Gorgon

CHAPTER 8

Colonel Jack Hammerson watched Alex Hunter tossing and turning on the narrow bed. There were no adornments on the walls or surfaces in the billet he’d been assigned — no pictures, mementos, or personal items of any shape or form. Beside him on the floor was a duffel bag containing spare clothing and cash — the sum total of his possessions. Hammerson turned a dial, and the camera focused in on Alex’s face. It was slick with perspiration. His lips moved, and the muscles in his jaw and cheeks bulged from time to time.

‘That’s some nightmare.’

Hammerson didn’t turn to the voice. ‘Been like that every night.’

Lieutenant Alan Marshal, formerly second-in-command of the Alpha Soldier Research Unit, raised his eyebrows as he looked at the readout. ‘The EEG still looks like a cross between a migraine and epileptic seizure, but there’s a change from when we first tested him a few years back. Something else within the primary rhythms. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s another signature underlying his own — like two wave streams, one on top of the other.’

‘You mean like a split personality?’ Hammerson’s forehead creased.

Marshal flipped a page. ‘Don’t know. But that encephalic thunderstorm raging in there sure is masking something weird.’ He shook his head. ‘The continual high alpha activity alone should be burning him up … killing him.’

Hammerson turned slowly. ‘Just like Captain Graham’s experiments, huh?’

‘Wasn’t my call then, Jack, and it’s not how I would have done things.’ Marshal looked up from the feed and into Alex’s room. ‘I can’t believe he’s alive … and here.’

‘Well, he’s here because I trusted you would do things differently … so don’t let me down. When Borshov snatched Graham, it gave me an opportunity. I can ease him back in, inform the brass he was on an undisclosed mission in deep cover. Meantime, we can work on his … disabilities together. Try to manage the side effects of what you guys… what we did to him.’

Marshal held Hammerson’s eyes for a moment, before looking back down at the initial blood results. ‘But we didn’t do this, Jack. The Arcadian treatment couldn’t do this. This is beyond anything we tried in the program. There’s something else inside him that was probably there to begin with — the thing that makes him so… different.’

‘Can you isolate it?’ Hammerson asked.

‘Maybe, if I can find a place to start. Look here.’ He pointed to the chart. ‘Just two things off the top — the high proteolipid and phospholipid count across the entire cranial sphere. It shouldn’t be there at his age, and it’s leading to the myelin sheathing in his brain kickstarting again. Once you’re over twenty, the myelin sheath around your axons and neurons weakens. However with Alex, his are actually rebuilding, reforming, and I think it’s turbo-charging his ability to think.’ Marshal slid his finger down the page, then looked up and grinned. ‘But that’s nothing compared to this — this is a doozy. The ends of his chromosomes have stopped fraying.’

‘Once again, for the non-eggheads,’ Hammerson said.

Marshal snorted. ‘At the end of each strand of DNA there’s something called a telomere — a biological capstone that stops the chromosomes deteriorating. Cells have an ability to divide many times before they start to deteriorate and shorten — that’s how we age. But with Alex, his DNA strands don’t fray anymore — in fact, the telomere tips look almost totally intact. This could be why he has such enormous potential for rapid cellular repair — his body rebuilds itself almost as fast as trauma or the elements tear it down. For all we know, Alex Hunter might live to be 200, or even longer. The only other cells like that, with no finite chronological barrier, are cancer cells.’ Marshal blew air between his lips. ‘If you asked a scientist, military man, or even a sports coach, to design the next generation of human being, you’d probably end up with Alex Hunter. The guy’s a freak.’

‘And we made him like that.’ Hammerson sighed. ‘Don’t tell him about the potential longevity. He’s struggling enough with one lifetime at the moment.’ He turned to Marshal, his stare intense. ‘Lieutenant, I want Arcadian back in operation. He’s done more for his country than most, and if anyone deserves a second or third chance, it's him. With Graham gone, you’re in charge. I’m taking a risk bringing you in on this, but he needs help. He’ll tear himself, or us, apart unless we work out how to disengage those psychological cyclones. Can you do it?’

‘I can try,’ Marshal said.

‘We need more than try,’ Hammerson said evenly.

Marshal grimaced. ‘Will he … remember me?’

