Yes, the Skull thought. That was exactly the problem.
Captain America had been the one constant in his life—ever vigilant, ever strongwilled, ever standing between the Skull and his destiny. He could always be counted on to make an unwanted appearance, just as victory was within the Skull’s grasp; was always able to rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of defeat to win the day. But the accursed shield-slinger was gone now, replaced by an obedient servant who presented no opposition—no challenge—to him ... and that was what kept the Skull from gaining complete pleasure from the situation.
For a few seconds, he considered calling upon the Cube’s cosmic power, using it to restore Rogers to the man he had once been—just for a little while, at least. A momentary diversion, to chase away the sense of ennui that had overcome the Skull of late. But then he dismissed the notion, recalling that a similar train of thought years ago, with another Cube, had caused him to resurrect his foe in order to crow about how he was now Captain America’s master. He’d ended up losing four teeth and the Cube, and stumbling off the edge of a cliff as he tried to make his escape.
Some things, he reflected, were better left alone ...
“Well, as long as you’re here, Your Majesty,” Rogers said, “would you and your aide care to tour the facility?”
“My . .. ?” The Skull looked back, over his shoulder, expecting to see Dietrich standing beside him.
It was Leonard he spotted, however, standing ten yards away, skulking as always in the shadow of his master. He’d forgotten the boy had accompanied him on his stroll through the countryside; then again, it wasn’t too difficult for that to have happened, given the youth’s quiet, fearful nature. Perhaps the boy should have trained as a Ninja assassin, rather than as a National Socialist—his talent for stealth would have served him better.
“Come along, boy!” the Skull barked. “I have no patience for dawdlers!”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” Leonard trotted over obediently, coming to a halt beside the Emperor.
The Skull nodded, pleased that his former aide was still capable of responding to a command, but uncertain as to why he should have ordered the boy to accompany him, rather than Dietrich. He supposed it didn’t really matter—one lackey was as good as the next. With a mental shrug, he turned to Rogers, and gestured toward the camp.
“After you, Your Majesty,” Rogers said pleasantly. “I think you’ll be quite pleased with what you see.”
“I shall be the judge of that, Commandant,” the Skull growled. “Remember that as we proceed.”
Rogers nodded quickly and moved aside, to allow his master access to the main yard. The Skull brushed past him, angered by the way Rogers fought to keep his bottom lip from trembling.
Weakling, he thought heatedly.
Perhaps his world was better off without Captain America ...
When he first saw the gates of the camp through the tree line, Leonard had felt a lead weight settle in his stomach. Ever since the Skull had changed the world, using the Cube to transport them both to the Fatherland so he could set up his power base, Leonard had done his best to avoid having to see any of the horrors his master had created; the camp had been high on his list of places to steer clear of. He’d also tried to remain quietly in the background—after all, now that the Skull had reached his ultimate goal, what need did he have of lackeys?
He knew the Skull detested him, considered him unfit to be called a Nazi. But what he couldn’t figure out was, if the grotesque villain hated him so, why did he keep him around? With the Cosmic Cube in his possession, the Skull could have anyone he wanted as his right-hand man; he’d demonstrated just that by resurrecting his previous aide, Dietrich. And with that task accomplished, Leonard’s role had been rendered obsolete; if the Skull wished it, he could be wiped from existence, never to be seen again—or even remembered.
Maybe the Skull needed someone to gloat to, he considered. With all his enemies defeated or dead, there was no one to acknowledge the power he now possessed. Maybe he needed someone who knew how the world had been just over a month ago, before the Cosmic Cube and its trio of owners had each torn it apart and rebuilt it to their specifications. Someone who could appreciate the accomplishments he’d achieved, and who could respond with the right amount of awe. Well, there was Magneto, but Leonard couldn’t see any reason why the Skull would even bother—the super-villain was so far beneath his notice, it had apparently skipped his mind that he’d allowed an enemy to live, locked away as he was in the depths of the Canadian wilderness.
