by Julian Miles | Jan 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The afternoon is chill, clear, and sunny. The quiet is unearthly. The smell isn’t too bad – yet.
I tap another ‘play’ icon.
“I’ve got moments to dictate this, so I best keep to essential- Damn. I’m wasting time telling- Fuck, this isn’t it. Anyw-”
I listen to the sound of a body hitting the ground and dropping the phone I just picked up. I put the phone down, then look about: a street littered with corpses arrayed in similar caught mid-action poses. I do a rough count. More died filming than trying to get away from it. Yet to find one with a decent shot of what killed them, though.
Whatever it was, it was quick, but not fast enough to be a surprise. Most of fleeing victims… I turn until I’m facing what they seemed to be moving away from.
Pay attention to details: so what do I see?
No. Stop. What do I see that’s out of place for a kill of this size?
No holes. Nothing burning. No wounds.
No tops on any tree over thirty feet tall?
I turn again, slower. Yes. Treetops are gone. But there are taller buildings? To the top of… That one, then.
Most of the bodies on the second floor are by the windows. A few died moving away, but most died with their phones in their hands. I step over and around the remains, checking for a live device.
Those near the windows are all dead: recorded until the battery died. So, I should restart with the body furthest from the window… Winner – and loser: fingerprint lock.
Fingerprints are incredibly durable, even after death. Using fingers of the dead is a pet hate, though.
Right, breath out. Scroll. Last video. Tap.
“Oh my God, what is that? Is it a space shuttle?”
I peer at the shaky image. People who ‘talk with their hands’ should shut up while filming, or at least learn to hold still. I can make out why she thought it was one, though.
“What’s happening over there?”
The view swings left and zooms to the end of the main street. The air seems to be distorted. People are falling down. The view moves right and up to bring the rear of the aircraft into view. I can see more intense ripples in the air behind it.
“I think we should get back.”
She realised too late, but left me the evidence I need: the emanations from the propulsion system are lethal. As it was moving so slowly, people saw, but couldn’t escape. Actually –
There are side roads cutting across main street. Some people must have made the right choice: a swathe of destruction always has edges. Get beyond them and you’ll survive.
Time. I’ve got enough. Pulling out my satphone, I speed dial headquarters.
“This is Garrett. Apart from phone and outlier retrieval, the zone is clear.”
“Device Neutralisation Team ETA is one hour. How many outliers?”
“Unknown. Some must have dodged in the right direction. Ranger patrols and media teams will need to be ready.”
“They’re already on it. Do you have a cause?”
“Absolute proof that the Kecksen Drive is deadly. Prototype Two is recognisable in the footage.”
“Recommendations for mitigation?”
“Water tower at the centre of town, pump problems upstream, switch to emergency supply, water contaminated due to poor maintenance.”
“I like it. Anything else?”
“Prototype Two was flying low and slow. If that wasn’t in the flight plan, find out why.”
“We most assuredly will. Another good job, Garrett. Now make yourself scarce. We’ll be in touch.”
“Yessir. Going now.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 13, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The gigantic purple and gold sphere is set at the centre of the dining table when Menna races downstairs.
“You’re home! I thought I- What’s that?”
Vendi gives me a smile. She predicted every word. Then again, she’s been working from home and living with our delightfully stream-of-consciousness tornado of a daughter ever since winter closed in.
“Hi Menna. Lovely to see you. Do I get a hug or do I have to…?”
She pouts, putting one hand on her hip while pointing the other at the huge intruder.
I chuckle as Vendi curls up, rocking with silent laughter.
“I have to. Okay. That is called a Winterheart Charm, and this one comes from the town of Nodenhame, which is the northernmost fishing community in Larkenmand, which itself is the northernmost territory of the northernmost continent on the planet Winshe.”
Menna considers both my words and the sphere.
“Can I put a candle inside it?”
