Titan_An Epic Novel of Urban Fantasy and Greek Mythology

by Daniel Mignault

  “Yes, sir. I won't let you down.”

  Mr. Cross puts his hand on my shoulder. His fingers dig into me like my hands on the rock wall. “No more dreams, Andrus. You must take action instead. Dreams without action will destroy you.”

  2

  A SINKING SHIP

  “Once upon a time,” Mrs. Ploddin says, “all was Chaos.” She pauses, looking over our history class through her horn-rimmed glasses as if waiting for one of us to disagree. I'm sitting in the back of the room, paying more attention to Mark than to the teacher. He sits two rows ahead and to the left, and I wonder if he's thinking what I am: How we're going to beat Blake and Brenda in Monday's rematch. If he is, Mark doesn't give any sign. He sits there, scholarly as ever, as if what Mrs. Ploddin is saying is the most interesting thing in the world. And maybe it is to him. After all, Mark is destined for the priesthood… if he doesn't get us both fed to Cronus first.

  Mrs. Ploddin drones on: “From primal Chaos sprang Gaia, the Earth Mother, and Ouranos, the Sky Father. From the holy union of heaven and earth came their children, the immortal Titans. But Ouranos grew jealous of his children and cast them into Tartarus, the vast and terrible underworld. There, the Titans languished until Cronus, the youngest and most daring of them, escaped. Cronus defeated Ouranos, and there was much rejoicing as the Titans were reunited with Gaia. There was a Golden Age of peace under the rule of Cronus, King of the Titans, and his queen, Rhea. But when Rhea became pregnant, Cronus knew he could not let his children usurp him as he had usurped his own father. And do you know what happened next?”

  Mark raises his hand. “Cronus devoured his children. One after the other: Hades, Hera, Hestia, Demeter, and Poseidon. But not Zeus.”

  “No,” Mrs. Ploddin agrees. “Not Zeus. Rhea had had enough of her children being devoured when she became pregnant with Zeus, so she had him hidden away and substituted a rock disguised to look like a child in his place. Cronus ate the rock, and it joined the children in his stomach who were still alive. And can any of you tell me why they were still alive?”

  “Because they were immortal,” Mark says. “And immortals cannot die.”

  “That's right! The children of the Titans were a new race, a lesser race, called Gods, but they could not die. So mighty Cronus swallowed them, not only to ensure they could never escape, but also to absorb their power and add it to his own…”

  “Except for the rock,” Mark adds.

  Mrs. Ploddin sighs. “Yes, Mark, except for the rock.”

  The class laughs, but Mark looks at them strangely, like what he said wasn't supposed to be funny.

  The teacher waits for the class to settle down, then goes on, “Zeus decided to overthrow Cronus. Zeus was a cowardly, deceitful creature who lacked the power to challenge his father directly. He knew he could never do it alone, so he poisoned Cronus, which caused him to vomit up his imprisoned brothers and sisters. The Gods went to war against the Titans and after ten long years, managed to imprison them in Tartarus. And Zeus, the youngest of the Gods, became their ruler, much as Cronus had when he overthrew Ouranos…”

  The story isn't holding my attention. I drift into a daydream. I'm climbing the rock wall again, only this time I'm beating Blake. I'm leaving him far behind, except there's something waiting for me at the top. A shadow. Someone―or some thing―watching me.

  Waiting.

  I snap out of my daydream as Mrs. Ploddin holds up her hands. “Yes, class, we all know Zeus was a pretender! He and his fellow Gods thought they could rule better than the Titans, but they could not. Because they had been held so long in Cronus's stomach, all the Gods except Zeus needed the psychic power of others. So the Gods created mankind to worship them, and they made us in their own image, but they knew better than to make us immortal. They thought that we would worship them forever, and for a time we did, in many countries under many names, but the Gods grew complacent and eventually, our faith waned. That waning faith is what caused the locks imprisoning the Titans in Tartarus to weaken. And as the locks weakened, what happened?”

