5.

1984

It was Pierce's idea to host the retirement dinner at the Smithsonian, but it was soon-to-be-former-Director Carter who decided to have it in tandem with the opening of the new, expanded Captain America exhibit. Soon they would all adjourn to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ for the rest of the event, but for now an incredible collection of insiders' insiders and their spouses flitted, in tuxedos, dripping pearls and diamonds, from the exhibit's red, white, and blue to the dining tables set up in the executive board room. If Pierce let the asset loose here, he'd cripple the entire U.S. intelligence community. He had to drain half his champagne flute to stop himself from laughing out loud at the thought.

Of course, the asset would have been instructed to skip the Hydra members dotting the gathering.

'I believe you're the one I have to thank for this, Agent—pardon, I meant Councilman Pierce,' Carter said. Her voice was as crisp as ever, but her eyes were a little shiny. Pierce knew he was supposed to think it was the memories, but it was probably the champagne. 'Don't tell the rest of the Council, but I think I'll always have trouble thinking of you as anything other than young Alexander Pierce from Avery's team. Forgive age its foibles when I call you Agent.'

'I shouldn't take the credit. And I think I'll always think of you as the Director,' he said with a broad smile, then turned to Soon-to-be-Director Fury. 'Sorry, Nick.'

'You're forgiven,' Nick said, even though he didn't sound like anyone was forgiven at all.

Moments later, after the pastry chef's excellent work had mostly been demolished and the board room smelled of cigarette smoke, Nick materialised at Pierce's side as he was herding Laura towards the Starks.

'We need to talk about Beirut.'

Laura smiled politely. 'I thought you said there would be no shop talk tonight, Alexander.'

'Come on, Nick.' He patted Nick's shoulder, which didn't stop the other man from looking like he'd much rather be doing something less painful, like dealing with a terrorist cell. 'It's a party. Mingle.'

They would have time to talk about the asset's handiwork soon enough, Pierce thought as he wound his way to Carter, pausing here and there for chatter and handshakes. She was where he'd expected her to be: standing in front of the new mural, the weak light making her look small and sunken and filling the wall with dark blues and greys.

She turned to look at him. They were alone here, the party only a rumble of voices. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he could spot Laura's blue dress or the dark sweep of her hair, but she was lost in the crowd.

'I do apologise,' Carter said. Her head turned back to the mural, to the portraits painted larger than life. 'I'm being a poor guest of honour.'

Pierce edged closer to her. 'No, I understand. You actually knew him.' His gaze slid right past the idiot in stars and stripes and onto the asset's portrait. Well, not the asset, not yet. Just Barnes. Just another soldier who hadn't come home. The painted face looked similar to the real thing—Barnes had died in his twenties and that was what the asset looked like, always in his twenties—but at the same time the two were as different as a caterpillar and a butterfly. It was like looking at some strange optical illusion.

'I wish we could have something more,' Carter said. Her voice caught a little. She smoothed it over. 'He deserved better. Well, a life. He should have had a life.' She shook her head.

'And instead he got the legend. You know, my father told me stories, though I don't think he ever met him. I did read the comics when I was a kid…' He trailed off, waited a few seconds before he spoke again. 'I'm sorry. He was someone you knew and who didn't get to come back.'

She let out a tiny chuckle, almost a hiccup, or a sigh. 'It's quite all right. It was a long time ago, even for me.' The look she gave him was one he was very familiar with, wrinkles or not. It was the one where you could never be sure if she was simply being polite or spending a few seconds to take you all in, from top to bottom, and ferret things away for the maze of files in her head.

Working with Nick was going to be so much easier. You could always trust a mistrustful man, especially one who had also learned the hard way how the world worked.

Nick had just done so earlier than him, that was all.

'And he wasn't a legend back then,' she went on. 'He just thought of himself as a man trying to do the right thing, and he'd have something amusing and rather biting to say about all this if he ever saw it. He was never as saintly as people suppose.' She glanced around at the display cases, ghostly in the after-hours light. 'It'd never occur to him that it's the very least we can do. All he wanted before he—before he put the Valkyrie in the ice was one dance.'

She was looking at some place forty years ago and Pierce let a polite amount of time elapse. Things on ice turn up like a bad penny around here, Carter, he thought, and swallowed his amusement. 'He already had what all soldiers want. Knowing you and all the Commandos were going to make it back home.' He pretended to fumble. 'I mean—'

'Barnes didn't make it.'

'That's right. I misspoke. My apologies.'

Of course, no celebrated heroic sacrifice for Barnes. The hero's protector, the hero's friend, the hero's right hand, the hero's this, the hero's that, drafted into history like he'd been drafted into the war, buried in one of its footnotes.

It was hardly a tragedy, of course. He'd had other talents to be cultivated, once the old shell had fallen away and he'd been reborn as something better. What he'd been meant to be and had wanted to be all along.

Carter shook her head. 'It was a da— a real shame.'

