Doctor Abraham Cornelius guided the huge gurney using a remote control. It hummed forward along the corridors of Yukon facility driven by electric motors. It wasconstruct of Adamantine Steel, powered because it was too heavy to manoeuvre by hand, and it was heavy because it had been built like a tank. Strapped to the gurney by fixtures thicker than a man's arm was the individual code named Logan. The project had given him another title. Weapon X.
His phone rang. Cornelius reached into his pocket and answered. Lionel Luthor spoke.
"Has the package arrived?"
"It has." He answered looking across at the dark auburn hirsute man strapped to the tank like gurney. A digital display recorded his vitals. Cornellius noted the subject's incredible recovery. Only hours ago Logan had suffered extensive third degree burns across much of his body, yet these areas were now covered by baby pink skin and dark brown hair; his flesh had more than healed rapidly, the subject had regrown his legs that had been taken by the exploding car. Logan's face was tanned a deep nut brown and his dark hair sun-kissed through lighter shades to red. Cornellius concluded that Logan had spent a long time in the great outdoors. If the data he had received in the last hour was correct, then the Projects prodigal son had been hiding in plain sight. Abraham smiled at the audacity of this gambit. He smiled a second time when he thought about how pissed Lionel Luthor had to be about it all.
"And tell me about the packages condition." Luthor asked.
"Now optimal, but still inactive." Cornelius checked the levels in the drip bag that was administering elephantine quantities of tranquilliser into James 'Olsen' Logan's system. "He." Abraham said, catching himself, stopping he coughed, then said "The Package is still err… wrapped very securely of course."
He heard a grunt from the billionaire on the other end of the line. Luthor's paranoia had been ratcheted up several notches by the events of the last twenty four hours, code talk was just another symptom of this; the older man had begun a comprehensive review of internal company security. Previously secure lines of communication were assumed to be insecure until proven otherwise. "I estimate around two hours to finalise the preparations." Abraham continued saying. "In every other regard we're ready to begin."
"I am en-route." Luthor stated. "I should be with you before the party begins."
"I look forward to it sir." Cornellius replied, thinking that it could do no harm, under present circumstances, to politely demonstrate loyalty. Systems were only as robust as the people running them, any review would begin and end with the personnel, and that included him.
"And the ah… modifications to the menu?" Luthor asked.
"I have every confidence that my revised method will deliver." Abraham's heart skipped a beat, and his memory returned to the bunker deep under Libyan sands, where this already audacious project had taken a blind leap into the unknown.
"And I look forward to seeing that." Luthor replied with emphasis. Cornellius didn't need reminding what was expected of him, but Lionel did any way.
The call ended. Cornellius sighed and engaged the powered gurneys motors once more. The assembly hummed forward descending deeper into the Yukon facility.
By the time Lionel's jet landed at the airstrip, most of the necessary preparations in the laboratory were completed. Abraham wasn't alone, a dozen or so white coated assistants busied around him, their identities stamped helpfully on name tags. Unlike his own, their photographs still looked like them. This team were young and eager, excited to be a part of cutting edge science, and enjoying the thrill of being paid handsomely for there cooperation. Luthor arrived at that lab, true to his word in time. Abraham was still working through the final calibrations of his revised apparatus. It reminded him of Frankenstein's monster, equipment from around the world stitched together by the latest cutting edge technology. There was the steady background hum of fans cooling the racks of computers. Centre was a large glass vessel – large enough to contain a man, and it did. Logan hung suspended in an electrolyte gel, his still unconscious body was a mass of puncture wounds. From these ran cables and tubes snaking out and upwards to hydraulically suspended assembly above the vat. This topped the containment chamber like an oversized lid might a glass jar.
"Silver Fox is a double agent." Luthor stated. His emotionless voice was all the more menacing because Cornellius knew that beneath his usual calm façade the old man was without question, seething over this betrayal.
Abraham swallowed, and tapped his pen on the LCD screen, which was running numbers streaming like a waterfall of code. Silver Fox had been a part of his team. He wondered how long had she been playing for another team? He wondered if her betrayal would reflect badly on him?
"Who was running her?" He asked, it took a moment for him to consider the implications, his thoughts switching between Weapon X's vitals and his sponsor, the difficult task ahead and all that had happened since Logan had escaped from their Yukon facility.
