chaos engine trilogy Page 9

  It could be considered a certainty that, in an age of telecom_ munications, superpowered men and women, extraterrestrial visitors the size of mountains, and time travel, not many people still remembered the classic fable; knew that he did, indeed, exist on that airless satellite that constantly circles the Earth like an eternal dance partner; or that he was an actual man. Nor were they aware that he did not really spend his time moving about in the moon, but on its surface, in an area of what is referred to as its “dark side,” because it cannot be seen from Earth. And, contrary to fanciful beliefs, he lived, not in some brick-and-mortar castle with flying buttresses and colorfully-draped minarets, but within the metal walls of a half-dozen drab, nondescript buildings. Oblong in shape, their surfaces pitted and scored by hundreds of microscopic meteorites pushed along by the solar winds, they were linked by a series of long metal tubes, the top halves of which protruded from the gray, barren ground; seen from space, the overall shape of the grouping was somewhat akin to that of a starfish, the extended “arms” connected to a central hub.

  This was—as one could readily determine upon seeing it—a man-made installation; a military base, built by human hands at the peak of one man’s overwhelming desire to conquer first his own planet, then the trackless void, laying claim to worlds beyond number in his mad dream to create a star-spanning empire. That dream had never come to fruition, of course—not yet, anyway—but the base still had a full complement of workers, well-paid to work in such an inhospitable place and perform the duties assigned to them without question.

  And, just to prove that he was prepared to greet any potential interlopers from Earth, or one of the many celestial visitors who tended to see the people of this magnificent blue-and-white planet as either guinea pigs for scientific experiments or appetizing hot lunches, the installation also had a full complement of weapons, from conventional handguns to laser projectors—so-called “death beams” powerful enough to annihilate large sections of the planet even from this great a distance. At the moment, every single one of those projectors was trained on a different location around the globe, their targeting systems automatically recalibrating to zero-in on new strike zones with each rotation of the planet.

  The Man in the Moon hated unexpected guests.

  Far more important than the potential offensive uses of the installation, however, was the fact that it was located two hundred and fifty thousand miles from the world ruled by Victor von Doom—and therefore unaffected, for the moment, by whatever forces had transformed Earth 616 into the hazard it now presented to the continued well-being of the omniverse.

  The Man in the Moon, of course, knew nothing of the danger presented by these very same forces that now threatened to destroy an entire dimensional plane, but he was very much aware of the current status of the world that was oh so far away, yet tantalizingly still within striking distance.

  Truth be told, he was not even the beloved figure depicted in the children’s fairytales, but he had lived on this cold, barren planetoid for so long, plotting his nefarious plans and continually stoking the boilers of his undying hatred for all those he considered lesser beings, that he often felt as though that had become his true identity. He half expected to see a cow leaping above him some day.

  He found such thoughts troubling—a sign of weakness that could not be tolerated. He would have to do something to counteract this feeling of complacency that threatened to wash over him and pull him down into the depths of despair.

  Not yet, though. Not yet.

  But soon. When he did, at last, move to strike down his enemies, it would be a killing blow—one that would leave no doubt as to the identity of the final victor in this cosmic game of chess. And once victory was his, once he again held the reigns of absolute power, then the world would truly come to know the level of strength he possessed ... and come to fear it.

  An approximation of a smile twisted his grotesque features with that consoling thought.

  His spirits now buoyed by the mental image of his enemies laying beaten and bloodied, life flowing from their shattered bodies to momentarily quench the eternal thirst of the ground beneath them, the man known only as “The Controller” gazed at his surroundings. He was seated on a plush leather chair in his private office, which was located in the command center, the largest—and connecting point—of the six linked buildings; not exactly a spot from which one would expect to launch an empire, but it was a start. The lively strings of Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik softly issued from the speakers of a small entertainment center, providing a touch of Old World civility amid the New World Order’s sterile technology and artificial environments. The music did wonders for him, soothing his tensions as he forced himself to heatedly glare at the wall-sized viewing screen across from his desk; the crisp, almost three-dimensional image being broadcast on it was of the Earth, provided by cameras on the side of the moon closest to the planet.

