Marvel classic novels - Wolverine: Weapon X Omnibus E-Book

Marc Cerasini

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Collecting three fan-favorite Wolverine novels in a brand-new omnibus.In Weapon X, Wolverine's cruel origin unfolds as Logan is experimented on, escaping and hunting down those responsible. Road of Bones sees Wolverine cross the world to recover a stolen experimental drug that could cure all human disease, and Lifeblood explores Wolverine's past in World War II which comes back to haunt him.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Novels of the Marvel Universe by Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Book One

1 PROPHECY

2 THE HIVE

3 THE WRANGLER

4 THE FUGITIVE

5 THE MISSION

6 THE EXPERIMENT

7 THE MUTANT

8 UNFORESEEN CONSEQUENCES

9 REVELATIONS

10 ILLUSIONS

11 PREY

12 PREDATOR

13 GOLEM

14 THE HUNT

15 WEAPON X

16 APOCALYPSE

17 THE STORM

18 BREAKING POINT

19 ENDGAME

20 REDEMPTION

21 INTERLUDE AND ESCAPE

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Book Two

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Book Three

OTTAWA, CANADA, THE PRESENT

THE EMPTY QUARTER, SAUDI ARABIA, THE PRESENT

OTTAWA, CANADA, THE PRESENT

THE EMPTY QUARTER, SAUDI ARABIA, THE PRESENT

OTTAWA, CANADA, THE PRESENT

THE EMPTY QUARTER, SAUDI ARABIA, THE PRESENT

OTTAWA, CANADA, THE PRESENT

THE EMPTY QUARTER, SAUDI ARABIA, THE PRESENT

OTTAWA, CANADA, THE PRESENT

THE EMPTY QUARTER, SAUDI ARABIA, THE PRESENT

OTTAWA, CANADA, THE PRESENT

ORTONA, ITALY, DECEMBER 1943

ORTONA, ITALY, THE PRESENT

ORTONA, ITALY, DECEMBER 1943

ORTONA, ITALY, THE PRESENT

ORTONA, ITALY, DECEMBER 1943

BERLIN, GERMANY, DECEMBER 1943

ORTONA, ITALY, DECEMBER 1943

THE EMPTY QUARTER, SAUDI ARABIA, THE PRESENT

ORTONA, ITALY, THE PRESENT

HÖLLENFEUER CONCENTRATION CAMP, JANUARY 1944

HÖLLENFEUER CONCENTRATION CAMP, FEBRUARY 1944

WESTERN POLAND, THE PRESENT

HÖLLENFEUER CONCENTRATION CAMP, JANUARY 1944

BERLIN, GERMANY, JANUARY 1944

BERLIN, GERMANY, THE PRESENT

THE EMPTY QUARTER, SAUDI ARABIA, THE PRESENT

BERLIN, GERMANY, THE PRESENT

HÖLLENFEUER CONCENTRATION CAMP, FEBRUARY 1944

BERLIN, GERMANY, THE PRESENT

HÖLLENFEUER CONCENTRATION CAMP, JANUARY 1944

BERLIN, GERMANY, THE PRESENT

HÖLLENFEUER CONCENTRATION CAMP, FEBRUARY 1944

BERLIN, GERMANY, THE PRESENT

HÖLLENFEUER CONCENTRATION CAMP, FEBRUARY 1944

BERLIN, GERMANY, THE PRESENT

BASRA, IRAQ, THE PRESENT

OUTSKIRTS OF BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

MANSOUR DISTRICT OF BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

BAGHDAD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, THE PRESENT

MANSOUR DISTRICT OF BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

GREEN ZONE, BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

MANSOUR DISTRICT, BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

GREEN ZONE, BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

MANSOUR DISTRICT, BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

GREEN ZONE, BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

MANSOUR DISTRICT, BAGHDAD, THE PRESENT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS

Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr

Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

Captain America: Dark Design by Stefan Petrucha

Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

Civil War by Stuart Moore

Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Omnibus by Jim Butcher, Keith R.A. Decandido, and Christopher L. Bennett (forthcoming)

Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus by Diane Duane

Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden

X-Men & The Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox

ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS

Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies

Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak

Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas

The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

Ant-Man and the Wasp: The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special

Black Panther: The Official Movie Companion

Black Panther: The Official Movie Special

Captain Marvel: The Official Movie Special

Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years

Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special

Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special

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Wolverine: Weapon X Omnibus

Print edition ISBN: 9781789096026

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789096033

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: December 2020

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2020 MARVEL

Special thanks to Lou Aronica, Lucia Raatma, Eric Fein,

Danny Fingeroth, and Julia Molino.

Original trilogy edited by John Betancourt & Keith R.A. DeCandido.

Cover art by Marko Djurdjevic.

FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING

Jeff Youngquist, VP Production Special Projects

Caitlin O’Connell, Assistant Editor, Special Projects

Sven Larsen, VP Licensed Publishing

David Gabriel, SVP Sales & Marketing, Publishing

C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Book One

WEAPON X

by Marc Cerasini

1

PROPHECY

RAIN. Gouging thin canals through soiled windowpanes. Night. Bending from black to phosphorescent green. A sickening hue, like alien pus.

Liquid all around me. But not drowning.

Neon hummed beyond the glass. Twisted tubes. Huge letters spelling out a single word etched in blue-white light: PROPHECY.

The word seemed apocalyptic. No. That isn’t right. It was part of the apocalypse. Some drunken bum down the hall had clued him in.

“The apocalypse is coming”—that’s what the geezer said. “When all the secrets will be exposed.”

No more secrets, no more running.

“Hell is comin’…”

That’s what he said. He spit when he said it, too. Then the old guy just stopped breathing.

Air. No air here. But breathing still.

It happened a lot at the Prophecy. Old guys. And not so old. Keeling over. Dropping dead.

Trapped inside. Like floating in a coffin. But not dead. Not yet…

The water from the sky was as old as the earth. Logan watched it fall. The same water. Billions of years. Over and over. Fish crawled out of it. Man crawled out of it, too.

Then I crawled out.

Trapped inside. Liquid all around. A vile chemical. But not water…

Dinosaurs fed on plants, drank from lakes. This rain was part of those lakes. The wells of villages. Warriors, barbarians, samurai. The water they drank went up and came down. The same water. Trapped in a cycle.

Everything, even the earth, has its limits.

A shock of lightning scratched the night. Logan’s eyes shined through the glass—feral-sharp, scanning streets lit by shards of bone-white brilliance.

Another strike, a tree split. The energy sundered it. Like a warning of things to come.

