The Search for Artemis

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 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.

With a sweep of Apollo’s arms, the training ball at his feet rose into the air, flew around him in an intricate pattern and, coinciding with a forceful push from his torso, rocketed straight at Landon and the crowd of spectators.

Without even time to react, all Landon and the others could do was watch as the ball sped through a narrow gap between their bodies. Excited and somewhat surprised, every member of the spectator party turned in their place and saw the training ball lodged with a craterous effect deep into a concrete wall. A circle of concrete, reaching around three feet in every direction of the ball, had been blown out, and a pile of rubble and dust covered the ground.

“Oohs” and “aahs” burst from the crowd’s mouths as they realized the implications of this student’s awesome display of telekinetic power. Landon, however, was more shocked than anything. As this former Apollo moved, Landon didn’t really follow the motions of the ball, but more so the movement of the recruit’s body. With the first motion of his arms, Landon realized why he seemed familiar. His appearance was much different than what he was used to, but the fluidity of his movements and his posture easily gave away his identity. It was a teenage version of Dr. Brighton. Before he could even process the implications of his discovery, Dr. Pullman’s voice consumed his mind.

There you have it. Project Prometheus was my chance to leave a mark on this world, but my ambition blinded me to the truth of what we were doing. I wanted to show everyone the strength of the American mind and the power of science, but in my desire for glory, I helped create the most dangerous weapons the world has ever seen—I helped create you.

The images faded out of existence, and blackness consumed Landon’s mind. A moment later, he was back in the dark examination room, standing alongside Dr. Pullman’s frail body. He still lay strapped to the steel gurney.

Landon experienced a strange blend of confusion and rage. The ability to experience another’s memories was never discussed in any of his training courses, but after having just lived it, he wanted to know how it was possible; however, as the implications of the memories he’d just seen processed and synthesized in Landon’s brain, he was overcome with a sense of anger.

“You—You—You did this to us?” Landon exclaimed, stuttering his speech in outrage. He paid no mind to his volume, and at that moment, he didn’t care in the least if anyone heard him. “And Dr. Wells?”

“Yes,” Dr. Pullman answered with difficulty. His lips quivered, and his voice was labored. “And I’ve worked to make up for my role in Project Prometheus for the past thirteen years.”

Landon let out a lengthy exhale in an attempt to calm his temper. He was born psychokinetic, but he couldn’t believe the government was to blame for turning him into what he was. And at orientation they told him they were uncertain of how psychokinetics acquired the Prometheus gene. What else had the Gymnasium lied to them about? He looked back at Dr. Pullman, realizing he had a potential source for the answers.

“What’s the Gymnasium actually for? Are they really helping us? What about the Pantheon? They really do work for the government, protecting the country, right?” The questions flew out of his mouth at breakneck speed. He needed to know the truth.

“I—I—” Dr. Pullman’s speech staggered. Before turning away, Landon watched as the doctor’s eyelids blinked erratically and his eyes began to roll to the back of his head. Something was wrong. His body seemed to be shutting down. This must have been the moment Dr. Pullman was expecting. His death was upon him.

“What’s wrong?” Landon asked. The anger he was feeling was overridden by the motivation to help a man obviously in a state of need.

Dr. Pullman turned back and looked Landon square in the eyes. Fighting to tell him something, the doctor’s lips quivered, and he let out a strained mumble. Landon leaned in with his ear, prepared to hear the words the doctor was struggling so hard to tell.

“Find Artemis.” The words just made it past his lips, barely audible. “She’s your—”

Landon turned and looked down at the dying scientist. The muscles around Dr. Pullman’s eyes looked strained, and his lips were trembling. The veins in his neck and forehead were bulging, his heart trying to keep a supply of blood to his failing organs.

As a chill ran down his back, Landon realized the strange sense of discomfort he was feeling. It was as if his body and mind didn’t know how to react to what he was witnessing. How would it feel to watch another human die before his eyes knowing there was nothing he could do to save him? Landon leaned in and held Dr. Pullman’s hand.

Following a few violent convulsions that appeared to leave him in a state of muscle failure, Dr. Pullman shifted his deep blue eyes to focus on Landon. For a split second, Landon could see gratitude register in the doctor’s face, and a tear fell out of the corner of his eye and streaked across his temple, disappearing in his silvery hairline.

“Find . . . Artemis,” the doctor repeated. They were no more than small movements of his lips, and in his last breath, they became his final words—a message to a boy who’d come to help him in his time of need. As the muscles of his entire body released, Dr. Pullman fell back onto the gurney, his weight sinking into the steel.

Landon stood beside him without reaction. The doctor’s head was turned toward him, his eyes now dilated to a point that his deep blue irises were nothing more than a thin aura around a black hole. He couldn’t explain it, but following the doctor’s death, Landon felt a strange sense of calmness about himself, as if in the few short minutes he’d accepted the inevitable departure of the man he’d found in Room 132.

