Why did the Director exclude me from such a critical decision? Why risk a rigidly structured experiment by adding a wild card—a mutant? Who knows what variables have been added to the equation? What surprises might be buried in the subject’s DNA? What unforeseen consequences may arise?
As a scientist, the Professor understood that the most important factor in any experiment was total control of all its aspects. Nothing could be left to chance.
But with his careless decision, the Director has wrested that control from me.
The Professor’s intention was to develop a procedure to turn human beings into weapons of terror—the first step toward creating an entire army of mindless supermen under his rigid control. But now he didn’t even know if his process worked on humans, because it had only been attempted with a mutant.
The only way Iran salvage what remains of this project is to seize control of the reins once more—find a way to reassert my will, my vision of the Weapon X program. . . which means I will have to take complete charge of the psychological conditioning phase of Subject X through my own surrogates.
Of course I will have to push aside Hendry, MacKenzie, and anyone who has resisted my ideas and questioned my vision.
The Professor clenched his fists in a vain effort to still his quavering hands. He couldn’t keep them still.
Look at me now, he thought without a trace of self—pity. I am incapable of controlling my own reflexes. How can I hope to regain control of the experiment? Of this facility? Of Weapon X.
The sudden buzz of the intercom startled him, shattered his intense concentration.
On the central monitor the image of Subject X—now conscious—was abruptly replaced by the apprehensive face of a very young technician, eyes wide behind delicate glasses.
“Uh, Professor, sir? This is the status tech worker at Lab Two.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Dr. Cornelius asked me to—”
Suddenly the youth on the monitor began to babble. “Oh God! Oh my God!” he howled, eyes wide.
“What is it, man?” the Professor demanded, jumping to his feet.
“Blood,” the technician gasped. “Something’s happening … oh God. More blood—it’s spurting out of his hands!”
* * * * *
Behind double panes of three-inch-thick Plexiglas, a technician frantically pounded a keyboard. His mouth gaped, his jaws moved, but his shouts were muted by the observation booth’s soundproof walls.
Inside Lab Two, Subject X thrashed on a bed of tangled wires and coiled tubes, writhing in paroxysms of relentless, stabbing torment. What began as a dull ache in his wrists had rapidly detonated into intolerable agony. Now Logan’s hands twitched uncontrollably and the thick muscle that sheathed his wrists burned and quivered under bruised, tortured flesh. On his corded biceps, veins bulged until they threatened to burst.
Teeth gritted, an animal moan escaped his blood-flecked lips. His arms jerked in violent spasms that yanked a battery of medical probes from his flesh. Sparks rained down from shorted monitors and shattered probes. Logan’s arms flailed wildly, splattering a crimson spray on walls, ceiling, Plexiglas panes.
As he staggered to his feet, beads of sweat appeared on Logan’s forehead and neck, to run in rivulets down his torso. He reeled at his first halting step, his joints afire. Heart pounding at an inhuman rate, the veins on his forehead, neck, and forearms swelled and then throbbed. Blood started from his gums, his nose. Red stained his cheeks, as blood flowed like tears.
Finally, Logan dropped to his knees and threw back his head. His mouth gaped, and in a spray of blood—foamed spittle he unleashed a howl of mortal anguish.
* * * * *
“Status… where is Cornelius?”
As he spoke, the Professor attempted to pull up images from Lab Two, but something—probably the subject’s thrashing—had shorted out much of the system. The only camera he managed to activate projected a red smear—its lens splashed with blood.
“Oh God, sir! I need help here. I’m all alone. I’m not trained for this.”
“Listen to me, man!” barked the Professor. “Patch me into your monitors. I want to see.”
“Yes… yes, sir.”
A moment later, Subject X appeared on the Professor’s monitor. Logan was on his knees, probes ripped free to dangle from the ceiling, the walls, like chains in a dungeon. A hundred wounds seeped black blood. Shattered probes protruded from his spine like porcupine needles.
