chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  “Interesting,” the dictator commented, like a scientist who’s discovered a new species of bug. “The beam has a different effect on you than it did on that bothersome little man.”

  Roma found she didn’t have the strength to ask who he was talking about. It was taking all she had just to remain conscious.

  “I think our Guardian truly is only as good as the sum of her parts,” Sat-yr-nin quipped. “And she’s just lost one of them.” She put a hand over her mouth and giggled, amused by her little joke.

  Von Doom stared heatedly at the Mastrex, but then a look came over his eyes that seemed to indicate he was giving serious consideration to her passing comment. “That does make sense, if one considers the situation multidimensionailly,” he said slowly. “If the Guardian protects all realities, and there exists an alternate version of her in each of them, then it would stand to reason that her powers are derived, not from this citadel, but from the collection of all variations in one body.” He glanced from one version to the other. “Fascinating. I wonder exactly how many there are ..

  “You must... stop this ... madness...” Roma weakly demanded of the tyrant. “You have ... no idea ... what harm you are ... doing ..

  Von Doom snorted, and pointed to her duplicate. “The only harm, woman, is to you, for you are all that stands between Doom and his ascendency to the throne. The X-Men are either prisoners of Magneto, or are dead. Your lieutenant has been sealed away until I have decided upon her execution date, and your guards have been ... incapacitated. You have no allies here. And once you have fallen, there will be no one to stop Doom from taking up the mantle as the new Guardian of Reality.” He adjusted a dial on his gauntlet, and the hum of the accelerator circuits increased to a teeth-rattling howl. “First, though, there is the matter of finalizing your removal from office.” He raised his hands, palms forward, and pointed them in her direction.

  Roma could see the build-up of energy in the gauntlets’ projectors. She tried to use her powers to teleport herself to safety, but the strain placed on her body by the removal of one of her alternates kept her from focusing her thoughts.

  The light from von Doom’s hands flared brightly, and Roma was enveloped in a brilliant green haze that tore into her, disrupting every cell in her body. Another variation of the Guardian fell to the floor.

  And for the first time in millennia, Roma screamed.

  * * *

  He sat there in the gathering darkness, suddenly uncertain of what he should do next.

  Charles Xavier hadn’t moved from his hoverchair for the past ten minutes, his mind continually replaying Magneto’s last scathing remark. Was it true? he wondered. Could it really be possible that, in his zeal to carry out his mission, he had crossed some moral boundary—the one that had always separated him from the villainous members of the mutant community?

  His reverie was shattered as he suddenly noticed that Magneto was heading for the door.

  “Are—are you leaving?” Xavier asked.

  “Yes,” Lensherr replied brusquely. “I wish to be with my family . . .when the end comes. The Cube is yours, Charles—I have already ordered it to obey your commands. All you need do is take possession of it.” He turned to go, then paused. “Farewell, Charles,” he said quietly. “I fear that, when next we meet, it shall not be so civil a reunion.”

  “No,” Xavier murmured. “I would imagine not.”

  Lensherr turned, then, and opened the door to the hallway—and suddenly cried out in pain.

  Startled, Xavier leapt to his feet, in time to see Magnus stagger back into the room, clutching weakly at his chest. “Charles . . .” he gasped hoarsely, and turned to face him.

  The hilt of a large, black stone dagger was protruding from Erik’s chest.

  The hallway door opened wide, and a man entered the drawing room, pushing his way past the dying mutant overlord. He was tall and powerfully built, clad in a slightly baggy, dark-green jumpsuit, and polished, green leather jackboots. To the men and women who had served under his command on a now lifeless moonbase, a quarter of a million miles from their homes and families, he had been known as The Controller. For the past fifty-plus years, though, he had been known by a far more sinister name—one that, even now, was still spoken only in the softest whispers. A name that had been given to him by none other than his cherished mentor, now long deceased—a mentor named Adolf Hitler.

