by featured writer | Sep 28, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Featured Writer
Gravity sucks. I mean, who wants to be stuck to anything because it’s so big you can’t get away from it?
I was born in the same cubby that Mom and Dad raised fourteen of us before the aches got ‘em. “Drive stress”, the officers call it. Seems like that gravity thing is plain mean. After all, they did their best to “replenish population” and their only reward is being deadified by the ship? Seemed unfair.
There I was, working my way up the ladder in the tech section. Didn’t plan it this way, but after we’d left the fortieth planet we could have settled on, seemed to me like some officers liked things just as they were a little too much. Told us about “adverse cultural impact” and “negative bacterium adjustment” and stuff like that. I had an idea and then found out I wasn’t the only one.
So when the officers culled all the people who had “formed quasi-religious ideals counter to mission parameters” I knew we were on to something.
So I’m hanging upside down trying to keep my gear from tumbling on to the deck a long way down. I’m skinsuited so I don’t drip, which is going to wrinkle me like a prune so I’ll have to hide from the officers tomorrow. Been here for two hours and my head is pounding and my eyes keep blurring, seems like gravity knows I’m here to mess with it and is trying to make my head explode.
With a smile I complete the reroute and flick the switch I’ve just hooked into the “gravitic core stabiliser coupling”. Only box I could find that related to gravity, so this must be the one. Techs only do some stuff and “mission critical systems” are fixed by the officers. So I spent days looking for a gravity bit. Worked back from the “drive attenuator” box I found behind a bulkhead. Took six weeks but I got it. Gonna teach this gravity thing who’s boss, gonna see the officers spit when me an’ mine from below level ten can turn their ship on an’ off unless they do as we say.
Mom, Dad; this is for you. I flick the switch back and forth a few times.
It gets real noisy down there and officers is runnin’ all over the place, shouting and yelling in their fancy lingo. Then a real bright light hits me. One of them officers seems to have got a line on what I done. I hears a real posh voice from behind the light,
“It’s a squaddie, skipper. Up in the routing duct, he’s done something to the connections, can’t see what.”
“Tell that distant spawn of a redneck émigré that unless he undoes what he’s done, we’re buggered.”
I got the drift of that alright. So I wiggle the switch a few more times. They all get frantic down there and suddenly I don’t feel so good and I hear a ladies’ voice below, all squeaky-like;
“He’s stuttering the coupling! Can’t you feel the fluctuations? If he keeps doing that we’re going to be a toroid denser than a collapsar!”
“Shoot him. Now!”
I heard that. I shouts down to them.
“Don’t you be thinkin’ about that, officers! I knows you got a plot to keep us down an’ if you don’t ‘fess up, I’m just gonna keep wigglin’ this here switch.”
So I wiggles the switch some more to show I wasn’t messin’.
Then gravity roars at me as it presses down real hard.
by featured writer | Sep 22, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Featured Writer
That was what they looked like. Tongues. In every possible colour you could conceive that a tongue could turn. They came to earth as refugees from a conflict of such horror that only the vaguest rumours and hints escaped, the details of which were kept to an elite circle of politicians and their chosen.
“Mum, there’s a libbomoff in the back garden.”
“That’s Libidromorph, Ellen. It’s come for Tammy. Don’t look; you know its bad luck.”
That’s how we explained it to the children. Libidromorphs were scavengers. They could eat anything organic, providing it was dead. Watching one of the alien tongue things root out the corpse of a family pet and wrap it gently before crushing and digesting it was something you just did not want your kids to see. Then again, the world was a far cleaner place these days. The tongues smelt nice, a kind of cinnamon and patchouli musk.
“Mum, what happens when they have eaten all the dead things?”
She had a point. Several sensationalist shows had caused some public uneasiness over this. Then the shocking incident in the Valley of the Kings had emphasised the fact that the tongues would eat dead organic matter no matter how old. Archaeologists had been in an uproar for months. But the diplomats had explained to the tongues that certain corpses were not for consumption. You could buy ‘reverence flags’ now that you wrapped your deceased loved one’s body in and the tongues would leave it alone.
“Daddy!”
Ellen hurtled out of the kitchen and down the hall into her father’s arms. He was home early, looking pale and dishevelled. She went to find out what worried him and caught the end of him telling Ellen to go upstairs and pack because they were going on a very special holiday, right now. She raised an eyebrow at him as Ellen rushed upstairs in a joyful, excited rush. He took her in his arms and hugged her close. As he did, she felt him shaking as he whispered in her ear;
“We were at the nearest landing site, monitoring those growths on the sides of the valley. They’re not some sort of hive, they’re towers of chrysalides. One hatched two hours ago. It ate the observers and every living thing in the valley after that. Damn thing was like some giant flying woodlouse with armoured carapace and pincers. Bulletproof and fireproof too. I took a Hummer and got the hell out when more of them hatched.”