“Storm’s comin’, and it’s a big one. The big one. The one I’ve been looking out for.”

The road. He remembered the road. The cold steered the wheel. Black woods at night. The far north. Endless wilderness. Soon he’d be back. Soon he’d be home.

Beyond the glass now: wet concrete, rusty Dumpsters, graffiti-scarred alleys, haunting tenements, emptiness. They haven’t found me. Not yet.

Logan turned from the window, crossed the stained brown carpet. The room was as small as a cage, empty bottles like stalagmites spiking the floor, spiking his brain.

A week-old newspaper ripped under his booted foot, meaningless events. Day after day. He collapsed on a couch, spring-cushioned by a tabloid spread over it. His massive fist tightened, crumpling the newsprint, hurling the ink-black words at the blank TV.

Useless headlines. Day after day after day.

Nearby, a Seagram’s bottle, shimmering with many promises. Half-empty. No. Half-full. He poured a healthy swallow into a glass, always grateful.

Ripples of electricity scratched the night.

Searing bolts stab his brain.

Logan winced in shock, retching as a salty trickle rolled down his throat. Then the pain vanished, leaving only the coppery taste of blood—a familiar tang. He touched his throbbing temple, but found no stain. Only beads of salty sweat moistened his fingertips.

He swallowed again, and the metallic sting was gone, too. Were his senses off? Or was the alcohol awakening demons of past mayhem, forgotten violence?

Forgotten…

“The apocalypse is here. Time to write home, to make peace with somebody—”

Peace? With whom?

He remembered the saloon, a dozen milling bodies. The usual fog of burning tar. The air had felt frozen. But his muscles, beneath the flannel, had been warm enough. He’d lined up the bottles on the bar in front of him, green pickets. Glass pillars. His fortress.

Time to write home.

“Dear Ma—ya goat-headed, misshapen, walleyed witch. Got some news for ya. The secret is out! Signed: yer son with the hairy paws.”

As if he knew who his mother was. Everybody’s got one, right? Or two, maybe. Secrets, that is. Logan had a doozy. A serious mother lode. Hard hiding it sometimes. But he got by.

Another shot of whiskey straight from the bottle. But no oblivion. Not even a rush, until he noted its absence. Then the sensation arrived as if he’d conjured it. He sucked his cigar.

Gagging. Tissue rips. A ravaged throat.

Maybe the apocalypse has already begun.

This place where he was hiding, this Prophecy, it was a tenement transformed by the faithful into a refuge for fallen Christians. He’d been a Christian once, a long time ago. He still remembered enough of the lingo to lie his way through the door. It was a dump, of course. But it was free—for the fallen. So he’d qualified.

Warm whiskey dribbled past Logan’s wiry, raven-black chin stubble, onto his sweat-stained T-shirt.

Choking. Then a voice. But who?

“Enough of the stuff to stun an elephant…”

Alcohol alters the flow of electrolyte ions through brain cells. He remembered reading that somewhere—part of his black ops training, maybe. Whiskey slows the speed at which neurons fire.

“But I’m not drunk. And I want to be… I need to be…”

Alcohol suppresses the production of a hormone that keeps the body’s fluid reserves in balance. Without that hormone, kidneys begin to steal water from other organs…

“Steal water?”

The storm continued to rage, intensifying.

The rain continued to pound on the windows.

Liquid all around. But not drowning.

The brain shrinks as a result.

Logan snatched the bottle again and spilled the dregs into the bottom of his glass. But he paused before shooting it back. Cradling the drink in his heavy fist, Logan slumped into the battered couch.

Violent images flowed over him. A dispute he’d had with a nickel-and-dime crime boss. The idiotic bravado.

“Stupid. He should have known better…”

It happened after he’d become an outcast again. This time he’d been booted from a secret branch of the Canadian Intelligence Service. The infraction had been trivial compared to the heinous acts he’d performed in the line of duty. But Logan sensed his peers were happy to rid themselves of the enigma in their midst.

Secrets. I had plenty. More than any man should bear.

Not long after, Logan found work. His reputation became a two-edged sword. An unending line of young punks or fading old-timers always there to challenge him. But that meant jobs were easy to come by.

This time around, it had been Logan’s “associates” who’d executed the double cross.

That day, Logan recalled, had gotten off to a bad start. He resented the trip to the gunrunner’s garage to collect his cut of the profits. But when he saw the sneer on St. Exeter’s face, Logan knew things were about to get much worse.

The gunrunner leaned against a crate of fragmentation grenades, his cashmere sweater, Prada pants, and Gucci loafers incongruous in the junkyard setting.

“I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show up here, Logan. Not after your connection failed to deliver the goods.”

St. Exeter pushed back his hair with a delicate, manicured hand.

Logan met the man’s cool gaze. “You’re spewing crap, René. I know for a fact that those air-to-airs are already in the pipeline to your ‘clients’ in Latin America.”

“Perhaps. But the weapons were of… inferior quality.”

“The Pentagon would be surprised to learn that, considering they were all state-of-the-art Stinger missiles.”

As Logan spoke, two of St. Exeter’s bodyguards entered the garage behind him. Two more, in greasy coveralls, climbed out of a repair pit to flank him.

Half smile in place, René stared at Logan with eyes like black empty holes.

“You’re not gonna pay,” said Logan. It was not a question.

Suddenly, the grease monkey on Logan’s left pulled a wrench out of his stained coveralls.

Stupid.

Logan hit the man with enough force to drive his jawbone into his brain. A grunt, and the mechanic crumpled. Logan snatched the tool from his dead hand before the man struck the ground.

Dodging a bullet fired at point-blank range, Logan spun and hurled the wrench at the man who’d pulled the trigger.

A crunch of bone, a splash of red, and the shooter’s head jerked back. As he fell, his Magnum dropped at Logan’s feet.

Logan ducked a wild shot, then snapped up the weapon. He fired without aiming—a lucky shot. The bullet clipped the second bodyguard’s throat. Gurgling, he fell to his knees, clutching at his neck in a widening pool on the concrete floor.

Finally, Logan’s luck ran out. The last of René’s bodyguards charged, in an attempt to push Logan into the repair pit. The pair fell in together. At the bottom of the deep concrete well, both scrambled to their feet. A shadow fell over them. Logan looked up in time to see St. Exeter toss an object into the hole.

“Catch, mon ami.”

Logan snatched the grenade out of the air. When the bodyguard saw it, he lunged for the ladder.

“Where you goin’?” Logan grabbed the man by his collar, spun him around, and jammed the grenade into his gut.

