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.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
In a dusty corridor away from busy areas of Area 702, two people with ill-fitting lab coats concealing their uniforms are huddled under a disconnected monitoring camera. One takes a hit on a vape stick. The other lights a cigar.
“I heard old Kendrix panicked after Prof Devensor collapsed. Nobody told me why, though. Except that Kendrix was shouting about DEFCON 1 before a security patrol got him with a tranquiliser.”
The vaping one chuckles.
“True enough. Shot him in the ass, neat as you like. Then the dipshit folded down and sat on it. He’s face down in the infirmary with a dressing on his butt. Pantroben has taken over for now.”
The cigar waves for emphasis.
“What on Earth could cause Devensor to faint? The man’s been cutting up things nobody else would touch for decades.”
“Terror. The most fundamental fear of brutal regimes: the opposition finally being able to do to you what you’ve done to them. Doesn’t matter if they’re unlikely to. The fear of getting a dose of ‘do unto others’ is enough. After all, it’s why the bad ones don’t let up until forced: too scared to consider other options.”
“Not fanaticism?”
“To an extent. But lurking under that is the fear. Bullies always fear.”
“We’re drifting off topic.”
The vaper takes another hit, then continues.
“True. Anyway, Dirry-”
“Who?”
“Dirrikillid. Prefers to be called Dirry.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“As you know, Dirry’s dying. Wants to go home. Was promised that when it stayed on voluntarily after Roswell. Which is something the current Administration wasn’t interested in honouring.”
“Am I right in getting a bad feeling?”
“Absolutely. When Dirry got told ‘no’, it just smiled, then told us the other side of why it stayed.”
“Other side? Russia?”
The one with the vape snorts.
“No. I’m sure they’ve got their own visitors hidden away, though.”
“What, then?”
“Back in ’47 Dirry was in contact with what it said was the headquarters for the portion of space that include Earth. Anyway, our Administration figured dismantling the ships put an end to that. Turns out Dirry is in direct communication with the headquarters, and always has been.”
“Bet that reveal didn’t go down well.”
“You’d win. Oh my God did it not.”
“Okay, I’m beginning to understand why you asked for a meet. Give me the rest.”
“If we don’t send Dirry home, then ‘home’ will come for Dirry. In force. With representatives from all the races involved in keeping watch over Earth. Turns out several of the ‘alien beasts’ Devensor vivisected were actually dignitaries from interstellar superpowers. Those superpowers haven’t been given the gory details of the ‘unfortunate deaths while on confidential missions’ – otherwise we’d already have been reduced to surviving in bunkers and internment camps.”
“If we don’t co-operate, they’ll be informed?”
The vaping man turns his vape off.
“Yes.”
The cigar gets stubbed out on a wall.
“The president will announce a new age of space exploration within a week. How long do we have?”
“Dirry estimates it has less than a year to live, but reassures us that we only need to get it out beyond Mars. Any vessel we send past there will be met.”
“That’s doable. Using an unmanned shuttle for the last stage, of course. Leave it with me.”
“Thanks. Good to see you again, old friend.”
“Been a while, true enough. Stay clean. I’ll be in touch.”
The vaping man reaches up and reconnects the monitoring camera. As it pans left, he walks quickly to the right. When it pans back, his old friend strides off leftwards.
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.
