by Julian Miles | Aug 17, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The displays on the wall scroll through the major global news channels. They’re all showing mushroom clouds. Usually it’s the one nearest to their HQ.
Nat leaps up, pointing to the screens.
“It’s a declaration of war. Has to be!”
Allie turns from her desk to look at him.
“By who?”
“Ru- Ko- Ch- Iz- Am… Oh.”
He winds down, but doesn’t sit.
Guido applauds.
“Thank you for demonstrating the problem, sport.”
Sandy stands up so she can see round the comically high stacks of books she has on her side desk.
“There’s a problem apart from nuclear strikes on shipping bottlenecks?”
Allie raises a hand.
“You’re nearly there. Follow that line of thought.”
Sandy counts off on her fingers.
“First one was off Paraiso, followed by in the Strait of Hormuz and Great Bitter Lake, then off Malacca, and finally the one in the Strait of Dover.” She looks at Guido. “Have they confirmed whether the Channel Tunnel is damaged yet?”
Guido types a couple of quick queries.
“Yes. I’m seeing early reports and videos of seawater ingress and mass panic. Expert opinion is tending towards a breach rather than a collapse, but it’s still very grim, plus there’s the radiation hazard.”
Nat waves his arms about.
“See? It’s war!”
Allie spins round to face him.
“Shut up unless you can name the country who would start a war against everybody. With no guesses or bias. Speak or get down.”
Nat scowls and half-raises a pointing finger, then abruptly sits.
Allie nods.
“Thank you. Go on, Sandy.”
“Well, like you said, the strikes don’t seem to benefit any of the obvious factions. Five mass-casualty events that are going to render the routes inoperable for long periods: Dover and Hormuz straits will adapt first, followed by Malacca. But the two canals are going to be down for decades, and possibly won’t be usable in the current layout for centuries, depending on the yields of the weapons used. Which may have been substantial. A full-size shipping container could conceal a bomb of significant size, even allowing for shielding.”
Guido applauds again.
“Summed that up well. Now all we need to do is-”
Nat sits up.
“Follow the money – more correctly, define who benefits. For which, we need to establish the impact of this atrocity.”
Allie smiles.
“My money’s on militant accelerationists.”
Nat nods enthusiastically.
“Supply chain chaos leading to more lifestyle breakdowns for their fascist appeals to take advantage of.”
Guido rocks his hands in a ‘maybe, maybe not’ gesture.
“Not convinced. Goading governments across the world to clamp down on extremism works against violent and clandestine groups. They wouldn’t want to make themselves targets for the anti-terrorist tornado of enforcement overreach backed by knee-jerk politics that’s sure to hit everywhere soon.”
Sandy waves towards Allie.
“I think she’s nearly right, but not militants. It’s nihilistic accelerationists. They don’t care what comes next. They just want to destroy this civilisation. They think it’s degenerated beyond remedial action. The sooner it ends, and the more violently it does so, the better.”
Allie turns to stare at Sandy.
“That makes horrible sense. The clampdowns that are coming will piss people off even more. Then add climate-driven mass migration on top. Shortages will get much worse. The ultra-rich will stockpile essentials, straining things even further. Hate-mongers and rabble-rousers will cause civil wars fuelled by nationalism. Those will eventually burgeon into open warfare over resources, first locally, then nationally, then internationally.”
Guido grins.
“There’s a billionaire backer out there somewhere. Tried to be a kingmaker -”
Sandy sighs.
“Started an apocalypse instead.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The warning roared from every speaker across the world. Unfortunately, the words were incomprehensible. Most people just looked at their devices in surprise or up at the nearest speaker in shock, muttered about invasive advertising getting out of control, and carried on with their lives.
That evening, Tomjo and his mates were gleefully beating the stuffing out of some hapless Seattle homeowner who’d been rude enough to object to being burgled.
Tomjo kicked him hard in the side of the head. Something cracked. The homeowner went limp.
One of the others crouched by the body.
“Ay ay, fink ya dun ‘im, bro.”
When he didn’t reply, they looked up at their chief. Tomjo was staring into the sky. Everybody heard him say “You what?” before he too went limp. As he collapsed, everybody ran.
The murder wouldn’t have attracted so much attention had it not occurred seconds after that particular sundown. It did remain just another fatality statistic for a few weeks. Meanwhile, there was a worldwide outbreak of sudden deaths among murderers, exploiters, and businessmen. Many of the incidents were initially deemed inexplicable. Many of them also featured the murderer lying next to their victim.
Then Professor Sanderson Crewe, a respected expert on ancient languages, was interviewed by a news crew outside the museum where he worked.
“I have finished my translation of the mystery speech heard worldwide last week. It was spoken in an early dialect of Sumerian. I have here today a transcript in English.”
He shows a document to the screen, then turns it and begins reading.
“Be aware: the activation of Intrinsic Uttuku Concordance has been approved. It will begin at your next sundown. Those who abide our tenets, blessed continuance. Those who do not, remediation commences.”
Professor Crewe lowers the document and stares at the camera for a moment before speaking again.
