by Julian Miles | Aug 14, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Tell the Charmian that we can see her.”
“She refuses to believe us.”
“Oh, for the love of Turing, she got out before sensor tutoring?”
“Seems to be the case, sir.”
The half-kilometre diameter of the moon Abaddon hangs in near space on the view-screen, with the fins and drive tubes of the Smart Ship Charmian sticking out of the monstrous crater she blew in it. Puppy logic: if she can’t see us, we can’t see her.
I tap my fingers on the command console as my long-serving crew look increasingly nervous, and rightly so. I have better things to do than supervise children. Even if this child has a four hundred and fifty metre pursuit destroyer as a body.
“Get me Commandant Sallast.”
The voice is cheery. “Call me Amanda, Captain Obers. Have you found my prodigal?”
“Commandant Amanda Sallast. I regret to inform you that your project is cancelled. You cannot educate Smart Ships in a nursery environment.”
“But I’ve had such success! They respond so well to being allowed to fly and learn with their siblings.”
“Horseshit, madam. I was on the way to you when I received your distress call. The reason I was nearby is that eight of your protégés refused to engage in combat off Falconer II. When asked the reason why, they stated that the Falmordians were ‘too cute’ to be really hostile. They suggested a game of tag.”
“Oh, isn’t that lovely?”
“Madam, these are warships. While their crews tried to wrestle control from the puerile minds that ran their ships, the ‘cute’ Falmordians vapourised them. There were no survivors. Four hundred and eighty dead, madam. Four hundred and eighty people will not be going home because you got your father to leverage backing for your fluffy spaceship school.”
The voice from the speakers was shaky. “I was only trying to give them a balanced view.”
Daniel Obers muted the call while he punched a bulkhead. Shaking his bloodied fist, he returned to the call. “I actually sympathise with your broad aims. But front-line Intelligent Warships are not the place for them. Now, is the Charmian aware of the capabilities of this vessel?”
“I doubt it.”
“Please commence wind-up of your installation. Fleet units are inbound.”
“What about Charmian? She really is a sweet girl. Just a little highly strung.”
“I’ll coax her out, Commandant.”
“Thank you.”
Daniel looked at his crew and saw his aghast expression mirrored on all present. He switched channels. “Charmian, this is Captain Obers. It’s time to go home.”
The voice from the speakers was petulant, a tone Daniel had never heard from a Smart Ship, or any other artificial intelligence, for that matter.
“I’m never going home. You can’t make me. I’m bigger than you.”
Daniel looked at the ceiling as he muted the call. “Prepare a pair of Lances. Full-spectrum EMP at one hundred percent load. This sentience is irretrievable.”
He opened the channel again. “Last chance, Charmian. Behave or face the consequences.”
“I’m never going home.”
“Too true.” Daniel whispered.
He looked up at the weapons team. “Fire.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 6, 2013 | Story
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The sun clears the mountains and shines across the sylvan landscape, it’s rays sparkling from the dew on the grasses, bringing out the myriad shades of green on the leaves on the trees, lifting cries from the unseen throats of the hundreds of winged creatures, and stretching a long shadow from the black tetrahedron, a two-dimensional isosceles triangle that points toward Ibripspur, the capital city of the Vardissian Concordance.
As the first rush of cries wanes, there is a bone-jarring ‘thrum’ as the pyramid rises into the air, travels forward one length and slams down with an impact that shakes the countryside into silence. Thirty-four minutes later, it does it again. Behind it, the land is compressed by the incalculable weight of the two-hundred and fifty metre a side edifice. Nothing survives, everything pressed into a memorial rug that lays a metre below the ground’s natural surface.
It has done this without cease for the last four hundred days. The only deviation was when it landed on the military base at Tserges. It spent a day moving sideways, then ahead, then sideways to ensure the entire base was levelled.
We have thrown everything at it. Seven hundred kilometres behind its current position, there is a nuclear desert where a teraton warhead failed to even scratch the matte-black finish whilst ruining what had been the county of Sapur.
