by Julian Miles | Jan 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m not supposed to care which particular variety of illegal folderol a target has been committing. My job is to bring them to whichever form of justice is applicable. We default to it being that of the reality flow they’re in, unless whatever they’re up to is particularly awful, in which case we’re free to use immediately lethal penalties. Which is a decision for my superiors. I might personally disagree, but vigilantism isn’t what I’m being paid for.
All that said, I hate reality skaters. People who get their kicks by invading their lives in other flows, taking what they want, doing what they feel, then skating out ahead of the consequences, leaving their in-flow selves to face all manner of predicaments. However, for all my loathing, I will admit an admiration for their impeccable timing, as meeting another of yourself while in their reality causes a small but mutually lethal explosion.
Tonight’s target is Sebastian Li. He’s been a very bad boy across 123 flows already, and here he comes to continue his rampage through the life of Sebastian Li 124 – technically instance J6P5Z226, but only arrest warrants and scientists care about the actual where/when of any who in question.
“Sebastian Li, instance A6K9L680, your skate is over!”
The tanned figure in the black jumpsuit stops dead, then twists down and around, raising a hand and peering at us from under it.
“Well, well, well. Only two officers? Didn’t I tell you last time you’d need a lot more?”
Scanlon hisses at me.
“There was a last time?”
Getting tired of being his secretary… I hiss back.
“No idea. We got the same datafeed. Now focus.”
“Who’s our third tonight?”
“Brigast. On the rooftop across the way.”
Who gives away his concealed sniper position by shooting Scanlon!
I growl into my throat mic as Scanlon sinks to the ground, blue sparks spitting from his eyes.
“Wrong target!”
There’s a low laugh from my headset.
“For you, maybe.”
I know that voice?
Sebastian turns to face me.
“Your partner isn’t dead – yet. You’ve got about six minutes to get him to medical care a lot more advanced than this flow has.”
“You conniving bastard.”
He grins.
“My parents were actually married in my home reality, so that’s untrue. Now, are you going? Alternatively, Seb Four can shoot you as well.”
He points to where Brigast is.
Four?
The low laugh comes again.
“I don’t think they filled this one in, Six.”
Six? I should be understanding something, but I’m not…
A figure steps out of the alleyway across the way. This – Sebastian! – is dressed in a tasteful three-piece suit and is carrying a harpoon gun. He waves at me with it.
“Sorry to be melodramatic, but sporting goods shops are easier to rip off than gun stores. Oh, sorry. I’m Seb Three.”
Dear gods. There’s a team of them. Too hell with those who sent us blind into this!
“I’m going to take my partner and go.”
Seb Six, in the black jumpsuit, nods.
“You’re handling it well. The last couple of teams didn’t, and there were more of them.”
Are we a case of incompetence or revenge, I wonder?
“Is Brigast alive?”
The reply comes over my headset.
“No. I’m from a reality at war. Old habits. Sorry about that.”
I heft Scanlon over my shoulder and walk away. This is more than negligence, and quite frankly my superiors can pick someone else. If I can’t trust those who send me patrolling the realities, I’m out.
by Julian Miles | Dec 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s an angel on the veranda, stealing my tomatoes.
Well, not actually on the veranda. She’s too tall for that. Got one foot at the top of the steps, the other on the ground. My daughter’s fascinated by the flickering shadows cast by the shimmering energy fields that make up her ‘wings’ – not that we’ve ever seen one fly, it just seems appropriate, being where they’re situated and what they look like.
It’s taken ages to cultivate tomatoes, I can’t just let her take them. Shaking off Abigail’s attempt at restraining me, I step slowly onto the veranda.
“I’m happy you like them, but they’re meant to be the start of a crop before being a treat for us and our neighbours.”
The three-metre-plus being stops mid-pluck and turns her attention to me, the smooth curve of her ear-to-ear lenses changing from purple to green.
“Please excuse my cultural misunderstanding. I thought them welcoming offerings for visitors.”
