The Last Of The First (Halfhero Book 3)

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  The woman standing over Jerry muttered something. It sounded a lot like, "Yeah, and take all the credit, why don't you? You wouldn't have found it at all if not for the police and MI5, you arrogant prick."

  “The police and MI fuuuuth," said Jerry, as gun-woman delivered on her threat and kicked him in the face. He rolled onto his side, tasting blood.

  "Get him on board," said gun-woman. Two big blokes grabbed an arm each and dragged him towards the big helicopter.

  "But, but..." he said, in between spitting gobs of blood onto the road. "Ith all a mithttake. Ith all a big mithtake..."

  13

  The Old Man opened his eyes to find morning and afternoon had already passed. The low, warm, yellow light of dusk rippled through the leaves of the tree whose trunk he had leaned against while he slept. Even dusk was wrong here, the light sicklier, the evening song of the birds half-drowned by coughs and splutters from the metal carriages on the nearby roads. They were moving slower than the pedestrians alongside them, many of whom wore masks to avoid the worst of the fumes.

  What was the point? Was this progress? The last time he had been in a city, it had reeked of human and animal smells. They were still here but overlaid with hideous artificial odours.

  A wrenching twist of memory, buried deep, surfaced so unexpectedly that he cried aloud.

  He remembered.

  He remembered walking.

  He remembered walking in front of a line of animals at dusk. The narrow path wound down the mountainside and brought him to a small group of huts. The village. His village.

  The air tasted of honey and figs, the breeze was cool, and the goats were docile, sleepy, their bleats sporadic. He was a big man, considered a giant by the villagers, but out here, with the mountains looming around him, he felt small, insignificant, and... for the first time he could remember... almost at peace. The thousands of lives behind him, the thousands to come; he could forget them for hours at a stretch up here.

  The animals made their way into the small pen, and the Old Man ducked through the doorway of his dwelling. His love, Khryseis, looked up as he entered. She was holding their son. Over countless lifetimes, he had avoided fathering children. It had been easy for millennia when those whose bodies he wore were little more than animals. It had become more difficult when he found he could form relationships with depth and meaning. He had connected with these new people. He had half-convinced himself that his Purpose, long-forgotten, would never be fulfilled. That it might be better if he were to become—as far as he was able—part of the society which had accepted him.

  He stopped in the doorway when he realised Khryseis and his boy were not alone. Three men rose to their feet. One of them he knew - Meurius, the leader of their small community. He had welcomed the Old Man after he had proved his worth by ridding them of a wolf-pack. The Old Man had given the skin of the biggest wolf to Meurius as a gift. He was wearing it now.

  "Tros," said Meurius. Tros was the name of the man whose blood had provided him with this body a decade before.

  "Meurius."

  The leader of the village held the Old Man's gaze for a few moments, then dropped his eyes. He gestured towards the strangers. Well dressed, armed. One carried himself with authority. The other—a big, bearded man—looked like an experienced soldier. Tall, but still a head shorter than the Old Man. The smaller one spoke.

  "My name is Stolos. I come here seeking you, Tros. Your bravery and strength are unparalleled, and word has spread of your power. We have heard of you in Athens."

  The Old Man stood as still as an oak, as silent as a stone. Stolos smiled without humour.

  "Even here, even in the mountains, you know that war is coming. We need men of your strength, Tros. If half of what we have heard is true, you will find fame and glory as a champion of the Greek forces. You can protect our country and our people. You will bring honour to your village."

  The Old Man knew it was over. It was time to leave again. But, this time, he would abandon a wife and a child. He felt a wound forming in the core of his being.

  "I seek neither glory nor honour," he said. "I wish to be left alone."

  Stolos exchanged a look with his silent companion. The big man barked a command. The Old Man heard movement outside, the muffled clink of sheathed weapons. He turned his head and saw six men in the fading light. Battle-hardened soldiers, grim-faced, hands on hilts. Stolos spoke again.

  "Greece needs you, Tros. When your country calls, you must answer."

