chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  His shoulders sagged. There was only one thing to do, then, to ensure the success of the mission ...

  “I think, perhaps,” he said slowly, “it’s time we spoke with Roma.”

  Psylocke’s eyes lit up. “You have a plan?”

  Xavier nodded. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Quickly rising from the bed, Psylocke smiled at her mentor and headed for the door, clearly eager for them to be on their way.

  Behind her, the Professor grimaced; the weight in the pit of his stomach seemed to be growing heavier with each passing moment. He sighed softly, and slowly shook his head. Only fully awake for the better part of two hours, and it was already turning out to be a very bad day. . ..

  WITHIN THE confines of Dimension 616, however, matters were much worse ... at least in the opinion of one particular inhabitant.

  _ “No! This is unacceptable!” roared The Controller. He lashed

  out with a gloved fist, scattering the contents of his desktop: report folders, paperweights, pens, pencils, computer disks, music CDs, and other personal items went flying onto the floor. He slapped the palms of his hands against the dark green ink blotter on which the articles had been resting and shot to his feet. The backs of his legs collided with the edge of his leather-backed chair, sending it hurtling into the dingy gray wall behind him, and the room echoed with the sound of wood striking metal. “I will not allow my carefully-laid plans to be upset by the saccharine-sweet dreams of a... a sub-human! Not when I am so close to success!”

  He stepped out from behind the desk, fists clenched, and stomped over to a nearby window. Beyond the protection of the three-inch-thick glass lay the airless landscape of the moon. The satellite’s pitted and scarred surface was barely visible past the glow of the perimeter lighting that ringed the edges of this secret base of operations, here on what was known as the planetoid’s “dark” side. It had been constructed years before, away from the prying eyes of Earth’s super heroic population, as the first step toward stellar domination; a launch point for a planned invasion of other worlds. And, although that proposed attack never got beyond the early stages of development, the Controller had never been the type to admit defeat. So, rather than abandon the base, he had turned its resources toward a simpler—though no less lofty—goal: ruling the Earth.

  Yes, he had to admit to himself, it was true that he had made similar overtures in the past, and most of those attempts had been quickly disrupted by men and women garbed in outlandish costumes, the retina-damaging colors of which were usually found only in a child’s box of crayons. It was also true that there were countless others who shared the same goal as he—for their own purposes, of course. Von Doom and Magneto, for example, could be counted among those hapless dreamers, who sought to impose their sense of order upon the world, only to wind up tasting the bitter ashes of defeat, their dreams ground to dust under the boot heels of the Fantastic Four, or the Avengers ... or the X-Men.

  But the Controller was different—at least in his own opinion. He was not one of those bumbling cretins like the Master or Count Nefaria or the Mandarin, who only focused on the game at hand, and not the big picture. It was that sort of tunnel vision that resulted in them always being outmaneuvered by lesser intellects who, unlike their villainous counterparts, were able to think quickly on their feet. No, the Controller saw himself as a chess master, sweeping his pieces across the board with unrivaled skill, always three or four moves ahead of his opponents, always thinking of how those moves might aid him in his next match. His enemies might think he was on the verge of being checkmated each time he found himself in conflict with them, but the Controller always had a pawn or two that he kept on reserve, to be used only at the last possible moment to grasp victory from what seemed to be certain defeat.

  Von Doom had been one of those pawns, allowed to make use of the Cube only so long as such use fit within the scope of the Controller’s plans. Of course, he had been completely unaware of it, and the Controller had been denied the chance to bring it to his attention. No matter; the gamesman would make up for that lost opportunity—of that, he was quite certain. Soon enough, it would be the illustrious “master of magnetism,” the great peacemaker, who would know what it was like to face him across the field of battle . . .

