chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  “I’ll take that for a ‘yes,’ ” Scott said, nodding toward Jean’s outspoken digestive cavity. “Well, there’s an all-night diner on the comer of Fifty-sixth that’s open; I’ve eaten there with Hank a few times.” “That’s fine,” Jean said, raising her voice to be heard above the rumble of thunder. “Now, all we have to worry about is getting there.” Scott stared past her, at the rain that seemed to sizzle as it struck the pavement around them. “Okay, so, what do you want to do?”

  Jean stared thoughtfully at the canopy. “Well, you could always use your power-beams to snap the awning posts, and we could try carrying it. . .” She caught his look of disapproval. “Just a thought. What do you propose?”

  Scott smiled and shrugged out of his jacket, then handed it to his wife just as another crack of thunder shook the blackened sky directly above them. “Run for it?”

  Jean grinned broadly and draped the coat over her head like a hood. “Sounds like a plan.”

  And then, laughing and screaming with joy, they raced out into the storm, trying to dodge between the raindrops.

  An ocean away, another member of the “genetically gifted” was just as pleased with how the Viewpoints interview had gone . . . though he might have used his fearsome powers to turn the narrow-minded little human inside out for daring to question the awe-inspiring accomplishments of the master of the world. Even so, he had to admit that Jean and Scott had handled their parts admirably, reminding the home audience time and again of the wondrous Golden Age in which they all lived—and the man who had made it possible.

  With a wave of his hand, Erik Lensherr turned off the wall-mounted flatscreen television that hung in his salon. “Excellent,” he murmured. “The reprogramming of Summers and his wife has gone even better than I could have imagined—one would almost believe they had never been tainted by the influence of Charles Xavier. . .”

  Rising from the couch on which he’d been sitting, Lensherr stepped across the room and drew back the red velvet curtains that hung in front of the windows. Outside, the streets and buildings of Paris still blazed brightly in the wee hours of the morning, the sprawling, Old World metropolis truly living up to its reputation as “The City of Lights.” Along the banks of the Seine, couples—human and mutant, some intermixed—walked hand-in-hand, enjoying the warm summer air and each other’s company. Silhouetted against the bright, full moon, a man and woman, powerful wings sprouting from between their shoulder blades, gracefully danced through the air around the Eiffel Tower.

  Lensherr smiled. Here was Paris as he had always wanted it to be: the cornerstone of modem civilization; the gateway to a new era in history. A shining example of Homo sapiens and Homo superior living harmoniously—under his rule, of course.

  It had been a shame to have destroyed it in the first place—more von Doom’s fault than his, of course. Back when that Latverian imbecile had controlled the world—was it only hours ago? It felt like years— his lackeys had cornered the mutant overlord in the capital, where he and some of his followers had been making plans to overthrow the armored dictator. The resulting battle cost Lensherr his most devoted acolytes, and was brought to a swift, and bloody, conclusion only when he used his magnetic powers to pull a spy satellite from its orbit and bring it crashing down on the city, obliterating millions of innocent lives and centuries of irreplaceable art and architecture.

  Or had he?

  As Lensherr had discovered—with help from, of all people, his oldest enemies, the insufferable X-Men—none of the events had taken place; or, rather, none of it had taken place in the real world, the one in which von Doom was merely the monarch of a Latveria, and not the omniscient ruler of the Earth, and Magneto was lord of the island-nation of Genosha. No, it had all occurred in a fantasy realm—a construct formed from the dreams and ambitions of Victor von Doom, made real by the use of a Cosmic Cube. And in this topsy-turvy reality, Magneto had become Emperor von Doom’s plaything: memories altered, allies scattered around the globe, constantly on the run from Imperial forces. A genetically superior mouse set loose in a danger-filled maze solely for the amusement of its owner.

  The realization had galled the mutant overlord—to think that a human should dare to abuse someone who was his evolutionary better!

