chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  “Oh, so now you’re a god, are you?” Captain U.K. sneered at him. “I hate to tell you this, ‘Your Almightiness,’ but the position was filled a long time a—”

  And then she was suddenly airborne, careening wildly across the promenade, to crash against a wall. There were cries and shouts from the bystanders around her, and they began running in all directions. “Well, I can’t say that that was unexpected. ..” Stanton muttered. “You will respect me, woman!” von Doom bellowed. “You will worship me—or you will die!”

  She lurched to her feet, and glared at him. “If I choose the latter, does that mean I won’t have to listen to your rubbish any more?” Standing behind von Doom, Stanton sighed, and shook his head. “Now, that wasn’t a very wise thing to say ...”

  As if in response, the armored tyrant roared, and raised a gauntleted hand at his costumed enemy.

  Leaning against the wall, Linda tensed, waiting to be thrown around again like a doll. But that didn’t happen. Instead, a circular opening appeared in the palm of von Doom’s glove—and it began to glow with the build-up of an energy charge.

  “Oh, bloody hell!” she cried.

  The first beam passed over her head as she ducked low, and then she was diving for cover. More blasts quickly followed, and the windows of shops around and behind her exploded as the accelerator energy violently separated their atoms. Patrons, visitors, and workers were sent flying, and debris rained down on the promenade as fire alarms began sounding.

  Crouched behind a sweets cart, she stabbed at her comm-link. “Central, the subject is armed—I repeat, armed—with an energy weapon! I need backup! What—?” She paused, and sneered. “No, I don’t know how he obtained one, you idiot, and I’m not about to bloody well ask him! Now, stop talking and—Damn!”

  The beam detonated the spot on the floor where she was—or just had been, if she hadn’t seen von Doom targeting her again. She took to the air, this time under her own power, and sped straight at him, hoping to knock him off his feet before he got off another shot.

  But she never reached her objective. Because with a simple flick of von Doom’s wrist, she suddenly found herself outside the citadel—and hurtling through the swirling, destructive currents of the space/time vortex.

  “Oh, my God . . .” she whispered—and then she was swept away.

  “At last, all the players have been gathered together, and our drama nears its final act.”

  The Red Skull looked about the room, obviously quite pleased with what he saw. Enveloped in a golden glow, suspended a few inches above the carpeted floor of his office, was a group of costumed men and women, most of whom Leonard did not recognize—not counting the redheaded Phoenix, of course. The rest, he figured, must be other members of the X-Men, although he found it hard to believe that its roster would include a middle-aged bald guy and someone who looked old enough to be his grandfather.

  But it was not just the X-Men who were gathered in this office. Scattered across the floor, like discarded rag dolls, were a collection of unconscious variants of the mutants—including one that could only be Reichsmajor Sommers himself—that joined the two alternates that had been tom away from Phoenix. Did every mutant have an extra body or two they carried around inside them?

  The only group member who apparently didn’t have a duplicate was somebody named “Gambit,” although, according to the identification found on him, the uniform he wore belonged to a worker named Remy Lebeau, who was a clerk at Kaltenbrunner Spaceport in New York. The Skull had mentioned something about being unable to separate the X-Man from the lowly clerk, but had then moved on.

  There were two more costumed women, both as attractive as Phoenix. (Was every female mutant as good-looking as these three? If so,

  Leonard reflected, he might have to change his opinion of them as a whole.) One was white, with a skunk-like streak through her brown hair, wearing a green-and-yellow bodysuit decorated with an “X” on the left breast, yellow boots and gloves, and a beaten-up leather bomber jacket. The other was African, with a mane of white hair that fell to her waist, and who possessed no discemable pupils in her eyes—the sockets were filled with a disturbing, overall whiteness. She wore a shoulderless black leather outfit, with a pair of immense pieces of material joined loosely to the sleeves; they almost looked like wings. “Rogue” and “Storm,” respectively, the Skull had called the women.

