Unfortunately, all the ambition in the universe wasn’t enough to prevent what happened next.
It was during the creation of the cube-shaped container that the trouble began. Not a true, physical box, the container was, instead, formed through a combination of forcefields, the overlapping of their diverse energies calibrated in such a precise manner that there could be no room for error; the slightest miscalculation could result in the “gray” hole’s power spilling out of the cube, contaminating the laboratory with unknown levels of radiation. Such a warning meant nothing to von Doom—he was paying his staff handsomely; they should be honored to sacrifice themselves in his name. Browder, however, cautioned that the danger might be even greater than that—who could say that the radiation wasn’t powerful enough to spread out across the planet? The scientists at A.I.M. might have known, but the original research team had been murdered by their leadq-, shortly after the first Cube had been fashioned—and then the Red Skull had stolen it before anyone could properly monitor it. Perhaps, Browder suggested, they should slow their efforts, make certain that all precautions were taken; given enough time, maybe four to six months, they would be able to create a flawless container, one that would properly—
When the high-pitched whine of von Doom’s gauntlet-mounted laser projectors finally died down, there wasn’t enough of Browder left to sweep up from the laboratory floor.
The rest of the team finished the work ahead of schedule.
On the day von Doom took the Cube in hand, he knew his destiny had arrived: to be lord of the planet. To become Emperor.
To become a god.
And as he listened, the Cube sang to him—of worlds to be shaped, masses to be led, dreams to come true. A wondrous song, full of pomp and grandeur, that told the awe-inspiring story of a Gypsy youth, an orphan, who fought and clawed and struggled against insurmountable odds to become the ruler of a great nation, then moved on to make his mark on the world as a man to be respected, to be admired.
To be feared.
But there was more to the song than the mere recounting of a marvelous life lived. There were promises of infinite power, of empires to be built, of future generations of charismatic leaders who would proudly carry the name of von Doom across the stars.
And all it would take to make them reality was the simplest of wishes.
So von Doom wished—for power, for glory, for a family to share his triumphs. He wanted his ruined face restored to its former beauty; wanted a monarchy where his rule was unchallenged by any of his former allies or enemies; wanted a strong, beautiful woman at his side, one who would bear him children worthy of their father’s name. And in a burst of light, the Cube responded, bringing him everything he desired ...
Well. . . almost everything. When the light faded, Emperor von Doom ruled a world in which his enemies and allies were either dead or loyally serving him. He had two healthy children and a strong, beautiful wife: Ororo Munroe, the white-haired, weather-controlling, African-American member of the mutant hero group the X-Men—a woman he had always found attractive, both in mind and body. But when it came to the tyrant’s vanity-driven wish, something went terribly, horribly wrong.
He had awoken in a body ravaged by age, lungs straining to draw breath, heart beating weakly against the withered, almost translucent skin of his chest. His eyesight had grown dim, and his limbs had barely been able to support his own weight, let alone the three-hundred-pound armor he wore. And yet, his thought processes were as sharp as ever; at least he hadn’t lost control of his faculties. Still, his was the mind of a man in his forties, trapped in the flesh of an octogenarian.
The realization of his predicament had almost driven him mad.
Nevertheless, he persevered—he was von Doom, after all—and eventually he found ways to make peace with his situation: transferring part of his consciousness into the body of an android Doombot so that he could enjoy some measure of this world he had created; using Erik Magnus Lensherr—the villainous mutant Magneto—as a pawn in a global game of hide-and-seek with the Emperor’s armed forces, in order to pass the time; preparing himself for the day he would die, when he would make one last wish with the Cube: to destroy the world before it returned to normal, rather than allow anyone else to rule it.
It was while he was making those plans that he at last figured out what had gone wrong with the Cube: Somehow, one of his scientists had botched the calculations, and that mathematical error had caused a breakdown in the cube-construct’s integrity. The Cube had worked, true, but it was flawed—damaged enough to give him a world of his choosing, only to seal him inside a dying body with no means of escape.
Von Doom, of course, overlooked the fact that it was he who had provided the final round of computations before the Cube was activated, not trusting such an important task to a roomful of lackeys—even though all were world-renowned experts in their field. To anyone who knew his background, it would have appeared to be a case of history repeating itself, for the last time he had ignored someone’s advice about mathematical errors had been decades before, while he was attending an American college. Back then, he had been experimenting with matter transmutation and dimensional warps, in an attempt to contact his late mother’s spirit in the afterlife. Despite the warnings given by fellow student Reed Richards, von Doom proceeded with his work, only to cause an explosion that wrecked a sizeable portion of the dormitory— and permanently scarred his face. One would have thought, perhaps, that he might have learned from his costly mistake . . . but Victor von Doom never made mistakes ...
And so, although the errors were different, the results were fairly the same: von Doom received the brunt of the backlash.
