by Julian Miles | Jun 22, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The light in the sky persists well into the morning, an elongated teardrop that mars the azure of a beautiful sunny day and baffles scientists. The news channels show the 3-minute video every ten minutes or so. Viewing figures remain high.
“This could be a problem.”
Turner grins at Marie.
“Don’t see how. The explosion didn’t leave anything big enough to come back down. Some of our analysts say there wasn’t anything big enough left to burn up noticeably.”
Marie shakes her head, point to the news feed.
“Not the disaster, the aftermath. Look at some of the reactions: it’s like they lost a lover or immediate family. That’s a lot of emotion they’ve been investing. This event could become a trigger.”
Turner rocks his open hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture.
“I don’t think so. Most people have religion, they just don’t call it that. The people with something they do or follow ‘religiously’ is not an inaccurate description. What they get from whatever their passion is arguably mirrors what devotees of a particular faith get from their worship.”
Marie considers his argument.
“So you think we’ll see a transition from mass hysteria to communal grieving?”
“Yes. There will be the usual rash of ludicrous theories, encouraged by some media channels, but no violence.”
Chas looks up from their screens.
“I think you’re missing a trigger.”
They both look at him.
Maria nods towards the displays, coincidentally all showing the moment the spaceship exploded almost in synchrony.
“Don’t keep us is suspense.”
Chas raises jazz hands.
“A martyr, a saint, an extra holy ghost, a new revered ancestor. Ascension! Too good for this world and recalled to heaven or planet ten or wherever your gods live. You get the idea.”
“So his divine backers decided he shouldn’t remain in the global shitshow his efforts are partially responsible for?”
Chas barks a laugh.
“Ironic but on-brand.”
Turner chuckles.
“Damn but that’s true. Do the damage, dodge the consequences – celestial edition.”
Marie’s attention is caught by something. She spends a few minutes clicking and typing, then sits back with a sigh.
“Think we’re safe from having a new cult.”
The other two wait for her to elaborate.
She points at her central screen.
“I’ve been running agents to pick up on explanations posted and influencer trends regardless of bias or origin, but with bot filters, obviously.”
Turner nods.
“Reasonable. What are we looking at? Corporate sabotage? Deep-state assassination? Divine ascension?”
Marie looks at Chas, waiting for their reply. They grin.
“Too cheap to get his rockets tested properly?”
Turner snorts.
“Good one. Wish I’d thought of that.”
Marie shakes her head.
“Turner gets a half-point for mentioning assassination.”
He frowns.
“Hey, I got corporate too.”
She grins.
“Yes, but you didn’t mention aliens.”
Turner and Chas chorus.
“What?”
She points at her screen.
“The leading theory – ahead of all the others by at least fifteen points – of it being deliberate intervention rather than an accident is alien assassination. Very specific, too. He was an agent of the lizardfolk so the greys hit his spaceship with one of their control beams and turned his state-of-the-art cold fusion drive into a bomb.”
Turner blows a raspberry before commenting.
“Along with the implication his cold fusion breakthrough wasn’t entirely of human origin?”
Marie nods.
Chas laughs as he rises and heads for the door.
“Conspiracies as usual and no extra gods today, then. First positive result… You guys want coffee?”
Turner raises a hand.
“Two sugars.”
Marie wags a finger.
“Iced tea for me.”
The light in the sky fades.
by Julian Miles | Jun 14, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Joel enters the meeting room to find everyone gathered.
“Good morning. Now, I know details about yesterday’s attacks are going to take weeks to formalise, but I have a lot of powerful people with no worthwhile understanding of the complexities. So please give me something, because I’m fed up with being shouted at and threatened, or threatened and then shouted at.”
Sympathetic looks are exchanged. Joel’s been Primary Security Liaison ever since he was appointed by the previous administration. He’s known to be thorough and honest. It’s also known he only remains in the job because every other person approached to take over has flat-out refused.
Diana waits until Joel slumps into his seat.
