chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  The gathered throng began applauding, welcoming the ruler of the small African nation. Dressed in the flowing, colorful, traditional robes of his people, T’Challa—once known to the citizens of the world by the more colorful name “The Black Panther”—strode into the room, accompanied by his five-member personal guard. Standing over six feet tall, dark eyes constantly sweeping the room, he moved with the grace of the animal from which his alter ego had taken its name, muscles rippling with each step that he took. Unlike von Doom—a gypsy who had clawed his way to power and appointed himself the ruler of Lat-veria—T’Challa was a true monarch, the son of T’Chaka, Wakanda’s greatest king.

  “Prince Namor of Atlantis,” came the next announcement.

  Again, applause, though this time its tone was somewhat muted. Namor—the hybrid son of an Atlantean princess and a human sea captain, known far and wide as “The Savage Sub-Mariner” ever since his first recorded appearance during the darkest days of World War II— had never entirely gained the trust of the human race, nor did he really care to. And considering the fact that he had tried on numerous occasions to rule the world on his own before von Doom took power, it often amazed the powerbrokers of Washington that this hawk-faced, belligerent egoist should be one of the Emperor’s most trusted allies.

  He was clad in a formfitting, black outfit of some rubber-like material that covered him from shoulders to feet; his arms, though, were bare, but for a large, golden bracelet around each wrist. An open panel in the front of the outfit exposed his chiseled torso from collar bone to abdomen; his ankles were also left uncovered, to allow a quartet of small, delicate wings to jut out to provide him with the power of flight. Around his waist hung a black belt held fast by a golden, trident-shaped buckle. A pair of small, golden rings adorned the lobe of each of his pointed ears, the cartilaged tips just brushing the edges of his black hair, which was forever shaped into a crewcut that rose shallowly from a widow’s peak just above his brow. Namor gave no indication that he was even aware of the formal welcome; he merely stomped his way up the runner.

  “Lord and Lady Plunder of the Savage Land.”

  Of all the royalty assembled in the great hall, the couple who now entered—to a smattering of applause—were the least formal... and the least respected by all but the Emperor. In his late twenties, Kevin Plunder looked more like a movie star than a sovereign, with his squarish jaw, piercing blue eyes, deep tan, and shoulder-length blond hair, strands of which constantly bobbed in front of his face. He was dressed in a tuxedo that, even though it was tailor-made, still seemed too small for his athletic build; from his expression as he pulled at the collar of his starched white shirt, it was evident that he would have felt more at ease in the customary animal-skin loincloth and boots that he normally wore back in his Antarctic realm.

  His wife looked equally uncomfortable. Dressed in a stunning, dark-green gown that complemented her mane of red hair, the former veterinarian-cum-jungle goddess known as Shanna O’Hara-Plunder had a look about her that resembled an animal sniffing around unfamiliar surroundings—head slowly turning from side to side, ears alert for any hint of approaching danger.

  The royal guests were directed to their spots at the end of the line, closest to the Concert Hall doors, joining such dignitaries as the ever-silent Black Bolt, king of the Inhumans, and his fiery-tressed wife, Medusa; the Minister of Entertainment, Arcade, and his assistant, Miss Locke; and the gnomish Mole Man, who had all arrived before them.

  War Council member Sebastian Shaw, however, was noticeable by his unexplained absence.

  The announcer delicately cleared his throat for attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, “Emperor and Empress von Doom.”

  As one, the guests began applauding, the sound of flesh striking flesh rising appreciably as the most powerful couple in the world entered the foyer arm-in-arm. The Empress looked dazzling in a black, full-length ball gown, snow-white tresses styled fashionably. The Emperor, on the other hand, wore his traditional battle armor—sans mask—and flowing green velvet cloak; the metal gleamed brightly in the well-lit hall. Ororo smiled warmly, nodding slightly in acknowledgment to each of the people she knew; von Doom, meanwhile, strode arrogantly down the carpeted pathway, ignoring everyone around him . . . except the wizened old man standing off to one side, his weight supported by a gnarled, wooden cane.

  For the first time that day—perhaps for the first time in quite a while—a genuine smile came to the face of Victor von Doom. Stepping away from Ororo, he opened his arms wide and heartily embraced the visitor.

