About her new allies, she thought darkly.
Sat-yr-nin smiled. It could only be destiny that would deliver two of the X-Men—the very group that had robbed her of an empire—into her hands, so that she could use them to create a new one.
What else could it be ... ?
For Betsy, this was the second time in less than a week that she’d found herself shooting across infinity on a transmat beam; she didn’t find this trip any more pleasurable than the first.
She could sense Warren’s thoughts through the mental link she’d established a moment before they’d left Earth, and was amused to discover he didn’t care much either for their unusual mode of transportation. That surprised her—after all the adventures he’d had as a founding member of the X-Men, one would think he’d become used to such forms of travel.
Just because I’ve done something a lot, hon, doesn’t mean it gets any easier over time, he commented.
I.. . float corrected, Betsy replied as the omniverse went whipping past them like so many multicolored ribbons—ribbons that, as she watched with growing horror, began to turn a mottled brown along some of their lengths; a few had even turned black. Was that the effect the Cosmic Cube was having on the other dimensions? Seeing it in this manner, Betsy began to understand Roma’s fears . . . and Satumyne’s insistence that the Guardian destroy the source of the “reality-cancer” before its taint became incurable.
But there had to be a cure for this bizarre disease; she was certain of it. If the Cube-virus was man-made, there was a chance that something could be created to counteract it; perhaps von Doom could even be coerced into working on it, despite the fact that he had no idea what had gone wrong in the first place—beyond the faulty mathematics involved in the construction of the Cube, that is. And yet, as disgusted as she had been when she’d forced her way into his mind to get at the truth after they’d arrived on the citadel, Betsy wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, if that’s what was required to force him to help. All she needed was Roma’s permission.
What, though, if the “cancer” wasn ’t man-made? What if it was a result of the gray hole energy contained within the device—something for which there was no apparent “cure” ... ?
Don’t think like that, Betts, Warren said. We have to remain positive about this situation, otherwise we might just as well give up once we get to the citadel. As long as there are even two X-Men free to act, the Earth still has a fighting chance. And if Doom's not the answer to the problem, then there must be somebody out there in all these dimensions who might be able to point us in the right direction.
Betsy couldn’t help but smile. Warren, luv, what would I—
“—ever do without you?”
Betsy blinked. The vortex was gone, replaced with gleaming white walls, floor, and ceiling—so white, it was difficult to see where one ended and the other began. She’d been here before, or in a room very much like it, when she and von Doom had been plucked from the space between the dimensions by Roma’s technicians. Apparently it was meant to be a debarkation suite of some sort; a cosmic version of an airport lounge where travelers were shunted after a dizzying flight through eternity. It also meant that they’d just have to wait until someone came to greet them, since there was nothing resembling a doorway that she could find.
Her attention turned to Warren, who was laying beside her, wings spread out beneath him. He glanced at her and flashed a boyish grin. “I think we’ve arrived.”
Betsy smiled. “You always were a master of the obvious.”
“Just one of my many abilities,” Warren replied, sitting up. He tapped an index finger against the comer of one eye. “When you’ve hung around the X-Men as long as I have, one of the things you pick up is the power of keen observation.”
Betsy raised an eyebrow. “And that would explain your uncanny knack for losing five sets of apartment keys in three months in what way ... ?”
Warren grinned sheepishly. “I said the power of keen observation, not the power of long-term memory. That’s the one you get when you hang around the Fantastic Four.”
“Does that mean, then, I should have your tailor sew little ‘4s’ on your clothing in order to better focus your attention on the contents of your pockets, or just have him attach the next key ring to the cuff of your jacket?”
Before Warren could come back with a witty response, a small hiss of escaping air cut short their conversation, and an oval-shaped portal suddenly appeared in one of the walls. Through it stepped a quartet of Captain Britains—two men, two women—looking ready for action in their Union Jack-themed costumes. Behind them trailed Satumyne, who looked somewhat surprised when she caught sight of the two arrivals.
“The sister . .she heard the Majestrix mumble.