Wheezing, the bodyguard folded around the explosive and Logan released it, then dove for the opposite end of the pit. Heat and gore washed over Logan as the muffled blast slammed him against the concrete wall.

Bleeding from a patchwork of wounds, Logan crawled out of the pit that had become the bodyguard’s grave, only to discover that René St. Exeter had fled the scene.

Logan caught up with him a few days later, on a public street in the heart of Montreal. The final confrontation occurred amid a dozen gawking witnesses, but Logan didn’t care.

Some things, like payback, were too damn important to delay.

Even after the rage had passed, Logan felt no regret—only anger that he was forced to move on. Later that same night, he planned to hop a freight. His destination: the Yukon. As far north as Logan could go, to the very edge of civilization. He’d leave behind everything—a Lotus-Seven, some worthless possessions, his past.

With a bit of luck, Logan could start over.

Start over? “

Good place to start over, eh?”

The voice—familiar—came from years past. Back when Logan was still with the Defense Ministry. Back when he operated out of the Ottawa branch of the CIS.

Logan had been hunched in a corner, honing his blade, when the stranger approached. He’d looked up long enough to see past the big man’s proffered hand, to the name tag tacked onto his broad chest: N. Langram.

The screech of metal on tortured metal resumed as Logan sharpened the edge of his K-bar knife.

The sandy-haired man reluctantly withdrew his hand, then slumped down on a weight bench across from Logan’s.

The training area was empty but for them. Minutes before, they’d been told that their training had ended, that their first assignment was at hand.

“I think it’s a great place to begin again… the CIS, I mean,” continued N. Langram. “I’ve been to a lot of places, done a lot of things, legal and illegal, and I’m happy to forget my past and bury it forever.”

Langram slapped his knees. “To my surprise, after all my mischief, the Defense Ministry and the CIS decided to let bygones be bygones and offer me a second chance.”

“Good for you,” said Logan.

“I figure they’ve done the same for you, eh?”

Logan fingered the tip of the blade. A drop of blood dewed his fingertip. He tasted it.

“My name’s Langram… friends call me Neil.” This time, the man didn’t offer his hand.

“Logan.”

“Quiet one, eh?”

Logan spun the knife and plunged it into the scabbard. Then he crossed his arms and stared into the distance.

“I’ve been wondering why they paired us. You and me. We’re strangers and we’ve never even trained together. So I’m trying to figure out the angles…”

“What have you deduced, Langram?”

Missing Logan’s sarcasm, Langram tried to answer the question.

“Odd parameters for this mission, don’t you think?” he began. “I mean, why not a simple HALO jump? The CDM has hundreds of soldiers who’ve trained for High Altitude Low Opening insertions, and hundreds more qualified for reconnaissance infiltration of hostile territory. Which means they don’t need either of us. We’d be considered overqualified for this mission, except that the men in charge decided to do a few things the hard way.”

“Like?”

“You have to admit that there aren’t too many operatives in the CIS—or even the CDM—who are proficient in the use of the HAWK harness,” said Langram.

The HAWK, or High Altitude Wing Kite, was a specialized piece of “personal aerodynamic hardware” developed for use by the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Division—and S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t give lessons on how to use their high-tech flying suits to just any soldier.

“Maybe the top brass thinks the HAWK is the best means of insertion,” said Logan. “With a HAWK we can control our own speed and angle of descent, and when and where we land. And we can fight back—even while we’re airborne—if it becomes necessary.”

Langram nodded, conceding Logan’s points. “I know all that. I’ve used the HAWK before. And so, apparently, have you, Mr. Logan.”

“Your point?”

“Maybe you and I crawled through the same mud,” said Langram. “Or maybe we just have some of the same friends… and enemies.”

Logan sat in silence.

“Secretive one, too, eh?”

Secrets. I’ve got plenty. Too many for me to handle sometimes.

“That’s okay, Logan. I won’t pry.”

“You already have.”

Langram refused to take offense, and they sat in uneasy silence for what seemed like a long time.

“I know the geography pretty well,” Langram said at last. “The Korean Peninsula, I mean. And the area where we’re going, too.”

“Nice place?”

“If North Korea is a prison, then the region around Sook Reservoir is solitary confinement, a cell on death row, and the gallows all rolled up into one ugly bastard of a package.”

Logan shrugged. “Sounds delightful.”

Langram studied the other man. Logan avoided his gaze.

“So that’s my expertise,” Langram said. “And since you don’t appear to be a nuclear weapons specialist, I figure you know either the local lingo or something about the guys we’re chasing.”

“Right so far.”

“And since you are very skilled with a blade, and you ain’t Korean, I have to assume you know plenty about Hideki Musaki and all his Yakuza thugs, and about the weapons-grade plutonium they hijacked on its way to that top secret government laboratory up north—the one processing weapons of terror.”

Logan nodded once. “I know Hideki Musaki… personally. But we’re not tight.”

Langram smiled for the first time since their meeting. “So you’ve wandered the Far East, eh? Somehow I knew it. Seeing you reminded me of a place… a dive called Cracklin’ Rosa’s. And a man, too. A fellow known in those parts as Patch. He had a proclivity for the blade… just like you.”

Again, Logan did not reply.

Langram glanced at his watch, then stood.

“Got to go, Logan,” he said. “But we’ll be seeing each other a lot in the coming days. In the meantime, remember what I said about the CIS being a good place to start over. To ditch your past if you want to… not many get a second chance.”

Langram turned to go.

“Hey, Langram.”

This time, Logan was on his feet and facing him.

“I’ll watch your back if you’ll watch mine. And when this mission’s over, if we’re both still alive, I’ll buy you a drink…”

Another drink. And another. But never enough to bring release. Wait. What was I thinking about?

Like wisps of mist, the memories of that first meeting with Neil Langram slipped away.

Reduced by a creeping amnesia to dazedly pondering the drink in his hand, Logan watched as the whiskey morphed from clear brown to cloudy green.

Nauseated, he looked away.

On the other side of the window, the word PROPHECY glowed with ghastly phosphorescence. An acrid, chemical stench assailed his nostrils, and battered couch springs dug into his flesh. But despite his physical discomfort, Logan’s head lolled and his eyes closed.

Sleep came, but Logan’s dreams were no different than his waking life. He longed for escape while he continued to run, his legs pumping on a perpetual incline, stretching farther and farther into the future. At the top was the humming neon of the Prophecy sign, waiting there, waiting for him.

Suddenly awake, Logan bolted upright, crushing the glass in his grip. Thick red blood pooled in his palm, but he felt no pain.

