chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  “Leave me, ” his patient said with a sneer. “And do not return unless I have summoned you.”

  The physician’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “Ah. I see. I’m being dismissed, is that it?” He chuckled softly. “You humans—your heightened sense of self-importance never ceases to amaze me.” He winked slyly at his patient. “I’ll check in with you in a bit, after you’ve had a spot of breakfast.” A wicked smile crawled across his features. “I’ll ask the nurse to increase your dosage of bran—considering your advanced age and increasingly overbearing demeanor, you could probably use a—”

  “GET OUT!” the tyrant bellowed.

  Laughing softly, the physician turned on his heel and hurried off, presumably to continue his rounds.

  “Cretin,” von Doom muttered. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his right side, groaning softly at the momentary pain that flared up in his hip.

  He was growing tired of this body, of its frustrating limitations— the slower speed, the blurring vision, the aches and pains in every joint. His mind was still active, still capable of orchestrating grand schemes, but the Cube had robbed him of his youth, his vigor. At the time, it had seemed a fair exchange—world domination for advanced aging—but that was before Lensherr and Xavier’s meddlesome students had disrupted what would have been his last order for the Cube in the coming days: to destroy the world the moment after he had drawn his last breath. After all, why allow the dream to die, to let others tear down what he had worked so hard to build, just because the dreamer had departed on his final journey?

  The chance had been stolen from him, though, and he had been forced to withdraw because he could not defend himself—yet another damnable limitation of this withering husk in which his mind was trapped. Had he been at full strength, von Doom would never have left the field of battle; he would have fought Magneto for possession of the Cube ... and won. Instead, he had been struck across the face, cast aside like a piece of refuse, at the hands of a genetic inferior. The former emperor growled softly and pounded his fist once on the edge of his bed, more angry with himself for letting the Cube slip from his grasp than from any pain Magneto had been able to inflict upon him.

  Patience, Victor, a voice suddenly whispered in his mind. You should not exert yourself so—not when there is still so much left to do.

  Von Doom’s eyes flew open. He raised his head and looked around, but the physicians—including that Scottish-voiced buffoon—and nurses were quite a distance away, at a monitoring station, and the beds around him were empty.

  “Braddock?” he rumbled softly. “Is that you, mutant, picking up where you left off? Invading my mind once more, seeking answers I do not have?” He closed his eyes, focusing his energies on erecting a mental barrier. “You will not find Doom unprepared this time.”

  Listen to me, Victor, the voice insisted; on closer examination, much to his surprise, it sounded exactly like his own. Conserve your—our— strength; such actions will only weaken us further.

  Who are you? von Doom demanded.

  Were I to tell you, the voice responded, you would say I am lying. I am quite familiar with the workings of your mind, you see. But heed my words, it said sternly, or all will be lost. I am no creation of the Cosmic Cube, no figment of your imagination. It is only now, as this body slowly heals, with pain dulling your senses, that I have been able to pierce the layers of your mind and succeed in contacting you.

  The despot grunted. And now that you have, phantom, of what use is a disembodied voice to me?

  A soft chuckle echoed through the depths of the former emperor’s subconscious. A great deal, when that voice can relate information concerning a certain palace that floats at the center of time and space, and the Guardian who resides there—a god-like being whose powers give her complete mastery over the forces of Creation itself. . .

  A sinister smile split the reed-thin lips of the elderly despot. Continue, then, phantom. I am listening . . .

  “Pardon my ignorance, m’lady,” Satumyne asked, “but if the Cube has already begun ravaging the omniverse, how can you say there still may be time to combat its influence?” She glanced at the crystals, the one eye that was visible beneath her mountainous white hair widening in fear. “Unless you mean to destroy all the infected realities . . .” she whispered.

  “Not at all, Satumyne,” Roma replied. “But my plan, you see, requires the use of the flawed Cosmic Cube.” She turned to Xavier and Betsy. “I will need one or both of you to return to Earth and retrieve it for me.”

  “No, m’lady!” Satumyne interjected. “You’d only be worsening the dilemma! By bringing the source of the reality-cancer here, to the very heart of time and space, you run the risk of complete omniversal destruction!”