Landon turned the handle, exited the examination room and returned to his bed. He never fell asleep, but lay atop the sheets, staring at the ceiling for the remainder of the night, contemplating what he would need to do next. He had a singular mission now—find Artemis. He now knew he was looking for a real person, but by seeing those memories, Landon was now unsure of everything he’d been told since being brought to the Gymnasium. Artemis had to carry the answers to their origins, the Gymnasium and the Pantheon.

As Landon stared up at the ceiling, the thought continued to repeat itself in his mind. Find Artemis . . . find answers.

• • • • •

Landon lived out the remainder of his stint in the medical wing without a word of discontent. Instead, he occupied his time running through the events he’d seen in Dr. Pullman’s mind, scouring his memory of them for any clue to this elusive Artemis he’d been told to find. Could she be the woman he watched get the Prometheus gene injection in 1980? Or perhaps it was the child she carried?

After dismissing them as possibilities, he recalled the research he’d done months before on Artemis in the mythology and folklore section of the Library. The previous search went nowhere. Back then the thought had crossed his mind, but he’d never fully believed that Brock and the Cranes were looking for a living, breathing person.

The more Landon recalled about who the mythological Artemis was, the more he became concerned about the woman he was told to find. Any woman who would call herself by that godly pseudonym must be a terrifying individual. Artemis, the goddess, was a frightening figure, hell-bent on punishing everyone she considered her enemy. What would this Artemis do if he somehow managed to insult her?

But then, the day before he was released from the medical wing with a full bill of health, he realized something. Could Artemis be a member of the Pantheon? Once he thought of it, he couldn’t get the possibility out of his mind. It made so much sense; however, Landon knew that there was no active operative in the Pantheon that went by that code name. Were there other active members of whom he was unaware? Or perhaps she was a former member? Could Artemis be one of the girls from the Pantheon demostration Pullman showed him in his memories?

Landon had imagined she must be at the Gymnasium if Dr. Pullman believed he could find her. Was she one of the teachers? A tutor? Was it Sofia?

It seemed possible. Landon thought about every interaction he’d ever had with Sofia Petrovanya. She seemed connected and informed as she was of a high position in the Gymnasium. She was their Collector, bringing students to the facility after their apocratusis. Why couldn’t she have been a Pantheon operative at one time? She was older than Landon or any of his other active teammates—save Dr. Brighton—and he knew that she had access to the Olympic Tower. She also fit the Artemis profile. She was frightening in a twisted, subtle way—the type of person who appears kind and sweet until one crosses them and then, beware.

It seemed possible, but Landon had no proof. He needed to figure out a way to confirm that Sofia was the woman he was looking for before he approached her for answers. If he was wrong, the consequences could be disastrous. Dr. Brighton was the first person who came to Landon’s mind to ask. Dr. Brighton and Sofia seemed so connected when he’d watched them playing chess in the Secret Garden. Maybe that familiarity was the result of their years as fellow operatives, but Landon soon remembered how Dr. Brighton had reacted when he found out Landon was researching Artemis. He wouldn’t of reacted that way if it was just Sofia, he thought.

Dr. Wells also seemed like a viable choice, but after seeing the memories of Dr. Pullman, Landon couldn’t even hold back his disgust for the man. In those final days as he lay in his bed, Landon came to the realization that he could never again live comfortably interacting with the resident gymnasiarch. Dr. Wells had lied to him and probably every other student at the Gymnasium about the origins of their abilities. Landon knew he’d never be able to trust a word the man said again, and without trust, there can be no respect.

When he was discharged, Landon had marked out every possible person on his proverbial list. Landon had contemplated asking his other training instructors, Professor Tzu or Professor Clemens, but he was not close enough to them to feel comfortable asking them about such a volatile subject. He weighed the possibility of asking his academic tutor, but Landon had a hard time believing she even knew what the Pantheon was. He even thought about the scientists, like Dr. Márquez, but Landon couldn’t imagine that going well.

Feeling a bit defeated and putting his faith in the hope that the opportunity to ask whether Sofia was Artemis would miraculously present itself, Landon turned away from his mission and focused on his training. For the next two weeks, he poured himself into his physical training and worked on developing his abilities. It helped that the Pantheon regiment was becoming more strategic and tactical and less fitness based, which made Landon feel like he was becoming a real member of the team rather than a newbie in training.

Case in point, that Saturday when Landon went to the Palaestra for another session of team training, the room had been arranged into a tactical simulation course littered with booby traps and dangerous obstacles intended to test their teamwork and reflexes. To succeed, they needed to rely on each other’s unique skill sets and a collective high level of physical fitness.

