Wolverine: Weapon X Read online

  Cornelius’s attention was focused elsewhere. “Those braces can only keep the incisions open for so long, you know,” he barked at a member of the surgical team.

  The tech, face covered with a surgical mask, nodded. “Yes, Doctor. I can see that clearly. The flesh is actually forming around the clamps here.”

  “Then work faster, man.”

  “Any problems, Ms. Hines?” asked the Professor.

  “Computer indicates leakage of semen and marrow into the intracellular fluids.”

  One of the surgeons cursed. “You heard the computer,” he said to the technicians. “We’re losing goop here. Keep those holes plugged and move with more expedience.”

  One of the surgeons freed Logan’s hand and laid it flat on the table. “Give me a right stem, short fiber,” he called.

  “Short fiber right stem is on ninth,” his assistant replied.

  Suddenly, Logan moaned.

  “Good God, he’s coming around!” cried the Professor.

  “Don’t get jumpy, Professor,” Cornelius said. “We have to keep him floating so that we can trace the relay flux in his nervous system. If he were out, some critical synapses wouldn’t be firing.”

  The Professor visibly paled. “Do you mean he’s conscious?”

  Logan groaned again, his head rolling to one side.

  “Yes, partly,” Cornelius explained. “Maybe a little too conscious. Add two millimeters of Pheno-B.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” a surgeon replied. A moment later, the man slipped a hypodermic needle into Logan’s carotid artery.

  The Professor’s interest seemed suddenly piqued. “So Logan can feel what we’re doing to him, eh?”

  Cornelius nodded, face grim. “Most of it, yeah. I don’t like it, but it can’t be helped. Of course, Ms. Hines will soon wipe any and all memory of this … procedure from Logan’s mind. But right now … well, the poor guy’s in a lot of pain.”

  As if to emphasize Cornelius’s words, Logan moaned twice, the last a keen of agony.

  “Pain is a principal of life, Dr. Cornelius,” the Professor declared. “Not that I subscribe entirely to the dictum.”

  “Of course,” Cornelius muttered, trying to turn his mind away from this aspect of his work. But Logan would not let Cornelius forget his torment. The subject’s head moved from side to side as the groans continued.

  “Four more millimeters of Pheno-B,” Cornelius commanded. “And try to keep him from shaking or he’ll damage some of the delicate connections.”

  Subject X began struggling weakly against his restraints. His head lolled to the side and his mouth opened. Logan gagged, then ejected the contents of his stomach. A green bile, followed by a spray of saliva and blood, spattered the table.

  “Readings, Hines?” Cornelius called.

  “Sensory cortex monitor is overloaded, Doctor. There are no readings.”

  “Good God … off-the-charts pain.” Cornelius leaned close to Logan’s head, muttering. “Poor son of a bitch is unconscious at last. I hope he finds some peace in his dreams.”

  * * * * *

  Son of a bitch . . . Some peace in his dreams.

  Logan heard the voice as if it were next to his ear. He opened his eyes, but the only person who could have spoken was curled up beside him on the pine branches, fast asleep. Could be the North Koreans on the hunt?

  Better check.

  He rose slowly, trying not to disturb Miko, crawled to the hut’s entrance, and gazed outside. The sky was clear and cloudless, the late-afternoon sun stabbed down through the thick pines in yellow and-orange columns of light. A few birds sang in the tree; an errant breeze stirred the branches. Otherwise there was only silence in the approaching twilight.

  Must be crackin’ up . . . hearing voices this whole mission…

  Then, as Logan strained his ears, he heard another sound—engines in the distance, muffled by the trees. He ducked back into the shelter and gently shook Miko awake.

  “There’s activity down on the road. I’m going for a quick look,” he whispered.

  “What kind of activity? Men? Vehicles? How do you know?” she asked, instantly awake.

  Logan popped a garment can, worked the material until it expanded, then stripped off his rags and slipped into his last battle suit. Like the others, it was formfitting, with a splinter camouflage pattern ideal for blending into the surrounding forest.

  “We should stay together,” Miko said.

