The Titans of Ardana

By J.S. Frankel

That's the catchphrase of Martin Calder, a teenager obsessed with the hit television show, The Metas. On a mission to get an autograph from the star of the show, Dana?no last name given?he comes face to face with reality. Dana and her twin brother, Van, the co-star of the show, aren’t exactly from around here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Feb 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781487410025

Book preview

Hold nothing back. Give everything.

That’s the catchphrase of Martin Calder, a teenager obsessed with the hit television show, The Metas. On a mission to get an autograph from the star of the show, Dana？no last name given？he comes face to face with reality. Dana and her twin brother, Van, the co-star of the show, aren’t exactly from around here.

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The Titans of Ardana

Copyright © 2017 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-1002-5

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

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Smashwords Edition

The Titans of Ardana

Titans of Ardana Book 1

By

J.S. Frankel

Chapter One: Meet The Metas

The sound of fingers tapping on my locker interrupted my private time. Said tapping soon became a drumming, and the choices of what to do were clear—give in and turn around or open my locker and take my textbooks out. From the rhythm and heaviness of the drumming I knew who it was and forced myself not to look.

Go away, already.

Now the drumming became a downpour, loud and insistent. Right, thanks Greg, for annoying me more. Then came the inevitable question and I resigned myself to listening to it one—more—time.

Hey Martin, are you going to get me an autograph?

My friend’s voice, high, whiny, insistent and persistent, sounded like a wounded mosquito. When I’d told him about my idea for getting an autograph from a television star, he’d immediately begged me to get him one as well.

And not just once, no, he’d asked me the one inconsequential yet oh-so-next-to-impossible favour every single hour of every single school day for the past week. While he more than likely knew it bothered me, he didn’t care.

Facing up to the inevitable, I opened my locker and did the revolve move. The sweaty, grinning face of Greg Foster greeted me. We were buds and had been since grade school. We lived near each other, knew each other’s habits well, but all the same, he could be a real dick at times.

Why can’t school be over faster? As quickly as that thought had come, it just as quickly flashed out. Lunch period had just ended, it was a dreary, cold Thursday, four days before Christmas, and Tacoma High wouldn’t officially let us leave on Christmas parole for another three-plus hours.

To make matters worse, my guidance counsellor, Ms. Ward, a tall, skinny birdlike woman of indeterminate age, had cornered me in the hallway after lunch and asked me to come by her office once school was over. Why today of all days? She could have asked me earlier on in the week, but no, she didn’t, and it was too late to back out.

Sure thing, Ms. Ward, I’ll be there. Said it and forced out a false grin while doing so.

She’d been on my case to improve my grades for the last six months. Tell me something I didn’t already know. The phrase barely getting by summed things up.

So, what about the autograph, can you get it?

Greg’s whine cut through my mental trip. Looking at him, he was busy wiping the sweat off his forehead. It was winter, for crying out loud. Outside it was around forty degrees. He probably would have melted on a tropical island.

As for the autograph... scoring it was something no one had ever achieved. If I managed to get it, I’d have god-like status bestowed upon me. It would make studying for courses I’d always sucked at worthwhile.

Hey Calder, someone called out. What happened in episode ten?

A group of kids had stopped by to toss out the inevitable twenty questions thing. Dana rescued her brother from the Shadow Agency. Next.

Call me bored, as this happened on a daily basis and everyone just had to test my knowledge of the show. Another kid chimed in with a question about Dana’s height. Couldn’t he think of something better? She’s five-nine, same as me.

Ending of episode twenty, student two said. C’mon, you have to know this.

I did since it had to do with Dan’s twin brother. Van fought the genetically engineered mutant from the Shadow Agency. C’mon, give me something tough!

Yeah, that was me, knowledgeable about the show—The Metas—and not much else. The crowd soon thinned out, but Greg stayed. On the short side of five-six and chubby, he resembled Tweedledum’s twin brother with a head of close-cropped blond hair and a round, guileless face people seemed to gravitate to.

