Satumyne took the device from him and scanned the Information displayed on the small screen. “Who’s the patient?”
“That charming elderly gentleman Roma sent down to me for treatment,” the doctor replied sarcastically.
The Majestrix’s visible eye widened in surprise. “Doom? These are Doom’s readings?”
“Yes.” The doctor smiled slyly. “Quite interesting, wouldn’t you say?”
“You have a gift for understatement, Doctor,” Satumyne replied dryly. She pointed to one finding in particular. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“I really can’t say that I have, Your Whyness,” he replied. “But then, I’ve never met a man with two sets of thought patterns.” He pointed to the computer screen. “And if I’m right—which I am invariably am—then, based upon these readings, which, before you ask, my staff has already checked and rechecked a number of times, it would appear we have a case of two versions of the same man sharing one body.” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Do you think the Supreme Guardian might be interested in this rather intriguing situation?”
The only response to the doctor’s question came, unexpectedly and decidedly unwanted, from the Majestrix’s burbling digestive tract.
“Well, this is something I never expected to see,” Betsy commented.
From their vantage point on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, she and Xavier could see most of the island of Manhattan stretched out before them in the bright, noonday sun. The city didn’t look all that different from how it normally appeared in the “real world”—its streets congested with far too many vehicles, its sidewalks jammed with tourists, bike messengers, and food vendors—but there were changes, if you knew where to look for them. About the biggest that came to mind, once Betsy had focused on it, was the absence of superpowered beings. During the day, the skies were usually full of them—heroic men and women soaring high above the streets as they raced off to answer a call for help, or power-hungry villains recklessly zooming toward a confrontation with their most hated enemies. Now, though, the only occupants of the air were an assortment of birds and a number of traffic helicopters, the latter emblazoned with the logos of the television stations for which their crews were reporting.
The people were different, as well. Having lived in the city for a while now, Betsy had always been struck by the blase attitude of New Yorkers toward the unusual; not even the first arrival of Galactus years ago had closed down Wall Street. But now, it seemed, even the tourists were taking everything in stride—those gathered on the observation deck hadn’t reacted at all to the unexpected appearance of two mutants emerging from a pool of oily darkness right within their midst.
It was almost unnerving.
“I have to tell you, Professor,” Betsy said, “that, after all the clashes the X-Men have had with Magneto over the years, after hearing his endless diatribes about how Homo superior should be the dominant species on the planet, I was expecting concentration camps and armed stormtroopers, not clean streets and a harmonious society.” She glanced at her companion, and chuckled softly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were standing in the middle of your dream.”
“It is strange,” Xavier agreed. “Erik has been set in his ways for as long as I have known him. Based on our discussions, I never would have thought him capable of creating such a world.” He paused, and scratched his jaw, obviously deep in concentration. “However,” he said slowly, “now that I stop to think about it, there was a brief period, long before you joined us, when his views about dominating the world began to change. I had asked him to run the school during an extended leave of absence I was forced to take for health reasons.”
Betsy was nonplussed. “Just a moment. You put Magneto in charge of the school?”
Xavier nodded. “And he did an admirable job, from what the others told me . . . although it did take him quite some time to begin earning their trust.”
“No surprise there,” Betsy commented sarcastically. “It’s amazing, though, that Wolverine didn’t try to kill him, considering his intense hatred for the man.”
The Professor grunted. “Nevertheless, despite his initial setbacks, Erik was eventually able to work alongside Cyclops and the others. It seemed to have a beneficial effect on him—he changed. His obsession with punishing humanity for its harsh treatment of our kind began to dwindle, and, with the help of the X-Men, he focused his energies on finding ways to bring about peace between the races.” A wisp of a smile played at the comers of his mouth. “I imagine it had a great deal to do with having to interact with the students on a daily basis, with coming to better understand the very men and women he had been trying to destroy for so many years, and the dream in which they so strongly believed.” The smile quickly faded. “Unfortunately, it was not meant to last.” He sighed deeply, and gazed off into the distance.
Looking at his pained expression, it was obvious to Betsy that he somehow felt responsible for Magneto’s return to his old ways. That, maybe if he’d tried harder, his former friend wouldn’t have abandoned the slow, difficult path toward universal harmony that he’d started walking in favor of a far easier shortcut that led him back to violence as the best solution for eradicating prejudice toward mutantkind. She’d heard the Professor express similar thoughts over the years—absolute rubbish, in her opinion. Some people just couldn’t help being what they were, including super-villains. If subjugating humanity was the only way the mutant overlord believed that peace could be achieved, then that would forever remain his focus until he reached his goal, no matter how many times Charles Xavier tried to convince him otherwise.
“And yet, Professor,” she said, gesturing toward the city around them, “it’s clear your arguments about trying to find a peaceful solution to the man-versus-mutant problem didn’t fall on deaf ears.” She shrugged. “Maybe all it took was some time for him to eventually realize that you had been right all along. Maybe, once he had the Cube in hand, he realized he didn’t need to take out his aggressions on mankind; that he could do better than that. Maybe he just grew tired of all the fighting. The bottom line, though, is that he actually used the Cube’s powers to do some good. Magneto might be the one in charge, but this is the closest realization of your dream that I’ve ever seen.”
