Civil War Prose Novel

by Stuart Moore

“Mmm? Oh, I suppose so. Yes.” Reed twitched, a facial tic Tony hadn’t seen before. “I’m mostly concerned about the procedures we’ve got in place for the new prisoners. Wiccan is powerful, and Daredevil can be quite devious.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve got the transfer scheduled for later today, yes? Perhaps I should head straight for the Baxter Building and make sure the portal’s ready.”

  “Soon, Reed. I need you here first.”

  “Ah.”

  Twitch.

  He’s haunted, Tony thought. But not by problems with the detention center, and not by abstract calculations. Not even by his wife’s betrayal, though that’ll hit him soon enough.

  No. He keeps seeing the same thing I do, in my mind’s eye: Bill Foster, Goliath, struck dead by a lightning bolt through his chest.

  The doors hissed open, straight into the Avengers Tower biolab. High ceilings, bright lights, screens and monitors and medical tables everywhere. And superhumans. Black Widow, Spider-Man, and Ms. Marvel, her arm in a sling. Ben Grimm stood in back, uncharacteristically quiet.

  In the center of the room, the massive figure of Thor lay on a slab. His clear blue eyes stared straight up; no trace of intelligence showed in them. His hammer lay askew next to him.

  Dr. Hank Pym leaned over an incision in Thor’s head, frowning. He raised a scalpel, and his hand shook slightly.

  “Tony?” Spider-Man approached, in full costume. “What happened out there?”

  Tony grimaced. Sympathetically, he hoped.

  “I thought we were doing this so no one else got hurt,” Spider-Man said.

  Tony held up a hand to him, turned toward the prone figure of Thor. “Hank? Any news?”

  Hank Pym glanced up from his work. His white lab coat stood out against the bright-colored costumes filling the room. He looked like he’d been crying.

  “News?”

  Hank laid down the scalpel, crossed to a TV monitor, and clicked it to life. An aerial view of the chemical plant appeared. Copters buzzed in and out of sight; below, the various heroes scampered around like ants. Then, inevitably, Thor raised his hammer and blew a hole through Goliath.

  “S.H.I.E.L.D. footage,” Black Widow said. She gestured at Hank. “He’s been watching it compulsively.”

  Tony frowned. Hank Pym had been a super hero himself, first as Ant-Man, then Giant-Man and Yellowjacket. He was the first of the size-changing heroes, but in recent years he’d hung up his tights, preferring to concentrate on scientific research. Including the Niflhel Protocol.

  Goliath, Tony recalled, had once been Hank’s lab assistant.

  “Hank,” Tony said, “it’s a tragedy. I’m sorry. I know you and Bill were friends.”

  “Friends. Yes.” Hank turned to Tony, accusation in his eyes. “And I just watched a superhuman I helped create blow a hole straight through my friend.”

  Reed studied Thor. “I wonder why he—Thor, I mean—behaved like that. Is he missing a human conscience? Does he need a human host to fuse with?”

  “Why? Why?” Hank whirled on Reed. “Maybe the problem is we weren’t meant to clone a god!”

  Spider-Man leapt through the air. “Clone?” He landed on the wall, just above the prone thunder god. “Thor is a clone?”

  Tony grimaced. He cast his gaze across the assembled heroes, watching them as the revelation sank in. Ms. Marvel whipped her head toward him, an unfamiliar note of doubt in her eyes. Black Widow seemed rattled. Ben Grimm stood staring, his huge rocky jaw gaping wide.

  Hank Pym shivered, as if trying to shake off his own guilt.

  “Tony?” Spider-Man continued. “How in the five boroughs do you clone a god, anyway?”

  Hank sat down, lowered his head. “Very first meeting of the Avengers, Tony set it up. Had me grab a lock of hair from Thor.” He laughed humorlessly. “I was Ant-Man, then. Shrank down so small, I was almost microscopic. Thor thought he had fleas.”

  “So this…” Spider-Man reached out to pick up Thor’s hammer. “This isn’t really Mjolnir? It’s some copy…the Hammer of Clor?”

  Tony looked at him, puzzled.

  “Clor,” Spider-Man repeated. “Clone-Thor. Get it?”

  “Not funny, Peter.”

  Spider-Man snapped to attention. Still holding the hammer, he shot his hand out toward Tony, in a Nazi salute.