Dr. Brighton elected to sit out of the exercise, believing the team would learn a more valuable lesson if he was not giving the orders. Landon was relieved. Ever since the incident with Dr. Pullman, he somewhat avoided Dr. Brighton. The memories he’d seen in Dr. Pullman’s head had given rise to some groundbreaking revelations. Could Dr. Brighton be the son of Dr. Wells? He was the right age in the memory, but if that was the case, why hadn’t Dr. Brighton told him earlier? Also, why hadn’t he told Landon that he was once Apollo? It was hard for Landon to not have these thoughts roaming around his head constantly. And to strain the relationship further, Landon was terrified he might slip up and mention Artemis by accident.

With every passing day, Landon grew more and more leery of the faculty and staff at the Gymnasium. If Dr. Wells lied to his face about how he’d become a psychokinetic, then he had to accept the possibility that Dr. Brighton, or anyone else for that matter, could have lied to him about any number of things.

Waiting for Dr. Brighton to signal the start of the tactical simulation, the team gathered at the starting line. Landon stood anxiously beside Cortland.

“Is this thing dangerous?” Landon asked after seeing the series of rapidly opening and closing doors that had been activated in front of them.

“No, not really. This thing is meant to test us, not kill us. Don’t worry, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Decapitation,” Parker piped in plainly.

Landon took a long, labored gulp. This wasn’t the first time Parker had chimed in with something that sent a chill down his spine. For some reason, she always seemed to point out the most terrifying possibilities or surprise them with information on a subject you wouldn’t suspect someone to know off the top of their head. Like when Jeremiah Crane wonderingly asked the team how long it takes for a cyanide capsule to kill someone if ingested, she replied matter-of-factly, “2.42 minutes on average, but you’ll pass out after about 10 seconds.”

A bell sounded.

“All right team, let’s get moving,” Brock said.

It had taken a while to get used to, but Landon learned quickly that Brock truly was Dr. Brighton’s second-in-command. With Dr. Brighton sitting on the sidelines for this exercise, Landon understood he’d have to take Brock’s orders. He still had a bit of difficulty accepting them, but Landon did his best to try and remain professional with his roommate when it came to the Pantheon, even if they were nowhere closer to reconciling their differences outside of the Palaestra. Landon gave a sarcastic Whatever you say, boss look that made Cortland smile before they followed the team into the course.

The series of doors ended up being a simpler obstacle to surmount than Landon had thought. Peregrine informed them that she could sense the on/off switch hidden behind a panel just past the final door. Brock then only had to look at Parker for her to understand what she needed to do. Even with her oddities, Parker was by far the fastest, stealthiest and most agile member of the team. She navigated the obstacle with ease, effortlessly mastering the doors’ timing and reaching the switch at the end. As the team rejoined her, passing safely through the passageway, they found her leaning against the wall as if what she’d done was just trivial.

The Crane twins, known for their destructive capabilities, were asked to dismantle a series of walls to allow the team to move ahead. The labyrinthine course then led them to a sealed door. It was constructed of thick steel and reinforced with high-grade titanium rods. Brock and Landon both attempted to pull it down, unsuccessfully. That’s when Parker noticed a small triangular slot to the right of the door.

As the leader, Brock was the first to look at what they were dealing with, but after he moved away each of the other Pantheon members came forward and assessed the new obstacle. What Landon saw when he got up close was a triangular prism with a set of motion-sensor lasers reflecting off the three sides, creating an impossible web of interwoven beams of light, and a singular small hole located deep within the wall. Figuring it would result in the door unlocking, the team consensus was that they’d need to somehow get a small object to pass through the lasers without touching any of them and then have that object pass through the hole.

As Landon discussed the problem with his teammates, he imagined they would never encounter such exaggerated obstacles in the field. There was no way a facility would use such ridiculous technology as a lock, but even still, he understood the point. Brock put Cortland to the task.

Without a hint of self-doubt, Cortland moved toward the prism lock as he pulled a small case out of his pocket. It was his lock picking set, and he unzipped it and grabbed a vial of metal ball bearings. Why someone had ball bearings in their lock picking set, Landon had no idea, but this wasn’t the time to question it.

Once he’d removed the bright orange stopper from the top and extracted a single ball bearing from the vial, Cortland put the set back in his pocket and stepped up to the lock. Landon held his breath the entire time Cortland worked to maneuver a small ball bearing through the series of interlaced lasers. It was only a simulation, but if they triggered the alarm, they would have failed the exercise, and Landon didn’t want to know what the punishment would be for that.

After what seemed like an hour, Cortland stepped back from the door and everyone could hear a series of metal clinks within the wall as the ball bearing passed through the tube and performed some internal function. Following a final plink, the titanium rods sonorously released and the steel door cracked open.

Making quick work of the course, the team moved through the corridor and continued on to their next obstacle, but just as they came up to a long passageway riddled with motion- and weight-sensor booby traps, the white-lit floors and walls of the Palaestra started to flicker on and off, and a high-pitched bell chimed from above.

“What’s going on? Did we lose?” Landon asked as he looked to his other team members.

“No,” Cortland replied loud enough to be heard over the deafening bell. “We have a mission.”