“Auschwitz,” Lensherr said hollowly.
“That’s the one. ’Cause o’ my healin’ factor, I was the only one who survived, an’ then I was stuck behind enemy lines. Hadda take the long way ’round t’get back t’Canada—through Russia, ’cross the Bering Strait into Alaska, then through the Yukon.”
“I imagine it took you some time to complete the journey.”
“ ’Bout a year or so. Spent most of ’em dodging patrols when Hitler an’ his bullyboys started expandin’ the Reich’s borders, even in Siberia. They were everywhere—like cockroaches.” He grunted in frustration. “I finally make it back t’home sweet home, and y’know what happens ’bout ten years later?”
“They started building the camp.”
“Practically right at my flamin’ front door!” He sneered. “Turned my stomach when I saw the first bunch’a prisoners bein’ brought in. I’d seen what those Nazi thugs were capable o’ doin’ ...” His voice went flat, the heat slowly dying in his eyes. “But what could / do ’bout it? Didn’t have no troops t’back me up, no weapons—” he held up his hands “—other than these pitchforks I’m carryin’ ’round from the ‘Super Soldier’ experiments back in ’43. I’da only wound up gettin’ everybody in there killed.”
“So you didn’t even try to free them.”
Wolverine shook his head. “Nope. Don’t even get too close t’the place ’less there’s somethin’ big goin’ on—like some crazy fool blowin’ up part o’ the burial grounds.”
“So, then, there is no truth to the rumors that you—”
“What, dig up an’ eat the prisoners after they’re buried? Hell, no! I’m a hunter, bub, not a flamin’ cannibal. I want meat, I can always bring down a buck or two for venison.” A sly smile lit his features. “But I’ve heard the stories—all that talk ’bout ‘the Wendigo.’ ’Long as it keeps those creeps from venturin’ too far into these woods, I can be any boogeyman they want me t’be.”
Lensherr raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t get too close to the camp anymore.”
Wolverine grunted. “ ’Sides, I think those poor devils back there go through enough sufferin’ while they’re livin’—no reason to go desecra-tin’ their graves once they’ve finally escaped that hellhole.”
Lensherr started. “You consider cold-blooded murder a form of ‘escape’?”
“I consider anything that puts an end t’the kind o’ inhuman treatment those prisoners get at the hands of those Nazi buzzards an ‘escape.’ Climbin’ over the fences or bein’ cut down by a firing squad—if it means yer sufferin’s at an end, it’s all’a same t’me.”
“So, if you are so concerned about the mistreatment of the prisoners, why have you done nothing to stop it?”
Wolverine shook his head. “I done my share o’ fightin’, a long time ago, bub. Didn’t do no good back then, wouldn’t do no good now.” Lensherr sneered. “You disgust me, Wolverine. The man / knew would have waded into that camp without hesitation. He wouldn’t have allowed any of those humans to endure such tortures.”
“Yeah? Then mebbe ya oughtta track down yer ol’ pal, an’ get him t’help ya out.” Wolverine’s eyes narrowed as he stared hard at his guest. “ ‘Humans,’ huh? What’s that make you—a mutant?” His lips curled back in a feral snarl. “I knew there was somethin’ different about you; just couldn’t figure out what it was.”
Lensherr stood tall, looking down his nose at his host. “You act as though being a member of Homo superior is something to be ashamed of.”
“ ‘Homo su’—is that what you people go callin’ yerselves these days?” He snorted. “Well, it don’t matter what kinda fancy names you go throwin’ around t’make yerself feel better, bub—yer still bottom o’ the food chain in this world.”
“Yes. My point exactly,” Lensherr replied. “ ‘This world’ shouldn’t exist at all. It’s a fabrication of the Red Skull’s. An actualization of his mad desire to create a Thousand-Year Reich.”
“So you were sayin’ on the way here.” Wolverine grunted. “Feels pretty flamin’ real enough t’me.”
“Because you were made a part of it, Logan, as was I. As were your teammates when the Skull took power.”
“An’ what ‘teammates’ would those be? ’Case y’hadn’t noticed, there ain’t too many clubhouses in these woods.”
“The ... X-Men,” Lensherr explained, although he found it somewhat distasteful to utter the name.
