Marvel Novels--Captain America Read online

  Meanwhile, despite the director’s request, Kade was still making notes. Rogers didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him, or impressed.

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate. I’m still trying to confirm…”

  Fury put his callused thumb and forefinger on the doctor’s PDA and tugged it away.

  “I hate repeating myself. Tell the man why he’s still here.”

  If Kade wanted to object, something about the glare of the director’s single eye stopped him. “Very well.”

  He straightened his lab coat, and with Fury close behind him, stepped up to the isolation chamber. Even then he hesitated, exhaling and looking around as if trying to find the right words.

  “Do I have rabies?” Rogers offered.

  “No. You don’t have rabies. It’s nothing from the bomb.”

  “What, then?”

  Fury’s intent stare seemed to physically push Kade. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I wish I could take credit for seeing what all those who’ve examined you previously did not, but this new scanner is 800 times more powerful than a nuclear magnetic resonance spectrometer. That’s why I was the first to detect this.”

  Before Rogers could ask, detect what? Kade said, “You have a virus.”

  When he went silent again, Fury prodded him. “Your report said he’s had it a while now?”

  “Decades. The indications are that he contracted it while frozen in the ice. It may have passed into him from the water or some other frozen organism.”

  Rogers shook his head. “I don’t know that much about viruses. How is that possible?”

  The more abstract question seemed to lessen Kade’s discomfort. “A viroid’s crystal structure allows it to survive nearly any conditions, even the void of space. A few months ago, an ancient virus was found in the Siberian permafrost and dated to at least 30,000 years ago. The moment it thawed, it became infectious. If they didn’t occupy a gray area between living and non-living, I’d say they’re potentially immortal. It’s fascinating to—”

  Fury cut him off. “Try to stay on subject—the subject being Cap.”

  Kade again hesitated, searching for the right words.

  Nia spoke up, trying to prompt him. “We live with billions of viruses. Most aren’t dangerous. If he’s been asymptomatic for so many years, is there any reason to think this one is?”

  “There is—a very good reason, in fact—but I didn’t want to discuss it before I was certain. The new scanner provided such a detailed image, I was able to use the mainframe here to create a virtual model showing how the virus would behave in a normal human body not buttressed by the Super-Soldier serum.” His face grew grim. “Based on my preliminary analysis, we’re looking at an EL pathogen.”

  Nia went slack-jawed. Rogers looked at the two doctors. “Meaning?”

  She tried to answer, but couldn’t quite finished the sentence. “Extinction level. Able to wipe out…”

  Kade finished for her. “The species.”

  Fury bristled. “That’s what the report said, but I still don’t get this. He’s been walking around with this virus all this time, breathing and bleeding all over the place. Even if he’s immune, why hasn’t he infected anyone?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out. I have a video that may help explain the mechanics, if you’ll…” Feebly, he gestured at the PDA in Fury’s pocket.

  Fury snapped it out and handed it over.

  Kade brought up an animation—a bumpy sphere floating in blackness. “This is a single viroid, a simple icosahedral structure.” As the angle grew closer, what looked like a solid surface was revealed as a series of spikes. “Those spikes are made of proteins that can adhere to specific receptors on the… Uh… Well, perhaps it might be easier to think of them as skeleton keys—thousands of skeleton keys. When the viroid hits the wall of a healthy cell, it uses its keys to try to get in. If one fits, the viroid not only enters—it’s carried right up to the nucleus, where it bursts, releasing its genetic code. The nucleus picks up the pattern, helplessly copying it over and over until the cell explodes. One viroid enters, millions come out. In a human body with a hundred trillion cells, a few million is a drop in the bucket. The immune system can kill most viruses—or we can teach it to, with vaccines. As long as it destroys the viroids faster than they’re created, there’s no problem. If it can’t, the viroids spread until the host becomes symptomatic.”

  The animation stopped. “That’s essentially what we know about how a virus spreads. In this your case, though, the virus has plenty of keys—five times the usual number—but it’s not using any of them.”

