by Julian Miles | Sep 25, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The woman with the crossbow spits into the fire.
“I don’t understand why they didn’t just reboot the computers as soon as it started.”
Her sidekick nods, pushing their cap back before joining in.
“Reckon a lot of them eye-tee types were in on it. Musta been.”
The man next to me tucks a rusty revolver back inside his jacket before adding an opinion.
“It’s like that Y2K bollocks. They played that, made a fortune, and nothing happened.”
The woman’s not impressed.
“Except, this time, everything happened and they didn’t say a thing beforehand.”
He nods, trying to appear sage.
“That’s my point. They knew. They all fucking knew. They’re off somewhere right now, living on an island-”
Enough.
“Sitting by a campfire listening to people spout on about things they know nothing of.”
Just like that, I’m centre of attention.
“You saying I’m an idiot?”
I glare at him.
“No. I’m saying you don’t know what happened, so you’re making things up because not knowing makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“I have a gun.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. It’s a big one. You find it comforting, but aren’t confident with it, unlike the lady with the crossbow.”
I glance at her. She changes aim from me to him.
“Before anybody gets violent, I’m sure few know what actually happened. I worked with computers, and all I’ve got are good guesses. Would you like to hear?”
The ring of people grows as others crowd in. The woman nods.
“Whoever did this spent years setting it up. Getting their software, which must have taken a good while to prepare, installed everywhere in places where reboots and the like wouldn’t stop it. They went about it in various ways: most of it included with other applications or hacks. A surprising amount was added to hardware by people assembling devices without knowledge of what exactly they did – put the chip with the yellow writing in the top right, the one with the blue numbers in the lower left, and so on. Automated assembly lines would have been compromised in a similar way.
“The key factor here is patience. Nothing happened until they were sure they’d infected most of the world’s digital infrastructure. Then someone launched the activation commands. Now, that’s not as simple as typing ‘stop’. It involved several hundred instructions, each for a different system, probably duplicated, and with multiple ways to get where they needed. That would have been noticed. Cybersecurity suites across the world would have raised alerts. However, I doubt any of them occurred more than a few minutes before the systems they ran on failed.”
I look about. I think a few of them are getting it.
“We all know the results. The death toll is incomprehensible. The knock-on effects will remain with us for decades. I suspect the only reason we’re still here is that all the nuclear missile control systems defaulted to non-hostile when they went down.”
I suspect some tried to launch, but their silo covers had already failed. That would have destroyed whole sites, but at the cost of everything within a hundred kilometres or so.
There are one or two people whose expressions betray realisation. Time to wake everyone else up.
“The thing to understand is none of this was an accident. Somebody intended to ruin the world, and they’ve nearly succeeded. I don’t know why. Best case is something like extreme nihilism: they wanted to destroy everything.”
The woman nods.
“Worst case is it was the opening move. In that case, better hope they got overwhelmed and killed by their own apocalypse.”
by Julian Miles | Sep 18, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The two personages in blue suits look at me like I’m an ornament. One that grandma got from her mama, only kept because of that, and never found a soul who liked it anyway.
Tall blue suit flicks a glance towards skinny blue suit, who’s standing slightly behind and to the left.
“It appears we have an unbeliever, Robert.”
Robert the Skinny nods like he’s received the wisdom of the ages.
“That is unfortunate, Malcolm.”
Malcolm the Tall gives the slightest nod. Acknowledging the act, not in any way a thanks for the agreement. After all, when one is always right, such niceties are irrelevant.
“My humble apologies, personages. I find myself between places of avode.”
Malcolm passes my card to Robert, who slips it into the reader in the top pocket of his suit jacket. Woven in: very discreet. Perceptions, after all, are everything.
Less than a minute passes before they both grunt, almost in unison. Neither are approving in tone.
Malcolm crouches down while Robert takes a step back, flicking his jacket clear of his holsters. Not one, but two. That’s not the customary wear, and what’s in them gleams like metal, not the dull sheen of tasers. Seems I’ll not be getting out of this one easily: I’ve been cornered by Obligators.
Malcolm notes my gaze.
“You are perspicacious, unbeliever. Which surprises me, because your record shows you to be between avodes far too often for one who presents themselves as well as you. Surely one as observant as yourself wouldn’t be so clumsy as to leave gaps in their record? After all, there are many places of registration that fail to keep as lovingly close a watch over their flocks as the Edicts suggest.”
As if I need to sign up to a dodge shop, where – for a monthly fee – my devout labour history could be maintained while I got on with defying the Torble: which is the officially blasphemous but far easier to pronounce nickname for the ‘Sainted Edicts of Labour for the Common Good, Being the Highest Way to Know God, as set down by His Prophets Oliver and Siraj’.
Robert picks up the sermon started by his elder.
“It could lead a pair of righteous personages like ourselves to believe you might have alternative means of support. So, what are you? A dogsbody, a money-changer or a prostitute?”
No mention of mercenary? They don’t have a high opinion of me.
My implanted comm vibrates.
