Selene of Titan

By H. Nathan Wilcox

Fitting in to middle school is hard enough when you’re a normal kid. When your dad illegally designed you to be a genius with computers (and disaster at everything else), it’s impossible.

A hundred years in the future on Saturn’s moon Titan, Selene is an artificially created math genius who only wants to fit in. But the harder she tries, the more disastrous the results. Whether it’s a cheating scandal from hacking the school computers, a panic from reprogramming the colony robots to act like animals, or breaking into a mysterious forbidden structure, her misguided attempts to make friends only get her into more trouble. But when she discovers a stash of stolen precious metals, she may be her bankrupt colony’s savior . . . if she can find the thief before they find her. Embarking to solve the mystery, Selene finds more trouble than she imagined possible, along with the secret of her origin, the true purpose of her colony, and, most important of all, a place to belong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Nathan Wilcox
• Release date: Feb 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224695140

H. Nathan Wilcox

H. Nathan Wilcox has been writing for over twenty-five years. Over that time, he has completed five novels and many short stories. Selene of Titan is his first independently published work, but he plans to make all his work available in the coming months. The next, The Triad of Night, is a fantasy heist adventure that should be available soon.A former management consultant, Nathan has been a homemaker supporting his business executive wife and two children for over thirteen years. He is a scoutmaster and avid outdoor enthusiast who enjoys camping, hiking, backpacking, and generally being in nature. Luckily, he and his family live in Colorado where outdoor adventures are abundant. When he’s not outside, Nathan loves playing games, cooking, exercising, and spending time with his family.

Book preview

I am weightless, I whisper Dad’s words between gasp though I feel everything but weightless. The sky above rises forever, a blue abyss so big that I feel like I really could fly into it. Except for the relentless gravity that anchors me. Several times what I’m used to, my feet feel like lead as I struggle for each sprinting step across the soft, vibrant green grass. It is as close as I ever get to real grass, real sky, real gravity. And as close as I ever will be.

Unbound. Child of the between, I complete Dad’s mantra, panted words loud enough to draw the eyes of the girl I’m supposed to be guarding. It may be the only way she knows I’m there. Though we’re both thirteen, she is six inches taller than me with the curves and muscles that my scrawny body is unwilling to create. She raises an eyebrow then the corner of her mouth when she realizes that I’m literally praying that I somehow keep up with her.

Like most of my prayers, it goes unanswered.

She sprints past me and raises her hand to catch the attention of the midfielder. He looks from a wall of defenders before him to two more on his left to me. His smile matches the one on the girl who is now two strides ahead of me.

His pass to her is perfect, of course. The ball meets her right foot, and she directs it effortlessly in front of her, adding yet another stride to her lead over me.

Having failed yet again as a defender, I turn my eyes to the clock projected over the approaching goal. Twelve seconds remain, ticking down to save me.

11 - The girl taps the ball again.

10 - I sprint toward her with all my might.

9 - Our goalie reverses her momentum, eyes wide, white, gloved hands rising.

8 - The girl plants her left foot.

7 - I picture my foot sliding between her legs, tapping the ball away at the last moment.

6 - Instead, I trip and tumble forward.

5 - Her right foot sweeps through the ball.

4 - The ball rises on a line toward the corner of the goal.

3 - Our goalie launches herself to the side.

2 - The enhanced gravity pulls me down, harder faster than I’ve ever fallen.

1 - The ball brushes the tips of our goalie’s gloved fingers.

0 - And hits the back of the net at the same moment I hit the turf, sliding on hands and knees across imaginary grass that feels, smells, tastes like I can only imagine real grass feels, smells, tastes.

A buzzer sounds.

A voice booms, Final score. Titan: five. Mars Boreum: six.

The scene fades. The field disappears, the sky, the goals, the other team. I remain lying on my stomach, breathing grass and dirt until they’re gone.