Despite the horrific tableau, the Professor dispassionately observed that the subject’s mouth was open in what he presumed was a sustained scream.
How tragic that the sound system has failed. I must remember to view the surveillance tapes later . . . listen to his shrieks . . . assess the level of pain he experienced.
The panicked voice of the tech interrupted his thoughts. “Sir… should I go in there and help him?”
“Uh—” Intriguing idea. “No. Not yet, Status.”
“But he must be in terrible pain, sir.”
The Professor smiled. “Yes. I think you are right.”
On the monitor, Logan was still on his knees, his face buried in his chest, fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically. The subject screamed again and stared in dazed horror at his own wrists.
Suddenly, the Professor’s ears were battered by Logan’s inhuman howl. Impressed that the anxious technician had managed to restore the sound as well as the visuals, the Professor quickly lowered the volume, then looked back at the screen.
The image came as a shock. Awestruck, the Professor cried out. “Look at that!”
At Logan’s wrists, on the backs of his hands, anguished flesh began to bulge and stretch. He doubled over, the movement tearing out the last remaining medical probes in a fountain of blood. As the subject’s cries intensified, the Professor lowered the volume again—thankfully not enough to miss the wet, ripping sound of three razor sharp points bursting through the epidermis of the mutant’s hand.
Over the auxiliary monitor, the Professor heard the technician scream like a child.
“You said you’re all alone in Lab Two, didn’t you?” asked the modulated voice.
Pause. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll summon a security team.” The Professor opened the glass hood that covered the emergency alarm, fully intending to alert Major Deavers to the potential crisis. But as his finger hovered over the red button, the Professor discovered that his formerly shaky hands were now as steady as a rock.
“God! He’s got … nails … spikes coming out of him. Right out of his hands! What do I do?” the technician gasped.
“Stay calm. Help is on the way.”
The Professor’s eyes remained locked on the figure in Lab Two. Three clawlike appendages—a total of six of them now—protruded from each of the subject’s hands. About thirty-one centimeters in length, slightly curved, and coated with adamantium steel, the claws appeared to be sharp-edged.
Where did they come from? How firmly are they rooted to the subject’s skeleton? Does he control the deployment of his claws, or is their extension a reflex action?
So many questions…
One thing the Professor knew for certain. Those… claws . . . no doubt caused Subject X excruciating agony as they extended.
“God, Professor, more blood. He needs help, right now.”
“Listen to me,” the Professor commanded. “Do you … do you have access to the patient’s cell from the observation booth?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“And you’re sure the subject needs medical assistance?”
“God, he must!” the technician replied.
“Then you should go in there and try to help the poor man.”
A long pause. “Yes… I’ll do that, sir. If … if you say so.”
“I believe you should,” said the Professor. “And be sure to close the security door after you enter the cell. Just to be safe.”
On the auxiliary monitor the Professor sa
w the technician nod, his face ashen.
“Good lad … run along.”
* * * * *
Dr. Cornelius stopped at the dispensary for a cup of coffee before heading down to Lab Two. As he waited for the pot to brew, he attempted to contact the observation booth on the wall intercom.
“Status? Status? This is Cornelius. Come in…”
No reply, so he beeped the booth again.
Come on, Status, you’ve been bothering me all night. Why won’t you pick up now?
Cornelius began to worry after three attempts went unanswered. At the very least, Status Tech was violating the project’s protocol by ignoring his call.
Cornelius spun on his heels and hurried out of the dispensary without his coffee. The aroma had attracted two members of the security team, who were due on the outside perimeter for the sunrise shift change. Both were swathed in Kevlar body armor, though the older man neglected to don his helmet.
“You and you!” barked Cornelius. “Come with me!”
“Yes, sir,” Franks replied crisply.
“Something wrong, sir?” asked Cutler.
Cornelius shrugged. “Could be. I don’t know for sure. Please just stick close.”
The guards followed him into an elevator. They rode down to Level Two in silence, though Franks and Cutler exchanged anxious glances when they discovered their destination. They’d been on Level Two hours before, delivering Subject X to the technicians.
