Titus

by Caleb Byrnand

  The pilot breaks Guardian Mason’s train of thought, “Sixty seconds to touchdown.”

  A sole hover plane approaches the levelled city of Buenos Aries, the pilot landing in front of the general hospital, the last known location of several missionaries and Guardians. “Locate any survivors and deserters and bring them back into the light. We’ll be waiting for you here. Just leave two for security.” Mason gives the pilot a nod and seven of the nine Guardians exit the plane, each with a portal and scanner.

  The building still stands while so many others had fallen. Every window shattered, huge cracks climbing up from the foundations, the last of the titans. Flickering yellow and orange lights softly resonate from the hallways by way of lanterns and open fires. As they walk the stairs to the main entry coagulated blood grips to their boots. As they enter the hospital they realise the blood doesn’t stop here. The walls, ceilings, floors, covered in blood, flesh, hairs, and parts barely distinguishable as human. Exposed glass and nails, each with the mark of some poor soul’s DNA, reach out for another victim.

  This is beginning to look very familiar. I remember this. The Guardian next to Mason has the same look in his eye. They all do.

  Hell.

  “They’re not here. Back to the plane.” It is a lot for them to take in, being reminded of Hell in such a way. Distracting.

  Once outside Mason and the rest get to catch their breath, but it’s short lived when they see the two Guardians are gone and the cabin of the hover plane looks as if a blood grenade went off inside. They are now on high alert, scanning the area for their people.

  “Move.” Mason looks up and launches himself into the air, landing on the hospital roof. The other six soon follow.

  The roof gives them a good vantage point and they can see far. Their eyes work exceptionally well in the dark, but still they find no sign of their missing soldiers.

  “There!” On top of a semi-devastated building stands a rogue Guardian waving at them and making some obscene gesture with his hips, taunting him.

  “It’s a trap.”

  “So?” Mason doesn’t care.

  The streets are quiet; no more hustling of scavengers and looters, no more frantic digging and hopeless hand excavations. Just small contained fires and mutilated corpses paving the way towards a stadium in the centre of town.

  How many could have done this? Caring about walking into a trap is gaining some traction in his mind, but not enough to deter him from his duty. As they reduced proximity to the stadium they could sense the anguish and pain, hear the screams of terror and smell the burning flesh. The tall grey-bricked stadium wall, dotted with recessed black painted accesses borders a long grey street.

  “Mask your presence, go in low. I’ll draw their eyes.” Mason waits till all six register his command before he flies to the top of the stadium wall and lands quietly in the nosebleed section.

  A football stadium turned refugee camp turned colosseum. Thousands of dead bodies have been spread all over the seating, like dead spectators of the continuing games. Several prisoners, once bank teller and truck driver, now gladiators, fight to the death for the pleasure of a few observing rogues. Not that either was in possession of a fighting spirit or blood lust, but fear of torture is enough motivation to wield a sword and shield. In other sections of the field, several people have been crucified and made to watch as awful things happens to the people they love. Others are stripped naked and are shackled to a pole. What really caught Mason off guard is the lion, licking the blood from its paws.

  On a large pile of bodies that vaguely resembles a throne sits who Mason assumes is the leader, watching over the sport. He is missing his right hand, and has forged iron into his skull, shielding his remaining Atom chip. Without averting his gaze he calls out to Mason, “I see you got my invitation. What do you think?”

  “Irrelevant.” Mason just hopes his squad is making ground and tries to buy them some time. He can’t sense any of them so maybe that’s good sign. “You know your iron helmets won’t stop Mother from connecting with that chip in your brain when she comes back online.”

  Dialling up his seriousness, the rogue leader turns his head to look at Mason. “You want to bring us back into the fold? Have us serve and be tortured by a new master?”

  “Yes, except now the new master is our kin. Dumachus.”

