“Medical examination of prisoner Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin.”
The computer paused, obviously running a check on the infirmary’s medical records. “Examination performed at 2930 hours, Citadel Standard Time. Next examination not scheduled until—”
An armored fist shattered the electronic eye.
Stanton raised an eyebrow and turned to the glowering despot beside him. “I would have found a way around that problem.”
“Silence!” the former emperor barked. “Doom has no use for timeconsuming protocols—not when there are worlds to be won!”
Roughly pushing past Stanton, the tyrant stepped over to the door leading to the heart of the chamber. Gripping the section of the circular portal where the two halves met, he used the full strength of his incredible armor to force the door open. He stepped inside the next room, not bothering to see if Stanton was following.
There were no furnishings here, no cots or chairs or tables—merely row upon row of medical equipment and monitoring stations.
And one very special occupant.
There, in the center of the room, was the object of von Doom’s quest, and the cornerstone of his plan:
Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin.
She floated serenely in a large tube—a crystalline structure filled with an azure liquid that glowed faintly—her shoulder-length white hair drifting lazily around her stunning features. Features that perfectly matched those of the woman who was second-in-command to the Supreme Guardian.
To see her at rest like this, sleeping so peacefully, one would never know she was completely insane.
As Mastrex of Earth 794, Sat-yr-nin had ruled her world with an iron fist. But she had always desired more than a mere planetary empire, when she knew there were countless other planes of reality out there in the omniverse, all waiting to be conquered. She might have succeeded in attaining her goals, someday, if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Brian Braddock, the Captain Britain of Earth 616 who, it turned out, was an alternate version of her royal konsort, Byron Brah-dok—her world’s Kaptain Briton.
Sat-yr-nin eventually escaped the prison into which her people placed her, and journeyed to Brian’s world seeking revenge. Unfortunately, he’d joined up with a group of England-based heroes called Excalibur by then, and it had been his shapeshifting girlfriend, Megan, who ultimately upset her plans and forced the Mastrex to flee back to her homeworld. Of course, things had worked out for the best, anyway—she’d still had followers on 794 and, with their aid, she was soon back in power, gleefully staging public executions and constantly reminding her subjects that she was here to stay.
Or had been there to stay, that is, until the combined might of the X-Men and the Captain Britain Corps changed the situation . . .
“Release her,” von Doom commanded.
Stanton didn’t comment this time. He simply stepped over to the tube’s controls and began the extraction process.
A pump at the bottom of the crystal began siphoning out the suspension fluid, revealing the flawless contours of her body. Once the liquid had been drained, the crystalline glass slid upward. Stanton crossed over to the opened tube and quickly removed the monitoring devices attached to Sat-yr-nin’s skin. With a soft groan, the Mastrex slowly started to revive.
The physician turned to von Doom. “It may take a few minutes for—”
Before Stanton could grab her, Sat-yr-nin suddenly pitched forward, her body heaving uncontrollably. Dropping to her knees, fingers splayed to keep her head from crashing down onto the cold metal beneath her, she opened her mouth wide, and spewed onto the floor a fair amount of the azure liquid. She gasped for air as, for the next minute, her lungs continued to pump out the dark fluid that filled them in order to make room for oxygen. When that was finally accomplished, she fell into a severe coughing fit that made her double-over, clutching her sides in obvious pain.
And all the while, von Doom watched in silence, arms folded across his chest.
Eventually, the Mastrex’s breathing problems ceased, and she eased into a steady rhythm of inhalations and exhalations. Wiping away the traces of spit and blue-tinged snot that hung from her lips and nostrils with the back of one hand, she slowly looked up at the armored figure towering above her.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin,” the monarch said. “I am Doom—-and I bring you an offer you would do well to accept...
T HE DRUGS were beginning to wear off.
MU Moaning softly, Charles Xavier tried to open his eyes, but each I * I lid felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds. He attempted to raise his arms so he could rub at the ponderous folds of skin with the edges of his hands, but his limbs were just as heavy. Whatever the dosage he’d been given, it had obviously been meant to keep him unconscious for quite a long time.