  Then, immediately, he lowered the hammer. “Sorry.”

  Tony surveyed the group. They all looked to him for guidance, for assurance that they were on the right path. But they were all shell-shocked. Even Spider-Man, gleaming and kinetic in his metallic suit.

  This is a crucial moment, Tony realized. The whole Registration movement could fall apart, right here and now. Everything depends on what I do in the next few minutes.

  “Peter,” Tony said. “Show me your face? I’m asking, not ordering.”

  Slowly, Spider-Man pulled off his mask. He too looked tired, sunken-eyed, and a bit ashamed.

  “Thank you. Now.” Tony paced the room, stopping just before Ms. Marvel. “I know this isn’t exactly what any of you signed up for. Carol, how’s your arm?”

  “Some people got it much worse,” she said. “She-Hulk is still in intensive care. She’s recovering, though.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Now, we’re all thinking about the same thing: Bill Foster. His death was a tragedy, a horrible accident. The kind of thing that should never, ever happen, especially on our watch.

  “But. BUT. We all knew this wasn’t going to be easy, and we knew there’d be battles along the way. I’ll be blunt: Anyone who didn’t expect a casualty here and there, was deluding himself. We’re talking about a major change in the lives of every metahuman on Earth.

  “And that’s what we have to remember. Bill Foster shouldn’t have died. But his death is the price of what we’re doing. If this process means another nine hundred civilians don’t die as collateral damage in a super-battle, then—I hate to say it, but—I can live with Bill’s death. Not easily, and I won’t sleep well tonight. But I can live with it.”

  Ms. Marvel nodded gravely. Black Widow cocked her eyebrow. Ben Grimm just leaned against a table, his expression even stonier than normal.

  Hank Pym stared at clone-Thor, shaking his head.

  “The math,” Reed Richards said softly. “The math works out.”

  “Thank you, Reed.”

  “Tony, I…” Peter Parker looked around nervously. “I want to believe you. I know your intentions are good. But is this—” He gestured at the screen, which still showed the frozen image of Goliath’s dead body. “Is that what’s gonna happen? Every time someone doesn’t register, doesn’t follow the rules?”

  “Of course not. That’s what the detention center’s for.”

  “Yeah. The detention center.” Peter nodded, looked Tony straight in the eye. “Think I could see that place, Tony?”

  Something shifted in the room, in the air. Some balance of power, of authority.

  “You wanted my sharp mind,” Peter continued. “Right, boss?”

  Tony stared back at Peter for a moment. Then he smiled, a warm, fatherly smile.

  “Sure, Peter. Reed and I are headed over there now. Want to join?”

  Peter pulled down his mask, red-and-gold lenses popping into place over his eyes. Again, he nodded.

  “Hank,” Tony said. “You’ve done enough here. Your registration is on file—why don’t you take a week off. ‘Clor’ can wait on ice till you get back.”

  Reed stretched out an arm, touched Hank Pym on the back. Hank nodded, stood up, and trudged toward the door. He looked defeated, a shell of a man.

  “The rest of you, take what time you need,” Tony continued. “But check in at regular intervals. Things are only going to heat up from here, and I’m going to need every one of you.”

  Murmured assent. For now, it would have to do.

  “Right.” Tony slapped his helmet down over his face, motioned for Reed and Spider-Man to follow him. “Let’s move, gen
tlemen. Project 42 awaits.”

  SOMETHING dark was growing inside Captain America. Something hard and angry, deep in his gut. Something he’d never felt before; something he didn’t like at all.

  It wasn’t the death of Goliath…not exactly. Cap had lost men before, in war and in civilian battles. It always hurt, but it was a part of life. The life he’d chosen, decades ago, when a scrawny orphan kid first volunteered for the wartime super-soldier program.

  Falcon wrapped a thick bandage around Cap’s forehead. “Hold still,” Falc said.

  No, Cap realized, it wasn’t the death. It was the way Bill Foster had died. Men and women under Cap’s command had perished defending their country, saving innocents, or so that their fellow warriors could survive. Once in a while, you even lost a man by sheer, tragic accident. When that happened, you drank a sad toast, punched a few walls, and carried on.

  This was different. Goliath had died as a direct result of Tony’s actions. Tony Stark, the man Cap had called friend for years.

