by Julian Miles | Jan 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles
There he is, tapping away on his communication device.
Verify.
2024. Autumn. White House. Executive Residence. Second Floor. The body will be found at 05:14 by Charles Lebruin, one of his security personnel.
Time?
05:12.
I step towards him.
“Mr President?”
He looks up. I pull the trigger and see the needler beam scorch the wall behind him. He falls.
Perfect. Time to return. I press the recall button on my sleeve.
*
How did the bomber get into the White House? That’s the question of the decade. Tonight at nine we ask a panel of security experts how things could have gone so disastrously wrong for the Secret Service.
*
Karl, former Vice President, looks at the scorch marks, then at the report in front of him, then back to Eckardt.
“You’re telling me the president was already dead, the weapon used is unknown, the explosive is unidentifiable, and the bomber only showed up on thermals three minutes before he blew himself up?”
“Yes.”
“Eckardt, I want this mystery solved. Make it a Special Access Program, reporting directly to me.
“Yes, Mister President.”
*rew*
There he is, tapping away on his communication device.
Verify.
2024. Autumn. White House. Executive Residence. Second Floor. The body will be found at 05:14 by Charles Lebruin, one of his security personnel.
Time?
05:12.
I step towards him.
“Mr President?”
He looks up. I see the needler beam scorch the wall behind him. He falls.
What was that?
*
On top of a year of sordid revelations for the First Lady, the sudden death of her husband must come as both devastation and relief. Tonight at nine we ask a panel of bereavement councillors how things are likely to progress for the First Family in the coming months.
*
Karl, former Vice President, looks into the cell.
“You caught him, and got a cover story in place! Good work, Eckardt. Find out who, how, why, and where they got that clever technology. Break this thing down and get us some answers. Make it SCI, eyes only, you know the drill.”
“Yes, Mister President.”
*rew*
There he is, tapping away on his communication device.
Verify.
2024. Autumn. White House. Executive Residence. Second Floor. The body will be found at 05:14 by Charles Lebruin, one of his security personnel.
Time?
05:12.
I step towards him.
“Mr President?”
He looks up. I pull the trigger and see the needler beam scorch the wall behind him. He falls.
Perfect. Time to return. I press the recall button on my sleeve.
*
On top of a year of disasters for the White House, the breach of security that allowed an assassin to join the Secret Service could see a change in the way the First Family are protected. Tonight at nine we ask a panel of espionage experts how a double agent could have made it so far undetected.
*
Eckardt, former Vice President, looks at the scorch marks, then at the report in front of him, then back to Charles.
“You’re telling me the president was already dead, the weapon and explosive come from some of our own secret projects, and the bomber only showed up on thermals three minutes before he blew himself up?”
“Yes.”
“Somebody knows something, Charles. Let’s start a hard sweep through the radicals, militias, and insurgents. I want them to know we’re not going to tolerate this anymore.”
“Yes, Mister President.”
Charles hurries away.
President Eckardt smiles. It’s going to be a glorious new world, policed in hindsight.
by Julian Miles | Jan 1, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s another rumble from the clear sky above. More lightning flickers about, and it’s a lot closer than anything produced by weather.
“Definitely a Smiter!”
I whip my head about. Line of sight to targets and sky are essential, so they’re close.
Chloe, my flanker, spots them.
“Ten o’clock! Flag mound!”
Spinning round, I see two figures up there. One is crouched, a loving arm about the shoulders of a little girl with eyes that glow like miniature suns. The other arm is pointing to those of us who mummy wants her to fry. I lower my rifle.
“Susan!”
My deputy flattens her opponent and backflips my way. I point to the mound. She frowns, then points towards them. I see mummy swing her aiming finger to point at us.
Susan whispers: “Softest rest upon ye, mistresses.”
Mother and daughter slump sideways against the flagpole, then slide to the ground. I hear cries of horror. Their side think we killed them. No doubt a video clip showing our latest ‘atrocity’ will be circulating soon. I guess it’ll skip the part where they wake up.
I wave for Susan to roam. With their Smiter down, this won’t take much longer. No matter what the opposition say, religious fervour and arrogance are not enough to outmatch training and precision.
“7H? Balen. Sitrep.”
Switching my view from local to tactical, I see we’re good.
“Send evac. All targets rescued.”
Even got the pets.
There’s a gasp of relief.
“Way to go, 7H. See you later.”
‘7H’ – Seven Hotel – is our call sign, named for the seven hours between the announcement of magic powers being scientifically recognised and the first magic wielder being burned. They didn’t even bother with a stake: just torched the house and did for the whole family. A family just like them on the mound, except the daughter was called ‘witch’, not ‘blessed’.
