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  THE CHAOS ENGINE TRILOGY

  THE CHAOS ENGINE TRILOGY

  X-MEN® DOCTOR DOOM™ X-MEN® MAGNETO™ X-MEN® RED SKULL™

  STEVEN A. ROMAN

  BP BOOKS, INC. new york

  www.ibooks.net

  DOCTOR DOOM

  THE CHAOS ENGINE

  toom

  T HE FORCE of the explosion roared outward from the lobby of the : ; General Electric office tower, toppling the gigantic lighted tree that I * I stood before the building’s glass doors, then continuing across the expanse of Rockefeller Center and through the wide walkway that led to Fifth Avenue; on .the opposite side of the street, the windows of Saks department store imploded, showering the colorful Christmas displays inside with shards of flying glass. Decapitated and amputated mannequins and dummies collapsed in plastic heaps among the bright ribbons and tangled blinking lights.

  For a moment, a disturbing silence hung over the streets and sidewalks that, just moments before, had been congested with holiday shoppers and rubbernecking tourists—or was the quiet merely a result of the temporary loss of hearing caused by the blast? Whatever the reason, the icy December air was soon filled with a mind-numbing cacophony: the screams of the injured; the keening for the dead; the wail of sirens in the distance; the ear-piercing screech of car alarms.

  And the peal of insane laughter.

  For the few souls not suffering from shock or crippling injuries, the sight of the madman responsible for the debacle was more than enough to send their minds spiraling into a dark pit from which they might never recover.

  Floating above the skating rink—which was now filled with the shattered remains of the mammoth Norway spruce tree that had, just moments before, towered above it—clad in garments of the bloodiest red, seemed to be none other than the devil himself, given human form. His yellow eyes fairly glowed with arcane energy from beneath the shadows of a gladiator-like helmet—shadows that did well to hide the features of this spawn of hell. Looking from one side of the plaza to the other, then out toward Fifth Avenue, he surveyed the damage wrought by his handiwork: the broken bodies; the blood that flowed like a river down to the skating rink, where it quickly congealed; the lopsided buildings and overturned vehicles.

  And found it good.

  Slowly, his lips split open to reveal yellowed, dagger-like teeth flecked with bits of blood ... and flesh.

  “ ‘And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death,’ ” he said, voice rumbling like storm clouds. “ ‘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.’ ”

  “Not here they don’t, Magneto!” shouted a male voice from behind the costumed terrorist. “Not now, not ever!”

  A predatory smile chiseled onto his features, the self-proclaimed Master of Magnetism turned in midair and looked down at the group of colorfully-garbed men and women gathered at the spot where the one-hundred-foot Christmas tree had stood. Six in all, they comprised the membership of Earth’s greatest team of super heroes: Storm—a tall, beautiful African woman, her flowing white hair in sharp contrast to the black leather outfit she wore, a billowing satin cape attached to her shoulders and slender wrists; Wonder Man—the world’s greatest superpowered adventurer, garbed in a black-and-red bodysuit, a stylized “W” emblazoned across his chest; Spider-Woman—a mysterious heroine dressed in black and silver, scarlet hair streaming out like a fountain of blood through the open top of her mask; the incredible Hulk—the green-skinned, gamma-spawned monster whose short temper was as well known—and feared—as his tremendous strength; and Iron Man— the Armored Avenger, resplendent in his red-and-gold battlesuit. Standing in front of the group was their leader—a man unafraid to put his life at risk in order to attain his ultimate goal of creating a world in which all men and women might live in peace. Clad from head to toe in gleaming armor, wrapped in a cape of the darkest green velvet, he was the world’s foremost scientific genius—and its all-powerful ruler.

  “Doctor Doom,” Magneto said, the words spilling like curdled milk from between his rotted teeth. “I was wondering when you and your little band of merrymakers would show up to spoil my fun.”

  Doom extended an arm and dramatically swept it across the plaza to indicate the chaos created by his enemy. “Fun?” he roared, the anger in his voice amplified by the speaker built into his helmet’s faceplate. “You injure and kill hundreds of my subjects, cause hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage, make a mockery of this festive season—all for your amusement?”