‘Do you mean will he remember how you guys tried to kill him? Or that you sent those biological robots up Black Mountain after him … and me?’

‘Like I said, that wasn’t me.’

Hammerson stared at the man on the bed again. ‘Who knows? Probably. Maybe that’s where his nightmares are coming from.’ He gave the scientist a humorless smile. ‘Don’t worry about it — I’ll deal with that. You just find a way to help him. Bottom line is, Alan, I need him back, now.’

Alex felt his neck tingle and tension run through his entire body as he followed Hammerson into the laboratory. The room was white-tiled, and at its center stood a single cot bed made of polished steel, with a half-inch metal railing running around its outside. Heavy-gauge wire attached to the railing ended in padded cuffs — one each on the lateral sides, and two at the far end. At the other end — the head end, Alex presumed — there was a single larger strap. All the cuff wires fed into digital monitors, currently inactive.

Marshal took a small step back as Alex turned toward him. His face was white, and his eyes unblinking. He nodded, trying to smile, but it looked more like a rictus. ‘Captain Hunter … er … Alex. Hello … I wonder if you remember me? Alan Marshal?’

Alex looked from the cot to Hammerson. ‘They’re not chaining me to the bed again.’

Hammerson shrugged. ‘Fine with me, but hear the lieutenant out. He’s here to help you … really help. If anyone can give you some clear water on your condition, he can.’

Marshal stepped forward. ‘I didn’t approve of Captain Graham’s methods. He cut corners, was impatient … reckless. Things got out of hand.’ He swallowed. ‘Jack’s right: I am going to help. You just need to trust me.’

Alex snorted.

‘I’ll be here the whole time,’ Hammerson said.

Marshal pointed to the bed. ‘Sit down, please, and I’ll tell you what I have planned.’ He lifted a chart, took a page off the top and handed it to Alex. ‘You can see for yourself.’

Alex read down the list of tests, then looked up and nodded. ‘Go on.’

Marshal seemed to relax a little. ‘We know that when you suffer an episode your strength peaks, and self-control is sometimes one of the first casualties. So I need to trigger that situation to see what effects it has on your brain, and on what areas of the brain.’ He pointed to a cap with electrodes trailing from it. ‘If you agree to me initiating an episode, I can see where your brain lights up and determine what’s firing, overfiring, or misfiring. Once I understand the what and where, I can work on mitigating the effects with a management plan, or at least a palliative cure. How does that sound?’

Alex shrugged. ‘Will I be out for the episode?’

‘Yes.’ Marshal picked up one of the cuffs. ‘Hence the restraints. These are for your protection as well as mine. I expect your physical side will kick in while you’re under, and you may get violent, which could disrupt the readings or damage the equipment, or us.’ He placed a hand on the digital reader the cable fed into. ‘These will give us some data on the correlation between strength and exertion.’

Hammerson placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder. ‘Like I said, I’ll be right here. Any problems, I’ll can the tests and drag you out pronto. Okay?’

Alex handed the test sheet back to Marshal. ‘Let’s do it.’

Marshal called in an orderly, a huge man, who strapped Alex to the cot without once meeting his eyes. ‘No offense, sir,’ he said as he attached multiple electrodes to Alex’s head and chest.

‘None taken,’ Alex responded.

Marshal stood to the side, holding a small box. Another orderly stood at ease next to him, his face friendly but alert. When Alex was secured, Marshal looked to Hammerson, who was already in the control room behind the glass wall.

‘Comfortable?’ Marshal asked Alex, before opening the box. Inside there were two enormous syringes. Alex raised his eyebrows.

Marshal pulled out the first syringe — finger-thick and filled with an amber fluid. ‘This will put you into a full resting condition — more like being asleep and dreaming than unconscious.’ He injected Alex’s arm as he talked. ‘It also contains neuropeptides, which will ease the problems you’re having with some memory blank spots.’

He replaced the syringe in the box and lifted the second one, which was filled with a clear fluid. ‘And this is my own cocktail. It’s going to trick your system into thinking it’s in a fight-or-flight situation. You’ll be getting drowsy shortly, and just as well as this needs to go directly into your amygdala. It contains the neurotransmitter epinephrine plus the hormone cortisol in a glucose suspension. The catecholamine hormones will make your body think it’s about to fight for its life.’

