chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  “Sshh!” Rogue replied, her raised index finger pressed against her

  lips.

  “One of Doom’s mind readers,” Carol said, practically spitting out the words. “He’s got them stationed all over the world, running their little mental scans, taking leisurely strolls through the minds of every man, woman, and child on this planet, making sure no one’s going to try and overthrow their fearless leader.”

  “The Thought Police,” Nightcrawler murmured to Wolverine. “George Orwell would be proud.”

  Wolverine grunted. “Or Hitler.”

  “I understand how you feel, Carol,” Phoenix said. “Believe me, you’re not the first person to react so strongly to what people like I can do. But I swear to you that I’m nothing like Doom’s enforcers—a polar opposite, you might say.”

  “Right.” Carol snorted. “And your friend Ororo is really a kind, loving soul opposed to the dictatorial rule of her husband.”

  “Actually, she is,” Phoenix replied. “But that’s besides the point. What’s important right now is getting to the bottom of this whole maddening situation.”

  “And you want to go rooting around in my head to find out why I don’t know any of you—” Carol smiled slightly as she looked at the team’s costumes “—colorful folks, or where these alleged superpowers of mine might have gone to. Right?”

  “Yes,” Phoenix replied. “And that’s all I’ll be looking for. I promise I’ll avoid any part of your subconscious that you don’t want me to see.” She fell silent, then, not wanting to push her friend too hard for a decision.

  Carol stuffed her callused hands into the pockets of her prison jumper and stared at the ground for a few moments. Even without reading her thoughts, Jean could tell how hard she was wrestling with the idea of someone sifting through her mind for information. Carol took a deep breath, released it slowly between gritted teeth, and kicked at a small rock by her feet; she watched it skip across the water three times before it sank with a small splash.

  “All right,” she finally said. She wearily ran her hands through her hair, then lifted her head to lock eyes with Jean. “But if you make me start clucking like a chicken, so help me, God, I’ll rip your head off and punt it like a football.”

  Wolverine chuckled. “Now, that’s the Carol Danvers I know.” Phoenix smiled at Carol. “Deal.”

  “Okay. So, what do you need me to do?”

  “Just relax and try to clear your mind,” Jean replied. “I’ll do the rest. And I promise this won’t hurt a bit.”

  Carol closed her eyes. “That’s what my dentist used to say just as he started drilling a tooth. That was usually the exact moment when the shot of Novocain wore off.” She opened one eye to gaze evenly at Phoenix. “Having a low pain threshold tends to mean whoever’s handy gets to suffer right along with me.”

  “I’ll keep that in, er, mind,” Phoenix said.

  Carol nodded and shut her eye again.

  Reaching out with both hands, Jean lightly placed her fingertips on Carol’s temples, then closed her own eyes as well.

  “More waitin’, eh, boss?” Gambit muttered.

  “Yes, Remy,” Scott said quietly. “More waiting . . .”

  She was seated on a quilt-covered waterbed in a blue-walled, white carpeted bedroom, an issue of Tiger Beat laying open on her lap; she glanced at the article: “My Dream Date With Simon LeBon.” Sitting next to her on the bed—keeping her company, it seemed—was a collection of stuffed animals: teddy bears of varying sizes and colors, wideeyed yellow lions, a sky-blue porpoise, even a rainbow-hued unicorn. Across the room, in a comer, stood a large potted plant that looked like a miniature palm tree, but she knew that wasn’t the actual species; unfortunately, unlike Ororo, she’d always been bad with plant names. On the walls and ceiling were posters of various rock stars from the 1980s—Rick Springfield, The Thompson Twins, Duran Duran, Culture Club. Beside the bed, a small clock-radio was softly broadcasting the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This).” Early morning sunlight streamed into the room through two windows across from the bed, and the pleasant chirping of birds from the trees outside seemed to fill the room.

  As mental images went, Jean thought, it was a surprisingly original one—most people’s psyches tended to create vast, desolate landscapes of blinding sandstorms or Salvador Dali-esque shapes, or a crossroads suspended in a void, its winding paths meeting at a nexus where a sign usually stood, its infinite number of arrows pointing in an infinite number of directions, leading the traveler to whatever memories were being sought.

