CHAPTER 06: SHEPHATIAH - A PRINCESS OF TITAN
"Some people change when they think they're a star or something."
— Paris Hilton
From her plush seat in the control hub of her sub-orbital habitat, nestled deep within Titan's creamy orange-sherbet atmosphere, Shephatiah Jehoshaphat Jones barely caught sight of the space battle unfolding just outside. Sleek silver Briton spaceplanes darted in and out of the bronze clouds surrounding the O'Neill Cylinder, which slowly spun in the middle of the moon's atmosphere. Her Russian defenders retaliated with make-shift capsule craft—large chunks of dense rock, hollowed out and fitted with Jodorowsky drives to float. But the Brits had them beat; their nimble craft flew circles around the Russians, whose clunky Bussard ramjets could only manage straight lines between two points in space. Zero maneuverability.
A crack like thunder shook the air, and off in the distance, a cloud burst white for a moment before a chain of explosions followed suit. That's what happened when something blew up in the organonitrogen haze Titan's atmosphere provided. More explosions, more booms. It was like fireworks, but louder.
Shephatiah ran her fingers over the soft, luxurious material of her Peau de Bébé handbag, its buttery smooth texture doing wonders to keep her cool in the midst of the chaos. The bag had been made right here, in this very facility. It was supposed to be their first big production run. But now... the Brits were screwing it all up.
“Maribel,” Shephatiah said, still stroking her bag. “These totes are gonna, like, kill. I mean, they're bitchin'.”
Maribel winced as another explosion rattled the structure. “Praise the mother,” he muttered nervously.
Shephatiah continued, ignoring the noise. “I'm, like, so glad we didn't go with the clone stuff. That crap’s just… ugh, so inauthentic. And, oh my God, clone ink? Super expensive, hello?!”
Another loud bang echoed through the room, and Maribel took the chance to jump in. “Well, authenticity might be costing us more than just money right now.”
Shephatiah spun around in her oversized padded chair to look at Maribel. “Wait, you think that’s why they’re, like, blowing everything up? Seriously?” She gestured to the battle unfolding outside the viewport.
“Possibly, pipiltin.” He used the term denoting her noble status within the MAPC.
Shephatiah groaned dramatically, like the attack was more of an inconvenience than an actual threat. “What did us guys do? Like, this is so not on us. Blame those freakin' refugees popping out anchor-babies just to live somewhere else! We didn’t even want their babies, but we, like, took them. This is so dumb.”
Maribel, ever calm, added, “It could also be a spillover from the whole Brit-Russian feud on Triton. Maybe they’re just targeting the Russians here.”
Shephatiah perked up. “So, like, they're not actually after us? They just saw more Russians and went pew-pew?”
“Possibly. Fingers crossed. At least they haven’t started shooting at us yet.”
Shephatiah rolled her eyes. “I totally told you we should’ve gotten someone else. Like, not the Russians. Duh.”
“Remember, everyone else we asked had ‘ethical concerns’?”
Shephatiah broke into a peal of melodic laughter, completely unbothered by the continued explosions outside.
Suddenly, Maribel cursed under his breath, looking down at his flexipad.
“What?” Shephatiah asked.
He stammered before answering, “The Brits—they’re saying it’s a police action. They’re, uh, executing a raid against our… practices.”
“They don’t own Saturn. Fuck them.”
“Nobody owns Saturn. But it seems they want to play like they do, just like on Triton. They're here to liberate ‘imprisoned refugees.’”
Shephatiah’s face was blank for a second before it clicked. “The refugees?”
“The babies.”
Shephatiah burst out laughing again, doubling over as she turned back to the viewport, eyes locking onto one of the British spaceplanes zipping across her line of sight. “Good luck rescuing those losers!”
As if in response, the spaceplane changed course, releasing two small, sparkling dots from its nose. They sped toward her at breakneck speed, shooting past below her position. Before she could even react, the bolts struck a distant section of the floating factory.
The impact shook the structure violently.
Maribel, eyes glued to his flexipad, shouted, “Shephatiah! They hit the processing plant! We’re done. Out of business.”