Marshal placed his gloved fingers on Alex’s neck and turned his head away. He inserted the long needle into the base of the skull, pushing in deep. ‘This is either going to be a good idea or a very bad one,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

Alex rolled his head back and nodded. ‘To both of us.’

Hammerson watched as Marshal bustled back into the room. He glanced at Alex and the military orderlies through the glass viewing panel, then flicked a switch to open communications between the two rooms.

‘Clear the room,’ he told the orderlies.

The two huge men quickly finished their tasks, and departed.

Marshal half-turned to Hammerson. ‘We need to move quickly; his body will metabolize the drugs soon. A normal man would be under for eight to twelve hours. With Alex, if we get an hour I’ll be happy. Got to start the mapping now.’

He pressed keys and switched on screens in a row of identical monitors, bringing them online. The first monitor displayed a real-time view of Alex’s face; below it, pulse graphs showed his heart rate and other metabolic functions. The next screen showed a 3D image of his brain, detailing all the folds and creases. The next showed a skull-shaped matrix of flashes and luminous threads, like fireworks exploding along miniature electric highways.

‘Walk me through it,’ Hammerson said.

Marshal motioned to the screens. ‘They’re all showing part of Alex — his external physical self, his neuroarchitecture, and his brain’s electrical pulse profile.’ He fiddled with one of the screens, before continuing. ‘When we combine them all, we see Alex’s brain activity profile down the most minute detail.’

The final screen showed a ghostly image of Alex’s face imposed over the cauliflower shape of the brain, and then within it the neural highways and synapses firing their impulses. Hammerson found it both eerie and fascinating.

Marshal keyed some more information, then motioned to the screens. ‘What we’re seeing right now is full resting normal. But when the epinephrine and cortisols kick in, we should see something very different.’

‘That doesn’t look normal now,’ Hammerson said.

‘That’s because it’s not.’ Marshal sounded unconcerned. ‘The normal brain has many sulcus folds and the cerebral cortex is highly wrinkled. Essentially this makes the brain more efficient as it increases its surface area and number of neurons — it’s a brilliant design for packing so much into the confined space of the skull. When Alex first underwent the Arcadian treatment we immediately noticed that his brain grew significantly more sulcus folds. Bottom line: a bigger, more efficient brain in the same size skull.’ He sighed. ‘I could spend the rest of my life working on his brain alone — it’s fantastic.’

Hammerson snorted. ‘I doubt Alex’ll give you many more chances. What are you looking for this time?’

Marshal straightened. ‘Have you heard Alex mention “the Other One”?’

Hammerson nodded.

‘He’s referring to his own personal monster of the id; and that’s who I’m looking for.’ Marshal pointed a pen at Alex’s cerebrum on the combined screen. ‘I’ll perform a structural analysis on the anatomy of the brain, looking first for formational deviations — such as tumors, hemorrhages, blood clots or lesions — and combine it with a functional analysis to locate and measure brain activity and diagnose any seizures or any degenerative diseases affecting it.’ Marshal used a small ball set into the keypad to rotate the 3D image. ‘This “Other One” that Alex has referred to — remember that secondary reading we found earlier on his EEG? There could be a link — two brainwave readings, in the same mind. It’s worth us…’

There was a lightning-like flash on the screen that showed the electrical impulse map of Alex’s brain.

‘Boom,’ Marshal said, and stood straighter. ‘Here we go.’

The lieutenant’s eyes remained fixed on the screen as Alex’s brain started to move from dream state to high activity. He traced his pen along the pathways being lit by the pulses and explained to Hammerson what was happening.

‘The largest part of the human brain is the cerebrum or cortex, associated with higher functions such as thought and action. The cerebral cortex is divided into four sections called lobes, with each lobe involved in separate functions. The frontal lobe’s associated with reasoning, planning, movement, emotions, and problem solving. The parietal lobe controls orientation, recognition, and perception of stimuli. The occipital lobe at the back here manages visual processing.’ He rotated the brain. ‘And down under here is the temporal lobe, associated with perception and recognition of auditory stimuli, memory, and speech.

