"Looks like he scrambled himself with that external thinking module," Hammurabi said, tapping his own temple. He'd never been fond of those who installed external cognition plugins; for Praetorians whose minds far surpassed a human brain, such measures were superfluous. "All in all, this kind of upgrade is far cheaper than gene alchemy. Seems the Sovereign intends to pursue two paths at once: mechanical evolution and genetic evolution. I don't object to cybernetics, but if it turns your brain into a mess like that poor kid's, I think keeping my current brain is a fine choice. I'll go tell the pilot to get ready—the scheduled strike window is almost here. Let's hope the pilot's cognitive booster isn't acting up. If the Sovereign asks why we're a step late, I'm tossing the pilot out the cargo bay door."
The ceremony to sign the Sokovia Accords occupied only a small part of the agenda at the conference being held at the Vienna International Centre. The main purpose of the 117 national delegations was to announce legislation restricting enhanced individuals and their organizations. Although 117 countries were participating, the drafting had begun years earlier with negotiations among the five permanent members of the UN Security Council, who led the process and presented a complete agreement inviting other nations to revise. The Accords did not target the Avengers alone; from now on, every organization and individual with powerful single-soldier combat capability would be required to sign.
The contents included, but were not limited to: restrictions on entry and exit, movement reporting, accepting the command of the UN Security Council, and participation in peacekeeping forces. On the surface those reasons looked perfectly legitimate, but Steve Rogers' judgment was not wrong—reached after Solomon's guidance. The White House planned to dispatch the Avengers to Afghanistan once they signed, or throw them into the Balkans to give Latveria—the assailant of the carrier strike groups—a beating, to bolster the Democratic presidential candidate's anti-terror credentials.
As for whether any of the P5 would veto such measures, the White House didn't see that as a problem. The bureaucrats believed they only needed to cede some interests or lift certain sanctions to flip members who might otherwise vote no. That was the gist of the information Mycroft Holmes provided. As Cabinet Secretary and head of the civil service, he had been deeply involved in shaping the Accords. While broadly aligned with the Prime Minister and Cabinet, his civil servants submitted the British Empire's comments on the text; many points overlapped with other nations' views and were incorporated.
Mycroft, however, could guarantee the Prime Minister and Cabinet only knew the broad strokes, since the document had been placed at the very bottom of the red box—an old Whitehall trick of burying papers politicians shouldn't dwell on at the bottom of the red ministerial case. When ministers got to such files, they were either too tired to read them carefully and skimmed past, or were drowned by the next day's paper flood and forgot the matter entirely. With the times, politicians learned to check the bottom first.
Though the trick wasn't used much anymore, the tug-of-war between permanent officials and political appointees never ceased, and ministers never knew at which "layer" the most important paper might be. Thus the civil service still used the old phrase for documents they preferred ministers not see. The current PM—owing to David William Donald Cameron's Brexit referendum—was about to resign. His successor, Theresa Mary May, was focused on Brexit and reshuffling the Cabinet, not on the Security Council's layers of agreements. At first the Foreign Office paid attention, but as clauses were endlessly haggled over, the Foreign Secretary and PM lost patience and tuned out.
In a high-floor executive room at the Meliá—the hotel closest to the International Centre—Natasha Romanoff set down her briefcase, intending to change and head early to the venue. Her black funeral dress was ill-suited to an international conference. She hadn't stayed for the reception, but she also hadn't eaten on the private jet; upon inspection, she'd found the bread onboard was expired. After dropping her in Vienna, the jet left on its own. Defense would only fly her here to sign—no ride back to London. She was sure someone had pocketed a bit of the budget, but she didn't care now. Forcing down her mounting irritation, she thoroughly swept the room to ensure there were no bugs or cameras, then planned to change and find something to eat.
The hotel's 57 Restaurant wasn't serving at that hour; she'd have to sort it out herself. She had just changed into a business suit when the doorbell rang. "I didn't order room service."
She didn't open the knocked door, but drew the small handgun she carried. Yet the door slowly swung inward despite the latch, and a very familiar face peered in, as if squeezing through the gap. Though his look had changed tremendously, she could still recognize the man in the suit with his black short hair slicked back into a more mature style.
"I'm quite sure you did order room service." Solomon winked impishly. Gold thread embroidered laurel leaves on his red-and-black striped tie, and a golden falcon tie pin—carefully placed—spread its wings, exquisitely carved talons clutching the laurel leaves and radiating sunbursts on the tie. The understated yet sumptuous ornament signaled his identity, though ordinary people, unfamiliar with history and myth, would struggle to parse its meaning. Still, it made him stand out among the ranks of somberly suited officials. "Care for some barbecue, ma'am? I'm guessing you're starving. It's from a BBQ joint a block away—locals rate it highly."
"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in Latveria? Next time, make an appointment—unless you'd like me to put a bullet in your head for breaking in." Natasha lowered the pistol, none too pleased. "You certainly made big news. Now the whole world knows about the carrier groups. If CIA agents were here, they might take a shot at you. Or would you prefer I handle it?"
"Don't worry—they can't hurt me. I got to Vienna ages ago. I'm on the 14th floor in the presidential suite. There's even a whirlpool tub. After you eat, I suggest you relax. It's impolite to show up to a meeting smelling like food." Solomon stepped in with the tray and shut the door behind him. "This is a signing for an agreement that affects enhanced individuals worldwide. I had to come take a look. I'm sure what follows the signing will be very interesting—especially the Wakandan king's speech."
"I doubt anyone will mind a little smoke on me, and barging into someone's room isn't polite either. Still, thanks. I am hungry. The food on the jet was awful." Natasha accepted the still-hot platter, the sliced smoked brisket ringed with a rosy smoke line. The attached receipt showed the meal had been bought hours ago, yet the sliced meat remained at the perfect temperature, as juicy and tender as if it had just finished resting. She didn't dwell on the oddity; she was long used to the strange phenomena orbiting Solomon. She didn't know the method, but clearly the food had been preserved with magic.
"Since you were able to get here early, why didn't you attend the funeral?" She carried the plate to the sofa, squeezed the little bottle of barbecue sauce along the rim, and picked up her cutlery to shovel food in as fast as possible. "I always thought you valued personal relationships more than international affairs."
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