by Julian Miles | Mar 23, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The curtains hang out the window, blowing in the breeze. A tic starts on his cheek, but stills when he looks down, gaze drawn to where a torn page from her notebook flaps about in his grip, like a little bird trying to escape.
Far down the road a girl in the faded red pinafore dress her grandmama made for her mama sits on a battered metal suitcase with ‘04-K64-FB’ etched on both sides. She reads what she’s just written, pocketing the pen while doing so. Ripped paper prevents the notebook closing properly, so she spends a while picking it out, staring at each fragment for a few moments before letting it blow away.
He strides around the house and back into the kitchen, all the time glancing about, like he expects someone to be there. With an annoyed grunt, he turns, then stops and swings back to the table. There’s a breakfast spread laid out just how he likes it. But only for one. Looking up, he sees the pan’s on the hob. There’s a jug with a fork in it stood nearby. Everything is there, except ingredients – and cook.
The weekly skiff sets down so she can disembark on the apron outside Sandoolie Port. She waits until the cloud of dust from it’s departure clears, then walks up to the gate, suitcase in one hand, docket pack in the other.
“State your business.”
The access droid doesn’t wait for an answer, scanning her docket pack as it asks the question. A side gate opens. She enters after pausing with one foot inside, eyes narrowing as she glances back.
The flitter sits in the barn. He checks it carefully. It hasn’t been tampered with. He can run it out whenever he wants. He jumps in, then just sits there, watching dust devils spin through the morning. The crystals within them reflect the sunlight as they pass the wide doorway. The ghost of a smile flits across his face as he recalls how she’d loved those flickers: ‘like there’s lightning inside’.
The port is very noisy. Just like mama cautioned her, she keeps to the centre of the main walkways, watching for signposts and ignoring shouted enquiries.
It’s midday before he leaves the barn, wiping his hands clean after servicing the harvester ‘bot, a job he’s been meaning to do for-
Since she died.
There! A firefly class vessel about to leave, already hooked to the swing-launch gantry, but still with it’s ramp down. Mama always said they never close up until the last minute.
After picking fragments of shell from the eggs before he fried them, he finds they’re still crunchy in places. He hurls the plate across the room. It smashes against the stained patch on the wall.
There’s a purple-haired woman in a floral-print shipsuit gazing at her with a look of wonder.
“You look just like her.”
The girl nods.
“Grandmama said so too.”
“You come to visit or leave?”
“Leave. I’m not dying waiting for him to change. Mama did that.”
“I’m so sorry. My name’s Jewel. Come aboard. Welcome to the Firebird.”
As she carries her mother’s suitcase through the cargo bay, Jewel sees the determination in her eyes. The will to make the one choice her mother never could: to fly free.
Pulling the torn page from his pocket, he reads it again, brow furrowing. The distant thunder of a ship departing Sandoolie interrupts his concentration. He snarls, crumples the page, and tosses it out the window.
The wind takes it before he can snatch it back.
by Julian Miles | Mar 9, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s raining again. Mike looks up at the dirty brown sky and frowns at an errant childhood memory where rainclouds were grey.
His headware comms activate.
“Papa Ten, Papa Ten, you watchin’ the skies again?”
Mike grins at Samantha’s way of telling him she’s close. Without deploying traceable amounts of countermeasures, he’ll still not see her until she wants to be seen.
“Papa Ten’s been busy, Raven Four. How was your downtime?”
“Better than Panther Two. Lost his VB.”
Mike switches app and calls Eric.
“P10 to P2. How did they manage to pull your Veteran’s Benefit?”
“P2 to P10. R4 beat me there, eh? Neighbour reported me for dealing ammo on the side. Until the investigation finishes, I’m on savings.”
“One lying git due a visit soon. Got it. See you a minute. P10 out.”
He switches back.
“Raven Four, Raven Four, where’s Tiger Nine?”
“Two graves east, boss.”
Mike leans forward and sees the wide, armoured form of Roald striding between mausoleums.
“Evenin’, Tiger Nine. How’s life been treating you?”
“I’m getting rained on again. Must be doing something right.”
