“Do you see that woman, Charles?” Lensherr asked. “And the little girl?” Xavier nodded. “The mother’s name is Abena Metou; her daughter’s is Jnanbarka. On von Doom’s world, Abena was one of three ‘sandwomen’ whose livelihood was sweeping the sand that accumulated at the doors of the villagers’ homes during the night. It was a foolish notion, that she could prevent the vast Sahara from one day swallowing her village beneath its relentless silicon waves; a battle she was destined to lose, even before she first picked up a broom.” A trace of a smile played at the comers of his mouth. “That knowledge did nothing to deter her, though—in fact, it made her more determined than ever to continue fighting. As she often explained to me, she was doing it not for herself, but for her daughter. A day battling the sands meant food on the table.”
Lensherr paused. “It was the child’s eyes that haunted me, even when I slept—those dull, lifeless eyes that had seen nothing but death and decay and starvation. I had seen eyes like those before—in Auschwitz, after my parents were murdered. They stared back at me every time I looked at my reflection in a puddle of muddy rainwater.” For the briefest of moments, the fearful eyes of a child of the Holocaust glittered in the blue-gray depths of his pupils. The mutant overlord shuddered slightly. “Even now, I cannot rid my mind of that image.”
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on a spot on the ground. “I once swore that no other living being would suffer the kind of atrocities I had endured at the hands of the Nazis. And after looking into that child’s eyes, it was as though a caul had been lifted from my own. For so long, I had boasted of the superiority of my race, demanded that it should be recognized as the dominant species, looked down my nose at those who so often opposed my actions, as though they were beneath me.” Lensherr slowly shook his head. “I was acting no better than the Nazis. And though, in my heart, I knew I was wrong, my blinding hatred toward humanity for all it had done to our kind kept me from facing the truth. Terror tactics; threats of nuclear Armageddon; warring against the nations of the world—there had to be another way, a far more humane way, for me to force mankind to improve this planet for all people. And once the Cube was in my hands, I knew what had to be done . ..”
Xavier shook his head. “You may have used the Cube to better the world, Erik, but it was only accomplished by tinkering with the minds of six billion people—including my students. Call it whatever you like, convince yourself that you have changed your ways, argue night and day that the ‘dream’ you placed in their minds was for their own good, but the bottom line is that you are still Magneto. And no matter how noble your intentions might be, in the back of your mind, you never stopped pursuing your true dream: the final, lasting defeat over my X-Men, and the subjugation of the human race.” He sneered. “Well, congratulations, Erik—you’ve finally gotten your wish.”
“No, Charles,” Lensherr insisted. “Don’t you see? By using the Cube, I have brought peace to the world. There are no children starving, no families living in poverty, no mutants who feel they must hide their marvelous gifts from the world to avoid being ridiculed. This is the Earth as we always dreamed it should be.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Charles, but there is nothing you can say or do that will change my mind—what I’ve done here is right, and you know it.”
“No, old friend—it is wrong, and you know it, though you refuse to acknowledge your mistakes. And mark my words, I will find a way to make you see the truth and end this madness,” Xavier said, jaw set in determination. “God help me, Erik, I will do whatever it takes to set things right. I must, if countless universes are to be saved.”
Lensherr raised an amused eyebrow. “Would you kill me, then, Charles, to complete your mission? You, who once defended me before the World Court for my alleged ‘crimes against humanity’? Are you that set on destroying all the good I have done?”
Xavier lowered his gaze. “I. . . hope it will not come to that, Erik,” he said softly. “But this falsehood, this fantasy world you have created, cannot be allowed to continue. I appreciate your efforts, my friend, but there is far more at risk here than a clash of philosophical differences between two visionaries.” He raised his head, then, and stared heatedly at the mutant overlord. “Do not force me to choose between sacrificing billions of lives for a dream, and sacrificing your life so those billions can go on living. I assure you, you would not like my decision.”