‘Whoa.’ Marshal shook his head as light flashes appeared in every quadrant of Alex’s brain, jumping back and forth as if his entire brain was involved in whatever action sequence was playing out in his mind.

Suddenly, Alex gave a roar that sent Hammerson rushing to the blastproof window. Alex’s teeth were clamped together and veins stood out like cords on his neck. The graph showing his brain waves was jumping wildly.

‘Well, Doc, looks like you’ve got your episode,’ Hammerson said.

Alex’s eyes remained clamped shut, but he opened his mouth wide and emanated a sound of pure fury and pain. His arms came up, pulling on the steel cables, which gave a foot before they stopped the movement.

‘They’re holding,’ Marshal said, and blew air through compressed lips. ‘He just dragged the equivalent of a small car with each arm.’

‘Let’s hope they continue to hold,’ Hammerson said. ‘Wouldn’t be a good idea to send anyone in there right about now.’

Marshal swallowed. ‘They’ll hold.’ He turned back to the monitors and leaned in close. ‘The electrical impulses in his brain are centralizing and moving deeper into the sub-neopallium.’

‘The what?’ Hammerson frowned.

‘The neopallium is considered the most recently evolved brain structure in animals. It’s unusual for it to be the most highly active area during a perceived high-aggression event.’

Marshal enlarged the image of Alex’s brain, making the resolution near transparent so they could follow the impulses as they coalesced.

‘What the hell?’ Hammerson said, leaning in close. ‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’

‘The thing that started all this — Borshov’s damned bullet. It was lodged deep inside the man’s head, remember, in an inoperable position?’

‘Of course — the bullet fragment.’ Marshal turned back to the monitor, his forehead creasing. He tapped at keyboards, and moved over different screens, changing angles and sharpening the resolution. ‘It’s gone. Nothing, no metallic traces at all. Absorbed maybe? It can happen.’ He fiddled some more, then pointed to an area deep inside the neocortex. ‘But there is something in there, driving the electrical activity. It’s certainly biological, and quite dense.’

‘Scar tissue?’ Hammerson asked.

‘Unlikely. If it was just a mass of solid tissue there wouldn’t be any activity in the area.’

As they watched, the electrical impulse lightshow retreated to the small central area, and seemed to flare as the activity level increased. Hammerson looked through the glass window to Alex lying on the metal cot. His face was a savage mask. Never had Jack Hammerson seen such an expression on a human being.

He turned back to the scientist. ‘Well, whatever that activity is, it doesn’t look like it’s benign. Can you isolate that area; find out what it is?’

‘Already on it.’ Marshal’s fingers flew over a keyboard. ‘It’s some sort of dense biological core deep in the subcortical area. This mass, or synaptic bundle, is actually firing off its own electrical impulses. It’s also secreting chemical substances that have molecular chains similar to natural steroids, but much more powerful.’

‘Get a sample.’ Hammerson was still watching Alex. ‘Fast.’

Alex roared again, and pulled one of the cables to its maximum tension. His arm strained against it, the cable-stress reader registering a colossal force. At the same moment, the electrical activity deep in Alex’s brain flared like an explosion. Alex surged again, his face filled with pure animalistic rage.

Hammerson’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, there you are — the Other One.’

The unnerving sound of screaming steel filled the room, and individual strands of the high-tensile cable started to pop.

Hammerson spoke over his shoulder. ‘Too late for samples. The experiment is over.’

With a metallic tearing sound, Alex’s arm was free. He gripped the metal railing around the bed and lifted. The steel bent upwards and broke with a sound like a gun shot. Alex continued to drag at it, the heavy steel bending like taffy.

Hammerson’s voice rose. ‘Wake him up, Lieutenant, or this is about to go real bad.’

Marshal’s fingers danced over the keyboard. Inside the room, a slot opened in the steel bench behind Alex’s head, and a needle shot out and into the side of his neck.

‘Neuroleptic,’ Marshal said. ‘Should bring him down.’

Alex held the broken bar in his fist, but didn’t pull on it any further. He exhaled, long and slow, and his face relaxed. Slowly, he lowered his arm.

