Let the begging begin. . .
To the east, the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral tolled midnight. To the south, the bright lights of the Empire State Building’s upper floors snapped off, their work done for the night. And inside the Starlight Room, the Minister of Entertainment and his entourage departed for his rooms at the Waldorf Astoria, while another singer—a young woman named Alison Blaire—took the stage, hoping to win over the same audience that was still abuzz over Betsy’s incredible performance.
As for Betsy herself, she was walking on air, both figuratively and literally—such things were possible, of course, when you had just captivated an audience of New York’s elite, and your boyfriend had decided to celebrate the occasion by unfurling his wings and carrying you off into the night sky.
At the moment, they were in a world of their own, one hundred feet above Central Park, slow dancing to a tune that only they could hear.
“Warren?” Betsy asked, chin resting comfortably against his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked.
“Everything.”
“You’re more than welcome, Betts,” Warren said. He paused. “You know, you haven’t asked about what the Minister said to me.”
“I didn’t have to,” she replied.
“Oh?” Warren asked. “What are you, psychic now?”
Betsy chuckled. “You don’t have to be able to read minds to tell when you’ve won someone over.” She tilted her head back to gaze into his dark eyes. “I knew Fd won you over when we first met.”
“True,” Warren agreed. “But my mom always used to say she could read me like a book, too.”
“Yeess,” Betsy replied, “but why is it that whenever I do the reading, it turns out to be Fun With Dick and JaneT’
“Hey,” Warren countered, “some books of just too good to read only once.”
Betsy giggled softly and grinned. “So,” she said, changing subjects, “when does your dear, old friend the Minister want to see me?”
“Noon,” Warren said. “At his office in the World Trade Center. And he’s not my ‘dear, old friend.’ You have no idea of the sacrifices I had to make tonight, Betts.”
“Like what?” Betsy asked, suddenly concerned. “Warren, we agreed that it was up to me—”
“And it was, honey. It was,” Warren said. “But if I ever have to sit through another second of his whining about how ‘Vic’ never listens to his suggestions to ‘improve’ the Empire’s image, make it more fun-oriented . .He grunted, as though in great pain, and shook his head. “Poor baby,” Betsy said soothingly, reaching up to caress his cheek. Warren stuck out his bottom lip and pouted. “Yeah. Poor me.” “Well, if he’s as bad as he sounds, then I should get my rest,” Betsy said. “So I don’t show up looking like some worn-out old hag and wind up falling asleep in the middle of his whining.”
“You know, I was just going to suggest we turn in,” Warren said, feigning surprise. “You really must be psychic.”
Betsy sighed. “If only that didn’t mean that my head was filled by the deviant thoughts you’re always broadcasting.”
She smiled, and pulled him into a kiss that made it clear how very grateful she was that he was in her life.
They soared higher, then, and, laughing like children, chased the stars until the morning sun arrived to send them to bed.
Unfortunately, not all the world was filled with lovers.
On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, in the Islamic Republic of Mauritania, the noonday sun was relentlessly beating down on the harbor city of Nouadhibou—a strip of land, really, jutting out into the water like a sand-covered index finger. It was here that deep sea fishing vessels from around the Empire docked after trawling the coastal waters, and it was from here that massive freighters would carry off shipments of iron ore, bound for the Empire’s factories. It was not a large city, as major ports-of-call go—the population was only around 60,000 inhabitants—but it certainly drew its fair share of world-weary travelers.
And it was through the streets of Nouadhibou that one traveler in particular walked.
Stopping for a moment beneath the welcomed shade of a shop awning, Erik Lensherr removed a bright-red handkerchief from a pocket of his voluminous white robes and used it to dab at the sweat that was pouring down his face. Not for the first time, he cursed the necessity of wearing his battle helmet in such a stifling climate, and for lacking the foresight to have designed the damned thing with some sort of air-coolant system. Glancing around quickly to make certain that he wasn’t being observed too closely by anyone on the busy street, he adjusted his cloth hood to conceal the helmet once more, and then continued his journey to the docks. .
