“I just wanted to stop by for a moment,” he explained, matter-of-factly, “and return one of your errant patrol officers before I inspected the medical facilities for any damage.”
He stepped aside, to make room for a Union Jack-garbed woman with a shock of white hair poking out from the top of her helmet.
“Captain U.K.!” Betsy said.
Linda McQuillan walked up the main aisle, removing her helmet as she addressed Roma. “I apologize for not reporting sooner, Your Majesty, but I was . . . unavoidably detained.” She cast a heated glare at von Doom’s back as he was led from the chamber.
“You see,” the man said as he strolled up behind her, the dark-brown tones of his voice echoing in the vast space, “I was just on my way here, when I found your charming captain adrift in the vortex. So, naturally, I had to stop and see if I could provide any assistance and— well, here we are.” He turned to the costumed warrior. “Well, I really must be getting on to the infirmary.” He shook her hand and grinned. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain. We should do this again, under better circumstances. Feel free to drop by the medical wing any time—I make an exquisite cup of Darjeeling.” And with that, he turned on his heel and proceeded toward the door.
“Just a moment! Come forward!” Satumyne snapped. “Who the devil are you?”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he said, and began walking up to the Majestrix. He snatched the hat from the mass of curls and jammed it into one of his pockets. “Didn’t I introduce myself?”
“No, you did not,” Satumyne replied
“Ahh,” he said, nodding sagely. “Well, I’m the Chief Physician.” He smiled, revealing an oversized set of gleamingly-white teeth, and grabbed the Majestrix’s hand. He began pumping it furiously. “It’s an honor to meet you—again ... ‘Your Whyness,’ isn’t it?”
“Let go of me, you fool!” Satumyne said, and snatched back her hand. “You’re not the Chief Physician! You look nothing like him!” The man’s large eyes bugged out even further, and his mouth fell open in astonishment. “What? Are you absolutely certain?”
“Of course I am! He’s—” she held up a hand level with her collarbone “—about this high—”
The man pointed to her hand. “That high?”
“Yes.” She gestured toward her head. “And he has less hair . ..” “Less hair? Less hair?” He frowned, and pulled at his lower lip in agitation. “Dear me. Dear me . . .”
“And he talks with a Scottish accent.”
His expression suddenly brightened. “Really? Highland or Lowland?”
“What difference does it make?” Satumyne replied. “The bottom line, you grinning imbecile, is that you are not—cannot be—the Chief Physician!”
He smiled, then spread his arms wide and simply shrugged. “Well, what can I tell you, Majestrix? I’m just not the man I used to be ... or will be . ..”
It took a bit of explaining, but the situation was eventually made clear to one and all—much to Satumyne’s consternation, and Roma’s amusement. A bio-scan of the new arrival revealed that he was, indeed, the man he claimed to be, although the Supreme Guardian appeared to be the only one not surprised by the news; why that might be, she wouldn’t say.
Still, she went on to say, his appearance on the citadel was a timely
one, for she had need of a doctor—not for herself, but for a very special patient.
The omniverse might have been restored to something of its former self, but there was still one bit of business left to attend to....
24
NOW, YOU sure dis won’ hurt none, right?”
Roma gently smiled as she looked at Gambit. “I can make no _ promises, Remy Lebeau. What I must do is a difficult task, performed only once before, to my knowledge—and then only by my father.”
“Well. . . dere’s a first time for ev’ryt’ing, I s’pose,” he mumbled. “Jus’ wish it wasn’t de first time for you, too .. .”
She patted him consolingly on the arm, then gestured for him to lie on the table before them. Remy paused, and looked across the chamber. On the other side of a protective wall, watching him through two-inch-thick glass, stood his teammates and Satumyne. Led by Roma, the group had descended into the depths of the Starlight Citadel, to a darkened chamber that not even the Majestrix knew existed. The Guardian had ominously commented that this was where her father, Merlyn, used to conduct some of his more . . . exotic experiments.
