Damned unprofessional, in Stanton’s opinion—not that anyone ever asked for it.
And now, here he was, running errands for that blasted Highlands jackanapes—a menial task that an orderly could have carried out. His vast medical talents going to waste, while the Guardian’s pet caregiver grabbed all the glory for himself.
This nonsense—this indignity—had to end. There had to be some way to prove his worth, to show how wrong Merlyn and his spiteful little whelp had been in slighting him. Some method that could be used to hurt them as much as he had been hurt.
Admit it, Doctor, he told himself. You ’re just looking for a way to get back at Roma and her favorite clown. You don’t want an apology from them—you want revenge.
Or retribution; either one was good. Such thoughts were certainly foremost in his mind while he made his rounds each day. How many hours had he spent replaying the same scenes over and over again in his dreams? The Chief Physician misdiagnosing a patient, and Stanton coming to the rescue at the penultimate moment, before death could claim its latest victim. Roma apologizing for her behavior and awarding him his rightful position, while that Scottish buffoon was run out of the citadel in disgrace.
The doctor sighed. If only there really was a means by which he could find the sort of justice he’d only been able to have in his dreams. At least, there were no means to be found on the citadel; he’d searched long and hard, to no avail. Perhaps he just needed to look elsewhere.
Stanton smiled mirthlessly. Daydream though it might be, he’d still give just about anything to see the look on the Guardian’s youthful face if the opportunity to make it a reality ever presented itself. . . .
“I feel like bloody hell,” Betsy muttered as she and Satumyne walked along one of the countless beige-colored corridors that ran throughout the citadel. “It’s like my mind is racing a hundred kilometers an hour, but my body can’t get past the starting gate.”
“It’s called ‘universe lag,’ ” Satumyne explained, coming to a halt before one of the many doors lining the corridor. She waved a hand in front of an electric eye, and the door irised open with a soft hiss of air. “A few hours of rest, though, and you’ll be back to your old, insufferably-annoying self.”
Since her head was aching so, Betsy decided to ignore the playful jibe and stepped into the room, Her Whyness close behind. The chamber was roughly the size of a loft in a New York commercial building, its walls colored a mellowing cream shade, the lighting globes scattered about the spacious area dimmed to a pleasant softness. To the right of the door, at the end of a short corridor, stood a bathroom, complete with shower; to the left were the living quarters proper, complete with chairs, couch, writing desk, oval-shaped bed, and a large, wall-mounted view-screen that received the over one hundred and seventy-nine billion (and still growing) television channels that were broadcast throughout the omniverse. On the far side of the room, running the length of the suite, was an enormous observation window that allowed a staggering view of the powerful, multi-hued energies that comprised all of time and space as they swirled around the citadel.
But it wasn’t a front row seat to the wonders of Creation that caught Betsy’s attention as she looked around the room.
“Ororo stayed here,” she said softly, and smiled.
Saturnyne cast a sideways glance at her.
“I can sense the remnants of her thoughts,” the lavender-tressed telepath explained. “Like a lingering trace of perfume in the air.” Catching sight of the Majestrix’s suspicious expression, she gently patted her verbal sparring partner on the arm. “Don’t worry, Satumyne, I have no interest in scanning your mind to gather information. With all the clutter in there. I’d be afraid of stumbling over some unpleasant memory and stubbing my toes.” She smiled. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.” Her Whyness snorted.
Betsy closed her eyes as she stepped into the room, allowing the essence of her teammate to drift into her mind. It was a pleasant sensation, sending an invigorating chill up her spine. “I’ve never known anyone so at peace with everyone—with every thing—in the world like Ororo. Her thoughts, her feelings, her outlook on life—it’s all so . . . refreshing.”
“Then you should have no trouble sleeping,” Satumyne commented sarcastically. “With all that love and happiness permeating the air, I’m certain you’ll soon be dreaming of cherubs and puppy dogs.”
Betsy gazed evenly at the Majestrix. “Don’t you ever grow tired of making snide comments all the time?”
