The Skull had always considered Himmler something of a madman, attaching religious significance to the most basic troop movements, sending out memoranda listing holidays to be celebrated under the new religion. But Hitler had tolerated his Reichsfiihrer’s eccentricities, even supported them, so the Skull remained silent and concentrated on more important matters.
Sixty years later, however, the Skull had to admit there might have been something to Himmler’s ramblings. He could feel the power of this place—it rippled through his muscles, tingled along his bones like a mild electrical current; what caused it, he could not say. Perhaps the self-imposed high priest of the Thule Society had recognized it, too, in those prosperous years before the Reich fell. Perhaps ...
Perhaps nothing. Himmler was dead and buried, as were his religion and his Ftihrer. Their dreams for a global empire, for an end to all religions but one? Dissolved like so much discarded cotton candy in a rainstorm.
Now there was only the Red Skull, and his own plans for the world.
He glanced at his aide. In his late thirties, head and face shaved clean to indicate his unquestioning loyalty to his death-masked master, Dietrich had, for a time, served as the Skull’s right-hand man, always at his side, always ready to defend him from his greatest enemies—and his closest allies. Standing smartly at attention, his dark gray uniform crackling with a heavy application of starch, its buttons and decorations gleaming brightly in the morning sunlight, Dietrich had always been everything the Skull expected in a Nazi: devoted, determined, willing to sacrifice everything to help the Reich rise again. Had it not been for his untimely demise at the hands of Nick Fury, the one-eyed, gravelly-voiced leader of the law enforcement agency S.H.I.E.L.D.—an acronym for Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage, and Logistics Directive— Dietrich would have continued to serve his master’s interests, and the Skull would not have had to look elsewhere for followers.
But Dietrich had died, and the Skull had sought followers. He found them among the sullen, self-absorbed youth that seemed to be everywhere these days—so-called “loners” who kept to themselves, relying on computer chatrooms and Internet web sites for companionship rather than the teenaged classmates who scoffed at them, shunned them, berated them because they were “different.” Youths obsessed with death, with hatred, and, in many cases, with the vision of a charismatic German leader long dead before they had even been conceived—a vision that gave them direction, and purpose, and a way to empower themselves, and encouragement to strike out at anyone they perceived as an enemy. At anyone who had ever laughed at them. At anyone who had ever treated them as a nonentity.
And deep within the mind of the Red Skull, just behind the flames that burned so hotly within the eyes of one of mankind’s greatest enemies, Johann Schmidt knew that he had found others of his kind.
Here was clay to be molded, clay to be fired in the kilns of a revived National Socialist movement, clay upon which a foundation could be built—the foundation of a new Reich. All it needed was an artisan to give form to it—a gifted sculptor who could transform these disaffected young men and women into warriors dedicated to his cause.
Was the Red Skull that skillful? True, he might be a patron of the arts—he had learned to appreciate them during his sessions with his beloved Fiihrer, who was a failed painter himself. And he was an aficionado of classical music—although somewhere along the way he had developed an unhealthy obsession with Chopin’s “Funeral March.” But an artisan who could shape young minds and inspire them to create the “perfect” world he and his former master had once envisioned?
Of course. There was none better for the task... at least in his opinion.
The goal he set for himself had not been an easily attainable one, but he knew from the outset that it would take time to achieve it. The first step had been the development of a web site that would appeal to today’s youthful outcasts; this was accomplished through the use of skilled twentysomething technicians who were part of the Skull’s worldwide network of neo-Nazi and other White Supremacist organizations— the source of his seemingly-limitless supply of muscle during his many attempts to take control of the planet, though that supply had begun to thin out over the past few years. There had been some setbacks along the way—most recently involving encounters with his arch-nemesis, Captain America, and the group of mutant super heroes called the X-Men—but the Skull never lost track of the progress of his plan, never allowed those he left in charge during his absences to deviate from it.
And when he finally revealed his part in this drama, when he at last stepped from the shadows to welcome these wayward children into the movement, he felt like a proud parent—or what he imagined a proud parent felt like, considering he had only brought one child into the world, and a daughter at that. Of course, there had been some dissension among his initiates when they realized who their leader was—it was to be expected, given the headstrong nature of children and their resistance to authority figures—but those who objected were never seen again. The world is full of missing teenaged runaways, after all. . .
As for those who remained—the ones dedicated to the vision of a world under his rule, who would sacrifice all, destroy all, to make it a reality—they and a handpicked group of the Skull’s most devoted followers retreated to a base their “Controller” maintained on the far side of the Moon. There the Red Skull sat and waited, biding his time until the proper moment presented itself for him to strike at his enemies; considering the growing racial tensions in America and Europe, the escalation of hostilities in the Middle East, and the schism among United Nations member countries over granting the Jewish mutant Magneto— the self-proclaimed “Master of Magnetism”—control of the mutant-ridden island of Genosha, he didn’t expect to wait too long for a sign.
