chaos engine trilogy

by Unknown Author

  It still could be, her reflection said. If you ’re willing to take a chance.

  Jean raised her hands, intending to rub her eyes so she could make certain that she was actually seeing this, to convince herself that she wasn’t still asleep and possibly entering another layer of the nightmare. But she stopped short when she saw that her reflection was wearing golden, opera-length gloves . . . and a bright-green costume.

  She screamed, and stumbled back, her right elbow glancing off the towel rack before she finally came to rest in an awkward sitting position on the clothes hamper. She moaned loudly and rubbed the funny bone, gritting her teeth as waves of pain traveled up and down her arm.

  Are you all right? asked the voice in her head.

  Jean clasped her hands over her ears, though she knew that would do nothing to block the sound, and screwed her eyes tightly shut. Maybe if she didn’t look at the mirror, she considered, then the strange vision would fade away. Better yet, maybe she should just walk out of the bathroom. . .

  She rose unsteadily and cautiously opened her eyes, training her sight on a framed movie poster hanging on the far side of the bedroom: The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari—one of her favorite German Expressionist films of the early twentieth century. By focusing her attention on the painted image of the stem-faced “somnambulist,” she was able to ignore the growing urge to look at her reflection—or, rather, the costumed duplicate who now lived in the glass.

  Jean, please, the voice said. We need to talk.

  “No!” she cried, and bolted from the room. She slammed the door behind her, then threw herself into a reading chair that stood near the foot of the bed. She sat in darkness, hands still pressed to her ears, rocking back and forth on the edge of the seat, wondering why this was happening to her.

  She’d never displayed any signs of mental illness—at least, none that she could ever recall. She didn’t talk out loud to herself, didn’t think anyone was out to “get” her, didn’t hear hidden messages in songs playing on the radio. Oh, there was the occasional bout of depression— what housefrau didn’t suffer from them? When your life was an endless succession of boring days and—in her case—lonely nights, when the colorful fantasies you’d once dreamed of becoming somebody in the world degenerated into finding ways to better serve your husband’s dreams instead, who wouldn ’t get depressed?

  But to hear voices? To see things that weren’t there?

  It was madness.

  No, it’s not, Jean. You’re not mad—you’re fine. If you’d just let me explain—

  “A nervous breakdown,” she whispered. “That must be it. I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

  A tremor of fear ran through her body, and she ran shaky hands through her hair. She couldn’t begin to fathom why it might have happened, or what could have caused it. Was her life that terrible? Was her mind that desperate for escape from crushing boredom? Tears formed in the comers of her eyes, obscuring her vision, but that was all right—it meant she couldn’t see the costumed woman who had suddenly appeared in the poster frame.

  Jean—listen to me! You ’re not going crazy—I’m really here, in your mind. I don’t know how it happened, but you have to help me! At the sake of sounding overly dramatic, there are literally billions of people depending on it!

  Jean laughed, a slightly hysterical note she didn’t even try to control. “What about your friends in the ... ‘X-Men,’ is it? Why not ask ‘Storm’ or ‘Gambit’ or—”

  Scott, Phoenix said. What about Scott, Jean? Should I ask him?

  Jean froze, an image of her husband popping into her thoughts. She missed him so much, right now. “Scott...”

  That’s right, Jean, Phoenix said gently. There’s a Scott Summers where I come from, too. You saw him in the dream.

  “My dream . ..”

  My memory, actually, the reflection said. One you unconsciously tapped into while you were sleeping. She shivered, and hugged her shoulders. A replay of a particularly unpleasant moment in my life— one I never would have survived if I didn ’t have a man I love more than life itself, and who loves me just as much. The only man I’ve ever felt that way about. I’d do anything, sacrifice everything, for him, without hesitation. She paused. You know that sort of feeling, don’t you?

  “Y-yes ...” Jean said slowly, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Yes, I do.”

  He’s out there, somewhere, Jean, Phoenix said. Possibly even trapped inside your Scott’s subconscious, as I am here. I want to free him; I want to free all my friends, before time runs out for everyone on the planet. But I can’t do that without your help.

