Wolverine: Weapon X

by Marc Cerasini

  “Right here,” said Lynch, digging his booted foot into a mound of snow stained with blue dye.

  “Where are the goddamn techs?” Cutler demanded. “Logan still has to be hooked up.”

  “Here they come,” said Franks.

  Two technicians, bundled in ill-fitting Kevlar body suits and dragging too much equipment, set to work as soon as they arrived. They began by hooking the loose wires to a computer terminal buried in the snow at Logan’s feet.

  “What’s that?” asked Franks.

  The man kneeling at Logan’s feet looked up. “This box is a wireless link to the computers in the lab, including the REM device. These feeder cables will keep our boy docile until the docs decide it’s time to turn him loose.”

  “Yeah, when these wires get unplugged—watch out,” warned the other technician.

  “Seen him in action yet?” Cutler asked.

  “Just heard rumors,” the tech on the ground replied as he tested a circuit.

  “I’ve seen him in action,” said Franks. “And I plan to be long gone when they unleash him.”

  “Hey, Dooley,” said the man in the snow. “This wrangler’s seen Subject X in action.”

  Franks turned red. The man called Dooley turned and thrust a pocket-sized computer into the agent’s hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “The feeder cable release control. When Doc Cornelius gives you the word, you press this button and the monster is loose.”

  “Man, why me?” Franks asked.

  “You’re a wrangler, ain’t you?”

  Meanwhile, the technician activated the wireless box at Logan’s feet, then entered a code into the keypad on top.

  “Okay, Agent Cutler,” he said, rising. “Remove the electroprod, then move back to the shelter.”

  With trepidation, Cutler deactivated the staff and detached the twin prongs from the magnetic locks embedded in Logan’s temples. To his relief Logan acted the same as he had throughout the entire process. From the moment they came above ground to the time they hooked him up to the box, Subject X didn’t even blink, just stared straight ahead, eyes unseeing.

  The security team backed away from Subject X, tranquilizer guns held ready. At sixty meters they turned and bolted for the concrete surface shelter near the wolf cages. They would wait in that compact bunker cluttered with communication’s equipment until their services were required again.

  The technicians joined them a few minutes later—after all the connections had been tested, the cameras and sound systems activated, and Logan subjected to a final stage of “preparation.” The techs stripped off their gear and took their places at the communications console. Cutler and Franks grabbed some coffee from a flask and peered at Subject X through a narrow slit. Franks held the feeder cable control like it was a bomb he’d prefer to get rid of Lynch, uninterested, curled up on a bench and took a nap.

  Outside, the subject stood stock-still, legs braced, up to his calves in thirty centimeters of powdery snow. A brisk wind stirred Logan’s hair, and carried the scent of warm blood to the wolf cages.

  Almost immediately, the animals howled in anticipation as they moved around in a frenzy, hollow-eyed with feral hunger.

  * * * * *

  “Amazing work, Dr. Hendry!” exclaimed Dr. Cornelius. “Subject X has increased his muscle mass by a third and lost more than a third of his body fat in just under six weeks. Your chemical treatments are nothing short of miraculous.”

  Dr. Hendry waved Cornelius’s compliment aside and grinned. “It was a thorny problem, but all it took was a fresh approach to figure out a solution.”

  They stood in the main lab, near a buffet table laden with a continental-style breakfast. Two dozen doctors, researchers, and technicians had worked through the night to prepare for this day’s critical experiment. It was Dr. MacKenzie who took it upon himself to arrange for breakfast to be delivered by the cafeteria at dawn.

  Carol Hines sat near the two doctors, a cup of tea cooling at her side. She paid no attention to their conversation as she ran down the complex programming checklist in her lap.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t use steroids,” Cornelius said between bites of cheese Danish.

  “No, no. Steroids are quite unsuitable. The results of steroid use are temporary and there are far too many harmful side effects.”

  “So how did you solve the problem?”

