Civil War Prose Novel (19 page)

TONY
Stark raised both hands, aimed repulsor rays at the hatch, and blasted it open. Bolts splintered, webbing flew apart. The door exploded open, hanging loose on one hinge.

Tony thrust his head outside, looked downward. Something was climbing down the wall, dodging and scuttling from side to side, moving closer to the sidewalk far below. Light from a streetlamp glinted off of its metallic, inhuman form. Only then did Tony recognize it as Peter.

What have I done to him?
Tony thought.
What have I done to all of them?

He issued a mental command: MAGNIFY IMAGE. His armor hesitated—no more than a microsecond, but worrisome nonetheless. Then his vision zoomed out and down, centering automatically on Spider-Man. The wall-crawler’s mask was torn, his mesh suit dotted with dents; blood dripped from his chin. He touched down unsteadily on the sidewalk, ducked low, then sprinted toward a manhole.

Tony tensed to leap, issued a warm-up command to his boot-jets. A dozen alerts flashed before his eyes: BOOT-JET EFFICIENCY 56%. ARMOR INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. VISION SYSTEMS 72%. JOINT/MOTIVE SYSTEMS COMPROMISED BY FOREIGN LIQUID.

Spider-Man’s webbing. It had spread all through his armor, gumming up all the mechanical systems. Tony swore quietly.
If only I’d redesigned the damn webbing when I built the rest of his suit.

He’d have to change to a spare Iron Man suit before going after Peter. If there was still a suit left intact in the workshop.

He turned, trudged back down the ramp. Dust hovered everywhere, and the cordite smell of spent shells covered the dull odor of burning electronics.

The workshop was a disaster. Shattered computers, broken Iron Man suits, workbenches and power packs cracked and dented everywhere.
Hundreds of thousands’ worth of damage,
Tony thought.
Maybe millions.

Maria Hill stood speaking to the S.H.I.E.L.D. platoon leader. She wore tight black fatigues, body armor, and sunglasses, but no helmet. She turned toward Tony, her mouth twisted in disdain.

“So. Your pet insect has abandoned the hive.”

“Arachnid,” Tony said.

“What?”

“Not insect, arachnid. Nothing. Never mind.” Tony crossed to a cabinet riddled with bullet holes. “I’m going after him. Assuming your men haven’t destroyed all my equipment.”

“Excuse us for trying to save your life.”

He bent down to touch a cabinet lock—and stumbled. Nearly fell.

“I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” Hill said. “Sergeant?”

A burly S.H.I.E.L.D. agent bent down to catch him. Tony waved him off, angry. “I’m all right.”

“I think you’ve got a busted knee. Maybe worse.”

She was right, he realized. The armor was holding him up, preventing him from realizing the extent of the damage. Spider-Man had a rep as one of the most powerful superhumans on Earth; that was one reason Tony had recruited him in the first place. Now he had firsthand proof.

Hill touched a comm-button on her shoulder. “Director Hill, authorization alpha,” she said. “Activate Project Thunderbolt.”

“No,” Tony said.

“Operatives Four and Six. Sending coordinates now. Target: Spider-Man.”

“No! I’ve got this—” He stumbled, slumped into a chair.

“With respect, Stark: You do
not
have this.” Hill loomed over him, her lip curled in contempt. “Nor do you command S.H.I.E.L.D. This is my call.”

Tony slumped in defeat. He lifted his helmet, looked up at her with his naked eyes. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t put another death on your bleeding-heart conscience. If I can help it.”

“You won’t put another death on
our
conscience. At all.” He rose to his feet, glared at her. “The Registration movement does not need that kind of publicity.”

“I’m sorry your little
arachnid
disappointed you, Stark. Mentoring is a bitch.”

She snapped her fingers. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent appeared at her side, holding a comm device with a USB cord hanging off it. “Now. Shall we watch the show? There’s got to be a video screen still working, somewhere in this mess.”

FIVE
minutes later, the dust had thinned and an area of the floor had been cleared of debris. The workshop’s holoprojectors were trashed, but a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent stood tuning in a blurry picture on a flatscreen. Another agent set out folding chairs around the screen. Tony sat in shorts and a work shirt while a S.H.I.E.L.D. medic taped up his knee.

