“Then you must also know how to exit this ‘pocket dimension,’ physician,” von Doom said heatedly. “Is that not so?”
Stanton bobbed his head frantically. “The .. . electrical field we . . . passed through . . . registered our bio-data. All you have to ... do is . . . walk in the direction ... of the field—the . . . stronger the . . . tingling gets ... the closer to . . . the doorway . . . you are. It will. . . open . . . automatically . . . when you’re . . . close enough . . .”
The armored despot tightened his grip, cutting short Stanton’s labored response. “What other ‘secrets’ have you been withholding from Doom, you miserable cur?” he growled.
“Not. . . many . . .” Stanton wheezed. “Nothing ... of importance . . .” His eyes were beginning to bulge from their sockets, his face turning a bright shade of crimson. “I... I did say . . . only one ... or . . . two . . . remember . . . ?” The veins in his forehead were pulsing strongly, pushing against the reddened skin as though trying to force their way out. “Do you . . . really think . . . Merlyn . . . would have . . . trusted me . . . with anything ... of value . . . ?”
With a grunt of disgust, von Doom tossed the gasping physician on the floor. He stood impassively as Stanton lay in a heap, massaging his injured throat while doubled over in a fit of coughing that lasted for some time. Finally, the spasm subsided, and Stanton shakily raised himself to his hands and knees.
“Remember this moment well, you pathetic wretch,” the armored tyrant warned, a metal-encased index finger pointed at Stanton. “Each moment you continue to draw breath, every second your heart continues to beat, passes only because Doom wills it. Conceal any further information from me, and that privilege will come to a swift—and brutal— end. Do you understand?”
“Y . . . yes, L-Lord Doom,” Stanton wheezed. He wiped his spittle-covered lips against the right cuff of his lab coat, then used the other to absorb the tears that filled his eyes. “I’ll... let you know ... if any more .. . come to mind . ..”
Von Doom nodded. “A wise decision. Now, take me to the woman.” Stanton pushed himself to his feet, staggered for a step or two, then regained his balance. Still rubbing his throat, he pointed in a direction away from where they stood, although it was difficult to have any sense of direction in this seemingly endless void. “The Guardian is . . . right this way. If you’ll. . . follow me .. .”
As they started on their journey, von Doom looked back, to the point from which he and Stanton had entered. This time, however, he wasn’t trying to locate the entrance; rather, he was pondering what might be happening beyond the boundaries of this pocket dimension— specifically, what actions Sat-yr-nin might take, should she learn of his absence from the throne room. Would she risk discovery, and use her masquerade as Roma’s second-in-command to rally the Captain Britain Corps behind her? Would she stage a coup, destined though it might be to failure? There were too many possibilities to consider, too many variables to take into account, and von Doom cared for none of them— yet was concerned by all of them.
For him, though, there were no other choices. He had to obtain Roma’s power, strip her of her control over the forces of Time and Space. And once that power was his to command, his alliance with Sat-yr-nin—as well as the madwoman herself—would be terminated soon enough.
Pleased with his decision, von Doom quickened his pace, heading deeper into the void.
Toward his destiny.
5
EVER SINCE childhood, Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin had been a great believer in destiny—that she was fated to become a powerful figure,
_ a great leader, possibly even Mastrex of the Empire of True Briton.
And once her mind had been made up, even at such a young age, she was determined that nothing was going to keep her from reaching that goal. Ultimately, nothing could.
Mother and Father would have been so proud to see their baby realize her potential—if their precious little girl hadn’t killed them when she turned eighteen.
She’d developed a taste for death long before then, of course—all murderers have to start someplace, after all—but she’d become tired of the puppies and parakeets, the kittens and gerbils and bunnies and tropical fish and . . . Looking back, she’d never been able to understand why Mother had ignored her disturbing inability to keep a pet for very long. Maybe she had thought it was just a childhood phase, one her daughter would eventually outgrow when something new attracted her attention. Maybe she had been too embarrassed to address the issue, for fear of others learning of her little girl’s macabre hobby—imagine, the eldest child of one of the most well-respected families in the Empire an animal killer! What would their friends in high society say?
