Kurt leaned forward, his attention focused on the story. “Could you raise the sound, please?” Rogue pushed the volume control on the remote.
“—we’ll have a story about television star Elisabeth Braddock’s unexpected appearance in a Lower East Side hotel this afternoon, and her mysterious disappearing act before a roomful of reporters,” the broadcaster was saying. The newsroom shot cut to a videotaped replay of a bald-headed man and the same, lavender-tressed woman in an elevator; they were trying to conceal their faces from the camera, but there was nowhere for them to hide in the cramped space.
Rogue pointed at the screen. “Hey, it’s that girl from that. . .” She paused, waving a hand as though encouraging a memory to come to the front of her brain. After a couple of seconds, she snapped her fingers. “Yeah, I know—that Kwannon, Bushido Mistress TV show! The kids are always talkin’ about it.”
“Freeze that picture!” Kurt yelled, gesturing wildly at the television.
Rogue punched another button on the remote, and the jumpy image recorded by the hand-held camera providing the shot came to an abrupt, slightly unfocused halt. “What’s the matter?”
Kurt slowly rose from the couch and moved toward the television, staring hard at the screen. “That man . ..” he said quietly. Eyes widening in surprise, he pointed to the grainy image of the man in the hi-tech wheelchair. “It is him!”
“Him who?” Rogue asked.
Kurt turned to face her. “Don’t you remember the man Erik warned
us about? The mutant terrorist he said would try to tear down everything Erik has spent a lifetime building? The one who’d send us plunging back into the old days of prejudice and hatred?”
“Xavier..Rogue whispered.
Kurt nodded. “We’d better inform Scott and Jean of this. If Xavier is here, in New York, then it must mean he’s getting ready to strike.” His jaw set in determination. “We ’11 have to strike first...
8
KWANNON, BUSHIDO Mistress? What sort of nonsense is this?" Betsy stared in annoyance at the computer screen at the station
_ in which she sat beside the Professor. After escaping the madness
in the Stuyvesant Arms lobby, she’d directed the exit point of their spatial jaunt to the rear of the main branch of the New York Public Library, on Fifth Avenue, deciding to forego any cyber-cafe appearance that might result in another riot. A quick trip to the ladies’ room after their arrival, and Betsy had concealed her attention-getting crimson tattoo beneath a layer of makeup, tied her hair back in a severe ponytail so the strands would look a little darker grouped together, and slipped on her sunglasses. Minor changes, but hopefully they’d be enough to conceal her identity.
Maybe I should have washed out the dye. .. she’d thought glumly.
A short time later, they’d gotten access to a computer with Internet capabilities and started researching the world of Magneto. They’d been quite surprised when they’d discovered the reason for the wild scene at the hotel.
“Well, it does explain why all those people were camped out in the lobby and the street—you’re a television star with a highly successful syndicated series, and legions of fans across the globe,” Xavier replied.
Betsy sighed. “So much for traveling incognito . . .”
Xavier nodded. “Indeed. Our pictures must have been broadcast via television and the Internet three times around the world by now.” He frowned, and pinched the tip of his chin between thumb and forefinger. “However, it doesn’t explain why you should have a duplicate on this world. Based on what you’ve told me, you departed with von Doom before the Cosmic Cube had an opportunity to restructure you to fit within the scope of Erik’s plans. Therefore, there shouldn’t be another Elisabeth Braddock in existence, beyond the possibility that another woman would have the same name ...”
“But it certainly doesn’t explain this. ” Betsy gestured toward the screen, and the picture displayed on it. The full-color, digital photograph had been taken, according to its accompanying caption, at a party in Santa Barbara, California, just two months ago. There were a number of celebrities in the shot, mingling with politicians and their families. A bright red banner, strung across the back of the hotel ballroom in which they were all gathered, read happy 40th, henry! in canary-yellow letters.
