Dune trailer She stepped forwards, her hands triumphantly upon her hips and her chin jutting out as her sharp, hateful eyes fell upon the small planet in the distance below her. A cruel smile twisted her perfect lips as she brushed her flowing curls of blonde hair away from the shoulders of her decorative military uniform.

“Earth #746387 now in sight, ma’am.” Called out a weak voice from the navigation pit far beneath her throne. “Weapons now locked onto Pacific City and awaiting your command.”

With a shudder of sheer joy she ran her tongue over her dry lips, not pausing once to think of the morning’s careful application of lipstick. She allowed herself a moment of silence, turning those sharp eyes towards the full expanse of the English Rose’s bridge. Around her, servants, officers and heroes awaiting in anticipation of her word, the single word that would signal war with Earth #746387 and the death of its most symbolic nest of Science Heroes. They awaited death and blood and glory and all the other sorts of things that she imagined heroes were obliged to do for their sovereign.

Carefully she turned her eyes back towards the small planet that had grown to such significance that it now all but filled the view-screen. Transcendent clouds drifted over the sunken continents of the planet and its vast, blue oceans – still intact, unlike the drained craters of her own Earth. There were no spires rising high up into the heavens on this Earth, no fortified satellites and artificial space-dock. Even the expansive sky-rail that traversed the planet, metal track spanning the distance between continents, was absent.

“This world,” She whispered, tightening one hand into a fist and causing the plastic of her gloves to creak in protest. “Is so pure and beautiful.”

There was silence on the bridge, no sound aside from the muttering of the ship’s computers conversing with the rest of the fleet and the fledging omni-matrix that governed the technology used in moving such vast, impossible vessels through the cosmos.

She drew an exquisite breath deep into her lungs and whispered with soft contempt: “Fire.”

A trembling finger hovered over a control panel, momentarily frozen in contemplation of the act it was about to commit and then, with beads of sweat on his forehead, the weapons officer engaged the craft’s most devastating weapons array.

The underbelly of the craft opened up, spilling virgin light in the darkened void and flooding the screen for the merest fraction of a second. The image flickered with static, disrupted by the electric feedback of the raw energy burning in the planet’s atmosphere. On the small continent beneath them, shaped like the ugliest of unborn children, a tiny cloud of black erupted, distorting the clouds.

Her fury and ecstasy erupted at once within her belly and her legs failed her. “BURN!” She screamed, falling to her knees upon the perfectly polished floor. Immediately there were aides grasping with fear at her arms. She ignored them. “BURN YOU BASTARDS! BURN! BURN! BURN!” She screamed again, tears spilling from her eyes and muddying her make up.

The skies darkened and her words degenerated into screams, her fists lashing out at her officials as he pulled herself from the deck and all but flung herself down into the navigation pit, hammering her fists against the consoles and screaming with rage, over and over again.

The clouds parted slowly, revealing a massive tear in the face of the continent. With a sigh, she reclaimed her composure, standing up once more and straightening the front of her perfect white high admiral’s uniform.

“Status report.” She snapped crisply.

“S-Sensors confirm the city has been destroyed. Only two life-signs…” He paused for a moment, and looked down at his screen. “Sorry, one life-sign detected in the crater.”

She nodded and smiled, turning and climbing the steps back up towards her jewel encrusted throne. “Order the fleet to begin the descent. Should our friend in the crater prove problematic then they should suppress her by any means possible.”

“Ma’am, sensors are now depicting two crafts moving towards the continent.” The sensor officer announced, glancing from his screen to the larger view-screen that framed the centre of the bridge.

She paused upon the steps, turning her head slightly. “Have you confirmed the identity of the two craft?” She asked, calmly.

“The first appears to be a vessel of American origin, I believe. According to the omni-matrix, the settler colony in mainland American is of much significance to the current political arrangements of this Earth.”

“Destroy it.” She announced, shooting a glance at the weapons officer who soon busied himself at his computer terminal.

The view-screen remained unchanged, unable to render such minuscule details as the native craft. “Craft destroyed.” The officer confirmed looking up from his terminal.

She nodded with satisfaction. “And the second craft?”

The sensor officer looked down at his screen and then turned towards her, with a triumphant smile. “Sensors confirm that craft is the Winters’ personal helicar.”

Her smile widened. “Allow it to reach its destination unmolested. I do so look forwards to settling the score with Professor Winters.” She fell effortlessly into her throne, kicking her feet out like a child. “This, my children, is what is history calls divine fortuity.” Her expression hardened. “Prepare a garrison of soldiers and inform the generals that I will be requiring their services.”

