With a slight bow, Abena turned and headed back toward her home. Before she reached it, the door opened, and her four-year-old daughter, Jnanbarka, came racing out. The child galloped across the sand, barefooted, and began dancing in a wide circle around her mother, who made playful attempts to grab her, but the girl always remained just out of reach. Then, as Abena spun to one side, Jnanbarka ran in and grabbed the bowl from her hand, turning it upside-down and placing it at a jaunty angle on her head. Proud of her pottery-hat, Jnanbarka marched ahead of her mother, chin up, leading her back inside the house.
Ororo laughed softly. Abena was right: it was a good day—one to enjoy, not waste moping. Smiling brightly, she began walking back to her own home, eager to get on with her activities. Perhaps, she reflected, her life wasn’t as bad, wasn’t as boring, as some other’s might be. . . .
He stood on the bridge of the battlecruiser Valkyrie, narrowed eyes locked on those of his Kree counterpart, whose azure-hued features filled the main screen.
“For the last time, Captain,” the Kree warned, “drop your shields and surrender your ship, or prepare to make peace with whatever god you worship.”
The Captain merely smiled and slowly shook his head in exasperation. No matter where he and his crew traveled among the stars, it seemed that one Kree commanding officer was as ignorant as the last he’d encountered, and more than likely as the next he’d run into. Hadn’t any of these fools heard of his victory over the N’garai on Goering’s World? How he’d broken through the Goa’uld blockade of Andromeda, allowing a hundred-odd worlds the honor of joining the Empire? Of the destruction of the Shi’ar munitions factory on Arkonides?
Didn’t these blue-skinned idiots realize who they were messing with?
“What say you, Captain?” the Kree demanded. “I assure you, if you surrender peacefully, we will treat your crew with the utmost care.” A wolfish grin twisted his upper lip, revealing yellowed teeth. “Especially your women.”
The Captain snarled, and glanced around the bridge, noting how expectantly his crewmembers sat at their stations, looking to him for guidance, relying on him to find a way to beat the great odds against them, as he had done on countless other missions; His gaze drifted to his yeoman, standing close by as always, ready to support her captain in whatever decisions he might make, no matter how perilous the situation in which they might find themselves.
Of all the women he’d loved on dozens of worlds, Sharon Carter was still the most beautiful in the galaxy—the sort of plucky, desirable girl with whom any starfaring officer worth his spacedust wouldn’t hesitate to settle down and raise a family. Unfortunately, there was another love in the Captain’s life, one that received his full attention at all times, one not even the most ravishing female in twelve parsecs could compete with: his ship. Amazingly, though, Sharon understood, and was more than willing to settle for second-best in his heart. There were times when he thought he didn’t deserve to have someone that special in his life— and then immediately cast aside such a preposterous notion. Of course he deserved someone like that—he was the Captain, wasn’t he?
And yet, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, as she trembled under the lustful gaze of his enemy, nervous fingers pulling at the hem and plunging neckline of her micro-miniskirted uniform. It was clear she knew she was being mentally undressed by a barbaric member of a notoriously degenerate race. He’d have to put an end to that quickly—no mongrel-raced alien filth ogled his crew!
Sharon turned to him, eyes full of pleading. “Oh, Captain,” she whispered.
He reached out to brush away a tear that rolled down one perfect cheek, then gently ran his fingers through her golden, shoulder-length hair.
“Ev’rythin’ will be, all right. . . petite,” he said softly.
Doe-like blue eyes grew wider, and a warm smile lit her delicate features. He’d always enjoyed that smile.
“I know it will,” she sighed, pressing her cheek against the palm of his hand.
With a wry grin, the Captain turned to his weapons officer, Lieutenant Sean Cassidy. “Quantum phase-shifters at maximum,” the redhaired officer said quietly, so as not to be overheard by their opponent. His voice was tinged with a brogue bom of the Irish countryside. “Stan-din’ by.”
“Engage,” the Captain said.
