Dr. Hendry blinked, but said nothing.
Guess I’m in charge—for the moment, Cornelius thought. And if that’s the case, I say we push the envelope . . . to the max. If this guy Logan can swallow so much adamantium without so much as burping, who knows what else he can do?
“Feed?” the technician asked for confirmation.
“Feed on all channels,” said Dr. Chang, glancing at Cornelius.
“Compound feed. Maintain at Level Two.”
“What’s causing this, Doctor?” The speaker’s hand dug into Cornelius’s shoulder like a talon.
“Your guess, Professor, is as good as mine,” Cornelius replied. “We’ve pumped enough Thorazine into the subject to drop a bullock, so the problem is obviously more than a cast-iron constitution or an auto-nervous anomaly.”
“Doctor?” It was Carol Hines, her green eyes looking past the Professor to Cornelius. “I’ve some interesting data for you.”
Cornelius—with the Professor in tow—approached the woman’s terminal.
“According to Medfax, Subject X has been shot at least five times and survived each attack. Four to the trunk one to the leg. He’s also suffered a number of grave injuries.”
Cornelius shrugged. “Tough geezer… We know this, Hines.”
“But the bioscans, the ultrasound, show neither epidermal nor internal scar tissue. None whatsoever.”
“Cornelius, didn’t you say that the subject was hurt last night?”
“Yes, Professor.” Well, Hendry actually said it. I only saw some of the injuries.
“Then where are his wounds?”
That gave Cornelius pause. He glanced at the figure in the tank, too shrouded in bubbles to make out details… only pale flesh, black hair drifting like a tattered banner.
“Hines, do you have any readings?” Cornelius asked, still staring at Logan.
“I have a trace,” she said. “Some clotting around the mastoid. But an hour ago he had a dislocated jaw, cuts, abrasions. Now there’s absolutely nothing.”
Cornelius and the Professor mulled over the information as Carol Hines continued her report. “On the board there’s a direct linear equation between the phenomenon and the intense cardio-activity. And…”
She hesitated.
“Well, I don’t know how important this is… Seems silly. But Mr. Logan’s hair has almost entirely grown back again in just twenty minutes. We shaved him a number of times. This anomaly was attributed to the tank’s synthetic embryonic fluid.”
The lab became very quiet as all eyes shifted to the subject in the tank. Only the steady beep of the biomonitors broke the silence.
“We seem to be in the midst of something unprecedented,” Cornelius declared in an almost reverential tone. “Our Mr. Logan is somewhat more than human.”
“Okay, I have to rethink this fast,” said Dr. Hendry who had joined the huddle. “If the patient’s wounds are now healed, his heart rate could drop—be prepared to de-escalate at a second’s notice. That’s option one.”
“What if the heart rate starts to climb again?” Hines asked.
“We go to option two,” Hendry said. “If the rate continues to rise, pump equivalent noripenephrine to its ratio … but keep me informed of all changes.”
Nobody was talking about killing Subject X anymore, Cornelius noted. Probably because it’s clear that whatever we do probably isn’t going to hurt the guy, let alone kill him. At this point, I’m not sure anything we do can harm him…
“Dr. Chang, Ms. Hines? Is the adamantium reservoir sufficient for all this … additional activity?”
“Sufficient at the current rate, Dr. Hendry.”
Hendry slapped the console. “Not good enough. Go to reserve.”
Carol Hines shifted her gaze to the Professor. “I’ll need authorization from—”
“You have it, madam. Go to reserve adamantium, now.”
The Professor’s command was shouted over his shoulder as he strode to an access door leading to an auxiliary lab.
“Professor,” Cornelius called. “I could use your advice on…”
The door closed shut. The Professor left without a word.
Dr. Cornelius scratched his bearded chin. “How do you like that? We’re in the middle of a crisis and he walks out.”
What in blasted hell could be so important?
* * * * *
The Professor seethed. That fool Cornelius wants my advice? Has he forgotten that he’s here to give counsel, not receive it? I am the master here.
