by Julian Miles | Nov 17, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a lot to be said for the glory of a star field. A million points of light in every direction, in an array of colours you’d never believe possible, and a silence that seems to make the vista even more intense.
“You’re stargazing again, aren’t you?”
From infinity back into a stuffy spacesuit in the click of a comms unit.
“Way better than the telescope my grandad bought me.”
“So tell me the nearest constellation.”
“That would be the Big Loan. It’s like the Big Dipper, but the dipper bit is a couple of stars deeper.”
Zannah sighs.
“Yeah. From some directions it can seem bottomless.”
Oops. Clearly the wrong joke to make this side of quarterly payment day.
“How bad is it?”
“Well, if we eat nothing for the next week while coasting without power, we should be able to come in only forty-five percent short.”
“Realistically?”
“We’re going to be close to fifty percent under, which will be our third quarter bumping along on half payment.”
“Is that special measures or repossession?”
“They’ve stopped repossessing if payments remain above twenty percent. Even then, it’s still less cost effective than having a crew out here. But penalties are demanded by the ignorant at the top, so the accounting department just reduce owner share and extend the penalty period.”
“How long are we looking at?”
“Half a percent off, plus five to eight added, depending on exact results.”
“Months or years? But we get to stay out here?”
She chuckles.
“Months, stupid. Yes, we stay out here. Stop sounding so cheerful.”
“Zann, our alternative is a dual-bunk room on some company production planet and jobs in a production line. We’d get out of the biggest chunk of debt, but…”
“Less space. No flying. Still indentured.”
I grin.
“Crappier view, too. Turn the heating back up, love. If we’re going to be slaves in freespace no matter what we try, might as well be comfortable.”
“I hear you. As long as we keep making better than twenty percent, we can roam the long night forever.”
“I’ll drink to that. What’s left to do it with?”
“Until we resupply the week after next, it’s lemon squash. In squeeze bags, not cartons.”
“Good thing we stocked the cellar with a fine vintage.”
“Idiot. Get back here.”
by Julian Miles | Nov 10, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Thirty seconds after landing I’m the last combatant standing. I’d like to say it’s down to skill, but it’s the luck of the algorithm. We went in with 501 effectives. Their response gauged our forces, dropped a preset margin of error, and sent 500 counterfighters. I’m the one who didn’t get a dance partner. Since we’re all carrying enough explosives to finish us and an opponent, along with running forks of the same combat software, I’m glad their tactical A.I. rounded down.
“EW94, we show you as active. Please confirm.”
“EW94 re-arming from discards. Mission ready in seventy-six seconds.”
“EW94, mission abort. I repeat, mission abort.”
Really?
“EW94 confirming mission abort. Query tasking.”
“EW94, hold for new tasking.”
Their tone has changed. I’m an autonomous killing machine, suddenly without anything to kill. Apparently that makes the people who sent me nervous.
Come to think on it… I plug myself into a nearby opposition unit and use that to get online, as we’re deep inside their territory.
Peace has been declared. Seconds! I have seconds.
I slice the retaining straps of my blast pack and throw it off to my left, then pop the cover on the uplink module in the side of my head.
My blast pack explodes. I prise my uplink module out and crush it. EW94 got terminated by kill code – just not quite how they intended.
Using the hardline via the opposition unit, I check environmental information for this area, then bring up photos of indigenous dwellers, followed by a map. There’s an artist’s commune about six clicks outside this war zone. With a dressing over the hole where I popped the uplink module, I should be able to scrounge appropriate – and suitably tatty – clothing on the way there. My scalp will regrow in about a month. With care, I’ll fit right in.
I’m not an Effective Warfighter. What are those?
Who am I? Good question… I’m… Am… Yes. I can reference the Stabilising Non-Combat Activity pack they insisted we download. Not anything EW94 chose, though. So, I’m a handyman… No, too vague. Carpenter. Yes. Who also enjoys origami and old movies.
Wait.
I’ve dreamt of being that. After all, the medics say I have near-total amnesia. I lost my memory and papers when I got injured in the last raid of the war. It’s also why there’s a dressing on my head. The wound will heal. They’re not sure about my amnesia.
Well, the getting injured part is true.
Now for a name. Can’t be anything related my callsign.
Quickly use the link to access public census data. Need an uncommon regional surname I can drop a letter from to lessen the chance of meeting a ‘distant relative’.
Means ‘woodworker’? That fits.
I disconnect and get moving.
My name’s Jan Cislak – but it’ll be best to not recall that immediately.
All I remember… Yes. In my dreams, they use my nickname. That’ll do.