Marshal wiped a sleeve over his face. ‘I think it’s over — look.’ The 3D image of Alex’s brain showed the impulse activity dissipating from the mystifying central core and moving back up into the neocortex. ‘It was a good start. At least now we know where to look.’

Hammerson watched as one of the orderlies entered the room and undid Alex’s remaining cuffs. The man’s eyes were wide, his movements quick.

Alex sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, now slick with perspiration. ‘Thanks.’

The man nodded and exited.

Marshal pressed a button on the console. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked Alex.

Alex looked up. ‘Okay … hungover. How’d I do?’

‘You did fine,’ Hammerson responded. ‘Get cleaned up and head over to the HAWCs’ Nest. You can acclimatize there, and catch up with some old friends.’

Alex waved and nodded. Hammerson flicked off the communications.

Marshal was replaying some of the final minutes of the tests. ‘My technical guess is he’s got some sort of tumor growing there, but hopefully benign. The fact that this synaptic mass is firing off its own electrical impulses is intriguing — that alone is worth more study. But the chemicals that it’s secreting … now that’s a mystery.’ He looked at the spectrum readout. ‘The computer can only guess too, as it’s not working from an actual sample, but it’s as baffled as we are. Substance unknown.’ He swiveled in his seat to look at Hammerson. ‘Just what did Alex have inside him when he came back from Chechnya all those years ago?’

Hammerson frowned and shook his head. ‘Maybe some kind of contaminant. What’s your non-technical guess?’

Marshal stared for a moment, then swung back to his screen. ‘That the synaptic mass is all the hate, anger, and fury Alex Hunter’s ever felt in his life. And it’s all being super-compressed, stored, and then harnessed somehow to power up this dark side that he calls the Other One. It’s part of him now, maybe with far worse effects than the bullet ever caused. And there may be nothing we can do about it.’

‘Great, just great,’ Hammerson said, and exhaled in a long sigh.

Alex stood before a huge hangar that was painted drab green on the outside, and had no windows or markings of any kind. Alex knew it was fortified and sound-proofed, but still he could hear activity inside — the clank of steel, weapons being worked on, muted voices. He pulled back the heavy steel door and stepped in and to the side, away from the backlight. He smiled as he breathed in sweat, gun oil, and exhaust fumes — this was the HAWCs’ Nest, a warehouse-sized hangar that worked as a target range, weapons test site, gym, meeting room, and general hangout club for the specialized commandos. Membership was for life, and for a HAWC that could be brutally short.

Today, there were just two people inside. Sam Reid’s huge form lay on a bench, holding above his chest a bar with enough weight that the reinforced steel bar bent like a banana. He lowered and lifted it a couple more times, and then placed it gently back on the rack. He sat up, took a deep breath, exhaled, and grinned at Alex. Following the weight session, his muscles looked ready to explode; his torso was ripped with veins, burn marks, and zippered scars. He got smoothly to his feet, the MECH suit’s hydraulics lifting his 250-pound bulk as though he weighed nothing, and started to unwrap the leather gloves and straps from his hands and wrists.

Behind him, a woman had stopped cleaning a stripped-down machine gun to stare at Alex. She snorted, and wiped her hands on a rag. She had close-cropped white hair, a brutal scar that pulled her mouth into a sneer, and face that made her look like she’d been born angry. Her other cheek pulled up into an approximation of a smile — probably. Casey Franks.

‘Welcome home, boss,’ she said, followed by the hint of a salute.

Alex nodded in return. Franks was one of their best. She was tough, and very hard to hurt in the field, let alone kill. The memories came flooding back as he looked at her — the missions they’d shared. He had overseen her initial training. These were his people.

‘The HAWCs’ Nest — our fortress of solitude,’ he said, and breathed deeply. ‘I missed it.’

‘You’re back now. All that matters,’ Franks said.

‘You look loose,’ Sam said, grinning. ‘What’s your secret?’

‘Get shot in the face, travel to hell and back, and lose everything,’ Alex replied.

Sam grunted. ‘Yep, and we were along for the ride on a few of those trips to hell. And you haven’t lost everything: we’re still standing.’

‘We’re still standing,’ Alex agreed, and took off his jacket. ‘The Hammer said I need to acclimatize … and I got nothing but time.’