I get up and tilt it towards her, so she can see the small hole in the top, and through that the larger hold in the bottom that I’m waving a hand at her through. She giggles.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. These are spun from melted Sherum crystals by crafters known as Tandars, and they’re made to be hung as ornaments or lit from within like lanterns.”
She claps her hands. I raise a finger.
“But, to do that, you’ll need to find the candles from my surprise birthday party the year before last, and bring one of the copper saucers, too.”
“Easy as done already!”
She rushes off.
Vendi leans across the table and takes my hand.
“You realise we’ll be clearing up the wreckage from her search for hours after she goes to bed, don’t you?”
I grin.
“Worth it.”
Things start crashing about from the direction Menna ran off in.
She grins right back.
“Remember those words later. Now, speaking of worth, why is this the only item you’ve come back with? Jurgen came past rolling a big steel wheel, Suzana was dragging a chunk of armour, everybody was carrying something, and they all had pockets filled with trinkets. Except you.”
I lean back.
“They couldn’t hold the Winterheart Festival because it was banned by the occupying forces. For five years they’ve hidden their culture away. Then we rolled in, bounced the bad guys, doing a little bad guying of our own in the process, then announced the Larkenmand Council restored. While they hugged and danced, many of my companions turned to the time-honoured mercenary pastimes of looting and securing trophies.”
She smiles.
“You’ve never been a fan of either, I know.”
I shrug.
“We get paid enough, and there’s no glory in greed or bloody mementos.”
Vendi shivers. I continue.
“Larkenmand is a lovely place, when it’s not being used as a source of forced labour. The folk of Nodenhame decided to celebrate the return of their lost ones by holding a belated Winterheart Festival, and invited us to join in, because without us, their loved ones wouldn’t be back.”
I nod towards the sphere.
“The custom is that Winterheart Charms are given to those you favour, as thanks or well-wishing. A baker I saved from a bayoneting presented that to me. His whole family came along to sing a blessing so that the luck would spread from the Charm to my family.”
Menna rushes back, candles in one hand, copper saucer in the other. I grin, then look worried and start patting my jacket.
“Now where did I put that lighter?”
“Daaaaad!”
I get pouted at again.
by Julian Miles | Jan 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m not supposed to care which particular variety of illegal folderol a target has been committing. My job is to bring them to whichever form of justice is applicable. We default to it being that of the reality flow they’re in, unless whatever they’re up to is particularly awful, in which case we’re free to use immediately lethal penalties. Which is a decision for my superiors. I might personally disagree, but vigilantism isn’t what I’m being paid for.
All that said, I hate reality skaters. People who get their kicks by invading their lives in other flows, taking what they want, doing what they feel, then skating out ahead of the consequences, leaving their in-flow selves to face all manner of predicaments. However, for all my loathing, I will admit an admiration for their impeccable timing, as meeting another of yourself while in their reality causes a small but mutually lethal explosion.
Tonight’s target is Sebastian Li. He’s been a very bad boy across 123 flows already, and here he comes to continue his rampage through the life of Sebastian Li 124 – technically instance J6P5Z226, but only arrest warrants and scientists care about the actual where/when of any who in question.
“Sebastian Li, instance A6K9L680, your skate is over!”
The tanned figure in the black jumpsuit stops dead, then twists down and around, raising a hand and peering at us from under it.
“Well, well, well. Only two officers? Didn’t I tell you last time you’d need a lot more?”
Scanlon hisses at me.
“There was a last time?”
Getting tired of being his secretary… I hiss back.
“No idea. We got the same datafeed. Now focus.”
“Who’s our third tonight?”
“Brigast. On the rooftop across the way.”
Who gives away his concealed sniper position by shooting Scanlon!
I growl into my throat mic as Scanlon sinks to the ground, blue sparks spitting from his eyes.
“Wrong target!”
There’s a low laugh from my headset.
“For you, maybe.”
I know that voice?
Sebastian turns to face me.
“Your partner isn’t dead – yet. You’ve got about six minutes to get him to medical care a lot more advanced than this flow has.”