  The abuse had ended, though, in Washington, D.C., when Lensherr’s gauntleted fist smashed against the right cheek of his rival, savagely disconnecting von Doom from his power source. Lensherr hadn’t stopped to think about how or why his enemy had been transformed into a feeble old man incapable of defending himself—he was only interested in taking his pound of flesh from the lowly human who had wronged the great Magneto.

  But then he had heard the siren call of the Cube, whispering softly in his mind, enticing him with dreams of power, with worlds for the making, and von Doom was all but forgotten. With the X-Men incapacitated and the mighty “emperor” sprawled across the floor, wheezing for air like some dying animal, there had been no one to stop the mutant overlord from taking possession of the most powerful reality-generator in the universe and . . . correcting the situation.

  In the space of a few moments, the Cube restructured the world to suit Magneto’s tastes, removing all traces of von Doom’s authority, restoring Paris to its former glory, and replacing the despot’s police state with images from his own dreams: of a world ruled by Homo superior; of he as its master; of the X-Men, their wills reshaped, becoming his unquestioning servants. All of it had come to pass, in some fashion; he couldn’t fathom why the Cube hadn’t followed his instructions to the letter, as it appeared to have done for von Doom, but he was learning to live with the differences. So Homo superior was not the dominant race, but had come to live peacefully with humanity—at least he was still master. And if Scott Summers and Jean Grey wished to spout drivel detailing his fictitious accomplishments—though he had no idea where those had come from (the depths of his subconscious, perhaps?)—then, by all means, let them; it only added further detailing to the fantasy and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt how completely the X-Men were under his thrall. No, not everything he’d desired had been laid at his feet, but when he stepped back and took full view of what his dreams had made possible, only one word came to mind to describe it:

  “Perfection,” Lensherr said. “Absolute perfection . ..”

  “Are you talking to yourself again, Erik?” asked a feminine voice from behind him.

  Lensherr turned, his deeply lined face practically glowing with joy as he gazed at the woman standing before him. She was beautiful, as she always had been, as she always would be. Tall and lithe, in her mid-forties, but looking ten years younger, Magdalena Lensherr stood in the doorway, hands resting lightly on her hips, one eyebrow raised questioningly. At her husband’s silent invitation to join him, she walked across the salon, taking care to avoid the documents, communiques, faxes, and requests to which the master of the world was expected to respond—at his leisure, of course—that he had allowed to accumulate. Her dark brown, curly hair, normally worn in a short, stylish bob, was a mess—the result of what has commonly come to be known as “bed hair”—and she delicately placed a hand over her mouth to stifle the yawn that was building; she failed. The floor-length, blue satin negligee that hugged her figure made subtle, sweeping sounds as it brushed against her legs.

  In his mind, he knew she wasn’t real—nothing more than a simulacrum of the woman he had once loved and lost, decades before, culled from memories he had thought long faded. A dream-figure, given life by the power of the Cube. And yet, in his heart. . .

  In his heart, she was everything he remembered: the light brown eyes that always seemed to shine with joy; the bubbling laugh that sent a pleasant thrill up his spine; the sway of her hips when she walked; the touch of her skin; the way she tilted her head to one side when she smiled.

  Yes, in the “real” world, Magda had been lost to him on the night Magneto was born; the night their daughter, Anya, had died in a fire, and Lensherr had slain the humans who had ke
pt him from rescuing her. Magda had run from him then, terrified of the monster her husband had become; and he, too consumed by grief and hatred, had allowed her to go, choosing instead to focus his anger on punishing all mankind for the actions of a few, prejudiced fools.

  But here, in this world, Magda had never left him, and Anya had grown to become a beautiful woman. In his world, Erik Magnus Lensherr had never suffered such tragic losses; instead, he had found the man buried deep within the blackened soul of the arch-villain Magneto. Had rediscovered the joy of being a father and husband.

  Had learned what it meant to love again.

  “I apologize, my dear,” he said with a smile, “but speaking aloud is a habit I find increasingly difficult to break.” He shrugged. “I imagine it comes from those occasions when, as the saying goes, I was the only person with whom I could have an intelligent conversation.”

  Magda looked at him sternly, but he knew there was no real heat in her gaze. “A fine thing to say to the woman who supported your efforts for so long.”

