Titan Song

for hiring furloughed rig workers for the structural work and security. The short-term salve for the unemployed made it an easy sell. It was a win for everyone.
It was a shame they needed a pair of Homicide detectives.
I’d never been to Shelter in the Bend before, but it had clearly been transformed into a tiny village of commerce. Signs welcomed us to Dinah McIntire’s “Ice on Her Fingers” festival. In a bold move, she’d made Titanshade the crown jewel of her promotions, a two-week-long festival with a large number of bands and events. The airwaves had been inundated with announcements: Ten Days of Dancing, Decadence, and the Divine D.M. Now that we were on site, we were confronted with larger-than-life banners commanding us to look for her new single, “Titan’s Song,” in stores.
The site belonged to Rediron Drilling, who’d loaned out the facility to the pop star for her special event. Like all the rigs on the ice plains, its operations had been frozen two months earlier when the raw essence of magic had been discovered below the ice plains. The man who’d struck manna, Harlan Cedrow, had been willing to pay any price to find his treasure. Things had ended badly for him, and for all of us who’d been at the rig where the manna strike occurred.
I parked near a pair of snow-runners identical to ours, the TPD shields on their sides a match for the badges in our pockets. One of them had a light dusting of snow while the other was clean, as if it had arrived recently, its engine still warm. Probably the crime scene techs or patrol cops there to secure the scene. Our response time to this call was much longer than usual. Most drill rigs were far enough from Titanshade that they fell outside our jurisdiction. The oil fields kept their own rough laws, only turning to the authorities in cases of emergency. But maybe a bunch of southern musicians were more inclined to call in the police than a crew of roughnecks.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s gear up.”
Jax and I began securing the heavy coats customary for travel on the ice plains. Department-issue coats had only a few nods to utility, such as the heavy mitten tops that folded back to allow access to weapons. It was a struggle in the cramped quarters of the snow-runner, and the vehicle swayed as the wind drove into it, creeping through cracks and stripping away the interior warmth even in the short time we’d been there.
Jax peered at the festival signs. “You think the band is already here? They’d have to be, right?” He was excited, but also dragging a bit more than his usual eager young self.
“What’s wrong, kid?” I said. “Another late night alone with your books?”
It was usually fun to watch his reaction when I prodded him about his college education and academic bent. Instead, Jax pointed at the central spire of the derrick. “Really impressive what they’ve done here!” The high-toned clicks in his voice were artificially chipper.
I frowned at the sudden change of subject. I knew he’d been spending an increasing amount of time with Talena, my daughter for all purposes, if not by blood or legal marriage. I’d helped raise her, or at least had done my best not to screw up too bad while I was with her mom. I shot a look his way, and found he’d pulled out a handkerchief and taken a sudden interest in polishing his tusks.
I grunted and peered out the window, studying the layout of the site. The prospect of a ten-day festival on the ice plains was mind-bogglingly stupid. Even with our layers, Jax and I could only spend a limited time in the frigid air. But the marvels of engineering never ceased to amaze, and the transformation of the drill site certainly fell into that category. Structures of various sizes littered the area, but they were dwarfed by the central tent. It was a massive swell of tan-and-green-striped fabric, and the tip of the derrick rose through the center spire like the pole of a monstrous circus big top.
“They hung it right on the thribble board,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Pipes sections stack,” I said. “This derrick’s a big one. It can stack three. A single, a double, a thribble.”
“You mean a triple.”
I clapped my hands together, making sure the fit of the gloves was proper. “Did your old man work the rigs? Mine did, and that’s a thribble board.”
Jax sighed. He was a newcomer to Titanshade, and didn’t have oil in his blood. “Should I even ask what they call the fourth level?”
“A fourble.”
“I genuinely don’t know if you’re messing with me or not.”
We stared at one another for a moment, then I killed the engine and opened the door. The wind grabbed hold of it, yanking it from my grasp and making the hinges squeal even as it snatched the warmth from the car and the air from my lungs. I climbed out of the snow-runner and slammed the door shut, eager to keep moving. Each inhalation was a sharp jab to the ribs as the cold bit me from the inside. I was instantly grateful for all those bulky layers.
Jax came around the vehicle and stood by my side. “You’re the expert,” he said. “Which way do we go now?”
I considered our options. To one side of the parking area was a wide field of smaller tents and domed huts. These were rentals, heavily advertised as the perfect option for fans who didn’t want to miss a single moment of the show. The whole thing seemed like a guarantee for frostbite.
But the main tent held the most promise. There was a stream of heavily cloaked people with safety vests and tool belts flowing in and out of the tent opening.
“When in doubt, follow the people fleeing for warmth,” I said, and we moved in that direction, away from the hum of a small army of gas-powered generators