And I’m not even lying down. I am standing in a sim tube without a scratch, bruise, or smudge of dirt. Sim gel flows from my face, past my shoulders, to my waist, down the drain to be recycled, taking all my sweat, all the oil from my skin, leaving me feeling like someone has peeled me out of a plastic mold. I catch my breath as the tube opens, hands on my knees, not wanting to see my teammates emerging from the tubes around me.

When I have no choice but to leave, I reluctantly pull the mask from my face. My teammates surround me breathing hard but already muttering. We almost had a tie, that’s what they’re all thinking. Except for her, we’d have had a tie, maybe even a win. Now, I realize that most teams don’t dream about ties, but the thing about a tie is that it isn’t a loss. And our team has only ever lost, so yeah, a tie is something we dream about.

Great effort, team. Coach de Rojas walks among us patting shoulders and tousling hair. I really saw the effort out there. Now gather up.

Thanks to Titan’s low gravity, my teammates bound into a circle around our coach. A former soccer star on Earth, I’m not sure how he can stay so positive through all the losing. Now, I know you are disappointed, but that was a close match throughout. It may even be a win. And more important than that, you all did your best. You gave it everything you had, and that is all you can do. His gaze moves around the circle holding our eyes until we nod. Now, hands in then go join your families until the scores are reconciled. I think we might get a surprise.

Coach’s words are so earnest that a few of my teammates look up with hope in their eyes. It is everything I can do to keep from shaking my head to banish that hope. As miserable as he made me at soccer, Dad made me great at math and computers, and I’ve played in enough of these matches to have the algorithm figured out. The score shouldn’t have been as close as it was, and the final one won’t be that close either.

If that’s confusing, it’s because soccer matches between planetary colonies are not so simple as the score at the end. Saturn’s moon Titan, where we live, is the most distant colony in the solar system, which makes it about 750,000,000 miles from Mars. Given that light travels 186,282 miles per second (and that nothing can travel faster than light), it takes any communications over an hour to go from Mars to Titan and another hour to get back, which means soccer matches cannot possibly be played in real time. Instead, a computer simulates a match for us against a team that is like the one from Mars, and they play against a team that is supposed to be like us. Then the computer compares the results and determines which team would have won if we’d played for real. So even though we lost our simulation, the Martian team could have lost theirs by even more. We could still win.

But we won’t. Me, computer genius, remember?

Twelve seconds? Frida pushes me just hard enough that I stumble through the door of the sim room and run into Nori. He turns at the intrusion, but my focus is on Frida. You couldn’t guard her for twelve seconds? She shakes her head then turns to Giselle and Kira, the minions flanking her. You think her loser dad messed up the splice? I mean, maybe he forgot to include the genes to make her grow.

It's the usual insults: short, skinny, slow, clumsy, and a splice to top it all. I’ve heard them so many times that I don’t bother to respond. I turn to walk away when the most unlikely person comes to my rescue.

Leave it, Frida, Marten says, stepping between us. She can’t help it.

For some reason, Marten trying to be nice makes me more upset than Frida’s insults. Help it? I ask. No, I can’t help it that you all left me alone to cover the best player on their team. I can’t help that three of you – including you, Frida – collapsed on the midfielder rather than provide support on the outside. So yeah, I lost her, but at least I was in the right position. And that’s only the beginning—

Except I don’t actually say that. What would it get me? Would they all sudden realize how unfair they were being and apologize? Hardly.

The truth is, I am far from the only reason we’ve lost every match, but I am still the worst player. That makes me an easy excuse. So instead of giving them the satisfaction of a response, I hit Frida and her minions with my best sneer, apologize to Nori, and walk away.

Marten catches me. Hey, Selene, can I talk to you?

My heart jumps, but I force my breaths to stay steady as I turn practically into his chest – my face literally is the height of his chest. Ah, sure. What, ah, what do you need? My imagination conjures a grand variety of things that Marten could want from me, though most of them are actually things that I want from Marten.

He looks from the Frida-three to his dad, Coach de Rojas, following us through the door into the common room, then grabs my arm and directs me toward the tree at the far end of the room. Over there maybe?