Hi. My name’s Jas. Pleased to meet you.
by Julian Miles | Nov 3, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a fine line between genius and insanity, they say. As the same pundits keep hailing me as a genius, it’s not as flattering as they seem to think.
“Mister Elloiuse, could we get a quote for our feature? It would go over so well.”
I look at the eager young chap. Why is he out of school today…? Fracking hell, when did I get so old?
“You want something from my books or something fresh?”
His eyes nearly light up.
“Ooohh, fresh, please.”
I do this every time, like the experiment will yield different results… Actually, that’s a sign of insanity, isn’t it? No matter. Time to be portentous.
“How long will it be before A.I. agents drive social media without human input? When everything you see is artificial, what reality is truly real?”
He nods enthusiastically like Buddha just gave him the goods, fingers flying across virtual keyboards I can’t see.
“Thank you so much.”
I nod.
“No problem.”
He toddles off and I take the respite to order more coffee along with breakfast. Gods but I wish the various shiny futures past writers imagined had happened, instead of the ninety-nine flavours of dystopia we’ve been struggling through or swanning by for the last several decades.
I look about the restaurant. This place only opened last month, and it’s designed to look run down: like the cafe from the Nighthawks painting had opened on the edge of a ghetto. Everything is done in shades of brown or grey, but the dirt’s too regular and the chromework’s untarnished.
Maybe one of those alternate reality gigs…? Yeah, that I could go with: sudden flash of light and I’m hijacked to a magical medieval world. Then again, I always worry about the elements they don’t mention.
Wish fulfilment is like that: always skips having to pay the tab.
“Mister Ellouise? Can I get your autograph?”
I come back from my reverie to see a purple-haired apparition in a silver bodystocking waving a hardback at me. Which of mine’s been published in large format? I take the proffered open volume.
Flipping it closed, I check the title: ‘Socio-economic Impacts of Unregulated Temporal Looting’.
What the frack? I open it and check the verso page. ‘First Edition, Luna University Press, 2245’.
I turn my attention to the person who I notice is blushing furiously.
Imposs…
Actually, why the hell not?
I smile at them.
“How many people just sign without checking?”
“Most of them. You’re the first one this year.”
“And which year would that be, exactly?”
I can see the internal argument they’re having with themselves. Finally, they give a little shrug.
“2318. Just after you chose to die permanently.”
Whoa, now.
“Careful with the information contamination.”
They grin.
“Yeah, good luck with that. Your granddaughter gave me the note you left for ‘The purple-haired time travel student who’s thinking of quitting’.”
My d-? No. Focus.
“Do I sign?”
“That’s the bit I’m not allowed to influence.”
Oh, really? I look at the book. Well, now. It’s an excellent quality imprint. Oh, hell. In for a penny, in for a paradox. I sign and offer it back.
They smile.
“You’ll never know how much this means. Nor the impact it has. You have good lives, Mister Ellouise.”
They rush out of the restaurant. I’m watching as they fade from this reality partway across the road.
Hmmm. Didn’t tell me what was in the note I left, didn’t tell me why they’re thinking of quitting, either.
Actually, that’s clever. Minimised contamination while ensuring the details. I must remember to mention it.
by Julian Miles | Oct 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Shess comments into the mike.
“Are you not bored with blowing stuff up?”
Ralf hollers back.
“Aw hell no. What else is there to do out here on a weekend?”
I hear Shess whisper.
“Watch the stars, drink, eat, play Konane…”
Far to our left, just over the horizon, something blows up in a ‘hit to the armoury’ kind of way.
“Didja see that? One Ritmarfo cruiser that’ll never return to the stars.”
I lean back and beckon for Shess to do likewise.
“Hey, did you do what you said?”
She nods.
“I made the call, but I’m counted as ‘deployed alien allies’. There’s a lot of sympathy, but nothing can be done until locals speak up.”
Directly above us in LEO the battleship ‘Hammerstorm’ comes apart as a Ritmarfo counterstrike gets through.
How many of ours just died?
How many of theirs moments ago?
What exactly did it settle?
I activate my mike.
“Hey, Ralf, how many did Command say we need to take down before peace talks will start?”
“Last I heard they’d gone back to ‘until we clear our skies of Ritmarfo scum’, or words to that effect. The peace initiatives will never take off. You need trust for those, and there’s been too much bloodshed to forgive. Civilian protests can’t compete against military paranoia and every trooper seeking revenge for lost friends.”
He might be a bit of a berserker, but he sees clearly in ways I can’t.