"SHIELD." Luthor answered.
Cornelius frowned and tapped at the keyboard. "The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing?" He said.
"And that is how things should be." Luthor replied.
Abraham nodded, he found no happiness in this situation, he was resigned to his role in the bigger picture, he understood how it worked, and although he was privy to some of Lionel's most outrageous secrets, he knew with instinctual certainty that in the lion haired man's other hand held a fistful more.
"I never trusted her." Abraham offered. "Silver Fox – she was like him," he looked at Logan, "a mutant after all. She must have recognised him at the farm."
Lionel did not respond verbally, his eyes narrowed in anger.
"We have to assume Silver Fox has told Fury about the extra-terrestrial." Cornelius added.
Lionel stared at their captive subject. "Hearsay. SHIELD has no evidence of little green men. In the absence of hard facts people will find a more plausible explanation.
"How long now?" Luthor asked.
"Countdown has commenced, the chemical precursors are being injected as of now." He answered. Cornellius felt cold perspiration form on his brow, hot in hands. No doubt my face is a pale as my coat he thought. He dimmed main lights, the glow of coloured monitor displays, flashing rainbow lights from the equipment, and the blue glow from internal lights diffusing through the containment vessel changed the pallor of everyone present, including Lionel. Luthor's red hair streaked with grey darkened, his face gaunt in the strange light.
Abraham was glad to hide his true feelings, even the trembling of his legs as he sat down at his work station. "I estimate another ten minutes before the process proper begins." Abraham told his employer.
Luthor glanced at his watch. "Good, I have a telephone call to make - I shouldn't be long, but if necessary come get me, I don't want to miss the process, it's been a long time coming."
"Colonel Ross." The voice came through a desk mounted intercom. The grey at the temples soldier behind it flicked a switch to reply. "What is it Captain Trevor?" He asked. His junior already sounded apologetic. He had only been in his Pentagon office for less than ten minutes, and ten minutes ago he had told Steve that he didn't want to be disturbed. He instinctively closed the file in front of him, the black 'SHIELD' logo and red 'Top Secret' identification adorned manilla folder. It was one of many. Rubbing his eyes Lane Ross felt tired, jet lagged, and stressed.
"It's Lionel Luthor sir, on the secure line. He wishes to speak with you."
His already troubled face crumpled up further into a mass of wrinkle and creases. "Dammit." He swore some more under his breath. "Very well Captain put him through."
Samuel Thaddeus Edward Lane 'Thunderbolt' Ross held the receiver to his ear. "Hello Sam, said the billionaire, "how's Washington?"
"Let's cut the crap Lionel." The Colonel responded.
"Suits me Sam, I really don't have time for pleasantries."
"Right." Lane Ross said. His fingers bunched together into a fist only his friends ever got to call him Sam, and Lionel Luthor was no man's friend.
"I'll cut to the chase." Lionel said. "On your desk is a report from SHIELD."
"I have a bunch of reports on my desk, lots of Acronyms most folks know, and some most folks don't."
Luthor continued. "Nick Fury is kicking up a fuss. Kicking up an incident up the chain of Command, in the hope that he can get Presidential sanction to pursue his game, his inter-agency vendetta. But Sam this is Majestic 12 business."
"You're saying you think? Or…"
"No, I'm saying I know." Lionel said interrupting. "Absolutely, one hundred percent. This is our purview. As our military liaison I'm asking you to ensure the Whitehouse is protected."
Lane Ross's eyes narrowed. An appeal to his loyalty to the flag. Lionel didn't pull any punches. As the Director of Majestic 12 he didn't have too.
"Asking? You think I can keep a lid on SHIELD? Fury has a lot of friends on Capitol Hill, many with the President's ear. Maintaining plausible deniability may be impossible."
Luthor's voice lost any warmth, any and all pretence of friendliness. "The capture of this fugitive is why Majestic 12 was created, this situation is precisely why we were given our unique mandate. Why both the fugitives origins and our existence must remain a secret."
"Even from the President of the United States?"
"Especially from the President of the United States."
"What do I tell the Whitehouse?" he asked.
"That the Weapon X project is operational. That the US Army has the tools it needs to deal with our home grown terrorist threats."
