The door suddenly opened, and Jean stepped from the bedroom; she closed the door behind her. Both acolytes and X-Men turned to face her.
“She’s sleeping,” Jean explained. She looked troubled. “I. . . thought it might be the best thing for her.”
Logan grunted, but said nothing. He knew what Jean meant: she had used her telepathic powers to temporarily “shut down” Rogue’s mind. He’d experienced the same thing done to him a time or two— usually by Professor Xavier—on those rare occasions when the blood-lust that arose in the heat of battle overwhelmed all rational thought. Logan didn’t like being on the receiving end of a psi-blast—not one bit—but in Rogue’s case, he had to agree that it was for the best. It was obvious Jean didn’t like herself too much right now for having placed her friend in what amounted to a short-term coma. But without sleep, Rogue would more than likely become a liability in a fight, unable to focus her thoughts on her work. And they’d need her abilities in their strike against Doctor Doom—in this desperate bid to make things right once more.
To put an end to this madness.
Logan turned to Cyclops. “So, what do we do while we’re waitin’ fer Rogue t’wake up?”
“We make plans,” Cyclops replied. He turned to Magneto. “Jean and I have been discussing your part in all this, and we’re curious as to why Doom has allowed you, and your followers, to run free this long when he controls the world so completely.”
“ ‘Allows’?” Magneto replied between gritted teeth, leaning forward in his chair. “He has made my life nothing short of a living hell for these past ten years, his lapdogs always snapping at my heels, always trying to run me to ground, torturing and killing my loyal acolytes— and you consider that ‘running free’ ? Are you insane, boy?”
Scott shook his head. “Not in the least. But if Doom is as powerful as he clearly seems to be—even possessing the ability to ‘rewire’ the minds of every man, woman, and child on this planet, both human and mutant, and then create false memories—then he should have been able to capture you years ago ... by your time.”
“What are you talking about?” Magneto said. “And what kind of nonsense is this you’re spouting—Doom being able to tinker with my thoughts?” He snorted derisively. “No one—mutant or human—controls the mind of Magneto!”
Jean gently placed a gauntleted hand on Scott’s shoulder before he could continue the argument. “I think that’s my cue,” she said, and stepped toward Magneto. “I know you don’t believe this, Magnus, but we’ve fought on the same side, in the past, many times—and fought against each other, as well.” She gestured toward her teammates. “Against all of us.”
“More of these ‘false memories,’ Phoenix?” Magneto asked skeptically.
“Not false,” Jean replied. “True ones—of how the world should really be, without Doom in control. Of how we know all about you and your followers. Of the real reason it’s so important that we put an end to Doom’s empire. If you’d allow me to show you...” She reached forward to place her hands on his temples.
As one, the acolytes tensed, clearly expecting this to be a trick of some sort—a chance, perhaps, for a traitorous mutant to strike down their leader and prove her worth to the Emperor.
“I wouldn’t do that, Magnus,” Mystique said; a gun was in her hand, its muzzle pointed directly at Jean’s head. “The girl’s a mento—you know they can’t be trusted. And after what we went through last night...”
On the other side of the room, Cyclops, Wolverine, and Nightcraw-ler were on their feet. Scott’s fingers rested lightly on the visor buttons that, when pressed, would unleash his powerful force beams.
The term “Mexican standoff” skipped through Jean’s mind as she looked at both teams.
“This is asinine,” she said in disgust. She glared at Mystique, then nodded toward the gun that was trained on her head. “Put that thing away before I make it part of your anatomy.”
Mystique smiled wickedly. “You are just moving away from that whole peace-and-love nonsense, aren’t you, Bird-Girl?” The gun didn’t move from its target.
“Put down your weapon, Raven,” Magneto ordered. “This instant. ” His tone was that of an angry father scolding a rebellious daughter.
Mystique looked from Magneto to Phoenix, then back again. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Jean, she lowered the pistol, snapping the safety back in place.
