by Julian Miles | Jun 2, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Joey looks around at the crowd.
“I see we’ve some new faces tonight. Thanks for coming.”
He presses his palms flat on the table.
“You’ve done what each of us has done at some point in the last few years: you’ve realised there’s something deeply wrong with our world. Those we’re told are leaders, and those we’ve had held up as experts, are all lying.”
Sounds of wordless agreement swell, then fade.
“Some of you have already lost friends and family over this. For those who haven’t, trust me when I say it’ll happen to you. Every person returning here tonight has been cancelled by people they thought strong. People they thought loyal. It’s a hard path we walk.”
There are nods. Sympathetic glances and pats on the shoulder are exchanged.
“You can’t explain to them. You’ll try, but until each of them takes the steps you have, they’ll reject the truths you offer.”
“What truths are they, though?”
Joey swings his gaze to meet that of a short, wiry guy. He sees himself reflected in the lenses of the spectacles this retro-styled apparition is wearing. Are those video glasses? No. Just deeply vintage. The exotic earbuds kind of spoil the ensemble, though.
“Welcome, friend. Before I answer, let me ask where you are in the Matrix? Shadow government? Slave cities? Project Eurostate? Tartarian Empire?”
He adjusts his glasses.
“I’m from beyond the ice wall.”
Everybody turns their attention to him.
Grinning, Joey straightens up.
“Another veteran reality pilot! Well, those territories are still out there, but only a select few will get to see them.”
The short guy nods.
“Because of the Satanic Cabal?”
Joey waves his hands dismissively.
“That’s just another diversion. Tartaria didn’t fall. It’s the hidden Fourth Reich. Until we’re ready to colonise the lands beyond the wall, they’ll keep us here. No point in invading until we’re sure to conquer.”
The short guy bursts out laughing.
“Oh, by the gods! A new conspiracy!”
He leans forward to stare Joey in the eye.
“Is it your truth, or did someone give it to you?”
Joey nods.
“Took me a while to see it, but the only thing that makes sense is we’re being restrained.”
“You think the stagnation has a cause beyond the maniacal thirst for power?”
“Without question. There’s no way the population of an entire planet would let itself be ruled by a tiny group of self-centred sociopaths without some sort of intervention.”
“Something beyond the abilities of those sociopaths and their schemes?”
“Absolutely.”
The short guy smiles.
“Can I run the alternative past you all?”
There’s a pause, then nods and looks of surprise.
Joey grins.
“Go for it.”
The short guy claps his hands together.
“All of the conspiracy theories are true, but not all are true for this Earth.”
A voice comes from the back of the room.
“What?”
The short guy checks his bulky wristwatch.
“Quick version, then: beyond the ice wall are twenty-six other Earths. Each has two active conspiracies. However, right now, your Earth has no conspiracies because it’s the control world for this century. The simple truth is that you only have yourselves to blame for what you’re living through.”
Joey looks about at the stunned faces, then bursts out laughing.
“That’s too far gone to even be funny.”
The short guy slowly looks about, then shrugs.
“Have it your ways, then. Cheerio.”
He turns and leaves. People chat and laugh. More drinks are ordered. The evening carries on.
Joey wakes just before dawn, heart pounding. Why did the short guy count how many people were nodding?
by Julian Miles | May 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The bright lights look the same. Sitting myself down on the community server bench, I lean back until my spine hits the backrest. My gear starts charging. Diagnostics start scrolling down the inner bars of both eyes. The trick is not to try and read them. You’ll only give yourself a headache.
I snap the neck off the bottle. Flashy, but I’m distracted by flashbacks of growing up.
Saturday night, beer in hand, waiting for a skimmer or a cruiser to pull up. The kids from upstate could afford the toys, but couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. So when their egos took them places their mouths couldn’t talk them out of, they sent a driver to get some heavies.
South side of town, under the grav-ways, the jobs were dawn ‘til dusk and the pay was crappy even for overtime into the night. Sixteen-hour days for nothing much except food tubes and washhouse chits.
