Captain America: Dark Designs E-Book

Stefan Petrucha

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The tenth title in Titan Books' Marvel fiction reissue program, featuring the Captain America story, Captain America: Dark Designs.SUPER HEROES SURVIVE. IT'S WHAT THEY DO. BUT SO DO THE VILLAINS THAT HAUNT THEM.Steve Rogers knows the art of survival better than most. Decades under ice will do that to a man. But the Avengers chipped more than rock-hard morality and super strength out from under that permafrost. When Cap takes out a terrorist cell threatening to poison the world, he'll discover a threat far more deadly. An incurable virus has hidden in his body for years — and now it's come to the surface. To save the world, he'll have to return to his own personal hell: deep freeze.And he'll have to take an old friend with him. Having survived his own death by inhabiting a clone of Steve Rogers, the Red Skull has inherited the virus — and he's a little less willing to play martyr. As the deadly disease shifts and evolves, new patterns emerge. Can Captain America contain the Red Skull before the virus runs rampant?

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Novels of the Marvel Universe by Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1 It’s not About the Individual. It’s About the Design, the Pattern.

2 Oh, Dying Would Matter to them, of Course. No One Wants to Die.

3 But Kill Them All and What Does It Matter?

4 Death Only Matters to Those Left Behind.

5 If They’re All Gone, What’s Left to Care? The Sky? The Planet? The Stars? No.

6 History Doesn’t Exist Without Someone Reading It.

7 History is Also Written by the Winner.

8 If They’re Gone, No One Will Fret their Questions or Ponder their Existence. No One Except Me.

9 I’ll Be the Only One Deciding What they Are Worth. So Why Shouldn’t I Decide if they Live?

10 If Something’s About to Destroy You, The Obvious Choice is to Destroy it First.

11 But is It so Easy to Destroy if It’s the Most Astonishing Thing You’ve Ever Seen?

12 How Do You Decide if It’s Worth the Risk?

13 But Why Would I Ever Value Anything More than Myself?

14 In The End, What’s Worth More—Me, Or The Things That Make Me Feel Alive?

15 If I Try to be Objective, It’s Like Trying to Pick One Snowflake Over Another.

16 If I Were as Callous as the Stars, I’d Flip A Coin. But that Would Be the Same as not Deciding at All.

17 It Can’t Just Be Luck that Decides For me, It Has to be The Pattern. The Design.

18 If I had a Million Years, I Could Think Through to Certainty, But I Don’t. I Have to Decide—And Soon.

19 True Beauty that Can Make the Very Idea of Luck Seem Meaningless, A Placeholder for a Lack of Understanding.

20 Wanting to Preserve that Beauty Can’t Be Pointless.

21 Not to Appreciate Beauty, Well, that Would be the Very Definition of Pointlessness.

22 But Believing in Beauty Doesn’t Mean Risking My Life for it, Does It?

23 But if I Sacrifice Myself, I do it in Secret. Who Would Know? Who Would Care?

24 What Would Be Left to Fret My Questions, to Judge Me Good or Ill?

25 My History Won’t Exist Without Someone to Write It.

26 I’d Still Remember them, Though.

27 If I Survive, I May See Their Like Again.

28 Maybe, In Time, I’ll See Something Better, Even More Worth the Risk.

29 If I’m Gone, I Won’t See Anything at All.

30 And Nothing Wants to Die.

Epilogue

About the Author

NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS

Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr

Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

Captain America: Dark Designs by Stefan Petrucha

Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

Civil War by Stuart Moore

Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss

Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden (Nov 2019)

X-Men and the Avengers: The Gamme Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox (Jan 2020)

ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS

Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

Ant-Man and the Wasp: The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special

Black Panther: The Official Movie Companion

Black Panther: The Official Movie Special

Captain Marvel: The Official Movie Special

Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years

Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Into The Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special

Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special

Captain America: Dark Designs

Print edition ISBN: 9781789093483

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789093490

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: October 2019

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2019 MARVEL

Captain America created by Joe Simon & Jack Kirby

Interior art by Steve Epting, Jackson Guice, Michael Lark, Jay Leisten, Steve McNiven, Mike Perkins, Dexter Vines, and Patrick Zircher