The agent looked up from the flatscreen. “We’re go.”

Hill touched her shoulder-comm. “This is a sixty-minute trial only,” she said. “Invisible mode essential. Operation Thunderbolt is still top secret. Are all nanosanctions in effect?”

“Yes, Director.”

“Location trace active.”

On the screen, a map appeared, showing the winding maze of Manhattan’s underground sewer system. Two blips labeled 4 and 6 moved swiftly along the tunnels.

“I’ve got the T-bolts locked,” the agent said, “but Spider-Man’s deactivated the GPS tracker in his suit. Pulling up a best guess now.” A red-and-gold blip began to flash, showing Spidey’s approximate location, several twists and turns ahead of the other blips.

Hill smiled. “I knew we couldn’t trust that guy.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.” Tony glared. “I don’t need to remind you what the Thunderbolts are, Hill. Super villains.”

“Former super villains. Who have been duly registered with the government and trained in an intensive crash course. They’ve been chipped, tagged, and injected with nanomachines that allow us to control their behavior absolutely.”

Tony frowned. “Like dogs.”

“
Wild
dogs.” She gestured at the screen, at the moving dot that indicated Spider-Man’s position. “And I don’t see a lot of difference between them and him.”

No,
Tony thought.
You wouldn’t.

The screen shifted to a jerky video image of the sewer pipe’s interior. Dark lighting and old incandescent bulbs were spaced far apart along the walls. Steeply curved walls slid past as the camera moved; water splashed up from the floor.

“Both operatives have cameras mounted on their uniforms,” Hill explained. “That’s Operative Six’s camera. Agent, punch up the dossier on him.”

A still image appeared in the corner of the screen: a fearsome figure in spandex and metal mesh, with a flaming pumpkin-head and a terrible grin. Lettering beneath it read:

On the main video, the sewer pipe opened up onto a long, straight tunnel. Up ahead, in the distance, something splashed in the water.

“Operative Six?” Hill said.

“I hear you, sexy.” Jack O’Lantern’s voice was low, cruel, and not a bit winded by his long trip through the sewers. “I think we got ’im.”

“Roger, Thunderbolts. You are clear to engage.”

Tony tensed. Leaned forward, staring at the screen.

The camera lurched to the right, and a second figure swung into view. A lanky man in purple boots and a pointed hood, with blue mask and sharp pointed teeth.

“Operative Four.” Hill gestured to the agent, and another profile appeared in the corner of the screen.

Jester turned toward the camera and grinned. “I got this one,” he said. He reached into a satchel and pulled out a small plastic doll with a comically angry expression on its face. Wound its crank twice, three times, and set it down in the water.

The toy took off down the tunnel on tiny rockets, skimming across the sewer water.

“Switch to Jester’s camera,” Hill said.

The image shifted to a view of Jack O’Lantern, crouched and dangerous atop a flying disk, hovering just above the water. He reached out and grabbed Jester, pulling him aboard the disk, and together they sped off down the sewer tunnel after the windup toy.

Jester’s camera view shifted forward. The figure of Spider-Man zoomed into view, frantically splashing his way away from them, through the murky water. His suit was torn, the tentacles hung useless now. Part of his face showed through the torn remains of his mask.

The toy whizzed into view, heading straight toward Spider-Man. He turned, startled.

“What the—”

Then the toy exploded. A huge fireball filled the screen.

Tony whirled toward Hill. “You said he wouldn’t be killed!”

“You think that could kill him?” She rolled her eyes. “Back to Operative Six camera.”

On screen, the dust slowly cleared. Spider-Man sat crouching in filthy water now, coughing. Above him, the tall figure of the Jester gloated wildly.

“Well, if it isn’t Little Peter Spider-Man.” Jester laughed. “How does it feel to be on the wrong side of the law,
Parker
? You like seeing the
Jester
wear a sheriff’s badge?”

The image swung about, as Jack O’Lantern circled Spider-Man from above. “You oughta see who we’re hangin’ with now, Petey. Bullseye, Venom, Lady Deathstrike…me an’ Jester are finally on the villains’ A-list.”

“And it’s legit, too.”

Spider-Man shook his head, struggled to focus on the circling villains.

