Free Titanborn by Rhett C. Bruno Page B

omnipresent shroud was one of the many gifts bestowed upon Earth by the Meteorite.
    The climate never fully recovered after it hit. Temperatures worldwide dropped, making seasons impossible to differentiate. Among the places that remained above water, New London was considered warm—and I couldn’t remember it ever getting above ten degrees Celsius there in my lifetime. That was at least tolerable compared with Old Russia. Any farther north from where we were and we may as well have been standing outside on Titan. An exaggeration for sure, being that the orange moon’s surface was freezing 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 half a kilometer from us,” Zhaff said, finally.
    “You’re telling me he went through all the trouble of falsifying his identification to get here only to clumsily be caught by one of the few surveillance cameras in Glazov? 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.”
    Zhaff nodded, to my relief. “I agree. Also, Malcolm, during our trip the body of Jack Fletcher was found 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. “That means that other collectors will be bearing down on us in no time now, and I have no desire to watch another one 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 Russian-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 down 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 stopped.
    “This way,” he instructed. He turned with soldierly precision and headed left down a narrow alley.
    A group of emaciated Earthers with scraggly beards were standing there, 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 had 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