Wolverine: Weapon X

by Marc Cerasini

  Many of these probes would be used to measure and evaluate the subject’s mundane bodily functions—heart rate, blood pressure, basal metabolism, body temperature, electrolyte balance, respiration, hormonal activity, digestion and elimination, and brain functions. Others would be used for more arcane purposes.

  As the Professor remotely observed the procedure, the team leader began to attach the first probe. Reaching into the simmering stew, Dr. Hendry plunged a slender four—inch spike directly into the brain of Subject X through a hole drilled into the cranium above the left eye.

  A flurry of movement erupted inside the tank. The medical team was taken by surprise when the subject jerked once, then opened his eyes and stared up at them, seemingly aware.

  “Back away from the subject,” Dr. Hendry commanded, even as he stood his ground.

  The subject’s eyes appeared focused and alert, though the pupils were dilated. Subject X tried to speak as well, but the sounds he made were muffled and incomprehensible behind the bubbling respirator and whirring machinery.

  “The goddamn tranquilizer is wearing off.” The neurologist’s tone was critical.

  “We pumped enough into him to stun an elephant!” said the anesthesiologist defensively.

  “I can’t believe it, either, but look at his brain wave patterns.”

  The neurologist stepped aside to display the encephalograph’s readout to the rest of the team.

  “You’re right.” The anesthesiologist could hardly believe it. He had never seen anything like it. “The subject’s still in a fugue state, but he’s regaining consciousness—despite the sedatives.”

  “Okay, I want Thorazine. Four hundred and fifty CCs. Stat.” Dr. Hendry extended his hand for the hypodermic gun.

  His surgical assistant lifted the injector, loaded a plastic vial of the powerful drug into the device, then hesitated.

  “Are you sure about the dosage?” the assistant asked weakly. “Thorazine is going to mess up his brain functions something awful, and 450 CCs…”

  The timid voice trailed off but the meaning was clear. The serum could kill the subject.

  Dr. Hendry gazed through his faceplate at the ghostly silhouette thrashing inside the coffin-shaped tank. The subject’s chest was heaving, his jaw moving behind the breathing mask.

  “If he comes around, he’s going to mess us up something awful,” Dr. Hendry replied.

  “But that’s a huge dose—enough to finish him, maybe …” The anesthesiologist’s voice wasn’t as weak as the assistant’s, but it faded, too. He’d felt obligated to say it, though he knew it didn’t matter. Not with Hendry in charge.

  Watching from his sealed chamber, the Professor grunted in irritation and keyed the intercom. When he spoke, his sharp tone thundered inside the medical lab as well as the team’s environmental hazard helmets.

  “Administer the Thorazine at once. In the dose Dr. Hendry prescribed. The patient must not awaken. Not again.”

  Hendry snatched the hypodermic gun away from his assistant and plunged the injector into the churning tank. The hypodermic hissed, and Subject X tensed as a violent spasm wracked his thick frame. Soon, however, the subject’s eyes closed and his respiration and heart rate slowed.

  “He’s out,” said the neurologist.

  “Blood pressure normal. Heart rate normal. Breathing is shallow, but the respirator will force sufficient oxygen into his lungs,” the anesthesiologist noted with relief.

  Inside the helmet, Dr. Hendry tried to shake the perspiration out of his eyes. “For a second there, I thought we were going to have to release the cyanide.”

  “Then we’d know how good these hazard suits really are,” someone quipped.

  The attempt at humor broke the tension of the moment, but the laughter was forced.

  “Continue the procedure,” the Professor’s voice commanded.

  Dr. Hendry lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if searching for the invisible cameras that recorded every step of the delicate process. After his assistant slapped a long probe into his gloved hand, Hendry reached into the boiling mixture and plunged the needle-sharp skewer directly into the subject’s abdominal cavity.

  Again, Subject X tensed as tremors rocked his muscular frame.

  The Professor keyed his intercom. “There’s been another spike in brain wave functions,” he said, observing the data on his private touchscreen monitors.

  This time, Hendry backed away from the tank with the rest. “What should we do, Professor?”

  “I want you to use the biodampeners to inhibit Subject X’s brain functions…”

  The anesthesiologist spoke up again. “But Professor, we’ve already administered enough Thorazine to—”

  “—stun an elephant, yes. But the sedative does not seem to be effective,” the Professor murmured. “As you can plainly see, Subject X is hardly … placid.”

  Hendry signaled another member of his team. The man stepped forward, cranial probes in hand. The rest of the staff retreated to allow the specialist enough room to work. But before he attached the probes, the psychiatrist spoke.

  “If you wish, we can activate the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor. Interface with the brain should be very simple while the subject is unconscious…”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the Professor replied. “The dampeners will suffice, for now.”

  The psychiatrist accepted the answer without argument and went to work.

  “Will you be joining us in the medical lab, sir?” Hendry asked.

  “Shortly, Dr. Hendry. Shortly …”

  Within a few minutes, all the cranial probes were in place and the devices activated. The readouts indicated that the biodampeners—tiny devices that emitted low-level electromagnetic waves to short circuit brain activity—had done the trick. Subject X would not awaken now. Not until they wished it.

