Or so he’d thought.
A roar of air and a strong draft, like that of a subway car traveling through a tunnel, moved up the stairwell. The hairs on the back of Wagner’s neck stood on end—he knew what that rush of air meant, but he couldn’t help himself from looking over the railing to see it with his own eyes.
Hauptmann Englande was flying up the center of the stairwell. Their eyes met, and the captain’s lips pulled back in a predatory smile.
More bullets sang past Wagner’s head, both from above and below now. He pressed against the wall to remove himself from the line of fire.
“I’m coming for you, traitor!” Englande bellowed, still some floors away.
“You and half the Empire, it seems...” Wagner muttered.
He opened the door to the corridor outside, dove through, and started running again. The portal shattered behind him a moment later, as Englande crashed through it.
“Stop running, cur!” he ordered, hovering a few inches above the tiled floor. “There’s no escape from here!”
Much to his own surprise, Wagner came to a halt. And turned. And smiled. An idea had popped into his head—a crazy one, to be sure, but it was the only one he had at the moment.
“I know why you are really angry with me, Captain!” he shouted over the annoying klaxon. “You know I am the only man capable of stealing away your woman!”
Englande laughed. “A pure-bred woman, running away with a freak like you? That will be the day!”
“Ah. But she is not a true German maiden, Captain, as you well know! She is of the fairy realm—a changeling left in place of a human child! She is a shapeshifter, a ‘freak’ like me, and yet you continue to sleep with her—in direct violation of the Eugenics Laws! I may be a mutant insurgent, but you’re a race traitor, mein Captain!” The smile widened. “Tell me—what does she look like when you make love to her?”
A shadow fell over Englande’s eyes, then, and he roared. He surged forward, picking up so much speed as he flew down the corridor that the walls shook.
And yet, Nightcrawler stood his ground. His foolhardy plan had to be timed perfectly, or his headless corpse would hit the floor about a split-second after Englande reached him.
The gap between them closed quickly. Englande drew back a mighty fist, preparing to deliver the fatal blow. But just as he reached Nightcrawler—
—the mutant jumped to one side, grabbed the captain’s other hand in both of his own—
—and teleported.
Once. Twice. Three times. More.
Short, quick jumps down the length of the corridor, dragging Englande along for the ride. The strain on Wagner was considerable—the more he ’ported, the greater the pain he felt, like his insides were aflame. But he also knew what the process, combined with the high rate of speed at which he’d been traveling, was doing to his former team leader.
With a final bamf!, Nightcrawler reached the end of the hallway and released his unwilling passenger. Englande continued on, to crash headfirst into the wall. He bounced off the cracked plaster, rolled onto his back with a groan, and lay still.
Holding his sides as he waited for the pain to subside, Nightcrawler cautiously approached the captain. The man’s head was a bloody mess, and his face was going to need some reconstructive surgery, but he was still alive. Wagner breathed a sigh of relief—as much as he hated him, the last thing he’d wanted to do was kill the idiot simply because he was following orders.
However, he could take some pleasure in knowing he’d ruined the captain’s movie star looks. Meggan was far too vain to be interested in a swaggering buffoon with the face of a punching bag, no matter how godlike his physique might be.
But now was not the time to revel in the misfortunes of others. Now was the time to get out of the building, as soon as possible.
With a final glance at Englande, Wagner ran down an adjacent corridor. Somewhere around here, there had to be another fire door....
17
SOUNDS LIKE something big is going on,” Meggan commented over the blaring alarm.
. “Shouldn’t you see what it’s about?” Ororo asked. She rattled her chains. “I will wait here for your return.”
Meggan sneered. “Funny girl. I’m sure you amuse all the villagers with your jokes, back at that sandpit you call home.”
“There is little cause for amusement in Araouane,” Ororo replied. “Not when each day is a struggle just to survive. Although . . .” She paused, and a hint of a gentle smile played at the comers of her mouth. She thought of the sandwoman, Abena Metou, and her daughter; remembered the love they shared—one that not even the hot winds of the desert could wear away. Recalled with fondness the way the girl placed her mother’s bowl on her head and marched along like a little soldier, and how it had brought some levity to an otherwise oppressive day.
Perhaps there was a need for laughter, even in this dark world. Especially in this dark world, she considered.
Meggan strolled over from the only door to the small room and perched on the edge of the metal table at which Ororo sat. “Now then, Fraulein, let us talk, you and I—a friendly chat just between us girls.” “What would you like to talk about?”
The blond-haired vixen shrugged. “Oh, perhaps about the weather— you used to control it, didn’t you?” She smiled coldly, but Ororo said nothing. After a moment, the smile widened, and Meggan snapped her fingers, as though she’d suddenly had an idea. “I know! We can discuss your part in this alleged mutant uprising.”
“I have no part in any such thing,” Ororo replied evenly.
“That is not what I have heard . ..”
“Perhaps you should have your hearing checked before you leave Genosha,” Ororo said. “Then you might actually be able to listen when people speak the truth to you.”
The false smile quickly curdled. “I’m going to enjoy tearing out your heart when we’re done, mutant.”
