Wolverine: Weapon X

by Marc Cerasini

  The drinking the violence got much worse after that. But at least the beatings stopped when I reached adolescence, won a few science fair prizes. Yes, the beatings stopped, but not the abuse.

  A cluster of technicians jostled them, and MacKenzie and Hines moved to a quiet corner to continue their conversation.

  “Quite impressive how you reasserted control over Logan after last night’s incident,” MacKenzie told her.

  “It was very simple,” she replied. “Subject X has already been conditioned to accept the REM interface. It gets easier each time you use the device.”

  “I did notice the same spike in brain activity during the initial interface—more chemical activity?”

  “I don’t believe Logan was on a trip down memory lane, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You’re certain, Ms. Hines?”

  “I think we’ve covered this ground before, Doctor.”

  MacKenzie grinned, relishing the verbal sparring. “Anyway, Ms. Hines, that machine of yours has turned out to be the only means of controlling the subject. Drugs like Thorazine and Pheno-B, technology like the brain dampeners, even knockout gas have all proven ineffectual in the long run.”

  “Yes. Dr. Hendry did mention that the subject was gassed.”

  “Indeed.” MacKenzie frowned. “A whopping dose, too. Enough to subdue an elephant for a week. Subject X woke up in twenty-eight minutes. By then, you had your machine attached and the interface put him down for good.”

  “Actually, I doubt Subject X was ever really ‘awake’ or ‘conscious’ as we understand the terms. His individual consciousness—his ego—has been completely eradicated. His memory all traces of his former personality have been wiped away. The subject is a blank slate.”

  “Someone smashed up Lab Two, Ms. Hines.”

  “More like something. Subject X was acting purely on instinct—lashing out as even an insect will do if its survival is threatened.”

  “Hmm. I wonder if Logan felt threatened …”

  Carol faced him. “I’ve heard whispers that someone—one of the status technicians—got injured. Flown out to a hospital this morning. Needs intensive care.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  MacKenzie shrugged. “I was outside this morning. I try to get out every morning—even we pale-skinned academics need a little sunshine now and then.”

  Carol Hines raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “We had quite a bit of snow in the last couple of days. A few inches at least. This morning the helipad was still covered.”

  The sharp whine of electronic feedback interrupted them. Then the amplified voice of Dr. Hendry called the meeting to order.

  “Can we all take a seat, please? The Professor would like to brief us on some … recent developments.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Hines,” MacKenzie said. “I must join the rest of my staff in the orchestra pit.”

  The clatter of folding chairs filled the room until everyone found a place. Carol Hines sat alone, surrounded by empty seats.

  Despite the post-operation incident in Lab Two, there was a general feeling of confidence among the staff When the Professor stepped up to the microphone, he was greeted by a wave of applause that he immediately swept aside. As he began to speak, two men stood with the Professor—Dr. Hendry on his left and, on his right, Dr. Cornelius.

  “As we move into Phase Two of this experiment, I have found it necessary to reevaluate the core members of the team and shift some of the responsibilities to other members. This new hierarchy I have formulated will be permanent…”

  Suddenly, the room felt very uncomfortable. Colleagues exchanged puzzled glances, wondering about the long-term ramifications of the unexpected managerial shake-up. Only Carol Hines appeared completely unfazed. She alone was not caught totally by surprise.

  “As of today, Dr. Cornelius will assume overall responsibility for the next phase of the operation,” announced the Professor.

  A wise choice—the best the Professor could make, she thought. Hendry had neither the proper attitude nor true dedication to the project. He questioned every idea that was not his own and spent too much time defending his sandbox to be an effective leader.

  “Dr. Hendry will move into a support staff role, though he will still be responsible for the subject’s overall health as well as the future physical conditioning of Subject X”

  Murmurs intensified until the Professor paused, waiting for complete silence.

  “Dr. MacKenzie, our staff psychiatrist, will retain his current title. But he and his staff of psychologists will now report to Ms. Carol Hines, our REM technician.”