Malcolm perks up. Robert draws a pair of military issue magnums.
“You have an implant? We may have cornered ourselves a dealer, Robert. Truly our avode is blessed this night.”
I smile.
“I presume you’d prefer me not to check or answer that?”
Malcolm raises his eyebrows.
“Both audio and messaging in an implant? Your sinning must be profitable. For shame that dealing in blasphemous wares isn’t considered avode, for all that you’ve clearly worked so assiduously at it.”
Robert grins anticipatorily.
This is about to get a little too real. Time to stop.
“Let me show you my other ID.”
“The unbeliever sees the light.”
Something like that. I raise and clench my fist, pressing down with my little finger. The subdermal tag on the outside of my hand lights up.
They scan it, exchanging looks of disbelief. The confirmation comes back. Robert looks sick.
Malcolm sighs.
“I’d heard Anointed President Gregory the Seventeenth was a reformed unbeliever. Seems the rumour is true.”
I smile.
“It’s not that bad. As far as I’m aware, I’m his only bastard. You have a good eve, Obligators. Ciao.”
by Julian Miles | Sep 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a broken statue back against the wall, head and arms missing. Some humourist planted the arms in a nearby flowerpot, mossy hands up like odd blooms. There’s no sign of the head.
Headless… It’s strangely apt for this sodden remnant. England was a little place. Biggest part of an island close to Federat, back when it was called Europe. Before that, it was the seat of some pirate empire. Still holds the record for nearly conquering the world, apparently.
The Sundown War did this place no favours. Nobody predicted the tectonic consequences of a major nuclear exchange. Even now, they’re still studying the minutiae of the effects, trying to define the cause. If the remaining pieces of the nuclear powers were honest, they’d admit most of their budget is being spent on it. They don’t like their terror weapons being too dangerous to use.
The remaining sane people note those same powers didn’t consider the predicted results of nuclear war enough to not use their arsenals. No, it took the fracturing of a tectonic plate, swarms of earthquakes, and worldwide devastation to make them hesitate.
The Uluru Islands are doing surprisingly well, all told. The indigenous tribes have adapted well to the sudden loss of the coastal provinces that comprised Australia as the rest of the world knew it.
The risen Rotorua is likely to become habitable soon, too. Should relieve the overcrowding around Wellington nicely.
“Monty, you with us?”
I wasn’t, but am now.
“Yes.”
“Where we goin’?”
“Head towards the big churchy pile, Tone.”
The headless statue on a balcony fades into the evening mist that’s risen while I was daydreaming. I check the image on my phone. We’re looking for an old building, more likely narrow tiles on a collapsed roof. Next door to that is our target.
There!
“Bring us up against the red roof. Give it a thumping, too. See if we can walk on it.”
“We going under?”
“Not likely. Have you seen the water foxes hereabouts? Furry torpedoes the length of my leg. No, we’re staying dry. The roof just makes it easier to unload the place next door.”
After Tone smacks the roof enough times to make us happy, Jonno goes across the angled roof and takes a crowbar to the side of the bay window. It used to give a good view of the street. Now the water laps barely a half-metre below it.
With a dull ‘crack’, the entire south side of the bay comes away from the building, sliding down into the water before toppling forward and sinking.
“That’ll bring a few water foxes to investigate. Let’s get in and get gone.”
Tone hooks the roof, while Emma keeps it steady by alternating running and idling the fan at the stern of the skiff in response to his hand signals.
The centre of the upper floor has fallen, leaving a ring of still, dark water. I’m not a fan of ambush pools, but we’ll have to risk it.
“You watch for ripples. I’ll go to the end and work back.”
Jonno nods, unslinging his repeating crossbow.
The right side is too narrow, but the left is good. I grab the handle of a case and move back. Looks like this upstairs was prepped like the old girl said: her uncle stashed the stock before the evacuation as the sea came in.
The vinyl will be playable even if the sleeves have rotted. Record labels often survive, too. We all hope for favourites, but it really doesn’t matter. Music is always tradeable: the last echoes of a lost world.
by Julian Miles | Sep 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s a bright morning across Ixaroz, the heart of the Consortium. Beings go about their purposes with a spring in their ambulations, buoyed up by decades of peace, and the traditions that accompany it, like traversing the long span of the Great Way to enter the Glorious Citadel. Nothing is allowed to fly in. Every being, regardless of rank, station or opinion, walks in alongside common petitioners. It’s supposed to remind everyone of humility, walking the ancient flagstones past the ever-watchful eyes of the portal guards, and the less forgiving lenses of the sentry forts that float effortlessly over the abyss that yawns to either side.
“Hail citizen!”
A grandette wearing clothing made entirely of stasis-suspended diamonds stops dead.
“Do I look like something as common as a citizen to you?”
“Before these portals, we’re all citizens. That’s why you’ve walked this old bridge before you present your purpose: to be briefly reminded that we’re all equal in the eyes of the Pax Consortia.”