Inside a small containment area off the main laboratory, the Professor closed a heavy hatch and activated the magnetic clamps to lock out the rest of the world. Behind him, a terminal automatically sprang to life. He began to punch a code known only to him into the desktop communicator, but suddenly paused. The Professor noticed his hands were shaking.
Absurd to be this rattled, he told himself. I haven’t been this unsteady since I began pulling the strings instead of being pulled by them.
He completed the code and waited as a satellite picked up the feed and scrambled the communication.
“Speak.” The voice on the other end echoed faintly, mildly distorted by a constant electronic hum.
“It is I,” the Professor began.
A split-second delay as the transmission was coded. “You risk much by contacting me, Professor…”
“Yes, I know. But I have something to say—”
“What is so important that you choose to break established communications protocol?”
“The operation is proceeding right now—”
“And going well, I trust?”
“Yes—”
“Subject X will survive the bonding procedure?”
“Of course he’ll survive it,” the Professor stated, his agitation increasing. “That’s the point. You knew that Logan was a mutant.”
Silence.
“This fact comes as quite a surprise,” the Professor continued, his voice tight. “Why did you not inform me?”
“This conversation is risks Professor. For both of us.”
“No one can hear me. I’m in a sealed lab down the hall—”
“You should be with your patient.”
“I can see the operation on a monitor. I must insist that you hear me out—”
The Professor sensed the Director was irritated by his call, but he had to press on. “Logan is a mutant. He has a superhuman power to regenerate damaged tissue. He is practically immortal, and yet you don’t inform me of this important factor?”
“That information was available to me, it is true. But Logan’s mutant status was classified—on a need-to-know basis—and you, Professor, did not need to know.”
“I’m in there with that backwoods Cornelius and my staff and this, this girl—practically a typist—discovers the truth about Logan by pushing a few buttons on her blasted computer!”
“Your point?”
“It makes me look like I don’t know anything. I had to leave the operating room in case they asked me any questions about it. I felt like a fool!” The Professor hated himself the moment he’d confessed it. His voice betrayed him as a whiny child and he was repulsed.
The Director chuckled. “You sound angry, Professor.”
“Yes…” He forced the calm back into his voice. The control. “You could say I’m a bit put out.”
“But according to you, the procedure is going as planned.”
“You don’t understand… I’m supposed to be in control of these people. How can I give even an illusion of that if I’m not thoroughly briefed by you?”
Silence.
The Professor sought to quell his anger. He knew Director X did not like emotional displays, nor did he respect weakness. When the Professor spoke again, his voice was steady, devoid of expression.
“Do you not trust me?” he asked, then immediately regretted asking the question. Damn it!
The Professor hardly listened to the reply, for the Director’s response wa
s unnecessary. Of course Director X did not trust him. The mere fact that the Director withheld such critical information about the subject spoke volumes to the Professor regarding Logan, the experiment, the Director’s priorities, and the Professor’s own place in the scheme of things.
“I see,” said the Professor at last. “Then I have one last question.”
“What else do I not know about Experiment X?”
This time, there was no reply. The Director had ended the call.
* * * * *
Back in the laboratory the rate of adamantium bonding had increased threefold. Dr. Chang suggested that a leak might be the culprit, so Carol Hines and Dr. Hendry searched their monitors for evidence of one.
“The channels are sufficient, Doctor, but there’s an excess drain at… wait a moment… at the flexor brevis—minima digiti section.”
Cornelius’s first-year anatomy classes were too far behind him. “Plain language, please, Ms. Hines.”
“Sorry. The hands and wrists, sir.”
Cornelius stood behind the woman, gazing at the monitor. He glanced at Hendry, hoping for answers. But the man’s angular face and square jaw were tense. It was clear he didn’t know what to make of the alloy leakage, either.
