“No, you wouldn’t,” she said. “You’d turn and face the lion.”
17
IT CAN’T JUST BE LUCK THAT DECIDES FOR ME, IT HAS TO BE THE PATTERN. THE DESIGN.
WE HIT that tailwind yet?”
With the formidable director of S.H.I.E.L.D. standing uncomfortably close, Helmsman Escalon turned to answer. “Yes, sir. The thrusters compensated to maintain velocity.”
“Eyes on your station!” Fury snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
Rogers’ voice sounded in his earbud. “A little harsh, Nick?”
Fury huffed. “The only surprise we’ve had the last few hours is the lack of surprises, and I don’t want anyone gettin’ complacent. Me, I’m antsy enough cruising this low and this slow, but I gotta admit, Stark’s projections are working perfectly.”
“Don’t tell him that.”
“Don’t have to. He already knows. After the first two hours, he took off to leave the boring stuff for us lesser minds.”
“Where to?”
“Eh, collecting some equipment for the base.”
Fury knew Rogers too well not to be able to see behind the mask, and he could tell the situation had begun to wear on the man. He decided not to mention that Stark was assembling his own team to work on the virus. Rogers would probably think Stark should stay focused on the Sleepers until that threat was resolved.
They were traveling steadily over the deserts of New Mexico at an altitude close enough to keep the third Sleeper on their tail, but far enough to stay out of its weapons’ range. Apparently unable to fly, it dogged them on the ground, moving at a steady pace, firing its high-density energy beams only to remove obstacles—and occasionally telling Steve in German that he should prepare to die. There were four guns, each swivel-mounted on its corners. Otherwise, its streamlined appearance—a cube with a spherical hollow in the center—gave them little to go on.
“The Helicarrier can maintain a constant velocity in all sorts of meteorological conditions,” Fury continued. “So unless a Category 5 hurricane appears out of nowhere, it’s steady as she goes for the next six hours. On the other hand, having seen Category 5 hurricanes appear out of nowhere, I’m sitting on my crew.”
There was another reason Fury was being more curt than usual. He was trying to distract himself from the sick feeling in his gut over what they planned for his friend. Knowing the cryo-chamber was already in place at the Big Empty base didn’t help.
“Run a complete systems check.”
“Sir, we just did that five minutes ag—”
“If I wanted to know the time, I’d look at my wristwatch. Just do it!”
“Yes, sir.”
Kade appeared on the bridge uninvited, his scarred face twisted in anger, his thin frame tensed and ready for a fight. At first, Fury was relieved to see someone he could feel good about arguing with. When the world-class expert gave him that arrogant sneer, he felt even better about it.
“You love your secrets, don’t you?” Kade said.
The colonel sneered back at him. “We are spies, doc. We protect secrets. The Super-Soldier serum is one of our biggest, but I made sure you had access to everything we have on Cap, didn’t I?”
Kade raised his eyebrows. “Except this. This I had to dig for.”
He held up a PDA.
Seeing what was on it, Fury hissed. “Schmidt’s files.”
Kade’s irate, reedy voice filled the helm. “But he’s not exactly Johann Schmidt anymore, is he? Not biologically. His brain patterns were transferred into a clone of Steve Rogers. What a pity our best spies couldn’t protect their biggest secret from their real enemies!”
When heads turned, Fury let his frustration show. “Unless this bridge is exploding, the next one to look back here will be cleaning the head with dental floss!”
He adjusted his black body suit and faced the doctor. “I’m not much on courtesy myself, doc, and I don’t really care whether you respect me or not, but for the sake of keeping my crew focused while they’re working to save lives, you will keep your voice down.” Exhaling deep, he continued. “You’re right. I screwed up. I should have had that sent to you with the rest. You’re thinking it’s possible the Skull also has the virus?”
“Not just possible! Given what I know about how the virus binds with DNA, it’s as certain as the sunrise!”