  “Once the researchers at Johns Hopkins University determined that the protein myostatin limits muscle growth in humans, it was fairly simple for me to devise a specific enzyme to block that protein, allowing Subject X to bulk up in record time.”

  Cornelius looked forlornly at his own belly, which protruded over his belt. “Man, you’ve got to let me try that stuff Doctor.”

  “Good morning,” the Professor announced as he entered the crowded lab. Dr. Cornelius turned, a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee in one hand. Hines looked up from her chart as the Professor crossed to their side.

  The Professor directed his first query to Ms. Hines. “So this maybe the big day, eh?”

  “We’re hoping so, sir,” she replied.

  “Good, good…” He turned. “Dr. Cornelius. Do you have anything for me to review?”

  Cornelius gulped down the last of his Danish. “Well, we believe we’ve overcome the supraendocrine gland problem.”

  The Professor was impressed. “How so?”

  “A simple trabeculae matrix,” Dr. Hendry interrupted. “It was staring us in the face the whole time.”

  “But you’ve got it now,” said the Professor.

  “We believe so, sir,” Cornelius replied. Not an endocrinologist, he was taking his cue from Dr. Hendry.

  “Excellent work,” said the Professor. “Have you released all of Logan’s feeder cables?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Then do it now, Dr. Cornelius. Let the experiment begin.”

  Cornelius nodded, then faced the rest of the staff. “Everyone to your places,” he commanded. “Experiment two of six to commence in two minutes.”

  Hines took her seat at the REM workstation and unlocked the controls of the device. Her face was placid as she faced them. “I’m ready.”

  “Biomonitors ready,” said Dr. Hendry.

  “CAT scan ready!” called Dr. MacKenzie, his red hair wild and uncombed.

  “Cameras ready … audio ready,” crackled’ voices speaking from the communications bunker on the surface.

  Cornelius leaned over his terminal and keyed his mike. “Wranglers, release all cables and reel them in.”

  “Copy, sir,” Franks replied.

  On the wall-sized HDTV screen appeared the image of Logan, immovable in the center of the snowy expanse as the feeder cables dropped from his chiseled body.

  The Professor, eyes locked on the screen, sat down behind the central terminal and licked his lips.

  “Now, Dr. Cornelius. Show me what Weapon X can do.”

  12

  Predator

  “Three… two… one. Set. This is Experiment Two of Six. Defense.”

  Dr. Cornelius paused to scan the lab. “Everything check? Cameras? Monitors?”

  “Fine,” said Hendry Other voices muttered affirmatives.

  “Dr. Cornelius.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Mr. Logan—”

  “Subject X,” Dr. MacKenzie corrected. “He no longer has a name.”

  “Subject X seems to be covered in ichor.”

  “Sheep’s blood, sir,” Cornelius explained. “Quicker scent. We want the wolves to act aggressively.”

  “I see.” The Professor’s eyebrows rose. “Ingenious. Lovely.”

  For many minutes, the figure stood like a monolith in the vast frozen expanse. Carol Hines found herself listening to the sound of the wind transmitted by the speakers, drawn to the image of Subject X on the screen. More minutes passed, filled with the sounds of ticking monitors, hushed voices. The howl of the wind was joined by the howl of the wolves.<
br />
  While technicians calibrated their instruments, Cornelius helped himself to a third cup of coffee. Time seemed suspended as more checks and rechecks were carried out.

  Finally, Carol Hines spoke. “He’s been Out there in subzero weather for more than twenty minutes. Can’t we get on with this?”

  Cornelius lowered his cup without tasting it. “We are following procedures, Ms. Hines.”

  Over the speaker, the cries of the hungry wolves intensified.

  “Readings, Dr. Hendry?”

  “Heartbeat, pressure, all okay.”

  “Maybe we should have him do some stretches, loosen up. Cold muscles can get pretty stiff,” the physical therapist suggested.

  “Not his muscles,” Hendry replied. “They are conditioned to perform at the optimum level despite cold or long periods of immobility.”

  Over the blaring speakers, wet snarls mixed with angry barks. The animals were getting impatient, lashing out at one another in their zeal for fresh kill.

