And he’d suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor of a broom closet-sized office, wearing another man’s uniform—and, apparently, his body, as well.
It took a while for him to come to the conclusion that this place wasn’t Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory—although the idea that he might be a desk-bound bureaucrat in this reality made him reconsider the Hell part. But the truth of it was, he was alive; the why and the how of it he was willing to leave to the experts. Maybe Roma could explain it to him when the mission was completed.
The mission. He couldn’t be sure, but he had a sinking feeling that, if the world had changed as much as it apparently had, then the X-Men had failed to save the day. He ignored the thought that popped into his head that, if that were the case, then his sacrifice had been for nothing. But it hadn’t been for nothing, he sternly reminded himself—by destroying Psi Division Headquarters, he’d at least given back to his teammates their freedom; given them another chance to try and reverse whatever it was Doctor Doom had done to the planet.
Now, it was his turn.
He’d spent the next few hours becoming acclimated to this new world, using his alternate’s computer to get a handle on things. Or as much a handle on things as one could manage, when they wake up to discover they’re on an Earth where the Nazis won World War II, and the Red Skull is now its king. He was just grateful that he’d somehow absorbed enough knowledge from his twin to understand German, since there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of people around who still spoke English—or French. Through the computer, and its Internet access, he’d tried to locate the other X-Men, but the task was made impossible to accomplish because of variations in the spelling of surnames he typed in—too many for him to wade through—and the fact that most government agencies regarded their files as classified information, and thus were inaccessible.
It was only when he tried “Rogue” that his luck changed. There was only one listed, and that was in the listing of crews for the Empire’s spacefleet. And when he saw that her ship, the Nuremberg, was scheduled to make planetfall later that day, he knew the cards were in his favor. Even better, the ship’s commander was named Scott Sommers— too close a coincidence to be anyone but the X-Men’s leader, under a similar name.
But any plans he’d had of trying to contact either of them had just been trashed, courtesy of the port’s she-wolfish commander.
He watched as someone—a woman, by her figure—was led in chains from the ship, and something told him it was Rogue. Perhaps it was the style of her outfit that alerted him—no one else he knew would have every inch of skin covered to avoid making contact with the people around her. Or perhaps it was just that streak of white hair poking out of the top of her mask. His heart sank when he saw how cruelly the soldiers were treating her as they bundled her into the back of an armored car. Yet he held his anger in check, forced himself to remain where he was, and not go foolishly rushing headlong into danger. It would do neither of them any good if he got himself killed coming out of the gate.
A wry smile turned up the comers of his mouth. He’d always known hanging around the X-Men might be good for something—he just hadn’t expected it to be for gaining wisdom. Well, he surmised, even a street-smart thief could learn a trick or two from those around him—if he was willing to listen.
The transport pulled away from the Nuremberg, and headed for one of the exit gates.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Dey’re splittin’ ’em up.” Now, he had a decision to make: Go after Rogue, or wait for Cyclops’ transport and follow that instead.
It wasn’t that difficult a choice.
“Sorry, Cyclops,” he muttered. “But dere’s a certain fille needin’ a helpin’ hand right ’bout now, an’ Gambit... well, he’s always had a soft spot fo’ de ladies. Hope you understan’.”
Tucking the macrobinoculars into one of the deep pockets of the black trenchcoat he’d appropriated from another office, Remy paused to watch the direction in which Rogue’s vehicle was heading—west, toward Manhattan. Then he sprinted for the stairs, and the employee parking garage.
Jean Grey was getting awfully tired of waking up with a headache.
She never used to have them with such frequency, but then, before she joined the X-Men, she never had to worry about blows to the back of her skull, or psychic attacks on her mind, or being injected with powerful sedatives. It was getting so she was starting to forget what it felt like to sleep normally, without outside influence.
