by Julian Miles | Jul 21, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s another explosion outside. People are running about, screaming and shouting incoherently.
Nevaten finishes his meal and watches as he wipes his lips. Takes a while, his face being more lupine than human. He’s one of the Beaston, a bodmod cult, but he’s been a friend for longer.
He tips his head towards the chaos outside.
“Do they not know this place is good refuge?”
I grin.
“They might, but the denizens of this city aren’t usually calm enough to make the phase shift. Right now? Not a chance.”
Nevaten chuckles.
“So at this moment, paying clients are unlikely.”
I’m about to agree when a someone tumbles through the door, landing in an untidy heap between our table and the payment counter.
I peer under the table to see who the visitor is.
“Good evening, Tessy.”
She wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales slowly before replying.
“I’ll never get used to a neogod running a cafe, but good evening, Anbariu.”
“Please. I’m a long way from being techno-divine, thankfully. Besides, isn’t there a rule preventing such from mixing with their faithful?”
Tessy nods.
“It’s part of the mystique. Plus being a protection thing.”
Nevaten nods.
“They always cite the death of Musk, but the martyrdom of Ganton is a better example.”
Tessy sits up and stares at him.
“You know, you might be right.”
I push my stool back.
“What can the Dread Cafe provide, madam?”
She stands and indicates her clothes, which are close to having more scorched holes than anything else.
“A coffee to go and fresh kit, please.”
“Have it drink in while you’re choosing.”
I turn and shout to Shebannia.
“Is the garment dump safe to rummage in?”
When the charity warehouse next door closed down, I bought it. It’s amazing what you can hide and ship in charity bags.
A cheerful reply comes as she enters the cafe proper.
“Nothing questionable lying about. The clothes stacks aren’t dangerously high, either.” She looks Tessy up and down: “Girl, you need to back up another ten metres before you set off incendiaries.”
She howls with laughter.
“Not me. I set the first one. The rest are vehicles and the like, except for the big one. That was a short igniting a fuel tank. Would’ve killed me if there hadn’t been a window to get blown through.”
Shebannia leans in.
“How many floors up?”
Tessy shrugs.
“Just three. Used everything in my pulse shotgun to offset the landing. Blew the coils, but saved my arse.”
Nevaten raises a black-clawed hand.
“If I might presume, to what end did you set the first bomb?”
Tessy shrugs.
“Police states and neogods have the nasty habit of collecting data on people. Democracies too, if they’re headed that way. Over there was a government data centre. One of them – they’ve got others. Anyway, I just let off something to cover the progress of the erasure routine I let loose. With a bit of luck, it’ll infect those other datacentres before they realise.”
Nevaten nods.
“The secondary explosion could play into your favour. Maybe they will switch things to other data centres because this one is a trifle immolated.”
Tessy bursts out laughing again.
“‘A trifle immolated’? That’s classic. But yes, a failover might help. I’ll find out tomorrow, if I don’t get nabbed first.”
Shebannia smiles.
“Why? The surveillance around here is down again. You’ve been here all day.”
Nevaten grins.
“Spent the evening discussing the foibles of neogods.”
Tessy nods.
“And the ways they should fall from grace.”
Another explosion outside. Sort of appropriate, really.
by Julian Miles | Jul 14, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Water drums upon my helmet, makes a low hissing as it streams over the audio pickups, and fills the air with splashing sounds as it cascades from my armour to fall inside and outside my impromptu shelter.
There’s a rhythm to this. It’s complex, but my sis used to be a drummer. I can pick it out – or trick myself into the comfortable illusion. Either is good: my breathing has slowed and heartbeat is steady.
Refuge this isn’t. It’s a hide. Beyond the deadening provided by the water, I can still hear comrades and strangers dying while our armoured offensive burns amidst the ruins of what used to be a capitol city.
Am I going to venture out? Only if the water stops. I think I glimpsed a fire blanket on a wall further down the hallway: should have thought to grab it. In my defence, I was moving as fast as possible in near-mindless terror at the time.
