Raising the katana high above her head, she let loose a scream of utter fury and struck at the wall. The rose-tinted energy bit deep into the stone, gouging out a large section of the masonry.
And then a hand poked through the hole she’d made.
In a Paris apartment currently occupied by two silent figures, the body of Warren Worthington III suddenly stiffened, and a look of intense pain twisted his handsome features.
No one in the neighboring flats heard the high-pitched whine that escaped his lips.
Warren? Betsy cried. She leapt forward, grasping his hand as though fearing it might suddenly disappear. He gently squeezed her hand.
None other, honey, he replied. What kept you?
Betsy smiled. I had to go to the front desk to get a spare key. But don’t worry—I’ll have you out of there in a few seconds.
Great. And maybe once I’m out, you can tell me what the hell is going on. Feels like I’ve been locked away in someone’s basement for ages.
Betsy laughed tremulously and patted the back of his hand. As soon as I figure it all out myself, luv, you’ll be the first to know.
That’s my girl, Warren replied sarcastically. Always trying to cheer me up . . .
She giggled at the comment, then had to fight to regain her composure. Focus, you git, she scolded herself. You won’t be any bloody use to Warren if you go carrying on like a giddy, purple-haired simp.
Still, she couldn’t stop a nervous spasm from running through her body; her legs were like jelly, knees threatening to buckle at any moment and send her tumbling to the ground. Her heart was beating so fast, it felt as though it was about to burst from her chest, and she suddenly found that she had trouble breathing properly.
Releasing his hand, she gripped the hilt of the katana and mouthed a silent prayer that this would work.
All right—stand back! she ordered. The hand immediately withdrew, and Betsy swung the psychic sword one last time.
The wall exploded, much to her surprise. And before Betsy could move out of the way, she suddenly found herself in the center of a deadly hail of masonry. One piece the size of a microwave oven caught her across the back of the head. The psi-blade dissipated immediately, her concentration savagely broken, and she dropped to her knees, legs suddenly unable to support her weight. She did her best to try and remain conscious, to at least find out if she’d been successful in freeing Warren, but she could already feel thick, black tendrils closing over her mind, pulling her down into darkness.
And then she felt nothing further.
Matters were about to become even worse than a psychic bump on the head, though.
In an apartment on the Left Bank of Paris, Warren Worthington III, jet-setting multimillionaire, winged mutant, and husband of Elisabeth Braddock—the international star of Kwannon, Bushido Mistress— shrieked in agony as every synapse in his brain short-circuited. His hands flew to the sides of his head, palms pressing against the temples as though to prevent his skull from exploding. His body spasmed, jerking his head away from the psi-blade that formed the bridge between his subconscious and Betsy’s, and breaking the connection. Then he collapsed onto his expensively carpeted floor.
And died.
Countless dimensions away from the eerily silent Parisian apartment, other minds were also about to lock in a life and death struggle.
“I don’t believe it,” the Chief Physician said in astonishment. “It’s a dimensional destabilizer.” He looked from the small, cigar-shaped device attached to the circuits of von Doom’s gauntlets, to stare at its armored creator. “I take it, then, that you figured out that the state of grace prevents weapons from firing—but not the particle accelerators used in medical technology. And by hardwiring components from the MCA into your armor, you’re hoping that the citadel’s sensors will think you’re conducting a procedure, and not a coup.”
“Fascinating,” von Doom said, closing the access panel on the remaining gauntlet. “You have shown far more intelligence in the past twenty minutes than your feckless colleague has in the six hours I have come to know and detest him.”
“You idiot!” the doctor shouted. He pointed to the gauntlets. “Don’t you know what might happen if you go around shooting those things in here? You’ll destabilize the citadel’s integrity, and send everyone hurtling into the vortex!”
“The path to ultimate power cannot be walked unless risks are taken,” von Doom replied. “And they are risks I am willing for others to take on my behalf.”
“Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, is that it?” the Chief Physician shot back. He snorted. “Ridiculous. I’ve heard enough—I’m certain the Supreme Guardian will want to know what you’ve been up to, before you start destroying her home.” And with that, much to von Doom’s surprise, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.
The monarch grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off his feet. “Now who is the ‘idiot,’ physician?” von Doom asked. “Did you think Doom would allow you to just walk out of here so you could raise an alarm?”
“Then why don’t you kill me and be done with it?” the doctor demanded. “Once you start firing that destabilizer, I’ll be just as dead, anyway.”
“Because I see potential in you, physician,” the tyrant replied. “More so than in that imbecile Stanton.”
The doctor started, eyes widening in surprise. “Stanton? He’s working for you?” He growled softly. “Captain England was right—I should have watched him closely.”
“Why bother yourself with that worm, physician,” von Doom asked in silky tones, “when you could take his place by my side?”
The doctor shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve never been very good at taking orders from dictators.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Too much bowing and scraping involved in the process for my liking. Tends to wear out the knees of my trousers.”
“Then you are a fool,” the former emperor stated.
The Chief Physician smiled. “I’ve been called worse things in my time, Doctor ... and by far greater megalomanics than you.”