Special thanks to Jeff Christiansen, Kevin Garcia, Daron Jensen, and Mike O’Sullivan

Joan Hilty and Stuart Moore, Editors

Design by Jay Bowen

VP Production & Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist

Associate Editor: Sarah Brunstad

Assistant Editor: Caitlin O’Connell

Director, Licensed Publishing: Sven Larsen

SVP Print, Sales & Marketing: David Gabriel

Editor In Chief: C.B. Cebulski

Chief Creative Officer: Joe Quesada

President, Marvel Entertainment: Dan Buckley

Executive Producer: Alan Fine

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For David Marquis, a real hero who has devoted his life to bringing the joy of art to over 345,000 schoolchildren in NYC.

1

IT’S NOT ABOUT THE INDIVIDUAL. IT’S ABOUT THE DESIGN, THE PATTERN.

SUMMER, 2005. The dirt-caked vehicle bouncing along Somalia’s flat, thorn-bush savannah looked like any National Army personnel carrier: an olive-drab truck with a canvas-covered bed. As soon as it passed, the locals—many living in domed huts fashioned from spindly branches and discarded plastic sheets—went back to their day.

They’d seen plenty.

But within the truck, surrounded by high-tech S.H.I.E.L.D. equipment, Captain America and his two companions sat in air-conditioned comfort. Agent Walter Jacobs scrutinized various screens while Dr. Nia N’Tomo reviewed the notes on her PDA. The blond, blue-eyed Steve Rogers stared out the back, watching tired camels sip the muddy waters of the Mandera Dawa River.

Brazen sunlight accented the metallic window frame, making it look more like an interdimensional portal than bulletproof glass. The near-wasteland on the other side could almost have passed for an alternate universe. Jiilaal, one of the two dry seasons, had left the terrain arid hues of tan with patches of green few and far between.

The view made Rogers wonder whether he’d spent more time on other worlds than he had in this part of his own. National boundaries brought a different sort of danger than cosmic beings. Having been a one-man public-relations campaign during World War II, he was well aware of how complicated propaganda had grown. It’d been easier when the Nazis just thought they were superior. You could prove that wrong by defeating them in combat.

Here and now, the militant fundamentalist Al-Shabaab controlled a large area to the south. The mere presence of Steve’s stars-and-stripes uniform could be spun as interference from a decadent Western colonizer, providing recruitment fodder for more troops.

Much as he loathed being seen as one of the bullies he’d spent his life fighting, he’d never wear anything else. Whenever he did right by the red, white, and blue, the principles behind it became not abstractions, but living ideals.

What had Churchill said? “You can depend upon the Americans to do the right thing. But only after they’ve exhausted all the other possibilities.”

He smiled at the wry critique. After all, the British Bulldog also said democracy was the worst possible form of government—except for all the others.

As humans, Rogers thought, all we can ever do is strive.

The view gave way to a smattering of trees with bone-skinny trunks that seemed too frail to hold their heavy tops. He’d been frail himself once, near death as a sickly child, but who would believe that now? In time, any desert might become a paradise.

Ahead lay a few stone structures clustered near a rare power line. When the driver veered west, Cap felt relieved. Propaganda aside, when it came to stopping a bacteriological bomb, fewer witnesses also meant fewer possible victims.

As the buildings shrank into the distance, a beep from the sensor array turned him back to the truck’s dark interior. “Jacobs?”

The glow from the readout gave the red-haired agent’s sunburnt skin a blue-white hue. “I’ve got a 98 percent confidence match with the signature of an Al-Hussein Scud missile a half-mile off.”

Frowning, Dr. N’Tomo slumped against the canvas sidewall. “With a 400-mile range, that could hit a number of Wakandan population centers, even if they don’t know what they’re aiming for. I… was right.”

Being stewards of the world’s only source of Vibranium, a metal with an uncanny ability to absorb kinetic energy, made the tribal nation of Wakanda vastly wealthy—and a target. Rogers understood more than most why a large portion of its wealth was spent keeping its exact location a secret. His shield was fashioned from an accidental combination of Vibranium and an iron alloy.

