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.
by Julian Miles | Nov 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Swinging into the forward turret, I see the displays are alive with scanner arrays and intricate calculations.
“Morning, Hinton. How’s the hunting?”
“Once again, Zaba, I’m going to ignore the irrelevance of arbitrary planetary platitudes. You’re clearly stuck in your ways. So, to answer: while swearing in exasperation is only a useful release for sentients possessed of emotions, I do believe I am approaching a truly refined grasp of its utility. I might even create and submit a thesis after this trip.”
“Another one? I’ll get lectured on not providing you with enough enrichment.”
“Ignore them. They’re not good with modern virtua.”
He has a point.
“Do they still use Archibald’s book as a guideline?”
“I’m convinced it’s something about the title.”
The century-old ‘Notes On the Rearing and Integration of Digital Sentiences’ remains a bestseller among those who do not work with virtua. Which leaves people like me as part of a constantly irritated minority.
“You might be right. Possibly a topic for your next dissertation?”
“Certainly a candidate.”
“So, how is the searching going?”
One of the displays starts to flash. The calculations shown are baffling for any non-digital being.
“I’ve had to create a new model to handle the gravitational effects in this sector. I am currently factoring in ninety-eight influential sources.”
Which, if I remember correctly, is twenty beyond the previous maximum.
“What are you looking so hard for?”
“The last Balrog.”
I wasn’t aware they’d loosed any.
“Seven or Eight?”
“Nine.”
The what?
Diving across to the lone keyscreen, I run through the Battle of Ceregellum in quick time, limiting the highlighting to projectiles over ten megagrams.
There. The last stand of the Kandil dreadnought Farrakang. As the kilometre-long vessel broke in two, it launched a quartet of its heaviest towards the flagships of the Noudal. Three of them hit: a combination of unbelievable targeting and pure luck. Wait. Three hits, three kills, all on Titanic-class or better?
“It’s a Balrog Nine with a Sunrise warhead, isn’t it?”
“Two. I have never come across such an implementation, and can find no predictive programs for the damage it could cause.”
A Sunrise warhead could turn an Earth-type planet into an asteroid belt. I doubt there would be anything left of any smaller target. To pair such warheads is madness.
“That’s because we foolishly thought no-one would be stupid enough to load two into one missile. I’ll leave you to it, Hinton. I have to notify Central. Send me the latest predictions so I can append them to give the innocent some idea of where it’s going.”
“Very well, Zaba.”
I rush from the turret. Bomb disposal has taken on a new lease of very dangerous life since we started having battles in space. Smaller projectiles just join the plethora of flying space junk. It’s occasionally damaging, but ship shields and the like can deal with it. However, all midrange and bigger are rogues looking for a disaster to make. Ever since the space liner ‘Luxor’ fell victim to a Mako 171 missile that was six years and half a galaxy away from the battle where it was launched, we’ve been using artificial intelligence to run the immense calculations needed to locate large munitions that missed.
Arriving on the command deck, I grab a transmitter and broadcast.
“This is Munitions Retrieval. Alert for sectors as appended. We have a Category One threat. Report any activity in the twenty megagram range to Munitions Central.”
That done, I get myself a drink and wait. There’s nothing we can do except hope Hinton can find it before it hits something.
by Julian Miles | Nov 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The wind’s picking up, keening between the stacks. If it gets any stronger, we’ll have to retreat.
“Alpha Seven, your favourite scout’s offline.”
“How long?”
“Nearly ten minutes.”
Switching myself to wide-hail, I call out.
“Team Seven, Scully’s dropped out. Who had last contact?”
There’s rapid chatter back and forth. We’ve become good at this: folk who stay lost for too long die. Ellis comes back to me.
“She was going to the ziggurat. Swore she had a double-detect on her movement scan.”
I told her not to go near that place! Then again, I’m only her captain. No real authority…
Switching back to Command, I update them.
“Reports are she headed for the closest ziggurat to confirm an intruder detection.”
There’s silence while someone gets past their swearing phase.