The tyrant snorted derisively and released the bothersome gnat; the doctor tumbled to the floor. As the little man picked himself up, von Doom reached back to the workbench and picked up one of his gauntlets. He slid it over his left hand, pointed it toward the physician—and activated the firing mechanism.
A burst of green-tinged energy lanced forward from the palm of von Doom’s gauntlet, catching the Chief Physician square in the chest before he could leap aside. He screamed in agony as the power released by the Crystal Accelerator circuits opened a space/time rift in the center of his chest, splitting him in two from head to pelvis. The rift widened, and von Doom could actually see the swirling forces of Creation through the hole in reality, just before the suction pulled both halves of the doctor’s body into the vortex. His dying screams echoed throughout the cavernous room, then quickly fell silent.
With a soft rumble like the first signs of an approaching storm, the rift closed, and von Doom was alone once more.
The Cube was close now. Its siren call filled his mind, blotting out all thoughts but those related to seizing the device from his longtime enemy.
The Controller quickened his pace through the night-shrouded streets of the Left Bank, paying no attention to the direction in which he was being pulled, or the startled gasps of passersby who stared in horror at his grotesque features. Close behind him trailed Leonard, who was doing his best to keep up with his master’s frenetic steps.
It had taken all of the Controller’s strength of will to force himself to wait for nightfall, after he’d made that initial contact with the Cube’s energies from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Since then, he had been unable to sleep, or eat, or sit still for a moment, constantly pacing back and forth through the small set of rooms he and Leonard shared, in a hotel located just off Rue de Babylone. He had cursed the daylight a hundred times or more, impatiently waiting for the sun to set so he could venture fort
h, yet receiving no satisfaction for his efforts. Eventually, realizing the universe refused to obey his commands and the day would pass no faster than normal, he had sat in a comer and settled into a meditative state. He knew that his success would depend entirely upon his ability to reign in his emotions.
But now that night had finally come, he was unwilling to wait a second longer to claim his prize. When Leonard had asked if his master intended to hide his unnerving features in order to avoid drawing unwanted attention, the Controller had scoffed at the notion.
“Let these sheep stare all they want, until they have had their fill,” he had said. “Once the Cube is mine, I shall make certain that my face is the last thing they will have ever seen—before I wish them out of existence.”
They strode past the Hotel des Invalides now, with its ornate, golden dome, then across the Quai d’Orsay and onto Pont Alexandre III, the magnificent bridge that spanned the Seine, ending just before the Grand Palais, the glass-roofed, stately building that had been constructed for the Universal Exposition of 1900. Never breaking stride, the Controller hurried across the bridge, ignoring the late-nineteenth century blown-glass lamps and spectacular statuary that decorated the length of the structure. He continued on, stomping west along the Cours Albert ler, in the direction of the Palais de Chaillot, then came to an abrupt halt at the comer of Avenue Montaigne.
As on most nights, the avenue was filled with people out for an evening of pleasure. On one side of the street, patrons of the arts were filing into the Theatre des Champs-Elysees, while passersby on the other admired the displays in the windows of trendy haute couture shops.
But it was the entrance to a small courtyard just off the avenue that captured the Controller’s attention. A dozen or so feet high and about eight feet wide, flanked on both sides by guardstones that once prevented drivers from attempting to squeeze their horse-drawn carriages through the small space, the entrance led to a cobblestoned courtyard that seemed no wider than twenty feet. On the far side of the courtyard were the front doors of two apartment buildings, their red brick walls draped with ivy.
It was from one of those buildings that the siren song of the Cube emanated.
The Controller was stunned by what he saw—or, rather, didn’t see—as he stared at the courtyard. There were no guards posted, no colorfully-garbed freaks lounging about, no security measures of any sort that he could see. Was Magneto that certain of his power over the lowly creatures he mled that he felt safe enough to leave the Cube unattended—or was he arrogant enough to think there was no one to oppose him? Whatever the reason, he was about to learn how costly such inattention could be . . .
Slowly, the Controller stepped into the entrance, expecting some hidden trap to be sprung at any moment, but pleasantly surprised when nothing happened. He reached the courtyard unmolested and then, closing his eyes, began to tune out the background noises of the city, opening his senses to the cosmic energies flowing around him.
There. It was coming from the building on the right. The Controller opened his eyes and smiled. Had defeating his enemies ever been this simple? With colorful dreams of a New World Order flashing across his mind’s eye, he stepped toward the front door—
—and then the song was cut short.
“No . . .” the Controller whispered. “No!”
He threw himself at the front door, shattering its lock with a savage kick, and ran into the building. It was dark inside, but he didn’t bother looking for a light switch—not when he could still feel the Cube’s energy around him, leading him onward. He vaulted up a marble staircase, taking three steps at a time, until he reached the uppermost floor and burst into a drawing room, the windows of which provided a magnificent view of the Seine River and the Eiffel Tower.
Here. The song had come from this very room ... but its remnants were already fading, the final notes echoing in the recesses of his mind.
And then he couldn’t hear it any more.
The Cube was gone.
