The Search for Artemis (The Chronicles of Landon Wicker)

by Griffith, P. D.

  Convinced the man was inside, Landon tried to open the door. It was locked. Instantly, his training kicked in. He needed something to pick the lock, but he didn’t have a kit with him. . . . He’d need to improvise. He rushed back to his room and quickly acquired a metal paper clip from his medical chart and a plastic-wrapped scalpel he’d remembered seeing in one of the drawers along the back wall.

  Once back in front of the door, Landon unwrapped the scalpel, placed it on the tile, and proceeded to pull out and bend the paper clip until it was relatively straight with a hook at its tip. He then took the scalpel in his left hand and gently inserted the tip of the blade into the bottom of the keyhole, torquing the lock’s cylinder slightly to the right to put some tension on the pins currently holding the door shut.

  With his right hand, Landon took the makeshift lock pick and inserted it into the upper part of the lock, just over the scalpel blade. As he tweaked his hand, he could feel the individual pins moving up and down at the tip of the pick. Patiently, he pushed each pin up and out of the cylinder, applying additional torque as needed to keep the process moving. He could feel his pulse in his ears as he moved from pin to pin, and he couldn’t help but think of Cortland as he worked.

  In the months since joining the Pantheon, Landon had learned that this was one of Cortland’s specialties. He had a flair for picking locks and cracking safes, and he had such dexterity with his telekinetic abilities that in most instances he didn’t even need tools. He would have already had the door open were he here now.

  Suddenly the pressure on the other end of the scalpel eased, and he was able to turn the cylinder. He couldn’t believe it—he’d managed to pick his first lock. He couldn’t wait to tell Cortland, but immediately realized he’d never be able to tell him about this.

  Holding onto the door handle, Landon stood up and gingerly pulled the scalpel and paper clip from the lock, sliding them into his pocket. He slowly turned the handle. It popped as its bolt disengaged.

  A lot had changed since the last time Landon stood in Room 132; it was no longer the sterile, bright space he remembered. Machines, cabinets and various monitors congested the large room, and the overhead light emitted only a pale yellow glow, casting dark shadows all over the place. Its appearance—that of a mad scientist’s nefarious lab—frightened Landon a bit. One thing that hadn’t changed, though, was the steel gurney centered in the room and the long mirror that ran along the back wall. That gurney had been disconcerting before, but was now downright terrifying with an elderly man lying strapped to it, unconscious. Landon approached the gurney; the door closed behind him.

  He was probably in his seventies. His hair was stark white and his face covered in wrinkles that were typical for someone his age. Judging by how he looked on the steel table, he was rather short and ever so overweight. He was wearing a navy lab coat, and on his chest, just above the breast pocket, was the name “Dr. Pullman” and an owl clutching a branch embroidered in silver thread. It reminded Landon of the Pantheon logo that adorned the Gymnasium scientists’ lab coats, but Landon had never before seen this design.

  Landon arched over the man’s body in an attempt to get a better look at him. He had a strange expression on his face, like someone who had been tortured and defeated, but his body showed no signs indicating anything reprehensible had happened to him. He had no scratches, bruises, burns—nothing. If it wasn’t for the pained expression on his face, Landon would have imagined he was in a coma or just asleep.

  Landon reached out and put two fingers against the man’s jugular. Just when he could feel the faintest of pulses, the man stirred, which caused Landon to jump back from the table until he’d put a safe distance between them. Dr. Pullman rustled around a bit, as if he was fighting to free himself of the straps holding him to the gurney, but his movements looked labored. Landon rushed back to help him. The man strangely reminded him of Mrs. Bradford, but as he fought to unbuckle the strap running across his chest, Dr. Pullman spoke.

  “No! Don’t undo my restraints,” the old man commanded in a scratchy, strained manner. “They can’t know you’ve been here.”

  Terrified and confused, Landon looked down at the man, who lay there with his deep blue eyes staring back at him, looking determined through his lingering pain.

  “You heard me, didn’t you?” he forced out while trying to keep his volume in check. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  Landon took a step backward, away from the man. The second question he heard loudly in his head; the man knew Landon would hear him telepathically.

  Dr. Pullman’s voice reentered Landon’s mind. “I’m so sorry for what we did to you,” he said in a pitiful, remorseful tone, as if he were fighting back tears. “I’m so very sorry.” The elderly scientist closed his eyes and turned his head away from Landon.

  What? What does he mean? Landon’s need for answers caused him to disturb the frail prisoner. He moved to the man’s side and shook him slightly.

  “What are you talking about?” Landon was surprised by how loud he was speaking. He then crouched over, putting his mouth near the man’s ear and continued, “Why are you apologizing? You haven’t done anything to me.”

  The man lay there unresponsive, but after a minute, he gently turned his head and looked at Landon; tears welled up in his eyes.

  “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.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 
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 govern
ment 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.