She rolled out of the way, the blade cutting through the air where she’d been a moment ago, though she didn’t escape completely unscathed—a few strands of lavender hair floated to the floor. The dark-clad X-Man, however, had more important matters on her mind to pay it any attention. As Alecto spun around on the balls of his toes to renew his attack, she lashed out with a stockinged leg, catching him behind the left knee; the sweeping kick took him off-balance, and he stumbled into one of the stone columns supporting the ceiling. Betsy smiled as his head rebounded off the unyielding rock, and he staggered drunkenly around the room, apparently unable to focus his vision long enough to locate his target.
She used the opportunity to get behind him. “I’m over here,” she said in a stage whisper.
Alecto lurched around to confront her, but she blocked his sword arm with a wrist strike delivered with her left hand; the heel of her right hand, at the same moment, connected with his nose, breaking it at an odd angle. The guard’s first instinct was to staunch the blood that gushed down his face, and she moved in quickly to disarm him; the sword went spinning across the room, impaling the headboard of Roma’s four-poster bed. Before Alecto could respond, Betsy followed through by igniting her psi-blade and ramming its glowing point into his skull. With a loud groan, he staggered back, eyes rolling around in his head, and crashed, face-down, to the floor.
“Well. . .” Betsy said as she stopped to catch her breath. “Now I can understand why Brian never liked you.”
A glint of candle light on metal caught her attention, and she bent down beside the unconscious guard to inspect the back of his neck. Some sort of device had been grafted to the skin, at the base of the skull; exactly what its purpose might have been she couldn’t say, for the psychic dagger had fried its miniature circuitry. Still, based on Alecto’s bizarre behavior, and his single-tracked insistence that he had to keep her out of the chamber, she had a fairly good idea that it had been controlling his mind. But as for who might have implanted it, well, that truly was a mystery to her. Roma seemed out of the question— she’d never been the type to rely on mechanical constructs like mind-control chips, not when she possessed the powers she did. Satumyne? Perhaps, but the Majestrix wouldn’t have used something that could malfunction in such a way that it would cause her own pawn to turn on her.
But if not them, then who . . . ?
“Betts!”
Betsy looked to the front door. Warren was standing just inside the room, grasping a long metal candle stand in both hands like a staff. He looked from her to Alecto, then to Satumyne, then back to her. His eyebrows rose.
She pointed to the insensate Majestrix. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“Didn’t say you did, hon.” Warren placed the stand in a comer and glanced at the damage around him. “But forgive me for thinking this was all your handiwork.”
Betsy sniffed haughtily. “And I suppose you’ve never trashed a room or two in your time.”
“Well, never on my own. But, then, I don’t have your talents.” Warren moved across the room to kneel beside Satumyne. He placed the tips of his right-hand index and middle fingers against the carotid artery in her neck. “Her pulse seems pretty strong, but she’s gonna have a helluva headache when she wakes up.”
Betsy gestured toward Alecto. “Not as bad as the one he’s going to have, I imagine.” She pointed to the mind-control device, and explained her suspicions.
“So, who else might be a sus—”
“Von Doom!” Betsy interjected. “If there’s anyone in the citadel capable of doing this kind of work, it’s that tin-covered worm.” She paused, scratched her chin with bright-red nails. “But he should be confined to the medical wing ...”
“Then, I guess that’s our next destination,” Warren said as he joined her. “We can turn your playmates over to the doctors there.”
Betsy shook her head. “No. For some reason, Alecto was determined to keep out any and all intraders, including Satumyne; I want to know what that reason is. It might explain where Roma has gotten to.” “All right,” Warren said. “But I don’t think we’re going to get any answers from him anytime soon.” He glanced at the smoking metal patch. “Psi-blade?”
Betsy nodded. “Psi-blade.”
“Well, that’ll keep him napping for a couple of hours.” He stared at the unconscious warrior, sprawled across a trio of floor pillows, then shrugged and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Too bad.”
