Marvel Novels--Captain America

by Stefan Petrucha

  “They’ve cut the fiber optics. I’m surprised it took as long as it did. The hardwired security system has yet to detect any incursions, but it won’t be long now.”

  Donning his gloves, the Skull lifted the Sonikey. Having carefully wrapped it in a microfiber material that would conceal it from most sensors, he placed it in his mouth. Raising his glass to Zola, he washed it down with another Pilsner. “Time you were leaving.”

  “Understood, Herr Schmidt.”

  Rubbing his bony wrists beneath the leather, Schmidt surveyed the odd figure who had been his doctor and companion. “I feel I should thank you for standing by my side, but gratitude never sat easily with me.”

  He thought he detected a shrug in the digitized voice. “While such principles are more properly based on anticipated outcomes rather than sentimentality, I do admit to my own feelings about our parting. I have that luxury. You, however, must be at your best to face the coming days, and I have no wish to leave you at any disadvantage. Perhaps a different sort of confession on my part will make this parting easier.”

  Relieved there’d be no displays of emotion, the Skull embraced a far more comfortable curiosity. “A confession? From you? Any betrayal on your part would have already spelled my doom. What possible confession could you have?”

  “Simply that I withheld information. I was often convinced you had become completely irrational, that your plan would never work. But I said nothing about this to you.”

  The Skull tilted his head. “Why not? You’ve disagreed with me before.”

  He heard that digital shrug again. This time it was tinged with a bit of…sheepishness?

  “I thought it best to humor you.”

  “Humor me?”

  “Yes…as a kindness toward a dying man.”

  The Skull seethed, his anger propelled by the artificial adrenaline, as Zola knew it would be.

  “There, you see? I have removed the need for any gratitude on your part, and replaced it with the anger you believe fuels your will.”

  Heart pounding like a jackhammer, Schmidt fought to speak. “Indeed. You have. And for that, I freely thank you.”

  With the calm of a lazy wind-up toy, the android stepped toward the door. “I will head to the sub-basement, heat my body temperature to 300 degrees Celsius to destroy any trace of the virus, then exit through the tunnel. I doubt they’ve been able to detect me, but I’ve minimized my energy signature so that I should remain invisible to their scanners even after I’ve left the protection of the EMF.” His body remained facing the hall, but the lens that acted as his eyes pivoted back. “Goodbye, Johann.”

  Schmidt clicked his heels and gave him a stiff bow. “Arnim.”

  The reinforced door closed. The latch engaged with a click. The Skull’s gaze lingered on it until the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall receded, then he turned to watch Zola’s progress on the monitors.

  While Arnim walked, his body glowed as red as the coils on an electric stove. When he reached the sealed sub-basement, he stood motionless until his cooling body returned to its usual hues, then vanished through the escape tunnel.

  To conserve battery power, the Skull switched off everything but the few functioning monitors and sat.

  Alone.

  Alone with his failing body. Alone with the sterile air. Alone with his will in the unending darkness.

  And with the artificial adrenaline pumping through his veins, he thought, This must be what God felt like in the moments before creation.

  21

  NOT TO APPRECIATE BEAUTY, WELL, THAT WOULD BE THE VERY DEFINITION OF POINTLESSNESS.

  YELLOW, pink, and orange: The wafting cloud bed beneath Steve Rogers was tinged with sunset colors. Jumping from the hover-flier, he arched downward in a perfect dive. He might’ve felt an exhilarating sense of freedom, but his assignment prevented any appreciation of the view.

  He’d been asked to kill someone.

  Not that he disagreed with the court’s verdict. There was no higher political authority, the stakes were as high as they could get—and Schmidt was a vile, heinous thing. If the Skull was sick, dying anyway, and the virus threatened humanity, he had to at least consider it, didn’t he?

  But would he even have killed Hitler, given the opportunity?

  To him, that was hardly an abstract question, nothing like Kade’s hypothetical train wreck. The Allies, and his own generals, had made attempts—but asking him to be the assassin would never have occurred to them. First and foremost, they knew he’d refuse. Beyond that, even the most cynical military leader was well aware of Captain America’s value as a symbol.