  “I am all too aware of the possible repercussions, Satumyne,” the Guardian replied. “Unfortunately, if I am to have any chance of excising this cancer, it must be done here, where my powers are greatest, where I will be able to draw upon the energies generated by the countless dimensions and, hopefully, use them to destroy the Cube.”

  “And if you’re not able to destroy the Cube?” Betsy asked, though she really didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “It will be the end of everything,” Roma said. “The omniverse will collapse in upon itself, and in its place shall be . . . nothing.”

  “Un-space,” Satumyne said cryptically.

  Betsy nodded morosely. It suddenly felt like some massive weight had settled in the pit of her stomach. “I.. . thought as much ...” she murmured.

  Roma turned to the Professor. “Are you ready to begin the journey, Charles Xavier?”

  Betsy noticed that the color had returned to the Professor’s cheeks— a welcome sign in this troubling time. “You have merely to open the portal, Your Majesty,” he replied, “and Psylocke and I shall do as you ask.”

  Roma nodded, a gentle smile bowing her lips; clearly, she was pleased by his enthusiastic response. “Then, my friends, let us begin . . .”

  6

  ONE HOUR later, they were ready to go.

  Clad in black, bootcut leather pants, black Doc Martens, a _ white silk blouse, and round-lensed sunglasses, Betsy looked more like a resident of Manhattan’s trendy Upper West Side than a member of the X-Men. That was the idea, of course—the last thing she and Xavier wanted to do was draw attention to themselves by having Betsy walk around Magneto’s dreamworld in her eye-catching costume. Stealth was required for this mission, so plain clothes were the order of the day.

  “Plain clothes.” Betsy smiled. She’d been watching Law & Order reruns once too often, it seemed. If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be referring to super-villains as “perps” and “skells.”

  She’d thought about washing out the lavender dye in her hair as part of the disguise, going with her natural dark color, but found she didn’t have the heart to do it. After having worn it that way for so long—a curious affectation she’d acquired during her brief career as a model—it was now as much a part of her identity as the crimson tattoo splashed across her left cheek—and that wasn’t about to wash off. Besides, she still had four or five bottles of the hard-to-find dye under the bathroom sink, back in the apartment she shared with—

  Betsy paused.

  Say it, she told herself. With Warren. The apartment you shared with Warren. She exhaled sharply. There. That wasn’t so hard to do, now was it?

  Actually, no, it wasn’t—which surprised her. She’d expected the ache that had tom at her heart to flare up again and send her spiraling once more into depression ... but it hadn’t happened. Maybe she was starting to heal, after all. Or maybe it was the mission; focusing on it, as she had surmised, was deadening the pain ... at least for a while.

  Or maybe she was just holding back her emotions, waiting for the right moment to release them—like when she’d have her hands clasped around Magneto’s throat, finally able to make him pay for his crimes . . . “You look marvelous,” Xavier said, gliding up to join her.


  Betsy shook her head to clear her thoughts, and smiled. “Thank you.” She noticed that he wore the same suit he had put on a short time earlier. “And you cut quite the dashing figure.”

  “What? In this old thing?” Xavier asked, feigning modesty. He smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

  The sharp sound of boot heels ringing on the tile floor caught their attention. They turned to see Saturnyne approaching. In one hand, she held a metal box no larger than a pack of cigarettes, its surface dotted with small lights, and one very large red button. She handed the box to Xavier.

  “It’s a recall device,” she explained. “The temporal engineers at the Dimensional Development Court assure me it will work, even in the heart of the anomaly. Press the button, and a portal will open, bringing you back here.”

  “Simple enough to operate,” Xavier said pleasantly.

  The Majestrix snorted. “Only at my insistence. I know how little boys are with their toys, and this mission is delicate enough without some giddy technician adding unnecessarily complicated bits to it, like racing stripes, or a death ray generator, or a mini-toaster oven. It’s a recall device, after all, not a Swiss army knife.”

  Betsy eyed her suspiciously. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she commented. “Simple the device may be, but what trouble might we be getting into once we use it?”