  Magneto shrugged. “What can I say? I was bored.”

  Doom started, as though he had been slapped.

  “Oh, come now, von Doom,” Magneto replied. “You of all people should know how it is ruling over lesser beings—keeping the rabble in line, constantly guarding against possible invaders, oppressing personal freedoms. Sometimes a monarch needs to find a way to fight off the tedium.” He nodded toward the injured and dying below him. “This is mine.”

  “Monster!” Spider-Woman cried, her cheeks almost as red as her mane of fiery tresses. “You’d destroy innocent lives just to pass the time?” Her hands clenched into fists, and she snarled. “I’ll give you something to fight off!” She tensed, preparing to leap at the red-hued villain.

  A gauntleted hand gently placed on her shoulder, though, halted her ill-considered attack.

  “No, Spider-Woman,” Doom said calmly. “We will not allow Magneto to force us into careless actions. Only a level head will prevail against such a madman.”

  Behind them, the Hulk grunted. “Yeah, but I’d still like to smash in that bedpan he’s wearin’ on his skull,” he mumbled.

  The black-and-silver-clad heroine glared at Magneto through polarized lenses, then turned to face Doom. Slowly, her muscles relaxed, fists unclenching. She exhaled sharply.

  “All right, Doctor,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Sorry.”

  Doom consolingly patted her on the shoulder, then looked toward his old enemy. “You’re wrong, Magneto. Latveria under my rule, as the rest of the world is today, has ever been governed with a caring, yet firm, hand. My subjects are as dear to me as my own children—” he glanced toward Storm, who smiled beatifically “—or my loving wife. What I do for them is no more than any father would do for his family, or a true monarch for his people: providing for their comfort, ensuring their safety, guiding them towards a bright future. But then, I am not surprised by your attitude—I have heard of the atrocities you enacted on the fair people of Genosha . .

  “Lies! All lies!” Magneto barked. “I, too, did what was necessary for my subjects. I, too, provided for them, gave them safety and a future—”

  “You gave them death!” Wonder Man interjected. “You took away their hopes, their freedom, their very lives!”

  “Hope. Freedom.” Magneto sneered. “Mere words, you muscle-bound ape. What use has the typical man or woman for such concepts? Feed and clothe them, and they are happy. Protect their homes, and they are content. I did all that, and more, for my followers, yet still they turned against me. All I asked in return was—”

  “Their children as fodder for your body banks?” Iron Man shouted. “Yeah, that sounds like a real fair deal to me.” Even through the metal helmet encasing his head, the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Armored fool!” Magneto spat. “With but a thought, I could crush that tin can in which you hide, until flesh and bone ooze out upon the ground like the juice of a freshly squeezed orange. And then where would your much-vaunted te
chnological strength be?”

  “Good God, who writes this crap?”

  Sitting in the darkened movie theater, Elisabeth Braddock turned to face the commentator to her left—her boyfriend, millionaire Warren Worthington III.

  “Warren, please!” she whispered.

  “Oh, come on, Betsy,” Warren muttered, leaning over to speak into her ear. Her skin tingled as his lips gently brushed the lobe. He pointed toward the movie screen, where Magneto continued to face off with Doom and his team. “Nobody talks like that! And besides, when’s all the hitting gonna start? This is supposed to be a big action blockbuster. It isn’t Shakespeare, for crying out—”

  Betsy placed an index finger against his lips to quiet him. He smiled and kissed the tip of it, and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from giggling; she settled for smiling back. Silently, she gazed at the man sitting beside her.

  Silhouetted by the flickering images cast from the projector at the back of the theater, his handsome features and shoulder-length blonde hair made her think of all the times they had lain by the fireplace in his Battery Park City apartment, staring out at the starry sky that was draped across New York Harbor like a velvet curtain. They were times she always wished would never end, even as the rising sun washed away the indigo color of the night, replacing it with the rosy pink of dawn.

