She stepped back from the camera, as though she’d been slapped. “I. . . I. . .” she stammered. Then her eyes narrowed, suddenly filled with a fire he’d never seen before, and she leaned forward again. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” she demanded.
Now it was Sommers’ turn to recoil. His mouth hung open, midway to giving a response, yet unable to believe what had just happened. Had she really said what he thought he’d heard? Was she actually talking back to him?
His lips pulled back in a snarl. “What did you just—”
“If all you’re going to do is sit there and chastise me for not picking up the call on the first ring, Scott,” Jean interjected, “then don’t bother. I have things to do today, and I’m already running late.” She paused, obviously waiting for an answer, but he was still trying to figure out exactly when she might have developed a backbone. Then: “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes,” he replied, using his anger to focus on the situation before it completely slipped from his control. “I’m on my way home. We should be making planetfall by tomorrow evening.”
Her turn to look surprised again. “Tomorrow?”
He nodded, pleased by the look of fear that momentarily flashed in her eyes. “And when I get there, I think you and I should sit down and discuss this new attitude you’re suddenly displaying towards your husband—and what you’re doing that is so important you’re running out of the apartment this early in the morning.”
Jean’s mouth worked silently for a few moments, then she swallowed. Loudly. “I. . . look forward to it,” she said quietly.
“As do I,” he said the coolly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.” He reached out to touch the screen, ran an index finger down it, as though stroking her cheek. “Count the moments until then, my love. I’ll be with you before too long.”
He stabbed the disconnect button before she could reply, then sat back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, fingers steepled in front of his face. He stared at the blank screen for a number of seconds, then punched another number on the keypad.
Almost immediately, an image formed of a wizened, white-haired frau in her seventies or eighties, the angle of her sunken cheeks almost as severe as the hawk-like nose down which she stared at him. She wore a dark-colored shawl, one that almost gave the appearance that her head was disconnected from her body, so well did the material blend in with the black velvet curtains that hung behind her. She gently stroked the back of a large black cat that lay across her lap.
“You have reached the League of German Women,” she said, with just a trace of the dramatic in her intonation. “I am Frau Harkness. How may I be of—” Her dark eyes, hidden within the depths of swollen eyelids, suddenly opened wide; obviously, she recognized the caller. She smiled. “Reichsmajor Sommers! To what do I owe this pleasure?” Sommers frowned. “I wish I could consider this a pleasure, Frau Harkness, but I’m calling on a matter of some urgency.”
She nodded sagely, as though already aware of his problem. “Your wife,” she said.
An eyebrow rose behind ruby quartz lenses. How could the woman know that? He shook his head slightly, dismissing the flash of suspicion that ran through his mind. It didn’t take a scientist to figure out how that could be—he was contacting the League of German Women; who else would he be calling about, if not his wife?
“She’s acting strangely ...” he began.
Again, a nod. “You desire to know why that is.” She smiled frostily, and scratched the cat behind its ears; the creature purred happily. “Fear not, brave Major—the full services of the League are at your disposal. We shall find the answers you seek—with or without your lovely wife’s permission . . .”
“Damn it!” Jean Grey barked, staring at the blank screen. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper like that, but she wouldn’t have taken that kind of garbage from her Scott Summers, even before the Cosmic Cube turned the world upside-down. She certainly wasn’t going to accept it from some fascist counterpart intent on putting her in her place.
Unfortunately, she probably just gave herself away with that display of anger, she quickly came to realize. The Jean Sommers of this world would never have acted in such a defiant manner, especially with her husband.
She sighed. It had all seemed simple enough, when the woman codenamed Phoenix had formulated her plan hours ago: Convince her alternate to allow her control of this body, then set out to locate the remaining X-Men who had accompanied her to von Doom’s world: Rogue, Nightcrawler, Wolverine—and Scott. Unfortunately, the sixth member of the team, a Cajun thief named Remy Lebeau—Gambit— had died during that mission, sacrificing himself so his teammates would be able to escape the facility in which the armored dictator’s flunkies had imprisoned them. The loss had been especially hard on Rogue— she and Remy had been as close as lovers. There would be time for mourning his tragic death later—if the world, and the universe, had any time left, she thought glumly. And there was still a team to reassemble.
