How complete was the Cube’s effect of them? he wondered.
Through the windows of the mini-van that his former students had requisitioned at the airport, Xavier could see the sun setting in the west, its rays painting the Loire Valley landscape in brilliant hues of blue and gold, crimson and purple. It was peaceful here, positively serene, much like it was in the rest of the world, as he’d learned while he and Betsy were doing their research back in New York. Mankind and mutants living in harmony—thanks to Magneto. Again, Xavier felt a pang of jealousy stab at his heart—
But it wasn’t just jealousy, though. He felt sadness, as well. Yes, he knew that the people of the world had been transformed into living puppets, with Magneto pulling the strings. Yes, he knew this world was nothing but an illusion, the creation of a—what had Psylocke called it? A “Monkey’s Paw.” A device that would give its owner whatever their heart desired, only to savagely turn that wish against the dreamer at the last moment, and plunge them into the midst of a nightmare from which there might be no escape. Yes, the Cube was all that and more, capable even of tearing apart the fabric of reality if its power wasn’t shut down, or its flaw corrected.
But still. . .
Did he really have the right to destroy everything Magneto had created? Could he destroy it all, given the opportunity?
What if Roma could repair the Cube so that it would return to its original function of physically restructuring reality? What if the damage to the omniverse could be repaired, with no ill effects to any dimension? What if the Cube’s powers were then used for good, by the right person, with the right vision?
Was it wrong to want to live in a world where there was no more fear, no more hatred, no more war? Was it wrong to finally have man and mutant living in harmony, not under a dictatorship, but freely, walking hand-in-hand towards a brighter future?
Then again, was it wrong for only Charles Xavier’s dreams to be the foundation upon which that world was built?
These, and many other questions, continued to swirl about his mind, all the way to the front gates of Castle Lensherr.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t come up with a single answer.
Minutes later, escorted by his “honor guard”—comprised of Scott, Jean, Kurt, Rogue, and a few mutants who obviously lived here as servants— Xavier directed his hoverchair through the labyrinthine corridors of Magneto’s fortress. The Professor was mildly surprised by both its rural location, and its design; again, as with the manner in which he ruled the world, here was a gentler side of Erik Lensherr he had never seen before. Maybe Psylocke had been right—finally taking control of the world may very well have mellowed the most notorious of supervillains .. .
Xavier glanced at the people around him—these talented, caring men and women whom he had trained, admired, considered his own family for so long. The same fierce dedication they had once shown him still burned in their eyes, but they were dedicated to Magneto’s cause now, and he . . . what was he to them? Erik had turned them against him—he’d been expecting it, to be quite honest. As the X-Men’s greatest foe, could he have passed up the opportunity to use the Cosmic Cube to control their minds, and convince them that their mentor was some kind of inhuman monster? Of course not; the temptation would have been too great.
That didn’t mean, however, that the ache in the Professor’s heart was any less painful...
A heavy, oaken door opened at the end of the hallway down which they traveled. The group moved through it, and Xavier found himself in a large, oak-paneled drawing room, its ceiling twenty feet above him, the floor covered in thick maroon carpeting. Bookcases lined the walls, their shelves holding collector’s editions of some of the planet’s greatest literature. To the left of the door, immense windows looked down upon the sprawling gardens that lay to the west side of the castle; to the right of the door, an immense stone fireplace took up the length of a wall.
He was startled to find Wolverine waiting for them, but it made sense, in a strange way. Who better to protect Magneto from his enemies than the man who had tried the most often to kill him? It was a Cube-derived example of the old saying about keeping your friends close, and your enemies closer.
Charles glanced around the room, but saw no sign of Gambit, the wily, dark-haired Cajun who had accompanied the other X-Men on their mission to locate the source of the reality-cancer infecting their home dimension. No doubt he was on some mission for his master, Xavier surmised.
“Welcome, Charles. I’ve been expecting you.”
