Wolverine: Weapon X

by Marc Cerasini

  “A what?”

  Cutler opened a wall panel to display a stainless steel vehicle that resembled an armored golf cart. With a whine of servomotors, Cutler guided the flatcar out of the battery-charging unit and over to the bubbling tank.

  It took several minutes to show Franks how to operate the flatcar, and where to hook the tank’s life-support systems during transport.

  “I sense you’ve done this before,” said Franks.

  Cutler nodded.

  “So hero here isn’t the first volunteer. There were others…”

  Franks was fishing. Cutler wasn’t biting. Not until he knew the guy better, trusted him not to shoot off his mouth.

  “He’s the first human,” said Cutler.

  Franks grinned. “Mystery solved… That’s the reason for all those wild animals.”

  “Drop it, Franks. We’ve got work here.”

  Under Cutler’s supervision, Franks backed the flatcar under the holding tank and activated the electromagnetic clamps that held it tightly in a magnetic grip. The tank settled in, the flatcar groaning under its weight. As the vehicle rumbled to the exit, fluid sloshed inside the crystalline coffin and the subject bumped against its transparent walls.

  Cutler glanced at the digital readout on the flatcar’s control panel and noted with satisfaction that life support was working normally. Then he checked his watch.

  “I’ve got twenty minutes to get Subject X down to the main lab, so I’ll see you later, Franks.”

  “Can’t I go with you? Where are you going?”

  “That’s ‘need to know.’ And you don’t need to. Your security clearance ends at the elevator, so turn around and follow the yellow signs back to the changing room. Don’t open any other doors or you’ll violate security protocol, and you wouldn’t want to do that on your first day—makes a bad impression.”

  “No, sir… I mean, yes, sir…” Franks turned to go, little kid disappointment on his face.

  “Hey, Franks. If you’re bored, go see Major Deavers. I’m sure he’ll find some action for a Boy Scout type like you.”

  * * * * *

  The main laboratory sat one level above the adamantium smelting plant in an area approximately the size of an airplane hangar. Typically, only a small portion of the massive space was in use at any one time, with the rest of the level dark. However, when the elevator doors opened, Cutler was astonished to find the enormous floor fully illuminated. The entire lab had become a hive of frantic activity.

  Flashing red lights hit Cutler’s eyes as he exited the elevator. WARNING. ZONE UNDER QUARANTINE. Red-light procedure required environmental hazard suits be sealed and pressurized before personnel entered the area. Cutler was all set.

  He moved forward into the steel-lined, dome-roofed cathedral—a space hollowed out of solid bedrock. At least fifty physicians, medical assistants, computer technicians, and various specialists, all clad in the same pressurized suits as Cutler’s, crowded around an enormous holding tank in the center of the floor.

  That tank was empty now, but it was easy to guess who the guest of honor would be. Cutler squired Logan forward, guiding the rolling flatcar toward the center of the lab. When the medical team saw him, they rushed him like sycophants swarming a red-carpet celebrity.

  His escort duties fulfilled, Cutler was shuffled aside, the hardest shove coming from his favorite scientist—Dr. Hendry, the same doctor who’d called him a “thug” and complained about Logan’s condition when they’d first brought him in.

  In a hurry to check the subject’s medical status on the display panel, Hendry’s voice sounded shrill over the headsets. “Heart rate, normal… Respiration is normal… Blood pressure is normal. Okay, people, let’s get him to the tank, stat.”

  A team of technicians wheeled the flatcar to the base of the mammoth tank, where a waterproof hatch on the larger vessel yawned. Using a Plexiglas sluice, the medical team attached the smaller holding tank to the larger vessel.

  Finally, a bubbling green biological soup was pumped into the larger tank. After a few moments, the level in both containers was equal. As the fluids merged, the technicians literally floated Logan from his holding tank into the larger container.

  A specialist squeezed through another hatch—a neat trick in a bulky EH suit—and splashed into the containment tank beside the unconscious man.

