chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  Linda’s teammate was a bear of a man, his bare chest and arms covered with a matting of hair that curled around the edges of his white gauntlets and the stylized “X” formed across his pectorals and over his shoulders by the arms of the Union Jack. The bottom half of his face was exposed beneath the mask he wore, although it was hard to tell at a distance, considering his jawline was hidden beneath a thick, brown beard and mustache. Though she didn’t know him all that well, Betsy knew he was Captain England from another of the multitudes of Earth; it was difficult to keep them all straight. He clearly required no assistance in handling the weight of von Doom’s armor, yet he politely allowed Linda to help him lower the tyrant to the floor.

  Xavier ordered his hoverchair forward, placing himself between his student and her victim. “I empathize with your situation, Elisabeth— your anger, your sense of loss—but such actions will not be tolerated, for any reason.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not place me in a position where I would be forced to shut down your powers—and you know I am quite capable of doing that.”

  Eyes closed, Betsy slowly massaged her temples, head still aching from the psychic blast. “My TK powers, perhaps, but not the abilities I acquired from the Crimson Dawn.” She opened her eyes, and immediately saw the stem look on her mentor’s face. “Not that that was meant as a challenge, Professor,” she added coolly. “Merely a statement of fact.”

  Xavier frowned, then turned his chair toward von Doom. The tyrant lay on the floor of the chamber, wheezing hoarsely with each breath. Wisps of snow-white hair were plastered across his deeply creased face, soaked in sweat that had beaded across his forehead and poured down in rivulets to the collar of his armor. Beside him knelt Captain U.K., gloved fingertips lightly touching the carotid artery in his neck.

  “What’s his condition?” Xavier asked.

  “Not good,” said the Captain. “His pulse is erratic, breathing is shallow. From what I’ve been overhearing, his body was already starting to break down as a result of the Cube’s influence.” She cast a withering glare at Betsy. “That mental attack only made things worse. He needs immediate medical attention.”

  “Take him to the infirmary on Level 492,” Roma commanded. “Have the physicians stabilize his cellular and psychic damage, and then post guards outside his door. Severely aged though this one may be, the Victor von Doom of any reality is neither a man to be trusted, nor left to his own devices. He is not to leave the infirmary without a direct order from myself or the Majestrix.”

  “Understood, Supreme Guardian,” both Captains responded.

  “Then, go. I shall speak with him once he has sufficiently recovered.” Roma waved a delicate hand at them. They and their charge vanished in a burst of light, presumably teleported to the medical center by the Guardian’s immeasurable power.

  “M’lady,” Satumyne said. “The crystal. . .”

  Roma gazed at her lieutenant for a moment, then slowly nodded; she suddenly looked extremely fatigued to Betsy. “Yes, Satumyne. I have not forgotten.” She turned to Betsy. “Elisabeth, I ask that once you and the Professor have drawn up your ‘new plan of attack,’ as it were, you both join me in the throne room. But do not take too long in doing so. Cliched though the saying may be, time truly is of the utmost importance . . . and it is running out for your world.” She paused. “For all of us.”

  “I understand, Roma,” Betsy said solemnly.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Xavier said. He turned a heated gaze toward his former headmistress. We shall discuss your reckless behavior another time, Elisabeth, he warned her telepathically. For now, though, take some time to rest. We have a great deal of work ahead of us.

  Yes, Professor, Betsy thought sullenly. Head bowed, she watched Xavier follow Roma from the room. The coterie of Captain Britains fell in step behind them, and soon Betsy was left alone with her thoughts . .. and Satumyne.

  “So . . . did you learn anything?” Her Whyness asked.

  “Not much,” Betsy admitted. “Nothing helpful to our problem, at least. . . Doom really doesn’t know what’s wrong with the Cube. But I did find out why he brought me along.” She slowly shook her head in bemusement. “A crazy idea, really.”

  “And that would be ... ?” Satumyne prompted.

