Cain (4 page)

General Hawken grunted at that, let it go.

Studying the file, it only took Soloman a moment to understand the medical jargon. Concentrating, he studied Cain's chart to determine what they had done to the man. He singled out factors that seemed particularly disturbing: anterior spinal cord amplifiers, orthopedic transplants, bio-polymer subcutaneous coating for titanium-reinforced bones, interior titanium implants and immunity-acceptance levels with a breakdown of projected HyMar viral layers on secondary stratum corneum—

HyMar viral layers?

His attention was suddenly captured by a grisly color photograph of Cain on an operating table. Large metal plates of a strange curving design were carefully positioned on an instrument tray.

A team of surgeons bent over him. His chest and arms were laid open to the core as they apparen
tly removed bones. Another surgeon worked on one of his knees, implanting what appeared to be a small titanium plate over the patella, or kneecap.

"That's a photo of the surgery where we implanted armor plating in Cain's chest," she said. "We also replaced his humerus, radius and ulna, and secondary skeletal appendages with cobalt-chromium-alloy bones. J Something like the
artificial titanium sockets used for contemporary joint replacements but light-years ahead in design. They have a projected use expectancy of more than a hundred years instead of ten. Plus, we placed curving niobium-titanium shields between his pectoralis major and all the internal organs, armoring him between the clavicle and the eighth rib."

"Sounds complicated,"
Soloman said, studying her eyes.

"That's nothing," she replied evenly. "Cain has recumbent anabolic steroid reserve cells, internal carpal and forearm titanium bosses and organic modifiers that hyper
-concentrate viral-induced muscle fibers. He could punch a hole through a steel door. And, to top it off, his outer stratum corneum is infected with a multiviral factor, specifically an altered strain of the Marburg virus. It's something we call HyMar. And that virus, gentlemen, makes Cain a walking time bomb."

Soloman
understood the ramifications because he had dealt with the destruction and theft of biological weaponry before. What he knew was that Marburg was the one that even scared the bio-warfare specialists. No one knew where it came from, its vector, or a cure. They just knew it killed 99 percent of the people it touched and it did it ugly.

Ben leaned back, his cigar dead-cold. Clearly, shock had removed him from the conversation. Perhaps because he couldn't trust himself to speak. But
Soloman was concentrating furiously: "Why did you infect Cain with a strain of the Marburg virus, Doctor?"

"Because the Central Intelligence Agency and the Pentagon gave me a mandate to create the ultimate soldier, Colonel. And the funds to do it."

"And did you do it?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "And then some."

"How long do we have to find Cain, Doctor?"

"Ten days" was her answer and genuine fear, for the first time, entered her voice.

"And if we don't?"

"Then," she replied, "Cain will be able to walk through the largest city in the world, Colonel, and kill everyone in it."

***

"Ah, so pleasant," the giant murmured. "I love cathedrals. They remind me so much ... of home."

Seated in the half-light of the edifice, the towering image of the Crucifixion dominating a far wall, he rested before he continued, smiling faintly: "Yes, such an aroma of death."

He lifted a hand, slowly flexing it into a massive squared fist of incalculable power, power obvious even with the simple contraction. Staring, the trembling priest watched the movement, trying not to reveal his fear. But clearly, the strength in that taloned hand could kill without effort. The giant laughed again and tenderly reached out to turn the priest's head, staring into his face.

Terror, pure and concentrated, burned vividly in Father Lanester's face as he looked into the giant's horrific countenance. Then the priest closed his eyes, as if he could not endure what he saw.

There was a rumble, like an approaching storm and then the giant murmured, "
Feoh othila ansux, osgeo mannz kano
?"

Father Lanester violently shook his head, "No, no, please, I—"

"Oh, I am so sorry," he whispered. "You do not understand Runic? No ... of course not. Hmmm. Perhaps we should try Latin? Do you understand Latin?
Cognovi te a facie inimici
?"

"Yes!" Father Lanester shouted, eyes tight. "I know you are the
enemy!
Esto mihi, Domine, turris fortitudinis
!"

The giant frowned, menacing. "Yes, Father. I am sure that
...
he
... will be your strength. But times change. Believe me." He smiled. "Then again, perhaps we should leave Latin. Such dreadful repetition. We can speak any language you wish. I know them all. Of course, I would prefer to avoid Aramaic. I had a terrible experience with it ... once." His horrific face lightened in humor. "Why don't we try German?
Kannst du nicht treu sein
?"

"Yes! I can be faithful to God!"

"No," the giant said soothingly, gently caressing the priest's head as he would caress a lost dog. "
Meine Handpuppe profane, du hast nicht treu sein konnen
."

"Yes!" the priest said, fear choking his throat. "Yes! I have been
faithful! I do not know you! I do not know you! You have no part of me! I am a priest of
Deus et Dominus
—"

Clamping his hand over the priest's face, the giant shut the words.

Anger hardened his brow and his aspect was suddenly darker, violently intensifying the surrounding shadows. "Please do not speak that name again in Latin, Father. It disturbs me ... somewhat. And if you insist, I shall remove you of the burden of your tongue, to ensure your silence. I would not mind. I am quite famished."

Carefully he removed his hand from the priest, a massive hand that
easily covered the face and forehead. And for a moment the priest stared fearfully up into the horrific countenance.

"You ... you cannot speak the name," he whispered.

"The name?" the giant rumbled. "Yes. In this form, Father, I can indeed speak the name. Yes, I can speak the name of ... of ... of
Dominus
!" His teeth gritted before he smiled again, more an illusion than the truth. "For in this form I am more human than not – as you can see. But the verging of life and death has always been closer than any of you knew." He laughed at the priest's terrified gaze. "Just like a miracle."

"What
... what do you want?"