Not any sort of reply I was expecting. Swift on the heels of their appearance, lurid stories came: brave soldiers tortured, communities massacred, babies eaten, and so on. These are the original rulers of Earth, after all. Risen in vengeful anger from their subterranean citadels to reclaim their world.
“Am I not speaking the right language?”
Oops. Bad time to pause for thought.
“Apologies. You startled me. I wish I had sufficient to be that generous. It would mean we’re getting somewhere.”
She nods.
“A fair assessment, and one I would like to help you achieve, if that would be acceptable?”
Somebody pinch me, I’m dreaming.
“Did you just offer to help me grow tomatoes?”
“In a way. I have a propagated batch ready for delivery. I’m looking for suitable tenders with open ground. On of our darts spotted this plant and your fallow field. I have come to see if we can work together.”
Sinila, my daughter, steps round me and points at the energy fields.
“Can you really fly?”
The silver being steps off the veranda and crouches, bringing her to roughly eye level with Sinila.
“I can, little human. Not for very long, though. The art is to go up quickly, glide for a long way, then use the balance of the power to come down without embarrassing oneself.”
Sinila claps her hands in glee, then looks up at me.
“I wanna fly like the angel lady.”
“My short name is Attalacy. I am a Ninhur. Now, I know you are human. But your name is?”
“Sin-il-a.”
I’m both proud and mortified.
“Well, Sinila, I’m afraid you won’t be able to fly like me, but your children might, if all goes extremely well.”
What? Nope, can’t stay quiet.
“You mean that?”
She moves to sit at the top of the steps, her mercury silver bodysuit moving to match the oddly lumpy-but-lithe form under it. She gestures to the few visible buildings. I see distant friends duck at her gesture.
“For places like this, I do. Every ten to twelve thousand years, humans make a mess. So we come overground and restart you. When you’re up and running again, we’ll retire.”
She turns to look at me, removing her lenses to reveal narrow amber eyes with horizontal slit pupils.
“This time will take longer, I think. There is much nuclear devastation to repair.”
Abigail’s voice from behind makes me jump.
“A world to regrow.”
Attalacy smiles.
“Exactly that. Starting with tomatoes.”
Abigail steps round me.
“Do you like tea?”
“Yes.”
There’s an angel on the veranda drinking tea with my wife.
Great things; small beginnings.
by Julian Miles | Dec 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“DAY-NA!”
The roar of anger is so loud it stops everyone. Dayna, presumably the being we’ve managed to corner after a three-hour citywide chase, was dubbed ‘Jaqueline the Ripper’ by the newsfeeds. Surrounded by rings of armoured vehicles and furious enforcers, she was laughing. Now she looks scared. What’s coming?
A fiery golden aura surrounds the petite being that descends, an elegant ballgown moving languidly as they do so.
The aura vanishes as they land and stride towards Dayna, who starts stammering out what sounds like a justification by its tone. I can’t be sure because nobody has come up with an Aziasen lingo patch for our not-so universal translators.
“We will conduct this discussion in Humanese Type Four.”
The latest arrival looks back at me. Green-tinged silver skin, mauve eyes, no pupils.
“My name is Ayse. Can you understand me?”
I nod.
“May I continue chastising this woeful being?”
Going to need to find a voice for this. Slow breath, and –
“My name is Mike. Yes, for the moment. That might change when my seniors or embassy representatives arrive.”
She smiles. Whoa my, that’s more fangs than most.
“Not soon, I hope. I loathe being reminded about etiquette when the situation demands otherwise.”
All of a sudden, I’m sure Ayse isn’t a junior dignitary.
Clara, my partner, leans across and whispers.
“This could be good. Or really, really bad.”
I whisper back.
“Agreed. Be ready to go shields up while sprinting away like angry space vampires are chasing you.”
“That would be a lot funnier if it wouldn’t be true.”