It was an odd response, considering she had seen Betsy and Professor Xavier off when Roma had sent the two X-Men back to Earth; she had even provided the recall device that lay smoking and twisted on the floor beside Betsy, its circuits overloaded by the trip, its single function now at an end. For a moment, suspicion gnawed at Betsy’s mind—what sort of game was Satumyne up to?—but then she quickly dismissed the notion. With the omniverse facing total destruction, it was perfectly understandable for Satumyne’s thoughts to be focused elsewhere, and then for her to be a trifle confused by Betsy and Warren returning to the citadel; most likely, she had been expecting Professor Xavier to be with her—along with the Cosmic Cube.
Betsy jumped to her feet, Warren beside her. “Satumyne, I need to speak with Roma immediately.”
The Majestrix shook her head. “Out of the question. The Supreme Guardian has sealed herself in the throne room and left instructions that, under no circumstances, is she to be disturbed. For any reason.”
“ ‘Any reason’?” Betsy was stunned. How could Roma lock herself away at a time like this? “But what about the Earth? The threat to the omniverse? She needs to know what’s happened—”
“When she is ready, ” Satumyne snapped, emphasizing each syllable. She flashed a smile that tried to appear friendly, but it was too wide, too false, to be anything less than mildly disturbing. “In the meantime, you can relate anything you would have to say to her to me. Should m’lady be willing to allow me access to the throne room, I will then take your information to her and ask for a decision.”
Nonplused, uncertain how to respond, Betsy slowly turned toward Warren. He shook his head violently. “This is crazy. From what Betsy has told me, Roma is counting on every scrap of information she can get, since her equipment is on the fritz.”
Satumyne raised an eyebrow and looked down her nose at him. “ ‘On the—’ ”
“The scrying glass,” he explained curtly. “That device she uses to observe worlds. Betsy said it stopped working when von Doom’s Cosmic Cube transformed the Earth.”
The one visible eye—the left—that could be seen beyond the sweep of Saturnyne’s Veronica Lake-styled hair widened in obvious surprise. “The . . . Cosmic Cube . . .” she said haltingly. “Yes . ..”
She suddenly turned on her heel and began hurriedly walking away. “I will speak with the Supreme Guardian,” she called back. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured to the costumed guards. “Escort them to one of the suites. I will be along shortly to debrief them.” Before either
Betsy or Warren could call her back, the Majestrix had turned the comer.
Warren turned to Betsy. “Well, that certainly got her moving.” Betsy frowned. “Yes . ..” she said slowly. “But something feels very wrong around here. I’d hate to disobey a directive from Roma, but—”
A polite cough interrupted her thoughts. She glanced over at one of the male officers, who smiled sheepishly and gestured toward the doorway. “If you’ll just accomp’ny us, miss, we’ll take you an’ yer gennelmen-friend t’one o’ the guest suites, jus’ like the Majestrix ordered. I’m sure she’ll get this all sorted out soon enough.”
Betsy sighed. “Very well.” She gazed at Warren, the comers of her mou
th twisting downward with concern. “I just hope Satumyne has some good news for us when she finally comes down from the moun-taintop ...”
“That. . . that toad! That miserable little armored subhuman!”
Sat-yr-nin stormed through the corridors of the citadel, ignoring everything and everyone around her as she muttered softly to herself. So, that’s why Roma had been so preoccupied when she and von Doom had attacked her in the throne room! That was why she’d allowed her guard to drop! Somehow, von Doom had created a device that could alter reality—a detail he’d neglected to mention when he’d suggested that they form an alliance. It was also one she’d failed to focus on when von Doom and Roma openly discussed it in the moments before the Guardian had been overwhelmed by their two-pronged assault, simply because no such device had ever existed on Sat-yr-nin’s world. But if what Braddock’s sister and her lover had said was true—and what reason would they have to lie to their dear, trusted friend, Satumyne?— then this “cube” contained power enough to potentially destroy not just a planet, but the omniverse itself!
On the one hand, Sat-yr-nin wasn’t all that surprised that von Doom had withheld such information—if their positions had been reversed, she wouldn’t have told him, either. On the other, though, she was incensed by his lack of trust; just because she wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat if the opportunity presented itself was no reason to keep her in the dark about such an important matter!