In contrast, I stood three inches taller and weighed a slender, unspectacular one-sixty. With a narrow face, dark brown eyes, and plain features, my name should have been Vanilla.

Greg may have been a porker, but he also happened to be popular along with being one of the smartest kids in school. I didn’t fall into either category. Leaving personal attributes aside, why couldn’t he go and get the damn autograph himself?

Dana’s a fox, Greg exclaimed. She’s definitely my type. And of course, he had to ask me yet again, You’re going this Saturday, right?

My first thought about Dana being his type was uh, yeah, in your dreams... and as for his question, for the last friggin’ time, knock it off. But, I put in as a wave of uncertainty ran through me, no promises.

At my desk and waiting for things to start, thoughts of the show intruded. The Metas, short for meta-humans, was a cable show. It starred Dana and Van, no last name ever given, and it happened to be the hottest show around.

Geography class was a huge bowl of dull, so while the teacher droned on about plate tectonics, I let my mind drift back to where it all began.

Who were they—everyone wanted to know. The twin brother-sister combo of Dana and Van had appeared out of nowhere a year ago, and set up shop at Tacoma’s own KWPTT Network. You never heard about them, never even saw them in public. You wanted to know their secrets? Good luck. Hermits were more active.

John Morton, the station’s owner, defended their hermitage status. They have the right to live their own lives, he’d said in an interview. I support their decision.

Yeah, right on, support that. An action show—accent on the action—The Metas boasted lots of cartoon violence and gave a positive vibe of going beyond your limits. Great scripts, they often pushed politically correct topics but never sounded preachy. Ostensibly a show for young kids up to their teens, it cut across all demographic lines.

The fan groups loved them, but you had to be hardcore. Hardcore meant knowing what happened in each episode—which I did—and you had to follow the story arc, which I also did. If you couldn’t recite line for line what happened in episode seven, you weren’t hardcore—period.

The premiere episode showed a futuristic version of Tacoma with mile-high glass and steel buildings, flying cars, awesome weapons, and other stuff that could only have come from some sci-fi writer’s imagination. Just before the opening title flashed, Dana walked out and gave the disclaimer of During the program, you will see a number of stunts. Don’t try these at home.

My heart skipped a beat and maybe three. She was hot! I was going to turn eighteen on New Year’s Day, and she looked to be the same age, perhaps a bit older. With a slender model’s body, she was totally fine. A roundish face, deep purple eyes, and small, even features completed the immediate visuals. A plain black bodysuit clung to her frame, matching her long black hair. Topping it off, she had an incandescent smile that seemed to slice its way through the air to where I sat.

Two seconds later, the camera cut to the main set which represented Meta Headquarters, all lights and chrome and glass. Dana stood behind a computer console and her first line always went, Hold nothing back. Give everything.

Cheesy line, yes, but wait, it got better. The plot of the show was simple. She and Van, who wore the same kind of costume, were mutants who had superpowers and fought against a shadowy government agency—appropriately named the Shadow Agency—trying to capture them.

In their spare time, when they weren’t beating on the enemy or escaping from some outlandish scheme to entrap them, they tried to live normal lives, watching television and reading in their secret hideaway, just like everyone else.

However, when it came time to throw down, Dana always intoned, If you want to find us, then we’re right here.

Okay, another cute catchphrase. I was into that, along with the action, which looked totally real.

Van was a tall dark-haired dude with broad shoulders and a serious weightlifter’s physique. Unlike his sister, he didn’t smile very much. For him, sombre was his last name, and every word he uttered to the enemy was laden with total sincerity.

Fan clubs quickly sprang up across the country. Every girl wanted to date Van, and every guy, Dana. Why not? But me, I was totally into it, the show and her.

Call it a nerd-fest, I lived for that show, and it aired every Sunday morning at ten. There I’d sit on my living room sofa, chowing down on cereal, bouncing up and down like a five-year-old while Dana or Van clobbered the bad guys and made the world safe. My mother, when she was around, always made a tsk-ing sound, but said nothing.