  Von Doom’s planet, the Controller reminded himself with a snarl.

  “But not for much longer,” he whispered. “Soon. Very soon .. .”

  A knock on the door harshly shook him from his reverie.

  “Enter!” the Controller barked.

  The door opened, and a young man hesitantly stepped inside the office. Garbed in a dark green uniform, black leather jackboots polished to a glaringly bright shine, he was in his early twenties, tall and athletically built, square-jawed and straight-backed, his blond hair cut short and stylish—all in all, the very model of a proper Generation-X toady. Under one arm he carried a large stack of papers.

  “What is it, Lawrence?” the Controller asked.

  “I have the latest intelligence reports, sir,” his assistant replied, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  “Let me see them,” the Controller said. He waved Lawrence over, and his assistant placed the stack of printouts on his desk. Red-rimmed eyes studied each page, scanning the pages of information that had been compiled by his computer experts—men and women of Lawrence’s age, who had hacked, first into the Empire’s vast satellite network, then into the very heart of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top secret files and defensive systems. With such limitless knowledge at his disposal, there was nothing that the Controller did not know about the world of Victor von Doom.

  “Fascinating,” the Controller said, glancing at one report in particular. “I had no idea the mongrel could maintain this level of influence over the planet for such a lengthy period of time. It cannot last, though, for he is a weak man, and like all weak men, he is destined to fail.” He grinned, lips pulled back in a feral snarl. “I, however, am not a weak man; I am his better, as von Doom well knows. That is why he has feared me all these years, why that gypsy pig has never been able to truly defeat me in battle, though he would never admit to it. But he will, in time . . . just before I end his worthless life.” The Controller nodded, as though in agreement with himself. “What a sight that will be, eh, Lawrence? The oh-so-mighty von Doom, brought to his knees by a true warrior, forced to call him ‘master’ and beg for his life, only to choke on his own blood, his pleas for mercy unheard, as my sword slices through the pale skin of his throat.”

  “Yes, Controller,” Lawrence agreed. He gestured toward the reports on his superior’s desk. “Your orders?”

  “All in good time, Lawrence. All in good time.” The Controller eased back in his seat, placing his elbows on the padded armrests and steepling his fingers in front of his face. Closing his eyes, he listened as the CD player replaced Mozart’s soul-stirring violins with even sweeter, though far more melancholy, strains. The music seemed to flow through him, and a faint smile split his thin lips.

  “Do you know what this is, Leonard?” he asked, eyes still closed.

  “Umm ... no, I don’t, Controller,” the young man admitted. A faint sheen of sweat suddenly appeared on his brow.

  The Controller chuckled—a dry, mirthless note that sounded like swatches of sandpaper being rubbed together. “I imagine they did not teach ‘Music Appreciation
’ in whatever backward Englischer school you attended in your youth.”

  “No, Controller,” Leonard responded.

  “It is called Kol Nideri, for Violoncello and Orchestra, Opus No. 47, by a composer named Max Bruch. You did not know that, did you?” The Controller’s eyes suddenly opened, and he stared coldly at his assistant.

  “N-no, C-controller. I d-did not,” Leonard stammered, unconsciously taking a step back. His gaze shifted to the office door; he appeared to be measuring the distance from his superior’s desk, as though contemplating the possibility that he might need to move quickly in the next few seconds.

  The Controller ignored Leonard’s panicked expression and slowly shook his head. “That is the trouble with your generation—no desire in your meaningless, pathetic lives to try and appreciate the finer things: Art. Music. Dance.” His eyes sparkled. “And finer still: The chill that runs up the spine as you feel the life slipping away from an enemy, your fingers clamped tightly about his throat; feel his last breath whistle softly through stilled lips to brush your cheek like a shy lover’s kiss. The sight of freshly-spilled blood on virgin snow, its warmth spiraling like a fine mist in the cold, mountain air.