Lensherr pursed his lips. “Interesting. I must say, this is a side of you I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It’s a refreshing change—over the years, I’d grown exceedingly tired of hearing the same soporific speeches from you about the abuses of power.” He smiled, and gestured toward the mother and child. “Now, come—the time for empty threats and useless posturing is over; I want you to meet my friends. And once we have eaten, I think you’ll be in a far more appreciative mood for the other wonders I wish to share with you . . . before we get to the heart of the matter. ”
And with that, he strode away, calling out what seemed to be a greeting to the woman in her native tongue.
Left standing in the street, Charles Xavier pondered what his old friend had meant by his last words. “The heart of the matter.” Words that could mean just about anything, from a peaceful resolution to their Cube-related problems ... to the destruction of the world itself.
17
HE WAS surprised when they returned from their travels, not to the sprawling Loire Valley castle, but to an opulent apartment in the _ center of Paris.
In the space of a few hours, Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr had traveled across the globe, each stopping point along the way used to illustrate how Magneto had used the Cube to better the world and its peoples. The trip had also been used to put the Professor’s mind at ease about the well-being of the other members of the X-Men—the ones who were not guests staying at the mutant overlord’s castle.
After Ororo had joined them for breakfast in Araouane, the two men had continued their journey. First they visited the Ust-Ordynski Collective Farm in Siberia, where they had been greeted by Piotr Rasputin. In the “real” world, he was the armored X-Man called Colossus; here, though, he was just a simple Russian farmer, as he had been before Xavier had recruited him. Then it was on to Seattle, Washington, the home of Hank McCoy—the blue-furred Beast—who worked for a Seattle-based genetics laboratory. The Cajun-born Gambit, mysterious as always, could not be found in New Orleans, though there were rumors he now ran the notorious Thieves Guild. Bobby Drake, who went by the codename “Iceman” because of his frigid powers, was the manager of a Miami hockey team. From Florida, they crossed up the East Coast to visit the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., where the current Assistant Director was a young woman named Kathryn Pryde; as an X-Man, she had been called Shadowcat, possessing the ability to shift slightly out of sync with her surroundings, which allowed her body to phase through solid objects. Then it was on to the Lensherr Institute on Ellis Island, followed by a brief inspection of the grounds of what had been the Professor’s school (now a summer camp for troubled teenage mutants) in Westchester County, to prove to Xavier that a generation of “genetically gifted” soldiers were not being trained to help Magneto. They moved on to Glenfiddich, Scotland, to have a chat with Sean Cassidy—formerly the mutant named Banshee, because of the sonic cry he could emit—and his wife. To Xavier’s deep regret, that woman had turned out to be his former love, Moira MacTaggert. Finally, their exhausting session of globe-hopping had ended in Lensherr’s Parisian apartment.
As much as Xavier hated to admit it, all his X-Men had appeared to be hale and hearty, content with their new lives, and much happier than the Professor could ever remember seeing them while they had been under his tutelage. Yet, knowing that Magneto had influenced their minds with the Cube, making them forget Xavier’s part in their lives, it was difficult to gauge how much of their happiness was heartfelt— and how much had been forced upon them.
Now, resting his weary legs as he sat in his hoverchair, the P
rofessor contemplated Magneto’s next move.
The Cube had been put back into its protective adamantium casing, behind a highly expensive Matisse original. Xavier had been left alone in the salon, while Lensherr had gone into one of the other adjoining rooms. From the sounds of clattering dishes and running water, it appeared Erik was ... making tea? Xavier raised an eyebrow in mild surprise and chuckled, amused by the thought of a domesticated Magneto bustling about the kitchen. Family life apparently had had a calming effect on his life—one more wondrous change brought about by the Cosmic Cube, it seemed.
The door to the kitchen opened, and Lensherr exited, a silver tray containing a large silver tea pot, cups, saucers, and milk and sugar dispensers hovering before him. Using his magnetic powers, he set the tray down on a table in front of the wall-mounted flatscreen television.
