Beneath the cold metal of his mask, the tyrant’s scarred lips twisted into an approximation of a smug grin. Once again, he had been underestimated by his enemies, and now they were beginning to learn just how great a price they were to pay for their brashness. He had already fulfilled his promise to Satumyne that she would be punished for her lack of respect, and Roma would soon follow. Of course, there had been one minor deviation from his plans—if it hadn’t been for Stanton’s intervention, he would have snapped the Majestrix’s neck and ended her life, rather than settle for simply tucking her away in a darkened alcove at the bottom of the citadel. Still, the doctor’s suggestion had been a sound one—though the proud monarch would never admit it to the man’s face—and one better suited for the current situation. Giving Sat-yr-nin a chance to get close to Roma, and perhaps even divert the witch’s attention away from the hunt, would provide him with the time he needed to properly prepare for his confrontation with the Guardian— so long as his scheming ally didn’t do anything foolish . . . like attempt to seize control herself.
But allowing an enemy to live—even one trapped in a state of suspended animation, like Satumyne—was not a wise move, in the long run. Von Doom had lost count of all the times he’d left a battlefield, wrongly presuming that Reed Richards and the rest of his Fantastic Four were dead, only to have them rise up once more and strike him down in his moment of triumph. In this circumstance, however, there was a simple solution to the problem: Once Roma had been removed from power, and von Doom sat upon the throne, he would order her lieutenant’s death, and eliminate any chance that the Majestrix might eventually find a way out of her liquid prison.
And then, perhaps, he would do the same with her wild-eyed counterpart ...
“Ah. There you are,” said a soft, Scottish voice from behind him.
Von Doom turned. The Chief Physician stood just inside the doorway, leaning against a tall metal cabinet. He did not look at all happy to see the monarch.
“I must say, you’re looking rather fit,” the doctor commented icily. “Kill any other helpless old men while you’ve been wandering the corridors unsupervised?”
Von Doom glared at him. “Not yet...” he said ominously. Surprisingly, the doctor didn’t seem taken aback by the threat. He merely frowned, and sniffed derisively in response, showing more backbone than Stanton had ever displayed in von Doom’s presence. There had to be some reason for his courage . . .
“Tell me, physician,” the former emperor inquired, “how many of Roma’s lapdogs are on the other side of that door, waiting for your signal to attack?”
Now the doctor looked uneasy. He nervously cleared his throat, as though stalling for time until he could think of a suitable answer. “Ummm .. . none, actually,” he finally admitted.
Behind the ion-implanted titanium facemask of the dictator, a single eyebrow rose in an inquisitive manner. “Really?” von Doom said. “So, am I to understand, then, that you took it upon yourself to track me to my lair, and offer your terms for my peaceful surrender?”
“Nothing of the sort,” the Chief Physician replied, “although I wouldn’t be adverse to the idea. It’s just that, from time to time, I like to check on the equipment I have stored here—make certain it’s still functioning properly. You just happened to pick the very same supply room for your hideout.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
The doctor shrugged. “Coincidence is one of the guiding forces in the omniverse.”
“Bah,” von Doom spat. “More metaphysical tripe. Must everyone in this accursed place speak in ridiculous axioms?”
“Only those with the proper understanding of the forces of order and chaos,” the Chief Physician replied haughtily. “It’s not a subject for everyone, though.”
“Bah, ” the tyrant repeated. He turned his back on the little man. If the physician wasn’t going to attack, or run off screaming to notify Roma’s dogs of his location, then the monarch no longer felt the need to acknowledge his presence. There were far more important matters to occupy his time.
“Hmmm. . . Judging from the way you’ve taken apart one of the multiphasic crystal accelerators, I see you have some experience with electronics,” the Chief Physician commented. “I wonder what sort of project you might be working on ...”
Von Doom ignored his attempt to draw him into a conversation and continued with the job at hand.
“You were made aware of the temporal state of grace that envelops the citadel, weren’t you?” The doctor paused. “Yes, I’m sure you were. And yet you continue to tinker away with those parts you’ve... acquired from the accelerator.”
Von Doom heard the soles of the physician’s shoes scuffling across the floor. The wretch was actually moving closer—and without permission! The tyrant didn’t know whether to admire the man’s courage, or strike him down for his foolhardiness.
“So, if you already knew that any armaments built into your battle-suit wouldn’t function in this setting,” the doctor continued, “then you couldn ’t be constructing a weapon—at least not a conventional weapon.”
Von Doom paused in his work, intrigued by the physician’s line of reasoning. It was becoming clear to him that the little man might not be the imbecile he appeared to be ...
It never ceased to amaze her just how incredibly stupid most people were.
In the time it had taken her to travel from the Majestrix’s chambers in response to the Supreme Guardian’s summons, Sat-yr-nin had passed hundreds of people in the corridors, spoken to at least a dozen citadel guards about von Doom’s disappearance, had even barked orders at a couple of members of the Captain Britain Corps, and yet no one had caught on to her masquerade. But as she strode purposefully down one of the gleaming, white metal hallways that led to the throne room, it slowly dawned on the imposter why that might be—and exactly how much power Satumyne had enjoyed. Passersby cast furtive glances at her, quickly averting their gazes when she looked their way. Staff members did their best to avoid her, flashing uneasy smiles as they speedily walked past, as though they were afraid she might address them. And then there was the manner in which anyone she did address would stiffen—backs ramrod-straight as they stood at attention, a sheen of sweat forming on their upper lips.