While we banter, Ayse continues walking towards Dayna – who seems to be trying to reverse through the wall she’s up against.
“YOU WERE TOLD NOT TO DRINK ANY MORE HUMANS!”
My ears hurt.
Dayna starts waving her hands placatingly.
“Only one! Just one! I was SO thirsty. I only stopped for sip.”
Ayse looks back at me.
“How many died in the most recent incident?”
“Inside the venue or during the pursuit?”
“Venue.”
I check my datapad.
“Everyone at the Boco Congo nightclub: thirty-eight clients, seven staff, and four security personnel.”
She turns back to Dayna.
“You might have intended to sip, but your rassmea is clearly out of control.”
Dayna waves her hands dismissively.
“No, no. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Just let me sleep it off. I’ll be back on the program.”
“YOU’RE GOING NOT GOING BACK ON THE PROGRAM. YOU’RE GOING BACK TO AZIAS!”
Dayna looks horrified.
“YOU CAN’T SEND ME HOME! There aren’t any humans there. I can’t go without; they taste SO GOOD!”
Movement happens before I can react. By the time my mind catches up with reality, Dayna is lying on the ground between Ayse and us.
Ayse looks up from the prone form.
“May I please take my human-addicted kith away, officer? She will be off-planet before dawn tomorrow. I give blood-bond to you that she will never return.”
A blood-bond is an absolute guarantee, which is a far better-than-expected result. All Aziasen have what amounts to diplomatic immunity. I was expecting to end tonight – and my career – involved in a diplomatic incident because I killed one.
“You may. Is rassmea treatable?”
“If a sufferer really wants free of it. Sadly, this one hasn’t had any of her whims denied since she was a child. It is best she forever be kept apart from humans.”
The fiery golden aura surrounds them. They rise into the air.
Ayse nods to me.
“Thank you for not slaying my sister.”
They’ll never know how close I came, and that’s a very good thing.
by Julian Miles | Dec 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
My principal settles comfortably and waves us off, indicating we should exit and close the door. We’re just by that door when all our proximity alerts shriek. As one, we spin about and rush to protect him. After all, if he dies, we don’t get paid – and quite possibly don’t get another job: losing the person you’re meant to be protecting never looks good on a resume.
A missile enters at the wrong angle for a solid hit, skips off his personal defensive forcefield, then lands a solid hit on the front woman of my team.
I come round lying under a section of ceiling. Rolling my eyes I see it was prevented from crushing me by a partially collapsed wall.
Movement: cautious, careful, and I’m convinced also very dangerous.
Right now I couldn’t defend myself against a curious moth, so I switch to headware battery, breathe out, stop my heart, and settle to listen. Catching the perpetrator from evidence I provide will compensate for having a dead principal on my resume.
“My apologies, Baron Noeblen. I hadn’t allowed for your security team being quite this efficient.”
There’s a cough.
“I’ve no idea who you are, but surely my security isn’t efficient, because they’re dead. I don’t suppose you’d accept a higher offer to let me live?”
There’s a tinkling laugh.
“If I were tasked to kill you, I wouldn’t. As I’m not, accepting would be fraudulent. Suffice to say today is a warning. Your security were efficient because they made it back quick enough for my missile to hit one of them. It should have exploded against the rear wall, where you’d have been protected from the blast by your forcefields and the back of your chair. However, as you won’t die from your injuries, I will accept this as success by luck.”
More coughing.
“What is this warning about?”
“The Stellar Seven merger. Noeblen Holdings should not participate.”
“How much to be told which of my rivals is paying you?”
“Nothing. I am acting on behalf of an affected government. They have seen what your sort of investment and industrialisation results in, and have no wish to condemn their populations to it. With Noeblen out of the merger, they feel they can arrange matters more to their satisfaction.”
Not sure if that’s a cough or clipped laugh in reply.
“Back off the gangsters to cow the businessmen. That’s a bold strategy.”