Or maybe she had simply been terrified that, if she openly confronted Sat-yr-nin about the matter, her child’s interests might turn from household pets ... to larger prey.
How was she to know that had already happened?
Mother and Father were the first to fall by her hand, but they were certainly not the last—there were all those bothersome siblings to dispense with, for one thing. And then, as she climbed the political ladder, first making use of Father’s government connections, then building her own, the Lady Sat-yr-nin never failed to leave at least one or two rivals literally broken and bleeding on the rungs beneath her. Within five years, she had become one of the most respected—and genuinely feared—politicians in the Empire, her swift ascent through the ranks catching even the eye of the Emperor. Recognizing her talent, he made Sat-yr-nin the head of the Office of Imperial Security, where she would command the Warwomen, an army of Amazonian soldiers dedicated to protecting the boundaries of the Empire against its dwindling number of enemies. It didn’t take long, however, for Sat-yr-nin to become bored with all the death and destruction her troops caused, primarily because she wasn’t able to take an active part in the carnage she created. But if she wasn’t happy enough with her current position—one of the highest in the Empire—then what more could she possibly want?
Well, there was always that childhood dream of becoming empress ...
The coup didn’t take all that long—less than a year, actually. It might have taken longer, if she hadn’t already been provided with the finest warriors in the Empire—warriors who’d been willing to do whatever she commanded, even lay down their lives for her as she directed the final assault on the palace. Seeing all the blood and gore staining the marble halls, the blasted flesh and broken bones scattered around the carpeted chambers, Sat-yr-nin had become so giddy that she couldn’t help herself from joining in on the fun. With a single cut, she separated the Emperor’s head from his shoulders, using the same sword he’d presented her with when assigning her the very position that ultimately led to his downfall.
The Emperor was dead—long live Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin, Mastrex of Briton!
It'was the sort of moment that might have brought a tear to her eyes if she hadn’t been otherwise preoccupied, dancing about the throne room with the Emperor’s head in one hand and her sword in the other, her hysterical laugh echoing throughout the palace.
Thus began a new chapter in the history of the Empire of True Briton.
The Mastrex’s reign, however, would not be without its complications ...
Her troubles began a few years later, with thd arrival of a man named Brian Braddock on her world. On an alternate Earth, he was a costumed superhero named Captain Britain; as it turned out, he was also the spitting image of Byron Bra-dhok, her Royal Konsort. When the two exchanged places—without her knowledge—and Braddock wound up in her bedchamber, Sat-yr-nin soon discovered just how different the two men were: he’d actually led a revolt against her! And as she watched her empire begin to crumble, as she realized that the fates had turned their backs on her for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom, Sat-yr-nin’s mind took the final step into madness.
Much to her surprise, she found the sensation . .. comforting.
But the onset of insanity didn’t make her any less dange
rous; in fact, it made her more so. She became far more cunning, far more ruthless, than she had ever been, her thoughts of empire replaced with an overwhelming obsession to destroy Captain Britain and everyone he held dear. She had come close to succeeding a time or two, but her plans had always fallen apart before she could deliver the killing blow. Eventually, she had tired of such games and returned to her homeworld to rebuild her powerbase. The task was simpler to achieve than she’d first thought, mainly due to the efforts of loyal supporters who’d been appointed to the new government and the ineffectiveness of the interim Mastrex, who hadn’t known how to respond to the sudden reappearance of her predecessor—beyond dying after being shot in the head, that is.
At last, Sat-yr-nin was back in power, and she had quite a few plans for the future of the Empire. Maybe, with all those myriad realities out there in the omniverse, it was time for True Briton to start expanding its boundaries . . .