  "I answer to no country."

  The tension in the confined space was fast reaching the point where violence would be inevitable. The Old Man stepped forward, his eyes on Khryseis and his son. When the big soldier half-drew his sword, Stolos placed a hand on his arm.

  The Old Man brought his lips close to the ear of his woman. "Leave this place," he whispered. When she began to speak, he interrupted. "Say nothing. Remember me as I was. When you have a chance, find a new home for yourself and the babe. When you are ready, find a new man. I will not return."

  He kissed her and stepped back, looking at Meurius.

  "How much did they pay you?" he asked.

  The leader stuttered a little in his lie. "Wh—what do you mean? How dare you accuse—aargh!"

  He fell and clutched his leg. The Old Man's kick had been so fast that no one reacted until Meurius was on the floor, clutching his shattered knee. The limp he would suffer for the rest of his life would remind him of this betrayal.

  The big soldier drew his short sword and pointed it at the Old Man's throat.

  "Out," he said.

  The Old Man looked at the sleeping baby on Khryseis's hip, then, for the last time, he looked into her eyes. What had he been thinking? Swearing to himself that he would never forget her, but knowing he would, he stepped out of the hut and walked towards the mountain.

  The soldiers outside hesitated for a moment, then unsheathed their weapons and followed. He broke into a jog, making certain his pursuers didn't lose sight of him. He looked over his shoulder. Stolos and the big soldier were following.

  The Old Man led them east, uphill. He knew the terrain, the half-hidden paths. He had to slow down twice to make sure they could keep up.

  The pursuit lasted twenty minutes. Long enough to be well out of sight of the village. The Old Man stopped at the gorge, his back to a cliff edge that plunged hundreds of feet into the valley.

  When the big, bearded soldier rounded the corner and saw where the Old Man had made his stand, he smiled.

  "I wouldn't have put you down as a coward," he said, breathing hard. He undid the leather belt holding his sheath and let it, and his sword, fall to the stony ground. He adopted a fighting stance and advanced. "You are coming with us, Tros. Willingly, as a volunteer in the Greek army, if you wish, but this is the last time we will offer. Turn us down again, and your corpse will serve as an example to other traitors."

  The Old Man watched him advance. The six soldiers and Stolos behind him were relaxed and confident. They must have seen the bearded soldier fight before and were sure he would prevail against this giant peasant.

  The Old Man had neither the time nor the inclination for niceties. His grief at leaving his woman and child had already flared into brutal anger.

  He walked towards his challenger with his arms by his sides, offering no defence. Only his yellow eyes, blazing with hard fury, gave any clue as to his intentions.

  The bearded man, when he moved, was fast, fluid, and well-practised. His first strike—a hard jab at the base of the ribs—was intended to prevent his opponent from drawing breath. A cracked rib cage weakened attackers. It was an intelligent opening, and, for a big man, the soldier's attack was fast.

  The Old Man turned aside, and the intended blow missed by inches. Despite having his balance unexpectedly upset, the soldier followed through with a leg sweep intended to bring Tros to the ground. Again, a smart move. The Old Man jumped over the bearded man's leg and took a pace to the side, waiting.

/>   When the soldier resumed his fighting pose again, a seed of doubt had crept into his expression. His next attack was far less nuanced; a flurry of punches aimed at the head and torso.

  This time, the Old Man didn't move aside. He looked beyond his attacker and stared at Storos while his champion rained blows on him, any of which would have felled a normal opponent. Storos paled as he watched.

  The bearded soldier soon tired and stepped back to survey the damage. His eyes showed real fear for the first time as he registered the lack of injury on the yellow-eyed giant. When the Old Man laughed at him, he reacted with fury, scrambling back for his sword, unsheathing it and jabbing upwards into his enemy's belly.

  It was like stabbing a rock. He dropped the sword in pain and shock and looked up to see an enormous hand reaching for him.