  The setting wasn’t a complete surprise to Jean, however; she’d been in Carol’s mind quite a few times during the course of their friendship, back when the world was sane. What always amazed Jean, though, was how well-ordered the woman kept her subconscious—no stray thoughts barging through like a bull in a china shop, no dark, menacing shapes standing just along the edge of your vision, no monsters from the id the size of mountains looking to destroy her sense of identity.

  In terms of pop psychology, this was Carol’s “happy place”—the spot she went to relax when the pressures of the world became overwhelming; in this case, happiness was found in the mental recreation of the bedroom owned by a teen-aged Carol Danvers, who had spent a good deal of her time hanging out in the real-world version while living with her parents. And considering the horrifying experiences she must have undergone while in the camp, it was a testament to the adult Carol’s sheer force of will that she hadn’t chosen to retreat into the bedroom for good and lock the door behind her.

  Speaking of doors ...

  Jean looked up from the magazine as the bedroom door opened, and the grown-up Carol entered. She was dressed in black tights, white low-topped sneakers, and a gray sweatshirt with a frayed collar; it hung on her body at an angle, exposing her right shoulder.

  Somebody’s seen Flashdance one too many times. . . Jean thought. Carol started when she realized Jean was sitting on the bed. “Hey, how did you . . . ?”

  Jean smiled. “I’ve, um, been here before.”

  Carol gestured toward Jean’s legs, which were stretched out on the comforter. “And you. thought you’d make yourself at home?”

  Jean’s smile widened, and she raised a booted leg. “My feet were killing me.” She chuckled as she caught her friend’s confused expression. “I know: in this place, we’re just psychic representations of our real selves. But right now, the real me is in a heck of a lot of pain from running around in high heels all night long.”

  Carol raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And I suppose in your profession, sensible shoes are frowned upon, right?”

  Jean shrugged pleasantly. “It’s the price one pays for looking good.” Carol snorted. “Thanks, but I don’t need to look that good.”

  Jean smiled. “You say that now ..

  “Oh, I get it,” Carol said, slowly nodding her head. “That whole ‘Super Carol’ thing you were talking about before.” Her brow furrowed. “You mean I actually dress up like a stiletto-heeled circus acrobat—no offense—and fight crime, like Wonder Man or She-Hulk?”

  “None taken,” Jean replied. “And yes, you do. Actually, you weren’t off the mark when you mentioned being able to benchpress trucks— you have incredible strength. And that’s just one of your abilities.” “You don’t say . .Carol said, clearly intrigued.

  “I do.” Jean smiled wickedly. “And when it comes to dressing up like a ‘circus acrobat,’ honey, your heels are even higher than mine. ” Carol whistled through her teeth. “Where did my dignity go . .. ?” “Care to see everything I’ve been talking about?” Jean asked. She patted the bed, beckoning Carol to join her. Her friend quickly complied.

  Instantly, the room faded away, until only the bed remained. Carol gasped in surprise and bounced across the water-filled mattress toward the center of the bed, trying to get as far away as possible from the void that had suddenly appeared beneath them.

  “Don’t worry,” Jean said soothingly. “
I’ve got everything under control.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Carol said. “Now what?”

  Jean grinned. “You like movies?”

  “I haven’t seen one in a long time, considering my previous situation,” Carol replied sourly. “But if you plan on showing me Stalag 17 or The Great Escape, I’ll have to hurt you.”

  Jean shook her head. “How about The Carol Danvers StoryT Carol wrinkled her nose in mild reluctance. “I don’t know ... I hear parts of it are kind of depressing.”

  “Ah, but this is the special widescreen edition,” Jean countered, “with never-before-seen footage and big-budget special effects.” She paused. “Well, never-before-seen by you; I’m already quite familiar with it.” .

  Carol shrugged. “So, let’s see it, then.”

  Jean smiled and dramatically waved a hand. A movie theater-sized projection screen suddenly appeared before them.