  Cap coughed, then winced. Everything hurt: his face, his arms, his legs. Tony had really done a number on him.

  Falcon fastened the last bandage, took a step back. “You look like the mummy half-escaped from his tomb,” the winged man said. “But you got a few teeth left.”

  “I plan to use ’em,” Cap said.

  He tugged at the electrodes fastened to his bandaged chest. The medical wing of Resistance headquarters was remarkably well-outfitted with diagnostic equipment. A technician in a white coat stood at the monitors; like everyone they’d hired, she’d been personally vetted by at least two Resistance members.

  Hawkeye entered the room, followed by Dagger, Stature, Speed, and Patriot. The kids looked shaken, unsure. So did Hawk.

  “How’s the man?” Hawkeye asked.

  “Hawk, I need your help.” Cap stood and pulled off the electrodes, ignoring the technician’s protests. “We’re gonna have to abandon this location. Tony’s about to step up all his efforts to find us; even an off-the-books S.H.I.E.L.D. base is just too risky.”

  “Stop, Wings,” Hawkeye said. “Don’t say another word.”

  Cap frowned. Falcon fell in behind him.

  Hawkeye looked down, shifted his quiver from one shoulder to the other. “Cap, I think we should appeal for amnesty.”

  “Amnesty? Are you insane?” Cap gestured around the room, winced as his arm slipped briefly out of joint. “We just picked up another fourteen supporters. Valkyrie, Nighthawk, Photon…Tony’s losing allies by the minute.”

  “And how many people did we lose? Hulkling, Wiccan, Daredevil, Cloak…” Hawkeye turned to Dagger, who winced at her partner’s name. “Sorry, doll.”

  “Hawk,” Falcon began.

  “No no, listen to me. Those guys are all on their way to whatever super-gulag Reed Richards has been building.”

  Cap chose his words carefully. “And you’re willing to let them get away with that?”

  Dagger grimaced. “They can do anything they want, now. They’ve got Thor on their side.”

  “That wasn’t Thor,” Cap snapped. “That was some Frankenstein’s monster they grew for their super hero army. You didn’t know Thor, girl. Don’t think for a moment—not one moment—that he would have murdered a good man like Bill Foster.”

  Dagger shrank back. Stature put a hand on her shoulder.

  Cap immediately felt remorse. Snapping at a young girl. What’s wrong with me?

  “Cap,” Hawkeye said, “I’ve been on the wrong side of the law before. Spent a lot of my life there. It sucks. You helped pull me out of that life…hell, for a while, you and me practically were the Avengers.

  “And you once said to me: When the law outnumbers and outguns you 20-to-one, there comes a time when you gotta stop fighting.”

  “That’s true, when you’re in the wrong.” Cap stared at him. “When you’re right, you plant your feet in the ground and hold the damn hill.”

  “I’m real sorry about Bill Foster. But he was dead the moment he thought he was bigger than the law.”

  “Hawkeye.”

  “Stop, Cap. I’m leavin’. So whatever you do, don’t tell me where you’re planning on movin’ this base to.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you the time of day.”

  “Good. ’Cause you oughta be thinkin’ about something else. The more people join your little underground club, the bigger the possibility you might have a mole in the ranks.”

  Cap said nothing. The idea had occurred to him. Tony had managed to lure them to the chemical plant a little too easily.

  Hawkeye turned, started to leave.

  “What you gonna do, Clint?” Falcon’s fists were clenched in fury. “Pull on those little jackboots and smack whoever they tell you to?”

  “No.” Hawkeye’s voice was soft now. “I’m gonna be a Good Guy.”

  Everyone stood quiet. Patriot cast a questioning glance at Speed, who smiled nervously and shrugged. Speed looked at Stature, who looked away.

  Then Stature turned and started after Hawkeye.

  Patriot reached out, grabbed her arm. “Cassie?”

  “Sorry, Eli. But I don’t want to wind up in some super-jail, like Wiccan and Hulkling. I got into this to fight villains, not cops or other super heroes.”

  Speed circled around her, touched her shoulder. “C’mon, Cass—”

  “Tommy, you know how this is gonna end.” Stature glanced briefly at Cap. “He’s just another old man scared of the future.”

  “Go.” Cap’s voice was a low growl now. “If your freedom means so little to you.”

