by Julian Miles | Sep 14, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Wenza waves a tentacle towards the screen.
“A pretty planet. All those blues and greens. What’s the white at top and bottom?”
Bintol smiles.
“Sub-zero territories. What you’re seeing is accumulated snow and ice.”
“What’s snow?”
“Frozen water that falls as uniquely shaped crystals. It drifts somewhat like sand, according to a report from a Ratturten expedition.”
“That sounds wonderful. Will we see some?”
“No. This is merely a stopover at our base on the dark side of their moon.”
“Why aren’t we- Hold hard. Ratturten haven’t been spacefarers for over a century! They renounced spaceflight completely after losing the Gendiflade War.”
“They were the last race to enter the atmosphere of this planet. Apparently they were playing their ‘catch me if you can’ games with the inhabitants.”
“Why hasn’t anyone visited more recently?”
“Wait until we’ve docked. A demonstration has been arranged.”
The luxury cruiser has been docked for only a short while when Bintol escorts Wenza and retinue into the viewing gallery. After making sure they’re settled, he steps in front of the wide viewport.
“Welcome to closed planet Terufon. It was known to its inhabitants as ‘Earth’, ‘World’, or ‘Global’. The exact etymology around that trio of names is unknown. Shortly before the dominant civilisation collapsed, they reached what is regarded by many of us more knowledgeable races as the unfortunate pinnacle of automated warfare: they created a genuine SPASOAN: self-perpetuating, artificially sentient, orbital aggressor network.”
He gestures to one side. One of the crew presses a button that launches a small cargo pod towards the planet. As it accelerates away, Bintol resumes.
“Watch, please. Note that it is entirely unarmed and devoid of personnel – organic or otherwise.”
The pod travels quickly until it reaches high orbit, whereupon they see several bright beams illuminate it.
“Coming fast from the left.”
The object he pointed out hits the pod, the impact tearing it in half. The object wobbles as plumes of exhaust indicate fierce deceleration.
“What you’ve just witnessed is an Orbital Interception Object defined as a ‘Type One’. The largest we’ve seen is Type Ten. Anything bigger than Type Six doesn’t decelerate. They are moving at sufficient speed for the impact to be mutually destructive. Also, they are only the first line of defence. They occasionally miss. The energy weapons of the next line never do.”
He indicates the many darker patches scattered across the view.
“You see these? They’re debris rejected by the scavengers that find materials for use in nanorepair of the interceptors. Originally from wasteful space exploration techniques, then warfare, and most recently from vessels destroyed by the SPASOAN. By most recently, I mean the last two hundred years. That’s when all access to this planet ended. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. The cost in materials and vessels to remove the SPASOAN is deemed too high, especially as it is likely its core resides somewhere down on the planet itself.”
Wenza raises a tentacle.
“What of the inhabitants?”
Bintol shrugs.
“A very good question. Observations in the twelfth year after access was closed indicated an extensive conflict that ended in the use of thermonuclear weapons. We could have helped, but their deadly servant wouldn’t let us. It refused every appeal. What they’re doing down there is unknown. However, the atmosphere stabilised ten years ago. It’s hoped to eventually observe indications of life.”
Wenza gestures to the Type One that’s being towed away by a smaller object.
“I would venture a study of the SPASOAN is warranted. How many have survived two hundred years?”
Bintol bows.
“None, and we are already doing so.”
by Julian Miles | Sep 7, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We live in a car park. It’s a really nice one. There are swings and toilets with locking doors and the showers are wooshy and warm every time. Dad says we can stay here until me and my sister Eliana go to big school. He says we can move to a car park nearer to wherever that is if we need to. When he talks about that Mum looks sad, but that’s alright because we hug her and sing the silly song until she laughs.
I like it here. There’s lots of trees and stuff. Our last car park only had buildings and railway yards. People there were mean to Dad. Some of the kids at the school picked on my sister but after I hit a couple the playground monitor called me up in front of the classes to explain myself, so I told them all off.
A teacher told me I should apologise. I asked them why I should do that when we did nothing wrong? The proper jobs went away. Mum and Dad did lots of different jobs after that. That’s when they decided to take us on a super road trip instead of living in one place. Like a long holiday with jobs in-between. It was fun most of the time, but jobs got less and less. The car parks and other places we stayed had big fires and lots of shouting. It scared us.
One night, Dad and Mum had an argument, one of their bad ones – the ones they try to hide from us, but we know because they’ve both been crying and are being super nice. The day after that, Dad sat us down before teatime and said he’d done something to stop Mum crying every night. He said the company that owned the country were paying people to be nice, and since we always were, it was only fair we got paid too. I wasn’t sure but Mum was sort-of smiling so me and my sister clapped and cheered. That made Mum smile properly. I heard Dad tell her later that the money would let us choose our car parks. I thought we always did that, but it’s adult stuff so I won’t understand until I’m older.