Yeah, ah, sure. I watch his hand on my arm as we walk away. The closest thing our soccer team has to a star, I’ve found myself spending more time than I should watching Marten in soccer practice, at meals, during class. And though there’s no chance he’s interested in me, I can’t help but hope.

On the trip to the tree, Marten keeps stopping to acknowledge calls from his friends, congratulations on the goals he scored, plans to meet up later, the kind of thing that popular kids have to put up with. Such a hassle. No one says anything to me, but their eyes follow us wondering why the most and least popular kids in our class are together much less walking toward the far end of the common room.

During these interruptions, I watch the late afternoon Earth sky on the screens that cover the domed ceiling and kick at the bristles of plastic grass that smell of chemicals. So closely removed from having my face buried in the grass of the simulation, I wonder what a real Earth park would be like, if the sky there would be so high, the grass so soft, the air so fresh, the taste of the dirt so rich.

Even though the common room is the largest gathering space in the colony, it is well smaller than the parks I’ve seen in vids of Earth. It has a fake grass field with a fake tree at one end, a smaller area with a dozen tables, and finally, the sim room, surrounded by bleachers and screens that project the simulations for anyone to view. All told it is maybe half the size of a soccer field. Mid-morning on a Saturday, there aren’t many people beyond the families of our team, but it still feels cramped. The fake grass looks warn, the screens above are missing pixels, and the tree has lost too many leaves that will never grow back. All in all, this room is the perfect reflection of our colony: small, crowded, tired, and neglected.

When we clear the people and reach the far side of the tree, Marten looks around then pulls me close enough for hormone excitement to nearly overwhelm my brain’s screams to calm the heck down.

So I hear you can, ah, help with school. Marten’s soft voice tickles my ear.

I roll my eyes as much at the request as the fact that Marten is drawing more attention whispering in my ear than if he’d have yelled his request across the room. What do you need? I cross my arms over my slim, entirely (and I mean entirely) flat chest.

Got a big math assessment coming up. I need to pass it to move up. Marten watches the room rather than me as if anyone could hear us over the dozens of conversations that fill the space.

Sure, I can tutor you. Want to meet up after lunch? I already know that Marten’s not asking for tutoring, but what he is asking is a step farther than I’ve ever gone, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.

Yeah, well, ah, that would be great, but I, ah, the test is Monday, and I don’t really have time to…. I mean, I’m sure you could, but my parents are really on me and threatened to make me cut back on soccer if I don’t move up, so— He runs his fingers through his dark wavy hair and looks back at me, adorably desperate.

I really should say no. A part of me is screaming to say no. Yeah, I can fix it for you, I say instead.

Marten pumps his fist. I sigh and look out at the crowd, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into, wondering how many other kids will be making this same request, wondering how I’ll say no to any of them, wondering where it will end.

Well, at least they’ll have to be nice to me if I’m rigging their tests, right?

I take a deep breath and consider how to do it. Marten starts to say something, but I hold up a hand to stop him. When you take the test, I eventually say, the answers will be in the bottom corner of your display. Yeah, I can do that. Then I realize something. But don’t get them all right. Miss, like, one out of every five. Otherwise, Mrs. Kekana will know something is wrong.

Yeah, alright. He nods, excitement clear. You’re the best. I’m going to owe you.

It’s no big deal, I say, trying to keep my cheeks from turning the same color as my scarlet hair. I’m building myself up to ask if he’d like to maybe eat lunch, but Jamil beats me to it.

Marten, what are you doing over there with the splice? Jamil jogs over and grabs Martin’s shoulder. That ends any fantasy I have about eating lunch with Marten. The captain of the soccer team does not each lunch with a splice. Your dad said we could use the sim tubes to kick around while we wait for the score. You in?

Hey, man. Marten has the decency to look embarrassed. Selene is cool. Lay off the splice stuff, alright.

Yeah, right. Jamil laughs then stops when Marten scowls. Whatever, dude. You coming or what?

Be there in a sec. He turns back to me. Thanks again, S. You mind if I call you S?

