But as he observed Abena’s struggles against the desert, Erik Lensherr couldn’t help but wonder if his own efforts—to wrest power from von Doom, to establish Homo superior as the dominant species—might also be ultimately doomed to fail.
Lensherr grunted. It did no good to think that way—a man who had survived the Nazi death camps, who had eluded capture for years despite the best efforts of the Empire, should have no place in his mind for dwelling on negative thoughts; they merely wasted precious time better spent formulating a plan of attack. Now angry with himself, he shook his head to clear his mind and tried to focus on more important matters.
Like the dark form taking shape on the horizon, its features distorted by the waves of heat rising from the sands.
“Visitors,” Lensherr muttered, eyes narrowing. “Perhaps I might get some exercise today, after all. ..”
It took another two hours for the phantom-like shape to solidify into something far more recognizable: a silver-and-white-robed man—shoulders hunched, turbaned head resting against his chest—seated upon a camel. Even from the doorway of his home, Lensherr could see that the rider was dozing, more than likely lulled to sleep by the swaying motion of the beast as it lurched over the dunes.
Of course, it could be a trick—an apparently harmless wanderer on his way, perhaps, to the salt mines of Taoudenni, nine miles to the north, who feigns sleep in order to close in on his intended mutant prey before finally revealing himself to be one of von Doom’s superpowered hounds, come to run an equally-superpowered international terrorist to ground. It wouldn’t be the first time such a deception had been attempted.
Then again, it just might be a harmless wanderer seeking a brief reprieve from the searing heat. After all, Araouane had once been a regular rest stop for the trans-Saharan camel caravans that had 'moved through the area, before the desert began to extend its boundaries and consume everything in its path.
A grim smile etched itself across Lensherr’s weather-beaten features as an old joke flitted through his mind: “Just because I’m paranoid, that doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me.” He’d never figured out exactly who “they” were supposed to be—he’d always had trouble understanding humor—but after years of dealing with Victor von Doom and his government, he had a good idea of who “they” might be ... at least, in his case.
As the camel and its charge drew nearer, Lensherr stepped from his home, intending to meet it before it entered the village proper; though the oasis’s inhabitants were not of his own kind, the mutant terrorist had grown somewhat attached to them . . . despite their inferiority. They had given him shelter, shared their food, treated him with respect, and had accepted him for the person he appeared to be—John Smith, a wanderer in search of a peaceful existence—never questioning him about why he had come to Araoune, or why he had remained.
In Magneto’s case, however, that sense of attachment was more along the lines of the feeling an owner would have for a loyal, obedient pet.
They were just humans, after all.
Truth be told, it was not for any fear of destroying the crumbling houses around him or accidentally wiping out the village’s small population that caused the master of magnetism to approach the new arrival—casualties and property damage were just small parts of the larger game being played between the mutant terrorist and the Emperor he sought to overthrow, and Magneto had long ago stopped being concerned with the consequences caused by each roll of the dice; the winning of the game mattered far more than broken homes or shattered bodies. Paris was a prime example of that philosophy. Nor was it some misguided belief that he could reason with the man before matters turned ugly. What drew him out was a desire to avoid any prolonged battle that would force him to use his powers and give von Doom’s forces time to zero-in on him.
Of course, as Lensherr had come to realize long before the Emperor had come to power, it was that the use of his magnetic abilities should always be a last resort when it became necessary to eliminate an enemy; using common weapons, or even his bare hands, made tracing his movements around the globe far more difficult. And if there was one thing he had learned from the guards and staff at Auschwitz—as he had watched each member of his family slowly starve to death, or march into the infamous “showers,” or scream in agony and terror as they were used as part of some horrific eugenic experiment—it was the variety of ways available to kill another person without resorting to superpowers. The Nazis had been excellent tutors, and the boy who had become a man behind the guard towers and barbed wire fences of the camp had been most eager to demonstrate all that he had learned after the war . . .
on each and every one of them that he could find. Over fifty years later, some of those “lessons” still stuck in his mind.
The rider was closer now, and Lensherr quickened his pace. If he could get close enough before the man made his move, dismount him from the camel and slice his throat with the dirk concealed within the folds of his robes . ..
The man suddenly raised his head, and stared at him. Lensherr stopped, eyes narrowing as he tried to imagine who it was he was facing. It was impossible to figure out, though; the man’s features were covered by a pair of dark-lensed goggles, and a strip of cloth that concealed the lower half of his face.
The camel continued its slow pace, now angling toward the mutant fugitive. Acting nonchalantly, Lensherr raised a hand to wave to the rider, as though in greeting; the gesture concealed the movement of his other hand, which had slipped to the back of his robes, and the dagger that lay sheathed there.
As the beast finally drew alongside him, Lensherr’s hand closed around the blade’s handle. He smiled pleasantly at the man, who was now within striking distance. The fugitive’s hand started to come around with the dirk as he crouched, preparing to leap at the mysterious visitor—
And then the man was suddenly standing at his side, the dagger now in his hand.