  He held the title of captain, but was never exactly rank-and-file. He took on missions that made sense to him, but only served America’s dream. That meant more than obeying any particular administration or any particular orders.

  As he plunged into the cloud cover, its pristine beauty disappeared. As with any dream, the devil was in the details. Up close, the sublime colors faded into a dank, gray fog. It sped past, wetting his uniform and the membrane.

  Kade’s last question echoed: “Will you value the Skull’s life more than the lives of those a pandemic would rob?”

  If the Skull were aiming a gun at a civilian or about to detonate a bomb, and the only way to stop him was to end him, Rogers wouldn’t hesitate. But that would be combat, not an execution.

  Was that enough of a difference?

  They’d meet soon enough, and Steve Rogers would find out what he would do. In the heat of combat, it might not even be an issue. He’d been in many battles after which his foe did not walk away.

  The cloud cover dissipated, and the castle came into view: a piece of Old Europe dropped on the New World. Instinct told him it was time to pull the ripcord, but he held back. It would make for a rougher landing, but he wanted to remain hard to see for as long as possible.

  The whole world had seen him wearing the hazmat suit and using the Iron Man armor bearing a hologram of his face. Others could guess at the reason, but the Skull would know it was because of the virus they shared. While he’d be expecting someone, Schmidt might not expect his oldest foe in the flesh.

  Before his increasing acceleration could ensure more than minor bruising, he snapped the cord. The ram-air chute fanned out, its cloaking material reflecting the darkening skies. The hover-flier had been well placed for the jump. Despite the speed of his descent, he barely had to steer to reach the sloped roof.

  In a maneuver that would have cracked bones in a normal body, Cap waited until he was five yards up, then released his harness, letting it and the chute flap into the wind. He hit the slate shingles a little harder than expected and rolled along the slant to the base of a high stone chimney. As he crouched in its shadow, broken bits of slate skittered by, falling three stories before thudding into the bushes below.

  A mounted gun rose from the chimney top, erupting with automatic-weapons fire. It wasn’t targeting him, though—it was aimed at the still-fluttering chute, which it shredded. And the old castle didn’t have just one chimney, it had six—each now topped with a similar weapon. The red dots of their laser sighting crossed over the roof and grounds. The lack of additional fire meant he hadn’t been spotted yet.

  The Skull was somewhere inside, either operating the guns remotely or trusting whatever auto-targeting system they possessed. But where was he? The castle had two wings. Rogers had landed in the rough center of the shorter. On either side, several dormers projected from the sloping roof. Fading sunlight gave him a glimpse inside the closest window, illuminating what looked like an empty, rotting hall.

  Knowing that where the Skull was concerned, things were seldom as they seemed, Cap took his shield from his back and sent it crashing through the window. The instant it cracked the glass, the illusion of an empty hall vanished. A series of flamethrowers erupted, starting at the corridor’s far end and meeting the flying disc midway.

  Auto-targeting, then.

  The shield sailed the rem
aining length, crashed back out a second dorme, and returned to his waiting hand. It was cool to the touch. Inside, only lingering flames licked the edges of the lightly charred molding. The system was set to fire only as long as an intruder was present.

  Was the Skull too ill to see to his own defense, or planning some other surprise?

  The flamethrowers also told him something else. Logically, the firing sequence would end closest to whatever the weapons were intended to protect. In this case, that was a door leading to the other wing. He looked across the roof: Beyond more dormers, the outer wall rose to a wide peak with tall windows. The large room beyond appeared to be abandoned, but that was probably just another projection.

  And it seemed as good a place as any to start his search. If he stayed low and moved fast, he might make it in without tripping any sensors.

  No such luck.

  The second he left the chimney’s shadow, all the mounted guns swiveled and fired at him. Heavy-gauge bullets hit his raised shield and the surrounding slate, shattering the roof covering to reveal a layer of armor beneath.