Of course, getting to the point where Jean Sommers would even listen to her hadn’t been the easiest task to accomplish. Not long ago, Phoenix had been trapped in the subconscious of yet another version of herself: a Jean Grey fanatically devoted to following the X-Men’s old enemy, Magneto, as he used the Cosmic Cube to reshape the world into one in which humanity and mutantkind lived in harmony—under his rule, that is. Phoenix had found herself locked away in the deepest levels of Grey’s psyche, unable to break through the many barriers that stood between the two telepaths. She had made a number of efforts to contact her alternate’s conscious mind, but hadn’t been able to accomplish anything more than giving her a slight headache.
That situation changed, however, when the Cube apparently switched hands yet again, this time winding up in the possession of the Red Skull, as she had been able to gather from the thoughts of this latest surrogate. Gone was Phoenix’s villainous counterpart, replaced by a kinder, gentler Jean Sommers—one lacking telepathic abilities, or psychic defenses to overcome.
It hadn't taken too much effort to get Jean to accept the idea—after easing her fears that seeing a costumed woman in her mirror wasn’t a sure sign of oncoming insanity, of course—but the last thing Phoenix expected was for Nazi-Scott (she couldn’t really think of him as anything else; he certainly didn’t act like her husband!) to call out of the blue, then snap at her for not answering fast enough. He should have been pleased that she took the call in the first place; if it wasn’t for the other Jean guiding her along, she never would have found the blasted communications set hidden in the bureau. But then, when he called her an “imbecile,” yelled at her in a way meant to intimidate the woman he thought was his wife . . .
The nerve of that pig! If she didn’t know better, she never would have imagined the “real” Scott Summers could be trapped somewhere in the depths of that bully’s subconscious. But having experienced it first-hand on two occasions herself, it wasn’t so hard to believe—just frustrating.
Jean angrily snatched a purse from a table in the foyer and stomped her way to the door, throwing on a short black jacket as she went. She unlocked the door and pulled it open—to find a stem-looking young woman standing in the hallway, one hand raised as though she had been about to knock. She was in her mid-twenties, give or take a year or two, but the frown that twisted her features and the crow’s feet that creased the comers of her eyes—apparently she spent a great deal of time glowering at people, Jean imagined—made her look ten years older. Her light-brown hair was cut in a pageboy style, bangs framing the tops of pencilled eyebrows, ends just brushing her shoulders. The severe cut of her black suit—tight jacket with wide lapels, equally tight, knee-length skirt—made it clear she wasn’t here to sell her some appliance.
“Frau Sommers?” the woman asked.
“Yes . .. ?” Jean replied slowly.
She reached into a black leather handbag, withdrew an identification badge. She held it up so Jean coul
d read it. “I am Fraulein Jennifer Walters, of the League of German Women.”
Jean smiled, trying to act polite. “What can I do for you, Fraulein Walters?” she asked pleasantly. But a quick psi-scan of the woman’s mind told her all she needed to know: Scott had reported her to the League. The realization took Jean by surprise—just how quickly did the secret police move on this world? She’d only spoken to him no more than five minutes ago!
Walters also smiled, but it looked as though it was taking a great deal of effort to force her facial muscles to curve upwards. “Your presence has been requested at League Headquarters,” she said. “Frau Hark-ness herself would like to speak with you.”
Jean nodded, willing to play along—at least for a few moments. “In regard to ... ?”
The smile faltered a little—obviously, the muscles weren’t used to maintaining the fagade for too long. “She thought that, although your husband is often lauded by the Reich for his accomplishments, perhaps his significant other should also be recognized for her own work. After all, ‘behind every good man there is an equally good woman’—don’t you think so?” She nodded, either pleased with her logic or just used to agreeing with herself. “Frau Harkness was contemplating a dinner in your honor, and wished to discuss the details.”