On von Doom’s world, she’d been struck in the head with a paving stone wielded by one of his super-villainous government agents; it had left her with a mild concussion. When she was shunted into Magneto’s reality, though, she’d been too engrossed in freeing herself from her duplicate’s mind to worry about being knocked unconscious. But now, on the Red Skull’s Earth, it seemed she was making up for lost time: first, Xavier’s unexpected mental assault; then, the drugs Carol Danvers had injected her with. Her condition had been made even worse by Xavier’s ransacking of her thoughts and memories; her mind was now a confusing jumble of sights and sounds, all scattered across the floor of her subconscious during his brutal search for information. It was difficult for her to think clearly, even more so for her to remain awake, but she wasn’t willing to give in to the cool, inviting waters of the dark tide that washed over her mind.
“She is conscious, Commander,” she heard someone say, and dimly recognized the voice as Xavier’s.
Slowly, Jean opened her eyes, and found herself gazing into the cold, dark orbs of someone she’d hoped never to see again. “Lady Viper .. .” she whispered hoarsely.
The last time Jean and the beautiful—and very deadly—femme fatale had met was on von Doom’s world, shortly after the X-Men’s capture. There, the former leader of the international terrorist organization Hydra (in the real world) had been assigned the task of running “Emperor” von Doom’s high security agency S.H.I.E.L.D., and Jean was just another prisoner to be interrogated. The electroshock therapy Jean had undergone at her hands wasn’t something the X-Man was going to forget anytime soon. However, she didn’t expect Viper to remember that encounter—the world had undergone a change or two since then, courtesy of the Cosmic Cube.
Yes, the world might have changed, but Viper certainly hadn’t. She was still clad in a bright green latex catsuit that accentuated every curve, still wore the same garish lipstick and eye shadow, still styled her shoulder-length hair—also tinted green (did the woman only know of one color in the spectrum?)—in a Veronica Lake fashion. Her Asian features were as striking as ever, and her lips bore the same perpetual snarl her counterpart had displayed. She regarded Jean quietly for a moment, then turned to the side. “Is she—”
“Going to cause any trouble?” Xavier replied. “Not at all.”
Jean raised her head to glance at her surroundings, but it was taking all her strength. It felt as though a large weight had been placed on her head. •
Not a weight, child, Xavier’s voice suddenly echoed in her thoughts. Just a few psychic barriers to keep you in check. If you try to break them, I’m afraid you’ll only wind up crippling your mind. Permanently.
The pressure eased a bit, and she was able to lift her head. There was an Art Deco influence to the design of the office, one she never would have expected to fit Viper’s style, given the woman’s obvious tastes for all things rubber and leather. Beyond a massive mahogany desk covered with paperwork and some of the commander’s personal “toys” was a trio of soaring windows. On the other side of the glass, city lights sparkled brightly against the night sky, and her attention was drawn to a familiar skyscraper in the southwest that stood high above the others: the Empire State Building.
I.. . think we ’re in. . . the Chrysler Building, she realized, with some effort; it still hurt to focus her thoughts. So that means... we ’re back in .. . midtown Manhattan. But.. . why? And. . . what happens . . . next. . . ?
She tried to turn in her seat, only to discover she was h
eld fast by a number of broad leather straps that confined her to the wheelchair she was sitting in: her wrists were secured to the arms of the chair, her legs to the hangar brackets supporting the footrests, her torso to the stiff wooden back. She tilted her head to the right, and saw Carol Danvers seated on a leather couch nearby, glaring back at her. The blow to the left temple she’d received when Jean telekinetically shoved open the front door at the mansion had turned into an ugly bruise; the black-and-blue coloration did wonders for bringing out the anger in her eyes.
To the left sat Xavier, who was deep in conversation with Viper. That didn’t mean, however, that he wasn’t aware of her watching him.
“When do you expect to hear from Minister Zola, Commander?” he asked. “I would have expected him to have us flown to Genosha on the first possible transport.”
“The Minister moves at his own pace, Herr Professor, and for his own reasons,” Viper replied. “It is my understanding that we are waiting for a prisoner transfer before we begin the trip.”
