Titanborn (13 page)

“I was wondering why they really sent us here all the way from Earth, especially after what happened. I've done business on Titan before, though. I should still recognize a few faces down there who may be able to help.”

“Good. Ever since M-day we've been putting down protests and riots daily. Even after Luxarn announced that he was planning to petition the USF Assembly for all offworlders, including native Ringers, to be permitted to take part in the Departure Lottery. These damn Ringers are never pleased. If it were up to me, we'd send every single one of them off on an Ark-Ship toward some star and be done with it. Bastards were so eager to abandon Earth back in the day after all.”

“I'm sure Luxarn has considered it,” I jested. The director shot me a glare that made me worry he was a little too comfortable with that idea. I couldn't stand offworlder affairs any more than anyone, but without them I'd need to find a new line of work. “So I'm guessing you're expecting us to experience some trouble down on Titan when we go?” I asked, deciding to change the subject.

“Trouble? That's a gentle term for it. We extinguish new strains of dissidents here constantly, but there's a new group that won't go away. They call themselves the Children of Titan. Wear all white and paint orange circles on their chests like they're part of some ancient tribe. Hell, a month ago they raided a terraforming research plant down on Titan. Blew the thing to pieces. Who knows why.”

“They think Titan is their world,” I responded, my conversation with the Ringer on Earth popping into my mind. “They don't want to change it.”

“Indeed,” he said, seeming rather disturbed by the notion.

“Any idea who's leading them?”

“Not a clue, but they seem to have great appeal among the locals, and with so many down there turning a blind eye they have an uncanny knack for getting their operatives around our surveillance measures. We'd sweep all the colonies on Titan ourselves, but Luxarn wants us to keep our involvement relatively quiet so we don't rouse any more Ringers to their cause. If we march down into the lower wards in force, we may soon have a real revolution on our hands.”

“Thank God for that. Keeps us employed.” I nudged Zhaff, but he didn't seem to get the joke. He'd been paying close attention to everything the director was saying.

“Always looking on the bright side, Graves. You just worry about trying to find these smugglers. Mr. Pervenio has placed great importance on their apprehension.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but as I did a Pervenio officer came running into the room. He was out of breath. “Sir!” he said, saluting. “There's been an incident.”

Director Sodervall waved him over listlessly, as if he was tired of hearing those words. When the officer whispered something into his ear his eyes went wide with horror.

“Right now?” he questioned.

All the officer could manage was a nervous nod.

“I'll be there immediately.” He turned to me. “Your workout will have to wait. Follow me.”

I glanced up at Zhaff. As always he didn't appear perplexed, but the fact that he was also silent was enough for me to know that he, too, was unsure what was going on. I shrugged, and we followed the director and his guards out of the room.

A tram carried us through the core of the moon and to the bustling security headquarters at the other end of the station. It made the one in New London look antiquated. The screens were larger and many were holographic panes able to be touched and manipulated—the newest in telecommunications technology. There were also, of course, floor-embedded viewports, which currently displayed a stunning vista of Saturn's Rings.

“This way, sir.” The officer led us into Director Sodervall's private office. It was a sizable space, filled with all manner of clutter. It was evident that he was a very busy man with responsibilities extending well beyond keeping tabs on me. No wonder he didn't have time to bother with the Cogent Initiative.

The director keyed some commands into the console built into his desk, and then a large, holographic screen was projected in front of his viewport. He returned to my side to watch what was about to be displayed on it. Zhaff was behind us, and I could feel his warm breath on my neck as he leaned in close.

“What's going on?” I asked the director.

“Just watch,” he replied evenly.

He set the recording to play. The feed was grainy, but I could distinguish what appeared to be some manner of soldier in heavy white armor standing in front of an air lock. An orange circle was inscribed over his chest plate, and his visor was tinted enough to make it impossible to discern his face. The camera trembled a bit, which meant that there was likely someone on the other end holding it.

“The Children of Titan?” I questioned. Director Sodervall nodded with austerity.

Inside the air lock there were at least a dozen Earthers banging on the glass of a circular porthole and screaming. A similar number of pale, long-faced Ringers were lined up in seats set on either side of the rebel soldier. They were watching, though they didn't look like they approved of what was happening. Their eyes bulged with dread, and even though most of their mouths were covered by sanitary masks I could tell by the way they drooped that many of their jaws were hanging open.