Erik Lensherr turned from the window at which he’d been standing. He was dressed in his familiar, red-and-purple Magneto uniform, complete with flowing cape and gladiator-style metal helmet. It looked extremely out of place in such an opulent setting—the armor of a space-age knight, worn amidst the genteel trappings of a sixteenth century-styled palace.
“If I had known formal wear was required,” Xavier commented, eyeing the costume, “I would have chosen a more appropriate suit.” Lensherr smiled. “I wore it for old times’ sake, my friend. After going to all the trouble of popping back into existence from wherever it is that you’ve been hiding, I thought the least I should do to honor your arrival here was to be attired in the sort of outfit you’d expect the Master of the World to be wearing.”
Xavier’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I’m flattered.”
Logan stepped forward, moving with the grace of a panther. “So, this is the piece’a terrorist trash who’s been givin’ you so much trouble all these years, Erik?” He snorted. “Don’t look like such a threat t’me.” The Professor smiled pleasantly. “Appearances, as the saying goes, can be deceiving, Logan.” If the diminutive Canadian was surprised to discover that Xavier knew his name, he hid it well. Xavier turned to Lensherr. “ ‘Terrorist’? Wouldn’t you say that’s a case of the pot calling the kettle ‘black’?”
Lensherr said nothing, but it was clear from his amused expression that he had enjoyed the opportunity to reverse roles with his former friend.
“Charles, I know why you are here,” Lensherr finally replied. He reached up and removed his helmet. “I know all about your great mission of mercy, and the alleged threat the Cube poses to the multitude of alternate dimensions that exist beyond the pale.” Handing the helmet
to Wolverine, he leaned down close to the Professor’s ear, so that only he could hear him. “Miss Grey was kind enough to telepathically bring me up to speed on von Doom’s world.”
“Then you also know why your vision of the world can’t continue to exist, either,” Xavier said.
Lensherr shook his head and stepped back. “I know why you say it cannot continue—that does not mean it is the truth.” The Professor glared at him, but the mutant overlord merely snorted in response. “Really, Charles, I hate it so when you play at being the outraged victim. You cannot tell me that this would be the first time you have not told your X-Men the complete truth about one of their missions, or that you have never manipulated their actions—used them as pawns in some grander design of which they knew nothing.” His eyes narrowed. “If I remember correctly, you did once convince them you had died, solely for the purpose of furthering one of your plans.”
Xavier quickly waved a hand through the air, dismissing the accusation. “I am not attempting to deceive or manipulate you, Erik. The Cube is a danger to us all—its influence over the world, over our universe, must be ended, and quickly.”
“Even if it meant returning to the old days of hatred and mistrust and fear, Charles?” Lensherr asked. “Even if it meant the end of The Dream?” .
Xavier shook his head. “The Dream will not die, Erik, simply because the Cube is deactivated and the world returns to normal—it will continue to live on, in our hearts and minds. Removing this ‘shortcut’ von Doom has created just means that we will have to work twice as hard—together—to make it a reality once more.” He paused. “Without the self-centered fixations on world domination, of course.”
Lensherr chuckled. �
��Of course.”
A knock at the door suddenly interrupted their conversation.
“Enter!” Lensherr barked.
The door opened, and an attractive, dark-haired woman poked her head into the room. “Father, dinner is almost—” She stopped, realizing that Lensherr was not alone. Her eyes almost immediately settled on Wagner, who was standing near the Professor’s hoverchair.
“Good evening, Anya,” Kurt said. He flashed a winning smile.
The young woman blushed, and turned her gaze to a spot on the floor. She was clearly embarrassed, and Kurt seemed to find that amusing.
Wolverine growled, and stared heatedly at the blue-skinned mutant.
Xavier’s eyebrows rose. Anya? That was the name of the daughter Magnus had lost decades ago—the one who died in the fire. The realization of what was going on here struck the Professor like a blow to the head: Magneto hadn’t recreated the world solely to end the increasingly violent disputes between humanity and mutantkind; he’d recreated the world so that he could reunite the members of his shattered family— including his late daughter.