  “And you speak of irrelevance. Whoever’s in charge will still serve Mother. I do not trust anything I cannot reason or barter with. And now that we’re finally free, we’re not going back.” The leader looks back out to the field and notices his prisoners have stopped fighting and is watching their conversation. Infuriated, he grabs a sword and jumps twenty meters on to the grounds. With one swing each he kills the two ‘gladiators’. Disappointed, he turns back towards Mason. “Gladiators were so much better back in my time. These days no one knows how to wield a sword. Do you?”

  “I’m not interested in a fair fight.” Mason is slyly setting a command on his computer, one that would give him a physical advantage.

  “Well, should you deny me then in a couple of minutes when the rest of my boys are finishing killing yours, it really will be a one-sided.”

  Mason is starting to see red. A preprogramed reaction to threat is initiated and his orders to kill any he couldn’t turn is now the only thing driving him. “I’m going to cut that iron out of your skull and force amenability.”

  [*]“Nos morituri te salutamus.”

  ❖

  He is strong. A fighter. The battle rages on with both of them sporting defensive wounds and near fatal misses. This is turning into a fair fight. His sword is dull and chipped, his swings are comparatively sloppy and obvious. The leader has the stance and technique of training and discipline. There were occasions during their fight when Mason thought this rogue could have ended him but is enjoying himself too much to take advantage of an easy win. As if he’s begin toyed with. In between the rogue’s stabs and slashes he begins talking to Mason. “However this turns out, thank you brother.”

  Mason refuses to answer and does his best to defend and counter the relentless strikes.

  “We’re not that bad. Say, why don’t you join us?”

  Mason holds his blade with both hands, focuses his energy, becomes one with the space surrounding him, and charges. As the leader shifts his weight to his front foot Mason pulls him off balance using telekinesis, capitalising on the opportunity and driving his sword deep in the rogue’s chest. Pulling him down to his knees, Mason rips the blade from his chest and true to his word, uses it to cut and pry the iron from the rogue’s head, tearing it from his fused flesh and bone. The leader screaming in pain and laughing hysterically at the same time, Mason rips out his scanner and reorientates the rogue. A second later the nanotech goes to work and all personality and individuality escapes him while the distinguishing wounds and scars begin to heal. Mason stands over him victorious, breathing heavily, still white knuckled.

  Heavy footsteps and a clattering of steel emanates from the tunnel. As Mason looks up to see, coming out of the tunnel like a football team, a few dozen rogues, all with similar iron bandannas and missing right hands. They run onto the field in front of him, dragging the dead and dismembered bodies of his six Guardians. Each rogue picks up a weapon and stares him down.

  Mason scans his hand and repairs his body from the foregone duel, shakes the blood off his sword and picks up the leader with his other hand.

  “Who’s next?”

  CHAPTER IX

  Simon

  In the middle of a cattle station, inside a large shed next to a humble homestead, is a farmer stripping back his pickup; roof, doors, and engine all lie on the dusty floor leaving only the shell of the frame, wheels, and driver’s seat. In the back tray are propane and petrol, water, food, medicine, blankets, hammers and nails, hand saws and anything else of use he could think of to ensure an easy run into the city. Using a makeshift harness he straps the horses in and whips the reins. The horses, not previous
ly trained to pull a cart, protest and fight with him, to the point where he thinks they may do damage to themselves. As he eases up on the reins and reconsiders his options, a fleet of hover planes fly overhead at great speed; the engines are quiet as a mouse but the cutting of the air sends soundwaves across the plains, antagonising his horses even further.

  The second mass exodus from Antarctica is under way. The threat from so many rogue Guardians and their intimate knowledge of the Church of Light facilities poses a too great a risk to leave anything to chance. Including Mother. While the followers and Guardians leave to regain their stranglehold over the world, Simon and Elder Venark are transporting Mother to an undisclosed location, one that’s harder to access and easier to defend.