He leaned toward Dr. N’Tomo. “If it weren’t for you, we’d still be back in the Helicarrier thinking this was just a bluff.”

Usually poker-faced, she gave him a slight smile. The look of her brown skin and sharp eyes against the olive green of the borrowed fatigues suited her gravitas. “I’m still disappointed. In my line of work, we’d rather not be in demand.”

“I hear that.” Wondering how much of his own expression she could see through the mask, he gave her a casual salute. “Then here’s to our early retirement.”

Bringing a subject-matter expert on a military op was always a dicey proposition, but she was no lab jockey. Great-niece of Wakanda’s royal champion N’Tomo, Nia N’Tomo had done plenty of her own field work with the AIDS epidemics in Swaziland and Ebola outbreaks in West Africa. They’d met for the first time on the Helicarrier, and it hadn’t taken long for Rogers to recognize and admire her instincts.

“If Somali pirates can acquire a missile and a weaponized virus this easily, I doubt that will ever happen.” She raised a playful eyebrow. “Speaking of free time, S.H.I.E.L.D. spirited me away from my first free day in eight months. I wouldn’t mind sharing a drink when this is over.”

Already finding her a tough read, Steve wasn’t sure whether she was flirting or being friendly. Being an asthmatic weakling before the war and then lying for decades frozen in Arctic ice hadn’t provided many opportunities for relationships.

“A drink. I…can’t… I…”

Her poker face quickly returned. She had been flirting. “I’m sorry if I was being inappropriate.”

“No, it’s not that. I just metabolize alcohol too quickly for it to have any effect. A result of the Super-Soldier serum. And no one likes a drinking partner with a good memory.” As he kept talking, she frowned, apparently as confused by him as he was by her. “Or so I’ve been told.”

She studied him. After a moment, the knitted brow turned back into the slight smile.

Noticing the wry look from Jacobs, Steve quickly changed the subject. “An old Scud wouldn’t be hard for anyone to find, if they’ve got the cash. But you can’t get weaponized rabies locally. The pirates have a history of working with financiers, even more now that the international push has driven them to attempt more land operations.”

“I’ve been too buried in rabies research to read the latest brief. Any theories yet on who?”

He shrugged. “Someone who wants Vibranium and doesn’t care how they get it.”

“A lot of choices, then. Still, this seems especially desperate. Even if they manage a launch, our air defense has an excellent chance of knocking it out of the sky. The real concern is if something goes wrong on the ground. The three of us have been vaccinated, but given the high cost and the lack of an actual cure, an airborne rabies epidemic would devastate the local populace, and we can’t even be certain our vaccine is effective until we identify the strain.”

“Which is why I’m here to neutralize any resistance while you and Jacobs secure the payload for transport—or, if possible, nullify the virus on site.”

“We’re expecting 15 or more armed guards. I assume you’re all right with those odds?”

“Actually, it’s not really fair to the guards, doctor.”

This time she definitely smiled. “The name is Nia.”

“Steve. And I make it a point never to disappoint a top-ten epidemiologist.”

“Top five, actually, Steve.”

He liked the way she said it, as if correcting poor grammar.

As the truck slowed, Jacobs cleared his throat. “As top of my class at interpreting beeps and flashing red lights, I need you both to know we’re within 50 yards of the target. Are we all set to handle the virus, doctor?”

“Incineration would be best, but as long as it’s still outside the human body, UV irradiation will suffice.” She raised what looked like an unusually large spotlight gun. “And this provides a much more concentrated blast. If there’s any sign the virus has been released, the hazmat suits are ready.”

Only flat landscape was visible from the rear; Rogers shifted closer to Jacobs to check the forward view on his monitors. They’d reached the edge of a desert village: six or seven round huts, a few with thatched roofs, separated by low rock walls. With most of the inhabitants likely indoors avoiding the heat, it looked empty, save for two children leading an elderly man. They stopped to stare at the truck.

“We’re out in the open. I don’t like this.”

Jacobs smirked. “We’re in a truck on a plain with scrub grass and low bushes. Without a cloak, it’s not as if we have a choice. But the idea was to keep it small—that’s why you’re here instead of an entire task force.”

