Read Online Prophet Margin by Simon Spurrier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Spurrier
Tags: Science-Fiction
Ads: Link
nearest of the buildings. "What about that one?"
Reggo swivelled in her spot. "Yes," she said, observing the unimpressive lovepad. "Yes, that looks fi-"
Zzk.
She crumpled to the ground with a sigh. Johnny deactivated the electronux he'd smuggled onto his fist. A single tap on the forehead was all it had taken to introduce Miss Nickle Reggo to slumberland.
Kid Knee turned from the unconscious reporter and fixed Johnny with a disbelieving glare. "What," he said, barely able to speak, "are you doing ?"
"Close call, that," Johnny said.
"She... she was going to-"
"Come on. Studio 72." He strode off, leaving Reggo where she was.
"You're mental, Alpha."
"Shut up. It's this way."
"She was throwing herself at you, man! You're deranged!"
"Not on the job, Kid."
"Whaaaat?"
"It... impairs focus."
"You're snecking joking, right?"
"Look, just shut up."
"Couldn't we at least bring her with us? I'm not gay!"
"Nor am I!"
"You know, I always wondered about you and Sternhammer."
"Shut up."
"That big beard he's got, it's a dead giveaway."
"Shut up."
"And you gotta admit, that helmet of yours is kind of suggestive."
"Shut up ."
WORDS FOR THE DEAD
#3 Chryz Montellimar Fortunis Jenkins Widdiso
The last note, traditionally, lasts 39.45 seconds. I'm feeling mischievous, so I add a full three microbeats. The second aria of Faelii Spatchula's masterwork, " Celestial Detritus" , thus finishes with spine tingling beauty. Naturally.
I am, I admit, excited. Amongst the usual range of passion and brilliance I will this evening demonstrate no fewer than seventeen techniques utterly inaudible to human ears. That none of the groundlings will appreciate them is irrelevant: one does not protect their position as the galaxy's greatest singer by resting on one's laurels. In my hundred and fifty years of life (one hundred and nineteen of which have been spent in "artificial" realities) I have devoured the musical knowledge of countless civilisations, I have perfected the most challenging cadences and developed new techniques of my own. Next time you listen to Zagre The Konk and his Martian NoseChoir, or the FartBeat of Yollande Whippet, spare a thought for the genius who innovated their chosen artforms.
That's me.
If spending ninety-nine per cent of one's time immersed in fabricated realities sounds unsatisfying, allow me to retort. Where else may a gigabillionaire take the opportunity to indulge every vice and perversion without the tabloid press watching on? I'm assured that the real Nymphqueen of Hedon IV isn't able to perform half the "stunts" that my simulated version can, and have perfected the art of Tantric Opera whilst testing this theory to its limits.
Some people might regard that sort of fastidiousness as a manifestation of arrogance.
Peasants.
Tonight's audience, mercifully, appears well behaved. I can't see the shrieking cretins, of course, which is a bonus. They're down on the ugly little world below me, craning their necks back to peer up at the holo-projections of yours truly that the techs are scattering liberally across the ionosphere.
It's live, but not as we know it.
Speaking of which, time for the next number. Dame Bossuk's famed "laughing" version of the Cadmium Movement: a challenging piece given that I have only one mouth and set of lungs, but I'm yet to be beaten by biology.
Oh, for my sake. It seems I was wrong about the crowd being well behaved. Yes, here they come: hovbikes scudding across the horizon like a swarm of gnats. Bloody stage divers.
You know, at my second concert, ninety years ago, one of the little bastards actually made it onto the stage. He was about to touch me when the assistant-deputy-trainee-sound-engineer bludgeoned him to death with a quantum microphone stand. I had to start the seventh chorus of Zephanixxus III's " Purple, O Purple" all over again. I tingle merely thinking about it.
Thankfully we've improved our security since then. A flotilla of Carnagebots will tend to
Reggo swivelled in her spot. "Yes," she said, observing the unimpressive lovepad. "Yes, that looks fi-"
Zzk.
She crumpled to the ground with a sigh. Johnny deactivated the electronux he'd smuggled onto his fist. A single tap on the forehead was all it had taken to introduce Miss Nickle Reggo to slumberland.
Kid Knee turned from the unconscious reporter and fixed Johnny with a disbelieving glare. "What," he said, barely able to speak, "are you doing ?"
"Close call, that," Johnny said.
"She... she was going to-"
"Come on. Studio 72." He strode off, leaving Reggo where she was.
"You're mental, Alpha."
"Shut up. It's this way."
"She was throwing herself at you, man! You're deranged!"
"Not on the job, Kid."
"Whaaaat?"
"It... impairs focus."
"You're snecking joking, right?"
"Look, just shut up."
"Couldn't we at least bring her with us? I'm not gay!"
"Nor am I!"
"You know, I always wondered about you and Sternhammer."
"Shut up."
"That big beard he's got, it's a dead giveaway."
"Shut up."
"And you gotta admit, that helmet of yours is kind of suggestive."
"Shut up ."
WORDS FOR THE DEAD
#3 Chryz Montellimar Fortunis Jenkins Widdiso
The last note, traditionally, lasts 39.45 seconds. I'm feeling mischievous, so I add a full three microbeats. The second aria of Faelii Spatchula's masterwork, " Celestial Detritus" , thus finishes with spine tingling beauty. Naturally.
I am, I admit, excited. Amongst the usual range of passion and brilliance I will this evening demonstrate no fewer than seventeen techniques utterly inaudible to human ears. That none of the groundlings will appreciate them is irrelevant: one does not protect their position as the galaxy's greatest singer by resting on one's laurels. In my hundred and fifty years of life (one hundred and nineteen of which have been spent in "artificial" realities) I have devoured the musical knowledge of countless civilisations, I have perfected the most challenging cadences and developed new techniques of my own. Next time you listen to Zagre The Konk and his Martian NoseChoir, or the FartBeat of Yollande Whippet, spare a thought for the genius who innovated their chosen artforms.
That's me.
If spending ninety-nine per cent of one's time immersed in fabricated realities sounds unsatisfying, allow me to retort. Where else may a gigabillionaire take the opportunity to indulge every vice and perversion without the tabloid press watching on? I'm assured that the real Nymphqueen of Hedon IV isn't able to perform half the "stunts" that my simulated version can, and have perfected the art of Tantric Opera whilst testing this theory to its limits.
Some people might regard that sort of fastidiousness as a manifestation of arrogance.
Peasants.
Tonight's audience, mercifully, appears well behaved. I can't see the shrieking cretins, of course, which is a bonus. They're down on the ugly little world below me, craning their necks back to peer up at the holo-projections of yours truly that the techs are scattering liberally across the ionosphere.
It's live, but not as we know it.
Speaking of which, time for the next number. Dame Bossuk's famed "laughing" version of the Cadmium Movement: a challenging piece given that I have only one mouth and set of lungs, but I'm yet to be beaten by biology.
Oh, for my sake. It seems I was wrong about the crowd being well behaved. Yes, here they come: hovbikes scudding across the horizon like a swarm of gnats. Bloody stage divers.
You know, at my second concert, ninety years ago, one of the little bastards actually made it onto the stage. He was about to touch me when the assistant-deputy-trainee-sound-engineer bludgeoned him to death with a quantum microphone stand. I had to start the seventh chorus of Zephanixxus III's " Purple, O Purple" all over again. I tingle merely thinking about it.
Thankfully we've improved our security since then. A flotilla of Carnagebots will tend to
Similar Books