Logan staggered to his feet, impatient now to flee, to escape before the apocalypse swallowed him up.

He tugged the flannel shirt over his wide shoulders. He pondered the predictability of his nightmares. Visions of pain and bones and spikes. Of vile stench and horror. And of dagger hands…

Searching for the keys to his car, Logan rummaged through a pile of yellowing newspapers. He noticed a headline on a grease-stained tabloid:

MERCY KILLER “QUACK” ELUDES FBI.

Under the headline, next to the story, a grainy black-and-white image. The photograph of a portly, bearded man with a bland, unremarkable face.

The picture and the headline vaguely troubled Logan, but he didn’t know why. When he tried to snatch the memory threads to connect them, they dissolved like streams of vapor in his increasingly clouded mind.

Lightning cracked the sky, split another tree.

Another warning.

Storm’s comin’, and it’s a big one. The big one. The one I’ve been looking out for.

Logan pocketed his money and his keys. He left the Prophecy without a backward glance. His last memory: the neon sign blinking steadily in the rain.

Suddenly, Logan was sitting on a bar stool, hunched over a stained counter of a dingy gin mill. Outside, through filthy plate glass, the rain had stopped. A blanket of dirty snow covered the broken streets and sidewalks.

When did it snow?

Hands shaking, Logan reached for the bottle at his arm. He swallowed, wondering if all the booze had finally caught up with him and induced some kind of mental blackout.

Logan had no memory of the drive, yet through the big window he could see his Lotus-Seven parked in the lot.

Did he drive through rain, then snow? Had hours passed? Or days? Had he missed the freight train… and with it his only chance to escape?

For the first time in Logan’s memory, panic welled up inside of him. Another swallow of whiskey took care of it, but left confusion in its wake.

Logan regained a certain measure of control by observing his surroundings—the bartender calmly washing glasses while watching a muted television tuned to a soccer game. Another man seated at the opposite end of the bar, drinking quietly. Logan sniffed the air, and his nose curled at the smell of rank booze and stale tobacco.

Tubes like worms. Boring their way into his ears, nose, his mouth, his brain.

Outside, a lone traffic signal switched from green to yellow to red and back again. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalks, and the clock on the snow-covered steeple down the block was running backward.

We travel into the future every second we live, but no one can go back in time, according to Einstein. Which proved the old geezer wasn’t so smart after all.

In the shadows, under the dartboard, Logan spied three men with long coats and sunglasses, hats pulled down over their faces, drinks untouched in front of them. They sat at the edge of darkness. Waiting. Watching.

Time to go…

Logan rose, tossed a wad of bills on the bar, and headed for the door. The shadow men ignored him… or seemed to. Their inaction gave Logan hope, but not much.

Outside, his heavy boots crunched the icy snow.

Boots. Like a soldier’s. Like mine. I was a soldier once. No, twice. I fought in two wars. Both of them a long time ago.

Logan looked down to find his boots gone, his feet no longer clad in hard leather, but swathed in soft moccasins. There was still snow. Everywhere. But this covering was pristine and virgin white. The reflective snow of his youth. It coated trees and blanketed rocks. It shimmered with frost under a pale winter sun.

The tavern, the parking lot, the shadow men had disappeared. Logan padded alone through a silent mountain forest.

Home? Could I be home already?

Hoarfrost crunched under the balls of his feet. The chill seeped bone-deep into Logan’s wiry, teenaged frame. But despite the frigid air, the darkening sky, the deepening snow, Logan slogged ahead.

It was the burning rage that pushed him, maddened him—an unreasoning need for vengeance that drove Logan farther and farther into the wilderness.

Through calf-deep snow, Logan followed the spoor, moving quickly in a painful effort to catch up to his elusive quarry. Numb fingers clutched his father’s long knife, ready to strike, ready to stab, to rend.

Eager to kill.

At a rocky precipice cleared of snow by the relentless wind, the footprints Logan had tracked ended abruptly. Frustrated, Logan scanned the forest, then sniffed the air, hoping to locate his prey by scent alone.

Harsh winds stung Logan’s face—a face raw from the bitter cold and bruised from the beating he’d received at the hands of Victor Creed, the bully known to the local settlers of this region by his Blackfoot Indian name, Sabretooth.

I know Creed hates me. But I don’t know why. More secrets, deeper and darker than the forest around me.

Sabretooth had turned up at the door of Logan’s log cabin hours—or was it days?—before, just as he had every year around this same time. There was neither rhyme nor reason to Creed’s visits—only that they always occurred when Logan was alone.

Logan had walked beyond the boundaries of his father’s homestead, inside the tree line where he gathered firewood for the cold days and nights ahead. He was alone again. His father had been gone for weeks, fur-trapping up north.

To guard his son, his meager possessions, and the precious furs he’d gathered during trapping season, the elder Logan had left behind his hunting knife and a fierce husky named Razor.

Returning with a heavy bundle of dry timber, Logan had heard Razor’s frenzied barks and angry howls, muffled by distance, by snow and by trees. He’d tossed the firewood aside and hurried back to the cabin as fast as he could run.

He found Razor’s blood and brains staining the snow, and the Blackfoot helping himself to the pelts Logan’s father had left to dry under the winter sun.

Through tears of rage, Logan stared down at the murdered animal while Creed’s taunts battered his ears. Then, with the savage cry of an enraged beast, Logan hurled himself at his tormentor, to land on the man’s back. Logan clawed at Creed’s face and tore at his throat with his teeth.

With a fierce growl of his own, Sabretooth dashed Logan to the frozen ground.

Stunned, he sprawled in the snow next to his dog’s stiffening corpse. As he fought for consciousness, Logan saw the Indian loom over him. Heard the man’s stinging laughter ringing in his ears. Felt the torrent of kicks and blows that rained down on him.

Finally, the blackness rose and swallowed him up.

Much later, Logan bolted upright, his body numb from the cold. The sun had crossed the sky, the day fading. Logan’s memory returned, and with it a murderous rage.

Racing to the cabin, Logan snatched the hunting knife from its place over the mantle. Without regard for the elements or the waning daylight, Logan set off, determined to hunt down Sabretooth and end his enemy’s existence once and for all.

Within the first hour, Logan lost Creed’s trail, then picked it up again. Now the Blackfoot’s spoor was mixed with another’s. A bear’s. A large one, by the size of the prints. Like Creed, the animal was moving up a crude mountain trail toward higher ground.

