TITAN

Eric was in three places at once. He was lying, frozen, in a hospital bed in the present; he was looking through the eyes of his grandfather, Arthur; and he was outside of both places, disconnected, but aware of many things at once. As the disorientation of his transition into his grandfather abated, he became aware of when and where exactly he was.

1944, France

Some of the images and sensations that passed through his mind were relevant now. The wind, the rain, the smell, and the fear from the men around him were vivid. He experienced memories and feelings he had never made.

Eric was tethered to something big and deep. He wasn’t actually in 1944 in his grandpa’s body, but he wasn’t exactly at home in the present either. Some intangible tendril of power transcending time and space had snatched him out of his own time and shoved him in front of a window behind his grandfather’s eyes to another time.

Is it God? Why would He bring me here? Or is it “bring me now?”

Eric watched history unfold behind his grandfather’s eyes and he was aware of other events, too. He didn’t understand how he knew about them or how he could see them, but the best way to relate the sensation is to compare it with the wind. You can’t see the wind, but you feel it. You know the currents of air are swirling around you. So it was with Eric and how he could feel the enormity of this time and place in the world.

War.

Evil was alive in the world. The Second World War unleased hell on Earth in a very real way. Advances in technology made the world a much smaller place. It made everyone that much easier to reach—to kill.

Evil always hides in the hearts of men, in the corners of their minds, and in the secret feelings they keep. But in war, good men do evil to defeat Evil. Like a snake that eats its tail, the notion defeats itself. But who among us can truly say what is good and evil in war? How can anyone who wasn’t there understand the choices that had to be made? For if Evil goes unchecked and good men do nothing, then that absence of action is, in of itself, wrong.

In the gray netherworld between right and wrong, evil flourishes. In the six long years that strangled the globe in open conflict, honest, good men followed the orders of a tyrant whose only goal was conquest and annihilation. Evil isn’t just in the dark shadows and the demons who hide among them, but also in men with the free will to make a choice.

War raged on both ends of the European continent, in Africa, throughout Asia, and between continents across the ocean. Blood ran in the fields, the forests, the streets, and even in people’s homes. Lines of weary, unyielding patriots fell in clouds of wispy, bloody smoke. The stakes were as high as they had ever been—one of the last true, open conflicts between good and evil. Only a select few understood that was literally true.

Eric was aware of these lofty notions. Something akin to instinct or conscience descended upon his mind and the nature of good and evil debated in his head or at least in the disembodied space where his head might be. Eric knew his grandfather was not aware of these things. He knew good and evil, but Eric knew immediately, upon sharing this man’s mind, that Arthur Steele was a man of loyalty, duty, and unquestioning faith. Tim had spoken of Grandpa Art and his unshakable resolve many times, but Eric never met him. To know the man all at once was wonderful and frightening.

In a small town in the French countryside, southeast of the beaches of Normandy, allied soldiers pushed against the Nazi defense as they did in so many other towns and villages. But this town had no strategic value or resources. It was simply another dot on a map on the way to Germany. If you looked at the battle lines, however, you would see a curve, a dip, where the allies and the Nazis shifted almost as if to meet there. It was almost as if they were drawn there.

In fact, this town wasspecial. It was older than anyone remembered anymore. Many generations, stretching back more than a thousand years, had lived in this town. An item was hidden here. Only a few people in the entire world knew about it. Of the hundreds of men killing and dying in and around the town, only two men knew the secret. One was a loyal Nazi soldier and the other was an American carpenter, enlisted to fight by his country and his God.

Since D-Day, the allies had struggled for every inch against desperate Nazi defenders. The promise of an Arian nation ruling over Europe had not yet extinguished in their minds. For Oberst (German equivalent: Colonel) Hauptmann it was close to extinguished; he couldn’t believe it had gone this far. For the Nazis, it wasn’t supposed to have happened this way. Not only were they militarily and biologically superior, but destiny was supposed to be on their side. The Nazis were the children of fate and the future was supposed to be theirs.

Hauptmann believed that rhetoric once, but too much had happened for him to think it was certain. He only now realized fate did not come to you, it had to be seized. Fate was still in their grasp if he could just find the artifact.