“We are descendants of those chosen by Trass—Titanborn,” a voice deepened by some sort of distortion device said. It was coming from the soldier at the air lock. “We tire of being owned; of rotting in your q-zones as you suck our home dry. Retribution is coming. This is what happens to those who steal from
our
Ring. From ice to ashes.”

Without warning, the armored soldier at the air lock pressed a button on its control panel and sentenced every Earther inside to death. The outer seal came open and in seconds the winds of Saturn reached in to yank them all out. Then the video went to static.

“That happened an hour ago on an old gas harvester named the
Piccolo,
” Director Sodervall said irritably. “Somehow they've been able to broadcast that video all over this station.”

The Ringer on Earth flashed through my mind, aiming my own pistol straight at me. I swallowed and shook away the memory. The director didn't appear to notice.

Zhaff pulled out his hand-terminal and held it in front of us. In only a few seconds he'd been able to pull up the video on Solnet himself, as if testing whether or not the director's intelligence was correct. Disseminating something like that across the highly guarded Pervenio servers was no easy task. It meant that these Children of Titan were as talented as they were bold and unpredictable.

“Do you have any idea where that ship currently is?” Zhaff asked before I could.

Without answering, Director Sodervall opened the door to his office and looked out on security headquarters. The panicked glare of every officer was fixated on him. “I want everyone searching for the location of the
Piccolo.
Now!” he bellowed. The officers immediately lowered their heads and hammered away at their keyboards.

“You should also analyze the broadcast to discover how they were able to disseminate it on such a broad scale,” Zhaff said.

“I know that, Cogent!” the director snapped. “My engineers have been on that for the last hour. We don't know how, but it originated on that harvester.”

Without hesitating, Zhaff walked over to the director's personal computer and began typing into it. The sight came close to making me laugh, but I was able to hold it back in light of the current circumstances. The director didn't say anything, but he seemed to be more in shock than he'd been watching the recording.

Zhaff's eye-lens darted from side to side, incredible amounts of text scrolling across the reflection in the yellow glass. After half a minute he stopped and looked up. “That is impossible,” he stated. “According to your records the
Piccolo
is far too dated to have a communications system capable of accomplishing this on its own. It appears that the recording was somehow transmitted from the ship directly to this station, where your secure channels were used in order to post it publicly.”

“How do you know all that?” the director questioned. He stormed over to see what Zhaff was looking at. I couldn't help but let a smile break onto my face despite the circumstances. It was nice to see Zhaff's abilities thrust into the face of somebody beside myself. Now Director Sodervall knew exactly what he'd signed me up for.

“He tends to surprise you,” I said.

“That recording is now available on all local Solnet channels,” Zhaff continued. “There will be no stopping it from being dispersed throughout the entirety of Sol unless everybody in the system disables their active devices.”

“Skelly bastards!” Director Sodervall barked. “Mr. Pervenio is going to have my head for this. Can you trace how they were able to do it?”

Zhaff keyed a few more commands and scrolled through more information so quickly that Sodervall's eyes looked tired just from trying to keep up. “Not from here. I would need to see what was done on that ship.”

“Then we'll have to get you onto it,” Director Sodervall decided.

“Also not possible,” Zhaff said. “We are presently tasked with locating the smugglers behind the bombing on Earth. We must focus on our own assignment.”

“I hate to disagree with you, Zhaff, but he's right,” I said. “The Ringer I encountered on Earth used those same phrases before he killed himself:
Titanborn; From ice to ashes.
Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling the same people are behind both attacks.”

Zhaff's eye-lens fixed itself on me. “Why did you not inform me about this earlier?”

I shrugged. “I didn't think it was important. Offworlders and their expressions. I didn't even know the Children of Titan existed until today.”

“They're the right kind of bastards to be willing to bomb Earth on M-day, all right,” Director Sodervall added. “This could be another distraction to hide what they're really after.”

“My thoughts exactly. Now, we have a ship full of Ringers who saw what happened up close if they're still there. One of them might know something. It's our only lead, Zhaff. How many transport ships are arriving on the Ring within the next week?”

Zhaff bent down and searched through the director's computer again. “Seventy-three,” he specified.

“And the smugglers could be on any of them, assuming they're even coming here. I say we follow this lead right now.” I turned my gaze toward the director. “If thirty years as a collector has taught me anything, it's not to believe in coincidences.”

“Sir,” an officer outside hollered. “We have a read on the
Piccolo
's location. She's emerging from the upper atmosphere of Saturn now, drifting on a slow course directly for this station. We're getting intermittent messages from the surviving crew that the invaders have disappeared and that they're bringing the
Piccolo
back on their own accord.”

