The Mortal Burden
Book I
Chapter I
Part III: Blood Furnace
Through a crack in the tree cover, Clayden glimpsed the immense size of the Titan, as tall as the largest building in the city, bristling with the destructive power of a hundred earthquakes. Beneath its colossal feet, waves upon waves of bloodthirsty clones charged into the artillery barrage—obliterated, chopped to pieces while the heat dissipated their inhuman blood into the atmosphere.
Even after all his years thrusting headlong into the brunt of almost every battle, the sight of the Titan still invoked terror. But that terror also pumped adrenaline into his system and instilled the fury he needed to vanquish his enemies. Be they angels or legions of Titan soldiers—they all died by his hand.
The battlefield rumbled with the slow gait of the alien Titan and the constant barrages of the city’s cannons. The brave pilots of the Zigrams launched themselves directly at the smaller shock Titans, which stood about six stories tall. It was a lucky attempt, but the Zigrams destroyed two of the ten smaller *shock titans*—that’s what the ground pounders called them. But as always, the Zigrams were just swatted away like flies, crashing in a fiery death, killing all aboard.
“Stupid HQ!” Clayden yelled aloud, angry at the senseless sacrifice of the Zigrams. Good pilots were hard to train these days; it took either a brave person or an idiot. There was no use for a wasted death.
Clayden was the commander of the 25th Assault Platoon, but they were really known by their other name—a name more fitting for their ferocity in battle, born from their destruction of a Titan one hundred years ago when Clayden wasn’t even a thought. They were deemed the “Hyperion Slayers,” after the Titan that had been killed.
With the defeat of two Titans, that only left ten. Not a bad kill ratio: a couple billion humans to two. *Not bad at all,* Clayden cynically laughed to himself, anxiously awaiting his orders from HQ.
The mighty roar of a hundred armored interceptors thundered past them as they raced to corner the Ramses battle clones, whose battle lust was nearly unequaled among the other Titan clones. The Titan forces were made up of genetically vat-grown clone warriors and warparties of human followers who had joined the Titans when they first arrived on the planet.
These followers were the deadliest, since their bodies had become more machine than flesh over the centuries. They had some mechanized divisions—captured and souped up beyond normal human methods—but mostly the attacks came in mighty waves of clones and scattered warparties. To experienced veterans like Clayden and his platoon, the clones weren’t even a concern, but the warparties were to be feared: they were vicious, calculating, and insane.
“Have you received anything from HQ yet, Carter?” Clayden asked his Psi officer.
Carter’s eyes were closed as he sat lotus-style as if in meditation, peacefully reacting to the communications sent by unseen minds.
When the Titans first arrived to greet Earth’s forces, they jammed all radio communication. To counter this, after a hundred years or so of secret genetic research, certain people were born with the gift of mental communication. These people were then intermixed with the normal gene pool. Carter was born a PSI—a very valuable gift, one that warlords would draft into their force as soon as they caught wind of one. Although PSIs were useful against alien Titan gatherings, giving humans that one edge which helped them survive their onslaughts, they were almost helpless against the gods, who could crush the mind of a PSI almost instantly. Then it was back to normal communiqué when battling gods—which was rare, as they were mostly busy fighting among themselves for objectives that humans could barely understand. Although it was not rare for Titans and Gods to war; the Gods saw the Titans as threats to their power.
“Nothing yet,” Carter paused as a barrage exploded directly on the Titan. Pieces of armor flew off in every direction, most pieces crushing teams of frothing clones.
“They say stand fast. That’s all.”
“I can’t stand the wait.” Clayden glanced up as the Titan Ramses crunched slowly closer to them, huge gold plates of foot-inch armor reflecting the hardest of armor-piercing shells.
“The light mechanized divisions are now filling up the gaps in the front,” Carter relayed, pausing as another mental relay pulsed into his mind. “The interceptors are slowly pushing the gathering towards the mountain.”
“Good.” *It’s almost time,* Clayden psyched himself up. “Tell the 14th, 15th, 17th, and 10th to get ready; we’ll be moving out into the carnage soon.”
“These orders just in,” Carter paused as the mind pulses quickened. “In five minutes, the Angels Heavy Mechanized will take over the left flank from the interceptors. The interceptors will pick up the 10th, 17th, and 25th; we will ride piggyback into the gathering. Our objective is to kill the Titan. The remaining platoons will provide covering fire and tactical support for our assault.”
The world dropped from beneath Clayden’s armored feet. His throat collapsed within him; he was finding it hard to breathe as he glanced up at the Titan closing in on his city as it loosed a vast arsenal of destructive plasma bursts upon the ranks of the infantry—hundreds died in a flaming death instantly.
“Have the 10th and 17th group with us at the edge of the forest,” Clayden swallowed. “Relay the orders you told me.”
New beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he put on his spiked battle helmet and clamped his lancer rifle to his back armor grip. He charged up his blood furnace as the first tinge of the pump sucked his juice to fuel his armor, powering it with his life. Clayden had become one with his armor, both symbiotic with the lust for war.
**Written ~ 1997. © Jacob A. Pickard 2025. All rights reserved. This work is protected by copyright and may not be reproduced, republished, excerpted, or used for academic, commercial, or derivative purposes without written permission.**
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