Kronos

by Jeremy Robinson

  Forty-eight to one…They were the most abysmal odds he’d ever faced in a firefight. As a SEAL he had the support of his squad, intel, satellite surveillance, and often air assaults if necessary. Here he had a con man and a Coast Guard rescue worker against forty-six armed killers, one maniac, and one rich eccentric, who might just be the most dangerous of them all. Still, for his daughter, he’d kill each and every one of them if he had to.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  Andrea and O’Shea nodded. Atticus kissed Andrea, and said, “Get the word out, then find a way off the Titan. I’ll catch up.” He could sense Andrea was about to argue, but there wasn’t time to stand around. He looked at O’Shea. “Take the road less traveled. Avoid confrontation.”

  With that, Atticus bounded up the stairs, taking three at a time. When he reached the first landing, he paused, scanned with the UMP, then continued up—a soldier on a mission with more at stake than ever before.

  46

  KRONOS

  The rapid undulations of the soft floor beneath her told Giona that the creature had accelerated, perhaps running from another attack. She cringed with each jolt, expecting the walls to close in on her, snuffing her out again. Since eating and learning to keep her head near the large, oxygen-providing artery, Giona’s thoughts had cleared. But with the clarity came desperation and depression over what seemed to be her fate—to die slowly inside a sea monster.

  And she’d realized that was what the creature was—an honest-to-God sea monster. She had no real idea of its size. Her only view of it had been its open jaws before being sucked in, and an opposite view from the inside out just hours ago. All she could recall of those jaws, other than their grand scale, was the teeth, prodigious and needle tipped.

  Sea monster or not, the creature wasn’t impervious. It had been injured in the previous attack. Giona still couldn’t fathom who could assault the creature in the open ocean or how they’d find it. But someone had tried to kill the creature, and whoever it was had yet to give up the chase. The monster’s nonstop movement told her that much. But sooner or later, the creature would slow, and the battle would commence again; she felt sure of it. No matter what happened, death seemed to be following her like a Hollywood stalker, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. If the beast died, she’d die with it. If the creature lived, she’d either be digested at some point, or she’d live for a while in this pocket, but she couldn’t live like this forever.

  Better to be dead than go insane living inside this thing, she thought.

  With a sigh, Giona leaned her head back on the large, pulsing artery. The slight give in the tissue, gentle pulse of the vessel and the extra oxygen relaxed her. She closed her eyes, did her best to block out the smell, and let the booming bass heartbeat calm her mind and body. Her imagination found a toehold and climbed into the forefront of her mind.

  Setting her thoughts free to wander where they might was a technique she often used to find creative solutions to challenges she faced. Whether academic, artistic, or emotional, the clearing of her mind and subsequent freeing of her imagination often provided more ingenious answers to questions than her intellect could achieve. As her mind became more agile, images appeared in place of the darkness, so much so that she could see a three-dimensional world around her. First she was home, in her room. Then at the beach, building a sand castle with her parents. Then she was diving with her father.

  With a quickening pulse, Giona focused on the attack. First the whales, then the herring, and then it, emerging from the gloom. She slowed the images in her mind and repeated them again and again, each time seeing it more clearly. The body was massive and moved up and down. That made sense now. It looked reptilian—like a marine reptile—but had fins and smooth, dark skin like a killer whale. She held her breath as she focused on the eyes. In contrast to the violent attack, sharp teeth, and otherworldly appearance, the eyes struck her as somehow different from those of any creature she’d ever seen. They looked like a snake’s, but there was something more… Intelligence. Then she saw the oddity. It wasn’t in the eyes themselves, but in the forehead above the eyes. Unlike any whale, shark, or reptile she’d ever seen, this monster had an expressive face. Nothing like a human or even a dog or seal for that matter, but she could see it. The expression in its eyes, the moment before it sucked her down, weren’t those of a hungry predator. They almost seemed gentle.