“Oh, baby.” Jester pulled out a yo-yo, hurled it at Spider-Man. “This is too awesome for words.”

The yo-yo struck Spider-Man in the chest, exploding like a small concussion grenade. He cried out, fell backwards, and splashed down into the water.

Jack O’Lantern moved in fast. His hand shot out into the frame, grabbed Spider-Man and slammed him against the tunnel wall.

“You know,” he hissed. “This gig seemed like a bum deal at first. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D…. but then word from the top says kick the crap outta Spider-Man.” He reached out, smacked Spider-Man’s head hard. “What can we do, right?”

“We’re only obeying orders,” Jester said.

Jester reached out and tore off another chunk of Spider-Man’s mask. One eye showed clearly now, bruised and swollen partway shut. Spidey’s head lolled to the side, unmoving.

“Hill,” Tony said.

She frowned into her shoulder comm. “He’s down, Thunderbolts. Drop him and wait for cleanup crew.”

“Aww, S.H.I.E.L.D.—”

“Lay one more finger on that guy, Jack, and I shoot five thousand volts through your system. You know I’m not bluffing.”

On the screen, Jack O’Lantern’s fingers relaxed around Spider-Man’s neck. The wall-crawler dropped to the tunnel floor, landing with a splash.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. support is on their way. Just cuff him and sit tight.”

Tony exhaled in relief.

The screen shifted back to Jester’s camera. He turned to Jack O’Lantern, whose blazing orange pumpkin head filled the screen. “Spoilsport,” Jack said.

Then Jack’s head blew apart, shattering into bits of brain and pumpkin. The villain’s death-scream rang out, shrill and filtered over the comm system.

“
What the hell!
” Jester screamed. His camera swung around wildly, searching the tunnel walls. “S.H.I.E.L.D.! S.H.I.E.L.D., do you read?
There’s somebody else down here—
”

Another shot rang out, deafening in the enclosed space. Jester’s camera lurched, tottered, and tipped upward to show the roof of the tunnel. The view twitched again, then stopped moving.

“He’s down too.” The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent worked his laptop frantically. “Jack’s camera is not transmitting. Still got Jester’s—”

On the screen, a heavy black boot loomed into view, blotting out the tunnel roof. It paused, almost dramatically, then stomped down hard.

The screen went to static.

Hill jumped to her feet. “Get me a visual. Any visual!”

The agent tapped his keyboard, hissing breath between his teeth. He looked up and spread his arms helplessly.

Hill pounded her fist down on a table. “What the hell just happened down there?”

“Transmission’s cut off, Director. We’re deaf and blind.”

“Dammit.” She touched her shoulder-comm again. “All S.H.I.E.L.D. units in vicinity of Fourth Street and Broadway. Proceed immediately underground, to sewer pipes at coordinates on feed 24-J. Patrol all streets within a five-block radius; report anyone or anything trying to surface through manhole or other egress point. We may have a Resistance operation in progress, or—”

“Acting Director Hill.”

Wincing in pain, Tony moved to block her way. She frowned at him, but held her ground.

“I’m not impressed by your methods,” he said. “You failed to capture your quarry, and you lost two agents from your pilot program on their very first assignment.”

She frowned. “Big loss.”

“Nonetheless. I asked you to handle this my way, and you refused.”

“You can barely walk. And this problem is largely of your making. No one told you to invite Spider-Man, a notorious loner with antiauthoritarian tendencies, into your inner circle.”

Tony stood seething for a moment. He looked around at the wreckage of his work, the smashed equipment. The many helmets of Iron Man, dented and smashed and riddled with S.H.I.E.L.D. bullets.

“Get off my property,” he said.

She glared at him, then gestured to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. They began holstering weapons, stowing away equipment, zipping up carry-packs.

Efficient as always,
Tony thought.
Military to the end.

“Snap it up, boys. We’ve got a spider to catch.”

“You won’t catch him,” Tony said.

“Wishful thinking, Stark?” Hill turned, gave him one last glare. “We
will
catch him.”

Then S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone.

Tony stood alone for a long time. Tested his knee, tried putting weight on it. It stung, but he could walk. That was enough.

It took him three tries to find a cell phone that worked.