Xavier chuckled. “Ah. Some of Frau Sommers’ colorfully named friends, I imagine. Well, given the information she’s provided—” he flashed a satisfied smile at Jean “—it shouldn’t be too difficult to round up the rest of them.” He frowned. “I must admit, however, that I was surprised by some of their identities.”
“As was Berlin, when I informed the Ministry of Security.” Viper sneered. “Perhaps mutants have outlived their usefulness, if we have to start worrying about revolutionaries in our midst.”
Xavier started—Jean could feel waves of fear radiating from his mind—but he quickly recovered. “Nonsense, Commander,” he said with a forced smile. “I have no doubt that, once Frau Sommers’ fellow conspirators have been rounded up, things will return to normal.” He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. f ‘Cyclops.’ ‘Rogue.’ ‘Wolverine.’ ‘Storm.’ ‘Psylocke.’ ‘Archangel.’ ” He huffed mightily. “In time, each and every one of these rogue mutants will be brought to justice.”
Jean glanced at him. I notice.. . you 've left yourself... off the list... “Professor X” . . .
The pressure on her mind suddenly increased. Indeed, Frau Sommers. And if you wish to avoid becoming a mindless, drooling idiot, you will keep such information just between us.
Her eyes narrowed, and she coaxed her lips to form a sly smile. What’s wrong, Professor—afraid of being exposed as a “conspirator” ?
A cruel smile contorted his features.
She knew it was coming, then, but could do nothing to stop it. Jean screamed and twisted in her seat as a psychic pulse raced through the link, shattering her consciousness.
And then her mind went blank.
“Is there a problem, Herr Professor?” Viper asked.
Xavier smiled beatifically. “None at all, Commander. Why do you ask?”
Viper stepped forward and grasped Jean’s chin in a gloved hand, then tilted back her head.'The redheaded mutant’s eyes had rolled upward, showing only the whites. A thin line of spittle oozed from a comer of her gaping mouth. “Well, it’s just that I usually don’t see prisoners react in such a manner until after I’ve completed my questioning.”
“A mild seizure, no doubt caused by the stress induced by her current situation.” Xavier shrugged. “Nothing more.”
Viper frowned, and let Jean’s head fall back on her chest. “Such a condition isn’t listed in her medical records.”
“Neither is any mention of psychic powers,” he commented.
She paused to mull that over. “True. But...”
“Please, Commander, don’t worry so!” Xavier said pleasantly. He motioned toward Jean. “You see? She’s recovering already.”
It was the closest she’d been to death in ... she couldn’t remember how long. And it had been accomplished with all the ease of flicking a light switch.
Jean shuddered. Was there nothing of the real Charles Xavier left in this monster? Or had his Nazi twin “switched” him off permanently, as he had almost done with her?
Feeling better, child? Xavier asked, startling her.
I... got the message. .. Professor, she said, her heart pounding in her chest. There was ... no reason for... a demonstration . . .
I believe in teaching by example, Frau Sommers, he replied. It often eliminates the need for me to repeat myself. He turned to face Viper, who was talking on a cell phone that had been clipped to her belt. “Any news from Minister Zola, Commander?”
She ended her conversation and nodded. “Not yet. But I was just
speaking with the commander of Kaltenbrunner Spaceport. Two of the other conspirators are on their way, via armored car.” She raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Jean. “One of them is Reichsmajor Sommers.” Xavier turned to Jean and patted her reassuringly on the knee. “There—you see how helpful you’ve been to the Empire, Frau Sommers? If you hadn’t revealed your powers to me, no one would have suspected that one of the spacefleet’s most respected officers was actually the ringleader of an underground mutant revolution. And once we have all the other key members of your rebellion, the citizens of the Empire will be able to breathe a little easier, knowing such rabble are off their streets.” He smiled wolfishly. “I’m sure the Major and you will have much to discuss when he gets here.”