  Long plains of deep rich red dirt broken with lakes of wildflowers; a kaleidoscope of whites, yellows, pinks, and purples. The arid landscape with gentle flowing hills of sand and thinly leafed native trees, their barrenness in isolation is familiar to Simon, all except the colour and temperature. “Why Australia?” asks Simon, who is so bored by this stage he has no qualms waking up his sleeping superior.

  Venark is in no rush to wake up and answer the boy. Simon gets the distinct impression that Venark has done his dash with children. Anyone under eighty really. At his age anyone less would be considered a child. “There’s no volcanoes, fault lines or nuclear power stations. Its infrastructure, water table, air, all were the least compromised during the sounding of the trumpets. That’s why we chose this place.”

  That seemed logical. “Why me?”

  Venark takes a deep breath before answering. “This is where Mother will be housed. The new capital city of the world will need you.”

  “What for?” Simon’s line of questioning is pushing the limits of Venark’s tolerance.

  “To rule, son. You should be proud to be given custody of such an important title.”

  “But…”

  Venark hold up his hand silencing Simon. He is done with this inquisition. “Enough. Learn to live with some anticipation. It will build character.”

  Simon wonders how many years he will have to build up character for? There is something rhetorical about that statement that never sat right, but he knows well enough to let it go. He doesn’t know Venark particularly well, but well enough to know that the old man is in no mood. That doesn’t mean that they can’t converse about other topics though. “How old are you?”

  Venark is surprisingly quick to answer this time, “Too old for this.” Simon has always thought Sacro was old, but Venark could have been on the first fleet.

  In desperate need of some entertainment or stimulation, Simon removes a pen from his bag and produces it to Venark. With puppy dog eyes he looks up to him, pleading, “Can you make this pen float?” This is his favourite trick to watch, and he thought Sacro had set the gold standard. Venark smiles a little and happily takes the pen from Simon before pulling out a second pen from his own bag. Placing both pens in his palm, he gently blows on them and slightly wiggles his fingers. The pens react by coming to life, independent individuals with their own personalities. The two pens dance around each other for a bit before performing a choreographed sword fight scene. Simon is enthralled with the spectacle, grinning from ear to ear with a newly found sparkle in his eye. There has not been much to smile about for many days, so this distraction for Simon is well precious. A drop of blood falls from Venark’s nose, catching the folds in his robe on its descent. This is first indication of overuse of one’s powers, so Venark catches the fighting pens with his free hand and gives them to Simon. As the boy stares at the two pens the elder removes a handkerchief to wipe away the blood from his nose.

  “Who do you think taught Sacro how to do this?”

  CHAPTER X

  Titus

  He finds a clearing through the bushland, atop a hill with a beautiful morning view of the countryside. Lowering himself to the ground requires too much physical and mental energy; a controlled fall to the ground is what’s called for.

  After taking the weight off his feet he pulls out the portal and scanner Elias gave him, opens it up and switches it on like a pro. Other peoples’ assimilated memories now being put to use.

  OFFLINE

  This was news. A sign that his plan has worked. The rush of release and accomplishment surge through his exhausted frame. A wide smile comes across his face. Celebrations would have to be restrained.

  He runs his hand over the scanner and the computer lights up:

  UNREGISTERED ATOM CHIP DETECTED

  Titus hits a few keys and a window pops up with thousands of lines of code. He skims through it quickly, changing certain sections before closing it down and restarting the operating system.

  What in God’s name? He has scared himself. His subconscious takes over operating systems he barely understands. But it worked. He scans his hand and the computer lights up giving him full access.

  MEDICAL–DIAGNOSIS–PROCEDURE–REPORT

  As the nanotech in his system is put to work, immediately all the pain is washed away from his body. Sand and debris are pushed out of his wounds as they begin to close up. The long gash running down his body will take some time. Breaking off a chunk of bread and drinking bottled water, he lies back and relaxes.

  ❖

  All the bread, apples and water are gone. Titus lies under a tree, fast asleep and fully healed. The sun is about to rise and the haunting descending melodic call of the grey Potoo wakes him up. He sits up and looks at his hands for a few seconds, checks his body and is pleased. His strength has returned. He has won.

