IF I HAD A MILLION YEARS, I COULD THINK THROUGH TO CERTAINTY, BUT I DON’T. I HAVE TO DECIDE—AND SOON.
HOURS before the media came to its garbled conclusions about the Helicarrier’s low altitude and very visible path, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s strategy was obvious to the Skull, and it suited his purposes seamlessly. He was relieved, but to admit that meant he’d had doubts about his plan—and his survival. Rather than claim such a weakness, he projected the feeling, transforming it into an opportunity to assure his companion of his certainty.
“There, you see, Arnim? I was right.”
The android concurred. “Yes. As you predicted, the Helicarrier is leading the final Sleeper to some remote location so Rogers can face it without risking the infection of others. At that point, what they mistakenly think of as wreckage will be in close quarters, awaiting final activation by the Sonikey.”
Whatever feelings Schmidt kept hidden, he could not deny the rush he felt now. “Could things go more perfectly?”
“More perfectly is a redundancy. Perfection is an absolute state. Something is either perfect or it is not. Nothing can be more or less perfect.”
Consumed by a sudden, giddy sense of strength, the Skull found it impossible to conceal his amusement. “Dr. Zola, I believe you’ve given new meaning to the term ‘grammar Nazi.’”
Schmidt could practically hear the processors analyzing Zola’s emotional response. Interpreting it as surprise, the avatar supplied an appropriately befuddled expression. “Did you just tell a joke?”
The Skull smirked. “Unusual, is it not?”
The avatar formed lines along its brow that showed concern. “It is singular. I shall double-check your last test results.”
Another symptom, was it? The notion that Schmidt’s confidence might be driven by a thoughtless virus was deeply offensive.
Or was even that an overly emotional reaction?
His exaggerated joy faded, and he found himself scrambling to explain.
“It’s just that for the first time since you told me about the virus, I felt…”
“Undefeatable?”
Before he could agree, he went into another coughing fit, spewing dollops of blood onto his chin. They were coming more frequently now. A half minute later, it seemed to be over. The bits of clear saliva that mixed with the red were oddly easier to see. Before he could wipe his mouth, though, his eyes went wide with a new pain. His chest burned; his throat swelled as if he were being strangled.
He tumbled first into the desk, and then toward Zola. “Uhn…”
Android arms reached out to steady the Skull. For the first time, Schmidt accepted the assistance. He even allowed Zola to help him back into his chair. Then Zola moved away without comment.
In an even more surprising gesture, Schmidt tugged him back.
The Skull stared—not at the projected face, but at the camera lens, behind which he knew the geneticist’s mind truly dwelled. “Arnim, how far would you go to stay alive? Have you ever imagined there might be a limit?”
“The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. You well know that I could have transferred my brain patterns into a human host like yours. Instead I chose a much more durable form, so that I might better—in your words—stay alive. If there is a limit to this desire in me, I have yet to encounter it.”
Satisfied, Schmidt let go. “In that we are the same.” His fingers stiff from the effort of clutching Zola, he tugged off his leather gloves. “There is no crime, against the world or my own form, that I would hesitate to commit to maintain my existence.” His head lowered. For a moment he wasn’t sure whether he was staring into the fire on purpose, or too weak to move his neck. “All the same, I must confess that the pain I am experiencing is…unique.”
“Unique,” Zola repeated. “Unique in type or intensity?”
A familiar hum and click told him Zola was accessing his medical equipment, retrieving the most recent test results.
The Skull tightened what there was of his lips. “Both.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to believe in things worse than death.”
This was Zola’s version of small talk. The data must be taking longer than expected to analyze. Trusting he’d be given any new information as soon as it was available, the Skull saw no reason not to participate in the distraction.
“You misunderstand me. Death is not better or worse. It is nothing. Pain, on the other hand, can be inspiring.”
“Then is it possible your increased pain has inspired you to understand why a lesser being might choose to end their own life rather than suffer?”
What was Zola on about? Did he still believe the plan might fail? Was he trying to prepare him for the end?
Schmidt grabbed the chair’s arms, and ran his palms up and down their length. “Sympathy for the weak, no. A more abstract appreciation? Not even that. I am only surprised that I’ve yet to experience all the extremes this body has to offer.” He squeezed the chair so tightly the veins on the back of his hands stood out. “Were I reduced to a quivering blob capable of only pain, my rage would sustain me until the last. Beyond the last.”
Zola stepped back from his equipment. “That is fortunate for you. I’ve already explained how the virus cleverly travels along the nervous system rather than through the bloodstream, where antibodies might attack it. In one sense, while there will be these occasional fits, your vital organs will be the last to be attacked. In the meantime, though, the new tests confirm the pain will soon become far worse.”
Worse?
The sensation of abject terror rose so powerfully, Schmidt couldn’t keep it from his face. But in the next moment, he buried it—hard and deep. “I can’t give up. Not when I’m so close.”
“Understood. Yet even if the Sleepers assemble, there remains the question of your presence. May I ask how you plan to reach them?”
Despite the pinkish sweat dripping freely down his cheeks, the Skull managed a grin. He’d been given yet another opportunity to assure someone else of his certainty.
“This is your concern? Oh, doctor, that won’t be a problem at all. Don’t you see? They will bring me to it.”