Civil War Prose Novel

by Stuart Moore

  Daredevil flicked blind eyes toward Spider-Man.

  “If that Act passes,” DD said, “It’s the end of the way we do business. The end of everything. You can smell it in the air.”

  “Spoiled,” the Widow repeated. Whispered it softly, into his chest.

  “Quiet, everyone!”

  Spidey turned to see Reed Richards raising a remote control toward the screen. Below a stern-looking female reporter, a headline crawl read: BREAKING NEWS.

  “They’re about to announce the results of the vote.”

  The chatter of TV noise rose in the room, drowning out the speculation of two dozen costumed heroes. Wings rustled; drinks were placed down. Masks, eyes, and lenses all turned to stare up at the screen.

  The blank visage of Iron Man stared down at them, accompanied by the legend: AFTER THE REPORT: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH ANTHONY STARK, THE INVINCIBLE IRON MAN.

  Peter Parker, the amazing Spider-Man, felt yet another panic-twinge in his gut. Oh, Tony, he thought. Man, I hope you know what you’re doing.

  ONCE, the world had been simple. Countries fought wars over lines on a map, occupying conquered territories with tanks, armies, fleets. Men battled on land, at sea, or in fighter planes. They fought, they fell, and they died.

  Except for Captain America. In 1945, near the end of the Second World War, he fell in battle…but he didn’t die. Through a fluke of nature, he was preserved in a state of suspension, fated to awaken decades later in a very different world. A world of global communications, satellite tracking, of cameras and computers smaller than a speck of dust. A world where wars were fought very differently, for different causes, with startling new technologies.

  Technologies such as the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier.

  Built during the Cold War, the Helicarrier served as command post and staging point for all major operations of the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate. Half a mile wide, the size and bulk of a small city, it soared above the Earth, powered by several breakthrough technologies developed by Stark Enterprises. Current location: six miles over New York City.

  On the carrier’s flight deck, Captain America watched an F-22 Raptor glide in for a landing. The sleek stealth plane dropped wheels at the last minute, skidding just slightly as it touched down. It taxied to the end of the long deck, past a virtual museum of military aircraft past and present, and decelerated to a full, graceful stop.

  They just stopped making the F-22, Cap thought. He hoped the new models would perform as well. You never knew.

  He turned to peer down over the edge of the deck’s metal balcony, wind whipping at his face. Somewhere down below, Earth’s super heroes were gathering. But he couldn’t see the city. Too much cloud cover.

  “Cap? The director’ll see you now.”

  Armored S.H.I.E.L.D. agents led him inside, through high, gray-metal corridors dotted with window portals. Captain America’s duties had brought him to the Helicarrier many times before. But this time, something was different.

  It feels cold. Alien, almost.

  The corridor opened up into a wide, low-ceilinged room crisscrossed with walkways. No more windows. A proud woman stood facing him in full S.H.I.E.L.D. braid, with short-cropped hair and striking features. Two male agents flanked her, their hands held loose near high-tech sidearms. One had cruel eyes and broken-looking features; the other wore shades and sported a mustache.

  “Captain,” the woman said.

  “Commander Hill.”

  She smiled, a cold reptile smile. “It’s Director now. Well, Acting Director.”

  Cap frowned. “Where’s Fury?”

  “You’ve been out of the loop, haven’t you?” She stepped closer to him. “I’m sorry to report that Nicholas Fury was lost at sea, four months ago. You’ve heard of the Poseidon Protocol?”

  “Only the name.”

  “And that’s all you’re ever going to hear. Suffice it to say, Nick Fury gave his life for his country.”

  Cap felt a sick feeling in his stomach. He’d lost comrades before, but this was a shock—especially so soon after Thor’s death. Like Cap, Fury was just a man, but an extraordinary one. He’d been around at least as long as Cap, fought in even more wars, and had beaten the odds time and again.

  Gave his life for his country.

  “I’m told that twenty-three of your friends are meeting in the Baxter Building right now to discuss the super-community’s reaction to the Superhuman Registration Act. What do you think they should do?”

  “I…” Cap paused, startled by the abruptness of Hill’s question. “I don’t think that’s for me to say.”

