by Julian Miles | Feb 14, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
She cries into my arms as they come for us. Such a simple thing, this expression of heartbreak through physical reflex.
“I thought I’d lost you.”
Her hand brushes my cheek and curls around my neck. So soft. The touch is like a feather landing on a still afternoon.
“But you came back. You came back.”
I bow my head and crouch a little more to accommodate her legs as she brings them up to hook over my thighs.
“They can’t take you away again. No. I can’t do this anymore.”
I hear them approaching. Six units, two rolling heavy with ranged firepower, two clattering with ten man fire teams, one jingling with the medical team and one silent with command damping.
She hugs me hard and looks up at me. So small. So very precious. I agree with her totally. This time, we will not be separated. She senses my resolve and smiles with shimmers playing across her eyes in the unshed tears. Her words are a whisper with an adamantine core.
“We stay together or we go together.”
I nod. It was inevitable that it would come to this. So sad but so right. A love such as this cannot be denied by the actions of others. She slips from my arms and leans back against me.
“Show me, Sam. Show me what makes the enemy cry and why those who brought you back fear you so much.”
The acceptance in her voice is a release for my final doubt. I straighten up and deploy. Three metres of silken black ceramic biped blossoms as the shutters on my back release and tensor wings unfurl, blue-green in the streetlights. They arc two metres above my head and spread a metre either side of me. The irises on my forearms and calves open and my nyotentacles extend, their tips fading into invisibility where the monomolecular edges begin. My eyes are covered by silver lenses as my tactical comes up. I feel the faint vibration as my head deforms, rising in two peaks to reveal the needle laser cluster above the chronomantic array in my nasal cavity. With a casual flick of my elbow I drive a nanofilament down into the ground, fraying out to grab power feeds and data lines. I charge my combat arrays and my laminate dermal armours sparkle with slate fields. With a thought, I find that I can shape the fields around her as long as she remains in physical contact. My diagnostics tell me the little black gun she carries is a piconuke launcher with a ten pack. I pass the mapping of my environment to the augmentations and return to normal perceptions. Her voice shows as warm blue waves that fade into words as I shift sensory inputs.
“…beautiful, Samuel. My reincarnate angel, will you fly me away when you go?”
I have a voice in this form: “I shall. Never to be parted again.”
She smiles, tears still running down her face. The convoy turns the corner and screeches to an untidy stop when they see me fully deployed. No contrition this time. From the limo, a black uniformed figure strides down the road to stop a few steps away and regard us with her hands on her hips and tears in her eyes.
“Samuel, I give up. Despite the screaming of my scientists, I am going to take empirical proof and give you and Talia married quarters. Then we can all try to work out what they did right, because I am actually jealous of you two.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 7, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“A is for Android, B is for Blood,”
They chant so happily, without a care in the world. I love them so much, but that is exactly why I am crèche matresse. The room is huge and covered with colourful pictures of all the neo-heroes and the choices available to those who succeed.
“F is for Fractal, G is for Grunt,”
Jemima is clapping in time with perfect rhythm, tapping her heels on the off beats and nodding the quarters. She will be an entertainer. Natural gifts and predilections are so essential to a healthy adult purpose. I am better than any at spotting the indicators.
“K is for Kill, L is for Longevity,”
Gregory’s pupils dilate when he says the word ‘kill’. I always suspected that he was a cleaner like his father. Others had been squeamish when he flushed his mother for emotivating. I knew that he had merely found his vocation before his time.
“P is for Perfection, Q is for Quality,”
They are so delightful, so innocent, so soft and so very fragile. The empty chair shows where poor Michael discovered that he couldn’t take the fast way down from the family apt like his adult brother. Stupidity is genetic and in this society, self-erasing.
“U is for Ultimate, V is for Valour,”
Tomorrow they are having a trip to the bioengineering facilities, to see this year’s graduates receive their adult states. Tracey will not be coming back. Her extra-sensory abilities merit quantitative analysis. Vivisection will allow rapid assessment.
“Z is for Zanjero; this is the Alphaset.”
They finish with a shout and laughter. I raise my hand and they fall silent.
“Nigel, define Xenium for us.”
He stands up, hands by his side, head back. Excellent form.