“Scott, I think he is waking up,” said a voice in a clipped German accent. The Professor immediately recognized the speaker: Kurt Wagner. It sounded as though Kurt was standing a mile away, but Xavier knew that, as dazed as he was by the sedative, his student could be right beside him and still sound distant.
Though as yet unable to focus his thoughts, he was aware of a dull roar that filled the air around him, and felt pressure building in his ears. Were they on a plane? A sealed aircraft cabin would account for his limited hearing. But where were they heading? Even through the drug-induced fog, one possible answer came to mind: He was being taken to Magneto for interrogation—and, more than likely, a round or two of gloating about how he’d finally won. If the Professor had been able to coax his facial muscles into forming a smile, he would have done so.
Good old Magnus, he thought fuzzily. I can always count on his predictability.. .
There was the sound of footsteps approaching—more than one set.
“Already?” That was Scott Summer’s voice; he sounded angry. “I thought you said he’d be unconscious for the entire travel time.”
“I’m a gymnast, not a doctor,” Kurt snapped. “I was only repeating what Dr. MacTaggert told me before we left. How was I to know his constitution might be strong enough to shake it off?”
“Boys, boys, calm down.” Xavier recognized the soothing tones of Jean Grey as she entered the conversation. “Getting huffy with one another is just going to make this trip seem twice as long. I realize we’re all a bit on edge, having this killer in our midst, but Erik will take care of everything once we get to the palace. Now ... just relax.” The two men muttered in agreement. Xavier felt the cool touch of Jean’s delicate fingers on his face, felt her hands tilting back his head, and then light blazed into his exposed left eye as she pulled up the lid. He groaned in mild discomfort. The pupil instinctively rolled upward, and he found himself blearily staring at some sort of metal ceiling. Jean released the lid, and it snapped shut, plunging him back into darkness.
“He’s still out of it,” Jean said. “Between the phenobarbital in his system and the neural inhibitor shutting down his psi-talents, I really don’t think we’re going to have any problems with him.”
Xavier felt a brief wave of panic surge through his body. They’d robbed him of his telepathic abilities? He concentrated as best he could, attempted to sweep the room with his mind, to see if he could detect the thoughts of his former students.
Nothing. Even the soft buzz of voices that normally crackled in the back of his mind—not even a telepath as powerful as the Professor could block out every thought being broadcast by six billion people around the globe—was gone. The inhibitor he’d been fitted with had taken away his most powerful weapon, and he suddenly felt.. . ordinary. And very helpless.
“But, if you think he’s still a danger to us, Scott,” Jean continued, “then I could always put him under again with a psi-bolt.”
Xavier started. He couldn’t let them knock him out again—he needed a chance to talk, to convince them to help him find the Cube. If he lost consciousness now, he knew he wouldn’t reawaken until he had been brought before Magneto. He tried to move his
slackened jaw, tried to open his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt as heavy as his arms. He grunted, attempting to create the guttural sound closest to the word “no.”
It came out as “goo.”
“Did you hear that?” Scott asked. “I think he’s trying to say something.”
“Not very well...” Kurt commented.
“Oh, stop that!” Jean chided. “You get shot up with enough sedatives to slow a bull elephant and see how well you’re able to form words.” Xavier felt a ticklish senation as strands of hair drifted across his face; his nostrils filled with the fragrance of perfume and apple-scented shampoo. She was leaning down close to him, only inches from his left ear. “Would you like to tell us something, Professor?” she asked in a low, breathy tone.
“Yes” was a tad easier to pronounce, since the “ess” sound only required him to blow air through his cheeks.
“Then, let’s find out what it is, shall we?” she said. Fingertips settled against the sides of his temples. “Contact.”
It was like having a SWAT team kick down to the door to his mind.