Sam motioned to the weight bench. ‘Take a seat. Being a civilian for a while can soften a man up. We might need to get you back in shape.’

Franks grinned. ‘Better start him off light. Muscle strains are a bitch.’

Alex went to the bench. ‘What have you got on?’

Sam walked around behind the bar. ‘Two fifty each side. With the bar, around 520, give or take. Want me to take some off?’

Alex shook his head and sat down.

Franks clapped her hands and whooped. ‘Ten bucks on the boss.’ She made a fist, her grin pulling her scar up even further.

Alex paused. ‘I’m not the boss. Just consulting for now.’

‘Sure.’ Sam laid his hands on the bar to spot him. ‘Less talk, more action.’

Alex lay down and gripped the bar, feeling the pattern of the steel. He lifted it clear and then lowered it to his chest. He raised and lowered it three more times, his face calm, then placed it back on the rack. ‘When do we get started?’ He knew what Sam was doing — there would be lots more tests along the way.

‘Let’s try something here.’ Sam called Franks to help him lift the bar off the rack, remove the discs and replace the rod with a power-lifting bar — tempered steel and twice as thick. He and Franks replaced the weights, adding even more. They stopped at 800 pounds. Sam grunted, satisfied. ‘You know, back in ’97, Big Jim Henderson bench-pressed 713 pounds. Record’s never been broken. So, let’s see what you got … if you’ve still got it, that is.’

Alex gripped the bar with one hand and then the other. He lifted it free, lowered it to his chest and raised it again, and again. Sam stopped spotting him and instead leaned forward on the bar, adding his own weight — an extra 250, at least — bringing the total to more than 1000 pounds.

Alex stared straight ahead, not seeing the bar or Sam — and raised both without the slightest strain.

Franks clapped her hands again. ‘Yeah. Our very own weapon of mass destruction. Stand back, children.’

Children. An image flashed into Alex’s mind: a small boy holding a snake in his hand, squeezing until the flesh was crushed. He saw the boy waving to him as his mother carried him away… his child, his child. Alex lowered and raised the bar, again and again, machine-like, picking up speed.

The small boy was on a table now, strapped down, with wires attached to his head and body. People looked in at him through a toughened-glass window. Inside the room, a white-coated scientist was about to flick a switch — his child, his child, his child — Alex pushed his way to the blastproof window and drew back his fist…

Someone yelled into his ear, so loud it punctured his waking dream. ‘Huh?’ Alex blinked. He still on his back, holding the weighted bar up in the air. Sam was crouching beside him, his hand gripping Alex’s forearm.

‘Take it easy, boss. Put them down, slowly.’

Alex lowered the bar back onto its rack. He sat up and shook his head. ‘Sorry, must have zoned out for a second there.’

‘More like five minutes,’ Sam said.

His face was creased with concern. Franks’ wore a dead expression.

‘It’s nothing … I’m working on it.’ Alex rubbed his face, hard.

‘I know you are.’ Sam was still frowning. ‘And that’s good.’

‘Later,’ Franks said, and went back to her gun — but not before Alex had seen the suspicion in her eyes.

Sam pulled another bench over and sat down, looking deep into Alex’s face. ‘How’re the demons? Because you looked like you wanted to kill someone just now.’

Alex shrugged. ‘Under control, most of the time. But now and then … I’m a Jonah, Sam. People die around me. Not sure this is a good idea, coming back in and all.’

Sam sat back. ‘They die around me too — and sometimes I mean them to. That’s why we’re both here — with the only people who understand what it is we do, and maybe keep up with us.’ He leaned in closer and punched Alex’s knuckles with his own. ‘Remember, we are you, and you are us … always were, always will be.’

We are you, and you are us, Alex repeated in his mind. I can live with that. ‘I’m okay,’ he said aloud.

‘Hope so,’ Sam said. ‘No room to zone out in the field.’

‘I said it’s under control.’ Alex stared into Sam’s face, and the big HAWC held his gaze for a few seconds.

Then he stood. ‘Okay. If you’re not worried, then I’m not worried. Let’s take a walk around the base, get some air.’

Alex got to his feet. It felt good to be back, but that feeling of being pushed out of his own mind was happening more often. He hoped Marshal could give him some answers, fast.