  “He can hear them?” asked Cornelius.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure of it,” said the audio technician, speaking from the bunker outside. The voice link was crystal clear. “We can hear the wolves behind a half foot of concrete without the sound system. If Subject X can’t hear them, he’s deaf.”

  “Yet there is no adrenal rise … odd,” muttered Cornelius.

  “Not odd at all,” declared the Professor, eyes bright with anticipation. “It means that your reprogramming has worked, Dr. Cornelius. Weapon X feels no fear.”

  Cornelius gazed at his screen. “Prepare to release the gate.”

  “Roger,” said the voice of an animal handler positioned inside the animal control compound on the surface.

  “When did the animals last eat?” the Professor asked.

  Cornelius shrugged. “Don’t know. Handlers?”

  “Copy,” the animal handler replied. “Chart says about six days ago, sir.”

  “Well, gee, they can have my Danish.”

  The voice came from the status tech station, followed by some laughter. The Professor turned in his chair and glared at the offender.

  “Release the gate,” said Cornelius.

  The visuals were split between two cameras. On the big screen, the laboratory staff simultaneously watched the wolves bursting through the open gate and Logan standing rigid in the snow.

  “He’s not reacting.”

  “Give him a chance, Cornelius.”

  “I mean there’s no blood pressure rise, no increase in heart rate.”

  The timber wolves scrambled across the snowy field, paws churning up great gouts of snow. The alpha male leaped ahead of the pack, a one-hundred-seventy-pound, red-brown brute with a long, foam-flecked snout and a lolling tongue. Scrawny from lack of food, the wolf’s wiry muscles rippled under its ruddy fur.

  “God, he’s not moving,” whispered one of the techs.

  “Is he alive?” the Professor demanded.

  “Yes, of course!” Cornelius cried.

  “But he’s not moving.”

  “Good God …” Carol Hines averted her eyes.

  As the wolves surged ahead, the camera switched back to single screen—the animals were so close to the subject that they were both in the same shot.

  The Professor’s face was grim. He focused his harsh glare on Dr. Cornelius. “Do you have data for me?”

  Cornelius, eyes on the screen, shook his head in bafflement. “He’s just … not reacting.”

  “Blast!” The Professor jumped up from his chair and approached the screen. “Is it a physical disability?” he asked. “The claws, perhaps?”

  “No, I doubt that.” Cornelius faced Dr. Hendry for validation, but the other seemed to be too busy to notice.

  “If his claws function, then why doesn’t he use them, Doctor?” asked the Professor.

  The wrangler cried out, “They’ll rip him to pieces!” At last, Hendry looked up, to meet Cornelius’s desperate eyes. “He won’t be able to heal if he’s torn to bloody chunks,” said Hendry.

  Cornelius spun around to see Carol Hines’s face turned away from the monitor. “Hines, do your job!” She turned back to the monitor, fingers poised over the keyboard, her face red.

  “Up the response column now!” Cornelius commanded.

  Carol Hines programmed the new data into the transmitter, hit the send key, then watched the screen.

  Somewhere in Logan’s deadened brain, a switch dropped—a chemical rush that kick-started a slumbering portion of his mind. A burst of electrochemical activity in the left prefrontal cortex stimulated Logan’s aggression, and a glimmer of awareness flickered behind his unblinking stare. The spark lasted a split second—long enough for Subject X to hear, see, smell, and comprehend the danger.

  But the wolves were already on him. The alpha leaped off the snow and slammed into the mutant and the others surrounded him. Jaws clamped on legs, on arms, dragging Logan to the ground.

  * * * * *

  Slavering, snapping jaws. Hot, foul breath. Teeth digging, tearing, ripping. Vicious.

  Logan swam through a sea of nightmarish images and woke up fighting—arms waving blindly as he fended off phantom predators. With a cry he sat up in a bed of leaves and moss. He opened his eyes to blinding sunlight, until the appearance of a silhouette dimmed the bright glare.

