The Search for Artemis (The Chronicles of Landon Wicker) (32 page)

“They never told you, did they?” His voice resounded in Landon’s head. “They didn’t tell you how you obtained your gifts?”

Landon looked at him confused. What was this man trying to tell him?

“Please . . . Please forgive me. You must understand that I was young and ambitious. I never considered the consequences of playing God. If I had paid attention to what they would use you for, I’d have destroyed it all.”

“What are you talking about?” Landon pleaded in a low volume. “I came in here to help you. Why are you talking like you’re already dead?”

“Oh, boy, you are a noble one, but so naive,” the scientist replied telepathically. “I will die on this table. Whether it is this night or the next, my time on this plane of existence has run out.”

“But we’re in the medical wing. I can go and get Dr. Longfellow . . . or Dr. Márquez. They can help you.” Landon turned toward the door, prepared to dash into the hallway and alert one of the doctors.

“No!” the man’s voice echoed through Landon’s head. “Dr. Longfellow has done far too much already. But with your forgiveness, I can die in peace. Please tell me you forgive me.”

“Sir, I can’t forgive you when I have no idea why you’re asking me for it.”

“Yes, you have a point. And you deserve to know the truth, no matter how ashamed I am of it.” The man closed his eyes for an extended blink. “Please come here. It will be far easier if I show you.”

Landon inched toward Dr. Pullman. What did he mean by show him?

“Take my hand,” the doctor requested telepathically. Landon tentatively placed his hand atop the doctor’s and gripped it with his fingertips. Dr. Pullman’s skin shifted under Landon’s hand like a loose tablecloth, and he was ice cold. “Just open your mind.” Landon closed his eyes to concentrate on quieting his thoughts. “Please know I’m not proud of my part in what I’m about to show you. You’re foolish when you’re young. Try not to judge me too harshly.”

Suddenly, Landon felt a tug upward from the base of his spine and flashes of white light raced through his brain. A millisecond later, he had a strange sensation of weightlessness, and then it stopped. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever opened his eyes, but he somehow was staring out from a massive building on to sand and rocks as far as the eye could see. Multiple rows of jets and helicopters were parked just outside, baking in the afternoon sun. He wasn’t sure how, but Landon was now standing in the middle of a military hangar somewhere in the desert.

PROJECT
PROMETHEUS

In front of him, in the throngs of discussion, stood a muscular man with a strong jaw and a crew cut. He was garbed in military uniform. Landon immediately knew he was one to be cautious of. The left breast of his uniform was so laden with medals, insignia, badges, patches and ribbons, Landon couldn’t even begin to imagine what all this man had done for the country. But thanks to his training, Landon knew right away that he was dealing with a top ranking official. Four general stars were spaced across the shoulder board of his uniform.

The four-star general was chiding a tall, lanky man who wore a crisp white lab coat. The edges of his coat whipped around his legs as a desert gust blew through the hangar. Under the scientist’s coat, he wore a pair of khakis and a blue oxford shirt. His hair was thick and combed to the side; his face had a number of noticeable acne scars, and he sported a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. It was Dr. Wells—a much younger, livelier version, but it was Dr. Wells all the same.

It was 1970. We’d been working on a top-secret program, code named Project Prometheus, for just over eleven years.
Dr. Pullman’s voice reverberated through Landon’s mind, overpowering the audio of the scene unfolding before him.
The military was insistent that we provide them with strong results fast. The Cold War was heating up and some of our U.S. spies in the Soviet Union had just informed the government that Dr. Sergei Petrovany was making progress on his research to develop an advanced military specimen—the Soviet version of a super soldier.

“General Arthur, we’ve already made massive strides toward the development of a gene that should provide the government with the advantage they are looking for,” Dr. Wells spoke to the general with authority. “Genetic engineering is an emerging field of science and requires time to ensure no mistakes are made. One error and the biological consequences could be catastrophic.”

“Time, Dr. Wells, is something we don’t have”—the general seemed agitated. Landon wondered if his visit to the base was a routine check on the scientists’ progress or if something else had instigated his appearance—”The Olympia Corporation was hired to make us an advanced soldier strong enough to defeat those commies, and we need results now, or else we will have to terminate this endeavor and re-appropriate funding to someone who can get us what we need.”

