The entire bridge was collapsing.
As Steve jumped along the tumbling concrete and exposed rebar, Stark spoke through the comm. “Okay, so in this case, past performance is not the best indicator of future behavior. You’re gonna want to head to the Louvre side. More of that area’s been evacuated. There is all that precious art, though.”
“Still don’t think it’s an A.I.?”
“No. Don’t want to think so, anyway. My guess is the programmer had something special planned for you. Want help?”
“Not yet.”
“Your funeral…uh, party. Your party. Let’s go with that.”
A second barrage, thicker than the first, forced Cap to twist midair. As he made for the remaining section of bridge, a triangle caught him near the thigh, slicing through several layers of the hazmat suit.
He had to end this fight quickly. But how?
He leapt toward the triangles that remained anchored in the water. The missile attacks had diminished the height of the three towers, but even now the fired pieces returned, clicking back into place.
Below him, what seemed a flat surface revealed itself to be a series of tightly packed edges. If he hit it at his current speed, the suit wouldn’t be the only thing shredded. Pressing the curve of his shield toward the robot, Cap curled his body against it for protection. Wild sparks flew as he skimmed along the sharp surface.
He’d survived another few seconds. Now what?
Whether or not it could think, its designer had gone through a lot of trouble planning to destroy not just anyone, but him, Captain America.
“Tony, I’m going for a swim. If it follows, you know what to do. Don’t wait for me to surface.”
“Wait! Aside from not wanting you to die, I’ve got another problem with that. I already tried it, and it didn’t work, remember?”
He jumped. “That’s because you’re not me.”
“No need to get all superior. Oh, I get it. I’m not its target.”
The hazmat suit not only made for an awkward dive, but when he went under, the murky water started seeping through the reversed gas-mask filters, obscuring his goggles and forcing him to hold his breath. Nonetheless, he kicked and stroked, driving his heavy body deeper, until he felt the current tug him beneath the bridge.
He turned onto his back, hoping to see the robot before the mask filled up completely. “Follow me, damn it! Follow me!”
“You kiss that nice doctor with that mouth?” came Tony’s voice. “Looks like you were right. It’s reverting to a denser version of that turret configuration and letting itself sink.”
A low, muffled roar rumbled from above. The sunlight, already dim below the river’s surface, darkened further. Cap saw it coming now, its shape still changing, its gray rendered black. A few triangles shot past him, torpedo-like, leaving trails of bubbles in their wake. The fact that they missed made him feel more lucky than safe. He turned over and swam, forcing himself deeper.
“Once it’s completely under, Tony, give it all you’ve got.”
“Uh, Cap, remember my first objection? The suit protects me from energy discharges, but not you. If I let loose with major voltage, and you’re anywhere near, you’re gonna—”
“Just do it!” As he spoke, the gritty water filled his mouth.
“Okay, but do me a favor and try to put some distance between you and the ’bot. Swim with the current, not against it—that sort of thing.”
Already swimming as fast as he could, he spit out the grit and kept working his arms and legs. Remembering Nia’s advice, he sucked some fresh water into his mouth through the straw. It was warm, but clean.
When he paused to look back, he saw more spinning triangles headed his way. Before he could try to avoid them, a wide crackle of bluish light blinded him. The loud rumble that followed so rattled and filled him, he wasn’t sure where it began and he ended. After that, he wasn’t sure of anything at all.
The next thing he sensed were Stark’s armored hands lifting him, pulling him through the water and out into the air. He wanted to see what had happened, but the hazmat goggles were hopelessly clouded. He reached for the helmet to remove it, but heard Tony’s warning through the comm.
“Orders are to leave the helmet on until you’re sealed in the hover-flier.”
Exhausted, he nodded. The hands let go. With a clunk, he landed on hard metal and heard the hatch seal shut.
Nia, still in her own suit, helped him remove the helmet. “This is against protocol, but that glass is pretty cracked anyway, and the hover-flier environment is sealed. Dr. Kade would doubtless disagree, but I don’t see any harm in letting you have a quick look.”