“I only make them when the opportunity presents itself,” Satumyne replied haughtily. She smiled frostily. “It just so happens that practically every word that tumbles from your mouth makes for such a delicious set-up line.” She snorted. “I imagine your boyfriend considers that one of your more endearing ...”
A melancholy expression darkened Betsy’s features; she suddenly looked twice her age.
“. . . qualities . . .” As Satumyne’s voice trailed off, it was obvious from her shocked expression that even the Majestrix realized she had gone too far with her caustic remarks. “E-Elisabeth . . . I’m sorry,” she said haltingly. “I-I didn’t mean to ...”
Slowly, Betsy reached out to take Satumyne’s right hand, then gently clasped it in both of hers. “Satumyne, I know we’ve had our differences of opinion over the years—it’s to be expected, I imagine, when a sister tries to protect her brother from what she perceives to be the ‘wrong sort of woman.’ ” A wisp of a smile came to her lips as she saw the Majestrix wince as though lightly slapped. “But I also know that, beneath that cool, professional, infuriatingly superior attitude you constantly throw in everyone’s faces is a caring, loving woman.”
“Not according to your brother. . Her Whyness muttered.
“I truly do hope that, one day, you’ll find someone special,” Betsy continued. “Someone you can share your hopes, your dreams, your love with, as I did with Warren. And when you do, don’t ever let a minute pass without letting them know how wonderful it feels to have them in your life.. . because you never know how little time you may have together, in the end.”
For what must have been the first time in years, the Omniversal Majestrix suddenly seemed to be at a loss for words. Her one visible eye widened in surprise, she stared at Betsy for a few moments; her lips moved, but she appeared to be unable to form any words.
“Umm ... I’d ... I’d best be going,” she finally stammered.
Betsy nodded and released Satumyne’s hand. Then she headed across the chamber toward the bed, pausing only long enough to slip out of her opera-length gloves and once-elegant gown before climbing under the covers.
“Good night, Elisabeth,” Saturnyne said as she walked to the doorway. She paused for a reply, but received none, and the door irised shut behind her.
Alone in the dark, Betsy pulled the gown close to her and buried her face in the material, inhaling the few traces of Warren’s cologne that still clung to it. She’d been able to maintain a cool facade in front of everyone—well, except for that momentary display of anger toward von Doom, of course—but only through the greatest of efforts. It was expected of her, she knew—wasn’t she the mighty Psylocke, telepathic femme fatale who was as deadly as she was beautiful? Who never allowed personal matters to cloud her judgment?
Absolute rubbish, of course, but it wouldn’t have done any good to allow the weight of her grief to overwhelm her in front of a roomful of people and force her to go running to Professor Xavier for support. No—now that she had some understanding of the severity of the situation, she had to concentrate on helping Charles; he needed her to focus on the mission that lay ahead. So, for the time being, she would “keep a stiff upper lip,” as the old saying went... at least in public. Warren would have been proud of her.
Warren. . .
Betsy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and the tears that had been building for the better part of an hour at last found release.
And as she drifted off to a troubled sleep, Betsy could
n’t help but wonder what sort of horrific punishments her other friends might even now be suffering at the hands of their oldest enemy. . . .
3
SCOTT, I-I’M not sure I can take much more of this.”
Glancing at her husband, Jean Grey nervously chewed on her _ bottom lip. Smiling warmly, Scott Summers reached over and brushed away a strand of bright red hair that had draped itself across her left cheek.
“It’ll be all right, hon,” he said assuringly. “We’ve been through tougher situations; we’ll get through this one, too.”
Jean tried to flash a confident smile, but could only succeed in twisting her lips into a rough, sickly approximation. She glanced past Scott, to the huddled shapes in the darkness around them; the creatures barked and growled and gesticulated wildly at one another and the handsome couple. Jean could only understand some of the hand gestures that were being made; the blinding glare of the spotlights that shone on Scott and her made it difficult to clearly see much of anything beyond ten or twelve feet.