  Carol blinked in surprise. Then her eyes met Dr. MacKenzie’s. The man offered her a sly smile and a salute.

  “This change is necessary for the success of the psychological conditioning process and is in no way meant to impugn Dr. MacKenzie’s reputation as a physician or his participation in the experiment. This change was only made because the REM device will play a critical role in the next stage of Project X—the retraining and reprogramming of the subject—and Ms. Hines is our resident expert in that technology.”

  The Professor paused to scan the sea of anxious faces.

  “Now I will turn over the floor and this meeting to Dr. Cornelius, who will outline the next stage of our ongoing experiment in much more detail…”

  * * * * *

  “Have a good lunch, Cutler?”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks for asking.”

  Cutler stood at attention before the major’s desk. He’d shown up in his boss’s office wearing crisp new overalls, fresh from Supply. He chose overalls because they were the only regulation gear bulky enough to cover the bandages that swathed his torso.

  The major glanced at the after-action reports he was holding, then tossed them aside and rested his hands on his desk.

  “Good work, Cutler. Both Franks and doctor-what’shis-name said you saved their bacon. But you should have called for backup before entering Lab Two, not after. Next time you might end up with considerably more than a few stitches.”

  “A dozen stitches, sir. And I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re on light duty for a week.”

  “Come on, Deavers—”

  “Seven days. Starting now.”

  “What do I do, sweep the halls?”

  “You’re going to review all current security procedures, double-check the cameras and motion detectors, test the alarms, and then implement a complete lockdown of the entire complex by midnight.”

  “Now, why would I implement a lockdown, Major?”

  “Because the Director ordered one, that’s why. All personnel, without exception. Until further notice.”

  “What happened? World War Three?”

  “Management happened,” Deavers replied. “I got the coded message this morning. Supplies come in, nobody goes out. End of story.”

  “Why do I get my day ruined?”

  Deavers laughed. “Hey, you’re not the only one. Rice is working on a complete communications blackout, including Internet and phone access—you should hear the egghead’s bellyaching. And poor Franks is on perimeter duty, walking the fence in the snow and freezing cold for the next ten hours.”

  “Yeah, the lucky bastard,” said Cutler.

  * * * * *

  The thoughts played through his mind in an endless loop as Cornelius lay sleepless on his bunk.

  Beast . . . once a man, but scored to the bone . . . animal now, no longer human.

  Dr. Cornelius had fallen asleep listening to the jumbled, chaotic voices recorded during and after Logan’s violent episode in Lab Two. Now they mingled with his own conflicted thoughts.

  He has claws, but he’s still a human being. . . No, not human. Homo superior. Logan must be superior. With those spikes embedded in his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, his brain. He’d be dead f he wasn’t a freak of nature . . . a mutant…

  Cornel
ius sat up and deactivated the recorder. Chest heaving, heart pumping, he found himself doused in a cold sweat. He fumbled for his glasses, then he checked his watch.

  Quarter of seven … but is it morning or afternoon? In this damn place, there’s no way to tell. Been days since I saw the sun…

  He rolled off the bunk and crossed his tiny quarters to the computer terminal. Next to the black screen, a digital clock read 0647, military time.

  “It’s early morning,” he groaned. His voice sounded strange as it echoed in his ears.

  His movements had activated the room’s overhead lighting, and the computer terminal also sprang to life. The intercom buzzed a moment later.

  “Cornelius here…”

  “Good morning, Doctor,” said the status tech. “The Professor wanted me to tell you he will attend the experiment this morning.”

  “What time?”

  “0800 in the main lab.”

  “What about the HDTV screen?”

  “Up and running. Ms. Hines is going through the checklist now, but the screen has already been connected to and interfaced with the REM. Everything should be ago.”

  “Thanks, Status. Out.”