  “No,” he told her. “I can travel better alone. Rest up, we’re taking off in a couple of hours. I’ll be back in thirty minutes or less.”

  He took Miko’s binoculars and handed her his remaining firearm, a lightweight M9 Beretta. Perfect for a HAWK jump because of its compactness, the M9 didn’t have enough stopping power to satisfy Logan, who preferred bladed weapons, anyway.

  Logan tucked the Randall Mark I fighting knife into his boot and from Miko’s belt took a second, long-bladed weapon, which he wielded like a sword. Without a backward glance, he slipped through the opening and was gone. She watched as he darted down the slope and melted into the long shadows of the fading day.

  Among the trees, the sounds went dead, but Logan could make out engine noises in the distance, and soon he heard human voices calling across the water. He emerged in a clearing that gave him a view of the road and lake beyond. An armored personnel carrier and two Chinese-built trucks were parked below. He counted three men around the vehicles; twelve more by the lakeshore, including an officer. A small boat was trolling back arid forth close to land. Three soldiers aboard tossed hooked ropes into the water.

  On closer examination, Logan spied skid marks on the tarred road and wheel tracks in the dirt—this was the spot where he’d ridden the BTR-60 to its watery grave. The Koreans were dragging the lake for their missing troops. This wouldn’t have bothered Logan except for one thing—if they dredged up the dead officer, the Koreans would realize the man had been stabbed, not drowned. They might deduce that Logan had survived the plunge, or they might just figure he died in the fight and his body was still at the bottom of the lake. Of course, the soldiers would keep looking. And when they didn’t find Logan’s corpse, all hell would break loose.

  Either way, time was running out. He and Miko would have to move now, before the Koreans realized they were here. But as Logan turned to ascend the slope, he heard more voices—these coming from the woods on either side of him.

  Then he heard a noise that galvanized him into instant action—the sound of barking dogs…

  * * * * *

  They sat Subject X in a chair. Spine straight, head erect, breath shallow, he was naked except for hundreds of multicolored wires that dangled from his body like feathers. Eyes stitched shut, nose pinned, mouth plugged, the cobra-hooded mane of wild black hair his crown, Logan resembled the mummy of a savage warrior king prepared for a ceremonial funeral.

  A thirty-pound battery which powered the adamantium-plated cybernetic helmet that sat at the subject’s feet, hung from his neck like an unwieldy medallion. When hooked to the electrodes in his temples and the relays below his eyes, it would filter everything Logan saw, smelled, or tasted through the virtual-reality processor inside the helmet.

  The Professor stood close to Subject X, examining the inputs and the raw, puffy flesh around them. “So, have the sutures healed?”

  “Not all of them, Professor. But enough for the purpose.” Cornelius glanced at his watch. “Or we could wait a few more minutes, if you prefer.”

  The Professor, hands folded behind his back, shook his bald head. “No, no. Let’s get on with it, Cornelius.”

  Cornelius rubbed his chin. “Okay, the cables are a problem. They are clumsy and bulky but can be reduced eventually. The power source—that unwieldy battery—is temporary, of course.”

  He crossed the lab to stand near the surgical team assembled behind the remote control transmission terminal. The actual manipulation of Logan became the responsibility of one of the communications specialists—a
technician named Rice, who sat behind a large control panel.

  “In the coming weeks, we’ll try to compact the boxes, but I can’t guarantee that.” Cornelius tapped a key and a perimeter map appeared on one of the overhead monitors. Overlaid on that map was a red circle.

  “We’re looking at the range of these devices displayed over the test field,” Cornelius explained. “For anything over a hundred and fifty yards, we’ll need to use the helmet device to pull in the signal. The cybernetic circuitry inside that steel dome dramatically increases the range.”

  The scarlet overlay expanded until it almost filled the screen. Then the monitor went black, and Cornelius faced the Professor. “Other than that, we’re in business.”

  “And what is the range, Cornelius?”

  “A little over nine miles, sir.” Cornelius could feel the Professor’s displeasure. But he was too tired, and too disgusted with the work to really care.

  The Professor snorted, then faced Rice at his terminal. “And the control console here. It isn’t based on my original design.”