Sure enough, Dr. Cornelius led them to Lab Two, though he paused at the security door.
“The lab worker here, what’s his name?”
“Not sure, doc,” Cutler replied. “Cal or Cole or something.”
“He’s new, sir. Just met him today,” said Franks.
“New?” Cornelius was perplexed. “If he’s new, then he shouldn’t be in this section.”
Cornelius punched the security code into the keypad and entered the observation booth, Cutler and Franks bringing up the rear. The doctor was surprised to find the booth empty the power off save for dim emergency lights. The monitors were blank, and a smell of ozone and burnt plastic hovered in the air. On the other side of the Plexiglas wall, Lab Two was pitch-black.
Cornelius bit back a curse. “If he left without authority, I’ll have that kid’s hide for a drum.” He scanned the console, searching for a light switch. Cutler found it first.
As the lights came up, they heard a sudden scream that ended abruptly in a wet gurgle.
On the other side of the Plexiglas, in the center of the lab, the missing technician lay sprawled on a bed of coiled tubing, shattered electrodes, and twisted wires. Blood spurted from his mangled throat. The man’s, eyes were pleading, his arms and legs twitched as his lifeblood pooled around him.
Hunched over his victim as if he were watching him die, Subject X stood—bloodstained and naked. His corded arms outspread. Protruding through bloody holes in both hands—six curved adamantium steel claws.
“Good Lord! What the hell happened here? This is horrific!” Cornelius exclaimed.
“He’s dead, he’s dead!” cried Franks, averting his eyes.
Only Cutler kept his senses. He triggered the alarm and activated the security system, which sealed all the doors between levels. But even through soundproof walls, the men in the booth could hear the Klaxon’s wail. Franks slowly backed away as the figure on the other side of the Plexiglas locked eyes with him. “Is that him? Is that Subject X?” he stammered.
“It’s Subject X!” Cornelius cried. “That’s my patient, but God … what’s happening to him?”
“He murdered the boy,” said Cutler. “He’s covered in blood. Used those knives coming out of his hands.”
Behind his thick, round glasses, the scientist’s eyes narrowed curiously. “They look like claws.”
“He looks like a rabid animal,” Cutler shot back.
Franks stepped up. “Sir, we’ll get guns and blow the thing away.”
“Too late for that,” said Cornelius. “Too late for anything.”
“You’re right,” said Cutler. “It is too late. That son of a bitch is about to come right through the panel.”
Cornelius snorted. “Ridiculous. That’s four inches of Plexiglas. He’s tough, but—”
The clear plastic wall exploded outward, showering Cornelius, Cutler, and Franks with a pelting crystalline hail. From the middle of the whirlwind, a howling figure leaped into the observation booth to face them. Cutler heard an angry snarl as Subject X dropped into a crouch, ready to spring.
* * * * *
On his central monitor, the Professor watched the chaos in Lab Two with joy. The frantic cries of Cornelius and the security men were music to his ears.
“It’s Subject X! But God … what’s happening to him?”
“He murdered the boy … covered in blood. Used those knives … out of his hands.”
The auxiliary monitors scattered around the console provided real-time windows to the manic activity in other parts of the facility. From Level One Security, Major Deavers and a team of wranglers hurried to the elevator. In the OR, physicians and technicians assembled to deal with the emergency medical needs of Subject X.
“…look like claws…”
“He looks like a rabid animal…”
“… get guns and blow the thing away…”
“Too late for that. Too late for any—”
The Professor touched a button and cut the audio, his hand as steady as the finest surgeon on his staff.
Weapon X is already a success, the Professor realized. The subject has more potential for mindless violence than even I imagined or ever could have hoped.
Logan’s primary instinct . . . perhaps his only instinct . . . was for destruction. When he viciously slashed that technician’s throat—an innocent who only tried his best to alleviate the subject’s pain—Weapon X acted on instinct, unclouded by mercy or reason. In a word, the subject’s performance was…
“Magnificent.”