"I want a document sealed in the Secret Archives hidden in the sub-basement, beneath the cellar. A document entombed in the vault with the seal of Archbishop Markus in 1936. I want the document for the Castle of Calistro ... which belongs to me."

"B-but why do you need it?" The priest was shaking so violently he almost fell from the steps. "It is sealed! It is cursed! If you are really
him
then you would not need it!"

"Ah," the giant answered, "but I am not what I was, Father. Being human ... has its limitations. Even now, my mind, or what survived the merging, is childlike and diluted from my truly glorious state, though I continue to grow moment by moment. I remember little of what I knew, so I need time to acclimate myself to this form. And, to make it even worse, I have discovered that I cannot contact my flock. I am severed from my world." He laughed. "Yes, Father, my mind is broken and ragged, still healing from the merging. Some things I remember in full, but they are not the things I need. Though I can still speak to you of so much you do not know. So much that, when I leave you, will never bless you with sleep."

The priest paled as the giant smiled.

"I can tell you of my poor, pathetic Pazuzzu's long flight through that hateful void to light upon the gate of Babylon, inspiring the fools to destroy the Hebrews," he added casually. "I can tell you how my servant, Belial, soared on wings beneath the moon as he laughed at the funeral pyres of Tel-Engedi where those hundreds of thousands were burned alive, father and son, mother and daughter holding each other in their arms as they delivered their lives to a cloud that took the sun from the earth for a year. Yes ... and what a lovely aroma it was." He laughed. "I can describe those last, singing screams of children thrown into the burning belly of Molech in the dying days of Carthage before that effete snob, Scipio, brought down one of the walls for the glory of expendable Rome. And I can tell you more than that. I can tell you of those fools, Peter, who are not what you think, even though—"

"But the Nazarene defeated you!" the priest shouted.

Silence.

Long ...

Longer.

"So and so," the giant finally mused, "the Nazarene."

A rage beyond hell glazed his eyes. His voice was a voice of caverns consuming the dead. "Yes, unconquerable to the very end. And wiser than a serpent. Deceiving ... deceiving even me ... with the fate of the universe in the balance. A singularly horrific experience, I assure you. But then the Nazarene and I are fated to war again, Father, so let us speak of more pleasant things." He laughed, diabolical music. "Let me tell you of those glorious celebrations orchestrated by my faithful children Lilith, Incubus, and Succubus. Let me tell you of the exquisite carnal pleasures they inspired upon Sodom and Egypt and Askalon
– unimaginable pleasures that put the Romans to shame. Pleasures that shamed even the sheer animal ecstasies of the slave baracoons of my servile Thoth-Amon who made the prideful mistake of slaying Saul only to be eaten ... by worms. Yes, and there is so much more. More than you mortals could ever—"

A grimace.

With a bestial growl of pain the giant bowed his head, appearing to fight a ravaging injury. His eyes were closed tight as he slowly reached out, grasping the priest by the arm as if he could crush the bones with effortless strength. Then he lifted him from the ground.

"Come, Father," he whispered. "I need my pretties."

***

"This doesn't make sense,"
Soloman said, tossing the file onto the table. His eyes were flat. "You people were keeping oxygenated blood circulating in what, in essence, was a dead man."

"I'm not sure that I follow you, Colonel."

"Call me Soloman."

"Thank you. Call me Maggie."

"My point," Soloman continued, "is that Cain—or whatever made Cain what he was—was no longer in that body."

"But his brain wasn't damaged."

"No, his brain wasn't damaged – not the neurons. But a man is more than the base electrical synapse of ten billion neurons." Soloman paused, frowning. "Tell me something," he continued, "where does thought come from?"

From her face, he knew she had no
answer. "I know where you're going with this," she answered. "But I don't think a philosophical direction is going to help us."

"Let me decide that."

Hesitation.

"All right," she said, finally. "Nobody's able to localize the portion of the brain that originates thought. All we know is that 'thought' is inserted into the electrochemical flow of ions at some point in the axon. That's a long nerve tendril leading out of a neuron that communicates to other neurons. Are you theorizing that Cain's mind is gone?"

"I don't know what I'm saying. But something doesn't add up. Because you can't bring anyone back to life. It's impossible."

"But we did it, Colonel."

"You don't know what you did, Maggie." He didn't make his tone friendly. "All you know is that you took a dead man and made him into some kind of Frankenstein. But now it's loose and those morons that you work for expect Ben and me to stop it." He shook his head. "Why won't this HyMar virus kill him?" he continued. "Is Cain immune to the virus like he's immune to everything else?"

She was affected by his criticism but recovered quickly. "Cain is only immune to the mutated HyMar virus that we used to alter his genetic code. He's not immune to the original Marburg. The term for it is Viral-Engineering Manipulation."

"Sounds very benign." Soloman stared at her.

She blinked. "The ... the main DNA segment of the Marburg virus—the single most deadly virus on the planet—is about two thousand base pairs long. The rest of the strand is devoted to replication, direction, anaphase, whatever. But the main two-thousand-base-pair strand defines the characteristics of the virus. For instance, what the virus is going to do to the cells of its host. What it will give the cells. Now, in the telephase stage of mitosis there is a point called specialization. That's where a cell says to itself, 'I'm going to be a muscle cell.' Or, 'I'm going to be a white blood cell to promote healing.' And because the mutated Marburg, or HyMar, has human DNA buffers in it, the main strand has been redesigned and re
-segmented into the virus to promote healing instead of cell destruction. That's why Cain heals up almost instantly from any wound. HyMar is constantly promoting him to a state of hyper-mitosis."

"That accounts for his healing factor,"
Soloman said. "What accounts for his strength? I've read this man's 201. Cain was strong before he died, but he wasn't
this
strong.
Nobody is
this
strong
!"