“Fine. Fine, ” Mystique said angrily. “I wash my hands of this whole mess.” She glared at Magneto. “But don’t come stumbling over to me, drooling on the carpet like an idiot, after she fries every synapse in your head. You’ll get no sympathy from me, ‘dread lord.’ ” Turning on her heel, she stomped away and entered one of the other bedrooms, slamming the door behind her.
Magneto snorted. “Children.” He turned back to Jean. “You may proceed, Phoenix.”
Gently, Jean placed her fingertips against his temples. “This is going to hurt a bit when I trigger your memories, so be prepared.”
“Do what you must,” the mutant overlord replied. “I am ready.” “All right,” Jean said. “Then, close your eyes, and clear your mind.” Magneto did as he was told, settling back in his chair.
Jean closed her eyes. “Contact,” she whispered.
And then she let loose with a psychic pulse that traveled deep into his subconscious—stirring memories long forgotten.
A startling transformation suddenly came over the Master of Magnetism. The weather-beaten skin tanned to a leathery toughness by the harsh environment of the Sahara dissipated, becoming softer. Atrophied abdominal muscles tightened. Ten years of hardship and excruciating injuries and crippling despair drained away. He almost seemed larger now, prouder, regal in bearing.
He remembered it all now: His shattered friendship with Charles Xavier; his numerous confrontations with the X-Men over the years; the times he fought von Doom and a dozen other power-mad tyrants for possession of the world; even his brief relationship with Rogue.
But most of all, he remembered Genosha—a tiny island-nation off the east coast of Africa. A place where, for decades, humans had ruled, openly oppressing the rights of the mutants who also lived there, treating them no better than the lowest of animals—it was a form of apartheid based not on the color of one’s skin, but on their genetic makeup. That scurrilous policy had come to an end the day the United Nations handed rulership of the small country over to Magneto, in exchange for his guarantee that he would never again attack one of its members. As far as Magneto had been concerned, such promises were always made to be broken, but he had accepted the offer, if only to momentarily allay the U. N.’s fears and lull the humans into a false sense of security— while he planned for the future. He wasn’t about to abandon his goals, not in the least: Genosha was to be just the first step toward making his ultimate dream of worldwide mutant rule a reality.
Until Doctor Doom had recreated the world—and him. . .
“He took it from me,” Magneto said softly. His eyes snapped open, and lips pulled back in a snarl. “My memories! My triumphs! My dreams!” He leapt to his feet, brushing Jean aside, and shook mighty fists in the air. “Damn him, he took it all away from me! ”
“I’m beginning to think this was not a good idea . . .” Nightcrawler muttered to Scott.
“You may be right, Kurt,” Cyclops replied, “but we need Magnus at full strength, with all his memories intact—that way, he’s completely aware of what’s at stake here.” Scott flashed a brief smile. “Besides, having Magneto angry and focused on Doom might give us the chance to find the source of the anomaly.” He paused, noticing his friend’s skeptical expression. “I know it’s a risk, Kurt, but we’re running out of options . . . and time.”
Kurt sighed. “I hope you’re right, mein freund,” he said. “For all our sakes.”
“So am I. . .” Scott admitted.
On the other side of the room, adamantium claws extended from the backs of callused hands. Logan was prepared f
or Magneto to lash out at his old enemies, now that his memories were restored; given the opportunity, the scrappy warrior wouldn’t hesitate to carve out the heart of the mutant overlord before he could launch an attack.
Instead, Magneto’s histrionic display came to an abrupt end, and a small smile played at his lips as he gazed at Jean.
“Thank you, Phoenix,” he said gently. “You have made me whole again, and for that I am grateful.”
“You’re ... welcome,” Jean replied, uncertain whether she actually meant it. She stepped back to join her teammates.
Hands on hips, Magneto looked at Cyclops. “So, Summers—I understand from Miss Grey’s telepathic primer that you are in need of my aid.”
“Yes,” Cyclops replied slowly.
“And what do you offer in exchange?” he asked.