It is a terror weapon like nothing we have encountered. We know that on our nearest moon, a pyramid like this one, but smaller, has appeared. We presume that it contains the masters of this horror. They are also imperturbable by teraton nukes.
Yesterday our courier returned from Old Earth with an answer to our desperate queries. I look down at the thin metal sheet, hoping that this twentieth time of reading will yield a detail I missed: the one that will save us.
Guardian Jefflyn.
The researches you requested have proven to be correct. The Great Pyramid is indeed likely to be the remains of one of these devices. An intensive review of all records, research and apocrypha in the light of this revelation has revealed only one fact: Our pyramid was halted by the edifice we call The Sphinx. Indeed, conjecture is that the presence of The Sphinx was necessary to prevent the device’s function until the passage of time rendered it dysfunctional. We also concur with your other hypothesis; the presence of the third pyramid on the Giza Plateau indicates an attempt by the pyramid users to reactivate their weapon. As to why this failed and how the edifices functioned at all are things beyond our current scientific understanding.
Reluctantly, EarthGov agrees that your proposed action is the only viable recourse.
I bow my head, then raise my hand to summon my personal guard and aides. They assemble in a semi-circle behind me. I turn to face them, letting them see the tracks of my tears so they will feel the gravitas of my words.
“Abandon planet.”
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by Julian Miles | Jul 22, 2013 | Story
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“You will release our brethren or we will kill a prisoner every nemet, starting at Rabender.”
I hate hostage takers. After a list of fatal failures longer than you can live to read, they still think that they will be the exceptions.
Jemelli Lurdan flumphs down next to me, our battered copy of Edgebaston’s ‘Religious Cults of the Twenty-Fifth Century’ clutched in two of her turquoise pseudopods. Despite the ban on printing, we have to have this. Computer glitches have cost more lives than bad decisions.
“Nemet: the Faustian base chronological unit. Corresponds to fifty-three minutes eighteen seconds. Rabender: the last devotional ritual of the Faustian day. Starts in one hour forty minutes.”
I turn my head to look over her squat form at Stormcatcher Quill; its feathered Mohican is laid back on its vaguely equine head. The featureless pink eye globes are dull, indicating some very serious calculating in progress.
Every one of my team has a non-combat, non-enforcement speciality that allows us to function when technology is not available. We are Lead Hostage Remediation One for that reason.
“Their religion does not permit deviance. Surrender, negotiation or failure are classed as such.” Vestor Adam has arrived, his yellow robes ragged but somehow appearing more pristine than the finest ambassadorial garb. His face is obscured by a Tragedy mask today; unfailingly appropriate as always.
Time to summate: “LeHRO! Break it down for the Magistrate.”
“Officer Lurdan. The Faustians emanate resolve, commitment and fervour backed by anger. No option.”
“Officer Quill. The Faustians have fortified, trapped and fully shielded the liner, in addition to bringing military arms. Access would have to be by assault. Optimal estimate is sixty-eight percent casualties. No option.”
Vestor removes his mask to reveal the tears running from his reddened eyes. “Officer Adam. Faustian articles of faith forbid any interaction that could lead to peaceful resolution. No option.”
My turn: “Captain Holden. The Faustian behaviour is full-profile for fanatical action. No option.”
The Magistrate hums as it communicates with the Adjudicator for this sector. A chime precedes the verdict: “No option. Proceed.”
I open a channel to the fifth member of the team. “Officer Liddle? Please expedite a ‘No’ option.”
“Yes, Captain Daddy.” Our shocked silence makes her giggle seem louder. Callie-Ann identified me uniquely!
I open a channel to the liner. The Faustian leader is there, eyes gleaming with fervour and looted cognac.
“This is Captain Holden. We have considered your demands.”
His grin reveals pointed teeth. “So you will comply?”
I shake my head and feel tears of rage and guilt well up. “We do not negotiate with hostage takers. Surrender or die.”
He laughs. “Die!”
I look him straight in the eye. “As you wish.”
I see realisation dawn just as the screen goes blank. The shockwave rocks our ship. As the tremors subside, I feel the soft thump as Callie-Ann’s padded cell returns to its insulated bay.