“ ‘X-Men.’ ” Wolverine paused, then shook his head. “Nope. Never heard o’ ’em. They friends o’ yers?”
He just managed to stop his upper lip from curling. “Not. . . quite. But they are friends of yours. ”
“On this other Earth, right?” Wolverine replied. “This ‘real’ world you keep mentionin’. Which is how ya know my real name.”
“Exactly.” Lensherr mentally sighed. It seemed that, no matter which version of Earth he might be on, one feral mutant was as dense as the other.
“An’ what’re we in the ‘real’ world?” Wolverine asked, eyeing him warily. “We buddies, too?”
Lensherr paused. “Let us say we possess enough . . . dissimilar beliefs for our relationship to transcend the limitations of friendship.” “Mortal enemies, huh?” A throaty chuckle issued from Wolverine’s throat, and he flopped down into the easy chair. A cloud of dust rose from the faded leather as he settled in. “Figgered as much. Yer too highbrowed fer us t’ever get along.” A sinister smile came to his lips. “I ever try t’kill ya?”
Lensherr frowned. “I’ve lost count of the attempts you’ve made on my life,” he said dryly. “But, then, you could probably say the same about me.”
“Anytime y’wanna get froggy, bub, just say, ‘Jump,’ ” Wolverine said coolly, yet he made no move to get out of the chair.
“What I want, Logan,” Lensherr replied, “is your aid, as distasteful a notion as that may be.”
Wolverine shook his head. “Already gave ya my answer, bub. I’m outta the hero business. ’Case ya forgot, we lost the war.”
“No!” Lensherr roared. “You imbecile, don’t you understand? There was no war where the Nazis were the victors! There are no death camps in Canada, no fleets of starships sweeping across the cosmos, no mutant ghettos! It’s all a lie, a dreamscape made real by the accursed Skull and that damnable wish box!” His eyes suddenly glowed with a golden light. Electricity crackled around his body, painting the cabin in harsh blues and whites. “You will aid me in stopping him, Wolverine . . . even if I must force you to do so.”
“Is that a fact?” Wolverine leapt to his feet, claws extended. He tensed, preparing to attack. “Don’t be shy, bub. Just say the w—”
“Sit down, ” Magneto ordered.
He raised a hand, and with a simple gesture, Wolverine was slammed back into his chair, his claws gouging deep grooves in the floorboards. The feral mutant turned and twisted, but he could no more raise his hands than he could stand.
Beads of sweat broke out on Lensherr’s forehead. It was too soon to be trying this, he knew—his body hadn’t had time to heal, to throw off the effects of the neural inhibitor. But he had neither the time nor the patience for pointless conversations—not when he was in need of allies in his planned war against the Red Skull. Even if such allies included one of his deadliest enemies among their number. For now, he had to concentrate on the matter at hand, and ignore the dull aches and blinding stabs of pains that threatened to rob him of consciousness. There would be time later for rest—when the Skull lay dead at his feet, and the Cosmic Cube was once more in the hands of Magneto ... “What’re you doin’?” Wolverine demanded.
“Your bones ... are coated with a metal called .. . adamantium, are they not?” Lensherr answered as he labored for breath. “With the powers I possess... all metals are . .. mine to command. So, if I wish that you . . . remain seated, unable to move, then you . . . have no choice but to ... obey.”
“An’ then what? Kill me?” Wolverine snarled. “Gonn
a be hard t’get me t’help ya if I’m dead, ain’t it?”
“I have no desire to ... kill you, Logan—at least not at... the moment.” Lensherr sat on the edge of the table, and wiped away the perspiration with the back of his hand. It was easier to catch his breath if he was off his feet. “You see, in addition to my magnetically-based talents, I possess a certain level of psychic power. It’s what keeps the telepathic members of your team—-Phoenix, Psylocke, your mentor, Charles Xavier—from invading my mind.”
“Well, good fer you, whitey,” Wolverine said with a snarl. “Must make fer one helluva party trick.”
“What I plan to do,” Lensherr continued, ignoring the comment, “is attempt to use it to reverse the Skull’s conditioning, and restore you to the bothersome little savage I’ve come to know and loathe over the years.” He smiled coldly. “Although, I have to tell you, distinguishing the differences between the two of you once the process is completed might be impossible.”