Steve’s voice sounded in Fury’s ear. “That may explain why the Sleepers are appearing now. If the Skull knows he has the virus, he could be trying for his last hurrah.”
“I’m putting you on speaker so the doc here doesn’t think I’m talking to myself. I already feel enough like an idiot.” Fury rubbed his stubble. “If that’s true, step one is finding him. The Sleepers can ID Cap’s biometrics. Maybe we can figure out how to use them to track the Skull.”
Kade’s expression grew less dark, more thoughtful. “That could work. I could use some focused time alone, and I suspect Dr. N’Tomo could do without my company for a while. I’d like to have her oversee that process, assuming you’ll grant her the appropriate clearance.”
Fury responded to the barb with a quick nod. “Next question is what we do with him when we find him.”
“Isn’t it obvious? He must be neutralized, as quickly and efficiently as possible.”
Fury grimaced. “You mean you want us to whack him?”
“Yes. Some form of incineration would be best. The temperature should exceed—”
The director’s hand snapped up. “Let me stop you right there. Even if I don’t have a problem with this in principle, it’s not as if we’ve ever executed anyone because they’re sick, even if we don’t like them.”
Kade’s irritation turned to confusion. “But…the man’s a war criminal. His activities during World War II alone would earn him the death penalty a dozen times. Under the circumstances, why make any effort to keep him alive?”
Rogers answered on speaker. “Because we’re not murderers.”
The doctor didn’t skip a beat. “Call it an execution if it makes you feel better. It’s beyond me why you’d want to follow the letter of the law now, when you seem so willing to bend it in less important situations. But I’m sure with the proper pressure, we could ask the international court to try him in absentia and…”
Steve cut him off. “You really don’t understand, do you?”
Kade straightened. His stretched neck and lean body, coupled with his small bulging eyes, made him look like a meerkat. “All due respect, but I’m starting to think I’m the only one who does understand.”
18
IF I HAD A MILLION YEARS, I COULD THINK THROUGH TO CERTAINTY, BUT I DON’T. I HAVE TO DECIDE—AND SOON.
HOURS before the media came to its garbled conclusions about the Helicarrier’s low altitude and very visible path, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s strategy was obvious to the Skull, and it suited his purposes seamlessly. He was relieved, but to admit that meant he’d had doubts about his plan—and his survival. Rather than claim such a weakness, he projected the feeling, transforming it into an opportunity to assure his companion of his certainty.
“There, you see, Arnim? I was right.”
The android concurred. “Yes. As you predicted, the Helicarrier is leading the final Sleeper to some remote location so Rogers can face it without risking the infection of others. At that point, what they mistakenly think of as wreckage will be in close quarters, awaiting final activation by the Sonikey.”
Whatever feelings Schmidt kept hidden, he could not deny the rush he felt now. “Could things go more perfectly?”
“More perfectly is a redundancy. Perfection is an absolute state. Something is either perfect or it is not. Nothing can be more or less perfect.”
Consumed by a sudden, giddy sense of strength, the Skull found it impossible to conceal his amusement. “Dr. Zola, I believe you’ve given new meaning to the term ‘grammar Nazi.’”
Schmidt could practically hear the processors analyzing Zola’s emotional response. Interpre
ting it as surprise, the avatar supplied an appropriately befuddled expression. “Did you just tell a joke?”
The Skull smirked. “Unusual, is it not?”
The avatar formed lines along its brow that showed concern. “It is singular. I shall double-check your last test results.”
Another symptom, was it? The notion that Schmidt’s confidence might be driven by a thoughtless virus was deeply offensive.
Or was even that an overly emotional reaction?
His exaggerated joy faded, and he found himself scrambling to explain.
“It’s just that for the first time since you told me about the virus, I felt…”
“Undefeatable?”
Before he could agree, he went into another coughing fit, spewing dollops of blood onto his chin. They were coming more frequently now. A half minute later, it seemed to be over. The bits of clear saliva that mixed with the red were oddly easier to see. Before he could wipe his mouth, though, his eyes went wide with a new pain. His chest burned; his throat swelled as if he were being strangled.
