chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  It turned out to be a combination of both. Arriving at a clearing in the jungle-decorated landscape of Worthington’s subconscious, Betsy had been confronted by a representation of the Great Wall of China— or, at the very least, something close to it. After spending some time examining it, Betsy realized that the barrier must have been the method by which Magneto ensured the “cooperation” of the populace, using the Cube to enhance his limited psychic powers so that he could reconfigure his subjects’ thoughts in such a way that they would never question his authority. A clever application of cosmic power—as long as Magneto possessed the Cube, humanity and mutantkind would continue to live harmoniously—but it was still wrong, no matter how well-intentioned his motives. Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to let a bunch of psychic building blocks keep her from reaching Warren—not when she was so close.

  Focusing her mental powers, Betsy created a sword that she used to attack the barrier, slicing away huge chunks of mortar and stone; in a short amount of time, she had carved out an opening. But before she could step through it, before she had a chance to be reunited with the man who meant so much to her she had been willing to risk her very soul for an opportunity to hold him just one more time, the blocks around her had collapsed. One struck her across the head, sending her tumbling into darkness . . .

  A pinpoint of light shone through the blackness, the beam striking Betsy in the left eye. She winced and turned her head to the side—as much as the stone holding it down would allow, that is.

  “Betsy?” the voice called out—and she remembered.

  “Warren . . .” she whispered, suddenly afraid for some reason that, if she spoke his name too loudly, he might disappear, this time forever. Or maybe it was just that she still couldn’t believe it was really him.

  As more bricks were shoved aside, the pinpoint became a beam, became a widening shaft of blinding luminosity so brilliant Betsy was forced to squeeze her eyes tightly shut, her light-sensitive pupils seeking protection in the artificial.darkness. And then she felt a hand brush the side of her face, fingertips delicately stroking her cheek to sweep away dust and grit and suddenly welling tears. Her skin tingled from the familiar touch, and a small, pleasurable gasp escaped her lips.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. Kneeling beside her, shoulder-length blond hair rimmed by the last rays of a tropical sunset, giving the impression that his head was wreathed in a halo, bright wings spread wide behind him, was an azure-skinned angel. He looked much the same way she remembered him from just before the world had literally turned inside-out under the influence of the Cosmic Cube: ruggedly handsome features and powerful body, attired in the dark slacks, blue polo shirt, and brown leather casual shoes he’d put on for their aborted night out at the movies. The very man whose brutal death she’d crossed time and space to avenge, risking annihilation every step along the way, only to discover—quite happily—that she’d never really lost him at all.

  “Warren. ..” Betsy sighed, and an easy smile came to her lips— the first true smile she’d had in she couldn’t remember how long.

  “Hey, Betts,” he said softly. He pointed to the destruction around them, and smiled slyly. “I always said you were good at bringing the house down.”

  She laughed—perhaps a bit too shrilly, but, given the circumstances, quite understandable—never before so grateful in all her life to hear one of his poor attempts at a pun.

  He helped her to her feet, supporting her weight as she stepped from the mound of rubble, then led her to an uncluttered spot in the jungle clearing. Together, they sank down onto the rich soil, and Betsy threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss that lasted only moments but felt like an eternity, thrilling to the electricity that coursed through her body at his touch. And when at last they drew apart, Betsy silently vowed that nothing would ever separate them again—not even death ... if it were in her power.

  If it were in her power. A bold thought, she considered, as she lay on the grass, gazing at the sky. The sort of empowering statement one tended to voice when facing overwhelming odds, or vowing to avenge a death, although she tended to shy away from making such melodramatic speeches—they always sounded so disgustingly pretentious, unless they were coming from Professor Xavier. Still, she had to admit, there was some comfort in the thought that not even death could distance her from Warren ever again . . . although, when one examined the statement, it really only meant that she was willing to die beside him.

  Such thoughts, however, were quickly forgotten as Betsy stared at the brilliant sky, her eyes slowly widening in surprise.