Maybe he’d just forgotten all about his former assistant, as well; Leonard certainly hoped that was the explanation. And by keeping to the old adage of “out of sight, out of mind,” he had managed to keep the Skull from focusing on him for too long, perhaps even from reaching a decision that Leonard dreaded he would make one day: that he no longer needed anyone around to remind him of the “old days” . ..
His life had never seemed this complicated—certainly had never been filled with such perils—during his childhood in Chicago, long before the Red Skull entered it.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. His parents had tried to impress upon him the dangers that existed in the world as he was growing up, but Leonard Mathias Jackson had been a typical kid back then, unwilling to take the advice of adults, secure in the belief that he was invincible. The only dangers he had to face were avoiding old Mrs. Mendelbaum next door when he and his friends played on her stoop, or getting his butt kicked by some of the older kids at school. He knew about super heroes and super-villains like the Fantastic Four and Doctor Doom— those costumed types were pretty cool!—but wasn’t interested in hearing about boring stuff like job security and “affirmative action” (whatever that was) and how minorities were stealing positions that should be filled by honest (white) Americans. Unfortunately, it was all his old man ever seemed to talk about during Leonard’s pre-teen years, which made it difficult to block it out entirely, and which only widened the gap between father and son—not that they had ever really been close to begin with. Eventually, though, Nathaniel’s hate-filled diatribes began to sink in, and Leonard began to listen. There was some truth in his father’s words, he realized, once you got past the heat of the message. But it wasn’t until Nathaniel was passed over for a promotion, and the position was given to a black man who had worked under him, making him Nathaniel’s supervisor, that Leonard began to wonder if his father might have been right all along . . .
It was about that time that he learned of Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich.
It was part of his high school history lessons: an examination of World War II. It was meant to impress upon the students the horrors of war, and the monstrous actions a society could enact on its citizens only because they were different—actions directed by a single individual on an insane quest to dominate the world. Most of the kids in his class were only interested in the exploits of the costumed superpowered men and women who’d fought on behalf of the Allied Forces: Captain America and the Invaders. Miss America and the All-Winners Squad. The Destroyer, The Patriot, and dozens of others.
But it was the villains who caught Leonard’s eye. Master Man. Baron Blood. The Red Skull. Bad guys were always cooler, because they were willing to take the sort of risks good guys were afraid to. They would go anywhere, do anything, destroy anyone who got in their way. And it was because they were so “cool” that Leonard began doing his own research on them, and their cause—the Internet was full of web sites dedicated to both, with links to even more URLs. Gradually, he even began to join in on the chat rooms for some of the sites, which led to connections with people his own age—people whose philosophies he eventually made his own.
He went to Auschwitz, once, just after he’d turned twenty-one. His parents, oblivious to the kinds Of friends he’d acquired, had paid for the trip to Europe as a late graduation present; Poland was just one of the stops on the tour. The concentration camp had been nothing more than a curiosity to him—a tourist a
ttraction where guides somberly spoke of the more than one million Jews, gypsies, Poles, and Russians who had been put to death within its fences. The number was just too big to get his head around it, but his friends certainly found the figure impressive. “A good start,” he’d heard Kevin Boyer mutter. They’d all had a good laugh over that.
And then they went dancing.
The club in which they’d partied the night away was as unusual— and disturbing—a location as one could possibly conceive. It stood in the nearby town of Oswiecim, in a building that had been used by the Nazis to sort the hair taken from Jewish prisoners after extermination— hair used for, among other things, stuffing mattresses and insulating the boots of U-boat crews. But he hadn’t known about that when they burst through the doors, nor would he have cared—he was there to have fun, and that’s exactly what he found. The heavy-metal music had gotten his pulse racing, the vodka had loosened him up, and the women had been incredibly beautiful. . . and amazingly accommodating.
