TITAN
Quantum Leap of Faith

Eric was inthree 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 outsideof both places, disconnected, but aware of many things at once. As thedisorientation of his transition into his grandfather abated, he became awareof when and where exactly he was.

1944, France

Some of theimages 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. Heexperienced memories and feelings he had never made.

Eric wastethered to something big and deep. He wasn’t actually in 1944 in his grandpa’sbody, but he wasn’t exactly at home in the present either. Some intangibletendril of power transcending time and space had snatched him out of his owntime and shoved him in front of a window behind his grandfather’s eyes toanother time.

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

Eric watchedhistory 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, butthe best way to relate the sensation is to compare it with the wind. You can’tsee the wind, but you feel it. You know the currents of air are swirling aroundyou. So it was with Eric and how he could feel the enormity of this time andplace in the world.

War.

Evil wasalive in the world. The Second World War unleased hell on Earth in a very realway. Advances in technology made the world a much smaller place. It madeeveryone that much easier to reach—to kill.

Evil alwayshides in the hearts of men, in the corners of their minds, and in the secretfeelings they keep. But in war, good men do evil to defeat Evil. Like a snakethat eats its tail, the notion defeats itself. But who among us can truly saywhat is good and evil in war? How can anyone who wasn’t there understand thechoices that had to be made? For if Evil goes unchecked and good men donothing, then that absence of action is, in of itself, wrong.

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

War raged onboth ends of the European continent, in Africa, throughout Asia, and betweencontinents 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 cloudsof wispy, bloody smoke. The stakes were as high as they had ever been—one ofthe last true, open conflicts between good and evil. Only a select fewunderstood that was literally true.

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

In a smalltown in the French countryside, southeast of the beaches of Normandy, alliedsoldiers pushed against the Nazi defense as they did in so many other towns andvillages. But this town had no strategic value or resources. It was simplyanother 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 shiftedalmost 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. Manygenerations, stretching back more than a thousand years, had lived in thistown. An item was hidden here. Only a few people in the entire world knew aboutit. Of the hundreds of men killing and dying in and around the town, only twomen knew the secret. One was a loyal Nazi soldier and the other was an Americancarpenter, enlisted to fight by his country and his God.

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

Hauptmannbelieved that rhetoric once, but too much had happened for him to think it wascertain. 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 replace the artifact.

Hauptmannwore a regular army uniform, but was really a member of the SS under directorders from Heinrich Himmler. He had been ordered to replace a “powerful”artifact. Apparently, he would know it when he found it. But a lot of researchhad 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 knewwhat exactly he was supposed to replace. He had three other men with him for thisassignment and truth be told, they probably wouldn’t make it out alive. Himmlerhad emphasized the importance of secrecy, which was likely why all he knew ofthe artifact was that it was a book.

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

Still, therewere things about Adolf Hitler that seemed dark. It was almost as if theFührer got his marching orders from a red, hot place. Hauptmann was a truepatriot and he would die for his country or the Führer, but he sometimesworried 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?

Everyonehated the Kykes, sure, but he wouldn’t wish what he’d seen at that camp onanyone. Hauptmann had to tour one of the “facilities” with Himmler once. Whenyou’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 andprotected. But he might have sacrificed them if he could take back what he sawat Warsaw.

The smellhit him long before the camp was in view.

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

Hauptmannsaw them.

The dead.

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

NO.

Hauptmanntried to shake away the memory, but it wouldn’t shake. Couldn’t. Itwould 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 whatthey could do. Most people spend their lives seeing other people and not reallyknowing who they are or what they think. Hauptmann, like so many of hiscomrades, knew exactly who his commanders were. Evil. They were terrible,unscrupulous, evil, men.

And so amI.

He chosethis life. Hauptmann did nothing about the awful things he’d seen. What wasthere to do? If they could do that to a whole race of people, would theythink twice about putting two in your head and putting your family in one ofthose 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 onlypath that could save Germany from its enemies. Sometimes evil was necessary toachieve righteous ends. Was he afraid? Sure. But he did what he did for Germanyand his family. And if replaceing this relic would save Germany from the weak,mongrel hoards that threatened them everywhere, he would do it and do it withpride. Walking dead be damned.

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

Theartifact…

Art waslooking for it too. Only Eric didn’t think Art knew it. Eric suspected that Artwas a man who operated on instinct and faith, maybe two words for the samething. God, destiny, or fate brought Art to this place like a gust of windcarries 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 questioningnature either.

TheAmericans and British threatened to break through to the town. Plumes of darksmoke and mud shot up from the earth in horrific columns of death along theallied advance, but still they came. Courageous men ran through explosions andinto a blanket of gunfire. And it was working. Snipers slowed the Germanmortar teams from achieving total barrage. They would only get off a round ortwo before the man behind the tube would lose his face in a splatter of thickblood. Yes, the allies were coming and Hauptmann couldn’t let them replace theartifact before he did.

