“Are you confident in their ability to follow orders?” That was his greatest concern. He’d taken them out for a few little things, like bodyguarding him that time he’d confronted Earl Harbinger in Alaska, or popping some easy targets of opportunity, but the prototypes had never done anything too complex yet. What he had in mind would be challenging.

“Absolutely. All of our psychological testing has shown that they are completely incapable of disloyalty. They are programmed to obey no matter what.”

Programming was appropriate. They were basically like robots made out of flesh. He’d seen some of the footage of those tests. Order a prototype to hold a position no matter what, and then you could inflict all manner of pain and suffering on it, but they’d rather die than budge. Electrocute them, set them on fire, it didn’t matter. It had been harsh, but fascinating. “The outside world isn’t quite as sterile as your lab.”

“Should one go rogue, we can simply activate the preprogrammed kill switch.” Conover’s treachery had caused them to add that improvement. “Even as incredibly resilient as their systems are, the release of the neurotoxin would incapacitate them instantly, and before you ask, yes, the rapid necrotic dissolution will destroy the evidence. Even their blood decays too quickly to extract DNA evidence.”

“It’s hard to autopsy slurry. Good work, Doc. If you weren’t a complete psycho, I’d marry you.”

“Sadly, I am married to my work, Mr. Stricken.”

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you heard the report card . . .” Stricken picked up a remote control from one of the desks. One wall screen began flashing through various interior shots, the growth vats, the glowing cylinders of alchemical slime, and then finally the testing center. “If we’re going to use these things to save the world, I think it’s time we conduct a more in-depth field test.”

The camera was fixed on a man sitting cross-legged on the floor of a padded room, staring off into space. His bare torso was hooked to several different monitoring machines. Every muscle group stood out with perfect definition. It was like he’d been sculpted by an artist whose only instruction had been to demonstrate perfection.

“The first prototype . . .” Foster whistled. They’d all seen what these things were capable of, and the oldest was special even by Nemesis standards. “Poor Franks will never know what hit him.”

The man appeared to be an ideal human specimen, but he was so much more. He was a blank slate on which could be inscribed the perfect soldier. Other than the nearly inhuman level of muscle tone, he appeared to be a white male in his twenties. They’d varied the genetic mix in each tank so that he could have assets available to blend into any culture. Stricken had to admit, he felt a little proud. He’d played god and gotten away with it. He had to wonder if Konrad Dippel had felt like this when he’d electrocuted a slab of meat and brought Franks to life.