Betsy shrugged, too. “Couldn’t be helped, luv. It was either that, or give him a chance to cut off my head.” She paused, waiting for a response, then frowned when none was forthcoming. “Now you’re supposed to say, ‘Well, I’m glad he didn’t get that chance, Betts. I like your head just where it is.’ Or something like that.”
“Uh, sure, hon,” Warren said, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. He was looking across the room, at a door on the far side.
“Find something of interest?” She playfully tapped him on the side of the head. “Don’t make me come in there again to learn what it is.” “I was just thinking,” Warren replied. “If Sleeping Beauty here was left to guard something, then it stands to reason it must be that door. It’s the only other way out of this room, and the only place Roma could have gone if she passed through here. And if Doctor Doom was controlling him—”
“—then Roma must be with von Doom,” Betsy concluded. “And I rather doubt it was by her choice.”
“If that’s true, we’ve got some catching-up to do,” Warren said. “But first. . .” He walked over to Satumyne, picked her up, and carried her to Roma’s bed. “Might as well make her comfortable while we’re gone. Not that I think it’ll do anything to improve her opinion of us when she wakes up.”
Betsy smiled. “Ever the gentleman, eh?”
He walked over and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Well, if there’s one thing we Worthingtons know, it’s how to treat a lady—even an acid-tongued one.”
“I hope you’re referring to Satumyne . ..” she said playfully. “Sure,” Warren replied quickly. “Of course, I am. Who else would I be talking about?” He nodded toward the door. “So . . . you ready?” Betsy bent down and picked up Alecto’s sword. She took a few practice swings, spun it with one hand a few times, then nodded in approval of the weapon’s balance and heft. “Now I am.”
Walking side-by-side, they headed for the portal—not certain what might lie on the other side, but more than willing to face it together.
12
THE FIRST indication Reichsmajor Sommers had that something was wrong came just after the Nuremberg touched down at Kal-
_ tenbrunner Spaceport. Instead of the standard honor guard sent to
greet the crew as it disembarked, Sommers and his people were met by close to one hundred armed soldiers—and a Sentinel.
An armored jeep roared up the runway from the control tower and screeched to a halt at the bottom of the ship’s ramp. As Sommers and his second-in-command, Lieutenant Johan Ledyard, came down to meet it, the passenger door on the vehicle opened, and Sharon Carter stepped out.
“Good evening, Obergruppenfuhrer,” Sommers said, warily eyeing the giant robot. “Would you care to ex—”
The gun was in her hand and leveled at his head before his mind had even registered her movement for it.
“Down on the ground!” she commanded. “Schnell!”
Behind the ruby quartz lens of his visor, Sommers’ eyes narrowed in anger. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
A bullet was her reply; it pinged off the hull of the ship. Close to his head.
“Do as I say, Major,” Carter warned, walking up the ramp, “or the next shot will be the last you ever hear.”
As if in response to an unspoken command, the soldiers trained their weapons on him. The air was filled with the click of rounds being chambered, and the hum of pulse rifles building a charge.
Sommers glared at her, but bent forward anyway, as though to sit on the ramp. “Ver
y well, Carter. But there had better be a damn good reason for this embarrassment, or I will see to it personally that you wind up scrubbing toilets on some backwater planet near the Kree border.” As he spoke, one hand hovered near a hidden stud on the left side of the visor; he felt the power he always fought to control increase in intensity, straining for release. Given the circumstances, he couldn’t think of a better time to do so . . .
And that was when the Sentinel spoke.
WARNING, it stated loudly through amplifiers built into its humanoid head. PRESENCE OF MUTANT BIO-ENERGY FORCE DETECTED.
It stepped forward, the ground vibrating with each footfall, and came to a halt beside the jeep. Sommers’ hand immediately dropped away from the visor as the robot pointed its own mammoth hand at him; its palm glowed with a buildup of energy that signaled the activation of a repulsor beam projector the size of a bank vault door. If it were fired, there wouldn’t be enough left of the Major to sweep into a dustpan.
