“She put up a struggle, sir,” one of the soldiers replied. “We had to sedate her.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Xavier said with a wave of his hand. “What we’re interested in is the extent of her powers.” He pointed to the soldier who had addressed Zola. “You. Barton. Remove one of your gloves.”
Jean could tell the man was surprised—and worried—by the ease with which Xavier had plucked the name from his mind. He turned to Zola. “Sir?”
Zola chuckled. “Do as he says, Sergeant. The Professor might be a mutant, but he likes to think of himself as one of the higher-born. Humor him.”
Barton pulled off one of his gauntlets and tucked it into his belt.
“Now, touch the girl’s face,” Xavier ordered.
“NO! ” Jean cried, though she knew she would go unheard. She was a phantom here, out of synch with the dreamscape around her, unable to alter the course of events being played before her—events that had transpired years past. That didn’t stop her, however, from racing to the girl’s side.
Barton knelt beside Rogue and rolled her onto her back. Hesitantly, he reached down, pausing only long enough to register the stem look he was getting from Zola before brushing his fingertips against her cheek.
The reaction was instantaneous. Both Rogue and Barton screamed in agony as she leeched his thoughts, his strength, his very essence into herself. But while the woman Jean considered a teammate and close friend would have been able to break contact with the soldier, this girl was still years away from controlling her powers. The air crackled with static electricity as the transfer continued, the process causing Barton’s body to slowly dry up, to shrivel away, until there was nothing left but a desiccated corpse in a baggy leather uniform.
“Oh, Rogue ...” Jean whispered.
And then, with startling speed, the girl was on her feet, scooping up Barton’s weapon before anyone could stop her. The muzzle flashed with a staccato rhythm, and soldiers around her collapsed in a hail of bullets. She spun around, to level the rifle directly at Zola’s faceplate. Her finger tightened around the trigger—
—but nothing happened.
“I think that’s enough of a demonstration,” Xavier said dryly. He turned to Zola. “As you can see, Minister, the subject has absorbed the strength of the late Sergeant Barton—which accounts for her ability to throw off the effects of the drugs in her system—as well as his martial prowess. It is only because I have seized control of her mind that she is unable to fulfill her desire for slaying you.”
Zola grunted. “And the point of all this, Xavier?”
“Imagine, if you will, Minister: An agent capable of stealing away knowledge, strength, identity from any given target; absorbing language, information, with just a touch.”
Zola nodded, although it required the movement of his entire armored body. “Such a mutant would have their uses.”
“I thought you would agree.” Xavier’s eyes closed for a moment, and Rogue suddenly collapsed; he’d “switched off” her mind, rendering her unconscious. He watched as some members of the flamethrower brigade moved in to collect her. “Yes, I expect some great things from our Rogue ...”
The feral smile that Xavier suddenly leveled at her sent Jean fleeing into the darkness, in spite of herself.
Zola was right—fear did add wings to one’s feet.
Wrong—it was all so horribly wrong; Jean knew that now, as she finally managed to break free of Xavier’s mindscape. Wrong of her to come here, to expect Xavier to help her, to venture all this way on a fool’s errand when time was running out for countless dimensions. Wrong to think that the decent, caring visionary she loved as much as her parents could possibly exist in such a hate-driven, fearful world as this. She withdrew from his mind, sickened by it all, wondering where she could turn for help now—
And then something exploded against the base of her skull, and she crashed to the floor.
Groggily, Jean turned her head to see Danvers standing over her, a leather-encased blackjack in one hand. She attempted to rise, but Danvers bent down beside her, driving her knee into the small of Jean’s back. She then grabbed a handful of her prey’s fiery mane and pressed her head to the moldy carpeting.
“Try any other tricks like the one with the front door, Frau Sommers,” she warned, “and I will not hesitate to snap your neck. It wouldn’t do for the wife of such an esteemed Reichsmajor to be accidentally killed while running from a simple interrogation.”