Minutes later, as Logan nearly crested a hill, a dark figure rose up from behind a boulder. The grizzly roared a challenge, and Logan reared back in surprise.

Lumbering forward on its short hind legs, the mammoth grizzly towered over him. The animal weighed at least four hundred pounds. When it roared again, hot spittle splashed Logan’s cheek. The creature’s steaming breath rolled over him.

For a moment, Logan felt paralyzed. Then he raised his knife and let loose with a howl of his own. Moving forward, the blade slashing back and forth, Logan prepared to face the creature’s massive onslaught.

The bold, unexpected move startled the bear. The beast halted, eyes wide, ears twitching—just out of the blade’s reach.

Legs braced, Logan prepared to charge. His rage clawed his heart and he longed to slash and stab this creature—any creature. Nothing could threaten him.

Time seemed suspended as man and beast eyeballed each other very cautiously and carefully.

Then, from somewhere behind the grizzly, Logan heard a snort, followed by a terrified bleat. In the back of the looming grizzly, Logan spied four black eyes peering at him from under a tangle of low, snow-laden pine branches.

Black fur rippling, brown snouts wet and steaming, the frightened cubs emerged from cover, only to cower behind their mother.

Seeing the helpless pups, Logan lowered his blade. With wary eyes locked on the angry grizzly, he took a single step back, then another.

The bear snorted, her fur bristling, as Logan continued his careful retreat. Even in his harsh world, Logan believed that not everything that was a threat should be destroyed.

“Go in peace. You are not my enemy and I am not yours,” Logan whispered softly as he continued to walk backward, down the trail.

The bear sensed Logan’s intent. She dropped on all fours, then turned her quivering back on the human.

Slapping the cubs with her front paws to move them along, the grizzly plunged between the snow-covered trees.

Logan watched the creature retreat, her hide dusted with snow, two cubs scurrying at her feet. When the bear had moved out of sight, Logan closed his eyes and leaned against a tree, heart racing from the aftershock of the unexpected encounter.

When he opened them again, Logan found himself outside the tavern, in the middle of the snow-covered parking lot.

The night had grown much colder—unseasonably cold, unless Logan had lost weeks or months since his time at the Prophecy, instead of mere hours.

But he had no time to worry about that now. Not with the shadow men so close…

With a stab of relief, Logan spied his Lotus-Seven. The top was down—absurd in this weather, even for someone who did not feel heat or cold like everyone else.

Logan found his keys and slid behind the wheel.

The throbbing roar of the engine reassured him. But before Logan could throw the vehicle into gear, figures emerged from the darkness. Then a man spoke.

“Mr. Logan?”

Logan looked up just as something hard, cold, and sharp struck his shoulder, stabbed through muscle and ribs, and pierced his lung.

A hot gorge closed his throat. Wheezing, Logan struggled to rise, as toxins surged through his body, sapping his strength, bringing his mind to a standstill.

Helpless as a dishrag, Logan was dragged from the car. He lashed out—only to be pummeled to the cold ground by vicious, unseen fists. With the last of his waning strength, Logan fought back. But as the powerful tranquilizer took effect, the dark and the pain devoured him.

Just before consciousness slipped away, Logan felt an odd sense of relief. There was nothing more he could do now. Days of running and nights of hiding were over. Escape was no longer possible.

The apocalypse has begun.

2

THE HIVE

BEHIND angular eyeglasses that gleamed in the dim light, the Professor watched the medical team labor over their patient.

A dozen physicians and specialists crowded around a naked figure cocooned behind the thick walls of a translucent tank. Inside the Plexiglas coffin, “Subject X” floated in a greenish chemical soup comprised of interferon-laced plasma, molecular proteins, and cellular nutrients, along with a kind of synthetic embryonic fluid of the Professor’s own devise.

A few ounces of that murky liquid were more valuable than those technicians could ever imagine. Worth more than the average North American skyscraper—and far more to the elite few who actually understood its purpose.

The Professor’s thought was interrupted by a flashing light on his console. The team leader was informing him that the delicate preparatory process was nearing completion.

Like Subject X’s airtight coffin, the Professor’s own chamber was hermetically sealed—an electronic realm of steel and glass, fiberglass cables and silicon chips. Inside this chamber, computers purred and processors hummed. Polished adamantium steel walls dully reflected scrolling streams of data on flickering monitors and banks of high-definition TV screens.

The Professor’s rail-thin body sat erect and motionless on his ergonomic throne, his pale flesh stretched taut over prominent cheekbones. Coolly, he appraised the medical procedures as they played in real time on a large central monitor.

A rare smile curled his lips as he observed the team’s progress. Despite wearing somewhat restrictive environmental hazard suits, cumbersome helmets, and bulky air-scrubbers, the medical staff performed their assigned duties quickly and efficiently—so efficiently that Subject X would be ready for the first experiment tomorrow, well ahead of the original schedule.

The preliminary work had gone splendidly, the Professor decided, and his staff had performed with exemplary efficiency.

And why not? Had he not trained them himself, demanded the highest degree of professionalism, commitment, and self-sacrifice from every last one of them?

The Professor touched a button. On a different level of the compound, a blinking light alerted a second medical team that their skills would soon be needed. He manipulated everything that went on inside the immense research facility from this command-and-control center. Via constant digital recordings, the Professor knew of every action, every sound that transpired within its walls.

Billions of bits of data traveled to the Professor through hundreds of miles of fiber-optic cables—an information network that snaked its way through every room, every vent, every wall.

Poised like a spider in a technological web, the Professor surveyed his domain from the center of the vast complex. From behind sealed doors and coded locks, he could access any accumulated data, observe any experiment, and issue commands with the flick of a switch or the utterance of a spoken order.

What interested him now, of course, was Subject X.

Through the monitor, the Professor viewed the arrival of the second medical team. With a hiss, a pressurized door opened, and the group moved in to replace the preparatory staff. The members of this new team were clad in the same bulky environmental suits, not to protect them, but to shield Subject X from the threat of contamination—a necessary precaution.

The task of this second team was to fit Subject X with a variety of biological probes designed to monitor bodily functions, along with hollow injection tubes sheathed in Teflon. These tubes were crucial to the success of the adamantium bonding process.

The Professor’s long-fingered hands—the hands of an aesthete, he liked to think—played lightly across a custom-made ergonomic keyboard only he could decipher. Abruptly, the ubiquitous whir of air-scrubbers and the constant hiss of the climate-control systems were drowned out by snatches of conversation and ambient sounds transmitted from the medical lab.

Scrolling data vanished from the supplemental view screens, to be replaced by images of men in protective suits crowding around the simmering, transparent coffin.