  “But, no; your generation has no time for such pleasures. Always flitting about from place to place like hummingbirds, never taking the time to slow down long enough and discover what it is to truly live. It is these moments, these sensations, these testaments to man’s creativity and destructive powers that keep us from falling to the level of the beasts; and it is these very things that we must strive to preserve, after we have destroyed our enemies, and I have taken my rightful place as master of the world.

  “For now, though,” the Controller continued, “we shall wait and see what develops in the days ahead. Patience, it is said, is a virtue; and it is the patient man who learns to spot his enemies’ weaknesses, and know the right moment to exploit them.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “Yes, Controller. You’re right,” Leonard said quickly, nodding his head.

  The Controller gazed at his assistant for a few moments, and knew that he had been wasting his time talking to this cipher. Like the other men and women of his generation, sage advice gathered from a lifetime of experiences did not seem to interest him. All the young fool understood were his own pathetic yearnings to attain power of any kind. No, that was not entirely true; he also understood that his superior possessed power in abundance—so much, in fact, that he could declare unquestioned mastery over even life and death themselves. The Controller nodded silently. He had been like that once, ages ago—an intellectual midget, destined for a lifetime of menial labor and mindless toil—until his eyes had been opened to the world around him by a man of seemingly infinite power.

  Such comparisons, though, meant little to the Controller. Unlike his own mentor, he had no time to waste on trembling lackeys. The fool wasn’t even worth wasting a bullet on to put a quick end to his meaningless existence.

  “Continue to monitor the situation,” the Controller replied gruffly. He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Now go. Do not disturb me unless you have something important to tell me.”

  “Yes, Controller,” Leonard said, clearly pleased for the opportunity to exit the office under his own power. “Thank you.”

  The Controller watched his assistant scurry from the office, and a look of unbridled disgust contorted his already twisted features.

  “Bah,” he muttered. “Idiots. Everywhere I go, I am constantly burdened with idiots.” With a contemptuous sneer, he swiveled his chair around to gaze at the wall-sized projection of the Earth. His eyes nar-

  rowed to slits as he studied the contours of a world that should belong to him, and would ... in the end.

  “Soon, von Doom,” the Controller said softly. “Soon, the dreamer must awaken, and it shall be I who takes the greatest pleasure in rousing him from his slumbers—before sending him to his final rest. ..

  5

  OCATED IN New York’s Westchester County, about an hour’s drive from Manhattan, Salem Center had always been a quiet, suburban village—the kind of place Norman Rockwell immortalized

  I

  in paintings of small town America, and Ray Bradbury waxed poetic about in short stories that spoke of the magic of childhood, and the wonders that could be found right outside one’s front door. Its greatest appeal was that it was close to the hustle and bustle of New York City for stockbrokers, fashion models, and housewives wanting to spend a day shopping in “The City,” yet it was far enough away so that the Big Apple’s perceived “bad influences”—crime, drug trafficking, a proliferation of trendy coffee houses—were kept at arm’s length by miles of wilderness and quaint, two-lane roads that seemed to lead everywhere but the center of town.

  But, as was true with most small, populated areas—like Arkham, Massachusetts, and Blackstone, New Hampshire, and Castle Rock, Maine—Salem Center had its fair share of secrets, and they were not the typical, two-old-biddies-gabbing-over-a-picket-fence kind of hushed whispers that involved penny-ante scandals about who was sleeping with whom, or what kind of double life that charming—but strange— young man who lived alone in the comer house might be leading when he pulled down the shades at night.

  These secrets were as black as the heart of Satan himself, and as chilling as the grave.

  And their roots all led back to what lay along Graymalkin Drive, that winding country road just outside of the village proper.