One moment, the viewscreen had been filled with an image of the Kree warship’s bridge, its captain clearly running out of patience; the next, it showed the flank of the enemy vessel. In the blink of an eye, the quantum phase-shifters had teleported the Valkyrie away from its position under the Kree gun emplacements to a spot just over two kilometers behind them.
“Fire,” the Captain said.
Cassidy’s fingers flew across his console with the dexterity of a concert pianist, and death in all its various manmade forms—lasers, guided missiles, nuclear torpedoes—leapt from the Valkyrie’s weapons batteries to tear apart its target. In less than a minute, the battle was won.
The crew cheered its victory, and the Captain swept Yeoman Carter into his arms. The kiss they shared was long and passionate, and left her gasping for air when he finally released her.
“Oh, Captain ...” she purred, lips pursed and eyes half-closed in a seductive expression he knew all too well. She threw her arms around his neck. “Take me, Captain! There’s nothing I’d like more in the entire universe than for you to—
“WAKE UP, LEBEAU!”
The high-pitched shriek that rattled Remy Lebeau’s eardrums wasn’t half as painful as the slap across his face that accompanied it a moment later—the hefty ring worn around one finger struck his jaw with the force of a small club.
With a groan, Remy slowly opened his eyes—to find himself looking at the most beautiful woman in twelve parsecs. He grinned, still half asleep. “Sharon . . .” he sighed.
The delicate fingers that had been poised to gently stroke the Captain’s rugged face now closed around the lapels of Remy’s uniform jacket and roughly hauled him from the chair in which he’d been “resting his eyes.” A quick twist of the wrists, and he was flying over his desk, scattering folders, reports, packs of playing cards, and various and sundry office supplies around the broom closet-like space that served as his inner sanctum. He crashed against the far wall, between a battered file cabinet and a plant of some kind that had seen neither sunshine nor water in a dog’s age, and slid to the floor in a contorted heap amid the stacks of faded pulp magazines and weathered paperback novels that served as inspiration for his fanciful daydreams. From his sprawled position on the warped wooden floorboards, Remy pushed away leafs of multicolored papers that had settled over his face and glanced sheepishly at the hardened features of his superior officer.
As Obergruppenfiihrer of Ernst Kaltenbrunner Spaceport—a facility based in Queens, New York, named after the late head of the Reichs-sischerheitsamt, the Reich Security Office, during World War II—
Sharon Carter might well be one of the most desirable women in the empire, but she was hardly the sort who could be described as “plucky.” Her blond hair tied back in a ponytail so severe it made her eyes bulge from their sockets—a look made even more disturbing by the way her blood-red-colored lips were pulled back in what seemed to be a perpetual snarl—Carter looked every bit the “she-wolf ’ the staff at Kal-tenbrunner had dubbed her... behind her back, of course. She was dressed in a leather jumpsuit so tight it appeared as though it had been spray-painted on her, covering every inch of her body from neckline to toe. It was complemented by highly polished leather boots and a gunbelt worn low on her hips; the pistol grip of a Luger protruded from the holster strapped to her right thigh. Remy took note of the way her right hand hovered above the weapon—clearly, she was deciding on whether to reprimand him for napping without permission ... or shoot him.
“Err.. . Gutten tag, Herren Obergruppenfuhrer,” Remy muttered in an easy drawl bom of the Louisiana bayous. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Of course you didn’t, Lebeau,�
�� she snapped. “You were too busy dreaming your pathetic little dreams again to notice when an officer entered the room.” She flashed a lipless smile that made Remy think of a shark opening its jaws, preparing to take a bite out of its prey. “Were you fantasizing about me this time, Lebeau?”
Remy felt his cheeks reddening and quickly cast his gaze to the floor. “No, Obergruppenfuhrer. ’Course not. Dat’d be ’gainst regulations.”
Carter snapped off a laugh—one that sounded like a short burst of gunfire. “Well, I’m pleased you know some of the laws governing this facility, Lebeau,” she said icily. “But perhaps it’s slipped your tiny Cajun mind that sleeping on the job is also against regulations.” Her eyes narrowed. “Need I remind you of the punishment for dereliction of one’s duties?”
