Titanborn: (Children of Titan Book 1)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “We should head to the USF security post, see if they’ve heard any reports of a Ringer in the area,” I said.

  “Unnecessary,” Zhaff quickly responded. His face was buried in his hand-terminal. “While you slept, I contacted every USF outpost in Old Russia. Surveillance in the area is scarce, but a camera spotted a man matching my description enter a hauler repair shop. I am presently uploading the location.”

  I tried not to let my wounded pride show. I knew Cogents were supposed to be efficient, but I had no idea how efficient. It was like after I’d told him how I set up an express ride to reach Old Russia, he had to outdo me.

  “Well, hurry up, then,” I grumbled.

  While I waited, I moved beside a screen displaying an ad for a three-year-old line of heavy jackets designed by Venta Co. I had to admit, the thing wasn’t terrible. At least it emitted some warmth.

  I turned to Zhaff, wondering if the Cogent had intended not to bring a coat. He didn’t seem affected by the temperature at all. I cupped my hands over my mouth and then looked up past the rail station’s rippling canopy. It was snowing, and like most of Earth, the sky of Old Russia was congested with the usual mixture of dark clouds polluted both by centuries-old dust from the first M-Day and human-made toxins. Sometimes I wished that I’d known the blue and sunny skies of old. The omnipresent shroud was one of the many gifts bestowed upon Earth by the Meteorite.

  The climate never fully recovered after it hit. Worldwide, temperatures dropped, making it impossible to differentiate between seasons. Among the places that remained above water, New London was considered warm—and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone outside without needing a winter coat. Compared with Old Russia, New London was a tropical paradise. Any farther north, and we may as well have been standing outside on Titan. An exaggeration for sure, being that the orange moon’s surface was cold enough to turn a man into a popsicle in seconds, but at a certain point, I don’t think it matters. Cold is cold, and I hated it.

  “It is only six blocks east,” Zhaff said finally.

  “You’re telling me he went through all the trouble of falsifying his identification only to clumsily be caught by one of the few surveillance cameras in Glazov?” I said. “Right around the corner from the rail station no less.”

  “It is likely he expected to be followed and is trying to confuse his pursuers.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not going to stand around here waiting until I’m a block of ice. We’ll see what we find at the shop and go from there.”

  To my relief, Zhaff nodded and said, “I agree. Also, Malcolm, during our trip, the body of Jack Fletcher was discovered in the bathroom of the Molten Crater after they cleaned up what remained of the bar. It was missing an eye.”

  “Right under my damn nose,” I said under my breath, making sure to turn my face away from Zhaff so he wouldn’t see how embarrassed I most likely looked. Again, the notion that maybe the directors were right about me slipping popped into my head. I promptly shoved it out of mind. Arresting the first Ringer to ever bomb New London was too good an opportunity to allow doubt to get a hold on me.

  “Finding Fletcher means that other collectors will be bearing down on us in no time now,” I said. “I have no desire to watch someone else cash in. We better not waste any more time. Let’s go.”

  We marched down one of the bleak cross streets of the slums, my long duster kicking up the accumulated white powder. The sound of electronic music echoed on either side of us, through thin metal walls and windows plastered with glowing advertisements. I could hear boisterous laughter and people hollering from inside in the Russo-English lingo typical of the area. As in New London, most of the M-Day celebrations in Old Russia had been forced indoors, though, for them, it was due to the unrelenting cold and not a bomb.

  A few bearded Earthers lounged against the walls outside, but that was all. They accompanied the countless bottles rolling lazily across the metal-paved walkways. One bumped into my foot, and I knelt to pick it up. It was empty, a layer of frost built up around the nozzle.

  “You’d think it’d be easier to get a drink today,” I groused.

  “It is not wise to ingest alcohol, Malcolm,” Zhaff said.

  “Now, or ever?”

  “Both.”