  He ran for it, the gunfire strafing his path. By the time he reached the end of the western roof, the hail of bullets made the windows in the east wing barely visible. Scores of hot projectiles plinking off his shield, he made a catty-corner leap. Cap expected it to take him through the glass, but steel grates rolled across the windows as he jumped.

  He hit one of the grates, grabbed hold, and swung to the side. He might be able to pry it off, but not while weathering this heavy fire. The barrage was already tearing out chunks of castle stone, hitting far too close to his hands. He’d have to neutralize the guns before he tried getting in—but that would give the Skull more time to prepare.

  Unless…he did both at once?

  Vaulting to the base of the nearest chimney, he landed so close its gun couldn’t target him. That didn’t stop the others. Round after round followed him as he climbed to the chimney top and wedged his shield into the gun mount.

  No longer able to turn, the machinery whined, but the gun continued firing. Turning his shield, he was able to aim it. His first target was the gun with the most direct line of sight on the covered windows. That chimney tilted and fell.

  The remaining weapons were still shooting, but he didn’t want to give Schmidt any extra breathing space. His next target wasn’t the protective steel grates on the windows, but what surrounded them. Once enough stone was blasted away, he sprang toward the grate a second time.

  He hit feet first, delivering enough force to collapse what remained of the support frame. The grate fell inward. With a great thud, he and it landed on the marble floor of a wide, dark room. The sound of gunfire ringing behind him, he stood in a cloud of powdered stone and plaster, ready to hurl his shield at the familiar figure standing stiffly behind a cracked oaken desk.

  The Skull was speaking, but his words were drowned out by the commotion. Grimacing, he swiped at a control. The guns fell silent.

  “That’s better,” the Skull said. Narrowing his eyes, he tilted his domed head. “So it’s you, not some surrogate. But you don’t seem sick at all. Why is that?”

  “I like to think it’s clean living.”

  He frowned. “I understand the need for wit that some of your fellow costumed cretins possess—but your naive idealism always makes me wonder if you’re capable of being facetious. If clean living can keep one healthy, how do you explain all the placid, innocent sheep who die daily from disease? Is their living not clean enough for you?”

  Schmidt still hadn’t moved. The light from the monitor glowing behind him made it difficult to see his face clearly. Was he weak, or biding his time?

  “They don’t have the same kind of body we do.”

  “Ach, of course.” Bowing slightly, the Skull took on the paper-thin mask of an ingratiating host welcoming an old friend. “Touché.”

  Schmidt’s German accent was back. Rogers hadn’t heard it in a very long time. An effect of the virus?

  “Well, I’ve been having a lot of philosophical debates lately.”

  The thin, dreadful lips made something akin to a tsk-tsk. “How hard that must be for a simple mind like yours.”

  When he stepped out from behind the desk, Rogers tensed. The Skull moved slowly, keeping his gloved hands visible. His posture was rigid. There were no nervous twitches, no wavering, no wasted motion that might telegraph his intentions—or tremors that could indicate disease. To judge from his self-control, he seemed in perfect health.

  But his face, when Rogers finally saw it, told a different story. Not its thin scarlet skin or skull-like shape, not its corpse-cold expression or malevolent glare, but the patches of discoloration on his temples and cheeks, and the lines of liquid red between his teeth.

  There was no question anymore. The virus was active.

  “There was a time I thought dying might be worth it just to rid myself of the unfortunate association between us. But seeing you so healthy, so fit, I find myself forced to ask—has a cure been found?”

  Rogers shook his head. “No. Not yet. I have the virus, but it’s not active in me.”

  Hearing that, the Skull laughed long and hard. “You mean you’ve been fighting the Sleepers in this ridiculous fashion because of what might happen?”

  “What we’ve got, it could—”

  “Ja, ja, I know. Threaten the species. Yet, after remaining dormant all these years, it has only activated in me. It almost makes me wonder if there is some design to the universe.”

  Schmidt seemed oddly introspective. Maybe if he was captured easily, Rogers could convince Kade and the courts that keeping him alive would be useful in finding a cure. “You must know everyone we’ve got is working on this. Turn yourself in, submit to quarantine, let them test you. I don’t expect you to care about saving anyone else, but it’s the only way to save yourself.”