“No fear of that, Fraulein Danvers,” Xavier said quietly. “Frau Sommers won’t be doing anything unless I will it.”
Jean gasped, feeling psychic talons dig deeply into her mind—and close tightly. She hovered on the edge of consciousness, her eyes rolling back in her head, unable to do little beyond whimper softly as Xavier forced his way through her memories with all the subtlety of one of the Skull’s stormtroopers. He was rooting around for information—learning who she was, where she came from, why she had come to him.
And there was nothing she could do to stop him.
“You surprise me, Herr Professor,” she heard Danvers say. “I didn’t think you capable of subduing her.”
“Lucky for you that I did, Danvers!” Xavier snapped. “She might have killed me at any moment, and then what would your leaders have said about your efficiency as an agent? What the devil kept you?”
“I would appreciate it if you kept your tiresome barking to a minimum, Herr Professor,” Danvers replied evenly. “Nattering on so makes you sound like an old woman. And it gives me a headache.”
Jean heard a tiny pop just above her ear, as though the covering was being removed from a small container. “Whatshe began to say, only to yelp as a needle penetrated her neck. She moaned softly as a powerful sedative raced through her veins, turning her muscles to rubber. Dimly, she became aware that Danvers and Xavier had released her. From the sound of the woman’s voice, she was back on her feet and heading for the door.
“Now, if you will excuse me, Herr Professor,” Danvers said, “I must inform the League of Frau Sommers’ capture.”
“Perhaps we should inform the Ministry of Health as well, Fraulein Danvers,” Xavier commented. “Apparently, we have an unregistered mutant on our hands ...”
The scream building in Jean’s throat forced its way through her numbed lips as a hoarse rattle—one that only she could hear. And then the drug took full effect, pulling her into darkness.
ARNIM ZOLA lived in a box.
Literally.
_ Oh, he might possess arms and legs like any other man, but
there was no head to be found resting between his shoulders—only a small, rectangular, metal box packed with miniature electronics. He had a face, but if you wanted to gaze upon it, to stare into the cold, hazel eyes of a monster who had sent millions of innocent men, women, and children to their deaths, you had to look through the glass screen housing it—the one framed by the metal box that served as his torso.
He hadn’t always looked like that. Once, he had been a normal human being—quiet, unassuming, rather plain in appearance, rather unremarkable in personality, but far from the glass, metal, and plastic construct that continued to use his name, seven decades later. A lifetime ago, he had been human, but that was before his interest in genetics became an all-consuming obsession, ultimately leading him to experiment with dark forces that man was truly never meant to know ...
Locked away in his Swiss castle, Zola shunned contact with other humans unless absolutely necessary, preferring instead the company of test tubes and Bunsen burners, microscopes and Petri dishes . . . and the grotesque creatures to which he gave life. Creatures that roared and mewled, crawled and shrieked—in fear, in anger, in despair over the humanity that had been stripped from them at the hands of a soulless monster.
He regarded them as his children; over time, they came to call him “father.”
Amim Zola, you see, was quite mad. But just how mad no one could have ever suspected—until the day
a power-hungry German warlord took his first steps toward conquering the world . . .
When Germany launched its first attacks in 1939, refugees flooded across the Swiss border, many of them begging Zola for shelter from the Nazi war machine—and he suddenly found an inexhaustible supply of genetic material to use in his studies. Material that enabled his experiments to become far grander in scale, more hideous in design, until even the Fiihrer himself was made aware of his work, and set him to work alongside another notorious butcher: Dr. Josef Mengele.
They learned much from each other, Auschwitz’s “Angel of Death” and his “bio-fanatic,” and the fruits of their labors helped their master conquer half a world.
And years later, when the atom had been split, and Germany had harnessed its power in a bomb used to decimate Washington, D.C., thus winning the war, there were new opportunities for Amim Zola to explore. The effects of atomic radiation had gone relatively unexplored during the decade-long conflict—Hitler was more interested in the power of the explosion being unleashed, rather than any lingering genetic calamities its power source might cause in years to come. But in the 1950s, stories began spreading of bizarre-looking freaks—mutations—wandering the blasted streets of America’s former capital. It was while investigating these claims that Zola himself contracted radiation poisoning; his only cure lay in constructing a new body, one that would have none of his weaknesses, and more than enough strength to last for a hundred years or more.