  It was on one such night, as the fire crackled and the city slept around them, that she realized she was truly in love with this man. A man who was always supportive, and understanding. Who let her live her own life, with no strings attached.

  Who kissed her fingertips in dark movie theaters.

  Apparently uncertain of what to make of her silence, Warren cocked his head to one side, a quizzical expression etched on his face.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Her smile widened. “You’re incorrigible,” she said breathlessly.

  “And you ’re a regular chatterbox,” said the man to her right. With a start, Betsy turned to face him. She recognized him as J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the New York Daily Bugle. Clad in an ill-fitting tuxedo, his stem features, salt-and-pepper crewcut, and Charlie Chap-linesque mustache contrasted sharply with the softer visage and stylish attire of his wife, Marla. “If you two lovebirds are more interested in each other than the movie,” Jameson continued, “get a room. Otherwise, let the rest of us watch this in peace.” His beady eyes narrowed. “All right?”

  “Sorry,” Betsy mumbled. She turned back to Warren, who stuck out his upper teeth and crossed his eyes in a moronic expression. Betsy placed a hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh, then rested her head against his shoulder. He responded by placing his arm around her and drawing her even closer.

  And there they remained until the end credits had rolled and the house lights had come on.

  “I’m tellin’ you, Betsy, Doom’s Patrol is gonna be the movie event of the summer! I guarantee it’s gonna blow Titanic outta the water. . . figuratively speaking, of course.”

  Smiling politely, Betsy gazed up at the chiseled features of Simon Williams, who, in both his personal and professional lives, was better known throughout the world as actor and box office darling Wonder Man. Standing well over six feet tall, dark hair dramatically swept back from his forehead, Williams was garbed in his traditional red leather safari jacket, with tight black slacks tucked into a pair of red boots; a pair of thick, red-lensed sunglasses covered his eyes so completely that Betsy had trouble telling if he even had eyes. He certainly cut an impressive figure, she thought—a combination of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body, Kevin Sorbo’s face, and Antonio Banderas’s hair.

  Not that she was anything to sneeze at, though. Waist-length, lavender-colored hair piled stylishly upon her head, Betsy was clad in a body-hugging black velvet cocktail dress that accentuated her curves to the point of distraction for every man in the room. Her Japanese features were just as striking: high cheekbones; button nose; full lips; jade-green eyes that shone with the fires of life.

  And having shapely legs that seemed to go up to her neck didn’t hurt, either.

  But even in three-inch stiletto heels, the top of her head just even with Williams’ powerful jaw, she looked like a child in comparison to his larger-than-life appearance.

  “I’m glad the picture turned out so well for you, Mr. Williams,” Betsy said. “Have there been any reports on what the Emperor thought of it?”

  Williams grinned broadly, flashing an impressive set of capped teeth. “Not yet, but how could he not love it? Besides, von Doom had total script approval—even took the time to work with Val Kilmer on how to play him. He’s gotta be happy with the finished product. I gotta tell you, though,” he said in a conspiratorial murmur, “I thought Chris Walken spent a little too much time chewin’ the scenery as Magneto.” He shrugged. “But Naomi Campbell as Storm?” He exhaled sharply. “Talk about your major hotties! Man, I’d give my right arm for a chance to do a love scene with her!”

  “Er.. . yes,” Betsy said, continuing to smile as she nodded. “An inspired bit of casting, I thought—I’m certain the Empress is pleased. Not that you were so bad yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Williams said. The grin widened further, until it practically threatened to split his head apart. The image suddenly made Betsy think of a child set loose in a toy store on Christmas day.

  “I’ve got one question, though,” Betsy said. “Don’t you find the whole thing somewhat. . . propagandist?”