Worse still, as the newly-appointed Emperor came to deduce, the reason why his body was failing could be traced directly to the Cube: It was drawing upon his life-force in order to stabilize the faux reality. At the rate at which he was deteriorating, he estimated that he had no more than a month to live, unless he could find someone to take his place—someone willing to sacrifice their own life in exchange for maintaining von Doom’s world. He thought he had found such a prospect in Elisabeth Braddock, who had been pining away for her lost love after his brutal death, but her fellow mutant miscreants had interceded before they could come to an agreement.
And then that imbecile Magneto and his mindless followers had barged in, quickly overpowering the X-Men so that there would be no one to stop the mutant overlord from claiming the Cube for himself.
A low, feral growl spilled from the armored dictator’s lips as the unpleasant memory filled his dark thoughts. To think that a genetic inferior would dare to touch the royal personage of Doom—to have the temerity to strike him down with the back of his hand, as though he were some disobedient child! But, at the time, von Doom could do nothing more than moan in pain and collapse bonelessly to the floor, too weak to prevent Magneto from wrapping his hands around the Emperor’s prize possession—and ordering it to recreate the world in his image.
Yet, despite his loss, von Doom was not defeated; not while he had other options available to him. True, having his teleportation beam intercepted by Roma and her minions had not been part of his plans, but he had always been able to make the best of any situation—especially when the alien technology of the Starlight Citadel at last freed him from his elderly prison. Much to his surprise, it turned out that the Cube had not really aged him; rather, it had apparently placed his consciousness, and his soul, in the body of another Doctor Doom: the true dictator of an already existing world that von Doom thought he had fashioned with his wish box. A replicant who told him all he knew of the citadel and its god-like mistress, encouraging his younger self to make use of the information before they were both imprisoned.
Von Doom rewarded the old man by making his death a swift— though not altogether painless—one.
And then, by making use of a self-aggrandizing physician named Stanton—a pathetic little man with an axe to grind against the Supreme Guardian—vo
n Doom was able to escape the medical ward and secure an ally: the dictator Sat-yr-nin, who was being held in stasis until Roma had passed sentence on her for numerous crimes perpetrated against the citizens of an alternate Earth. By capturing Sat-yr-nin’s alternate—an annoyingly haughty young woman who acted as Roma’s second-in-command—and placing her in the stasis chamber, no one, not even the Guardian, was aware that the coolly efficient Satumyne had been replaced by an equally coldhearted madwoman.
It was that last bit of subterfuge that ultimately led to Roma’s downfall, and von Doom’s rise to power, for Sat-yr-nin had been able to get close enough to the Guardian to attack her. Apparently unused to physical combat, Roma had been distracted long enough by the unexpected assault to fall prey to the armored tyrant’s improvised weapon: a variation on the same multiphasic crystal accelerator that had been used to separate him from the wizened Doctor Doom. In this case, though, the device was used for a far more sinister purpose, stripping layer after layer from the Supreme Guardian, weakening her as a number of alternate versions of herself were peeled away by the scalding radiation. Apparently, Roma derived her considerable power from being a collective of sorts, her physical form housing every variation of herself that was possible, from an infinitude of parallel dimensions, all combined to create a single celestial being.
Roma was, truly, the sum of her parts, as von Doom had wryly commented, watching with some degree of amusement as she and her “sisters” writhed in intolerable pain at his feet. But now, with some of her parts amputated, if she wished to avoid further “surgery,” then she would have to prove her usefulness to the self-appointed Master of the Omniverse—or join his elder self in oblivion . ..
Von Doom rose to his feet and stepped down from the apse on which the throne stood. The time for introspection had passed—now was the moment to take action. Although he might be confined to the throne room until he was prepared to face his enemies, that didn’t mean there weren’t matters that needed his attention.
Like learning all the secrets of the Starlight Citadel and its mistress.
Striding purposefully, he began walking across the transept, pausing only long enough to glance at a platform, and the pulpit-like stand upon it. Protruding from the latter were an infinite number of crystal shards; from what his elder counterpart had told him, during the brief time their minds had been linked while they shared the same body, each six-inch-wide shard contained the life-force of an entire dimension. How, exactly, the older von Doom had known this was something he would never understand—perhaps if he hadn’t acted so rashly by brutally ending his life before he could impart all his knowledge . . .
But, no. Victor von Doom needed no one’s help; in time, he was certain, he would come to learn everything the old man had—and take full advantage of the information. He had already come to understand the reasons for Roma’s concern about the effects of his Cosmic Cube on the omniverse simply by accessing the citadel’s computers... although that had been accomplished with Stanton’s aid, now that he remembered it. Still, he would have eventually located the terminal on his own, disguised though it was as a series of stained-glass tableaus along one wall, the half-dozen panels depicting some of the accomplishments of Roma’s father, Merlyn, over the centuries. And he would find a way to walk the corridors of this magnificent stronghold unmolested . . . even though he had to rely on Sat-yr-nin’s intelligence reports for the time being, since no one had yet realized her true identity; it gave her a degree of freedom to roam the citadel temporarily denied her ally.