He stared out the rear window. Below, pieces of the robot floated in clumps on the surface of the Seine. They still clicked against one another, but only when the currents happened to push them together.
“You did it,” Nia said softly. Then she covered his head with a spare helmet.
10
IF SOMETHING’S ABOUT TO DESTROY YOU, THE OBVIOUS CHOICE IS TO DESTROY IT FIRST.
JOHANN Schmidt was increasingly upset—not at the result of the battle, but by the fact he had to watch it the same way as the rest of the masses: on the news. He’d hoped the Sonikey might link him to a camera placed within the Sleeper, but apparently that technology wasn’t available for Der Führer’s little hidden project.
It might’ve been, had Hitler thought to consult him. Their advances in mechanical television had been considerable.
All the same, the Skull wondered, why was he feeling so strangely petty when he should be pleased and impressed? The mysterious manner in which the hard, lightweight pieces interconnected left even Zola looking like a child watching his first magic trick. It had been a long time since Schmidt had reason to admire Hitler or his Reich.
Instead, he couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets had been kept from him.
The press had been allowed beyond the cordon. The reports from the scene sounded more prerecorded than Hitler’s voice: “We’re live from the Seine, where, moments ago, a stunning battle took place in the heart of Paris. We’re just hearing now that the hazmat suit Captain America wore may have been a precaution against a potential gas attack from the…”
Hairless brow furrowing, he muted the report. “Arnim, do you recall any other situations where Rogers made such a garish effort to protect himself?”
Zola’s synthetic voice issued from the speakers on his shoulders. “I do not.”
Schmidt’s eyes widened. “Then…?”
“Yes. The logical conclusion is that Rogers has the virus, too. It’s possible it was inadvertently replicated when I created the clone.”
The revelation thrilled Schmidt. “And it is killing him, too?”
“Not currently. As you saw, he fought as well as ever. His capacities were not diminished in any way; therefore he is not symptomatic.”
Disappointment made him spit as he asked, “How, if our bodies are identical?”
“Perhaps because they are not identical any longer. The clone was identical to Steve Rogers, but only in the moment the sample was procured. Ever since, you’ve lived separate lives, earned different scars. The Dust of Death that disfigured you, for instance, may have compromised your immune system. Or perhaps the virus mutated into a more active strain inside you—mutating is what viruses do, after all. Another possibility is that he has the same virus, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has found a way to keep his symptoms in check. If so, Herr Skull, it’s in the interest of all humans to keep the virus from spreading. You might want to consider contacting them.”
The Skull’s already plank-stiff figure tightened. “So they can keep me imprisoned in quarantine until I die? So I can become the guinea pig who enables them to save their great hero? I don’t think so.”
For a while, the Skull had been working to suppress a cough. Each time he succeeded, it felt like a small triumph, but now a powerful spasm caught him off-guard. Shoulders heaving, he hacked until every
last ounce of air was expelled from his wheezing lungs.
When it was over, he straightened again. The spattered flecks of blood were barely noticeable against the red of his cheeks and chin, but when he wiped his lips with his black-gloved hands, the droplets glowed like tiny rubies. Tremors ran along his fingers. Schmidt wiped his glove, then wrapped the handkerchief around his hand to stop its shaking.
“In the orphanage where I was raised, several of the children had consumption. I’d spend my idle hours watching them suffer. Some fought, battling to suck in air. Others meekly surrendered. Their attitude made little difference in how long they lived. Still, I considered those who chose to give in to be weaker.”
“Any comparison to the virus is not apt. Pulmonary tuberculosis is caused by a bacteria that focuses on the lungs.”
The genetic engineer had always possessed an irritating form of objectivity, but this response was so mechanical, Schmidt wondered how much of himself Zola had given up when he occupied that machine. But then the avatar in the android’s chest tilted. Lines formed little furrows along the forehead and brow as the lips pursed and crinkled. It looked almost sad.