“I apologize for the lack of biscuits,” Lensherr said, “but since my family and I are supposed to be vacationing at the castle for the next few weeks, the house here was closed, so no shopping has been done.” He poured tea into two China cups, handing one to the Professor. “Now, where were we?”
Xavier took the proffered beverage, and sniffed at the vapors rising from the heated brown liquid. Earl Grey—his favorite. “Well, I was asking you to come to your senses and surrender the Cube willingly, and you were about to explain the real purpose for our travels today. And why you decided to restore my legs.”
“Why not restore your legs?” Lensherr countered. “You weren’t always a paraplegic, Charles. Is it wrong to want to be able to face an old friend eye-to-eye, rather than constantly have to look down at him? I thought I was doing you a favor.” He tried to look hurt by the Professor’s suspicions, but he could only manage a deeply wrinkled scowl.
“Favors always come with a price,” Xavier said, a dark tone to his voice. “Giving me back the use of my legs at the cost of countless lives is too high a price to pay, no matter how tempting the offer.”
The mutant overlord smiled. “You have been and still are a difficult man to bargain with, Charles.”
“And one not easily distracted from obtaining answers to his questions,” Xavier replied, a bit forcefully. “Now, the reason you wanted to show me all you’ve done with the world, why it seemed so important to you for me to meet your daughter, is because ...”
“Because I am dying, Charles,” Lensherr said, matter-of-factly. Xavier started. It suddenly felt as though all the air had been driven from his lungs. “Erik . . .” he began.
Lensherr motioned him to silence with a wave of his hand. “Please, Charles—no mawkish words of sympathy. You and I have seen our share of death over the years; mine is just one more among millions that pass each year. Besides, I was well advanced in my years before the Cube began stealing away what few years remained to me. Even now, I can feel the strength ebbing from my body—in a month, perhaps less, there would be nothing left of me to sustain this world, this dream. But from what you keep telling me, the planet does not even have a month left to live.”
“Yes,” the Professor replied.
Lensherr nodded. “And that is why I want you to take the Cube.”
His vigilance had finally been rewarded.
Slumped in an armchair just one floor below the two men, the Controller suddenly snapped awake from a light slumber. He’d been sitting in this very chair, in this third floor parlor, since the wee hours of the morning, when he and Leonard had forced their way in through a garden entrance at the rear of the building. A careful search of all five floors and basement had confirmed the Cube’s absence, but the Controller could still feel the lingering presence of its addictive power; it hung in the air, seeped into the walls, floors, furnishings.
It was different, though. He’d known something was wrong with this version of the device almost from the moment he and Leonard had arrived on Earth, but here, in the heart of Magneto’s fantasy world, that feeling was even stronger.
Normally, the energy field generated by a Cube gave off a comfortable, even calming, buzz that tingled the skin and sent a pleasant chill up the spine. But the cosmic forces that pulsed from this particular device felt more like sharp pricks that jangled the nerves and caused his joints to ache. It was not a sensation that could be experienced by someone who had never held a Cosmic Cube; only a select few, like the Controller, had ever had the privilege.
And then there was the double vision. Again, it was something undetectable to the eyes of the uninitiated, but having been the possessor of quite a number of the devices over the years, the Controller knew what to look for in a restructured world. And when he closely examined his surroundings on this world, there seemed to be a soft focus to everything around him, except for Leonard. It was as though he were staring at a three-dimensional picture without the special glasses required to combine the two separate images in order to create the illusion of depth.
It gave him a mild headache.
Stiff joints, headaches, and blurred eyesight had been quickly forgotten, however, the instant he realized that the Cube had returned. Its song seemed to fill the air around him, and his pulse quickened, heart beating in time to the music only he could hear. He’d waited so long— too long—for this moment.
And now, at last, he could answer the Cube’s siren call.