“Don’t you worry none, sugah,” Rogue said to Gambit through an intercom speaker mounted on a wall, her voice sounding strained. “I’ll be right here when y’all wake up.”
“We all will be, Remy,” Scott added.
“Dat’s good t’know,” Remy replied with a nervous smile. “’Cause ol’ Gambit, he ain’t never been too crazy ’bout operations.”
He climbed onto the table and lay down on his back, lacing his fingers together on his stomach. He fidgeted for a few moments, obviously trying to make himself comfortable, then turned to look at his friends one more time. Betsy saw his eyes lock with Rogue’s, and the look they shared. Then he flashed a warm smile, and turned back to Roma.
“Let’s get dis over wit’ Your Guardianship,” he said. “Dere’s a certain fille I promised t’take to a Harry Connick, Jr. concert, an’ Remy Lebeau never goes back on his promises to a lady.”
Betsy heard Rogue’s tiny gasp. And then the Southern belle softly chuckled.
“He remembered ...” she whispered.
“Very well,” Roma said. “Then, close your eyes, and we shall begin.”
Remy did as he was instructed, and Roma placed a hand to his forehead. There was a brief flash of light, and his body suddenly relaxed.
“He sleeps,” she explained to the X-Men. “I would not want him conscious for this procedure.” She looked at the team as she spoke, but her eyes fixed on Rogue. “Perhaps you should wait in one of the suites that has been prepared for you until this is finished. The next stage may be ... difficult to observe.”
“With all due respect, Yer Grace,” Rogue said huskily, “I told Remy I was gonna wait right here fer him—an’ I never go back on a promise.”
Roma nodded. “Very well.”
She turned to the shadows of the vast chamber, and gestured. The Chief Physician stepped forward, carrying a circular object that looked like an oversized glass ashtray. It was actually the projection unit for a powerful, sterilized stasis field—a large, glowing ball of energy that contained a collection of relics that brought audible gasps from the mutant adventurers. Even the battle-hardened Wolverine, Betsy noted, was taken aback by what he saw.
There were scraps of cloth—black and maroon material, brown leather—floating in the field, along with bits of skin and hair and brain. A finger, severed from a hand. Pieces of bone, including part of a spinal column. And a single eyeball, still attached to its stalk.
This, then, was all that remained of Remy Lebeau—the true Lebeau, not an alternate version who lived on a world under fascist rule. The X-Man, the thief, the rogue, known as Gambit. All that remained of the man who had selflessly given his life so that his friends could escape from captivity.
All that remained of the man Rogue loved as deeply, Betsy knew, as she herself loved Warren, or Jean loved Scott.
Rogue shuddered as she watched Roma take possession of the field projector and its precious contents, and Jean gently placed her hands on her friend’s shoulders—to give comfort, to give strength.
“I... I’m okay,” Rogue said hoarsely. It was clear to all, however, that she was anything but.
Gambit’s remains had been obtained by members of the Dimensional Development Court, under Satumyne’s watchful eye. The recovery team had journeyed to the world once ruled by von Doom’s elderly counterpart—Earth 892, to be precise—and sifted through the rubble of Psi Division Headquarters until they located the few elements now in Roma’s possession. There had been other, larger parts, but, as the Majestrix had explained to the X-Men, they
were unusable—tainted with the techno-organic vims that had been killing Remy before his heroic sacrifice. Still, she had said encouragingly, what they gathered should be more than enough for the Supreme Guardian to work with.
Roma moved over to an immense machine, the top of which was lost in the shadows of the ceiling. She placed the field projector on a flat, table-like surface, just beneath a collection of what looked like small broadcast dishes.
“The first stage will be to reconstmct his body, using these elements as the basis.” She punched a code into a small keypad beside the machine, then stepped back. “While the bio-fog begins the process, I must retrieve the part of your friend that cannot be regenerated—the part that resides within this body he borrowed.”