He tumbled first into the desk, and then toward Zola. “Uhn…”
Android arms reached out to steady the Skull. For the first time, Schmidt accepted the assistance. He even allowed Zola to help him back into his chair. Then Zola moved away without comment.
In an even more surprising gesture, Schmidt tugged him back.
The Skull stared—not at the projected face, but at the camera lens, behind which he knew the geneticist’s mind truly dwelled. “Arnim, how far would you go to stay alive? Have you ever imagined there might be a limit?”
“The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. You well know that I could have transferred my brain patterns into a human host like yours. Instead I chose a much more durable form, so that I might better—in your words—stay alive. If there is a limit to this desire in me, I have yet to encounter it.”
Satisfied, Schmidt let go. “In that we are the same.” His fingers stiff from the effort of clutching Zola, he tugged off his leather gloves. “There is no crime, against the world or my own form, that I would hesitate to commit to maintain my existence.” His head lowered. For a moment he wasn’t sure whether he was staring into the fire on purpose, or too weak to move his neck. “All the same, I must confess that the pain I am experiencing is…unique.”
“Unique,” Zola repeated. “Unique in type or intensity?”
A familiar hum and click told him Zola was accessing his medical equipment, retrieving the most recent test results.
The Skull tightened what there was of his lips. “Both.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to believe in things worse than death.”
This was Zola’s version of small talk. The data must be taking longer than expected to analyze. Trusting he’d be given any new information as soon as it was available, the Skull saw no reason not to participate in the distraction.
“You misunderstand me. Death is not better or worse. It is nothing. Pain, on the other hand, can be inspiring.”
“Then is it possible your increased pain has inspired you to understand why a lesser being might choose to end their own life rather than suffer?”
What was Zola on about? Did he still believe the plan might fail? Was he trying to prepare him for the end?
Schmidt grabbed the chair’s arms, and ran his palms up and down their length. “Sympathy for the weak, no. A more abstract appreciation? Not even that. I am only surprised that I’ve yet to experience all the extremes this body has to offer.” He squeezed the chair so tightly the veins on the back of his hands stood out. “Were I reduced to a quivering blob capable of only pain, my rage would sustain me until the last. Beyond the last.”
Zola stepped back from his equipment. “That is fortunate for you. I’ve already explained how the virus cleverly travels along the nervous system rather than through the bloodstream, where antibodies might attack it. In one sense, while there will be these occasional fits, your vital organs will be the last to be attacked. In the meantime, though, the new tests confirm the pain will soon become far worse.”
Worse?
The sensation of abject terror rose so powerfully, Schmidt couldn’t keep it from his face. But in the next moment, he buried it—hard and deep. “I can’t give up. Not when I’m so close.”
“Understood. Yet even if the Sleepers assemble, there remains the question of your presence. May I ask how you plan to reach them?”
Despite the pinkish sweat dripping freely down his cheeks, the Skull managed a grin. He’d been given yet another opportunity to assure someone else of his certainty.
“This is your concern? Oh, doctor, that won’t be a problem at all. Don’t you see? They will bring me to it.”
19
TRUE BEAUTY THAT CAN MAKE THE VERY IDEA OF LUCK SEEM MEANINGLESS, A PLACEHOLDER FOR A LACK OF UNDERSTANDING.
THE VASTNESS of the Oregon high desert was a stark contrast to the quarantine chamber—yet in their sterility, their emptiness, they still were somehow the same. As the drone hover-flier set Steve Rogers down in the Big Empty, the first line of Fats Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’” ran through his head:
“No one to talk to, all by myself.”
That was the idea, after all. No one to see, no one to hurt, no one to infect. Even the nearest cattle that somehow grazed on this barren land were over 100 miles away.