  “Boris!” he said. “It is good to see you!”

  “The feeling is mutual, Master,” the old man said.

  In his late seventies, hair and flowing beard a dazzling white set against the deep blue of his suit and the red of his silk tie, Boris was the closest von Doom had had to a true friend before his courtship of Ororo. Like the Emperor, the old man was a gypsy, one of a band of wandering free spirits who had settled in the small European country of Latveria. He was the best friend of Victor’s parents, and had been appointed ambassador for the country after Victor took control of the planet.

  Still clasping Boris’s shoulders, Von Doom stepped back to gaze closely at him. “You are looking well, my friend.”

  Boris smiled warmly. “I have my good days, Master; some bad, but mostly good. Seeing all you have accomplished over the years keeps me going—I’m always afraid I’ll miss out on some new wonderment of yours if I were to go and die without your permission.”

  To the amazement of everyone in the foyer—except, perhaps, Ororo—the Emperor actually joined the old man in a laugh.

  Von Doom clapped Boris on the shoulder. “Excellent! Well said, faithful Boris! And how are my parents?”

  “Strong like bulls, as ever,” Boris replied. “Latveria could not have been left in more capable hands, Master. The regent sends his regards, both to you—” he nodded to Ororo, who had joined them “—and your lovely wife.” The old man bent forward, leaning close to von Doom’s ear so that only he could hear his next words. “But your mother worries about your health. She thinks you looked far too thin on your last worldwide broadcast. ‘A homecooked meal, Boris,’ she said to me. 'That is what my son needs, before he wastes away to nothing.’ ”

  Von Doom compressed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Then I shall have to schedule a visit to my homeland before it is too late,” he said, with just a trace of humor. He glanced at Boris, and smiled. “It is good to see you, my old friend,” he said softly.

  “It is, Master,” Boris agreed. He smiled. “But now, I think it is time for an old man to leave his sovereign so that he may get on with celebrating such an important night as this. We shall talk again later, at your convenience.”

  “Indeed, we shall,” von Doom said. He turned to one of his aides, a young, round-faced man in his early twenties. “Escort the Latverian ambassador to his seat, and see to his every need.”

  “At once, Your Majesty!” the aide said. He looked to Boris. “If you’ll follow me, sir...”

  With a bow to the couple, Boris was led away, the tip of his cane tapping loudly against the tiled floor. Von Doom and Ororo watched him until he had stepped from sight, then proceeded toward the Concert Hall.

  As they passed their friends from Antarctica, Ororo noticed the dark look that Shanna cast at the Emperor; Victor was completely oblivious to it. Though the rulers of the Savage Land had long ago reached an alliance with von Doom, still it was clear that Lady Plunder did not care for the man in the least.

  Such opinions, Ororo knew, mattered little to her husband, though he was well aware of them; after all—he was Doom. How could he not know of them? But Shanna—like all his subjects around the globe— was allowed to have free will (within limits), to have her differences from the Emperor... as long as such convictions did not interfere with any of his carefully-tailored plans. “I have no use for slaves. What I require are loyal and dev
oted subjects,” Victor had once said, according to Lancer. What did matter to von Doom, though, was that Shanna— like her boyish husband, and Namor, and T’Challa, and everyone else on the planet, including the Empress—should know her place.

  It made for some .. . interesting discussions around the dinner table. Reaching the entrance to the Concert Hall, the Emperor stopped to turn around and gesture to the crowd.

  “Come, my friends!” von Doom said. “It is time for the celebrations to begin!”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Backstage, in one of the dozens of dressing rooms that lined the lower halls of the arts center, Betsy Braddock sat on a loveseat, tightly hugging one of the throw pillows. Clad in bra and panties, she stared numbly at the elegant black gown Warren was holding.

  “Come on, Betts—you’ll be fine,” Warren said, ignoring the fact that her skin had gone as white as a sheet of paper. “Look—you got this far, right?”

  Betsy grimaced as her stomach made a troubling gurgle.