  There was something wrong with the color. It was a subtle change, one that required a second glance before it became apparent that the vibrant blue that had been there a moment ago had suddenly paled. The clouds, too, seemed strange—they had thinned dramatically, the whites now tinged with a dirty gray tone.

  She sat up, and gazed at the jungle around them. Here, too, the colors looked washed-out, leaves and trees and grass all spotted with the same gray tint that darkened the clouds. The bright greens and reds and purples had faded to ghostly shades, and as she watched, some of the plants began to turn an ugly brown.

  The land was dying.

  Lying beside her, Warren turned to face her. From the concerned expression that quickly darkened his features, it was obvious he could tell something was bothering her.

  “We should go,” she said before he could voice the question, and rose to her feet. “Now.”

  They walked quickly back through the jungle, Betsy filling Warren in as best she could, bringing him up to date on the events of Magneto’s world before she had confronted his doppelganger. To say Warren was surprised by the accomplishments of Magneto the peacemaker would be an understatement, considering all the times the X-Men had almost been killed by the mutant overlord over the years. Hearing that their teammates were still alive in this new reality eased his fears considerably, but knowing that they were now dedicated followers of their greatest enemy only created new worries for him, especially when Betsy recounted her confrontation with the X-Men, and Xavier’s subsequent capture.

  Unfortunately, Betsy could do nothing to comfort him, for she had greater concerns at the moment—namely, watching the slow dissolution of the mental landscape in which they walked. Warren hadn’t noticed it, still couldn’t even after she had pointed it out to him, most likely because he lacked the sort of telepathic abilities that made her more aware of changes on the psychic plane. But she had no such trouble seeing the transformation, or realizing what it meant as the jungle turned ashen, the grass turned to dust, and the South Pacific horizon became an indistinct band of pale hues and muddy browns.

  They needed to find a way out of the other Worthington’s mind— and soon.

  They found Worthington exactly where Betsy had left him before setting out on her journey to locate Warren: He was sprawled on his back, wings spread wide beneath him, laying motionless on the beach that formed the edge of the dreamscape. Just beyond the beige sands, waves gently lapped against the shoreline, while a flock of off-white gulls soared in graceful figure-eights above the gray-blue water.

  Warren slowed, turning in a slow circle to admire the view. His gaze fastened on the dormant peak of a volcano rising high above the jungle from which they had just emerged. “That’s Mt. Pindalayo, isn’t it?”

  Betsy nodded. “I imagine this is where he goes to ‘get away from it all’ when the pressures of the day become too great.”

  Warren shrugged. “Well, I can’t fault the guy’s tastes. It’s the same place I think of when I need to relax.”

  “No,” she replied with a frown, “but I can certainly fault him for having the temerity to snatch your . . . body . . .” Her voice trailed off as she gazed at Worthington; even at a distance, she could tell something was wrong. True, he had suffered a fair degree of psychic trauma when Betsy had bulled her way into his mind, but he should have recovered by now, should at least be sitting up ins
tead of looking so motionless. So still.

  So . . . transparent?

  Without pausing to explain the situation to Warren, she charged across the beach toward his duplicate. Her progress was slowed by the loose sand, stockinged feet sinking past the ankle as she forced her way through the dreamscape. Each step sent up a small plume of beige-colored grit that stuck to her dark-blue latex outfit and lavender hair like a sprinkling of pixie dust, but eventually she reached her goal.

  She dropped to her knees beside Worthington, her worst fears confirmed by the evidence before her. His eyes were wide, irises shrunken to mere pinpoints against the sclera, a fine dusting of sand turning the once-brilliant whites a dingy brown. His mouth was frozen in a silent scream, his hair a wild tangle of blond locks. But it wasn’t the death mask replacing his once-handsome features that chilled her to the bone—it was the fact that she could see through him.