It was there he first learned of “The Controller” and his plans for re-establishing the supremacy of the white race. Not that Leonard was interested in hearing recruitment speeches—far from it—but it was apparently the price one had to pay for enjoying the charms of their hostesses. So he sat and listened, and the words he heard made sense to him. More than made sense—they sounded true, accurate. Whites were losing power in the world—he had only to look at his father to see proof of that. Given enough time, they would find themselves in the minority—and that could not be allowed to happen. Not, as it was so clearly explained by him, and the others in that noisy, smoke-filled club, when there was a man ready to lead them against their enemies. A man who knew how the world could be, should be, if they were willing to follow his lead.
A man with a vision . . .
Now, as he walked in the shadow of his master, Leonard could only stare in horror at what that man, that vision, had wrought.
Death was all around him. He could see it in the terrified expressions of the prisoners as they huddled together, forced into small groups by the guards; could smell it in the air; could feel it settling into his bones like a winter chill. Waves of despair roiled across the yard to break against him, threatening to drown his soul in a tide of darkness. A tremor ran through his legs, but he remained standing, hoping his master hadn’t seen that moment of weakness. And as he screwed his eyes shut to block out the sights and sounds and smells, he began to understand why it was that the Skull treated him with such scorn.
He felt sorry for his enemies.
He knew he shouldn’t; in fact, he should have been feeling elated.
Here were prime examples of the very minorities he had come to hate, who had tried to destroy his country from the inside, like a cancer. He should be laughing in their faces, taking pleasure in their fear. And yet ... and yet, he could only feel pity—and shame.
Gazing at the hollowed eyes and gaunt faces of the women behind the fences, he suddenly found himself thinking of Kate Ashbrook, the computer hacker he had once dated when they’d first begun working for the man they came to know as The Controller. She’d given her life for the Skull’s dream, hadn’t she? She and all the others whose skeletons would continue to circle the Earth until they eventually crumbled to dust. Dead people on a dead planetoid—orbiting a dead world?
That, more than anything else, was what deeply troubled Leonard: the thought that, if the Skull grew tired of his new world—as he was starting to show signs of, by his recent bouts of melancholy—he might destroy it on a whim. If the Cube made him so powerful that he didn’t even need to hold the wish box to call upon its cosmic energies—as Leonard had seen with his own eyes after the planet had been re-shaped-—if he could mold reality to fit his needs with just the force of his own mind, then he was virtually a god. And even a god could become weary of his creations . ..
A small gasping sound pulled him from his reverie. A few feet ahead, the Skull and Commandant Rogers had come to a stop near the administrative offices; they stood beside a frail-looking woman who cowered in their presence. Leonard hurried to join them before his absence was discovered.
.. this is Anya Lensherr, the lead violinist of our orchestra, Your Majesty,” Rogers was saying with a note of pride as Leonard quietly approached the Skull.
“Yes ... I have heard their talentless assaults on the classics each day, from the castle,” the Skull commented, fixing the woman with a hard stare. He turned to the commandant, his expression the same. “You were not planning to assail my ears with an off-key rendition of the ‘Funeral March,’ were you, Rogers?” His eyes narrowed. “It would be a grave error, to insult your emperor in such a fashion.”
Rogers blanched. “Of course not, Your Majesty!” he responded immediately, snapping to attention. “I merely thought—”
The back of a gloved hand whipped forward, striking Rogers across the face. Remarkably, the man managed to take the blow without either flinching or stumbling backward.
“You thought nothing!” the Skull barked. “I am the one who does the thinking for you—for all the pathetic sheep of this world! The one who guides your worthless lives, gives them meaning. Who allows you to continue living only because I wish it! Before me, there was nothing; after me—” He paused. “After me ...”
A chill running up his spine, Leonard watched as a disturbing gleam lit the Skull’s eyes. This is it, he thought. This is where he ends it all...
“After me ...” the Skull said slowly, .. there is only oblivion. For without me, nothing would exist—not this world, not this universe. It is only by the strength of my indomitable will that the forces von Doom has foolishly unleashed are kept at bay.” He looked skyward, and Leonard followed the direction of his gaze, expecting to see whatever it was his master was observing. But there was only brilliant sunlight and clear blue skies above them; if the Skull saw anything else, it was beyond Leonard’s ability to perceive it.