Rogers grunted agreement. “I do have the advantage of not taking up much space. Can’t say the same for a missile launcher.” He tapped the glass, pointing to the largest hut. “And that’s the only thing in visual range big enough to hold one.”

Jacobs zoomed the truck’s camera toward the hut entrance. It caught a glint of something metallic in the dry darkness. “That’s it. But where are the guards?”

Nia moved nearer to watch. “Inside?”

“Pull back,” Rogers said. The camera returned to a wider view, but it showed only dirt and patches of low vegetation. “Those bushes. I’ve seen them everywhere but inside the villages. Look how they’re arranged, almost as if in…”

Before Rogers could say formation, one of the gangly things tumbled sideways. A man—thin, but muscular—rose from the hole beneath it. Dry earth rained from the patterned scarf around his head and the RPG gripped in his hands.

Rogers headed for the rear door. “On it.”

Jacobs switched on the comm; though already several feet away, Rogers could now hear Dr. N’Tomo’s instructions to the driver as if they were whispered in his ear.

“Get us to that hut immediately.”

As he flew through the doors, Cap said, “Belay that order. Appreciate your enthusiasm, doctor, but you’ll have to keep your distance until I clear the area.”

She glared at his back. “And if they launch?”

“They won’t, Nia.”

Before landing, he shouted to the elderly man and the children, “Run!”

His boots raised tan dust-puffs that grew into a small cloud. He rolled left, spun toward the guard, knelt and threw his shield. A hot blur of sun-drenched red, white, and blue struck the RPG in the center, splitting it in two.

Before the visual could travel the short distance from the gunman’s eyes to his brain, the shield slammed into his skull. He was out. More trained meteor than boomerang, the shield returned to Rogers’ waiting hand.

Less than a second had elapsed, but five more “bushes” had fallen away. Two men scrambled from the waist-deep holes. Another three stood where they were and opened fire. There was no cover, but with the shooters still in the holes, their bullets sprayed low to the ground, making them easy for Rogers to avoid. Like a quick round of whack-a-mole, another shield-toss took out all three. By then the two runners were on him, and the remaining bushes had been tossed aside.

More gunshots came his way. Missing outright or careening off his shield, they flew helter-skelter into stone walls, dirt, or sky.

Some of the guns were automatic, a few single-shot. Rogers’ keen senses and hard-won experience told him what came from where. The two charging men had pistols. The ones in the holes, now too numerous for another shield strike, held the greater firepower. Unfortunately, the rising dust made it difficult to see every weapon they carried.

The truck was bulletproof, but a second RPG could take it out. Ignoring the runners, he headed for the foxholes—until a double-check of the perimeter stopped him cold.

The old man and the children, a boy and a girl, hadn’t budged. They stood there gawking, not at the gunmen, but at him. Their predictable day shattered, they were in shock. When a stray shot hit the dirt at their feet, the old man wrapped his bony arms protectively around the children, but they still didn’t run.

Rogers knew he’d bring the bullets with him if he headed toward them to help. To draw the fire away, he pivoted in the opposite direction. But the truck disobeyed his orders. Gouging thick lines in the earth, it put itself between them and the gunfire.

He glimpsed Nia pulling the civilians inside the open rear doors before a groan of gears turned him back toward the large hut. The tip of a Scud, rising into launch position, poked through the thatched roof. Sunlight intruded on the dark interior, revealing the edges of an old Soviet 8x8 artillery truck, exactly the type needed to transport and launch the tactile ballistic missile.

He didn’t have time to admire the two runners for being willing to face him up close. His rising shield smacked the pistol from one man’s hand. An elbow to the chin knocked the other out cold. The disarmed man went to his knees and raised his hands in surrender—only to be hit by the continuing fire from the foxholes.

Throwing his shield ahead, Rogers ran toward the holes. The spinning disc took out four more of the men. Two kicks and a roundhouse eliminated another three. The last man standing whirled to face him just in time for the returning shield to clonk the back of his head.

All the weapons were automatics. The RPG was a one-off. Good.