Hauptmann wore a regular army uniform, but was really a member of the SS under direct orders from Heinrich Himmler. He had been ordered to find a “powerful” artifact. Apparently, he would know it when he found it. But a lot of research had been conducted and whatever the artifact was, it was in this town. Hauptmann figured that much might be true, but he doubted that even they knew what exactly he was supposed to find. He had three other men with him for this assignment and truth be told, they probably wouldn’t make it out alive. Himmler had emphasized the importance of secrecy, which was likely why all he knew of the artifact was that it was a book.

Hauptmann suspected that Himmler’s orders had come straight from the Führer. For years, there had been rumors about the Führer’s obsession with the occult and otherworldly power. Personally, Hauptmann didn’t believe in that kind of thing. Fate and destiny, sure, but goat’s blood and slaughtering chickens to conjure demons and raise the dead? That was a bit much.

Still, there were things about Adolf Hitler that seemed dark. It was almost as if the Führer got his marching orders from a red, hot place. Hauptmann was a true patriot and he would die for his country or the Führer, but he sometimes worried that the path they were taking was paved with too much innocent blood. Must the proud and righteous have to murder to see their birthright realized?

Everyone hated the Kykes, sure, but he wouldn’t wish what he’d seen at that camp on anyone. Hauptmann had to tour one of the “facilities” with Himmler once. When you’re asked (ordered) to join Himmler’s personal entourage, you don’t (can’t) turn it down. Getting noticed by the leadership keeps your family fed and protected. But he might have sacrificed them if he could take back what he saw at Warsaw.

The smell hit him long before the camp was in view.

The powerful stench of death washed over him. Not recent dead, either, but the rank omnipresence of dead, months past and left to rot—totems to the other prisoners of their fate. Hauptmann’s insides turned sour and he prayed that no one had seen his stricken expression. No one did. But Hauptmann saw Himmler’s, which was: matter of fact, lighthearted. The odor hadn’t even affected him. And he had thought that was the worst part until…

Hauptmann saw them.

The dead.

Not actually dead, mind you, but damn if they shouldn’t have been. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw them: men and women naked; shapeless, save for the curves of skin like paper clinging to bone… the DEAD walking! Maybe the Führer really did raise the dead. Maybe he killed these pathetic Jews and sentenced them to walk, dead and rotting, in circles, moaning forever.

NO.

Hauptmann tried to shake away the memory, but it wouldn’t shake. Couldn’t. It would be with him forever. Of course, the memories were good things in a way. Every moment of every day, they reminded him who his superiors were and what they could do. Most people spend their lives seeing other people and not really knowing who they are or what they think. Hauptmann, like so many of his comrades, knew exactly who his commanders were. Evil. They were terrible, unscrupulous, evil, men.

And so am I.

He chose this life. Hauptmann did nothing about the awful things he’d seen. What was there to do? If they could do that to a whole race of people, would they think twice about putting two in your head and putting your family in one of those terrible places? No, of course not. Was there another choice? There was, but it took a stronger man than Hauptmann to make it.

In the end, Oberst Franz Hauptmann was a patriot. He believed that this path was the only path that could save Germany from its enemies. Sometimes evil was necessary to achieve righteous ends. Was he afraid? Sure. But he did what he did for Germany and his family. And if finding this relic would save Germany from the weak, mongrel hoards that threatened them everywhere, he would do it and do it with pride. Walking dead be damned.

Eric didn’t understand why or how he could know this man, Hauptmann. What did he have to do with anything? And what was the artifact? The good Catholic boy in Eric told him that God wouldn’t show him this or put him in this position if it wasn’t important. This man, Hauptmann, was related to his grandfather being in this little town.

The artifact…

Art was looking for it too. Only Eric didn’t think Art knew it. Eric suspected that Art was a man who operated on instinct and faith, maybe two words for the same thing. God, destiny, or fate brought Art to this place like a gust of wind carries leaves—they go where they go. Eric couldn’t understand faith that deep. He pitied himself that, actually, but he didn’t want to deny his questioning nature either.