  “Well, his transmat beam was aimed at his castle in upstate New York. He was planning to use the time platform he keeps there to send me back to prevent Magneto from getting his hands on the Cube.” Satumyne grunted, her perfect teeth gnashing loudly. “Oh, you fools and your notions of time travel!” she bellowed. “When will the people of your dimension come to realize that, when you try to affect past events, you don’t change your present, you only create a divergent timeline. You have no idea how mind-numbingly tiresome it becomes policing every new reality that’s created because someone tried to go back and prevent John F. Kennedy’s assassination, or because they wanted to warn the captain of the Titanic to watch out for icebergs.” Satumyne paused, then glanced sideways at the Asian mutant. “Do you have any understanding of what I was just saying, Braddock?”

  “I’m not an imbecile, you bleached-blond cow, despite what Doom might say to the contrary,” Betsy sniped playfully. She smiled broadly. “I saw Back to the Future 2. I know what you’re talking about.”

  The Majestrix sighed. “You’re as frustratingly obtuse as your brother, Elisabeth.”

  Betsy turned her nose up at her chic adversary, imitating Satumyne’s haughty attitude. “Sticks and stones, old girl. You’re really just angry because having me around reminds you of all the times Brian refused to sleep with you . . . which, if memory serves me right, was about as numerous as the ways in which you threw yourself at him.” Satumyne frowned. “You are aware that I absolutely loathe you.” “And I, you. With every fiber of my being.” Betsy smiled.

  The Majestrix nodded. “All right. Just so we’re clear on that point.” She gazed at Betsy’s disheveled appearance, and wrinkled her nose. “Well, the best thing to do now is make you look somewhat more presentable for your meeting with m’lady in the ‘morning.’ Sleep would be a good start; I’ll escort you to one of the chambers formally occupied by a member of your group. After that...” Satumyne shrugged and smiled beatifically. “Well, let’s just say I’ll keep you in my prayers tonight.” She gestured toward the doorway. “Follow me.” Without waiting for a response, Satumyne turned on her heel and strode past her, into the adjoining corridor.

  Delicately grasping the folds of her evening gown between her index fingers and thumbs, Betsy politely curtsied. “Why, thank you, Your Whyness,” she said happily.

  Your Whyness. Not for the first time, she wondered about the origins of that ridiculous-sounding title. She had asked about it, though, and why it applied equally to a man as much as a woman—it’s just that no one seemed willing to give her an answer. Satumyne had simply turned up her nose on the last occasion the question had been put to her and walked away—one of those cases, Betsy had assumed, where, if you had to ask, you simply weren’t part of the right social circles. And Brian had been no help whatsoever because he’d never given it a moment’s thought; but then, that was Brian—he’d never really been one for details. However, based upon her dealings with the Majestrix, the sole conclusion Betsy had been able to reach was that the title must be given to only the most conceited members of Roma’s staff—if so, Satumyne was more than qualified for the position. Betsy shrugged. Titles had never impressed her, but it probably looked quite impressive on a resume . . .

  “Are you coming, Braddock?” Satumyne called back from the hallway. “Some of us do have more important things to do, you know.”

  “Egotistical cow,” Betsy muttered, and grinned.

  Holding her head high, determined to look every bit the manor-bom English lady that she was, Betsy set off, ready and eager to engage in another battle of wits with her guide. It was childish behavior, she knew, but she always enjoyed seeing the bright shade of red that painted Satumyne’s cheeks when the right button
s were pushed. . . .

  One hundred levels below the women, in the medical wing of the citadel, the former emperor of Earth 616 and his guards materialized to find a battery of physicians awaiting their arrival. The infirmary was roughly the length and width of an aircraft hanger, with rows of empty beds stretching off in all directions as far as the eye could see. Captain U.K. had been here only once before, when she and Brian Braddock were recuperating from injuries received during the chaos created by “Mad” Jim Jaspers, in the days following the annihilation of Dimension 238. She wrinkled her nose in disgust—the place still smelt heavily of antiseptics and pine-scented cleaning solutions.

  “Who’s in charge?” she asked the men, women, and various creatures assembled before her.