“Baron Noeblen, I am permitted to inform you that while my organisation specialises in near-miss negotiations of this sort, we are quite capable of being deadly accurate, and also believe assassination is most effective when entire bloodlines cease to exist.”
The silence that follows lets me hear the tell-tale sounds of late-stage mass panic from beyond this wrecked private viewing room. It’ll be at least five minutes before any response reaches us.
Finally, my principal speaks.
“Noeblen Holdings will not be part of the Stellar Seven Consortium.”
“Thank you for your agreement.”
I hear footsteps.
“Now the formalities are over, might I ask something?”
The footsteps stop.
“You may.”
“Could you recommend me a replacement security team?”
The tinkling laugh comes again.
“You don’t need one. Just get Benedict sufficient medical attention and he’ll rebuild you an effective team.”
They spotted I’m alive. That’s alien tech levels of detection.
“I want better.”
Understandable.
“To protect yourself from my organisation, you need my organisation. We are unique. Benedict and those chosen by him will protect you from any lesser threats, and we’ll not meet again. Warnings are only given once.”
The footsteps recede. The implicit threat lingers.
by Julian Miles | Dec 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Did you see that, Pete?”
I nod.
“Just another rocket from Abaella.”
Said on the news it’s going to be in range of Earth for another month.
“It’s bigger than that, Pete.”
Amanda sounds unhappy. I wander out onto the porch in time to see a stray moon level Sacramento.
While the ground heaves we cling to each other, then scream and crawl as a wind that roars like a thousand storms tears our roof to tatters.
The silence after the impact is eerie – and brief. Unbeknownst to us, a bigger stray moon hits Las Vegas a few minutes after Sacramento got hit. The wind from that blast tears into the opposite, exposed, side of our house and lifts the whole building. The stars spin crazily as I fly through the air and land in the creek.
I wake with a scream, grab my scarred thigh, then fall back onto my bundled coat as phantom pains recede. I landed in the deep part of the creek. Amanda didn’t get so lucky. It took a day to find her, and a week to motivate myself afterwards.
What happened? It was a question a lot of people were asking. Details came piecemeal, and the picture wasn’t good. Some stray moons had landed in oceans: shores abutting them had been scoured clean. A few of the stray moons split on impact, massive chunks hurtling sideways to slam down elsewhere. Watching them describe an almost flat arc across the sky must have been breathtaking – unless you were anywhere about to be hit.
In the aftermath things got worse. Earth had been blitzed by twenty to thirty moons hurled away when the meteor they orbited collided with a bigger meteor. Despite the devastation, it was fortunate for humanity, because the bigger meteor hitting Earth would have caused an extinction event. As is, we’ve ‘only’ suffered a survivable apocalypse.
The stark realities of coping proved too much for many of the survivors. Within a few months of Impact Day, every township had a designated suicide point where those unable to cope could go and remove themselves from the grim equations of survival. To this day, pickup crews still make morning runs out to those places to collect any who left us overnight.
There’s a small subset of survivors who can’t trust the sky anymore. To our minds, staying anywhere invites further disaster. We roam the transformed landscape, talking to ourselves or less dishevelled wildlife, eating whatever we can find, and working for short-term lodging at places we come across.
People say we’re ‘looking for Abaella’ like it’s a funny thing. As far as I can work out, the whole Abaella story was foisted on the population to explain the early arrivals from that monumental collision: it was nothing but a fabrication to keep the peace.
Looks like those who invented it didn’t survive, because I’ve not seen any attempt to rebuild anything more than townships. Then again, since other countries might as well be our Moon as far as getting news goes, I suppose there could be civilisation somewhere.
Most people are busy surviving, filling their days with farming and suchlike. I can’t do that. It strikes me as giving up. Not that I could tell you what they should be doing. My life is an endless meander, punctuated by days of blinding rage or paralysing grief.
Somebody lied and the love of my life died. I’ll never know the truths behind it all. Hope I can get over that, one day.
Until then, I’ll walk.
