Until, that is, the Cosmic Cube somehow created a mid-ground that reflected both their dreams . . .
Xavier gestured toward the Cube. “I take it you did not summon this infernal device merely to impress me with parlor tricks.” An inquisitive eyebrow rose. “Perhaps you’ve come to your senses, and you’re just going to hand it over to me without a fight?”
The mutant overlord chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, Charles.”
Now it was Xavier’s turn to sigh melodramatically. “I expected as much.” His mouth set in a firm, straight line as, eyes narrowed to slits, he glared at his captor. “So, where does that leave us? Am I expected to make some sort of half-hearted attempt to battle you for possession of the Cube, deprived of my telepathic abilities as I am by the device your followers attached to my spinal column ... or do you plan on using it to brainwash me, as you’ve done with my students?”
Lensherr snorted derisively. “For an intelligent man, Charles, you stagger me with your foolish assumptions. Even were you not crippled, I would not expect you to go leaping from your seat and attempt to wrestle the Cube from my hand—physical solutions to problems have always been beneath men of intellect such as you and I.” He sneered. “That is why you have come to depend so greatly on smaller-brained creatures like Wolverine—using brawn instead of brains is the stock-in-trade of such buffoons. I came to that same conclusion years ago, first with the Brotherhood, and then the Acolytes. I’m pleased to see you agree with that approach.” He seemed amused by Xavier’s stem expression. “And insofar as ‘brainwashing’ goes, had I so desired, I could have ordered the Cube to tear your mind apart the moment you came out of hiding, then sew it back together . . . with some alterations made, of course.”
“Of course,” Xavier agreed.
Lensherr pointed an index finger into the air to emphasize his point. “If that had occurred, you would have arrived here as my most devoted acolyte, and not merely as a guest.”
“And yet that did not come to pass,” the Professor said.
Lensherr smiled. “Ahh. Now, at last, we arrive at the moment of demonstration.”
With that, the Cube flared brightly, and both men disappeared in a flash of light.
They materialized on the crest of a grassy hill at dawn. It took a few moments for Xavier to realize they were no longer in France.
He tilted his head back and inhaled deeply. The air was different here, heavy with the smells of wild animals and the fragrances of plant life, all mingling in the warm, comfortably humid breeze that blew across the land. From somewhere off in the distance, the rush of water could be heard—a stream or river, coursing mightily through the valley below them.
“Africa?” he asked.
“Very good, Charles,” Lensherr replied. “The West African state of Mali, to be precise.”
“I passed through the region once, during my travels across the continent,” the Professor said, “although I do not remember ever hearing of a river valley being located in such an inhospitable place. I take it this was your doing?”
“Indeed.”
“And I imagine there was a purpose in bringing me here?”
“Of course.” The hand that held the Cube swept dramatically across the mist-covered land. “What do you think of my greenhouse, Charles?” Lensherr asked. In the early morning sunlight, it was difficult to see his face clearly, but there was no mistaking the prideful tone in his voice.
“It’s lovely—what I can see of it,” Xavier said. “I had no idea you possessed such a green thumb.”
“I don’t consider myself a gardener,” the mutant overlord replied, “but rather an artist, challenged by a blank canvas.” He gestured toward the landscape. “All this was desert—the sterile wastes of the Sahara. Mile upon mile of endless sands, with little protection from the blistering heat of the relentless sun. This was a place of death, of despair. I have changed all that.”
The sun was higher now, the light of its corona cresting the horizon, decorating the valley below with streamers of yellow and red. Leaning forward in his hoverchair, the Professor’s eyes narrowed as he peered down into the thinning shadows. The morning mists began to dissipate, and the blocky shapes of man-made constructs slowly appeared among the lush greenery. Rising majestically above the treeline was a brick-and-mortar tower on which a pair of balconies had been built; pink-hued sunlight shone through the half-dozen arched openings at the top of the edifice.
“Is that a village?” Xavier asked.
“It is called Araouane,” Lensherr replied. “Forty years ago, it was a thriving oasis that served as a way station for the trans-Saharan trade routes. Then, just a decade later, drought struck the land, and the sands began creeping forward, reaching out with dead fingers toward this one bright spot in the midst of nothingness. Reaching out, then clutching in an unbreakable grip what little life existed here, refusing to let it go. Killing all it touched, then continuing onward, never satisfied until it had claimed everything in its path.”
“You make it sound almost human,” Xavier commented.
“Possessiveness? Destruction? Death?” Lensherr paused. “Yes, it does sound almost human, doesn’t it?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m certain it wasn’t,” Lensherr said. “It still applies, though.”
Xavier said nothing.
Down in the village, the first signs of activity were taking place. A silhouetted figure appeared on the topmost balcony of the minaret, and an ululating sound filled the air—the cry of a muezzin calling the Moslem faithful to morning prayers. Below the tower, doors opened, and the men of the village exited their modest homes and began walking toward the mosque.
Lensherr turned toward his companion. “Before you ask, no, they do not worship me. I have no aspirations for godhood, Charles, though I’m certain the Cube could provide me with that if I so chose.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that,” Xavier said. “It tells me you haven’t completely taken leave of your—”
“Being Master of the World is reward enough for my efforts,” Len-sherr interjected. He smiled.