  Beside the black woman was something that looked like an honest-to-God blue-skinned demon, complete with fangs and pointed tail and ears. Leonard recognized him as “Nightcrawler,” one of the members of Lightning Force. But since no one else from the team was present, he assumed it meant that, in the “real”;world, the German-born mutant lived among others of his kind. It made sense—a lot more than the notion that a subhuman like Kurt Wagner would be trusted to work alongside his genetic superiors.

  Next to Nightcrawler was a short, thuggish-looking guy in his forties, wearing a yellow-and-blue costume with a ridiculously large set of points jutting up from the sides of his mask. “Wolverine,” the Skull had called him, and Leonard could understand the reference: the guy certainly looked hairy enough—and mean enough—to be mistaken for a wild animal.

  Then there was “Cyclops.” His dark Nazi uniform replaced by more colorful blue and yellow spandex, it was difficult for Leonard to see just how anyone could have overlooked the man’s mutant nature—the visor covering his eyes should have been a clue, considering he never took it off. From the worried glance Phoenix had given him when he materialized beside her, Leonard imagined they must be a couple, maybe even married. The thought of intimacy between freaks—even ones as handsome as these two—made the young Nazi a little queasy.

  Or was that jealous, because he could see just how deeply in love they were?

  On the other side of Rogue was Gambit. Except for Rogue, the other mutants had acted like they’d seen a ghost when he’d first appeared, teleported to the castle like the rest of them via the Cosmic Cube. Why they should have had that reaction was unclear, and the Skull hadn’t seemed particularly interested in pursuing the subject.

  The baldheaded man in the dark business suit was Professor Xavier—Leonard had seen him on the viewscreen during the Skull’s video teleconference with Lady Viper. He also remembered him as the idiot who’d tried to stop the Skull from stealing the Cube, back when the white-haired septuagenarian next to him—Magneto—had possessed it.

  Magneto. Shouldn’t he be dead by now? Leonard wondered. He’d seen with his own eyes how deeply the Skull had rammed his obsidian blade into the mutant overlord’s chest when he made his play for the Cube. Had seen how much blood had poured from the wound; had heard him take his last breaths. And yet, there he floated, healthy once more, looking quite formidable in his maroon-and-purple outfit, light playing off the gleaming metal of his gladiator-style helmet.

  But why should he be so healthy? Did the Skull always let his enemies go on living, even when they were at death’s door? Wouldn’t it just be easier to let them die, so they wouldn’t have a chance to strike back at him later?

  Perhaps, Leonard reflected, that was why the Skull had always been defeated in the past. That overriding sense of vanity the man possessed; that illogical need to crow of his triumphs to his enemies, to let them know he could kill them if he wanted to—it had always been the cause of his downfall. Perhaps it would be again.

  And would that be such a bad thing if it did? Leonard had to admit it: he’d had his fill of death and misery. He had seen what a world controlled by the followers of Adolf Hitler would be like, and it was nothing like the fanciful visions he’d created in his mind of all-powerful Master Race leading mankind into a new Golden Age. No, this was a miserable, dark, horrifying place, filled with suffering and torture, despair and anguish, human monsters and madmen who imagined themselves the saviors of their race, and—

  And now, he just wanted things to go back to the way they’d been . . .

  “All right, Skull,” Cyclops sa
id. “You’ve brought us all together—now what?”

  “Now, mutant,” the Skull replied, “you give to me the knowledge of this ‘Starlight Citadel’ your lovely wife was good enough to provide.” He reached out a gloved hand and caressed Jean’s cheek. Her lips drew back in disgust. “Each of you has retained a tiny portion of the power used to transport you back to Earth. By wresting them from your minds, I will be able to retrace the route you traveled, and lay the foundation for a new empire—one that will stretch from the dawn of Creation, to the end of time itself, and across infinity!”

  “And humans say I have delusions of grandeur,” Magneto commented drolly.

  “Silence, Jew!” the Skull barked. He stomped over to his longtime rival for world domination. “I know not why you arrived here with the others—perhaps the Cube recognized your taint from when you held it, and summoned you—but, in a way, I am pleased. For now you shall bear witness to the moment when the Red Skull threw off his Earthly bonds, and began his ascendancy to godhood!”

  With a triumphant grin, he put out his hand—and the Cosmic Cube suddenly appeared.