Xavier sighed. “Yes. And now, here I am, ready to tear down that dream because it presents a far greater danger than anyone could ever have imagined.” He glanced at his lavender-haired companion. “There’s a certain irony to the situation, don’t you think?”
“It’s not the dream that’s dangerous, Professor,” Betsy said, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s the dreamer. And this isn’t your dream, remember, no matter how close to it this world might appear;
good, bad, or indifferent, it’s all his. And that’s what’s endangering the omniverse—not anything you ’ve done.”
The Professor reached up to pat the back of her hand. “I suppose you’re right.” He looked up at her, and smiled. “Thank you, Elisabeth.” She grinned. “Better you hear an encouraging speech from me than, say, from Wolverine. Logan would just tell you to ‘get over it.’ ” Xavier chuckled. “Indeed.”
“Now, let’s see about setting up that base of operations, shall we?” Betsy said. She dramatically waved a hand at the metropolis below them. “Somewhere down there is a hotel room waiting to be booked, and a hot shower guaranteed to wash away both our troubles and the nauseating stench of rotted food that has worked its way into our pores.” She pointed to the crowd of tourists gathered around them. Both humans and mutants had drawn back as the hot summer sun warmed the X-Men’s clothing, increasing the eye-watering odor that wafted up from the garbage-stained material by a factor of ten.
Xavier nodded. “We appear to have overstayed our welcome.” “Then, we’re off,” Betsy said. Instantly, another portal began to form beneath their feet.
The Professor grimaced. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Elisabeth,”
he said uneasily, “perhaps a taxi cab might be an easier mode of transpor—”
Any further words of mild protest that he might have been about to utter were quickly lost as the duo plunged into darkness.
The Stuyvesant Arms was not the type of hotel one would find listed in a visitor’s guide to New York. Located on East Houston Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, it had not yet benefited from the sweeping changes of gentrification that were slowly transforming its surrounding neighborhood. Once known for its high crime rate and drug trafficking, the area had become a mecca for trendy coffee shops, exclusive nightclubs, and chic, hole-in-the-wall art galleries. But the Stuyvesant— named after Peter Stuyvesant, the first mayor of New York, though no one on the hotel’s staff was aware of that fact, or even cared about the man’s place in history—was a throwback to an earlier time, when the city was a tad less civilized, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary to hear gunshots ringing in the hotel’s hallways, or hear of guests awakening in the middle of the night to find a rat the size of a mountain lion sitting on the edge of their beds, watching them with hungry eyes.
But that, of course, was back in the days when New York was nicknamed “Fun City.” Times were different now... or so the city’s administration often said. And yet, the more things change ...
Sitting behind the registration desk in the hotel’s dimly lit lobby, safely protected by a wire cage that kept some of the more . . . colorful denizens of the neighborhood from getting too close to him, Marty Keeler was a man who liked to dream of a better life—one where he dined in the finest restaurants, owned three or four mansions around the world, and traveled in style wherever he went. And women—there were always plenty of beautiful women populating his dreams, and each and every one of them thought he was the hottest guy on the planet. It was all a big joke, of course; he never really expected to see those visions become a reality. But for someone who used to be a lowly Morlock—a mutant who once lived with others of his kind in the abandoned subway and maintenance tunnels that ran beneath the city—dreams of power and wealth were all he had had in the years before Magneto’s ascendancy to world leader.
Not that things had improved all that much for him since then.
That was another joke, that whole “equal partners” thing that Magneto and his followers espoused. The world might have become a much better place to live in, but that really only applied to the “beautiful people.” Morlocks like Marty Keeler—with his pustule-covered face, sallow skin tone, and grotesque lack of dental hygiene—were still struggling to eke out a living, taking whatever jobs were available. After all, what kind of high-paying gigs were out there for someone whose genetic “gift” was spewing forth a corrosive acid from the boils that rose like tiny volcanoes above his unhealthy-looking complexion? It wasn’t exactly the sort of power that got you a lot of dates; actually, Marty couldn’t even remember the last time a woman—human or mutant— had even just gone to dinner with him.
But he could always dream . . .
“Excuse me,” said a male voice from the other side of the cage.
Marty looked up from the tiny black-and-white television secreted under the desk ... and found himself looking at the type of woman that, until this very moment, he thought only existed in the more creative recesses of his mind. He didn’t care much for the purple dye in her hair, but, suprisingly enough, the unusual coloration didn’t detract from her beauty; in an odd way, it actually enhanced it. There was something familiar about her; he could swear he’d seen her someplace before, but couldn’t remember exactly where or when. A men’s magazine cover, perhaps? Or maybe on an MTV awards show? She was a looker, though, whoever she was—long legs, supermodel face (he wondered what color her eyes were, behind those dark glasses), and a great body. If only she didn’t smell like she’d been sleeping in a dumpster for a week.. .