Thus it was that Amim Zola finally became the monster outwardly that he had always been within—a hideous body to match the diseased soul it contained . . .
Zola was immersed in his latest experiment when the visi-phone call came in. For a time he tried to ignore its nagging bleating—its discordant tone interfered with the melodic strains of the death rattle that was forcing its way through the tracheal tube of the young mutant strapped to his worktable. Eventually, though, he had to turn his attention to answering it, if for no other reason than to silence the infernal sound.
He punched the receive button on the control panel, and was greeted by the sallow-skinned visage of a man whose existence he hadn’t even thought about in the past year or two. “Charles Xavier! What a pleasant surprise this is!” he bellowed, his electronically enhanced voice dripping with false sincerity. He winked slyly, as though sharing an old joke—one from which only he still found some degree of humor. “How is my favorite collaborator?”
“As well as can be expected, Minister,” Xavier said gruffly, “given the circumstances.”
Zola flashed one of his grotesque smiles. “Is Fraulein Danvers giving you any trouble? You know she is only there to protect you from the more .. . outspoken members of your race.”
“And a pitiful job she’s been doing of it!” Xavier snapped. “A young woman barged in here today, could have used her powers against me if I hadn’t taken steps to prevent it.”
Zola frowned. “And so you have called upon me to register a complaint?” He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Contact the League of German Women, then—I am certain they will give you a new referral.”
Xavier shook his head. “No, that is not why I am calling, Minister.” A sly grin inched its way across his features. “Aren’t you curious as to the identity of my would-be assailant?”
Zola huffed. “I have neither the time nor the patience for games, Herr Professor. Kindly get to the—”
“Jean Sommers.”
Zola paused. “Sommers. Are you referring to the wife of. . .” Xavier nodded. “Indeed. Reichsmajor Scott Sommers. The woman is a mutant.”
The Minister frowned. “Impossible. I examined her personally, before she was even allowed to start dating Sommers. There was no trace of the x-factor detected in her genetic structure then, or in subsequent examinations. She is a pure-bred German maiden.”
“Then you should have your machines recalibrated, Minister, because something, somehow, has triggered the gene in Frau Sommers,” Xavier replied. “She now possesses psychic abilities that might even be on a par with my own.”
“I must see her—immediately.”
“I thought as much, which is the reason Fraulein Danvers and I are already en route to New York City. I was hoping you would be able to arrange passage for us on the first available flight from there to Gen-osha.” Xavier paused. “But there is more to this situation than just a case of latent mutagenic growth, Minister. From what I have been able to gleam from scanning Frau Sommers’ mind, she is on a mission that might spell disaster for the Reich . . . and the Emperor. And she is not working alone.”
Intrigued, Zola leaned closer to the screen. “Tell me more, Charles ...”
* * *
Ororo sat beside one of the jet’s windows, gazing enviously at the clouds that drifted by.
She’d made no attempt to escape, or shown any sign of resistance since peacefully surrendering to Lightning Force, but that, apparently, meant nothing to the team member named Meggan. The blond-haired shapeshifter had taken an almost perverse amount of pleasure in shackling her prisoner to the seat, securing the ankle and wrist clamps tightly enough to make Ororo gasp. From the heated stare she directed at the back of Hauptmann Englande’s head, then toward Ororo, it was obvious she felt extremely territorial where her lover was concerned. Not that it mattered in the least to Ororo—just the thought of possibly being attracted to a pompous, overbearing fascist made her stomach turn.