General Astaren said it better than I ever could:
“The rumours you’ve heard about the Ressen using giant flying creatures are nothing but- Jezuz fucking Christ! A dragon!”
His transmission crackled and stopped a few seconds later; seconds we spent listening to several hundred soldiers suffering fiery deaths.
While we stared at each other in a mix of disbelief and panic, what came for them crossed the intervening kilometre and hit us. The minutes after that arrival will disfigure my dreams forever.
The water trails off to a trickle that thuds down on my left shoulder.
“Fuck my life.”
I chose it, but still. The posters had promised a short, glorious war followed by victory parades and eternal partying. So far, the only accurate words from that description have been ‘short’ and ‘war’.
These things look like dragons: four legs, two wings, long tail, long neck, wide head. Their scales are mirror-bright and impervious to everything we’ve thrown at them. Their ‘firebreathing’ seems to be some form of plasma. Whatever the science involved, the effect is bright and devastating.
Their flying is as far from clumsy as nobody expects from two-hundred-metre-long reptiles. They can manage bursts of Mach 2, can hover briefly, and combine the two abilities in dazzling displays that remind me of the gravity well antics my grandfather used to do for a living at the family fairground.
“Bingo One? That you, Greg?”
The f-!
“Bingo Med? Charlie, you made it?”
“Most of me. Lost an arm, but the MedOp backpack I always complained about turned out to be quicker than death. I feel great, but tomorrow’s going to be no fun.”
“I like your optimism. Where are you?”
“Huddled in a shower in flat 218. You?”
I chuckle.
“You remembered that old joke too? I’m in same, somewhere on the third floor. Did your water just stop?”
“A few minutes ago. I’m thinking we need to move.”
An idea occurs: I run a quick allies scan.
“Just got scanned. Tell me it was you.”
“Yup. You’re right below me.”
I point my ‘urban entry facilitator’ at the floor and fire the last round, then tumble through the hole.
Charlie gives me a thumbs up.
“Tidy landing. Shall we get down to fucking off?”
After pulling her to her feet, I take a moment to run an extra tensioner round her torso to secure the MedOp pack against her ruined upper right side.
“I didn’t even feel that.”
“Another pain for tomorrow.”
“Down to the sewers and go left?”
“Good plan.”
She thumps my chestplate.
“Let’s move.”
Hope those scaly fuckers can’t dig as well as they can fly.
by Julian Miles | Jul 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“They’re fighting again.”
Bryr-na-ne rouses from her nap and looks up at Bael-la-le.
“What’s new?”
“Nuclear warheads.”
She launches herself off the recliner.
“How long?”
“Their spears launched as I came to tell you it looked bad. I’d say twenty or so of their minutes?”
Racing from the room in a flash of green scales, she leaves only a terse reply.
“Time for them to learn.”
Bael-la-le looks up at the ceiling.
“Eighty years. I’m surprised they lasted this long.”
He finds her standing in the temple, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Who are you intending to teach?”
Bryr-na-ne gestures for him to accompany her as they walk to where the scrying sheets drift, their course and content controlled by the tidesowers who run this never-ending monitoring ritual.
“All of them, to varying degrees. We warned them repeatedly, but they have a problem believing when not confronted with greater force. It’s time to properly evidence our greater force.”
He beckons a pair of screens closer.
“Looks like the first launch was by a rogue faction. Then came automated responses, followed by revenge or fear driven reactions.”
Bryr-na-ne puts her hands on her hips, then switches to resting her knuckles there so her claws don’t dig in.
“Misfire the lot.”
Heads turn, multiple eyelids flickering back in shock.
She looks about at her tidesowers.
“If we’re going to be unsubtle, let’s not make the mistake of doing it surreptitiously.”
One of the elders raises a long claw.
“What about other big bombs?”
Bryr-na-ne shrugs.
“If the landwalkers want to throw death about, it’s on them. We only rein them in if they threaten the Tide.”
“What of further launches?”
“Partial misfires. Let them fly, but no nuclear warheads detonate.”
There are nods. The Tide move to do her will.
Bael-la-le shakes his head.