“You conniving bastard.”
He grins.
“My parents were actually married in my home reality, so that’s untrue. Now, are you going? Alternatively, Seb Four can shoot you as well.”
He points to where Brigast is.
Four?
The low laugh comes again.
“I don’t think they filled this one in, Six.”
Six? I should be understanding something, but I’m not…
A figure steps out of the alleyway across the way. This – Sebastian! – is dressed in a tasteful three-piece suit and is carrying a harpoon gun. He waves at me with it.
“Sorry to be melodramatic, but sporting goods shops are easier to rip off than gun stores. Oh, sorry. I’m Seb Three.”
Dear gods. There’s a team of them. Too hell with those who sent us blind into this!
“I’m going to take my partner and go.”
Seb Six, in the black jumpsuit, nods.
“You’re handling it well. The last couple of teams didn’t, and there were more of them.”
Are we a case of incompetence or revenge, I wonder?
“Is Brigast alive?”
The reply comes over my headset.
“No. I’m from a reality at war. Old habits. Sorry about that.”
I heft Scanlon over my shoulder and walk away. This is more than negligence, and quite frankly my superiors can pick someone else. If I can’t trust those who send me patrolling the realities, I’m out.
by Julian Miles | Dec 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s an angel on the veranda, stealing my tomatoes.
Well, not actually on the veranda. She’s too tall for that. Got one foot at the top of the steps, the other on the ground. My daughter’s fascinated by the flickering shadows cast by the shimmering energy fields that make up her ‘wings’ – not that we’ve ever seen one fly, it just seems appropriate, being where they’re situated and what they look like.
It’s taken ages to cultivate tomatoes, I can’t just let her take them. Shaking off Abigail’s attempt at restraining me, I step slowly onto the veranda.
“I’m happy you like them, but they’re meant to be the start of a crop before being a treat for us and our neighbours.”
The three-metre-plus being stops mid-pluck and turns her attention to me, the smooth curve of her ear-to-ear lenses changing from purple to green.
“Please excuse my cultural misunderstanding. I thought them welcoming offerings for visitors.”
Not any sort of reply I was expecting. Swift on the heels of their appearance, lurid stories came: brave soldiers tortured, communities massacred, babies eaten, and so on. These are the original rulers of Earth, after all. Risen in vengeful anger from their subterranean citadels to reclaim their world.
“Am I not speaking the right language?”
Oops. Bad time to pause for thought.
“Apologies. You startled me. I wish I had sufficient to be that generous. It would mean we’re getting somewhere.”
She nods.
“A fair assessment, and one I would like to help you achieve, if that would be acceptable?”
Somebody pinch me, I’m dreaming.
“Did you just offer to help me grow tomatoes?”
“In a way. I have a propagated batch ready for delivery. I’m looking for suitable tenders with open ground. On of our darts spotted this plant and your fallow field. I have come to see if we can work together.”
Sinila, my daughter, steps round me and points at the energy fields.
“Can you really fly?”
The silver being steps off the veranda and crouches, bringing her to roughly eye level with Sinila.
“I can, little human. Not for very long, though. The art is to go up quickly, glide for a long way, then use the balance of the power to come down without embarrassing oneself.”
Sinila claps her hands in glee, then looks up at me.
“I wanna fly like the angel lady.”
“My short name is Attalacy. I am a Ninhur. Now, I know you are human. But your name is?”
“Sin-il-a.”
I’m both proud and mortified.
“Well, Sinila, I’m afraid you won’t be able to fly like me, but your children might, if all goes extremely well.”
What? Nope, can’t stay quiet.
“You mean that?”
She moves to sit at the top of the steps, her mercury silver bodysuit moving to match the oddly lumpy-but-lithe form under it. She gestures to the few visible buildings. I see distant friends duck at her gesture.
“For places like this, I do. Every ten to twelve thousand years, humans make a mess. So we come overground and restart you. When you’re up and running again, we’ll retire.”