The trek from Araouane had been uneventful—most of it spent crossing the desert at night in a jeep “acquired” by Pietro before he had departed to begin making arrangements for his father’s suicidal return to America. Packing what few belongings he considered essential, all Lensherr had to do was get to the Spanish city of Barcelona without alerting authorities to his whereabouts; not all that difficult a task, since he had been successfully avoiding the Empire’s law enforcers for over twelve months. And once in Barcelona, he would be provided with false identification, plane tickets that would hopscotch him around the globe before bringing him to America (just as a precaution to throw off any potential “shadows”), and the means to trick any security systems that might have a record of his unique biological makeup.
What he needed right now, though, was a ship so he could get there.
A slight breeze was blowing off the water, and its gentle touch sent an exuberant chill up Lensherr’s spine; at last, after spending a year in the middle of the Sahara, he had found some relief from the withering temperatures. The cool air seemed to strengthen him, and he pulled himself up to his full height, allowing just a trace of a smile to show his pleasure.
The docks were extremely busy, with workers helping the crews of deep sea fishing vessels to unload a percentage of their catches and load food and fuel; Lensherr recognized the flags of Russia and North Korea—accompanied, as always, by the flag of the Empire—flying from the masts of some of the ships.
Looking around, he spotted what appeared to be the captain of one of the Russian vessels—a bear of a man, standing a few inches over six feet, with a barrel chest and powerful arms folded across it. Dressed in black despite the heat, his unkempt black beard flecked with gray, he was an imposing figure, to be sure. And it was simple enough to tell that he was in a position of authority: he was the one yelling the loudest at his crew.
Lensherr strolled over to the man. “Excuse me, Kaptain,” he said in perfect Russian.
The scruffy man-mountain slowly turned to face him, then, frowning, looked his visitor up and down, twice, before finally responding. “Da?”
“I was wondering: when you set sail, are you, by any chance, stopping off in Barcelona before returning to the Motherland?”
The captain raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“I would like to book passage on your ship, if there is room.” From beneath the shadows of his hood, Magneto flashed a gentle, disarming smile.
Again, the captain gave him the once-over and frowned; clearly, he didn’t think too much of the robed figure standing before him. Reining in his mounting anger over the man’s annoyingly condescending behavior, Lensherr forced himself to remain silent and wait for an answer.
“And why should I be so disposing?” the captain rumbled.
“Because I would be more than happy to compensate you for your time,” Lensherr said pleasantly, “and, say, a small, private cabin in which to stay?”
The captain grinned—a mildly grotesque expression, considering he was missing four front teeth. “You wouldn’t be running from something, would you, my friend?” he asked. “Like agents of the Empire?” His eyes narrowed, and the grin quickly faded. “Or perhaps you a
re an agent of the Empire, eh, come to make trouble?”
Or perhaps I’ll risk being detected by von Doom’s satellites and use my powers to turn you inside out, if only to spare myself having to put up with any more of your insolence.. . “my friend, ” Magneto thought darkly. But instead of lashing out, he simply said:
“No—to all of the above. I merely wish to visit friends in Spain, and travel by ship is still the easiest way to leave Mauritania.” He smiled again, feeling as though his face might split in two if he had to maintain this saccharine-sweet fagade for much longer.
The captain ran a meaty hand through his thick, oily beard for a few moments, considering his options. Finally, he said, “All right. But it will be a costly trip, my friend. And I will expect half the money the moment you set foot on my ship.” *
Magneto nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Kaptain.”
The captain grunted. “We sail at dawn—if you’re not here on time, we won’t wait for you. My men and I sleep on the ship; you’ll have to find your own accommodations in town for the night.” He grinned. “You are paying for just the voyage, after all.”