And standing in the center of the picture, an arm comfortably wrapped around the waist of TV star Elisabeth Braddock, was a ruggedly handsome, blond-haired man in his twenties. He cut an elegant figure in his dark-gray Armani suit, but he looked more like an angel than the multi-millionaire that he actually was, his smile bright and boyish, his wings a brilliant white, spread wide like a feathered backdrop against which he and the Kwannon star stood.
His name was Warren Worthington III, and he was—as evidenced by the golden bands encircling the third fingers on the couple’s left hands—Elisabeth’s husband.
He was also, it appeared, very much alive.
“That sick monster,” Betsy said through gritted teeth. Her eyes flashed with unbridled anger. “Not only does he kill the only man who ever really meant anything to me, but then he goes so far as to resurrect him—and for what? So he can have the chance to do it all over again?” She fell silent, then, and just sat there for a while, staring at the photograph. Slowly, her expression softened. “I remember this party—it was for Senator Gyrich’s fortieth birthday, and it happened last year, not two months ago. Warren asked me to sing a couple of numbers to get the party going. . . and then Gyrich pinched my bottom as I headed for the stage.” She snorted derisively. “The little toerag.” “Elisabeth.” ' '
Betsy turned from the monitor to face the Professor. “Yes?” “That’s the second time now you’ve mentioned an event at which
I know you were never present,” Xavier replied. “Or, to be more accurate, an event I know never happened at all.”
Confused, Betsy stared at him for a moment. “What are you talking about?” she finally said.
The Professor pointed to the picture on the monitor. “This party you remember. Henry Gyrich isn’t a United States senator—he’s a government liaison who, as much as he likes to remind people that he despises superpowered beings, usually works with the Avengers from a Washington, D.C. office. I’m certain the man has political aspirations—what person living there doesn ’t have them?—but right now he’s nothing more than a glorified pencil-pusher.”
An inquisitive eyebrow rose above the frames of Betsy’s sunglasses. “Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely,” Xavier replied. “And these singing engagements you keep mentioning—I know you’ve performed once or twice at Warren’s nightclub in Manhattan, but you’ve never made a career out of it. You’ve been far too busy with your duties as an X-Man.” Betsy’s mind was reeling. “But, then . . . why do I remember them so clearly?” She shook her head. “No—you’re wrong. I know that they happened—”
“On von Doom’s world, ’’ Xavier interjected. “Don’t you see, Elisabeth? You’re recalling events that were essentially works of fiction— minor details among millions of others that helped to flesh-out von Doom’s fantasy realm. Your love for Warren was real—everything else was fabricated by the Cube as it reached into your subconscious and brought forth a personality that would be more in line with the world it was creating. An Elisabeth Braddock with no psychic abilities, no memory of being an X-Man, no knowledge of the depths of evil to which von Doom is capable of sinking in order to have his way.”
“But Jean was the one who restored all my memories,” Betsy insisted. “Are you saying she didn’t do a complete job of it?”
Xavier shook his head. “No, but I am saying that these false recollections may be a sign that you’re still under the Cube’s influence.” He frowned. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have come . ..”
Betsy glared at him. “You were not leaving me behind. Your ‘friend’ has done quite enough damage to all our lives—it’s time he’s stopped once and for all.”
&nbs
p; “This is not a mission of vengeance, Psylocke,” Xavier said sternly, “but one of mercy. The dimensions the Cube has infected need our help—and I need you to focus solely on the task set for us.” His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close. “You may have been able to attack von Doom by catching me with my guard down—my error, for expecting better of you, even under such trying circumstances—” Betsy flinched; the heated comment had struck her like a slap to the face “—but do not think that I will allow it to happen a second time when we confront Magnus.” He paused.
“I loved Warren like a son, Elisabeth,” he said softly. “I know the pain you’re suffering; there’s a heaviness in my heart, as well. But the chances of failure here are too great for us to allow vendettas to distract us from our goal. I realize you’re angry, and you’re hurt, and you’d like nothing better than to lash out at Erik and make him pay for the atrocities he’s committed ... but you know that’s not how we do things in the X-Men.” He gently placed a hand over one of hers. “And it’s not how Warren would want you to act.”