  He was the scourge of life itself. A monster who had sacrificed countless lives in the continuing pursuit of his mad dream of recreating the glorious days of the Third Reich. The first man to not only possess a series of Cosmic Cubes over the years, but to become as one with their incredible energies—and, thus, the universe itself.

  He was the devil given form. He was a perpetually-grinning angel of death.

  He was the Red Skull.

  And he had come for the Cube.

  “No . . .” Xavier whispered.

  The Skull crossed the salon, apparently unconcerned by Xavier’s presence; either that, or he was so intent on what he was doing that he hadn’t even realized the Professor was there. He came to a halt before the Matisse, staring at it with far more interest than one would normally have, even for a work of art.

  He knew, Xavier realized with growing horror. Somehow, he knew the Cube was behind that painting. And once he possessed it, no one would be safe ...

  “Charles ...”

  Xavier turned. Erik was still alive, but it was obvious from the severity of his wound that he did not have much time left. He fumbled at the handle of the blade that had sliced through his costume to pierce his heart, but he was unable to remove it from his chest; his hands were too slick with blood. The Professor hurried to his side.

  “Promise me, Charles, ” Lensherr gasped. “Promise me you’ll save her.” He gestured toward the Skull. “Don’t let that monster do to Anya what his kind did to my parents. Please, Charles.”

  Inwardly, the Professor cursed. Why did the man insist on doing this? There were more important matters involved in this Cube-created insanity than maintaining a small facet of Magneto’s fantasy life—the Skull, for instance. If he wasn’t stopped before he took possession of the device, no one would be safe. But he had to say something encouraging to his old friend before he died ...

  “I. . .” Xavier began, then slowly nodded. “All right, Erik.”

  Lensherr slowly reached up, and gently placed the palm of his hand against his friend’s face. He smiled. “I knew I was not wrong about you, Charles. You have always been a good man—a hero. It was something I had aspired to become, a lifetime ago, but it was not meant to be.” He patted Xavier’s cheek. “Take good care of her, Charles.”

  “I will,” he lied.

  “Thank you ... my friend . ..” Lensherr whispered.

  And then he was gone.

  On the other side of the room, the Red Skull ignored the death of his rival and concentrated on the matter at hand. His only thought was of obtaining the Cube, of claiming his prize, and now there was no one to

  stop him from doing so—he had swept his opposition from the chessboard with just his first move.

  He swung the painting aside on its hinges—and found himself facing a smooth metal wall the size of a small safe. There was no door, no access panel, no traditional means of entry. A container that could only be opened by someone possessing magnetically-based powers.

  “Ingenious,” the Skull murmured. “I would not have expected a subhuman like Lensherr to have thought of such security measures.” His lipless mouth stretched wide in a hideous approximation of a smile. “Still, opening it is no effort for one who has touched the face of eternity.”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, sending out a mental command. Calling the Cube to him.

  Slowly, the block of metal began to open. A brilliant, white light filled the drawing room.

  And then the Cosmic Cube floated out of its prison, and toward the Skull’s outstretched hand.

  “No!” the Professor
shouted.

  He leapt toward the murderer, and actually succeeded in knocking him away from the Cube; both he and the Skull went staggering around the room, locked in a deadly embrace. But Charles Xavier had spent most of his time as a man of peace, pursuing intellectual solutions to the problems he ordinarily faced. The Red Skull, on the other hand, was a sadistic killer who reveled in the amount of pain he was able to inflict upon his victims.

  A gloved fist shot out, catching Xavier across the jaw; it was followed by the sharp stab of an elbow connecting with his left temple. Knocked off-balance, the Professor staggered to the side, missing his target and stumbling into a table. Before he could focus his thoughts, the Skull lashed out with a booted foot, driving the steel toe into the Professor’s right knee. The air was split by the sound of bones snapping, and Xavier screamed in agony. A savage chop to his carotid artery cut short his cries, and he crashed to the floor, unconscious, to lie beside the body of his friend.