  On the other side of his desk, the Controller’s assistant, Leonard, stood rigidly at attention, eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. His uniform was not as crisp it had once been, the armpits now stained with sweat, the toes of one jackboot coated with ink from a pen that had shattered during the Controller’s tirade. It was obvious he was doing his best to remain calm, to show no emotion in front of his leader, but the glimmer of terror that shone in his eyes, the slight tremors that threatened to buckle his knees, could not be missed.

  It pleased The Controller; at least one lowly creature in this metamorphosing universe still knew its place. “I allowed that gypsy pig von Doom the opportunity to play out his trifling fantasies while I studied the effects of his Cosmic Cube. Once that had been accomplished— once I learned that that armored cretin had somehow managed to create a version of the Cube more powerful than anything the scientists of A.I.M. had ever devised—I knew it must be mine. For what use to me are a gypsy’s pathetic dreams of empire, when the stars themselves are for the taking? That is why mine should be the hand that holds the Cube—for only I understand the nature of its incredible powers! Only I have the limitless vision to make use of its full potential!”

  His feral snarl appeared even more disturbing in the room’s low lighting. “But then, just as I was finalizing my plans to strike, those verdammt X-Men and that Juden dog Lensherr robbed me of the chance to take possession of the Cube. And look at what those genetic inferiors have done with it!” He grabbed a remote control unit from the pile of items scattered on the floor and pressed a button, activating the wallsized monitor across the room. The screen filled with static, then slowly cleared to reveal a view of Earth from space, provided by one of a series of cameras that his followers had placed on the “bright” side of the moon. Adjusting the controls, he replaced the full view of the planet with a collection of smaller images: aerial shots of its major cities. Another flick of the remote, and one of the cameras zoomed in on Paris. The sun was shining brightly, the streets were busy, and all seemed right with the world—because one man had made it so.

  “The power of a god in his hands, and he wastes it creating a harmonious society, when he should be crushing his enemies, or building an empire. ” The Controller sneered. “So much for the great dreams of Homo superior.” He cast an even glance at his assistant. “Do you not agree, Leonard?”

  “Yes, Controller!” Leonard replied immediately. “As you have often said, such lack of vision is to be expected from members of an inferior race.”

  The Controller nodded, pleased with the response. “Indeed. And Magneto is truly an inferior, for he clearly has no understanding of the power he possesses. I doubt he is even aware that the effects of the Cube have spread beyond the confines of the Earth.” With a grunt, he switched off the viewscreen, then glanced at a clock that was mounted on another wall. “The gas should have dissipated by now. Come with me—we have much to do before this day is over.”

  He stalked across the room, heading for the door, and Leonard hurriedly moved to open it for him. Not bothering to acknowledge his assistant’s action, the Controller pushed past him . . . and stepped into a slaughterhouse.

  The command center of the base was littered with the bodies of technicians and soldiers. Blood and gore stained everything, coating the floor, the walls, even the ceiling in some spots. Some of the staff—their skin liquefied so thoroughly that the floor was slick with the remains— were piled around the bottom of the door to the Controller’s office; it seemed they’d tried to break down the door before the end, to no avail. Others had died where they sat, or where they’d collapsed onto the floor. And although he could not see the balance of the hundred or so members of his staff,
scattered as they were throughout the base, the Controller knew that every corridor, every laboratory, every sleeping quarter would look the same.

  The gas that had been released just minutes earlier was an extra security measure personally installed by the Controller years ago; no one on his staff, including Leonard, had been aware of the canisters hidden inside the air ducts. But with a press of a button, the commander had made them all aware of their existence . . . and what they contained. In seconds, every square foot of the base—excluding the Controller’s office, of course—was flooded with a combination of lethal chemicals that dissolved flesh and bone, yet left machinery unaffected. So well-protected was the Controller’s office that neither he nor his aide had heard the pitiful screams for mercy that strained to be heard through the sound-proofed walls and door.

  Looking back at those moments, the Controller felt disappointed. It seemed that in designing his base too well, he had robbed himself of a small pleasure.

