobile strike. The downside to such a situation, though, was that von Doom could have her killed at any time once he no longer needed her services, either by his own hand—the Mandarin’s rings weren’t just for show, after all—or by ordering her own agents to do the deed. She could easily name a dozen men and women under her direct command who wouldn’t hesitate to complete that assignment, though none had been stupid enough to move against her . . . yet.
Still, she counted herself lucky whenever she thought about that ugly encounter with von Doom six months ago, when she had to report to him that her best agents had lost track of Magneto just outside of Marrakesh. Then, he had merely settled for crippling her, using just a fraction of the power contained in his armor to shatter every bone in her right hand.
Even after it was surgically repaired, she would never have full use of the hand again, and she was constantly reminded of that fact—and the penalty for failing the Emperor—every time a cold spell swept through the capital. There never seemed to be enough painkillers to dull the ache in her bones ... or her mind.
Finally, there was Wanda Maximoff. Although bom a mutant, gifted with a probability-altering ability that gave the appearance that she could perform incredible feats of magic—at least, that had been her initial understanding of her powers—she was not one of Shaw’s subordinates. Instead, having studied various forms of magic under the tutelage of an ancient witch named Agatha Harkness, Wanda had been appointed von Doom’s adviser on all things supernatural. Not to be overlooked, of course, was the fact that she was the daughter of the Emperor’s longtime enemy, Magneto, which meant that she could always provide some insight into her father’s habits . . . and weaknesses. Though she was just as attractive as the S.H.I.E.L.D. director, with a bounty of curly, reddish-brown hair framing somewhat angular features, Wanda preferred to dress far more conservatively than the other women, opting for a dark-blue jacket and matching full-length dress. A dozen charm bracelets encircled her left wrist, each gold chain adorned with trinkets of various shapes and sizes—astrological signs, mystical symbols, even a tiny toy animal or three—and a pair of gold hoops hung from her ears. Though she and her brother, Pietro, were essentially gypsies like von Doom, born in the mountains of eastern Europe, Wanda carried herself with the air of a noblewoman, tending more often than not to look down her nose at the savage Dorma and the over-sexed Viper. Clearly, she felt superior to them both . . . and, perhaps, to Stark and Shaw, as well.
Five individuals. Brought together once more at the Emperor’s command, they sat and waited for their monarch to appear.
And waited.
And waited.
Arms held above her head, Viper yawned and arched her back, stretching with an almost feline grace over the top of the plush leather chair in which she sat. It was an unnecessary, overly dramatic gesture to smooth out a kink in her back, but it had the desired effect she’d wanted, causing both Stark and Shaw to openly stare at the way the low lighting of the war room played off the colorful rubber material of her jumpsuit.
Dorma grunted, annoyed by the men’s idiotic gaping. “Children ...” she huffed.
Across from her, Wanda frowned and rolled her eyes, disgusted more by Viper’s sex kitten act than the attention it was getting. “Oh, please . . .” she muttered.
Viper eased back to a more natural sitting position and, rolling her head to one side, turned to look at Wanda. The director sneered, bright white teeth forming a shark-like smile; it looked even more disturbing set against the bright green of her lipstick.
“Feeling a bit outclassed, Wanda?” she purred, with a haughtiness that women always found downright infuriating, but men found incredibly sexy. “Maybe if you dressed less like a peasant and more like you did in the old days, you’d have men reacting to you the same way.” The smile widened. “I’ve seen the pictures of you back when you were
Daddy’s Little Girl, you and big brother Pietro helping him with his plans to take over the world. Did he really approve of that whole swimsuit-and-body stocking look, or was that just a simple case of a teenaged girl rebelling against her father by dressing provocatively?” “If it were, at least I grew out of that phase,” Wanda replied evenly. Viper laughed—a sharp, mocking sound without any trace of warmth. “I’m certain Daddy must be very pleased . . . wherever he may be.”
Wanda glared heatedly at the raven-tressed woman, then glanced at her left hand, which was suddenly aglow; unconsciously, she had formed one of her “hex-spheres.” She stared for a few moments at the chaos energy dancing around the tips of her fingers, then casually waved her hand in a dismissive motion.
Without warning, the base of Viper’s seat collapsed as its metal supports suddenly twisted out of shape and snapped. Unable to react in time, the S.H.I.E.L.D. director yelped loudly as the chair fell backward, tossing her to the floor. In an instant, she was back on her feet, assuming a combat-ready position.
Wanda, however, remained seated. Picking off an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of her jacket, she looked up at the “unfortunate” recipient of her hex-bolt.
“I am so sorry, Viper,” she said, smiling sweetly. “That’s the problem with a power like mine: who knew that the odds of you making me angry enough to cause your seat to fall apart could be so great?” Viper hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you, little girl. . .”
“Enough!” Shaw bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table. A powerful vibration ran through the marble, immediately bringing everyone’s attention to bear on him. “If the two of you want to engage in a catfight, I’d be more than happy to arrange the event at my Hellfire Club in New York. I’m certain the members would find it. . . stimulating. But for now—he glared at each woman, almost daring them to challenge him “—try acting like the professionals you are.”
“Well said, Sebastian,” said a voice from the upper level of the bunker. The quintet looked up to find von Doom, accompanied by Lancer, standing on the platform above them—but for how long? The four seated councilors jumped to their feet.
Gripping the railing, the Emperor lowered his gaze to lock eyes with his espionage expert.