The Americans and British threatened to break through to the town. Plumes of dark smoke and mud shot up from the earth in horrific columns of death along the allied advance, but still they came. Courageous men ran through explosions and into a blanket of gunfire. And it was working. Snipers slowed the German mortar teams from achieving total barrage. They would only get off a round or two before the man behind the tube would lose his face in a splatter of thick blood. Yes, the allies were coming and Hauptmann couldn’t let them find the artifact before he did.

He swept low beside the broken wall of a house. He darted from cover to cover. Bullets cut the air all around him showering him with mortar and brick. His uniform was now gray like the sky, caked with debris. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his three leutnants (U.S. equivalent: 2nd Lieutenant) following his lead.

The church in the center of town was untouched by artillery or gunfire. It stood out from the dead and broken buildings as if beckoning Hauptmann. He unlatched the gate connecting the small brick fence that surrounded the building and waved his men through. Before today, Hauptmann had never seen them before, which was good. It would make killing them easier.

“You two,” Hauptmann said, pointing at the two young men who entered last. One wore wire-rim glasses like a girl and the other was chubby. Girly and fatty, yes, that’s an easy way to remember them. “Mind the gate. We’ll go inside and find the item. No one gets past. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Oberst.” They answered in tandem like children. Hell, they were children. Hauptmann just hoped they stayed alive long enough to give him time to find what he was looking for.

While Hauptmann drew his sidearm, his accompanying leutnant opened the door for him. Hauptmann motioned for him to go first and he hurried through. No sense in taking chances now. There could be someone inside waiting for them. The eager leutnant could take the bullet and Hauptmann would be safe to kill and continue.

Someone was already inside. Eric watched through his eyes.

* * *

Art Steele never wanted to travel the world. Until a year ago, he had never left western New York. He was content to continue working his life away as a carpenter, electrician, plumber, and all-around handyman. Art was tall, lean, and strong, which earned him a big advantage in all of those fields. It bothered him that some of his hair was already turning gray, but it helped him get jobs because he looked older than nineteen. His hands were already hard and calloused. If he could have just gotten a little more experience, he could probably join a union and be pretty much set.

Steele’s father, Bruce, had always instilled in him responsibility and duty. That’s why, when the letter came in the mail telling him that he had to report to the nearest draft office, Art wondered if he was allowed. He was already in service to one authority, one with more importance. Art turned to the little voice inside that guided him whenever he was unsure of what to do next. It had never actually spoken to him before. Really, it was more of a feeling that he got sometimes.

Awake in his short bed late at night, his thoughts and fears keeping him up, Art heard a voice. Well, he didn’t hear it, exactly. Art’s body rattled with the voice, seemingly coming from his every cell. One word:

EVIL.

Once he recovered, Art understood what it meant. He wouldn’t be abandoning his duty by going to war because, for some reason he didn’t fully understand, it was his duty to go. Art had never been one of those “if God closes a door, he opens a window” types of guys, but the next day, Art went to the draft office. Fortunately, he wasn’t sent far from his hometown of Buffalo. Binghamton was about two-hundred miles away and, by car, he could make the trip back home whenever he got a pass.

Military life was easy for Art. A lot of running, jumping, and climbing, which were all things he did a lot of anyway. Some of the other guys used to get mad at him because he never seemed to tire. It pissed off the drill sergeant, too, so they were all forced to run more. Art caught on, though, and he pretended to get winded and save everyone the trouble. His group didn’t know it then, but Art’s big lungs made them just about the fittest soldiers in the whole war. But they weren’t bulletproof.

That was the part Art didn’t like. Guys dying. Most of these fellas were like him: drafted and just trying to make it back home. Normally, he was an easy going guy. He did what he was told and followed orders about as well as anybody. Nothing much got to him until Europe when all of those guys started dropping around him.

The strange thing was that Art wasn’t exactly friends with many of them. In fact, no one could really claim to know him all that well. Art wasn’t a jerk, just quiet. He kept to himself. The only time he said much of anything was the night before they shipped out to Britain when everyone was drunk. Art didn’t want to drink; he said, “It don’t agree with me too well.” But the boys found out just the opposite: he could hold his liquor better than anyone. So they got him drinking a lot. That’s when they learned about Marie, his girl back home; his dog, Scrapper; and a strange story about a guy in a bar punching Art in the face and breaking his hand in the process.

