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.
by Julian Miles | Apr 21, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Flickering light is the only illumination in the empty laboratory. A faint humming the only noise. At the centre of a mass of equipment sits an old, metal-framed specimen tank, edges spotted with rust. Inside whirls a multi-coloured cloud, source of both light and sound. This close to it, the humming resolves into a low murmuring, like that of quiet conversation.
A figure steps into view, skinsuit reverting to a jaunty pattern of orange and gold diamonds. Ace pauses and idly scratches his ribs. He leans forward to peer at the tank.
“‘Cloud’ isn’t usually this literal. What kind of computer are you?”
He straightens up.
“Huh. Sent to find the AI at the heart of a terrorist organisation, all I find a fishtank full o’ smoke. Marvellous.”
He leaps casually over the tank, landing silently on the far side. No difference. No wires, no nothing. But the humming has stopped.
With a sigh, he prepares his explosives.
“Whatever. You’re the valuable target, or it’s somewhere very near. The mad security about this place nearly spotted me, which is a first.”
Slapping the charges on the lower edges of the tank, he sticks slim detonators in with a flourish, then spins to one side on feeling of something arrive behind him.
A familiar voice makes him straighten up with a smile.
“Ace of the Paranormal Operations Commando, you should not be here.”
He grins.
“Skyclaw! You know I can’t resist a challenge. Did you set up the security, lady?”
“No. I just supplement it. You can fool every device on the planet, but not a paranoid insomniac as well.”
He laughs.
“So I’m caught. What next?”.
The light increases. A quiet chorus speaks from behind him: “In finding us, your futures end.”
Ace spins to face the tank, eyes wide with realisation. He nearly manages to turn back before her blades carve through lungs and heart.
She twists the blades free. The body drops, skinsuit turning black.
Reaching down, she closes his eyes. The skinsuit shows patches of white where her tears land.
“Dammit, Cloud, he was a good guy.”
“Once a lover of yours. We knew, and are deeply sorry. We will keep his memory for you.”
She wipes her eyes. With a deep breath, she flicks her hair back and wonders how many more losses Cloud of Eight expects her to gloss over with a smile and an offhand comment.
“Thanks, cloudy.”
Probably a lot. Their plans tend to be careless of collateral damage… And this is not a time to get into that.
“No problem, skyfluff.”
Ace’s nickname coming from Cloud of Eight hits her like a shock rod. The floor rushes up to meet her.
“Sorry, dear heart. Our facility is secure, but you are far from hale. We can live without your obsessive attention to detail for a little while. Balance yourself.”
“I’m going to smudge your tank while you’re meditating, you gaseous gangster.”
Skyclaw hears the delicate chuckle that’s the remains of a childhood friend. Cloud of Eight keeps their promises: Hester’s laugh will never die.
“That’s just mean. I might be tempted to interfere with your shower controls every now and then if you did that.”
Skyclaw howls with laughter, then rolls onto her back and lets the tears flow.
“Got the running water sorted, thanks. Pass me a towel.”
They chuckle again.
“Rude woman, get it yourself – but after you shower. We can see what those waterworks have done to your face paint: you wouldn’t thank us for letting you out sooner.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 14, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Slow night on the back side of the club quarter. Shouldn’t have taken the bet, but two bottles of wine and Ronny being a tit decided otherwise. So here I am, looking to beat his takings from the main drag, watching the only possible passenger in the last hour climb into a puke-green Uber. I see them swap booking codes with the autodriver. Why do they still make those look like humans? It’s creepy. Give me something styled like a robot from an old sci-fi movie. Make art wherever you can: the world is bleak enough.
Somebody dives in and slams the door.
“Follow that Uber!”
I twist about to stare.
“Seriously?”
He raises a wrist and an impressive holo ID appears: crown above gates, ring of fancy symbols about a shield with a fish-tailed lion on it.
“Jack Evanswaite, MI5. Follow that damn car!”
His payment chip interfaces with my meter and deposits £100. Okay, mate, wherever you want to go. I pull out, tapping my drive assistance screen to bring it’s attention to the Uber. A handy drop-down menu appears: ‘report/identify/license/call/other’. I tap ‘other’: ‘apply for role/watch site/book journey/follow vehicle’.
There’s an option to tail a car? I tap ‘follow vehicle’. A pop-up flashes: ‘provide authorisation’.
“I need to authorise the tail.”
My passenger sounds annoyed.
“Can’t you just follow them?”
I gesture to the four lanes and three tiers of traffic we’re about to join.
“If I start driving off-plan, we’re going to get locked in and routed to an autocop.”
He sighs, then shouts.
“Authorisation Bark Rune Dive Paint.”
The pop-up turns green, then vanishes. We accelerate and switch lanes. Meanwhile Jack pulls out a phone. After quoting his authorisation again, he starts a heated but whispered conversation.