He rushed into the hut just as the Scud locked into its firing position.

The slightly heavy man at the controls was better dressed than the others, his beard neatly groomed. One hand hovering over the launch button, he gesticulated with the other as he spoke.

“Look at you, fancy hero, U.S.A. Think that we’re the bad guys? No.” His English was broken, his speech slurred. “We take food from the U.N. ships before the warlords can steal it, so more people can eat. Tankers come into our waters, destroy our fishing, so we take payment.”

There was something wrong with him, and it had nothing to do with the rhetoric. He was sweating. It was a desert, of course, but this man was dripping. Heat exhaustion didn’t make sense. Not only would he be used to these climes, the wet canteen dangling from his side made dehydration seem unlikely.

Rogers relaxed his stance. “What’s your name?”

“My name? I don’t want to give you my name. Call me Robin Hood. You know him?

“I do. So you’re not the bad guy, great. How about proving it by stepping away from the missile that’s threatening innocent lives?”

Robin Hood’s shoulder twitched. He clenched his free fist. “It’s the greedy Wakandans who are killers! They have all the Vibranium in the world. The money we could raise from the small amount we asked for could feed thousands. If they gave us that, none of this would be happening. But they needed motivation, so they will get it.”

“Let’s say I believe you. Do you know what your partner will do with their half? I’ve got a feeling they won’t be using it to feed anyone.”

Robin Hood grabbed at his own arm, then started punching it. A heart attack?

Nia spoke through the comm. “Those are rabies symptoms.”

Still in the truck, she was watching the scene on the monitors via Cap’s body cam. It was the first time he’d heard tension in her voice. “The payload is leaking?”

“Not necessarily. Rabies symptoms don’t appear for two to twelve weeks following infection. I don’t see any obvious signs in the gunmen or the civilians. It’s more likely he was exposed while arming the missile.”

The hand above the launch button wavered. If it moved away for a fraction of a second, Rogers knew he’d have the man. But when Rogers took a cautious step forward, Robin Hood rallied.

“Stay put, U.S.A.”

Cap locked eyes with him. “You’re infected.”

Head shaking, the pirate chuckled. “I know it. Our sterilization facility was not up to Western standards. It was a storage shed. But it will be worth dying if my family won’t have to worry for the rest of their lives.”

“You don’t have to die. We can help you.” He whispered softly into the comm, “Right, Nia?”

The answer was even softer. “Uh, no. Once the neurological symptoms begin, rabies is almost always fatal. But now would not be a good time to tell him that. Known strains of the virus are transmitted through saliva, from a bite, but we’re getting into our suits in case this is different. Keep your distance.”

The pirate’s eyes darted about. One moment he was looking toward the entrance, the next at the shadows in the hut. “What do your friends in the truck say, U.S.A.? They think they can take me out with a sniper?”

“There’s no sniper, I swear. It’s fine. Everything is fine. If you’ll just—”

“Everything is not fine!” Snarling, he slammed his hand down toward the controls.

Rogers’ enhanced reflexes sent the shield sailing. In an instant, the pirate’s body was curled around the disc’s spinning edge, flying backwards. But as he flew, the fingers of his flailing hand hit the button.

Rogers, N’Tomo, and Jacobs all shouted, “No!”

Smoke poured from the Scud’s engines. Its hissing mixed with a sad, cackling laugh. Robin Hood lay on the earth, the shield still atop him.

“See?” he said between rattling coughs. “I told you everything would not be fine.”

Flames pressed from the roaring rocket motor. The missile shook, but did not rise. A look at the launcher told Rogers why: Thanks to the operator’s incompetence or disease, the restraining straps that kept the Scud in place for transport hadn’t been disengaged.

The thrust was building. Either the metal bands would snap, releasing the missile, or it would expel its deadly cargo here and now.

As Rogers ran for his shield, he heard Nia scream. “Don’t touch it! It could be contaminated.”

“I need it to pry open the missile covering.”

Having heard her through the comm, he didn’t realize she’d left the truck until the bluish UV rays glanced along his back and shoulders. Covered head to toe by a military-grade hazmat suit, she was waving the UV gun about as if attempting to cleanse the air.

