Chapter 7
I sat in my apartment at the kitchen table with a bottle of whiskey on it and a glass in my hands. Alcohol didn't affect the body, that's true, but I could taste the drink. And the characteristic sensations of strong drinks in the mouth. Psychologically, it gives a certain effect, akin to light intoxication.
Next to the bottle of whiskey on the same table lay a flask with blue liquid. Yes, yes, the very one that supposedly broke, falling out of the hands of Erskine's killer.
And what's the trick here, if you know the calculated dose and the real amount of the preparation? And you also remember from the Cap movie that exactly one small flask will remain after the experiment? Besides, you are the main assistant who inserted the flasks into the apparatus during the experiment?
I just prepared a color-matched dummy in advance and put it in place of the last flask in the row. Even BEFORE the experiment. The whole trick was not to stick this dummy into the apparatus.
And here I am drinking whiskey in the kitchen, holding the glass with my left hand. In my right, I'm twirling a coin.
Fifty-fifty. Lucky or unlucky. To do or not to do? The chance of success when applied to my body is 50/50. All the research and theoretical calculations I conducted using Abraham's schemes yield exactly this result. Either yes, or no.
The half-dollar coin, spinning, flew into the air, and, as if in slow motion, rose to the highest point of its trajectory, after which it went down.
My hand, as if on its own, darted up and snatched it from the air. I closed my eyes and slammed the caught coin onto the table with a sweeping motion. I slowly took my hand away and knocked back the glass in one gulp. From the metal surface, as if ready to step onto the smooth tabletop at any moment, the disheveled Lady Liberty looked out at the world. "IN GOD WE TRUST"—the accompanying text declared.
"Well, so be it," I said aloud and smashed the glass against the floor. The ringing of broken glass and the spray of shards were my answer.
* * *
Tracking down Margaret Carter turned out to be not difficult. She wasn't particularly hiding either, stomping straight from work to her apartment—an empty and lonely two-room apartment in one of the Brooklyn high-rises.
Although, with her rhythm of life, it could just be a company apartment.
"But, what difference does it really make to me," I thought, jumping down from the ceiling and securely locking Agent Carter's neck in a chokehold.
The girl jerked, tried to resist, but it didn't last very long. Loss of consciousness with a properly executed hold of this kind occurs in just a few seconds—the main thing is to pinch exactly the carotid artery, not the airway. After all, a person can hold out much longer without air in the lungs than without oxygen flowing to the brain.
I carefully picked up the limp body and carried it into the bedroom, where I calmly took the clothes off the passed-out Peggy. Then I marked the necessary points and began to inject the preparation.
It's not for nothing that in the old days strangulation was used as anesthesia—the body didn't even twitch from the injections. Although Steve almost bit his lip off, trying to save face and not scream in pain when the serum was injected.
The vita-rays in the experiment were necessary only for the catalytic acceleration of the body's restructuring process, for nothing else.
With them, especially with the power that Stark blasted, the process took seconds. Without them, according to Abraham's calculations—a year and a half or more.
In this particular case, I'm not particularly interested in time. Or rather, I'm not interested at all.
Since the coin didn't fall on my side, trying to make at least Steve happy seems like not the worst idea to me.
Having finished with the injections, I checked the girl's pulse, looked at the pupil reaction, and listened to her breathing. And when I made sure that everything was in order and she didn't need urgent resuscitation, I removed all traces of my presence in this apartment, since I wouldn't be able to remove the injection marks from her body.
I took one more look at the serene face of Peggy, covered with a blanket up to her chin, and left the room.
* * *
To run or to hide, I thought, walking into Steve Rogers's room. Erskine is dead, Stark is a techie. It turns out I am now the head of the project. And the demand is now on me. It sucks—the government needs results. Super soldiers are needed. The formula is needed.
And I need to close the project.
But for now—conduct an examination of test subject number one.
"How are you feeling, Steve?" I smiled at him in "kind-monk" mode. And with him, I always communicated exactly in this mode. He, naive one, still believes it. Even after I taught him how to punch and a dozen crippling techniques. Kind soul. I feel sorry for him.
"Good, Doctor," he replied, after shaking my hand. "Although it's a bit strange."
"More exactly?" I was intrigued. It's a pity, but tongue-tiedness doesn't leave me in any "mode".
"I have to get used to my own body all over again. To my size. To the height of the lintels," he rubbed his forehead, which was quite eloquent.
"You'll get used to it," I nodded to him with a smile, half-closing my eyes. "People get used to good things quickly."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure!" I encouraged him. "But keep in mind: it's easy to lose all the good things if you get used to them."
"How is that?" he was surprised.
"Relax, take it for granted, stop training. You are at the peak of human physical condition right now. And you need to maintain that condition. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise...?"
"Otherwise, super-muscles will become a super-belly," Steve swallowed nervously. And the little nurse who was helping me with the examination giggled into her fist.
At that moment, the door opened, and Colonel Phillips entered, accompanied by Senator Brandt.
"Mr. Creed, how is our test subject?" the colonel started right off the bat.
"Somewhat higher than the calculated indicators, Colonel," I replied.
"Higher? In what?"
"In everything," I shrugged.
"That's good," Phillips nodded to his own thoughts. "When can you start mass production?"
"Never," I shrugged exactly the same way.
"What do you mean, never?!" he was taken aback.
"Professor Erskine knew the formula. He kept it a secret even from me. Apparently, he was afraid. Stark's equipment and Steve—that's all we have."
"But the laboratory journals, equipment, reagents... Can't you restore the formula from all this?"
"No," I shook my head. "Abraham wrote pseudoscientific nonsense in the journals. There isn't a single real description of the experiment or process there. And the equipment and reagents... Using them, you can build anything. From compote to napalm. Without Erskine, the project is meaningless and has no prospects," I finished. Phillips pursed his lips in displeasure.
"And what if we start the research from the very beginning? Along the beaten path, knowing that the result is achievable, with generous funding?" he made another attempt.
"Abraham was a genius. I am not," the colonel frowned harder than before. And I was already tired of talking. Long phrases tire me. "No" means "no". What's the point of ranting.
"So the government does not need your services?" he went for an escalation.
I shrugged.
"Does that mean yes? Or no?"
"No."
"No what?"
"I'm tired of you, Colonel," I wiped the smile off my face that I was still holding for Steve, sitting on the couch. "'No' means 'no'. You came to me. I didn't come to you. I couldn't care less about your 'Rebirth' in Zen. Abraham was my friend. He needed help. He is gone. What else do you not understand?"
"Now, nothing. Just one thing—where did the injection marks on Agent Carter's body come from?"
"I had a flask of serum left over. You can't store it for more than a day—it spoils. It passed the tests successfully. I couldn't think of a better candidate than her."
"You had a flask of serum left, and you kept silent?!!"
"You didn't ask."
"Excuse me, Mr. Creed," the Senator intervened in the conversation. "And why not on yourself?"
"I'll tie Steve into a knot even without it. What do I need it for?"
"I've always wanted to know," the colonel narrowed his eyes. "Where did you come from, so tough?"
"Ran away from a monastery. A Tibetan one."
"You do realize that we can't let you go with information about the project?"
"About the failure of the project?" I raised an eyebrow. "About the fact that the super soldier formula is lost forever?"
"The names of the participants, the location of the laboratory, Stark's involvement, the location of the training base, not counting the secret equipment you worked on."
"Are you threatening me?" I frowned.
"I'm informing you."
"Go fuck yourself, you Pindostan schmuck," I replied evenly in Russian, took out a pistol from behind my belt, and shot the colonel in the leg.
* * *