Betsy slowly nodded, unable to look him in the eye. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that... it’s just so damn hard to . ..” She inhaled sharply, then slowly exhaled through her nostrils, forcing herself to remain in control. “I apologize.”
“As do I,” Xavier said. “I didn’t mean to take such a cheap shot at you. I know what to expect of you, Elisabeth—and you’ve never disappointed me.”
“Thank you,” Betsy said softly. Slowly, she raised her head. “Shall we continue?”
Xavier nodded, and smiled. “By all means. However, the source of these strange memories, and any reasons Erik may have for creating twins of you and Warren, will have to be examined later—right now, we still have a great deal of work to do.” Fingers skipping across the keyboard, he entered the locate field of the search engine they were using and typed in a request for information on the mutant overlord. “Let’s see what else we can learn about this world . ..”
It was certainly an education. The end of wars, famine, racial intolerance. Mutants and humans living side-by-side in harmony. The building of a worldwide community dedicated to the sanctity of peace and understanding for one another.
“Incredible,” Xavier muttered, hours later. He rubbed his tired, red-rimmed eyes. “He’s accomplished so much with the Cube, changed so many lives for the better.” He shook his head in astonishment. “It’s absolutely amazing.”
“But let’s not forget, Professor,” Betsy pointed out, “that, in order to bring about such peace and harmony, he’s also used the Cube to take control of everyone on the planet. .. including our friends.” She pointed to an article from Time magazine that glowed brightly on the computer screen. “This shared, worldwide dream mentioned in everything we’ve read is obviously Magneto’s explanation for how he started manipulating their minds. It’s easy to think of him as a great peacemaker when he’s eliminated hatred towards mutants by rewiring everyone’s brains.” She sneered. “We’re the only ones who know what a monstrous, murdering creature he truly is.”
Xavier nodded slowly, but it was clear he was saddened by having to agree with that description of his once-friend. He exhaled sharply. “And yet, if there was only some way to preserve part of what he’s done. To lose so much, after we’ve seen what heights the people of the world are capable of achieving, once they’ve come to understand our kind . . .”
Betsy gently placed a hand on his arm. “Professor..she said quietly.
Xavier fell silent, then slowly smiled. “Yes, I know—now, I’m the one who’s lost focus on the mission.” He sighed.
“It happens to us all, you know,” Betsy said, and grinned broadly. Xavier chuckled. “I suppose.”
“All right, so we know Magneto is living in Paris with his family,” Betsy said. “Now, all we need to do is force him to give us the Cube, and take it to Roma so she can sort out this whole bloody mess.” Xavier nodded in agreement.
“But first we’ll need to recover my gear from the hotel.”
The Professor frowned. “That might not be possible. Knowing how the media works, I would imagine the hotel is literally crawling with representatives of the Fourth Estate by now.”
“It will only take a minute,” she politely insisted. “Come on, Professor—I didn’t load up that carryall with the tools of my trade and drag it around the city so I could leave it behind now.” She grinned broadly, like a child excited about what she found in her Christmas stocking. “Besides, I was just getting used to the katana—it’s got an incredibly delicate balance. I’ve never held one like it. I’d hate to lose it before I got a chance to try it out.”
Xavier shook his head. “I really don’t think it’s wi—”
An elderly man in the next booth leaned back. “Hey! Pipe down over there!” he whispered hoarsely. “This is a library, not a bar—ya wanna yak it up, go outside!”
Betsy leaned over to speak with him. “Sorry,” she said quietly, and smiled. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The man stared at her for a moment, then his gaze began a slow descent, taking in her tight-fitting clothes and the hourglass shape of her body, finally lingering a bit on her legs. Slowly, he looked up and grinned. ” ’Sail right,” he whispered.
Betsy gently patted the man on the shoulder. “Thank you.”
He nodded, then turned back to his computer. As she moved to rejoin the Professor, Betsy caught a glimpse of the man out of the comer of her eye—he was leaning back to get another appreciative look.
She chuckled softly. What’s that saying the Americans have?