“I am sorry the Sleeper was destroyed, that your plan has failed.”
The Skull’s response was a rasping hiss. “It did not fail!”
The android gestured at the screens. “But Rogers was not only victorious—the wreckage is being recovered by S.H.I.E.L.D.”
A high-pitched tone filled the room. It had no effect on the android, but it burrowed into Schmidt’s head, making his teeth ache. At least it wasn’t some new symptom. At least he knew what it was.
The Sonikey was humming.
“There, you see? They weren’t codenamed Sleeper solely because of the time that might pass before their use. Once acquiring the necessary data, each is programmed to play dead, to go dormant until its siblings complete their tasks. And now, the second awakens.”
Despite what it meant, the harsh sound jangled his nerves. He struggled to focus, squeezing the balled handkerchief in his fist tighter and tighter until the sensation conjured another feeling: not silk, but flesh, soft and yielding.
He saw the startled face of Esther, the Jewish shopkeeper’s daughter, the girl who’d evoked his passions and then rejected him. Strangling her was the first time he’d fully released his rage. She, like those sheep at the orphanage who gave themselves up to their disease, had simply surrendered. Ever since, the ecstasy of that sensation had informed his being. Before he’d ever met Hitler, that moment told him who he was.
“Arnim, I find myself…oddly sentimental.”
“I am beginning to think the virus is affecting your limbic system. It is the seat of emotion and memory.”
“Ach. That would explain it.”
The memory of her bulging eyes held him until the vibrations of the Sonikey ceased. As the Skull tossed the handkerchief into a wastebasket, her dying face vanished.
Suddenly, he could not recall her at all. She became just a name—a name linked to a dull, distant ache that conjured neither sight nor sound.
11
BUT IS IT SO EASY TO DESTROY IF IT’S THE MOST ASTONISHING THING YOU’VE EVER SEEN?
EVEN the hardiest urban explorer considered Belgium’s Clabecq Iron Foundry, closed since 1992, extremely dangerous. But every corner of the world had its bored teens, youths who either didn’t care, didn’t believe, or willfully ignored their own mortality—and the occasional campfires that licked the rusting structures often went unnoticed.
Quinten was about to toss another wood scrap on the fire when Brent grabbed his hand. “What?”
“Don’t make it too big. The guards will see.”
“You’re boss now?”
Most of the others were busy texting or bobbing their heads to the music playing through their earbuds. Amelie was paying attention, though. Quinten smiled at her, then nodded at the wavering darkness. “Where? What guards?”
Slightly older, Brent took the vague challenge in stride. “They can’t afford to hire many, but trust me, they’re out there. Why ruin a good thing? Keep the fire low.”
Quinten grimaced, but chucked the wood into the shadows.
Amelie, in shorts and midriff, moved closer. She sat cross-legged and rubbed her hands over the fire, pretending to be cold. “Don’t pout, Quinten. After all, Brent found the statues, didn’t he?”
“But we all worked to get them out of the crates.” He put his head in her lap, and looked up at the two bronze forms. Once the statues were unpacked, the little group of outcasts tried to get them to face each another, so the orbs each figure held would touch and form a sort of protective shrine. But they were too heavy.
“The Nazis made them, you know,” Brent said. “There were swastikas airbrushed onto those boards.”
Quinten was right below one of the spheres, so that whenever the firelight flickered the right way, he could make out the carved fingernails on the cupped hands. “They were too rotted to tell for sure.”
Still not happy with the fire’s glow, Brent took out another piece of wood. “They were swastikas.”
Quinten rolled his eyes. “Fine. Swastikas.”
Amelie looked up into the bronze faces. “How could something so beautiful come from something so ugly?”
Quinten smirked. “You came from your parents, didn’t you?”
She grabbed him by the cheeks and shook his face, the way his mother used to when he said something out of line. “Don’t be terrible.”