  Jean drew in a shuddering breath, then released it. “Why me?”

  You ’re the only person I can speak with. No one else can hear me because . . . well, because I’ve become a part of you.

  Jean blinked. “You’re ... me?”

  Phoenix waggled a gloved hand at chest height. Not exactly. More of a .. . She glanced upward, as though she could see the picture frame, then shrugged. Well, more of a reflection of you than actually being you. An alternate Jean Grey from a different reality.

  “And how did you get inside my head?” she asked after a few moments.

  It’s kind of complicated, Phoenix explained. She tapped the side of her head with an index finger. Let’s just say that I got trapped in your subconscious. It’s taken a while for me to free myself and get your attention.

  “Uh-huh. And that doesn’t sound crazy to you?” Jean asked sarcastically.

  Phoenix opened her mouth to reply, then paused. I see your point. But I swear to you, she added hurriedly, you’re not going insane. Just hear me out, all right?

  “If I help you,” Jean replied, with a considerable amount of hesitation, “then what?”

  Her glamorous twin smiled. Well, if it all goes correctly, and my friends and I are able to put things back the way they should be, you won’t even remember I was here. It’ll be as if I never existed.

  “And my Scott?”

  The same for him. With luck, we ’11 be out of your. . . hair before you even know it. The smile broadened. What do you say? Helping save the Earth sounds a lot better than chasing dust bunnies and cobwebs, doesn’t it?

  Jean paused. “I won’t have to wear anything ... scandalous, will I?”

  Phoenix chuckled. I thought you liked this outfit.

  “In the privacy of my bedroom, perhaps,” Jean replied with a small smile, her cheeks reddening considerably. “But it’s nothing I’d care to be seen wearing in public.”

  Jean stared quietly at the woman in the glass. It would be so easy to turn and walk away and pretend none of this conversation had ever occurred. Well, not so easy, she considered; if Phoenix really was taking up space in her mind, it would mean she’d still have her buzzing like an annoying fly in her thoughts, insisting she be heard. Still, what the woman said felt sincere .. . and true.

  Is this how madness begins? Jean wondered. With a belief that something so totally outrageous is undeniably true? If so, she decided, better to suffer a madness borne of pursuing a crazy dream of saving the world, than spend the rest of her mundane life wondering what might have happened if she’d only listened.

  It was certainly better than formulating plans for assaulting the plaque buildup on the shower tiles in the morning ...

  “What do you need me to do?” she asked.

  “If it were up to me, I would turn this craft around and return to England.”

  Kurt Wagner folded blue-skinned arms across his chest and glanced around the cramped cabin at his fellow travelers, almost daring them to respond to his complaint. Beside him, the blond-haired shapeshifter known simply as “Meggan” grunted in disgust and pulled her swastika-adorned headband down over her eyes. Wagner smiled, flashing sharpened fangs, admiring—not for the first time—the manner in which her skintight uniform hugged her exquisite curves, the eagle-like emblem of the shoulderless top displaying a copious amount of cleavage. Wagner sighed. If only she wasn’t so enamo
red of her thuggish boyfriend . . .

  “For the tenth—and last—time, Nightcrawler, shut your mouth,” ordered the hulking brute of a man seated in front of him, as if on cue.

  “Whether or not we continue this mission is not your decision to make, we are not returning to England until we have completed it, and I am tired of your constant whining.” He gazed over his shoulder at Wagner, lips drawn back to bare his teeth, blue eyes narrowed beneath the black-and-white headband that matched Meggan’s. “And if you continue leering at my woman, freak, I will have no other recourse than to crush your thick skull and toss your carcass from this ship. You may be of true German descent, unlike the rest of us, but it will be a cold day in Hades before I allow a genetic mishap like you the opportunity to sully a warrior maiden of the Reich with your foul touch.” With that, Hauptmann Englande, one of the Empire’s premiere superpowered heroes and Wagner’s commanding officer in the team codenamed “Lightning Force,” turned back to the controls of the V-winged jet he was piloting. Apparently, he considered the discussion over; wisely, Wagner decided to agree with him.