This is our third car park since then. It’s the nicest. I hope we get sent to a big school near here so we don’t have to move again.
by Julian Miles | Aug 24, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Spacers and submariners have a lot in common. Biggest difference is they have specific purposes and set periods on board, whereas free traders live in a fancy tube because it’s the only place we’ve got.
Anything that threaten ‘fireflies’ – the ships we call home – terrifies us. Every crew’s paranoid about stopping or avoiding them. But yesterday we caught the one of the worst: Jasmo Dean, wanted on sixteen counts of Wanton Plunder: taking everything a ship has, including the air, and the lives of the crew.
“How did he get aboard?”
Captain Rand’s livid, but we don’t know the answer. Two people came aboard at the last spaceport, neither were Jasmo, and they’re sitting opposite me right now.
Misty speaks quietly.
“He said he arrived a few minutes before Barton caught him.”
Barton howls with laughter.
“In the middle of the big empty, he just popped in?”
Misty nods.
“Said he wouldn’t have bothered us but urgently needed a toilet. Ate something bad on Brindak.”
We all stare at her. Brindak’s two months away in a different direction from the route we’re on.
Rand pats her hand.
“He’s shining you on. That’s how his kind lull you into befriending them: first they gain your trust. Eventually they’ll turn on you.”
“Can the accused say something, please?”
We all look about in fright. Barton brings up the cell hologram: Jasmo’s sitting cross-legged, looking up at a cam.
“Yes, I’m still confined. No, I can’t explain in any way you’ll understand. But if I could have a candle, I can demonstrate.”
Rand bristles.
“No way in creation I’m giving you a fire source!”
Jasmo grins.
“I didn’t say I wanted a lighter. Just a candle.”
Rand points at me.
“Did you search him?”
“Yes. One rucksack containing basic toiletries and old clothes. No technology except for a standard issue crewmate dagger in a plain locking sheath.”
He nods. You never separate a spacer from their utility knife. It arrives with you, and often will become your headstone.
“Show of hands. Do we give him a candle?”
Misty throws her hand up.
Barton considers, then raises his slowly.
“Fifty-millimetre stub. Not a whole one.”
Good idea. I tip my hand his way.
Our passengers are divided: Abello shakes their head. Drantysh raises a hand.
Rand shakes his head.
“Four to two. Who’s taking it?”
Misty stands up. Barton gets a fresh candle from our trade goods and cuts the stub from the wick end. She goes. We watch the hologram.
Jasmo gives her a little bow without rising. After she exits, he gets up, retrieves the candle, and… Waits?
Misty rejoins us.
“Now watch.”
We all focus on the hologram.
“Travel, as with most things deemed impossible without technology, is a matter of focus and will. On a planet, you focus on a star in the sky. Out here…”
He holds up the candle in one hand, then snaps the fingers of the other.
It lights! The blue globe throws shadows across his face.
“Then all a wizard has to do is will oneself onwards.”
He vanishes!
Utter pandemonium breaks out.
Much later we’re all sitting around, almost scared to look at one another. Jasmo, impossibly, is no longer on the ship.
His voice comes, sounding like he’s shouting from far away.
“Sorry about the scare. The authorities fear people like me. My peers hate that I won’t hide. Two very different motives behind me being framed as a pariah. I’m no threat to fireflies. You’re like tiny islands in an endless sea of night. Only a fool would harm such.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 17, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The displays on the wall scroll through the major global news channels. They’re all showing mushroom clouds. Usually it’s the one nearest to their HQ.
Nat leaps up, pointing to the screens.
“It’s a declaration of war. Has to be!”
Allie turns from her desk to look at him.
“By who?”
“Ru- Ko- Ch- Iz- Am… Oh.”
He winds down, but doesn’t sit.
Guido applauds.
“Thank you for demonstrating the problem, sport.”
Sandy stands up so she can see round the comically high stacks of books she has on her side desk.
“There’s a problem apart from nuclear strikes on shipping bottlenecks?”
Allie raises a hand.
“You’re nearly there. Follow that line of thought.”
Sandy counts off on her fingers.
“First one was off Paraiso, followed by in the Strait of Hormuz and Great Bitter Lake, then off Malacca, and finally the one in the Strait of Dover.” She looks at Guido. “Have they confirmed whether the Channel Tunnel is damaged yet?”
Guido types a couple of quick queries.
“Yes. I’m seeing early reports and videos of seawater ingress and mass panic. Expert opinion is tending towards a breach rather than a collapse, but it’s still very grim, plus there’s the radiation hazard.”
Nat waves his arms about.
“See? It’s war!”
Allie spins round to face him.
“Shut up unless you can name the country who would start a war against everybody. With no guesses or bias. Speak or get down.”
Nat scowls and half-raises a pointing finger, then abruptly sits.
Allie nods.