Gritting his teeth, Lensherr forced a smile, muttered his thanks again, and turned back toward the town, not bothering to point out that the captain had not mentioned exactly how one should define “a costly trip” in monetary terms. No matter—whatever the price, the end result of this circuitous route to the United States was worth it.
As the Chinese philosopher Lao-tzu had once said in the sixth century B.C., “A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.” For Erik Lensherr—for Magneto, Master of Magnetism—that first step had now been taken.
The first step on the path to revenge.
9
HUH—PLACE don’t look all that different. I was half expectin’ all the skyscrapers t’be replaced with flamin’ castles.”
_ Turning from the spectacular view he had of Manhattan as it
appeared just over the treeline, Wolverine adjusted the wide brim of his darkly tanned Stetson and shot a glance at the other X-Men and Carol. They were seated in a Metro North railway car, seven (hopefully) ordinary-looking passengers among a dozen others spread out around the air-conditioned compartment, inconspicuously making their way down from Westchester County to the center of Manhattan. After spending the night in a Bedford Hills motor lodge, to heal their injuries and get a much-needed rest, they had arose this morning to find an assortment of clothing, a wide variety of breakfast foods, and a small pile of cash, all gathered by the industrious Gambit while they’d slept. He explained that some of the shops and Automated Teller Machines in town had been more than happy to make “donations” to their cause, even though such “contributions” had been received between the hours of one and five a.m. Cyclops had thought of chastising his thievish teammate, but opted instead to let the matter slide since they were in need of everything Gambit had provided. The X-Men quickly sat down to feast on sweet rolls, sticky buns, pancakes and sausages, toast and marmalade, and hot coffee and tea. (Never let it be said that, despite their great powers, mutant super heroes are immune to the lure of copious amounts of sugar and caffeine.)
When they were finished gorging themselves and had changed into their “civvies,” the team at last settled down to discuss the first order of business: getting into Manhattan. Carol had shot down any ideas of commandeering a transport truck from the camp since large, black ve-hides on public roads had a tendency to draw unwanted attention to their occupants; she suggested they make the trip to The City by rail.
Boarding the train at the Bedford Hills station, they had been able to see the aftermath of their night raid when they passed through Salem Center: it appeared that some concerned citizens had alerted the authorities about the rather large explosions that had scorched the night sky and rudely tossed them from their beds—the town, and Graymalkin Drive, were as warm with hordes of armored soldiers, crisply-uniformed guards, members of the New York State Police, and construction crews apparently dispatched to rebuild the tom and pitted facility. Logan had had to be psychically rendered unconscious by Jean when he realized that, despite his demands to the commandant, the camp had not been leveled; he’d almost managed to leap from the moving train before she was able to send a psi-bolt shooting into his brain to shut him down. When Wolverine finally regained consciousness and calmed down enough to hold a civil conversation, Cyclops reminded him that it was far more important that they get to Doom—if they could reverse what he’d done, then the camps, the tortured prisoners, and the tyrant’s position as master of the world would all fade away like the last remnants of a bad dream. Scott’s argument had been a sound one, and even Logan had to agree with it. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though; he’d sat, brooding, for the last fifteen minutes before at last uttering his remark about the New York skyline.
Now, as the train stopped at the Mt. Vemon station and its doors slid open, Rogue stood up to stretch her legs, taking care not to disturb Remy, who snoozed peacefully beside her. It was clear to see that Rogue was acting more like her old, outgoing self, now that her bare skin was again protected from any casual contact with passersby—-somehow, in his nocturnal foraging, Remy had managed to locate a new leather jacket and a bodysuit to replace her tattered outfit; this one, though, was colored red and black instead of yellow and green, and lacked the distinctive “X” emblem. Upon first seeing it, Nightcrawler had quipped that, with the darker clothing, she was perfectly attired for operating in “stealth mode” when she flew at night.