“So much for the refugees,” Shephatiah quipped, activating her AVP and summoning her attorney. “Alan, what the shit is—” But the hologram cut out before she could finish, the signal jammed.
“They’re jamming us. We have to surrender. It’s over. They’ll shoot down anything we try to escape in. Should I call them back?” Maribel asked, panic creeping into his voice.
Shephatiah glared at him. “Call yourself back, you prick.”
“What?” Maribel looked stunned.
She didn’t respond.
Moments passed before Maribel, still gawking at his flexipad, stammered, “They’re trying to contact us again. What should I—”
“I don’t fucking know. Shoot yourself if you want to.”
“Boss, seriously!”
Shephatiah scoffed. “Help yourself, idiot. I’m outta here.”
She hopped out of her chair, straightening her clothes before storming out. As she left, Maribel frantically opened the channel to negotiate their surrender. Shephatiah cursed again as she distanced herself, feeling the vibrations of the battle but too annoyed to care.
She made her way to her escape pod—the one that was actually built to survive. Standard pods were glorified coffins, but hers? Nearly indestructible. Years of autonomy, zero worries.
Sliding into the private pod, she activated the lock-out mechanism and felt the gentle glide as it launched her out of the habitat, into the open void. The orange haze of Titan’s atmosphere faded as she shot into space, where a hulking space cruiser sat in orbit—clearly the source of the fighter planes.
Shephatiah grinned to herself, her frustration melting into satisfaction. "Later, losers."
It had been four days since the British Navy began their futile attempts to crack open Shephatiah’s escape pod. Bored out of her mind, she finally decided to stop sleeping and just opened the hatch.
The lady marine who rushed in, armed with a blocky space gun, gasped as she saw who was inside.
“It’s She!” she exclaimed, using Shephatiah’s brand name. "She"—the global icon behind the fragrance codes that tricked brains into hallucinating scents in AVP, a literal sensory empire. Shephatiah’s face was plastered on everything from fashion articles to perfumes, adored by billions. Mature juveniles were her core fans, far different from the Olavi Twins’ crowd.
“It’s really you, isn’t it? You’re Shephatiah Jones,” the marine gushed, her excitement immediately grating on Shephatiah's nerves.
Another marine nearby, less starstruck, shot her a look. “If that’s true, she’ll have a Corporate ID. Why isn’t this pod marked? And who even built this damned impenetrable thing? O’Toole, quit fangirling and get her to interrogation.”
Still beaming, the marine—O’Toole—begged Shephatiah to cooperate. Reluctantly, she complied, sliding out of the pod.
They were in some hideous space habitat, clearly military, given how everything looked so utterly ugly. Union Jacks decorated almost every surface, reminding her of a tacky pattern on a stripper's thong. She was rolling her eyes when O’Toole interrupted her thoughts.
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“I loved your Cosmopes fragrance,” O’Toole said, still grinning. “I wore it all through Secondary. I'd wear it all the time now if we could have private AVP access in the unit.”
“Cosmopes?” Shephatiah made a face. “Totally forgot that crap existed. Anyway, got anything us guys can get fucked up on?”
“Excuse me?” O’Toole blinked, confused.
Shephatiah responded with a nasally, halting laugh.
They finally arrived at their destination—some interrogation room or whatever. O’Toole confirmed her ID at a device by the door, and it slid open. As they entered, O’Toole clutched her flexipad with both hands, eyes wide with excitement.
“Uh, can I get your autograph? Please? I’ve got my pad right here.”
Shephatiah ignored her, sliding into a bench and putting on her black onyx sunglasses. Across the room, a marine behind the desk suddenly yelled at O’Toole.
“Did you search her when you detained her?!”
O’Toole hesitated, “No, sir…”
That was all it took. The marine launched into a full-on dressing down of O’Toole, calling for backup. Another marine arrived shortly, attempting to search Shephatiah—but her anti-kinetic shield defeated the attempt.
Things escalated fast. Yet another marine showed up, this time to check her Corporate ID. Within moments, the room was buzzing as they all realized she wasn’t some random detainee—she was nobility. The gasps of shock were practically synchronized.