  He glanced around the nerve center of his base, ignoring the grotesque sight stretched out before him. “Even here, a quarter of a billion miles from Lensherr’s peaceful little world, the Cube’s energies have taken their toll.” He frowned. “The work of years, wiped out in a surge of cosmic forces. Had it not been for my prior experience with—and mastery over—the power of similar devices, everything within my office might have also been transformed into tools of that magnetically-charged freak—” he gazed at his assistant “—including you, my sweat-stained lapdog.”

  “I am honored, Controller,” Leonard replied.

  His leader grunted. “Do not seek to flatter your master, lackey— your life means nothing to me. I may have spared you from the mutant’s taint, but that doesn’t mean I would not hesitate to sacrifice your worthless soul in an instant if the situation required it... as it did with these others.” He dramatically waved an arm around the room, gesturing to the bodies. “They were not as fortunate as you, changed as they were by the Cube to become ‘productive members’ of his new society. Once that happened, they were of no further use to the cause—or me—since there was too great a risk that they might inform their new master of my whereabouts. And with all things that lose their value, they were easily discarded.” He chuckled softly at his own joke. “But even had these dolts not been transformed, they would have met the same end for not informing me of the energy wave before it struck.” He glared at his assistant. “Remember this sight well, boy—this is the price of failure.”

  Leonard’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down furiously for a few moments. “Y-yes, C-controller,” he finally stammered.

  The Controller grunted and moved over to study the computer screens at one of the monitoring stations. To get a better view, he roughly pushed aside the corpse of a man slumped there. The top of its head was missing, skin, hair, and bone all eaten away by the gas.

  “Come here, Leonard,” the Controller said. The blond-haired young man leapt to obey, trying not to look down at the gelatinized flesh that pooled about the floor. His superior pointed to a series of readouts displayed on one screen. “You see this? The Cube’s power has not faded one iota, even though the energy wave it created has moved beyond our solar system.” His eyes widened in mild surprise. “There are now signs of life on Mars—” he glanced at another readout “—and an atmosphere on the Jovian moon Europa.” His eyes glinted with desire. “Fascinating. A single release of energy, and worlds are being recreated right before my eyes. And with no indication that the wave will dissipate at any time soon, who knows what will happen as it spreads across the stars ... ?” He turned to Leonard. “The Cube must be mine. It will be mine.”

  “What would you have me do, Controller?” Leonard asked.

  The Controller clasped his hands behind his back and walked away from the console, head bowed in concentration. He came to a stop before one of the vast observation windows, and stared out at the depths of space.

  The stars themselves for the taking ...

  “We go to Earth,” he said, his back still to his assistant. “Together. This mission is far too important to trust to a mere boy.” He caught sight of Leonard’s expression in the reflection on the three-inch-thick glass: the youth was clearly angered by the comment, but wisely kept his mouth shut. “And when the time comes, I shall be the one who pries the Cosmic Cube from that sub-human’s lifeless hands—no one else. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, Controller,” Leonard replied quickly.

  The Controller sighed—was he ever that toadying in his youth? He shook his head sharply. No, of course not. If he had been, he never would have been selected for the honor bestowed upon him by his own, dark master so many years before; never would have had his eyes opened by a cause he could finally believe in, or been given the means to carry forth its inspiring message of bringing order to a chaotic world; never would have had his long-repressed dreams of becoming someone important made a reality.

  In the old days, someone as ineffectual as Leonard would have been placed on the front lines of the battlefield—the sooner he died, the sooner he would cease being a liability to the cause. But today, with so few qualified people available . . .

  Turning from the window, he strode toward another console; this one was connected to a raised platform large enough to accommodate two people. It was a teleport device, often used in the past by the Controller to evade his enemies, whether heroic or villainous, whenever his latest plan for world domination started to fray at the edges. Although the Controller would deny it, the teleporter had been activated quite a bit during the past few years.