Despite the membrane that kept him from feeling the clean air against his skin or tasting it on his tongue, the sense of scale was humbling. Other than the heat, the flat nothing and overwhelming sky reminded him of the stretches of icy tundra that the Nazis faced during Operation Barbarossa, their attempted invasion of Russia. On a violent winning streak, they were unprepared for the landscape’s constant reminder of how small they truly were. With 75 percent of their military committed to the invasion, they encountered complete defeat—physical and psychological—for the first time.
Such expanses drew a different reaction from him—a sensation that seemed alien to the arrogant Nazis—awe.
The decision to deploy him had come swiftly. They were still miles from the hidden base. But the cube, as if it had run out of patience, had halted and changed its announcement to the now-familiar death threat:
“Wenn Kapitän Amerika ist nicht hier innerhalb einer stunde, werden viele zivilisten sterben.”
The likely explanation Stark phoned in from Silicon Valley was that only luck had gotten them this far. Rather than chase a signal forever, Tony reasoned it had to be on a timer, that it should have already moved on to its next routine—stopping and playing its recording—but age had frozen whatever mechanisms were responsible. The long journey must have shaken its pianola gears loose.
A low whistling wind made Fury’s voice through the comm sound faint. “It’s about two clicks east.”
Rogers saw it. Far, far off, its square lines sparkled through the heat waves. But it was getting smaller, headed away from him. Not realizing how close he was, it was trying to find civilians to slaughter.
To get its attention, he hurled his shield, long and hard. Standing still, he watched the curved metallic shape sail off. It practically disappeared before a familiar, ringing clunk told him it had struck the cube. It bounced off, back toward him, but the momentum he usually relied on wouldn’t be enough to carry it back across this distance.
Not a problem. The magnets in his shield and glove, activated by a press of his fingers into his palm, sent it singing back. The growing whoosh telling him exactly where the shield was in its return journey, he kept his eyes on the cube.
Did one hit do the trick, or would the Sleeper need more?
The cube stopped getting smaller—but still wasn’t heading toward him. He thought he heard something from it, but the thunk of the shield slapping his glove briefly drowned it out. Then he heard it again: a low ticking. Remembering the sphere, he thought it might be the cube’s inner gears meshing—but no, that wasn’t it.
He was hearing the en
ergy beams he’d seen on the video feeds. From the top four corners, they sliced the air and ground, making the cube look like a fat, square spider with thin, ruby-colored legs. Unlike legs, the beams didn’t propel the cube, but they ticked as they turned.
Were they acting as sensors, trying to locate him?
A moment later, it again moved away from him. He threw the shield. This time, he followed at a brisk pace, dry sand rising with each step. When the shield returned, he prepared to throw it yet again without breaking his gait—but the cube finally reacted.
Like the bad guy in a classic Western duel, it pivoted in Cap’s direction. Coming toward him now, its weapons fired in an angled, crisscross pattern. Seeing it on the monitors was one thing, but in person, Fury’s hopeful conclusion seemed more certain. The spaces in the cube were clearly intended to house the other two Sleepers. They were meant to combine. The fact that there were only two such spaces in the cube that needed to be filled made it more likely that this was the last of them.
The only part he wasn’t completely sure about was if the others had truly been destroyed. But if the Nazis had access to something like the Cosmic Cube, World War II would have been much different.
To match its deliberate pace, he slowed. The only sounds were Cap’s crunching boots and the sandy hiss of the sliding cube. As the distance closed, its message changed.
“Kapitän Amerika, endlich ihre schwäche wird von der ganzen welt gesehen warden!”
Captain America, at last your weakness will be revealed for all the world to see!
The expectation of victory further confirmed the likelihood this was the final Sleeper. Otherwise, any resonance Hitler’s voice might’ve had fell flat against the wide terrain. The taunts seemed as old and meaningless as the whines of an antique talking doll.
“Kapitän Amerika, werden Sie schnell und suredly sterben wie jeder, der das ewige Reich zu widersetzen!”
Captain America, you will fall as quickly and assuredly as any who seek to oppose the Eternal Reich!
Marvel Novels--Captain America Page 12