In an instant, Jean was in his thoughts, forcing her way into his subconscious, effortlessly crashing through the few minor psychic defenses that the neural inhibitor hadn’t managed to disrupt. The pain created by her violent entry sizzled across his synapses, and almost caused him to black out.
When she finally burst through the final layer of consciousness, she found him waiting for her, seated behind the desk in his study. Well, not really his study, but rather a mental reconstruction of his inner sanctum, back at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning in the preCube world. In pop psychology terms, this was his “happy place”—the refuge that existed deep in his subconscious, to which his tired mind would go to seek some measure of relief whenever the pressing burdens of his responsibilities became too taxing. There was mahogany furniture and plush red carpeting. Framed paintings hung on the walls. A pair of high-backed lounging chairs with big, fluffy cushions were positioned to face a large, brick fireplace. Logs burned in the hearth, warming the room and providing most of the lighting. It all felt incredibly . . . cozy.
The room itself was immense—oak-paneled walls that seemed to stretch into infinity, lined with bookshelves filled with volumes. Between the cases stood sets of double doors, each portal leading to a different memory. At one end of the room, the main doors leading to the study lay in large, jagged pieces on the carpet. Standing just inside the entrance, hands resting on her hips, Jean turned her head from side-to-side, then up and down. She looked impressed by her surroundings. I like what you ’ve done with the place, Professor.
Thank you, Xavier replied. But you’ve been here before. Many times, in fact.
Jean frowned, and tapped a finger against her chin, as though searching her memories. Have I? I think I’d remember being here if I had. It’s so ... different from all the other minds I’ve traveled through. So well-organized.
The Professor smiled. It makes it easier to find things when I need to.
No doubt. lean’s eyes widened as she turned in a slow circle, gazing at all the portals. That’s a lot of memories you have here, Professor— and a lot of secrets, as well. I’d very much like to see what lies behind them. . .
Her bright green eyes flashed, and Xavier suddenly found the arms of his chair closing around him, pinning him to the seat. He squirmed mightily, but the wooden and leather restraints only tightened even more, forcing the air from his lungs. He gasped as the unyielding arms scraped against his rib cage.
Don’t get up, the fiery-tressed telepath said, smiling wickedly. I can find my way around.
Jean—no! You don’t have to do this— Xavier tried to push up in the seat to free his arms, his face turning beet red with the effort, but it was no use. He was held fast.
His former student concentrated, and, one by one in rapid succession, the doors of his mind began opening, revealing memories both joyous and haunting, and all seen from the Professor’s point of view:
—the smiling face of a twenty something Moira MacTaggert (who looked exactly like the physician who worked at the Lensherr Institute with Jean and the others), lying in the grass beside Xavier, staring up at the puffy white clouds high above, head resting comfortably on his chest. The feel of warm sunshine on Jean’s/Charles’ face, The smell of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass wafting through the cool spring air, mingling with the scent of jasmine in Moira’s flame-red hair.
“D’ye have t’go, Charles?” she asks, her lilting voice echoing with the sounds of the Scottish Highlands.
“It’s not as though I’ve been given a choice, Moira,” Xavier replies. “Once that letter arrived in the mail, the decision had already been made for me. I’ve been drafted, and there’s nothing I can do about it. My unit is being shipped off to Korea in the morning.”
“But, what about yer doctorate? Ye’re still in school—shouldn’t that give ye some sort o’ special dispensation t’keep ye from goin’?”
Xavier chuckles. “Well, I did try giving the Draft Board a note from my mother, asking to excuse me from combat, but they recognized my handwriting from the forms I had to fill out.”
Moira turns her head to face him; her dark expression shows she’s not amused by his attempt at humor. “Tis nae somethin’ t’be jokin’ about, Charles,” she says sternly. “Ye could be killed.”
A hesitation. “Yes,” he says softly. “I know.” He reaches out to stroke her cheek, then quietly clears his throat. “Moira. . .” Another hesitation. “Moira, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you— something I’ve been putting off for far too long. But now, with my departure in the morning, never knowing when I’ll see you again ... it can’t wait any more.”