  “Right!” Warren said, answering himself. “So, if you’ve made it all the way to the Big Night, it shouldn’t be any problem to get through one song.” He waved the gown at her. “Now, come on—get dressed.” “But, what if I forget the words?” Betsy asked, eyes suddenly wild with panic. “What if I trip on my way to the microphone? What if—” “What if you don’t get ready for the show?” Warren interjected. “I think that’s the far more pressing issue, don’t you?” He flashed a sly smile. “Or do you plan on going out there decollete? You’d certainly make your mark in history then—although I’m not sure how the Empress might respond to you serenading her husband in your underwear . . .”

  A wisp of a smile came to her lips. “You’re terrible,” she said. “That I am,” Warren agreed. “Which, may I remind you, is one of the reasons you’re so head-over-heels in love with me.”

  Betsy tossed aside the pillow, rose to her feet, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

  “Quite true,” she said. “But I think I’ll keep my clothes on, anyway.”

  Warren shrugged. “Von Doom’s loss .. . but I can live with that.” They stood like that, gazing deeply into one another’s eyes, until a knock on the door brought their attention back to more earthly matters. “I’d better get that,” Betsy said.

  “All right,” Warren replied.

  “But you have to let go of me first,” she pointed out.

  “Oh, very well,” Warren sighed. He removed his arms from around her waist.

  Betsy quickly shrugged into a full-length terrycloth bathrobe and opened the door.

  Standing in the hallway was Tommy Grunfeld, one of the art center’s assistant stage managers. In his early twenties, medium of height and build—at five-foot-eleven, Betsy towered about two inches above him in her bare feet—he sported sandy hair tied back in a ponytail, and a tiny spot of facial hair—often referred to as a “soul patch”—just below the center of his bottom lip. He wore a powder-blue tuxedo that looked as though it had been rented twenty-five years ago by his father—when wide lapels were all the rage—and never returned, only passed along to the next generation of Grunfelds. A small earpiece and attached microphone were held fast to his head by a wide plastic strap, and he carried a clipboard containing what appeared to be the run-down of the show.

  Tommy let out a high-pitched wolf whistle. “Wow, babe! You look like a million bucks!”

  “What... ?” Betsy gazed down at her frumpy garment, which had opened just enough to provide a hint of cleavage. “It’s a bathrobe, Tommy.”

  “Oh.” Grunfeld shrugged. “Hey, what do I know from fashion? All I do know is it’s got more material than anything Tina Turner is wearin’.” He made an appreciative face. “Looks nice on ya, though.” Looking up, he caught sight of Warren standing just beside her. “Uh ... no offense, sir.”

  Warren raised a quizzical eyebrow and stuck out his bottom teeth in a vague, caveman-like expression. “You ... like Worthington woo-mahn?” he grunted.

  “Don’t mind him, Tommy—he’s had a little too much caffeine today,” Betsy commented. She elbowed Warren in the stomach without turning to look at him. Grunting once more, he shambled over to the loveseat and flopped down on its cushions.

  “What did you want to see me about, Tommy?” she asked.

  “Just checkin’ in with everybody, lettin’ ’em know what the final order for the acts is gonna be.” Grunfeld glanced at his clipboard. “You go on around ten, just before the Intermission.”

  Betsy smiled. “That’s not bad at all. Who am I following?”

  Another glance at the schedule. “Umm . . . The Senior Class of The Massachusetts Academy in The Fall of Attuma: An Epic Tale Told in Song and Dance.” Grunfeld sucked in his breath through clenched teeth.

  “Whoa—talk about your spots that really bite. ” He glanced up. “Sorry, babe.”

  “Don’t be,” Betsy said, a twinkle in her eye. “Going on before Intermission means I’ll be the first act everyone remembers when they get together in the Foyer.”

  Grunfeld raised an eyebrow. “Just so long as they’re talkin’ about you in a good way, babe. Keep that in mind before you go out there, okay?”

  Betsy chuckled. “Oh, I will, inde—”

  A phalanx of Guardsmen suddenly stomped by in the hall, catching her attention.

  “What’s with all the security?” she asked. “There weren’t that many guards rushing about when we got here this afternoon.”