  “I imagine that would be me, young lady,” answered a smallish, wide-eyed man wearing green surgical scrubs and gray, checkered pants, his voice tinged with an unmistakable Scottish burr. “I’m the Chief Physician.” He gestured toward a diagnostic table. “If you’d be so kind as to place the patient on the bed, we can start treatment immediately.” Scooping von Doom into his arms, Captain England carried the tyrant to the bed and placed him on the soft mattress. The weight of the despot’s body immediately activated sensors in the table that began monitoring von Doom’s vital signs. The doctor watched the readouts for a few moments, then pinched his lower lip between thumb and index finger and nodded slowly.

  “Yeessss . . .” he muttered. “Very interesting.” He turned to a tall, balding, stem-faced man who was watching him with a measure of disdain—it seemed that, even at the center of time and space, such a concept as the “disgruntled employee” was not an unfamiliar one. “Doctor Stanton, we have a man here suffering from severe mental trauma. Be a good chap and ran down to the Psionics Wing—tell them we need a Level Two empath to help ease the man’s pain.”

  “And what would you like me to do for the patient?” Stanton asked cuttingly.

  The Chief Physician slowly smiled. “Still working on our sense of humor, I see, Doctor. Well, keep at it—I know you’ll be successful one of these days.” He waved his hands at his colleague, shooing him away. “Now, off with you, and don’t come back until you have an empath by the hand ... or tentacle.”

  Lips pulled back in a sneer, Stanton turned and stomped off toward the exit.

  “A good chap, that Stanton,” the doctor said once he had left the room. “A bit on the unapproachable side, though. Terrible bedside manner.”

  “He’s a troublemaker, that one,” commented Captain England. “I can tell right off. Best keep your eye on that one, Doctor—he’s got a bit o’ the devil in ’im.”

  “Oh, I shall,” the Chief Physician replied. “Thank you, Captain.” Lightly grasping an elbow on each Captain, the doctor gently moved them away from the patient. As he did so, a half-dozen nurses—some human, some not, but all attired in full surgical gear—moved in and started removing von Doom’s armor, while the other physicians began administering the first stages of treatment.

  “Now then, if you don’t mind,” the doctor explained, “I think it would be best for all concerned if you were to step into the observation lounge, where you’ll have an unobstructed view of your prisoner—I assume this man is a prisoner, given the nature of his escort?” Captain

  U.K. nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, an unobstructed view of your prisoner without—”

  “Getting underfoot?” asked the Union Jack-clad heroine.

  The doctor smiled broadly. “Precisely.”

  The captain nodded. “The observation lounge.”

  “Two-and-a-half levels up, one level sideways,” said the doctor. “We’ll see you in a bit, then.” He reached up to his head as though to politely tip a hat, realized he wasn’t wearing one, and slowly lowered his hand.

  Chuckling softly at the strange behavior of the little man, Captain U.K. cast a bemused glance at Captain England, then turned and led her teammate from the infirmary.

  Almost immediately, a soft, chiming alarm began sounding. “Doctor, I think you may want to look at this . . .” burbled one of the nurses, an octopoidal creature with thick tentacles and a rheumy eye the color of runny egg yolk.

  Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, the Chief Physician walked back to join his team. “Yes, Nurse, what is it?”

  The caregiver gestured toward the monitors displaying von Doom’s vital signs. The doctor’s eyes widened in surprise as he stared at one in particular.

  “That can’t be right. . .” he murmured, then stood silently for a few moments, pulling at his bottom lip and watching the stream of data that flowed across the monitors. “This man is human, isn’t he?”

  “All evidence—genetic, psychological, chronal, dimensional—indicates that he is,” replied a fresh-faced, blond-haired physician. “Except . . .”

  “Except we shouldn’t then be seeing what we are seeing,” interjected the doctor. “Yes . . .” He grimaced, scratched the top of his head, and sighed. Then, hands clasped behind his back, he turned to face his troops. “It seems as though we have been presented with a riddle, doctors . . . and I’m quite certain our esteemed Supreme Guardian, Roma, will not be gladdened by our answers . . .” He slowly shook his head. “No, she won’t be pleased at all...”

  Dr. Henry P. Stanton was not a happy man.