Turning from the crystal-lined pulpit, von Doom walked around and behind the apse, to enter a small, semi-circular corridor hidden within the shadows behind the throne. At the center of the passageway was an elegantly-carved oaken door; he pushed it open and stepped into a large chamber—what would, he imagined, be considered Roma’s private quarters. Like the throne room, her chambers were of a gothic design, with sweeping stone arches and dark-toned wood paneling and the somber lighting of hundreds of candles. The air was tinged with the perfume of jasmine and incense, the tiled floor adorned with colorful Persian rugs and oversized cushions. A large, four-poster bed—its framework hung with silken draperies of such varying hues that the cloth appeared to continually change colors as he stared at it—stood at the far end, its blankets and top sheet turned down in anticipation of its mistress’ use, though von Doom doubted a celestial being would truly have need for rest. And, all about the room, ten-foot-high tapestries and elaborate woodcuts half that size hung from thick chains on the walls. Von Doom noted with some surprise that Roma’s likeness appeared in most of the artworks—he had not thought the woman vain enough to collect images of herself. But then, all women were driven by vanity, he considered; unlike Doom, they were unable to rise above pursuing such trivial obsessions as immortalizing their beauty.
Unconsciously, he touched a hand to his mask—and the scarred features hidden behind the cool metal.
He found two men waiting for him, both seated near the door in large, white, egg-shaped chairs that were completely at odds with the rest of the chamber’s furnishings; a personal touch of decorating by the Supreme Guardian, no doubt. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with bright-red hair tied in a ponytail, dressed in ceremonial garb: golden armor, sky-blue tunic, and a white, ankle-length cape; a sword hung loosely from the wide, golden belt that held his tunic in place. The other man was only a few inches shorter than his companion, but seemed like a child in height by comparison. He was also much thinner, and possessed far less hair. His attire consisted of green surgical scrubs, a white laboratory coat, and a pair of wingtip shoes.
The former was Alecto, the top officer of Roma’s handpicked personal bodyguards, whose primary occupation was ensuring that no one bothered the Supreme Guardian unless she wished to see them—a job von Doom had now made obsolete. The latter was Dr. Henry P. Stanton, one of the many physicians stationed on the citadel, now von Doom’s highly-strung lackey. There was a nervous look in Stanton’s eyes, but the armored tyrant ignored it—there always seemed to be a nervous look in the man’s eyes. Alecto, on the other hand, merely stared blankly at his new master—the result of a small mind-control device implanted on the back of his neck, one von Doom had easily fashioned from his battlesuit’s spare parts. The other members of Roma’s elite guard wore similar mechanisms, and had been ordered back to their posts at the entrance to the throne room so that he could remain undisturbed by the citadel’s other residents.
“How fares your patient, physician?” von Doom asked.
Stanton rose quickly. “I was just waiting for you to arrive, Mr.—” He froze, recognizing the fire that suddenly blazed in the dictator’s eyes. “Lord. Lord Doom,” he quickly recovered. “I. . . apologize for the error.” The fire burned low behind the mask, but did not go out. “I—I thought you’d rather see for yourself.”
Von Doom nodded, pleased by his lackey’s groveling. He allowed Stanton to lead him a side door that, on first glance, appeared to be for a closet. The physician opened the portal and quickly stepped aside, so that his master could enter first. As the dictator crossed the threshold, he felt a mild tingling, even through his armor, that forced his lips to curl. Before he could question what was happening, or, better yet, wring the neck of the doctor for leading him into a trap, he was suddenly through the electrical field, coming to a halt in a void of the brightest white.
It took a moment or two for his senses to stabilize, for his eyes to regain their focus so that he could see that he was standing in another room, whose depths were impossible to discern as floor, walls, and ceiling all blended into a continuous field; the color of the room and the even lighting—which seemed to come from all around—made it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. It had to be a room, hadn’t it? he thought. What else could it be?
“What is this place?” he asked slowly.
Stanton suddenly appeared beside him, his stem features twisted into a grimace; apparently, he
disliked the electrical field as much as his master. “This is Merlyn’s personal chamber—although it hasn’t been used since his last departure for parts unknown,” he replied, and sniffed. “Not much of a taste for decorating, wouldn’t you agree? But then, he preferred spending his time wandering the omniverse—he never really stayed here for very long.” He motioned back the way they had come, though von Doom couldn’t find any indication of a door; the wall was as smooth as the others. “From what I understand—and I’m no physicist, mind you—this is a pocket dimension of some kind, where he could test out some of his more ... hazardous experiments without accidentally blowing up a few hundred realities.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps you should try that next time.”
Von Doom ignored the comment and eyed him warily. “And how do you know of this place?”
Stanton sneered. “Before Roma sweet-talked her father into hiring that annoying little Scot as the citadel’s Chief Physician,” he said, in reference to the man who had been his superior in the Medical Wing, “Merlyn had offered the position to me. The two of us got along quite well, and he let me in on one or two of his secrets. Obviously, he understood my—”
A gauntleted hand suddenly snapped out, grasping Stanton by the throat. As he struggled to breathe, fingers slipping helplessly along the polished metal in a futile attempt to free himself, von Doom pulled him close, until the doctor’s face was pressed against his mask.
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