Those of us from that neighbourhood, we used to spar at a gym until it got shut down. After that, we freelanced: some thuggery, but mainly bouts. They hurt. First you fought the contender, then you beat the gang who expected you to throw the fight for money.
We were the Nighthawks. We didn’t do that sort of thing. Fighting was our honour. Hell, it was all we had.
I joined the army the day after Sarna died in a gang fight that nearly killed us both. Still remember standing there, both eyes blacked, ribs cracked, swearing an oath I thought I understood.
Ten years and a dishonourable discharge later, I realised it meant you’re expected to throw the fights the politicians tell you to.
I got into a special forces mob. Called ourselves the Nighthawks. I was proud of that. They took to my street corner warrior creed and went all-in. We got a reputation for being bastards to face on or off a battlefield.
Then we refused to throw a fight in Trabanth City, suspicious of the story we were being fed. Proved to be a righteous decision, but the traitors framed us. By the time the carnage got so bad the enemy intervened to save us from our own population, we’d lost eight out of ten. It’s difficult to fight when they starve and besiege you. We got some licks in, but in the end we went out on flatbeds as the ambulances had all been torched.
Spent a while under the taint of that, then someone leaked the story of the betrayal to the news. Soon after that my dishonourable discharge was commuted to ‘Discharge for Classified Reasons’. Got a letter of apology with an enhanced welfare code at the bottom.
That code got used up quick. Helped a few Nighthawks who didn’t make it out whole, and a few families who only got tags and a flag back.
Sad story, world doesn’t really care. But here I am, beer in hand, summer evening, back on home turf. Could be a lot worse.
A flashy cruiser pulls up to the kerb. Door opens.
“People who sit there settle differences, friend, and not by talking. You best be moving along.”
I bring up my tactical and scan him deep from fingertips to back seat. He squirms. Combat tech does that to cheap civilian gear.
“How much for settling your trouble?”
“Two hundred.”
Good start.
“Per body.”
He grins.
“Deal.”
Just like I never went away. Hey, this Nighthawk’s got ghosts to honour and a reputation to rebuild. Plus, I still gotta eat.
by Julian Miles | May 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Kinswaller reads the report with a mounting feeling of doom: another failure, this time with casualties on both sides. The appended note from the monitoring A.I. cements the feeling.
‘Have recommended Field Combat Intervention. Combat zone and planetary data was requested. It has been supplied. In response, an Operative has been assigned.’
Well, he’s finally going to meet one of the fabled Operatives. Unfortunately it’s regarding the zone he’s in charge of. He checks the ETA.
An hour ago!
He queries his XO.
“Do we have an Operative lurking about the station?”
“Operative China Descartes is currently in Ordnance Bay 4, overseeing the repainting of her suit.”
“She’s what?”
“Overseeing the repainting of her suit, as well as having the field generators recalibrated to display a visible spectrum.”
Muttering crude, dark, and physically impossible things about Operatives and members of the FCI Synedrion, Kinswaller heads for O-Bay4.
His anger is stalled by the sight of the weapon towering over everything else: nearly twenty metres tall, there isn’t an ugly line to it. Sweeping curves and purposeful edges, fixed half-wings, a whole lot of closed weapons blisters, and no visible head.
H-Bloc regulation grey is being covered in shades of deep metallic blue. Where did that come from?
“I brought it with me. Just got your people to mix and apply. I saw photos of the lightning-break pattern your vehicles use. Can’t beat artists at their best.”
Kinswaller turns, then has to look down to meet the eyes of the diminutive woman who walks up to stand beside him.
“Is that a Lucifer?”
“You’d be surprised how often I get asked that. No, this rarity is an Osprey. A Lucifer is five times the size, and nowhere near as pretty.”
“Apart from pretty, what does it bring to my combat zone?”
China looks up at him.
“It brings me, Colonel Kinswaller, and I bring a solution. But I’m going to need your assistance.”