“Please, sir.” The words came from Landon, but it was not his own voice. It was a youthful rendition of Dr. Pullman’s deep voice. He hadn’t realized it before, but he was watching this event through the eyes of Dr. Pullman. He suddenly realized that this was one of his memories from 1970, from a military program called Project Prometheus. “Dr. Wells is the foremost expert on genetics in the world. If you expect anything to come of your super soldier initiative, we’re the ones that can do it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Pullman,” Dr. Wells responded before turning his attention back to Gen. Arthur. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, General, we must return to our laboratory if you expect us to get the results you are so desperate for.”

“The U.S. military is never desperate,” Gen. Arthur barked.

“Of course.” Dr. Wells spun around on his heels and headed for a lift located at the back of the hangar. Dr. Pullman followed close behind, leaving the general standing stoically in the hangar against the arid backdrop.

“Pullman,” Dr. Wells started as they descended into an underground lab. “We’re going to have to begin human testing. The government’s patience is wearing thin.”

“But, sir,” Dr. Pullman rebutted with a level of concern in his voice, “the Prometheus gene is nowhere near a level where we can ethically begin human trials. The mutations we’ve seen it produce in the rats are horrifying!

“And even if we started human trials, it would take at least eleven more years before we’d know if the gene successfully induced the desired abilities. Even the animal subjects have shown us that it requires the hormonal fluctuations of sexual development to activate the gene.”

I thought I’d convinced Dr. Wells that day to postpone the clinical trials. Little did I know that on that very night he inoculate his first-born child—unsanctioned—and a year later, after our superiors in the Olympia Corporation saw that his son showed no sign of detrimental genetic mutation, they required we move ahead with human test subjects.

The corrective side-effects of the mutagenic Prometheus gene we’d created appeared to make it safe, but the ethical implications of secretly inoculating the fetuses of pregnant mothers was abhorrent. I’m ashamed to say that at the time, I fulfilled the request without hesitation.

The white light flashed through Landon’s mind again, disintegrating the military research facility and replacing it with a small medical examination room. The overhead lights gave the room a strange yellowish glow, and Landon found himself, still as Dr. Pullman, standing before a woman with long mousy-brown hair. She wore a medical gown and sat nervously on the edge of a physician’s bench.

Landon watched as he prepared a syringe with 30cc of a bluish solution, labeled “Variant #156.”

Upon seeing the large needle, the woman started to ask questions while fidgeting on the bench.

“So you guys have tested this stuff, right?” she asked.

“Extensively,” Landon replied in Pullman’s voice.

“And this stuff really does what you say? It will make sure my baby’s born healthy?” The look on her face made it obvious she was second-guessing her decision to participate in the trial.

“
Genetically
healthy,” he corrected. He then adopted a warm, comforting tone. “Unfortunately, we cannot stop your child from contracting an illness or similar externally induced complications, but we are able to ensure that he’s born genetically normal.”

You see, by this point it was 1982, and the Prometheus gene could seamlessly integrate into the developing child’s DNA with the added function of correcting any anomalies or abnormalities in the subject’s original genetic material. We’d effectively eliminated genetic disorders, from Down Syndrome to sickle-cell anemia, but by this point we were still a year out before we learned the gene did induce the psychokinetic abilities we’d designed it for.

The most logical way of integating the new genetic material into a subject required it be administered early in their development—in the embryonic stages. Therefore, we needed to begin the genetic integration process while the subject was still in their mother’s womb. To do this, expecting mothers were solicited to participate in a medical trial of a drug developed to ensure a healthy offspring, but would then unknowingly be given our genetic creation. Mothers will do anything to make sure their children are safe and healthy.

The injection contained a specially-developed virus carrying the Prometheus gene. It had been synthesized for each subject individually so that it only affect the fetus’ cells, altering the child’s genetic makeup while leaving the mother unharmed. It was a scientific masterpiece.