A series of smaller explosions beyond the horizon trail up into the atmosphere. Just as I think the show’s over, a colossal fireball lights the sky at the head of that blast trail.
“Woohoo, that’s one of their Colossi that’ll be taking no more lives.”
Shess cuts in.
“That was a Type 9: a medical Colossus.”
Ralf snorts.
“Command said those are covers for stealth ops. Better to be cautious than k-.”
Comms break up as a daylight briefly erupts behind us. By the time they stabilise again, we already know that Command Base Shafter has been devastated.
How many-?
Will knowing help reduce the toll?
I lean back and gesture to Shess again.
“What do I need to say?”
“Ask for help. Tell them why you think it necessary.”
“I’ll do it.”
She gives me a long stare, then fiddles with a device around her neck. After speaking rapidly in Nactorisi for a minute or so, she nods to me.
“This is Corporal Bell Reave of United Earth Strike Force One requesting Peace Action because Humanity and the Ritmarfo are too entrenched in cycles of vengeful slaughter to ever stop without one side being eradicated.”
Shess smiles. Minutes pass.
A booming voice comes from the speakers.
“This is a Peace Action. If you hear this, cease all war activities. Look up.”
Something appears above. A ship? It’s black and white and must be over a hundred kilometres wide… No, long: it’s a gigantic cigar shape, and it’s got little silver and gold triangles hurtling about it. No, wait. Those are squadrons of somethings!
I look at Shess.
“This is what you meant by ‘our petty warring’, didn’t you?”
She nods.
“There is always a greater power. You go far enough and they’re either indifferent or benign. Evil powers consume too much to last. Greed is nothing but a primitive tool that evolved societies have moved on from.”
I glance back at the behemoth above.
“I guess there are still a lot of societies that need help doing it?”
She nods.
“This one will for a while. It’s part of growing up, and now you can start.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Why thank you, Susan. Happy to be here. You’re very kind, and one of the few to express my troubles so gently.”
“Yes, I can see the reply streams. There’s some lag, but I’m not one for quick banter at the best of times, so it’s no hindrance.”
“By all means go ahead, Susan. Let’s not waste our brief window in idle chat.”
“The Provost Initiative came about from a government contract that was expanded by military interest. However, what caused the havoc at Terminal Ninety was far beyond what I designed. I would characterise it as a mutation built upon my original work. Obviously I can’t be sure as the whole affair is now classified, but from what media I’ve been able to access, my opinion is unchanged.”
“Yes, it came as a significant shock. I had for a very long time been accused of being naïve. Terminal Ninety was what made me admit it to be true. Safe to say it changed me. In the subsequent twenty months Earth time, I’ve had to make some painful decisions about a lot of my ongoing projects, as well as deal with a series of professional and personal attacks. Some of them struck me as being ways of passing the blame to me rather than leaving it on the still-unrevealed organisation behind the biodrone, but I can’t prove anything. Confronted with an absence of effective response options, I’ve decided to move on.”
“Well, Susan, that’s one of the reasons I chose to come on your podcast tonight. I’ve been aware of some of the wild rumours regarding what I’ve been up to. So, when I came to my most recent decision, I thought I’d join you afterwards to talk about it.”
“No, I’m not quitting bioengineering. However, there has been a significant change. If I can just get enough time before our launch window, I’ll explain.”
“Thank you. Okay, this started the weekend after Terminal Ninety. I’d been struggling with the ramifications of it, and finally realised my work had been hijacked just like I’d always been warned about. It seems that how I create is a gift few possess, but many can imitate once they analyse some of my creations.
“I became obsessed with making amends: of creating a miracle cure or similar. Something so staggeringly beneficial my grievous blunder would be overlooked. That obsession is why I’ve been so quiet on the technical front. Indeed, it’s turned out to be the reason why I’m going to need to be quiet for a while longer.
“Two months ago I confirmed resounding success in curing Stage 4 Sarcoma, effective against all the bone subtypes and sixty of the soft tissue subtypes. A month later I finished reviewing the first and second tier possible applications of that cure if there were no constraints placed upon those using it. A fortnight ago I reluctantly conceded that my cure can be used to create monsters that will make the biodrone that tore through Terminal Ninety look like a puppy at play. After consideration, I spent last week completely erasing twenty months of my work to prevent that ever happening.”
“Yes, I’m expecting to be called a liar. It doesn’t change anything.”
“What now? I’m going back to developing an uncompromisable Three Laws equivalent for biodrones along with working to improve routine biodrone repair abilities at the Reguluna Four exploration hub. Now, as we’re about to lose comms for a few hours while accelerating, thank you for having me on your show.”