  “Oh. Well, it’s only good for one jaunt,” Her Whyness said. “So try to refrain from activating it until you’ve got the Cube.”

  “And you don’t consider that a complication?” Betsy asked.

  The Majestrix shrugged.

  Xavier cast a warning glance at Betsy; he obviously didn’t want her to pursue the issue. “Thank you, Saturnyne—for both the device and the word of caution.”

  “Seeing that you have returned to the citadel, successful in your mission, will be thanks enough, Charles Xavier,” Roma said as she joined the trio. “And now, it is time.”

  She raised her arms, then closed her eyes in concentration. A pinpoint of light appeared just beyond the tips of her fingers. As Betsy watched, the point became a swirling, kaleidoscopic vortex that grew progressively larger until it was approximately the same size as the set of double doors leading into the throne room.

  “Now, as I explained to your comrades when they embarked upon their mission,” Roma said, “I will be able to return you to your world, but the energies of the Cosmic Cube have created a great deal of interference—it prevents me from controlling the entry point of the portal. You might emerge right beside the Cube when you step from the vortex ... or find yourself on the wrong side of the planet.”

  Behind the dark lenses of her glasses, Betsy rolled her eyes. Marvelous, she thought.

  “Regardless of where we make our arrival, Your Majesty,” Xavier said, sounding cheerfully optimistic, “Psylocke and I will find the Cube. We will end this madness.”

  The Supreme Guardian nodded appreciatively, and waved a hand toward the blindingly-bright vortex. “Then step through the portal, my friends . .. and good hunting.”

  Xavier glanced at Betsy and smiled. “Are you ready to step through the looking glass, Alice?”

  Betsy reached down to grab hold of the black carryall by her feet; it contained a few changes of clothes for them both, as well as a few choice weapons she had “borrowed” from an armory located near the citadel guards’ barracks. She had insisted on bringing them, despite Xavier’s protests about violence begetting violence; he was hoping to accomplish this mission through peaceful means. Betsy saw his point— really, she did—but, as she explained, she would have felt naked racing into battle without a razor-edged katana in her hand and a pair of sai hanging from her belt.

  Of course, the Professor hadn’t understood—he was a man. The importance of properly accessorizing one’s outfits was lost on him.

  Betsy’s eyes narrowed, and her jaw set in fierce determination. “Let’s finish this.”

  Together, they entered the portal. An instant later, it closed behind them, and the throne room was once more plunged into semi-darkness.

  “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing, m’lady,” the Om-niversal Majestrix remarked.

  “As do I, Satumyne,” Roma said softly. “As do I. . .”

  “If this is as close to the Cube as she could get us,” Betsy snarled through gritted teeth, “then we’re in very big trouble . .

  “I think you should be grateful the portal did not open above the Atlantic Ocean,” the Professor replied. “After all, Roma did warn us of her inability to control it.”

  Betsy grunted, not really satisfied with that answer. While it was true the portal hadn’t placed them in any danger, they’d stepped into a situation that was just as bad... in her opinion, at least. She snarled, and gazed in disgust at their surroundings. The vortex had deposited them on the deck of a barge that was being pulled down the East River by a tugboat.

  A garbage barge, to be specific—one filled to capacity.

  In the middle of a hot, humid, summer day in New York.

  “I’d wager this type of thing wouldn’t happen to one of the Avengers,” Betsy muttered, doing her best to breathe through her mouth. She sighed. “We’ll never get the smell out of these clothes.”

  Xavier wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Indeed. But we have much greater concerns at the moment than the odor of rancid fried chicken settling into our wardrobe.”

  Betsy nodded. “The Cube.” An inquisitive eyebrow rose above the frames of her glasses. “Well, since you’re mission leader, Professor, how do you think we should begin our search?”

  “Well, I think the first order of business is to get off this barge—” Xavier grimaced as a gust of thick, hot air blew a moldy scrap of toilet paper past his nose “—as soon as possible. Then we’ll need lodgings, so we can set up a base of operation from which to work.”

  “What about the mansion?” Betsy asked.