Suddenly, convincing his old friend to give up the Cube had become a much more complicated issue . . .
“Come in, child,” Lensherr said, beckoning her forward. “You’re among friends.” She stepped inside, and walked over to join her father, trying not to make eye contact with Kurt. Smiling proudly, the mutant overlord turned to Xavier. “You’ve never met my daughter, Anya, have you, Charles?” There was a warning flash in his eyes that was all too clear: Say nothing about the Cube, nothing that will upset my daughter, or you will not live long enough to regret your mistake.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Xavier smiled and nodded toward Anya. “How do you do, Miss Lensherr?”
Anya stared at him, eyes wide as saucers. “Father,” she whispered, “is this the man you were telling us about today?”
“It’s all right, child,” Lensherr said gently. “He doesn’t bite—at least, not in polite company.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Now, what urgent matter requires my attention?”
“Dinner is just about ready,” Anya replied, “and your presence is required.”
“Ahh—a most important matter, then.” Lensherr smiled, and kissed her softly on the forehead. “Tell your mother we shall be joining you soon enough.” He slapped her playfully on the backside. “Now, off with you—my associates and I still have business to attend to.”
Anya kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t be too long, Father— you know how Mama gets when you let your food get cold.”
“Fifteen minutes—no more,” Lensherr promised.
Anya nodded, accepting his terms. Then, sparing a moment to take a quick glance at Kurt, she turned on her heel and exited the room, closing the door behind her.
“She’s a lovely young woman, Erik,” the Professor commented. “She is my light and my life, Charles,” Lensherr replied, his voice surprisingly soft. “The part of my soul that had been lost for so very long. And now that I am whole once more, I find myself unable to even consider for a moment a world in which she does not exist.” He gazed evenly at his old friend.
“I. . . understand,” Xavier said simply.
“You always were highly perceptive, Charles,” Lensherr said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. He stared wistfully at the closed door for a moment, then shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. “Now, then—my acolytes have informed me about your traveling companion, and how she managed to evade their good graces. You would not happen to know where our dear Miss Braddock might have gone to ground since you were separated, would you?”
Xavier folded his hands on his lap, and smiled politely. “I’m sorry, Erik—were you actually expecting me to answer that question?”
Jean stepped forward, a sneer on her lips. “I could find out for you, Erik, if you’d like.”
Lensherr gently waved her off. “There’s no need for psychic torture,
Miss Grey; Charles doesn’t know. I’m certain, however, that she is not all that far away from her master.” He glanced toward his former friend. “But even if you did know her location, you would not tell me—is that not so?”
Xavier’s smile broadened. “As I mentioned to Miss Grey earlier today, you do know my methods quite well.”
“Quite . . .” Lensherr chuckled. “And, as so often has occurred in the past, we find ourselves at another impasse.” He shrugged. “No matter—once you and I have finished our conversation, I will simply call upon the power of the Cube and have her appear before me.”
“Are we going to converse, Erik?” Xavier asked. He couldn’t keep a sly grin from lighting his features, as images from James Bond movies flitted across his mind’s eye. Magneto was running true to form ...
Lensherr nodded. “Oh, most definitely, Professor. I am not the sort of host who would be so callous as to invite you into his home, and then kill you immediately—that would be . . . uncivilized. But, rest assured, there will be more than enough time for such unpleasantries— for both you and Miss Braddock—later.” He smiled disarmingly. “Tell me one thing, though, if you would be so kind, Charles: If Miss Braddock accompanied you on your mission, does that mean that von Doom is here, also? Or has that aging windbag finally been sent on his way to his final reward—in Hades?”
“You are not so far behind him, old friend, from what I can see,” Xavier replied. He gestured toward the signs of advanced aging that were so clearly evident on Magnus’s face. “The Cube’s influence, I take it?”