Dr. Hendry, the team leader—his environmental hazard suit marked with a broad green stripe to signify his status—studied Subject X through the opaque fluid.

“Who shaved the patient?”

At Hendry’s side, a man raised his hand. “I did.”

“What did you use, poultry shears?”

“What?”

“Look at the man.” He pointed to the lone figure in the clear, rectangular tank.

Behind his faceplate, the other man seemed perplexed. “That’s really weird. I shaved him twenty minutes ago, and he was as smooth as a billiard ball…”

“Could have used a haircut, too,” observed another member of the team.

The physicians and specialists took their positions around the Plexiglas, gazing mutely at the figure inside. The pale pink male form was swathed in bubbles. His raven black hair drifted around his head like a storm cloud.

A flexible steel breathing tube looped down from a wheezing respirator to a mask that completely covered the subject’s nose and mouth. This technological umbilical cord also contained various sensors, tubes that supplied nutrients, and needles to administer drugs, if necessary.

The silence was broken at last by a trundling medical cart pushed by a nurse clad in the same bulky gear worn by the others. On the cart’s antiseptic surface sat an array of surgical probes resembling medieval torture devices more than any modern medical implement. Each gleaming probe was comprised of a hollow, razor-sharp stainless steel spike—some as long as six inches, others as short as an inch. A long, flexible tube was attached to each spike’s base, along with wires to channel biological information to various monitoring devices.

Many of these probes would be used to measure and evaluate the subject’s mundane bodily functions—heart rate, blood pressure, basal metabolism, body temperature, electrolyte balance, respiration, hormonal activity, digestion and elimination, and brain functions. Others would be used for more arcane purposes.

As the Professor remotely observed the procedure, the team leader began to attach the first probe. Reaching into the simmering stew, Dr. Hendry plunged a slender four-inch spike directly into the brain of Subject X through a hole drilled into the cranium above the left eye.

A flurry of movement erupted inside the tank. The medical team was taken by surprise when the subject jerked once, then opened his eyes and stared up at them, seemingly aware.

“Back away from the subject,” Dr. Hendry commanded, even as he stood his ground.

The subject’s eyes appeared focused and alert, though the pupils were dilated. Subject X tried to speak as well, but the sounds he made were muffled and incomprehensible behind the bubbling respirator and whirring machinery.

“The goddamn tranquilizer is wearing off.” The neurologist’s tone was critical.

“We pumped enough into him to stun an elephant!” said the anesthesiologist defensively.

“I can’t believe it, either, but look at his brain wave patterns.”

The neurologist stepped aside to display the encephalograph’s readout to the rest of the team.

“You’re right.” The anesthesiologist could hardly believe it. He had never seen anything like it. “The subject’s still in a fugue state, but he’s regaining consciousness—despite the sedatives.”

“Okay, I want Thorazine. Four hundred and fifty CCs. Stat.” Dr. Hendry extended his hand for the hypodermic gun.

His surgical assistant lifted the injector, loaded a plastic vial of the powerful drug into the device, then hesitated.

“Are you sure about the dosage?” the assistant asked weakly. “Thorazine is going to mess up his brain functions something awful, and 450 CCs…”

The timid voice trailed off, but the meaning was clear. The serum could kill the subject.

Dr. Hendry gazed through his faceplate at the ghostly silhouette thrashing inside the coffin-shaped tank. The subject’s chest was heaving, his jaw moving behind the breathing mask.

“If he comes around, he’s going to mess us up something awful,” Dr. Hendry replied.

“But that’s a huge dose—enough to finish him, maybe…” The anesthesiologist’s voice wasn’t as weak as the assistant’s, but it faded, too. He’d felt obligated to say it, though he knew it didn’t matter. Not with Hendry in charge.

Watching from his sealed chamber, the Professor grunted in irritation and keyed the intercom. When he spoke, his sharp tone thundered inside the medical lab as well as the team’s environmental hazard helmets.

“Administer the Thorazine at once. In the dose Dr. Hendry prescribed. The patient must not awaken. Not again.”

Hendry snatched the hypodermic gun away from his assistant and plunged the injector into the churning tank. The hypodermic hissed, and Subject X tensed as a violent spasm wracked his thick frame. Soon, however, the subject’s eyes closed and his respiration and heart rate slowed.

“He’s out,” said the neurologist.

“Blood pressure normal. Heart rate normal. Breathing is shallow, but the respirator will force sufficient oxygen into his lungs,” the anesthesiologist noted with relief.

Inside the helmet, Dr. Hendry tried to shake the perspiration out of his eyes. “For a second there, I thought we were going to have to release the cyanide.”

“Then we’d know how good these hazard suits really are,” someone quipped.

The attempt at humor broke the tension of the moment, but the laughter was forced.

“Continue the procedure,” the Professor’s voice commanded.

Dr. Hendry lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if searching for the invisible cameras that recorded every step of the delicate process. After his assistant slapped a long probe into his gloved hand, Hendry reached into the boiling mixture and plunged the needle-sharp skewer directly into the subject’s abdominal cavity.

Again, Subject X tensed as tremors rocked his muscular frame.

The Professor keyed his intercom. “There’s been another spike in brain wave functions,” he said, observing the data on his private touchscreen monitors.

This time, Hendry backed away from the tank with the rest. “What should we do, Professor?”

“I want you to use the biodampeners to inhibit Subject X’s brain functions…”

The anesthesiologist spoke up again. “But Professor, we’ve already administered enough Thorazine to—”

“—stun an elephant, yes. But the sedative does not seem to be effective,” the Professor murmured. “As you can plainly see, Subject X is hardly… placid.”

Hendry signaled another member of his team. The man stepped forward, cranial probes in hand. The rest of the staff retreated to allow the specialist enough room to work. But before he attached the probes, the psychiatrist spoke.

“If you wish, we can activate the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor. Interface with the brain should be very simple while the subject is unconscious…”

“That won’t be necessary,” the Professor replied. “The dampeners will suffice, for now.”

The psychiatrist accepted the answer without argument and went to work.

“Will you be joining us in the medical lab, sir?” Hendry asked.

“Shortly, Dr. Hendry. Shortly…”

Within a few minutes, all the cranial probes were in place and the devices activated. The readouts indicated that the biodampeners—tiny devices that emitted low-level electromagnetic waves to short circuit brain activity—had done the trick. Subject X would not awaken now. Not until they wished it.

“You may proceed,” said the Professor.