"I see." The Colonel inhaled deeply. "I thought that program was canned?"
"Mothballed, until the right subject became available." Luthor replied. "We have brought in the optimal volunteer, and field tests of our super-soldier should begin this week."
Lane Ross nodded as he recalled the specifics of the project. It had a long history, longer than Majestic 12, going back to World War II. "If Weapon X is back on the table then that does change things." He pushed the Shield folder to one side. "I can sell the idea, at least as a stop gap until the new agency is up and running."
"Good bye Sam." Lionel said ending their conversation with a click of the receiver being put down. Lane Ross frowned, irritated by the brusque way Luthor had ended their conversation. He grabbed a notepad and pen from a draw, he scrawled across the page, two words by way of a title – Mutant Threat, shaking his head as did so, correcting the title to agree with the latest governmental directive, saying to himself, "at least their kind makes for a better story than the usual weather balloons and swamp gas."
Doctor Crane R. 'Bolivar' Trask sat in the Oval Office. He listened to the Colonel's presentation with interest, and quiet suspicion. Lane Ross was the Army's man in charge of oversight of special projects. He had a desk at Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, but his special area of responsibility was countering what people like Trask liked to call the Mutant Menace, in secret, which made it need to know information, and Crane had made it his business to know about such things, albeit by clandestine means. He felt no guilt about spying on his government, none at all. Crane Trask made no secret of his antipathy toward mutants, while swearing loyalty to the human race.
Colonel Lane Ross had summarised various agency intelligences on para-human events, including reports from the CIA, FBI, SHIELD, and the NSA.
"In summary Mr President," the soldier was coming to the end of his briefing, "we feel that SHIELD has very little substantive to offer this investigation, while I respect Director Fury's experience with cold war threats, there is no actual evidence that this is anything other than a domestic problem.
"Now Colonel you're telling me this is all he said – she said story?" The President asked in his warm southern tones.
Trask coughed, clearing his throat, interjecting. "Fury's operative is a mutant, it serves her kind's agenda to divert attention away from the problem."
"Perhaps." The President agreed. His brow furrowed, as he said warmth absent. "But let's not use the M word Doctor Trask."
Trask felt his blood boil, but with considerable self-control the scientist bowed his head in a nod of acquiescence to the Commander in Chief. "If not Mu.. ah the M word then what shall we call them Mr President?" As he asked the question he glanced at the others in the room.
"Doctor Pym." The President began, leaning back in his seat behind the Resolute Desk. Besides Trask and the Colonel, his hand extended to the other scientist in the room, "has an idea."
Trask forced an interested expression. The younger man was barely out of college, a genius, of that there was no doubt, but still but a pup in Crane's estimation.
"Metahuman." Pym replied. "My wife's idea actually, her expertise is micro-biological systems."
Of course Crane Trask recalled, Pym was a newly-wed, and still very much living in the afterglow - the honeymoon period, and with good reason. Trask recollected the bride, the very photogenic Janet Palmer in his mind's eye. Then there was Pym's sponsor, a reclusive genius called William Magnus, the man behind PPM Bio-Mechanicals.
"Department of Metahuman Affairs." The President declared. "Not a huge leap from your own suggestion Doctor Trask, Miss Roberts," he drawled, "do you have those papers?"
The young woman to the left of the Resolute Desk nodded, and passed out document bundles to him and Pym.
"Our metrics show that the M word is considered to be a pejorative by the key voter segments." The Presidents Aide told them. "Metahuman has performed as acceptable to well in our focus groups."
Crane glanced at the Public Relations data. "Such is the reality of modern politics." He said with a much warmth as he could muster.
He permitted himself a self-congratulatory smile, because lobbying had paid off. A Department of Mutant Affairs, by another name perhaps, but it amounted to what he wanted - and so it should he reflected. It had cost him enough money, damn mutants!
Crane Trask closed his eyes and breathed. It was also clear Doctors Palmer, Pym and Magnus had some influence over the Oval Office too – Metahuman indeed! He sniffed at the idea of the political correctness, while reluctantly accepting the expediency of the choice. He dropped Miss Roberts's document to the floor beside his easy chair.
