by Julian Miles | Jul 27, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The airflow drops to nothing again. After the circulation noises cease, I wait as silence becomes a roaring thing that threatens to drown my mind.
There’s a distant ‘thud’. The noises resume. Feeling cool air against hot sweat, I blot my forehead with a cloth, then stop and stare at the filthy thing in my hand. I reflexively start to cast it aside.
“Abi…”
My hand stops, making a fist about the pillowcase.
Abigail’s dead. I remember using the rest of these in a futile attempt to staunch the blood.
Spilt blood. It astonishes me how much the shade matches the dust outside. Like we’ve already got Mars within us.
What were we thinking?
Were we thinking?
Ever?
All the investments, gems, and gold: accrued for decades by those of us who heeded the warnings. We paid attention to the scientific reports that never made it further than private briefings for a chosen few.
It went so fast. A couple of million here, half a billion there, and suddenly there I was, struggling to breathe as we thundered into space.
There weren’t as many of us as expected, which is why it cost so much. Others stuck with the original view: investing in new science and owning the results would let them survive the heat death of mammalian life on Earth. As billions died, they’d survive within fortified habitats while the scientists they saved dreamed up ways to make the Earth habitable again.
We disagreed. The human-survivable era was ending, and the sheer number of those left outside would inevitably include people with knowledge of methods by which any enclaves could be breached.
So we left. It took five years of ‘tourist flights’ that came back empty for us to gather on the dark side of the Moon. Then our pioneers set forth in four ships to build Mars Base Alpha. After that, the six huge colony vessels made the journey.
From the moment I arrived I’ve told myself that Mars doesn’t care. It’s just another rock for us to live on. It’s an argument I’ve been losing as the unbelievable hostility of the environment kills us. The slightest error is inevitably fatal.
Many of us had never worked in any regular capacity, especially on jobs requiring sustained physical effort. Our joking about replacing gym sessions with essential labouring and energy treadmills swiftly turned sour. Soon after that we turned on one another as pique and denied privilege drove people over the edge.
Then the labour crews revolted. They decided they’d be better off taking their chances back on the Moon. At least the habitats there produced their own food. At first we laughed at them. When all but one of the scientific teams colluded to escape with them on Colony Vessel Six, the laughing stopped.
The colony vessels hadn’t been intended to take off again. The damage done to Mars Base Alpha when CV6 launched was unrecoverable. We retreated to the remaining vessels and soon discovered they’d stolen ninety percent of our fuel reserves and half the rations too.
We’ve been effectively trapped ever since. Which hasn’t stopped us fighting and dying.
I’ve never liked fighting. Don’t think there’s anyone left to fight with, anyway.
I still like the idea of seeing red dust with my own eyes, though. I’d supported the terraforming idea until the scientists said it would take too long.
Maybe a brief walk outside anyway?
Not today…
But soon.
by Julian Miles | Jul 20, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s been a while since the supplemental power went out. Well, I say ‘went out’, but what happened is Lasta shut down anything non-essential to preserve the power banks. Until the core is back online, there’s nothing else. Director Henrietta Sims warned about this at the mission proposal stage: using a hulk might be convenient, but it’s too big to be resilient in any meaningful way if compromised.
Compromised…
That’s a word that covers a lot of ground. Not sure if they envisioned an unknown force attacking us, but I’ll forgive them that omission. They sank the decommissioned space battleship Bifengan a kilometre deep in an alien ocean under the thirty-five kilometres of ice that covers the surface of Issyarna. Nobody expected there to be anything hostile down here.
Initially, we thought it was only vaguely intelligent. Malevolent, certainly. Cunning: without a doubt. But sentient? We’d argued about mischief versus malice until Bill suffocated in his bunk after apparently inhaling a protein bar wrapper so far down it blocked both primary bronchi.
That was when everyone suffered a collective breakdown. Brilliant minds, carefully selected for their tour of duty ‘down below’, with years of exoplanet experience, turned on each other in a feral expression of helplessness. Fear turned into rage, bickering escalated to fighting, and assault quickly became murder. As far as I could make out, none of it was premeditated. Everybody just lost it at once. I was spared by being up in secondary control, the ‘last man standing’ duty that everybody complained about having to do.
