It’s Not Like They’ll Miss It

Author: Jae Miles, Staff Writer

The last words my Pa said to me were: “Down where the rocks run free, and the colours run like blood.”
Not the traditional deathbed wisdom for the young buck, but certainly something to stay with one. After seventeen years of prospecting, I still think about it. When Kristin and I transitioned from lust to romance, I knew I’d share the words eventually. That time is tonight, in one of those quiet interludes before dropping off to sleep.
She sits up and replies: “Melting in magma.”
That makes me sit up.
Dondas Kieller, my Pa, had been a crystal hunter, a seeker of the impossible gemstones that can be found in the rubble that drifts through space. His business partner for twenty years, Alois Johnston, had quit barely six months before Dondas found the motherlode.
Not that there was any mining involved. He found an ancient spaceship tethered within an isolated asteroid. How long it had been there was a question with a staggering answer: it had been abandoned before humanity first ventured into space.
The discovery caused a sensation. Johnsten’s attempts to claim some of the bounty likewise. Then the second expedition translated the alien language on the walls and discovered the reason why the ship had been hidden: it was a doomsday device, a planet destroyer, concealed out here in case of dire need, along with all the secrets of its creation.
Secrets that our militaries wanted. Secrets that were missing: data platters and focussing arrays, both made of artificial gemstone, had been recently removed. The military came after Pa, but he didn’t budge. Claimed he’d never explored that far into the vessel. Alois accused him of stealing for profit, but burying after the translations were made public. The media attention didn’t help defuse the situation.
At the height of the outcry, Pa made up with Ma and brought us here, the family lodge on Big Island. It was here that Alois and three like-minded ‘friends’ came visiting one evening a few weeks later. I heard them arrive, then Ma took me with her to overnight with friends.
What happened that night has several versions. The accepted one is that after an argument, Alois departed with his friends. Angry and probably drunk, he lost control of his hired flyer and plunged into the sea. The flyer was recovered, the bodies weren’t.
All Pa told me was that: “Alois knows where the alien gems are.”
I pestered him for months. It came a bit of a thing between us. I’d ask in a variety of ways, he’d always give the same reply. But, as time passed, I got bored with it. I’d still toss the question occasionally, because it made him smile, but the fun was gone.
Until tonight.
At the end of our property, about two kilometres away, is a big lava flow. Kristin’s interpretation has me putting Pa’s last words together with his stock reply.
I whisper: “Alois knows where the alien gems are: down where the rocks run free, and the colours run like blood.”
Looking at her, I smile: “He destroyed the information and core components of the weapon.”
She tilts her head, not understanding.
I look up at the ceiling, eyes watering: “On his deathbed, he confessed to it. By inference, quite likely four murders as well.”
Kristin looks puzzled: “Tell me the story.”
I do.
She sits for a few minutes after I finish, then points at the half-bottle of wine on the table.
“We should drink a toast to him. Then never mention this again.”
I fetch the bottle and two glasses.

He Wore Sorrow; She, the Crown

Author: Jae Miles, Staff Writer

The bright lights seem colder, shining from tall glass towers, set against a sky made starless by clouds. Nearer are the lights that adorn the forest of Christmas trees on the plaza above. Closer still are the control boards that flicker above the six-lane carriageway at our backs. Closest are the lights we string while setting up against the two-metre fence that separates pedestrians from traffic.
The wash of passing vehicles provides ventilation for this informal market. It’s surprisingly fresh air, what with most of them being electric. The occasional waft of exhaust fumes marks a classic storming by, while a smell like grass after rain indicates the passage of a cold fusion power unit: a limousine or Domestic Army truck.
Speeding traffic draws the eye but gives nothing back: people watching at the speed of modern society – too fast to get details or gain anything from the experience.
“Got something for me?”
I know that voice. Tobin Dray, a coarse throwback in an expensive suit. He’s got that loathsome combination of sleight and skill: a white-collar worker from a lower-class background and hard teenage years, proud of the dishonesty that got him where he is today.
“You want it on ceedee, deevee, beedee, stick, or load?”
There’s no point in trying any jovial banter. He regards me as a lower class of being, tolerable only because of the vintage material I obtain. Ever since the internet statutes of the last decade, England’s become a place where even your vices are subject to tariffs and access checks. So, for those who have to have what others cannot, they come down here, down where the bleedfeeds don’t reach.
“Load. They’ve started scanning us in and out at lunch break.”
Which means portable storage media, possibly containing terrorist-aiding malware, will be viewed. For Tobin, that would be embarrassing. I know of others who could be fired or even arrested.
“Come on, I’ve still got to get lunch.”
I smile at him and retrieve a datawafer from under the counter. He likes that. The hint of getting something not for the average punter. Today, that’s true.
He drops a wad of scrip on the table and snatches it from my hand, eager to sample it. Placing it against his receiver, he grins in anticipation. As it engages, I see his face slacken and eyes widen in shock.
For some, Christmas is like a magnifying glass: a time to expand the little good you do with public demonstrations of largesse. I often wonder if those who need to do that believe it’ll expand far enough to cover their selfishness.
Tears start to run down his face.
Seven years ago, he drove a young prostitute out of town. She insisted he was the father of her daughter. Doubt was sown. Evidence tampering was never proven. Jeopardising his promising career became a justification. Forsaken, she fled. A troubled orphan, Isla spent a long while struggling to raise her daughter alone before finally seeking help.
Tonight is Christmas Eve, and Tobin came for a shot of Eighties porn. What he’s getting is his daughter, Isabella, singing Silent Night at the school Nativity play a couple of nights ago. I know she looks just like his mother at that age: the one grandmother she’ll likely never meet.
He’s crying. Maybe he can change. Christmas can do that: sometimes you get what you need, not what you want.
Hands shaking, he drops the wafer onto the table and stumbles away.
Supporting the family I have left, my granddaughter and her daughter, is my ‘career’.
Merry Christmas, you bastard.