  The others looked up from the screen as Kade shook his head. “In all honesty, I have no idea why humanity is still here.”

  3

  BUT KILL THEM ALL AND WHAT DOES IT MATTER?

  THE SKYLIGHTS in the crumbling castle’s angled ceiling only brought the gloom of an overcast day into the makeshift exam room. Purchasing it anonymously, Johann Schmidt had the interior discreetly, but completely, renovated. The arched windows projected an illusion of broken glass, empty halls, and flaking plaster. Other than stories about hall-wandering ghosts and heart-shaped ponds that filled with blood during full moons, the sparse locals believed it abandoned. In reality, gray-uniformed figures patrolled the modern, highly secure sanctuary.

  “A body such as mine simply shouldn’t be feeling under the weather, should it?” Johann Schmidt asked. The feeling of not being in control was beginning to wear on the Roter Totenkopf—or in the base English, Red Skull.

  “A few more minutes, mein Herr. I have not finished the analysis. It would be a disservice to us both to supply less than the most accurate information.”

  Was that it? Or was the doctor hesitating to give him bad news?

  Schmidt had known the brilliant geneticist Arnim Zola for decades, but it’d become difficult to tell what he was thinking ever since he’d adopted that android body. The expression on its virtual face was more a decision than a reflex, lacking what poker players and interrogators would call a “tell.”

  The placement of that projected face in the center of Zola’s chest didn’t help. It made the geneticist look like a Blemmyes, one of the mythical beings once believed to inhabit remote parts of the world. Adolf Hitler, the man they’d both served so long ago, would have taken this choice as a mystic sign affirming the Eternal Reich’s connection to the antediluvian world. Zola simply considered it a wiser spot than dangling as an extremity that might easily be lopped off.

  Correcting evolution, he once called it. You can’t lose your head if you don’t have one.

  A rare joke, if it had been. That was as hard to judge as his current emotional state. His reticence was increasingly frustrating—and suspicious.

  Usually, Zola’s tongue was looser during his visits to Roscoe, New York. The Swiss-medieval style of the building was a pleasant reminder of the doctor’s homeland. Erected in 1921, the design was intended to do the same for the architect’s wife, but she’d been committed to a sanitarium before its completion.

  It was a perfect place to relax, to plan, to talk. But since the beginning of the exam, Zola’s words had been few and far between. He’d seen other bearers of bad news die at the Skull’s hands. Was he concerned he might join them?

  Schmidt considered reassuring him he was far too valuable to kill, but there was no pleasure in that. Better to let him wonder. Better to keep him alert.

  If Zola was worried for himself. There was another, odd, possibility: He might be afraid for the Skull.

  The thought angered him. “ Schnell. Tell me already. What has your examination uncov—?”

  Schmidt doubled over, unable to complete his question. A sudden, sickly sweat poured from the red skin that had earned him his nickname, running down his neck to his shoulders. Previously, the icy feeling that made him request the checkup was no more than the sting of a cold needle. Now it sprouted long-fingered branches that cupped the base of his brain. />
  His eyesight blurred. He shook. One knee buckled; he thought he would fall.

  Perhaps forgetting that his inhuman body was no longer subject to infection, the android hesitated before moving toward him to help. Infuriated by his lack of control, Schmidt found the strength to wave him away. Unsure where to direct his anger, he tried to stand. Staggering from the exam table, he supported himself against the bank of monitors that tracked not only the halls, but also his many covert economic and political activities around the world.

  They tilted left, then right.

  “What’s happening to me?” The weakness in his own voice surprised and revolted him.

  Finally, Zola answered. “At first, I thought it was some new reaction from your body. As we know, it is an unusual body—and not exactly yours.”

  At the end of World War II, an experimental gas had placed the Skull in suspended animation, prolonging his life. Years later, when its effects were reversed, it looked to the world as if Johann Schmidt had succumbed to old age. But it was only his body that withered to dust. After all, what is a man, truly, but willful patterns imposed on dull matter? Before the wizened shell could suck its last rattling breath, the brilliant Zola managed to transfer those willful patterns into a new host: a clone grown from the stolen DNA of his nemesis, Captain America.