“An’ what would that be, dear heart?” she replies sharply, her beautiful features drawn taut with concern. “Would ye like me t’take notes fer ye at yer classes while ye’re away, so ye can continue workin’ on yer doctorate while ye’re crouched in some muddy foxhole, wi’ bullets whizzin’ past yer head?”
“No, nothing like that.” A pause. Nervous energy runs through him; his heart beats wildly, pounding against the wall of his chest. Sharp intake of breath as he tries to steady his nerves, then:
“Moira MacTaggert. . . will you marry me?”
Her eyes open wide in shock. She blushes, and places a hand to her cheek as though she’s trying to hide it. Slowly, surprise gives way to a warm, dimpled smile.
“Aye,” she says simply.
A surge of adrenaline races through the Professor’s body. It’s the happiest day of his life.
Sitting up, Moira reaches out to pull him towards her. The sun is blotted out by her fiery tresses as she draws near, and there’s the warm sensation of her lips pressing against his . ..
—a disgustingly obese man dressed in an ill-fitting white suit, a maroon fez perched haphazardly on the top of his bald head. Beautiful, but extremely sad, Mid-Eastern women in expensive jewelry and low-cut gowns fearfully hover around him—they’re his slaves. The man introduces himself as Amahl Farouk, and he runs the Thieves’ Quarter in Cairo, Egypt. Like Xavier, he is a telepath. Unlike the Professor, he only uses his powers for personal gain, destroying the lives—and minds—of anyone who has ever dared oppose him. He is the first telepath, and the first evil mutant, Charles has ever faced.
Xavier eyes his opponent across the length of the bar in which they sit, the air foul with the stench of sweat and stale tobacco and human misery. “I swear I will not rest until you’re brought to justice for your crimes!” the Professor declares, though he knows he’s out of his league. A sinister smile ripples the cheeks of the fat man. “So be it.”
And then the psychic battle is joined . . .
—Erik Magnus Lensherr floats high in the air above the Professor, years before the world will come to fear him as the mutant overlord called Magneto. It is this defining moment in the two friends’ relationship that will affect the lives of every mutant on the
planet.
“You are far too trusting, Charles—too naive,” Magnus says, his voice laden with sadness. “You have faith in the essential goodness of man. In time, you will learn what I have learned—that even those you love will turn from you in horror when they discover what you truly are.” The morose expression flows quickly from his face, replaced with one of fierce determination. “Mutants will not go meekly to the gas chambers. We will fight. . . and we will win! ”
—a younger Jean, dressed in a black sweater and matching beret, white kid gloves, and knee-length blue skirt, standing before a wheelchair-bound Xavier. Four men enter the room; one of them is a teenaged Scott Summers, wearing a ridiculous pair of green checkered slacks and a dark green pullover. She recognizes one of the others as Warren Worthington III, the multi-millionaire gen-active who’s now married to that TV star, Elisabeth Braddock.
Worthington steps forward to shake her hand. “Welcome to the X-Men, Miss Grey. . . .”
—Jean, Scott, Worthington, and one of their teammates (the Beast?!), all wearing costumes of bright yellow and dark blue materials. They’re trapped inside the gondola of a weather balloon, rising toward the upper layers of the stratosphere as their oxygen supply dwindles. Hands in front of her face—they actually belong to Xavier. He reaches up to touch the sides of his temples. A moment of concentration, then—
“It’s the Angel’s parents!” Xavier blurts out. “Magneto has captured them!”
Jean! Stop! Please! the Professor cried out. He lurched in his seat, pushing against the restraints. You’re hurting me!
Just looking for any hidden booby traps, Professor, Jean replied, throwing wide another door. There was a momentary flash of another memory—
—a bedroom in the Israeli port city of Haifa, ceiling fans slowly turning to dispel the heat of the day, a beautiful, dark-haired woman named Gabrielle Haller lying beside him—
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