“You are too late, Nazi,” Ororo said. “The other monsters here tore it out long ago.”
The sullen tone of her voice returned the smile to the shapeshifter’s lips. “Poor little goddess. You’ve lost everything, haven’t you? Your family, your worshippers, your powers. You’ve been thrown into the wastelands, then shackled and abused and dragged through the halls of your enemies’ stronghold. Is there no one to take pity on you?”
“You are the one to be pitied,” Ororo replied sharply, lightly fingering the chains. There was just enough slack in them . . . “You have dedicated your life to following a man who is the personification of all that is evil, who has destroyed countless worlds and lives just so history will remember his name. A man who thinks himself a god, yet is unworthy of praise—unless it be the kind of mewling adoration he receives from zealots or sycophants.”
Meggan laughed. “Spoken like a former deity ... or a true revolutionary.”
“There is no mutant revolution,” Ororo said. “At least, none of which I am aware. But if there were, I would not hesitate to join its ranks.”
“No underground movement, and yet the wife of one of the Reich’s formerly most-respected officers names you as one of its members.” Ororo shrugged. “I do not know why that is. I have never met this Frau Sommers—”
“But you have met Nightcrawler, eh?” Ororo opened her mouth to reply, but Meggan wagged a finger at her. “Don’t try to deny it. Back at the village, you admitted that you knew him from somewhere.” Ororo shook her head. “I said I thought, perhaps, we had met, but that would have been impossible. It’s just that... he reminded me of someone...”
“Ah. Some other blue-skinned freak, then.” Meggan slapped Ororo across the face, the sharp cracking sound echoing off the walls of the cell. “Don’t try to play the fool with me, little goddess. We have you and your co-conspirator, and soon enough we will have the rest of your merry band. And once you’ve all been rounded up, I’m certain Minister Zola will have some ... special treats in mind for each of you.” She grinned savagely. “I hope he’ll le
t me watch when he gets to you. ” “You are rather bloodthirsty, are you not, Meggan?” Ororo com-merited, tightening her grip on the chains. “Is that because you enjoy inflicting pain on others in general... or because you are jealous of the attention Hauptmann Englande paid to me during the trip here?”
Another slap, this time hard enough to leave the impressions of Meggan’s fingers on her cheek.
“More one than the other,” Meggan replied, leaning in close. “You can decide which it is later—when our session is done, and I’m ready to end your miserable life.”
The chains suddenly swept upward, catching her across the face and snapping her head to one side. She staggered back, raising her hands in a weak defense, and bumped into a comer of the table. Dazed, apparently confused by the obstruction, she lowered her hands slightly and turned to glance at it, allowing Ororo the opportunity to lash out again. This time, the chain cracked against the shapeshifter’s left temple; with a soft groan, she slumped to the floor.
Instantly, Ororo was upon her, searching her uniform for the key to the shackles. She found it tucked inside the woman’s belt, and wasted no time in making use of it.
Softly, she crept over to the door and opened it a crack. There were no guards standing in the hall, since Meggan had ordered them away. She’d felt completely confident in her ability to interrogate her prisoner, especially when said prisoner was chained up and being questioned by a superpowered foe. Typical Nazi arrogance, Ororo thought. No wonder they had been unaware of a mutant insurrection until now ... if, indeed, there was one forming—it simply never would have entered their minds that mutants were capable of banding together for such a cause.
She opened the door wider, and stepped into the corridor. The alarm was still sounding, so whatever had caused it to be raised was still in effect. It would make escape difficult, if the halls were filled with security personnel running about in response, but there was no way she was going to remain where she was until the emergency ended. Especially if it meant she had to stay in the same room with her tormentor.
The thought of Meggan made her look back inside the cell. The shapeshifter was still unconscious, her face bloody and bruised from the attack. But Ororo knew she would not remain insensate for long; superpowered individuals never did, when their metabolisms allowed them to heal quickly. And if she awoke and raised another alarm, before Ororo had time to put some distance between them . . .
She stepped back into the room, and closed the door. Moving quickly, she dragged Meggan behind the metal table, then grabbed the discarded chains and wrapped them around her ankles and wrists. The neck manacle was slipped around one of the table legs, then fastened around Meggan’s throat to keep her from moving around. A gag was fashioned by tearing a piece of material from Ororo’s clothing and shoving it into Meggan’s mouth, then using the woman’s own swastika-adorned headband to keep it in place.
Ororo knelt down beside her unconscious prisoner, and smiled. “Long live the revolution,” she whispered in her ear.
“Revolution.” An odd word to describe what was supposed to be a mission of mercy, Jean thought. How Xavier had ever come to think of it in such political terms was beyond her. Maybe presenting it that way to his superiors made him feel important—the Nazi-sympathizing mutant turncoat, proving he was of still some value to them. It was sad in a way, when she thought about it. But considering the hell he’d put her through since she arrived at his estate, it was impossible to feel any kind of sympathy toward him. She would have preferred getting her hands on a blunt instrument and demonstrating to him just how much one’s head could hurt after receiving a good, solid whack on the noggin.
Of course, she’d first have to get out of her current predicament in order to do that. One thing at a time, she decided.