Not at all, Director Carter. You should know, you authorised it. He doubted she had done so with any real knowledge of what Zola's little projects were really about and who they involved, but she had been the one to set the good doctor up in the U.S., first in the SSR and then in S.H.I.E.L.D., and it had been her signature on the papers. Hadn't she done plenty herself, with full knowledge? Other Agents had called her by her married name behind her back, or the Missus, or a variety of less savoury nicknames, but to Pierce she was always Director Carter. He respected her. He respected the fact that she understood that drawing the line or arguing about whether you'd crossed it or just skirted it was a bloodless exercise, a luxury people like them could never afford.

'Do you think…' She trailed off, swallowed, then tucked a stray lock of grey hair behind one ear before she went on. 'We spend all day moving pieces around, and talking about what needs to be done and what can be done. What needs outweigh others. And sometimes I wonder if that's all just a game. Just a way for us to pretend we haven't mucked it all up, at the end of the day.' She put her hand on his arm, a little flustered. 'I'm sorry. I don't think I am making much sense. Being a muddled old woman, I suppose.'

'You are never muddled. And I don't think you'll ever be old, Director Carter.'

'Ha!' Her eyes might be starting to get heavy and rheumy with age, but they were as sharp as ever. 'I'm retiring, Alexander. I only want to hear flattery from my grandchildren.'

He smiled briefly at that. 'It's worth it,' he said. His eyes flicked towards the painting for the barest second. 'What people like you and I do. It's worth it. Even if sometimes it's hard to remember.'

She slipped her arm into his so he could escort her back to the rest of the guests and soon enough they were whisked in a row of limos to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. Now Agent Thompson was waist-deep in a speech that promised to last until their deaths or the collapse of the Eastern seaboard, whichever came first, and Pierce took the chance to sneak out of the conference room unnoticed and make his way to the nearest computer room.

The champagne haze cleared up as he locked the door, selected the machine facing the corridor, turned on the terminal, and fished inside a silk-lined pocket for the paper where he had jotted down the necessary instructions. Lettering showed up on the screen and cast a green tinge across the desk. He hadn't turned the lights on.

He glanced at his watch and allotted himself fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes before someone came looking for him. Not Laura, of course, but Nick certainly, Carter probably, maybe even Stark. As a member of the Central Security Council, there was no place in S.H.I.E.L.D. Pierce didn't have access to, but being seen here and using his own credentials would raise all sorts of uncomfortable questions.

Pierce had never liked uncomfortable questions, even in his naive days. They always led to uncomfortable answers.

He'd committed the message from '80 to memory a long time ago, given who had almost certainly sent it, and when the terminal prompted him for his user name and password, he typed in WWEISS and 32557038.

Did you know that Professor Weiss used his old serial number as his access code?

The screen went blank, then showed only a blinking cursor.

Professor—well, Doctor, to start with—Weiss was the identity Zola had been given when he'd been recruited and set up in his university post: a cover complete with a full set of papers and a history carefully scrubbed of any unsavoury connections. As for the access code, that could only refer to the various systems S.H.I.E.L.D. had set up throughout the years to secure its files. Pierce had gone through almost all of Zola's personal documents he'd been able to track down, but so many traces of the good doctor's handiwork would have been left behind in the least expected places. An expenses report in a filing cabinet in Accounting. Meeting minutes of a team long since disbanded. It was only now that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files had all been gathered together, in the same book of ones and zeroes. He hadn't even had to convince Carter—or Nick, or anyone else—to do it. They all saw its uses.

And the access code, well, Zola hadn't had a serial number. What else would he use but a reminder of his greatest triumph?

Footfalls. He looked at the door, but whoever it was was already walking past. He could hear the din of the party, far off.

When he looked back at the screen, there was a list of files and directories. Zola's old account, from the days of vacuum tubes and magnetic tapes, copied and sealed in ice forever.

Like a bad penny. He could smile at it now.

He glanced at his watch again. Two minutes. Still plenty of time, if he worked fast and methodically, which he always did. He consulted his crib sheet and hunt-and-pecked across the keyboard to type the command that would enable him to search the account's contents.

FIND "algorithm" s:wweiss

More noise. Not footfalls this time, only—he now realised—the whirr of fans and other machine parts he knew nothing about. He quietened his heart, looked at the list of files on the screen, then slipped his reading glasses on. The bile green of the computer text was starting to make his eyes ache a little.

A little over eleven minutes to go, and more than a screen's worth of files, but he was not a man who moved by trial and error. He read the file names, the down arrow key ticking softly as he went along.

OLYMPUS

It was nearly at the bottom of the screen. Zola had had a system, that much was clear: each file had been labelled with a date, a truncated name, and a cluster of letters and numbers that must have made some kind of sense to the old bat.

Except this one file. Just one word, unmoored. He clicked it.

The screen went blank, and for a split-second Pierce wondered if he'd just made a horrible mistake.

Then another prompt appeared, a blinking cursor at the end.

Of course. He'd never really doubted.

PRESENT ACCESS KEY

His hands moved above the keyboard, then stopped. You always played the man and not the game. If Zola had been the one who created the file, back in the day, then it had been copied complete with Zola's locks and Zola's traps. Best to tread cautiously.