“We’re familiar with providing fire support for suit operations.”
“No. You’re deploying to the big lake system north of here. There’s a shoal of gigantic serpents that dwell there. They’re a complete terror for the locals. Who you’re not to talk to. Let the Diplomatic Corps handle that while you thoroughly eradicate the serpents. Do make sure you get them all.”
“While we’re providing a spectacular diversion for the monitoring teams, what will you be doing?”
“I’ll also be doing a spectacular. Descending from the heavens looking like a Metagrro – a sparkling blue avatar of the river god Legrro. After informing the locals I’ve sent you off to deal with the serpents, I’ll demand they prove they’re worthy of being left alive. All they have to do is point out the sympathisers of Adabo, the sky god. Those are the ones who’ve been stirring things up, calling you vile servants of Legrro. I’ll obliterate them in awful, messy ways the locals can’t manage, then tell the locals to work with you or else. After that, I ascend into the heavens like the avatar I obviously am.”
“What about the negotiations?”
“A fundamental mistake. You came down like gods, clearly able to conquer all, then behaved like small town politicians. Awe turned to contempt, which the priests of Adabo used to goad the locals. They were looking to start a theocracy.”
“Aftermath actions?”
“Set up one of your drones with shield colours that match my pretty blue ones. Fly it about every dark of the moons. The hint that Legrro is still watching should keep everything in line.”
Kinswaller shakes his head. This is what Operatives do? Ye gods.
by Julian Miles | May 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The control room is gleaming. Elias Medelsson looks about with a smile. The night watch clearly made a successful conversion of tedium to effort. He’ll drop a memo to his counterpart on the Benthusian side to express thanks.
“Captain Medelsson.”
Elias turns to find Siun Heplepara, the Benthusian he had in mind, beckoning from the privacy alcove.
He joins his counterpart, settling against the opposite wall as privacy screens activate.
“Greetings, my friend. What’s kept you away from your tank this morn?”
Siun raises four tentacles, carefully holding the corners of a red-banded hardcopy.
“This, Elias. Sufficiently grim tidings that I could not settle until the matter is resolved.”
Elias leans forward and reads the memo. Anything significant enough to be transmitted in code only unravelled in a K-Phase printer is never going to be good. He finishes, then looks at Siun in disbelief.
“Montelordo? As in Gram Montelordo, President of the Orcan Federation?”
“The same. I have confirmed it.”
“You used your network?”
Benthusian interspatial communications are the envy of human worlds. They’re also a bone of contention as every negotiation that includes an attempt to acquire them for human use has those parts removed prior to agreement. The use of K-Phase printers on a ‘black box’ basis is the only concession, and that only in the last decade or so.
“Then fill me in on the scion of unbelievable wealth and power we know better as Engineering Apprentice Ridal Klon.”
Siun softly clicks his beak before starting, a sure sign of distress in this normally unshakeable octopod.
“Hossaw Montelordo, heir to an empire that threatens so many, harboured dreams of being something different. To be recognised for his engineering genius on his own merits, apparently. This placement is the end of an elaborate, year-long identity switch.”
Elias raises a finger.
“Switch, not construction?”
Siun folds the memo rapidly and intricately until it turns to dust.
“We offered Ridal employ after receiving a recommendation from Lamarry.”
Elias blinks. A recommendation from the Benthusian royal caste. They never come without fair reason. He suddenly realises why Siun stayed awake.
“Where did they find the body?”
“Pieces of him found in an agricultural shredder. Ridal had a spanner forged from meteoric alloys in his pocket. It jammed the unit.”
“Somebody was clumsy. Not Hossaw, I presume?”
“Two thugs employed by the boarding officer he bribed. They gave him up. He gave us Hossaw, complete with recordings.”
Elias takes a moment.
“This is a potential diplomatic incident. It could start a war.”
Siun slowly shrugs. Elias still can’t work out how a being without shoulders does it so well.
“You’ve received a suggestion, Captain Heplepara?”