  The images shattered and fled as Giona’s logic exploded in denial. It was ridiculous to think that this predator— this apex predator— saw her as anything but food. Yet here she was, still alive after five days, contemplating her fate. But what other purpose could there have been in eating her? Could she have simply been in the way as the creature pursued the herring? Or was there something more she had overlooked?

  It struck her as a one-of-a-kind creature. Nothing like this had ever been seen before, or if it had been seen, had never been caught and authenticated. If it had, people would know about it; her father would know about it. She’d heard of oarfish growing to enormous lengths and being reported as sea serpents, but there was no way an oarfish could grow to this size without being noticed. Besides, oarfish were silver.

  She knew that it couldn’t truly be one of a kind, though. It just wasn’t possible. It could be old, for sure, but not unique. There had to be a whole slew of these creatures so that they could reproduce without genetic defects; but then why hadn’t they been seen before? If even a handful of these giants roamed the oceans, people would see them all the time.

  But how could something be unique? How could a creature simply just form in the ocean?

  Maybe it’s the mutated spawn of some whale, she thought.

  But that seemed just as ridiculous as the other possibility, which harassed her thoughts, vying to be given credence. She’d ignored it long enough, and while she completely disagreed with the notion, it was time to consider whether or not the creature had been created unique. But by whom? A scientist? Not likely. Who else could create a living creature? God?

  Giona shook her head. Nothing else made sense.

  The problem with this theory is that Giona didn’t believe in God. She didn’t have a problem with people who did, and she didn’t embrace atheism. Nor was she agnostic. She simply hadn’t given the subject much attention. Her mind had been on other things and, admittedly, slightly distracted since her mother’s death. She simply didn’t have time to consider God.

  Well I do now, Giona thought.

  Not really knowing where to begin in forming her thoughts, Giona spoke aloud, addressing God as though he would respond, though she knew he wouldn’t. “So, if you made this…thing, why? Why create something unique? Why create a creature that can’t reproduce?

  “Let’s just assume for a second that you did create it–that all the weirdness about this thing serves some kind of purpose. What is it? It seems to me that the only thing a creature like this would be good for, aside from eating lots of fish like any other predator would be to eat…and keep alive…”

  Giona’s voice trailed off as she realized the truth. This chamber she was in. It was perfectly situated to keep a human being alive. The oxygen supply from the artery. The food supplied by the fish. Even the constricting walls that had kept her from being thrashed to death. But why keep her alive inside the beast? What possible reason could there be?

  Continuing her dialogue with God, Giona raised her arms in frustration. “At least give me some kind of hint!”

  Giona.

  She froze.

  Was that a voice?

  She craned her neck, straining to listen. Perhaps her father had been eaten too and caged in another chamber like this one, shouting her name? She knew it wasn’t true. Her name sounded no more loudly than a whisper, but she’d felt nothing through her ears. The voice had come from within. It was like a thought, but crystal clear.

  Yet, even with the clarity, she’d heard it wrong, twisted it so that it made sense, hearing it as her name. But the
name didn’t belong to her…it belonged to someone else.

  Jonah.

  47

  The Titan

  Atticus hadn’t seen enough of the Titan to really know his way around, but his keen sense of direction and knowledge of which end was the bow allowed him to move inexorably toward the bridge. He moved forward and up at every opportunity, vaulting stairs and stalking through hallways until he found himself at a dead end.

  Two heavy, oak doors blocked his path. They looked hand-carved, featuring designs of naked women and scenes from mythology. The door struck Atticus as new, probably commissioned to fit that very spot. Most of the treasures on the Titan had been taken from other cultures, but the image on the doors revealed the mind of the man behind it—Trevor. The lust-filled minotaur, scorpion men, and cyclopses chased down and captured nude woman who ran in fear. It reminded Atticus of a painting he’d once seen, Rape of the Sabine Women, but this was much more grotesque.