  Mark raises his hand, but the teacher ignores him. Instead, she does the worst thing possible and calls on me. “Andrus! Andrus Eaves, if you're not too busy, can you tell us the answer?”

  I clear my throat. “Uh… bad stuff happened?” The class laughs and I smile, at least until I see the look on the teacher's face. “Um, I mean wars. Climate change. Natural disasters. That sort of thing.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Ploddin says. “And then the locks broke and the Titans were released, igniting the Gods War. A war the Gods could not win, and when they refused to surrender, they were responsible for why so much of the world was destroyed. The Titans won, and rather than make the mistake of keeping them all in Cronus's stomach again, the Titans had the Gods killed, all of them except Hades.”

  “But there was still the problem of man to deal with,” Mark says.

  Mrs. Ploddin nods. “Yes, and in their mercy, the Titans created the New Greece Theocracy and allowed mankind to live to serve their infinite glory. All hail the Titans! All hail the NGT!”

  The class cheers and raises their fists in salute. I join them.

  Mrs. Ploddin says, “Now I bet some of you are wondering why I'm telling you all this…”

  The class murmurs in agreement. We've all heard this stuff since childhood, even before coming to Axios.

  “Well,” she continues, “it's to illustrate a point. After all, you're seniors and will be graduating soon. You'll become priests and warriors and many of you will be put in positions where you'll have proximity to power, to those in command, and to others like you. Not all of those people will be happy in their roles. Some may be stupid, greedy, or impious, placing their own needs above the Titans. Some may even think they can blaspheme or rebel. These foolish few may argue that as the Gods once rebelled against the Titans and won, that man can rebel…” She gives each of us a soul-piercing look from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “But men are not Gods. Even the Gods themselves lost in the end. The Titans are invincible! And they have chosen you to serve them, to train here with the best of the best.”

  The class cheers.

  “You will graduate in a few months and take your place in the world. As you do, keep your eyes and ears open! Report anyone suspicious or incompetent, and most of all, watch for rebels and heretics! Only through your vigilance can New Greece prosper.”

  There are more cheers. The bell rings and Mrs. Ploddin dismisses our class. School is done for the day, but it brings no relief. I join Mark in the hallway and watch as the rest of the students go by. Some give us sad looks, others grin cruelly.

  “Word gets around fast,” Mark says. “How do you want to handle this rematch thing?”

  I shrug. “Train. We can use the Harryhausen gym downtown.”

  “Good idea. You really think we can do it?”

  “Yeah. Blake's overconfident, plus he's got Brenda.”

  “Are you kidding? Brenda did better than me! She may be terrible, but she's not hopeless.”

  “And you are?”

  Mark sighs. “Maybe. I'm not into all this athletic stuff. I work out with my mind. You don't need to climb rocks to be a priest.”

  “True,” I admit, “but it can't hurt. That's why they stick us in all these different classes, isn't it?”

  “Ah, the benefits of a well-rounded education,” Mark muses, but it's obvious he takes no pleasure in it. “The time I spend in gym could be put to better use in the library.”

  “And the time I spend in the library could be put to better use in the gym. Guess we're both in the same boat.”

  Mark smirks. “I think our boat's sprung a leak then. Hope we don't go down with the ship…”

  3

  HIT AND RUN

  The parking lot is full of kids eager to get away from the pressure cooker of the Academy. Most of them probably don't have a care in the world, and if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I don't either. Time seems to stretch, the way
it always does on a sunny Friday afternoon. It's telling me that tonight and two days can last forever. Normally they can. My parents are rich and let me do whatever I want, so most weekends I'll work out, maybe go climbing or caving. I do those last two whenever I need to get away, which seems to be more and more lately. It's the only time I really feel at peace, whether I'm clinging to a cliff or slipping into darkness…

  Mark nudges me, knocking me out of my daydream. “Hey!” He points across the lot. “Isn't that Blake?”

  It's him, all right, and he's not alone. He's got Brenda with him, and they're getting into his black Lexus. Well, his father's black Lexus. “Yeah, that's him. Looks like they have the same idea we do. We better get going.”