  “The Cube...” Magneto said in hushed tones. His eyes glittered with desire.

  “This cannot be good . ..” Storm commented.

  “Uh-huh. I t’ink we in for a world o’ hurtin’ now, mon braves,” Gambit said.

  “Oh, yes,” the Skull replied. He placed both hands around it, coveting his hard-won prize. His eyes began to glow with a harsh light. “Yes, you are....”

  20

  [jl HIS IS ridiculous.”

  ; It hadn’t taken Sat-yr-nin long to realize she was never going

  1 I to locate von Doom in this ... whatever it was—wasteland, limbo, cosmic storage facility that lay beyond Roma’s bed chamber. It might look like a flat, unbroken plain, but she could swear she’d been cresting hills and descending into valleys during her journey—either she was imaging things, or the true design of the landscape was undetectable by the naked eye.

  Eventually, she gave up the search, and started looking for an exit. She’d noticed how her skin began to tingle when she walked in a particular direction; it grew stronger the farther she advanced. The sensation was akin to the one she’d experienced when she passed through the door leading from the Guardian’s chambers—therefore, it stood to reason that the pins-and-needles effect was an indication that she was getting closer to her point of entry.

  The journey back went a great deal faster and easier than the one going out, now that she had a guide of sorts to direct her. In not time at all—or what felt like it as she walked through this blank-featured neverland—she had located the doorway.

  As she gripped the knob and turned it, an idea came to mind. Perhaps chasing after her errant ally had been the wrong way to approach confronting him about the Cube. She was the Mastrex of an empire, after all—armored imbeciles like the self-proclaimed “Doctor” Doom should be seeking her counsel, not the other way around. Let him come to her when he had finished doing whatever it was he was doing back there in limbo. She would wait for him in the throne room—to test out the fit of the high-backed chair, and maybe even think of a truly inventive way to kill him . . . before he had a chance to kill her.

  Sat-yr-nin grinned wickedly and opened the door. Alliances were such fleeting things, she thought—especially when neither party could be trusted . ..

  So focused was she on her plans for revenge that she never realized someone was standing just to one side of the door in the Guardian’s apartment—until something cracked against her skull, plunging her into darkness.

  For Betsy and Warren, finding their way from Merlyn’s pocket dimension back to the Roma’s apartment was a simple task. All it required was another trip through the shadow realm, with a small power boost from Roma to allow them passage through the transduction barrier that kept the featureless landscape from coming into direct contact with the citadel—for safety reasons, she had explained.

  Before they’d departed, Betsy gave a brief account of her encounter with the mind-controlled Alecto, and the damage that had been done to Roma’s belongings. She’d just wanted to prepare the Guardian for what she was going to see when they got there, and Roma said that she understood, But when they stepped from the portal Betsy had created, they were greeted by a sight none of them could have prepared for.

  There were two Satumynes in the room.

  Both were attired in the same flowing white robes; both possessed a fine mane of snow-white hair. The sole difference between them came from the fact that one was wide awake and free to witness the arrival of the X-Men and their celestial charge, while the other was unconscious, bound and gagged with strips of tom bed sheets, and tossed onto a pile of large throw pillows on the floor.

  Roma looked stunned. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked angrily.

  The version of the Majestrix still standing looked equally surprised by the sudden appearance of the trio. She dropped to one knee, and inclined her head. “Forgive me, m’lady. I wouldn’t have normally barged in, unannounced, like this, but knowing that your life was in danger—”

  The Guardian’s stem expression faded, replaced by a gentle smile. “Satumyne? Is it really you, my friend?”

  The Majestrix raised her head. “Yes, m’lady. I apologize for not getting here sooner, but I was unavoidably detained by . ..” She gestured toward her restrained surrogate. “Well, you can see for yourself.”

  “Indeed,” the Guardian said, and gestured for Her Whyness to stand

  up. Roma walked over to her lieutenant and gently placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “I am pleased to know you are well, my friend.” Satumyne seemed genuinely touched by the Guardian’s sentiment. “Thank you, m’lady,” she said. It was one of the few times Betsy could ever recall seeing the woman smile.