A small motion at the comer of her eye caught her attention. She turned her head—as much as the metal collar would allow—to look at the blue-skinned mutant sitting across the aisle; Nightcrawler, she remembered. For someone who vaguely resembled a demon, she wouldn’t have thought him to be so fidgety—and yet, ever since the jet had departed Araouane, there hardly seemed to be a moment when he wasn’t squirming in his seat. Ororo mentally shrugged. Maybe he just didn’t enjoy air travel. Or maybe it wasn’t the flight that upset him ... as much as the destination.
Genosha.
Just thinking the name sent shivers down her spine. The memories were still too fresh, the nightmares still too raw, for her to maintain her normally cool demeanor, even in the face of her enemies. The fact that Nightcrawler was so visibly shaken did nothing to calm her fears.
Why was it, she wondered, did she think she knew this man. . . ?
He twisted in his seat again, becoming aware that she was staring at him. He smiled weakly, apparently more to put himself at ease than his prisoner; it didn’t work. “Enjoying the trip, Fraulein?” he asked.
Ororo frowned. “Not particularly.”
He nodded, as though in understanding. “I would imagine not.”
“Nor are you, I take it.” She gestured toward his feet; one was tapping the floor to a nervous rhythm only his tensing leg muscles could detect.
Another sickly smile. A shrug. “I have had more pleasant ones, I must admit.”
She sneered. “And why is that? I thought you would look forward to showing off your prize to your master.”
A look of unease flashed in Nightcrawler’s eyes. He stole a quick glance at the cockpit, where Meggan had joined Englande at the controls. They appeared to be deep in conversation.
“Zola is not my master,” he whispered hoarsely. “But he is our—” his lips curled in disgust “—genetic superior. He, as well as the rest of humanity, must be treated with all the respect due their evolutionary station.”
Ororo sniffed derisively. “He is your superior, perhaps. But never mine.”
Nightcrawler grinned. “Defiant to the last, eh?”
“No. Simply unwilling to play the part of the faithful mutant lapdog. Unwilling to spout Party doggerel in a pathetic and futile attempt to fit in better with the hatemongers that call themselves our betters.” Ororo ignored the warning growl issuing from Nightcrawler’s lips, and leaned toward him. “You will never be accepted by the humans; you must realize that. To them, mutants like ourselves are to be hated and feared—never to be their equals, a
lways to be treated as an inferior race. We are the monsters they warn their children about—perversions of the evolutionary chain whose very touch is as deadly as any virus.” She shook her head sadly. “You are no valued member of this team, Nightcrawler. You are a mascot—an oddity to be paraded around to delude mutants into thinking they have a place in the Empire.” She sighed. “And I think the one person fooled the most by this reprehensible tactic... is you.”
A white-gloved hand flashed across the aisle, catching Ororo across the mouth.
“And I think you had best keep your opinions to yourself, Fraulein,” Nightcrawler growled, “else I shall be forced to muzzle you.”
Ororo used the tip of her tongue to wipe away the blood that trickled from the comer of her mouth. She studied the way Nightcrawler shifted around in his seat, preparing to deliver another blow should she make any further comment. He relished the opportunity to do so—she could see it in the set of his jaw, the tension in his arms, the tightness of his clenched fists. She’d struck a nerve, though he would never admit it; all he needed was an excuse to vent the anger building within him.
She refused to give him the satisfaction. Sniffing haughtily, she turned away and returned her attention to the clouds that streaked past her window—and the island that lay below.
Even from the air, Genosha looked like the devil’s playground. The south end of the island was a jumble of dilapidated buildings and weatherworn tent cities: housing for the unfortunate mutant population that had been gathered from all comers of the world. “Unfortunate” because the housing was only meant to be temporary—none of its occupants were expected to live for too long after passing through the electrified fencing that separated the two hemispheres of the island. Anyone who tried to convince themselves otherwise had only to glance toward the southernmost tip, and the red brick smokestacks that rose high above the internment center. The stench of burning fat that hung thick in the air and the minute pieces of bones scattered across the ground—ones not consumed by the blast furnaces at the bases of the towers—were constant reminders to all of the ultimate fate of Amim Zola’s playthings.
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