“Like punchin’ steel,” Art said. The guys laughed without really understanding why he thought it was funny.

Tommy Gilbert was on the beach craft with Art at Normandy and he never forgot what he saw that day. Like everyone else, he remembered the fog, the gray skies, the choppy water, and the fear. Anticipation was a bitch. Tommy remembered hearing thunder in the distance and the commander telling him in a slow, southern drawl, “Ain’t no thunder, boy. Dat’s the Hun.”

Tommy remembered the instant that the front ramp of the vessel dropped open. If he had known what a zipper was, he might have thought a thousand loud pops exploded and the air ripped like zippers. Everyone standing in the front three rows turned to bloody stumps in seconds. Those that didn’t die outight were all on their bellies squealing. Since Tommy was a tall guy, he saw every subsequent row of men twist to the deck like teetering bowling pins. They weren’t pins, though; they were men and they were ripped apart by a gateway to Hell.

That’s when Art moved. Tommy remembered that it seemed very fast, but so did everything else. Art appeared to shove down three rows of men and leaped over them to the front of the boat. Tommy played what happened after that over again in his mind more times than he could count, but he was sure of what he saw. Art leaned over the water to grab the craft doors when he was stood up by three rounds, straight on. Three. Instead of cutting Art down, he reacted like he’d been struck by a heavy wind, nothing more. The bullets didn’t go through him. No, they hit him and stopped! It was so loud that Tommy couldn’t be sure of it, but he swore he heard three ricochets.

It was over in an instant. Art recovered and grabbed the craft door. He pulled it without so much as a grunt and latched it shut. The torrent of bullets battered the outside of the door and clanged off the hull, but they didn’t hit anymore of the men. Artillery rattled their rickety boat and water splashed over the sides. Art looked Tommy in the eye. He nodded to Tommy and helped some of the men who could stand to their feet.

Tommy kept his eye on Art after that. He thought he saw Art take a couple more shots on the beach, but there was so much happening. He couldn’t swear to it. Tommy watched Art right up until they ran into a German patrol outside of some little pissant Frenchie town. Art disappeared during the firefight.

Eric was fascinated to learn all of these details about his grandfather. He had never known the man. Everything he had ever heard about Grandpa Art came from his own father. But like his parents, Eric always had a hard time conceptualizing his grandfather as a person with a life and a story just like him. To see through Arthur Steele’s eyes and to know his thoughts and fears was a disorienting notion beyond Eric’s incomprehensible time travel.

Eric wanted to know more about his grandpa’s sense of duty. Maybe there were details that might be important to helping him understand his own predicament. But that was not what he was there to learn.

* * *

Art Steele wheezed from what was probably decades old dust. His chest had been sore ever since D-Day. He healed fast, but the damn German guns stung like hell. He had protected himself at the last minute, but it had been close. Pistols and the occasional shotgun, sure, but the goddamn Nazis were shooting with a little more oomph. Art had been extra careful ever since closing that ramp door.

The church was old, small, and dirty. It probably hadn’t been used since the German invasion. It was cozy and beautiful in a simple way. Since it was so small, there wouldn’t be too many hiding places—or so Art thought. He slowly discovered that every damn stone in the place covered a potential cubbyhole.

Time was a factor, though, and he couldn’t spend hours turning over every stone. In fact, what was he doing there? Art wasn’t really sure. The moment he arrived in Britain, he felt drawn. An echo of the Source. Something stuck itself in his mind and pulled at him. But what was it? He knew what he was and that Titan had its origins in Europe somewhere, but what could be left for him to find? Art was never much for history, so he never cared to look into the past much, but whatever was calling him was important. He got the distinct feeling that not finding it would be catastrophic.

“I’ll know it when I see it, I suppose,” Art muttered to himself.

He froze.

Voices. Outside. They were coming closer. They didn’t sound English or even French. Art concentrated to hear over all the battle noise and… yep, German. They were just outside. Too bad he didn’t understand German. It was all a bunch of angry gibberish to him.

Art didn’t know how many were coming. His eyes climbed and then he leapt into the rafters. A face full of cobwebs and a few quiet coughs of dust later, Art was perched over the entrance. It was dark enough; he didn’t think he could be seen.