I drop my goggles back into local mode and spot an ominous silhouette on the furthest roof. With an eyeblink I bring my designator up, and with a jaw flex I push the target to the support drone. Before the sniper can finish setting up, a Babyshark homes in on their heat signature. It’s like a soft, grey half-brick doing thirty metres a second. Probably non-lethal – unless you get knocked off a roof, of course.
A bulky pickup truck roars round a corner, driver plus three gunmen on board. No, two. The third is waving a big book. Wonder which one it is?
“Balen?”
I nod to Chloe.
Extending my will, I reach for the constrained lightning within the truck.
Electricity is easiest, because we’re all born with it. Could say we’re only alive because of it. Anyway, there’s an affinity. Makes this almost unfair.
“Gather.”
The truck lights die, along with the engine. It lurches to a stop.
“Go.”
The battery unloads through bodywork and bodies before crackling off into a nearby tree. A few drier leaves catch fire, but apart from scorch marks, it’ll be fine. The twitching foursome in the truck will have nothing but minor burns and awful headaches.
I suspect my ‘frying’ the truck will become infamous, too. A man in shabby fatigues, one hand extended, rifle cradled in the other – with roaring flames and vacant stakes in the background.
Nothing actually changed with that announcement, except the fear encouraged by western governments for so long reached flashpoint. Neighbours turned on one another without warning or mercy. It was medieval. Still is, in the places we can’t reach.
Yet.
We’re not quitting. We’ve survived centuries of this.
by Julian Miles | Dec 25, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s always one…
I lost rock-paper-scissors with Frank, so here I am: checking the top floor for stray superheroes and wandering warlocks.
Didn’t expect to find an angel, though.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Looks like she got distracted while ditching her costume. That mail is good. It really seems to shine. I wonder if the wings attach directly, or to an extension of the combat harness?
Doesn’t matter. She needs to get that last wing off and packed.
“You need to get a move on. The convention ended ages ago. This venue needs to close.”
Mail-clad shoulders rise and fall – shrug or sigh, I wonder?
“I can’t just yet.”
Please, not another one convinced their favourite fictional world is the real thing. I move closer.
“Look, you can’t stay here. Just pack your wings and wear the mail home. The links are fine enough to pass as silver cloth.”
She spins round. Violet contact lenses. Lashes and brows dyed silver to match what looks like close-cropped hair.
“Wings? You see two?”
“No. I only see the one you’re still wearing.”
Peering over jumbled furniture, I see she’s got mail leggings to match her top. Silver-grey boots complete the outfit.
No wing, though? I look up and grin at her.
“How did you manage to lose a wing?”
She smiles. My heart skips a beat.
Not because of… It really does!
The pain from this morning, but more intense, crashes through my chest. I’m on the floor. Fuck, this really hurts.
“I didn’t lose one, William.”
How does she know my-? The pain eases. I open my eyes to meet hers.
“In some futures, you died. In others, you’re dying. In a few, you’re dragging yourself to the emergency call panel over there. In this one…”
She grins. Her teeth are pointed.
“You’re not from round here, are you?”
I’m dying in the arms of some sort of angel and that’s the best I can come up with?
Her laugh is warm. I see waves of light.
“Live, you fool. There’s someone you need to save.”
“Why can’t you save them?”
“The special ones have to be succoured by mortals. That’s the rules.”
The pain in my chest isn’t gone. I struggle, but manage to tap my chest with a finger.
“Still hurts.”
“William, will you accept?”
“To save someone I don’t know-”
“You might already know them.”
“Great. Person known or unknown to be saved from death-”
“Might not be death.”
“Okay. Save from unspecified peril.”
“Good description.”
“Do I get any clues?”
She shakes her head.
“What happens if I say no?”
“I leave you here.”
“Will I die?”
“I don’t know.”
I take a guess.
“The rules, again?”
She nods.
“Will someone else do the saving?”
“I don’t know.”
“More rules?”
“No. I simply don’t know.”
“Will I die doing the saving?”
There’s a frown.
“Good question. It’s a real possibility, but never certain.”
“You’ve done this before?”
She extends her wing.
“Once.”
“What happens when you get the other? Promotion?”
“I fly instead of falling.”
“But it’s more than most.”
The laugh warms me again, then she crouches to put her face a few millimetres from mine. She has no pores. Just flawless skin.
“Much as this is fun, your period of grace is ending. Decision time, William.”