And yet, one thing was clear to her: von Doom no longer possessed the Cube. It was the only explanation she could conceive of that would account for his desire to seize the throne and gain a new powerbase. It also meant that someone else now controlled the Cube. Someone equally as dangerous, no doubt, otherwise Braddock wouldn’t have come to the citadel, begging to see Roma.
Sat-yr-nin smiled, her fevered pace slowing. Perhaps she’d been looking in the wrong direction for an ally—why bother with freaks of nature like the X-Men when there was someone out there in the omniverse who’d already shown they were capable of putting von Doom in his place? Who now held ultimate power in their hands? She slowly nodded, pleased with her assessment of the situation.
But before she could put any plan into action, she needed to know more about the Cube—how it functioned, what it was capable of doing, how it could be controlled. And there was only one handy source of such information, though she would have to be careful in her inquiries so as not to tip her hand.
A Cheshire Cat-like grin twisting her features, Sat-yr-nin resumed her pace, heading for the throne room. She would get the answers she sought, and then, perhaps, she would be able to show the infamous “Doctor Doom” just how the Mastrex of the Empire of True Briton rewarded her allies for their efforts.
THE RIFLE butt came down in a sweeping arc, and Prisoner #937881 howled in agony as his left cheekbone shattered.
. For a few moments, he thought he had been struck blind as well by the blow, his vision suddenly plunged into total darkness, the inky blackness occasionally broken by kaleidoscopic flashes of color that shot across the void. Slowly, though, his sight began to return. He heard the thin fabric of his workclothes tear at the knees as he collapsed to the hardpacked ground, felt the warm stickiness of blood gush from the abraded skin. Somewhere off in the distance—or so it seemed to his ringing ears—a gruff voice taunted him for his weakness. It was hard to think clearly, even harder to form words to respond. He tried to open his mouth to speak, only to hear an unaccustomed moan issue from his bruised lips. It was quickly followed by a ragged gasp as a razor-sharp piece of bone sliced across the lining of his mouth.
Why? he thought bitterly. Why won’t they let me die ... ?
Standing above the prisoner, the two guards who had been escorting him across the compound roared with laughter. They watched with amusement as blood spilled from his mouth, to be hungrily absorbed by the eternally parched soil.
“What’s wrong, Jew?” one of them hissed. “I thought you were supposed to be powerful. Why, you can’t even make it across the yard without tripping and injuring yourself!”
The other guard chuckled. “Better watch out, Carl,” he warned, voice dripping with sarcasm. “This one could tear you in half.”
Carl looked surprised. “What—this one?” He lashed out with a booted foot, delivering a savage kick to the man’s ribs; an evil grin split his lips as he heard one snap beneath his heel. The prisoner tried to cry out, but his lacerated mouth could only produce a soft whimper. “No, Wilhelm. You must be thinking of someone else.”
The second guard rubbed his chin, as though deep in thought. “No, no, I’m certain this is the one.” He reached down to grasp one of the prisoner’s wrists, which was tattooed with an identification bar code. He unclipped a laser-scanner from his belt and swept it across the small black bars, then glanced at the readout. He nodded in satisfaction. “It’s him, all right.”
Carl clucked his tongue. “Amazing.” He sighed melodramatically and slowly shook his head. “How the mighty have fallen.” He bent down, leaning close enough to place his mouth beside one of the inmate’s bloodied ears. “I guess that’s what happens when you wrong the Emperor, isn’t it?”
Wilhelm glanced at his watch. “We’d better get him to the infirmary, have that cheek and rib repaired. He’s no good to the facility if he’s unable to work.” He looked up to exchange malicious smiles with his partner. “Besides, we can always pick up where we left off. He’s not going anywhere.”
“That’s why I enjoy working with you, Wilhelm,” Carl said, beaming. “Always thinking of the big picture.”
“Makes the day go faster,” the other guard replied. “You should try it sometime.”
Carl shook his head, his oversized ears waggling slightly. “Not my style. You know me—live for the moment, get what pleasures you can while you can get them.” As if to emphasize his point, he jabbed the toe of his boot into the prisoner’s side, and smiled as the man coughed up blood-flecked spittle.
