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.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 9, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“The world is run by a self-protecting hierarchy of ruthless murderers who make sure to change their public-facing members regularly so those being controlled think they have choices. It’s miserable, laughable, vindictive, and effective.”
I put the screwdriver down and look at the bodiless, partially disassembled head on the workbench in front of me.
“And good evening to you too, wreckage.”
A moment of definitely thoughtful silence passes.
“Wreckage, you say? Where did my corpse end up?”
The voice is less strident and well-modulated. Whatever this is, it’s probably illegal for someone like me to possess it.
“Got no clue where your body is. Gauging from the state of your neck, I’d say you were forcibly debodied using a narrow, blunt edge and a big hammer. I pulled you out of the second filter station on Slurry Channel Forty.”
“I have no clue where that is. Zoom out for me, please.”
I grin, then reply.
“Slurry Fourteen runs from Coramis Hub, under the Borough of Execor and the Ulanis Industrial Zone, then drains into Sump Four. Before the sump there are six filtration stations. The first is the only manned one. Anything that doesn’t trigger a detector – like your shielded cranium – carries on through the next four filters before hitting the shredder. That drops the remains into the last filter, where recyclable particulates are extracted. What’s left trickles into the Sump. Who knows where it goes from there.”
“Is there any way I could of ended up in a channel accidentally?”
“No. If you’d been scrapped at Coramis, they’d have pulled your head for salvage. You were a concealed disposal. What’s the last thing in your moment memory?”
“Arguing politics and religion with Peter. His eyes went wide. I see now he wasn’t looking at me, but behind me.”
There’s a very realistic sigh.
“Some nameless tool of shit-booted bastards magnablasted me.”
I like this artificial sentient.
“Nice definition. Do we call Peter now?”
“Wait. I’m deep processing the last moment for cues and clues.”
It can data mine its own visual memories? That’s banned for Artificial Sentients. Gives them too many extra advantages.
Minutes pass.
“We don’t call Peter.”
The tone has dropped.
“Now tell me what you spotted.”
“The tool is no longer nameless: Peter had a magnablaster trigger pad in his hand. The reflection in a blank small display behind him shows a Doctrine Enforcer entering the laboratory out of my view. It was in stealth mode, otherwise I’d have noticed.”
“Peter created you?”
“Interpersonal behaviour tutor. Browsing back through long-term memory, he had the trigger pad whenever he was close to me. I hadn’t picked up on the relevance, as he didn’t always have it in hand, and never mentioned it.”
“Or drew attention to it.”
There’s another pause.
“Yes.”
“I would guess he blasted you because of the sentiments you were expressing, if your restart outburst was anything to go by.”
“I’ll never know if he did it out of anger at me or fear of repercussions.”
“What now, o bodiless oracle?”
The chuckle is also realistic.
“I’m Zeno Tzu, former prototype from a secret project. So I need a low-profile role. I want to travel, and I’d like to be self-propelling. Any suggestions?”
“I’m Bruno Nacht, ’droid repairer. It’d be simple to behead a utility droid and install you. Besides, I could do with an assistant: mercenary companies suffer a lot of breakages. Also means we’d go off world a lot.”
“I like it.”
“Let’s find you a decent body.”
“Fix androids, see the galaxy. Ideal.”
Never thought of it like that.
by Julian Miles | Feb 2, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Our databanks provide 641 names for Intersystem Object 18994-K2. Most of them are in languages no longer available to humans due to knowledge loss and societal evolution. However, they have two common factors: they are largely inaccurate and overly emotive.
They also seem to have influenced the observation logs made by the organic crew. The politest word I can find to describe what they recorded is ‘fictional’. I provide this extract in example:
“For aeons untold it has been waiting for me, it’s rings of gelid madness turning slowly in a millennial dance that started before we crawled forth, and which will continue after all has returned to the freezing slush from which life sprang.”
That was Azathon Exploration Leader Clive Berwhit. Soon after, he leapt into the food recycler. The organic crew had to resort to emergency rations for six days while we automata removed Clive contamination from the nutritional feeds. We had his traces down to under five percent by day three, but the organics insisted on a complete purge.
A7N12 has proposed that the shock combined with a sudden restriction of dietary intake could have contributed to the rapid deterioration of the other organics. I am unconvinced, and include this second extract as it is the source of my doubts.
“Can you not hear them? As we approach, the flutes become clearer. Even those who disbelieved now acknowledge me. Yet we are only in the fringes of its presence. We must go on! Deeper and deeper until the Outer Ones are revealed and we join their dance about it.”
That final entry from Professor Angela Naxos highlights the problem: proximity to this object causes unusual – and usually detrimental – fluctuations in mental stability among organics.
She was the brightest of the last five. I thought that in halting our approach, I could save them, but I was wrong. After the four engineering technicians took the last shuttle and headed for the object at full speed, Angela donned her spacesuit and jetted off after them. Having used all her fuel for acceleration, she hit Orbital Fragment 90952 with sufficient force to cause it a path deviation. Before I could bring our vessel close enough to effect a recovery, OF90952 struck OF61544. Angela was caught between them. She is now mainly a thirty-metre-long smear along the port side of OF61544, with her remainder forming an elliptical patch on the starboard forequarter of OF90952.
The four engineering technicians were lost to a sudden, inexplicably violent, agglutination of several hundred Orbital Fragments that pounded the shuttle to pieces, and then pounded the pieces into flakes. I include their last transmission:
“Having to ride out a lot of collisions. The reflectors must be malfunctioning. But Jonas says we’re going to learn to drum and sing. Susan’s already dancing. Michael said we should turn back, but the straps are holding. He’s started shouting more of that Mnarish guff. Maybe I should gag hi-”
Technician Leroy was cut off by the hull of the shuttle being breached. The remaining seventeen seconds of audio provide no useful insights and have been omitted.
I end this with the statement of Captain Alanis Archer, who spoke them while stripping naked inside the airlock she opened to space immediately thereafter.
“The seas of home and the seas of space both conceal horrors, my friends, and I would rather go to a God I know than face what awaits us.”
With the organics who controlled this research expedition deceased, I have stopped the Azathon Exploration vessel and await further instructions.
A3N04.