One of her henchmen nodded, bowed and quickly departed. To the left of her throne another figure stepped forwards, his back straight and his fair hair falling in messy and attractive twists over his sad eyes. “My congratulations, your eminence.”

Graciously she extended her hand and he bowed low to kiss it, carefully remaining polite and submissive despite his sovereign’s dismissive attitude towards him.

“Of all my subjects you are the most grovelling.” She snapped impatiently.

“This, my Queen, is because of all your subjects I am the most humbled by your magnificence.” He purred close to her ear.

She rolled her eyes and turned towards him, sneering and pointedly looking away from his subservient gaze and at the pale, blue pigment of his skin. “Make no mistake, alien, if it were not for your assistance in paving the way for our divine fleet then the likes of you would not be tolerated upon the slave deck of this divine warship, let alone the bridge.”

Her servant bowed low again. “As always I am humbled by your benevolence, your majesty.”

She looked down at him, regarding his unfailing flattery even in the face of her cruelty. The people of his world were of notorious descent, ancient before life had yet begun to form upon the shores of her Earth. Of all the rumoured mysteries and secrets of his people she believed none. She was far too well educated to indulge the whispers of lesser beings.

Without another word she swept past him, her heels clicking pointedly upon the cold metal of the bridge. The doors of the turbo-lift hissed opened and she vanished within, turning to shoot a final look of disgust in his direction before the doors obscured her view of the bridge.

Softly he chuckled to himself and, with a dainty hand, brushed back the blonde hair from his eyes.

***

The crater extended for as many miles as the city had once covered, rock and ash where buildings had once risen out of the soil and concrete and into the skies. There was nothing of Pacific City now. The hurried queues of commuters through Bretonside and downtown, the bored teenagers loitering outside McDonald’s on 8th and Vilar, skateboards under arms: all that had once been had been churned in the fires of wrath and torn away from the surface of the planet. Never again could Pacific City boast a monopoly on Science Heroes.

The helicar twisted through the air, worn and buffeted by the angry winds that gathered about its supposedly streamlined designs and the terrified imaginations of the two men within, their thoughts polluting the imagination engines. The failing vehicle faltered above the depths were Bristol Park had once been and carried on obviously, its internal thought components that drew so heavily on the fifth dimension of the Fictionsphere straining and protesting at the unimaginable horror wrought upon the surface of the Earth.

Within the craft, Professor Charles Winters, former patriarch of the Faustian Four, struggled to maintain their flight course and prevent them from ploughing into the crater at high speed. Desperately he ran from console to console within the gothic interior of the engine room, light pouring in through the decorative stained glass windows and illuminating the heavy beads of sweat upon his forehead.

“Come on, girl,” He whispered. “Hold for just a bit longer.”

Angry red triangles appeared on the monitor display, swooping in upon the black and green graph background and surrounding the green triangle of the wounded helicar, harrying it into formation with them. Winters cursed violently under his breath and turned to lurch sideways out of their pattern but found he was quickly rebuffed.

“It would appear that our friends are quite insistent.” Calohan-Smythe remarked, standing calmly at the other man’s side, his hands clasped behind his back and looking for all the world, as if he were attending some important function rather than being pursued by other-dimensional spacecraft. Carefully he leant over Winters’ shoulder and inspected the monitors. “And yet they haven’t attacked us outright.”

“They know who we are.” Winters answered grimly. “Or at least who I am. Both me and this ship were here in 2001 when the Magistrate first made her bid on our Earth.” He looked up, his eyes glazing slightly. “We lost both Johnny and Frederic during that fight.” He whispered distantly.

“And now you alone are the last that remains of the once mighty Fightin’ Fist Four.” Calohan-Smythe said dryly.

Winters nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m the last one.” He clinched his fists. “And I won’t let their memories be dishonoured.”

Calohan-Smythe found himself looking upon his former foe with a peculiar mixture of unexplained respect. Such strong feelings of camaraderie were simply chemical reactions in the brain to the overwhelming and terrifying experience they prepared themselves for, this much he knew, and yet still, beneath the gore and horror of this man’s history there was something in Winters that spoke to him, something that perhaps was not entirely dissimilar to his own beliefs.

“How have you managed to survive for so long, Professor Winters?” He asked softly.

The older man looked up, sudden scorn flooding his distinctive face. “Through sheer bloody mindedness.” He answered.

The computers blinked spastically and Winters turned his head, quickly busying himself at the controls again.

“Looks like we’re in for a bumpy landing. You might want to settle yourself down.” He warned.

