"I have been asked whether I would agree that the tragedy of the scientist

is that he is able to bring about great advances in our knowledge, which

mankind may then proceed to use for the purposes of destruction. My

answer is that this is not the tragedy of the scientist,

it is the tragedy of mankind."

- Leo Szilard

Atlantic Shipping Lanes; July 15, 1941

Life on the Reuben James was not as flattering as the newsreels made it out to be, Tony had decided. He had realized this about halfway through his morning of throwing up over the side of the deck. Otherwise known as "feeding the fish," as the sailors were quick to inform him.

Needless to say, he was not in the best mood when he was called into the bridge.

For the center of operations on the small ship, the crew of the Reuben James didn't skimp around when it came to their home base. The lieutenant commander stood by the helm watching as one of his less-thans gently angle the zeppelin ship towards the east, and a glut of other sailors filled the small room with lively chatter. A jumble of confusing badges and stripes and stars stared back at Tony in his ruined, salt-smelling suit, and he pressed down his lapels and smoothed his hair back in an attempt to look half decent.

"Ah, young Mr. Stark!" the commander turned and extended his calloused hand to shake. "Thank you for your presence this morning. Had I realized we had such distinguished guests on board I would have visited the cabin myself!"

"You're very kind," Tony replied, the words slipping from his tongue from years of practice. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, do you have a list of those recovered from the Calliope's crash?"

The eyes of the commander turned softer, a smile spread across his face that dripped with sympathy. "Of course, of course. We should be expecting your friend at any moment now."

"My friend?" Tony asked, dropping his hands in his pockets. They were still wet from his brief excursion in the Atlantic Ocean.

Edwards turned back to him, bushy eyebrows raised. "I had expected you two were acquainted! The young man we fished out of the ocean with you. The Army lad?"

"Right, yes." Nodding his head slowly, Tony turned back to the bustle of the bridge. "You keep a tight ship, sir."

His smile deepening, Edwards clapped a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Wonderful to meet a man who recognizes our work! We do our best around these parts, and this crew's the finest I've laid eyes on. Ah, here we are. Barton, I trust our guest made it here safely?"

The sandy-haired sailor that had rescued Tony the night before stood against the doorframe, arms crossed in the image of casualness. "You betcha, sir."

"Excellent. Dismissed." Edwards gestured with a hand and the sailor exited, leaving the Army guy behind. He looked quite laughable, with the general impression of a lost puppy surrounding him as he gawked at the bustling bridge. He nodded briefly at Tony and turned back to the commander, posture ramrod-straight. Was this guy born a soldier, even before the experiment?

"I don't know if we've properly met," he whispered, shaking Tony's hand when Edwards looked away. He was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers from all of these formalities. "Steve Rogers."

"Tony Stark," he replied. "So you're the one who's going to win the war, huh? I look forward to seeing your pictures in the papers."

Steve's eyes widened, but he kept his mouth shut as the commander turned back to the two of them. "You'll be pleased to know I've wired ahead to London to tell them of our rather special cargo. I speak for the crew of the Reuben James when I say that it is our pleasure to host both of you."

Steve dipped his head forward. "The pleasure is all ours, sir."

"I believe you'll be wanting to see the list of rescued personnel as well, Mr. Rogers," the commander handed Steve the list, and Tony's heart sank at the brief list of names printed. If there was a possibility that Howard...

Before he could reach the end of his thought he saw the familiar initials at the very end of the list. His old man had stuck it out after all – even a crash-landing in the Atlantic hadn't been enough to keep Howard from kicking and screaming. Tony was relieved, truly, but a rogue part of his mind was almost disappointed. He dispelled these thoughts before he could dwell on them further.

Steve's hands were shaking as he handed the list back to Edwards; the commander caught on to his look with a sympathetic frown.

"Something wrong, son?"

Steve shook his head, clenching his jaw as he handed the list back to Edwards. "No, sir. It's only... One of my friends was on that ship. I don't think he made it back."

Dropping his head, the commander fixed his eyes on his shoes. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he was a fine man."

Silence reigned for a brief moment before Edwards cleared his throat and spoke again. "The trip to Britain is a two week's journey from today, so you might as well get acquainted with the ship and how we run things around here. I understand you're civilians, but to keep your bed you'll pull your weight. Since you've already met Seaman Barton, I'll let him show you around. Shadow his duties and we'll be shipshape once we reach London." Turning to Tony, the commander lifted a finger to stroke his chin. "Tell me, son, is it true you're as mechanically minded as your father is?"

"He doesn't like to admit it, but yes." Tony smiled broadly and Edwards released a weak laugh.

"Er... Right. Tell you what – how would you like to follow around our mechanics? It's lucky for us we have to go as slow as the British ships, because there's a trick pulley that's been keeping us from full functionality. Mind going down and taking a crack at things?"

Tony fought to keep the easy smile on his face. He couldn't resent Edwards from trying to do his job, but he hadn't expected to be pulled out of the water one day and be put to work the next. "It's the least I can do."

"Swell." Edwards shook Tony's hand for what felt like the thousandth time, beaming all the while. After returning a salute from a solemn-faced Steve, he turned back to the bridge and his crew, effectively dismissing the two new passengers.

Steve met Tony's eyes and shrugged, and they both ascended the stairs that brought them back to the main deck. Even though it was hardly dawn, sailors scurried across the deck and up the rigging. Whirring cables and amicable banter filled the briney air, and Tony looked even more out of place in his suit. Steve had had the foresight to change into a Navy uniform, bare of any insignias or signs of rank. They observed the activity on the deck for a minute before turning to each other. Tony couldn't help but smile at the awkwardness of the moment – even though he had only known Steve for less than an hour, they had jumped out of a zeppelin together, and that had to count for something. He almost felt reluctant to leave the poor guy alone.