She paused. Wait a minute. I just put a coherent thought together, and the professor’s evil twin hasn’t even said “boo. ” What’s going on?
And then it dawned on her: She couldn’t feel Xavier in her head.
That was a surprise. He’d been spending so much time in there she’d half expected him to set up an apartment in her subconscious. He would have had to share it with a couple more versions of herself, though...
Jean shook her head a tiny bit to dismiss that notion. Images of Three’s Company episodes aside, she needed to focus on taking advantage of the situation. With Xavier no longer poking around, his psychic barriers had weakened, and that meant she could think clearly again. The drugs in her system had apparently run their course, too, which left her with only the nagging throb at the back of her skull, where Danvers’ blackjack had connected.
That should be the worst of my problems, as Mom always used to say, she thought. A couple of Tylenol can take of that later—right now, I need to worry about my “hosts. ”
She opened her right eye to a narrow slit. Nothing new to see there—she already knew what her chest looked like. Slowly, she rotated her head—hopefully, just enough to make it look like she was still out of it. Through the strands of red hair that had fallen over her face, Danvers rolled into view. She was standing near Viper’s desk, nervously chewing on a thumbnail as she stared past Jean, toward the front door.
Hope this doesn ’t mean someone’s standing behind me . ..
For a moment, she considered probing the area telepathically, to learn if there was another presence in the room. But the realization that its use would alert Xavier to the fact she’d woken up halted her. She wasn’t ready to confront him—not just yet. Not until she’d had time to regain her strength. Her only option, therefore, was to just hope nobody was there and move on.
She opened her eye a little wider, and caught sight of the syringe and bottle lying on the desk, close to Danvers.
And right there is exactly the reason why I didn ’t just sit up straight when I started to wake up. I’ve had one too many “naps ” imposed on me during this mission already; I’d like to stay conscious at least long enough to try and complete it. The comer of her mouth curled up in a brief smile. But that needle does give me an idea . . .
Jean tilted her head back, ever so slightly, to get a look ahead. What she saw made her stomach turn over, and sent a chill up her spine.
Viper was standing on the far side of the room, facing a giant viewscreen that must have been hidden behind the wall; Jean didn’t remember seeing it before. And projected on the screen was the image of a blood-red death’s-head, with eyes that burned with hate. But this was no icon Jean was looking at; rather, they were the grotesque features of the Emperor of the Fourth Reich. A madman who held the powers of Creation—and destmction—in his hands, via the properties of the cosmic wish box he now controlled.
The Red Skull.
“Am I to understand, then, Commander, that the Empire has been ... invaded by a group of mutants from an alternate world,” the Skull was saying, “here to prevent the world from being destroyed?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, as Professor Xavier has explained to me,” Lady Viper replied. “By a threat greater than any the Empire has ever faced.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you believe this story?”
She paused. “Yes, Your Majesty. That is why I thought it imperative that you be informed, as soon as I was notified.” She turned to point at Jean, who quickly shut her eyes. “In fact, I have one of them here now; another of her group is en route from the spaceport.”
Something was wrong with Viper; Jean could feel it. Her movements were too stiff, her verbal responses too slow. It was as though the words were being chosen for her, and her body was being controlled—
Like a puppet on a string . . . she realized.
Now she understood why Xavier had vacated her mind—he was too busy setting up shop in another. She let her head roll to the other side so she could look out through her left eye. Xavier sat motionless in his wheelchair, hands gripping the ends of the armrests. A thin sheen of sweat was beaded on his brow, and his facial muscles twitched noticeably. It was taking a grea
t deal of effort to do what he was doing—so much that he’d had to release his hold on Jean.
I wonder if Viper slapped him, too, and he just lost it. Doesn’t explain why he’s playing ventriloquist with her, just to have a conversation with the Red Skull, though.
“What is the name of your prisoner?” the Skull asked. “I do not recognize her.”
“She calls herself ‘Phoenix,’ Your Majesty,” Viper replied. “The one arriving shortly is her husband: ‘Cyclops.’ ” She paused. “You may know him better as Reichsmajor Scott Sommers.”
Cautiously, Jean opened her eyes again. The Skull’s lipless mouth curled downward. “Are you telling me, Commander, that one of the most respected officers in the Reich ... is a mutant?”
“It would . . . appear so, Majesty.”
“Unacceptable!” the Skull roared, and pounded the large, oaken desk at which he sat. “UNACCEPTABLE!”
Viper nodded solemnly, though stiffly. “I understand your disappointment, Majesty, but this threat—”
“ ‘Disappointment’? ‘Disappointment’?!” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “A genetic aberration has penetrated one of the highest levels of the Empire, has somehow managed to keep his true nature a secret during all the time he rose through the ranks, was given the honor of commanding a starship, and you consider it a ‘disappointment’? No, Commander, this is far worse—it is an insult to my genius! A black mark on all I have created! A flaw in an otherwise perfect gem!” He slapped the desktop with the flat of his hand. “Have the mutants exterminated—both of them! Immediately! I will not tolerate their existence one moment longer! And when you find the rest of the group, do the same to them!”
“But, Your Majesty, what about—” Viper began.
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