ran

find survivors. Or perhaps merely locating bodies for burial, to reduce the contagion likely to spread from unburied remains. I am noticed and pointed at by crews who clearly would prefer to take themselves elsewhere.
I am still sitting there when a civilian groundcar approaches, picking its way carefully through the rubble-strewn streets of the shantytown. My first thought—that POPPA officials have arrived to inspect the damage—is only partially correct. The occupant of the car has, indeed, arrived to survey the damage. But he is not a ranking member of POPPA's government. Phil Fabrizio climbs out of the groundcar and stares at the bare patch of ground where his quarters once sat.
"Aw, shit, man! They blew it all to goddamned hell!"
I am so startled to see my mechanic alive, it takes me three full seconds to find something to say. "You are alive," I finally manage, with less-than-scintillating wit. "Why?"
Phil stares up at my warhull. "Huh? Whaddaya mean, 'why?' "
"Why are you alive? More accurately, where were you, as you clearly were not in your quarters at the time of their destruction."
"Huh," he snorts, "I wasn't in 'em, 'cause I ain't entirely stupid. When the shootin' started, I skedaddled, just jumped in my car and ran for it. They blew up a buncha buildings, straight off. I didn't figure it was too healthy to stick around, you know? So I hightailed it over to my sister Maria's house. We heard the whole place go, right after I got there, like a volcano or somethin', but there ain't no news reports on it, nowhere. Not even the chats. So I figured the only way t' find out was t' go home and see for