“Not much of this so-called leak is showing up in the tank,” Cornelius observed. “Less than one part for one hundred thousand. But the adamantium has to be going somewhere. It can’t be collecting at his wrists—what would it bond with?”
Cornelius shook his head. “We’re going to need some advice on this … Anybody know where the Professor is?”
Blank stares.
“No? Have him paged, then.”
After a moment, loudspeakers boomed with an exasperated voice. “Cornelius? What is all the fuss?”
Cornelius looked around for a communicator, then spoke. “Professor, where are you?”
“What do you want, Doctor?”
Cornelius realized that the Professor could hear everything. This lab is obviously bugged. How many other rooms are wired? Are they watching us right now?
“We have a new problem,” Cornelius began. “Could you return to the operating room?”
“I’m busy… What is the problem now?”
“There’s an excess adamantium drain to the minima . . . flexor—the hands and wrists. We can’t account for it and we’re unable to stop it from occurring.”
A long silence followed.
“Uh, Professor? Did you hear me?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then—”
“It’s all part of my program, Cornelius. Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“No, sir. Of course not—”
“Continue with the procedure, and the wrap-up when the bonding is completed.”
“Then you won’t be returning to the lab?”
Another long silence. This time, Cornelius realized the Professor had cut him off.
Carol Hines looked up at Cornelius. “And the leak, Doctor?”
“It doesn’t appear life-threatening, nor is it interfering with the procedure, so we’re going to ignore it. Let’s finish this up, shall we? We’ll try to find out what happened with the leakage in the post-op examination and evaluation phase.”
* * * * *
The intercom buzzed, the sound filling the cramped quarters, waking the man in the bunk. Cutler sat, up and punched the button. “Cutler here,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“Your Boy Scout has been camped outside my office for the last few hours,” Major Deavers barked. “Your idea, I presume?”
Cutler chuckled a bit. “Just wanted Agent Franks to familiarize himself with all the personnel and procedures around here.”
“Franks is on his way to the main lab to pick up Subject X Meet him there. This time, you won’t need EH gear.”
“So the operation’s over?”
“And the patient has apparently survived. Go get him, then escort Subject X to a new holding facility—Lab Two.”
Cutler nodded and keyed the intercom. “No containment facilities there. That means the patient’s out of the soup?”
“Yeah, for good. He’s going to maximum security biomonitoring cell for post-op surveillance. Some technical types will be there to meet you and hook him up.”
“Roger that. Out.”
Cutler stepped into his standard-issue green overalls and brushed back his hair with his hand. Then he exited his quarters and rode the elevator down to the main laboratory.
When the doors opened, Cutler noticed that the huge tank was completely drained of fluid. Wires lay coiled at the bottom of the tank. Like fairy dust, twinkling silver specks of hard adamantium dotted the inside surfaces of the Plexiglas walls.
Next to the tank, in a powered wheelchair, Subject X slumped, head tucked into his hairy chest. Logan was naked and still damp from the post-op chemical bath. His hair hung down in wet ringlets.
Cutler did a double take. Wasn’t he shaved the last time I saw him? Strange.
Agent Franks stood over the subject, a look of disgust marring his young face.
“Sickened?” Cutler asked as he sidled up to the young officer.
Franks shrugged. “Kinda, I guess. He’s still got all those probes and wires sticking out of him. That’s gotta hurt.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s feeling much pain. Bastard’s zonked. Out like a light.”
“Geez, look at this,” said Franks.
Cutler circled the chair to find thick wires coiled around a hook on the seat back.
“All those wires are still plugged into him,” Franks said.
Curler nodded. “Let get the subject to Lab Two. The medicos are waiting. Maybe then we can call it a day.”
7
The Mutant
A thousand nails grinding into my back. My arms. My legs. Gouging. Slashing. Burning…
Logan slid helplessly down the crumbling slope. Roots and jagged rocks shredded the flight suit and ripped into his flesh. Loose stones battered his helmet in a clattering wall of noise. His cracked visor shimmered with psychedelic light—bright visual chaos from his malfunctioning Heads Up Display. And in his grip, tight against the skin of his tattered stealth suit, Logan clutched the black-clad stranger in a bear hug.
