Titus

by Caleb Byrnand

  Gloria lets out a cheer and runs towards Elias in amazement.

  They can be killed!

  Matias returns with a few others to see their saviour. Elias.

  “Come with us.”

  CHAPTER VII

  Dumachus

  Wide awake during major surgery, Dumachus looks on inquisitively. The nanotech is dislodging bullet fragments from his skull while the surgeons prep his severed limbs for transplant.

  “How much longer doc?”

  The doc is carefully attaching a new leg that matches Dumachus’s skin tone perfectly. The nanotech on the surface of the join locks onto to its counterpart and the tendons and veins attach, the bone and cartilage begin to bond, the muscle fibres interweave and the skin closes over with a perfect invisible seal. Dumachus wiggles his toes and they work. “Not long now.”

  “Where’s the American?”

  “In the next ward. I’ll see to him after we’re finished. I believe he’s still being interrogated.” The other surgeon starts attaching a new arm into Dumachus’s elbow joint.

  “Give him the prosthetics.” He wants Noah to wear the shame of failure, the mark of criminality.

  Doc is trying his best to work while Dumachus is talking and moving about, making life difficult for him. “Of course. Now please hold still for this last part.” Doc removes an eye ball from an amniotic sac and inserts it into Dumachus’s socket, massaging it gently until the nanotech takes hold.

  “You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Anastasiya

  The morning sky is menacing, alive but void of life. Clouds of ash grey swirling as if being squeezed by god, coupled with a low constant rumble of thunder goes for as far as the eye can see. The once bright and vibrant Russian city of Samara is in ruins. A massive dust cloud from collapsed skyscrapers has enveloped the city for days. The fires still burn but at least the visibility is returning. Now every surface is covered in a thick layer of dust; large particles including cement, glass, and various toxic metals.

  In an outdoor amphitheatre hundreds of people have congregated, everybody with questions but no one to answer them. The ones with the floor are the recognisable local business members, union representatives and military personnel. All sharing what they have learnt and rallying to decide their next course of action.

  An aging man in the centre of the stage raises his hands for the people to quiet. “This is what I’ve learnt. The microscopic technology these Antarcticans inject into our blood, the cure as they have coined it, is how they plan to police and control us. If you harbour thoughts of ill will towards them, conspire against them, if you intend them harm, their technology will register it and you will be punished. The intensity of the punishment is determined by the degree of intent.”

  A protestor yells out from the front row, “Their technology is saving people’s lives, saving our children’s lives!”

  Another one joins in, “And no other country has come to our aid. Not even our own.” One of the military representatives is about to speak up, considering the amount of aid the soldiers stationed there have already given, but is beaten to the punch by the aging man. “Listen, I’ve been told on good authority that their technology can monitor us, record and interpret the bio-electrical signals in our brain. Our very thoughts, people! This is the epitome of invasive mass surveillance and a complete surrender of all rights. They can know our fears, desires and intents, and tailor our punishments accordingly. They could end the life of anyone with the mark in an instant.”

  “Or at least they could.” Everyone turns to see the woman who spoke from the vomitorium. Anastasiya, a soldier and leader of her militia, presents to the crowd a dead body of the feared Guardian. “Last night something happened... something changed. Those things were turning on everybody, even on their own people. For the first time since taking the mark my comrades were free to fight back without repercussion. Previously I had watched men and women die trying to pull the trigger, so when we discovered this recent development, we took advantage. This big guy did take a few of us out, but here’s your proof.”

  The shocked protestor in the front row voices his displeasure, “What have you done? They’re our peace keepers, our Guardians.”

  “They’re not your Guardians. They’re soldiers of the Church of Light. Here to protect their interests and their agendas, not yours.”

  On the amphitheatre stage the unofficial leaders murmur and discuss the recent developments. “What is it you propose?” the aging man asks. The crowd is pin-drop quiet, all in anticipation of her answer.

  Anastasiya looks around the room slowly, ensuring she has their undivided attention. “Retaliation.” The serenity dissolves to chaos very quickly with conflicting opinions and clashing ideologies. She looks over her fellow citizens with contempt and fires her gun into the air to silence them. “This is a text book invasion. You take out our line of communication, cut our food and water supply, divide us, and then conquer. You don’t get an EMP from an earthquake. They were too well prepared, coordinated, and armed. Nanotech isn’t the cure, it’s a weapon and a prison. They’re invading, and we have a window now where we can fight back.”

  The protestor has one final say. “How? We’re living in the dark ages while futuristic clones are coming at us with mind bullets.”

  The military men on the stage pipe up now, invigorated with an opportunity to fight. “We outnumber them a thousand to one, and our guns still fire real bullets.”

  Anastasiya wraps up her presentation with one final bid to the surviving townsfolk. “We’re interrogating one of the followers now, but till we learn something useful, guerrilla style will be most effective. Small cells operating independently of each other without the knowledge of each other. I have people working on getting a line out to the capital. Till then, we are on our own, so let’s keep these bastards busy. We will have retribution one day. [*]Unus dies.”