“Viper,” he said, voice rumbling with barely controlled anger, “there are times when you test the limits of my patience. Do you need another reminder of what happens to those who anger Doom?”
Glancing from the comer of her eye, Wanda was startled to see the instantaneous change that came over Viper: one moment, she was a confident, powerful woman skilled in a hundred different ways of destroying a man’s very soul; the next, her one visible eye had widened in horror, and an uncontrollable tremor ran through her body.
“N-no, Y-your Majesty,” Viper said, quickly lowering her gaze to the floor. She clutched her right hand with her left, holding it close to her chest, then winced slightly, as though more from recalling an unwanted memory than from any actual pain. Around her, the other war councilors did their best to avoid looking at her... or von Doom.
“Excellent,” the Emperor said. Signaling Lancer to remain where she was, he stepped over to the end of the platform; the part on which he stood quietly detached itself from the main section and floated down to the main level. Once it touched the floor, von Doom stepped off and walked over to join his advisers. One of the guards seemed to suddenly materialize near him, just in time to pull back the chair reserved for the Emperor. Von Doom eased into the seat, then motioned for the others to join him. And, as quickly as he had arrived, the guard moved back to his position.
“What news?” Von Doom asked.
The advisers glanced at one another, then Stark turned to face the monarch. “I gather from the way we’re all staring back and forth across the table that the situation remains the same: there’s now been no sign of Magneto for a year. The Avengers, the Thunderbolts, even Excali-bur—none of the super heroes who are still active have seen hide or hair of him, not since the destmction of Paris.” He frowned, clearly upset by the memory. “We’ve sent search teams into the Mole Man’s realm, even worked with Prince Namor of Atlantis—” Dorma emitted a sharp, short laugh at the mention of the sovereign’s name “—and Lord Plunder to plumb the depths of the oceans and the Savage Land, respectively. Nothing.”
“He also hasn’t used his powers in all this time,” Viper added, regaining her composure. “If he had, we would have detected it with the network of satellites we have orbiting the globe. And he can’t be off-world—there have been no recent signs of extraterrestrial vehicles in our solar system to allow him the possibility of hitching a ride, and no unauthorized spacecraft have been launched—at least, none that haven’t been shot down within minutes of liftoff. His body wasn’t in any of the wreckage.”
The Emperor waved a hand in a dismissive manner. “Nor would I have expected you to find it, Director. Lensherr is a bold, clever man, in his own way ... though still a child in comparison to Doom. Escape might be his plan, but he would not go about it in such a way that he would face the possibility of capture or death.” He shook his head. “No, he would find some other means of avoiding the punishment due him..
Von Doom’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Wanda.
“Ms. Maximoff?” he asked.
Wanda drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly released it. Though she had cut all ties with her father years ago, and had been horrified by the destruction of Paris—how could even Magneto have brought himself to crash a nuclear-powered space station onto the City of Lights, killing millions of innocent people?—she was still hesitant to respond whenever she was asked to provide information about him. A case of blood being thicker than water, she often surmised; even though he was now a mass-murderer, on the run from the citizenry of an entire planet, she was still his daughter, and a small piece of her— one she constantly fought to ignore, often failing—continued to love him for the gentle man he had once been, continued to hope for the day when they might be reunited as a family.
A futile hope, Wanda knew. She had been drifting away from her father even before his most infamous act against the Empire, growing increasingly disenchanted by his continuous plans for striking out at von Doom, in some misguided bid to seize power for himself. Eventually, she just walked away, fearing that, if she did not put distance between herself and her father’s obsessions, the madness would overtake her as well.
To her surprise, Magneto had allowed her to go. She had never looked back.
On the day he wiped out one of the most cherished cities in the world, though, he died in her heart for all time. Now, for Wanda, he truly was the monster von Doom had once proclaimed him—an uncaring, remorseless brute who had to be put down like a rabid animal before more people were harmed.
Still, he was her father . . .
Wanda shook her head to clear her thoughts, then looked to von Doom.
“He’s not dead,” she finally said. “His . .She paused, licked her lips, which had suddenly become dry. “His spirit has not passed on to the astral plane, nor have any of my spies in the higher dimensions detected his presence, which eliminates the possibility that he might have employed someone with magical abilities to escape this dimension.”
Von Doom sat back from the table, slouching regally in his chair.
Frowning, he rested his chin in his left hand and stared off into space, deep in thought. His advisers sat quietly, glancing at one another while they waited.
“Not dead,” he muttered, “yet not active, either.” The hint of a malevolent smile played at the comers of his mouth, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “What are you up to, my old enemy? What dark thoughts run wildly through your mind each time you are reminded that Doom is master of all, and there is nothing you can do to make it otherwise?” The smile broadened. “Had I the opportunity to look into your eyes, to see what such knowledge can do to a man’s soul. ..” Von Doom chuckled softly, then straightened in his chair, eyes clearing. He fixed each of his advisers with a steely gaze.
“Find him, ” he commanded. “Lensherr is clever, but not so clever that he can eliminate all traces of his movements. I will tolerate his existence not a moment longer, nor will I tolerate failure from any of you. On the night that all the world celebrates the glory and majesty that is Doom, I have every intention of presenting to my beautiful wife a gift that no other but Doom could give to her on such a momentous occasion:
“The head of the Empire’s most infamous villain, resting on a silver platter for the world to see.”
Von Doom smiled then, and to Wanda Maximoff, it was an expression that she found disturbingly familiar—one she had often seen etched on the features of her father many times.
It was the face of madness.