Blind, deaf, and unable to stop his precipitous tumble, Logan risked losing his captive to rid himself of the useless helmet. But when he let go, the stranger hung on, arms around his neck. Logan’s fingers fumbled with the latch at his throat. With a hiss, the helmet detached. Blinking against a tide of dirt that pummeled his eyes, Logan spied a tall shape looming in the darkness.
He seized the handle of the Randall Mark I at his belt. As he tobogganed toward the tree, he tore the all-purpose knife free of its Velcro scabbard. Then he stabbed outward.
A hollow thud as the seven-inch blade bit deep into the wood—then a jolt that nearly tore the handle from his grip. The earth disappeared under him in a shower of rocks and dust. Logan’s feet dangled over an abyss. Hundreds of feet below, the man-made lake shimmered in the pallid moonlight.
Logan gripped the knife with both hands while his captive held on to him. Muscles straining against their combined weight, he hung for a moment—long enough to feel a warm, wet stream of sweat course down his ravaged back. Then Logan slowly hauled them both onto a ledge formed by the tree’s twisted roots. As he swung his leg over the edge, his captive squirmed up over his shoulders and around the tree. Turning, the shadowy figure helped pull Logan the rest of the way, then collapsed into a heap at the base of the tree. Panting from the strain of saving both their lives, Logan lay on his side. When the figure rose, Logan reached up and closed his fingers around the stranger’s arm.
“You. My prisoner,” Logan snarled in passable Korean.
To his surprise, there was no resistance. Instead, the stranger used the other hand to pull away the dark commando mask. Logan stared up at almond-shaped eyes filled with concern.
“Are you hurt?” the woman whisper
ed, kneeling at his side.
Logan recognized her accent and hissed a reply in the woman’s native tongue. Japanese. “0—namae wa?”
“English, please, Mr. Logan,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “General Koh has deployed hundreds of audio sensors in these hills. If we are heard, better to be in your language than mine. Many of Koh’s agents understand Japanese.”
Logan grunted and rolled onto his back. Then he winced and sat up. Even in the dim light, the woman could see the dark stain on the ground where he’d collapsed.
“You’re hurt … bleeding.”
Logan shook her away. “Give me a minute and I’ll be all better.” His tone was edged with bitterness, and the woman gave him a curious stare, her small, round face washed in the moonlight.
Then she rose, and Logan watched as she inspected the harness and belt that circled her trim, formfitting night camouflage suit. A lot of equipment had been hung on the woman’s diminutive frame, and from the expression that marred her dainty features, some of it had been lost.
“You still haven’t answered my question. How do you know my name, but I don’t know yours?” Still on the ground, Logan cautiously unzipped the sheath of the Heckler & Koch G36 strapped to his leg. The woman detected the move and drew her Own weapon—a sleek black USP 45 Tactical.
Big toy for a little lady.
She noticed his reaction, and a smile touched her full lips. “I am Agent Miko Katana, Japanese National Police, Tokyo Prefecture.”
Logan blinked in surprise. “A cop? You’re a cop!”
“Hardly a cop, as you say,” she replied. “I’m a member of the Special Assault Team.”
“You’re still a cop. So explain to me, Officer—what the hell is a Japanese detective doing in the middle of North Korea?”
“The same thing you are doing, Mr. Logan.”
“And what would that be?”
As he spoke, Logan freed his automatic rifle and placed it on the ground—far enough away to gain some trust but close enough to grab if he needed to. Miko understood the gesture and holstered her Tac.
“Truce, Mr. Logan?” she said, brushing aside straight hair that fell around her pixie face in a silky black curtain.
“Maybe,” he replied, rising. “But only if you’ll tell me where you got my itinerary.”
Wolverine: Weapon X Page 9