  “For which I have always been grateful,” Lensherr replied graciously. He placed his hands on her hips and drew her into a deep kiss. The scent of sandalwood in her hair and dewberry soap on her skin was intoxicating.

  When they at last parted, Magda reached up to gently stroke his cheek. “I accept your apology,” she said softly.

  Lensherr chuckled. “Now, my dear, you see why I was honored with the Nobel Prize, for Magneto has always been able to find a peaceful solution to any potential conflict.”

  “Unfortunately,” Magda said playfully, “he’s never been able to stop referring to himself in the third person.”

  The mutant overlord raised an eyebrow in amusement. “You did know what you were getting into when you married me, dear lady.”

  His wife nodded. “Including all your little eccentricities—yes, I know.”

  Lensherr’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “I thought you found those ‘little eccentricities’ attractive.”

  “Charming, ” Magda said. “I never said they were attractive.”

  “I stand corrected,” he replied humbly, and smiled.

  Magda reached up to playfully tousle his snow-white hair. “Come to bed, Erik. The sun will be up soon enough, and you wouldn’t want to miss the chance to see your oldest daughter when she returns from her trip to America because you overslept.” She paused, and her smile slowly faded, then, as she stared deeply into his gray eyes.

  “What is it?” Lensherr asked.

  A troubled look darkened Magda’s features, and she gently placed her hands along the sides of his face. “You look so tired, Erik. Are you all right?”

  Lensherr put his hands atop hers, and smiled reassuringly. “I’m fine, Magda—really. I imagine it has to do with these late hours I’ve been keeping; they can be quite debilitating.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “In fact, if I’m not careful, I'm liable to nod off to sleep at any moment.”

  And with that, his eyes snapped shut, and his chin dropped onto his chest. Then he began snoring lightly.

  An instant later, he opened his eyes, to find Magda glaring at him, arms folded across her chest.

  “I don’t find that the least bit amusing, Erik,” she said curtly.

  “A small joke, my love,” he replied with a smile. He bent forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “But now, please don’t let me keep you up any longer. I will be along in a little while.”

  It was obvious that Magda understood she was being politely—but firmly—dismissed; the annoyed frown that bowed her lips couldn’t be missed. “All right, Erik . . . but do not wait too long, all right?” A playful light came into her eyes. “You know how I hate to sleep alone.”

  The master of the world nodded, a wolfish grin creeping its way across his rugged features. With a peck on the cheek, Magda turned and left her husband, swaying her hips just so as she walked, making it quite clear that he’d be a fool to remain cloistered in a drawing room for even a moment longer when a beautiful woman awaited his “charming eccentricities” on the next floor.

  Lensherr sighed contentedly and glanced at the gold-trimmed mirror that hung above the salon’s fireplace. Magda had been right—he did look tired; older even than his true age. And considering the fact that he had been alive long enough to be able to provide first-hand accounts of the Nazi atrocities during World War II, that was saying quite a lot.

  But still, he had managed to stave off any signs of aging for years: he didn’t suffer from arthritis, or osteoporosis, or rheumatism; still had all his hair and teeth; still possessed the healthy constitution of a man one-third his age—all, more than likely, were benefits of his genetic “gifts.”

  And yet, despite his genetic superiority, he was slowly dying.

  It had something to do with the Cube—of that he was certain. Something that was causing him to age rapidly, as von Doom had while the device was in his possession. But what? And how could he stop the process before it killed him? He’d tried “wishing” it away by using the Cube, but that hadn’t worked, and he’d quickly dismissed the idea that von Doom might have created some sort of “fail-safe” mechanism that would turn the Cube’s power against its owner; a man capable of constructing a reality-generator never would have allowed its protective systems to backfire on him. There had to be a way to fight it, though; now that Lensherr had achieved his life’s dream, he wasn’t about to let it fade away with the exhalation of his last breath.

