“I’m just saying.”
“Luxarn is finally coming out of his shell, and he’s using Venta as a hammer,” I said. I pressed my hands against the glass door. It vibrated from the festivity outside. “Listen to them. They have no idea what’s coming.”
“The USF won’t be able to stop them, hostages or not,” Rin said. “I don’t know if we can either.”
“Like I said, why do you think they’re making this move?” Rin said. “Destroy Red Wing, unite to buy their assets quickly, so no Earthers lose their jobs, and make the USF even less powerful.”
“So we deny it publicly,” my mother said. “At the very least, it will slow down the USF’s decision-making.”
“Don’t you see? Nothing we say matters anymore,” I said. “They’ve been waiting for an excuse all this time. Waiting for us to show that we’re the monsters they think we are. Nobody looked further in that video than the orange circle to see if it was us. Nobody ever will. And by raiding Martelle Station, we proved that a fleet could benefit them. Damnit!” I punched the wall as hard as I could. Cuts along my knuckles split open, and my mother grabbed my hand to make sure I was okay.
“We did what we had to,” Rin said. “They’d have made this happen some other way. All we can do now is prepare. We should send everyone we’ve got who’s ever worked in a dock to Phoebe to speed up the construction of our fleet. We can transition other factories as well. It won’t take long to outfit gas harvesters and transports with weapons, and we have to be ready to hold.”
“That might be a problem,” Rylah said. She flinched as both Rin and my glares fell upon her.
“Why?” I asked.
“That man, Orson Fring. He’s organized most of the experienced ship workers we’ve got in protest, demanding more compensation. Other industries have joined in too. We’re arming, just...not as quickly as anticipated without them. Now with PerVenta, I—”
“I thought I told you to handle it.”
“What did you want me to do? Lock him away? Kill him? The moment you left, his following multiplied, and it’s clear why. Our people are exhausted after being overworked the last few months. They’re hungry with half the Darien hydro-farms compromised and no trade.”
“That’s all we need,” Rin groaned. “An Earther-lover used to getting their scraps putting everyone on strike. I say we get rid of him.”
“That’s your solution for everything, isn’t it?” my mother snapped.
“Well, if it works.”
“Orson and the others are coming around, Kale,” my mother said, taking me by the shoulders. “I’ve been talking with Mr. Fring, trying to come to an agreement for him to call off the protests.”
“By the time you’re done talking, we’ll be dead.”
“Why don’t we stop being so stubborn and offer them credits?” Rylah said. “Nothing’s ever shut a man up quite as quickly, I promise you.”
“It wasn’t the money that kept them quiet, sister,” Rin said, eyeing Rylah from head to toe. “We pay them, then everyone else across the Ring will want the same, and we’ll wind up exactly like the Earthers.”
“Enough, everyone,” I demanded. “You’re giving me a headache. I’ll talk to Mr. Fring as soon as we’re done here. Rin, do you have your hand terminal?” I asked. She nodded. “Good. Record this.”
I opened the door and backed up slowly into the sea of my people’s carousing. Rin followed me and set her hand terminal to record. I remembered when she’d bought the thing so that we could hack Pervenio Station and steal the Piccolo. It seemed like ages ago. Rylah and my mother watched from behind the glass, brows furrowed.
I kept walking until I stood at the feet of Darien Trass’ statue, then I faced the camera and nodded to Rin. “We traveled to Earth to make peace, and you shunned us,” I said after it started recording. “Red Wing Company thought they could buy our loyalty and learned the hard way. Venta Co. went back on their word and learned the same lesson by losing their prized chief engineer.
“The Ring is ours. We will not negotiate. We will not be bribed or prodded. Send all the ships you want. Send a fleet. They’ll return to Earth in ashes. Soon you people will know the fear we lived with every single day under your rule, but we are afraid no longer!” I raised my arms, gesturing to the raucous mob of Titanborn at my back. Then Rin cut the recording.
My mother’s jaw hung open. Rylah closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Rin’s expression didn’t change. Malcolm may have done his best to wedge his way between us, but she understood what it would take to win. All the people behind me begging for war might not have, but she did.
Luxarn and Madame Venta had made their move. They were coming, and all I had to do was sweeten the bait. Feed their rage and their greed so that they would rush things. Our fleet didn’t need to be larger or more advanced. All it needed to do was hold while I pulled the rug out from under the Earthers’ homeworld using Basaam’s invention.
Then, and only then, would they give us everything we wanted.
I breathed in deeply. The smell of salt, soldered metal, and burning gases were staples of the Darien Lowers where I grew up. Industry powering the Earthers’ burgeoning inter-solar 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.
Titan was filled with warriors who lowered their heads as I went by, who fought for our freedom, but these skilled ship workers who’d lived closer to Earthers on stations and smaller moons 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 Rylah stopped in front of the door into Orson Fring’s foreman office. Mother knocked, and the door slid open with a whoosh almost immediately. A few older 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 understand what reasons you had for taking credit for that massacre, but we need these workers now more than ever. Kale, are you listening to me?”
I grunted a barely audible affirmation. Rin scolding me I could handle. Rylah, 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,” Rylah remarked, smirking, then stepped in. My mother stifled a groan and followed.
“Ah, Katrina. Rylah,” 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 snow-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,” Rylah said. “Considering recent events.”
“I heard. The attack on Red Wing—”
“Wasn’t us,” I interrupted. I stepped in, and what little color filled Orson’s cheeks drained entirely.