  He gestured to his assistant, then set about activating the device. “Get onto the platform while I enter the coordinates.”

  Leonard did as he was told, stepping gingerly over the bodies of friends and co-workers—with whom he had built what they’d all thought would be lasting relationships—as he made his way to the teleporter. He just managed to avoid falling as he slipped in a puddle of gore that had formed around the half-dissolved corpse of what had once been a very pretty young woman named Kate Ashbrook. She had been a twenty-three-year-old computer hacker Leonard had dated for a short time; her identification tag was still pinned to her uniform. Her eyes had melted inside their sockets; the gaping holes in her skull seemed to stare accusingly at him. Why should he be allowed to live? What made him so special?

  Unable to come up with an answer, Leonard turned quickly and walked away. When he finally reached the platform, he found the Controller gazing heatedly at him.

  “I have no patience for weak men who quake with fear in the presence of death,” the gamesman said, his voice low and tinged with menace. “Are you a weak man, Leonard?”

  “N-no, C-controller,” Leonard replied. “I-it’s just that I’ve never seen this much blood before . . . you know, outside of the movies and TV shows.”

  The Controller shook his head sadly. “That is what is wrong with your generation, Leonard—your minds have been poisoned by fantasies. There are no ‘commercial breaks’ in combat, no computer-generated ‘special effects’—only death and destruction. Back in my homeland, the battlefield was all the entertainment I craved: to smell the sweet, coppery tang of blood in the air; to feel the pulse of your enemy slowing as he died by your hand; to hear the screams of the dying as their bodies were tom apart by bullet and mortar and bayonet; to know that you will live another day, while those lying broken and bloodied around you have become nothing more than carrion for the vultures. That is far more awe-inspiring than a bunch of flickering images cast on a screen, because it is real. ” He poked a gloved finger into the chest of his assistant. “You, too, will learn to appreciate such things, Leonard—if you live long enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” Leonard muttered.

  The Controller nodded. “Excellent. Now, we go.” He pressed a button on his belt.

  As the hum of the teleporter filled his ears, Leonard took one last look around the command center, then closed his eyes, trying to block
out the image of the twisted, melted bodies that lay at his feet, trying to ignore the smell of death that clung to his clothing, that filled his nostrils.

  But then he forced his eyes to open, forced himself to acknowledge the carnage displayed before him. He had chosen to serve the Controller, as had his unfortunate peers. What had happened to them was to be expected, since they had failed in the service of their master.

  He would not.

  5

  HAVE YOU gone completely mad? What kind of plan is that?” Walking alongside Xavier’s hoverchair as she and the Profes-

  _ sor made their way down one of the seemingly endless corridors

  in the Starlight Citadel, Betsy threw her hands in the air in utter exasperation. “It’s insane, Professor!”

  “No, Elisabeth,” Xavier replied. “It’s the best possible plan . . . under the circumstances.”

  Betsy shook her head. “I’m sorry, Professor, but placing yourself in harm’s way by accompanying me to Earth is not the best possible plan. In case you’ve forgotten, Magneto and you haven’t exactly seen eye-to-eye in decades... except on those rare occasions when the two of you share a common enemy—like the Sentinels, or The Brood, or a roomful of Congressmen discussing the Mutant Registration Act.”

  “I understand your concern, Elisabeth,” Xavier countered, “but we’re running out of precious time. By speaking with Erik directly, I may be able to make him come to his senses before it’s too late.” He paused. “I know it’s a longshot, but with the other X-Men incapacitated—”

  “What about the Captain Britain Corps?” Betsy interjected. “Why can’t they come with me? After all, my brother is a member—they should be eager to help one of their own.”

  The Professor shook his head. “I already discussed that possibility with Roma. She refuses to place any of her people at risk, now that the reality-cancer has started to spread throughout our universe. She doesn’t want to risk the chance of ‘infecting’ either the citadel or another dimension with the Cube’s taint.”