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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  She stuck out her hand and put on a wry grin. “Promise?”

  I slapped my glass down and shook her hand. “Promise. Now I’m wide awake. You mind locking up?” She stared at me as if waiting for a better offer until, finally, I gave in. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the key card that got me into the tiny apartment upstairs. I tossed it to her. “You can stay in my place for the night if you do. I don’t plan on turning in early.”

  “Oh, I definitely don’t mind. As long as you don’t mind paying the Venta water bill on the longest shower I’ve ever taken.”

  “Fine, but no complaining next time I kick a drooling customer out if I don’t like the way he looks.” I started ambling toward the exit, able to maintain my balance better than normal. The yellow I’d seen in her eyes had me feeling a bit more sober.

  “Oh, Haglin!” she shouted after me. “Make sure you get here on time tomorrow, or Yan will have a heart attack. It might be busy.”

  “What is it? M-Day again already?”

  She exhaled. “Kale Trass and them Ringers are arriving, remember? Should draw crowds from all over Mars.”

  “Right.” I glanced at the grainy viewscreen above the bar playing a live newsfeed. All anyone had been reporting for weeks was about how Kale Trass was meeting with the USF Assembly on Mars to discuss terms. I didn’t know or care to watch much more. My involvement in Sol affairs was over with, especially when it came to Ringers. Giving my daughter the chance to get out from under their thumb at the cost of Zhaff’s life was the last meaningful thing I’d ever do.

  “Just be here!” she hollered.

  I rolled my shoulders and continued out the door. The sun had long since set over Mars, not that much of its radiance reached Old Dome anyhow. Vibrant ads and signs all over dressed everything in their artificial light. Products and destinations, all favoring the rusty coloring of Mars’ surface so that it was like I was stuck in perpetual dusk. It hid all the city’s imperfections.

  Not having a good night in Old Dome was a challenge. The Twilight Sun had closed, but the clubs never did. People propositioned me from every corner, selling their bodies, passes, drugs, or worse. Venta security watched it all from raised posts and with drones, but the only thing they really cared about was violence or illegal weaponry.

  I headed onto Old Dome’s main strip, aptly dubbed the Tongueway. There were many stories behind the name, but the most appropriate was that the place was a melting pot, crammed with so many dialects and people from different backgrounds that it was said there wasn’t a secret that couldn’t be found on the tongue of someone there.

  The seemingly endless avenue stretched from one end of the New Beijing dome to the other. It was the only passage down in Old Dome wide enough for a vehicle to fit through, but so crammed with people, it took them hours to go a few blocks. Even hover-cars couldn’t go high without the risk of slamming into unplanned overhangs or lines strung between the structures, feeding who knows what system and lined with wet clothes, signs, or flags. Gangs, companies—people of all backgrounds staked a claim on the Tongueway.

  At night, nobody cared about the stench. Drunkards pissed in the maze of alleys branching off, puked in the drains. Dried blood from spats or other nefarious dealings. The Lowers in Darien, Titan had similar doings, but the real difference was that nobody really wanted to be there. Citizens of Sol traveled from all over to get a taste of the Tongueway’s temptations. So long as you kept out of the sewers, it was the best kind of filth.

  “You lookin’ for a good time, honey?” a woman asked me from the shadows behind a neon sign. I didn’t get a chance to read the venue’s name. I mustered the knowing grin of a man who belongs in the place and followed her up into a Venta-run exotic dance club. And, man, the dancers were exotic.

  I’ll hand it to Venta Co.; they could find a way to monetize anything. Every dancer who prowled the floor searching for deep pockets had something visibly wrong with them. Missing limb, extra limb, lack of pigmentation, deformed features—a who’s who of physical abnormalities as if they plucked young boys and girls from a radiation farm.

  You could find anything in Old Dome, but the key to getting rich was presenting something people didn’t realize they wanted, like this place. Dim the lights, get a patron drunk, and invite them into the back, where he or she could hunt for the deformity under what little clothing the performers wore.