  I chuckled, and before I could think of some sage piece of advice about how after so many years on the job it was the best thing for you, Zhaff turned with soldierly precision and headed left down a narrow alley.

  “This way,” he instructed.

  A group of emaciated Earthers with scraggly beards stood clustered around a grille that spit up billows of hot steam. They wore heavy coats that would’ve been enough to keep them warm on their own if they weren’t so worn down.

  “Zdravstvuj, friends,” one of them croaked as we approached.

  Their sullen eyes watched us nervously, and I knew why. One look at us and they knew exactly why we'd come: There was a collection to be made. It was an expression I’d recognize no matter what colony I was on, although at least on Earth, people mostly stayed quiet and kept their distance so they didn’t get hurt. Once Zhaff and I passed, I heard them let out a collective sigh, relieved to know that one of them wasn’t the target.

  “They saw something,” Zhaff stated.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I had a USF warning sent out to all citizens in the area to keep a lookout for any elderly men braving the cold.”

  “Of course, you did…”

  “One of them displayed signs of guilt, as if he has seen one.”

  “You can go back and ask them if you’d like,” I said, “but people way out here don’t tend to talk to collectors.”

  “It is irrelevant. He can no longer help us.”

  Zhaff again stopped suddenly and turned to face a rusty door sunk into the corrugated metal backside of a structure beside an overflowing dumpster. It belonged to the hauler repair shop we were looking for. The door was slightly ajar, rattling as the cold air breezed through. I quickly positioned myself at the corner and pulled out my pistol. Zhaff did the same.

  “They don’t leave their doors open either,” I said. With my left hand, I removed Aria’s Ark figurine and gave it a kiss for good luck, like I always did before I got the feeling a job was about to get hairy.

  “What is that?” Zhaff asked.

  “Nothing,” I lied, stuffing it back into my pocket. I slipped my heavy boot between the door and the jamb, pushing the door open just enough to edge in with my pistol aimed. Zhaff stayed right on my heels.

  We rushed into an open space filled with inactive machine belts and broken-down vehicles. The only sound came from a newscast on the view-screen by the front desk that was left on. A report about the bombing in New London played, the news finally making its way to the forlorn slums of Old Russia. The garage door adjacent to the view-screen was wide open, flakes of snow wafting in.

  I ducked behind the frame of a deconstructed hauler and signaled Zhaff to take cover by a workbench up ahead. As soon as I moved to follow him, a bullet glanced off the chassis, the sparks shooting out directly in front of my eyes. I fired off a frantic shot and dove, slamming into the workbench and landing beside Zhaff.

  “You never should have come here!” a man yelled. It was without question the Ringer from the Molten Crater. His voice was hoarse from coughing.

  “You are in violation of four federation laws,” Zhaff responded as calmly as ever. “Lay down your weapon.”

  “Come and take it, mud stompers!”

  The noisy engine of a hauler facing the open garage door turned over. Images of Undina flashed through my mind until I peered around the corner of the table to see the Ringer’s pale arm sticking out the window. He had a pre-Meteorite, powder-based revolver aimed at us—a slug-chucker, we called them. I pulled my head back behind cover when he continued firing in our direction. I counted five more shots, and then it clicked. That was when he hit the gas.

  Zhaff and I simultaneous
ly sprang up to return fire. Our pulse-pistols were quieter at the barrel, but they packed three times the punch. Bullets clanged loudly off metal parts and shattered the narrow glass window on the back of the hauler. One of us managed to nick the Ringer’s forearm as his vehicle swerved out onto the streets. It caused him to shriek, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Soon after, he was out of view, and I was left shooting at nothing but snowflakes. Zhaff had stopped as soon as he knew he was wasting rounds.

  “Damn!” I grunted and lowered my pistol once the sound of the hauler disappeared. “You hit?”

  “No,” Zhaff answered. He bent down to examine one of the bullet holes left behind by the Ringer’s gun.

  I realized instantly that if it was his first time on Earth, he’d probably never seen an ancient weapon like the one the Ringer had wielded.