He weighted the possibilities. The asset's old name? Too straightforward. Zola's birth date? Not even worth considering. Some other date, one that would be meaningless to anybody else? One of the asset's old inactivation codes? A word? A number?

He glanced at his watch again, its hands nearly invisible in the dim light. You played the man and not the game.

He pressed a random key, tentatively, as though it would cause the screen to shatter.

The cursor didn't budge.

That should be impossible. He knew very little about computer systems, but there shouldn't be any file in the system without a security override, even the files only Hydra knew about.

PRESENT ACCESS KEY

Not enter access key. Not enter password. He looked at the computer terminal. He couldn't see any device where you might fit an electronic key, or an old-fashioned one, for that matter.

Voices sounded in the corridor. Pierce froze and remained absolutely still even as the sound of chatter moved away. He felt a breath leave his body, very slowly.

He had to hurry.

What kind of key had Zola come up with that would let you in—

A key that opened everything.

Could get in anywhere.

It was only the faintest ember of an idea, but he'd learned to nurture such flashes. They'd got him out of more than one sticky situation, after all.

He set it aside to look at later and logged out of Zola's account before he typed in a new set of credentials.

NJFURY.

Did Nick keep a log of who accessed the system with his credentials and at what times? No doubt. What use would Pierce have for him if he weren't that kind of person?

He typed the search commands again, this time instructing the system to bring up every file containing the word Olympus, then glanced at his watch once, twice, three times as the seconds turned into minutes. Nick had access to almost all files, of course, and there were thousands of them. He was running out of time, but he couldn't help the buzz under his skin, the fire licking his nerves. He hadn't felt like this since his days as a field agent. Young, foolish, misguided—but also filled with that special thrill you got when you were on the hunt and hit upon a promising trail. Few sensations matched it.

A list of files began appearing on the screen. He glanced at his watch again—come on, come on—and began skimming the names. Fortunately Olympus wasn't a common word. Zola had done him that favour, at least.

There was a file called SITES_ARL_COMPUTINGPROJECTS_TERMINATED.

No flash of insight, this time, just the dullness of possibility. Soon after its founding and until the mid 70s, S.H.I.E.L.D. had shared space with the DoD at Johns Hopkins' Applied Research Laboratory, and there Zola had worked like a busy little bee in his cover identity. Not long after his death, most of the various science and technology teams had been consolidated and relocated to new S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities, but they were not an organisation that let the past be swept away. They hoarded it as zealously as a desert traveller conserving water.

It was put on ice, to be brought out when it was useful again.

He selected the file and pressed the Enter key. The contents immediately started appearing on the screen. It was a level 1 clearance document; any file clerk could open it.

A text list of old ARL projects filled the screen. Some of the text had been redacted, but he ignored it. Years of training made his eyes skip almost immediately to the relevant entry.

OLYMPUS: electronic network project
Initiated: Mar/10/1972
Terminated: Sep/04/1972
Integrated into DARPA's packet switching projects (see also: MIT/MULTICS)

Sep/04/1972.

Zola had died two days later.

'What were you up to, you son of a bitch?' Pierce said as he closed the file, logged out, and shut down the terminal.

An algorithm excised from Zola's own tapes, a locked file, an old network project. Unfortunately so far it has only led to the personal files of our late friend and other dead ends. An access key…

Weren't he and Zola the only members of the most exclusive club in the world?

He was three steps out of the room when Howard Stark turned the corner.

'Oh, there you are,' Stark drawled. He sounded like he always did: smooth and a little bored.

'Had to go recover from Thompson,' Pierce said, and stepped to Stark's side. 'Is he still at it, or has he been tackled by armed agents yet?' He made a mental note to keep an eye on Stark for the next few weeks, just to be on the safe side. 'Nick still around? I need to talk to him about the Teddy Roosevelt plans. The island, not the president.'

'I gathered. Two months in the Central Security Council and you're already riding Fury, I see.'

'I'm sure he doesn't mind having me looking over his shoulder, as long as I only do it once in a while. How's Anthony, by the way?'

'Fine.' Stark looked younger than the grey in his hair and moustache, but a little of his real age slipped into his shrug. 'He prefers Tony these days.' His tone made it clear he himself did not, though Pierce couldn't imagine why he cared at all.

As they walked back to the gathering, Pierce wondered how soon he could fit in the trip to Maryland.

TBC…

Author's note: The Central Security Council is a fictional organisation that is responsible for oversight of S.H.I.E.L.D. (in my fic, that is), basically a made-up civilian analogue to the U.S. Central Security Service. I'd make all the "you had one job" jokes here if it weren't for the fact that Pierce is head of the Council at this point in time and I'm sure he'd argue they all did a bang up job toppling regimes, fomenting civil wars, and keeping the metric system down. Regarding Bucky getting drafted as opposed to enlisting, his service number in CA:TFA starts with 32, which was the code for someone drafted in Delaware, New Jersey, or New York. If he'd enlisted, the geographic code would have been 12 instead. Maybe the writers didn't realise this, but oh well. It's canon now. The Applied Research Lab is based on the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Lab, which I am quite sure has 100% less Zola IRL.