The mutant overlord nodded somberly. “I did not think much of it when the process started—I attributed it to the strain of battle, when I led the attack against von Doom and his forces. But it appears I made a .. . misdiagnosis.” A wisp of a smile curled the comers of his mouth. “I am no longer the man I once was, Charles—soon, I will have been alive for three-quarters of a century.” The smile faded. “I did not need von Doom’s help in reaching—and then passing—that milestone any faster.”
“Erik, there still is time to reverse the process...” Xavier began. “By handing you the Cube?” Lensherr smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, old friend, but I will have to decline your offer for assistance.” He turned from the Professor to face his acolytes. “Leave us now, my friends. Charles and I have some . . . catching up to do, and I wish to do so in private.”
“You sure about that, Erik?” Wolverine asked, eyeing Xavier.
“I am in no danger, Logan,” the mutant overlord replied. “Although
Charles may possess the greatest telepathic abilities on the planet, they pale in comparison to the powers I wield—as he well knows.”
Logan shrugged. “Awright, you’re the boss,” he said, though it was all too apparent that he didn’t like the idea of leaving the world’s greatest peacemaker alone in a room with his deadliest adversary. “But watch the wheelchair. Scott tells me Baldy here drives it ’bout as well as Anya does when she gets behind the wheel o’ the limo.”
Lensherr winced dramatically. “I shall keep it in mind.” He smiled. “When Charles and I have finished our discussion, I will ask you to rejoin us.”
“Just give a holler.” With a final, heated glare at Xavier, Wolverine spun on his heel and followed the other acolytes from the room.
Once the door had closed, Lensherr slowly turned to face the Professor.
“And now . .. ?” Xavier asked.
“And now, Charles, I think it is time you experienced the power of the very object you sought to destroy,” Lensherr said in an ominous tone. A darkly sinister light burned in his gray eyes. “It should be an . . . enlightening experience for you. . . .”
15
IF HE hadn’t been so focused on formulating his plans for revenge, he might have been impressed by the vast collection of medical _technology around him ... though it was doubtful.
In a darkened supply room—one roughly the size of a parking lot— located some twenty levels b
elow the infirmary, was Victor von Doom. The former emperor of the Earth sat at a workbench, disassembling the very device that had been used to free him from the atrophied body of his now-deceased counterpart. It hadn’t taken him long to find the device—a layout of the citadel, obtained by tapping into its main computer systems, had led him unerringly to his destination ... eventually. He’d had to avoid a number of armed guards who were obviously searching for him along the way, and sift through the contents of two other vast supply rooms before he’d found the device. But once he had, taking apart the multiphasic crystal accelerator had been child’s play—although he still wasn’t quite certain of half the functions of the alien technology contained within its housing. It didn’t really matter to him, however; the items he’d chosen were more than suitable for his needs.
Laid out across the table in front of him was a small collection of parts, alongside components he’d removed from his battle armor—including his gauntlets. Using an array of tools he carried in a pouch on his belt, von Doom opened a small panel in each metal glove, exposing the delicate circuitry of the energy discharge mixing chambers—the source of power for the charged particle projectors that were built into the palms. He ran a quick diagnostic on both, and was surprised to find them functioning perfectly. By all rights, then, the blasters should be able to fire. Yet some outside influence had succeeded in penetrating his armor’s defenses and shutting down the plasma flow between the mixing chambers and the particle accelerators. It had to be the byproduct of a forcefield of some kind, he surmised, one generated from deep within the citadel. He refused to believe Satumyne’s childish explanations about a “state of temporal grace” that prevented most weapons—mainly those that fired projectiles or plasma-beams—from being used. But whatever the reason for the limitations on his armor’s offensive capabilities, whatever technology might be in use by Roma and her people, it hadn’t taken long for von Doom to think of a solution to the problem.
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