“Well, it looks like you both won't have much choice,” the director said. “They're coming right to you.”

“They are lying,” Zhaff decided. “That vessel has an ion-engine and cannot be allowed to reach this station.” His tone wasn't any more authoritative than normal, but there was something about it that earned even the director's complete attention. A sense of urgency perhaps. “According to you the Children of Titan are renowned for utilizing violent, unpredictable measures. Lend us a ship and we will intercept it.”

“I agree with Zhaff.” I hated to say it out loud, but he was right. If both this attack and the one on Earth were connected, then the Children of Titan had used a bombing to divert our eyes from their true intentions. It was impossible to say what else they were willing to do.

The director exhaled and nodded slowly. “I'll prepare a strike team straightaway.”

“Don't worry, sir, you know I've put down plenty of violent offworlders before,” I said evenly. “We'll figure this out.”

“I want to trust that, Malcolm, but let's try to keep this as clean as possible this time. We don't want another Undina situation.”

I knew from the moment I saw him that he wasn't going to let our conversation end without dredging up my recent failures in some way. I feigned a grin and bowed my head. “With Zhaff at my side? Never.”

“For your sake, I hope not. Good luck, Graves.” He patted me on the back before turning toward Zhaff, a distrusting glare plastered on his wrinkled face. “You, too,” he muttered. Zhaff saluted him, but Director Sodervall walked away toward his hectic officers without paying any attention.

A small transport vessel flew me, Zhaff, and a group of three Pervenio officers toward the location of the
Piccolo.
All I could see through the cockpit's viewport was the starless black mass of Saturn as we headed straight for its dark side. Occasionally tiny fragments of rock zipped by the cockpit's viewport, illuminated by the steady stream of light emitted from the ship's forward spotlights. Our path was taking us across the topside of the planet's inward Rings, where they were at least relatively small and mostly ice. Still, the entire ship rattled every time one of them banged against the hull.

“Three minutes out!” the pilot shouted back into the holding bay. I could see a red blip nearing our position on his control console. There were no other visible ships anywhere in sight through the viewport. We were past all the ice haulers, and every working gas harvester operated within Saturn's roiling atmosphere. Between the innermost Ring and the planet itself it was completely dead space.

“What happened on Undina?” Zhaff asked suddenly, breaking the silence. Nobody but the pilot had uttered a word since we left the station.

“What?” I asked, not sure if I was more surprised by the apparent randomness of the question or that he didn't already know.

“The mining colony of Undina. Director Sodervall told you to avoid a similar situation.”

“I thought you reviewed my entire file?”

“I did,” Zhaff clarified. “I studied the records of numerous eligible collectors to be paired with before I arrived on Earth, Malcolm. You were one of them.”

Of course he had. He'd been thorough as always. A part of me wished he'd overlooked my name and saved me his presence, though that probably would've meant that Director Sodervall wouldn't have given me the New London bomber assignment. I'm not sure if I would've survived two weeks of vacation if he hadn't. I probably would've drunk myself into the bottom of a sewer out of boredom.

“I'm flattered,” I said. “And Undina wasn't on it?”

“It was,” Zhaff replied. “Based on the available report, the insurgents were disposed of successfully. Why would Director Sodervall want us to avoid that?”

“It was a joke. Forget about it.”

“You're lying.”

I sighed. I knew he wasn't going to drop it. “They were
disposed of successfully,
” I said. “Just not as cleanly as the director would've liked. I didn't pull my trigger fast enough and a lot of workers died because of it. Don't worry; I won't be making that same mistake again. If these offworlders want to keep treating Sol like their playground, then I'm done trying to play nice.”

“One minute!” the pilot updated us.

“One day most of our species will be what you consider offworlders, Malcolm,” Zhaff said. “Even the life you helped create was conceived offworld. It is our job to ensure the welfare of human expansion, no matter who commits the crimes that threaten it.”

I wasn't sure what to say. I'd met many young collectors who claimed to feel the same way: that they did their work for more than a bounty. After a few years on the job, seeing the shit we see, there wasn't one of them who didn't forget about all that. When Zhaff said it, however, I knew it wasn't just something he told himself to feel better. He didn't even care about getting paid. There was nothing, no horror he could see, that would ever change his mind. I could respect that level of stubbornness.