  Like the landscape around them, Worthington was fading away. And once he was gone, any chance of escape would fade with him.

  And she and Warren would be trapped in the mind of a dead man.

  She knew, now, what must have happened. In her zeal, her blinding obsession, to free Warren from the psychic prison that had separated them for so long, she had attacked Worthington’s mind with the full force of her mental abilities, without giving any thought as to what effects such an assault might have on the man. She’d broken down the barrier, yes, freed Warren, true, but more than that, she’d broken Worthington’s mind.

  “Oh, God . ..” she muttered.

  There was a flutter of wings from above, and the sound of shoes touching down on the sand beside her. “Betts?” Warren asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Betsy felt numb. How could she tell him? How could she admit to him that this man—who had never done anything to harm her, who had never meant to harm her, who had simply had the misfortune to be an exact duplicate of her greatest love, thought lost forever—had been psychically ruined by her own hand?

  Slowly, she rose to her feet, the words coming hard to her lips. “He’s . . . dying, Warren.” She turned to him, mouth moving soundlessly for a few moments before she was able to regain her voice. “I... I didn’t mean ... I didn’t want this to happen ...”

  He stepped forward, gently wrapping his arms around her. Betsy pressed her face tightly against his chest, finding comfort in the strength of his touch, the warmth of his body. He reached up to stroke her hair. “I know, Betts,” he said soothingly. “I know ...”

  He fell silent, allowing her time to deal with her grief, letting her hot tears soak into his shirt. Of course he knew; of course he understood, she realized. They’d been through so much, both separately and together, as individuals and as X-Men, risking their lives on a daily basis. Always living with the uncertainty of whether they’d ever see each other again, dreading the day when one of them wouldn’t be coming home— fearing that it might be Warren, dreading that it might be her ...

  Not so long ago, she suddenly realized, she had uttered those very sentiments to Scott Summers—the X-Men’s field leader, Cyclops— when he had been willing to give up his life in order to shut down the

  Cosmic Cube. Betsy had pointed out that he and Jean had given so much of themselves over the years that it was about time someone else had a go at it, that someone else should take the point while they enjoyed what little time they had together between missions. In actuality, Betsy had been talking about Warren and herself, but she hadn’t quite come to realize it yet—not until this very moment. Before she had joined the X-Men, she’d never thought herself capable of giving so much of herself to anyone, or of caring so much for anyone that she’d be willing to make such a sacrifice. But now ...

  Was that how Jean and Scott felt for one another? she wondered. If so, then she had finally found such a love in the person of Warren Worthington III. He knew her. Understood her. Accepted her for what she was, who she was, without question, even in her darkest moments.

  How had she ever become so blessed as to have him in her life?

  “Umm ... Betts?”

  “Yes .',.?” she answered hoarsely.

  “There’s something I’m not quite understanding,” he said. “If my double was—is—a creation of Magneto’s, something he dreamed up with the Cosmic Cube, like the TV-star twin he made of you... well ... how can you be sure he really existed in the first place?”

  Now it was Betsy’s turn to have trouble comprehending. “What do you mean?”

  Warren stepped back to look into her eyes. “Well, if Worthington didn’t really exist, how could you kill somebody who wasn’t living to begin with?” He pressed on before she could answer. “I mean, you said it yourself: he borrowed my body. So that would lead me to believe that Magneto used the Cube to shove me to the back of my own mind and stick in a replacement personality that would be more in line with the world he’s fashioned.”

  Betsy hesitated. In a way, it made sense, if she considered the hollowed-out appearance of Worthington—reestablishing Warren as the primary personality would cause the other to dissipate. But if that were true, then it would mean that the same psychic “overhaul” had been performed on her as well, when von Doom possessed the Cube; it would certainly account for why another set of memories—a lifetime’s worth of experiences in a world controlled by Doctor Doom—were still floating around her subconscious. They were as much mental constructs as Worthington.