  Chin resting on a three-fingered balled-up fist, he gazed out one of the observation ports in the craft’s hull, his frown deepening as he watched the endless wastes of the Sahara Desert streak by below. Even though the jet’s cabin was air conditioned, he was certain he could feel the waves of heat rising from the sands, and this was supposed to be one of the cooler days in the region. He wasn’t looking forward to stepping into such a blast furnace when he and his teammates arrived at their destination.

  He shifted a bit in his seat, taking some weight off the three-foot-long prehensile tail that protruded from just above his buttocks; sitting too long like this often caused it to cramp, and he was uncomfortable enough in the small cabin as it was without suffering from muscle spasms. But changing position caused the high, starched collar of his blood-red-colored uniform to bite into his neck; twisting around to fix that problem resulted in his knocking off his mirrored sunglasses, exposing his light-sensitive, pupilless yellow eyes to the harsh desert glare. Retrieving his glasses from the floor, Wagner sat back in a huff—on his tail.

  A soft chuckle reached his pointed ears, and he turned to find Meg-gan gazing at him, a gloved hand holding up an edge of the headband so she could watch him with her right eye. A small, wicked smile played at the comers of her mouth, and she glanced at the back of her boyfriend’s head, then back to Wagner. For just an instant, her body shimmered, like the heat waves outside the jet—she had activated her shapeshifting abilities. When the effect ended, her skin was as deep a blue as Nightcrawler’s, her eye just as yellow, her waist-length hair just as black; the tip of a pointed tail flexed sinuously behind her as she playfully stretched, arching her back.

  Wagner felt his heart pound within his chest, unable to hide his attraction for her, even at the risk of sending his commander into a murderous rage ... should he become aware of what was happening behind his back. Smiling broadly, encouraged by the come-hither gesture of Meggan’s now three-fingered hand, he reached out to place his own on her thigh—and was rewarded with a slap across the face by her tail. He reached up to touch his burning cheek, and was surprised to find blood on his white glove.

  “What is going on back there?” demanded Hauptmann Englande.

  “Nothing, my Captain,” purred Meggan. Wagner noted with surprise how quickly she had shifted back to her normal appearance. “Kurt was merely ... stretching his tail.”

  Englande grunted. “Well, keep it in your pants, Wagner,” he said with a snarl. “I don’t need that damnable thing strangling me because you can’t control it.”

  “I will... endeavor to do so, Captain,” Wagner said glumly. He cast a heated glance at Meggan, who laughed silently and pulled the headband back down over her eyes. Once again, she had played him for a fool, and he had willingly allowed his overactive libido to put him in harm’s way.

  Wagner folded his arms across his chest and sneered at the blondhaired vixen. One day that blasted tease was going to get him killed . . .

  The V-wing touched down less than a half-hour later, settling onto the hot sands with a burst of Vertical Take-Off and Landing jets. Wagner stared out through the windshield, repulsed by the ramshackle appearance of the village just ahead—what sort of barbarians would choose to live in such a manner, withering away on the edge of a vast desert, when the Reich offered so much in more civilized locations? But then he saw the dark skin of the village’s inhabitants as they came out to greet the new arrivals, and he quickly understood. They were blacks— genetic inferiors in relation to the pure Aryan makeup, exiled to their “mother country” so the Empire could keep them all in one place. The realization sent an involuntary shudder through him. The situation reminded him of Lightning Force’s last visit to Genosha, the island-nation just to the east of the African coast that served as the dumping ground for most of the world’s mutant population—and the prime source of Reichsminister Amim Zola’s material for genetic experimentation.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “It is called Araouane,” Englande explained, rifling through the contents of the mission pouch he held.

  “And this is where the Ministry of Health wanted us to go?” Wagner said incredulously. “What could they possibly want from such a worthless ruin? And why should the Empire’s most celebrated strikeforce be wasted on a task that could be carried out by some lowly errand boy?” Englande glared at him. “I do not know, Nightcrawler. Perhaps you can ask Reichsminister Zola yourself when we meet with him later.” “M-meet with him... ?” Wagner stammered, unable to keep the fear from his voice.