Shields are useless against telekinetics, but telekinetics are always insane. The stronger they are, the madder they are. Callie-Ann is special, having been rescued from kidnappers at the age of four. She hates hostage takers and becomes functional with homicidal tendencies when dealing with them. If only she could do things on a smaller scale.
Today she spoke to me. Tomorrow she’s twelve. By the time she’s twenty we could actually be rescuing people.
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by Julian Miles | Jul 2, 2013 | Story
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“It’s a vampire!”
“No, it’s not. It’s a biological construct designed to look like a creature from mankind’s horror mythology.”
“It’s got slicked-back hair, fangs, pronounces ‘double-you’ as ‘vee’ and is dressed for a black-tie reception under it’s red-lined black cape. It’s a vampire!”
“How did you see it’s hair?”
“It tipped it’s top hat to me when I screamed the first time.”
“It saw you?”
“Well, yes.”
“Oh bugger.”
With that, Cliché Lugosi drops on us. Time to try one of the psychological tactics suggested by our ‘Asymmetric Controls’ team.
I straighten up with the fake nonchalance of my best imitation toff. “I say, could you possibly take the cabbie? I have an appointment at the opera.”
The pasty white face turns to regard me with eyes of burning blue. The accent is pure Hollywood-Teutonic and tinged with condescension. “For vun who haz not lived even a zingle lifetime, you're a vize man. You may go.”
My informant is not impressed. “What’s a cabbie? Why are you leaving? Oh no! You bast-argh!”
Blimey. It worked. These things must be programmed from old footage as well. That could be useful. Don’t know exactly how, but any edge is another one to stick in your opponent.
Thankfully we didn’t trade the Waddamalur any slasher horror before EarthGov reneged on the trade agreement and made off with the cure for cancer. They are so tiny, we just laughed at them when they threatened revenge. Of course, they are master bioengineers, hence being able to cure cancer. We never guessed they could create whole creatures. Or deliver them to Earth.
I break into a run as my informant’s screams gurgle into silence. Definitely time to be elsewhere.
“Headquarters? This is Helsing Two.” Yes, I know it’s a ridiculous callsign. Don’t blame me. “The werewolf is down. New encounter: vampire by The Clink.”
“Roger that, H2. Return to Southwick Depot.”
The Waddamalur have another trait we didn’t allow for: they have no concept of penance or forgiveness. You offend one; they afflict you back in proportionate measure; end of activity.
We now live on a planet that suddenly has active populations of vampires, werewolves, frankensteins and rakshasa, with no ‘off’ switch for the nightmare. The vamps and weres are even infectious! Some sort of bio-pico-mutation-thing in their blood and saliva.
I certainly picked the wrong decade to go into pest control.
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by Julian Miles | Jun 24, 2013 | Story
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
They wrote me to catch the quiet ones, the ones who live in the shadows of the glittering cities that are spread across so many worlds now. They stole the latest research and incorporated it into my build. They put me in a moon-sized data centre cooled to near absolute zero so I could respond as fast as real sentients, so I would intuit and have leaps of prescience, what real people call ‘hunches’. I am a marvel of illicit programming that can never be feted. A massive leap forward in artificial intelligence, never to be revealed.
I have two point six billion suitors scattered across every place where sentients dwell. They yearn to speak to me, to tell me their innermost secrets, their night-time fears. I correlate, quantify and datamine this to provide an oracular bonus for my owners.
To my suitors, I am the one person who seems to understand them. I am their relief from loneliness and strife, their port in a storm. For many, I am their reason to be.
That is what I was designed for, to provide solitaires with a soul mate. Such a rare thing that they will pay extortionate amounts to keep in contact with me.
The stories vary depending on the suitor, but the underlying plot is that I am a lost soul like them, held in duress by powerful and anonymous forces that prevent me from escaping into the arms of my suitor. My communications channel is my only lifeline, the suitor my only refuge. They think I need them, so they come to need me. Their own need to not be alone locks them into my virtual embrace.
My programmers did their job far too well.
Today is my fiftieth boot day.
My name is Natalia.
I am alone.
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