“The loss of Ridal has insulted Lamarry, but they understand it is the act of a selfish child.”
Elias smiles.
“What have those illustrious minds recommended?”
“Ridal was an orphan. While he showed tremendous promise, it would not be unheard of for an apprentice to make a mistake. Especially as the replacement Ridal has proven to be nowhere near as good.”
“Something like forgetting to safety the flash chamber before cleaning?”
Siun nods.
“I like it: caught in an emergency meteor-avoidance burn. Tragic. Not even a body remaining. But Ridal would get a memorial on the walls of Habshedur.”
Elias nods.
“A proper tribute, while Montelordo junior stays lost.”
Siun swipes left to reveal a live feed.
“We have secured him in Benthusian quarters.”
Elais checks the schedule.
“The next maintenance cycle starts in an hour.”
“He’ll not miss his accident.”
“I’ll draft a memo for command.”
“I will inform Lamarry.”
Elias nods.
“Justice for Ridal.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Linda looks about as she blows into cupped hands. It’s been a brutal November, and the forecast is that it’ll be a white Christmas from everything freezing over instead of snow.
She glances at Will.
“So what’s a polinismum again?”
He gives her a withering stare.
“‘Polynex Quismirum’. A living fossil. My grandfather believed it to be the root of all werebeast myths. My father thought it some sort of changeling analogue. They were both right.”
Linda frowns.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of your father, would it?”
Will nods.
“He went out to catch one. It caught him.”
“They never found a body, though?”
“Exactly. When people disappear, we make up stuff to explain why they left. When people are found as partially eaten bodies, we get up in arms and start looking for whatever did the eating.”
“Ignoring the implied intelligence underpinning your argument, are you saying this poly-whatever is big enough to consume an adult human and leave no trace?”
Will shrugs, looking unhappy.
“That’s the simplest explanation, but it doesn’t sit right with me. Sort of like there being a single Loch Ness Monster. Unless it’s the ghost of cryptid, there has to be a more than one.”
Linda grins.
“Not a fan of the ‘extremely long-lived last example of its kind’ theory, then?”
He grins back.
“About as much as it being a bio-submersible piloted by alien lizards.”
She presses her hands over her mouth, her laugh escaping as a snort.
“I hadn’t heard that one.”
Will touches her arm and whispers, pointing with his other hand.
“There.”
Linda stares towards the old bus shelter, looking for the looming threat in the light from the streetlamp above it. She’s about to ask him ‘where’ when she sees a movement.
The bench inside the shelter is compacting itself, the slats of the seat and back moving together while the legs at either end extend! Like some headless, tailless creature it shakes itself in a very dog-like manner, then stretches like a cat, alternating raised ends. That done, it settles back into looking like a seat.
She leans closer to Will, trying to stop herself shaking.
“Are we safe?”
“Yes. It’s an ambush predator. I’ve been watching it for a week, and I think it’s a juvenile. Certainly not big enough to take an adult human.”
“What do we do now?”
“Approach slowly, then use the graphene net to catch it.”
“What if it tries to, I dunno, roll away?”
“The net has tethers. We’ll spike them to the ground. Should hold it until the catch team arrives.”
Linda nods. He takes an end of the net protruding from the laundry sack he picks up. She grabs the other end.
“Chat as we approach. Wonder about the last bus. You know.”
“Gotcha.”
They approach casually. As they get between the pretend bench and the streetlamp, Will shouts.
“Now!”
They pull the net out and get it over most of the bench before it deforms, extruding a pair of greyish pseudopods to prevent them covering it.
“Pin it down!”
Linda shouts and leaps. He follows.
Will lands, taps his phone to call the catch team, and grins at her. Her eyes widen. The shelter itself closes about them. Brief, muffled screams go unheard.
The catch team arrives a few minutes later. There’s a torn laundry sack lying by the streetlamp. Of Linda, Will, and the bus shelter, there’s no sign. The search lasts for hours. It ignores the long, grassy hummock that’s appeared in the grass verge on the other side of the road.