  Her offsiders dump the dead Guardian down the stairs of the amphitheatre and she and her militia exit.

  The crowd is in a little shock. One minute ago everyone was champing at the bit for an answer, a direction and purpose. Now one has been offered, swallowing it is harder.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Edward

  A hover train travelling at very high speeds skims above the twisted and bent railway tracks. It is carrying one thousand people out of London towards a refugee camp. Survivors lucky enough to escape the third and final Great Fire of London. Edward is the allocated handler for this journey, operating the hover train without the assistance of Mother. For the first time. The on-board cameras and sensors are operational, but there’s a lot more involved now, not to mention what’s on his mind.

  Next to him on the binoculars is Aaron; a tall, pale skinned lanky Antarctican. Most pure blood Antarcticans like Edward are short, so the poor guy feels like a social pariah.

  “How many people do you think we’ll end up rescuing? When do you think they’ll start clearing the skies? You going to be able to drive this with no GPS?” Aaron has questions. Not even expecting an answer, just firing them off to try and alleviate some stress.

  Edward however does want answers, even if they have to work it out themselves. “This is serious. Something bad must have happened.”

  “Do you see the Guardians panicking?”

  That was an odd question for Aaron to ask.

  “Do I see the demonic souls possessing bodies with unimaginable power worried that they now have no repercussions for their actions and no incentive to follow our laws? They don’t appear to be in a state of panic, no.”

  “Then stop worrying and drive this thing. I’m sure it’s just some routine maintenance on Mother before she’s relocated and we’ll be back online before you know it, laughing about it over drinks.”

  Maybe Aaron has a point.

  Aaron drives his point home. “And if these Guardians ever decided to turn on us, what chance would we even have? You’re not stopping t
hat, so what’s the point of worrying about it? Your driving, however, is of some concern to me.”

  “At the speed we’re going, you’ll be dead before you even hear us crash. You’d wish your nanotech was working then.”

  “By then I’ll be floating towards the light, not a care in the world of the world I’m ascending.”

  “If that’s how you feel about it…” Edward with a cheeky grin takes his hands off the wheel and the hover train begins to veer off the tracks. Just before the joke could take effect a Guardian bursts into the room. Edward’s hands quickly grab the wheel and he smoothly corrects their course.

  The Guardian speaks to them low and quietly, “Is there a problem?”

  Both Edward and Aaron take their eyes off the rail for a second to look at each other to confirm, “No.”

  The Guardian lurks behind Edward, moving in slowly like a snake sniffing him out. Staring at the side of his face, not his eyes. “Why have we not arrived?”

  Edward is now extremely uncomfortable, “We’re driving blind. Until navigation comes back online our trips are going to take a little longer.”

  The Guardian’s subtle bobbing and awkward silence is grating on the two. Aaron does his best to keep his eyes on the rail and even thinks about nothing else but the rail. The Guardian turns to sniff out Aaron for a second before turning to leave, “Do your job.”

  The cabin door closes behind him and both men exhale and de-clench. Aaron lowers his binoculars and turns to Edward, quietly saying, “Don’t even think it, aye?” He just raises an eyebrow and turns back to the task at hand.

  ❖

  Dozens of makeshift platforms have been built for passengers disembarking the hover train, and a large crowd of hundreds have gathered to be reunited with family and friends. A long hover train slows to a stop, and the people push the platforms in to meet the train. The cabin doors open and Edward and Aaron jump out, giving each other a handshake for a job well done. Another Antarctican in the crowd tips his hat to the two drivers. A few people have climbed the platform and bang their fists on the carriage doors. The windowless train is silent and still and a growing restlessness over the awaiting crowd is soon to be a concern.

  The hat-tipper calls out, “There a problem brother?”

  Why hasn’t the Guardian opened the door yet?

  “Must just be a malfunction because of… the thing. Hold on.” Edward jumps onto the platform and scans his hand over the sensor before hitting the manual override. Every door on every carriage opens, revealing to the crowd a massacre; floor to ceiling covered in blood. Body parts and clumps of hair, random and bones and gentiles scattered across the surfaces. The entire crowd screams in horror, many people run. Edward is about to have a heart attack and Aaron is frozen in shock. These symptoms are usually managed by Mother but without her, this experience is exceeding their capacity to navigate.

  Where are their Guardians?

  A father yells out from the crowd, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, I promise, we’re just the engineers. These people were alive and well…”

  The crowd is turning into a mob, and slowly they are moving to block the exits for the two train drivers.

  Aaron musters the gumption to address and pleads with the mob, “We had nothing to do with this.”

  The father speaks with a quiet rage, a calm before a storm, “I think you’ll fine you’re involved plenty.”

  The hat-tipper makes a run for it, the catalyst for the mob to pounce. All three men are beaten and stabbed to death. The mob then turns their rage towards the encampment.