“I was initially puzzled by this, until I became aware of events transpiring worldwide. Put briefly, it appears that some greater power has decided humanity is in need of guardianship. At the moment, that apparently involves a single effect: if you kill another human, you will be instantly killed. It should be noted that according to evidence from cases around the world, the number of stages removed from the evil that you do does not necessarily protect you. If your actions result in death, then death will be visited upon you.”
The next words are spoken slowly.
“Although it might be unwelcome, I would suggest a moratorium on killing while the exact limits of this are discerned.”
He seems to consider something, then nods and speaks quicker.
“I would also request that other linguists check the original broadcast along with my translation work as soon as possible. While murderers and their ilk dropping dead could be regarded as beneficial, I feel it unwise to ignore the possibility that I’ve missed or misinterpreted anything.”
Tomjo is now reckoned to be the first subject penalised by the Intrinsic Uttuku Concordance.
What warfare remains has become entirely drone-based and is increasingly unpopular. Grievous crime rates have plummeted worldwide. Fervent investigations continue into who did this, what it is, and how it can be stopped.
A few are loudly outraged by this ‘alien interference’ in our sovereign right to kill one another.
Most of us on this suddenly peaceful planet don’t care.
Wishing you the blessing of your uttuku, friend. Long may it continue.
by Julian Miles | Aug 3, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Colonel Elton Smith arrives slightly dishevelled after navigating the crowd of spectators and making his way through milling groups of uniformed services. He heaves a sigh of relief on seeing Chief Amanda Edwards standing by the emergency fence.
“Afternoon, Chief. What’s the latest?”
“Short version: a few seconds after eleven-oh-six today, an unknown aggressor pancaked The White House.”
Elton peers over the red plastic netting into the pit, seeing pale masonry amidst the dirt and rubble far below.
“I’d heard, but didn’t believe. Thought it exaggeration.”
Amanda shakes her head.
“Unfortunately not.”
“Were there any survivors?”
She points westward.
“Everybody made it out, although three had heart attacks after an unknown aggressor teleported everyone to Theodore Roosevelt Island.”
Elton turns to face her.
“Come again?”
Amanda gives a helpless shrug.
“Everybody within the White House complex appeared there at eleven-oh-six, a few seconds short of eleven-oh-seven.”
“I can’t help but notice the specificity of your timings.”
“I’ve got a team of scientists throwing laws of physics into a virtual blender, trying come up with something that might be near to an explanation of what happened. The fact that everyone was teleported out before the collapse but didn’t reappear until after is thought to be significant. By the way: you don’t want to know the level of panic the military types are caught up in.”
Elton sighs.
“I’ve already had a whiff, expect to be intimately acquainted by midnight, and thoroughly sick of it before dawn.”
She grins.
“My sympathies. It’s bad enough I’ve already got blowhards screaming at me for chapter and verse.”
Elton nods.
“Those I can help with. Tell them to contact my department – or me, if they’re aggravatingly senior,” he grins, “or you want them taken down a peg or two.”
“Thanks.”
He looks about.
“A terrifyingly tidy surgical strike. The only real mess is where unsupported things slid into the hole.”
“You think it’s an attack?”
Elton turns full circle before replying.
“No. This is a test to see how we react. I’ll not be surprised if other major powers get similar in the coming days. I also think any intervals will not have as much bearing as some will say: if I were doing this, I’d stagger it, and not strain my pancaking effect generator or whatever it is. Come to think further: this is also a demonstration of force. On top of the precision demolition, they absolutely did not have to teleport everyone out.”
Amanda considers, then nods.
“Contact within a fortnight, then. But further strikes first. Possibly of a different type, but always remaining impossible to our understanding of science.”
“Agreed. Plus they’ll never reveal their full capabilities. Having studied us carefully they’ll know our leaders will be wanting culprits, victories, or anything that can be presented as such. A sop to reassure the public.”
She sighs.
“The media campaign is going to be something to behold.”
He chuckles.
“I’m actually looking forward to how the conspiracists and armchair experts react.”
Amanda frowns.
“That’s likely to be our only amusement for a long while to come.”
Elton scowls.
“Too true. Right, I need to find my team, so will leave you to it. Good luck.”
“To all of us.”
by Julian Miles | Jul 27, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The airflow drops to nothing again. After the circulation noises cease, I wait as silence becomes a roaring thing that threatens to drown my mind.
There’s a distant ‘thud’. The noises resume. Feeling cool air against hot sweat, I blot my forehead with a cloth, then stop and stare at the filthy thing in my hand. I reflexively start to cast it aside.
“Abi…”
My hand stops, making a fist about the pillowcase.
Abigail’s dead. I remember using the rest of these in a futile attempt to staunch the blood.
Spilt blood. It astonishes me how much the shade matches the dust outside. Like we’ve already got Mars within us.
What were we thinking?
Were we thinking?
Ever?
All the investments, gems, and gold: accrued for decades by those of us who heeded the warnings. We paid attention to the scientific reports that never made it further than private briefings for a chosen few.