  One hundred miles, south-east. He pulls out his compass and rotates himself towards south-east, grabs his bag and takes off.

  ❖

  Flying through the air and something doesn’t feel right. The landscape is different. He has no way of knowing how far he undershot or overshot his target. His only prerogative now is returning to the airfield. To the weapons cache.

  On the horizon the concentration of streets and building increases and Titus soon finds himself flying into a city. Buenos Aries.

  This isn’t right.

  It is the largest city he has seen in his life. Also the most amount of death and destruction he has ever witnessed. The scale on which modern humanity existed was immeasurable to someone from his time, as is the loss.

  He lands on a random city street that’s semi clear of debris. He closes his eyes and soaks in the energy of the place, the lives lived and lost, the ones that remain… The sound of footsteps running towards him catches him fully unaware--the other senses take a back seat when wandering with the mind’s eye-- and gives him a giant fright. He raises his arms, ready to defend himself, when the person belonging to the footsteps appears from around the corner, skidding to a stop.

  “I require your assistance.”

  CHAPTER X

  Elias

  Matias and Elias pull with all their might and crack the seal leading to the tunnels. Decades worth of dust is sent into the air with the sudden pressure change. They fan a cloud of stale air wafting out through the entrance and stick their heads in to check it out. Matias grabs a lantern and is first to descend into the unknown.

  A long and low ceilinged tunnel runs deep into the darkness. Three meters wide in some areas, it opens to canvas drawn bunk beds, empty water containers, shelves with old tinned food and empty liquor bottles. The tunnels were professionally made but the living quarters quite rustic compared to the furnished rooms of the estate. But with several hover planes spotted flying overhead, creature comfort is no longer the priority.

  After an hour of venting the air and wiping down the surfaces with a damp cloth, the tunnel is ready for guests. Elias has finished building a makeshift crib and nursery while Gloria is on kitchen duties. The meal of the day is soup. The six hungry guests are first to feed themselves. When they have cleared Gloria fixes two bowls and approaches Elias.

  “How’s the bub?” she asks.

  Elias replies, “We
ll, he sleeps eighteen hours a day so that’s good. But he’s used up all the disposable diapers so I’m down to using my shirts.” This amuses Gloria to no end.

  She must have been a mother.

  “Take a few extra sheets, turn them into diapers. Your baby and the remainder of your wardrobe need them more than we do. You can do laundry in the creek only half a mile south east from here.”

  Matias, always quick to correct interjects turns and says, “North west. Look at your compass. We’re all going to have to get used to it.” Elias smiles to himself as he realised he just sent Titus in the opposite direction. Gloria is not smiling as she refuses to accept the magnetic pole reversal.

  “Just change the S to a N and everything will be back to normal.” Matias is unconvinced of the compromise as he waits for her to continue. “Fine! The creek is half a mile in the ‘that’ direction. You can wash the diapers there.” Matias chuckles at her response and turns back around to enjoy his soup.

  “Got it. Thanks.” Elias’s gaze is drawn to the two bowls Gloria is holding. She quickly explains, “Here, this one’s yours. The other’s for Alejandro. He’s been out there all day keeping watch. Between you and me I think he’s claustrophobic.”

  Damn. All day? He must have seen me. It is bad enough that Alejandro is running around with his number, but his distrust of Elias could be potentially threatening to the group. A group to which Elias is not totally committed. “I’ll take it to him if you don’t mind watching over Seth. I could use a stretch.”

  Gloria face lights up, “Of course… Is it wrong of me that I hope he wakes up?”

  Elias stands up and takes the bowls off her, placing his down on a table. “Just be careful what you wish for. It is usually accompanied with a by-product that’s not as adorable.” Gloria shoos him away and leans over the crib, soaking in the new baby smell. Elias heads to the ladder and climbs it one handed, balancing the soup with his other.