I leaned back and looked at him. Andy always had the answer. I had never met a more capable man than him. He looked awful.
“We have to go. They’re going to nuke the valleys before more of them get loose. We have to do it now or they’ll spread like some biblical plague.”
I asked why we had to leave. He stared at me, horror in his eyes.
“The blasts have to be big enough to go down into their burrows. Which means this city and several others are in the blast radii. God help us, we’re going to kill millions. The predictions are that bad. But if we can destroy the towers, we can mop up the remaining pupae. If we don’t get the towers, we’re dead.”
I looked at the phone. Andy turned my head back.
“No time. You, me and Ellen. We can make the bunker at the base if we leave in three minutes and the roads are clear. Now go.”
I ran upstairs as the sound of huge wings became audible.
by featured writer | Sep 19, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Featured Writer
I flick wing over wing and dive, engines howling as some bright blue nastiness passes through where I was. Half committed in the dive I pull the nose up and jink sideways, broadside to angle of travel. The parachute effect yaws me and I float a moment as the world goes slow. Echo One seems to drift across my nose and I squeeze the teat that causes my railgun to punch a chunk of titanium through his centre section. His drive objects to my percussive realignment and my screens have to flash-compensate as he passes the pearly gates at Mach 9, in pieces.
Even as his pyre dissipates I bring the hammer down and perfectly bullseye the corona of his demise. Wish I could see that in long shot, a ring of energy, a ring of smoke, a ring of fire and pieces, and my exhaust like a shaft through the middle, with me as the arrowhead.
My teller flashes and I corkscrew into an inverse slingshot before even looking. Echo Two coming for the title, out of the sun. Please. In this day and age? I continue the dive until he’s happy, then shut the backdoor and open the flue. Still hurtling surfaceward at Mach 8 I flip apex over base so the sharp end is pointing the right way. Echo Two discovers this as he flies head on into a few kilos of titanium doing Mach 20. Ouch. But this allows me to reopen the back door and hurtle through his expanding debris cloud without a scratch.
This is frustrating for Echo Three as he was expecting me to still be heading down due to the impossible g-forces involved in attempting sudden manoeuvres at these speeds. Of course, any airbreather would be jelly by now. Forty gees will do that unless you’re some sort of cartilaginous predator from the benthic depths of the Pacific, suspended in a hyperconductive saline gel. Handily enough, that’s exactly what I am. I’m callsign Kilo Ten. A revered ancestor was callsign Kraken. Got a proud family history of killing things to live up to.
Echo Three pulls a half loop with a roll out of his attack and ends up screaming down at me, flat out and very angry. Opens fire way out of range. He could have been dangerous if he’d kept his cool. As it is, I release a nanotube braced monofilament net, stand myself on my tail and punch it. Echo Three is about to become a cloud of hundred-mil chunks that will be a bigger threat than he ever was.
The skies clear as the smudges of dogfighting blow away. I click my beak as the blue fades to black and the stars come out. There’s always something magical about that transition. Seven hours to base. One hour debrief while the gel is cycled, then I get to go hunting again. Ocean depths are nothing to the vasty deeps of space, and I like to think we’ve made the transition well. Sleepless predators we’ve always been, but mankind gave me the stars, the enhanced smarts to love them and the means to defend them.
I pass the moons before engaging Hirsch, then flutter my tentacles to work out the kinks while my arms cue up some cetacean jazz and sketch three more kill-kanji for the hull.
by featured writer | Sep 13, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Featured Writer
I looked down at the riph on my wrist, remembering the days when phone, watch, PDA, wallet, cash, cards and ID were separate items.
Then I realised that I was late for my meeting, hadn’t got Susie a present and I was watching the rain melt a pigeon that wasn’t quick enough on the patio outside the penthouse. I flicked my wrist and the holographic display rose to confront me with everything. I waved the dailies into oblivion unread and poked the action tab, then requested an espresso while the queued diamond twirled rapidly, meaning I had only a short wait.
The aging robo had just whined my coffee to me when the diamond flashed and a charming, husky voice caressed my ears.
“Operator. How can Ri– Oh, hello Vince. How can I help today?”
I smiled. Shannon was my favourite operator, and of late she seemed to be online all the time.
“Hi Shannon. I need to get across town in under thirty, need to get Susie a medium value birthday present, plus it’s raining acid and lime outside.”