Satisfied that the preparatory procedures were at last back on track, the Professor switched off the audio feed, though he allowed the video images to continue to play across the monitors.

As he shifted in his chair, the Professor’s arm accidentally brushed a bulging personnel file, which sent a stack of yellowed newspaper clippings fanning across his desk.

MERCY KILLER “QUACK” ELUDES FBI, read the sensational headline emblazoned across one clipping. Next to the headline, a grainy black-and-white photograph displayed a bearded man with a round, almost cherubic face. The caption read:

DR. ABRAHAM B. CORNELIUS NOW A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE.

With a weary sigh, the Professor stuffed the clippings back into the file and set them aside. Keying a recording device built into the console, he began to dictate in a slow, clear voice.

“This is a memo to the attention of Director X. Date, current… I have met with Dr. Cornelius at the designated location…”

Designated location? The Professor found himself musing. A ridiculous euphemism for the sinkhole of urban blight where the fugitive scientist had fled in an effort to avoid capture, imprisonment, and perhaps execution.

“The meeting was cordial…”

If one can call the threat of blackmail cordial.

“… and Dr. Cornelius expressed an interest in our project and its ambitious goals…”

In truth, Cornelius was desperate to escape punishment. In the United States, the authorities dealt harshly with murderers—especially those who’d taken the Hippocratic oath.

“Dr. Cornelius has willingly agreed to our terms for employment, and seems grateful to be of further service to the science of medicine…”

As if he had a choice.

“However, I question whether Dr. Cornelius is the optimum candidate for such a critical position in this experiment. In the past he’s demonstrated a disturbing propensity for independent thinking, as his crimes suggest.

“I also doubt his expertise will be required. There will be no tissue rejection, of that I am certain, and Dr. Hendry concurs. My bonding technique will be sufficient to sheathe Logan’s skeleton, I assure you.”

Ridiculous of the Director to equate Dr. Cornelius’s skills with my own. There is no comparison. I am an architect of the flesh, an artist, a visionary. Cornelius is merely a skilled practitioner of a single discipline. Can Director X not see the difference?

“Surely other researchers in the field of immunology are equally qualified and have much less… questionable backgrounds?”

The Professor keyed off the microphone. With a frown, he carefully reconsidered his statement and paused with a thought.

If I object too strongly, Director X will question my motives, even my loyalty. Perhaps it is better to be gracious and diplomatic, to accept this interloper as I accepted Ms. Hines. They can both be disposed of later, when their services are no longer required… In the end, only results matter.

The Professor keyed his microphone.

“Erase memo back to the word ‘employment.’”

The recorder hummed, reversing itself.

“I feel that Dr. Cornelius will be a valuable addition to this project,” the Professor continued. “His credentials are impressive…”

But he’s certainly not a genius…

“… I am sure that he will be able to assist me greatly in the coming months…”

Though I neither want nor require an assistant, no matter how qualified Director X feels this man is. Did the artist Michelangelo require an assistant to paint his vision of The Creation on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?

“… This project is far from completion, and there is much work to be done…”

Did God require an assistant or additional help to fashion the universe? I think not.

“And, of course, Ms. Carol Hines, formerly of NASA, has also proved herself to be a valuable asset…”

The woman is acceptable, even if Director X thrust her upon me. To her credit, Ms. Hines required no additional training, and has assumed her duties immediately upon arrival.

“She comes highly trained by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, and is proficient in the use of the REM technology—one of a few capable specialists in the world…”

Better still, the woman is malleable and easily led; the type who would provide an invaluable service and expect little in return. Best of all, she would ask no questions—the perfect drone, a worker bee. Certainly not a queen…

“Both individuals have arrived at the facility, and are settling in.”

And Dr. Cornelius had better hit the ground running, or he is less than useless to me, and to the experiment… I’m already impressed with Ms. Hines’s dedication and her considerable skills. But I shall reserve my judgment of Dr. Cornelius until I observe the man in action…

“I shall file an additional progress report of success or failure, after the adamantium bonding process is completed. Until then…”

The Professor added his cyber signature, then keyed off the microphone and slumped into his chair. His thoughts were troubled.

If only men were as predictable, as tractable as the elements.

As a scientist, the Professor knew with certainty that the molten adamantium bubbling in the vats below him would melt at a precise temperature. He also knew that the same substance would harden with the tensile strength greater than a diamond when cooled. He knew the precise composition of the resulting alloy on the molecular level. He understood how the various elements would bond and what configurations the electrons would take as they circled the atoms. Yet he could not predict with any kind of certainty how one of the lowliest animal wranglers in his facility would behave under the precise circumstances for which he’d been trained.

The Professor leaned back in his command chair and gazed, unseeing, at the flickering monitor.

Meanwhile, inside the medical lab, activities continued apace. The technicians had finished placing the probes and were draining the coffin-shaped container. The valuable fluid would be pumped into a stainless steel vat, where it would be cleansed of impurities and stored for use in subsequent procedures.

Subject X would spend the night in a carefully controlled holding tank, in an electronically induced slumber. His vital signs and brain activity—what there was of it—would be monitored by a medical staff separated from the subject by an impenetrable wall of Plexiglas. Chemical compounds, fluids, and basic nutrients would be added intravenously as needed.

On the console, another flashing light indicated that the procedure had ended. The Professor watched the medical team file out of the lab, stripping off their environmental hazard suits and mopping their sweating brows.

His console buzzed and the gray, patrician features of Dr. Hendry appeared on the central monitor.

“The probes are in place, Professor. No indication of infection. No threat of rejection. Vital signs are all quite positive.”

“Very good,” the Professor replied. But the team leader did not log off.

“More to say, Dr. Hendry?”

The man on the monitor cleared his throat. “I spoke with the new immunologist,” he said.

The Professor raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“I’m impressed by his work, but not by the man. Dr. Cornelius’s theory is sound, and he seems to have solved one of the most intractable problems of the bonding process…”

“I sense more than hesitation in your tone, Dr. Hendry. You may speak candidly.”

“He’s a common criminal,” Hendry said, agitated. “He’s violated the ethics of his profession. Can’t we utilize his work without actually employing him?”

“The procedure is experimental, much can go wrong. It’s better to have Cornelius here in case unexpected complications arise.”

“But—”

The Professor cut him off. “It’s out of my hands.”

Hendry frowned. “I… understand.”

“Very good. Carry on.”

With a touch of a button, Hendry’s face vanished, to be replaced by an endless parade of scientific data crawling across the monitor. The shift in focus pleased the Professor.