“The only difference, bub,” Wolverine replied, “will be which one’a us gets the pleasure o’ killin’ you.”
Lensherr sighed dramatically. “My point exactly. No difference at all.” He stepped forward, and placed his hand on the sides of Wolverine’s head, spreading his fingers wide to encompass the top of the X-Man’s scalp. The mutant overlord took a few deep breaths, then closed his eyes to concentrate. “I feel I must warn you, Logan—this may hurt. Quite a bit. Are you ready?”
“Get stuffed,” Wolverine growled.
“Excellent.” Lensherr paused, then: “We begin.”
And with that, he sent a psychic probe from his mind into Logan’s, looking for the source of the Cube-created reprogramming.
The anguished howl that was tom from Wolverine’s throat could be heard for miles around.
Hours later, Lensherr stumbled back* barely able to make it to one of the other chairs before his trembling legs collapsed under him. He’d done all he could with the resources he could draw upon—the rest was out of his hands.
He gazed across the table at Wolverine. The feral mutant had lapsed into unconsciousness during the process, which was a blessing unto itself—it had finally put an end to the excessive roaring and screaming that had threatened to deafen Lensherr as he forced his way deep into Logan’s mind.
Accomplishing what he’d set out to do turned out to be a greater task than he’d ever imagined. There were numerous twists and turns on the journey through the psychic plane, but he couldn’t imagine there being as many divergent paths in the average mind as there were in Wolverine’s. There were so many conflicting memories, in fact, that not even Logan seemed to be aware of who he was anymore. He’d twice come close to trapping himself in the X-Man’s subconscious; it was only by carefully retracing his steps that he’d managed to find a path back out.
Despite his philosophical differences with his former friend, Charles Xavier, Lensherr couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the man’s mental prowess—he made this sort of work look so blasted simple! Still, the mutant overlord had always considered himself Xavier’s superior, so whatever the gifted “Professor X” might be able to do, Magneto could do even better.
Sometimes, though, it just took a little longer to get it right. . .
Eventually, though, he reached the core of Wolverine—or what he thought might be the core of his being—and did his best to draw it out behind him as he withdrew from the X-Man’s mind. But had he succeeded in his mission, he wondered—or just reinforced the Cube’s influence? With Logan unconscious, there was no way to tell; he would just have to wait to see what developed.
And with that thought, Lensherr drifted into a dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, it was to find Wolverine standing in front of him, their faces inches apart.
“Rise an’ shine, sleepyhead,” Wolverine growled.
Lensherr opened his mouth to reply, then became aware of a pressing weight just under his jawline. He glanced down to find Wolverine’s fist nestled there. A sense of familiarity struck the mutant overlord, and he turned his eyes from side to side—sure enough, his face was framed by two of Wolverine’s adamantium claws. The third spike—the middle spike—was still sheathed, but all it would take was a mental command from Wolverine, and the remaining bio-weapon would lance out, to slice through Lensherr’s skull—and into his brain.
“So,” he said calmly, “have you decided which version of you is the one who gets the pleasure of killing me?”
“The only one that matters, ya turd,” Wolverine said with a sinister smile, before his expression hardened into a teeth-baring snarl. “Now, what’d ya do with the rest’a the X-Men? An’ ya better hope I like the answer, bub, or . . .” He pushed upward with his fist, to remind Lensherr of the third claw.
Lensherr stifled a yawn. “Under different circumstances, Logan, I might say, ‘Welcome back,’ ” he commented dryly. “But since you have never been a welcome addition to my life, I’m certain you’ll understand if I don’t consider this reunion nothing more than a necessary e—” “WHERE ARE THE X-MEN?" Wolverine roared.
Lensherr stared silently at his longtime enemy—at the wild look in his eyes, the flecks of spittle on his chin as he breathed noisily through gritted teeth—and softly cleared his throat. “I am more than willing to tell you, Wolverine, but you may have some trouble believing it—or the offer I am going to make. . . .”
14
DON’T BELIEVE this!”