Caught by surprise, Lensherr could not help but stand agape as the rider removed his headgear to reveal a younger version of the mutant criminal—or so it would seem to the casual observer: the same white hair, but cut short and spiky; the same angular features, but less lined, and pale in skin color, as opposed to the older man’s sun-darkened complexion. But this was no android built by von Doom to look like him, no laboratory-created clone dispatched to eliminate him and take his place.
This was Lensherr’s own flesh and blood—a son known by the more colorful codename “Quicksilver,” gifted, not with his sire’s magnetically-based abilities, but with the power of moving at incredible speeds; so fast, in fact, that Magneto’s attempt to attack him had seemed, to his eyes, to play out in slow motion. Dismounting from the camel and removing the weapon from Lensherr’s hand had all taken place in a fraction of a second—no challenge at all for someone capable of breaking the sound barrier, or performing a dozen or so tasks at the same time.
“Hello, Father,” the visitor said evenly. He held up the dirk. “Still lacking the basic social skills necessary for greeting a guest properly, I see.”
Slowly, Lensherr’s shocked expression dissolved into a broad, friendly grin.
“Pietro . . .” he said.
Night fell on the Sahara, and, after a veritable banquet of delicacies from around the world provided by Pietro—Lensherr had almost forgotten what knishes and caviar tasted like—father and son at last sat down in the psionics-protected bedroom to talk.
“So, Pietro,” Lensherr began, easing himself into a wicker chair, a glass of merlot in one hand, “how is your family?”
Pietro flopped down onto an assortment of oversized pillows piled near the door and stretched his legs. “My family? It’s only been six months since my last visit—not all that much has changed. Aren’t you more interested in what your Emperor is up to these days?”
Lensherr grunted. “ ‘My’ Emperor. Bah.” He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “There’s time enough to talk of that tinheaded despot. For now, I’d rather hear about more p
leasant matters.” The look of anger carved into his features softened to a small smile. “So—how is my granddaughter?”
Pietro smiled, clearly beaming with pride. “As pretty as her mother, and growing more beautiful with each day. She misses her grandfather, you know.”
Lensherr’s eyes sparkled with joy. “Misses her grandfather... or the presents he brings her?”
Pietro laughed. “Well, she is a child. Sometimes choosing between the two can be difficult—especially when one considers the number of gifts you’ve showered her with over the years.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “You do have a tendency to spoil her.”
“As is my right as a grandparent,” Lensherr said firmly. He paused and stared into space for a moment, picturing Luna’s smiling face, then sipped at his wine before continuing. “And Wanda? Any word on her?” The white-haired speedster’s gentle expression suddenly transformed into a look of disgust. “Wanda is still one of von Doom’s lap-dogs, from what my contact in Washington has told me,” he said with a sneer. “She’s become quite the authority on you, Father—vOn Doom has come to rely on her knowledge of your motivations, your probable hiding places, the people to whom you might turn for help . . . although the information has become dated over the past year.” A mischievous smile played at the comers of his mouth. “They don’t know what to make of your prolonged absence. They’d like to believe that you’re dead, but with no physical evidence . . .”
Lensherr chuckled. “It must drive von Doom to the point of distraction, knowing that I must be out there somewhere, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the probes of even his most powerful telepaths, biding my time until the slightest opportunity presents itself to—what? Destroy another city? An entire country, perhaps?”
Pietro snorted. “You could start with his homeland. I doubt anyone would even notice the loss of such an insignificant spot on the map.” The mutant terrorist smiled wickedly. “I can almost imagine how that armored buffoon must have spent the past year, waiting for the moment when I might tip my hand and allow him the opportunity to strike me down and at last claim victory—only to realize with mounting frustration that that day has never come. ”
“Which is why he’s gathered together Wanda and his other advisers,” Pietro added. “With the anniversary of his rise to power being celebrated next week, I think it’s safe to assume that the entire world— von Doom included—is holding its collective breath, wondering if that is the time when the dreaded Magneto will at last reappear and resume his campaign of terror.”
Lensherr raised an eyebrow. “His anniversary, you say?”
Pietro nodded. “It will be ten years next Wednesday.”
“Ten years . . .” Lensherr frowned. “Ten years of attack and withdrawal; of hiding from superpowered dolts, prying telepaths, and armored buffoons wielding plasma weapons; of having my name made synonymous with the kind of atrocities perpetrated on my people by the Nazis.” His lips peeled back in a feral snarl. “All because of him. ”
The mutant overlord rose from his seat and began pacing the room. “Well,” he mused aloud, “if von Doom is so certain that I will try to eliminate him at his celebration, who am I to disappoint him . . . ?” “Are you mad, Father?” Pietro angrily snapped, leaping to his feet. “Do you think you can just step off a plane in America—let alone try to enter any airport around the world—and not expect to be assassinated the moment your identity is revealed?”
Lensherr nodded. “You are right, my son. I am all too aware of the dangers involved in this desire to confront the spider in the center of its web.” He sneered. “But I have had my fill of Victor von Doom and his much-lauded empire, and wish to bring a swift end to both. And now that you are here, I can proceed with the plans I have been formulating over these long twelve months.” He gestured toward the doorway. “Go forth this very evening and start contacting those mutants who are still loyal to the cause. Tell them I have said the time has come to excise the cancerous growth that sits upon the throne; that they must join me to at last bring to reality the dream we have held onto for so long.”