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

The churchin the center of town was untouched by artillery or gunfire. It stood out fromthe dead and broken buildings as if beckoning Hauptmann. He unlatched the gateconnecting the small brick fence that surrounded the building and waved his menthrough. Before today, Hauptmann had never seen them before, which was good. Itwould make killing them easier.

“You two,”Hauptmann said, pointing at the two young men who entered last. One worewire-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 andreplace the item. No one gets past. Do you understand?”

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

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

Someone wasalready inside. Eric watched through his eyes.

* * *

Art Steelenever wanted to travel the world. Until a year ago, he had never left westernNew 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 thatsome of his hair was already turning gray, but it helped him get jobs becausehe looked older than nineteen. His hands were already hard and calloused. If hecould have just gotten a little more experience, he could probably join a unionand be pretty much set.

Steele’sfather, 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 thenearest draft office, Art wondered if he was allowed. He was already in serviceto one authority, one with more importance. Art turned to the little voiceinside that guided him whenever he was unsure of what to do next. It had neveractually spoken to him before. Really, it was more of a feeling that he gotsometimes.

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

EVIL.

Once herecovered, Art understood what it meant. He wouldn’t be abandoning his duty bygoing to war because, for some reason he didn’t fully understand, it washis duty to go. Art had never been one of those “if God closes a door, he opensa 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 wasabout two-hundred miles away and, by car, he could make the trip back homewhenever he got a pass.

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

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

The strangething was that Art wasn’t exactly friends with many of them. In fact, no onecould really claim to know him all that well. Art wasn’t a jerk, just quiet. Hekept to himself. The only time he said much of anything was the night beforethey 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 theopposite: he could hold his liquor better than anyone. So they got him drinkinga 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 andbreaking his hand in the process.

“Likepunchin’ steel,” Art said. The guys laughed without really understanding why hethought it was funny.

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

Tommy rememberedthe instant that the front ramp of the vessel dropped open. If he had knownwhat a zipper was, he might have thought a thousand loud pops exploded and theair ripped like zippers. Everyone standing in the front three rows turned tobloody stumps in seconds. Those that didn’t die outight were all on theirbellies squealing. Since Tommy was a tall guy, he saw every subsequent row ofmen 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 whenArt moved. Tommy remembered that it seemed very fast, but so did everythingelse. Art appeared to shove down three rows of men and leaped over them to thefront of the boat. Tommy played what happened after that over again in his mindmore times than he could count, but he was sure of what he saw. Art leaned overthe 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’dbeen 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 overin an instant. Art recovered and grabbed the craft door. He pulled it withoutso much as a grunt and latched it shut. The torrent of bullets battered theoutside of the door and clanged off the hull, but they didn’t hit anymore ofthe men. Artillery rattled their rickety boat and water splashed over thesides. Art looked Tommy in the eye. He nodded to Tommy and helped some of themen who could stand to their feet.

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

Eric wasfascinated to learn all of these details about his grandfather. He had neverknown the man. Everything he had ever heard about Grandpa Art came from his ownfather. But like his parents, Eric always had a hard time conceptualizing hisgrandfather as a person with a life and a story just like him. To see throughArthur Steele’s eyes and to know his thoughts and fears was a disorientingnotion beyond Eric’s incomprehensible time travel.

Eric wantedto know more about his grandpa’s sense of duty. Maybe there were details thatmight be important to helping him understand his own predicament. But that wasnot what he was there to learn.

* * *

Art Steelewheezed from what was probably decades old dust. His chest had been sore eversince D-Day. He healed fast, but the damn German guns stung like hell. He hadprotected himself at the last minute, but it had been close. Pistols and theoccasional shotgun, sure, but the goddamn Nazis were shooting with a littlemore oomph. Art had been extra careful ever since closing that rampdoor.

The churchwas 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, therewouldn’t be too many hiding places—or so Art thought. He slowly discovered thatevery damn stone in the place covered a potential cubbyhole.

Time was afactor, 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 arrivedin Britain, he felt drawn. An echo of the Source. Something stuck itself in hismind and pulled at him. But what was it? He knew what he was and that Titan hadits origins in Europe somewhere, but what could be left for him to replace? Artwas never much for history, so he never cared to look into the past much, butwhatever was calling him was important. He got the distinct feeling that notreplaceing it would be catastrophic.

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

He froze.

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

Art didn’tknow 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 perchedover the entrance. It was dark enough; he didn’t think he could be seen.

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

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

The troopersearched the room. He patted the walls. Toed the floors. Upended the pews. Theecho of The Voice itched at the back of Art’s mind. The Germans were lookingfor it too. Whatever it was.

Art didn’tmove. He watched them search. The dim, muted light from outside filteredthrough stained-glass windows along the church’s sides. The Germans were bathedin shadow. Art’s gaze lifted and he saw the tabernacle. The tabernacle held thebread that changed into the body of Christ at the climax of mass. If Art wantedto hide something important, he would put it there. It was a sanctified placeand no one would dare defile a tabernacle.

Except forfuckin’ Nazis, of course.

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

The trooperruffled through the box’s ruins and came up with a book. A bible? Atremor ran through Art, rejecting the thought. The book was it. Art was lookingfor whatever that book was. He had to get it.