  “Come,” Roma said to them all. “We must away to the throne room.”

  Warren pointed to Sat-yr-nin, who moaned softly through the folds of her thick gag. “What about her?”

  “She’ll keep—until she can be placed back in stasis,” Her Whyness replied with a malicious smile. She turned to Roma, and the smile immediately evaporated. “Umm ... about the tom sheets, m’lady—” “There are greater concerns this day, Satumyne,” the Guardian replied.

  “Indeed,” the Majestrix said, nodding in agreement.

  With a final glance at the prisoner, and a quick check of Alecto— who was still sleeping off his rather violent encounter with Betsy’s psi-blade—they hurried to the throne room ... in time to meet von Doom and Stanton as they entered from the hallway.

  Warren sighed. “Is this guy like a bad penny, or what?”

  “You are too late, woman!” the tyrant shouted triumphantly to Roma as he ascended the throne. “Doom has won! And there is nothing that you, or anyone else, can do to stop him from laying claim to his destiny—to rale infinity!”

  And that was the moment, as fate would have it, when what could only be described as a multi-dimensional missile streaked into the east wing of the citadel, and exploded.

  The structure tilted crazily as the projectile continued through level after level, room after room. Artificial gravity cut off, and the vacuum rushed in to fill the hole created by the impact. Hundreds of residents and visitors were sucked into the vortex, never to be seen again.

  And matters were only going to become worse.

  In the throne room, everyone but Roma and von Doom were thrown to the floor by the explosion. Alarms sounded, and the shadow creatures that lived in the depths of the chamber began screaming in agony.

  “A reality breach!” Satumyne cried. “M’lady—”

  “Yes, Satumyne—I know,” Roma said.

  “I don’t,” Warren commented. “What does it mean?”

  “It means the citadel has been opened to the vortex,” Satumyne explained curtly. “It means the transduction barriers protecting us from the forces of time and space have fallen, and the temporal energies now threate
n to rip us all apart, if the damage is not repaired.”

  Warren blew out a sharp breath. “Man, things just keep going from bad to worse around here, don’t they ...?’’

  “What is this?” von Doom roared as the citadel continued to shudder. He pointed an accusatory finger at Roma. “What have you done, woman?”

  “I have done nothing,” the Guardian answered. “But I fear we may learn the cause of this disaster soon enough.”

  And then, as if on cue, the floor of the throne room erupted, and the projectile finally came to rest. The chamber filled with smoke, and the burnt, ozone-tinged stench of spent energies. Betsy coughed violently: her eyes watered, her lungs were burning. But through the choking haze she could see a figure moving about—one clad in gleaming armor.

  But it wasn’t von Doom.

  “I have arrived! ” the figure proclaimed, stepping from the smoke. And as he moved into the light of the chamber, his identity became clear to all.

  “The Red Skull...” Warren said hoarsely.

  Staring in wide-eyed horror at the scarlet-hued death’s-head that cackled madly before her, and the Cosmic Cube that he clutched tightly in one hand, only one thought came to Betsy’s mind: “This is very bad...

  21

  DIS IS bad, people—real bad!”

  No truer words could have spoken, Jean thought, even if they _ did come with a heavy Cajun accent.

  The ground bucked and heaved, like a bull released from its pen at a rodeo, and all the X-Men could do was lie flat on the office floor and try to ride it out. Anything not bolted down—which meant just about every piece of furniture and decoration—tumbled and twisted, bounced and bumped around and against the group, eliciting a variety of groans, gasps, and colorful expletives from the heroes as each object made contact.

  Well, Jean thought as she dodged a marble statue of Winged Victory that ricocheted past her head, in a strange way, as bad as things may be, it certainly beats having someone digging around inside your brain. . .

  The Skull had squeezed the last bits of information about the citadel from his prisoners, leaving them too weak to do anything more than hang limply in the Cube-generated field that suspended them in the air. The process had been especially hard on Xavier, who, like Jean, had initially struggled to keep the Skull from invading his mind. But the grotesque villain would not be denied; in time, the professor, too, surrendered his piece of the puzzle.