  “S.O.P., babe, when the Big Man’s in the house, although it’s usually not this many goons.” Tommy glanced around to make sure no one but Betsy could hear him. “Must be all that talk about Magneto wantin’ to blow the place up,” he said quietly.

  "What?” Betsy cried.

  Tommy gestured wildly with his hands, motioning for Betsy to lower her voice. “Hey, keep it down! You wanna get me in trouble?” He nodded. “Yeah—word is he had somethin’ to do with that big explosion in Virginia last night.” He tilted his head to one side “What, you didn’t hear the blast? It was so loud, they say you could hear it in Pittsburgh.”

  “We were ... busy,” Betsy replied, glancing at Warren. “But I heard about it on the news this morning. I just didn’t think it had anything to do with—are you sure he’s going to try and blow up the arts center?”

  “Hey, it’s no big deal, babe,” the assistant stage manager assured her. “With the kinda firepower we got around us, that bucketheaded maniac would really be outta his nut to try an’ take on the Big Man on his home court—y’know what I mean?”

  “I... guess,” Betsy replied.

  “Primo!” Tommy said. He patted her on the shoulder encouragingly, then glanced at his watch. “Oh, jeez. Look, I got a few more people to see. Don’t worry about a thing—just concentrate on knockin’ ’em dead out there, okay?”

  “Okay,” Betsy said.

  “Break a leg, babe!” Tommy said, then hurried down the hall.

  Betsy crossed her fingers and glanced up at the ceiling. “God willing, that’s all that will be broken tonight...”

  * * *

  “All is in readiness, dread lord,” Cortez reported. “We await your command to strike.”

  “Excellent,” Magneto said.

  Behind them, the X-Men and acolytes were gathered around the suite’s television, watching the live broadcast from the arts center. Rogue, having awakened from her “nap,” had joined them, but she sat in a comer, ignoring all attempts to draw her into a friendly conversation. Slumped in her chair, she stared at a spot on the carpet—never blinking, never moving a muscle. And though each of her teammates had tried their best to talk to her, it seemed that nothing would bring her out of her crushing depression.

  Wolverine was right—she would be a long time hurting . . .

  “Lotta security,” Forge noted, pointing to the TV screen as the cameras outside the building showed glimpses of the grim-faced forces that stood guard. “Looks like von Doom’s
getting ready for a war.”

  “It appears we are expected, Father,” Pietro said with a wry smile. “Then, who am I to disappoint our host,” Magneto replied with a false smile, “after he has gone to such lengths to make me feel so welcome?”

  A sinister chuckle rippled through the acolytes and their leader—a sentiment not shared by the X-Men.

  “Just remember to hold up your end of the bargain, Magnus,” Cyclops said.

  “You have my word that no innocents shall be harmed in this endeavor, Summers,” Magneto said. “It’s Doom I want, not his slaves.” His eyes narrowed. “But should any of them become foolish enough to delay my vengeance by even a fraction of a second—”

  “That’s when I cut yer heart out,” Wolverine interjected with a sneer. “An’ have it bronzed.”

  “Focus on the mission, Logan, not your anger,” Cyclops ordered. “Let Magnus run off at the mouth as much as he wants—stopping Doom is what’s important here.” He glanced at Magneto, and shrugged. “Besides, he can’t help posturing—it’s his nature.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like your mentor,” the mutant overlord sniped, “although I wonder how the saintly Charles Xavier would feel about his favorite student agreeing to allow their greatest enemy the chance to murder a common foe, even for the good of the universe.” A vicious, arrogant smile twisted his lips. “Doesn’t such behavior go against the tenets of his precious Dream—that petty, saccharine-sweet vision in which all life—even that of an armored tyrant—is sacred, and man and mutant live in ever-lasting harmony? How do you think he would react, Summers?”

  Cyclops fell silent, trying to ignore the disappointed expressions of his teammates.

  “Yakyakyak,” Unuscione said angrily. “We just gonna stand around talking, or do we get around to ripping off Doom’s head and stuffing it with garlic?”

  “The latter, dear child,” said Magneto. “Most definitely the latter.” He looked around the room at his fellow conspirators. “Now, my friends, the moment is at last upon us to strike! Once Doom has fallen, this world—and everyone in it—will be changed forever!”