“How ’bout the chance t’go on breathin’, ya piece o’ filth?” Wolverine replied, brandishing his claws. “I shoulda put you outta my misery while we were all buddy-buddy, Lensherr. Woulda spared us all a lotta trouble after we got done kickin’ Doom’s metal butt.”
“Logan—stand down!” Cyclops ordered. He and Wolverine exchanged heated stares, but the feral mutant eventually sheathed his claws.
Cyclops turned back to Magneto. “What do you want?”
“Simply an understanding between us, X-Man.” Magneto folded his arms across his chest. “Doom is mine. You may want him stopped, but I want his head. ”
“Magnus, you know I can’t—” Cyclops began.
“You will not raise a hand in his defense,” Magnus continued. “Nor will you prevent me from delivering the killing blow. If you wish to save the universe—an action I’m sure that you and the rest of Xavier’s malcontents have grown used to doing—you will do nothing to keep me from exacting my revenge. Also, any attack made against me—or my people—by any member of your team in the so-called ‘heat of battle’—” he glanced at Wolverine “—and you will be on your own. No one will come to your assistance, no one will provide you with the distractions you’ll need to find the source of Doom’s power. Are we agreed?”
Cyclops locked eyes with the mutant overlord, trying his best to ignore the concerned expressions on the faces of his friends. Then, his lips slowly pulled back in a sneer. “Agreed.”
“Cyclops ...” Kurt began.
“I said we’re agreed!” Cyclops said sharply. “You have my word, Magnus,” he added softly.
“A wise decision,” Magneto hissed. He smiled, eyes alight with an undisguised look of triumph. “Then .. . welcome to the revolution, X-Men.”
The quintet of heroes found nothing amusing in the statement.
With a hearty laugh, Magneto turned to his acolytes. “My friends, we strike—tonight! At the height of all the self-congratulatory back-patting, Doom and his fawning lackeys shall learn what it means to play Magneto for the fool! I shall tear the heart from his breast and hold it high for all the world to see! And then, my friends, then shall begin the glorious reign of Homo superior!”
On the far side of the room, Scott Summers glanced at his fellow X-Men. He knew that what he had set into motion was for the good of the mission; reversing Doom’s work before time ran out was the greater threat—far more so than any betrayal Magneto might be planning for later on. No matter how distasteful it had been to ask Magneto for help, the mission had to be completed—billions upon billions of lives were at stake.
And yet...
And yet Scott couldn’t help but wonder if, in order to save a universe, he hadn’t just bargained away his soul to the devil himself.
16
T HE TIME had come.
i For weeks, every major city in the world had been festooned I * 1 with banners and signs heralding the pending arrival of this day. Green-and-silver bunting—reflecting the colors of the Emperor’s battle dress—hung from every government building and every household. In schools, children rehearsed plays and sang songs that detailed the Emperor’s rise to power and the elimination of his enemies. Memorabilia designed to commemorate the occasion—from flags to buttons, T-shirts to posters, magazines to comic books—flew off store shelves as the citizens of the Empire snapped up little pieces of history. Like the days and months leading to the end of 1999, another countdown had been put into motion, though this one would culminate not in a new millennium, but in the party to end all parties—the tenth anniversary of the Rule of von Doom.
Now, hundreds of television cameras lined New Hampshire Avenue, broadcasting images to every household around the world. Paparazzi struggled against one another behind police barricades, trying to get the arriving guests to look their way for a photograph, and convince them to flash a quick smile and, perhaps, a bit of flesh, before entering the Von Doom Center for the Performing Arts on this, “the grandest night in the history of the world” (at least, that’s how the Ministry of Information had phrased it). Thousands of cheering spectators gathered on the far side of the avenue, trying to catch a glimpse of the Imperial guests as they stepped from their limousines.
And keeping a watchful eye over all was the single-largest concentration of Guardsmen, Hunters, soldiers, and police officers ever seen since the first days of the Empire. The Emperor, after all, might be an arrogant, prideful man, but he was no fool. If there was any chance that Magneto might actually have the nerve to attack him on this of all nights, he would not find von Doom unprepared to properly greet him.