  No one ever talked about what was on the Drive, or about the black trucks that rumbled along it in the dead of night, or about the inhuman wails that drifted into the otherwise quiet hamlet when the wind was blowing in the right direction. It was best to leave things be, the older folk often said; some things were just better left not knowing about. Such logic seemed perfectly agreeable to the rest of the populace, so they decided it was, in the end, less stressful for them all if they just let the whole matter drop. Thus, their minds eased, the people of Salem Center continued to live their lives and raise their families and make their daily trips to “The City.”

  And did their best to ignore the evil that lay draped over their quaint little village like a burial shroud.

  Unfortunately for the people of Salem Center, that ignorance was not going to last much longer.

  A mile outside of town, a tiny pin-prick of light suddenly formed in the air above the dreaded Graymalkin Drive, just as the Salem Center town hall clock struck midnight; the chimes echoed clearly across the quiet countryside. The spot of light wasn’t much to look at—merely the smallest of disruptions in the Space/Time continuum—but it shone like a beacon in the darkness. Barely a second after it had formed, the pinprick widened to a hole, then to a large, oval-shaped portal from which light poured, pushing aside the surrounding blackness.

  And through this portal walked Cyclops, then Phoenix, then the rest of the X-Men. A split second after Nightcrawler stepped from it, close on Wolverine’s heels, the portal quickly closed with a soft rush of air, leaving them standing beneath a breathtaking, velvet-lined canopy of millions of stars.

  For what it was worth, the X-Men had finally come home.

  “Dis ain’t de school,” Gambit commented, looking around. They were standing in the middle of the road. “Somebody screwed up on de directions.”

  Beside him, Nightcrawler was nearly invisible in the darkness, his dark coloration acting as a natural camouflage. “That’s the problem with celestial beings, mein freund, ” he quipped. “They’re not nearly as infallible as they’d like to think.”

  “Want me to take a gander from up top, see where we are?” Rogue asked. Slowly rising in the air, she was about to soar higher when Cyclops waved her down.

  “Hold up, Rogue,” Cyclops said. “I know where we are.” He pointed to a nearby sign that stood beneath a lamppost. The sign was wood, painted a bright green and trimmed in gold leaf:

  WELCOME TO THE VILLAGE OF

  SAL
EM CENTER, N.Y.

  population: 500 DRIVE safely!

  “We’re on Graymalkin Drive,” Cyclops continued. “The school’s just around the next bend. There’s no need for aerial reconnaissance— not yet, anyway. Besides, until we find out what exactly is wrong with the world, I don’t want us attracting any undue attention.”

  “Dat means no flyin’, chere,” Gambit pointed out.

  Pouting slightly, Rogue floated down to stand beside the handsome Cajun.

  “Is that a fact?” she asked sarcastically. Clasping her gloved hands against the side of one cheek, she batted her eyelashes. “Why, suh,” she cooed in a saccharine-sweet imitation of a stereotypical Southern Belle, “I simply don’t know what I’d do if a big, strong man like yuhself wasn’t around to explain such complicated terms to little old me.” She lowered her hands and frowned.

  “Knock it off, you two,” Cyclops ordered. “Everyone spread out. Wolverine, you’ve got the point.”

  Logan nodded and moved forward, crouching low and stepping lightly along the edge of the road, relying on the stealth techniques taught to him ages ago by ninja masters in Japan. Behind him, the X-Men took their positions, creating a triangular formation as they followed him.

  Wolverine tilted his head back and sniffed the cool night air.

  “Hold up,” he said, raising a warning hand. “Somethin’ ain’t right.”

  The team stopped immediately and assumed combat-ready positions, their eyes sweeping across their moonlit surroundings, alert for the slightest indication that they might be about to face an attack at any moment.

  “Trouble?” Cyclops asked.

  Wolverine shook his head. “Worse’n that.”

  “What is it then, Logan?” Phoenix asked. “What do you smell?”

  Wolverine eyed her somberly. “Death, Jeannie. The stench is everywhere.”

  The X-Men looked at each other, as though hoping that one amongst them might have some idea as to what could have happened to the world they had departed from just a month past. But no answers were forthcoming.