“We’ve told everybody about not doing that. I presume you emphasised it. Which leaves us with some interesting questions for her, if you bring her back alive, Alpha Seven.”
Nards.
“Interpreting that as a one-unit retrieval instruction, Command. Please confirm.”
“Confirmed, Alpha Seven. She’s your stray. Either you bring her back in or we’ll write off the two of you and call it quits.”
Nice of you to be honest about it. Then again, it’s not like this is the first time.
“Copy that, Command. Alpha Seven off into the wilds. Deputy Alpha is Colleen, Gamma Six-Four.”
There’s a short pause before a local message flashes across the info strip that runs across the bottom of my faceplate: ‘For real? They’re sending you after her?’
I reply: “Message: ‘Affirmative. Look after Team Seven’.”
She comes back: ‘Wilco. Happy hunting’.
Yeah, that.
The environment scan shows an incoming dust storm, and the wind has doubled in force since we landed this morning. It’s going to be vicious out here in a few hours. Best be quick.
“Launch warning. Alpha Seven going up in three, two, one.”
I punch my thrusters and hurtle into the sky with a deflection calculated to let the wind curve my flight to come down on the gigantic step pyramid that looms in the distance. We’re still not sure why the first dumpers turned the accumulated trash from Earth into these edifices, but we’ve lost too many people to traps within them to investigate further.
Dropping right on target, I punch the thrusters and come down perfectly, like stepping off an escalator.
“Where are you, Scully?”
A world covered in technological junk makes communication over distance impossible without using orbital devices. However, local hailing can be relied on for fifty metres or so if you don’t have line of sight. Chances are, if Command lost her, she’s in a hole. ‘How deep?’ and ‘Dead or alive?’ are the next questions.
No reply. I scramble about fifty metres along, then try again. Ziggurat’s a kilometre across… Going to be a long afternoon.
“Here.”
“Eleventh call. I was starting to get worried. Where’s ‘here’, exactly?”
“Second tier, underneath a chunk of Falcon 19 fuselage. It was coming loose, moving in the wind, which explains the movement readings. When I arrived, it fell on me.”
“That was rude of it.”
“I thought so.”
“Be with you-”
I’m on tier three, and it’s… Right there. I jump down.
“Now.”
A heat scan shows me where she is. I have to use cutters and claws to get to her.
“You should be flatter.”
“It got my legs, what more do you want?”
“Given the way Command sounded, you might regret surviving.”
She locks her suit to mine.
“Never gonna happen. Get me out of here.”
“Wilco. Launching in three, two, one…”
by Julian Miles | Nov 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Sources always emphasised the utility of wind-up devices after any sort of catastrophe. I used to be sceptical, but having now spent a couple of years surviving in the ruined urban wonderlands of southern England, I admit I was mostly wrong.
When I hooked up with this group last year, they made jokes about a person who babbled on the radio all the time. Curious, I gave it a listen. Whoever they were, they had a mega broadcast rig, and spent their time ranting. I guess sleep was the only thing that stopped them screaming into the void on every channel they could reach.
Which limited the usefulness of radio communications to when the babbler was offline. It did focus us on getting things done when we could, though.
Over the last year, when radios were usable, we’d been hearing about ‘the kills’. Something was making its way along the coast, exterminating smaller groups and loners. They didn’t even loot, and were very good. Some of the people they dealt with had been heavily armed.
A few months ago, after the Bognor Hunters were slaughtered, a new trend started: consolidation. Loners turned up at the gates of settlements, asking to join. Groups merged.
Then came the night the babbler spoke. The usual stream of nonsensical invective and begging stopped, and a slightly puzzled voice said.
“Who are you? How did you get in h-”
Then came a scream. The sort of sound I’d always thought was created for horror movies, not made by real humans.
In the silence that followed, a muffled voice whispered.
“All quiet.”
I grabbed the nearest handset without thinking. Pressing transmit, I asked.
“Who is this?”
Nothing. I continued while those around me looked on in horror.
“Are you part of the group that’s killing people?”
There was a snort of derision.
