Titan's Wrath

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Sodervall did quite a number on you first, though. Look at you. You can barely walk.”

  “He got what he deserved too.”

  “You resisted the most, didn’t you? The Piccolo’s resident tough guy, until he shoved you into an airlock. I bet once you got in there, you begged for your life. You probably told him to space Cora first just so you could live just a few seconds longer. Pathetic.”

  “Quiet!”

  He shoved his weapon through the opening so that the barrel pressed into my chest. Now, if I only I could get him to open up and come in. Then I’d be in business.

  “Hey kid, I’m just trying to get the real story,” I said.

  “The real story is that you left us with a ma…madman to come here.” My brow furrowed, and he smirked. “You didn’t realize? This is the Children of Titan hideout you f…f…found.” He snickered. “Lo…Lord Trass said to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For getting Pervenio to attack the Quarant...tine above us.”

  He pulled the gun back and continued on his way. I slid down the bars onto my ass and poked the band keeping my leg inactive. It sent a shock down my finger.

  “You damn skelly,” I grumbled. “When I get out of here—”

  “You won’t,” he interrupted as he returned with a metal bowl. He slid it under the bars. Brown goop dripped over the edges. It looked more like shit than food.

  “Eat, old man,” Desmond said. “This is the sh...sh...shit they fed us on the Piccolo. Suits you.”

  “You think this is the worst cell I’ve been in? You all think you know what it means to fight, but you’re like children throwing a tantrum.”

  He didn’t respond. I let the food sit there. At least, until he was back out of sight. Sleep pods fed people intravenously, but they always left me starving for a real meal after. I dug in with my fingers and had to work hard to stuff my fingers under my sanitary mask and get any in my mouth. The stuff was tasteless, and the texture worse than sewer water, but I needed something tangible. I could hear Javaris retching as he too forced himself to eat the slop. Poor wealthy bastard. He was probably used to real greens and fresh meat. I, on the other hand, had tasted far fouler in plenty of darker corners of Sol. I can’t even describe the kind of garbage they eat in the sewers beneath New Beijing.

  I studied the cavern beyond my cell as I ate. Desmond wasn’t lying about where we were. I could never forget the place where Zhaff and I stumbled upon the Children of Titan’s hideout, where my daughter was hiding as their Doctor curing the sick with stolen meds. I could still hear the gunshots of Zhaff mowing them down while I grabbed Aria and ran instead of turning her in. I could still hear that final gunshot just outside...the one that ended Zhaff’s life when he attempted to stop us.

  What a cruel joke. Kale had found out who I was and decided to lock me up in the very place where my old life came undone. Where I, Malcolm Graves, made the mistake that sparked his whole revolution by killing Luxarn Pervenio’s son. It didn’t hit me until that moment, but every dead body lost in the rubble of the Darien Quarantine straight above us was partially on me, not only Zhaff’s. Kale had pulled the trigger, but I put Luxarn’s forces in his crosshair.

  I grabbed the bowl of food and flung it at the side of my cell. Javaris’s partner yelped from the cell over. Then I screamed at the top of my lungs until my throat was sore. So many mistakes. Zhaff and I should have never left Cora and the rest of Kale’s crew under Director Sodervall’s supervision. We should have moved more carefully, but I was in such a rush to get paid I didn’t care. We barreled into this hollow, and the rest was history. Bloody, violent history. All I could do now was bust out somehow and end Kale Trass for good so my daughter could be free of his lies.

  I gritted my teeth, wrapped my fingers under the electromag band on my leg, and pulled. The shock it emitted made all the muscles in my arms contract until I finally backed off.

  “You don’t know how to sh...shut up, do you?” Desmond asked, arriving before my cell again.

  “Never have,” I panted. “Why don’t you come in here and teach me?”

  “I’m n...not stupid.”

  “No? I figured that was why Kale assigned you so deep underground nobody would see you. But it’s not that, is it? No. He has you down here because he can’t bear to look at your broken body. That’s it, I bet.” I snickered.