The doors snapped open and a young kid charged in. He held a machine gun poised to fire and he made a quick check of the church. It was only one room with four rows of pews, so it didn’t take long. An older man followed and closed the door behind them.

He’s a colonel, Art observed. The colonel had a Luger in hand and surveyed the room. He spoke to the kid in German, but once again, it was all Greek to Art.

The trooper searched the room. He patted the walls. Toed the floors. Upended the pews. The echo of The Voice itched at the back of Art’s mind. The Germans were looking for it too. Whatever it was.

Art didn’t move. He watched them search. The dim, muted light from outside filtered through stained-glass windows along the church’s sides. The Germans were bathed in shadow. Art’s gaze lifted and he saw the tabernacle. The tabernacle held the bread that changed into the body of Christ at the climax of mass. If Art wanted to hide something important, he would put it there. It was a sanctified place and no one would dare defile a tabernacle.

Except for fuckin’ Nazis, of course.

As if the colonel read Art’s mind, he pointed at the quaint wood box with a carved cross on its door behind the altar. The trooper picked up the box and smashed it on the floor. Art winced. He was no big church-goer, a fact his mother had decried until her dying day, but it was bad mojo to break a sanctified object, especially one that contained God’s essence.

The trooper ruffled through the box’s ruins and came up with a book. A bible? A tremor ran through Art, rejecting the thought. The book was it. Art was looking for whatever that book was. He had to get it.

Art closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Art’s olive-green uniform flickered and seemed to shimmer in the shadows. What looked like fabric in his clothing was not fabric at all, but fine metal threads woven to look just like fabric. The threads grew, expanded, and smoothed out all over his body, sealing over his chest in a solid, block letter “T.” The flowing material surged up his neck and swept over his face covering it completely. After a moment, two slits opened over his eyes and the material shaped to his face. A ridge stood out over his brow and another descended vertically over his nose making the shape of a “T.”

Eric experienced this transformation too. In fact, as it happened to his grandfather, Eric felt the strength of his connection to this time and place strengthen. Whatever Art became amplified the effect of whatever pulled Eric’s consciousness to this time and place. More than anything, Eric felt strength and power run through him. That feeling connected him to his grandfather like a circuit.

Only, Eric’s grandfather wasn’t Arthur Steele anymore. He was something else. Something old and noble. His muscles ran strong with ancient strength. His sight was clear and vivid. His senses were attuned and intensified. He was Titan. And that book belonged to him.

It was Titan’s record-keeper, which Eric held in his hands in a hospital in Alexandria, Virginia—thousands of miles away and decades in the future.

* * *

Hauptmann’s heart skipped a beat when the leutnant lifted the book out of the box’s ruins. He couldn’t believe he found it. For a while, he had started to doubt that it actually existed. When the leutnant brought the book over to him, Hauptmann took it in his hands and felt its weight. It was thick and heavy. Its smell rang of earth and metal. There were several obscure carvings on the surface, but it was dominated by a large, crude “T.” Hauptmann felt the book’s power thrum in his hands.

Oberst Hauptmann smiled and pointed his pistol at the leutant’s head. The young trooper had only a fraction of a second to react before the bullet obliterated his face and left a smoky cloud of bloody dust in the air. His body hit the ground with an unremarkable thump.

More death. My family is safe for another day.

A shadow dropped from the ceiling about ten feet away. Hauptmann was too startled to react at first. That surprise extended into another moment when the figure stepped into the dim light. The figure wore a gray, metal-looking uniform with a shape crossing his eyes and nose like a large, crude “T.”

Like on the book…

Hauptmann raised his pistol. The shape didn’t budge. Hauptmann spoke English, “This is yours?” Hauptmann inched towards the door and the figure matched his movements.

The pistol jerked as Hauptmann put a round over the figure’s shoulder. A warning. The man with the metal face didn’t flinch. The dark holes where his eyes were stayed fixed on the book and the man holding it. Hauptmann would have to kill this man, but he sensed what the Führer must have known. The book wasn’t the real power. He was. The book was only connected to him. It would help find him. And here he was.

Eric sensed great importance from this meeting. He was watching through his grandfather’s eyes, but he had been shown this man, Hauptmann, too. He was somehow important, too.