  And then another thought struck her: If she and Warren had been “reimagined” by von Doom, then it was possible that it had been yet another duplicate who had died at Magneto’s hands ...

  “And that leads to my next question,” Warren said, interrupting her train of thought. “If my . . . double is dying, then his brain will die too, right?”

  Betsy paused, unsure of where he was going with this. “Yes . ..” she said slowly. “Once the body dies, the brain continues to function for a short while, but eventually it shuts down as well.”

  Warren nodded, as though expecting that answer. He gestured at the environment. “Well, if his brain is dying, they why are we still in his dreamscape?”

  For a moment, Betsy’s mind blanked; then her eyes widened in surprise. “Of course! The passage of time is subjective on the psychic plane—it feels as though we’ve been here for days, but in the real world, only minutes may have passed. His brain functions haven’t ceased yet!” Smiling brightly, she stood on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Warren, my love, I do believe you’ve found us a way out of here!” “Glad to be of service, ma’am,” he replied in an easy drawl. He looked past her, to the body of his duplicate, and his smile faded. “But how do we find the door?”

  Betsy turned to follow his gaze. “I have an idea...” she said uneasily.

  She again knelt beside Worthington, forcing herself to not look into those lifeless eyes. She gestured for Warren to join her, took several deep breaths to calm her nerves, then nodded to herself when she felt ready to continue. “All right, here’s the plan: I’m going to ‘hardwire’ your consciousness to his body, allowing you to have control over it. Once that’s accomplished, we’ll have to reestablish a psychic connection with my body so I can get back where I belong—since I can’t ‘feel’ myself, I’d imagine the link was broken when . . . Worthington collapsed.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Warren replied. “How do we start?”

  Betsy closed her eyes and reached deep inside herself, summoning the full strength of her mental abilities. As she opened her eyes, she channeled the power into her hands, to form a pair of rose-tinged daggers of pure psychic energy. She placed the point of one just above Worthington’s forehead, then positioned the other in front of Warren’s. “Well, this is gonna hurt,” Warren muttered.

  “I know it will,” Betsy said, “but we’ve no other options.” She glanced at him. “Trust me.”

  A warm smile lit Warren’s features, and he reached out a hand to stroke her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “No one else I�
�d trust more,” he said gently. “Let’s do it. We’ve got a universe to save, after all.”

  Betsy nodded. “Contact,” she said, and plunged both daggers into their targets.

  Two pair of eyes gazed out through Worthington’s orbs as his body suddenly lurched into motion, arms and legs jerking spasmodically for a few moments as its new owners became acclimated to controlling its movements. With a start, the body slowly rose to a sitting position as its heart began pumping anew, warming flesh that had started to grow cold.

  Inside, Betsy did her best to keep her mind at the job at hand, and not dwell on the fact that she was sharing mental and physical space with this man—a loss of concentration at this stage would more than likely result in both Warren and her becoming trapped in Worthington’s mind when it finally shut down. And that would mean spending eternity in darkness, forever falling in shadow until madness claimed them both.

  Kinda cramped in here, wouldn’t you say, hon? Warren asked, startling her. I mean, two minds in one brain—not exactly a lot of mental elbowroom, if you catch my drift.

  Oh. Yes. Sorry, she replied. I’ll try to be quick.

  Betsy shook his/her head, dispelling her troubling thoughts, and gazed at their surroundings. She was back in the third-floor apartment Worthington owned on the Left Bank of Paris, France, near the intersection of Rue de l’Universite and Rue des Saints Peres, just a few blocks from the Seine River. Its decor was bachelor-like in its choice of furnishings—expensive “toys” like a fully stocked home entertainment center set against priceless objets de art that were scattered around the living room—though Worthington was, at least in this reality, married to a duplicate of Betsy. A low whistle slipped through Worthington’s lips; Betsy sensed Warren’s admiration for his twin’s tastes— apparently, playboy millionaires were all alike across the multiverse, no matter how different their environments.