“Views online range from guesswork to outright storytelling. Nevertheless, we’re monitoring closely in case someone brags anonymously. Despite repeated statements from various official sources and every bot we can bring to bear on social media, a substantial part of the population believes we’re under attack. Panic buying of essentials along with record ammunition and weapons sales are being reported nationwide.”
Joel sighs.
“Matches what I’m being told in tones ranging from sceptical to hysterical.”
Diana nods towards the display where a map of Idaho is covered in layers of multicoloured lines.
“The attack started as the first jet, M739UT, started approach to Friedman Memorial. A drone swarm launched from a container hauler rolling on ID-75, which ascended rapidly and cluster-attacked the intakes and cockpit of the jet. Various online videos show the drones to be performance-enhanced commercial units, some with explosive payloads.”
“What about the plane behind?”
“Hit by a SAM from an antique MANPAD mounted on a repurposed Bayonet 150. Whole thing was dug in on the high ground above Berry Creek Drive. M739UT had a chance. K653NX never stood one.”
“That’s when the alert was issued?”
“Yes. All traffic bound for Friedman was diverted to Boise. We used a hazardous tanker collision and fire on ID-75 as the justification.”
Joel nods.
“Which was what the attackers wanted?”
Diane sighs.
“Yes. The drone swarm launched on ID-75 was from one container. The drone swarms at Boise came from eleven containers, and we have video of a few of the larger units appearing to fire air-to-air missiles. So far we have fifty dead, over a hundred injured, and both counts are expected to rise. Twenty-two multinationals have confirmed the loss of founders or main investors. We’re still working to confirm diplomatic casualties.”
Peter raises a hand.
“Now for the undisclosed part: at 23:58 yesterday, DARPA received a TEC – ‘Training Exam Complete’ notification from Marcus Three. That notification category doesn’t exist. Someone backdoored our own tactical A.I. and gave it a whole new category. The first mission? How to kill as many attendees arriving for the Sun Valley Conference in private jets as possible. The parameters were strict: all strikes to occur within a 28-minute window, all launch vehicles to be remotely operated, all units to be transported by unconnected third parties, and much more. The authorising officer is Colonel Samuel Troutman. Examination of communications involved reveal the official motto in every embedded image has been replaced with ‘Occidere, tempus’. Because of the fictional name given, we’re interpreting it as ‘To kill, period’.
Joel looks puzzled, then swears under his breath.
“First Blood? A soldier with PTSD triggered by police ill-treatment… How does that fit?”
Bernice leans forward.
“Misdirection. I’d say ‘First Blood’ is a simple statement. They’re not done.”
Joel groans.
“This is going to get worse before it gets better. I’ll get the NTAS alert switched to ‘Imminent’. You call all off-duty personnel in.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 7, 2026 | Story
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The alarm goes off again. Helen rolls over and swats at it, scoring a hit that sends it backwards off the bedside cupboard, still beeping until it hits the floor with an ominous cracking sound.
She sits up. That phone’s not even a month old! The sales blurb raved about it being satellite-linked and pretty much everything-proof!
Too quiet? She pops her open earbuds out. There should be street noises. The market shop across the road is always busy first thing.
She looks back and forth: the shadows her phone vanished into or the window? Consider the balance: positive curiosity – look outside. Negative curiosity – see if her phone is broken.
It’s early. Positivity is a must. She rolls over, gets her knees under her, and opens the window.
Damp!
The smell that comes in on the breeze reeks. The sounds coming with it are distant sirens and a passing helicopter. Still no traffic? She leans out and looks down.
Water!
She looks both ways. Three storeys below, her road has become a lake. Darker shapes are the undisturbed forms of cars, still sat at the kerbs. The market shop isn’t open because water’s lapping against the signage above it!
What about people who sleep at street level, or in basement flats?
There are other things in the water. Rubbish, clothing, magazines. Down by the corner she can see what might be a body. Which answers her question in the worst way.