  “Cut the crap, Captain. I know you were tight with Fury, but I’m acting head of S.H.I.E.L.D. now. If nothing else, I expect you to respect the badge.”

  Captain America frowned, took in a long breath. Turned away briefly to gather his thoughts.

  “I think this plan will split us down the middle. I think you’re going to have us at war with one another.”

  “What’s the matter with these guys?” The cruel-looking agent gestured at Cap. “How can anyone argue against super heroes being properly trained and paid for a living?”

  Cap turned sharply to Hill: Get your man in line? But she just looked to the other agent, the one with the mustache.

  “How many rebels do you estimate here, Captain?” Mustache asked.

  “If Registration becomes law? A lot.”

  “Any majors?” asked Hill.

  He frowned again. “Mostly the heroes who work close to the streets. Daredevil, maybe Iron Fist. I can’t be sure.”

  “So nobody you can’t handle.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Involuntarily, Cap’s hand clenched into a fist. He slipped it behind his back.

  “The proposal has just passed the Senate,” Hill continued. “It’s done, Captain. The law will take effect in two weeks—which means we’re already behind schedule.” She gestured around at the Helicarrier, its cold gray walls. “We’re developing an anti-superhuman response unit here. But we need to make sure the Avengers are on board, and that you’re out there leading the Avengers.”

  “You’re asking me to arrest people who risk their lives for this country, every day of the week.”

  “No, Captain. I’m asking you to obey the will of the American people.”

  More S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had filed in, he realized. Heavily armored men and women, in padded riot gear with thick visors. They gathered around Hill, and behind Cap as well. Surrounding him.

  “Don’t play politics, Hill. Super heroes need to stay above that stuff. We can’t have Washington telling us who the super villains are.”

  “I thought super villains were guys in masks who refused to obey the law.”

  Her finger barely twitched, but Cap caught the motion. Instantly, a dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents raised their weapons into position, rifles and lasers and tranq guns. One by one, they cocked their guns: Chik-Chak. Chik-Chak. Chik-Chak.

  All pointed at one man. A man with a flag on his chest.

  Cap didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle. “Is this the hit squad you’ve been training to take down heroes?”

  “Nobody wants a war, Captain.” Hill gestured, tried to smile now. “The people are just sick and tired of living in the Wild West.”

  “Masked heroes are a part of this country’s history.”

  “So’s smallpox,” said Cruel Features. “Grow up, huh?”

  “Nobody’s saying you can’t do your job,” Hill said. “We’re just expanding its parameters, that’s all.”

  “It’s time you went legit like the rest of us.” Mustache Agent held his rifle outstretched, its red laser dot dancing across the star on Cap’s chest. “Soldier.”

  Captain America took a single step toward Hill. A dozen agents stepped forward in response.

  “I knew your grandfather, Hill. Did you know that?”

  She said nothing.

  “His un
it suffered eighty percent losses in the Bulge. They retreated along the English Channel, cut off, no supplies. The weather was brutal: huge storms, blinding snowfalls, sub-zero temperatures. One man bled out; another died stopping a Panzer division from crossing the river.

  “Corporal Francis Hill kept his last buddy alive. When we found them, they were half-starved and suffering from severe exposure. But he’d held his bridge against the Germans, and saved at least one man’s life.”

  Hill just stared at him.

  “Did he ever tell you that story, Director Hill?”

  “A dozen times.”

  “He was one of many true heroes I met in that war.” Slowly, Cap turned and addressed the circle of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. “Put your weapons down, boys.”

  “Captain America,” Hill said slowly, “is not in command here.”

  She stepped forward, her teeth gritted in rage.

  “Their war,” she hissed. “Not mine.”

  “Weapons. Down,” Cap repeated. “Or I will not be responsible for what comes next.”

  “Tranquilizers on. Get ready.”

  “This is insane, Hill.”

  “There’s an easy solution.”

  “Damn you for this.”

  “Damn you for making me do thi—”

  Cap jerked his arm up and out, ramming his shield into the agent’s rifle just as the man pulled the trigger. Cap leapt upward, pivoted in midair, and grabbed the second man’s neck, twisting just hard enough to knock him off his feet. The man let out a strangled cry.

