Uber Jason - Biology 1

Oskar J, Hernandez, MD, watched the black sludge ooze through the tube from the biofeed unit jacked securely into the monster's neck.

So far, this was all junk DNA- the same patterns, repeated over and over. Castillo wanted to nail down a sequence that resembled any kind of human genome. At present, he was desperate enough to settle for mammalian life form. But so far, nothing.

Without a DNA sequence, any attempt to squeeze biodata from the Voorhees specimen pumped away at a dry well. Billions of credits rode on a enterprise Castillo had sold to the NAR government with his charm and bubbly charisma. But this was one set of data he couldn't fabricate.

Even if he were to patch together some kind of simulacra, a bone machine Frankensteined from Jason's component parts, it wouldn't be the same as an actual clone. Jason's essential trait, that amalgam of spooky action, smoke and black mirrors that lent him immortality, remained buried somewhere inside.

The original plan had been elegant and simple: suck the data from the beast then melt down the original. Once Castillo had the raw gene sequence, he would be able to recreate the monster on new terms. He would have something he could control.

But the plan was not proceeding well.

Oskar kept watch, but the pattern of numbers on the monitor had a hypnotic effect. They kept blurring into arcane code, Mayan codices, abstract spirals of Arabic.

Despite 300mg of Strobe, enough of the stimulant to keep most human bonfires kindled far into the night, Oskar kept slipping into reverie.

In fact, he decided, it wasn't necessary to actually watch the screen. If and when the numbers started to make sense, the computer was set to go off. The computer was pretty smart, right? They'd entrusted their lives to it more than once.

Meanwhile, Jason was safe and sound, strapped down within a giant metal press with tripwires, sensors, shocks and batteries of trank to take hum down, should human voices wake him and they die.

The weirdest thing was, Jason didn't have consciousness. At least the kind that machines could measure. The brain itself, a shriveled ganglion the size and texture of a walnut, floated within a giant vault of melded flesh and metal. EEG traces tracked a solid flatline. The beast displayed the brain activity of a turnip. For that matter, he had no pulse.

Yet Jason was very much alive, a fact palpable by the sense of his presence in the room. There was something more to Jason Voorhees than this hulk, cast within its web of heavy metal. A sinister aura blazed from the beast, ripe with its own breath, its own life and its own will. Jason's body, his husk, was a living tomb. A self-contained resurrection machine. It had power you could feel.

	Jason X: Death Moon - Page 319-321