  “Not bad,” Carol commented.

  “It gets better,” Jean said. “Watch.”

  From the darkness behind them, a light began flickering, casting indistinct images on the screen.

  “Focus!” Carol yelled over her shoulder to the imaginary projectionist. Jean giggled.

  Slowly, the images took solid shape, becoming a shot of up-close faces happily staring at the “camera.” A handsome, dark-haired man in his twenties, eyes sparkling with tears, was beaming proudly. Beside him, propped up in what looked like a hospital bed, was an attractive— though exhausted—blond-haired woman, who was also crying. It was immediately clear to see where Carol had gotten her good looks.

  “That’s my mom and dad!” Carol said. She paused, and turned to Jean. “Hey, wait a minute—are you saying I can remember the day I was born?”

  “Uh-huh,” Jean replied. “It’s long been theorized by psychologists that we can recall events that far back, though, like most memories, they tend to fade away as we get older. But the subconscious retains just about everything.”

  Carol shook her head. “That’s just... freaky.”

  “I’ll speed things up—get to the good parts,” Jean said. “And I’ll shift to . . . well, I guess you could call it an ‘external camera’.”

  Carol nodded. “You mean a third-person point of view—like when I’m dreaming, and I’m watching myself doing something.”

  “Exactly.”

  The screen darkened for a moment, then was filled by an image of Carol, wearing a dark business suit, standing on New York’s Fifth Avenue, across from Central Park. Behind her stood an impressive-looking building that Jean immediately recognized as Avengers Mansion, home and headquarters of what was regarded as Earth’s greatest team of super heroes. Carol turned from the “camera” and started walking toward the building—

  And then the image was abruptly replaced by another “scene”: this one of Carol in her Air Force staff car as she drove to work one morning, happily singing off-key to Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” as it blared from the vehicle’s radio.

  Jean glanced at Carol, who was staring, transfixed, at the screen.

  “Did you see that?” she asked.

  “See what?” Carol replied. “Proof that I’m tone-deaf?”

  “No. That—that jump-cut.”

  Carol shook her head. “No.” She gestured toward the screen. “So, when do I get to see me changing the course of mighty rivers?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know . . .” Jean mumbled softly.

  As movies go, this one was poorly edited, with frames deleted in a haphazard fashion, causing scenes to end abruptly and jump to the next segment of the reel: Here was Carol at her tenth birthday party, where Robbie McDowell gave her her first kiss; here she was graduating from the Air Force academy, throwing her cap high into the air alongside her classmates; and here she was as head of security at Cape Canaveral where, Jean knew, Carol was destined to meet the alien super hero Captain Marvel—a meeting that would forever change her life.

  But that memory wasn’t there. There was no denying it, then.

  There were definitely gaps in Carol’s memory. But, more surprisingly, she didn ’t know they were there.

  “So, do I look good in spandex?” Carol asked.

  Brow furrowed, Jean turned to face her. “Hmm? Oh. Well, yes, I suppose,” she said, still distracted by what she wasn’t seeing in her scans. “Black one-piece, opera gloves, and thigh-highs. Little domino mask. Red sash around your waist.” She turned back to the screen. “The guys have always thought you looked good in it.”

  Carol giggled. “I didn’t know I could be such a tramp. ”

  Jean nodded, not really paying attention to her friend’s musings, and probed deeper. More images appeared on the screen, the speed at which they moved increasing as Jean flipped through them, in the manner of someone hurriedly thumbing through a book: a succession of lovers—some good, but most bad; vacations and spy missions and birthdays and holiday parties; Carol’s rise to captaincy; then memories of her fall from grace, and her years in the camp.

  But her experiences as Ms. Marvel? As Binary? As Warbird?

  Gone—tossed aside like a bunch of discarded frames lying on a cutting room floor. What they were seeing now was some soulless movie studio executive’s cut of The Carol Danvers Story. And its star seemed to be completely unaware of the hatchet job done to the last reel.

  Jean gritted her teeth. This was unacceptable.

  All right, she thought. One last time. Let’s try something big . . .