The figure lifted his chin and met Hauptmann’s eyes with darkness where his should have been.

“I was told to find this. It is power. It is your power,” Hauptmann stalled.

The shape stared. Behind his back, metal surged and moved up his forearm past his fingers. It became something long and sharp.

“You could come with me. The men who want this power would treat you like a god. The Führer himself would meet you,” Hauptmann glanced at the front window. An idea formed. His other two men were still waiting at the gate. The fighting hadn’t yet reached the church so they stood, waiting. He needed to alert them.

The Shape is not armed.

Then the figure spoke. Hauptmann was surprised by how human he sounded. Brusque, but human. “Just give me the book, mac. I won’t hurt you.”

An opening. Finally. Hauptmann shot out the front window. “Stop!”

A moment later, the front doors burst open and Hauptmann’s men appeared, leveling their guns. The figure never hesitated. He flicked his arm up like a shot and something whistled the air between them. There was a sudden pinch, but Hauptmann didn’t realize what had happened until he saw the book lying on the ground. His hand and forearm still clutched the edge twitching. As machine gun fire rang out, splintering wood and exploding glass only feet in front of him, Hauptmann took a moment to look down at his left arm. Something in his brain couldn’t quite connect the dots. Not yet. He had to see the deepening pool of thick red beneath his feet and connect it to the blood draining from his elbow. The final connection was the big sharp “T” sticking out from the front of the altar. He screamed at exactly the precise moment when the torturous agony of what just happened climbed up his brain stem connecting the circuits of pain.

As their oberst stared at his twitching appendage, the leutnants opened fire on the silver-faced man that had just lopped their commander’s arm off. They had to have hit him.

A plate of metal fanned out from his forearm into a shield and deflected their shots. He dodged back and rolled behind some pews for a breather. Then he launched into the air and caught one of the horizontal ceiling beams. The figure swung off it, over their line of fire before they could correct, and came down on their arms. The guns dropped out of the Nazis’ hands and the figure shoved the men back, out of the church, a good fifteen feet. Their backs cracked against the short, brittle brick wall outside and they fell forward. The leutnant on the right was dead or incapacitated, but the one on the left climbed to his knees and brought his pistol up.

Silverface sighed and whipped his hand forward. The smooth metal-like fabric over his mouth seemed to twist into a snarl, but it was smooth again just as quickly as it had changed. A long, whip-like metal cable snapped the gun out of the leutnant’s hand along with a few of his fingers. The wounded trooper screamed and clutched the pulpy mess at the end of his arm. The figure had already turned his back on him and walked back into the church.

* * *

Titan stood over the German commander. He sighed. He hated this shit. If the damn Kraut had just given him the book, he’d still have his arm, his baby lieutenant out there would still have a hand, and the other one wouldn’t have a smashed spine. As the metal mask slipped from his face and he became Arthur Steele once again, he remembered that he didn’t pick the job; the job picked him.

The German looked at him and said something in both German and English. Art knelt beside him. He would be dead soon. “What’re you tryin’ to say?”

There was a moment of clarity. And Art would never forget what the German said: “M-my family… m-my children…”

Art patted the dying man’s thudding chest. “You’ll see ‘em soon.”

The last bit was gurgled somewhat, but Art understood and always remembered it. “No. I failed.” He glanced at the metal “book.” “My family… dead.”

My family will be killed because I failed.

Art said nothing. The German wouldn’t have heard him anyway. He bled out.

Fuckin’ Nazis.

Art stared at the dead German for a few moments. His eyes were wet, but he shook it off and searched the body. He found the dead man’s papers and scanned them. His name is—was—Franz Hauptmann, a German army colonel. He didn’t believe it, though. Art sensed this man had been special service or “Schutzstaffel,” the S.S. Art slipped Hauptmann’s papers into his pocket with his own papers. Then he climbed to his feet and nudged the dead man’s hand off the book. He picked it up and felt a rush of sensation. This was it.

Art realized what Eric had already known—it wasn’t a book. And as if a circuit had connected between Titan in 1944 and Titan in present day, Eric and Art felt energy shoot through the both of them as Art’s hands closed around the record-keeper. It felt like a warm, summer breeze, but more intense, and it seemed to pass through the spaces between their molecules. Art turned inward on himself and noticed Eric—he became aware that someone was piggy-backed on his spirit.