  “Tranquilizers!” Hill yelled. “NOW!”

  Cap grabbed the third agent by his riot gear, held him up in the air. The barrage of tranq capsules struck the agent full-on, shielding Cap for a crucial second. Then he flung the agent into his attackers and took off at a run.

  “Take him! Take him down!”

  He plowed through the line of agents, punching and battering, slapping their guns away and knocking the men off balance. Armor had its drawbacks; Cap was lighter, swifter than his enemies. He flung his impenetrable shield at a pair of attackers, slicing the tips off their guns. When it boomeranged back, he snatched it out of the air without looking.

  The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with cruel features stood before the corridor leading outside, blocking Cap’s way. Four more men backed him up, all armed with heavy-gauge rifles. These weren’t tranq guns. Not anymore.

  Cap raised his shield, and his mouth curled into a battle-grimace. “Don’t even think it, little man.”

  Then he charged, head down, his shield held straight out like a battering ram. He plowed into the agent, smashing the man’s jaw. He swung the shield to one side, then the other, toppling S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like tenpins.

  “DIRECTOR HILL TO ALL UNITS.” The loudspeakers blared now, almost deafeningly. “STOP CAPTAIN AMERICA. I REPEAT: STOP CAPTAIN AMERICA!”

  Cap dashed out into the hallway, bullets whistling all around him. Shells, pulse beams, tranq capsules. He paused before a small window, holding his shield up behind him to block the fire.

  He waited, braced against the window, for a break in the fire. Inevitably, it came.

  Muscles honed in World War II coiled tight, and Captain America swiveled around and punched out the window with his shield. Then he leapt, out the window and into open air. A fresh barrage of bullets followed him; he twisted and dropped, surrendering his actions to pure survival instinct.

  The flight deck lay below, but that was no good; he’d be a sitting duck. He bounced off a gunmount and flipped himself upward, heading toward the upper levels of the Helicarrier. Grabbed for purchase on the outer wall, grasped a disused propeller, and swung himself up again.

  Below, a phalanx of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents appeared in the shattered window. They looked around, sighted him, and fired upward.

  This is bad, he thought. Six miles up and nowhere to run.

  Then he saw it: an old P-40 Warhawk, just arcing down toward the flight deck. A relic, just like him, miraculously still in service. It bore the cruel jaw and painted eye of the Flying Tigers, meticulously repainted over the years.

  The P-40 must have been closing in for a landing when the shooting broke out. Eighty, ninety feet above, and dropping. Seventy. Sixty-five.

  Cap leapt.

  He crashed down on top of the cockpit, shield first, shattering the glass. Pain shot up through his legs. The pilot flinched away, shook his head against the sudden wind. “JEEZUS!”

  Cap clamped a hand onto the man’s throat.

  “Keep flying, son. And watch that potty mouth.”

  The pilot nodded frantically, pulled up on the stick. The flight deck grew closer, faster and faster, then seemed to flatten out as the plane leveled off, less than twenty feet above the deck. The pilot kicked in the afterburners, and the plane began to rise.

  Cap staggered, almost toppled off. He held on, gritting his teeth.

  S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ran out onto the flight deck: two dozen, maybe three. They pointed upward, started squeezing off shots.

  But Cap’s plane was moving too fast. The pilot nosed it up farther, pulling up and away from the carrier. The flight deck slid past in a blur, and then they were out over open air.

  Cap glanced backward. The Helicarrier was shrinking into the distance, its jagged bulk limned against the clouds. No doubt Hill was already scrambling pursuit planes, but he knew they’d be too late.

  Cap steadied himself atop the cracked cockpit, riding the plane like a surfer. He looked down just as the clouds parted…revealing the spires of Manhattan, the ocean and rivers surrounding it. The sea to the east, the mountains and farms and towns to the west.

  “Whe-whe-where are we going?” the pilot yelled.

  Cap leaned forward, into the wind.

  “America,” he said.