Jean shook her head, beginning to lose her patience, but careful not to have another caustic outburst. “Perhaps on another occasion. But right now, I really must be going, Fraulein Walters.” She moved to step around her unwanted visitor. “Please give my thanks, though, to Frau Harkness.”
The woman would not be denied, though, placing herself directly in Jean’s path again. “You can give them to her yourself, Frau Sommers,” Walters snapped, the smile having at last collapsed under its own weight. “If I haven’t made myself clear, let me do so now: You will accompany me to League Headquarters.”
“For what reason?” Jean demanded.
“Your husband has expressed some . . . concern about your recent behavior.” Walters reached into her purse, coming up with a small handgun clenched tightly in her fist. “This is not a request.”
Jean glared at her, and snarled. “I don’t have time for this.” Her eyes glowed with a bright-green light. “And I especially don’t like it when people point guns at me.”
Walters took a step back, her usually dour expression suddenly replaced by one of fear. “What—” she began.
And then she collapsed at Jean’s feet. The gun slipped from her hand and bounced into the apartment, landing with a clatter on the hardwood floor of the foyer.
Jean glanced up and down the hallway; thankfully, there was no one around to witness her telepathic display. Having to shut down any other minds would have just complicated matters—one was more than enough. .
Making use of her telekinetic abilities, Jean scooped up Walters from the floor and levitated her into the apartment, placing her gently on the living room couch. The gun and handbag went into a foyer closet, next to a pair of yellow galoshes her faux-husband hadn’t worn in years.
With a final glance at her unconscious guest, Jean closed the apartment door and headed for the fire stairs—her previous sweep of Walters’ mind had revealed the presence of three other League agents in the lobby, all lurking near the elevators. As she hurried down the steps, heading for the delivery entrance on the other side of the building, Jean reached into her handbag and pulled out a page she’d printed out using Sommers’ computer. It was from an online edition of a Westchester County phonebook she’d accessed when she began the search for her teammates. The familiar listing made her heart beat a little faster:
XAVIER, CHARLES 15 GRAYMALKIN DRIVE SALEM CENTER, N.Y.
I hope you ’11 be happy to see a familiar face, Professor, Jean thought. Otherwise, considering Scott’s suspicions and the group of overzealous femiNazis he’s sent chasing after me, I might find myself in deeper trouble—if that’s even possible. . . .
8
AND WHEN Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer. . ”
_ As he strolled through the German countryside, the Red Skull
couldn’t help but be reminded of the old saying—never before had it seemed so appropriate than right at this moment. Granted, it wasn’t entirely accurate—not with an entire universe to conquer, and untold hundreds of thousands of planets still to be offered the full attention of the Empire’s resources. But the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction he once felt when he held the life of an enemy in his hands, saw the terror on their eyes, smelled the fear that clung to them like the sweetest perfume—those days were long past, much to his regret. Replaced by thoughts of strategies and campaigns, of paperwork and electronic reports, of countless speeches and endless meetings.
The Cube hadn’t made him a god. It had made him a bureaucrat.
The Skull snarled, disgusted with himself. When he had seized the Cube from Magneto, he’d thought ultimate power had finally been within his grasp, never to be taken from him. He had learned from the mistakes that developed with previous versions of the device, made certain he avoided repeating them. True, there were still superpowered men and women in his world, but they were under his complete control, as loyal to him now as dogs were to their master. Old enemies had been eliminated with just a thought—here one second, gone the next, all memory of them erased from the minds of his subjects. There was no one to oppose him.