  First, he attached Logan’s intravenous tubes and respirator to the systems built into the larger tank. Then he used a handheld sensor to check the status of the hundred or more probes piercing the subject’s body—one probe at a time. The process took many minutes, and several probes were flagged and replaced by another specialist who had also squeezed into the tank.

  Finally, the two men gave the doctors a thumbs-up and climbed out. The hatches were sealed behind them and more fluid flowed into the tank until it was near to brimming with a bubbling green liquid. As the two technicians headed for the changing room, small robots scooted across the polished metal floor, cleaning the chemical trail the men left in their wake.

  Banks of computer terminals clustered around the central containment tank hummed and ticked as their systems began to interface with the probes in Logan’s body. Consoles surged with energy and monitor screens began crawling with indecipherable data that flowed endlessly.

  Moving unnoticed among the sea of physicians, technicians, and specialists, Cutler spied some new faces in the observation booth—an enclosed gondola ringed by catwalks that hung from the high stone roof over the center of the lab.

  Behind a glass partition, a short, stout, middle-aged man with a full brown beard and thick glasses watched the containment procedure with interest. His hands were thrust into the pockets of a stained lab coat. From a distance, Cutler read his name on the security clearance tag:

  DR. ABRAHAM B. CORNELIUS.

  The name sounded familiar, but Cutler—a news junkie—just couldn’t place it.

  Next to the middle-aged man sat a petite young woman in a pale green smock. Though she had plain features, even from this distance Cutler could tell she was intelligent and intense.

  Or, more likely, compulsive and driven, like most of the eggheads around here.

  As she punched keys on a small handheld computer, the woman pushed a wisp of straight, brown hair away from her elfin face with an impatient gesture.

  Yep. Compulsive and driven, Cutler decided.

  He turned his attention to the ceiling, where a two—ton metal cap alive with arcane technology was lowered by stout steel chains. As the heavy lid clanged into place, technicians climbed aboard to connect yet more pipes, tubes, and sensors.

  “The containment tank will be sealed in five seconds,” a disembodied voice warned. “Four … three… two…”

  With a roaring hiss that reverberated throughout the vast domed chamber, the airtight seal was activated.

  “Containment tank sealed and pressurized,” declared the disembodied voice. “Venting now…”

  Rushing air ruffled papers and buffeted the staff as the atmosphere in the main lab was sucked away, to be replaced by pure, filtered air. The vented gasses exited into biohazard tanks that were disposed of in accordance with the rules and regulations of Canada’s Environmental Protection Agency.

  In a few minutes, flashing red lights shifted to green. The voice spoke once again: “Main laboratory decontaminated. You may now depressurize your suits.”

  The group immediately broke their pressure seals and removed their helmets. Many began to strip away their protective clothing as well. Amid sighs of relief and celebratory laughter, they inhaled cool, fresh air, mopping sweat from their brows or scratching some persistent itch that had been tormenting them.

  Cutler removed his own helmet and gloves and tossed them onto a conveyor belt. Others did the same. The belt carried the gear over to a dumbwaiter, which transported the contaminated clothing to a sterilization room on another level.

  Suddenly, Dr. Hendry’s voice hissed a warning to his staff “Head
s up, gentlemen. The Professor is arriving.”

  Cutler had never seen the famous Professor up close. Curious, he turned to watch the Professor glide into the lab. Already, Dr. Cornelius and the anonymous woman had exited the booth and moved to the main floor. Now they watched with the others as the master of this facility, and the genius behind this experiment, moved among them.

  “How is the patient?” the Professor asked.

  “I’m told he has a few injuries,” Dr. Hendry replied haltingly, his tone deferential.

  “Is he severely damaged?”

  Hendry shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “Any deep cuts? Abrasions… We can’t afford leakage.”

  “I understand,” said Hendry with a nod. “We plugged him up pretty tightly Teflon patches around all the probes, sealing the entry wounds. The subject’s mouth, nostrils, ears, and anus are all surgically sealed, and a catheter is blocking his urinary tract.”

  Abruptly, the Professor turned to address another. “Good morning, Dr. Cornelius. Are we set to begin?”