  “It’s an old-fashioned revolver, pre-Meteorite,” I said. “He probably found it in the owner’s desk. Shopkeepers like them out in the slums. They’re small, unregistered, and easy to hide from robbers… or security.” Despite their age, they were also actually fairly cheap on the black market. The wealthy preferred their old-world relics to at least be attractive if they weren’t going to be useful.

  Zhaff’s eye-lens angled in my direction and he nodded. It felt good to finally have something to teach him.

  I gestured for him to get up, and we continued to investigate the room. I raised my gun as we did, making sure to check every corner. Zhaff had his holstered. He strolled along calmly, as though he already knew we wouldn’t find anybody alive.

  “Dead,” he declared, right on cue. He pointed at something behind the front desk, and I skirted my way around a machine belt to see.

  The remains of a man were slumped against the wall, his head cracked open like a melon. The pool of blood that had formed beneath him was frozen, with a sullied wrench resting in the center, right beside his outstretched hand. Signs of struggle were evident, with many of the items from on top of the desk carelessly strewn about. An open drawer revealed a pile of loose bullets that had been left behind in the Ringer’s apparent rush. I got near enough to make sure nobody else was hiding behind the desk before finally stowing my gun.

  “Poor bastard,” I said. Upon closer inspection, I found that the dead man had a fairly youthful look to him. My guess was that he was an apprentice put to work while the shop’s owner was out celebrating M-Day. That was when it hit me exactly how sloppy the Ringer really was. He had taken every precaution to get out of New London safely, but as soon as he disembarked the train at Glazov station, it was like he didn’t care about being captured. Murder weapon lying out in the open. Getting spotted on camera right outside. None of it seemed right.

  “It appears he is no longer disguised,” Zhaff said.

  I buried the unsettling feeling deep inside, hoping that Zhaff hadn’t noticed, and then glanced up. The Cogent had already moved past finding a corpse and was crouched nearby, examining something on the floor. I would’ve been relieved to find someone else as numb to death as I was, if I hadn’t already discovered how young Zhaff was.

  Beneath his hand lay a cane wrapped by a tattered scarf, with a sprinkle of blood on the frayed end. Whether it belonged to the murdered apprentice or to Jack Fletcher’s now frozen eyeball lying on top of it, I wasn’t sure.

  “The Ringer’s death toll is starting to pile up,” I said. “This other one probably startled him and got himself killed.”

  Zhaff got to his feet and approached the gaping garage door. He stared outside for a few moments before turning back to me. “His tracks continue toward the border of the Euro-String and into the wilderness.”

  “What the hell would he want out there?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, using those words for the first time in our short partnership.

  “So you’re human after all.”

  I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. Zhaff knelt by the spots of the Ringer’s blood outside and placed a drop into a reader on his hand-terminal for analysis. I started perusing the shop to see if there were any haulers left in good condition. They weren’t complicated. They were basic, land-based vehicles used to transport goods across distances too short to require the rail line.

  “No DNA record on file,” Zhaff said, precisely loud enough for me to hear him across the shop.

  “An illegitimate Ringer who’s never been to the doctor?” I replied. “I doubt that.” I spotted a decent hauler in the corner. The belted wheels were a little off track, but it looked like it would run.

  “Let’s take this hauler after him and find out,” I said. I strolled up next to the vehicle. It was apparently due for repairs because the physical key was left dangling right outside the ignition. “We’ll call in USF security to clean up this mess on our way,” I said, reaching into the vehicle and cranking the ignition a few times. The engine merely sputtered. “This thing—” I was cut off by a clank near the back door. Both Zhaff and I drew our guns and aimed, though I found myself worrying about how he was a hair faster and not who the intruder might be.

  “Hold your fire!” whoever it was shouted.

  A pair of hands rose up from behind a machine belt. I wasn’t sure who they belonged to until I saw a pistol identical to my own held in one of them. I fired a shot five or so meters to the left of him on purpose. It made me feel better.