“No,” the Skull finally said. “I have labored too hard, created too much, for my vision to be tom apart because of the ill-conceived planning of some gypsy filth. I control the Cube now, and only one who has known its true powers, who has touched the face of Eternity itself, could hold together a cosmos that strains to tear itself apart. ONLY THE RED SKULL!” he bellowed, shaking a fist at the heavens. “I have sterilized your vims, von Doom, corrected the flaws your bungling scientists had made! Your failsafe device has been rendered inoperative! This Cube—this universe—is mine, now and forevermore!”
And as he watched his emperor Leonard couldn’t be sure if he should feel relieved that the Skull had apparently abandoned thoughts of destroying the planet on a whim—or dread what he might do with it now. . . .
9
HE TAXICAB dropped Jean off before the padlocked wrought iron gates of Xavier’s estate. As the yellow-and-black vehicle roared away, she made a telepathic sweep of the area, just to make certain there were no Nazi Women’s League members lurking in the bushes.
Satisfied that she was alone, Jean took one last glance up and down the well-paved country road, then telekinetically raised herself into the air, floated over the gates, and gently landed on the estate grounds. Gazing at her surroundings, Jean couldn’t help but feel depressed. The driveway that wound from the road to the mansion’s front door was pitted and potholed, and the acres of well-mown lawns hadn’t seen a groundskeeper’s touch in a dog’s age—the grass was almost at eye level, patches of it turned a hideous shade of brown. The air was thick with flies and mosquitoes, the former drawn to the trash scattered around the gates—rotting food, half-empty plastic containers and greasy boxes from take-out joints, discarded bottles and cans of soft drinks and alcoholic beverages—while the latter had taken residence in puddles of stagnant water somewhere in the overgrowth; Jean couldn’t see the fetid pools, but she could certainly smell them. With a sigh, she set off down the driveway, dreading what she would find at the end of the road.
Given the poor conditions o
f the grounds, she wasn’t all that surprised by the sight that greeted her minutes later, when she pushed her way through the last rows of weeds, wildflowers, and mottled -grass. And yet, as she stared in dismay at the crumbling, weather-beaten edifice standing before her, she was suddenly struck by the notion that there was no hope to be found in this place.
The facade was as pitted as the driveway, the plaster cracked and crumbling, revealing the bare brickface just underneath. Most of the windows on the first floor, and more on the second, were broken, the splintered frames holding nothing more than jagged shards of glass. A number of spray-painted messages covered the walls and front door, the words blazing in red, orange, and green Day-Glo letters:
DIE FREEKI MUTEE180 NAZI SYMPATHIZER BURN IN HELL!
A flutter of wings caught her attention, and Jean watched as a trio of pigeons flew inside, quickly disappearing in the darkness of what had once been the library; apparently, the once prestigious mansion had turned into an aviary over the years.
But those were phantom years, Jean knew. Time that had only passed in the minds of the people inhabiting this world—people living fictitious lives, as she and the other X-Men were leading; as they had on the Earth of Magneto’s making. Not to mention those members of the group who had fallen prey to Doctor Doom’s tyrannical visions. Members like Psylocke, or Archangel.
Jean frowned. Betsy and Warren. Where were they in this madness? Could Betsy—or at least her duplicate—really now be the star of some adventure series, as that television magazine had reported? She shrugged. Anything was possible when the Cosmic Cube was involved—she was still finding it hard to believe her previous alternate had been a staunch supporter of Magneto’s twisted philosophies.
And there was another concept that took some getting used to. It was odd to think of a different yet similar Jean Grey in such terms: “alternate,” “duplicate,” “doppelganger.” The Jean Grey of Erik Lensherr’s domain was every bit as real as the woman who called herself Phoenix. Jean knew that all too well—she could feel her . . . double still lurking in the comers of her mind, enraged that she was as much a prisoner in the depths of this Nazi-bom body, as Jean had been in hers. If it hadn’t been for Phoenix’s greater mental abilities, she might have been trapped in Sommers’ subconscious, instead of being able to push herself out and lock her evil twin behind her.
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