As for the people who were actually attending this extravaganza, they had come from all comers of the globe to pay their respects to the Royal Couple. There were politicians and publishers, athletes and artisans, supermodels and Broadway stars, all of them there to see and be seen, to utter embarrassingly-gushing statements about the awe and spectacle that were Victor von Doom, how honored and thrilled they were to have been invited to participate in such a momentous occasion as this, and how the Royal Couple’s reign deserved to be celebrated in such a high-spirited fashion, considering how they had brought peace and prosperity to the Earth—this was mankind’s true Golden Age. The crowds “oohed” and “ahhed” as celebrities such as Simon Williams— co-star of the box office smash Doom’s Patrol—arrived arm-in-arm with Imperial Enchantress Wanda Maximoff, and millionaire playboy Anthony Stark was accompanied by model Tyra Banks. And, as each guest walked up the block-long red carpet to the main entrance of the arts center, security forces directed them to the Grand Foyer, where they were to greet the Man of the Decade when he arrived.
The setting was an impressive sight for those few chosen hundred who been invited to personally celebrate the greatness that was Victor von Doom—a setting meant to inspire both awe... and fear. Before the occupancy of the White House by the current administration, this six-hundred-foot-long gathering place had simply been a means by which to access the center’s three main auditoriums. Now, though, it served as a tribute to the might of Latveria—the postage stamped-sized country that had given birth to the future king of the world. Lit by ten massive, crystal chandeliers, its tiled floor gleamed with the sort of brightness that only human hands could have accomplished—no machine could match the almost religious fervor with which the janitorial staff had applied themselves to their work in ensuring that their master would always be pleased by what he saw when he entered this nexus of entertainment. Wood-paneled walls—not part of the building’s original design—proudly displayed the works of some of Latveria’s finest artisans. A plush, blood-red runner stretched from the main doorway to the far side of the foyer, above which hung a large replica of the Lat-verian coat-of-arms. Replacing the spectacular bronze bust of John F. Kennedy that had stood to one side was a massive, marble sculpture of von Doom clad in his battle armor, helmet tucked under his left arm, right hand holding a large globe representing the Earth. Its powerful statement of complete dominance over all was not lost on anyone in the foyer.
But then, subtlety had never been a strongsuit of the monarchy.
Along with dozens of celebrities from every
level of the entertainment industry and the fine arts, the members of the Senate and the House of Representatives—officials whom von Doom regarded as being no more than toadying vassals who tended the lands he owned in exchange for the honor of serving him—had assembled here at the Emperor’s command, joining their spouses and the White House staff to show their allegiance to their master. Though none of their ilk had existed in his native Latveria—for Doom shared his power with no one—the Emperor had to admit that these lick-spittle politicians, with their slick appearances and nauseating talent for speaking in television broadcast-ready sound bytes, did have their uses, if only to continue spreading the word about how marvelous, how incredibly awe-inspiring was the man who had transformed the planet into a veritable paradise.
Nevertheless, if the opportunity ever presented itself when he no longer had need of their services, von Doom would waste no time in ordering speedy executions for each and every one of them. Politics, he felt, was a time-consuming game for fools and old men, and von Doom was neither. Nor had he the patience for such trivialities as peaceful negotiations when a swift, decisive action would resolve any conflict and immediately reestablish the indisputable fact that the Emperor was now, and always would be, in control; he had been trying to make that point clear to that bothersome flea Magneto for the past year. As a leader—first of Latveria, then of the world—von Doom had always ruled under the same belief as that expressed by the 19th-century German statesman Otto von Bismarck: “The great questions of the time are not decided by speeches and majority decisions, but by iron and blood.”
And if blood is what it took to keep the Empire running, then let it be shed by others in the service of Doom.
A hush fell over the assembly as a tall, thin man dressed in a tuxedo stepped just inside the main doorway.
“Ladies and gentlemen, King T’Challa of Wakanda,” he announced.
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