I can only nod. Did he just give me a nickname? Kids only give nicknames to kids they like, which means I have never had one.

Then Marten seems to realize something. Hey, you want to join us?

I’m so drawn in I almost accept until I realize what he’s offering, kicking a ball around with my teammates mere minutes after allowing the losing goal. They’d just as likely burn me at the stake as let me join. Thanks, but I have other stuff I need to do.

Alright, but thanks. Really. I owe you. Marten clasps my shoulder then runs to join his friends.

What was that all about? Jov rolls toward me. I hadn’t seen him on the other side of the tree, which shows how obsessed I’ve become with Martin because Jov is hard to miss. Born with a genetic defect that affected a lot of babies on Titan, Jov has almost no muscles. He can only move and talk because his brain is connected directly to a computer that allows him to control a totally stellar chair that his dad built for him.

Nothing, I say. I wave to his parents, who are standing across the room watching him like they always seem do. They wave back and smile, some of the only parents who smile when they see me. Marten just needed a favor. He owes me now.

Jov laughs, simulated voice rising from the speakers embedded in his chair. So you’re doing his homework for him? And he’s going to do what, tell his friends to be nice to you?

I’d be happy with just him being nice to me, but I don’t feel like I have to justify anything to Jov. Everyone is nice to him. I’m not doing his homework. I mean, yuck. I’m helping him with a test.

Helping, huh? The same way you help half the kids in our class?

No. I just allow them better enjoy their school experience. This is totally different. And worse, I don’t say. I smile at Jov, but he just stares at me with his dark, sunken eyes. He can say more with his eyes than most people do with their whole faces of perfectly functional muscles. I could set you up too, you know. No charge. Not that I charge any of the other kids – though I totally would if we had money on Titan.

Shaking my head. Jov, of course, can’t shake his head or make facial expressions so sometimes he says them instead. He doesn’t need to. He’s been my best – and only – friend for long enough that I can tell what he’s thinking without facial expressions. He’s also been very consistent in his opposition to me hacking the school network for my classmates.

So are you sticking around for the final score? Jov changes the subject.

Nah. I already know what the outcome will be. I’m going to go work on Dog. I sigh and look toward the rest of my team back in the sim room then at the clusters of parents watching them kick imaginary balls around an imaginary field. I have a pang wishing my dad were there or even my guardian, but Dad’s dead and Geoff, my guardian, has never once come to one of my soccer matches.

But you don’t know what the other team did? Maybe they were even worse. Jov rolls toward the door. I jump on the back of his chair for a ride.

Doesn’t matter. We have about as much chance of winning as Marten does of passing his math test on his own.

Ouch, Jov says and laughs. So you want to play a game of ‘Colonizer’ before lunch? I thought up a new strategy. I think I can take you this time.

Unlikely. I snort a laugh, but my mind is no longer with Jov. I’m thinking about what I just said. If I can fix it so Martin can pass his test, what else can I fix?

2. Cheaters Never Win ... for Long

Wow. A lot can change in two months with a bit of clever hacking. I’ve just set down to relax after a wild day of celebration. Our soccer team won the interstellar championship for our division on Saturday with the entire colony watching. It was the first championship won by any team in any division in the history of our tiny colony, and everyone acted like we’d been named colony of the year by Kasmir Yelton himself – even though Kasmir Yelton has been dead for practically as long as I have been alive.

Everyone was so happy they seemed to forget that I’m a splice, that I’m the size of a ten-year-old, that they’re supposed to hate me. No one – except Frida and her shadows – call me splice. They call me S, a real-life nickname. Even the parents treat me like any other kid. Their smiles don’t falter when they turn to me. They don’t look disapproving or cautious or sad. And it has been that way, getting better and better each week, for the length of the winning streak that sent us to the championship.

Now, by Sunday evening, all the attention has gotten a bit overwhelming, so I’ve retreated to my rooms. Geoff is gone as usual, so I have the entire place (all three hundred square feet) to myself. I’ve just put on my