  The Skull waved a gloved hand in the air, curled his lips in a sort of pout, and took a few steps closer. At first, his words were slow and deliberate. “Nein. That won’t be happening. I admit, I did consider it. But now, with you here? No. I won’t do it. Not for you. Never for you.”

  All of a sudden he was screeching: “Cure or not, I will never humble myself before you!”

  The Skull threw himself forward. Rogers was taken aback by his speed and ferocity. Their bodies the same, he expected that at most the Skull would be as fast as he was, as strong.

  Somehow, he was faster. Stronger.

  He raised his shield to block, but the Skull knocked it aside. He jabbed with his right, but the Skull slammed the top of his head into Rogers’ nose before the blow could connect. The unexpected energy behind the strike staggered him. Salty liquid seeped into the back of his throat. He caught a whiff of his own blood.

  As he shook it off, Rogers promised himself he wouldn’t be caught off-guard again.

  Cackling madly, the Skull came at him, feinting a body blow before he hit the ground for a low-spinning heel kick. Fast as it was, it didn’t come close. Rogers jumped. The Skull’s leg swept the air, the flaps of his open black leather trench coat splaying to his sides.

  Thinking to pin him by the fabric and interrupt his momentum, Rogers came down on the coat. As if he’d hit an oil slick, the balls of his feet flew out from under him.

  The Skull chuckled. “You’d think such a long garment would be a poor choice for hand-to-hand combat. But mine was inspired by the carnivorous pitcher plant, whose slippery leaves cause its prey to helplessly slide into its digestive juices.”

  The advantage was momentary. Rogers easily regained his balance. The tiny delay shouldn’t have given the Skull the time to stand—but it did. How?

  Whatever body he inhabited, despite the martial arts he’d mastered, the Skull was at heart a street fighter, a thuggish scrapper with a heavy reliance on dirty tricks. But something else was going on here, something even beyond the capabilities of the Super-Soldier serum. The best way to end the fight would be to figure ou
t what that was.

  Hoping to get a closer look at his foe’s tactics, Cap let Schmidt keep the advantage. The Skull came at him with an amateur move: a roundhouse punch. Rogers sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and used the motion to push the slick sleeve of the coat along the Skull’s forearm. It slid easily, but the sudden force made it tear as it went.

  The Skull twisted and yanked free. But in the scant moments Rogers’ hand had been wrapped around Schmidt’s bare forearm, he’d felt the veins beneath the skin pounding as if ready to burst.

  A drug. He was using some sort of drug.

  As far back as Dr. Erskine, Steve Rogers had been warned that the effects of a stimulant, unlike alcohol, would increase exponentially in his enhanced body. That included a dangerous side effect: a heightened irritability that would interfere with his concentration. That explained the roundhouse.

  Schmidt was already too angry to think straight. All Rogers had to do was make him furious, and more mistakes would follow.

  The Skull wheeled toward him, trying to use his left to swipe the shield aside again. That exposed his head and upper chest. Suppressing the urge to counter with his right, Rogers forced the edge of the shield up into the Skull’s chin—knowing it would cause more pain.

  Howling, the Skull tumbled back.

  “Never humble yourself? Who do you think you’re kidding?” Rogers said. “This is for show. You’re barely fighting. You’re like any other bully, a coward at heart. You’ve spent your whole life terrified. Fear is the only thing that’s ever driven you.”

  Wild-eyed, Schmidt came at him. “Save the dime-store psychology for the mewling masses.”

  Rogers let him in without resistance, allowed blow after blow to land on his chest and sides.

  “Does this feel like fear?” Schmidt bayed.

  It didn’t. In fact, it hurt. A lot. But powerful as the strikes felt, they were scattershot, purposeless.

  The yellowed eyes went even wider. “Does a tiger fear his prey?”

  The flurry of punches peaked and continued, but Rogers heard Schmidt panting above the thudding fists. “Is it fear when the predator trembles at the taste of his living prey quivering between his teeth?”