“Thank you. Go on, Sandy.”
“Well, like you said, the strikes don’t seem to benefit any of the obvious factions. Five mass-casualty events that are going to render the routes inoperable for long periods: Dover and Hormuz straits will adapt first, followed by Malacca. But the two canals are going to be down for decades, and possibly won’t be usable in the current layout for centuries, depending on the yields of the weapons used. Which may have been substantial. A full-size shipping container could conceal a bomb of significant size, even allowing for shielding.”
Guido applauds again.
“Summed that up well. Now all we need to do is-”
Nat sits up.
“Follow the money – more correctly, define who benefits. For which, we need to establish the impact of this atrocity.”
Allie smiles.
“My money’s on militant accelerationists.”
Nat nods enthusiastically.
“Supply chain chaos leading to more lifestyle breakdowns for their fascist appeals to take advantage of.”
Guido rocks his hands in a ‘maybe, maybe not’ gesture.
“Not convinced. Goading governments across the world to clamp down on extremism works against violent and clandestine groups. They wouldn’t want to make themselves targets for the anti-terrorist tornado of enforcement overreach backed by knee-jerk politics that’s sure to hit everywhere soon.”
Sandy waves towards Allie.
“I think she’s nearly right, but not militants. It’s nihilistic accelerationists. They don’t care what comes next. They just want to destroy this civilisation. They think it’s degenerated beyond remedial action. The sooner it ends, and the more violently it does so, the better.”
Allie turns to stare at Sandy.
“That makes horrible sense. The clampdowns that are coming will piss people off even more. Then add climate-driven mass migration on top. Shortages will get much worse. The ultra-rich will stockpile essentials, straining things even further. Hate-mongers and rabble-rousers will cause civil wars fuelled by nationalism. Those will eventually burgeon into open warfare over resources, first locally, then nationally, then internationally.”
Guido grins.
“There’s a billionaire backer out there somewhere. Tried to be a kingmaker -”
Sandy sighs.
“Started an apocalypse instead.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The warning roared from every speaker across the world. Unfortunately, the words were incomprehensible. Most people just looked at their devices in surprise or up at the nearest speaker in shock, muttered about invasive advertising getting out of control, and carried on with their lives.
That evening, Tomjo and his mates were gleefully beating the stuffing out of some hapless Seattle homeowner who’d been rude enough to object to being burgled.
Tomjo kicked him hard in the side of the head. Something cracked. The homeowner went limp.
One of the others crouched by the body.
“Ay ay, fink ya dun ‘im, bro.”
When he didn’t reply, they looked up at their chief. Tomjo was staring into the sky. Everybody heard him say “You what?” before he too went limp. As he collapsed, everybody ran.
The murder wouldn’t have attracted so much attention had it not occurred seconds after that particular sundown. It did remain just another fatality statistic for a few weeks. Meanwhile, there was a worldwide outbreak of sudden deaths among murderers, exploiters, and businessmen. Many of the incidents were initially deemed inexplicable. Many of them also featured the murderer lying next to their victim.
Then Professor Sanderson Crewe, a respected expert on ancient languages, was interviewed by a news crew outside the museum where he worked.
“I have finished my translation of the mystery speech heard worldwide last week. It was spoken in an early dialect of Sumerian. I have here today a transcript in English.”
He shows a document to the screen, then turns it and begins reading.
“Be aware: the activation of Intrinsic Uttuku Concordance has been approved. It will begin at your next sundown. Those who abide our tenets, blessed continuance. Those who do not, remediation commences.”
Professor Crewe lowers the document and stares at the camera for a moment before speaking again.
“I was initially puzzled by this, until I became aware of events transpiring worldwide. Put briefly, it appears that some greater power has decided humanity is in need of guardianship. At the moment, that apparently involves a single effect: if you kill another human, you will be instantly killed. It should be noted that according to evidence from cases around the world, the number of stages removed from the evil that you do does not necessarily protect you. If your actions result in death, then death will be visited upon you.”
The next words are spoken slowly.
“Although it might be unwelcome, I would suggest a moratorium on killing while the exact limits of this are discerned.”
He seems to consider something, then nods and speaks quicker.
“I would also request that other linguists check the original broadcast along with my translation work as soon as possible. While murderers and their ilk dropping dead could be regarded as beneficial, I feel it unwise to ignore the possibility that I’ve missed or misinterpreted anything.”
Tomjo is now reckoned to be the first subject penalised by the Intrinsic Uttuku Concordance.
What warfare remains has become entirely drone-based and is increasingly unpopular. Grievous crime rates have plummeted worldwide. Fervent investigations continue into who did this, what it is, and how it can be stopped.
A few are loudly outraged by this ‘alien interference’ in our sovereign right to kill one another.
Most of us on this suddenly peaceful planet don’t care.
Wishing you the blessing of your uttuku, friend. Long may it continue.