Mike puzzles over the philosophy behind that, but quickly gives up – again.
Seeing Eric walking towards them, Mike chooses tonight’s tactical channels on the spur of the moment. Nobody knows up front because he doesn’t either.
“Team Four we are on Tac Three and Tac Twenty-Eight. Go live in three, two, one, action.”
He hears three tones as everybody arrives on Tac Three.
“Okay, tonight we’re being ambushed.”
Eric sighs.
“Again? Which arse-for-a-brain thinks it’ll come out different this time?”
“Same old, same old: Chowda of Bulletin. Paid us to kill Phantom of Yakashime, but also paid a Ruksov strike team to kill Phantom, us, and all witnesses.”
Samantha snickers.
“Who told?”
Mike grins.
“Elliot got a gig guarding Chowda’s mistress. Overheard him crowing about it. Thought it was rude. Gave me a call.”
Roald mutters.
“How long we gotta put up with insults?”
Mike nods.
“No longer. Chowda’s having an accident tonight. Overdosed and drowned, apparently.”
Eric chuckles.
“Tragic. What about Phantom? She’s no easy mark.”
Mike nods.
“True. But she does pay a premium for safety tips. Like not going out for dinner tonight.”
Samantha drops from the roof of the mausoleum Mike’s leaning in the doorway of.
“So we’re here to end the Ruksov team?”
Mike points to the left.
“They’re parked up in two vans on the other side of that wall, and will be rolling out in about twenty, I’d say.”
Eric grins.
“Tiger Nine, did you bring your anti-armour?”
Roald chuckles.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” He looks back to Mike. “Don’t suppose someone marked mid-wheelbase on those trucks for me?”
Mike extends a middle finger to parallel his pointing index finger.
“No idea, but someone seems to have stuck a couple of glowlights to the wall we’re looking at.”
Roald steps to one side and peers through the increasing downpour.
“So they have.”
He checks behind.
“Eyes.”
Everybody looks down.
“It’ll be down to their reaction times. Ready ready.”
His minimissile launchers swing up, out, and fire. A pair shoot from each. They scream across the graveyard and punch through the wall just below each glowlight.
Double explosions are followed by an even louder one from the left-hand target. It briefly throws a fiery yellow glow onto the low clouds.
Samantha sighs.
“They didn’t even have scanners up. Amateurs.”
Mike claps his hands.
“And we’re clear in record time. Dinner’s on the Phantom. Only question is: where?”
They move off, arguing between Wong’s Fryery or Guido’s Ristorante Italiano.
by Julian Miles | Mar 2, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Investigator Mellio considers the narrow doorway.
“You say this was never opened?”
“Logs confirm it, sir.”
Mellio glances at the sergeant.
“Thank you, officer-?”
“Sergeant Parx, sir.”
“Good to meet you, Parx. So, the brief said this isn’t the first?”
“Correct. This is eighth member of the Gundorini gang to escape.”
“How many do you have left?”
Parx checks his smartcuff.
“As at roll call: nineteen. You want me to organise a watch on all of them? The Head Warder’s already complaining over the costs of extra patrols and hi-grade scanners to spot whatever stealth tech they’re using. He’ll not want to add overtime.”
Mellio considers, then nods.
“How many relatives of the escapees remain?”
Parx checks.
“Well I’ll be.. Got one left. All are actual Gundorini family.”
“Are they in a nearby oubliette?”
Parx smiles.
“Rulebook states we’re not to use that word. But they were originally dug to serve that purpose.”
Mellio grins.
“You just answered my next question.”
Parx grins.
“But you’ve got another.”
Mellio chuckles.
“I do: the lowest level of this facility, which I presume we’re in, predates the Watch Station?”
“By about a century.”
“Okay. So, how often had you lost inmates prior to this?”
Parx looks surprised and unhappy at the response to his query.
“Officially, none. But I see one or two cases a year written off as roll-call errors.”
Mellio frowns.
“Outside my remit, but I presume you’ll find and prosecute whoever’s been concealing it?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Good. Right, answering my next question will be a challenge: I’m betting that when the oubliettes were frequently filled, some were known to be unusually bad for anyone incarcerated in them. I’m offering a case of Casarion Red to the officer who tells me which ones.”