“The Pax is an ancient document, and like all such, is blind to the nuances of life in modern times. There are those who walk because they have to, those who walk by choice, and beings like me, whose purposes are so pressing that walking is an unconscionable waste of our time.”
The guard cuts a short, formal bow.
“Duly noted, citizen. Please enter and be about your pressing purposes. No doubt the King awaits with baited breath.”
The guard opposite interrupts their silent regard with a fit of coughing. The grandette flushes in anger.
“I, Desalonde Cremtian of House Ylsej, am engaged on matters beyond your comprehension. But, since you mention it, I would not be out of place in the High Court. You are impudent, guard. Such a lack of propriety is sad in one with a position that reflects upon the repute of the Glorious Citadel.”
The guard nods.
“It has been pointed out to me that my dislike for incompetents hiding behind etiquette is a weakness.”
“And?”
“I would rather be honest than condemned for the actions of arrogant fools I tolerated, citizen.”
The exchange is starting to attract a crowd.
“Are you insinuating I am a fool, guard?”
“Couldn’t say. I am sure you’re arrogant, but your intelligence is beyond my ability to test right now.”
Cremtian blanches in fury. All conversation in hearing range ceases.
“You’ve overstepped, citizen guard. I’ll have you tag number so I may report it. My recorder is ready. Speak.”
The guard chuckles.
“Eight.”
Someone in the crowd gasps.
Cremtian frowns.
“Followed by?”
“Did you know the Pax Consortia states that all members of the High Court must spend at least a month of every year doing common duties? I’d guess it’s so they don’t turn out like you, which is probably why there are no exceptions, either. My tag number is just that: eight.”
The guard opposite comes crashing to rigid attention, then drops to one knee facing the one who spoke. Every uniformed member of the crowd follows suit within moments.
Cremtian looks puzzled.
“What bearing has that on this?”
The guard opposite sighs loudly, then speaks.
“The rulers of Ixaroz have had the privilege of single digit tags since they founded the peace we have dwelt in for seven previous reigns. Tag number eight belongs to Tarlan Ipsalis Grue. Hopefully you know of him as King Grue the Fourth?”
The king doffs his helm and grins.
“But when I’m on guard duty, they call me Tarl. Now, what were you saying about fitting in with my court?”
Cremtian faints.
by Julian Miles | Aug 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Will burn across the worlds.
From shoreline to mountain top, from wrecked vehicle to ransacked fortress, they will light a night like none will ever see again, and will start a conflagration that will blaze so far onwards we will never know of all those freed by its passing.
“Set her down.”
They do so. Keegan, Habaden, Televa, and Tranger step back. Ponsor spreads our banner over her body.
Newsnets would crash upon showing images of we six gathered, which is why we’ve never come together since the end of hostilities. There is a cause we swore to follow, and it did not include becoming celebrities off the mass murder some had called a justified war.
“Lasira the Dancing Death, you showed us how to find peace.”
I step forward and regard each of them in turn.
“We are resolved?”
Habaden gestures to her body.
“They killed her because she sought to permanently end the Monarchies of Donn.”
Televa waves towards the night sky above.
“They watch us now, gathering their forces to blockade this planet so we cannot return.”
Tranger steps round to lay a hand on my shoulder.
“What of you, Griko, Grim Witness?”
“I will act upon the accord, but only if we are all agreed.”
Keegan shakes his head, a vestige of objection. Then he looks me in the eye.
“Ever have I gainsaid you, until I saw her body. There is a difference between the wounds I see and the manner of death reported. A difference that can only be bridged by a lie. For that, I withdraw my caution. I am agreed.”
A welcome surprise, and fitting cue.
I engage my orbitals and override the video feeds of every network I can reach. To end this properly, I must start with proclamation.
“The Monarchies of Donn told us we were made from common soldiers to serve a common good. Then they used us to further their ends under that excuse. It took us too long to realise, but when we did, we swiftly built a peace in spite of their objections. We thought that peace would hold, but the loss of Lasira has made us realise the Monarchies will never yield.”
Sparkling globes appear high above as our automated defences deal with their clumsy attempts to silence us. I continue.
“Lasira was the only one of us who did not trust polite words and signed treaties. We five were dismissive of her work, until she was murdered to prevent her revealing what she found, and what she’d built in response.”
Habaden adds his voice.
“We might still have ignored her, had they not overstepped.”
Televa joins in.
“Our sister is gone.”
Keegan coughs, then finishes for all of us.
“The Six have been made Five. The only fitting response is for the Monarchies of Donn to mark her passing by burning to the ground.”
My monitoring is quiet for less than a minute. Then, across ninety-four worlds, explosions rock Monarchy installations and barracks. Lasira prepared well. Patrol craft fall under the fire of those they thought loyal lackeys. Space ships duel and explode into globes of fiery death. The casualties will be savage, but we have the military numbers, and the people of sixty systems behind us.
I nod, then add a coda.
“You would not leave us as passive observers. Now you will answer to us as your rulers. The Six Warriors have, by necessity, become the Five Crowns. We will forge a new peace in the seventeen thousand fires ignited by her murder.”