“I’m real sorry ’bout dat, ma’am,” Remy said. “I won’ let it happen again. I promise.” He started to pick himself up off the floor, but a stiletto-heeled boot jabbed him in the chest, forcing him back.
“Did I give you permission to get up, pig?” Carter growled.
“Umm ... no, ma’am,” Remy said quietly. “You’ll... uh ... lemme know when I can, d’ough, right?” He flashed his winningest smile at her, hoping to defuse the situation with charm before he got into worse trouble. It always worked in his dreams ...
Carter’s upper lip curled, and she granted in disgust. “You’re a sad little man, Lebeau. When you first joined my staff as a clerk two years ago, I thought you had potential... but I see now that I misjudged you.
You’re lazy, you’re irresponsible, and you lack discipline.” She grabbed one of the dog-earred paperback books he’d landed on, sneered as she glanced at the gaudy cover, and flung it at him. Perry Rhodan: Death Waits in Semispace—one of the better books in the series, Remy noted. “You sit in this sty all day, reading garbage that brings a note of excitement to your otherwise meaningless existence, while avoiding your duties as much as possible. Asking you to perform the simplest task is like making demands of a wall—but at least the wall has an excuse for not following through on the assignment.” She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I bet you haven’t even looked into who’s behind those recent thefts of office supplies.”
Remy cleared his throat and looked at the floor again, finding it hard to look her in the eye. “Well, findin’ de t’ief ain’t all dat simple a task, ma’—”
She ground her boot heel into his chest, grinning at Remy’s painfully sharp intake of breath. “You’re a piece of offal, Lebeau—a pile of excrement stinking up my spaceport. And if you’re not careful—” she dragged her foot sharply across his torso, and he yelped “—I’ll scrape you off on the curb. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Obergruppenfiihrer." Remy rubbed a hand across his sore flesh, trying to ease the pain. He was somewhat grateful she hadn’t drawn any blood—she might have punished him for wearing a dirty uniform.
Her nostrils flared angrily. “And didn’t I tell you to get a haircut?” Remy’s other hand unconsciously slid to the back of his neck. He’d been letting his dark brown hair grow far beyond the parameters of the regulation crewcut for the past three months, despite two previous warnings from Carter about the “shabby” appearance he was cultivating. The ends now reached just past his collar. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then do so at once. I won’t tolerate anyone under my command looking like ... like some gypsy! You’re an officer of the Reich—start acting like one!” Without waiting for a response, Carter turned on her heel and stormed out of the office.
Remy waited until he heard the door to the outer hallway slam shut before he dragged himself to his feet. His chest still burned where Carter’s boot had scraped it, and he had a bump on the back of his head the size of a golf ball, courtesy of the wall he’d slammed against when she tossed him across the room. Not such a bad start for a Wednesday morning, considering he was still feeling the bite of her riding crop on his legs and back from the week before. He limped around the desk and collapsed into his chair.
A small smile came to his lips as he gazed at the door, and he
sighed. “Dat fille ... she crazy ’bout ol’ Remy—she just playin’ hard-t’get..The smile froze, then slowly melted into an embarrassed frown. “ ’Least dat what I wish it was ..
Leaning back in his chair, Remy closed his eyes and let his thoughts carry him away—back to the depths of space, where the kind of power and respect he so sorely lacked in reality could be found simply by wrapping his strong arms around the shapely waist of the most beautiful woman in twelve parsecs....
4
IF THIS is what it was like to rule infinity—sitting idly by, deep within a city-sized construct that floated at the center of Time and _ Space, waiting for something to do—then Victor von Doom was sorely disappointed.