  “Ja. His body. Have I ever told you how repugnant I find that?”

  As he leaned against the control panel for support, the pain receded. Feeling Zola still at his back, Schmidt again waved him away. Taking a few respectful steps back, the android managed something akin to a shrug.

  “Often. I should think his resemblance to the blond, blue-eyed Aryan ideal would have pleased you. But in any case, it is not the cloned body that is causing your symptoms.”

  Schmidt had to admit it had been reliably powerful until now. Even an encounter with the Dust of Death hadn’t killed him. It did, however, leave his visage a desiccated set of bones barely covered by taut, scarlet skin. His form still resembled the Super-Soldier, but his face became the mask he had previously worn for decades—leaving him neither blond nor blue-eyed.

  “Your sense of humor is improving, but Rogers was an asthmatic weakling, puny as the Untermensch the Führer eliminated in the camps. His own country rejected him until—” Another pang made him wince. “If it is not this verdammt body, what is it?”

  “You have a virus—a very unusual virus. The equipment here is limited, but from what I can tell, instead of traveling through your bloodstream, it’s binding to your nerve endings—similar to the manner in which rabies progresses. Could you have come in contact with the strain you provided to the Somali pirates?”

  The glow of the monitors hurt the Skull’s eyes, so he turned toward his companion. “I haven’t left this base in months, before the Somali operation was even planned. The purchases and deliveries were made through intermediaries, all of whom were eliminated once their tasks were complete.”

  “And you paid in full, in advance? Any person who trafficks in such diseases should be given no reason to exact revenge.”

  Schmidt eyed him. “Do you take me for a fool? Of course he was paid, and paid well. Can you tell me what you do know?”

  “That won’t prove very satisfying, I’m afraid. The data is contradictory. The virus should be highly communicable—and lethal. With such a short gestation period, I am tempted to call it an extinction-level pathogen.”

  “A dramatic assessment.”

  “It is. At the same time, none of your men are symptomatic. Though given my understanding of viruses, I suspect they will be soon.”

  A shaky Schmidt rubbed his bony chin. It felt dry. At least the sweating had stopped. He looked up at the monitors, at his loyal followers all at their stations. “A simple interaction with a delivery truck could carry it to the outside world, could it not?”

  “It could.”

  “And the authorities would be able to trace it back here.”

  “They might.”

  “Then adjustments must be made to counter that possibility. I did not spend months constructing this hideaway to have it so easily revealed.”

  He flicked a lever, sealing the room. He heard Zola say, “Before you do anything…” but his voice sounded distant, muffled.

  The Skull ignored him. He was in control. He flicked another lever, and a light hissing echoed from beyond the door. The air-quality readouts turned red. Moments later, one guard grabbed his throat and fell. Another rushed over to help—but before he could reach the man’s side, he dropped, as well.

  “ Herr Skull, you may not be thinking clearly.”

  Feeding an old fascination, the Skull’s eyes moved from image to image, watching his followers gasp and fall. As the bodies twitched, he remained riveted, staring until there was no further movement. Another switch activated the ventilation fans. The readouts turned green as the air quality returned to normal.

  “That was…impetuous,” Zola said.

  His mood improved, the Skull responded, “At least we now know the ventilation system operates as expected.” He walked over to the leather chair behind his mahogany desk and sat. “But my apologies. Did you have objections?”

  “I see little point in mentioning them now.”

  Schmidt leaned back, folded his gloved hands in his lap and offered the android a smile. “I insist, Arnim. Please, correct my impetuousness.”

  “My objections are purely strategic. If one of those men brought the virus, you have placed him beyond even my interrogation techniques. If any were infected—and I never said they were—I could have used additional samples from a normal body. Lastly, the corpses will have to be incinerated to ensure the virus is destroyed. If discovery was your main concern, the smoke could also attract attention.”