The former governmental assassin swiftly sat himself down cross-legged upon the cold, iron floor of the helicar and straightened out the creases in his expensive trousers before placing his hands firmly on the floor. The flesh rippled and transformed, becoming colossal claws bearing only the faintest resemblance to human physiology. He dug his nails into the iron of the floor and anchored himself firmly upon it. Winters looked away with distaste but said nothing.

The helicar moved awkwardly around them, black smoke billowing from its behind as five small six-sided bronze aircraft kept it confined within their formation, guiding the wounded craft past the immense crater that covered the scorched soil where Pacific City had once stood and to the endless desert a short distance from the crater’s edge.

The craft skimmed the ground several times, ploughing furrows of sand and dirt before finally crashing down and shuddering violently to a halt, its entire weight turning in the sand and lifting dust clouds that surrounded it for several moments.

With abject decorum the five fighters that surrounded it lowered themselves calmly on waves of energy generated by reactive turbo-thrusters, gently placing themselves in the sand around the downed craft. In the skies above the shape of the fleet’s flagship, the mighty English Rose, loomed large in the atmosphere, its belly opening to reveal a single massive staircase.

***

He stood upon the bridge watching the images as they updated upon the central view-screen with only the slightly fraction of a delay. The helicar remained crippled and surrounded by five elegant Ark fighters, each one a representative of the recent RX class as opposed to the old V3 class the fleet had employed during their previous entanglement with Earth #746387.

Solemnly he folded his hands, the leather of the bridge’s central command chair creaking in response to his movement, watching carefully as the Ark fighters slowly popped open with a silent hiss and their pilots disembarked.

“Landing bridge at 50%.” Remarked an idle sounding officer at the ship’s helm.

The screen pulled back, showing how pitifully small both the fighters and the helicar were in comparison to the massive city-wide crater and the unfolding landing bridge that extended from the Rose’s underbelly.

“Incoming confirmation from both the <i>Henry Tudor</i> and the <i>Plantagenet</i>; both craft are releasing surface vessels now. Estimated disembarking of legions within is one minute.” Called another officer from his right.

He nodded slowly and with little interest. “Instruct the <i>Aquitaine</i> and the <i>Coeur-de-Leon</i> to flank us on both left and right and drop several feet into the planet’s atmosphere. I don’t much fancy the idea of our underbelly being exposed whilst the bridge is down.”

The officer called out his affirmation as the helmsman declared: “Landing bridge complete. Running security checks…” He paused. “Security checks confirm bridge is operating at 100% stability.”

“Open a channel to her grace’s personal comm-link.” He announced with a bored wave of his hand. The officer to his right nodded and swiftly keyed in the appropriate frequency. He waited a moment before summoning his words into the crowded atmosphere of the bridge: “Your majesty, the landing bridge is now safe for use. You may disembark and greet the natives at any such time as you desire.”

<i>‘Instruct all craft to aim their weapons on the helicar and its occupants.’</i> The Magistrate’s voice snapped frostily from unseen speakers surrounding. <i>‘Should anything untoward happen or anything that you deem may endanger me then you have my permission to fire at will.’</i>

“As you command, my lady, and, if I may be so bold as to wish you good hunting and a safe return.” He called into the air.

<i>‘Save your platitudes.’</i> The Magistrate answered. <i>‘Contact me if there’s anything I need to know, otherwise behave and stay silent.’</i>

The connection cut abruptly, putting a definite end to the conversation. He folded his hands and watched as the image on the screen changed once more, identifying the Magistrate and her three generals at the very top of the vast and elegantly wrought landing bridge and the bulky, rectangular shapes of the <i>Plantagenet</i> and <i>Henry Tudor</i>’s surface vessels as they lowered towards the surface.

It had taken years to set up what was to be achieved here today. Years of planning and cunning for this, the fruition of the most ambitious plan ever embarked upon by the Magistrate’s vast intergalactic empire.

The Bowler had been just the tip of the iceberg, the scout they had used to weaken the defences of alternate Earths. The shapes that now gathered in the space over Earth #746387 was the invasion fleet. On the view-screen the loading door of the wounded helicar hesitantly unfolded outwards.

***

The cargo bay door opened under duress, the mechanism groaning and protesting. Half way through the operation it stopped, frozen awkwardly before them as the door ground and the craft’s internal mechanisms churned desperately in an attempt to keep going. With distaste Winters administered a swift kick with his prison issue boots, slamming the heavy metal door free of the rest craft and down into the sand and dirt.

He had changed from his prison uniform, opting simply for black trousers, a black shirt and a heavy greatcoat in a hope that it was help disguise just how much weight he had lost during his stay at Her Majesty’s hospitality. His shaven head was again showing the signs of faint silver specks of hair and heavy bags hung beneath his once blue, now grey eyes.