What of it he thought, so Palmer, Pym and Magnus have the President's ear. PPM Bio-Mechanicals was a minnow, albeit doing interesting work, but not a real competitor for Trask Industries.
That honour belonged to Howard Stark.
"And the wheels are already in motion." The President informed them.
Trask smiled again, he had his own friendships. He knew his proposals had crossed the President's desk. Had captured the Administration's interest. That was why he was here today.
The President continued. "I signed an executive order creating the new agency this morning."
"Thank you sir." Trask replied keeping a lid on his emotions. "I have long said we need a more robust – connected, unified – response to the… ah… Metahuman threat." Turning to the other scientist, he smiled saying, "as Doctor Palmer would have said, had she been here."
Trask found himself thinking about who was not present with them, as much as who was at this meeting. He smiled again.
Pym misunderstanding smiled back at him, but the younger man did not succeed in appearing in any way comfortable. He then looked across at the President. "While I am intrigued by my inclusion in this briefing Sir, I would appreciate knowing why I am here?" Ray Pym asked.
Lane Ross answered for his Commander in Chief in his authoritative baritone, and with a wave of his hand he gestured to include both Trask and Pym. "Because you are both working on integrating advanced robotics, artificial intelligence and bio mechanical systems."
Trask nodded. Lane Ross didn't say it, but it was hard for a good soldier to shoot a child, even if said child possessed terrible mutant powers. A machine would not.
"Broadly that is true." Pym agreed. "PPM Bio-Mechanicals has made great strides, if you'll forgive the pun, in the field of robotic artificial limbs, whereas I believe Trask Industries has concentrated on the development of battlefield robots."
Crane seized the opportunity to interrupt the younger scientist. "There is an obvious missing person here today. That is if we're here to talk about robotics – and weapons."
"Howard Stark sends his regrets." The President replied without missing a beat.
"Really?" Crane responded. "Stark never struck me as a team player, I can't imagine him sharing his toys. Even given the serious of the… threat our nation faces."
Colonel Lane Ross shook his head. "Howard Stark is very much on board."
Pym seemed interested, saying. "Stark Industries has made some interesting advances using exo-skeletal robotics to augment human strength."
Trask believed he knew more about Stark's advances than anyone else in the room, and that wasn't enough. He wondered what could have kept Stark from attending a meeting with the President, still Crane thought, Howard's loss is my gain. Crane felt he had the strongest hand. He could direct DOMA in the right direction. Trask Industries file on the Pym suggested him to be a fragile kind of genius. Crane didn't anticipate he'd present any real problem.
"Starks powered armour has the potential to let the average GI become a super-soldier, carrying several soldiers' worth of gear." Lane Ross added.
"Stark, the soldier's friend." Trask said almost to himself. "In any event Mr President you have just included two of three most eminent American experts in Robotics a briefing about the Mutant, sorry I mean Metahuman.. problem." He paused letting the President know he too could play politics, then Crane said for Pym's benefit. "So what gives?"
"DOMA is the public face of this administration's response to the Metahuman situation." The President explained. "We face both threats and opportunities, and the former demands an appropriate response." The man with his finger on the button smiled once more. "One that can work alongside DOMA, but out of the public eye.
"DOMA will act as an umbrella, bringing together the various agency intelligence and asset. DOMA will be the quiet public voice, but the ARGUS program will be the big stick."
"ARGUS?" Pym asked.
"After Greek Mythology Ray," Trask replied, "the all-seeing giant of hundred eyes."
"Autonomous Robotic Global Ubiquitous Sentinel program." Lane Ross expanded the acronym, turning to include both Pym and himself, the Colonel said to them. "Which is why you're here, to level the field between human and super-human is going to require a technological response – something that puts machines in harms way, not people."
Trask smiled. "And as it happens I have been working on something that might just do that, and by working together Ray, you, me, and even Howard Stark; together we can make some stellar leaps forward in our field." He smiled at Pym adding. "For the good of our nation and the world." He finished with his most enthusiastic smile.