  Realizing he was right, Schmidt struggled to keep his voice even. “Perhaps in the future you might stop me before I make such amateurish mistakes.”

  “I tried. But you misinterpret my assessment. I don’t consider your actions amateurish. As I said, the virus affects the nervous system, including the brain. Such rash self-indulgence may be a symptom of the disease.”

  Feeling a twinge, the Skull pressed his fingers to his temples. When he withdrew them, they were again damp with sweat. “Then we mustn’t delay. Prepare to transfer my essence, as you call it, to another, less distasteful body as soon as possible. You have the necessary equipment here, ja?”

  Ja. His old accent seemed to be thickening, as well. Another symptom?

  The face on the android’s chest frowned. “I fear, Herr Skull, that because of the virus’s peculiar relationship to the nervous system, that won’t be possible.”

  Summoning his strength, the Skull straightened and managed a confident grin. “This is no time for defeatism, Arnim. Relying on your brilliance, I have survived impossible odds before. We must trust I will do so again. Prepare your equipment.”

  “Again, you don’t understand. To speak of odds is inaccurate. Already the virus has become so intertwined with your higher functions that transferring your essence will also transfer the virus. In any form, even binary, it will continue replacing your pattern with its own. Giving you a new body would change nothing.”

  The grin slightly faded. “Now, now—you have surprised me before.”

  “But I have yet to surprise myself. And while I appreciate your faith, in this case, unless some miraculous cure is found, you will die.”

  4

  DEATH ONLY MATTERS TO THOSE LEFT BEHIND.

  THERE was never any question Captain America would put others above himself. He’d done it so often, so instinctually, that someone lacking his ethic might consider it a psychological condition in need of medication. Even those gathered in the lab who knew him by reputation only, didn’t doubt he’d do the same here.

  If anything, Steve Rogers thought as he watched from behind the glass, they might take unnecessary risks on his behalf. Nick Fury, for instance, who had known him the longest, had ordere
d that the hastily convened meeting take place entirely in Rogers’ presence—and with his input. The gruff S.H.I.E.L.D. director had a small conference table brought into the lab, forcing the collected department heads to sit in uncomfortably close folding chairs. Fury claimed he’d do the same for any agent, or civilian, in similar circumstances, but clearly it had more than a little to do with the specific person involved.

  Rogers had read, via the laptop, about how fast pathogens could spread, and it gave him pause. The average person touched their own face about a thousand times a day. As he counted the stray scratches, the nose-rubbing, the lip-wiping, the hands passing through hair, Nia picking at a nail, the number seemed low.

  The only one who didn’t make any such gestures was Kade. If there was even the remotest danger, he was confident the epidemiologist would’ve objected fiercely. Since discovering the virus, the only kindness Kade’d shown was the clothing he’d placed in the small secure-transfer unit that opened into the sealed chamber. When Rogers offered to return the doctor’s laptop the same way, he backed away, suggesting Steve “just keep it, for now.”

  The white jumpsuit was more apropos to the meeting than his underpants, but Steve felt no less like a lab rat. Fortunately, Fury was doing enough pacing for both of them, marching tiger-like along his end of the table. Before everyone could finish wedging themselves in place, he pointed at the wall-projected agenda.

  “Okay, kiddies, time for this week’s imminent threat to humanity. Item one, potential-exposure group, which I gotta figure means everyone, right? Dawson?”

  Pinned in place, the fair-haired man, a relative newcomer to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical staff, tried not to shift as he spoke. “It would be impossible to list everyone Patient Zero…uh, Captain Rogers, has been in contact with the last few decades, but we have to start somewhere. The Helicarrier will remain under quarantine until everyone onboard has been cleared: no arrivals, and no departures. Eighteen percent of personnel have already been through the new scanner. Any agent or staff here who worked with him in any capacity in the last six months has been prioritized. That processing rate will double once the backup scanner is up and running, and we’re en route to pick up a third via unmanned drone at a Stark Industries complex in Naples. Even without it, a conservative estimate gives us complete coverage of all 1,827 crew and guests within 34 hours.”