The guards grabbed their charge by the arms and roughly hauled him to his knees. The prisoner moaned again as he was dragged through the dirt, leaving behind a bloody trail.
“Don’t worry, freak,” Wilhelm said. “We’ll have you back on your feet soon enough . . . just in time for our next session.”
The trio set off for the medical center, weaving through the throngs of prisoners clustered in the main yard.
“You know, I was just wondering,” Carl said in a conversational tone, lips twisted in a savage sneer. “When we see you again, how would you like us to address you? ‘Jew’? ‘Freak’?” The sneer quickly transformed into an animalistic snarl, and he practically spat out his next words. “Or do you prefer ... ‘Magneto’?”
Head lolling against his chest, blood continuing to seep from his pulped features, Inmate #937881—the mutant overlord who once went by the name Erik Magnus Lensherr—mercifully slipped into unconsciousness before he could hear their cruel laughter.
The pain kept him from sleeping.
Lying on a worn, rusted metal bunk, Lensherr stared at the ceiling, his gaze drifting along the hairline cracks that ran through the cheap plaster. Beside him, his bunkmate—a half-starved, scar-covered younger man named Jean-Paul Beaubier—shifted around in his sleep, pulling more of the thin blanket they shared over himself. For a moment, Lensherr considered reclaiming his half of the covering, then decided not to—if wrapping himself in a makeshift cocoon brought some comfort to the hideously thin mutant in his final days, then let him enjoy it; Lensherr would have it all to himself soon enough.
Gingerly, he touched his reconstructed cheek with the tips of his fingers, and winced. The medics had told him the pain would linger for days, but he had refused medication—partly because he had no use for drugs, but mainly because he wasn’t going to give his tormentors an opportunity to make him dependent on narcotics.
One of the broken slats in the bedframe shifted under his weight and dug into the small of his back . . . and the sizeable lump
just under the skin there. Lensherr grunted. Like most nights, the neural inhibitor hardwired to his spinal cord was making him more than a little uncomfortable, though the pain it gave him was nowhere near as great as that caused by his current injuries. Not for the first time since his arrival in this hellhole, an unnamed concentration camp deep in the Canadian woods, he wished that he could find some way to remove the cursed thing that kept him from using his mutant powers, but he had already learned first-hand what would happen if he tried to disconnect the device without a proper medical procedure: It took him an entire day to regain the use of his paralyzed limbs—agonizing hours during which he was unable to walk, or eat without assistance, or speak clearly. The inhibitor had shut down most of his motor functions, leaving him a crippled, drooling idiot confined to his bed, unable to shut out the derisive comments hurled at him by the camp’s guards.
For the first time in his life, he had prayed for death, to a god he had turned his back on when he was a teenager, after his parents had been killed by the Nazis. But, Lensherr knew, the Red Skull would not allow him such escape—not after he had used the Cosmic Cube to reanimate him, moments after the Nazi had sunk the obsidian blade of a special combat knife deep into his heart...
* * *
He had just turned over possession of the Cosmic Cube to his one-time friend, and long-time enemy, Professor Charles Xavier. In the moments before he did so, Lensherr had made an impassioned plea to the X-Men’s leader to save one tiny piece of the world he had created: the life of his daughter, Anya.
Xavier had said no.
It was a crushing blow to Lensherr. In the “real” world, before he had ever held the Cube, before the Red Skull had used the device to turn the planet into a living hell, Anya had been the first child that Erik and his wife, Magda, had conceived during the years that followed their escape from Poland’s notorious Nazi concentration camp, Auschwitz. But though the war had ended a short time later, humanity’s hatred for, and fear of, anything different never completely went away, and not even a ten-year-old girl was immune from their effects. The fire that took her life could have been prevented, had not the people of the town in which the Lensherrs had settled turned against the family, delaying Erik from reaching Anya before it was too late. As he watched his daughter’s fire-consumed corpse tumble from their apartment window to land at his feet, Lensherr had felt his mind switch off as he slipped into madness. When he finally recovered, it was to find everyone around him dead, the air heavy with the stench of static electricity and burned flesh.
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