  The mutant overlord strode across the salon, stopping before a painting hung in an elegant, gold-leaf frame—an original Matisse, given to him by millionaire industrialist Anthony Stark on the thirtieth anniversary of the “Children of the Atom” speech. With a touch of a hidden button, the frame swung out from the wall, revealing a safe constructed from adamantium—the hardest-known metal on Earth. Small in design, yet impervious to any explosive, the safe’s most unusual design was that it had no door—no means of entry ... for anyone but Magneto.

  A slight gesture from his hand, and the metal rippled, then flowed in two directions, creating a gap—one that shone with the brilliance of the Cosmic Cube contained within. Lensherr had discovered, through experimentation, that he did not have to hold the device all the time in order to make it work; he merely had to be within close range of it. And by sealing it away in a block of damage-resistant metal, he had made certain that only he would have access to it, for he knew that, despite the wonders of the “enlightened society” he had created, he still had enemies. Not on Earth, of course—the Cube had given him the power to neutralize all the so-called “super heroes” who originally existed simply by making them forget they had ever possessed superpowers, or had ever worn a costume outside of a Halloween party.

  But Charles Xavier was still out there, somewhere; he, and the remaining slack-jawed sycophants he called “students” who hadn’t journeyed to Earth with the X-team that had ultimately been forced into aiding Magneto and his acolytes in their attack on von Doom. He had learned that much from Jean Grey, when she had used her telepathic abilities to repair the damage done to the mutant overlord’s memories by the armored tyrant. And knowing Charles as well as he did, it was only a matter of time before his former friend elected to send a second team after the Cube, to put an end to some alleged threat to the “omniverse,” about which Grey and Summers had been constantly prattling.

  Well, let them come, Lensherr decided. They would find Magneto ready. This was his world now. And fantasy-construct though its origins might be, it was still real, still vibrant, still the sum of everything he had ever desired, and no one—human or mutant—was going to deprive him of his dreams .. . even if he had to die for them.. . .

  4

  HE WAS dying, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Betsy knelt on the grassy expanse of The Mall in Washington,

  _ D.C., her thoughts in turmoil, her body growing numb. A steady

  rain was falling, drenching her clothes and hair, but she was unaw
are of it. Around her, people were shouting, screaming, running in panic, but she couldn’t hear any of it. Her attention was focused solely on the man lying in front of her, his body broken, his beautiful white wings fluttering limply.

  ' Warren coughed hollowly, phlegm rattling in lungs hard-pressed to draw in air. Kneeling down, Betsy gently raised his head and cradled it in her lap. She slowly stroked his blond hair with a gloved hand . . . and tried her best to ignore the smell of burnt flesh that assailed her nostrils.

  “Warren, I’m going to find a doctor, or a paramedic,” she said. “I’ll be right back, okay? Just please, please hang on.”

  She started to rise, but Warren grasped her hand and pulled her back down. “No ... don’t go ...” he said, slowly shaking his head. His voice was growing fainter.

  Betsy opened her mouth to say something—some words of encouragement, or even anger, telling him he had no right to give up, not when they still had a whole lifetime ahead of them to explore—but in her heart, she knew it was too late.

  Too late for anything more than good-bys.

  So did Warren. Tenderly, he reached up to stroke her cheek. “You really are ... the most beautiful woman ... in the world . . . you know . . .”

  Betsy took his hand and brushed her lips against his fingers. “Warren, I. . she began, then fell silent, unable to speak. A tear dropped from the comer of her left eye, to splash on Warren’s cheek.

  “Don’t leave me . . .” she sobbed.

  Warren smiled. “Love you, Betts . . .” he whispered.

  And then he was gone.

  Betsy awoke to the sound of screams ringing in her ears. It took a moment to realize they were hers.

  The screams subsided, giving way to ragged sobs as she buried her face in her pillow, tears staining the satin casing. Eventually, this, too, passed, and she slowly sat up in the bed, body trembling from the effort. She felt drained, unable to think clearly. Looking back on it, sleep had originally seemed like a good idea—an escape from the unsettling memories that she’d fought to keep buried in the back of her mind since arriving at the citadel; a momentary respite from the grief that threatened to overwhelm her if she didn’t maintain control over her emotions.