“Are you talking about his soul?” Scott asked.
Roma said nothing. Instead, she walked back to Lebeau and placed her hands inches above his chest. She closed her eyes, and her palms began to glow.
“The machine,” Ororo said. “Something is happening . . .”
As one, the group stared at the stasis field. It was hard to see, but something was moving in the bio-fog—the pieces of Remy Lebeau had begun to swirl around, slowly at first, then faster, until they became just a blur.
And then something began to form—a skeleton. Bits of bone grew larger, became skull and vertebrae, femurs and sternum, ribs and ilium. Then the rest took shape, joining together as the stasis energy guided them to their proper places. The field expanded to fit the structure growing within it.
“Amazing,” Xavier said.
“A miracle,” Nightcrawler breathed. Betsy was surprised by the reverent tone in his voice.
Across the chamber, the Chief Physician walked over to the machine to check the readings. “The skeleton is complete, Your Majesty.”
“Initiate the second stage,” Roma commanded. Her hands continued to hover over the alternate Lebeau’s body, but now a silvery glow surrounded him.
The doctor entered a new code. The fog thickened, obscuring the skeleton from view. When it cleared after a number of minutes, organs and nerves had appeared.
“Begin stage three,” Roma said. The glow around Lebeau intensified and centered around his chest. Slowly, a ball of light began to rise, and Roma cupped her hands around it, as though to hold it together.
“Oh, my God ...” Jean gasped. “Is that... is that Remy’s soul?”
A tear rolled down Rogue’s cheek, to splash against the collar of her jacket. “It’s ... it’s beautiful,” she whispered.
The fog billowed again, and now skin and muscle and hair were regenerated. A familiar face took form. And then the swatches of material that floated above the body settled onto it—and began to spin into clothing. A costume, boots, gloves, an ankle-length coat—all were restored, in the space of seconds.
The machine suddenly powered down, and an ominous silence filled the chamber. The doctor stepped over to inspect the final readings.
“The process is complete,” he reported.
“Then, open the field and stand aside,” Roma replied.
The physician did as ordered, and the Guardian grasped the ball of light—the soul of Gambit—that floated above Lebeau. Moving quickly, she crossed the short distance to the costumed body, and raised the soul above her head.
“Let there be a joining! ” Roma shouted. “LET THERE BE LIFE! ” And she plunged the silvery ball deep into the chest of the reconstructed body.
And then it—he—screamed.
It was a cry of pain and despair, of great loss and even greater gain, of life and love and hope and joy.
It was the cry of rebirth.
And when the last echoes had faded in the great chamber, Remy Lebeau opened his eyes and took his first breath—and smiled.
Roma did, as well, and glanced toward the observation room. “The reclamation was successful,” she said. “He is whole again.”
There were sighs of relief, then, mixed with tears of joy; even Satumyne was affected. Rogue was the first through the door, half running, half floating, to join Remy, and throwing her arms around him as he sat up.
“He will be weak for a short time, so he should rest,” Roma told the group.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Rogue turned to face her. “I’ll make sure he stays in bed,” she said, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her bomber jacket, “even if I have ta strap ’im down t’make ’im stay put.” She smiled, and started crying again. “Thank you.”
Roma placed a hand on hers, and gave a gentle squeeze. “For all the X-Men have done for the omniverse this day, friend Rogue, I could do no less, in turn, for you.”
As Rogue turned her attention back to Gambit, Satumyne approached the Guardian. “I’ll see to it that the X-Man’s counterpart is returned to his proper Earth, m’lady.”
“Thank you, Satumyne,” the Guardian replied. “Right now, though . . .”
They stepped back, then, and allowed the X-Men to cluster around their comrade.
As Betsy watched Rogue and Gambit, and felt tears well up in her eyes, she felt a hand slip around her waist, and smiled. She turned to look at Warren. Then she put an arm around his waist and drew him into a kiss that would never last long enough.
