by Julian Miles | Sep 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Someone scorched words into the blacktop of this car park. Don’t know what all of them mean, don’t know what they used, but it went deep and left the surfaces glassy.
Cease, ye chariots
End thy noxious vapours
Quiet thy steely clamour
Still the wheels at last.
Cease! Ye chariots
Let cracks claim thy ways
For blooms to rise anew.
Cease, ye rolling cages
Release us all
To live.
My Da told me about them, as his Ma told him. Nobody knows when the words were cut. Elda Harold says it was during the oil wars, when great armies fought to save the us from the same things that powered them. Biddy Mac says it was written by a witch as a curse upon the chariots, but Da says she’s a witch too, and is just talking up her myth.
Sylvan says it musta been near the end, because thems what owned this place would’ve had the letters filled in, which makes sense to me.
“Danny, can we go? I’m bored.”
“Hush you, Mikey. Danny’s thinking.”
I grin at Mike and Annie.
“Not long now. Just wait.”
They go back to playful bickering. I look about. This place is huge. So big I can’t see our planting beds and water traps from here. Scurry Jo says there are two other groups settled around the edges of this place, and the remains of a fourth camp at the northernmost end. She worries about what made them quit. I think if it was a pack, we would’ve been attacked by now.
Da says the packs are dying out. They turn on each other too much. Bo Blades agrees, and he should know – he used to run with one before it froze out two winters back.
Winter is the worst time. This all started in winter, the really bad one, back when dead great-great-great-grandma was a kid. There were winter storms like never before or since, the sun threw something big at us – I still don’t understand that. It set off or woke up – I’m not clear about that, either – Supremp, which was something really bad that lived in lots of places in the sky. Sorta like a pack gone rogue up there?
Anyway, all of that made things down here change. Come to think about it, must’ve happened soon after these words got cut. Now there’s a thing. Maybe Biddy and her curse ain’t too far off after all.
“What’s that?”
I look up. It’s right on sundown, and the thing Mike is pointing at is what I brought them to see. Just the once, because there ain’t nothing like a first time.
Against the darkening sky above, something flickers. Closer to us than the clouds, but high off the ground, the flickers become shaking black and white blocks. Then, with a grey flash, it appears. Mike screams. Annie gasps.
Great round ears atop a big-eyed head, with baggy pants held up over a pot belly by chequered braces. Skinny legs fade from view before showing feet or reaching the ground. Struck me as menacing first time I saw it. Still does. There are coloured flashes circling it’s waist. Ma said those used to be words, but they done wore out. I’m not so sure.
Moments later, it fades away until next year.
“Why was that?”
I look down at Annie.
“We’ll never know. Not to worry, because it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Mike pulls on my trouser leg.
“Don’t like rat in the sky. We go now.”
Thinking about chariots and rats, I take the kids home.
by Julian Miles | Aug 25, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“It really is nice that world leaders would meet me at such short notice.”
The President waves a hand towards the kilometre-long spaceship that had appeared without warning above Washington DC.
“Your presence is impossible to conceal. Panic is escalating. We thought it best.”
The garishly-dressed triped nods.
“Given the time constraint, we decided to be obvious for once.”
Concerned looks are exchanged.
The Prime Minister glares at the alien in the room.
“You’ve visited before? What constraint?”
“We’ve been visiting for longer than you’ve been here. The constraint? One moment.”
It pulls out an ornate scroll, then reads from it.
“Greetings, residents of the star-orbiting mass locally identified as ‘Earth’. In accordance with the terms retranscribed during in the Ker-Ys Reaffirmation of the Nesoi Treaty, notice is hereby given that the sentients-in-residence, self-identifying as ‘humans’, now need to depart for the non-local residence codenamed ‘Heaven’ as they agreed to do. In accordance with conditions set upon those terms, a delay is granted for the arrangement of those departures due to difficulties previously encountered in contacting the non-local entities that operate the aforementioned destination.”
The being looks up.
“It being around midsummer here, I’m happy to say Galaxus have agreed a convenient expatriation date: we’ll start the mass reset on the next summer solstice at this location. We prefer to use celestial events for timings – leaves no room for confusion.”
The scroll retracts.
“Anyway, if you could all pop off before that moment, it would be lovely. We’re even prepared to offer early departure bonuses for those emigrating before winter solstice.”
The Premier looks about at her ashen-faced peers.
“Excuse me… Actually, who are you?”
The being bows.
“Thank you for asking. I’m Galaxus Ambassador Dougalla Brox.”
The Premier frowns.
“You’re aware we don’t have the technology for large-scale space flight?”
“Yes. One of my predecessors raised that matter and was reassured by Gralon Meriadoc Liege that your owner, Almighty God the Creator, would find it simple to implement. I can also reconfirm the stipulation that any sentients left behind be made aware of their unworthiness can also be met. By the way: do you have an updated text for us to use, or will the original suffice?”
First Member stabs a finger frantically at his phone, then looks up, eyes wide.
“You expect us to leave Earth based on a treaty agreed with a minor European king over fifteen centuries ago?”