How’s she going to get to work? No. The factory is a bus ride away, and downhill. Water always levels itself. Work is deeper under than the market shop.
Phone!
She dives back and gropes behind the cupboard. Her hand hits something furry and warm! It makes a noise and is gone from her grip. She recoils, then resumes. Rats. Have to go somewhere, and if getting out isn’t an option, up is all that remains.
Grabbing her phone, she checks it. Not a mark on it? She starts the torch app and looks behind the cupboard. One startled-looking rat that scurries off, and her mum’s trinket box with its lid in two pieces.
Swiping the torch away, she brings up the newsfeeds after flicking through the morning ad stack and paying her daily tariff.
The headlines are about how the New Thames Barrier was made irrelevant when the tide bypassed it, inundating the land for kilometres on either side. Scrolling down, she finds secondary headlines about coastal towns on both sides of the channel being flooded by a spring tide augmented with polar meltwater. Apparently the ‘silent flood’ occurred when the tide came in as normal, but simply kept coming. Some low-lying areas are under six metres of water! Reading further, she sees speculation that entire communities have been lost. She snarls. Somebody knew this was coming. Without solutions, they decided not to publicise it.
Going to local news, she finds the few available sites have last posts made yesterday evening. Switching to social media outlets, some are still accessible. Reading through, she slumps back onto the bed.
Local emergency response was flooded out. Those answering initial call outs are suspected lost or driven inland. Anything relying on local installations or power is down. National emergency response is prioritising cities and strategic sites. Predictions are assistance may not arrive for weeks, maybe even months. Current recommendations are for people to head inland – without saying how.
Many have already grasped the bottom line: there’s no help coming. Her home town has been claimed by the sea, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
by Julian Miles | May 25, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
And so they looked down as throughout the world the people gathered as written, there to stage rituals of joyous retribution under the aegis of their chosen divinities. They came in their thousands, in their tens of thousands, and with them came a host of holy drones so all not present might bear witness.
Delbert looks up from where he sharpens an antique cavalry sabre, casting an envious glance at those from more amenable places who’ve brought guns.
He turns to catch Wilbur’s gaze.
“How do we know some of them what came with us ain’t evil ones in disguise?”
Wilbur nods sagely.
“That’s a good question. From my studies of the various screeds, I believe a light will shine down and reveal any with deceit in their souls. Best you have that sticker of yours good and sharp, ready to put an end to those blackhearts.”
Delbert nods and redoubles his efforts on the sabre.
Far away on another continent, Dembe finishes reassembling his AK-47. Sliding the extended magazine home, he looks about in wonder.
“I’ve never seen so many gathered in one place before, brother. How do we tell sinner from saint?”
Ignatius lifts a microdriver from inside an access panel on the assault laser he scavenged from a crashed troopship. He points to the masses about them with the thin tool.
“There will be signs, my man, there will be signs. Smoke some more holy bush, then you’ll be able to see them auras glow. Any turn black or grey you know a sign been given. Gun them down.”
Dembe nods happily, slinging the AK-47 across his back before pulling out rolling papers and a pouch of dried leaves.
On a continent somewhere between Delbert and Dembe, a king stands in his oval office and points out at the masses that throng almost to his windows and stretch away into the distance. A sea of faces, all eerily quiet, kept from pressing against the expanses of armoured glass by barriers reinforced with a double row of protection officers in powersuits.
“Why aren’t they shouting?”
Bertrand peers over the king’s skinny arm.
“All the teachings say to gather, but none tell of what to do afterwards. There’s an expectation of divine guidance. Some just want to be told who to smite. Others pray to receive a download of updated and expanded commandments. Our analysts predict some rioting in a day or two, possibly orchestrated. Nothing we can’t handle.”
“But why aren’t they shouting?”
Bertrand stops himself from swearing. Forgot to make the answer about the king.
“The unbelievers have to build up courage to face you. When they reveal themselves, we’ll get them.”