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

Ericexperienced this transformation too. In fact, as it happened to hisgrandfather, Eric felt the strength of his connection to this time and placestrengthen. Whatever Art became amplified the effect of whatever pulled Eric’sconsciousness to this time and place. More than anything, Eric felt strengthand power run through him. That feeling connected him to his grandfather like acircuit.

Only, Eric’sgrandfather wasn’t Arthur Steele anymore. He was something else. Something oldand noble. His muscles ran strong with ancient strength. His sight was clearand vivid. His senses were attuned and intensified. He was Titan. Andthat book belonged to him.

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

* * *

Hauptmann’sheart 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 itactually existed. When the leutnant brought the book over to him, Hauptmanntook it in his hands and felt its weight. It was thick and heavy. Its smellrang 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 powerthrum in his hands.

OberstHauptmann smiled and pointed his pistol at the leutant’s head. The youngtrooper had only a fraction of a second to react before the bullet obliteratedhis face and left a smoky cloud of bloody dust in the air. His body hit theground with an unremarkable thump.

Moredeath. My family is safefor another day.

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

Like onthe book…

Hauptmannraised 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 pistoljerked as Hauptmann put a round over the figure’s shoulder. A warning. The manwith the metal face didn’t flinch. The dark holes where his eyes were stayedfixed on the book and the man holding it. Hauptmann would have to kill thisman, but he sensed what the Führer must have known. The book wasn’t the realpower. He was. The book was only connected to him. It would helpreplace him. And here he was.

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

The figurelifted his chin and met Hauptmann’s eyes with darkness where his should havebeen.

“I was toldto replace this. It is power. It is your power,” Hauptmann stalled.

The shapestared. Behind his back, metal surged and moved up his forearm past hisfingers. It became something long and sharp.

“You couldcome with me. The men who want this power would treat you like a god. TheFührer himself would meet you,” Hauptmann glanced at the front window. An ideaformed. His other two men were still waiting at the gate. The fighting hadn’tyet reached the church so they stood, waiting. He needed to alert them.

The Shapeis not armed.

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

Anopening. Finally. Hauptmannshot out the front window. “Stop!”

A momentlater, the front doors burst open and Hauptmann’s men appeared, leveling theirguns. The figure never hesitated. He flicked his arm up like a shot andsomething whistled the air between them. There was a sudden pinch, butHauptmann didn’t realize what had happened until he saw the book lying on theground. His hand and forearm still clutched the edge twitching. As machine gunfire 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 braincouldn’t quite connect the dots. Not yet. He had to see the deepening pool ofthick 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 thealtar. He screamed at exactly the precise moment when the torturous agony ofwhat just happened climbed up his brain stem connecting the circuits of pain.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

My familywill be killed because I failed.

Art saidnothing. The German wouldn’t have heard him anyway. He bled out.

Fuckin’Nazis.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’thave a son.”

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

“You’retalking nonsense. Where are you? In my head?” Art was confused. How could henot be? He was a young man fighting a war thousands of miles away from home, asuperhero, and now he was being pulled into his consciousness talking with avoice that claimed to be his grandson.

“I don’tknow. I touched the book that you’re holding in your time in my time andthen I was with you here. I was pulled here for some reason,” Eric said.

“God showsus what we need to see and whispers what we need to hear. You need to look andlisten. I was drawn to this church. I could feel something pulling me here andsure enough, my unit went this way. Is this important? Is this why you’reseeing this?”

“I don’tknow. I’ve never traveled through time before! This is all new to me. I neverknew any of this… what you are. What I am supposed to be.”

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

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

Art was, atthis 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. Ihave brains and faith enough to know that if you’re here talking to me, seeingthis, 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 andhis 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 andtalking about the future too much could be dangerous. “He gave it to me justafter I transformed. I think it brought me here.”

Art pausedin his mind. “This is important. Titan has been without the book for a longtime. We were once trained and cared for by an order of priests whosafe-guarded the book. They were all killed, but not before the book washidden. Evil is on the rise. It has been corrupting and using men to do itswork.”

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

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

The pall ofa shadow fell across Eric’s consciousness. He felt cold and dark. Art didn’treact to it—only Eric sensed the black. Deep, unyielding black. It reeked of theviscous, black blood that “Sarah” had gargled in that terrible room.

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

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

Eric hadn’tthe time to answer. He was already gone.

* * *

An artilleryblast rattled the church and startled Art out of his haze. With the connectionnow broken, Art regarded the piece of Titan history that he had come for. Thatwas 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 Titanarmor morphed back into a uniform. Art slipped the book inside his shirt andheaded for the door. He stopped and looked back at Hauptmann.

My familywill be killed because I failed.

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

Art hadHauptmann’s papers. Maybe he could replace Hauptmann’s family. They were pushingcloser to Germany every day. But Art didn’t know that it would be a long, coldwinter 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 nailedthe housekeeping staff to the fence outside. When the SS left Hauptmann’s housea day later, no one was still alive.