"Which way's the engine room?" Tony wondered aloud, eyes drifting upward to the huge balloon above his head.

"Where's that sailor who's supposed to show me around?" Steve sighed. "Do they think I'll wander off of the ship?"

"I think you showed your stripes last night in the battle, soldier." Lifting his hand in a mock salute, Tony jumped to attention. "Now if you'll excuse me, duty calls."

-o0o-

With the help of Seaman Barton, who insisted Tony call him Clint, he reached the engine room of the Reuben James after a quick excursion up the mooring lines and into the balloon itself. The thick canvas gave way beneath a low-hanging doorway, and he stepped into an amber-tinted room whose roof stretched upward and outward in the gentle curve of the balloon's shape. Battens ran along the length and width of the canvas like ribs, giving the balloon its support, and metal rods as thick as trees supported the structures settled on top of the zeppelin.

Twin balloonets gave the zeppelin its lift: two ovals full of helium poised near the tapered ends of the zeppelin's canvas balloon. In the center of the canvas room crouched the Reuben James' engines, enormous blocks of metal with hissing gears and roiling steam that filled the room with a humming rumble.

The churning of the metal was drowned out by energetic jazz tunes, with wailing trumpets and a pounding beat. A figure peeked around the side of the engine to see a grease-stained Tony tapping his wrench against a variety of pipes in an imitation of drums, a large radio sitting at his feet. He was engrossed in his work and only looked up from the cogs and wires at his feet when Steve pounded his fist against the engine's side.

Tony looked up sharply, then nodded to the radio with an eager smile. "You like Basie?"

In response Steve twisted the volume dial to silent and crossed his arms. "What did they do to me?"

His smile fading quickly, Tony sat back on his heels. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaving a smear of black oil, and looked Steve up and down like a doctor examining his patient.

"Well, Howard doesn't tell me everything – really he tells me nothing, so this won't be entirely accurate..."

"I don't care about accuracy!" Steve cried. Tony had never seen the man look desperate before – it was a welcome break from the impenetrable superman persona. He rather enjoyed this exchange. "Please. Just tell me."

Tony frowned slightly. "Okay. Howard used Vita-Rays on you to stimulate muscle and cell growth. It acted as a catalyst to whatever the hell was in those blue vials of the German doctor's, which is why you're now wider than a single chopstick. Congratulations."

Dragging a hand through his hair, Steve leaned his shoulder against the engine. "It's not even that. I feel... Different. My thoughts, my mind. Am I going insane?"

Tony couldn't help himself. He laughed. "Look, big guy, you're not crazy. It's a transition. You used to be a featherweight and now you're a macho man. That'll do something to a guy's head, yeah?"

The words weren't entirely comforting, but Steve's head bobbed. "There was something Erskine said to me before the experiment. He said something about the serum multiplying your inner feelings. Good becomes great, bad becomes worse, that sort of thing."

"Fascinating," Tony felt his eyes glaze over as he stared off into the distance of the canvas balloon. "To think a change in the full mental makeup of a person could occur through a serum... The effect could be astronomical! Well, you're living proof of that." he laughed bitterly, remembering how much Howard had cherished this one pet project. Good becomes great... That was mot likely why Howard didn't volunteer him for this project.

"I'm sorry if I was brusque before." Steve dropped his gaze to his shoes, and Tony laughed again, this time in better spirits.

"Don't worry about it. Hey, have you ever been to London?"

Tony could hardly believe it when Steve shook his head. "I've never been outside of New York City."

"Then you've been to London halfway already! New York is like a slice of the world, but with a few more taxicabs and tall buildings. And sunshine. And nice people. Am I making London sound unpleasant?"

"Only slightly."

"Excellent, that's what I was going for." Tony grinned, then kicked the engine lightly with his toe. "I've been meaning to ask you about back on the Calliope. The stuff you were saying before we had our free-fall... You know something about machines?"

Steve's somber expression broke into a grin. "Oh, yes! I was going to be a mechanic before the war. With all the men gone I figured it would be me and their wives hunched over artillery shells, and then Erskine showed up, and the rest is history. Of course, I know all about your father's enterprises from the papers."

Scoffing, Tony rolled his eyes up into his head and groaned. "Half of the articles about Howard are things I've done. You've probably seen some of his cover-ups for my 'insufficiencies.' He's the one that's insufferable. Know anything about zeppelin engines?"

Now he had pegged the supersoldier, and a blush colored Rogers' cheeks as he took in the man-sized chunks of machinery standing before him. "Can't say I do. I like the planes especially, but never something so big as this ship."

"These are real nasty – too many gears and wires where they don't need to be. I wouldn't expect you to known much." Tony replied crisply, turning back to his work and nudging the volume of the radio higher with his toe.

"Um... Right." Glancing downwards, Steve gestured to his full height that he was still getting accustomed to. "I'm still trying to figure myself out at the moment. I feel like I'm in someone else's body. I didn't expect Erskine's formula to make me so... So..."

"Insecure?"

"I was going more for tall."

"They're practically the same thing. Want to see me take a crack at these engines? Maybe you can hand me screwdrivers and that sort of thing." The words were sharp, and Tony was fully aware of the fact. But with every word Steve Rogers was becoming more and more of the son Howard had endlessly told Tony to be more like: polite, an interest in mechanics, the perfect specimen. In a childish sort of way, this was the lone area Tony could prove his talents.

The flash of frustration, the first break in Steve's armor, raced across the man's eyes before he knelt beside the radio. "If I can help, I'll do it. Where do we start?"

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