But then the X-Men had popped up outside the palace, courtesy of Roma, accompanied by row upon row of members of the Captain Britain Corps, and she had found herself right back where she had started from—deposed, debased, and detained. Facing a possible eternity locked away in stasis, while Roma decided on what to do with her. But how the tables had turned once von Doom had freed her! Now, it was the Supreme Guardian who was the prisoner, and Sat-yr-nin the one free—to plot, to plan, to rule ... after her armor-clad ally had been dealt with, of course.
After all, it only made sense that a woman destined to rule an empire should now turn her thoughts to ruling all of creation . ..
Sat-yr-nin strode through the halls of the Starlight Citadel, noting with pleasure the manner in which its citizens either scattered to get out of her way, or hurriedly bowed their heads in respect, muttering worthless compliments about the stylish cut of her shoulder-length white hair, the smartness of her wardrobe choices—a white satin, floor-length gown with matching fur-trimmed cape that trailed behind her; one among dozens of similar outfits hanging in the closets of her dimensional twin, Opal Luna Satumyne—or wishing her a good morrow when temporal measurements of night and day were useless on an edifice floating at the center of Time. Pathetically transparent attempts to stay on her good side—or, to be more accurate, the good side of her smarmy doppel-ganger. Not that either of them truly had a good side, per se—just rare moments when they were willing to tolerate the imbeciles with whom they had to interact. At least they had that much in common.
Well, that, and an overwhelming desire for power.
Of course, no matter how much satisfaction she might derive from all the bowing and scraping and fear-driven scampering going on around her, Sat-yr-nin’s current position , was far from what she considered a powerful one. She was the deposed leader of a world-spanning empire, locked away in a suspension tube to keep her from causing Roma any more trouble, only to be released so she could play at being Omniversal Majestrix and take orders from a tin-suited dictator from another Earth who had the infuriating habit of referring to himself in the third person. If Sat-yr-nin had her druthers, she wouldn’t hesitate to find the nearest available gun and use it to punch very large holes in her ungrateful ally’s armor, and then seat herself upon the throne as the new Supreme Guardian. Unfortunately, there were no energy or projectile weapons at her disposal, due to the citadel’s “state of grace”: an all-encompassing field that rendered such munitions ineffective. True, she might have no trouble in obtaining a sword or battleaxe—at least those would still work in this environment—but they’d more than likely shatter against von Doom’s metal encasement.
Her assessment wasn’t entirely accurate, though, she had to admit upon further reflection. There was one energy weapon that still functioned aboard the citadel and, naturally enough, it was in the possession of von Doom, which was the only reason Sat-yr-nin was willing to put up with his commands. Having seen what sort of lash-up the dictator could assemble with just a soldering iron and a few parts from a mul-tiphasic crystal accelerator, and the effect the beam it emitted had on Roma—slicing off cosmic layers of the Supreme Guardian like so much meat in a butcher shop—she had no desire to wind up being similarly turned inside-out after making an ill-conceived attempt to seize the throne. She might be mad, as so many of her opponents had accused her of being over the years—in their last moments, just before she had them executed—but she certainly wasn’t stupid.
Perhaps what she really needed wasn’t a weapon, but an alliance— with someone, anyone, other than von Doom. Not Stanton, certainly— the man was spineless and lazy, doing just enough to make himself useful to his new master, but no more. He might agree to help her, but once he sensed that von Doom might gain the upper hand—even for a moment—he’d cut her loose and side with the good doctor. And she couldn’t turn to the Captain Britain Corps, not without risking the chance that one or more of the costumed do-gooders might tumble on to her charade. Roma? Satumyne? Not bloody likely. They’d caused her enough strife over the years; she wasn’t about to give them another opportunity, no matter how badly she wanted von Doom out of the way. Besides, any pain they were currently suffering paled in comparison to what she’d had to go through at their hands whenever they felt the need to single her out for punishment. No, it had to be someone she could control, who could be used just as effectively against him as a gun, who—whether willingly or unwillingly—could take the brunt of von Doom’s counterassault, giving her the opportunity to steal behind him and stick a blade through one of the unprotected areas in his armor. Sat-yr-nin’s blue-colored lips grew back in a rictus-like grin as she imagined von Doom’s anguished howls when the point of her dagger slipped through the eyeholes in his mask and punctured the soft corneas that lay just beyond the metal. . .
