Monster (Gone 7)

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

The dream/real woman smiled and said, “Let’s go with ‘Colonel,’ shall we? Say ‘Yes, Colonel.’”

Armo thought, You are piling up trouble for yourself, lady. But he said, “Yes, Colonel.”

Colonel DiMarco said over her shoulder, “Proceed.”

And half a second later Armo’s head exploded. The pain was staggering, literally staggering, and he dropped to his knees and tried to claw at the device on his neck. But his fingers had gone strange and clumsy.

Pain off.

He gasped. Sucked air. The pain was gone but still echoed through him.

But something else was happening, something very, very odd. He held his hand in front of his face. It was his hand, but bigger, with short, stubby fingers now ending in wickedly curved claws that even as he watched seemed to change from something brown and biological to something artificial and metallic.

Impossible!

He watched transfixed, horrified, trying to tell himself it was all just some kind of weird nightmare, but if it was a dream it was very convincing—as convincing as the translucent white hairs that suddenly sprouted from the back of his hands and ran like a tsunami up his arms.

“The polar bear DNA infusion is working,” DiMarco said excitedly. “Controlled mutation! I told you it could be done!”

“But to what end?” the barely visible male asked, sounding skeptical and a bit defensive. “He has impressive claws and musculature, but does he have any powers? The kind of powers we can use effectively and control?”

“We shall see,” DiMarco said, sounding smug to Armo, though he was rather distracted by the changes in his body, the claws, the muscles, perhaps a slight increase in height, and a definite increase in weight.

They’re doing this to me!

It was no longer cold in his cell. He glanced at the toilet on the wall: there was a thin coat of ice on the water in the bowl, and steam came with each exhalation, and yet he did not feel cold.

DiMarco’s distorted voice came through the speaker. “Now we’re going to see what you can do.”

He rumbled an answer. The rumble surprised him, like a dangerous purr down deep in his throat.

“Armo: you will raise your left hand.”

A pause. A long pause.

And up went his right hand, claws and fur and all. Then he lowered it.

“No, your left hand. The other one.”

Armo slowly raised his right hand.

“No,” DiMarco snapped. “The other hand. Your left hand! Jesus, is he dyslexic?”

Armo lowered his hand and stuck out one foot. Balance was hard, but he had extraordinarily strong muscles in his legs and maintained the pose for several seconds.

“There appears to be a problem with his conditioning,” the male voice said nervously.

“Just . . . it’s his first morphing, he’ll get it. Armo! Listen to me!”

Armo’s lips were somewhat hampered by teeth that were far larger than he was used to, so he could not press his lips into a line. And his eyesight was blurrier than usual. But he could still flare his nostrils and begin the minute adjustments that prepared his body—well, this body—for action.

“You will sit on the cot. That is an order and you must obey me!” She held up her hand, pressed the red-stoned ring close to the glass, and he felt a strange yearning to listen, to do what she wanted him to do, because if he did he’d be a hero, and he’d have many women, and be loved and admired and . . .

. . . and no longer be Aristotle Adamo who calls himself Armo.

“Do it!”