  “Great,” Mark says. “Where's your car?”

  “I don't have one.”

  He frowns. “What do you mean? You're richer than Blake! How'd you get to school? Your parents' limo drop you off?”

  “No, I walked. It's only a few miles.”

  “I don't get you, man. You're rich, and you could be rolling in style, even if it is your parents' ride. Why would you walk to school? Is it part of your warrior training?”

  “No. I don't know… I just like to have my feet on the ground as much as possible. It's not just a health thing or a 'it gives me time to think' thing.”

  He gives me a funny look, so I awkwardly try to explain. “It's more than either of those. It's a connection thing, a feeling I'm part of something greater than myself, you know? That I'm one with the earth.”

  “Wow,” Mark says, “if I had to walk 'a few miles' in my neighborhood, I'd be toast. But you Rich-O's really can do whatever you want, can't you?”

  “I guess.” I'd forgotten how poor Mark is. He's only at Axios because he passed the Gifted exam and got here on a scholarship. Otherwise, he'd be stuck doing whatever lousy job his family does. It's also probably why he tries so hard to prove how smart he is and why he doesn't have any friends.

  I'm trying to think of something diplomatic to say when I notice a strange girl watching us from across the lot. She's half-hidden in the treeline, not moving. Black hair. Dark eyes. I don't think she goes to our school, but there's something familiar about her. Do I know her? I raise my hand to wave, then realize how weird that is. You don't wave to strangers in New Greece, especially not ones hiding in bushes.

  Even if they are girls.

  Mark coughs on purpose, and I turn my head to look. “I thought you said we were going to catch the bus? Standing here staring into space isn't helping me train. Not that I'm excited or anything, but I understand how important this is. I'd like to avoid losing Monday, 'cause I'm no better with swords and shields than I am at scaling walls, so I think―”

  “Hold on. See that girl over there?”

  “No. What girl? Where?”

  “In the bushes, over by that group of trees.”

  Mark shrugs. “I don't see anybody.”

  “She's right there!” As I raise my hand to point at her, the downtown bus pulls up, blocking the view. By the time we pay and take our seats, the girl is gone.

  “Was she hot?” Mark asks.

  “Yeah, I think so, but she was pretty far away.”

  “Then how do you know she was hot?”

  “Just a feeling… Forget it.”

  Mark looks like he wants to ask something else, like maybe why I space out all the time or see things that aren't there, but I shut him down with a steady stream of what we're going to do at the gym. The truth is, I wouldn't know what else to say about me or the girl. I'm not even sure she was real. She could have been another of my daydreams, or a hallucination from all the stress I'm under. Maybe Mr. Cross was right, and I'm losing it.

  The streets flash by, the green hills and mansions slowly giving way to the glass towers of downtown Othrys. It's named after Mount Othrys, the birthplace of the Titans in old Greece. Before the Gods War transformed much of the landscape, Othrys used to be called Los Angeles. The sidewalks are bustling with people, rich and poor, warriors and priests, tradesmen and slaves. Despite the differences in wealth and rank, everyone dresses in the style of ancient Greece: light linen or silk tunics that either fall to the ankles or are cut at the knee for greater mobility. Slaves wear black tunics, but free citizens wear white. Citizens who can afford it add decorative trim or wear cloth of different colors. Some wear cloaks fastened at the shoulder. Warrior cloaks are blood red and priests wear azure blue, but other colors can be worn by anyone.

  Before the Gods War, people could dress as they pleased, but the Titans put a stop to that. They said too many choices were what had caused men to stray from the path of honoring their creators, and they would not make the same mistake the Gods had. Fashion wasn't the only change they made, of course, but it is the most noticeable. It makes it easy to know who you're dealing with and where you belong. Plus, the Titans' magic changed our climate to a Mediterranean one, so wearing lighter clothes makes sense. It's some of the other rules that bother me…

  Mark says, “Hey, wasn't that the gym?”