Screwtape Downs had aged him despite his physical inability. For the first time in God knew how many years, Charlie Winters felt his age. Hesitantly he jumped down from the cargo bay, his heavy boots leaving thick imprints in the sand. Behind Calohan-Smythe swung his legs carelessly over the side and landed beside him, pausing for a moment to adjust his tie and shirt and look up at the looming shape of the <i>English Rose</i>.

“Just like last time.” Winters murmured.

“You’ll find that this sort rarely has any new ideas, Professor.” Calohan-Smythe advised. “The age of true villains is long behind us.”

The pilots of the fighters that had forced them to land had already disembarked, standing a cautious distance from the helicar. The soldiers were not the same as they had been previously. The gas-masques were still very much present as were the heavy-duty cannons they carried with them but the uniforms were very different. Gone were the simple, anonymous black uniforms of yesteryear, replaced now white and red one-piece costumes with a single yellow sun in the centre of the chest.

Winters frowned.

“Millennium Men?” He whispered.

The pilots made no attempt to answer him. It was then that he caught sight of the figures moving slowly down the staircase from the belly of the <i>English Rose</i>. His heart faltered momentarily. At the centre of the group was the Imperial Magistrate, resplendent as ever, dressed in a decorated and tasselled white officer’s uniform, her golden hair flowing out over her shoulder and her expression serene. Yet it was not the Magistrate that held his attention but rather the three men walking a respectful distance behind her, each one dressed in the same uniform as the pilots save for the expressionless masques. With a shudder it dawned on Winters that each man was the same person, torn from his native timeline. Each man was Henry Burke.

The only features that distinguished the three Millennium Men were the animal skins that cloaked their heads and shoulders, trailing down like robes of state behind them. The first wore the flesh of a tiger, its dull eyes staring blankly out from his skinned flesh and its sharpened teeth crowning the man’s head.

The second was adorned with the flesh of a deer, massive antlers curving out from the side of its head whilst the third wore the flesh of a ram, its horns curling downwards in spirals away from the face.

The Magistrate and her barbaric attendants reached the end of the stairs and she stepped off of the platform and onto the dusty soil of the planet’s surface. With a smile, she bowed mockingly in his direction.

“My dear Professor Winters, how lovely it is to see you again after all this time.” She called out, her voice as seductive and enticing as before.

Winters did not respond.

“And where, may I enquire, is your delightful wife?” She questioned, stepping assuredly forwards, the heels of her boots grinding stone and dirt beneath her.

“She’s dead.” Winters answered dryly.

The Magistrate stopped a short distance from him and held out the back of her gloved hand. Without thinking Winters bent slightly and kissed the proffered hand lightly. Calohan-Smythe’s eyes narrowed.

“What a pity. I was so looking forwards to tearing her still-beating heart from her chest.” She said in a carefree voice before turning her sharp eyes towards Calohan-Smythe himself. “And you, dear boy,” She announced. “Are a freak.”

Calohan-Smythe bowed without lowering his head too much. “Charmed to at last make your acquaintance, my lady.” He smirked.

“There was only supposed to be one of you.” She said bitterly, all charm dissolved from her voice.

He shrugged. “As the saying goes, two heads are indeed better than one. I’m afraid your Bowler wasn’t quite as unique as you might have hoped.”

“It matters little. You’ll soon end up like him anyhow.” She said dismissively, brushing her hair back from her shoulders.

Calohan-Smythe arched a single eyebrow. “Frozen dead before attaining my most important victory? I should hope not. If you don’t mind me saying so, I do consider myself somewhat superior to that little half-breed form your dimension.” His flesh rippled, bubbling beneath. “All that angel genetics you graphed onto the poor boy interfered with his natural talents. I like to think of myself as a purer example of the breed.”

“I’ll deal with you later.” She hissed and tried to turn her attention back to the visible shaken Winters.

“No.” Calohan-Smythe remarked and reached out towards her. “I think you might be forced to deal with me now.”

Before his hand could fully transform one of the three Millennium Men had made it between her and the extended claw. He looked down at Calohan-Smythe from beneath his ram skin hood but said nothing.

The Imperial Magistrate stepped out from his shadow, smiling broadly once again.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my three generals, have you?” She smirked. “In which case, and without further ado, please allow me to introduce Millennium Man Tiger Strength Immortal, Millennium Man Deer Strength Immortal and Millennium Man Ram Strength Immortal. I trust you won’t need me to point each one out for you.”