  Meggan suddenly wrapped her arms around his shoulders and playfully hugged him. “What’s wrong, little elf?” she whispered in his ear. “Nothing, ” Wagner snapped, a little too forcefully.

  Meggan laughed, and roughly tousled his closely trimmed hair. “I think the Reichsminister frightens you, little elf,” she chided. “Why is that, I wonder?” She smiled brightly. “Perhaps you fear he might take an interest in you, make you the focus of one of his . .. research projects?” She stroked his cheek, reopening the cut with a quick slice of a fingernail.

  “Enough, Meggan,” Englande snarled. “We’re wasting time.” He turned in his seat and pointed toward a door at the rear of the cabin. “Go retrieve the little Jew from her cell and meet us outside. There’s work to be done, and we may have use for her talents, although I doubt there will be any trouble.”

  Meggan pouted, bringing a small, satisfied smile to Wagner’s lips. “All right, Brian. You don’t have to be so brusque.”

  “Go, ” Englande said.

  She sniffed derisively and headed for the cargo bay, slamming the door behind her as she left the cabin.

  Wagner flashed an uneven grin at Englande, hoping his friendly act would distract his commander from focusing on the attention he had paid to the fluid motions of Meggan’s exit. “Women, eh?”

  Hauptmann Englande sneered at him. “Shut up, freak.” He shoved Wagner aside and headed for the cabin door that led outside.

  Luckily for the blue-skinned mutant, the stream of German invectives he muttered as Englande climbed from the jet apparently went unheard.

  The group reassembled a few minutes later in the shadow of the V-wing, Wagner’s dark coloration making him almost invisible as he clung to the cool underbelly of the craft.

  The trio had been joined by the remaining member of Lightning

  Force: a gaunt, frightened-looking young woman named Katheryne Pryde. She was usually addressed only by the codename “Shadowcat” by her teammates, if for no other reason than it kept her at an emotional distance from them; calling her by name, even allowing her to sit in the cabin rather than in the tiny room she occupied in the back of the jet, would mean they considered her one of them, and that wasn’t about to happen. For although she might be a mutant like Wagner, she would never be treated as his equal—he was a German, at least, a proud warri
or of the Fatherland; she was a Jewess, her left wrist tattooed with an identification bar code, head shaved bare, forehead emblazoned with a six-pointed Star of David. She wore a light-blue shift with billowing sleeves and a hood that served to hide the haunted look that constantly filled her brown, doe-like eyes. At a glance, from the way she hovered a few inches above the ground, her body almost transparent in the brutal sunlight, one might think she was a ghost—and, in fact, that is exactly what she was: a woman forever trapped between life and death, between light and shadow. A victim of her own mutant power to phase through solid objects, gone horribly, fatally, wrong, courtesy of experiments conducted by the Ministry of Health.

  Hands on hips, Hauptmann Englande looked every bit the posturing iibermensch, every bit the epitome of Aryan superiority, and Wagner was certain he knew it, too. His skintight uniform—the bottom half white, the top half red, decorated with a representation of an eagle— swelled as he puffed out his chest, the better to make an impression on the villagers as they drew closer. Sunlight glinted along the edges of black leather boots and gauntlets shined to a brilliant polish. A coarse desert breeze ruffled the top of his closely cropped blond hair. No man—no warrior—could look better.

  A man in his late sixties or early seventies, skin toughened to dark leather by decades spent under the powerful rays of the sun, hunched his way over to them, his weight supported by a thick, gnarled staff; Wagner couldn’t help but wonder where he could have obtained the wood from which to fashion it in this endless dune sea. Presumably, this was a village elder, sent to greet the quartet, although the fear that shone in his eyes was all too evident.

  “Good day, my friends,” he said in halting German, stopping directly in front of Englande. He smiled, revealing a wide gap where the right-side row of his upper teeth should have been. “How may we of Araouane be of service to you?”

  “First off, old man,” Englande said, his anger barely contained, “we are not your friends, and I will turn what few teeth you have left to a fine powder if you insult us with such unwanted familiarities again.”