  I look back, curse, then yank the cord to stop the bus. It pulls over and we get out a few blocks past where we should have. We move to the crosswalk and wait for the signal. Traffic zips by. It will get worse soon with rush hour and the nightfall curfew. The light changes from green to yellow. An old man on the other side of the street begins to cross.

  “You OK?” Mark asks. “You seem kind of spacey.”

  “I'm fine, it's just―” Before I can finish, there's a shriek of brakes and a high, thin scream. A green sedan hits the old man and sends him sprawling into the gutter. Mark and I rush to help, but the man's legs are broken, the bones sticking out at crazy angles. There's nothing I can do. The driver gets out, a middle-aged man in a gray business tunic. His face pales when he sees the old man's injuries.

  He says to us, “You're witnesses, right? The light was yellow.”

  “You should have seen him,” I growl. “Do you have any idea what you've done?”

  The old man groans and tries to say something, but coughs blood instead.

  “His fault,” the driver says. “He's old! I've got a son to raise, same age as you. You gotta back me up, OK?”

  When neither of us answer, the driver curses.

  A crowd gathers. Everyone wants to know what happened, but no one is doing anything to help. The old man's not going to die, but if the hospital can't fix him, what then? He'll be sacrificed to Cronus's hunger or put on display at the Museum of Failure.

  I sit in the gutter with the old man and squeeze his hand. “You're going to be all right,” I tell him, and I want to believe that's true. I look up at Mark, who is looking almost as scared as the old man.

  “We shouldn't get involved,” he whispers. “We should go. Come on, man!”

  “No. We're staying.”

  Mark swears and starts pacing. If he wasn't depending on me to train him, there's no doubt he'd run―which sounds lousy, but I'm not sure I can blame him. Priests and warriors have a tendency to enslave the poor for the slightest infraction. Even taking the wrong side in a situation like this could be bad for him. But the rich have a way of getting out of trouble no matter what we do. The Titans say it's because we contribute more, so we're valued more. Judging by the driver's car and appearance, he's somewhere in-between. That's why he's nervous.

  A red and white Day Patrol car pulls up, sirens blaring. The slogan on the side reads, “To protect or punish.” Two warriors get out, red cloaks flapping in the breeze. Since guns are outlawed, they're armed with swords and shields. The younger one presses the crowd back with his shield while the older warrior comes up to me. His trained eyes seem to take in the situation all at once, and he keeps a hand on his sword hilt. “The ambulance will be here soon. What happened, citizen?”

  Before I can answer, the driver steps forward. “The old fool crossed against the light! He didn't give me time to stop. These two boys are witnesses.”

  The warrior looks
from me to Mark. “Is that true, son?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Mark says. “The light was yellow.”

  I point at the driver. “He was going too fast trying to beat the light. He wasn't paying attention to anything else.”

  The warrior's eyes narrow. “Are you related to the victim? What's your stake in all this?”

  “No, I'm not related. I'm just telling you what I saw.”

  “What's your name, citizen?”

  “Andrus Eaves. I go to Axios.”

  “The Academy, huh? You training to be a warrior?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good lad. Well, then, Mr. Eaves, let me tell you something. Warriors have to judge situations like this all the time. By your own admission, the driver didn't mean to hit anyone, and he's still got a lot of good years left in him. Now he can serve the Titans in one of two ways: in his present skilled capacity as a free citizen, or as a slave. You tell me which it should be.”

  I stare at the driver. He's wringing his hands. Sweat drips down his forehead. He sees me watching him and forces a desperate smile onto his face. A smile that says he wants to go back to his office job and forget this ever happened. Just like I want to go back in time to gym class and beat Blake. Only I didn't ruin anyone's life, except that isn't entirely true. Mark has the same pathetic smile on his face, hoping I will make this new pain go away.

  The ambulance pulls up. I squeeze the old man's hand one last time and tell him how sorry I am. Then I tell the warrior to let the driver go back to his family.

  “That's the right call,” the warrior says. “You'll make a fine addition to the force someday.”