“Who are you?” Art’s voice and Titan’s voice were one in the same—powerful and stern.

Eric felt small and disconnected. He still didn’t know where he was or how he got there and now Art, his only physical connection, was turning on him.

“I’m your grandson. My name’s Eric. Tim’s son.”

“I don’t have a son.”

“He’s not born yet. I don’t know what I should tell you—won’t that change the future?”

“You’re talking nonsense. Where are you? In my head?” Art was confused. How could he not be? He was a young man fighting a war thousands of miles away from home, a superhero, and now he was being pulled into his consciousness talking with a voice that claimed to be his grandson.

“I don’t know. I touched the book that you’re holding in your time in my time and then I was with you here. I was pulled here for some reason,” Eric said.

“God shows us what we need to see and whispers what we need to hear. You need to look and listen. I was drawn to this church. I could feel something pulling me here and sure enough, my unit went this way. Is this important? Is this why you’re seeing this?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never traveled through time before! This is all new to me. I never knew any of this… what you are. What I am supposed to be.”

Eric was still looking through Art’s eyes and the image shook as his grandfather shook his head. “You can’t be taught everything. Learn by doing. God shows you everything you need to do if you pay attention. Strange things have happened to me, too. Try to understand what you’re here to do. Every Titan is meant to do something. What’s your purpose?”

“Are you kidding me? Yesterday, I was just thinking about what I was doing for my birthday and you want me to tell you what my purpose is? I don’t know what I’m doing next week! I didn’t ask for this!” Eric felt like he was yelling, but he wasn’t sure how that was possible without a throat.

Art was, at this time, only a year older than Eric. He didn’t like the attitude. “Look, pal, I didn’t ask for you to be crawling around in my head, but here you are. I have brains and faith enough to know that if you’re here talking to me, seeing this, it’s important for you to understand. This ‘book’ is a source for Titans’ knowledge and power throughout their history. My father taught me about it and his father taught him. Why did yours fall down on the job?”

“He didn’t…” Eric hesitated to say more. He only knew about time travel from the movies and talking about the future too much could be dangerous. “He gave it to me just after I transformed. I think it brought me here.”

Art paused in his mind. “This is important. Titan has been without the book for a long time. We were once trained and cared for by an order of priests who safe-guarded the book. They were all killed, but not before the book was hidden. Evil is on the rise. It has been corrupting and using men to do its work.”

“You talk about it like it’s a person,” Eric said.

“There’s evil and then there’s Evil,” Art said.

The pall of a shadow fell across Eric’s consciousness. He felt cold and dark. Art didn’t react to it—only Eric sensed the black. Deep, unyielding black. It reeked of the viscous, black blood that “Sarah” had gargled in that terrible room.

Then, Eric felt something change. The sides of Art’s vision began to swirl and darken. The smell and feel of that old church grew distant. Eric would have reached for something to hold on to if he had arms with which to do so.

Art could feel Eric’s departure, too. “This is important, Eric. Find out why.”

Eric hadn’t the time to answer. He was already gone.

* * *

An artillery blast rattled the church and startled Art out of his haze. With the connection now broken, Art regarded the piece of Titan history that he had come for. That was his purpose and his mission. He didn’t know what Eric’s had been, but for him to ever realize it, Art had to get out of there alive. His Titan armor morphed back into a uniform. Art slipped the book inside his shirt and headed for the door. He stopped and looked back at Hauptmann.

My family will be killed because I failed.

The dead German’s words echoed in his mind. Art was just a guy. He had an important job and sworn duty, but he could have been just like this man.

Art had Hauptmann’s papers. Maybe he could find Hauptmann’s family. They were pushing closer to Germany every day. But Art didn’t know that it would be a long, cold winter before the allies made any headway into Germany.

Besides, it didn’t matter. A week later, SS troops showed up at Franz Hauptmann’s house. They raped his wife and daughters. They cut his sons’ legs off. And they nailed the housekeeping staff to the fence outside. When the SS left Hauptmann’s house a day later, no one was still alive.