by Julian Miles | Apr 20, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“How can I be expected to rule well when all of you keep on believing the FAKE news spread by people who hate me for being so good. Why think enemies of what I am trying to do tell you the truth? I tell you the TRUTH you need. I am a gentle giant in many many things. VERY smart. But you will not believe. I do not understand why you keep failing me. So I have decided. Best if I start again. No more weak people. No more arguments over ruling. No more disagreements over my brilliant plans. No more crying over this piece of sand or that length of sea. No more fighting what I want. This plan is GENIUS. So many people who said they supported me were really WEAK servants of woke and foreign powers. They kept the truth from me. NO MORE! My very very clever Minister of War found what you had all been trying to hide and showed it me. Today you will know what we do when the gloves come OFF. You would not believe me. You would not help me. You only have nukes because we let you keep them! This got set up in case you betrayed us. Been up there for years. My people just finished making it better. Very clever of me to know I would need it. Put all the launch codes in as well. Do not try to fight back! I don’t know why they tried to keep all this from me. Even tried to tell me it would not work. RUBBISH! It works FINE if you don’t need to AIM! I do not need to because everywhere I need to feel my authority is in range. So I am going to hit all of you. Nobody gets to insult me anymore. All the cities who said I could not tell them what to do. All the states who said I had no power. All the countries who would not support my wars. You said I could not be trusted. We will see about that! All of you are to BLAME! If you crawl from the rubble afterwards you will see mushroom clouds. Then you will LEARN. You should have listened. You should have obeyed. Now you will. Tomorrow is MINE!”
by Julian Miles | Apr 13, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“There’s a devil on ma shoulder
It’s doin’ real good fer me
It’s not about breakin’ any rules
It’s all about keepin’ free…”
Greaseman Don’s on form today: dirty overalls attracting flies, red cap on backwards, boot stomping time on an empty crate while picking on a fuel can guitar. The man does wonders with that three-string, he really does.
“There ain’t no point in tryin’
When ya gonna fail that test
Better off not botherin’
Stayin’ like I am be best…”
I come down here every few months, just to remind myself of how people will adapt to anything, including the ruinous results of piss-poor voting choices.
“Workin’ nights at Freeport Hub
A good job passes the time
Honest work an’ honest pay
No need for govermint dime…”
Sounds great, but everybody in this borough survives on welfare: Faircare credits if they’re unemployed, Besthealth credits if they’re unemployable, and all the employed receive Workloyal credits because the wages are so low. The only advantage of qualifying for Workloyal is that you deteriorate slower than those receiving Faircare or Besthealth.
Don picks up the tempo.
“Expect too much yer’ll come up wantin’
Best ya stop yer dreams from hauntin’
Play life straight: jus’ toil an’ drink
Be one o’ the workers, no need ta think…”
This place can be bitterly depressing. Which is why military recruitment does so well: offering regular wages, regular meals, and – most importantly – a rent-free place to live in that’s far away from here.
“Afternoons drag when the shoppin’s done
Nothin’ ta do but ‘n extra beer run
Then stack the fridge an’ swipe the TV
Swig yer booze an’ love that AV…”
What everybody misses is that while it can be depressing, it’s still living. I’ve visited military barracks, law enforcement enclaves, and immigration officer high-rises. They all say it’s a good life, but I’ve seen more life in A.I. drone hangars. Kind of telling when a home populated by robots with the intelligence of cats has the most individuality.
“Call the girls an’ make that bookin’,
Weekend’s come an’ it’s time fer lookin’
Watch ‘em dance an’ make yer move
Walk like ya got noth-in’ ta prove…”
The biggest businesses in these areas are bars like this, prostitution, and 24-hour bodegas. Except on the weekends, when nightclubs compete for the number of drunks they can part from their fresh credit.
“Digital paradise ain’t missin’, oh no
Scan the dancer as she a’ go-go
Take that home an’ watch for free
Cheaper beer an’ no bonus time fee…”
The speed at which urban areas became wall-to-wall havens for weekday shut-ins surprised me. There are a few exceptions, but they’re cleaners, roaming security – or criminals.
