What do you think?
Rate this book


256 pages, Paperback
First published May 16, 2023
When he speaks, I realise he’s been there watching me all along, and that I knew it because I could hear him, but he’s so huge my brain simply didn’t process him as alive. Stefan is twice the size of a normal human, almost four metres high and broad in proportion.I wasn't completely taken in by Titanium Noir. It didn't sell me on its Philip K. Dick inspired dystopian world building nor did it have the poetic hardboiled similes of Raymond Chandler. But it was definitely a competent futuristic detective noir with the standard tropes of the genre, i.e. lone, cynical detective thrust into a world of elites meets femme fatales, uncooperative witnesses, has to fight and is beaten up and/or shot, fights against the odds, uncovers a conspiracy, etc. The grotesque nature of the genetically enhanced Titans definitely left a lasting image though.
Baseline, he was thickset, a wrestler rather than a dancer; after four doses of T7 he gives substance to the word his process made famous. For now he looks fifty years old, olive skin weathered like a Tyrol mountain climber or a wandering god: cragged and honey-haired and vast. He wears a pair of slacks in dark grey with a white shirt open at the neck.

I don’t hate Titans, cops or journalists. I also don’t love Titans, cops or journalists.
I do what I do and I try to do it right.
Cop life is complicated. Three-quarters of the problems they get asked to solve they can’t, and shouldn’t have to, and don’t know how. The rest are just fucking terrifying. That makes them hang together, and that causes trouble because they can’t belong to one another more than they belong to other people – but they inevitably do. Add in all the ordinary human vices and cops can be a mile away and to the side of the population they’re supposed to protect.
Right now the moon is rising behind the ridgeline and the campus streetlights are lit, each casting an X of shadows over the central path. I walk through the gates and find a guy standing by himself in the middle of the court. He’s short, a little plump, and he wears waistcoats and corduroy so hard you have to think he’s making a statement. Oddly flat lenses in round spectacles, so that they catch the light and flicker when he turns his head. I guess he has a certain image to maintain. After all, he’s the Dean.