  “You may proceed,” said the Professor.

  Satisfied that the preparatory procedures were at last back on track, the Professor switched off the audio feed, though he allowed the video images to continue to play across the monitors.

  As he shifted in his chair, the Professor’s arm accidentally brushed a bulging personnel file, which sent a stack of yellowed newspaper clippings fanning across his desk.

  MERCY KILLER “QUACK” ELUDES FBI, read the sensational headline emblazoned across one clipping. Next to the headline, a grainy black and-white photograph displayed a bearded man with a round, almost cherubic face. The caption read:

  DR. ABRAHAM B. CORNELIUS NOW A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE.

  With a weary sigh, the Professor stuffed the clippings back into the file and set them aside. Keying a recording device built into the console, he began to dictate in a slow, clear voice.

  “This is a memo to the attention of Director X Date, current… I have met with Dr. Cornelius at the designated location…”

  Designated location? The Professor found himself musing. A ridiculous euphemism for the sinkhole of urban blight where the fugitive scientist had fled in an effort to avoid capture, imprisonment, and perhaps execution.

  “The meeting was cordial…”

  If one can call the threat of blackmail cordial.

  “… and Dr. Cornelius expressed an interest in our project and its ambitious goals…”

  In truth, Cornelius was desperate to escape punishment. In the United States, the authorities dealt harshly with murderers—especially those who’d taken the Hippocratic oath.

  “Dr. Cornelius has willingly agreed to our terms for employment, and seems grateful to be of further service to the science of medicine…”

  As if he had a choice.

  “However, I question whether Dr. Cornelius is the optimum candidate for such a critical position in this experiment. In the past he’s demonstrated a disturbing propensity for independent thinking, as his crimes suggest.

  “I also doubt his expertise will be required. There will be no tissue rejection, of that I am certain, and Dr. Hendry concurs. My bonding techniqu
e will be sufficient to sheathe Logan’s skeleton, I assure you.”

  Ridiculous of the Director to equate Dr. Cornelius’s skills with my own. There is no comparison. I am an architect of the flesh, an artist, a visionary. Cornelius is merely a skilled practitioner of a single discipline. Can Director X not see the difference?

  “Surely other researchers in the field of immunology are equally qualified and have much less… questionable backgrounds?”

  The Professor keyed off the microphone. With a frown, he carefully reconsidered his statement and paused with a thought.

  If I object too strongly, Director X will question my motives, even my loyalty. Perhaps it is better to be gracious and diplomatic, to accept this interloper as I accepted Ms. Hines. They can both be disposed of later when their services are no longer required . . . In the end, only results matter.

  The Professor keyed his microphone.

  “Erase memo back to the word ‘employment.’ ” The recorder hummed, reversing itself.

  “I feel that Dr. Cornelius will be a valuable addition to this project,” the Professor continued. “His credentials are impressive. .

  But he’s certainly not a genius…

  “… I am sure that he will be able to assist me greatly in the coming months…”

  Though I neither want nor require an assistant, no matter how qualified Director X feels this man is. Did the artist Michelangelo require an assistant to paint his vision of The Creation on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?

  “…This project is far from completion, and there is much work to be done…”

  Did God require an assistant or additional help to fashion the universe? I think not.

  “And, of course, Ms. Carol Hines, formerly of NASA, has also proved herself to be a valuable asset…”

  The woman is acceptable, even if Director X thrust her upon me. To her credit, Ms. Hines required no additional training and has assumed her duties immediately upon arrival.

  “She comes highly trained by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, and is proficient in the use of the REM technology—one of a few capable specialists in the world…”

  Better still, the woman is malleable and easily led; the type who would provide an invaluable service and expect little in return. Best of all, she would ask no questions—the perfect drone, a worker bee. Certainly not a queen…

  “Both individuals have arrived at the facility and are settling in.”

  And Dr. Cornelius had better hit the ground running, or he is less than useless to me, and to the experiment. . . I’m already impressed with Ms. Hines’s dedication and her considerable skills. But I shall reserve my judgment of Dr. Cornelius until I observe the man in action…

  “I shall file an additional progress report of success or failure, after the adamantium bonding process is completed. Until then…”

  The Professor added his cyber signature, then keyed off the microphone and slumped into his chair. His thoughts were troubled.

  If only men were as predictable, as tractable as the elements.

  As a scientist, the Professor knew with certainty that the molten adamantium bubbling in the vats below him would melt at a precise temperature. He also knew that the same substance would harden with the tensile strength greater than a diamond when cooled. He knew the precise composition of the resulting alloy on the molecular level. He understood how the various elements would bond and what configurations the electrons would take as they circled the atoms. Yet he could not predict with any kind of certainty how one of the lowliest animal wranglers in his facility would behave under the precise circumstances for which he’d been trained.

  The Professor leaned back in his command chair and gazed, unseeing, at the flickering monitor.