This was it, then, he suddenly realized. His dirty little secret had finally been exposed. They all knew now—knew he was nothing but a lowly mutant, masquerading as a human. He could tell by the expressions on the faces of Carter and her men: some were angry; others, disappointed. Most, though, wanted him dead—he could see it in their eyes.
Slowly, Sommers sat down and placed his hands on the back of his head. Resistance at this point would have been futile; discounting the Sentinel, he was still outnumbered by a factor of 100:1. He fought the urge to leap up and attack, to force them to kill him before news of his “secret identity” became public knowledge; at least that way he’d be spared suffering through the humiliation. But, no—despite the exposure of his true nature, despite his embarrassment, he was still, first and foremost, an officer of the Reich, and would act accordingly. And no self-respecting officer of the Reich would ever consider suicide a solution to his problems.
Carter turned to a group of soldiers clad head to toe in body armor. “You men—find the other one: Rogue. She should be in a cell near the engineering section. And take all precautions—she’s a power-leech. If she attempts to make contact with your skin, shoot her immediately, or she’ll drain you like a battery.”
The men nodded their understanding and hustled up the ramp. They pushed aside the members of the Nuremberg's crew that had gathered at the entry portal—men and women clearly stunned by the revelation that their commanding officer wasn’t human—and disappeared inside the ship.
“Of what possible interest could that blubbering sack of meat be to you, Carter?” Sommers asked. “Woden knows she’s been more hindrance than help ever since she was foisted upon me at Farpoint Station.”
“Silence, freak, ” she snapped. “Playing the wide-eyed innocent at this stage will only earn you a private interrogation session with my security officers.” She flashed a toothy, shark-like grin. “I was never told what condition you had to be in for the transfer—only that you had to be ready.” The grin widened. “I’ll make sure they leave enough blood in your broken body to keep your heart beating.”
Much to her apparent surprise, he returned the smile. “And people say you lack compassion, Obergriippenfuhrer,” he said sarcastically.
She sneered. “Abomination,” she hissed. “Were it in my power, I would see to it that you and all the other freaks onboard your ship were lined up and shot.”
“Then I am grateful that it’s not in your power, Carter,” Sommers replied. “Although, I must confess, being shot would be preferable to listening one moment longer to that harpy-like shriek you call a voice.” Carter bit back whatever reply she’d been about to give—it wouldn’t have been a wise move, to lose control of her temper in front of the troops. She settled, instead, for rapping him across the jaw with the butt of her gun, then turning on her heel and stomping down the ramp, back to her vehicle. She barked an order to one of the soldiers to keep an eye on the prisoner.
Chuckling softly, Sommers rubbed his bruised chin and turned his head to face Ledyard, who had been quietly standing beside him the entire time. “Two sides of the same coin,” the Major had once referred to them—Sommers, dark and brooding; Ledyard, easygoing and full of life. They worked well side-by-side, complemented one another, serving their Emperor to the best of their abilities as they conquered new worlds and annihilated his enemies. And in facing death numerous times over the years, in adventures that had become legendary throughout the Reich, they had become fairly close—as close as Sommers dared ever let anyone get, that is. But as the Major watched him now, it was obvious by the lieutenant’s horrified expression that their friendship had come to a swift end. The distance he was giving his commanding officer was proof of that.
Sommers raised an eyebrow, flashed what he considered a warm smile. “Come now, Johan—I don’t bite.”
Ledyard stared at him, wide-eyed, but made no move to approach him. “I—I’m sorry, Major. It’s just that—”
“Ah,” he said sagely. “The ‘mutant virus.’ ” He shook his head despondently, and sighed. “You know that’s just an old wives’ tale, Johan.”
Ledyard nodded, but his bottom lip was trembling. “I have ... heard that. It’s just... I have two children—”
“Franz and Greta,” Sommers said coldly. “And a beautiful wife, as well.” He sneered at his officer, angered by this betrayal, from someone he considered a friend. “I know, Lieutenant; I have met them—on many occasions. Held them in my arms—on many occasions.”