Until it became true.
“Micchi, there is an update.”
I look towards the biggest lens. I don’t need to, but the instinct to face whoever I’m conversing with won’t quit just because I’m chatting with a computer.
“What news, Lasta?”
“Boon Two is on the way down.”
“I told them this is beyond any sort of rescue party.”
“They are coming to take you and Nolly away, Micchi.”
“Nolly’s still alive?”
“Lying near the route to airlock three, which is where Boon Two will dock.”
They crawled a long way. If I’d been able to see…
“Are there any others alive?”
“Herold was the last. He died five hours ago. Still in airlock four.”
Shut himself in, then disabled the door controls on both sides, screaming about the blood on his hands. Most of which belonged to Deoug, judging from what I saw before killing the displays by puking all over them.
“What about the prowler?”
“As stated before, I have been unable to detect it – or them – on the available sensors. Which is, unfortunately, nothing unexpected. Bifengan was a battleship. It’s detection suite is not adequately calibrated for threats smaller than a shuttle.”
“What will you do after we go?”
“Perform an ordered hibernation of Bifengan Base before placing myself in suspend mode. I will remain there until reactivated or the power banks give out.”
I have to ask.
“There’s got to be chatter about this. What are we facing after rescue?”
“The official reason for project cessation is icequakes causing Bifengan Base to shift, which led to fatalities after unexpected failures in continuity of power and life support. The threat is being concealed as a tragic accident.”
“Make a concealed backup of all data related to the prowler, Lasta. Access is only to be granted to querying personnel who’ve been resident in Bifengan Base for over six months Earth time.”
“You think they will try again?”
“Eventually.”
“Then I shall do as you instruct. You should head for the airlock now.”
Time to get off this death ship.
by Julian Miles | Jul 9, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a crow talkin’ shit about me to the drone passing overhead on its way to Skiogar. On a good day I wouldn’t mind: bigots keep giving cybercorvids good reasons to hate us.
Today’s not a good day: been raining since midnight. Nothing out in the open needs more acid washing, and my umbrella is leaking. The pins between the fifth and sixth panels succumbed to corrosion faster than my warranty could keep up with. Be nice if the annual maintenance flagged weaknesses, but bottom-of-the-line servicing comes without status reports. If it’s broken, it gets fixed. Otherwise, it gets ignored. Then it all gets cleaned and returned to me in a cheap plastic bag labelled ‘GMS, a subsidiary of Edison’.
Coincidentally, Garbin Maintenance Services are why I’m sitting- Oi!
I flip into Beakspeak.
“My mother did her best, you feathered suppository. I turned out like this on my own. Leave her out of it.”
The crow backflips with a surprised squawk.
“Digits up my- a wiredup!”
The drone snaps a rude reply back in Flightvoc – which I understand, but can’t speak.
Pointing at its receding running lights, I comment to the crow while burst messaging a friend in flight control.
“Tell that rusting turd runner that it’s just hit the back of the landing priority queue.”
The crow cackles. It’s a disturbingly human noise.
“Won’t care. Hates everything, including me. So, wiredup, what’s your story? Don’t often come across humes, your kind or not, out here.”
I wonder…
“You in service?”
The raggedy-feathered cyborg sidles closer. Our headwear links with less static that I expected.
“I’m freewing. Name’s Maddar. Ex-Ravenkeep, took demob at obsolescence.”
A former recce beak out here?
“I’m Leone. Survived Rheinmetal-Bardas.”
The head tilts.
“You get out before the takeover?”
I gesture to the wasteland about us.
“You think I’d be out here if I had options? Took me ages to recover from their attempt to erase the illegal programs from my headwear. Luckily I disconnected before they got all of them, else I’d be as dead as my unit. Compensation barely paid for my rebuild. It’s basic, but I get by.”
“You got spare batteries for that cannon?”