  The Skull, however, wasn’t quite done punishing his foolish would-be assailant. He didn’t conclude his brutal session for another five minutes.

  The Cube, meanwhile, floated quietly in the center of the room— as though patiently waiting for its next owner to come along. It didn’t have long to wait.

  Stepping over the bodies of his enemies, the Skull at last claimed his prize. The Cube’s light grew brighter, as though responding to his touch—and welcoming it. And as he held the ultimate power in the omniverse, his eyes sparkling with the flames of madness, a quotation crept into the Skull’s mind—a passage from a short story composed by an American writer named Edgar Allan Poe that seemed darkly appropriate for the occasion:

  “ ‘And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death,’ ” he said, his death’s-head grin growing wider still. “ ‘And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all...’ ”

  And, once more, the world was filled with a terrible, harsh light. . . .

  TO BE CONCLUDED

  THE CHAOS ENGINE

  noon

  1

  HAAL’ITHOR WATCHED in horror as the walls of the city crumbled around her.

  _ The sky had rained death across the hiveworld for ten deenahl,

  bolts of multihued lightning streaking down from the heavens to obliterate all they touched. Many believed it was the work of the goddess J’raal, who had apparently decided to punish her children for some unknown transgression, though no one was able to discern exactly what that might be. And perhaps it appeared so to the most devout, for the ground trembled with the force of her mighty blows, and the air shook with the high-pitched wail of her war cry. But as a member of the High Council, Haal’ithor knew better. The “lightning” was a continual barrage of laser beams fired by warships in orbit around her world, Ishla’non; the tremors were caused by explosions when those same beams struck their targets. No, this was not the retribution of an angered storm goddess—at least with celestial beings, you had some chance of understanding the motives for their actions. An unusually dry season? More than likely the wrong beast had been sacrificed during the winter months, and the god to whom it was presented was offended. Flash floods that stripped the topsoil of nutrients?

  Obviously too many offerings of nectar in thanks for a bountiful harvest—enough to heavily intoxicate even a deity like J’raal.

  But what had transpired these past few days involved no matters of divine judgment—even an over-zealous high priest could see that. There was no logic to the destruction being caused, no perceptible reason for why so many of her fellow lion had to die. This was far worse than any punishment the Old Ones could deliver.

  This was the work of man.

  Haal’ithor shuddered. Everywhere she looked there were signs of their handiwork—in the marketplace, on the fields outside the city, in the lofty towers of jade and golden thread, their gleaming surfaces now blackened by smoke, scorched by the fires that raged out of control. The streets were littered with the bodies of young and old, their limbs bent in unnatural positions, lifeless eyes forever fixed on points in infinity. Haal’ithor’s olfactory array twitched uncontrollably as the stench of burned flesh wafted up to her, more than a dozen levels above the market, carried on winds that scorched her carapace and stung her multifaceted eyes.

  Behind her, the terrified wails of her three grubs echoed through the apartment, and she heard her mate scuttling across the room to ease their fears. Haal’ithor trembled slightly—they would have far more to be frightened of in the days ahead, she was certain ... if they survived that long.

  A shadow swept over her, large enough to plunge the entire city of Cle’rak into darkness. Fearfully, Haal’ithor looked up, already knowing what she would find.

  It was a warship, the largest she had ever seen, more than a halfmile in length, and three city blocks wide. Hullplates bristling with weapons—all trained, no doubt, on the most populated dwellings—the cruiser hung low in the sky. Too low, in fact—its belly scraped the roofs of Cle’rak’s highest towers, threatening to topple them. Haal’ithor’s carapace tingled as ionized air swirled around her, the charged particles cascading from the anti-gravity engines that held the ship aloft. For a moment, an image formed in her minds’ eyes: She a young grub, standing with other lion children beside their sac-mothers at the spaceport, watching elegant starliners and short-hop flyers landing and departing, the wash from their anti-grav beams tickling her antennae—

  Haal’ithor, a voice suddenly called, startling her. Your presence is required. It was Geer’lak, president of the High Council, contacting her through the hivemind.

