Titan Song by Dan Stout (top 10 ebook reader .txt) 📕

the stairs to my apartment. I fed Rumple. I changed my clothes. I drank a tall glass of water, then another. I poured myself a third and turned on the radio, dialing down the palm-sized volume control and spinning the tuner until I found some news. My headache hadn’t receded enough for music, but background talk would be a nice distraction. The top story covered the latest sinkhole developments.

With the geo-vents disturbed, wealthy households suddenly found themselves underdressed, their tropical plants wilting, their property values plummeting. That caused them to tighten their purse strings, and politicians found themselves threatened by the loss of the one thing more valuable than votes: campaign donations. So politicians wanted repairs to move faster, while academics and guides led by Weylan encouraged a slower, more exploratory approach. And activists like Vandie Cedrow called for the repairs to channel more warmth to the city’s edges, a suggestion that the rich and powerful found laughable.

I took another long swig of water, and reminded myself I didn’t have to fix the vents. I only had to decide if I was going to let Paulus take the fall for damaging them. If I did, I’d have to swallow the fact that she hadn’t caused the sinkhole. And I’d have to accept that the truth would remain buried. I slammed the empty glass on the counter, and my head paid the price.

Paulus didn’t need to be rescued, let alone by me. But still . . . I wouldn’t be able to let go until I knew what had caused the sinkhole and the buzzing. And I feared that the answer would hit close to home. Queasy at the idea, I steadied myself on the countertop, then stumbled toward the bathroom.

The scalding heat of the shower felt good, but it also drew the stench of the sinkhole and resulting fires out of my pores. By the time I emerged the bathroom smelled like a campfire, but my hangover had abated slightly. I slipped into clean clothes and headed to the kitchen to fry myself some lunch.

The radio coverage had moved on to the scandalous accusations against Ambassador Paulus, as well as the buzzing/singing that had begun to appear on speakers ranging from police radios to telephone handsets, interrupting the nightly news and invading movie theaters. This latest twist had bumped the profile of the violence the press had dubbed the Buzz Kill Murders. It even had its own bumper music on the news.

With the headlines completed, the next DJ came on as I was dumping my dirty dishes on top of the existing stack in the sink. I was happy to hear Handsome Hanford’s voice. His show mixed music and conspiracy theories ranging from the paranoid to the surreal. Hanford hyped his daily favorites from his throne on the radio dial, and the callers lit up the phone lines trying to advance their own idiotic agendas for Hanford to ponder, reject, or promote.

I figured he’d be a good person to talk to.

The broadcast booth for WYOT was located in a humble building in the northern Borderlands, where the real estate was cheap and the buildings tall enough to host a strong radio transmitter. I liked to stop in on occasion because the receptionist gave me free coffee. And I always enjoyed talking to Handsome Hanford.

There were over a dozen radio stations local to Titanshade, but none laid down tracks like WYOT. Hanford was their best DJ, and a kid from the old neighborhood. We’d met in middle school, sitting in the hallway after we’d both been kicked out of our respective fourth-period classes. His history lesson had covered the order the Families had awoken on Eyjan, and the teacher had taught them a phrase to help keep the order straight: Believe Me, Young Eagles Have Such Great Holidays. Hanford had volunteered an easier-to-remember phrase that was easily the foulest sentence I’d ever heard. That weekend we got drunk on beers liberated from his parents’ fridge and had been thick as thieves ever since. When I’d gone in for lawman, he’d drifted to the much more practical ambition of rock star. I’d ended up a detective, him a DJ.

I slipped into the broadcast booth near the end of a music track, pulling up a chair and slipping on a pair of battered headphones, the NOYS logo faded almost to illegibility. I left one ear uncovered, so we could talk between on-air moments. The music ended and I froze, careful not to make a sound while the red Live light was on. The city’s favorite DJ leaned forward, bushy mustache practically touching the mic while he spoke in his trademark husky baritone.

“Alright sugars, this is Handsome Hanford, spinning the hits that shake your hips.” He thumbed a button and a recorded coyote howl pierced the airwaves. “Keep that dial locked in, ’cause it’s Dinah McIntire week and we’ve got a power block of festival tunes to lose the blues. I’m talking tracks from the lady herself, as well as Mulberry Wine and Steve and the Machines, all headed your way after these brief messages.”

Another swift button-punch queued up a car dealership commercial, cajoling Hanford’s loyal listeners to trade in their junker for a new model with the potential for conversion from gasoline to a manna-fueled engine with the tagline, “The future . . . is magic!”

Hanford lowered the volume and swiveled his chair to face me. I raised a paper bag containing a pair of number-three combos from one of my favorite food trucks. Buying a friend lunch was the least I could do.

“Righteous! Put it over on that table.” His natural speaking voice was a half octave higher and crackled with sarcasm. “Should I even ask if you read the latest issue?”

Ignoring him, I pointed at the turntables. “Dinah McIntire week?” I didn’t bother to keep the indignation out of my voice. “Are you a complete sellout?”

“This time of day, yeah. It’s why I do my best work at night. Besides, you might as well