  “Quiet,” Desmond said through clenched teeth. His fingers wriggled around the trigger of his rifle. I almost had him.

  “He’d rather look at his scarred aunt than you because every time he does, he’s reminded that your skinny Ringer ass survived Sodervall’s stupidity and Cora didn’t. Am I right?”

  “Quiet.”

  “How are you still so loyal after he treats you like that? If I were you, I’d be on the first ship to Mars with Kale in a body bag.”

  “Kale said not to kill you, but he didn’t say anything about breaking your jaw,” he growled. He stomped over to the cell’s controls and began keying in the codes to get in. I slid back on the floor and pawed for a loose rock until I found one about the size of an ear. It would do.

  “I’m going to m...make you wish you died here last time, Mudstomper,” Desmond growled. The controls buzzed as my cell was unlocked. He didn’t have one foot in before a handful of armed Titanborn soldiers arrived hauling shipping crates toward Javaris Venta’s workspace. I spotted someone with them who I could never forget. Mazrah. She only went by one name since her father was a Ringer-preying Earther. Ringers didn’t believe in clan families, instead raising children with a more traditional, single set of parents, reminiscent of pre-Meteorite history. They weren’t nearly as afraid of extinction due to carelessness as the people from Earth who survived the apocalypse.

  Mazrah was the top information broker on the Ring before Kale took over, and now clearly high enough in his regime to be here. Aria’s real mom was a fling I paid for most of the time before she died in Martian sewers, but not Mazrah. She was the woman who almost tied me down.

  “Here’s some of the materials the Earther asked for, Desmond,” she said, her voice like the soothing chords of an ancient violin. “Where do you—” She froze as our gazes met. I grinned and waved with only the tips of my fingers. Things between us didn’t end on the best terms, but there were good times. Before I could say anything, she turned and hurried out of sight, pretending she hadn’t seen me.

  Desmond locked my cell and backed away slowly, his stutter even more pronounced after he came so near to getting in trouble. “You’re lucky he’s mo...more important, Mudstomper. When he’s done, all you...your people are gonna s...s...see they can’t win. You’ll starve here, and nobody will ever remember Malcolm Graves.”

  I dropped the rock and lay down. I had Desmond wrapped around my fingers, and he didn’t even know it. I was close. All we needed was a few minutes alone, and I’d get him to open up and try to shut me up. Many had tried; none had ever succeeded. Maybe my old bones couldn’t take on a crippled Ringer in powered armor, but I was going to try. And if that didn’t work, Mazrah’s presence made things interesting. Last time I saw her, she’d tried to have me killed, but maybe somewhere buried in her cold, half-Ringer heart she still had a soft spot for me.

  Retiring... It was never in the cards for me. I was going to get out of this cell and find Kale and my daughter, or I would die trying like a Collector should.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  KALE TRASS

  I breathed in deeply. The smell of salt, soldered metal, and burning gases was a staple of the Darien Lowers where I grew up. Industry powering the Earthers’ burgeoning intersolar civilization, with Titanborn at the helm.

  We weren’t in the Lowers or on Titan, but the shipyard on Phoebe Station we stole from Pervenio bore that same stench. Unfinished chassis for ships sat on pedestals throughout the factory, of all shapes and sizes. Ice haulers, gas harvesters, transports, all being outfitted for war. It was the best we could do on short notice
and without skilled management. The only problem was that all the construction equipment sat still.

  Chants of protest replaced the familiar din of factory labor. Armed Titanborn were posted at every corner making sure things didn’t escalate, but they didn’t know how to handle a situation like this. We were used to being beaten when we got out of line or docked pay. It was all because the old Earther sympathizer Orson Fring got it in everybody’s head that credits were the answer. Not food. Not shelter. Not the promise of freedom once Earth caved to our demands. Credits.

  Darien was filled with warriors who lowered their heads as I went by, who fought for our freedom, but these experienced shipworkers did their best to remain indifferent. They marched around holding signs with words of protest drawn on sheets of scrap. They stared when I got close and lowered their voices, but that was it.