Her gaze drifted to the man who sat before the Summers. He was not a particularly impressive figure physically—with his gaunt features, receding hairline, and sallow skin tone—but Jean knew all too well that he possessed an intellect almost second to none. He was agile enough to be three steps ahead of her in an open confrontation, despite her own prodigious mental abilities; wily enough to twist her own words against her; powerful enough to leave her beaten and bloodied if she faltered for even a moment on the field of battle.
“Deep breaths, Red,” Scott whispered in her ear. “Stay focused, and everything will turn out fine.”
Jean nodded, not really agreeing with her husband, but unwilling to allow her fears to overwhelm her in such a perilous situation. From the comer of her eye she spotted one of the creatures pointing toward something next to it. And then, from the darkness, a blood-red eye began to glow ominously ...
“Welcome back to Viewpoints,” Archer Finckley said to the television camera trained on him; his voice was rough and somewhat nasal, and he delivered each word with the force of a roundhouse punch. “For those of you just joining us, our guests tonight are Scott Summers and Jean Grey, directors of the Erik Lensherr Institute for the Genetically Gifted, an academy for special children named after a very special man.”
The red light above a second camera winked on, and Jean caught a glimpse of herself and Scott on a nearby monitor. They made an attractive couple—he with his strong jawline, toned physique, and dark, slightly-ruffled hair, she with her supermodel looks, bright green eyes, and flaming red tresses—which was the main reason they’d been included in People magazine’s “Fifty Most Beautiful People” two years running. But they were more than mere window-dressing; together, they ran one of the most successful schools for young mutants in the world, with a student enrollment recently topping five thousand. And it was because of that commendable success—plus the fact that the school, on the eve of its fortieth anniversary, was about to open “satellite” branches in other countries—that they had been invited by renowned journalist Archer Finckley to appear on his program—the most watched talk show currently on the air. Scott had jumped at the chance, always eager to spread the good word about the institute and its founder. Jean had reluctantly agreed to join him; few and far between though they had been, television interviews made her nervous, and this one, she was certain, would prove to be no exception.
They had dressed conservatively for their appearance on Viewpoints'. Scott in a dark, double-breasted business suit, charcoal-gray shirt, and solid red tie, his eyes perpetually covered by a pair of sunglasses, its lenses carved from ruby quartz—the only substance on Earth strong enough to contain the powerful force beams that continually threatened to erupt from his eyes; Jean in a black, knee-length dress that complemented her hair, which had been pulled back into a ponytail in the hope that it would make her look more like a serious-minded headmistress and less like a giggling pin-up from the pages of Sports Illustrated'& Swimsuit Edition. The choice of clothing had been at her insistence, given that their everyday attire consisted of formfitting red-and-purple-hued work clothes based on the costume design of the school’s founder—a man named Erik Magnus Lensherr, who was known to everyone on the planet by a far more colorful nom de guerre: Magneto.
The self-proclaimed “Master of Magnetism” and leader of the Homo sapiens superior rights movement. A loving father and devoted husband. A Nobel Prize-winning peacemaker.
And the man who just happened to be master of the world.
Jean and Scott had not been among the first of his followers—they hadn’t even been bom yet when Lensherr had begun fighting for equal rights for mutants in the 1960s—but once their own powers had started to manifest, it hadn’t taken long for them to join his cause. Here was a man who had led a march on Washington, D.C. in 1967, culminating in his famous “Children of the Atom” speech at the base of the Washington Monument; who had been given an audience with President Richard Nixon in 1971 to protest the use of mutants as advance troops (“cannon fodder,” Lensherr had called them) during the Vietnam War; who, in 1980, single-handedly overthrew the government of the island-nation of Genosha, where mutants were treated worse than animals— beaten, starved, used for sport. A man who had been feared by a vast number of enemies, true, but a man whose message had been heard. Meeting him had been the moment of a lifetime for Jean and Scott— one they would have remembered the rest of their lives. But Lensherr had gone even further than simply shaking their hands; he invited them into the fold, asked them to help him in his ongoing campaign, and they had jumped at the chance, their heads full of youthful idealism.