“L… Lord Trass,” he stammered. “I wasn’t aware you were coming.”
“I wanted to see what was going on here before it was cleaned up for my sake.”
“Yes, of course. Lord Trass, please, come sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
Orson nodded nervously. His eyes darted from one of us to the next, and a brief period of silence had him shifting in his seat.
“There are a lot of empty chassis out there, Fring,” Rylah said finally. “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 was altered schematics for transforming a standard Pervenio automated gas harvester into a war machine. I then picked up another. He cleared his throat but said nothing.
“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 that killer was wearing a Pervenio uniform, they would have found a way to blame us.”
“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,” Rylah added.
“Is that true?” I said.
Orson smiled and nodded. “That’s what my parents told me, and theirs told them.”
“Incredible.” I studied the datapad in my grip for a few seconds, then flung it against the wall. “Then explain why you are purposely undermining your own people!”
“Kale!” my mother reprimanded. She took my arm, but I shoved by and slammed my hands down on Orson’s desk. With my powered suit on, the metal wilted. Orson, for what it was worth, stood his ground.
“Earthers have been driven by fear since the moment the Meteorite was discovered,” I said. “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, and because of you, we’re at greater risk than ever.”
“All we seek is proper compensation,” Orson 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 this is the Ring’s best ship-factory left intact after the fighting, and we know ships. My workers are breaking our backs, for what? And now this business with Red Wing will make it worse.”
“You’re compensated better than anyone else, Fring,” Rylah remarked. “More than the fighters who risk their lives holding every station on the Ring every day.”
“Please, I know what you were before all this, Rylah. When trade opens up, and credits go back into circulation, you’ve sold out enough people on both sides for information to be comfortable for life. All we have are 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’m sure he didn’t mean it like that,” my mother said.
“I mean no disrespect, Lord Trass. I appreciate everything you’re doing for our people, but one day, credits will mean something again, whether we use them on the Ring or not.”
“Credits,” I groaned, pacing the room. “Credits, credits, credits. Does it always have to come down to them?”
“We aren’t asking to be rich because we were lucky enough to have worked in shipyards or factories,” Orson said. “Pervenio 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,” Rylah said.
“Yes... But not all of us were behind open war and revolt, even if we support it now. 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 Rylah pulled me to the side.
“It’s just credits,” she whispered. “I say it’s worth the risk. We have plenty stored in offworld accounts from the Children of Titan. Preparing for the PerVenta fleet 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?”
“Foreman 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 hydro-farms. 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,” Orson said, taking no care to hide his disdain.
“Earth is coming. This isn’t the time for us to argue 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 Rylah. “Make sure things get up and running,” I ordered then headed for the exit.
Rylah 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 peered back over my shoulder. “Before you go, would you care for some advice from an elderly man who’s seen almost everything this awful universe has to offer?”
I nodded for him to continue.
“The name Trass helps you lead, but it doesn’t make you him,” Orson said. “Never forget that you rule over all the Ring now, not only those who agree with you and your methods. Otherwise, you may as well be Luxarn Pervenio.”
I bit my lip. Him, Malcolm, my old gas harvester captain—old men were always preaching. 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 experienced workers standing on protest clearly respected him enough to listen.
“Goodbye, Mr. Fring,” I said without turning back.
Eight
Malcolm
The days ticked by slowly, and Basaam Venta’s laboratory grew. More workers trickled in, including some men and women who were obviously Earther engineers unlucky enough to be stuck in the Ring when Kale took over.
More workers meant more guards, which made it tougher to get much face-time with my old friend Desmond. Basaam even grew more comfortable barking orders at Ringers and making sure everything was in line. They even
took off his chains, as if he could run anywhere onto Titan’s surface without freezing to death in a millisecond anyway. That was the thing about brainiacs. Once they got their engorged minds fixated on a project, it was all they could think about.
“Do you really think if you pull this off, they’ll let you go?” I asked him one day or night—time had become inconsequential. He sat, legs folded in front of Helena’s cell, enjoying a bowl of gruel with her. I’ll say that for him, he’d been doing a fine job keeping her calm.
He glared over at me then continued with his meal.
“I’m talking to you,” I said.
“Would you be quiet?” he whispered. “I don’t feel like any trouble today when we’re just starting to make progress.”
“You? They’re too busy watching the others now. So, c’mon, are you that naïve?”
“I don’t know what they’ll do,” he snapped. “Now please, stop talking.”
“Probably plant a bullet right here.” I tapped the back of my head. “In both of you.”
“What, so you think we should just give up?”
“Better than giving them a key to the stars.”
“And what about you?” He stood and stomped toward my cell.
“Basaam, don’t,” Helena said softly.
“It’s fine,” he said. “What about you, Collector? Without you, none of this would be possible.”
“You should be thanking me for keeping you both alive,” I said. “It doesn’t mean it was a smart move on my end.”
“So what? We should just walk outside and… kill ourselves because you don’t think they’ll keep their word.”
I rolled my shoulders. “Dying is always easier to talk about. I seem to have a hard time doing it.”
“Forgive me, Collector, if I’d rather take a chance on them. I didn’t make a living locking up offworlders. I’ve heard enough stories about collectors like you, and your kind has stolen enough research from me for Pervenio over the years.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” I laughed. “Can you believe our employers are going to kiss and make up now after everything? I used to think you guys were the enemy. Like the logo on your uniform means anything.”
Titan's Fury: A Science Fiction Thriller (Children of Titan Book 4) Page 11