“And if they refuse to sacrifice themselves for the ‘dream’ ?” Pietro asked, a slightly sarcastic tone to his voice.
Lensherr eyed him warily. “If I did not know you better, my son, I would start to think that you were not raising that question as though you were playing devil’s advocate, but as an excuse to avoid joining your father on his—” he smiled “—quixotic crusade.”
Pietro said nothing.
“It is true, though,” Lensherr continued. “Not all of them will be willing to put their lives on the line, no matter how important the prize; that is to be expected. Regardless, there must be someone out there willing to join us in opposing that pompous, steel-faced egotist. Other members of our race who know that what von Doom has done to this planet is wrong, and are as eager as I to remove him from power.” He clapped Pietro on the shoulder, certain in his beliefs. “They are out there, my son, and they will answer the call to arms.”
“We shall see, Father . . .” Pietro replied, clearly unconvinced. “Tell your contact in Washington to make the necessary arrangements for my entry to America,” Lensherr said decisively. “The time has come for Magneto, Master of Magnetism, to step from exile and finally put an end to the tyranny of Victor von Doom.
“And this I swear,” he continued, his voice rising with a fanatical fervor. “Before the last hour of his ‘anniversary’ has passed into history, before the last drop of his blood has seeped into the ground, there will be a new order to the world, and humanity shall at last bow before the superiority of mutantkind, and acknowledge us as their true masters!” Not even Pietro could question that statement.
4
T WAS like looking out on an alien world.
Actually, it was more a case of looking out at the nexus of all
_reality—a point where Time and Space swirled and eddied like two
streams merging to form a mighty river—and realizing how small and insignificant you were, compared to the awe-inspiring majesty of Creation.
Humbling, to say the least.
Not that such a realization bothered the yellow-and-blue-costumed man who gazed at the roiling forces from one of the observation suites of the Starlight Citadel, that magnificent, city-sized construct that was home to the Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse. Arms folded across his broad chest, the man known only as Logan—who more often than not preferred being addressed by his codename of Wolverine—watched the perpetual clash of temporal and spatial energies with all the interest of someone who had visited a familiar tourist site they’d been to before, had seen all there was to see the first time, and was now eager to move on.
And since he was a member of the international group of super heroic mutants called the X-Men, it was a safe bet to assume that he had seen far more interesting sights.
Logan reached up and pulled back the mask that covered the upper half of his head to reveal sharp, weather-beaten features seemingly etched into a permanent scowl, and an unusual hairstyle that started as a widow’s peak above his furrowed brow and then expanded out to form a pair of immense tufts that stood up from the sides of his head, each tapering to a fine point; the mask had been constructed to fit around those tufts. It was a distinctive look, one as distinctive as the man himself. Standing just over five feet tall, in what appeared to be his midforties—although some people thought his real age might well be over a hundred, since he could recount tales of his world-spanning adventures that went at least as far back as World War II—Logan was a bom scrapper: the kind of man who would start a fight at the drop of a hat. . . or in retaliation to someone calling him “Shorty.” And he’d win every time, no matter how many opponents he faced, or how many beers he’d downed beforehand. As he often liked to say, “I’m the best there is at what I do,” and if what he did was brawl with a savagery unparalleled in the Great White North, then the owners and patrons of a vast number of roughneck bars and tumble-down salo
ons across his native Canada could attest to that fact.
Now, though, he was as far from the familiar streets of Vancouver and Montreal as one could possibly imagine; not just beyond the rim of the Milky Way, but beyond the boundaries of Time itself. A spot where an infinite number of alternate dimensions coalesced, all monitored by the Guardian who was also acting as host to Wolverine and the other members of his troupe.
And in one o ’ those alternate dimensions, Logan considered darkly, some other Canucklehead’s gettin’ the beer an’ stogie I oughtta be havin’. . .
Slowly, Logan’s eyes narrowed as he suddenly felt something intrude upon his thoughts, like a gentle tickle in the back of his mind. Tilting his head back slightly, he sniffed the reconstituted air that circulated throughout the citadel, then grunted softly in recognition of a familiar scent.
A few moments later, the door behind him irised open, and a tall, red-haired woman in her twenties entered the suite. She was clad in a form-fitting, green spandex bodystocking and gold opera-length gloves and thigh-high boots; a golden sash—its ends trailing around her ankles—was tied around her waist and held together with a bird-shaped clasp. Completing the outfit, set against a deep-blue triangle of cloth attached to the upper half of her costume, was a golden bird-shape, similar in design to the clasp, its wings spread across her chest, along the length of her collarbone. The stylized avian symbol was meant to be a representation of an Egyptian mythological bird known for its ability to live for five or six hundred years and then consume itself through the ritual of fire in order to start the cycle anew; a creature so powerful that not even death itself could hold sway over it for very long.
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