She came up alongside him. “We’ll have to find another way. But if you let me get to the payload, I think I can defuse it. I know I can.”

I know I can.

Her words, mixed with the roar and smoke, conjured a deeply ingrained memory. An eager teen in the war, clinging to a hijacked drone, had told him much the same:

I can bring the plane back—I know I can!

Let go! It might be booby-trapped! You can’t deactivate the bomb without me! Drop off!

You’re right, Cap! I see the fuse! It’s gonna…

He wanted to shove her away for her own protection, but settled for shouting, “There’s no time! Stay back!”

The few yards to the launcher seemed like a mile. Having lived with his augmented body for so long, he had a pretty good idea how strong he was. He knew, for instance, that he could push a full-sized car a yard or so sideways. But he had no idea at all whether he could do what he had in mind. He’d have to land above the engine to avoid the yellow-white flames, but he’d also need his hands free.

So he jumped, landing upside-down, and wrapped his legs around the missile’s base. Even from here, the heat from the thrusters burned him through his uniform.

I don’t know how Spider-Man does it…

His added weight shifted the balance. The restraints snapping, the missile tilted. Before the few remaining metal bands could give, he drove his fists through the covering, reaching toward the propellant pumps and the raging motor itself. His body offered some heat resistance, his gloves a little more, but neither stopped the searing pain as he braced his feet against the missile, wrapped his fingers around the hot engine mounts, and pulled.

He had to rip out the engine—and fast, before the fuel tank could ignite.

Once it came half free, he twisted and turned, hoping to use the suddenly unhindered thrust to steer the engine away from the body of the Scud. It roared off in a mad blur. He fell backwards, scorched by the edge of the trailing exhaust. The rest of the Scud teetered and fell. At first, he wasn’t sure whether he’d succeeded. If the missile hit the ground hard enough to ignite the impact fuse at its tip, the payload would disperse.

Instead, the cylindrical body came to rest on the edge of the hut’s wall, its nose pointed toward a thick cloud low on the horizon, just visible through the hole in the ceiling left by the Scud. Once he got to his feet, a gaping hole in the opposite wall told him where the engine had gone. Disconnected from its fuel source, it had petered out, the charred metal leaving a thin trail of black smoke that seemed an insult to the wide blue sky.

A happy giggle turned him back toward the entrance.

Nia was holding back one of the children, the little girl. Despite being restrained by a stranger in a hazmat suit, she was wide-eyed, grinning, saying, “Captain America!”

2

OH, DYING WOULD MATTER TO THEM, OF COURSE. NO ONE WANTS TO DIE.

THE HOSPITAL gown was uncomfortable. Rogers had taken it off. Sitting in his white underpants on the edge of the table, he felt as if he was waiting to be examined for the draft. But it wasn’t December 8, 1941, and he wasn’t on New York’s Lower East Side. He was about 50,000 feet up, still somewhere over Africa, he assumed, stuck in a small quarantine chamber in Lab 247 on a S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier staffed by nearly two thousand personnel.

He tugged out the borrowed laptop’s earbuds and looked up from the movie he’d been trying to watch. The only sound was the steady hiss of the negative air pressure, meant to prevent the spread of contagious disease. An immune system like his, enhanced by the Super-Soldier serum, provided its own substantial protection, but with the details of the weaponized virus unknown, they rightly were taking no chances.

Rogers didn’t mind the boredom. He did mind not knowing what was going on with the others. Regardless of her hazmat suit, Nia had been close to the infected pirate. Bilan, the child who had run in to see him, had been completely unprotected.

He looked through the clear wall into the lab’s whites and silvers. His sole companion, Dr. Winston Kade, moved from instrument to instrument, making notes in a PDA. If Nia had a poker face, Kade’s was stone. While his expression said nothing, his appearance revealed him as a 60-something who’d survived rough times. His skin had an odd yellowish pallor. Chunks of his salt-and-pepper hair were missing in a pattern that resembled radiation burns.