It all reminded her so much of the reactions she received from her subjects during her reign over Earth 794 that she actually felt a twinge of homesickness.
It was obvious what was going on, though. As Omniversal Majestrix, Satumyne was not only respected by the occupants of the Starlight Citadel, she was feared. Satumyne didn’t have to order her people to carry out their duties—they accomplished them quickly and efficiently, if for no other reason than a simple desire to avoid the sort of reprisals her station allowed her to mete out if they failed.
The Supreme Guardian should have learned a lesson or two from that sort of iron rule, Sat-yr-nin thought, but she had never seen any evidence that Roma had even bothered to pay attention. The dark-haired technomage might be the one who controlled the tides of time, and commanded armies from her lofty multidimensional tower, but she was still the weak-willed and naive immortal child Sat-yr-nin had been battling for years; still the little girl who allowed her emotions to direct her actions. She wasn’t a leader; a leader should be powerful, decisive, hard-edged—like the Mastrex. Or Satumyne. Or Merlyn.
Merlyn. What would he think of his daughter these days, if he even still bothered to check on her progress? Roma hadn’t been able to bring herself to order Sat-yr-nin’s execution after her capture by the X-Men, preferring instead to indefinitely place her enemy in suspended animation. Sat-yr-nin knew all too well from her numerous conflicts with father and daughter that Roma had not been raised to be so ... so . . . well, “pathetic” was about the best way to describe her.
She was also inexperienced in the ways of the worlds. Her father had walked the length and breadth of the omniverse, if the legends had any basis in fact, influencing lives, even whole civilizations, o
n a one-to-one basis. Roma, on the other hand, rarely left the protective coccoon of the citadel. She relied on Satumyne far too much to keep her in the know, trusting her to help her reach the right decision in crucial matters.
Sat-yr-nin shook her head in disbelief. Why her counterpart had never tried to overthrow the child was something the Mastrex had never been able to fathom. It couldn’t have anything to do with friendship— it was highly unlikely that the two power brokers were close; Roma was the Supreme Guardian, after all, and Satumyne her subordinate. And when it came to relationships, Sat-yr-nin and her counterpart were very much alike in their beliefs: people were tools, to be used as necessary and quickly discarded before you became attached to them—no more, no less.
So, if not friendship, then there could be only one reason for the Majestrix to postpone staging a coup: She was biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike. Well, Sat-yr-nin thought happily, that decision was no longer up to her double. It was the Mastrex’s to make now, and she wasn’t about to wait all that long to seize the throne.
Of course, there was one obstacle that threatened to stand between her and the chance to realize her dreams of ultimate power: that armored cretin von Doom. She didn’t fear the man and really didn’t consider him much of a threat, no matter how much effort he put into his blustering. He was just another tool—one used to free her from her icy cell and who now provided a suitable distraction for Roma. Sat-yr-nin just had to find the right moment to dispose of him . . .
She came to a halt before the entrance to the throne room. Here, more than at any other location she had passed along her journey, security had been dramatically increased: a baker’s dozen of guards stood rigidly in front of the doors, each man clad in full battle armor. If such a display of force had been deemed necessary because one man was running loose in the citadel, then Sat-yr-nin couldn’t help but be impressed. Maybe von Doom was far more formidable than she’d believed; if so, he still might have his uses after she had taken possession of the throne.
Sat-yr-nin moved up the steps, head held high, mouth set in a firm line, ignoring the guards as they moved aside to allow her passage to the doors.
One guard, though, did not remove himself from her path. He towered over her by at least a foot, and possessed a jaw that seemed large enough to be used as a bludgeon; from the way he carried himself, he could be none other than the Captain of the Guard. Sat-yr-nin liked what she saw—on her world, she wouldn’t have hesitated to consider him a candidate for the position of Royal Konsort. Nevertheless, good looks didn’t count for much if the man lacked the sense to move out of the way of his betters—although any uses she might have for him in the near future certainly wouldn’t require a great deal of intelligence .. .
“Stand aside,” Sat-yr-nin ordered. “I have business with the Guardian.”
Slowly, the man looked down at her. A few wisps of bright red hair drifting out from underneath the golden helmet he wore. “Her Majesty has asked that she not be disturbed.”
Sat-yr-nin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Were they on to her already? “But she just summoned me, no more than ten minutes ago.”
“And now she is not yet ready to receive you.” There was a tone in the man’s voice that sounded almost condescending, as though he actually relished the opportunity to deny her entry to the throne room.
Sat-yr-nin opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Her counterpart, more than likely, would not have argued the point, and doing so might serve to give her away. So, instead of snapping at the captain, she turned up her nose at him and snorted derisively. “Very well, then. I shall wait.”
The soft groan of displeasure that issued from the guards brought a malicious smile to the Mastrex’s lips.
Betsy groaned in disgust as she gazed at the immense structure that stood before her.