She turns to look at me, removing her lenses to reveal narrow amber eyes with horizontal slit pupils.
“This time will take longer, I think. There is much nuclear devastation to repair.”
Abigail’s voice from behind makes me jump.
“A world to regrow.”
Attalacy smiles.
“Exactly that. Starting with tomatoes.”
Abigail steps round me.
“Do you like tea?”
“Yes.”
There’s an angel on the veranda drinking tea with my wife.
Great things; small beginnings.
by Julian Miles | Dec 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“DAY-NA!”
The roar of anger is so loud it stops everyone. Dayna, presumably the being we’ve managed to corner after a three-hour citywide chase, was dubbed ‘Jaqueline the Ripper’ by the newsfeeds. Surrounded by rings of armoured vehicles and furious enforcers, she was laughing. Now she looks scared. What’s coming?
A fiery golden aura surrounds the petite being that descends, an elegant ballgown moving languidly as they do so.
The aura vanishes as they land and stride towards Dayna, who starts stammering out what sounds like a justification by its tone. I can’t be sure because nobody has come up with an Aziasen lingo patch for our not-so universal translators.
“We will conduct this discussion in Humanese Type Four.”
The latest arrival looks back at me. Green-tinged silver skin, mauve eyes, no pupils.
“My name is Ayse. Can you understand me?”
I nod.
“May I continue chastising this woeful being?”
Going to need to find a voice for this. Slow breath, and –
“My name is Mike. Yes, for the moment. That might change when my seniors or embassy representatives arrive.”
She smiles. Whoa my, that’s more fangs than most.
“Not soon, I hope. I loathe being reminded about etiquette when the situation demands otherwise.”
All of a sudden, I’m sure Ayse isn’t a junior dignitary.
Clara, my partner, leans across and whispers.
“This could be good. Or really, really bad.”
I whisper back.
“Agreed. Be ready to go shields up while sprinting away like angry space vampires are chasing you.”
“That would be a lot funnier if it wouldn’t be true.”
While we banter, Ayse continues walking towards Dayna – who seems to be trying to reverse through the wall she’s up against.
“YOU WERE TOLD NOT TO DRINK ANY MORE HUMANS!”
My ears hurt.
Dayna starts waving her hands placatingly.
“Only one! Just one! I was SO thirsty. I only stopped for sip.”
Ayse looks back at me.
“How many died in the most recent incident?”
“Inside the venue or during the pursuit?”
“Venue.”
I check my datapad.
“Everyone at the Boco Congo nightclub: thirty-eight clients, seven staff, and four security personnel.”
She turns back to Dayna.
“You might have intended to sip, but your rassmea is clearly out of control.”
Dayna waves her hands dismissively.
“No, no. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Just let me sleep it off. I’ll be back on the program.”
“YOU’RE GOING NOT GOING BACK ON THE PROGRAM. YOU’RE GOING BACK TO AZIAS!”
Dayna looks horrified.
“YOU CAN’T SEND ME HOME! There aren’t any humans there. I can’t go without; they taste SO GOOD!”
Movement happens before I can react. By the time my mind catches up with reality, Dayna is lying on the ground between Ayse and us.
Ayse looks up from the prone form.
“May I please take my human-addicted kith away, officer? She will be off-planet before dawn tomorrow. I give blood-bond to you that she will never return.”
A blood-bond is an absolute guarantee, which is a far better-than-expected result. All Aziasen have what amounts to diplomatic immunity. I was expecting to end tonight – and my career – involved in a diplomatic incident because I killed one.
“You may. Is rassmea treatable?”
“If a sufferer really wants free of it. Sadly, this one hasn’t had any of her whims denied since she was a child. It is best she forever be kept apart from humans.”
The fiery golden aura surrounds them. They rise into the air.
Ayse nods to me.
“Thank you for not slaying my sister.”
They’ll never know how close I came, and that’s a very good thing.