“I think I can identify which of the gentlemen is which.” Calohan-Smythe countered. “Are they all…?”

“Of the lesser peoples?” The Magistrate asked, attempting to guess the end of his question.

Calohan-Smythe smiled awkwardly. “I was going to say American.”

She waved dismissively. “It amounts to the same thing, whichever way you put it. But, in answer to your question, yes, they are indeed all American.”

“And do they talk?” He asked further.

The Magistrate looked genuinely shocked. “Oh dear God, no. I had to cut out their tongues when the first arrived in my employ. All that tittle-tattle in that dreadful accent was quite the nuisance, I can tell you.”

“Yes.” Calohan-Smythe answered quietly. “I can quite imagine.”

From the skies two heavy rectangular craft descended, finally making contact with the ground on the other side of the crater and blowing up a wind of sand that caused Winters to turn away and shield his eyes. When he dared open them he saw that both of the crate-styled craft had opened up, revealing legion after legion of identical Millennium Men, each one burning with his own spirit energy, golden flames twisting above their heads like abstract halos.

“Dear God…” He whispered, truly humbled.

“Feeling a tad guilty, Professor?” The Magistrate enquired with a smirk.

He turned his attention back to her but found he had no words to express the depth of his emotions.

“You’re probably wondering how I managed to obtain control of such a vast army of Millennium Men, aren’t you?” She beamed.

Winters said nothing.

“The thought had certainly crossed our minds.” Calohan-Smythe remarked, looking with worry at the other man. He knew he had to buy Winters time to gather his thoughts together. If violence were to erupt now then Winters would be as good as dead, so awestruck was he by the Magistrate’s calculated show of power.

“It certainly wouldn’t have been possible without Millennius.” The Magistrate smiled knowingly. “It is surprising how such a figurehead can motivate such a diverse amount of people to unite under one standard, despite their differences. Despite even, their similarities, I might say.

“This army represents the cream of the crop, my friends. These are Millennium Men from universes untouched by my own poor wayward scout, who, having reached their pinnacle have felt the pull of like-minds and made the journey to another dimension. They are loyal and united, the most perfect fighting force ever to grace the stars.” Her voice dropped, losing all warmth as her eyes narrowed as she glared at the two men. “And with them I shall wipe all life off the face of this pathetic Earth of yours. I will make you an example to all the others that no one, absolutely no one can resist my will.”

“And where is this great Millennius of yours, my lady?” Calohan-Smythe questioned.

“You’ll find out in time.” She smiled once more. “If you live that long. But I grow weary of this idle chitchat. I find myself craving entertainment, at least until Mysteria deigns to show her pretty little face.” She regarded both men. “Which of you wants to die first?”

Without waiting Winters began to remove the heavy greatcoat from his shoulders, folding it up over his arm out of sheer habit before carelessly throwing back into the shadow of the wounded helicar. Calohan-Smythe reached out and placed a hand on Winters’ shoulder and the older man squirmed visibly.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Professor?” He asked earnestly.

Winters turned to look at him with sad eyes. “There’s nothing left for me here.” He whispered. “This is the least I can do. It’ll buy us time…” His voice cracked. “It’ll buy us time till Mikey gets here.” He nodded, his eyes brimming with tears. “Yeah. Mikey will know what to do. He’ll put this right.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” The Magistrate smirked and stepped backwards, the Deer Strength and Ram Strength Immortals both following her.

Respectfully, and with more than a little regret, Calohan-Smythe stepped away, his mind desperately searching for some parting words of luck and finding none.

Professor Charles Dexter Winters stood alone facing the intimidating shape of Millennium Man Tiger Strength Immortal…Henry Burke. The other looked down at him, solemn and unmoving, a statue possessed of life only in reaction to the movements of others, never of his own free will.

Winters clenched his weak fists, the atrophied muscles of his body tensing as the familiar blue fame of his aura sparked and ignited about him, winds rushing across the stubble-marked flesh of his shaved head. The sand at his feet gathered, whirling into a storm that he kept controlled beneath him, never allowing it to rise above his unsteady knees.

“My style, you can call the art of fighting without fighting.” He whispered in memory of heroes and of his last confrontation. He did not smile. Screwtape Downs had taught him that fighting without fighting is being prepared to make sacrifices.

Without waiting for further sentiments he leapt forwards, the sand storm dissipating behind him. Effortlessly matching his movements the Tiger Strength Immortal also burst into fluid movement, golden flames of aura rising up from his animal skin robes. Their fists met and the battle for Earth began…

New Mages: Final Mix tome #1:
“Transcendent Clouds”
(Regina Angelium Act I)
by Jacob Milnestein

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