Rogers didn’t want to distract him from his work, but it had been hours since he’d had an update. At least they’d determined the warhead hadn’t leaked, and that it wasn’t likely “Robin Hood” had infected any others. Seeing their leader’s corpse, the captured gunmen, fearing for their families, had cooperated freely, providing every location the virus had been. But still not who supplied it.

The film he’d been watching didn’t help, but the laptop hadn’t been cleared for connection to the Helicarrier network. Its current playlist belonged to its owner, Kade. Thinking Rogers would feel more at home with a black-and-white movie, he’d suggested 1950’s Panic in the Streets, a thriller about a race to prevent a plague outbreak in New Orleans. The rest of the choices were similarly odd for someone in quarantine:

The Andromeda Strain, Crazies, Outbreak, 28 Days Later.

Maybe he should be glad the guy wasn’t talkative.

Still, Nia insisted Kade was number one in the field, that they were lucky to have him. Apparently the promise of access to some new Stark Industries med-scanner was too tempting for him to pass up.

His patience at an end, Steve rapped on the glass, but the composite was thick, the hiss of the air loud, and the distance too great. Either that, or Kade was ignoring him. He waited until the doctor passed directly in front of him, then pounded a bit harder than he intended.

The rattling stopped them both short.

“Sorry about that.”

Eyes suddenly wide, Kade stepped back and checked the monitors for leaks. Satisfied, he flicked the intercom button. “Yes?”

“The children from the village, the old man—do you know yet if they’re all right?”

Kade nodded. “They were cleared and returned to their homes long before we left Somali airspace.”

“Nia…Dr. N’Tomo? And Agent Jacobs?”

He kept nodding. “Both cleared, as were the gunmen. The rabies was a standard strain, rather poorly aerosolized. To catch it, you’d either have to directly inhale it during the few hours it would remain viable, or be bitten by someone infected.”

“That’s great, but, then… I’m the only one still in isolation?”

Kade gave him a strangely quick nod, as if impatient at having to state the obvious. “Yes.”

Rogers’ brow knitted. “Can I ask why?”

“You’re an unusual man with unusual biometrics. Unusual things warrant more scrutiny.” He looked down as he spoke, fingers dancing across the PDA keys.

“Uh…anything you’re not telling me, doc?”

“Yes.”

Rogers expected him to continue, but Kade walked off and went back to work.

Reminded of another genius who sometimes failed to see the trees for the forest, he laughed lightly to himself. This guy’s even more distracted than Tony Stark. I guess I’ll find out when I find out.

Rather than dwell on the uneasy sensation of being treated like a lab rat, he focused on the fact that everyone else was all right—especially Nia. Finding himself a little too relieved about Nia’s health, he turned back to the laptop.

Maybe he should give The Crazies a try. But he did prefer black-and-white films. There was something about the lack of color that made things seem more real.

He was about to press PLAY when the lab door opened and Nia walked in. No longer in fatigues, she wore a lab coat over her tasteful civvies. A small pendant, which he recognized as a symbol of Wakanda’s N’Tomo clan, hung from her neck. After giving Rogers a vague smile, she approached Dr. Kade.

“Mind if I visit with the patient?”

He paid her as much attention as he had Rogers. At least it wasn’t personal. “You know the protocol.”

Taking that as a yes, she stepped up to the glass.

Forgetting his lack of clothing, he stood and stepped closer to the transparent boundary. “Nia, what’s going on?”

“Honestly, I don’t know, Steve.” Her tone was friendly, but smacked of a well-practiced bedside manner.

“Is it the rabies?”

She shrugged. “If it is, there’s no cause for concern.” As she spoke, her eyes darted along his muscular body. It wasn’t sexual—more the way a doctor would give a visual examination. “Even if a stray bit of saliva entered an open wound, you’ve no symptoms. A course of immunoglobulin would…”

She stopped and stared at him, puzzled.

“What?”

“It’s just… You don’t have any scars. You’ve been in countless battles, and you don’t have any scars.”

“That’s not exactly true. I do have one.” He twisted and slightly lowered the elastic band on his underwear, revealing a stiff, whitish mesh on his hip about the size of a silver dollar. His expression grew grim as he explained the source.