“I don’t know your name.”
She shakes her head.
“You never will. Decide.”
No more prevaricating.
“I accept.”
A pair of unfurling wings dazzle me.
“Blessed Be, William.”
I’m standing in the corridor, pain free, listening to the distant beat of receding wings.
And to you, miss.
by Julian Miles | Dec 18, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
These words are not my mother tongue, and my name is not Allen Gordon. Using your letters, I am Gendordo Kl Ecz Ulyn. Gendordo is my homeland. Kl means I derive my strength from that place. Ecz is the name of the first enemy I killed. I thought I was good at killing, until they came.
Many years have passed since I watched a monster in what I’d now call a crimson bodysuit murder my family with a weapon your science still has no name for. So many years since I chose vengeance. The monster stopped killing and started fiddling with its forearm. I took that opportunity to hurl myself from the branches where I hid, making myself one with the spear I aimed at the crimson back below.
My spear impaled the monster. It shrieked and struck at me with an arm shrouded in crackling purple energy. The pain was so intense, I blacked out, convinced I was about to be reunited with my family.
I woke up in a hospital on this world. Soon after, I was transferred to a psychiatric facility. Ten years after that, I walked free of that place, declared cured of my delusions.
While recovering, I had a lot of opportunity to read. So I got letters, and mathematics, and science. But nowhere did I find mention of crimson bodysuits or the physics that enabled them.
My life now is as a junior technician on a university science campus. I get tasked with all the jobs the seniors and scientists don’t want to do, on top of studying all the while.
I know what I think happened to me: interdimensional travel. I’m also sure the crimson traveller didn’t come from this world.
Did I interrupt him before he came here?
Or was it a defensive move to send me somewhere at random?
Could my arriving here be a freak incident caused by it hitting me with the device on its forearm?
Why did my alien biology not cause problems?
As it didn’t, why are the beings on my world and humans so similar?
One question leads to another, and I have to stop to save my sanity before I reach one I can answer.
One day I’ll learn enough to start.
Until then, I have equipment to calibrate and beakers to clean.
by Julian Miles | Dec 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Hold current position, Berkley 410. We’ll notify you when a route clears.”
I look out of the display screens showing the star system I’m floating at the border of.
“Give me a clue, Marsanis Control. Is it likely to be before the sun dims?”
There’s a chuckle.
“That we can guarantee. However, whether it’ll occur within your remaining lifespan is less certain, you long-haired claim stealer.”
I know that insult.
“You hadn’t filed the claim, Barnabus. How was I to know that unmarked motherlode was technically yours?”
“I was delayed by unforeseen hazards.”
“From reaching your comms console? Did the gravitational anomaly that pinned you to the floor have a name, by any chance?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
“Well, I hope it was worth it.”
“That was a low blow.”
Oh, come on.
“If you keep giving me cues, I’ll have no choice but to run with them.”
Another chuckle.
“Poor word choice on my part. I’ll never know if it was worth it, because the conglomerate that bought the claim from you towed the whole asteroid away for processing.”
“I paid for the ride I’m in, outfitted it, and had change for cargo.”
Plus the same amount again. That 120-megatonne chunk of ancient planet was mainly solid Paralan-4, and most of it at 80% or better purity. But some details are best not mentioned.
“Just how much cargo can you fit in a Baxlyn Jaunter?”
So that’s what the blip ahead of me is.
“Check the beacons again. I’m in the runabout behind the Jaunter.”
That’s a long silence.
“You could afford a Talon?”
A Talon IV. Fully loaded Interstellar Venture spec, to be precise… Again, not to be mentioned.
“Didn’t say I didn’t blow a lot on it.”
“Well, at least you’ve still got it. My gravitational anomaly was gone inside a week.”
Salis flits into the cockpit, grace incarnate in freefall.
They reach down and tap the ‘mute comm’ icon.
“Is that Barnabus I hear?”
I nod.
“Of all the spaceship traffic controllers in the galaxy,” she sighs, “we’ll not be meeting him?”
Since that would reveal his ‘gravitational anomaly’ was my suggested delaying tactic for their proposed plot.
“Absolutely not. We’ll also be setting down on whichever planet he’s not on.”
They kiss the top of my head.
“I always loved your planning.”
I unmute the comm.
“That’s a shame, Barnabus. Anyway, I need to check on my passengers, so you be well. Berkley 410 off comms.”
“And you. Marsanis Control off comms.”
Salis gives me a smile.
“I thought I was the only other being on this ship.”
“True. Which bit would you like me to check?”