Parx raises a hand.
“Make it a cask of Freeport Ale and I’ll be on this all night, sir.”
“Done. See you tomorrow.”
The next day, Parx is waiting by the entrance. Mellio waves cheerily.
“What’s the good news, Parx?”
“They were called Rooms back then. Numbers fifteen thru thirty-one were regarded as the ones for problems that needed ‘solving quickly’.”
“And the answer to my next question is?”
“The Gundorini escapees were in seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, and thirty-one. The last is in fifteen.”
“How often do the escapes occur?”
“Monthly. Whatever sort of stealth they’re using, it’s beyond us.”
“I brought a Kaflarvan remote viewer with me. All I need are grid references for the office you assigned me and Room Fifteen. Next month, we’ll be watching and they’ll never know.”
Nearly four weeks later, Mellio and Parx sit in front of a greenish hologram display as the night progresses.
“Sleeping well, again. Maybe it’s not tonight, either.”
Mellio shrugs.
“Tonight or tomorrow.”
On the display, a section of a corner in the cell goes dark.
“What’s that?”
Mellio sits forward.
“Exit, or…”
Something flows through the gap where the block was. The inmate jumps up, clearly panicking, unable to see the gigantic arthropod with tentacles for legs that rears up behind him. What follows is brutal and brief.
The block slides back into place. Parx waves at the display, choking out a wordless query.
Mellio pats his shoulder reassuringly.
“That, sergeant, is a Bontranalochal. The phrase that mouthful of a name comes from translates to ‘creeping abomination that eats families’. It hunts by following prey home and attacking them there.”
Parx gasps.
“It’s been picking off the Gundorini bloodline!”
Mellio nods.
“Exactly. Now, on the one hand: your sequential escapes mystery is solved. On the other: you have a serious pest problem.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 23, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nat rushes in, noise from the crowded street cutting off as she slams the door. She hitches a thumb towards the outside world.
“What did I miss this time?”
Guido grins at Allie, who gestures for the new girl to fill their prodigal reporter in.
Sandy sighs, then leans back, lacing her fingers behind her head.
“First week of the New America Campaign has got everyone hot for one side or another. It’s going to be a bloodbath: whether that turns out to be pitched battles or massacres is yet to be determined, along with the level of actual bloodshed involved.”
Nat dumps herself down in her seat.
“What about that new bunch? The Statist Front or whatever the Red and Blue press hacks are branding them?”
Guido chuckles.
“Fifty Stars are doing well, picking up the disaffected from all sides. Accusing them of being Statists is a little simplistic-”
Allie interjects.
“Like propaganda ever resorted to lowest common denominator tactics.”
Guido doffs an imaginary cap.
“Thank you for that, Professor Obvious. As I was trying to say: they’re more than the claims. Someone on their side has been paying attention, and their pitch of state rule with federal hands-off until requested has got a lot of people interested. Plus their approach to gun ownership has a sizeable chunk of the NRA backing them, although that’s undeclared as yet.”
Nat frowns.
“I thought their front runner is a Z-”
Allie hoots, wagging disapproving a finger.
“No use of dirty words in here; that includes both of the ‘N’ ones, too. Besides, Bobby isn’t. His dad was, and nearly disinherited Bobby about that. If he hadn’t dropped dead before making good on his threats, things might have been very different.”
Guido nods.
“Personally I think the only difference would be Lizabet Van Houll as the candidate and Bobby Rennick as her pick for VP, instead of the other way round. Somebody chose their candidates carefully.”
He stares pointedly at Nat.
“Shame we can’t find out who’s actually behind those who everyone else thinks are behind them.”
Nat gives him the finger.
“With their stated intent to raze the current domestic enforcement agencies to the ground using this new Federal Investigative Agency they’re proposing – which I still think will effectively be a domestic CIA – they’ve rightly got their security hardened and in order well ahead of the inevitable escalation of attacks.”
Sandy tops up her water.
“This is all terribly interesting, but I thought I was employed by a keen indie news website, not a discussion group.”