He staggered from the building, body trembling with rage.
Cheated. He’d been cheated out of his prize once more. Denied the opportunity to take what rightfully belonged to him. Robbed of his moment of triumph. And it was all the fault of Magneto.
Throwing his head back, he roared in anger at the heavens. “Damn your soul to hell, you mutant swine! You play games with the wrong man!” He lashed out with a booted foot, shattering a large flower pot that stood to one side of the building’s entrance.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm passed. The Controller inhaled deeply, slowly released the breath through his nostrils, and forced himself to regain his composure. Throwing childish tantrums was a waste of energy, he told himself, and a man who exhibited such behavior could never truly be a leader—a truism his mentor had come to learn, in the dark days when his world had started falling apart. His protege, though, as the Controller proudly reminded himself quite often, was made of stronger stuff.
Leonard politely cleared his throat to get his attention. Apparently, the youth had followed him inside with a stealth the Controller had never known he’d possessed. “Sir ... perhaps we should leave,” he said quietly.
The Controller whirled to face his assistant, prepared to either verbally or physically vent some of his frustrations on the blond-haired youth. But he stopped short when he realized that Leonard was not looking at him, but past him. Curious as to why his follower was acting in such a manner, the Controller looked back over his shoulder, toward the entrance to the courtyard.
A small crowd had gathered out on the street, drawn to the scene by his histrionics. From the dark expressions on their faces, and the comments that were being uttered, it was clear they were angered by the use of the word “mutant” as part of his hate-filled diatribe.
“Umm . . . sir?” Leonard asked, his voice just above a whisper. “You did say you wanted to maintain a low profile until you were ready to strike, didn’t you? Perhaps we should go now, before the crowd gets any bigger.”
The Controller glared at the bystanders, his contempt for them growing with each passing second as his gaze flicked from one face to the next. Gathered before him were the pride and joy of the Master of Magnetism—shining examples of a world that had at last found peace. Men and women of various nationalities and races, young and old, human and mutant. They felt no animosity toward one another, saw no need to judge their neighbors solely on physical appearance or philosophical differences. In the world of Magneto, they were all beautiful.
Flawless.
Perfect.
The Controller sneered in disgust. How he longed for the opportunity to crush this saccharine-sweet world; to watch those beautiful faces contort with pain as he lashed out with his mighty fists, delivering unto them exquisite suffering, the likes of which only he could imagine; to thrill in the vacant looks that would come over their eyes as they drew their last breaths.
But now was not the time to indulge in fantasies; that would come soon enough, when his work was done and he could savor his victory.
“Yes,” he finally said to his assistant. “It is time to leave. But we will keep watch over this place. Sooner or later, the Cube—and its master—will return, and then the moment shall be at hand. The moment when I fulfill the destiny for which I was trained, when I take my rightful place as the Earth’s master. And then, how these sheep shall tremble with fear. . . .”
16
THE CUBE appeared in the palm of Magneto’s hand as if by magic. It wasn’t really magic, of course—merely a case of the villain
_ summoning it with just a thought.
Erik Lensherr smiled, clearly pleased with the look of mild astonishment that appeared on the face of his old friend. “Impressed with my mastery over this little wishbox, Charles? Perhaps if von Doom had taken the time to experiment with it, he might also have discovered that it’s unnecessary to carry this upon your person in order to make it work.” He sneered. “Then again, that tin-plated egomaniac
has never been known for his patience.”
“I wouldn’t say that I’m impressed, Erik,” Xavier said, “given the fact that the Cube is stealing away your life with each passing second, and there is obviously nothing you can do to retard the process. I’d be more inclined to think it is the Cube that masters you. ”
Lensherr sighed and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Have it your way, Charles. It has always been your nature to focus on the negative.”
“Not always,” the Professor gently countered. A trace of a smile curled the comers of his mouth.
Lensherr paused; then he, too, smiled. “No, not always, my friend,” he agreed. There was a melancholy tone to his voice—a feeling of regret, perhaps, for days long past, when their relationship hadn’t been as strained, their meetings not so confrontational. They had been friends—a lifetime ago, it seemed—but the barriers that had come between them over the years had ended the closeness they once shared.
It was a loss that had always troubled Xavier, too. The dreams they had for the future of their race were not all that different. Both believed
that their people shouldn’t have to live in the shadows; both believed in creating a better world in which those mutants could exist in peace. But while Charles knew that humans tended to learn from their mistakes, and hoped that one day they would see beyond the “tunnel vision” of prejudice and come to accept mutantkind, Lensherr’s experiences at the hands of the Nazis had only shown him the worst aspects of Homo sapiens, had permanently scarred him, both physically and emotionally. For the frightened child who had grown into the vengeful adult, there had only been one course of action to take in order to prevent his race from suffering the same kind of horrific treatment that led to the extermination of six million Jews: he had to use his powers to bring about the total subjugation of humanity.
That obsession created an irreparable rift between Charles and Erik—the two good friends became the greatest of enemies. It had been that way for years and, despite Xavier’s best efforts, it seemed it would always be that way.
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