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.
by Julian Miles | May 4, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Don’t do that, Will!”
“Got to try something, Len.”
Those words ended the final transmission from the Champion, one of the colony ships that established our ancestors on the planet of Mireybrul. The transmission ended because the ship collided with Mermyd, the smaller of our two moons, and disintegrated in an explosion so big it changed the orbit. Not that anyone noticed for a long while: everyone was too busy hiding from, and then rebuilding after, the massive meteor shower caused by the collision.
Meteors sent far out still come down occasionally, although many scientists have said it’s impossible, because a lot more rock has fallen than was blown from the surface of Mermyd. But the meteors still fall, regardless.
Anyway, the collision happened 464 years ago. Tonight the last catastrophe of that disaster will play out, as Mermyd collides with Bastul, the larger moon. There are legions of warships and orbital weapons platforms ready to deal with any debris that come towards the planet, as well as defending themselves.
Mort looks about at the crowds of people spread across the common, all manner of viewing and recording devices at the ready.
“You reckon it’ll be a big show?”
I stare at him.
“Why do you think I’d know?”
“You’re smart, Deece.”
“I’ve the same online access as you, champ. Anyway, a soft rock the size of a dwarf planet is about to smash into a much harder rock the size of a small planet. It’s happening overhead on a clear night. Even though we’ve got several thousand weapons at the ready, I wouldn’t be out here if the deflector arrays and Skydome hadn’t been completed and tested years ago. ‘Big show’ won’t even come close.”
I turn my attention to the sky. The pink disc of Mermyd looks like it’s touching Bastul already, but that’s because it’s coming from ‘behind’, having originally orbited further out.
Mort checks his phonecuff, then starts counting down.
“Ten, nine, eight, sev-”
Blinding light obscures everything! Like you’re staring into the sun on a summer afternoon, but it’s everywhere you look. A deafening roar shakes the ground. I hear people and things falling down.
Everything goes utterly black… What? Why?
Normal light and vision returns, like someone flicked a switch.
Mort looks up, rubbing his eyes.
“Where’s Mermyd?” he points, “and what’s that?”
I look. There’s only one moon! No debris at all? But… next to Bastul hangs the unmistakable, gigantic ovoid of a second-generation colony ship! I lunge sideways and grab a radio unit from the family picnicking next to us. Ignoring their shouts, I frantically retune it. What was the old Federation distress beacon channel?
An eerie sound, like countless voices singing different songs, fading in and out like the noise of waves upon a shore, comes from the unit. Over that, a single despairing voice can be heard.
“…ear us? I say again, this is the FCS Calamity to any who can reply. We’ve suffered catastrophic drive failure due to a gravitational proximity event and need immediate rescue. I’m recording this after six weeks in warp space. The singing keeps us awake, those of us still alive. I don’t know how much longer we can last. Help! Can anyone hear us? I say agai…”
I think meteors from tonight’s collision have been falling for the last 464 years.
Maybe somebody suspected the paradox? No proof, probably condemned as a lunatic. They tried to hack causality using belief: by changing the name of the cause.
Facing an impossibility – a calamity – like this? Desperate, delusional guesswork is all they had.
by Julian Miles | Apr 27, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The evening sky is barely lit by the last ghost of sunset when Fern answers a knock at the door, pistol in the free hand behind her back. The world tilts as she recognises the figure standing there. Willing herself not to pass out, she says the first thing that relates to the impossibility before her.
“I put flowers on your grave today.”
There’s a nod and a smile.
“I know. We saw.”
It sounds just like Pete. Smiles like him, too. Why isn’t she hysterical? Always happens: calm in action, fall apart afterwards.
“Why not meet there?”
“Too weird. They’d insisted on being sure you weren’t being watched, anyway.”
“Right. Would’ve been weird. Wait. Back up. Who else might be watching me? Why?”
“Assorted agencies: the usual paranoia.”
She nods.
“Are you dead?”
He looks startled, then shakes his head.
“Thought I was when the tether broke, but when I didn’t collide with anything, I was relieved. Then I realised the comms were down and I was headed out of system. Right there is when I became convinced I was going to die. Spent a few hours debating with myself over popping my suit seals and ending it quickly.”
The man they told her had died a hero, saving crew before the ISS8 finally exploded, shrugs.
“Couldn’t do it.”
She shakes her head.
“How are you here?”
“The Tyongshad, a free trader attracted by ISS8 exploding. Their records say Earth is a dead-end civilisation that’s given up on interplanetary ambitions. So a blast that big in Mars orbit made them curious.”
“You were rescued by a UFO?”
“I think they’re only UFOs in-atmosphere. Off-planet, they’re just alien spaceships.”
Unable to help laughing, she waves a hand helplessly, white-knuckle grip on the pistol easing.
“Oh, that’s alright, then. Only an alien spaceship returning my space-lost partner to me.”
“It can’t stay long.”
She looks at him.
“What do you mean?”
He points upwards.
“They’re not allowed to contact Earth, you know? Our societies are too primitive. But the occasional chance encounter is allowed. Me being an astronaut is a bonus. I finally talked them into giving my favourite sergeant a chance to ship out. We watched longer because I needed to be sure you and Trev hadn’t… You know.”
Fern smiles.
“He wants to, but wasn’t there when I needed support grieving over you. He never does the hard work, and that won’t do.”
He nods.
“Same old Trev.”
Fern leans forward to see the sky, then stares wide-eyed at the vessel parked against the kerb. It’s so wide it touches the opposite kerb.
“Thought it’d be bigger.”
“It is. That’s one of our shuttles.”
She grins.
“Orphans in space?”
He chuckles.
“More Firefly than Star Trek, despite there being a Federation. It’s one of several Empires, and there are multiple Rebel Alliances.”
Fern checks her boots, dons her jacket, and grabs her go-bag.
“Who’s our new jefe?”
“Captain Hedelpha. We’re crewmembers eight and nine. ”
“They weird or humanish?”
“More weird.”
Stepping outside, she hears distant sirens. The spaceship at the kerb flashes incredibly bright lights.
She kisses his cheek.
“Best get going. We can do the hugging and hysterical sobbing later.”
He smiles. Same old Fern, too.
“Oh, just so you know: ‘Tyongshad’ means ‘Sun Fart’.”
“You’re joking!”
“Came out as ‘hot gaseous emission from the depths of a system hub’ according to the translation A.I. in my suit.”
“Wait. Plasma… From a sun? The A.I. came close linguistically, but you got the semantics all wrong. It’s probably ‘Star Flare’.”
He chuckles.
“Oh yeah. That makes more sense.”