It took a few moments for her to realize that the sound she heard was coming, not from von Doom’s tortured vocal chords, but from the miniature communications set built into the teardrop-shaped bauble dangling from her right ear. Slowly, her grin settled into a snarl of annoyance. She’d never liked it when someone interrupted her in the middle of a daydream, especially one that made her feel so ... tingly inside.
She came to a halt and tapped the end of the comm set with a sculpted fingernail. “Yes?” she snapped.
“Your Whyness,” came the response from a hesitant male voice. The title was used to acknowledge the real Satumyne’s station as Omniversal Majestrix, a job that required her to maintain order throughout the infinite dimensions. “This is Supervisor Troughton of the Dimensional Development Court. I apologize for disturbing you, but our fourdimensional scanners have detected movement in the vortex.”
Sat-yr-nin frowned. “And why should that be of concern to me? I would imagine there’s always something flitting about between dimensions.”
“Umm . . . yes,” Troughton mumbled. There was a tone in his voice that made it clear to Sat-yr-nin that the flippancy of her response was not one he would have expected from Roma’s lieutenant; she’d have to be careful about that, before she gave herself away. “Yes, that’s very true, Your Whyness, but the temporal signature of the traveler is consistent with that of the recall device we provided for the humans from Earth 616. It appears to have been activated.”
Sat-yr-nin paused. Earth 616—that was von Doom’s world ... and the X-Men’s. And now someone else from that bothersome dimensional plane was coming here, it seemed. It wouldn’t surprise her if it was that dunce Captain Britain, come to spoil von Doom’s party.
“Your Whyness? Are you there?”
“Yes, Supervisor Troughton,” Sat-yr-nin replied drolly, putting just enough of a bored tone in her voice to make him dismiss any thoughts he might have that she wasn’t who she was supposed to be. “Have you any indications of who might be using the recall device?”
“None so far, m’lady,” Troughton said. “But I can say that there are two beings in transit. They should be arriving at the debarkation suite shortly.”
“Good work, Supervisor,” Sat-yr-nin commented. “I
shall meet with them once materialization is complete.”
“Shall I have some officers from the Corps report there as well?” Troughton asked.
Sat-yr-nin bit down on her lower lip before she could say “no.” Bad enough the Corps had been blocked from seeing Roma with reports that she wished to remain undisturbed; denying their presence at the debarkation suite would only further any suspicions they might have that something was wrong with the Guardian. She’d just have to bluff her way through the situation. Not a terribly difficult task when she thought about it, since most members of the Captain Britain Corps had a tendency to think with their fists, not their brains. They probably wouldn’t even notice any differences in the Majestrix’s behavior that might pop up if she momentarily slipped out of character.
“Well, of course you should, Troughton,” she said, with more than a trace of annoyance. “You don’t expect me to stroll into a meeting with unknown sentients without some sort of protection, do you?” “Certainly not, Your Whyness!” Troughton replied quickly. “I shall inform the Corps at once!”
Sat-yr-nin grunted and switched off the comm-set before the man could continue his bothersome chattering. She needed time to think.
Two beings from von Doom’s world, equipped with a recall device fashioned by Satumyne’s technicians: An emergency matter transporter that no doubt came with instructions that it should only be used in the direst of situations. But that would mean the travelers originated from the citadel. If so, to whom would Roma have given such a device?
“The X-Men .. .” Sat-yr-nin whispered. It made sense: They had come to Roma’s aid when she asked them to lead a strikeforce on Sat-yr-nin’s world. But now it appeared there were troubles on their own Earth, and two of them were hurrying back to report to Roma. She couldn’t help but wonder if von Doom was aware of this, then dismissed the thought. He was locked up in the throne room—how could he be aware of anything occurring outside its walls? And if he knew nothing about the travelers—
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