  The room clearly served some personal function for Trevor and might be useful to scout for weapons and information. But the retinal scanner and handprint analyzer to the side of the door kept him at bay for a moment. Atticus smiled as he remembered that O’Shea had disabled the Titan’s locking systems. Small holes in the ceiling made him wary of more poisoned darts, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. As Atticus moved toward the retinal scanner, he hoped whatever trap had been set there, wouldn’t be activated after a failed attempt. For all he knew, O’Shea’s handiwork might have already been undone.

  Atticus placed his eye against the scanner. A line of red light slid across his eye and back again. The device beeped and displayed a green light, which promptly turned red. A slight buzz emanated from the system. Atticus jumped back, expecting to be struck down by any number of potential booby traps. When nothing happened, he relaxed slightly and noticed that a light over the handprint analyzer was also glowing red.

  Biting his lip, Atticus approached the locking system again, but rather than try the retinal scanner again, he tried both at once. The system activated once more and as the red light scanned his eyes, a green one pulsed at his palm. The lights on both turned green and the doors slid open automatically.

  Walking slowly, UMP at the ready, Atticus entered the room. It wasn’t any more extravagant than the rest of the rooms on the ship, which wasn’t much of a comparison—they were all extravagant in the extreme. The wall opposite the door curved around in a smooth arc and consisted of a single pane of glass, running from one side of the wedge-shaped room to the other, and framing the rising sun. Its vaulted ceilings held two skylights, one casting a square of light onto the hardwood floor, the other illuminating the king-size bed, framed by ivory tusks. The room was devoid of other furnishings. Atticus imagined that either drawers were cleverly concealed in the walls or that servants brought Trevor fresh clothing every day, which, knowing Trevor, seemed to be the more likely scenario.

  As Atticus moved through the bedroom and into a small library, he realized he’d been wrong about Trevor’s quarters. They were very different from the other suites. While other rooms’ décors were spectacles of grandeur, his quarters reflected a more personal side of Trevor Manfred. The books that lined the shelves ranged in subject matter from history and mythology to science and technology. A dog-eared copy of Moby Dick, which appeared to be a first printing, lay on an end table next to a plush lounge chair. Reading glasses rested atop the book. Finding nothing of real interest, Atticus crept forward through the undistinguished, though pricey, living room and into a room that gave him pause.

  It was an office of sorts, featuring normal office furniture—a desk, chairs, lamps, and small tables formed from petrified wood—but full-color security monitors coated the entire back wall. It was like being in some kind of freakish electronics store with an overzealous sales team. But these screens didn’t feature the same movie in slightly varying color tones; they displayed views of every room on the Titan. Atticus grew tense when he saw his own bedroom, and next to it, his bathroom.

  “Pervert,” Atticus muttered.

  An almost imperceptible flicker hit all the screens at once, then they continued on as before. Atticus realized that the blip was O’Shea’s fifteen-minute loop starting again. If anyone stood there long enough, or simply came by at the right moment as Atticus had, he’d know to restart the system. As Atticus began considering how best to destroy all the screens without alerting anyone, a nagging question took hold. Why, with the crew having full knowledge of their escape, was no one there to monitor the screens?

  Before he could fully comprehend his mistake, a force struck him from behind. The solid blow sent him sprawling to the floor. The UMP fell from his hands and skittered across the smooth floor, coming to a stop underneath the heavy executive desk, which sat directly in front of the viewscreen-covered wall.

  Atticus’s head cleared a moment before his forward momentum stopped. He turned the slide into a roll and ended in a crouch, ready to pounce or dive away. He did neither. Standing before him were three gargantuan men. They wore all black and sported military crew cuts. Their black T-shirts displayed a logo that read, Cerberus Security. Great, Atticus thought, security specialists. But while they were probably very good at their job, they’d already made two mistakes.