“Take a picture—it’ll last longer?” Bet he wished he’d brought along his Nikon . . .
“Very well, Elisabeth,” Xavier said. “We’ll recover your ‘gear.’ But we can’t stay too long—there’s a far greater chance now that Erik may have dispatched his minions to capture us. I’d rather we meet him on our terms.”
“I’ll be quick about it,” Betsy replied. “In and out before anyone even knows we’ve been there.” She looked over her shoulders in both directions—no one was paying them any mind, and the old man had gone back to surfing the Web, or whatever it was he’d been doing before he became involved in their conversation. “Let’s go.”
And with that, they plunged into darkness.
Somewhere beyond the boundaries of time and space, another darkness of sorts was forming.
In the medical wing of the Starlight Citadel, for the first time since Merlyn had created the facility hundreds of years ago, the staff received an unusual—and most welcome—visitor: Roma, Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse. She was accompanied by a retinue of guards and the always tension-creating presence of Satumyne. It wasn’t some kind of surprise inspection, or any sort of annual physical Roma needed to undertake. She was here to examine the facility’s lone patient, and to learn the meaning of the strange test results gathered by the physicians.
She was grateful for the distraction. Anything that could pull her away from the throne room and the constantly depressing sight of the reality-cancer spreading unchecked throughout the dimensions she was no longer able to protect was most welcome, indeed. A medical mystery was as good a diversion as anything else that might pop up while she waited in agony for Professor Xavier and Elisabeth Braddock to complete their mission.
The odd little man with the checkered slacks and the wide, friendly grin bowed dramatically as Roma and her party approached. “It is an honor and a rare privilege, indeed, Your Majesty, to have you visit our humble facility.”
Satumyne rolled her eyes in disgust and snorted.
“I understand you are in need of my assistance, Doctor,” Roma said pleasantly. “And so, here I am.” She glanced at von Doom, who was propped up in his bed, arms folded across his chest, staring at her with as much open contempt as she was staring at him. There were straps binding his arms and legs to the sides of the bed—obviously, he’d tried to escape. “Satumyne has shown me your findings, an
d you were correct—they are quite intriguing.”
“I thought you might agree.” The little man sidled closer. “And since you do, Your Majesty, I was hoping to obtain your permission for a small experiment. It might aid in our quest for answers to this most puzzling situation.”
“It would depend upon how ‘small’ your experiment is, Doctor,” the Guardian replied. “I am not of a mind to allow you to do anything that might jeopardize the well-being of the citadel and its citizens.” The doctor shook his head. “Oh, no—nothing quite that grand, Your Majesty. No, what I have in mind involves our patient, Mr. von Doom—”
“Lord Doom, you nattering jackanapes,” the elderly dictator snapped.
The doctor nodded obligingly. “Yeess . . . Lord Doom, and a mul-tiphasic crystal accelerator.”
Satumyne raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Planning on a bit of vivisection, Doctor? Shouldn’t you have permission from your patient before you go slicing him up like a loaf of bread?”
“Believe me, Your Whyness,” the doctor replied testily, “I have tried to get it. But if what I suspect is true, we won’t need it. The accelerator should provide the answers we need, while still leaving the patient unharmed.”
“And your patient was less than willing to comply with your initial request for his participation?” Roma commented. She smirked. “I find that sort of response hard to believe, coming from a man so dedicated to science as he.”
The doctor rolled his eyes dramatically. “The patient, Your Majesty, has been less than willing to do anything more than bark orders at my staff, and the only dedication he’s shown has been toward tapping into the depths of his mental thesaurus to come up with new and increasingly complex combinations of invectives to hurl at me. I dare say some of them might even make a sailor blush.”
“I see,” Roma said. She gazed at von Doom, and a wicked smile turned up the comers of her lips. “Well, Doctor, we would not be assembled here this day, wondering if the omniverse can survive one more hour, were it not for the unmitigated arrogance of our guest in thinking that he can play at being a god.” She turned back to the physician. “Therefore, I am more than willing to give you permission to conduct whatever experiments you think are necessary. Please proceed.”
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