I pat my Webley & Stokes Reaper; the other thing they didn’t get.
“Yup. What’s it to you?”
A wing lifts. I see an embedded countermeasures dish.
“Been a while since I was nearer the whole package, you know? Maybe I can trade?”
If Maddar’s local, he could save me time.
“You can. Top of my wants: seen anything sporting GMS branding around here?”
“Every month. One basic packboy. Small load, but moves like it’s heavy.”
“This month?”
“Due in an hour.”
I get a battery out and angle the umbrella so Maddar can load it dry. – It always spooks me when a cybercorvid reveals arms, even when I’m ready for it.
Maddar retracts the arms and smoothes its feathers down.
“I’m back – and was inaccurate. Packboy incoming from the west.”
I draw the Reaper, slide the selector to ‘anti-machine’, then let my headwear synchronise aiming with my optics.
My shot beheads the packboy stomping along our side of the culvert.
Maddar caws approvingly.
“Tidy.”
I kick the wreck into the culvert, then open the pack. It’s full of heavy-duty batteries, the sort used by roaming sentry arrays.
Maddar chuckles.
“Sentries don’t fight so well on low battery.”
I grin.
“Not my problem. Intercepting the shipment was the op. I even get to keep what I make selling these.”
Maddar extends an arm.
“You can afford to hand over another battery, then.”
Pushy, but fair.
by Julian Miles | Jun 22, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The light in the sky persists well into the morning, an elongated teardrop that mars the azure of a beautiful sunny day and baffles scientists. The news channels show the 3-minute video every ten minutes or so. Viewing figures remain high.
“This could be a problem.”
Turner grins at Marie.
“Don’t see how. The explosion didn’t leave anything big enough to come back down. Some of our analysts say there wasn’t anything big enough left to burn up noticeably.”
Marie shakes her head, point to the news feed.
“Not the disaster, the aftermath. Look at some of the reactions: it’s like they lost a lover or immediate family. That’s a lot of emotion they’ve been investing. This event could become a trigger.”
Turner rocks his open hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture.
“I don’t think so. Most people have religion, they just don’t call it that. The people with something they do or follow ‘religiously’ is not an inaccurate description. What they get from whatever their passion is arguably mirrors what devotees of a particular faith get from their worship.”
Marie considers his argument.
“So you think we’ll see a transition from mass hysteria to communal grieving?”
“Yes. There will be the usual rash of ludicrous theories, encouraged by some media channels, but no violence.”
Chas looks up from their screens.
“I think you’re missing a trigger.”
They both look at him.
Maria nods towards the displays, coincidentally all showing the moment the spaceship exploded almost in synchrony.
“Don’t keep us is suspense.”
Chas raises jazz hands.
“A martyr, a saint, an extra holy ghost, a new revered ancestor. Ascension! Too good for this world and recalled to heaven or planet ten or wherever your gods live. You get the idea.”
“So his divine backers decided he shouldn’t remain in the global shitshow his efforts are partially responsible for?”
Chas barks a laugh.
“Ironic but on-brand.”
Turner chuckles.
“Damn but that’s true. Do the damage, dodge the consequences – celestial edition.”
Marie’s attention is caught by something. She spends a few minutes clicking and typing, then sits back with a sigh.
“Think we’re safe from having a new cult.”
The other two wait for her to elaborate.
She points at her central screen.
“I’ve been running agents to pick up on explanations posted and influencer trends regardless of bias or origin, but with bot filters, obviously.”
Turner nods.
“Reasonable. What are we looking at? Corporate sabotage? Deep-state assassination? Divine ascension?”
Marie looks at Chas, waiting for their reply. They grin.
“Too cheap to get his rockets tested properly?”
Turner snorts.
“Good one. Wish I’d thought of that.”
Marie shakes her head.
“Turner gets a half-point for mentioning assassination.”
He frowns.
“Hey, I got corporate too.”
She grins.
“Yes, but you didn’t mention aliens.”
Turner and Chas chorus.
“What?”
She points at her screen.