  Back before the revolution they were the type of Titanborn who got spat on. The type willing to work side by side with the Earthers who treated them like dirt. I knew because I was once one of them. A Ringer desperate for credits scrubbing canisters on an Earther gas harvester. I could barely remember what it felt like to be so obsessed with a transient number. To let it define me like our distant cousins on Earth did.

  My mother and Mazrah stopped in front of the door into the office Orson Fring had made his protest headquarters. Mother knocked, and the door slid open with a whoosh almost immediately. A few young Titanborn filed out, speeding up and staring at the floor when they noticed it was me who’d arrived.

  “Keep an open mind, Kale,” my mother said before she went in.

  “I’ll try,” I replied.

  “I don’t know what reasons you had for taking credit for that massacre, but we need these people now more than ever. Kale. Are you listening to me?”

  I grunted a barely audible affirmation. Maya scolding me I could handle. Mazrah, tolerable. At least both of them had seen the rotten parts of the world and fought to be free of them. But my mother spent her whole life hiding. She left my father when he went off to initiate the Children of Titan, and hid my true name to keep me safe. Always to keep me safe. I loved her, but while we all fought, she lay in bed worrying. She’d never understand what leading a revolution took.

  “Even a half closed mind will do,” Mazrah remarked, smirking, then stepped in. My mother stifled a groan and followed.

  “Ah, Katrina. Mazrah,” Orson said. He sat behind a desk stacked with dozens of datapads and notes. “A pleasure to see you both again.” He leaned forward and cleared off the area in front of him. His pure white beard nearly matched the tone of his skin, but there was no missing the multitude of fraying hairs. Black bags hung deep beneath his wrinkled eyelids. At least that meant he was as tired of the protest as any of us.

  “I hope we can end this now,” Mazrah said. “Considering recent events.”

  “I heard. The attack on Red Wing—”

  “Wasn’t us,” I interrupted. I stepped in, and what little color filled his cheeks drained entirely.

  “Lord Trass,” he stammered. “I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

  “I wanted to see what was going on here before it was cleaned for my sake.”

  “Yes, of course. Lord Trass, please, come sit.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “There are a lot of empty chassis out there, Fring,” Mazrah said. “I thought last time we spoke you said you’d maintain standard production rates.”

  “These were standard rates.”

  “Under Earther supervision,” I said. I strolled across the room and lifted a datapad off his desk. On it were altered schematics for transforming a standard Pervenio gas harvester into a war machine.

  “Mr. Fring, do you know why I claimed responsibility for the Red Wing massacre?” I asked.

  He held his tongue, but I could tell by his eyes he wanted to scold me like my mother did. The older generation was too ingrained in their ways to understand change. Too stubborn.

  “Because they would have blamed us anyway,” I answered for him. “Even if those men were wearing Pervenio uniforms, they would have found a way to blame us. Earthers have been driven by fear since the moment the Meteorite was discovered. We need them to come here with all their might because until they try to destroy us, we can’t make them fear that they won’t be able to. That is when we win.”

  “I understand,” Orson replied. “I’ve been around long enough to know their kind. My family has been building ships since the days of Trass’s first settlers, and we continued doing it under their supervision after the Great Reunion.”

  “The Fring family was part of the crew who worked on Trass’s first Ark way back on Earth,” my mother added.

  “Is that true?” I said.

  Orson smiled and nodded. “That’s what my parents told me, and theirs told them.”

  “Incredible.” I flung the datapad against the wall. “Then explain why you are purposefully undermining your own people!”

  “Kale!” my mother reprimanded. She took my arm, but I shoved by and slammed my hands down on his desk. With my suit on, the metal wilted. Orson, for what it was worth, stood his ground. He didn’t flinch, and he didn’t stammer when he replied.

  “All we seek is proper compensation,” he said. “We Titanborn may all be equal, but our hands and brains aren’t. Our experiences aren’t. You assigned these people to Phoebe because we know ships, and this is the finest shipyard left intact after the fighting. We’re breaking our backs, for what? And now this business with Red Wing will make it worse.”