“Can I help you?” he asked, leaping to his feet, his attention completely focused on her. Where had he seen her? Not knowing was starting to bother him, but he didn’t think it’d look cool to come right out and ask. Besides, from the way she kept glancing over her shoulder, checking the front entrance as though she expected someone she didn’t want to see to walk through the door, it was pretty clear she didn’t want anyone to know she was here.
Had she been on a TV show? Yes, maybe that was it. But which one ... ?
“We’d like a pair of adjoining rooms, if they’re available,” her male companion said.
Marty continued to stare at the woman, to the point where she began to appear uncomfortable. He couldn’t help himself, though—he knew he was close to figuring out her identity, if he had a few more seconds . . .
“Sir?” the man said, a bit more pronounced.
Reluctantly, Marty forced himself to glance toward the guy. He was bald and middle-aged, with piercing eyes and sharp features. The suit he wore looked as expensive as the woman’s outfit, and he was seated in some kind of wheelchair; the thing looked like it was actually floating a foot or so above the threadbare carpeting. Marty figured some women might consider the guy handsome; his sister, Estelle, certainly would want to have his baby if she met him. Still, he was nowhere as pleasing to the eye as the woman standing beside him.
“Huh?” Marty grunted.
“He said we’d like adjoining rooms,” the woman replied, her voice low and throaty. She removed her glasses and smiled. “Can you help us?”
“Uh . ..” Marty said, suddenly at a loss for words. She had the most incredible lavender eyes—he could almost feel himself getting lost in their depths ...
“The rooms?” the woman asked sweetly.
Marty shook his head to clear his addled thoughts. “Umm . . . sure, I can give you two together,” he finally managed to say. Actually, after the last sweep the police had made on the hotel, clearing out the few remaining drug dealers in the area, he could have given them half a floor to run around in, but why bring that up? As Jerry Mardeck, the surly manager/owner of the Stuyvesant often pointed out, telling guests about the hotel’s less than sterling reputation didn’t do anything good for business—it just sent them heading for the nearest Salvation Army shelter as quickly as possible. “Will that be for an hour, or do you plan on staying longer?”
The man blushed slightly, which looked even more amusing to
Marty because the entirety of his bare head turned a light shade of crimson. “We’ll be staying overnight, at least.”
“Cool,” Marty said. He pushed a well-worn book through the slot on the cage. “If you’ll just sign the register . ..”
The man did the honors while Marty treated himself to another eyeful of the Asian beauty. She’d slipped her glasses back on, and returned to her door-watching duties. Now that he really thought about it, he was sure she was some kind of actress on an action series—he’d seen it at least once ...
“You do have running water, correct?” she asked without turning around.
Marty nodded, then realized she couldn’t see his response. “Yeah.”
“Wonderful.” The woman turned to face him, sliding the glasses to the end of her nose with one shapely finger. “I’m absolutely dying to toss off these clothes and climb into a nice, hot shower.” She smiled wickedly. “I’m feeling ever so dirty.”
Marty felt his knees go weak. He just managed to grab hold of the edge of the desk to keep from collapsing.
“Elisabeth . . .” her companion said in a warning tone.
Elisabeth? With a start, Marty suddenly knew where he’d seen the woman before. The hair color should have been a dead giveaway, but he hadn’t been able to put two and two together until now—after all, why would a woman of her caliber be lurking around a skanky flop house just a few short blocks from The Bowery? But now it all made sense: the nervous glances at the front door; the sunglasses worn even in the semi-darkness of the lobby; the male “friend” who signed the register instead of her.
She was having an affair.
He didn’t know who the man was
—her manager, maybe?—and he didn’t really care about his identity. What he did care about was the woman—now that he knew who she was, her presence here was definitely big news. Maybe It was even worth a few dollars to someone . . .
Flashing a shark’s-tooth smile, Marty unhooked a pair of keys from a set of hooks mounted on the wall behind him, and slid them across the desk. “Here you go. Rooms 524 and 526. That’ll be forty-five bucks.”
The man, of course, was the one who paid and took the keys. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy your stay,” Marty said brightly.
The man nodded pleasantly and turned to his companion. Together, they crossed the lobby and entered the dingy elevator—there was just enough space in the car to accommodate the bald guy’s wheelchair, or whatever the contraption was supposed to be. With an ear-piercing grinding of gears, the door closed, and the car began its ascent to the fifth floor.
As soon as the new arrivals were on their way, Marty reached for the phone and quickly dialed a number.
“Thank you for calling WSLP,” said a prerecorded female voice, “home of Viewpoints and the hard-hitting WSLP News Team. If you know the extension of the party you wish to contact, please dial it now. If not, stay on the line, and an operator will answer your call as soon as possible. And please be sure to watch Viewpoints with host Archer Finckley this Friday night at 9 p.m. on the East Coast, 6 p.m. on the West Coast, when his guest will be—”
“WSLP, how may I direct your call?” another female voice cut in; this one was live.
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