“They’ll blame combinations of chance, sabotage, or divine intervention.”
“That’s good insight.”
She raises a hand, fingers moving in a summoning gesture. A black guard rushes to her side.
“That rogue unit dies. If they’re already dead, all well and good. If not, make them so.”
As soon as that guard departs, she calls another.
“Take as many teams as necessary. The leaders of the powers who launched, supported or instigated are to be wearing their deputies remains before sundown tomorrow. Not bothered where, nor about witnesses. The deaths should be silent, awful, and inexplicable to their science. Make eldritch art of them.”
She turns to Bael-la-le.
“Set our tidebinders to working mischief: after the misfires, I want the message ‘You will never use nuclear weapons again.’ to appear on several walls in all the residences of their leaders.”
He shakes his head.
“Are you sure that’ll be enough?”
“No. They’ll bluster, lie, and try to evade. Our watch continues, plus every nuclear spear now misfires.”
He nods and starts to turn away, then pauses as Bryn-na-ne starts talking.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. For every spear sent after the warnings are delivered, a senior member of the ruling assembly of the country that fired it gets to be eldritch art.”
“You’re going to start them alien hunting again.”
“Which doesn’t inconvenience us.”
“What of the organisations that know?”
“They’ll not tell. They’re upset at being considered jokes for so long, and most are on our side anyway. Besides, all of them have committed too many atrocities to risk drawing attention.”
“Excellent observation.”
She summons another black guard, whispers to them, then waves them away. He points curiously to the departing figure.
“That looked… Purposeful.”
She grins.
“Actually, that one’s fetching me a snack. I’m famished.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 23, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dropping in from on high is never my favourite part of an op. Jumping off high places pains me more, though. A primitive survival thing, I’m sure: don’t step off cliffs, it’s a really bad idea. There aren’t any cliffs this time, but coming in from just under LEO gives my ‘survival thing’ too much time to worry.
“Jitters on the way down again?”
I check right: Frances waves jauntily, armoured arm and bulky shoulder mount wagging back and forth.
“You know me. Always jitters before the off. Adding height just makes them colder.”
Frances points downwards.
“Might be justified.”
Looking down, I zoom my display to see a group of olive ants running about a-
Autocannon array!
“Where the frag did they get anti-mech weapons?”
I switch to tactical channel.
“Topside, Topside, this is Heavy Dog Two. We have hostile big guns in the LZ.”
Cheryl laughs.
“Yes, they’re mounted on your shoulders.”
Frances cuts in.
“Topside, Heavy Dog Three. Big guns operated by hostiles. We’d love to not die before we hit the ground.”
A channel hisses as it opens. Cheryl turns formal.
“Barrage Actual, Heavy Dogs request assistance with hostiles in their LZ.”
“They on with us?”
I get in.
“Yes.”
“Okay, Heavy Dog. Name your problem.”
“Autocannon array.”
“I was going to ask for coordinates, but for something that big we don’t need ‘em.”
He shouts.
“Jeff! Roll a Thunderhead across the Heavy Dog LZ. Some local’s got themselves autocannon.”
What’s a Thunderhead?
I hear a distant reply.
“Rude bastard to be toasty. Got it. Wait… Harpy Ten’s nearest.”
Barrage Actual chuckles.
“Tuck your feet up, kids. Ten’s new, a big bird, and incoming.”
Quick response. Ye gods!
Dazzling patterns of white light, fire, and flickering darkness scour the LZ top to bottom and side to side. The olive-clad soldiers vanish in balls of flame, along with their autocannons and just about everything else that’s not already smoking dirt.
Frances swears.
What sweeps in below has a wingspan wider than the LZ itself, is patterned in matte grey and black diamonds, and has actual turrets on the wing roots. Up front is what looks like a smoked-out cockpit canopy.
As I think it, the canopy turns transparent to reveal a trio of crew. One looks up and waves. My IFF squawks frantically as the weapons in one turret aim where that crew member is looking.
Before I can brace for anything, the canopy goes dark and Harpy Ten flies on. I still can’t see how it stays in the air.