“Oh, yes,” Jean muttered sarcastically. “It’ll be one big, happy family reunion...”
13
WELL, NOW this is what I call a pretty big hall,” Warren commented as he and Betsy walked through the limitless depths of
_ the pocket dimension. “Bet you could throw one hell of an X-Men
reunion in here, and still have room for the Avengers and the FF. . . and the entire Shi’ar Empire . . . and a hundred-piece orchestra or five. .
“I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the catering bill,” Betsy added.
They’d been exploring this unusual side chamber for what felt like hours, guided only by an inner compass that Betsy seemed to possess— part of her birthright, apparently, as the daughter of one of Merlyn’s former guards. It would explain, she’d commented to Warren, why she never got lost whenever she visited the citadel. Still, no matter how well developed her sense of direction might be, they’d seen no evidence of the Supreme Guardian—or her unwanted guest, for that matter.
Warren came to a halt. “Okay—stop.” He looked around at the endless white field, then turned to Betsy. “Hon, there has got to be a better way to do this. I mean, we could wander around this place for a hundred years and never find Roma—not unless we come across a signpost pointing the way.”
Betsy flashed a small smile. “Your next stop: The Twilight Zone.”
He shrugged. “Hey, at least then we’d know we were going somewhere.”
She nodded, then fell silent. Her brow furrowed, and she started tossing Alecto’s sword from one hand to the other, then put the point of the blade on the ground and idly twirled the weapon.
“I can hear the gears turning in your head, Betts,” Warren said. “Anything coming to mind?”
“Maybe,” she replied. “I was thinking of my teleport ability. Unlike our friend, Nightcrawler, I don’t necessarily have to know the exact location I want to go to in order to get there. So, perhaps, if I just focus on finding Roma, instead of where she might be—”
“We might be able to jump right to her.” Warren smiled. “Have I ever mentioned how much I admire you for your brain?”
“For my brain? No,” she replied sarcastically. “You’re usually too focused on my other ... winning attributes.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll make a mental note to do it more in the future.”
“If we have a future...” she noted darkly. She took him by the hand, and a portal formed beneath them.
They emerged, seconds later, in the center of a medical nightmare.
A dozen glass-and-metal cylinders towered in a circle around them, each connected to a control unit that monitored the vital signs of the female figures locked inside
. The women floated in a thick, blue-colored liquid—a fluid so cold Betsy could feel its chill from six feet away. Some of them had serene expressions on their faces, while others stared at the X-Men in wide-eyed horror.
“I think they’re frozen,” Betsy said with a shudder. “Some kind of suspended animation.”
“I feel like I just walked into the middle of a Robin Cook thriller,” Warren said, “and some crazy doctor’s started harvesting organs from unwilling donors.” He stepped toward one of the cylinders, and looked closely at its occupant. “Is that Roma?”
Betsy joined him. Yes, it was, but a vastly different version of the woman she knew as the Supreme Guardian. Her dark hair was short, and frosted a bright pink color at the ends, and the robes Roma normally wore had been replaced with black leather pants tucked into black boots, and a white T-shirt emblazoned with the logo for the heavy metal band Megadeth. Her left earlobe and nostril were pierced by a number of small metal studs. All in all, the woman looked more like a resident of New York’s St. Mark’s Place than a cosmically aware goddess.
With a growing sense of unease, Betsy moved on to the next cylinder. Here, too, was another Roma, blond-haired and elfin in appearance, dressed in what looked like a collection of tree bark, twigs, and leaves. Slowly, she gazed at the cylinders, then turned back to Warren. “They’re all Roma,” she concluded.
“How can that be?” He gestured at the cylinders. “Are you saying they’re clones, or replacement bodies, or something like that?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m saying they’re all her—parts of her, at least.” She saw the confusion on his face. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know how I could know that. It’s just a . . . feeling.”
chaos engine trilogy Page 87