Allie chuckles.
“Brave words for someone ending their third week. Please consider this before you dig your sarcastic self any deeper: every one of us has at least a hundred A.I. agents working on leads, leaks, and verifications as we speak. We’re not idling, we’re waiting. Every script mandates regular check-ins, regardless of content found. That half-hour of frantic keyboard activity three times a day isn’t us trying to look busy. It’s us instructing our minions about what to focus on.”
Sandy says nothing. Allie continues.
“That datapack you still haven’t opened is your intro, starter, and guidelines. Since we all think you fit in, these soft-hearted fools have talked me into giving you a heads up: new peeps get a month to turn up something newsworthy that the rest of us haven’t. You’re down to nine days.”
Sandy looks nervous.
“Nine?”
Allie nods.
“We like you, but nobody dodges the one-month rule. Make the grade or you’re gone.”
Sandy sighs.
“Gotcha. This sarky idiot better get her ass in gear, then.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 16, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The capsule lies open, a multitude of wires connecting it to a frame bristling with circuit boards. On the other side of the jury-rigged device, a single fat cable connects to a socket in the wall of the shielded room.
Mike looks up as Colin taps the armoured viewport between them and the room before querying him.
“What’s wrong?”
Mike smiles.
“Nine weeks to comprehend the output. No input ports, and it starts pushing data as soon as its connected. Initially we were confused, but then realised it’s only a short message on infinite loop.”
Colin frowns.
“An emergency broadcast? From what? There’s been nothing unusual of late.”
“That’s why I called. I’ve finished converting from an unbelievable hologrammatic format. Don’t comment. Just watch.”
He taps ‘play’.
A haggard-faced man in a spacesuit of advanced design sits facing them.
“This is Flight Officer Anders Portman, MTV Adelaide, Final Report.”
“Adelaide was at Mars departure point NH3 when the object dubbed Kantautau entered the solar system. As we were the nearest long-haul vessel ready to go, the Adelaide was re-tasked with taking an expedition to examine Kantautau.
“We swapped one of our two entry shuttles for its military equivalent, took on a passenger complement consisting of military specialists, scientists, and the grunts necessary to keep them all safe and served.
“We were still executing the fast burn when we learned about the loss of Pluto. Survey satellite videos showed Kantautau to be a 500-kilometre diameter artificial toroid that generated a 460-kilometre shining vortex within its ring. The effects of that tore Pluto apart, sucking pieces in as it went. The destruction took a week to complete. Kantautau then headed deeper into our Solar System.”
“The panic on Earth and in the Colonies was phenomenal, and was mirrored here. After the disorder was reined in, the survivors voted. It came out two-to-one in favour of getting closer, hoping to make useful discoveries as we neared Kantautau.”
Anders pauses for a moment.
“For the record, I voted to continue, and regret my choice. Not entirely because it’s going to get me killed, either. We should have observed from a distance.”
After checking something off-screen, he continues.
“We couldn’t determine its propulsion method, but that led to the idea of approaching it from behind to see if we could detect anything in its wake. In hindsight, the naïve idea of sneaking up on an interstellar black-hole weapon of unknown origin was also a stupid one.
“Whatever controls Kantautau doesn’t like snoopers. Their tractor beam is slowly pulling Adelaide towards them. They’ve stopped moving and have started the vortex, which Professor Dondridge assures us is some form of black hole. He’s also convinced it’s a wormhole, not an obliterator.
“I took one of the armoured strike skimmers on the military entry shuttle. I launched hoping to use the shadow of the Adelaide for cover, but the tractor beam got me an hour ago. I’ll swap this capsule for the warhead on missile in a few minutes, then fire it. It’ll be able to go much faster without a living passenger. Hopefully it’ll get away.”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, then salutes.
“That’s it. Good luck, whoever gets this.”
Mike gestures toward the screen.
“The Mars Colony project is a good twenty years from completion. This comes from ahead of that. My guess would be a century from now.”
Colin shudders.
“Wonder if we got it by sheer luck or as part of some diabolical strategy? Either way, it gives us a few decades for planning.”
Mike nods.
“We’re going to need every second.”