  The Old Man picked up his opponent by his neck, still looking at Storos. Then he closed his fist and, with a series of brittle snaps, every bone in the man's neck snapped. His head lolled backwards, coming to rest between his shoulders, his blood-filled eyes staring unseeingly at the waiting soldiers.

  "Kill him!" screamed Stolos.

  The soldiers charged with the confidence brought on by their numerical advantage. As they drew close, the Old Man moved his hand across his body as if waving away an insect. All six men were swept off their feet and into the air.

  Stolos dropped to his knees as he watched his soldiers rise, carried away from the safety of the mountain pass and over the gorge, before falling to their deaths below. Their screams echoed for half a minute. He collapsed face down into the dirt and prayed to the gods. He tried to move, but his legs would not obey his commands. And what was that awful smell? He dragged himself onto his side, and with a terrible realisation discovered the source of the stench. His bowels had opened. He began to cry.

  The Old Man walked to the edge of the cliff, stooped, and picked up two heavy stones. He bowed his head and spoke softly. Stolos heard gentleness and sorrow in his tone. Perhaps he would survive this day.

  "Goodbye, Khryseis," said the Old Man, kissing the first stone before lobbing it underarm into the gorge. A stream ran through the valley. He saw the splash half a second before its sound reached his ears.

  He kissed the second stone. "Goodbye, Heracles." He watched it fall beside the first, then turned towards Stolos. The man began to babble.

  "Tros, thank you for sparing me. There is so much I can do for you. No need to be our champion. I can see now that I made a mistake. Why, you could challenge the gods themselves. I could get you anything you wanted. Riches, women, an army of servants to attend you. Anything, anything! I am a respected man, I have great influence in Athens, I... why do you not speak? I have a family also, Tros, a wife, children, think of them, think of them."

  His voice failed him as the giant man bent and lifted him as easily as a gourd of water. The analogy, as he was about to discover, was not entirely inaccurate.

  "I need you," said the man, tracing a long nail along Stolos's neck.

  "Oh, thank the gods, yes, you're right, yes, you need me, you need me, thank you, thank you." He stopped speaking as his voice failed, his throat full of liquid. A bitter taste, thick and metallic. They were at the edge of the cliff now. Tros wrapped his arms around Stolos as he choked and spluttered.

  The Old Man came in close. "I need your blood," he said.

  Stolos screamed, but it came out as a wet, flapping hiss of air.

  The Old Man leaned backwards. Together, they fell into the gorge.

  The Old Man let his eyes focus on the scene around him. The memory had taken him by surprise. Flashes of previous lives rose unbidden at times, echoes of long-forgotten emotions. He didn't remember being Tros. He remembered remembering being Tros, and even that memory was centuries old.

  Now he was hungry and thirsty. He looked to the side and found that passers-by, thinking him meditating, had left gifts. There were two bottles of water, and a foil package containing six gol gappas: spiced potatoes and chickpeas in crispy shells. They were still warm. He ate them without ceremony, washing them down with the water.

  A day had passed while he had sat beneath the tree. The stream of traffic surrounding the park was heavier than ever as workers made their way home. The air in the park tasted better away from the stinking streets, but the Old Man could still feel his nostrils and throat clog with alien particles; filthy, gritty, and poisonous.

  He had to get out of the city. This had been a mistake. Whatever his Purpose was, he would not find it in this place, where everything was unbalanced, where nature had been suppressed.

  The Old Man stood and stretched his long limbs. It was time to leave India. He would head to the coast and find passage to somewhere less crowded. The country had changed beyond recognition during the generations he had spent squatting in the cave. He had never stayed in one place for so long before. His compulsion to move on had diminished in power during those years. His sense of identity had diminished, too. He would wander again, recover himself step by step.

  And he would do it on his own two feet. Although he could fly, he had stopped doing so centuries ago unless it was unavoidable. Flying meant missing the details. He looked down at his bare feet, flexing his toes in the close-cut grass. Time to go.

  As he left the park, he paused, watching an excited crowd around a street vendor's stall. He moved closer and saw a miracle. In the top left corner of the stall, hanging from a hook and swaying, was a glowing box containing moving pictures, as if tiny humans and animals were contained within.