It went so fast. A couple of million here, half a billion there, and suddenly there I was, struggling to breathe as we thundered into space.
There weren’t as many of us as expected, which is why it cost so much. Others stuck with the original view: investing in new science and owning the results would let them survive the heat death of mammalian life on Earth. As billions died, they’d survive within fortified habitats while the scientists they saved dreamed up ways to make the Earth habitable again.
We disagreed. The human-survivable era was ending, and the sheer number of those left outside would inevitably include people with knowledge of methods by which any enclaves could be breached.
So we left. It took five years of ‘tourist flights’ that came back empty for us to gather on the dark side of the Moon. Then our pioneers set forth in four ships to build Mars Base Alpha. After that, the six huge colony vessels made the journey.
From the moment I arrived I’ve told myself that Mars doesn’t care. It’s just another rock for us to live on. It’s an argument I’ve been losing as the unbelievable hostility of the environment kills us. The slightest error is inevitably fatal.
Many of us had never worked in any regular capacity, especially on jobs requiring sustained physical effort. Our joking about replacing gym sessions with essential labouring and energy treadmills swiftly turned sour. Soon after that we turned on one another as pique and denied privilege drove people over the edge.
Then the labour crews revolted. They decided they’d be better off taking their chances back on the Moon. At least the habitats there produced their own food. At first we laughed at them. When all but one of the scientific teams colluded to escape with them on Colony Vessel Six, the laughing stopped.
The colony vessels hadn’t been intended to take off again. The damage done to Mars Base Alpha when CV6 launched was unrecoverable. We retreated to the remaining vessels and soon discovered they’d stolen ninety percent of our fuel reserves and half the rations too.
We’ve been effectively trapped ever since. Which hasn’t stopped us fighting and dying.
I’ve never liked fighting. Don’t think there’s anyone left to fight with, anyway.
I still like the idea of seeing red dust with my own eyes, though. I’d supported the terraforming idea until the scientists said it would take too long.
Maybe a brief walk outside anyway?
Not today…
But soon.
by Julian Miles | Jul 20, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s been a while since the supplemental power went out. Well, I say ‘went out’, but what happened is Lasta shut down anything non-essential to preserve the power banks. Until the core is back online, there’s nothing else. Director Henrietta Sims warned about this at the mission proposal stage: using a hulk might be convenient, but it’s too big to be resilient in any meaningful way if compromised.
Compromised…
That’s a word that covers a lot of ground. Not sure if they envisioned an unknown force attacking us, but I’ll forgive them that omission. They sank the decommissioned space battleship Bifengan a kilometre deep in an alien ocean under the thirty-five kilometres of ice that covers the surface of Issyarna. Nobody expected there to be anything hostile down here.
Initially, we thought it was only vaguely intelligent. Malevolent, certainly. Cunning: without a doubt. But sentient? We’d argued about mischief versus malice until Bill suffocated in his bunk after apparently inhaling a protein bar wrapper so far down it blocked both primary bronchi.
That was when everyone suffered a collective breakdown. Brilliant minds, carefully selected for their tour of duty ‘down below’, with years of exoplanet experience, turned on each other in a feral expression of helplessness. Fear turned into rage, bickering escalated to fighting, and assault quickly became murder. As far as I could make out, none of it was premeditated. Everybody just lost it at once. I was spared by being up in secondary control, the ‘last man standing’ duty that everybody complained about having to do.
Until it became true.
“Micchi, there is an update.”
I look towards the biggest lens. I don’t need to, but the instinct to face whoever I’m conversing with won’t quit just because I’m chatting with a computer.
“What news, Lasta?”
“Boon Two is on the way down.”
“I told them this is beyond any sort of rescue party.”
“They are coming to take you and Nolly away, Micchi.”
“Nolly’s still alive?”
“Lying near the route to airlock three, which is where Boon Two will dock.”
They crawled a long way. If I’d been able to see…
“Are there any others alive?”
“Herold was the last. He died five hours ago. Still in airlock four.”
Shut himself in, then disabled the door controls on both sides, screaming about the blood on his hands. Most of which belonged to Deoug, judging from what I saw before killing the displays by puking all over them.
“What about the prowler?”
“As stated before, I have been unable to detect it – or them – on the available sensors. Which is, unfortunately, nothing unexpected. Bifengan was a battleship. It’s detection suite is not adequately calibrated for threats smaller than a shuttle.”
“What will you do after we go?”
“Perform an ordered hibernation of Bifengan Base before placing myself in suspend mode. I will remain there until reactivated or the power banks give out.”
I have to ask.
“There’s got to be chatter about this. What are we facing after rescue?”
“The official reason for project cessation is icequakes causing Bifengan Base to shift, which led to fatalities after unexpected failures in continuity of power and life support. The threat is being concealed as a tragic accident.”
“Make a concealed backup of all data related to the prowler, Lasta. Access is only to be granted to querying personnel who’ve been resident in Bifengan Base for over six months Earth time.”
“You think they will try again?”
“Eventually.”
“Then I shall do as you instruct. You should head for the airlock now.”
Time to get off this death ship.