  Need some coffee … have to fortify myself for the day ahead. The day I play Dr. Frankenstein. The day I create a monster…

  But instead of hurrying to the cafeteria, Cornelius sat down at his desk and reviewed the latest data on Subject X.

  The indications are all positive. No sign of rejection—Logan’s superimmune system was overridden long enough for the bonding to take place. Now that system has reasserted itself and Logan has made a recovery in record time. No aftereffects, no scars, no wounds—except where our probes remain in place.

  He rifled through pages and pages of information to find the blood test he’d ordered yesterday. He found the results near the bottom of the file, and eagerly scanned them. At first glance, Cornelius was disappointed. Logan’s blood was unremarkable in every way. Type O negative. Normal white blood cell and platelet counts. Plasma normal, too—a little heavy on the trace minerals, but that could be due to the massive amounts of adamantium being pumped into him.

  All normal. . . and yet Logan’s blood can muster itself into a bacteria—and toxin-fighting substance as powerful as the Professor’s cherished Weapon X.

  Cornelius was ready to toss the blood test aside when he noticed something unusual about Logan’s white cells.

  As an immunologist, Cornelius knew that normal humans had several different types of white blood cells. But one type—neutrophils—is dominant. Neutrophils are quite good at attacking invading bacteria, but that’s pretty much all they do.

  Another type of white cell, the lymphocyte, is more powerful and much more versatile, though there are far fewer of them. Lymphocytes fight more than bacteria—they battle all foreign substances, including poisons, and work with the immune system to combat infection in a manner not yet fully understood.

  While Logan’s overall white blood cell count was within the normal range of one to two percent, his lymphocyte count was off the charts. Not only that, but the hematologist had noticed certain anomalies in the shape and size of Logan’s lymphocytes. They were larger and had some “additional structures as yet unidentified,” according to the man’s cryptic notations.

  Could this be the secret of the subject’s phenomenal immune system? Cornelius wondered. Could it be something so simple? So basic as a white blood cell? If so, then vaccines for a hundred—no, a thousand diseases might be isolated and synthesized through a thorough study of Logan’s unusual blood.

  Only then did the realization come. This . . . this is a seminal find. As fundamental as the discovery of penicillin.

  Cornelius suddenly found himself shaking with raw emotion. He tore off his glasses and tossed them onto the table. Then he covered his eyes.

  Good God . . . if I’d had access to Logan’s blood a few years ago, I could have easily synthesized a vaccine for my son’s disease. I’ve found the secret—the cure—too late to do any good.

  If only I’d found Logan then, Cornelius despaired, everything would have been different. My son’s suffering would have ended. Paul could have lived a normal life, and my wife, Madeline, would be alive today.

  His hands came away wet with tears.

  Maybe they were tears of hope, because if Cornelius’s work was successful in the past, no one would have had to suffer like Paul—ever again.

  Yes, the Professor will have his monster, his killing machine, his goddamn Weapon X, because I’ll be the one to create it for him.

  But in return—for my own part in this hellish, twisted experiment—I will pick the Professor’s brain for all his knowledge, his techniques, and then use Logan as a guinea pig in an effort to alleviate human disease and suffering to find a panacea, a universal elixir that will cure every single disease forever.

  Cornelius prayed that the ends justified the means.

  * * * * *

  CARDIO-INHIBITOR, MS. HINES

  When he heard the booming voice echo through the night shrouded valley, Logan melted into the shadows under a tall pine, dragging Miko Katana down with him.

  “What is it?” she mouthed silently.

  Logan tapped his ears like she was crazy. Surely she’d heard it, too. How could she miss that sound?

  They scanned the woods around them, which were fairly thick now that they’d reached the base of the hill. They had moved close enough for Logan to smell the water, though the lake and the dam beyond were still invisible through the dense foliage.

  Cautiously, Miko drew her infrared lenses—Logan’s had been destroyed with his helmet—but after a careful scan, she saw nothing.

  “Sorry,” Logan whispered as softly as the wind in the trees. “Thought I heard a voice or something. Maybe I hit my head harder than 1 realized.”