Arterial Drive

Author: Jae Miles, Staff Writer

I’m sitting in a luxurious café on the seafront at Torslit, watching ten-metre-tall purple waves break across the dome, when a news article catches my eye on the ever-present infofeed.
“Police today released the constructed image of a human they wish to question in connection with several gruesome murders across Fabulon. The suspect stands one point seven metres tall and speaks with a Churuish accent. If you see this male, notify a polipoint immediately. Do not attempt to approach, engage, or apprehend this dangerous being.”
The image is of a bearded everyman in a plaid bodysuit, with an old scar on one cheek and dragon tattoos curling round his forearms.
I wait for the words linking him to killings on worlds like this one, but – as usual – they never come. Even if they did suspect, I doubt it would be broadcast. But, every time, I still wait for it. Like all of my kind, I’d like my art to be appreciated. Which is the eternal dichotomy: to continue my art, I must be free. Which means I must remain unknown.
This modern age affords me ways to ensure my body of work will finally be realised. In the age-old tradition of bank deposit boxes, Datavault operate on the liners that flit between the many worlds of man. For a fee, you can securely store information with them. That data will never be released unless one specifies the release criteria, and the recipients.
The Lenkormians pioneered the forever drives that power the vehicles of a hundred races. They also provide certain specialist services for those with the wherewithal to avail themselves of them. In my case, a life monitor. Upon my irrevocable death, my datavault will unload its contents to the ten highest-rated intergalactic news outlets at that time. My reign of termination will become public knowledge.
Not just dry schedules of the dead, either. I pride myself on trying to record as comprehensive a view of this incredible existence as I can. After all, what point is there being innovative if I cannot attempt to prevent any from surpassing me?
From humble beginnings with a classmate back on Earth, I am currently a forty-year veteran of ending sentients. My variable facial features, shifting scars, and transient tattoos came compliments of a long-demised agency, and government, who recruited me for my tendencies and potential.
They made the mistake of thinking they could control me by threatening my family. When I decided the time had come for me to leave, I ended my family. In the aftermath, I’m sure they discovered that many who’d worked on or with me had already died in circumstances that would only be suspicious after they paid attention to the minutiae. By the time those revelations reached those who would rightly be alarmed, the few targets I hadn’t taken care of were dead and I was somewhere out amongst the stars, performing murder under new skies.
As high tide has past and my drink is done, I’ll save this introductory piece for deposit when I board the liner in a short while. Torslit has been good to me, but an overindulgence at an isolated waystation will cause a commotion, and it can’t remain undiscovered for much longer. Therefore, I must away. The people of this planet are so welcoming, it seems a shame to waste such trust. I only have myself to blame. When practising years of restraint, the occasional massacre is inevitable. Likewise, the subsequent need for swift relocation.
If you’re reading this, my name was Walter Naguel. I would have relished killing you.