Perhaps that’s what he missed most of all. There were no more challenges—no need to be concerned with attempted assassinations by secret agents, or power plays enacted by some costumed buffoon looking to make his mark in history by calling himself a “villain” without having any real understanding of the term, or struggles against a colorfully-garbed do-gooder while explosions tore apart the ground under their feet. He had beaten them all, kicked their faces into the dirt of their graves with the heel of his boot, seized everything he had ever desired—all without ever having to dirty his hands.
But now, there were no more worlds to conquer. . .
“Your Majesty . . . ?”
The Skull looked up, surprised to see where his wanderings had taken him: He was standing before the metal gates of the concentration camp that stood in the shadow of Wewelsburg Castle. Back during the war, Niederhagen had been a small but productive facility, the 3,900 prisoners housed within its barbed wire fences used by the Reichsar-beitsdienst—the Reich Labor Service—as construction workers during the castle’s renovations in 1939; their efforts were rewarded with barbaric living conditions, undernourishment, and death. American soldiers eventually liberated the camp in 1945, but by then more than 1,285 of the inmates, among them a large number of Soviets and Jehovah’s Witnesses, had died.
To the Red Skull, seeing the camp restored to its former glory, its barracks packed with the lowest of the low, its gas chambers and ovens working at peak efficiency when required, was like stepping into his past.
Like coming home again.
The man who had addressed him stepped forward, a welcoming smile lighting his features. He was tall and broad-shouldered, blonde hair cut short, yet stylishly, blue eyes sparkling with obvious joy at seeing his Emperor. In appearance and demeanor, from the gleam of polished leather and pewter on his crisp black uniform to the swagger of his step, he was everything an Aryan should be—yet his roots were in the East Coast of America. A tragic mishap of geography, really— despite his intense hatred for him, even the Skull had to admit that the man made an excellent Nazi. . .
“Commandant Rogers...” the Skull said evenly.
Here, at least, was something from which the Skull could take a measure of enjoyment. For decades, Steve Rogers had been a thorn in his side, constantly interfering with his plans for world domination— no, that wasn’t true; it wasn’t Rogers who had been the problem, but his costumed alter ego: the American flag-draped super hero known far and wide as Captain America. “The Sentinel of Liberty,” he had been called, a shining example of everything th
at was good and decent and patriotic about his country, everything the Skull was not. A living legend who had fought for the Allies in World War II, and then again, many years later, alongside some of Earth’s mightiest heroes. A man who had fought for peace, for democracy, for harmony, no matter how staggering the odds he faced, even at the cost of his very life.
Who better, then, to be the commanding officer of a death camp?
The irony of the situation had been too delicious for the Skull to pass up. How Rogers’ soul must be screaming in anguish as it watched the horrors of the prison through eyes grown cold with hate! Even now, the thought of it brought a smile to what remained of the Skull’s lips . . .
Rogers looked mildly flustered by the sudden appearance of the Emperor at his gates, but tried to hide it by broadening his smile. “Your Majesty, had I known you were coming for an inspection—”
The Skull shook his head. “There is no inspection, Commandant; I merely wished to be alone with my thoughts. My arrival here was unplanned.” He glanced past Rogers, toward a pair of brick smokestacks that towered above the far end of the camp. Smoke billowed from the structures, the black clouds thick with the pungent odor of burnt flesh and powdered bone. “Perhaps I was drawn here by the pull of old memories . ..”
For a moment, a flash of nervousness glittered in Rogers’ eyes. “Then, I apologize for. . . disturbing you, Your Majesty. If I’ve offended you . . .”
The Skull waved him to silence. He studied the man for a few moments, not quite certain why he didn’t feel some sense of satisfaction at having finally bested his old enemy. Was it because Rogers didn’t remember their numerous clashes in the past? Was it because he was too subservient—programmed to obey too well? Or was it simply because he wasn’t dressed in that gaudy, red-white-and-blue uniform the Skull was so used to seeing him in, sunlight gleaming off the tiny links of chainmail that protected his upper body, right hand gripping the straps of the large, round shield that was his only weapon, its center decorated with an oversized star?
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