“Goin’ down ta the homeware store
Gonna get me a portable I ain’t seen before
Take it home an’ learn it well
Show it off next meet an’ tell…”
What baffles me is the hatred for cities from rural areas. Urbanites are blamed for the agricorps taking over. Just about everyone works for them: living in their encampments, never venturing out except to work. The only alternative is subsistence farming.
When did freedom come down to nothing but two flavours of poverty: slow starvation or urban stagnation?
Don drops back to barebones the opening hook: just vocals and stomping.
“With this devil on ma shoulder
I don’t need nothin’ at all -”
Time to leave Greaseman Don to his adoring fans.
“Got no angel on tha other side
Jus’ da scar where she took a fall.”
There endeth today’s sermon. I’m out of here.
by Julian Miles | Apr 6, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The spires on the distance give an illusion of peace. It’s only when you get closer you can see they’re gutted frames sticking up like headstones. We used to call the city Heltarvon. It was the trading capital of Briss, the biggest hierarchy on our eastern continent.
Earthers thought we’d cave in after they rained projectiles down on it. We didn’t. The cries of defiance became louder. So the Earthers struck Eldia, the equivalent city in Gunhol, the biggest hierarchy of the northern continent. The outcome was the same. All the while, they kept on demanding obedience. Next they struck the twin cities of Cathtar and Ruriden, even bringing down the bridge that linked them across the Solantan Deep.
We weren’t sitting targets for this, evacuating urban centres as best we could. But Earther strike ships started roaming the countryside around the burning cities, killing anything that moved.
That’s what did it. Despite the elegant speeches, Earthers are nothing but bullies addicted to power. Even if we’d acquiesced, their demands would have escalated until they could justify murder.
Mordun broadcast the night the twin cities died.
“The Earthers are irredeemable. I release us all from the Nentaruloth.”
While the Earthers puzzled over this, we opened the caverns to anyone who wanted to reach in. Nenta is the hardest material discovered so far, and it’s only found on Silum. Nodules of it range between the size of a fist and the size of a small aircraft. Earthers covet it. Their entire campaign was based on seizing it.
Released from our restraint, we gave them what they wanted.
As a race, we Getren have telekinetic powers. Some of us can only lift fist-size stones. The most powerful can lift entire aircraft or medium-size buildings. Any of us can accelerate what we lift. We can also combine our powers.
The first warning the Earthers received was when their flagship, the Admiral Benson, was struck by an aircraft-sized nodule of Nenta travelling at a tenth of one percent of the speed of light, impelled by several million very angry Getren.
Earthers then learned we maintain control of accelerated objects, although the turning circles of faster or bigger nodules can be immense. The nodule that tore through the Admiral Benson returned to smash their Orbital Headquarters into pieces. After that, their communications turned panicky.
Meanwhile, groups of Getren were using Earther strike ships for target practice, while others shielded them from sporadic attempts to fight back using chunks of buildings originally destroyed by the Earthers.
When Mordun strode into the Earther Ground Headquarters, shielded by a whirling cloud of Nenta shards, they quickly discovered our greatest can shape Nenta by will alone. He slew any who tried to confront or delay him from reaching Ambassador Sarrick.
The recording of that meeting became an interplanetary sensation. He stood there, dressed in a blood-streaked silver bodysuit, Nenta shards spinning so fast around him they made a constant humming noise.
“You came to exploit. You’ll not come again. We will trade Nenta via the Bangulon, a race you already have trade agreements with. For now, there will be limits on the annual amount available to Earth. Your remaining forces have two hours from when I quit this place to depart. Any who have not done so will die. Am I clear?”
Ambassador Sarrick cleared his throat.
“Ahem. Yes. But-”
“No. This is over.”
A shard curved wide. There was a wet, tearing noise. The shard returned darker. Mordun left.
The Earthers made it off Silum with eight minutes to spare.
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.