Slouching on the ornate throne previously occupied by Roma, she who was now the former Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse, von Doom rested the chin of the metal helmet that encased his head on a gauntleted fist and gazed at the voluminous interior of Roma’s private quarters. Designed in the style of a gothic cathedral, the throne room was a marvel of sweeping arches, polished stone, delicate wooden fixtures, and a ceiling so high it was lost in shadow. On the far side of the transept, tucked away in a comer, was a small wading pool, its cool waters provided by a fall that flowed from somewhere above; von Doom hadn’t been interested enough in it to determine the source. Most of the lighting came from hundreds of candles set in tall, elaborately designed holders spaced about the area around the throne and crossing, which meant that most of the sanctum was bathed in darkness—and within the depths of that black curtain, something moved. What it might be, von Doom wasn’t certain; he could only see it from the comers of his eyes, since gazing at it straight-on proved ineffective. Presumably it was some kind of defensive system Roma might have unleashed on him, if he hadn’t struck her down before she could activate it. Without its mistress to command it, the creature—creatures?—remained in shadow, apparently content to leave von Doom alone with his thoughts.
In one way, with its brooding architecture and Olde Worlde charm and potential deathtraps, the throne room reminded the armored tyrant of his own castle, in his native Latveria—a stronghold from which he ruled his tiny nation with a just, but fair, hand. In another, it reminded him of a prison—for, though it had not taken a great deal of effort to secure this place, he had soon realized that he couldn’t leave its environs.
An annoyed frown twisted the scarred features hidden beneath the armor. Yes, it was a prison, von Doom reflected darkly, and he its sole inmate.
There was nothing that actually kept him there—no powerful force-field to restrain him, no fail-safe mechanism that might have been created by Roma to trap an invader on the chance that someone might succeed in taking control of the Starlight Citadel; if he wanted to leave, all he had to do was step through the main doors and into the adjoining hallway. But it wasn’t as simple as that, as von Doom well knew. For before he had barged in here and overpowered the Guardian with a makeshift technological weapon, the citadel had been placed on high alert after it had been discovered that he was running loose through its corridors. That alert was still in effect and, although von Doom feared no one, he knew his enemies’ strength lay in their numbers—a dozen foes he could deal with, perhaps more, but there were hundreds of sentient beings living in the citadel, as well as the legions of superpowered warriors that comprised the Captain Britain Corps. Not even von Doom was foolish enough to think he could beat those kinds of odds.
That wasn’t to say, however, that he was simply willing to sit comfortably in the shadows, trembling with concern that his presence here might be detected, when there was ultimate power for the taking.
Of course, it was his search for ultimate power that had led him to this maddeningly dull situation in the first place . . .
The scientists in his employ had never planned to create a Cosmic Cube; it had been a happy accident—if one could consider stumbling
across the means to fashion a Jack-in-the-Box-sized device that would allow its possessor to rule the world a joyous occasion. Much like the specialists of Advanced Idea Mechanics, they had tapped into a “gray” hole during an experiment, though this one involved penetrating the Negative Zone: an anti-matter universe first discovered years before by von Doom’s rival—and arch-nemesis—Reed Richards, the leader of the cosmic ray-powered super hero group called the Fantastic Four.
Once the scientists realized what they had discovered, the project leader, Dr. Nils Browder, wasted no time in informing their employer. The news had pleased the dictator: After all the times the Red Skull had made use of such a device to transform the world into numerous recreations of the Third Reich—the limitations of the man’s mind were almost beyond belief!—only to have his dreams shattered by Captain America or some other brightly-costumed do-gooder, it should only be right that Victor von Doom be the one to show Schmidt, and every other pathetic, superpowered, would-be emperor grasping for power, what a true visionary could do with the Cosmic Cube.
All other projects were put on hold, as von Doom’s subordinates threw themselves into attaining their goal—especially when the risk of failure on their part brought with it a death sentence. Forgotten were plans for the tyrant’s latest strike against the accursed Richards and his team—at least temporarily. Work was suspended on the mind-control gas meant to enshroud London; strategies were postponed for the invasion of Washington, D.C.; halted were batches of a deadly neurotoxin to be released above the undersea realm of Atlantis—an act of revenge against his former ally, Prince Namor, the Sub-Mariner, for opposing him once too often. For von Doom, crafting the Cube became his overriding ambition—nothing would deny him the opportunity to create a world of his own.
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