As for some of the non-fan kids in my class, they thought I was geeking out way too much, but for me, it was more than magic.

Martin, are you listening to me?

No, not really, let me think about this Saturday.

Three-forty and I found myself sitting in Ms. Ward’s office, and she’d been reading me the riot act. I came back to Earth when she poked at my reports with a long, skeletal finger. A look of disapproval flashed across her face. You’re weak in math, chemistry, and most other subjects. Maybe I’ll have to have a talk with your mother.

Go ahead—if my mother was ever home, that is. Latchkey kids had more parentage. Trying to stall the inevitable you-have-to-get-your-grades-up speech I knew my guidance counsellor would give me, I said, Well, I’m pretty decent at English.

Ms. Ward stirred the papers with her finger. You are, but having good English skills alone won’t get you a good job. Failing at life is not the answer. I think you’re lazy. And I hear things, things like you talking about some superhero show?

Her eyebrows arched and was it any of her business? It was common knowledge around school, anyway. It’s a show I like, ma’am. That’s all.

A frown of disapproval writhed across her mouth like a snake winding its way along the ground. It’s Christmas vacation, Martin. I know you like what you like, but you’re going to have to study and get your grades up—period. Being an expert on television trivia won’t help you find gainful employment.

After shuffling some other papers around on her desk, she waved her hand at the door. Merry Christmas and have a good New Year.

Doing what, studying? Thank you. Have a good holiday, ma’am. And thanks for calling me a failure at life. Is that what guidance counsellors do?

Greg met me outside the school gate. A bitter wind cut through the thinness of my jacket and stabbed the non-existent muscles in my body as we walked along the sidewalks. Did Ward get on your case about studying?

Uttering a sigh, I glanced up at the bare-branched trees. Only the winter wind had said anything before Greg posed the question. He now repeated it. My answer was a simple one. Yeah, she did.

What about your mother? Isn’t she on your case to study?

Did he have to know? She doesn’t say anything. What’s the problem here?

A thoughtful look crossed his face. Just that there’s life after high school is all I’m saying. Doesn’t your mom talk about school or things with you?

How about no? She didn’t care what I did, but all the same, he had a point, as did Ms. Ward. Studying was a given, but some things took precedence. As we reached my house, I went over the get-the-autograph plan in my mind once again. It was going to work. It had to.

Greg shook his head, apparently in dismay, and left me with this parting shot. I like the show, too, but there’s a time when you have to grow up.

Yeah, grow up—but not yet. Inside my house and taking off my jacket in the hallway, a message taped to the wall caught my eye.

Martin, I have to go on a business trip for about two weeks. I’m flying to Los Angeles. There’s enough food in the fridge... back on January second or third. I haven’t decided.

—Mom

Initial reaction—what else was new? As a regional manager for a company that specialized in office upgrades, she often took off for days at a time. This year, she’d stayed home maybe a hundred and fifty days. Her important time—job and personal—she spent travelling or meeting up with her boyfriend.

Said boyfriend’s name was Fred. My father had passed away when I was fourteen. Once the suitable mourning period had elapsed—in her case, six months—she brought him over. Meet my new boyfriend and thanks for telling me.

The Fred... now he and my mother seemed to be a permanent item. Short and skinny with a face like a sheet of plain paper, he’d already gone bald at forty-two. How’s it going, sport? was his favourite line.

Sport, he calls me sport.

Talk about being clued out, that line went out of use fifty years ago, and no, it didn’t deserve an answer. I tried to be polite, but around him, resentment always flared. In my mind, he was trying to take my father’s place—and no man could do that.

Still, selfish way of thinking or not, I tried to see my mother’s side of things. Being a single mother meant she had to work hard. Downside—she never had time for me. Somewhat distant even when my father was alive, after he died she’d gradually grown even further away. Maybe it was her way of dealing with grief or it was something else. While she’d never hit me or insulted me, she did something worse.