Unfortunately, unlike the rest of his teammates, Kurt himself was a major problem when it came to the matter of avoiding detection. With his blue skin tone and unusually-shaped hands and feet, he more often than not stood out like the proverbial sore thumb in a crowd, so finding something for him to wear in increasingly warm June temperatures had been a challenge for Gambit, but one the Cajun had been willing to meet. His solution: dark clothing all around—slacks, shirt, a knee-length raincoat worn open, large military-style boots—and a pair of circular sunglasses to hide Kurt’s yellow eyes. “If anyone asks ’bout why you got blue skin, or why you wearin’ all dis in de summer, mon brave, ” Gambit had said, “you jus’ tell ’em you one’a dem Anne Rice fans.” As it had turned out, Gambit had done an admirable job of assembling a wardrobe for the team. Sneakers, jeans, and a crimson blouse for Carol. A light, flower-print summer dress and open-toed sandals for Jean—Scott had decided not to pursue the question, for now, of how the wily ladies’ man could know his wife’s exact sizes—and tan shorts, green Polo shirt, and low-topped canvas sneakers for Scott; Jean carried their costumes in a large canvas beach bag. Shopping for Wolverine was even easier: work boots, jeans, plaid work shirt, and a cowboy hat. Gambit had settled for sneakers, bicycle shorts, a white muscle T-shirt, and his ever-present duster; like Kurt, his eyes were covered by sunglasses.
The public address system speakers crackled loudly as, somewhere on the train, the conductor made his latest announcement: “Next stop, 125th Street. 125th Street, Harlem. Following 125th Street, this train will be making its last stop at 42nd Street, Grand Central Station. 125th Street, next stop.”
A bell chimed pleasantly, and the doors slid closed. With a slight lurch, the train pulled out of the Mt. Vernon station.
“Won’t be long now,” Rogue said, leaning down toward Jean and Scott. “I just hope somebody’s home when we come a-knockin’.”
Scott nodded grimly. “That makes two of us . . .”
Warren had already left for his office by the time Betsy awoke.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten to rouse her from her coma-like slumber before he departed. When she finally got around to rubbing sleep-encrusted eyes and rolling over in bed to glance at the alarm-clock on the side table, it was already 10:30.
“Oh, bollocks!” she screamed, now fully awake, and clawed her way out of sheets that seemed to have purposely wrapped themselves around her like a mummy’s shroud to impede her attempts
to get out of bed. She eventually won the battle, though, and was soon racing for the shower.
Moving with a speed she’d never known she possessed—a curiously welcome effect bom of equal parts adrenalin and sheer panic—she danced quickly through the shower, blow-dried her hair (noting that she would have to pick up a new bottle of lavender dye, since the color was starting to fade), and began a nerve-racking juggling act that involved running from bathroom to closet and back again, trying to divide her time between applying the proper makeup while searching for the right kind of outfit one should wear when meeting the Minister of Entertainment for the first time.
She was ready to go by 11:45.
Made-up perfectly, perfumed so just, hair done up in a stylish twist, and clad in a dark blazer and matching miniskirt, Betsy stopped to admire the stunning image she presented in the hallway mirror. She arched a delicate eyebrow and, haughtily looking down her nose, cast a withering gaze at her reflection.
“Beg for me, little man,” she purred in an overly dramatic Russian accent. “Beg for me, and perhaps I shall perform in your charming, little show.” She giggled wildly.
Then, with a joyful laugh, she bolted from the apartment as another adrenalin rush kicked in.
Fortunately, it was a short distance from Battery Park City to the World Trade Center; so short, in fact, that Betsy could have walked there ... if she had the time. Luck was with her, though—another tenant was just stepping from a taxi cab as she arrived in the lobby. In less than a minute, she was on her way to meet her destiny.
The New York office of the Minister of Entertainment was located on the seventy-fifth floor of the south tower of the World Trade Center. It was not open all year round, since the Minister rarely visited the city, preferring to stay at his Washington, D.C. estate. When he did visit, though, a cleaning crew moved in with all the precision of a military strike team several days before his arrival and scrubbed the place down until it literally gleamed.
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