I get back on comms.
“Thanks Barrage Actual, Topside. We’ll take it from here.”
Frances whispers.
“They said there might be new tech rolling out on this trip, but a specific warning would have saved me from heart failure.”
That gets a short laugh out of me.
“Can’t do that, might give the enemy a heads up. If we nearly lost it at first sight, how do you think they felt getting strafed by it?”
Frances extends a suit arm horizontally, then dramatically stabs a finger downwards repeatedly.
“Them that’s not dead are gone.”
I grin and switch my systems from ‘drop’ to ‘combat’.
“Let’s keep them in that frame of mind, shall we?”
Frances goes wide-hail.
“Heavy Dogs, the LZ is ours. Let’s go take as much ground as firepower and surprise give us.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The fizzing sound stops as the skies turn from vibrant blue to dull purple. A golden sun sinks from view on the horizon.
“The sunset always takes my breath away.”
To be correct, the lack of heat excitation causes the Moatalbana moss to stop emitting oxygen. But the play on words is amusing.
Hanna punches my shoulder, then hands me a breather.
“Good joke. Made me smile.”
“Thanks.”
I pull the straps into place and take that first wonderful hit of full-oxy air. Every night it’s the same. Says a lot about the excitement levels of my days, but I’m here to observe, not become a viral sensation.
Settling next to me, Hanna points to the thin yellow line that’s appeared along the horizon line with the departure of the sun.
“Okay, describe that to me.”
I think I have the words.
“Algae growing on mats of floating seaweed. It fluoresces briefly with the departure of the sun. There’s a study underway to find if it emits or attracts anything.”
We never found that out, either.
“How’s the study going?”
I glance sideways and grin.
“Not thrilling.”
She chuckles briefly, then sighs.
“Story of this planet.”
Ontabalmy is a tired world. A few million years older than Earth, it used to host an advanced technological culture, thousands of years ago. They even looked like humans: news that stunned everyone across human-inhabited space. Which isn’t a big area, to be fair. Three planets, four if Ontabalmy is approved for colonisation.
“It’s a truth. This place is peaceful and benign.”
“Apart from humans being unable to breath after dark?”
“Largely benign, then. Certainly better than Mars. Better sunsets, too.”
She twists to look at me in surprise.
“How do you know that?.”
I smile. I don’t, but –
“An interstellar being of mystery, me.”
I see the edges of teeth in the wide grin behind her faceplate. Her eyes flash with amusement.
“You’re too charming to be real. Explorers are independent types. Rough and ready. Direct and devoid of whimsy.”
“There’s nothing that indicates we can’t also be well mannered.”
There’s a pause. Her expression turns thoughtful.
“True, but being convivial could encourage proximity. We’re still unclear on deeper social mores and mating behaviours.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder.
“That’s our mistake. They’re not all well-balanced, socially adept gregarians. Most of them are anxious, awkward, and stressed. They’re all making it up as they go along, trying to compensate for lives lived in virtual isolation due to their society’s dependence on digital interaction. If we become smooth-talking, socially competent caricatures, we’ll stand out more, not less. Clumsy and unsure, hesitant and slow to trust. That’s the way we need to be.”
She leans in until her mask rests against mine.
“You mean we’re alright as we are?”
I’d nod, but that would break the moment.
“We are. We’re humans, now.”
She sighs.
“Not the last of the Ontabalmins.”
I pause, then laugh softly.
“There’s your proof. You said ‘Ontabalmins’, not ‘Corodatillu’.”
She leans back.
“Is this really it? After four thousand years, we’re awake?”
“Briefly. It’s not like we can do anything except live a while, give a little, then die out. The chamber survival rate was worse than predicted.”
Hanna takes my hand.
“Two out of twenty thousand pairs? I’d say that’s a catastrophe that claimed its creators, not ‘worse than predicted’.” She stops, then smiles. “But… A second life where we know each other from the beginning. I’ll take it, no matter how short.”
I place my other hand over hers.
“Let’s live. Anything else is a bonus.”