Shephatiah smirked beneath her sunglasses.
“Where’s my ride out of here? I order you idiots to transport my escape pod with me to wherever I feel like going. And unjam my shit while you’re at it. My lawyer got cut off.”
Moments later, Dr. Alan Fingerhut, her lawyer, appeared in hologram form beside her.
Alan read off a list of charges, each one aimed at the marines standing in front of him. More marines had joined the original group, and now, some of them were attorneys themselves.
“Conduct Unbecoming.”
“Intentional Failure to Comply with an Order.”
“Humiliation of a Supervisor by Subordinate.”
“Maltreatment.”
“Abuse of, or Exceeding Authority.”
The marines knew they were in serious trouble. If they had been able to scan her pod for identification, none of this would’ve happened. But here they were, and the officer who gave the detention order—and O’Toole, who followed it—were likely looking at court-martial and prison.
“Overthrow of Lawful Authority.”
The list went on until Alan finished, apologizing for not citing the specific Articles as he wrapped up.
Shephatiah Jones answered to almost no one. As the daughter of Jehoshaphat Jones, the Reverend President of America, she was practically untouchable. The Reverend President didn’t hold real power anymore—it was mostly ceremonial, giving speeches at corporate oligarch meetings and holidays. But the title came with protected status within the MAPC, and that protection extended to Shephatiah. She was part of the Second Aristocracy, with her own noble title as a Cuauhtlatoa.
Long ago, humanity had put faith into government, electing a “Reverend President” to lead, only to later ruthlessly reject that faith, turning towards atheism. The position became a hollow figurehead, a trophy of corporate power, yet Jehoshaphat Jones had still managed to play the corporate game well enough to wield some influence. And Shephatiah? She’d inherited that leverage.
Raised as a perfect little princess, Shephatiah had once been a rising star, adored by the public. But as she grew older, her ambition took over. She didn’t want to be anyone’s princess. She wanted power, independence, and money—and she got it. She severed public ties with her father, refusing to be the face of his political machine any longer, though privately she still tapped into his influence when it suited her.
Now, sitting in this ugly interrogation room, surrounded by marines who had just realized how far in over their heads they were, Shephatiah grinned to herself. She always got her way.
Shephatiah sat alone in someone’s office, waiting for the marines to finish preparing her exit. An encoded message from Maribel popped up on her flexipad, reporting the number of Peau de Bébé handbags salvaged from the nuked plant. She ignored him at first but, after he pestered her with two more messages, she finally replied, telling him to dump the bags in some crater on Pluto or whatever. She wasn’t in the mood to think about the wasted time and effort. She erased Maribel from her contact list.
Boredom gnawed at her like agony. Stuck here, with nothing to do but wait, she felt infuriated, trapped. She longed for her escape pod, or better yet, her undersea suite in Manhattan, doped up on psychotropics and snuggled up with an android gigolo.
Alan, her lawyer, appeared again in holographic form, pulling her from her frustrated haze.
"What is it now, baby Alan?" she snapped, pulling down her sunglasses. "You better’ve thrown the book at these dumbass marines."
"Sort of," he replied, his tone weary. "But that’s not why I’m here."
“Uh...okay.”
“Shephatiah, the Brits are saying you caused the human rights violations that led to the police action on Titan. They’ve sent me a list. Do you want me to read it to you?”
As Alan started reading the charges, Shephatiah spaced out, barely listening. His words became a blur of bureaucratic nonsense, and she finally cut him off.
“None of it matters now, man. They blew up the damn factory.”
“With the refugees still inside? Were they...alive? And why were they in the factory to begin with?”
Shephatiah sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Yes, if by ‘refugees,’ you mean undocumented orphaned immigrant babies.”
Alan swore under his breath, shaking his head like he was actually sorry.
“As for your second question, does it really matter? Like, oh baby, they blew it all up.”
Alan fell silent, absorbing the information.
“And they were in the factory,” she continued, “because that’s where the rendering plant was, duh.”
Alan blinked, his tone grim. “And what exactly were they being rendered into?”
With a lazy grin, Shephatiah lifted her Peau de Bébé handbag for him to inspect.
