Free Prophet Margin by Simon Spurrier Page A

swathes of the crowd. In a commemorative issue dedicated to the disaster, the highbrow journal BIG ran a poll in which readers agreed that being simultaneously irradiated, burnt alive, scalded and drowned by liquid shit was definitely up there in the top ten of the Galaxy's All Time Worst Ways To Go. 5
    5. Alongside old classics like "Being Swallowed Whole by a Slow-Digesting KnifePuma During its Glandular Lemon-Juice Season", "Accidentally Consuming the Blushwort Toxin" (which forces victims to relive their most embarrassing moments until so much blood has gone to their cheeks that their heart stops), and - generally agreed to be the worst of all - "Death By Karaoke."
    Chryz Widdiso's agent (whose executive craft had been shielded from the explosion by a vast container of ticket stubs) regretfully announced that the great man was not a Cloner Card carrier. "Those of us left behind," she added, through a mask of artfully made-up tearstains, "have agreed that now would be a sensible time to break his policy of 'no recorded performances'. With that in mind, there will be a retrodisc in all good dataoutlets within the next few days, priced at a mere fif... ah, hundred creds and containing all of the maestro's most enduring hits." She even managed to shed a little eyejuice, which all the journalists agreed was a very nice touch.
    Stories from immediately after the disaster, when rescuers came from all around to find survivors (and take photos of themselves doing so) became commonplace. Details of unlikely escapes caused a brief flurry of excitement before becoming too outrageous even for bored columnists. One bizarre story, for example, regarded a patch of land on the eastern crust where formerly a farmhouse had stood. Despite the surrounding environs being pelted by a particularly high density of wreckage, and the entire area being consumed by magmacrap flows, rescuers claimed to have found a solitary survivor, unconscious but unhurt, in a perfectly formed bubble within the solidified dung. "It's like the muck flowed all around him," said one attentionseeker, "but couldn't get none close enough ta kill him up."
    The story was, naturally, ignored.
    Genuine survivors were loaded aboard mercyships, drugged to the gills by lawyers working for the Widdiso foundation, and sent as far away as possible before they woke up and started asking questions. "Who can I sue?" for example.
    Local police speculated that the bombers derived from Nama's Moon - a nearby world with a reputation for criminality and a thriving market in hovbikes. Citing a lack of evidence and making comments to the effect of "it coulda bin any one of them bastards," the investigating sheriff reluctantly conceded that it was unlikely the true culprits would ever be found.
    He was one hundred per cent wrong.
     
    Kid Knee slouched in a front row seat and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to reach for the metal shape nestled against his hip. He must be strong.
    The studio was a mess. Scaffold joists tangled in an emaciated mess behind the seats, chains hanging like jellyfish fronds from rigging gantries high above. Camera turrets slumped devoid of power, microphone drones poised against magnetic surfaces and the frail set beyond the stage was now so much ash. The lectern from which Koszov had delivered his speech was blackened across its forward face, shrapnel peppering its surface, and the aquarium that had risen from the floor stood shattered, broken glass littering its base. Even the yellow police tape threaded with a complete lack of geometry around the place couldn't cheer it up. There was too much dried blood for that.
    Most of the auditorium was flattened, breached in a concave depression that had ripped apart concentric circles of seats.
    "Bomb went off up there," said Johnny, unnecessarily.
    Kid Knee rolled his eyes.
    Alpha, on the other side of the auditorium, picked his way thoughtfully through the tangled mess. The Kid watched him for a moment, considering