He was still waiting, just beginning to lose his patience, when a powerful flare of the purest energy exploded from the vicinity of Latveria, the postage stamp-sized, Eastern European country ruled by Victor von Doom—an armored dictator better known to the people of the world by a far more ominous name: Doctor Doom. As the Skull watched, the image transmitted to his base from a number of satellites orbiting the Earth, the energy rapidly spread out from the epicenter to envelop the globe. And when it finally subsided, a new world had been bom—one in which von Doom had become its master.
The Skull knew instantly what had happened, for only one device could have been capable of transforming the Earth into von Doom’s private playground within seconds; a device that he, himself, had held on a number of occasions. It was a wish box of limitless energy, a scientific Philosopher’s Stone that gave its possessor the ability to transmute, not just base elements, but reality itself—to change the entire planet, as well as its population, into whatever—whomever—they desired.
An object called the Cosmic Cube.
The Skull knew all about the Cube, for he had been the first to tap into its power; the first to know what it meant to be a god, holding the power of Creation in his gauntleted hands . . .
It had been an accident of birth, this cosmic genie fashioned by the renegade scientists of A.I.M., the result of the organization’s attempts to pierce the fabric of space-time in an ongoing pursuit to devise a weapon that would finally allow them to rule the world. After much trial and error, they had succeeded in forming a meta-singularity—a “gray hole,” in layman’s terms—that produced an element never before known on Earth. Through the use of overlapping forcefields, the rogue scientists trapped the element in the perfect form of a cube and began to run a seemingly inexhaustible series of tests, hoping to uncover the nature of what they had discovered.
They never were able to reach a satisfying conclusion, for their tests were interrupted when the Cube was . .. acquired by the Skull, with whom A.I.M had made a decidedly unwise alliance. But the Skull’s dreams of a star-spanning Fourth Reich were quickly shattered by the intervention of Captain America, who tricked the death-masked war criminal into relinquishing possession of the C
ube.
There were other Cubes, though, over the years, other opportunities for the Skull to mold the world to his liking. And he took advantage of each of them. But it always ended in frustration, his dreams perhaps too large for the Cube’s abilities, his enemies too quick in taking advantage of a lapse he might have made in concentration.
After all, not even “God” is perfect.
But when he saw what von Doom had created in fashioning a Cube of his own, when he looked down upon the world from his safehouse on the dark side of the Moon and realized how limited his armored rival’s scope of vision had been—why rule just one planet when you could make the entire universe your own?—he knew this Cube, too, must be his.
However, before he could formulate a plan for obtaining it, the Cube changed hands, falling under the control of one of von Doom’s greatest enemies: Erik Magnus Lensherr—the mutant overlord known as Magneto. That, more than anything von Doom had done during his short reign as emperor, angered the Skull the most, sending him into such fits of rage that his followers feared for their very lives. To think that a ... a Jew should possess such power! And what did he do with it? Squander it on wasteful fantasies of a peaceful, beauty-enriched world!
It was an action that the Skull had to admit even puzzled him, given the records he had gathered detailing Magneto’s background. As a youth, Lensherr had been an inmate of Poland’s Auschwitz concentration camp during World War II; had watched as his parents were marched off to the gas chambers; had seen the worst humanity had to offer—or so he thought. And yet, in spite of the daily horrors he faced, he managed to survive long enough to reach that day in 1944 when Allied forces liberated the camp. After that, the accounts of Lensherr’s activities were spotty, until, decades later, the gaudily costumed villain Magneto made his first public appearance, espousing his philosophy that mutantkind should become the dominant species on the planet, and that humanity should be harshly punished for decades of alleged mistreatments—a philosophy that quickly rallied other mutates to his cause. With such a background, with such a passionate hatred expressed toward all Homo sapiens, the Skull had expected Lensherr to create a veritable hell on Earth for the non-powered population, using the Cube’s energies to form internment camps, slave auction houses, possibly even extermination centers.
Instead, he created a veritable paradise in which humans and others of Lensherr’s kind—the genus he had dubbed Homo sapiens superior— lived in harmony .. . under his benevolent rule.
It had turned the Skull’s stomach.
The taint of Magneto’s dream had even pervaded the Skull’s stronghold, as the Cube’s energies swept outward from the Earth, adapting his once-loyal staff to fit this new reality. It was only by releasing a deadly gas through the air-processing units of the base that the Skull was able to keep the men and women who had served under him from betraying his presence to their new master. Only one lackey survived the purge: a blond-haired youth named Leonard, who served as the Skull’s personal aide. He had been safe inside “The Controller’s” office, avoiding death behind foot-thick walls and sealed entrances, while his peers collapsed at their stations, lungs boiling, drowning in their own blood. Leonard’s continued existence had not been part of the Skull’s plan, but he wasn’t about to open the door to throw the youth out, only to subject himself to the poisoned air.
Besides, there was no point—no real pleasure—in gloating about one’s genius in having a plan in place for an emergency such as this if there was no one around to agree with him.