He slowly rose to his feet, tapping Leonard on the leg to rouse him from his sleep. The youth, who lay sprawled across a flower-patterned sofa nearby, started to mumble a response—only to come fully awake as the Controller gripped his throat with one gloved hand to cut off his air, while the other clamped down tightly over his mouth to silence him.
“Not a sound, my little mouse,” the Controller hissed through gritted teeth, his face mere inches from his assistant’s, “or it shall be the last you ever make. I will not be denied my prize because of some drowsy imbecile mistaking me for his mother. Do you understand?”
Leonard quickly nodded his understanding, and the Controller released his grip. The youth shakily rose to his feet, rubbing his sore throat as he tried to catch his breath. His master studied his movements for a few moments, making certain that his blond-haired follower wasn’t going to stumble into the furniture, then moved on cat’s feet across the room. He paused at the entrance to the third floor hallway, peering around the molding to steal a glance at the staircase just outside. The hall was empty, but he could hear the sound of voices drifting down from the next floor. One he immediately identified as Magneto’s; the other he didn’t recognize, but from the general tone of the conversation, the speaker appeared to be a friend of Lensherr’s.
He turned to find Leonard standing beside him. Clearly, the youth understood the need for stealth; the Controller hadn’t even heard him draw near. Leonard looked to his superior for instructions, but wisely remained silent. The Controller held up his hand, signaling for him to remain here. Leonard nodded, and stepped back into the shadows of the darkened room.
Reaching around to the back of the wide black belt he wore around the waist of his dark-green uniform, the Controller withdrew a six-inch-long blade attached to a handle made of hard, black plastic; it slid noiselessly from its leather sheath. The blade was of a special design, because it wasn’t made of metal, but rather sharpened obsidian—when dealing with a man who called himself “The Master of Magnetism,” the last thing a potential assassin needed was a metal-based weapon that could be turned against him.
Keeping close to the floor, the Controller stepped into the hallway, then quietly crossed to the staircase. He could hear one of the men moving about the room on the next floor, his booted footsteps muffled slightly by thick carpeting. As long as they kept talking, the Controller considered, it should be child’s play to get within striking distance well before they ever became aware of his presence; and by then, of course, it would be too late for them to do anything—but die.
Dagger at the ready, the Controller began moving up the stairs. A malevolent smile twisting his mangled lips, he was already imaging the shocked e
xpression that would be etched on Magneto’s features in his last moments before death claimed him, as he gazed upon the face of the man who had killed him—and his dream.
Xavier cocked his head to one side, unable to believe what he had just heard. “Would you mind repeating that, Erik? I think the neural inhibitor your followers fitted me with is affecting my hearing.” He rubbed the base of his spine, feeling the lumpy shape of the device that kept him from using his telepathic abilities.
Lensherr grunted. “You understood me quite well, Charles. It’s your telepathic abilities that have been hampered, not your hearing.”
Xavier raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You’re going to hand the Cosmic Cube to me.”
Lensherr nodded.
“Without any histrionics? Without any fighting?”
“Yes.”
“No death threats? No tricks? No booby traps designed to scatter my atoms across the cosmos once I touch it?”
“None whatsoever.”
The Professor eyed the mutant overlord suspiciously. “You’re going to give it to me—just like that?”
A wisp of a smile played at the comers of the mutant overlord’s mouth. “Now, Charles, what sort of super-villain would I be if there wasn’t some requirement for my assistance in helping you reach the end of your great and perilous quest? After all, you did say so yourself: Favors always come with a price.”
The Professor nodded. “Yes. How silly of me to think otherwise. What did you have in mind?”
Lensherr shrugged. “A simple request—one I am certain you will not hesitate to accept, given your altruistic nature. And your word, as a man of honor, that you will carry it out. Do we have an agreement?” A gentle smile came to Xavier’s lips. “Now, Erik, what sort of leader would I be if I blindly agreed to offers made by a man who refers to himself as a ‘super-vil—’ ”
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