  Xavier shook his head. “It may not exist in this reality, and we can’t spare the time to find out. But even if it does, I’m certain Erik has taken steps to pervert its use in some way, if only to spite me.” His lips drew together in a thin, bloodless line. “I... don’t really want to find out.” Betsy saw the haunted look in Charles’ eyes. The Westchester mansion—and the school for mutants that it housed—meant a great deal to him; probably more than she could imagine. It was the center of his universe—the place where he felt most secure; the launching pad from which his dreams of mutant equality had first taken flight. Having already lost his students to his greatest enemy, just the very idea that the school might have become a mockery of that dream seemed to have the Professor poised on the brink of a severe depression.

  She loudly clapped her hands together, just once, to get his attention. “Right, then,” she said. “Time we were on our way.”

  Placing her hands on the Professor’s hoverchair, she mentally summoned forth one of the powers she’d acquired from her exposure to the Crimson Dawn: the gift of teleportation. Tendrils of dark energy flowed from her pores, seeping through her clothing to pool at her feet. The substance spread outward, forming a perfect circle around her and the Professor as it pushed aside the foul-smelling trash that surrounded the duo. Betsy noticed, with some amusement, Xavier’s mildly concerned expression as he watched a midnight-black portal open beneath his chair. It was impossible to tell where it might lead—or what might lurk within its depths.

  “Don’t worry, Professor,” Betsy said with a smile. “You won’t feel a thing.”

  Xavier gazed at her suspiciously from the comer of his eye; clearly, he didn’t believe her. “You know, that’s exactly what my dentist said the time I went in for a root canal. I didn’t believe him, either—and I was right, unfortunately.”

  They were moving downward now, sinking into the chilly darkness, Betsy glanced around at the garbage piled around them once last time, then turned back to the Professor. “Fried chicken, eh? I wondered what that was.” She grimaced. “Now I know why I
had that sudden urge for mashed potatoes and gravy....”

  Satumyne’s stomach growled.

  Having left the Supreme Guardian in the throne room—per Roma’s request for privacy—Her Whyness was on her way to her quarters when the rumbling had started. She looked around to see if any of the staff or visitors passing her in the corridor had heard the sound; if they had, they were apparently wise enough not to comment on it. That lack of reaction—caused, more than likely, by the fear she generated among them—pleased Satumyne. It wouldn’t do for an Omniversal Majestrix to have the citadel buzzing with talk about how, though she could command legions of soldiers in battle, she had no control over the noises made by her internal organs. It might make her seem fallible. Commonplace. Mindnumbingly ordinary. Like she was one of them. And that would never do ...

  “Special Executive?” called out a voice laced with more than a touch of the Scottish Highlands. “May I have a moment of your time?” Satumyne turned. Hurrying down the corridor after her was an odd little man in a surgical blouse and checkered pants. She recognized him as the Chief Physician from the medical wing, but couldn’t remember his name—she had far more important things to do than try to remember the names of everyone who worked for the Supreme Guardian.

  “I haven’t gone by the title ‘Special Executive’ since I left the DDC, Doctor,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down her nose at him. “You must address me as ‘Your Whyness’ now.” “Ah!” The physician smiled broadly, grabbed her right hand, and began vigorously pumping it up and down. “Congratulations! It couldn’t have happened to a nicer Majestrix.” As Satumyne pulled her hand free, he bowed his head slightly. “I apologize for my faux pas. It’s just that it takes so long for news of anything to trickle down to the medical wing these days... I must never have received a copy of the notification.”

  Satumyne frowned. “What did you wish to speak with me about?” she asked, hoping to move the conversation along before her stomach made another demand for food.

  The Chief Physician unclipped a small, hand-held computer from the belt he wore under the green scrubs. “Now, I realize you don’t have a full understanding of medical procedures, beyond whatever unnecessary bits of information the lads at DDC might have filled your head with when you worked with them ...” He grinned broadly, seemingly unaffected by the icy stare he was receiving. “. . . but I’d like you to take a look at these readings, before I bring them to the Supreme Guardian’s attention, and tell me what you see.”