The Professor groaned softly and shook his head despondently. The man could be so insufferably one-tracked in his thinking when he wanted...
Ignoring Lensherr’s infuriating grin, Xavier turned his attention back to the village. The streets were full of people as Araouane came to life, its inhabitants dressed in brightly-colored robes and more modem clothing. Not all were answering the call to prayer, though—there were shopkeepers opening their stores.
And then his gaze settled on one villager in particular: a woman who was standing on a rooftop at the outskirts of the village. His eyes widened with surprise. Even from a distance, even though she was clad in an ankle-length gown dyed in hues of green and gold and not in form-fitting black leather, her regal bearing was unmistakable—that, and the flowing mane of white hair that cascaded down her back to her waist.
“Ororo,” Xavier whispered.
As he watched, the African-born woman raised her hands above her head. Instantly, she was enveloped by a strong gust of wind that she had summoned by using her mutant ability to control the weather. It carried her high into the air, then toward the rising sun. It was an act that Xavier had seen her perform countless times at the school: she was going forth to privately greet the new day and give thanks for it to the Bright Lady, the African deity she worshipped. She would return in an hour or so, when her period of glorification had ended.
“She settled here shortly after I transformed the land,” Lensherr commented. “At the time, she insisted that I’d done more harm than good—that I’d thrown the ecological balance of the planet slightly off-kilter ... though I have yet to see any real proof of that to bolster her arguments.”
“And what did she say once you had . . . changed her mind for her?” Xavier asked pointedly.
Lensherr sighed. “Charles, I wish you would at least make an effort to understand all I have done. Wh
ile it is true that I. . . helped the world come to an understanding about the importance of my role in their lives, I didn’t completely abolish free will. That includes your former students, as well.” He waved a hand in the direction of the white-haired mutant, who was now no more than a dark speck against the rising sun. “Ororo still argues with me, still warns me of the ‘irreparable damage’ I may ultimately cause to the planet by correcting environmental changes wherever I see fit. The very fact that she has chosen to live here, keeping a watchful eye over the environment, rather than accept my offer to be a teacher at my New York school should be evidence enough that I am no longer the puppet-master you once knew. She has always been a strong-willed young woman, and will continue to be so—I would not wish her to be otherwise.” The mutant overlord paused. “As for your other former students . ..” He shrugged. “Well, Summers has always been a tad sycophantic when it comes to following powerful leaders, wouldn’t you agree?” He pressed on, not giving the Professor the opportunity to answer the question. “After all, considering the level of devotion he’d shown you in the past, given the fact that he hung on every syllable you uttered with the intensity of an acolyte—”
He stopped suddenly, a slow, easy smile coming to his lips. “No, not an acolyte. More like a son forever seeking approval from his father, risking all, even his very life, for just a few words of encouragement.” He nodded, clearly pleased with the comparison. “I must admit, Charles, you broke him in quite well.” The smile broadened. “You’ve broken all of them in quite well. Sons and daughters of the atom, trained to sacrifice themselves for the glory of their species, rather than allow the dreams of one man to die.” An eyebrow rose in an inquisitive fashion. “Sounds familiar, does it not?” He snorted. “And you dare call me a villain. Wouldn’t you say that’s a case of the pot calling the kettle ‘black’?”
“That’s not true!” Xavier snapped, slamming his fists down on the canopy of his chair. He was surprised—and troubled—at the fury in his voice. This was not the time to allow Magneto to goad him into some senseless argument. There were more important matters.
Lensherr chuckled. “My, how quick we are to defend our actions, especially when we know we are in the wrong!” He reached out to consolingly pat Xavier on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Charles—I won’t tell a soul.”
The Professor glared at him.
“Now, then, Charles,” Lensherr continued, “I’m quite certain you’re burning with curiosity about why I brought you here, and what my plans for you might be. For the moment, all I will say is that there is a reason for everything I do—even something as simple as ... this. ”
The Cube flared again—a modest glow this time, rather than a full-bore burst of light—and a warm, tingling sensation ran through the Professor’s body. The feeling of pins and needles pricking his flesh intensified along the base of his spinal cord; it felt as though a strong electrical current was being run through it. Xavier screwed his eyes tightly shut and gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing himself not to cry out. He couldn’t help but wonder if his former friend had brought him all this way just to kill him after proudly showing off one of his accomplishments—such behavior would not be out of character for Magneto.
But then the big toe on his right foot suddenly twitched. Xavier gasped.
His legs. He could feel his legs.
Startled, he looked to his old friend. “Erik, what—”
The hood of the hoverchair swung upward as if on its own—another
Cube effort. Xavier reached down to rub his legs, to ease the mild burning sensation running up and down the atrophied limbs as damaged nerves repaired themselves and weakened tissue strengthened. Tentatively, he tried raising his left leg, and couldn’t help but smile as it responded to his mental command.