  “You’re compensated better than anyone else,” Mazrah said. “More than the fighters who risk their lives holding every station on the Ring every day.”

  “Compensated? What, with the extra rations we need to stay awake regardless? Or Uppers residences back on Titan that we can’t enjoy until this rebellion is over? Which is when?”

  “That’s all this is to you?” I said, a harsher edge creeping into my tone.

  “I mean no disrespect, Lord Trass. I appreciate everything you’re doing for us, but one day trade with the rest of Sol will return, and credits will mean something again, whether we use them on the Ring or not.”

  “Credits,” I groaned, pacing the room. “Credits, credits, credits. The moment we start throwing them around to reward a job well done, everyone else will want them. We’ll wind up just the same as they are. Twisted by greed.”

  “We aren’t asking to be rich because we were lucky enough to have worked in shipyards or factories. They paid us slave wages, and that was more than we get today. But it was something we could use. You want a fleet, and we want to give it to you.”

  “We need a fleet now,” Mazrah said.

  “Yes... But not all of us were behind open war and revolt. Not all of us wanted to lose every part of our old lives.”

  “Then you’re as blind as they are,” I growled.

  He either didn’t know how to respond or didn’t want to risk it. The room went silent for Trass knows how long until Mazrah pulled me to the side.

  “It’s just credits,” she whispered. “We have plenty stored in offworld accounts from the Children of Titan. Preparing our defenses is more important than anything now.”

  I glanced at my mother, who bobbed her head solemnly. I closed my eyes and drew a long, steady breath. “The moment we compromise, we’re lost,” I sighed. “Don’t either of you understand that?”

  “Manager Fring.” I turned to face him. “I will give you one last chance to resume an accelerated production schedule for the sake of Titan. There will be no credits, but I promise all workers who put in extra hours preparing us for the Earther fleet will be rewarded with the freshest greens from our conservatories. I will have our captive Earthers surveyed to find out which one of them has experience in ship construction, and you can use them as you see fit to boost production.”

  “You mean make them slaves this time,” he said.

  “Earth is coming. This isn’t the time for us to argu
e or show weakness. We must all work together now to establish the Ring Trass envisioned. You will end these protests immediately and present a unified front. After this is over, I promise we will sit down and finish this conversation.”

  “Lord Trass, I—”

  I raised my hand to silence him. “That is what I can offer. Do this for Titan, or I will find someone else who can.” I turned to Mazrah. “Stay and make sure things get up and running,” I ordered, then headed for the exit.

  Mazrah and my mother thanked Fring for his time, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he waited until I was at the exit. “Lord Trass,” he said. I stopped and glared back over my shoulder. “Before you go, would you care for some advice from an elderly man who’s seen almost everything?”

  I nodded for him to continue.

  “The name Trass helps you lead, but it doesn’t make you him,” he said. “Never forget that you rule over all the Ring now, not only those who agree with you. Otherwise, you may as well be Luxarn Pervenio.”

  I bit my lip. Old men, always preaching. Him, Malcolm, my old gas harvester captain. Too set in their ways to see anything different than the world they know. Even if Orson Fring did as I asked, he’d be a thorn in my side until the day he croaked. The workers filling the factory clearly respected him enough to listen.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Fring,” I said without turning back.

  <><><>

  My residence in the Darien Uppers was mostly symbolic. Oftentimes, I slept in my old hollow in the Lowers or in the marketplace itself. It was so hard to find time for rest anyway. The dwelling unit was the largest in Darien, at the upper level in the central tower rising up to the city’s massive, two-kilometer-long enclosure. It had belonged to Luxarn Pervenio before we kicked him off the Ring.

  A contained garden was suspended around the entry, soil beds hanging between a silver lattice. Leaves and flowers draped over the edges, making it visible from the floor, covering the entire ceiling of Darien in a verdant blanket. Only now the plants were wilting and brown. At first the water pipes continued watering them, but without maintenance they were clogging. It was such a waste, the gardens. Plants simply for a colorful display instead of feeding. Only Earthers could be so wasteful just to make the rocky tunnels of the Lowers seem even drabber.