The being turns to face him.
“Euro-what? Anyway, the answer is ‘Yes’. There are only so many times we can extend the half-millennia wait period. Three is the absolute limit. Really, my management team have been expecting you lot to do your ‘ascend’ thing for the last half-millennia. When it didn’t happen, they decided we’ve been patient for long enough, and here I am.”
The Chairman slams his fist down on the table.
“How could a pissant monarch dictate to the world? It is he who was unworthy, not us!”
The being pauses for a minute, then raises a claw.
“Please forgive us, we’ve made a horrible error. We missed that your worthy have already ascended. I’ll leave you to your preparations for extinction.”
The being fades from view.
After a moment, the Premier stands up.
“I propose that all media are to speculate about ongoing delicate negotiations and the like, but the pervasive tone must be relentlessly optimistic: ‘a new age is coming’. Meanwhile, we need to jumpstart a top-secret offworld colony project with an eleven-month window. Mars is now stage one, not the final destination.”
The show of hands is unanimous.
by Julian Miles | Aug 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Wizard One, remind me again why I’m face down in a flower bed in downtown fuck-knows-where?”
“Maintain comms discipline, Fighter Zero. However, I am authorised to say you look lovely with a sprinkling of daisies on your arse.”
“Tell Gandalf to get himself a new hobbit, because you’re gonna be visiting Mount Doom when I get back.”
“Promises, promises. That’s the problem with you orcs, all talk, no- Whup! Incoming on your five.”
The buildings about me are lit by the blue radiance that comes from whatever it is that stops anything we have from getting to them.
Seventeen months ago they came from nowhere and fucked up just about everywhere so fast nobody even got a chance to name them. Quite honestly, we’re not sure we’ve got a whole planet left to save. But sorting that out will have to wait.
Eight weeks ago Charlie and Green teams had a skirmish with a small group of invaders, which they escaped from by dint of dropping a multi-storey car park on them. After-action scouting found an invader flattened under a couple of tons of exit ramp. Probably thought it safe to abandon because they could destroy any attempt at digging it out. What they didn’t know about is the main sewer that runs a few metres under the car park. We dug upwards and retrieved the mangled remains. From the lumpy greenish mince we extracted bent gear, conductive mesh, and one functional miniaturised generator.
I’m wearing what the bright folks back at DR&D – the first ‘D’ standing for ‘Desperate’ – reckon could let us shoot the bastards. After exhausting all the obvious forcefield options and other advanced stuff I don’t really understand, one particularly mad scientist made a discovery: we can’t shoot them because they’re not really here! Their forcefield doesn’t stop things, it puts the wearers slightly out-of-step with our reality. Not enough to make them invisible – the potential of that concept scared a few higher-ups badly – but just enough to make them insubstantial to physical interaction. We can see them, but we literally can’t touch them.
If it works, the mesh I’m wearing puts me on the same ‘wavelength’ as them. If it doesn’t… I’ll be another dead hero.
They’re all about me. There’s a hum that’s making my teeth ache.
Game on.
“Wizard One, going live.”
I bounce up, select targets by fanciest headgear, and let them have it. Three-round bursts, focus on head or upper centre mass until things get fluid.
Their armour is useless! We thought their technology did something with the base materials to make it more effective. Obviously not. AP bullets are punching through fleeing figures. How long have they relied on this displacement trick?
Rolling out of a reload crouch, I pop back up and set to wreaking havoc with FMJ. This shooting range can’t last. Somebody’s got to get their shit together, surely?
I’m on my fifth magazine and hunting the routed when something white-hot and crackling goes past my ear. I spin, bringing targeting sights up on my night vision. Ah-ha. Here they come. Squad of four, diamond formation. I align the grenade pattern on their lead and let the launcher on my back deliver Guy Fawkes Night early.
The rig on my thigh is from a project experimenting with teleportation. The result remains inexplicable: whatever is teleported always reappears at the underground facility where their first test succeeded. Useless for bouncing about, great for getaways.
Like now. As the grenades erupt, I’m gone.
by Julian Miles | Aug 11, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two words. Nothing else.
He turns the envelope over, then puts it down and picks up the ornate Kaldotarnib honour blade and turns that over before sliding it from the scabbard. He makes a few passes in the air, finishing with a swift double strike move. Closing his eyes, he touches the hilt to his forehead, then sheathes it.
A priceless artefact from a bitter war that still rages, accompanied by a mystery message.
He puts the blade down and picks up the envelope. When it first arrived, he’d joked with the courier about including a letter opener. That would be tantamount to sacrilege. He pulls his dagger and slices the top edge of the envelope off, then peers inside.
Tipping the single sheet onto the table, he rotates it with point of the dagger until the words become legible.
Hello, you shovel-jawed bastard, it’s Nat.
These days I’m Flag Sergeant Reece of the 51st Highlanders, but I sometimes wake wondering why you or one of your gang haven’t tipped me onto the floor.
Then I realise college days are nine years past. Well, in my timeline anyway. Not sure what the time difference from FTL transit has done on your side. One of my techs reckons it’ll be nearer thirty years for you.