As for why the Cube had had no effect on him or his assistant, the Skull attributed that to his contact with, and mastery of, previous Cubes—in particular, his most recent encounter with one, in which he had absorbed the wish box’s energies and used them to change the world ... momentarily. Again, as always, it was Captain America who found a way to defeat him, in spite of the near-godlike status the Skull had attained. Nevertheless, though he had lost in the end, the grotesque villain managed to retain some of the Cube’s power—not enough to rule, or even to alter reality, but enough to prevent him and his aide from becoming wall-eyed followers of Magneto’s.
Soon after, he and Leonard teleported to Earth to seek out the Cube. They found it in Paris, in Lensherr’s private apartments. Claiming the prize hadn’t taken too much effort: merely stabbing Lensherr with an obsidian blade with a plastic handle—a weapon designed to prevent the mutant overlord from using his magnetically-derived powers to destroy it—and then beating to a pulp some bald-headed imbecile who tried to come to Lensherr’s aid. With one enemy unconscious and the other bleeding to death, there had been no one to stop the Skull from seizing the Cube-—and making some much-needed changes to the world . . .
Dietrich softly cleared his throat to get his master’s attention. The Skull started, then shook his head to clear his thoughts. Letting his mind wander was a bad habit, one he’d never been able to break despite his best efforts; had he still any enemies, they might have seen such woolgathering as a sign of weakness. Slowly, he turned around to face his aide. “I imagine you are here for a reason . . .”
“Your knights have gathered in the North Tower,” Dietrich replied, “and—”
“And you have come to tell me they are eager for my participation.” The Skull glanced at him from the comer of his eye. “I am a poor host, am I not, Dietrich—to make my guests wait until I am ready to make an appearance?”
The blood drained from Dietrich’s face as he fumbled for an answer that would not sound insulting to his master. Say the wrong thing, and he would bear the scars of the Skull’s volatile response for the rest of his days—were he allowed to live that long. Eyes wide with fear, lower lip trembling, he had the appearance of a doomed soul waiting to be cast into the pits, knowing he had been judged by an angry god—and found wanting.
The Skull knew that look well—practically the entire global population wore it on a daily basis; a look of horror shared by every inhabitant on every world his star-sweeping armies had conquered. Knowing that he had served as its inspiration brought him a feeling of . . . elation.
The comers of the Skull’s lipless mouth curled upward in a hideous fashion—the closest approximation of a smile he could manage, given the fact that, years ago, an accidental exposure to a chemical agent had turned his features into a ftesh-and-blood replica of the mask he had worn for decades. He reached out to place a hand on his assistant’s shoulder—and chuckled as the man drew back.
“Calm your fears, Dietrich,” he said. “It was a rhetorical question; I expected no answer.” His eyes narrowed. “Still, the next time a question is put to you, I expect an answer—immediately.”
“Y-yes, Herr Skull,” Dietrich stammered.
The Skull nodded, then brushed past his aide and started down a carpeted hallway. “Inform the knights and my advisors that we will convene in ten minutes’ time,” he called back. “The empire continues to grow with each day, and I must know that it runs efficiently. For without order, there can be only chaos—but only if the Red Skull commands it!”
“I shall notify them at once, Herr Skull!” Dietrich replied, but his master had already rounded a comer.
As he strode through the hallways, boot heels ringing sharply against the marble tiles, a satisfied grin contorted the Skull’s grotesque features. Here, at last, was the world he had always envisioned. One of order and fear, of unquestioned discipline and swift punishment, of immeasurable power and one man’s iron will.
A perfect world. But not a perfect universe.
Not yet.
But with the Cosmic Cube his to control, with his armies sweeping across the stars like armored locust, the Red Skull was certain it soon would be. If not, he reflected darkly, he could always wipe it from existence and start over.
3
F THERE ever came a time when someone invented a way to wipe ; all dirt from existence so she could maintain a sparkling clean
_household, Jean Sommers would be the first on line a
t the store to
purchase it.
Dirt, grime, dust bunnies—there were days when she felt she’d been waging guerilla warfare with the filth invading her home, battling it from room to room, winning the bathroom but losing the kitchen, seizing the kitchen only to lose possession of the master bedroom. It was maddening and frustrating and repetitive and ... well... so damnably boring. But it wasn’t a sentiment she could express to anyone—not her parents, not her friends, and especially not her husband. As a highly decorated commanding officer in the Reich’s space force, Scott Sommers was the poster boy for obedient National Socialists, ready, willing, and able to give his all in the name of their glorious leader, the Emperor Schmidt. His face was plastered on recruitment banners from Times Square to Moscow to Mars Station. His exploits were reported on news broadcasts. For the wife of one of the Party’s most respected and admired warriors to whine to friends or family about the dullness of her life—true though it might be—would have been considered scandalous—and an embarrassment.
Still, it wouldn’t kill Scott to pay for a maid. He certainly made enough money as a commissioned officer ...
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