  “No problem, I could use a rest.”

  Miko drew a pocket-sized GPS system. But before she activated it, he stopped her. “The dam is that way—less than a kilometer,” he gestured with his thumb. “The road’s over there. Maybe five hundred meters. Beyond that, the lake.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Brought up on the frontier. Didn’t have GPS. Not even a compass. Just the sun. Moon. Stars. And instinct.”

  “Your ‘instincts’ are well honed.” She tucked the device away. “To the road, then?”

  “Let’s parallel the road until we get to the main throughway over the dam, then it’s back into the woods. Then we head to the complex right below.”

  When they set off this time, Miko took point, weapon drawn. Logan let her go.

  After my foul-up back there, she’d rather trust her own ears, he thought ruefully. Or maybe she’s got something to prove.

  Though Miko’s Tac was equipped with a noise suppressor, if she actually had to pull the trigger, no amount of shooting would save them—they would be hunted down like imperialist running dogs. It had happened to Logan before.

  Fifteen minutes later, they reached the road—a wide dirt trail sprayed with oil tar to keep the dust to a minimum. On one side of the road ran a drainage ditch deep enough to hide in if they had to. On the other side, a sharp drop to the lake below, where moonlight shimmered off the rippling black water. Across that lake, a black ridge rose as high as the one they’d just ascended.

  There was no sign of traffic along the winding road, or the dam beyond. There were only the aircraft lights twinkling on the pinnacle of the dam’s tall superstructure.

  Miko pushed forward, but Logan stopped her.

  “I presume you think your missing scientist is inside that complex, am I right?”

  Miko looked at him through a curtain of hair. “What is it your American celebrities say? No comment.”

  “That’s Hollywood. I’m Canadian.”

  “I cannot tell you because I do not know, Mr. Logan,” she said.

  “Fine, because if you did plan on rescuing him, think again. Unless the guy has sold
his services to the North Koreans, and then faked his own kidnapping—”

  “An impossibility, Mr. Logan.”

  “—he’s not cooperating with his captors. And that means the North Koreans had to soften him up a bit… so that he’d see things their way.” Logan paused to let his words sink in. “Chances are good that even if you find him, he’ll be in no shape to travel—let alone make a break.”

  Miko walked silently for a few steps. Then she whirled around to face him.

  But as she opened her lips, Logan silenced her. “Listen!”

  At first, she heard only the water. Then a flapping sound—a steady beat that echoed off the hills.

  “Go! Get down,” Logan whispered, pushing her into the ditch. She landed in thick grass and a shallow puddle of stagnant water. Logan dived in next to her.

  The pounding became a steady roar as the helicopter rose over the ridge on the other side of the lake. Miko cautiously peered above the edge of the trench, then used her night-vision binoculars to identify the vehicle.

  “An MD-500 helicopter,” she told him. “North Korean military markings… North Korean Special Forces, to be precise.”

  “Damn.”

  “Something is suspended from its nose. Not a weapon but—”

  “Get down!” rasped Logan, pulling her back into the ditch just as the spotlight stabbed through the darkness. But not in their direction. Instead, the spotlight played across the opposite slope. “Don’t like the look of that,” snarled Logan.

  The chopper hovered over the hill, shaking the branches as the spotlight probed the ground between the trees. Soon, a second helicopter roared across the lake, joining the hunt. And on the road at the base of the hill, more activity—a convoy of vehicles raced from the dam. The helicopters still hovered in place. Several armored cars and a Russian-made armored personnel carrier rumbled ahead.

  “Langram. They’re looking for my partner,” said Logan, face grim. “Hope he makes it.”

  Then a new sound—more beating rotors—this time coming from behind. They ducked their heads as two more helicopters roared over the ditch, bright white lights tracing the ground, following the road.

  “They’re on to us. They have to be,” said Logan. “Must have tracked us as we came down. Don’t know how, but—”