* * * * *
“Out of the booth!” Cutler cried as he threw himself between Franks and Cornelius and the rampaging Logan. Franks dived for the exit before the last pieces of Plexiglas tinkled to the floor. But Cornelius froze, eyes wide with surprise behind bottle-thick lenses, and Logan whirled to face the bearded scientist.
With a guttural roar, Logan raised a clawed hand to strike Cornelius down. But before he could deliver the fatal blow, Cutler leaped on his back, locked his legs around Logan’s neck, and seized his clawed arm with both hands.
“Move!” Cutler roared as he struggled to take Logan down.
Transfixed, Cornelius didn’t budge. As Logan strove to free his upraised arm, Cutler felt his grip on the madman slipping. With a roar, Logan reached up and yanked the man off his back. Spinning helplessly, Cutler rolled over the computer terminal and through the remains of the shattered window. He landed on his back, hard. He tried to rise but fell again, his head lolling against the bloody carcass of the murdered technician.
Logan advanced on Dr. Cornelius. Face-to-face, their eyes locked, and Cornelius braced himself for the fatal strike. It never came. Instead, Logan’s legs gave out and he reeled. With a final moan, Logan tumbled to the steel floor and lay still. Cornelius dropped to his knees beside the subject and touched his wrist to check for a pulse—only to recoil as the adamantium claws retracted, vanishing under folds of the subject’s flesh.
The security door burst open. Weapon drawn, Major Deavers rushed in. Backing him up was Agent Franks and a team of animal handlers, electroprods crackling in their gloved hands.
Cornelius raised his hand to stop them, then placed two fingers on Logan’s throat. “The subject is alive—barely. But all of his life-support systems have been torn away. We have to get him to the OR, stat, or we’ll lose him.”
To the doctor’s surprise, the wranglers pushed him aside and seized Logan with rough hands. Using wires and tubes from the shattered medical probes, the guards hog-tied the unconscious man,
ignoring Cornelius’s protests.
Finally, the scientist spied the tag on Major Deavers’s body armor. “You! Are you in command?” Cornelius barked.
“Yes, sir,” Deavers replied gruffly, his voice echoing behind the clear face mask.
“I want you to take control of your boys, then take Subject X to the OR for evaluation. Time is of the essence. With his life support gone, he doesn’t have long.”
Deavers looked past Cornelius to the mangled corpse on the floor. “What about him?”
Cornelius faced the technician, then lowered his eyes. “There’s no hurry … he’s gone.”
Deavers’s eyes burned, but he bit back a response. Then he turned to face his men.
“Put him on a gurney and take the bastard to the OR,” Deavers commanded. “Restrain him well. And if he wakes up—or even snores—shock him with your prods.”
Two burly handlers tossed Logan onto a gurney, strapped him down, and wheeled him out. Meanwhile, Major Deavers and Agent Franks entered the lab to check on Cutler.
“He’s out,” said Deavers. “Doesn’t look bad, though.”
Deavers slapped Cutler awake, and when the man opened his eyes, the major shook his head in mock sympathy. “On your feet, hero,” said Deavers, offering his hand.
Cutler took it, pulled himself erect, and shook his head to clear it. “What hit me?” he moaned. “And do I look as bad as I feel?”
Major Deavers directed his attention to the corpse sprawled on the floor in a darkening pool of his own blood.
“You look a hell of a lot better than that guy.”
* * * * *
“If I had known what you were really up to, Professor, I might be very upset with you.”
Cornelius sat in the shattered observation booth among shards of Plexiglas and smashed consoles, cradling a cup of lukewarm coffee in his trembling hands.
“Possibly,” said the Professor. “Though I never hid the true nature of the project from you. Rather, you chose not to discuss the more controversial aspect of the program with me. Thus, I felt you were not ready to accept certain… ugly realities.”
“I thought you were trying to create some kind of superbeing. A … a supersoldier or something. Surely you’ve heard of that program, back in the 1940s?”
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