Howard Stark was not at the Oval Office meeting, he was at the bedside of his teenage son, half a world away. Angola was a dangerous place, a bloody civil war had been raging on and off since 1975 in this southern African State. It was a complex place, where the cold war powers had played their hands via proxies, pitting one side against the other. For over a year now the UN had been involved sending peace keepers. One the ugliest sides of a very ugly war was land mines. Howard's teenage son, Tony Stark had met Diana Princess of Wales at a swank Party in London, and from Paris to Angola had been a hop skip and a jump for the Stark Jet. It suited the scion of America's foremost arms innovator to be seen going about the business of making mine fields safe, before embarking on his college education. To bring aid to those who had lost loved ones, lost limbs, and lost hope. He was still a boy, old enough to crash more than one expensive sports car in the last year, but too young to appreciate how fragile life really was. So nearly a man, tall, broad, and driven to excel both in science and the Iron Man events, one of the better habits Tony had picked up in Australia.
Right now Howard blamed himself for everything. In that moment guilt consumed him as deeply as work had so often done, separating him from his son, wife, from family life. How his money was easily turned into conscience alleviating gifts, then more lavish gifts, always a little something to make up for the hours and days spent away. Perhaps Tony had emerged from the wreckage of Italian and German exotica convinced of his own immortality. Perhaps Howard's angry reaction to escalating mechanical carnage had been the catalyst that had driven him to darkest Africa. Perhaps it had been about impressing a Princess.
In any event the price Tony Stark had paid for his adventure into the war torn southern African nation had been a local one.
A familiar story to the young and old of this region. Wealth and fame did not make a man invulnerable. A land mine didn't discriminate. The damage to his son's body was terrible, so great that it was a miracle that Tony had survived for even an hour. A testament to the international team of doctors that were working within earshot of the blast, who had at once risked their own lives in an attempt save his son. The mine should not have been there, but like so many devices buried in so many places around the world there was incomplete records of where – even in the most general terms – such mines had been laid.
All this was bitter news enough, but the evidence that the former Marine John Stewart had pieced together from the scene was damming. The fragments of the device would have normally been ignored, scattered in countless pieces, forgotten. Using his alien Green Lanterns Light Stewart had collected and assembled a pattern of the mine that had effectively taken Tony Stark's life.
Howard Stark could not forget the image the green ring had projected. The mine's casing had carried the embossed stamp of its manufacturer. It had been made decades ago. It shouldn't be here in southern Africa, not then, not now. It should have been destroyed years ago, part of a program he had instituted, but the mine hadn't; rather it had exploded, as designed, with lethal efficiency even after so long, a testament to its design, his design - because Stark Munitions didn't fail.
"We've done the best we can Mr Stark." The Surgeon was a Frenchman, his English was accented but very good. "I'm not sure how your son is still alive. Under normal circumstances I would have already amputated the lower limbs, the right arm; the left I think we could probably save." He made no secret of his agenda. When you'd seen the brutality of war you didn't use cotton wool wrapped words with an arms manufacturer. "As per your instructions," he tapped the Stark Medical emblazoned drip bag, "we have successfully stabilised your son."
The Frenchman didn't say that this was an unexpected outcome. That it was inexplicable as to how Tony was still breathing, how his heart was still beating. He didn't have too. They both knew it.
"Although transport is of course risky in these conditions." The surgeon added as a matter of course.
"I have jet equipped with all that is necessary."
The surgeon nodded. "I don't doubt it, better than our hospital here can offer I would imagine."
"I will rectify that." Stark replied. "Your hospital – equipment, make me a list. It's the least I can do." Being direct about things came naturally to him.
The Frenchman's face softened. "I hope your American doctors are able to do more than I could." Howard Stark read between the words, even with the best operating facilities in the world enjoyed by the best surgeons he could hire the damage to his sons limbs was probably too great, the explosion had effectively amputated his legs above the knee on his right side, at the knee on the left, his right arm was mangled mass of flesh, damage to his core had been limited to shrapnel, but that had dug in deep like so many ragged bullets, compromising his major internal organs.
Howard Stark looked at the drip bag once more. John Stewart had delivered this to the hospital here within tens of minutes of the news reaching his office. His speed coming courtesy of the Alien Green Lantern Energy. This reaction, this choice, had been a gamble born of instinct and confidence in his own genius, but now that adrenaline fuelled moment had passed, now he had endured the hours in the air flying transatlantic to Angola, with the time to think, Howard Stark wondered what he had done to his son.