“Is that...?” he asked, his voice trailing off.
Shephatiah adjusted her handbag on her lap, running her fingers over the soft, supple material as if it calmed her. She didn't even look at Alan when she spoke, her voice casual but oddly tender, like she was talking to herself more than him.
“Yeah, we went all in for the authentic feel. You know, one of my friends like shat out a rugrat? Made me hold it." She laughed, almost like the memory amused her. "I remember how warm it felt, so soft and...I dunno, just real.”
Her fingers traced the edges of the handbag, slow and deliberate.
“And then I thought, ‘Why not make something that feels like that, you know? Something that’s soft and perfect, but... lasts.’” She shrugged, her gaze still on the bag. “So, we did.”
She glanced up at Alan with a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "It's really the best material we've ever worked with."
“That’s...monstrous, Shephatiah.”
“Duh, that’s why we did it all the way out on Titan. Keep up, Alan.”
“Please, don’t tell me any more,” Alan groaned. “I don’t want to think about this while I’m at dinner with my niece and nephew tonight.”
Shephatiah wrinkled her nose in disgust, let out a cackling laugh, and said, “ewww.”
“I need to go, but stay available,” Alan said, his expression darkening. “Your father’s here. He’s been watching everything and wants to talk.”
Her stomach dropped. “What? Oh, shit—”
Before she could gather her thoughts, her father’s hologram appeared in front of her.As soon as it flickered to life, Shephatiah’s mouth started moving before she could stop herself.
“Okay, listen, they started it. Like, seriously, if they're gonna come after me for human rights violations, maybe they should check themselves for nuking the refugees they’re supposedly saving, right? Like, did they even bother checking if those babies were still alive? No, they just blew up everything without a second thought."
Her voice sped up, the words tumbling out like she was trying to outrun the silence. "And this whole handbag thing? It’s over! I’m done with it. The factory’s gone, the whole operation's a bust, so what’s the point of even dragging it out? I don’t care anymore!"
She paced in front of the hologram, tossing her hair back with a sharp flick of her hand. "Honestly, Dad, we should be talking about how the Brits completely overstepped. They had no right to police what I was doing in the first place. If anyone should be getting blamed, it’s them! They nuked the factory, not me. I'm not the one turning it into a scene.”
She stopped, finally, but her father’s hologram remained still and silent. Shephatiah crossed her arms, staring at him expectantly.
"What?!" she snapped when his expression didn’t change.
The hologram vanished.
Shephatiah stared at the empty space where his hologram had been, unsure how to feel. Slowly, anger welled up inside her, throbbing behind her temples like a growing headache.
A rapid series of knocks at the office door made her flinch, each one spiking her irritation until she winced in pain. A marine entered, informing her that preparations for her departure were complete.
She nearly told him to get lost but, instead, pulled the strap of her handbag onto her shoulder and glared.
“Well? Are you going to lead the way, or are you just gonna stand there like an idiot?”
Escorted to the spaceplane hangar, Shephatiah found a long-distance shuttle prepped with a small crew. Just as she approached the gangway, a marine stopped her, asking for identification, despite the gesture from her escort to wave her through.
Her headache flared as the words hit her like spikes to the brain. She snapped, her voice rising into a venomous rant, laced with profanity as she sarcastically referred to herself as the Princess of America. Her voice echoed through the hangar, each word sharper than the last.
Flushed from her outburst, Shephatiah stormed into the shuttle, found a seat, and coddled her handbag like a lifeline.
The shuttle doors slid open, revealing the ship’s cargo bay. From where she was seated, Shephatiah caught a glimpse of her escape pod being loaded onto the transport. The smooth, ovum-shaped craft gleamed in the artificial light of the hangar, a pristine white against the dark, grimy backdrop of the ship’s interior.
For a moment, her gaze softened. She couldn’t help but admire it—her perfect little pod, her safe retreat from all this chaos. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and she stroked the handbag with a strange mix of affection and detachment.
“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath, “this is fine.”
Her eyes lingered on the pod as the loading crew strapped it down, her connection to the cold, white object stronger than anything she had left behind.