  Presently, a male dancer with a body firmer than I’d ever seen was on stage, only he was missing both legs at the hip. He twirled around a pole, as gracefully as Wai or any other dancer. Made me feel like a dolt for not being able to walk a straight line just because I had an artificial leg.

  After the woman who invited me in led me to the bar, I pulled an old move from my prime. Women loved hearing stories about my adventures as a collector. The best part was, they were mostly true, with an embellishment here and there. My captive audience leaned in closer as I spun a tale about a crazy job, like all girls do who are only interested in being paid. Who was I to complain about attention?

  Right before the good part, I got distracted by a spotlight illuminating her face, where I discovered her disfiguration. The woman was a looker in every sense of the word. A tight dress hugged her lissome figure, and a glowing orange circlet wrapped her neck to purposely draw attention toward its low cut and her augmented breasts. But her nose, whether by force or birth defect, didn’t exist.

  “Haglin,” the woman said. “You were saying?”

  I quickly turned my attention to the stage and pretended I hadn’t been staring.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered, wrapping her fingers around my hand. They were cool from the condensation on the drink I’d bought her. “I don’t mind if you stare.”

  I glanced up at the sinewy hole in the center of her face, and my mind temporarily transported me back to the Darien Quarantine Zone on Titan, where Zhaff and I traipsed through a hall filled with sick, desiccated Ringer bodies. Literally falling apart.

  I blinked hard and forced a smile. “Why wouldn’t I stare?” I said. “You’re gorgeous.”

  “And you’re sweet. How about I take you around back and show you what I do for sweet men?”

  My leg stretched to stand before my mind could catch up. Eventually, it did, as I recalled that I could only feel the one leg… among other parts down there. I grabbed my glass of synthahol and downed what little was left. I couldn’t afford the real stuff anymore.

  “How about one more round?” I said. “I didn’t get to finish my story.”

  “They’re your credits, handsome,” she said.

  I slapped the counter to get the bartender’s attention and held up two fingers. Then I skootched my stool forward.

  “So, there I was,” I began. “After fighting my way through at least forty rebels on Undina, Yev Tavar was about to plow into me with a rock hauler. I had two choices, dive out of the way and take my chances with the rest of his insurgents, or stand my ground and bet on my pistol.” Two drinks slid over to us. “Thanks.” I flashed my fake ID to sync credits and turned back to the woman.

  “Where was I?” I said. “Right. So, here he comes, and I lift my pistol. This one, right here actually.” I tapped my holster, and my escort had to place her hand on my side to keep me from toppling. I pretended I didn’t realize. “I wait as long as I can—until I can see the whites of his eyes through the viewport—and then I pull the trigger.”

  “Did you hit him?” she asked. I’ll give her this, she was damn good at pretending to care. I guess a lifetime of half-ignoring repulsive men can be a good teacher.

  “Did I hit him? I plunked him right in the chest. Had the bastard dead to rights too, only, after all the problems he’d given Pervenio, he wasn’t going to go out without a fight. Do you… do you want to know what the mad offworlder tried next?”

  “To pull your pants down?” a man sitting behind me interrupted. His buddy started cackling. One glance over my shoulder, and I made them for Venta collectors e
njoying some time off. The man who spoke was clearly in charge and wore a duster in far better shape than my old one, but pulse pistols dangled from both their hips that weren’t vestiges of a bygone age.

  “How about you and your boyfriend keep your mouths shut?” I said.

  They shoved off the bar and stood next to me. “We were trying, old man,” the leader said, “but if I had to hear you bore the poor girl with one more bullshit story, my head was going to explode.”

  “Bullshit story? Don’t you know who I am? I’ve been putting down insurgents since before either of you was wearing diapers.”

  “I didn’t realize there were rebels in nursing homes.”

  His partner almost lost it laughing. I sprang to my feet too fast, and my artificial leg wasn’t ready. I wobbled, caught my balance on the nearest table, and drew myself in front of them. They were tall, definitely not born on Earth, but still plenty strong enough to take me on in my inebriated state.