“These days we all feel like one and the same,” I said. I placed my hand on his leg and nodded to him. “But all right, Zhaff. Let's make them pay then. Helmets on!”

Zhaff nodded back, and we reached down, picked up our helmets from the rack beneath our seats, and placed them over our heads. The other officers on board did the same. We were all wearing Pervenio-issued, spaceworthy armored suits, so I heard a gentle hiss as the seal formed around my neck. After that, the only thing I could hear was my own steady breathing.

“Coms check,” I said. The com-link built into each suit connected our entire squad with one another and to Director Sodervall if he needed to make contact.

“I'm a go,” each officer answered individually.

“I can hear you,” Zhaff said last.

“The
Piccolo
's cargo bay ramp is sealed,” the pilot announced, his voice now directly beside my ear. “I'm going to back up against it. Prepare to breach.”

My stomach jumped suddenly as the ship banked around hard. The force would've tossed me clear across the cabin, but restraints wrapped around my chest held me tight against my seat. I squeezed my eyes shut and ignored the pain pulling at my sides. A few seconds later we straightened out, and all my innards did the same. I released a mouthful of air and set my restraints to release.

“I'm opening up,” the pilot said. “Switch on oxygen.”

I hit a button built into the wrist of my suit. I couldn't feel the change, but I knew the small amount of oxygen woven into the suit could be the difference between life and death out in the heart of space. This wasn't my first time breaching a rogue vessel.

The cabin depressurized, and then the rear hatch popped open. I used the bars along the ceiling to pull my weightless body over toward the starless maw. Spotlights from the transport turned and shone their light ahead of me, revealing the hull of what I assumed was the
Piccolo.
A row of grated ducts stuck out from its sides like the keys of a piano, connected to tremendous pumps used to siphon gas out of Saturn's atmosphere and into vats inside to be refined and sorted. All of it was rusting, and appeared to date back to a time before I was born; before the Earthers ever even reunited with the Ring. Director Sodervall wasn't exaggerating when he said the thing was old.

“Hold on,” the pilot said.

Bow thrusters had us gradually reversing toward it. I grabbed hold of the ceiling as tightly as I could. The back of our ship slammed into it so hard that my tired arms gave out and I lost my grip. Everything seems to move a lot slower in the vastness of space. I flew forward, but before my helmet smashed into the side of the
Piccolo
someone grasped the back of my suit and drew me back.

“I told you, you should have exercised,” Zhaff said.

His voice was flat as ever when he spoke, but it was actually the kind of remark I knew I might say in a similar situation. I hoped maybe I was rubbing off on him. I turned my head and glanced back at him. All I could see through his visor and bulbous helmet was the yellow glare of his eye-lens. It made him look like some manner of ridiculous, mythical Cyclops.

“That's what you're here for,” I said. “Okay, boys. Light this thing up.”

A short, ribbed tube extended from the back of the ship and formed a seal with the
Piccolo.
The process released a whistling sound so shrill it made me wince even through my helmet. When that finished, one of the officers floated forward with a fusion cutter in his hand. The blade of heat it emitted was so intense that it had to be powered by our transport's engines in order to operate.

It took a hell of a lot of energy to cut through the dense hull of a gas harvester, no matter how old it was. They had to be built to withstand the tempestuous atmosphere of Saturn, and wind speeds during storms that could tear a man's limbs from their sockets. Sparks flew out as the officer cut a wide circle. When he was done a chunk of the
Piccolo
came loose and was pushed inward, leaving behind an orange ring of smoldering, molten metal for us to pass through one at a time.

“How appropriate,” I murmured under my breath as I stared at the opening.

“What was that, Malcolm?” Zhaff asked.

“Nothing. Weapons ready. Let's go.”

The three officers pulled their weightless bodies through first, pulse-rifles at their hips. They used the chunk of the ship's hull as a shield in case an ambush was waiting for us. Zhaff went next and I followed, until all five of us were floating somewhere in its cargo bay. The inside of the
Piccolo
was completely dark.

“Zhaff, oxygen levels?” I said.

He raised his hand-terminal and keyed a few commands. “Breathable.”

I reached up, switched off my air supply, and drew my visor all the way back. The warm, stale air was completely stagnant, which let me know that the air recyclers weren't functioning. Eventually the oxygen would run out.

“Spotters on,” I whispered, my voice now escaping my helmet. I placed mine on through the opening where my visor had been, and switched them to thermal. The cargo bay remained completely empty of heat signatures.