  Meanwhile, inside the medical lab, activities continued apace. The technicians had finished placing the probes and were draining the coffin-shaped container. The valuable fluid would be pumped into a stainless steel vat, where it would be cleansed of impurities and stored for use in subsequent procedures.

  Subject X would spend the night in a carefully controlled holding tank, in an electronically induced slumber. His vital signs and brain activity—what there was of it—would be monitored by a medical staff separated from the subject by an impenetrable wall of Plexiglas. Chemical compounds, fluids, and basic nutrients would be added intravenously as needed.

  On the console, another flashing light indicated that the procedure had ended. The Professor watched the medical team file out of the lab, stripping off their environmental hazard suits and mopping their sweating brows.

  His console buzzed and the gray, patrician features of Dr. Hendry appeared on the central monitor.

  “The probes are in place, Professor. No indication of infection. No threat of rejection. Vital signs are all quite positive.”

  “Very good,” the Professor replied. But the team leader did not log off.

  “More to say, Dr. Hendry?”

  The man on the monitor cleared his throat. “I spoke with the new immunologist,” he said.

  The Professor raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “I’m impressed by his work, but not by the man. Dr. Cornelius’s theory is sound, and he seems to have solved one of the most intractable problems of the bonding process …”

  “I sense more than hesitation in your tone, Dr. Hendry. You may speak candidly.”

  “He’s a common criminal,” Hendry said, agitated. “He’s violated the ethics of his profession. Can’t we utilize his work without actually employing him?”

  “The procedure is experimental, much can go wrong. It’s better to have Cornelius here in case unexpected complications arise.”

  “But—”

  The Professor cut him off “It’s out of my hands.”

  Hendry frowned. “I … understand.”

  “Very good. Carry on.”

  With a touch of a button, Hendry’s face vanished, to be replaced by an endless parade of scientific data crawling across the monitor. The shift in focus pleased the Professor.

  The certainties of the physical world and the comprehensible workings of advanced technology are infinitely preferable to the unpredictability of human thoughts and behavior

  Illogic and ambiguity had always troubled him, and the Professor longed to purge humankind of useless emotions and wanton desires. Control of the human mind was the key—but absolute control had never been achieved. Until the development of the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor, it had never been possible.

  Until now, the limits of the REM device had not been explored, not even by its inventors. NASA used the innovative device for training purposes, or to stage virtual reality drills. But the Professor knew the machine was capable of so much more.

  They call themselves scientists, yet they behave like children, playing with a loaded weapon, never realizing its potential…

  “Sniveling cowards, the lot of them…” the Professor muttered.

  With the REM device, mastery of the human mind was within his grasp—no thought would remain secret, no desire hidden. Every hope, dream, fear, or rage could now be monitored, controlled, measured, and evaluated. Memories could be erased, personalities altered, false recollections implanted to replace real experience.

  In the Professor’s own estimation, the genesis of the technology behind the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor became a testament to the timidity, the lack of imagination, and myopia, which plagues the scientific community.

  Brain Factory a video game company in Southern California, pioneered and marketed the first, primitive REM as a novelty device. However, early product testing proved too dangerous for human subjects. The Consumer Products and Safety Administration stepped in and banned the use of REM technology for any entertainment purposes and other commercial usages.

  Several researchers in the fields of psychology subsequently recognized the potential of the breakthrough technology in the treatment of mental disorders. But instead of embracing this area of st
udy, the American Council of Concerned Psychiatrists spoke out against the REM device being used “until such time as further testing could be completed.”

  Of course, no further testing would be possible without funding, and psychiatrists and academics—fearing obsolescence should the device live up to its vast potential—blocked any grants for research projects using the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor.

  At that point, Brain Factory fell into bankruptcy, and made a bargain basement deal with the United States government. With a new infusion of cash, Brain Factory went on to produce It’s Clobbering Time and Ping Fang Foom—two of the hottest computer games in the world. In exchange, the Central Intelligence Agency SHIELD, and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration received exclusive rights to the use of the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor for “research and training purposes.”

  Though he did not know how the CIA or SHIELD ultimately utilized REM technology, the Professor discovered that NASA had squandered the greatest scientific breakthrough in the history of brain research by using the REM as a teaching tool. Instead of tapping the machine’s mind control powers to exert total mastery over its astronauts and NASA researchers, they limited themselves to using the device as if it were a textbook, for simulations and training exercises.

  The Professor would not be fettered by the same restraints. In the coming months, he fully intended to test the limits of the REM machine’s untapped potential on Subject X. It was not enough to transform the subject’s body. His mind must be restructured as well. The ultimate mastery of Logan became the Professor’s goal. He knew it was only a matter of time.

  The Professor knew that the physical form had certain limits, vulnerabilities. Bones—even ones sheathed in adamantium steel—had limits, too. And chemically enhanced muscle and sinew could still tire or fail.

  But a mind reduced to a beast-like state of consciousness—devoid of fear and doubt and desire, stripped of memory and emotion, and unfazed by the dread of personal extinction—would never waver. In its pristine purity, such a mind would experience no pain, suffer no discomfort, feel no remorse.