  Understood, she replied, glancing upward. With a loud hiss of escaping air, a mammoth bay door opened on the cruiser, and a metal platform began a slow descent toward the council chambers on the west side of the city. A large number of figures stood on the anti-grav lift, but Haal’ithor couldn’t distinguish one from the other—bipedal creatures all looked alike to her.

  At a brief mental command, a pair of plates on her carapace slid open, and a set of light, ochre-colored wings unfolded. With a final glance at her family, and a silent prayer to the Old Ones that it would not be her last view of them, Haal’ithor pushed off from the balcony and flew away to join the other councilors.

  No one could remember the last time a full assemblage of the one hundred-member High Council had been called, but everyone could agree to its necessity, given the circumstances. As she lightly touched down on the turquoise and white-tiled floor of the main gathering place and retracted her wings, Haal’ithor spotted a number of lion lawgivers she hadn’t seen in years: El’zelius of the Southern Plains; J’laan of the Hinterlands; Kre’ssh of Ta’la’mor. Under normal conditions, there would have been time for pleasantries—how well the harvest season was going, the progress of their grubs—but with invaders apparently dedicated to destroying their world without provocation, time was the one thing the lion could not afford to waste.

  J’laan and El’zelius scuttled over to Haal’ithor, their antennae lightly brushing in greeting. Haal’ithor was taken aback by the scarring on J’laan’s carapace, and the unbalanced gait in his walk. Rumors had spread through Cle’rak of the decimation of the Hinterlands by the off-worlders, but Haal’ithor had hoped—and often prayed—they were just wild speculations. But the accuracy of such stories was now proved by J’laan’s injuries, and Haal’ithor began to fear that Cle’rak would soon suffer the same fate as her sister habitation. Haal’ithor glanced back, in the direction of her dwelling, and wondered if there was still time to reach her family before the end came.

  I understand the invaders are sending an envoy to meet with us, El’zelius said, matter-of-factly. Perhaps your fears for your grubs are unfounded, he added, clearly detecting her concerns thro
ugh the hive-mind.

  Old Ones willing, Haal’ithor said reverently. She turned to face her old grubmates. And it’s true about the aliens. I saw them descending from their warship as I made my way here. Have they given any indication for why they’ve attacked?

  J’laan’s antennae twitched angrily, and she held up an injured leg. Bipeds don’t need a reason for causing destruction. It’s just their way.

  Haal’ithor and El’zelius nodded. It was a lesson most races in this sector of space had learned ever since the loathsome two-legged creatures had mastered interstellar travel: Whatever man doesn’t understand, he destroys. Whatever man desires, he takes—usually by force. The lion had never had occasion for many contacts with such a brutal, warrior race, but Haal’ithor had heard stories of some of the atrocities perpetrated on the Lundeen, the B’tash, the Kree. If even half of them were based on fact—

  They’re here, J’laan said tensely.

  Haal’ithor turned. The transport platform had landed in the courtyard, depositing what looked like a good harvest-load of aliens—all clad in gleaming black armor, all but one carrying weapons in their upper limbs. Not for the first time, Haal’ithor dimly wondered how such creatures managed to function with so few appendages.

  The unarmed biped stepped from the group and approached the council. He—at least Haal’ithor thought it was a “he” (she’d never been good with gender classifications)—was smaller than the others, skin lightly colored, as opposed to the greenish cast of the majority of warriors surrounding him, with a closely-cropped layer of brown fur on the top of his head. He wore a metal visor over his eyes, making it impossible to see into his soul, and that set Haal’ithor on edge. It was a firm belief among the Don that the eyes of any living being allowed another to judge the purity of that being’s life-force. To cover one’s eyes was an insult—and a sign of distrust.

  >Nll r’stror g laarnasrkklia Sommers < the being said, pointing to himself. >