Children of Titan Series: Books 1-4: (A Space Opera Thriller Box Set)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “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 airlock. An orange circle was inscribed over his or her chest plate, and the armor’s visor was tinted enough to make it impossible to discern a 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 airlock, at least a dozen Earthers banged on the glass of a circular porthole, screaming. A similar number of pale, long-faced Ringers were lined up in seats set on either side of the rebel soldier. They watched, 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 came from the soldier at the airlock. “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 airlock pressed a button on its control panel, sentencing 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 pushed the memory away. 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 the Rings Solnet network himself, as if testing whether the director’s intelligence was correct. Disseminating something like that across the highly guarded Pervenio servers was no easy task. It meant 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 won’t ask again. I want 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. The sight came close to making me laugh, but I was able to hold it back, considering the current circumstances. The director didn’t say anything, but he seemed to be more in shock than he had been while 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 support a communications system capable of accomplishing this on its own, especially with the interference of Saturn’s storms. It appears that the recording was somehow transmitted from the ship directly to this station, where your secure channels were used to post it publicly.”

  “How do you know all that?” the director questioned. He rushed 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 besides myself. Now Director Sodervall knew precisely 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 gave you the damn assignment!”

  “I hate to disagree with you, Zhaff, but he’s right,” I broke in before Sodervall smacked him. “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’ve heard thousands over the years.” I leveled a glare Sodervall’s way. “And nobody told me the Children of Titan existed until today.”

  “It was need to know,” Sodervall said. “But they’re the right kind of bastards to be willing to bomb Earth on M-Day, all right. 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 from the inner system are arriving on the Ring within the next week?”

  Zhaff bent down and searched through the director’s computer again. “Seventy-three,” he specified. “It is possible, however unlikely, that they utilized a vessel faster than our passenger liner and arrived earlier.”

  “And the smugglers could be on any of them, assuming they’re even coming here, or didn’t pass their route through a dozen inner colonies to stay invisible. 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, heading 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. “Manned harvesters of that class have outdated nuclear-thermal engines with auxiliary ion thrusters to allow for travel within and out of Saturn’s gravity well.”

  “English, Zhaff,” I said.

  Zhaff keyed a few more commands. “There is a nuclear reactor on board that is well past its recommended life expectancy and could be easily overloaded to damage this station,” he said. “It cannot be allowed to reach us. According to you, the Children of Titan are renowned for utilizing violent, unpredictable measures. Lend us a ship, and we will intercept it.” His tone wasn’t any more authoritative than normal, but it held an acute sense of urgency that earned even the director’s complete attention.

  “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 ha
d 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 clean this time. We don’t want another Undina situation.”

  I knew from the moment I saw him 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?” I said. “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.

  THIRTEEN

  A small transport vessel flew me, Zhaff, and a group of three Pervenio security 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 took 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 or just above Saturn’s roiling atmosphere. Between the innermost rings 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 could’ve survived two weeks of vacation if he hadn’t. I probably would have 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 are 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 and guards 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 patted his leg and nodded. “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 all wore Pervenio-issued, space-worthy armored suits with nano-fiber inlay that enhanced muscle performance. A gentle hiss as the helmet’s seal formed around my neck, then I closed its visor. All I could hear was my own steady breathing.

  “Coms check,” I said. The com-link built into each suit connected our 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 command deck is ruptured,” the pilot announced, his voice now directly beside my ear. “You want to go in through the breach?”

  “Negative,” I said. “Take us to the cargo bay walls, and we’ll cut in. If the command deck’s exposed, whoever is on board might be expecting us to come through there.”

  “Roger that. I’m going to back up against it. Hold on to your seatbelts and 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 hand bars along the ceiling to pull my weightless body 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. The plated hull had a discolored, yellow hue from being pounded by sulfur and ammonium crystals in Saturn’s atmosphere. It looked like it was from a time before I was born—if that was possible—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.

  “Shit!” the pilot shouted.

  The back of our ship slammed into it so hard that my tired arms gave out and I lost my grip. 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.

  “Sorry, I came in too hot,” the pilot said.

  “I told you, you should have exercised,” Zhaff said as he straightened me out.

  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. 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, it had to be powered by our transport’s engines 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. 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 said under my breath as I stared at the opening, remembering the circle on the chest of the terrorist in that video.

  “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 floated 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 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 lowered through the opening where my visor had been and switched them to thermal. The cargo bay remained completely empty of heat signatures.