He was right, she realized. She couldn’t save the universe all by herself—none of them could. But they didn’t have to. Not as long as they had each another; not as long as there was a shoulder to lean on when the burden became too great.
They’d put their lives on the line to save countless billions this time—billions of sentient beings who would never know them, never know of the sacrifices they’d made, the agonies they’d suffered along the way. And she knew that tomorrow they would go back and do it again. Because they were doing something good. Because people counted on them. Because they were committed to doing the best they could.
Because that’s what being an X-Man was all about.
And sometimes—sometimes—that was good enough.
25
BOM A EXITED the Life Chamber, feeling—well, she didn’t know exactly how to describe how she felt. Satisfied? Elated? Emotional . states were such an alien concept to beings like her father and herself—so many to sift through, so many she didn’t understand—it was difficult to pick the one that best suited a given situation.
Physical sensations, however—now, that was something she had come to understand quite well. Her head and body ached, even more so after undergoing a painful process of her own: the restoration of the aspects of herself that had been separated by von Doom. Being subjected to the rays of a multiphasic crystal accelerator, even one handled by an expert, rather than a power-hungry tyrant, had been no less agonizing with her alternates going in, than they had coming out. If she never came near another such machine again for the rest of her immortality, she decided, it would be too soon.
“Well done, Your Majesty,” the Chief Physician said, suddenly beside her. He grasped her hand and shook it vigorously. “Merlyn himself couldn’t have handled the reclamation process any better.”
She raised an eyebrow, amused by the notion of a cosmic entity being congratulated by a lower life-form for performing what amounted to a difficult, yet altogether minor, task. “You are pleased with my efforts, then, doctor?”
“Yes. Oh, very much so.” He nodded sagely, and tapped the side of his nose with an index finger. “In my humble—yet extremely expert—opinion, Your Majesty, I would say you possess the makings of a fine surgeon.”
The eyebrow climbed higher. “You do.”
“Indeed, I do,” he insisted good-naturedly. “And I think such fine work as yours should be rewarded.” He smiled broadly, all teeth and curls, and reached into the pocket of his surgical scrubs for a small paper bag. “Would you care for a jelly baby ... ?”
T HE WALK through the desert had been an arduous one, but it gave him time to be alone with his thoughts.
I * I Now, as he crested a dune in the first light of day, Erik Magnus Lensherr stopped to look
at the village before him. Once it had been a thriving oasis, but over time the sands had begun washing over it, stripping it of color, of life. And yet, there was still life to be found here.
A door opened in one of the mud-brick buildings, and a darkskinned woman emerged. From where he stood, Lensherr could not make out her features, but he knew who she was by the colorful blanket she wore—and the large bowl she carried in one hand.
“Good morrow, Abena Metou,” he said pleasantly to himself, testing his use of the language. The pronunciation still sounded a little too stiff for his liking—still too phonetic, as though he were reading it directly from the portable Berlitz guide on his Palm Pilot. But he had learned the meaning of patience here—a lifetime ago, it seemed—on another world; he could do so again. The words would come with time.
She would not recognize him, of that he was certain; in this world, the “real” world, they had never met. But that would change.
Behind her walked a child—a girl no more than three or four years old. Her daughter, Jnanbarka. Watching her, an image suddenly popped into his head, and he reached into the back pocket of the tan cargo pants he was wearing. He pulled out a thin metal case and opened it. Inside was a faded, worn black-and-white photograph of an eight-year-old girl. Her dark hair was cut into bangs that framed wide, joy-filled eyes and a big, gap-toothed smile. Even now, decades later, he could still remember how excited she had been when the Tooth Fairy generously rewarded her, the night before the picture was taken.
It was one of the few truly happy moments in his life that he could recall, for there had never been another after the night she died in the fire. The night when Magneto vowed to the heavens that he would punish the world for the death it had caused—a punishment that he had never tired of administering.
Until now . . .
He smiled gently. “Anya .. .” he whispered.
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