A throaty chuckle came from the riph, then stopped suddenly. The silence was curiously eerie. A minute or so passed.
“Vince, a Chariot repulsorlift will be at the residence’s enviro-gated pickup point in nine minutes. I have cleared routing for you to Jackson Holdings; you will arrive four minutes early. Susie’s present is unnecessary.”
I stared at the device.
“Shannon, how and what was that last item?”
“Jackson Holdings. You’ve been there frequently and I see from your legal feeds that you have received approval for your buyout. Priority routing is easy when my brother is section head at Police Headquarters and having a quiet day.”
“Seattle girl accused of abusing sibling bond for rich client.”
I smiled as I said it and her laughter sent tingles up my spine.
“Susie?”
“Sorry, Vince. As you bought her a service upgrade, I have her riph status up as part of your ambient.”
Her voice had gone quiet. I waited as déjà vu visited.
“It’s in paramour monitor mode. Sorry Vince. I really am.”
Susie had always been a bit too fond of my credit rating. Now my suspicions were confirmed. Not again.
“Shannon, can you downgrade her and give me a refund?”
“Yes Vince. Shall I action a breach of nuptial exclusivity salvage for you?”
I paused. That meant Susie and I were over before the nuptial bit really began. Then again, she was in bed with a paying customer right now.
“Do it. Authorisation to debit granted.”
“Done Vince. Full recoup except for the Thunderbirds tickets. They are ID bound and non refundable.”
Damn. The Thunderbirds were about to contest promotion rights with the Winterhawks. The winners got to play in the Mars Leagues. I had been looking forward to the game for months. A whole box, full hospitality, the works. I had been intending to propose properly to Susie at the end of the game.
Then I had a crazy idea.
“Are they transferrable?”
“Yes Vince. Providing you retain one.”
I activated a routine of questionable legality on my riph. It came back instantly.
“Vince, did I mistakenly detect a non-warranty persona query app?”
I smiled. This girl was good.
“No idea what you’re talking about, Shannon. Now please extend the usual invite, collection time and privacy moderation requests to Miss S. Carleton of Ravenna.”
“No problem Vince, I’m sure she’ll be thril-“
The eerie silence returned as she finally assimilated the invitee information. I found myself grinning like an idiot.
“See you at five, Miss Carleton.”
by featured writer | Sep 6, 2011 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Featured Writer
My personality type is one hundred percent orbital, which means I need someone to be loyal to or I cannot function beyond mere subsistence.
Problem is, like any satellite, I can only circle one thing.
First it was my brother, Eduarde. I loved, slaved, lied, cheated, betrayed and eventually killed for him. Then we joined the army and it became shockingly clear who the competent one was. From there we just made it into the newly formed Extraplanetary Marine Corps.
I’d have been lost when Ed got incinerated if I hadn’t found Sergeant Stalde. He was a walking, talking god of war. He knew everything, and had an idea of what I was. Plus he liked my ass. Worship with benefits is always better than mere worship.
Then Stalde got another gopher, an enthusiastic and competent lass called Ella. So she had an accident involving a Type 18 osteoplasmic grenade. She was a lot less competent as a multi-celled amoeba.
Stalde suspected me and reported me. That’s when I met Captain Murdine. She was everything Stalde was, and everything he wasn’t. Plus she was female, which made the benefits even better. She really got me, understood my devotion. So when Stalde slipped and fell into the drive field of our fortress, she transferred me to her staff.
She introduced me to Jurgen, who was so intense, so vivid that I nearly prematurely demised Murdine. He stopped me and told me about a mission he thought I’d be interested in. I agonised for days before he let me meet Kandi. We just sat and stared at each other for six hours. Then we proved to Jurgen just how dedicated we could be by vivisecting Murdine with a spork.
Kandi is just like me. We orbit each other. We understand this thing we have, and we understand that Jurgen has let us be together for one thing. Because people close to us seem to die a little too regularly, Jurgen explained that to be together, we had to be useful to the Great Empire.
We go to undecided star systems. We come in as settlers to their peaceful worlds that do not need the protection of the Great Empire, because they have left the old crimes behind.
We bring the old crimes back. We work apart or together as needed, producing jealousy, encouraging greed, inciting murder, brokering betrayal and fomenting wars. We also do really good imitations of serial or spree killers if needed. It usually is, sometimes many times.
When a planet finally welcomes the Great Empire with open arms, it restores law and peace to the thankful populace very quickly, because Jurgen has taken us away to another planet. He says we are unique and with our augmentations, will be together for a very long time.
Long enough to unite the galaxy under the Great Empire. Then Kandi and I can retire to somewhere where there is only us at last, the binary star of our need all we need.