  As difficult as it was to force Carol to relive a traumatic experience, perhaps the shock of one might jolt her memories back into play. True, it was akin to trying to fix the reception on a television set by slapping it repeatedly with your hand until the picture settled, but Jean was running out of options. But which—

  Rogue’s attack.

  Jean hated herself just for considering it. As traumatic experiences went, it was as bad as—possibly even worse than—anything Carol had had to endure during all her time in the death camp. Jean knew that there were other bad memories lurking in the darkness behind them— a few that might even make a temporary loss of identity seem like a slap on the wrist—but not even she was willing to draw upon those.

  So, Rogue’s attack it was. Steeling herself, Jean started the “projector” again, and began searching for that bleak, rainswept night in San Francisco.

  And found nothing.

  It was a stunning revelation, to say the least. Anything that had to do with Carol’s powers, her career as a super heroine, as a member of the Avengers, as a friend of the X-Men—all gone. Replaced with false memories of an armored madman rising to power without resistance, taking Jean’s dearest friend as his wife, and lording it over the planet for an entire decade.

  Sheer insanity.

  It was as though Doom’s dream of one day conquering the Earth had been stamped onto Carol’s mind and carved into her subconscious as incontrovertible fact.

  It was also one of the most horrifying examples of psychic butchery that Jean had ever witnessed. And if this had been done to Carol, she wondered with mounting horror, did that mean the same thing had happened, not just to the super hero community in general, but to all their friends?

  To everyone on the planet?

  Jean’s eyed widened in shock. Where in heaven’s name could Doom have gotten such power ... ?

  “Well?” Carol asked.

  Jean started, roused from her musings, and, still wide-eyed, turned to face her friend. “W-what?”

  “I’m still waiting for you to show me how I look in spandex,” Carol replied. “So far, I’ve seen the stuff I already know, followed by a lot of nothing.” She waved a hand toward the projection screen that floated in front of them. “If I want to stare at a blank screen, I can always stand in front of a broken TV.”

  “I, um, ran ahead already,” Jean said quickly, and tapped her head. “It’s kind of like watching a videotape on fast-forward. There was, um, nothing else to see.” Her fingers began ne
rvously picking at the polyester threads of the comforter and she focused her gaze on the work, unable to look Carol in the eye.

  “What do you mean by ‘nothing else’?” Carol asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Just what I mean,” Jean said, still looking at her busy hands. She turned her head slightly—just enough so that her fiery mane fell forward to hide her face. “The information I was looking for wasn’t there. Maybe I was wrong about this whole thing—it wouldn’t be the first time it happened.” She stopped picking and smoothed out the comforter. “I think we’d better get back to the others before they start to worry.” “They’re not the only ones . . .” Carol said, an. edge in her voice. And with that, both women faded away, leaving the waterbed construct to float away into the troubling darkness.

  Jean and Carol snapped back to reality, gasping for air as metabolisms slowed by their shared trance suddenly kicked back into high gear.

  Cyclops placed his hands on Phoenix’s shoulders as she stumbled back a step. “You all right, hon?”

  “I’m fine, Scott,” she replied, steadying her breathing. It’s Carol we should be worried about, she added through their psychic link. Cyclops stared at her, and she quickly shook her head. Later.

  Carol moaned. “I thought you said that wasn’t gonna hurt,” she said, massaging her temples with her fingers. “I’ve had sinus headaches that felt better.”

  “Sorry,” Jean said, still avoiding eye contact. “An unexpected side-effect of the link. I ran through your memories a little too fast for your brain to keep up.”

  Carol grunted. “Seems like a whole lot of trouble just to find nothing.” She winced in obvious pain and rubbed her head with the palms of her hands. “I’ve gotta sit down for a little bit. Then we better start making plans for getting as far the hell away from here as possible—I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that somebody in town had already called for the Guardsmen once the shooting started.” Waving off any help, she wandered away to join the other freed prisoners, who were in the process of binding their former captors.

  Once their friend had gone, Phoenix quickly filled in her teammates on what her psychic scans had revealed about the absence of Carol’s powers, and her missing memories.