“On,” everyone but Zhaff replied. Of course with his eye-lens he didn't need spotters. To be honest a part of me figured he could see through walls with the thing.

Zhaff tapped me on the shoulder and motioned forward. I nodded.

“Magnetize,” I said. I hit a button on my suit next to my oxygen, and my boots were slowly drawn to the metal floor. They were charged with a small magnetic force, not enough to walk properly, but enough to keep me anchored after every extended step. It was similar to walking under the natural conditions of Luna, only the rest of my body still felt completely weightless.

The rest of the squad did the same, and we moved ahead through the cargo bay with long, bouncing strides. My pistol was raised, and the daunting quiet had me on edge. Other than our magnet-induced footsteps, the only sound filling the
Piccolo
was the gentle purring of its engines. Then I heard a clank.

“Fuck!” one of the officers yelped.

“What is it?” I questioned.

Another officer switched on the flashlight built onto the barrel of his gun. A series of large pallets filled with harvesting canisters sat against the walls. Thousands of liters of flammable gases all around us. The officer had banged his knee on one canister and it was still reverberating.

“Everyone watch your step,” I said. “We release one of those and we'll all be cooked.”

“We must reach the ship's command deck,” Zhaff said. “Any rebel combatants or surviving members of the crew are wanted alive if possible.”

“Good luck with that, freak,” the officer who banged his knee remarked. “I see one of these Ringer fucks, I'm putting them down.”

I reached back and grabbed him by the shoulder. “He's right,” I growled. “We're here for information. One stray shot and this thing will go up in flames. Shoot to wound and only if you have to. Those are Director Sodervall's orders, so unless you want to take it up with him when we get back, you'll listen.”

Regardless of how much Zhaff could irritate me, he was right, and I knew his report would reach the ears of Director Sodervall. I was trying not to screw up what was now my third opportunity to prove my worth in as many months. Plus, it didn't seem right that anybody but me could talk to my partner like that.

The officer grunted in response, but I could tell I'd gotten through to him and the others. They'd likely never heard my name—it wasn't part of a collector's duty to earn fame enough to be feared—but they knew what I was. Any collector who'd served as long as I had held considerably more clout than an officer or guard. They'd probably never even had the opportunity to utter anything more to a director than the word
sir.

“All right, Zhaff and I will head for the command deck,” I said. “You three take the engine room. Gaining complete control of the ship is our highest priority. Remember, watch those trigger fingers. Com's open.” The Pervenio officers went in the opposite direction at the first branch in the hall, leaving Zhaff and me to continue on our own. I turned to him. “You got the ship schematics?”

“Memorized,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised? You lead then.”

Zhaff moved in front of me, and we started off down the dark passage. I decided after a few steps that my spotters weren't working for me. Waiting for heat signatures to pop up in a warren of winding corridors would only lead to me making mistakes. I preferred to see out of my own two eyes when I could.

“Screw this thing,” I said as I removed the device and switched on the small flashlight fixed to the top of my pulse-pistol. “I'll leave the signatures to you. I'm going basic.”

It might've revealed our positions, but our magnetized footsteps were the loudest sound in range so it didn't matter much. With the flashlight I could better see the condition of the ship. Much of the circuitry and systems were left exposed through the grated walls and floors. I noticed a spot of blood on one pipe from which hot steam poured through a narrow gash.

“I don't understand,” I whispered. “Why turn everything off?”

“It is possible the broadcast utilized a great deal of energy,” Zhaff answered.

“I guess so—” As the words left my lips a male Ringer soared sideways across the hall ahead of us. “Freeze!” I barked.

“Don't shoot!” the Ringer whimpered. He grabbed hold of the wall and raised his free arm. It was shaking.

“Turn around slowly,” Zhaff said.

As the man turned his head, I shone my light in his face. A sanitary mask covered his mouth, but it was covered with blood as if he'd had his nose broken and his eyes were rife with terror. He held out his hands; they were empty.

“Please, I didn't do this,” the Ringer said.

“Quiet!” I ordered. “Get on the ground now and you won't be harmed.”

He didn't hesitate. He extended his arms, grabbed hold of the grated floor, and pulled himself down, looking like quite a pro when it came to being detained. That was a common thing for Ringers from the lower wards on Titan, where learning how to steal food was a crucial part of staying alive.

“Cuff him,” I told Zhaff.

Zhaff got behind him and held him down against the floor so he could bind his wrists with a band of fiber-wire. “Are there any militants remaining on board?” he questioned.