  As they spoke, Cutler noticed that the Professor treated Dr. Cornelius with a measure of respect—a deference he apparently reserved for a select few. Dr. Hendry was one. Now, apparently this Dr. Cornelius merited equal treatment, which both surprised and impressed Cutler.

  As the conversation degenerated into technobabble, Cutler shifted his attention to the woman. She listened in rapt attention to the two eggheads as if she were listening to the spoken word of God.

  Cutler shifted his feet in an effort to catch her attention, and the woman turned her forest green eyes in his direction. He locked stares with her, gave her a polite nod, a small smile.

  To his surprise, the woman looked right through him, as if he wasn’t there. Something about her unblinking, almost vacant gaze disturbed him.

  Finally, the Professor dismissed most of the staff.

  “Everyone not a part of this phase of the experiment is to depart the lab immediately,” he commanded.

  Most of the milling crowd quickly moved toward the elevator. Cutler joined the crush.

  As he pushed his way into the crowded car, he couldn’t help wondering just what the Professor and the rest of these mad scientists had in store for that poor sucker floating in the tank.

  4

  The Fugitive

  Someone is watching me. I can feel the eyes. Curious. Penetrating…

  For many minutes, Dr. Abraham B. Cornelius resisted the urge to wipe his forehead, beaded ever so lightly with sweat.

  Just like on the courthouse steps . . . all those camera lenses pointing . . . reporters barking questions…

  The dampness increased. Dr. Cornelius could feel all in his caramel-brown beard, his mustache, his eyebrows. And worst of all, his forehead felt slick now with perspiration. Obvious perspiration.

  Is that what they’re looking at? Or are they thinking the same thing as the people in that courthouse crowd, the ones who’d pointed and whispered, “That’s him. That’s the one. Cornelius, that doctor who murdered his wife and child.”

  Dr. Cornelius could hardly stand it. Dipping into a pocket, he pulled out the handkerchief he always carried—the one his wife had embroidered in the corner with a delicate C. Pretending his glasses needed cleaning, he made a show of wiping the bottle-thick round lenses, then, ever so casually, he dabbed the sweat away, offhandedly, indifferently.

  Eyes watched me then. I could feel them. Like I can feel them now. But perhaps they’re only speculating. Perhaps they don’t know. Or if they do, they don’t know everything…

  Hands thrust back into the pockets of his wrinkled white lab coat, Cornelius put back his treasured handkerchief and surveyed the faces of the men and women around him in the pressurized observation booth.

  Which one of these people is staring? Or are they all watching? I need to know…

  On his left stood Carol Hines. No M.D. following her name, no title of any kind. Yet after watching the frenzied pace at which she’d been working for the past few days, Cornelius could only assume her expertise was vital to the success of the experiment.

  The petite Ms. Hines had a smallish face and wore her hair in a severe, almost boyish style with thick, straight bangs. She might be described as attractive if her features weren’t constantly pinching with impatience and dissatisfaction—nothing like his tall, slender wife, a dedicated scientist who had an easy laugh and whose face, even when working intensely, had reflected exhilaration, enjoyment, even delight.

  At the moment, Ms. Hines’s intense green eyes were fixed not on him but a large liquid crystal display panel of a handheld device. Unblinking, she tapped the keypad with robotic efficiency, her face an agitated frown.

  When Dr. Cornelius was introduced to Ms. Hines several days ago, she’d hardly even glanced at him, and she’d barely looked in his direction since.

  Clearly, she’s not the one…

  Cornelius next turned his attention to a medical technician hunched over a terminal near the observation window. The man had hardly taken his eyes off the monitor since Cornelius arrived. He seemed transfixed by the medical data streaming into his terminal from the lab below.

  Abruptly, the man looked up. Cornelius steeled himself to meet the recognition, the accusation—but the technician looked past him to the digital chronometer on the wall.

  Cornelius shifted his attention to another technician, this one wearing a headset and microphone. The man was on his feet, dividing his attention between two ticking digital display panels on the console and the activity on the other side of the glass.