  Cornelius nodded. A joystick, he thought ruefully. The Professor wants a goddamn joystick, as f Logan were some kind of video game character.

  “You wanted the extra power, Professor,” he replied. “We had to modify the control surfaces to achieve it.”

  Cornelius tapped Rice. “Staff, show the Professor the layout of your top board.”

  “Sure, okay,” Rice replied, rising. “It’s easy; sir. These button codes are based on your data. You press them in sequence. Forward, back—”

  “And the levers are controls. I understand,” the Professor said tersely, annoyed that a mere tech should brief him on technology he had actually pioneered.

  “Give us a brief demonstration, Rice,” Cornelius directed.

  “It isn’t necessary,” said the Professor. But to his chagrin, the impertinent technician pressed on.

  “Watch,” said Rice as he tinkered with the controls. Logan’s arm twitched, then the flesh on top of his hand bulged from within.

  “You got full articulation of the claws,” prattled the staff tech. “Like this little piggy went to market—”

  The first claw emerged.

  “This little piggy stayed home—”

  Two more steel claws emerged in a welter of blood. The Professor shoved Rice aside. “I get the idea, and your entertainments are extremely out of place.”

  “I… s-sorry, Professor,” Rice stammered.

  “I hardly need instructions on how to operate my own device.” The Professor touched the controls, then toggled the levers. “Yes… watch this…”

  Logan jerked to his feet, then tottered unsteadily—two steps forward, one back. With each grotesque lurch, the dangling wires whipped and the battery clattered along the floor.

  “You see, Cornelius, how the naturalistic movements imitate the human…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I see that…”

  “And how discreet adjustment creates the effect—”

  Suddenly, Logan spun with such force that the heavy battery yanked him off balance. His legs became tangled in the cables and wires and he tumbled to the floor like a stumbling newborn.

  The laughter of the staff caused Cornelius to wince. While he understood that the pressure on them had been mounting through weeks of lockdown and hours of difficult surgery he thought the humor misplaced.

  “Shut up!” the Professor shouted with more passion, more rage, than Cornelius had ever seen the man exhibit.

  “Sir, I’m sorry—”

  The Professor turned on him. “Cornelius, your staff are absolute fools. Ignoramuses.”

  Cornelius faced the medical staff “Okay, boys, that’s it. Get out of here.”

  “Yes, get out, buffoons!” the Professor barked. “This is a scientific endeavor and should be treated with the proper gravity. I… I’ve never been so insulted.”

  “Please, Professor,” Cornelius said curtly, in spite of himself. “Dr. Hendry’s medical staff did a good job and you got what you wanted.”

  Except for Logan, still sprawled on the floor, Cornelius and the Professor were alone. Cornelius poured a cup of coffee.

  “Here, take this,” he insisted, thrusting the cup into the Professor’s hand. “And can we just call it a day? It looks to me like you haven’t had a rest since the Weapon X project began.”

  “No!” the Professor shot back. “We’ve accomplished nothing today. The experiment is not over, Cornelius. I have to know for sure if it’s safe.”

  Cornelius glanced at the man on the floor. Logan looked dead; even his chest barely heaved. If it wasn’t for the continuous beep of the heart and respiration monitors, the doctor couldn’t be sure there was any life left in that tortured frame.

  “He’s safe,” Cornelius said softly. “He’s wired and shut down. Let it go, Professor.”

  “You misunderstand. I meant if I am safe, you fool. Me! Subject X tried to choke me to death. Remember?”

  “Look,” Cornelius explained. “When the power is on, you’ve got him by the tail. When it’s off—like now—he’s just dead meat. You wanted it, you got it.”

  Then he turned his back on the Professor and walked to the exit. At the door, Cornelius paused. “But you have to be sure, right?” he said with a weary sigh. “So go, Professor. Spit in his eye. Then you can be sure.”

  He opened the hatch.

  “Where are you going?” demanded the Professor.

  “I’ve had enough of this circus for one day,” Cornelius replied. “I’ll send in the wranglers to clean up the mess. See you tomorrow.”