  “Who—”

  Two fingers gently covered his lips. “Hush, Logan. You are safe,” a quiet voice soothed.

  “Miko?”

  “Hai.”

  Logan blinked. “Must have been dreaming,” he muttered, the terrible images fading like wisps of morning fog.

  She stared at him, her expression curious.

  “Do I look that bad in the morning?” he growled, looking away.

  “Not at all. You look perfectly fine. And there is the mystery.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “You fell into a deep sleep. I thought you had gone into shock. Then I thought you were dead,” she said, her tone muted. “But as I watched you in the morning light, I observed that gaping wound on your chest.”

  With the tip of her index finger, Miko gently touched a spot between his pectorals. “Open and bleeding last night. Healed by morning. Now not even a scar.”

  He stared straight ahead; she settled on the ground next to him. “Anyone else would be dead.”

  “I’m not like anyone else.”

  She waited, silent. Finally, he spoke. “Have you ever heard of mutants, Miko?”

  “Hai. But to be truthful, I never thought mutants were real. Just a superstition, like moving things with your mind, or EPS—”

  “You mean ESP. Extrasensory perception.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, mutants are real. I know because I’m a mutant. I found out—never mind how—just a couple of years ago. Knowing changed me, but not for the better.”

  “Yet your abilities? Surely you’ve had them for a long time?”

  He faced her. “I always knew I was different, even as a kid. People treated me differently, too. Like they knew there was something unnatural about me.”

  “Alienation. Everyone feels that way when they are young.”

  “But I’m not young, Miko. If I told you how old I am, you wouldn’t believe me. Don’t you see? There was something different about me. I never got sick like other people, wounds healed quickly. But it wasn’t until I went to war that I found out how different I really was…”

  “You are immune to disease and do not age at all. How is this a problem?”

  “It’s a problem. Watching someone you love grow old and suffer and die while you remain forever young… Yeah, that’s a problem—”

  She winced at the comparison. “I see. Like watching a parent die?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Like a parent. Only it’s your lovers, too. And even your children, if you had any…”

  He pressed his fists to his temples and closed his eyes. “And I don’t even know why I’m different. I was troubl
e for everyone around me since the day I was born. I don’t deserve this ‘gift.’ Why me?”

  “When there is no answer to a question, why ask?” Miko replied. “But now I understand.”

  “Do you? Can you?” he shot back. “I’ve lived in Japan. I am familiar with your language, your society, your ways. The Japanese stake a lot on conformity. In your world, I would be even more of a misfit. Someone like you could never understand that.”

  Miko shook her head. “Do not be so sure, Logan-san. I also know what it is like to be an outsider.”

  “What, you flunked third grade?”

  “Have you ever heard of comfort women?” she asked.

  “Like prostitutes?”

  “Not prostitutes, Logan. Slaves to their Japanese masters. In World War Two, soldiers took thousands of women from their homes and used them. My grandmother was a comfort woman, taken from her farm in Korea by a high-ranking officer, brought to Tokyo to be his mistress. My mother was their child.”

  As Miko spoke, she played with a ring on her middle finger. “After the war, the Koreans did not want these women back because they were considered defiled. Many had borne half-Japanese children. Such children are shunned in both countries, as are their descendants, even today, in these enlightened times.”

  The sound of a passing jet fighter high overhead made them pause. The aircraft vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  “You say you know Japanese society Logan-san,” Miko continued. “Do you know that mixed-race children are excluded from the best schools, no matter how talented or intelligent we may be? Did you know that we are relegated to the lowest positions in Japanese corporations—salaryman or secretary—never to rise higher?”

  “So you ended up in civil service?” Logan asked.

  “Yes. The SAT accepted me because I was useful. I had skills they needed—I spoke Korean like a native, could pass for a Korean if necessary. Something I have done in past assignments.”

  “But you’re not on assignment now?”

  “No, Mr. Logan. I am here on my own, on personal business.”

  “And that personal business is inside that complex at the base of the dam?”