Wondering why I sent you a letter? Just read it once. You owe me that much, fucker.
Don’t know what they’re telling you on the home worlds, but we are actually winning most of the time. Just my bad luck to be here for one of the times we won’t.
The Kaldotarnib are as ferocious as you’ve no doubt been told. They’re also weirdly honour-bound. Which is how you got this letter, and a beautiful blade along with it. You see, we’re stuck on Agral 3. The locals switched sides a week ago. We’ve been scrambling to get our non-combatants offworld ever since. Despite moments of glory, we’ve been massacred.
I’m huddled in a wrecked building with the last of my own. We’re all writing. There’s no way eighteen of us can stall the advance. If they keep going, the civilians crammed into the spaceport will be slaughtered.
So we’ve challenged the Kaldotarnib to an honour tournament. By their codes, those certain to be defeated can redeem their honour by facing a succession of combatants, providing they kill at least one of them.
They’ve stopped their advance while eighteen of us die in ritual single combat with Kaldotarnib bladekin. If we manage to slay one or more, the honour blade of our first kill is granted to our family, along with the last letter. If we don’t, the letter is burned along with the corpse. More importantly, us fighting one at a time will give the transports time to lift and FTL out.
It’s so fucking sad that you’re the only person I have to send this to. I left because of the bullying. Couldn’t even come back when my parents died.
I raged against you for so long. Oddly, it made me tougher. Made me kick the crap out of the bullies I came across. Nobody should have to go through what you put me through.
But –
Those kickings revealed the bullies had problems of their own. That made me think. Eventually, it made me let my rage go. Made me want to ask what fucked you up so badly.
So here it is –
Have you escaped your demons, Jon?
I hope you have. I really do.
Take care of yourself,
Nat.
Jon wipes away tears, then whispers into the silence.
“Bastard… Sorry.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Mum always said ice mining is a stupid idea. Whenever she said that, Dad just shrugged and went back to watching videos about playing the markets to get rich.
I’m not sure if it was her crazy enthusiasms for anything that might get us ‘a better life’ or his stubborn insistence everything would be great ‘this time next year’ that drove me to leave as soon as I could.
“Jamal.”
Laetengrand is an ice planet in the Qwang-Chi Archaeological Zone. A very long time ago, back before it froze over – they’re still arguing about how that happened – it was at the heart of the Qwang-Chi Empire. Long story short: it froze over really fast. Under a millennia or two of ice there’s a huge chunk of a civilization several centuries advanced from ours. While we’ve yet to reach any cities down there, we’ve found a few exotic flying vehicles and crystalline veins of a substance someone named ‘klectothene’.
“Jamal!”
We presume it used to be a fuel of some kind. The storage ruptured and it leaked. A strange process induced by cold, pressure, and time has resulted in the veins which yield purple crystals that can power spaceships. Our radiant core drives were traded from the Lenkormians. Attempts to reverse engineer them have been unsuccessful. However, putting a chunk of klectothene in place of the core – the part we couldn’t replicate – results in a drive twenty percent more powerful that lasts twice as long.
“JAMAL!”
I wake. I’m up against the right bulkhead, which is now the floor.
“Here. What happened?”
“Terfor set a thermic charge to collapse the tunnel.”
“This close to The Scar?”
We’re meant to be a pioneer culture: friendly rivalry but pulling together when it matters. Outright greed means some of us fall short of the pioneering spirit.
“Exactly. He set it to trigger on movement. Luckily you had that drone skitter running ahead of your digger, which set it off early. Terfor was still in the section that cracked off.”
That sort of iceshift can’t have been good for- oh no.
“How much went in, and how far am I under?”
“The Scar is gone. The biggest ice crevasse on Laetengrand has become a thirty-kilometre-long dip in the snowscape that’s still settling in places.”
“How far?”
There’s a ‘do we tell him or not?’ period of silence.
“Over three kilometres.”
Deeper than any have gone and survived. Deeper…
“Am I over land or sea?”
Ice sheets cover the whole planet, including a couple of sizeable oceans. Way back before they discovered klectothene, they used another crevasse to drop a space battleship down into the depths to act as an underwater base. The method sounds crazy but works because the old dreadnoughts were built to withstand solaric weapons. Being underwater, the only threat is faster corrosion.
“Sea side.”
“Call Dreadnought Base. Find out where their submersibles are. There’s no point in me going swimming if all I’m going to do is consign myself to a watery grave.”
Another long silence.
A deafening ‘ping’ sounds throughout my rig.
“Did you hear that?”
“It rattled my teeth.”
“Hey, Bacarude. That hit you got is Jamal. Patching you in.”
“Hi, Jamal. You’re only eight metres from open water. Lucky for you we came to see what the collapse shook loose.”
“Prepare to catch a sinking digger.”
“Ready.”
I scramble over and activate the side cutters. There are grinding noises, everything shakes, then there’s a lurch, followed by silence.
Something clangs against my hull.
“Gotcha. Next stop: Dreadnought Base.”
I’m not dying today. Excellent.
“Thank you!”