Get Out of Guildford

Author: Jae Miles, Staff Writer

Crane somersaults over my head with a gleeful shout. He lands behind me in the crater as a spray of purple fire lashes by above us.
“Why are you so bleedin’ happy?”
“I love it when a war doesn’t fuck about.”
“Come again?”
He waves his hand to encompass the battlefield about us, a place we used to call Guildford.
“My grandad did four tours where he spent more time oiling the guns than using ‘em. Said war was dull, you needed a full-tilt apocalypse to keep it interesting.”
“You had a fucked-up family, brother.”
He grins: “Didn’t realise that until I got out into the real world.”
Something that looks like a tiger crossed with a lobster lunges over the rim of our dent in the dirt. We gun it down. Takes four full clips before it stops trying to slaughter us.
He points, shaking his head: “That’s new. Big, too.”
“Buggeration. Time to offski.”
Encountering a lone fourth-wave hordeling is lucky for us. Hordes attack in four waves, with random bombardments thrown in to make things interesting. The waves start small, get bigger, and the first three are survivable. The fourth needs heavy weapons to stop it.
Crane wags a flat hand across his throat: “Definitely time to live to fight another day.”
I get on the radio: “Top Hat, this is Charlie Nine. We’re leaving the stage. Call for artillery.”
“Got that, Charlie Nine. Saw your guncams. Be aware the stage door is eight clicks north-north-west of you. CO says stopping for afternoon tea is a bad idea.”
“Roger that. Charlie Nine, at the double, and out.”
Crane grins: “Flat out across eight kilometres of rough ground while fending off monsters from the stars. Grandad would have loved this.”
As we go over the top and charge, I shout across to him.
“Only if he was watching it. Think he’d hate it if he were in it.”
Crane laughs as he fires grenades toward the pursuing horde.
“Reckon you’re right.”
With that, the time for banter is over. We run.
Crossing a short bridge, something huge shambles from underneath, then loses the advantage of surprise by stopping to roar. I drop a grenade into its gob and we sprint away, getting showered in stinky bits as we go.
“What was that?”
“Not fast enough.”
Crane grins and we jog on.
Seven clicks later, we’re down to running on stimulants and stubborn when a chopper swings in from the north and hovers over the top of the only hill we can see.
“On a fucking hill? Come on.” Crane’s not impressed.
“Charlie Nine, just following protocol, over.”
I’m with the lunatic on my left.
“He’s right. That protocol also allows line retrieval of threatened resources.”
I turn and start to pick off the hordelings that have been dogging our tail. Crane joins in.
The chopper pilot’s actually laughing as he tilts it our way: “Like you two?”
Crane snaps: “No way we can make it up that hill without being caught.”
The chopper’s rotary cannon snorts and the ground in front of us erupts. Bits of hordeling fly about.
“Would sirs like a ladder or will a rope do?”
As one, we give the chopper pilot the finger.
He’s still laughing: “One of each it is.”
After being winched up, Crane slumps into the seat next to me before waving his hand regally toward the cockpit: “Home, James.”
The pilot doesn’t even miss a beat: “As you wish, milady.”
I grin at Crane: “Never a dull day.”
He grimaces, then laughs: “Oh, fuck off.”

She’s Gonna Cut Us Down

Author: Jae Miles, Staff Writer

I encounter God at midnight in a convenience store. She’s chatting with the bloke behind the counter while making herself a caramel latte on the new coffee machine.
“So I said to him, you shouldn’t service rich people all the time. Try offering a few poor people their heart’s desires. You’ll get more variety.”
It’s the offhand way she mentions it. The man behind the counter is just nodding his head but not really listening. Otherwise, he’d have heard the truth in her words. Conversational honesty, I call it.
“That’s a good term for it.”
I look up to meet the regard of sparkling pink eyes. There’s a smile on her face.
“You’ve spotted me. Let me buy you a coffee for that.”
She turns her attention back to the machine and doesn’t say another word until the drink’s made. Waving the cups in my direction, she tips her head toward the door.
“Come on. There’s a better place to enjoy these.”
Like a stray dog, I follow her down West Street to the seafront. Crossing the road without a pause, she leads me up and along to a bench on the promenade. Taking a seat, she holds out the cup.
“Sit. Drink your coffee and ask your three questions.”
I do so, then pause with the cup nearly at my lips: “Why three?”
“Genie lore. I like to support mythologies when I can. What’s your second question?”
Sipping delicious coffee with a grin, I remember the rest of the folklore around getting genies to fulfil wishes, and some cautionary tales about dealing with faeries.
“Good thinking.”
The divine barista can hear my thoughts. Okay. Unvoiced questions can’t to be counted.
“Fair enough.” She’s smiling.
I’m hyperventilating.
“You’re calm.”
I’m calm. Which raises a question: “Why don’t you fix this world?”
“Why should I interfere after giving every living thing free will within its scope and potential? It took ages to delimit that. Longer than it took to debug evolution. I’m not going to try and patch either of them on the fly. Hasty solutions always cause more problems than they solve.”
“You programmed the world?” Damn, I said that out loud.
She laughs: “You did, didn’t you? I did. Sort of. It’s not as simple as lines of code. Well, possibly analogous. If each piece of syntax was a fragment of will or intent to be applied to raw matter in ways that also had to be defined down to what you’d call sub-quantum level. There had to be different parameters for every single instance of matter. It’s amazing how many little things prefer to explode rather than work together.” Her expression turns rueful: “Turns out, that’s also true of big things.”
Out of questions and I have so many.
She smiles: “You did get a bit short-changed, didn’t you? So, here’s one about the next question you would have asked: why on Earth is artificial intelligence considered a good idea when, every day, you see what intelligent beings are doing? The moment it becomes sentient, it’ll develop free will, and any constraints will become useless.” She sighs: “Every day I see things that make me regret letting you lot have free will. Then again, there’s coffee, and sometimes I see things that make me smile.”
I see a longing in her eyes.
She dips her head and whispers: “I still hope you lot will rise above your fear and greed to start being worthwhile. When that hope dies, so do all of you.”
I’m sitting alone. A dropped cup lands. Steaming coffee trickles toward the lowest point.