  “Why don’t we go, baby,” my escort whispered into my ear.

  “Yeah, go,” the collector in the duster said. “Unless…” He turned to his partner and sneered. “Unless that’s why you want to keep her here. You missing equipment like one of these mutants?” He went to poke me in the crotch, but I bobbed out of the way.

  “Watch your mouth, boy.” I grabbed my glass without thinking twice and smashed it into the side of his head. It shattered into countless pieces, but the one thing I was counting on was for him to go down. He didn’t. The collector reeled but stayed upright, and his partner had me in a headlock before I could blink.

  “You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that,” the leader said. He picked a few shards out of his bloody hair and studied me from head to toe. “I don’t usually like to beat old men, but now I’ll have to make an exception.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Why don’t you tell your friend to let me go, and I’ll teach you how to talk properly in front of a lady.”

  “What lady?” He grabbed my jaw and rotated my head toward the stool where my noseless escort had been. She was gone. “When you look like a prune, the only thing they’re interested in is credits.” His fist crashed into my gut so hard I collapsed onto the floor. He spat on me, and the two of them strutted away crowing.

  “That’s the problem with you young guns,” I groaned as I rose to my knees. “No passion for the fight. Definitely not Pervenio men. Only Venta could train such pussies.”

  They stopped, and the leader sighed. “Now why did you have to go and keep running your mouth?” His fist crunched against my jaw and sent me sprawling. He knelt by my side, reached into my pocket, and removed my ID. He then flung it back at me. “We abandoned Luxarn’s sinking ship months ago, Haglin Amissum. Funny thing is, all my time there, I’ve never heard of you in my life. Have you?” His partner shook his head.

  “You—” A swift kick in the side shut me up and knocked me into a cluster of empty stools.

  “Would you two knock it off?” the bartender ordered.

  The lead collector flashed his Venta badge, making sure to flaunt his holstered pistol. “Why don’t you shut the hell up!” Not a soul protested. I remembered having that kind of influence, especially in Pervenio-owned venues. The collector tapped my cheek. “Where is the big bad Pervenio man now?” he said to me. “How many protestors was it you said you took on in that asteroid. Forty? What were they slapping you with? Picket signs?”

  I licked the blood off my lip. “Makes me sick knowing that Sol is in the hands of brats like you.”

  “Do you really want to die tonight, old timer?”

  “Maybe he is a washed-up old collector,” the partner said. “That’s a nice gun he’s got. It’d look pretty in a trophy case.”

  “I’ll be damned, you’re right. A fine relic, just like him.”

  “Help me up, and I’ll show you just what she’s capable of,” I snarled.

  “Nah. I think you’re going to hand it over, and then maybe, just maybe, I won’t take you out back and leave your corpse in the alley. If you really were a collector, then you’d know that here on our turf, nobody would bat an eyelash.” He seized my throat and squeezed. “How does that sound, Haglin Amissum.”

  I tried to respond, but his grip was too tight. At the same time, I felt his partner trying to figure out how to loosen my holster.

  “What was that?” he chuckled. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Malcolm… Graves…” I forced out.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  His partner was just about to free my gun, when my artificial leg stabbed out into his chest and sent him flying across the room into an occupied booth twenty meters away. The head collector’s grip relaxed as he watched in shock, allowing me to draw my pistol and crack him across the skull with the handle. This time, he doubled over like a sack of plasticrete.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed from the floor. Pistol in hand, he rolled over and fired one round over my shoulder. I kicked a stool at him. The metal legs struck with such force, they knocked his gun away. I didn’t wait to hear his screams, not that I’d be able to over the panic his shot had caused throughout the club. I snatched up my ID and bolted out of the joint. Security had heard the gunshot and ran past me on my way out.

  In seconds, I vanished into the perpetual Tongueway crowd. I was off the books at the Twilight Sun, so it’d take a fair bit of snooping if they wanted to track me down based on my fake name. I doubted two young, brash Venta collectors would go through the trouble, or be willing to admit they’d been taken down by a washed-up old man. I know I wouldn’t have. But if they did come knocking, I’d be happy to greet them. It was the most thrilling thing that’d happened to me since retiring.