  Controlling his breathing, the Old Man stepped closer. Finding the device troubling and unsettling, he looked at the jabbering crowd surrounding the stall, listening to what they were saying. None of them were shocked or amazed by the magic box. They treated it as if it were something they saw every day. From the snippets of conversation he heard, it seemed the box brought them information. Information that was, somehow, up-to-date. The events they were discussing had happened recently. Days ago? Hours? Minutes, even? And the pictures showed events taking place thousands of miles away from New Delhi.

  In the gabble of the crowd, he heard mention of America and Great Britain, but other words were unfamiliar, although they cropped up again and again. Titans. The Deterrent.

  Steeling himself against the nauseating effects of the glowing box, the Old Man looked up and watched the moving pictures.

  A bus of sorts, but winged like a bird, flew towards a city. Surrounding it were flying men, their faces concealed by helmets.

  The picture changed to a woman speaking while words appeared beneath her. He turned away again as dizziness took hold.

  When he looked back, he saw a picture of the sky with distant figures flying at great speed.

  Could humans fly now?

  He grabbed the nearest person and spun them around. A middle-aged woman faced him, her lips curled to deliver an angry comment. When she saw his robes she hesitated, then put her hands together and dipped her head. The Old Man barely saw her.

  "Who are these flying men?" he said. "Where are they from? Can everyone fly now?"

  She laughed in surprise, then clapped a hand over her mouth as if trying not to be disrespectful.

  "No, no, only the titans can fly. And The Deterrent, of course. They all disappeared yesterday, so they might be dead now. The Deterrent came here once, you know. To New Delhi. I was a young woman then. There were floods in Uttar Pradesh. He rescued thousands. The Deterrent. He met the Prime Minister. I went to see. He was quite a peach that boy. Big, too. As big as you!"

  As if aware she might have said something inappropriate, she reddened.

  "Where?" said the Old Man. "Where are they? These pictures? The... titans."

  "Are you joking with me? You have never heard of them?"

  "Where?"

  Something in his tone brought her up short, and she looked frightened at the intensity of this huge young monk.

  "In England, UK, Great Britain, London. They're Americ
ans now, you know, but they were on a trip with the president. They - hey!"

  The Old Man had turned and was walking away. She called after him.

  "You are serious? You've never heard of The Deterrent? Were you brought up in a cave? Oh..."

  The woman's voice dried to a hoarse whisper as the monk reached the road and, with a speed that registered as an orange and saffron blur against the whitewashed buildings behind, flew up into the darkening sky.

  14

  The president of the United States arrived back home a day earlier than scheduled. A press release preceded him, drafted by Casey on Air Force One as they crossed the Atlantic.

  The press release spoke of the reappearance of The Deterrent, suggesting he had been working through some 'personal issues.' The other titans had pursued him at Heathrow, and, in an undisclosed location, had persuaded him he needed treatment. A quote from the Chief Medical Officer was already being re-posted on most news feeds where he suggested that The Deterrent was suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the years he'd spent in Britain.

  All of which gave the president the perfect opportunity to do one of his favourite things when he got back home: sweep through the assembled press without comment, a determined, strong, presidential look on his face. A look that said, no time to talk now. I have superheroes to save, and a nation to run. At least, that was how he thought he looked when he practised the facial expression in front of the mirror.

  He was greeted by a few of his most senior staff at the airport as they prepared to transfer the milk cans containing the titans to a Pentagon facility. The Chief Medical Officer was one of those waiting, and the president had an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt, when the most senior doctor in the country saw his expression and asked him if he needed a prescription for constipation.

  The scientists gathered at the hi-tech Pentagon facility were an unusual mix. Biologists, geneticists, chemists, pharmacologists, and neurologists rubbed shoulders with psychologists, psychiatrists, counsellors, and one of the country's foremost proponents of neuroscience-linguistic programming. The word 'charlatans' was sometimes muttered at the water cooler.