Read Online Prophet Margin by Simon Spurrier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Simon Spurrier
Tags: Science-Fiction
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a cheeky pink-and-blue Mandelbrot fractal pattern. Aimed, Johnny couldn't help noticing, directly at him.
"What's stopping me," she said, "from handing you over to the police? You've been on the exile list since the war. I checked."
Johnny glanced up to see if he'd get any help from his partner. He should have known better. Kid Knee stood rooted to his spot, hands raised in terror.
The motorcycle helmet he'd puttybonded to his headless shoulders in an attempt to look normal - if such a thing would ever be possible - was sagging, giving him the look of a dead man hanging on barbed wire. His other "ingenious" innovation was to wear a hockey mask over each knee, supposedly a "fashionable pair of kneepads", to conceal his true mutation. The overall effect was of a punk with no neck and no sense of style. Reggo threw him a cursory glance and discounted him as a threat. Johnny couldn't blame her.
"Then you'll go down for aiding and abetting," he said, returning her stare. "We couldn't have got through customs without your help. I thought you were doing us a favour."
"Hah. 'Favour'," She said the word in much the same tone a Trilaxxian Stud breeder might have used to discuss donkeys. "Don't be ridiculous. I'll just tell them you abducted me. It'll make a great story. Loads of free publicity."
"Uh-uh." Johnny shook his head. "Phone records. That call I made from the Doghouse, remember? The one where you said you'd meet us at the spaceport, help us out, renew old friendships, blah-blah. I believe the words 'smuggle you out through the VIP lounge' featured at one point. The station's AI records all calls."
She smirked and brandished her middle finger.
"Wow," said Johnny. "Good comeback."
"Look closer." Something metallic flickered on the finger's knuckle. "Series 4000 dermally implanted microphone," she presented a chipper grin. "Comes complete with one hundred minutes free call time, cerebral phonebook, suite of games and a top notch signal scrambler. Nobody records me."
Johnny nodded, impressed. "You got me then."
"Looks that way."
"But you brought me here anyway. Could have handed me over in the airport."
"So?"
"So you're after something."
"Who isn't?"
"I already told you we can't pay you, so that's not it-"
She flicked a hand. "Pfft. Money."
"So, what then?"
"Exclusive access."
Johnny scowled. "More interviews? Lady, that fly on the wall thing covered the lot. I told you: I find people, sometimes I kill them, then I get paid. End of story. If you're looking to make a follow-up you're going to be disappo-"
"The... ah... other kind of access."
Nobody moved.
"Um," said Kid Knee.
"The other kind?" said Johnny.
The journalist rolled her eyes. "Look, people don't want documentaries any more. They don't give a sideways sneck about the Plutonian pigmies or the Liberacii Gaycolonies or whatever. People want excitement. Danger. Titillation." She coughed, embarrassed.
Johnny shrugged, lost.
She almost snarled. "My ratings are diabolical, okay? I need some scandal."
"Scandal." Johnny suddenly spotted where the conversation was going with crystal clarity.
Reggo took a deep breath. "The only show I've made this year which even got near to all that 'inform, educate and entertain' bollocks was the one about Strontium Dogs. People like freaks. It gives them something to... to..."
"To hate?"
"Ish. But they love to hate muties. And they love it even more when they can compare all that freakiness with razor sharp gorgeosity in the shape of moi ."
"I'm still not getting this." Johnny lied.
"Oh, for sneck's sake! My agent thinks it would be a good career move if I had a stain or two on my record. And muties are fashionable at the mo."
Johnny swallowed. "Right," he said.
"Right."
"So, you want to... ah..."
She shuffled her feet. "It would just be once. With a camera drone watching, of course."
"Of course. Um. Here?"
"Well, perhaps one of the studios would be warmer."
"Warmer. Right. Uh." Johnny pointed towards the
"What's stopping me," she said, "from handing you over to the police? You've been on the exile list since the war. I checked."
Johnny glanced up to see if he'd get any help from his partner. He should have known better. Kid Knee stood rooted to his spot, hands raised in terror.
The motorcycle helmet he'd puttybonded to his headless shoulders in an attempt to look normal - if such a thing would ever be possible - was sagging, giving him the look of a dead man hanging on barbed wire. His other "ingenious" innovation was to wear a hockey mask over each knee, supposedly a "fashionable pair of kneepads", to conceal his true mutation. The overall effect was of a punk with no neck and no sense of style. Reggo threw him a cursory glance and discounted him as a threat. Johnny couldn't blame her.
"Then you'll go down for aiding and abetting," he said, returning her stare. "We couldn't have got through customs without your help. I thought you were doing us a favour."
"Hah. 'Favour'," She said the word in much the same tone a Trilaxxian Stud breeder might have used to discuss donkeys. "Don't be ridiculous. I'll just tell them you abducted me. It'll make a great story. Loads of free publicity."
"Uh-uh." Johnny shook his head. "Phone records. That call I made from the Doghouse, remember? The one where you said you'd meet us at the spaceport, help us out, renew old friendships, blah-blah. I believe the words 'smuggle you out through the VIP lounge' featured at one point. The station's AI records all calls."
She smirked and brandished her middle finger.
"Wow," said Johnny. "Good comeback."
"Look closer." Something metallic flickered on the finger's knuckle. "Series 4000 dermally implanted microphone," she presented a chipper grin. "Comes complete with one hundred minutes free call time, cerebral phonebook, suite of games and a top notch signal scrambler. Nobody records me."
Johnny nodded, impressed. "You got me then."
"Looks that way."
"But you brought me here anyway. Could have handed me over in the airport."
"So?"
"So you're after something."
"Who isn't?"
"I already told you we can't pay you, so that's not it-"
She flicked a hand. "Pfft. Money."
"So, what then?"
"Exclusive access."
Johnny scowled. "More interviews? Lady, that fly on the wall thing covered the lot. I told you: I find people, sometimes I kill them, then I get paid. End of story. If you're looking to make a follow-up you're going to be disappo-"
"The... ah... other kind of access."
Nobody moved.
"Um," said Kid Knee.
"The other kind?" said Johnny.
The journalist rolled her eyes. "Look, people don't want documentaries any more. They don't give a sideways sneck about the Plutonian pigmies or the Liberacii Gaycolonies or whatever. People want excitement. Danger. Titillation." She coughed, embarrassed.
Johnny shrugged, lost.
She almost snarled. "My ratings are diabolical, okay? I need some scandal."
"Scandal." Johnny suddenly spotted where the conversation was going with crystal clarity.
Reggo took a deep breath. "The only show I've made this year which even got near to all that 'inform, educate and entertain' bollocks was the one about Strontium Dogs. People like freaks. It gives them something to... to..."
"To hate?"
"Ish. But they love to hate muties. And they love it even more when they can compare all that freakiness with razor sharp gorgeosity in the shape of moi ."
"I'm still not getting this." Johnny lied.
"Oh, for sneck's sake! My agent thinks it would be a good career move if I had a stain or two on my record. And muties are fashionable at the mo."
Johnny swallowed. "Right," he said.
"Right."
"So, you want to... ah..."
She shuffled her feet. "It would just be once. With a camera drone watching, of course."
"Of course. Um. Here?"
"Well, perhaps one of the studios would be warmer."
"Warmer. Right. Uh." Johnny pointed towards the
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