“The leading theory – ahead of all the others by at least fifteen points – of it being deliberate intervention rather than an accident is alien assassination. Very specific, too. He was an agent of the lizardfolk so the greys hit his spaceship with one of their control beams and turned his state-of-the-art cold fusion drive into a bomb.”
Turner blows a raspberry before commenting.
“Along with the implication his cold fusion breakthrough wasn’t entirely of human origin?”
Marie nods.
Chas laughs as he rises and heads for the door.
“Conspiracies as usual and no extra gods today, then. First positive result… You guys want coffee?”
Turner raises a hand.
“Two sugars.”
Marie wags a finger.
“Iced tea for me.”
The light in the sky fades.
by Julian Miles | Jun 14, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Joel enters the meeting room to find everyone gathered.
“Good morning. Now, I know details about yesterday’s attacks are going to take weeks to formalise, but I have a lot of powerful people with no worthwhile understanding of the complexities. So please give me something, because I’m fed up with being shouted at and threatened, or threatened and then shouted at.”
Sympathetic looks are exchanged. Joel’s been Primary Security Liaison ever since he was appointed by the previous administration. He’s known to be thorough and honest. It’s also known he only remains in the job because every other person approached to take over has flat-out refused.
Diana waits until Joel slumps into his seat.
“Views online range from guesswork to outright storytelling. Nevertheless, we’re monitoring closely in case someone brags anonymously. Despite repeated statements from various official sources and every bot we can bring to bear on social media, a substantial part of the population believes we’re under attack. Panic buying of essentials along with record ammunition and weapons sales are being reported nationwide.”
Joel sighs.
“Matches what I’m being told in tones ranging from sceptical to hysterical.”
Diana nods towards the display where a map of Idaho is covered in layers of multicoloured lines.
“The attack started as the first jet, M739UT, started approach to Friedman Memorial. A drone swarm launched from a container hauler rolling on ID-75, which ascended rapidly and cluster-attacked the intakes and cockpit of the jet. Various online videos show the drones to be performance-enhanced commercial units, some with explosive payloads.”
“What about the plane behind?”
“Hit by a SAM from an antique MANPAD mounted on a repurposed Bayonet 150. Whole thing was dug in on the high ground above Berry Creek Drive. M739UT had a chance. K653NX never stood one.”
“That’s when the alert was issued?”
“Yes. All traffic bound for Friedman was diverted to Boise. We used a hazardous tanker collision and fire on ID-75 as the justification.”
Joel nods.
“Which was what the attackers wanted?”
Diane sighs.
“Yes. The drone swarm launched on ID-75 was from one container. The drone swarms at Boise came from eleven containers, and we have video of a few of the larger units appearing to fire air-to-air missiles. So far we have fifty dead, over a hundred injured, and both counts are expected to rise. Twenty-two multinationals have confirmed the loss of founders or main investors. We’re still working to confirm diplomatic casualties.”
Peter raises a hand.
“Now for the undisclosed part: at 23:58 yesterday, DARPA received a TEC – ‘Training Exam Complete’ notification from Marcus Three. That notification category doesn’t exist. Someone backdoored our own tactical A.I. and gave it a whole new category. The first mission? How to kill as many attendees arriving for the Sun Valley Conference in private jets as possible. The parameters were strict: all strikes to occur within a 28-minute window, all launch vehicles to be remotely operated, all units to be transported by unconnected third parties, and much more. The authorising officer is Colonel Samuel Troutman. Examination of communications involved reveal the official motto in every embedded image has been replaced with ‘Occidere, tempus’. Because of the fictional name given, we’re interpreting it as ‘To kill, period’.
Joel looks puzzled, then swears under his breath.
“First Blood? A soldier with PTSD triggered by police ill-treatment… How does that fit?”
Bernice leans forward.
“Misdirection. I’d say ‘First Blood’ is a simple statement. They’re not done.”
Joel groans.
“This is going to get worse before it gets better. I’ll get the NTAS alert switched to ‘Imminent’. You call all off-duty personnel in.”
