David Simpson - Post-Human Trilogy

The super soldier held up his clawed, mechanical hand, and the contraption suddenly made an electric whir as it began to spin like a drill, the fingers merging together to form a fine tip. With his free hand, the super soldier grasped Sanha by the back of the neck and forced him down onto his stomach. He clamped down on him with his right leg, placing it on the back of Sanha’s thigh, locking Sanha into position as the drill hovered above Sanha’s lower back.

Aldous had never heard such screaming in his life. It was a shrill pitch that could only be called forth by the worst agony—unimaginable agony.

“No! No,” Aldous whispered.

After a torturously long minute, the screaming stopped, followed only by the sound of Sanha’s wheezing. He shut his eyes several times, preventing Aldous from seeing what was happening. It wasn’t hard to guess, however.

“It’s really quite a beautiful thing,” the super soldier commented in the blackness.

Sanha’s eyes suddenly flashed open, the super soldier having grabbed him by the scruff of the neck once again and pulled him up with one arm, holding the blood-covered MTF generator in the other, displaying it for him.

“Who would’ve thought something so small would cause so much trouble?” He released Sanha and let him fall back to the concrete.

Sanha closed his eyes again, opening them intermittently for brief flashes before they rolled back into his head.

“Stop your whining,” the super soldier demanded. “Those little nanobots of yours will fix any incidental spinal damage I might have caused. You’ll be right as rain in an hour—and a lot closer to being human again.” His lip curled into a sneer. “You’re welcome.”

With his lips quivering from the horror, Aldous held his head in his hands as he considered his options. The logical thing to do was to keep running, but he hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to leave his companions. He hadn’t accounted for the emotional element once again—he hadn’t accounted for the horror.

After a few moments, he managed to force his cement legs to resume moving—a slow trot at first, but as he considered the consequences of failure, he began to run hard, nearly sprinting away through the snow.

Suddenly, the super soldier cocked his head to the side, apparently listening to a communiqué. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Holy…they are tough buggers, aren’t they? What’s the name of the VIP?”

Aldous suddenly froze once again. No. It can’t be.

“Professor Samantha Gibson , ” Colonel Paine reacted, repeating the name that had been related to him, his smile suddenly brimming widely. “Well, I’ll be damned. Small world, ain’t it?”

“Heaven bless you, Father, I can’t protect you!” the master-at-arms shouted. “Bullets have no effect.”

The priest nodded, understanding the gravity of the evil he faced. He had pocketed a small bottle of holy water when he’d clumsily exited his room, pulled along by the steward that the master-at-arms had sent to fetch him. As he gazed up at the limp body that floated only inches above the ground in the center of the smoking room, he wished he’d brought more—a lot more.

“Glorious Prince of Heaven’s armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle against the principalities and powers, against the rulers of darkness, against the wicked spirits in the high places.” He tossed the first salvo of holy water at the floating apparition.

It seemed to have no effect.

“Keep going,” the master-at-arms encouraged.

“Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.” The priest tossed the second salvo of holy water toward the floating demon.

Again, there appeared to be no effect.

The holy man gritted his teeth, determined, and began to speak more forcefully.

“And do Thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into Hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls!” He tossed the third salvo of holy water.

To the master-at-arms’s and the priest’s surprise, this time there appeared to be some small effect. The demon twitched slightly—an audible snap of energy sparking behind it.

“Holy Mother—I think it’s working!”

At that moment, the intrepid journalist William Stead arrived upon the scene, dressed only in his house coat and pajamas, as he’d retired to bed nearly two hours earlier. The sleep in his eyes vanished instantly when he saw the spectacle in the smoking room. This would be the defining scoop of his life. Without taking his eyes off of the floating figure and the aura of green energy that surrounded it, he reached with his right arm and grasped the collar of the photographer he’d brought with him to document the Titanic’s maiden voyage. “Get this. For the love of God, you better get this!”

The young photographer, his hands shaking violently from the fright, began to set up the tripod for his Kodak camera.

“It’ll be over before you get that set up, man! Just take the shot!” Stead shouted.

The priest continued his prayer. “In the name of the Father,” he thundered, splashing more of the holy water onto the floating figure. “…and the Son!” He threw more holy water. “And the Holy Spirit!”

A loud and audible pop of electricity suddenly jolted Craig back to consciousness just as the young photographer snapped his Kodak, capturing the moment of Craig’s reawakening.

What the hell was that?” Craig asked.

“Am I speaking to the demon?” asked the priest.

“That was me, Craig,” the A.I. replied. “I’m sorry, but I had to give you a shock. I can’t let you sleep or you will die.”

“Who the hell are these people?”

“I still haven’t established a connection to your optics,” the A.I. replied.

“We’re Christ’s followers, demon!” the priest shouted. “We command you to leave! The power of Christ compels you!”

“Oh boy,” Craig sighed. “I’ve attracted a crowd.”

“That is not good, Craig. We are not supposed to interfere with this timeline.”

“Not interfere? What are you talking about? We’re supposed to just let this ship sink?”

“Sink?” the master-at-arms repeated. He turned to the priest. “Is this—thing—threatening the ship, Father?”

“I think the man—the possessed man—is fighting against the demon that resides inside him,” the priest replied.

“More pictures,” Stead said to his photographer. “As many as you can get.”

“He’s keeping pretty still, sir,” the photographer whispered. “These should turn out quite well.”

“If they do, you’ll be the most famous photographer in the world, my boy.”

“There’s definitely more than one entity inhabiting that body,” the priest observed, nearly breathless.

“What should we do?” asked the master-at-arms.

“I think we need to let the man try to get control of his body. Be on the ready.”

“Craig,” the A.I. began, in a neutral, informative tone, “I can tell you that 1,503 passengers and crew die after Titanic hits an iceberg. It is exceedingly likely that these witnesses will all die in the sinking and that those photographs will be lost.”

“So?”

“So, you still have a chance to minimize your impact on this timeline. We can still retreat and allow this timeline to continue unaffected.”

“Unaffected? That’s a hell of an insidious euphemism. What you’re talking about is letting all of these people die—hundreds of men, women, and children—when we could prevent it.”

The witnesses were jointly disturbed by Craig’s second reference to their ultimate demise. It would have been easy to dismiss such ramblings, given that the ship had been deemed unsinkable, but coming from a man who was so obviously spiritually afflicted, the prophecy had a palpable direness to it that the men could not ignore.