A thin sheen of sweat suddenly appeared on Ledyard’s forehead, just below the hairline. “Gott in himmel. . .” he whispered. “You held them.. .”
“On many occasions.” A vicious smile twisted Sommers’ features. He couldn’t help himself—it was a small measure of payback for the indignity he was experiencing. “You’ll be certain to give each of the children a kiss from Uncle Scott when you see them later tonight— won’t you?”
His callous laugh was cut short by the heavy tread of boots vibrating through the ramp. He turned around to see that Carter’s men had carried out their errand: Rogue stood in the center of the group, her mask once more covering her face, the chains she was often fitted with again impeding her movements. Head bowed, she marched down the ramp, not even sparing a glance at her former commanding officer.
An armored transport vehicle rolled up to the base of the ramp, and Rogue was shoved into the rear. The soldiers followed, closing the door behind them. The transport roared off as another came to take its place.
Carter stepped from her jeep and approached Sommers. “Your turn, freak. And if you try anything, my men have orders to shoot to kill.” She shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you.”
Hands still on his head, Sommers rose to his feet and silently walked down the ramp. A quintet of soldiers followed, rifles brought to bear on him, while another opened the rear hatch.
Sommers paused in the doorway, and turned to the spaceport commander. “Exactly when do you plan on telling my wife what’s happened to me, Carter? She and I were supposed to have a little talk—”
“About the League of German Maidens?” She laughed sharply. “Why, she already knows about your predicament, Major.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You see, she was the one who told us all about you ...”
“Well, dis don’ look too good .. .” Gambit muttered.
Standing on the roof of the spaceport’s administration building, he watched the circus-like goings-on around the Nuremberg through macrobinoculars he’d found in a desk drawer. As for what they’d been doing in his doppelganger’s office when the man had had no prior use for them. . . well, only a thief knew the forces that propelled him to “acquire” things he didn’t need. Gambit knew that all too well.
He adjusted the magnification by running a thumb along a grooved wheel on one side of the viewer, and zoomed in for a better look. He saw someone who looked like his team leader, Cyclops, start down the ramp, only to be met by a veritable army, accompanied by
a Sentinel. When the big robot had passed the main building on its way toward the starship just moments before, Gambit had ducked back down the stairwell, then breathed a sigh of relief as he realized its sensors hadn’t detected him.
He ducked again, though, when the Sentinel went into protection mode, and stepped toward the ship. But it was Cyclops the robot was after, not him—or, at least, the guy who looked like the man he knew as Scott Summers. It was all hellishly confusing, and Remy hadn’t a clue as to exactly what was going on around here.
The last thing he remembered was the explosion—one that had leveled Psi Division Headquarters, just outside Washington, D.C. It was a facility that used powerful telepaths to scan the globe, seeking any negative thoughts anyone might have toward the armored tyrant who ran the world—the notorious Doctor Doom—and then reporting them to the proper authorities. The X-Men had been brought there for interrogation, after their capture by von Doom’s agents in New York—a battle that had resulted in Remy being infected with a deadly technovirus. An infection that, bit by bit, transformed his flesh and bone into circuits and wires. It was a slow death sentence—one from which there would be no last-minute reprieve.
What had scared him more than watching his body turn to metal, though, was working up the nerve to finally come right out and say how he’d always felt for Rogue, while there was still time to say it. He’d never been so honest with anyone in his life, not even with himself, and it had tom him apart to see how deeply his heartfelt sentiments affected her.
And then they’d had to say good-bye.
As Nightcrawler, aided by some of Magneto’s followers, teleported the X-Men from the facility, Remy stayed behind. He was no good to the team now—the pathogen racing through his system made him too infectious for anyone to touch, especially Rogue—but he was still able to provide them with enough time to escape. All it took was using his biokinetic mutant energy to detonate the metal parts of his body, and blow up the building. There was a flash of light and heat—
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