  The Brits love a good riot.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Orion

  The last forty-eight hours have been tough. The streets of Paris with no police, no Guardians, and no safety net. A mass resistance formed quickly, and systematically every Antarctican is targeted. Their refugee camps are all but destroyed, their lifesaving technology rejected. The final three followers have been cowering in the shadows, trying their best to return to their hover plane and scrape together some form of protection. Their tattered and blood stained clothes tell a story, one that none of them is ready to see repeated.

  In the middle of the centre-ville, right out in the open, is their hover plane. The last standing vestige of their technological superiority. A superiority that is now rendered moot in the face of such resistance. Saving many peoples’ lives is no longer on the cards, just their own. It’s close enough to smell, but far enough away to be unreachable. Orion is the leader of her small band of missionaries, followed by Taylor and Grieg.

  “I don’t want to get shot again.” Taylor knows the intended plan. Run for their lives towards salvation and do their best not to get shot.

  Orion has had an elegant sufficiency of street living and is ready for home, no matter the cost. “We are all going to have to run for it. Once we’re in the air I’m not making more stops.”

  Grieg checks his mobile computer and scanner, sighs loudly and places them on the ground quietly amongst the rest of the rubbish. “Yeah, you probably don’t want to get shot again. I’ve just noticed that during our last encounter my computer caught a bullet for me. The next one that hits its target stays there.”

  This is of real concern for Orion. Any time they have been caught out in the open people have fired upon them, and often hit them, nonlethal but traumatic nevertheless. They have always counted on having a portal to patch them up. “Doesn’t matter, there’s a backup on the plane. We just have to get to it. Try not to get shot in the leg.”

  “Or the head,” added Taylor.

  With the semi collapsed Eiffel Tower in the background surrounded by the glowing of dozens of fires, the damage has a certain aesthetic that could be almost beautiful. Definitely unique. But there is little time to enjoy the scenery as all eyes remain locked on the parked hover plane prize. They have camped in the alleyway for some time, and as the hours pass they become more convinced that they will have an uninterrupted dash to the plane. No passing patrols, no footsteps, a moment of serene placidity during the witching hour. “Go!”

  The three sprint from their cover and out on the road, making a beeline for the plane. Before they reach the half way point they hear somebody yelling out to them in French, “Hey, you three!” The followers just keep running for their lives. Their lack of reaction to the call warrants further probing by the Frenchman in the form of a gunshot. “I said halt!” Another volley of gun fire is directed their way. There must be at least three or four shooters at this point in time. Orion is first to reach the plan. With bullets flying around her head she manages to open the cabin door and scramble inside. She quickly checks herself to make sure she isn’t shot, although the adrenaline in her system would make it impossible to really be sure. Taylor and Grieg are a close second inside, but both are shot as they attempt to board. Once enough of their body is inside Orion powers up the bird and takes flight, bullets bouncing off the hull during their ascent.

  “Damnit. They got me! Fix me!” Grieg is noticeably upset. It has been a testing few days.

  Taylor isn’t even moving. She is conscious but not in any real state to be concerned with her offsider. “I think mine’s worse. And I can’t reach the spare computer. Can you?”

  Grieg is now starting to relax as their safety becomes increasingly insured. “Maybe, but I’m going first. Airline safety dictates that a passenger must fit their oxygen mask first before helping…”

  He is interrupted when their hover plane is rocked by a huge force, denting the hull and deteriorating their climb.

  “Fuck!!!”

  A Guardian standing on a rooftop watching the plane uses his telekinesis to crush the motor and disable their lifeboat. Smoke begins to pour out of the plane as it careers towards the ground, eventually crash landing into the side of a building and exploding.

  The Guardian smiles to himself before turning his attention towards the human resistance.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Ninar />
  Offline for twenty-four hours and counting. Most people can’t go without their phone for less than a few hours. Nina seemed to be handling herself fine. Decia, always the optimist and Marta the pessimist, both playing their parts. They are in a time of crisis and it is time to show their mettle. There would not be much sleep for days. Except for Desdom, asleep in his chair again with a knife in one hand and a half eaten apple in the other.

  The door is opened manually and Dumachus, looking good as new, enters the room. The sound of the door wakes Elder Desdom and he quickly adjusts himself in his chair and continues to cut a wedge from his apple. “It’s about time you’re back because we have a real shit-storm on our hands. One that you were meant to prevent. Because of your failings the Elder is dead and Mother is down, and we are losing…”

  Dumachus stands in front of Desdom, still and unwavering. This riles up Desdom very quickly and his grip tightens on his knife. “Are you even listening to me, you…” Desdom pulls the knife out of the apple and points at Dumachus to try and get his attention. Before he could finish his sentence and before the blade got too close, Dumachus swats his hand in front of his body. Desdom’s body is ejected out of chair with such force his limbs became dislocated and his neck snapped. But his flight across the Central Control Room and into the solid unmoveable wall is what really kills him. Dumachus casually walks over to Desdom’s chair and sits down. “Report.”

  The Moirai are a little too taken aback by the murder to respond. Only because Mother is down is he able to unleash with such force with no repercussions. Dumachus, realising that they need an explanation, impatiently gives them one. “It is within my rights to eliminate a perceivable threat. Now, report.”