The certainties of the physical world and the comprehensible workings of advanced technology are infinitely preferable to the unpredictability of human thoughts and behavior.

Illogic and ambiguity had always troubled him, and the Professor longed to purge humankind of useless emotions and wanton desires. Control of the human mind was the key—but absolute control had never been achieved. Until the development of the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor, it had never been possible.

Until now, the limits of the REM device had not been explored, not even by its inventors. NASA used the innovative device for training purposes, or to stage virtual reality drills. But the Professor knew the machine was capable of so much more.

They call themselves scientists, yet they behave like children, playing with a loaded weapon, never realizing its potential…

“Sniveling cowards, the lot of them…” the Professor muttered.

With the REM device, mastery of the human mind was within his grasp—no thought would remain secret, no desire hidden. Every hope, dream, fear, or rage could now be monitored, controlled, measured, and evaluated. Memories could be erased, personalities altered, false recollections implanted to replace real experience.

In the Professor’s own estimation, the genesis of the technology behind the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor became a testament to the timidity, the lack of imagination, and myopia, which plagues the scientific community.

Brain Factory, a video game company in Southern California, pioneered and marketed the first, primitive REM as a novelty device. However, early product testing proved too dangerous for human subjects. The Consumer Products and Safety Administration stepped in and banned the use of REM technology for any entertainment purposes and other commercial usages.

Several researchers in the fields of psychology subsequently recognized the potential of the breakthrough technology in the treatment of mental disorders. But instead of embracing this area of study, the American Council of Concerned Psychiatrists spoke out against the REM device being used “until such time as further testing could be completed.”

Of course, no further testing would be possible without funding, and psychiatrists and academics—fearing obsolescence should the device live up to its vast potential—blocked any grants for research projects using the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor.

At that point, Brain Factory fell into bankruptcy, and made a bargain basement deal with the United States government. With a new infusion of cash, Brain Factory went on to produce It’s Clobbering Time and Fing Fang Foom—two of the hottest computer games in the world. In exchange, the Central Intelligence Agency, S.H.I.E.L.D., and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration received exclusive rights to the use of the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor for “research and training purposes.”

Though he did not know how the CIA or S.H.I.E.L.D. ultimately utilized REM technology, the Professor discovered that NASA had squandered the greatest scientific breakthrough in the history of brain research by using the REM as a teaching tool. Instead of tapping the machine’s mind control powers to exert total mastery over its astronauts and NASA researchers, they limited themselves to using the device as if it were a textbook, for simulations and training exercises.

The Professor would not be fettered by the same restraints. In the coming months, he fully intended to test the limits of the REM machine’s untapped potential on Subject X. It was not enough to transform the subject’s body. His mind must be restructured as well. The ultimate mastery of Logan became the Professor’s goal. He knew it was only a matter of time.

The Professor knew that the physical form had certain limits, vulnerabilities. Bones—even ones sheathed in adamantium steel—had limits, too. And chemically enhanced muscle and sinew could still tire or fail.

But a mind reduced to a beast-like state of consciousness—devoid of fear and doubt and desire, stripped of memory and emotion, and unfazed by the dread of personal extinction—would never waver. In its pristine purity, such a mind would experience no pain, suffer no discomfort, feel no remorse.

Burn away the chaff, rip away the superficial layers of humanity and unleash the savage, unreasoning animal that lurks behind the civilized facade of every human being.

Then I will mold that animal into Weapon X—the deadliest implement of war ever forged.

But unlike the Supreme Being who gave humanity life, I will not make the mistake of bestowing free will on my creation. Weapon X will be nothing more than a tool to do my bidding. An extension of will, yes. My own.

3

THE WRANGLER

THE man pulled the leather parka snug around his neck as a chilly blast whistled through the pines. With every step, the autumn snow crunched under his boots. Rabbit tracks crisscrossed the trail, and overhead a raptor cawed as it drifted in lazy circles on the thin mountain air.

The trail he followed ended abruptly, with a five-hundred-foot drop. In the river valley below, the rushing waters churned blue-green foam and the skeletal brown trees wore an uneven dusting of white. From a distance, the snowcapped peaks of the Canadian Rockies shimmered orange and yellow in the hastening dawn.

For a long time, the man stood on the precipice and gazed at the breathtaking vista. His blue eyes shone in the morning sun, face ruddy from the cold. Sandy hair ruffled under a wool cap, obscuring a gauze bandage that covered a two-inch gash across his forehead.

Too soon, the peace of morning was shattered by an electronic chirp. The man grabbed the communicator tucked next to a holstered Colt in his belt.

“Cutler here…”

“Playtime’s over, Cut. You have to come home now.”

Cutler ignored the jibe. “What’s up?”

“Deavers wants you in his office ASAP.”

“Roger that.”

“Looks like the major’s got a job for you—”

Cutler cut him off and pocketed the communicator. He turned his back on the dawn and without a second glance, retraced his own footprints along the trail. Through tangled brush and dense pines, he noticed barbed wire and electrified fencing—the first indicator of civilization. Soon he was close enough to read the bright yellow signs posted every few yards:

NO TRESPASSING

DANGER!

The signs were printed in English and French. A few were even printed in Blackfoot Sioux, the dominant language of the Native American population in the region. No one was permitted to approach this complex. Few even knew it existed.

Cutler followed the fence until he reached a security gate, where he slipped his identity card through the magstripe reader and entered his code on the keypad. Above his head, face-recognition technology confirmed his identity while a retinal scanner photographed his right eye. Two seconds, three, and Cutler heard the beep. The gate opened.

Inside the compound, no guards were in view—only more security cameras, X-ray sensors, and magnetic scanners. As Cutler crossed a barren stretch of frozen ground, an animal stench floated down from the pens. He heard snorts and grunts, too. Mercifully, the wolves had stopped howling soon after the sun showed itself.

Hiking beyond the concrete kennels and steel cages, Cutler headed toward a modern glass-and-steel structure that dominated a low rise. The four-story building was topped by conical microwave towers and spidery satellite arrays. Beneath were five levels of steel-lined tunnels, laboratories, workrooms, and storage chambers—including a moderately sized adamantium smelting facility on the deepest level. The underground maze had been bored out of solid granite, expanding beyond the limits of the deceptively modest surface structures. So extensive was the complex that an on-site fission reactor had been installed to provide for its energy needs.

Pushing through the glass double doors, Cutler found himself flanked by an armed security team—the same men he saw every day. Per established security protocol, they checked his ID and scanned his fingerprints.

“Out for your morning constitutional?” a guard asked.

Cutler nodded.