Lady Viper’s roar of outrage couldn’t be heard beyond the con_ fines of her soundproofed office, but those who witnessed her display of anger couldn’t help but think of a predator that had been denied its prey.
“What do you mean she escaped?” she shrieked into the cell phone. She paused, listening to whoever was on the other end of the conversation—possibly the driver of the armored transport carrying Rogue, from what Jean could surmise. “An accomplice? A mutant? And none of you imbeciles thought to call for a Sentinel?” She stomped back and forth across the office, her free hand waving dramatically to emphasize her words. “Understand this, you slow-witted worm: You will find those two freaks, and any others who may have been involved with the escape, tonight, or there won’t be enough of you left for your family to identify once I’m through with you!”
She snapped the phone shut; then, in frustration, threw it against the wall. Plastic shards and bits of microcircuitry rained down on the carpeting.
“Go through a lot of those?” Jean asked sarcastically. She suddenly winced, and shot a heated glance at Xavier—the sharp pain in her head was his telepathic way of telling her to shut up.
Viper stalked up to her, and leaned in close. “Joke all you want, Frau Sommers. It’s true that one of your friends may have escaped— for the time being—but she was a minor cog in the wheel, so to speak. But we still have your husband. He, at least, is being escorted by a Sentinel—I wasn’t going to take any chances with the ringleader of this foolish conspiracy.”
“Why do you keep calling it a ‘conspiracy’?” Jean asked. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
“What would you call it, Frau Sommers?” Viper shot back. “Both you and your husband are mutants, yet you withheld that information from his superiors and the Ministry of Health. You fraternize with others of your kind, using codenames to conceal your identities.” Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that true . . . ‘Phoenix’? And why hide your identities? So you can secretly plot the destruction of the Empire!”
“It’s nothing like that,” Jean said testily. “There’s more at stake than you could ever imagine, Viper-not that you’d ever believe me. I could care less about the Red Skull and his power fantasi—”
The back of a latex-sheathed hand swept out, catching Jean across the right cheek. The blow snapped her head to the side, bouncing it off the back of the wheelchair seat. With one side of her face almost as brilliant a fiery shade as her hair, and the other aching dully, she slowly turned back to glare at her captor.
“
I owe you for that,” she said with a sneer.
Viper laughed. “And you accuse the Emperor of having power fantasies?” She made a grand gesture of pulling on the back of her glove to tighten its fit on her fingers. “Perhaps you should take a moment to reexamine your current position, ‘Phoenix,’ and then tell me who is less likely to achieve their goals: a lord of the universe, who can destroy worlds with a single command ... or a smart-mouthed housefrau seeking retribution for a well-deserved slap in the face?” She leaned in close again. “One, I remind you, who is strapped to a wheelchair, and on the verge of a severe beating if she continues to cross me?”
“It won’t always be this way, Viper,” Jean said.
“Ah. Should I be expecting more of your friends to come and free you, then? But which will they be—freaks like yourself... or normal citizens of the Reich?” Her emerald lips pulled back in a predatory grin. “Don’t think for a moment that we haven’t started looking into the backgrounds of both you and the Major with a fine-toothed comb, Frau Sommers. A movement like this couldn’t have gotten as far as it has without the aid of people outside your community ... ‘flatscans’—isn’t that the term?” She sneered. “The one you mutants use to describe those of us not ‘gifted’ with abilities like yours?”
“It’s not one I’ve ever used,” Jean replied.
“At least not in polite company, I’d imagine,” Viper said. “A slip of the tongue in front of the wrong people would’ve made us aware of your organization all that sooner. And then we might have been spared the embarrassment your husband has now brought down on all of us.” She frowned. “Deceiving the Ministry of Health, allowing an abomination like him to rise to the level he has in the spacefleet—clearly, Major Sommers has some ... influential friends in high places. But they, too, will be punished for their part in this revolution. The Empire has no use for race traitors.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Soon, we’ll have all the players in this little drama gathered together. And we have the professor to thank for that.” She turned to glare at Xavier. “Although he failed to mention how well-informed your network might be, if its members could pull off a rescue within minutes of this ‘Rogue’s’ arrest. I hadn’t even issued the order to detain her and Major Sommers until just before the Nuremberg touched down.”
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