  Williams’s smile faded, and he tilted his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I know Emperor von Doom’s had his share of problems with Magneto over the years, but would he really act so incredibly infantile, blowing up Christmas trees in the middle of New York and spouting lines from Edgar Allan Poe? I’d say that’s being more than a tad ridiculous with dramatic license—wouldn’t you? And the Emperor preserving the spirit of the holidays for all the good little children of the world—a bit much, don’t you think?” Before Williams could respond, Betsy continued. “And isn’t Magneto supposed to be a survivor of the Holocaust? What could really make a man like that—who’s already experienced, first-hand, the kind of horrors the human race can create— lower himself to the very depths of cruelty enacted by the Nazis, in order to terrorize the Empire? Now, that’s the sort of story I would have liked to have seen, not some senseless knockabout with flashy effects.” Williams’s head slowly swung from side to side. From similar conversations she’d had with other people over the years, Betsy knew he was looking for any sign of an armor-clad Guardsman—a number of them had been assigned as a security detail for the party—or a none-too-casual observer in the service of von Doom. Of course, Williams would be wasting his time if the stories Betsy had heard of the Emperor’s psychic watchdogs were true—with their mental powers, the Psi Division could be miles away and still eavesdrop on their every word.

  “I-I wouldn’t know about any of that stuff, Betsy,” Williams said, a slight hitch in his voice. “I’m just an actor.”

  A wicked smile played at Betsy’s lips, but she fought back the urge to let it transform into a full-out Cheshire Cat-like grin. It was childish, really, but seeing the massive actor squirm a bit almost made up for having to tolerate his overbearing personality.

  Any sense of victory quickly faded, however, with the next words to spill from his mouth as he quickly changed the subject: “So, where’d you two meet—Tokyo, right?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Betsy asked, startled.

  “You and Worthington,” Williams said. An easy, knowing smile crept across his face. It was clear from his expression that he enjoyed catching Betsy off-guard—returning the favor for her Magneto comments, obviously. “Way I’ve heard it, you and Prince Charming met during one of his fact-finding tours of the Orient. You were working in some karaoke bar, cranking out ‘I Will Survive’ and ‘Boogie Nights’ for the locals, and he was meeting with some potential investors for his company. But he took one look at you, and it was love at fi
rst sight.” He shook his head. “You must feel like the luckiest girl in the world, meeting a guy who sweeps you off your feet and brings you to America. Even sets you up as the A-Number One singer in his nightclub.”

  “B-but. . . I-I’m British . . .” Betsy said, voice trailing off. “A-and it never happened like that. . .” She felt her cheeks grow hot. How had this conversation taken such a bizarre turn? And, more importantly, when would this annoying man go away?

  Williams shrugged. “Oh. Guess you can’t believe everything you read in the Enquirer, right?”

  “I-I should say not..Betsy stammered.

  Williams looked back over his shoulder, then turned to Betsy. He smiled his winnigest smile. “Hey, look—I’ve gotta go. My publicist hates it if I don’t try to mingle with every person in the room. Gets the idea I’m not doing enough of her job for her.” He grabbed Betsy’s hand, shaking it so hard she half expected it to snap off at the wrist. “Nice talking to you.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked off, the crowd parting around him like the Red Sea.

  Betsy’s eyes narrowed as she watched him stomp away. “Wish I could say the same ... you git, ” she growled softly.

  Betsy closed her eyes and sighed. She’d forgotten all about those stories—the rumors of how she and Warren had met. Looking back, she had to admit that it had seemed the unlikeliest of pairings—the azureskinned millionaire playboy, and the purple-tressed British chanteuse who had been struggling for years to move beyond the small West Village clubs and Alphabet City bars in which she had been performing. “Worlds apart” was a mild description for the situation.

  But then, Warren had never been a typical millionaire—as comfortable with old college friends in a smoky bar as he was when in control of Worthington Enterprises’ boardroom. And the fact that wings sprouted from between his shoulder blades, giving him the power of flight, also tended to make him stand out from the other CEOs listed in Fortune magazine. As for Betsy, she had never been a typical British singer—especially when one considered she was actually a member of the House of Braddock, one of Britain’s most prestigious families... though she tended to keep that information to herself. Only Warren and her brother, Brian, knew of her real origins.