“Come, Charles—walk with me,” Lensherr said. “There are some people here I would like you to meet. By the time we reach the village, we should be just in time for breakfast.” Not waiting for a reply, the mutant overlord turned on his heel and began making his way down toward the village.
Slowly, the Professor eased out of the chair. His legs trembled slightly, the muscles taking their time becoming acclimated to receiving orders from the brain again. First one foot touched the rich soil; then the other. Gripping the edges of the chair, he pushed up with his arms, allowing them to handle the weight of his body until he felt that his restored limbs could support it. The chair suddenly shifted forward, and he just managed to keep himself from falling face-first onto the rich soil. He chuckled softly, reveling in every tremor that ran through his body as he took his first steps onto the surface of this new world.
It was a trick—he knew that the moment he realized what was happening. Tattered friendship aside, there had been no reason for Erik to repair his damaged nerves—unless he had an ulterior motive. The Professor had a feeling he knew what it was: to entice him into letting Lensherr retain ownership of the Cube. If Xavier couldn’t be convinced to side with him through philosophical debates or threats, then what better temptation to win him over than by giving him back the use of his legs?
But why Magneto was going to all this trouble—that was the maddening question gnawing at Charles’ thoughts. Why not simply destroy him with the Cube and be done with him, instead of trying to continually demonstrate what good it could do?
Taking small, hesitant steps, Xavier slowly made his way down the hillside, determined to obtain the answers he sought.
According to Lensherr, Araouane’s population had dwindled to a mere handful of inhabitants following the long periods of drought; when he lived here, there had been no more than twenty-five or thirty,families. Now, more than three thousand people called the village their home. What had once been a sand-covered ghost town was now a thriving— and growing—city on the edge of Paradise.
As they strolled through the busy streets, Lensherr would stop and point at some shop where he knew the owner, or a structure—like the mosque—that had originally been eaten away by the corrosive sands, until he had restored it to its former glory. For all the terrible powers at his command, the Master of the World carried on like a tourist on holiday, speaking loudly and quickly as something caught his attention, marveling at something the villagers clearly considered quite commonplace, before moving onto the next attraction.
“So, what is your opinion, Charles?” Lensherr finally asked.
“Of what?” '
Lensherr waved his arms around, gesturing at their surroundings. “Of the village, of course!”
Xavier glanced at the smiling faces of the bustling crowds around them, at the fertile soil beneath their feet, at the clear sky above. “It’s very nice.”
Lensherr laughed—the first genuine laugh that Xavier had heard since being brought before him at the castle. “You have always been a master of understatement, Charles! I think that that is one of your most charming—and oftentimes frustrating—qualities. Nothing seems to faze you.”
The Professor smiled, but remained silent as they continued their walk. After a few minutes, they came to an intersection. The mutant overlord paused a moment, then set off down a connecting street, the Professor close behind.
“Tell me something, Erik,” Xavier finally said. “What was it that changed your views toward humanity? Why did you give up your grand scheme for making Homo superior the dominant species?”
“I never gave it up, Charles,” Lensherr replied. “I simply came to the realization that perhaps that vision of the world was far too narrow in its scope.”
Xavier’s eyebrows rose. “Really.”
“Surprised that I’ve actually shown signs of emotional growth, Charles? You shouldn’t be—you’ve known me long enough.” Lensherr smiled. “If I could find the wherewithal to run your school and lead your churlish students into battle without turning against them, then the notion of me controlling the world with a velvet glove instead of an iron fist shouldn’t be that hard to believe.”
Xavier
frowned. “Still, it didn’t take all that long for you to revert to your old ways, once you had left the school.”
Lensherr shrugged. “We are who we are, Charles. At the time, lashing out in anger seemed like the best approach to dealing with the problem of hatred toward our kind.”
“And yet, you eventually moved beyond that belief. . .” Xavier said, encouraging his old friend to explain his actions.
“It was this village,” Lensherr began slowly, his voice once again taking on an uncharacteristic softness. “I lived here for a time, while von Doom held the Cube. A hellish place—I have already told you it used to be an oasis, thriving with life, but the sands eventually swept across it, killing almost everything . . . except the people.” He smiled as a boy and girl no older than nine or ten years ran across their path, giggling merrily at the sight of the two strangely-garbed men. “There were no mutants among them; they’d never even heard the word before I arrived. They merely accepted me for what I was. I made friends with them, over time. They hid me from von Doom’s superpowered bloodhounds, shared their food, taught me their language, and, for all their acts of kindness, they asked for nothing in return.”
He suddenly stopped before one of the mud-brick buildings. On a grass-covered lawn fairly bursting with wild flowers, a little girl, three or four years old, sat playing with a hand-crafted doll, its dress as bright and colorful as the girl’s. Eyes sparkling with glee, she talked to the doll as though it were her own child, gently brushing its hair with her hand while cooing into its ear.
From the comer of his eye, the Professor quietly observed Magneto’s actions. The white-haired mutant was positively beaming, his attention completely focused on the youngster. It appeared he understood everything she was saying.
As the two men continued watching, a door on the side of the modest home opened, and a tall, stately woman in her thirties emerged. There was a slight bounce to her steps as she walked toward the child, calling out to her as she approached.
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