And yet, the struggle had never ended, despite Lensherr’s numerous successes. In most parts of the world, the United States included, mutants were still treated as second-class citizens. By the time Jean and Scott had become acolytes, their kind was still living in secrecy, always dreading what might happen should they accidentally reveal their abilities in public. And as for non-powered Homo sapiens, the very mention of the word “mutant” brought forth mental images of Sissy Spacek’s bloody night of psychokinetic terror at the climax of the film Carrie, complete with exploding cars, burning schools, and buckets of pig blood.
As the past forty years had shown, it was never a good time to be a member of Homo superior.
But then, five years ago, everything changed. One morning, the people of the world awoke from a particularly pleasant, shared dream— in which the nations of the world had come together under one rale, and man and mutant lived in harmony—to discover there was no more hatred, or prejudice, or fear. It was as though those feelings had been expunged from their minds—a cleansing of negative energies, as it were. Some called it a miracle; others thought it the result of a harmonic convergence, though the planets of the solar system had been nowhere near alignment; a few even thought it might be an early sign of The Rapture, that moment when God summons to Heaven all the truly devout just before the arrival of the End Times. Whatever the supposition, however, somehow, in the depths of their subconscious, they all knew they had one man to thank for this incredible event.
And Erik Magnus Lensherr had never been the type to let an opportunity slip through his fingers .. .
Finckley turned to Jean. She felt her throat tighten automatically. “Now, before we went to commercial, Jean, you were about to give us some background on your mentor and his world-renowned school.”
Jean politely cleared her throat, trying her best to ignore the eye of the camera that stared unblinkingly at her, putting her on display for the people of the world—all six billion plus. “Well, Archer, I’m sure just about everyone knows the story by now, but. . . all right. The institute was originally founded in 1985 by Erik Lensherr, a Polish immigrant whose parents had died in World War II, during the Holocaust; the Lensherrs had been prisoners in the Auschwitz concentration camp, and Erik had been the only one to survive. By the time the Allies finally liberated the camp in 194
5, Erik had fallen in love with a woman named Magda, who’d also been a prisoner; together, they left Poland, hoping to put behind them the nightmarish experiences they’d endured, and traveled to America.”
A frown creased Jean’s flawless features. “Unfortunately, once they reached the streets of New York, they were confronted by the same sort of foolish intolerance they had fled in Europe.” She slowly smiled, starting to feel more at ease as she continued with the story. “But, after surviving the horrors of the Nazi death camps, Erik and Magda weren’t about to let something as petty and annoying as mere prejudice keep them from turning their dreams of a fresh start into reality—especially now that they had a new member of the family with them: a baby daughter named Anya, who’d been born during the voyage across the Atlantic.
“But Erik had an even more difficult time than most, considering the unfavorable factors he was faced with when he arrived on our shore: he was a mutant, true, but, even worse in the eyes of others, he was an immigrant, a Pole, and a Jew. No one cared if he and his family had escaped extermination; here, he was just another unwanted outsider, trying to take away someone else’s job. He was harassed at every menial job he could find, beaten, kicked—he was even stabbed once. Putting food on the table became a daily struggle, and then, when Anya almost died of pneumonia . . .” She shook her head sadly. “The strain of it all came close to destroying him.”
“Obviously, it didn’t,” Finckley noted wryly.
“No, he wasn’t broken—he persevered, ” Scott said, a triumphant tone in his voice. “And once Anya was well again, he vowed that the hatred in this country that was being directed toward him—the same kind of hatred that had nearly killed him in Auschwitz—had to end. Something had to be done to change people’s minds before our nation turned into another Nazi Germany.” The rugged headmaster frowned. “At that time, though, he didn’t know how that could be accomplished. All he had was his family to keep him strong—his family, and his dreams.”
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