  Until a moment ago, the main laboratory had been filled with a lethal antiseptic gas that created a germ-, virus-, and bacteria-free environment with near-genocidal efficiency. This draconian measure was performed to protect Subject X from the threat of contamination during the prebonding preparation and transferal period. Now that the subject was fully immersed in a sterile suspension fluid, the lab was being vented of the toxic gasses.

  As the technician watched, his digital readout measured the rate and amount of sterilized air being pumped back into the massive space. The display next to it measured how much poison was being sucked out. When both displays glowed green, the technician spoke into his headset.

  “Main laboratory decontaminated. You may now depressurize your suits.”

  Cornelius joined the others at the window to peer down at the laboratory floor. The relieved medical staff were stripping off their bulky environmental hazard suits, then tossing them along with their helmets and gloves onto a fast-moving conveyor belt.

  Among the group, Cornelius spied a stocky, powerfully built young man with dirty blond hair and attentive blue eyes. His ruddy face upturned, the young man was openly staring into the observation booth.

  He’s the one . . . the one who’s been looking…

  Cornelius sensed intense curiosity behind the man’s stare, but no hint of recognition, accusation, or emotion in his neutral expression.

  He’s some kind of policeman, though . . . after a year on the run I know the stare of the law when I see it. A fed, or ex—military maybe. Or he’s a private security guard. But not a clock puncher.

  Cornelius knew he was right. A year on the run gave him a sixth sense for such things.

  Suddenly, an alarm bell sounded inside the booth.

  “Depressurizing. You may now proceed to the laboratory floor.”

  Behind them, a heavy steel hatch opened with a sharp hiss and Cornelius moved to the exit with the others. Outside the booth, a narrow catwalk with a mesh steel surface ran for many meters; under it, a drop of fifty meters or more.

  Cornelius noticed that the air had a faint chemical taint. It stung his nostrils, and he wondered briefly if the lab had been thoroughly purged of the toxic disinfectant, or if there was a fatal malfunction in the venting system.

  Have I traded the possibility of one gas chamber for another? A lethal injection for a lethal atmosphere?

  White-knuckle
d hands clutching the guardrail, Cornelius followed Carol Hines along the catwalk, then down a steep flight of grated steel steps to the main floor.

  Moving among the doctors and technicians, Cornelius felt more at ease—hidden in plain sight, anonymous in a sea of earnest faces too wrapped up in their work to pay much attention to him.

  Then, like a royal herald, Dr. Hendry spoke. “Heads up, gentlemen. The Professor is arriving.”

  Along with everyone else, Dr. Cornelius turned to greet his master, his keeper, the man who’d promised him protection from the law—as long as he gave his all to this unprecedented undertaking.

  Walking erect as a proud general surveying his militia, the Professor moved among the members of his staff, meeting their eager, respectful gazes with an air of polite but indifferent superiority. Occasionally, the Professor paused to address a technician about a specific issue. His face remained impassive as he listened to the reply and he usually moved on without comment when he’d heard enough. The Professor did not waste words.

  It was the same the first time I met him. Why is he treated with such reverential awe by these people? I know what power he holds over me, but what about all the others? Can they all be volunteers? Did they all willingly commit to this bizarre experiment?

  Before being “recruited” himself, Dr. Cornelius had encountered the Professor only twice before, yet each chance meeting came at a crossroads in his own life.

  Their first encounter occurred many years before, when Dr. Cornelius was poised on the brink of professional triumph and personal happiness.

  It seemed so long ago now . . . like another lifetime. No. Like another man’s life.

  * * * * *

  With a wide grin, the dean of the medicine department greeted Dr. Cornelius at the door, pumping his hand like a lost brother. Before a hundred colleagues, he gave a glowing introduction to an internationally diverse audience that included Cornelius’s former teachers and fellow pupils from his medical school days.

  It was simply the most gratifying moment in his career. To return to his adopted country; to his alma mater, to present to the world his successful results after years of struggling—years that in many ways had already been rewarded, in Cornelius’s own estimation, by the beautiful woman who watched him from the front row.