An hour later we’ve left London City Zone, crossed London Metro Zone, and are heading through London Inner. Our target is still in the outside lane. Could be headed for London Ring, but I think it’s going somewhere in London Industrial Zone. Beyond it is London Park Zone and that’s got too many residential patrols: they’re renowned for stopping any non-local vehicle that enters their neighbourhoods after midnight.
Fifteen minutes later the Uber turns hard right across three lanes to enter a nondescript business park. Manual driving? Autodrivers don’t pull stupid stunts like that. Impressive they’ve managed to avoid being flagged, unless they’ve only just taken control.
My follow protocol drops us into the turning lane without fuss. I take control and corner a little quicker than recommended, getting an amber manoeuvring alert, but we need to catch up. Jack makes a startled noise. I look up from the alert to see a wide radiator grille coming at us. The collision alert on the heads-up comes at me – along with the windscreen – as the truck hits.
I come round upside down. Keeping still, I use the only eye that responds to look about: I’m hanging from the four-point harness left over from my track day habit. Jack’s face down in a pool of blood. Looks like the impact smashed him through the dividing partition.
Something moves outside. I hold my breath and close my eye.
“They dead?”
“Looks that way. Blood and bits everywhere. Nothing breathing.”
That’s approaching sirens! I knew paying the premium for RTA monitoring was worth it.
“Sounds like the cabby was smarter than his fare.”
“Except when he took the fare.”
“When will people learn? Someone says ‘follow that car’, the answer is ‘hell no’.”
They laugh and run off.
I breathe out slowly. Lesson learned. Won’t make that mistake again.
by Julian Miles | Apr 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The battlefield is littered with carcasses to the point where soil has mixed with ichor to form a gritty green mud that shines as the searchlights swing by.
I wave the site teams to either side.
“Get the spotlights up! We’ll never find anything in this without brights.”
Dosun of Team Two mutters.
“It’s called sunlight. We get it daily.”
Turning to face team two, I point at him.
“Dawn is nineteen Terran hours away, Specialist Dosun. Do you expect wounded soldiers to wait for aid?”
“No sir. Sorry, sir. Voice went off while I was testing my mouth.”
That reply is amusing enough for me to let it go this once.
“Get me light in under five minutes, Specialist, and we’ll call it evens.”
One of his colleagues slaps the back of his head, but they’re moving noticeably quicker.
Come to think of it…
“Specialists, vent the spotlights towards the battlefield. The heat should help deal with the ground mist.”
This is a miserable planet. From the tops of observation towers, it seems beautiful. Down among the clinging grey vines and stealth predators, it gets ugly fast. You quickly get to see how resilient you are, or what your guts look like as something with more teeth than brains pulls them out.
I can’t see any of ours amongst this mess.
Team Two put their lights on before raising them, which gives a curious false dawn effect as my shadow shrinks back, going from giant to human size.
“Contact!”
My escort are whatever the stage better than resilience is. I wasn’t even aware. Looking about, I see a low hill. There’s something-
Team One bring their lights up.
That’s one of ours, sitting on top of a pile of… Ours. Sweet mercy, what happened here?
“Identify yourself!”
“Bloody tired of fourth platoon, second company, Field Engineering Battalion Six. Put those bastard lights out unless the jadebloods have actually given up.”
“They’re gone, soldier. I’m Lieutenant Macintosh of Scout Platoon Eight. We got sent to see why you were running late.”
“I’m Specialist Gilbert Edwards, sir, and more jadebloods than I’ve ever seen is why.”
I continue walking to one side, taking in the remains of camp fires and bivouac sheets.
“You were ambushed by Sloshan after breaking trek for the night?”
“They came from all sides. So many they were running up and over each other, like some nightmare wave. Major Hurst realised we were done for. We pulled back, using everything we had, looking to make the jadebloods pay. Did that until our power packs ran out. Weren’t many projectile weapons: out of ammo in seconds. After that it was fists, feet, and blades.”
He brings up jade green hands. One holds a tactical knife, the other some sort of sword. Both blades are a lighter shade of green. I realise he’s coated from helmet to boots in ichor.
“I used to teach primitive weapons during downtime. Like to think it helped a little.”
“How many in the platoon, Edwards?”
“Set out with one hundred eighteen. Jalla and Turth got lashed by a bloodvine the first day, so we sent them back before their arms rotted off. One hundred fifteen died here, Lieutenant.”
Numbers flicker across my bracer display. Estimated enemy strength tallies to over a thousand!
“Against better than ten-to-one odds, finding one soldier alive is very welcome.”
He nods.
“What next, Lieutenant?”
“My people could use primitive weapons training. You fancy a transfer away from the glory and commendations?”
“After the funerals.”
Resilient – and respectful… I salute him.