She ignored my existence, by and large. The only time she showed any animation was when she introduced The Fred. My reaction when meeting him over dinner was something akin to shock. After he left, my second reaction was to nearly toss my guts out, and in the throes of young teen angst, asked, Why?

My question fell on deaf ears. Instead, she went all wrathful, sat me down in the living room and scolded me. Martin, I loved your father, but this is my life. I’m still young. Don’t you think I deserve to be happy?

Short and a few pounds overweight with a pretty face and longish brown hair, she wasn’t wrong. Still, for her to have The Fred—a stranger—as her date-dude, it was all too much. Don’t you think I deserve some happiness? she repeated more forcefully.

My first impulse was to shout, No, not with him, at the top of my lungs, but refrained from doing so. Instead, I muttered, It’s your life.

Didn’t my mother understand me? Apparently not, as after the first meetup with The Fred, she threw herself into her job and I grew used to her absences. Being self-absorbed was totally uncool in my book, but being a teen with no money, I had to keep my mouth shut and keep on keeping on.

It would have been nice to have someone to confide in. At times, I’d lie in bed and go over make-believe conversations with her, hanging on her every word, talking about my dreams... and with a measure of bitterness, reality intruded. Not everyone could be there when you needed them.

Upstairs in my room, sitting on my creaky bed and gazing at the used desk, the second-hand computer and finally, to the peeling dark blue wallpaper, I let out a sigh. My vacation was off to a rousing start. Doing the homework thing, I spent the rest of the day and most of the next cramming on every subject until I went half-blind.

Saturday morning my mother called early, as in six-thirty early. No excuses for not being here, just, Sorry, I know we usually spend the holidays together.

Said version of us spending the holidays together consisted of her making spaghetti then going out to meet her boyfriend. It would have been a cliché to ask, What else is new? So I didn’t. How’s Fred?

A sharp intake of breath greeted my question. That is none of your affair.

No, but it’s all about yours. The Fred had to be around and I was her son, her blood, and she’d chosen him over me.

Sorry, Mom, I figured you’d be seeing him.

We’ll talk when I get back.

Said with finality, the line went dead. Right after hanging up, though, Greg rang. Six-forty and, Dude, hello, it’s Saturday morning! You have to be up!

Oh, God help me.

I waited for his next plea, and sure enough, it came in a wheedling tone. C’mon, man, it’s just Dana’s name. I trust you.

Fine.

After throwing on some clothes, I took the bus downtown at seven to where the network building was. I took up a position around fifty metres away and waited, wondering how to achieve the impossible. And then I waited some more, watching and shivering in my thin jacket until the guards rotated their shift after thirty minutes.

How was I going to get in and get the autograph without being seen? Would they even give me one? Would I catch pneumonia? Tune in tomorrow, folks, same time...

Luck arose when one guard started to cough then ran off to the side to empty his guts, which left the door unattended. Now or never—do it!

Commando time! Imitating a fox, running low and close to the ground, I snuck in. Weird... no one was in the main lobby along with no security and no cameras, either. Taking step after careful step down a long, narrow corridor, my shoes made a squeaking sound and sweat poured down my face. If they catch me, I’m dead meat.

Their dressing room was on my left, with their names and a gold star on the slightly ajar door. Peering inside, the brother-sister combo stood in the centre of the room.

Dressed in jeans and long-sleeved shirts, they stood ankle deep in a sea of empty candy bar wrappers and cookie boxes. Three assistants fussed around throwing garbage into a large trash bag.

In a lazy, idle motion, Dana lifted the front of her shirt to reveal a firm midriff. Yeah, she had the abs, along with a line of bumps that started from a triangular bellybutton and ran around her narrow waist. All of the bumps were a perfectly round shape, the size of pearls. Multiple bumps... that wasn’t a rash.

Neither was the three-pointed navel. Oh hell!

My heart immediately accelerated to mega proportions and I flattened my back against the wall, breathing hard. Bumps, I’d seen bumps and... no... it had to be some kind of prosthetic. Sure, that was it. In a second, she’d peel it off, scratch her stomach, and I was an idiot for believing something had