The king nods, placated. Then he smiles smugly, like he knows something those about him don’t.
As the gatherings wait for revelations to arrive on the dawn of the second day, sun-bright glows illuminate predawn skies, causing many to cry out in wonder that dawn itself has been brought forward.
What’s come are not dawns.
They’d looked down and judged the gatherings to be at their peak, then implemented the culmination of a vengeance instigated centuries ago.
Delbert watches a silver meteor descend, eyes wide in childlike wonder.
Wilbur watches it with tears in his eyes.
“Damn them liars.”
Dembe cowers as another silver meteor thunders down.
Ignatius reaches out to clasp his brother’s hand.
“We will be released.”
The king screams in outrage as two silver meteors approach.
“No! I’m special! They said I’d be saved!”
Bertrand stares at him, expression a mix of anger and horror.
“Then burn with us, you special traitor.”
by Julian Miles | May 18, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s nothing like an abruptly terminated career in clandestine operations to make you paranoid in ways nobody considers. I’ll admit they’re often unconsidered because, outside of an active hostile arena, they’re nothing but the everyday behaviours of the weirdos we think of as normal people.
Take nearly-a-millionaire Algo Jenkins, for example. He lives in the big house at the end of the close. I know that seven years ago, his former home got emptied one day. They’d been watching the place for a month beforehand. Algo saw their van several times, but thought nothing of it. So now Algo notes the registration of every vehicle that even idles briefly within sight of his driveway.
While his relentlessly swinging CCTV cameras are an ongoing joke amongst the neighbours, they miss the point. Much as I laugh with them, their blind assurance irritates. The arrogant surety it’ll ‘never happen to you’ is how covert operations and criminals thrive. Your default stance is trust. You believe the news and don’t think officials lie to the public. They might omit things, but lying? Surely not.
Sometimes you get the devastating awakening you never thought to receive. All that technology: video in your doorbells, motion-sensing spotlights, glass with security stickers – yet some uncaring bastards waltz in and help themselves.
Which, by my usual roundabout contemplations, brings me to why I’m hidden in the hedge outside number eleven at two in the morning.
While Algo has fair reasons for paranoia, being an older gent, he doesn’t pay attention to the sky. There’s a drone that’s been loitering overhead around sundown. I only ignored it the first time. The fourth is when I used the splice I’d put into Algo’s cable line to backdoor his surveillance suite and see what else had been hanging about.
On the day after each drone visit, a red car lingers just far enough down the road to only appear in the periphery of Algo’s videos. Never enough to show a number plate. But someone likes hiring assorted top-end saloons, but always in red. They don’t realise how obvious patterns like that can be. Arrogant surety goes both ways: treating all your would-be victims as idiots is just as bad as assuming you’ll never be one – victim or idiot.
Tonight’s red saloon arrives. Two figures, one eavesdropping device. The passenger window lowers. Somebody’s vaping. Hints of caramel and desultory whispers on the breeze.
“All quiet.”
“Good. It’s all about getting to the bedroom before they rouse. Pin ‘em, drug ‘em, get alarm and safe combinations, then passcodes for their accounts. That’s why we’re making sure they’re deep sleepers.”
Thanks for explaining. I sprint from the hedge and have the suppressor of a very big gun pressed deep into the passenger’s neck before either can react.
“Mornin’, kids. I’m the security. Show me ID or I redecorate using this one’s windpipe.”
Shock paralysis wears off. The driver twitches like he’s considering something stupid until the one under my gun hisses at him. Phones are held up. I snapshot both instead of connecting to either.
“Here’s how this goes: you find some other place to hit, or your bodies will be found in a car at low tide in the harbour. Understood?”
Two nods.
“That’s it. Now do one.”
They U-turn and leave.
I don’t need extra police attention in this area. That’s how I got caught last time. Managed to escape without killing, but that sort of luck never repeats. Next time it’ll be murders in Melcombe. My semi-retirement and quiet life would be over. That’s not on. I like it here.