  As he stomped through the corridors of the medical center, heading for the Psionics Wing, his mind swirled with dark thoughts—about his life, about his work, about the pompous attitude of that grinning jackass called the Chief Physician. Not for the first time, he grumbled over the decision that had led to the comical little Scotsman being appointed to that lofty position, and Stanton being left standing by the side of the road (metaphorically speaking, of course), wondering how he could have lost a job that was supposed to have been his from the start. At least, that had been his understanding when Merlyn recruited him, taking him away from a lucrative medical practice on Earth 1629.

  It had been shortly after the events of the “Jaspers’ Warp” incident, when Merlyn had appeared in Stanton’s Los Angeles office to make his offer. After dealing with Henry’s volatile receptionist, Helene—for Merlyn had tried to barge in without an appointment—and then making a suitable display of the powers he possessed in order to prove he was for real and not some lunatic wandering in off the street, the Guardian of the Omniverse began interviewing his job candidate. Why he wanted Stanton in particular was never made clear; as the doctor later found out, Merlyn never bothered to tell anyone, including his daughter, the details of any of his plans. That didn’t mean Henry didn’t have his own ideas about the selection process, of course. Always willing to fall back on his overinflated ego, he eventually came to the conclusion that he had been picked because he was just too good a physician to ignore, even among the millions of other Henry P. Stantons in the omniverse.

  Whatever his reasons, the technomage had made it quite clear that Stanton was his choice for the position—once he’d been properly trained in treating the illnesses and injuries of the myriad races that visited the citadel. No surprise there—after all, what good was a Chief Physician to his patients, or his staff, if he knew nothing of their physiology? And so Stanton willingly, eagerly, abandoned his practice and plunged into his studies, determined to answer this higher calling.

  But then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, that infuriatingly smug little man had appeared, and Stanton saw the prize quickly slipping from his fingers.

  It had all been Roma’s doing, of course. Apparently dissatisfied with her father’s candidate, she had found one of her own, and called him in from whatever godforsaken comer of the omniverse in which he’d been living. The bothersome gnat had even managed to charm Merlyn with his encyclopedic memory and smug wit in record time.

  So what if he could rattle off the symptoms and treatments for a hundred different ailments that were commonly—and not so commonly—found in a handful of dimensional planes? Given enough time, Stanton would have
been able to do the same. Who cared if he had a superior bedside manner? Patients were supposed to be healed, not coddled. Where was the logic in talking to the staff as though they were his friends? Nurses and orderlies, medical interns and administrative workers—they weren’t peers, they were subordinates, and should be treated as such.

  Stanton should have seen it coming, should have taken steps to prevent the Fates from abandoning him in his hour of need. But he was so absolutely certain that he was the only sentient being for the job that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Roma might take advantage of her closeness with her father to turn him against the physician.

  It could have been avoided. Perhaps if he hadn’t insulted her, calling her a “child” in the heat of an argument over the treatment of a visiting Z’Nox dignitary from Dimension 8158 who’d mysteriously fallen ill, he wouldn’t have fallen so far out of favor, and caused her to go looking elsewhere for a suitable applicant. Come to think of it, the doctor had to admit to himself, labeling her a “naive little girl” on one occasion because she obviously didn’t understand the intricacies of medicine probably hadn’t done anything to help his case. But, so what if he’d momentarily forgotten that she was older than he by centuries—physically, she looked barely mature enough to have graduated college yet. Besides, neither of those unfortunate incidents would have come to pass if she hadn’t tried to second-guess his diagnoses—“I don’t tell you how to run the universe,” he’d commented sharply during the second contretemps. “Don’t presume you can tell me how to practice medicine.”

  She’d reacted as though he’d slapped her across the face, and stormed out of his office. Given the power she possessed, he was lucky that she hadn’t wiped him out of existence right there on the spot; instead, she’d settled for knocking him down a peg or three, and denying him the chance of becoming Chief Physician.

  Stanton had never gotten over that snub. After all, was being truthful about Roma’s lack of medical training any reason to cheat him out of a job? Of course not. However, as the doctor had quickly come to learn, despite their immortality and seemingly limitless wisdom, despite their mastery over the forces of time and space, despite the power they held over every living creature throughout the omniverse, both father and daughter tended to let their emotions get in the way of important decisions.