  Their hands were free of any weapons. Instead, they were clenched at their sides. It was obvious the men had either seen him in action or had at least heard of the Navy SEAL on board. The ferocity in their eyes made it clear they intended to pummel him to death: mistake number one. Mistake number two was their assumption that Atticus would consent to fighting all three of them in hand-to-hand combat. He had no intention of doing such a thing. If the throbbing pain at the back of his skull was any indication of what was to come, he’d prefer to avoid a fistfight at all costs, even if he had to fight dirty, which a fight to the death often required.

  The men stood their ground, waiting for Atticus to attack first, putting himself at a disadvantage. He decided to see if they would respond to a verbal attack. Thick-bodied men like them were often thick-skulled as well. “Cerberus Security, huh?” Atticus showed a lopsided grin. “Cerberus is the three-headed guardian dog of the underworld, right?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “You must have borrowed the shirts because all I see are three cute puppies.”

  That did it. All three men lost their tempers, and, feeling supremely confident that their three-on-one bulk would win the day, charged. Only two steps into his charge the first man fell. The second jumped over him just as Atticus rolled over the broad desk. When he came out of his roll, his hand came up with a snap. The second man fell as well, hitting his head on the desk in the process.

  The third man ignored his clumsy partners and leapt like a linebacker about to sack the quarterback. The man’s forward momentum was impressive, but as a massive explosion rang out, the man snapped back in midflight, almost as if his foot had been tied to a rope. What had actually happened was much more messy.

  Atticus stood, breathing hard, knowing that if anyone of the three had got in a good shot, he’d have been finished. As he scanned the floor where the men lay in a bloody line, he knew none of them would threaten anyone ever again. The first to fall had Atticus’s dive knife lodged in his throat. The second had a scimitar-shaped letter opener in his heart. And the third had a fist-sized hole in his back, where Atticus’s .357 magnum had punched through.

  Ignoring the gore and the men’s faces, Atticus looked for some way to shut off the wall of surveillance monitors. The monitors behind him suddenly exploded as thunder rumbled through the office. A burning pain ripped through his body as a bullet pierced his flesh. Atticus doubled over in pain, but the motion spared him from being cut in half by the ensuing barrage.

  As bullets wrecked the back side of the hardwood desk and punched holes through the monitors, Atticus took a moment to inspect his body. He found his left shoulder soaked with blood. The pain had dulled as endorphins kicked in, but he knew it would hurt like hell once his
body’s natural painkillers wore off. He still had full movement of the arm, though not without pain; but at least that meant the bullet hadn’t severed too much muscle or hit the bone. While his fresh wound wouldn’t kill him, it made him realize just how out of practice he’d become. When the bullets stopped flying, the wall of security monitors smoked and smoldered, devoid of images and pocked with holes.

  Well, he thought, took care of that.

  The sound of clacking metal sounded as whoever had fired at him struggled to reload. The sounds revealed that his attacker lacked experience in conflict situations and didn’t truly understand the weapon—possibly a waiter or cook who’d been armed. And while Atticus might be out of practice, he’d be damned before letting a submachine-gun-toting maitre d’ get the best of him twice.

  Grabbing his UMP from under the desk, Atticus stood and let loose a three-round burst toward the office door. His attacker dropped from sight, his weapon clattering to the floor. Atticus rose and contemplated his most recent kill, still twitching, before heading for the door.

  But the sight that greeted him sent him running. Five men, all packing UMPs, took aim and unleashed hell. The floor at Atticus’s feet exploded as the five opened fire. The walls burst apart as bullets pushed through, searching for Atticus.

  Knowing there was little chance of surviving a close-quarters gun battle with five men, Atticus fired his UMP at the long window. As it lost its structural integrity, the window disintegrated and fell to pieces. But before the shards of glass could fall away, Atticus threw himself through the wall of descending daggers.

  48

  The Titan

  Taking the opposite approach to Atticus’s bold charge toward the bridge, O’Shea and Andrea, hoping to avoid any kind of confrontation, snuck along carefully. They entered a long hallway leading to a staircase that would take them to the priority guest deck, where O’Shea’s and Atticus’s quarters were located. Several hand-carved, wooden statues lined both sides of the hall.