“We’re the end.”
The microphone fell onto something hard, then cut out.
After our yelling wound down, we had a long, serious – and frankly scared – discussion about what sort of maniacs were stalking the night. From there, we reached out to every group we knew.
For once, it wasn’t difficult approaching any of them. Those who hadn’t heard that broadcast had been told about it.
Defensive alliances started. We even have patrols and traders moving between the nearest settlements. Each has a cadre of fighters now. Hunting and scavenging are done in teams. The kills have stopped. The exchange of skills brought unexpected benefits. Two of the settlements even have rooftop farms going.
Maby was a loner. Clearly been out there a long time, admitted to being a countryside ranger and fitness freak before everything blew up or got flooded. She asked to join, did her time as a prospect, then blended in.
Tonight I saw her kill for the first time. She did it cold, without hesitation, and I realised we really know nothing about one another.
I ran a dojo for years, but not for full contact. People came for discipline, fitness, and all the other reasons why learning to fight calms the soul. A few regulars were dangerous: streetfighters or ex-military.
How Maby moves reminds me of the pair of really dangerous regulars I let spar one night to show the others the gulf between kata and life.
As a would-be bandit expires at her feet, she catches my stare and whispers.
“All quiet.”
I go cold, then hot. She grins.
“Nothing like the fear of actual screaming death to bring people together.”
Oh sh-
Best she stays on our side.
by Julian Miles | Nov 4, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The screen turns to flickering white lines behind a ‘Connecting…’ prompt. I find myself smiling and look up at the night sky. What do the natives call that constellation? Sarg something. Sarga Nol? Bigger… ‘Sarghalor Noghath’! Yes. Conceptual translation gives us ‘The noghath watches’. Neither the indigens nor us have any idea what a Noghath is. The origin of the name predates two civilisations, and has survived four cataclysms, unlike those who gave it. All that remains are fragments of lore that speak of startling wisdom and phenomenal endurance. The latter being entirely appropriate.
Back when I was a child, my great-grandfather ran an antique bookshop. Being his favourite, he let the precocious and avid reader I was browse any tome he had. From an old one I read shortly before he died and the shop was sold, I came across a poem that ended ‘For distance is the answer to grief’.
I can’t remember book, author, or anything else. Just that final line. When June breathed her last after they let me shut down her life support, those words were blazing in my mind. They continued to burn through days of datawork, funerals, distant relatives, and hollow words. It was a mercy Suki, our daughter, had grown up before our loss turned me into a stranger to the life I’d loved up until June’s accident.
In the end, I just left. That final line was the content of the email I sent Suki by way of inadequate explanation.
I went down to the coast. Then across the sea. Then across a continent. Two. Three. Came back to my home from the opposite direction, then promptly took a left and set off again. When a second circumnavigation failed to help, I went up: the Moon. Mars. Titan. Waystation Ten. The Globes of Centauri. Luyten Sanctuary. June still haunted me. So I went on: all four Wolf outposts, and on again, and yet further.
Eight years and a distance I cannot comprehend later, I was sitting across the way but scant minutes ago when I realised my mistake.
A book written in the early 1800s by a broken man – while travelling by varied, primitive means between Britain and the Bahamas – captured his bleak, world-weary outlook all-too well, but was limited by that world: what he knew and understood. While his struggles spoke to me, the solution he realised was presented in his terms.
The relief he perceived as coming from distance is simply the softening of loss as time passes. While he pondered the waves on the passage around Africa, I spent a similar time travelling to Waystation Ten, out on the largest surviving piece of the Fifth Giant, far beyond Pluto. I’ve travelled further than the poet who penned the words that drove me could imagine, yet only seen marvels amidst my grief, instead of laying it down along the way.
The screen flickers to life. It’s too far for a stream, but with a connection made I can record a short video.
“Suki, I’m sorry. I’m coming home.”
With that sent, I look up again, then give a little salute.
The noghath watches a scruffy tourist turn from the callpoint and start to walk briskly towards the spaceport, a measure of wisdom having finally arrived.