  “Whoa, hold it!” Trevor Cross yelled. He popped up farther so we could see his face.

  “Oh, sorry,” I responded. “I couldn’t tell it was you from here. Old eyes and all.”

  Trevor released a nervous laugh and shuffled toward us. He went to lower his arms, but Zhaff said, “Why are you here, Collector?”

  “I heard shooting,” Trevor said. “Thought it might be a lead.”

  “Holster your weapon at once,” Zhaff ordered.

  “All right, all right.” Trevor lowered his weapon slowly and slid it into his side holster. “No need to get angry. We’re all on the same side here.”

  I tapped Zhaff on the shoulder and whispered, “I’ll handle this.” Zhaff nodded, stowed his pistol, and lifted the hood of the hauler I’d selected to start tooling around with the engine.

  I kept my gun aimed and my eye on Trevor. There was no way I was going to trust a Venta Co rat when we had a real lead to follow.

  “So, you just happened to be out here?” I asked him. “You weren’t trying to follow us for a lead, were you? You know how I feel about contract poaching.”

  Trevor shrugged. “Hey, we’re all after the same person. I followed the trail same as you did.”

  “Right. So you figured out it’s a Ringer, did you?”

  His eyes went wide. He nodded, but I could tell he was as shocked as I was when I first saw the Ringer standing next to me in the Molten Crater. He was an awful liar.

  “Why don’t you go home, Cross?” I said. “This is no place for kids.”

  “Tell that to your—” He stopped when he noticed the split head of the shop attendant slumped against the wall.

  “Like I said. The Ringer we’re after has a flair for killing. I’m sure Venta has a crooked shop owner you could go after or a streetwalker who isn’t paying dues. That sounds more your speed.”

  “Funny, Graves. But I’m not the one who let him get away.” He gestured toward the hauler tracks and the spots of blood on the snowy street outside. Then he walked up next to me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “How about this: I help you find the Ringer and we split the reward?”

  I grabbed his hand as tight as I could and removed it. “I’d rather the Ringer kill me.”

  “Don’t be a fool. He went to the wilderness. You know how big that is? If we find him, I’ll let you be the one to turn it in. Pervenio doesn’t even have to know I helped.”

  Zhaff stopped working and slammed the hood of the hauler shut. “Locating the bomber is our priority, Malcolm. It is true he could provide assistance in the wilderness and benefit Pervenio relations with Venta Co. I will contact
Director Sodervall to draft an arrangement.”

  “I was wrong about you.” Trevor stepped past me toward Zhaff, who was busy sliding into the driver’s seat of the hauler. “Listen to him, Graves. Think of the headlines, all of us working together in the name of justice.”

  Zhaff turned the ignition, and this time the engine clicked a few times and hummed to life. Of course he knew how to fix one. He could do everything, but nothing more expertly than foul my mood. Zhaff pulled out his hand-terminal and started typing.

  “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut next time,” I said to Zhaff.

  “I apologize, but I am unable to keep my mouth shut and also speak,” Zhaff replied without looking up at me with his eye-lens. “Communication is critical for this mission.”

  Trevor snickered. “This guy gets better and better. What do you say, Graves?”

  I shoved past him and climbed up into the hauler. “Move over; you’re too young to drive,” I said to Zhaff, not even thinking that it was probably true. For once, he did something without a fuss. I took my spot in the driver’s seat and wrapped my hands around the wheel. Then I sighed. “All right, hop in,” I said to Trevor.

  He beamed. “I knew your brain wasn’t too withered up,” he said. “This’ll be fun.”

  Trevor grabbed on to the side of the vehicle and started to draw himself up into the cramped backseat when I hit the gas. The hauler zoomed forward, causing him to roll over the trunk. He squealed like a young boy as he hit the ground and rolled, even though I knew we weren’t going fast enough for him to receive anything worse than a scrape.