  When the hatch closed, the Professor looked down at Subject X. He watched Logan’s chest rise and fall for a few moments. Then, tilting the coffee cup, the Professor poured the scalding contents over Logan’s upturned face. Black liquid splashed and beaded, leaving red blisters that quickly faded to white, then pink, under the Professor’s relentless glare.

  With a final kick to the subject’s rib cage, the Professor turned his back on Logan and strode out of the room, satisfied now that it was safe. Despite the pain and the humiliation he’d just administered to the once fierce and independent Logan, the mutant didn’t even flinch.

  Cornelius did it, the Professor thought triumphantly. The reprogramming worked. Now I control Weapon X…

  14

  The Hunt

  “Catch,” hissed Logan, tossing Miko the binoculars.

  He’d almost arrived at the top of the hill, to find Miko already clad in her formfitting camouflage suit, waiting behind cover, Tac drawn. Logan had been about twenty paces from her when he’d heard the barking dogs and the sound of voices.

  “My gun,” Logan loudly whispered.

  Miko drew his M9 from her belt and tossed it down to him. The clips followed.

  “Go,” said Logan, pointing to the woods behind her as he tucked the weapon into its holster. “Take off up and over the hill, circle around the soldiers and the dogs. I’ll lead the hunters away from you for as long as I can, give you a head start.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue. The dogs have already got my scent. Move before they catch yours. Head for the complex, bust in. Do your business and then rescue Langram if possible. If they get me, I’ll do what I can from inside.”

  The sound of beating blades cut through the dusky sky.

  Logan cursed. Helicopters meant they must have found that dead officer…

  Miko turned her eyes upward, then looked down at him. “Logan, fight. Do not surrender.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The dogs closed in, their barks louder, more insistent. “I may not have a choice. Now take off!”

  Without another word, Miko turned and raced up the slope, to vanish among the low-hanging pines. Logan hopped over the rotting trunk of a fallen tree and ran in the opposite direction. As he ran with leaps and bounds down the hill, he also moved away from the dam and the dogs and soldiers who pursued him. He knew that in the long run, flight was
hopeless. He had few escape options—trapped in the middle of enemy territory. The North Koreans had the home ground advantage.

  With helicopters and searchlights and dogs, with soldiers and armored cars, it was only a matter of time before the hunters caught up with him.

  * * * * *

  As the stalker’s bare feet silently padded through the snow, a motion detector caught the movement, and a camera quietly focused its lens on the subject. Even in the dusk’s deepening shadows, the camera effortlessly followed the hunter as he tracked down his prey.

  “He’s within one hundred meters of the target now—” Cornelius looked away from the HDTV screen to glance at his watch. “At three minutes, precisely.”

  The Professor watched the monitor, anxious to assess his creation’s performance. “Rather impressive,” he muttered, chin resting on his long-fingered hands.

  “Camera five on subject,” a video tech called.

  “Switch to camera eight and bring him in close.”

  “Switching.”

  A frontal shot of Subject X appeared on-screen. Naked from the neck down but for the batteries and microwave receivers clustered around his waist, Logan’s head was completely encased in a gleaming cybernetic helmet. Wires dangled from the headpiece to cocoon his torso. Most of the embedded feeder connections that sent signals directly to the subject’s nerve clusters had been removed, to be replaced with a less cumbersome wireless system that allowed for freer movement.

  “Ninety-seven yards at three minutes twenty-seven seconds,” Cornelius announced.

  “He’s downwind,” observed the Professor. “He has the scent.”

  Over the constant howl of the wind, the microphones picked up the snikt of the adamantium claws sliding from their sheaths.

  “Claw extrusion, right hand. Some blood release is evident,” noted the Professor.

  “We need some kind of terminals there,” said Cornelius. “Something to keep the flesh apart. Make a note, Ms. Hines.”

  The woman looked up from her REM monitor. The mind machine was running on automatic, at maximum output, sending a preprogrammed signal to Logan’s brain. Carol Hines was receiving only limited feedback from the information the subject was processing, but it was enough to deduce his next move.