  Stature grimaced, hugged her teammates quickly. Then she ran to join Hawkeye.

  “Eli, Tommy? What about you?”

  Patriot glanced at his teammate; Speed grinned back. “We’re in.”

  “Dagger?”

  Dagger’s hands flared bright, light-knives flashing into the air. Her eyes shone with inner light, with determination.

  “I want my partner back,” she said.

  Cap nodded in approval. “Good.”

  They gathered around him then: Falcon, Patriot, Speed, and Dagger. All looking to him for guidance, for leadership. For just a moment, the dark thing in Cap’s gut relaxed, lightened.

  He hoped he could be worthy of them.

  “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Falc, notify all troops: We’re bugging out. I think Cage has a Harlem safe house we can use for a while. Dagger, see if anybody has any special knowledge regarding Stark Enterprises security systems. Patriot, Speed, you talk to the new recruits. Make a list of their special powers.”

  As they scattered, Cap took a step. His leg exploded in agony; he almost fell. “And somebody get me a Midol?”

  TWELVE days had passed since the press conference. Twelve days that turned Peter Parker’s life inside out.

  Aunt May had been hounded by reporters, forced to hole up inside her house. People shouted “traitor” at Peter in the streets. The Daily Bugle filed suit against him for misrepresentation and breach of contract, citing the amount he’d been paid for Spider-Man action photos over the years.

  And a visit to Peter’s old high school turned into a nightmare when Doctor Octopus crashed his guest lecture on physics. Thankfully, no students or faculty were hurt. But Principal Dillon had made it very clear that no further alumni lectures would be welcome.

  Since then, sleep hadn’t come easily. Peter kept waking up, several times a night, with a low noise rumbling in his head. He’d never had migraines before, but he wondered if this might be the first symptom.

  Then came Goliath. And that horrible moment, delivered in HD through the lenses in Peter’s new costume, that he couldn’t get out of his mind.

  So Spider-Man practically sleepwalked through the trip with Tony and Reed. S.H.I.E.L.D. had cordoned off several midtown blocks with trucks and paddy wagons, isolating the Baxter Building. When Spidey asked Tony why, the billionaire replied, “Prisoner transfer.”

  Spider-Man webbed his way a
bove the cleared street and landed on the side of the Baxter Building. Tony and Reed stood below, deactivating the main door’s defense systems. Four or five S.H.I.E.L.D. copters hovered above, along with that flying command post Maria Hill used.

  Briefly, Spider-Man thought: How many agents does S.H.I.E.L.D. have, anyway?

  “Stark to Commander Hill.” Tony’s metallic voice rang in Spidey’s ear. “I have an errand upstairs, Maria. Can your boys handle the transfer?”

  “I think we got it. Mister Stark.”

  Spider-Man frowned. He liked Tony, felt genuine gratitude toward him; and he believed in Tony’s cause, in the need to safeguard innocent people against powerful metahumans. Superhuman battles had grown more deadly, more vicious over the years, with a corresponding rise in civilian casualties. If Tony could reverse that trend, Spidey would follow him anywhere.

  But Tony hadn’t told him everything. Like the fact that he’d had scientists busy cloning a dead god. Did Tony have locks of everyone’s hair squirreled away on ice, just in case?

  Things were happening very, very fast. Spider-Man barely had time to process one shock before another one slammed him off his feet.

  Off his feet.

  Like Goliath.

  “Peter,” Tony called. “You coming in or not?”

  THE Negative Zone portal hummed with life, lights dancing along its metallic edge. Inside, an unearthly nebula blazed, haloed all around by stars and asteroids. A display screen read: PROJECT 42 GATEWAY / ACTIVE.

  “Your costume will protect you,” Tony said. “Just strap on this grav-pack for maneuvering.”

  Spider-Man shrugged on the metallic backpack. It was surprisingly light. He pointed into the portal: “That’s where the prison is?”

  “Detention center,” Tony said. “Reed, the access code please?”

  No answer. Spidey glanced over at Reed, saw him hunched over a control console, staring blankly. One elongated arm stretched out behind him, idly manipulating a console all the way across the room.

  “Reed?”

  “Mm?” Reed looked up, bleary. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He typed quickly, extending and retracting his fingers to reach the keys. “Sending the code to your armor, Tony.”