Landon proceeded to watch as the scared mother-to-be lay back on the bench and he injected the contents of the syringe deep into her abdomen. The woman gave a noticeable cringe of discomfort as the needle was pushed through her skin and muscle to reach her developing baby.
This cannot be true!
Landon’s mind couldn’t accept what he was seeing. The Gymnasium was his home.
But if it is true, the Gymnasium lied to us all!
he thought.
They’re responsible for making us this way?

With white flashes, the examination room and the test subject faded out of existence, and Landon reemerged standing in an expansive grass field surrounded by high, cement walls. The sun was just peeking over one of six lookout towers that were built into the hexagonal barrier walls. The air smelled salty.

Just as we expected, Dr. Wells’ son had his apocratusis just before his thirteenth birthday and was then brought to a secret facility to train and develop his abilities. It was an exciting time for us. We used the new data to improve on the gene, and the government required the subjects to participate in extensive combat and espionage training programs to prepare them for the field. Within the year, seven more candidates joined the training program, each one proving to be more exemplary than the next. What these kids could do far exceeded any of our wildest expectations.

Standing in front of Landon, who was joined by a large group of scientists and military personnel, were eight teenagers—three women and five men. They all were wearing identical training clothes: military green utility pants and white t-shirts. They all stood in a single file line before Landon and the others, like a police line-up. Each had a large training ball sitting on the floor in front of their feet.

The unruly, red hair of the girl on the end blew in the wind, tousling her curls around her petite, freckled face. She was small and delicate-looking, yet she seemed fiery and tough. Beside her, a chestnut-haired beauty stared at the ground, apathetic. She slowly twirled a lock of hair from her tight ponytail around her right index finger. She was striking—Landon’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her—but there was also something diabolical about the way she cast furtive glances to her male teammates to see if any of them were watching her. Her eyes shot quickly to her left when the African-American boy next to her began cracking his knuckles one by one.

He was built like a brick wall, and the sun glistened off his oiled, buzzed hair. He peered back at the brunette out of the corners of his eyes and smirked arrogantly, one corner of his mouth stretching up to reveal the slightest bit of pearly white teeth. A moment later, he turned to his right, and upon noticing the hostile look he was getting from his neighbor, who looked rather domineering, he dropped his smug expression along with his shoulders.

This domineering guy faced the crowd Landon was standing in; he looked determined and serious. His brown hair was short, and he was the most average-looking of the bunch—medium height, moderate build, fair-skinned—but he had such an authoritative air. He commanded such respect that Landon thought he would do whatever he asked with-out question.

Nearby were a Mediterranean-looking boy with olive skin and black, curly hair and a tanned girl with long, raven hair and piercing hazel eyes. They were stark contrasts to the pale guy between them, who was tall and lanky with skin so white it was almost translucent. Even from where Landon was standing, he could see the subtle bluish-green of the veins running up the teenager’s exposed arms.

Yet of this band of misfits, the last guy in the lineup looked the most out of place. He had tight, platinum blond curls on top of his cherubic face. He was short and a bit chubby as if he’d never lost his baby fat. His round cheeks were flushed, and Landon wasn’t sure if that color was from his nerves or whether he was already getting sunburned from their time outdoors. Either way, he looked more suited for a book club than military training. 

“Attention!” The middle of the word was drawn out and built up in volume in typical drill sergeant fashion. A man in military fatigues walked out from the back of the awaiting crowd and stationed himself at the edge of the field. His chest was puffed out and his hands were clasped behind his back. In unison, the students tightened up their muscles, straightened their backs, pulled in their feet, pressed their arms and hands to their sides and lifted their heads.

Demonstrations became commonplace as the military was enamored by our creations. At this point, they hadn’t even completed one mission, but the Pantheon’s potential had the military foaming at the mouth.

“Apollo,” the drill sergeant shouted. “Attack Sequence Delta!”

Apollo?
The serious-looking guy broke from his rigid stance and fell back into an attack position. He was probably the oldest of the eight. Landon tensed up in anticipation. There was something oddly familiar about the way Apollo held himself, and Landon couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement in seeing the exemplary lineage of his Pantheon namesake.