  THE place: corner of 12th Street and Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. The time: 8:24 AM—morning rush hour. The robot: twelve feet tall, shaking the ground with every step, its face a gigantic, twisted mirror-image of the villain called Doctor Doom.

  Tony Stark braked to a stop in midair, half a block away from the robot. He looked down, saw that the police had cleared the block. People stood behind barricades, watching, recording the scene with their phones and digital cameras.

  “This is our chance,” Tony said.

  Ms. Marvel glided up next to Tony, waiting for instructions. Below, Luke Cage and the Black Widow sprinted down the middle of the cleared street. Spider-Man followed close behind them, webbing his way from traffic light to streetlamp.

  Tony opened a radio link. “Reed, are you online?”

  The robot stamped down hard, cracking open the pavement. People gasped and shrank farther back behind the barricades, pressing up against storefronts and deli windows.

  “I AM DOOM!” the robot said.

  Reed Richards’s voice crackled in Tony’s ear. “In the absence of conclusive evidence,” he said, “I would assume that’s the Doombot.”

  Tony frowned. Joking, or just stating the obvious? With Reed, it was hard to tell.

  “We’re ready, Tone.” Spider-Man came through crisp and clear on the Stark frequency. “Friendly neighborhood rookie Avenger, reporting for duty.”

  Tony scanned his troops. Tigra nodded fiercely up at him; Cage looked grim, unsure. Spider-Man clung to a factory building wall, ready for action. Ms. Marvel hovered, poised and statuesque as always.

  With a thought, Tony turned his armor’s amplifiers up to full gain. “ATTENTION CITIZENS,” he said. “I AM IRON MAN, A REGISTERED SUPERHUMAN; REAL NAME, ANTHONY STARK. THIS IS AN INITIATIVE-APPROVED SUPERHUMAN PROCEDURE, OPERATING WITHIN SRA SAFETY PROTOCOLS. PLEASE STAND BACK AND ALLOW US TO DO OUR JOBS. THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR.”

  People exchanged glances, unsure.

  The robot took another slow, lumbering step down Fifth Avenue. “I AM DOOM!” Its foot raised another quake, setting off a block’s worth of car alarms.

  “Reed,” Tony said. “Quick rundown on this thing. And I mean quick.”
>
  “It’s a prototype peacekeeper, built by Doctor Doom—you know who he is?”

  “Yes, Reed.”

  Victor Von Doom was Reed’s arch-foe, a brilliant, armored scientist who ruled the country of Latveria with, quite literally, an iron fist. Doom had nurtured a grudge against Reed since their days in college together.

  “Right, well. Doom claims he intended the ’bot only for domestic use, within Latveria. But it developed some sort of rudimentary artificial intelligence and fled to America.”

  Ms. Marvel frowned. “Doom actually warned you about this thing? Why?”

  “Maybe he sees which way the political winds are blowing in this country. I suspect he wants to get on Tony’s good side. Or perhaps he has another, deeper plan.” Reed hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  Tony realized: Those are his least favorite three words in the English language.

  “Thanks, Reed. Stark out.”

  Tony double-checked; all the Avengers were on his frequency. “Everyone follow my lead,” he said. “This is the beginning of a new era. It’s our chance to show how things will work, from now on. To regain the people’s trust.”

  “Me like trust,” Spider-Man said. “Trust good.”

  “I AM DOOM!”

  “Aerial assault first.” Tony launched himself forward. “Carol?”

  Ms. Marvel fell in behind him, her long red sash waving bright in the morning sun. Together they arrowed toward the robot’s head, slicing through the air in perfect formation. It turned glowing eyes toward them, lurched to one side—

  —and stumbled into a parked car, smashing the trunk flat. A woman wrenched open the driver’s side door and half-stumbled, half-fell out, clutching a baby. She lurched, looking around with panicked eyes, and ran—straight into the robot’s leg.

  Slowly, its head swiveled to look down at her.

  Tony whirled toward Ms. Marvel. Her blue-gloved arms were outstretched, beginning to glow with power. Carol’s half-alien physiology allowed her to generate highly charged energy bolts; she was one of the most powerful Avengers in a combat situation.