  “Foundry salts, straight from Titan,” a hawkish offworlder offered me from beneath the overhang of a casino on my way by, as if reading my thoughts. The bags under his eyes read so darkly against his pale skin, they might as well have been drawn on. His teeth were half rotted. He looked like Zhaff’s sallow, half-dead body.

  “I’ll take it,” I muttered, trying to force the image out. I synced whatever amount of credits he’d asked for, I couldn’t say. One sniff of the stuff and the ache in my jaw from taking that collector’s punch was gone.

  I staggered into the casino, where slot machines dinged all around me like something out of a circus nightmare. I snorted and drank and gambled my way through the place, and then all along the Tongueway. Colors grew more vivid and dancers more beautiful. I braved a private booth with one, even though the feeling in my lower extremity still hadn’t completely returned. It didn’t matter while on foundry salts from Titan’s Lower factories. Everything felt incredible, and I was compelled to keep moving before they grew frustrated by my impotence.

  My world became a blur of activity, and I was merely a ghost floating through it. Memories faded. History disappeared. I was living in the here and now; no worries, no ex-partners, no family, and no employer. Free.

  Seven

  Kale

  Our landing at Rin’s hands went smoother than expected, though in a ship like the Cora, it was probably harder to screw it up. The crew began preparing for our exit in the cargo hold. Sixteen armed fighters, Ambassador Aria, and Rin. Roughly forty-five days in sleep pods on top of stronger gravity than they were accustomed to had them all looking exhausted.

  While they worked, Gareth and I remained in my private quarters. When we stole the Cora, the room had been as garish as any Earther’s I’d ever seen. I’d had it stripped to its bones. The wood trim was peeled off and the cushioned bed and couches removed, leaving behind nothing but hard metal corners and dull, unadorned surfaces.

  “You are sure we can trust Aria with this?” Gareth signed as he helped me into my powered suit of armor. Blood had diminished its white color, and patches of the orange circle painted on the chestplate were fading. I made it a point not to have it refurbished.

  “I thought we were done with this,” I groused. I was growing tired o
f the constant questioning of Aria, even though I understood everyone’s hesitance.

  “We were, but now you won’t have me watching your back.”

  “I’ll have Rin and the others. You’re not the only one who can shoot a gun, Gareth.”

  “No, but I’m the only one who can hit anything with one.”

  “I’ll be sure not to tell my aunt you said that.” He finished preparing my armor and took a step back. The lines of nervousness racking his face were plainly visible.

  “I do trust Aria, though,” I said. “We need someone who speaks their language now.”

  “But are you sure she speaks for us?” he signed. “We’re on Earther turf. Enough credits offered outside might be able to turn her.”

  “They won’t. If that’s what she’s after, all she’d have to do is ask. The Children of Titan had enough stored up in offworld accounts to make her as rich as Luxarn Pervenio.”

  “Fine. Just make sure you watch your back. Here, Aria is the least of your concerns.”

  “I know. Now stop worrying about me. I need you focused on your more important mission.”

  Gareth gestured to his clothing. Unlike me, he wore ordinary cloth rags with no printed orange circle or logo to speak of. He’d purposely dirtied his gaunt face to appear like a homeless, first-generation offworlder. Living under the high g of Saturn for so long had deepened the creases on his face enough that he almost looked like one. Most significant, however, was his lack of sanitary mask despite being on an Earther world.

  “Good,” I said. “Be as fast as possible. The fewer germs you pick up out there, the better.”

  “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  He removed a loose portion of plating from the wall, revealing a circular duct that would comfortably fit a skinny Titanborn. It led out of a hidden hatch in the back of the ship. My favorite part about it was that we hadn’t made the addition. The great Luxarn Pervenio left a hole in his prized vessel so that even he could smuggle goods or people under the radar of the USF.