Worried he might ruin things with her, Quinten tried to enjoy the quiet, but Brent started talking again. “Definitely Nazis. Who do you think they’re supposed to be? Why are they holding those globes?”
“Gods, maybe? I don’t know.” Quinten shifted in Amelie’s lap. “If they’re Nazi, how did they get all the way here? Belgium was occupied, but…”
Amelie glared. “Stop talking. Stop thinking, both of you. Try to be in the moment. Shh.”
Brent eyed her. “Aren’t you even curious?”
She stroked Quinten’s hair. “No. If you listen quietly, you can hear the wind make the buildings creak.”
Quinten looked into her eyes until she closed them, then decided to do the same. All he heard was the crackling firewood. Bored, he was about to say something when he caught a heavier sound. It was close—too close to be the settling of the sheet-metal walls against their rusting steel supports. It didn’t sound like metal, anyway—more like stone rubbing stone.
But even that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t stone, exactly.
And it was getting louder.
He opened his eyes—and kept opening them until they refused to grow any wider. The statue’s arms were lowering. It looked as if it had come to life, until the scar-like rifts forming along its shoulders revealed that it was simply collapsing—right on top of them.
Terrified, he rolled, pulling Amelie along with him. The others popped to their feet, scrambling to get away.
“Run!” Quinten screamed. His cry was nearly drowned out by the thud of the massive sphere and arms hitting the concrete. As it echoed and the dust settled, the panicked teens stopped to stare.
Brent, who’d been the last to run, took a few cautious steps back toward the stone figures.
When the three-meter sphere rolled over him, it made a sound completely unlike metal or stone.
This time it was Amelie who screamed and ran. Quinten kept staring. The sphere was part of a statue, not alive. It shouldn’t do that. It wasn’t possible. It hadn’t even started off slowly, the way a car accelerated. One moment it was still, the next moving.
As it kept rolling, a panting Amelie called from somewhere in the dark. “Quinten! Why aren’t you running?”
Her voice, usually so familiar, sounded strange and harsh, as if from a dream. Part of him wasn’t sure any of this was real. Maybe he was dreaming. It took the dead, hollow tones from the moving sphere to finally snap him into the moment:
“Ich komme um zu töten Ka
pitän Amerika.”
Quinten spun and pressed his feet into the concrete floor. He took off. The sphere kept a straight course: not turning, not speeding, and not slowing down. Even when it hit the wall, its direction didn’t change. The sheet metal buckled, fell, and flattened as the orb passed over it.
The sphere wasn’t chasing them at all. Poor Brent had simply been standing in the wrong spot.
* * *
LESS than an hour later, Quinten sat shivering under a blanket, surrounded by men and women in dark uniforms. They said they were police, but they didn’t look like any police he’d ever seen. He overheard one say that “Colonel Fury” had been informed, but the name meant nothing to him. They’d corralled Quinten and his friends and separated them, claiming it was to keep their stories from influencing one another.
All Quinten wanted to do was find out whether Amelie was okay. When they’d been nabbed, she had been so terrified she started hyperventilating. They said she was fine, that she was receiving medical attention, but they wouldn’t let him see her.
Instead, they peppered him with questions. They asked why the teens hadn’t reported finding the crates in the first place, as if that meant they were somehow in on their secrets.
“Because we’re stupid teenagers, why do you think?”
Prodding, they told him about the dead millionaire who’d hid the statues here after the war. They wondered whether the man was a Nazi sympathizer, or, as his public statements said, just a fan of the sculptor—as if Quinten might somehow know.
Of course, he didn’t!
He was so exhausted, he couldn’t even bring himself to care about the history of the statues, that one represented the Greek titan Atlas supporting the heavens, and the other the Roman goddess Tellus supporting the earth. They were to be part of a Volkshalle in the New Berlin the Nazis imagined, some huge domed building intended for the public worship of Hitler.
Brent would have cared about all of that. But Brent was dead.
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