Titan Song Dan Stout (top 20 books to read txt) 📖

“Carter!” She leaned forward, shaking her head. “I don’t help people because I have faith. I have faith because I help people.”

“Faith in what?”

“In the ability to create change. To make things better, one tiny step at a time.” Talena raised a hand, preventing me from interjecting. “Look, I’m not saying I enjoy hearing about this conversation with Weylan, but . . .” She hesitated. “Did you tell Jax?”

“No.”

“Don’t.” She bit her lip before continuing. “At least not now. It’d distract him. That man has more on his mind than he should, and he doesn’t need a theological crisis right now.”

“But you go to guideposts,” I said. “And all those books you read about the Path and the Titan . . . They’re lies.”

“The ones that showed him as a big buff guy in chains? Honestly, I never thought of him like that.” She chuckled. “Books, saints, guideposts . . . They’re great, but they’re just aides. Rituals to help me remember something important.”

“Like the order of the Families.” There was something about that, something I was right on the edge of grasping.

“You mean Believe Me, Young Eagles . . . ? I guess so.” She cocked her head, staring at me like a puzzled dog. “I mean, you know there’s no actual eagles on holiday, right?”

But I was staring at the far wall, toward the Mount, toward my apartment where stolen audio tapes and torn notebook pages held answers I’d failed to recognize.

“A mnemonic device.” I practically heard the puzzle pieces snap into place. “Laughing Larry. It’s not a poem or a code. Hells below.”

I bolted from her office. I wasn’t sure what I believed, but I had a riddle to unravel. And that was something I could get my head around.

41

IT WAS LATE EVENING BY the time I left Talena’s, and all the government offices were long since closed. So I had to wait until the morning to get into the MEB.

The Municipal Engineering Building was located farther leeward than the Bunker, but that wasn’t a reflection of their respective influences. The police investigated crimes and had the power to imprison. The MEB held the reins of progress. Without their approval, no construction could happen, no development could occur. The department was notoriously fickle, and it was a commonly held belief that its employees operated mostly on bribes and kickbacks rather than direct salary. The contractors I drank with at Mickey the Finn’s told twenty different jokes about inspections, but they all had the same punchline. “Is it gonna pass? MEB-e yes, MEB-e no.”

The waiting room was a study in false wood paneling, with orange carpet and dingy yellow fluorescent lights. Shockingly modern design for a government building.

Next to the take-a-number stand a hand-written sign read: Temporary Geo-Vent Map, ten taels (cash only). The geo-vent layouts were complex and not fully understood, but a combination of old record-keeping and echo-location helped MEB ensure that there was little to no disruption of the vents during construction work. Now everyone was scrambling to understand what impact the sinkhole would have on this system. But the revised maps weren’t what I was after.

I took a number and waited with a group of equally long-faced patrons. After a period of painful inactivity punctuated by the occasional customer service event, I was called to the front.

“I need a copy of the pre-sinkhole geo-vent map,” I said.

The woman at the counter pointed at the sign. “New ones are ten taels.”

“I understand, but I want the old one.”

She turned and shouted into the back room, “Karl! There’s a man here, wants a copy of the old geo-vent maps.”

“We got the new ones printed!”

“I told him! The man wants old.”

There were footsteps, and an aggravated human with rambunctiously hairy eyebrows peered at the woman, and then me.

“Old map’s no good.” His voice was a combination of disbelief and annoyance. “Use the temporary map, until the fixes are final. Then come back and buy the finalized version. Only thing you can do.”

“It’s for a historical survey,” I said.

The wiry salt and pepper of his eyebrows twitched. “New map’s already printed.”

“I understand. I need the old—”

He turned and was gone. The woman called out the next number.

“Hold on,” I said, “is he coming back, or do I—”

“Wait over there. Next!”

She’d indicated a separate waiting area, this one without even the pretense of seating. But I shuffled and stood, and eventually the man reappeared. I paid the two tael copy fee, wondered briefly about the price difference, then set it out of my mind as I made my escape back to the Bunker.

The Bunker was a blur of activity. Vandie Cedrow’s warning about the festival was the worst-kept secret in department history. In the day and a half since Vandie had indicated that the festival was a target, the grounds had been visited by representatives from the military encampment stationed at the manna strike. All of which had turned up nothing. The festival promoters steadfastly refused to allow a police presence. With its location outside the city’s sphere of influence, the TPD couldn’t force their way in. The military might have been able to, but considering that the charges against Paulus reflected back on the AFS itself, it was essentially a no-win situation for them. If they found something, its presence would be blamed on them, and if they failed to find something the eventual disaster would be blamed on them as well.

Now the city government was trying to walk a political tightrope. If they showed too much aggression they risked a response from the federal military encampment. If they didn’t respond immediately to any call for assistance from Titanshade citizens, they’d face being voted out of power.

Vandie claimed that the attack was planned for the climax of the festival’s final night, during Dinah McIntire’s set, just as the clear southern window of the tent was to showcase the moon cresting the Mount. Not wanting to cause a panic, the city had begun to urge concertgoers to return