She couldn’t help it, though. She’d never seen the Great Wall of China reconstructed in anyone’s head before.
After what had felt like days of traveling through the jungles that grew so wildly in the depths of Worthington’s subconscious, she had at last come to a clearing, and a welcome sight it had been. Although she might only be the psychic representation of a woman sitting on the floor of a Paris apartment, her fist closed around the hilt of the psi-blade that penetrated the forehead of a semi-conscious, alternate version of Warren Worthington III, to Betsy every bug bite, every palm frond that whipped across her face, every toe she stubbed as she tripped over rocks in the darkness felt just as real as they would in the real world. Finding an exit from the dense growth that pressed in around her had been a godsend. She just hadn’t expected to be confronted by a wall that seemed to extend into infinity.
It wasn’t going to stop her, though. She’d followed Warren’s voice this far; a few tons of stone and mortar weren’t about to put an end to her quest—not until she learned the truth. Now all she had to do was screw up her nerve enough to find out what that was . . .
Warren? she called out hesitantly. Are you there?
Betts! he cried out. You made it!
Well, you didn ’t think I was about to give up, did you ? she asked.
Of course not, he replied. But I hadn ’t heard from you in a while, and I’d started to get worried.
It was true she hadn’t spoken to him for some time after their initial contact, but that was because she needed to gather her wits. Discovering that you’ve suddenly made contact with your dead boyfriend’s psyche in the body of his Cosmic Cube-spawned twin was unnerving, to say the least. She didn’t remember Jean Grey or Charles Xavier ever mentioning anything like that happening to them during any of their adventures with the X-Men.
She had also wanted to be certain that this really was Warren she was talking to, and not some manifestation of the other Worthington’s subconscious; it wouldn’t be the first time she’d entered the mind of someone suffering from a Multiple Personality Disorder. From what she could tell, though, this wasn’t the case. Warren—her Warren—was here, somehow, trapped in the mind of his duplicate, and nothing was going to keep her from him. Now she just had to find a way to get past this last barrier . . .
Can you fly over the wall? she asked. After all, you are the one with the wings.
Good plan, hon, but I’ve already tried that. She could almost see him shaking his head, his wavy, golden hair sweeping back and forth across his shoulders. Every time I got close to the top, I’d hear a voice telling me to turn back, and I couldn’t stop myself from obeying it.
Telepathic suggestion, Betsy surmised.
You’re the expert, Warren said. Well. . . one of them, anyway, next to the Professor and Jean, of course.
Of course. Betsy pinched her bottom lip between thumb and forefinger, considering her options. All right. Hang on, luv. I’ll think of something.
For the next minute or so, Betsy paced the ground in front of the wall, trying to come up with a plan. The obstacle couldn’t be walked around because it was too wide, and it couldn’t be climbed, because it was too high and there weren’t enough places on its surface that could be used for handholds. That left her with one choice: She would have to go through it.
And how do you plan on doing that, Braddock? she asked herself. I think you left your high explosives in your other costume.
You wouldn’t be carrying a spoon, would you? Warren suddenly asked. You could use it to tunnel your way to this side. It used to work in all those World War II prison movies.
Betsy winced. One of the dangers of being on the psychic plane was that anyone connected to you psionically could overhear your thoughts if you concentrated too hard. She’d have to be more careful; she didn’t want to run the risk of dashing his hopes for freedom.
Sorry, luv. I usually don’t pack eating utensils in my kit when I’m off adventuring out of my body. But thanks for the suggestion.
With a sigh, Betsy looked once more at the Great Wall—and it suddenly dawned on her what it actually represented.
&n
bsp; From the accounts she had read of the “Morning of Unity,” during the visit she had made with the Professor to the New York Public Library, it had been painfully obvious to a trained telepath like Betsy that Magneto had used the Cosmic Cube to rewire the minds of every man, woman, and child on the planet and impose his will on them. And there had been times during his battles with the X-Men, she rememberfed, when the mutant overlord exhibited limited psionic powers. He’d certainly been able to shake off the effects of her psi-blade without a great deal of difficulty, on the two occasions when she’d managed to get close enough to him to ram it through his thick skull. So, with the aid of the Cube, he had obviously been able to boost his psi-powers, and use them to subjugate the populace.
The wall, then, was the permanent barrier that Magneto had placed around the minds of his subjects to ensure their continued cooperation. It limited their freedom of choice, directed their thoughts in such a way that it had seemed quite logical to make the super-villain Master of the World.
But none of that concerned her for the moment. Right now, the only thing she was focused on was that this particular wall was keeping her from reaching the man she loved. Not for much longer, though, she thought with a smile. Magnus might be all-powerful because he held the Cube, but he was still out of his league when it came to matters of the mind.
And the heart.
Lips set in a firm line, Betsy called forth her psi-blade; the weapon immediately formed around her right hand. Focusing her powers, she refashioned it into a more formidable weapon: a katana. It was hard work—she’d never really tried to do this before—but she knew that only a strong enough tool would work against the psychic barrier enclosing Worthington’s mind. And when she was done, she held a sword that was as fine as any blade she had ever used in the real world.
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