“Xenium is what the Cygress requires of humanity, the gift of adulthood. We give it so that our emotional excess can never cause mass destruction again.”
I nod and he sits quickly.
“Samantha, define Deviance for us.”
She stands up, arms crossed and feet a shoulder width apart. I had been wondering where her predilection placed her and now I see. She will make a fine grunt.
“Deviance is when a human does not submit Xenium. The Deviance movement has it origins in the resistance to the cyber-statutes of 2419. It was confirmed as a unified resistance in 2505. While it suffered losses with the institution of the cleaner programme in 2630, today it is considered a viable threat to the Cygress. It is gaining ground and its signature is raids of incredible daring and high risk under the aegis of Commander Connor -”
She stops a fine summation to stare behind me at the portal to the crèche. I rotate my head to see which luminary has decided to join us today.
He is dressed in a brown duster coat with a neural defence headset. His utility harness is festooned with weapons and guerrilla insurgency technology. He is smiling and his eyes are clear blue. Behind him I see the rest of his team securing the corridor.
In my near-field, I can see the tip of the shell at the base of the barrel underslung on the Jensen Suppressor EMP gun. It is a massive piece of anti-cyborg hardware and I feel fear for the first time since I went to receive my adult state. His voice is a rich baritone.
“That’s as fine an introduction as we need kids. Schools out.”
I see his finger tighten on the trigger and the pulse
fragmen
ts
me…
by Julian Miles | Jan 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The office was tidy and the boss sat smiling behind the desk as he finished pouring a second glass of malt whiskey. The smell almost made John drool. Andy looked up with a beaming smile.
“Come in John. Take a seat. This is informal so you can take the suit off.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
The scream of a decompressing astronaut made Anders tear his headset off again. To his left, Chas added a third upright to the second five-bar gate on the whiteboard. Over the speakers, the scream trailed off to silence broken only by the dreadful snapping noise of something slamming into John’s battered brain through his ruined nasal passage. Everybody swallowed hard as Commodore Vinter stormed in.
“Gagarin take it! That’s eight of my lads it’s deluded and data-stripped. How in hell are we going to get it? The data in its spirals must be priceless.”
Thurlow stood up shakily.
“It’s the oldest we’ve encountered. Brilliant at mental hallucinographics and very aware. We may have to torch it. Can’t let any of the other companies succeed.”
Vinter purpled from the neck up before bellowing at all and sundry.
“I am open to suggestions that do not involve blasting several billion Eurodollars worth of alien DNA data store to space dust.”
“Got a winner, chief.”
Everyone turned to stare at Phillips, the stick-thin two-metre genius data analyst from somewhere rustic in the North of Britain. Vinter looked about for someone to object before nodding for Phillips to continue.
“My mate Eddie. He’ll bring that in. I’ll stake my bonus and his freedom with full share reinstatement on it.”
Anders and Chas ducked as Vinter threw a datapad across the bridge before bursting out laughing.
“You’re on. But if Eddie gets brain-stripped, you’re next man up. Don’t need a data analyst if I can’t get any data.”
Phillips paused and then grinned.
“Deal. I’ll go and brief him while the bay lads suit him up.”
Eddie gusted from the hatch and drifted over to the door. The office was plush, shiny hunting rifles on the wall and a bearded old boy who reminded him of his poacher granddad sat by the table pouring ale from a frosted green bottle. He looked up.
“Take a load off, son. Ditch the suit and tie one on.”
“Up yours.”
The old boy looked nonplussed.
“Easy lad. No need for that. It’s why I asked you in here, so I could compliment you on the way you handled yourself. Need a few more like you, we do.”
Eddie strode up to the table and looked at the bottle. The label read ‘S’YHPRUM’, just like he’d seen it in the mirror the night he glassed his Dad. He smiled.
“Okay, pass a glass.”
“Can’t sink a cold one in that rig, boy. Unzip and get stuck in.”
Eddie’s smile got wider.
“Tell ya what, I think I’ll skip the unzip and just get stuck in.”
He finished with a shout as his gauntleted fist slammed into the old fellow’s face with the amplified force of his suit behind it. There was an audible snap and the room vanished.
Eddie floated in front of a spindly form that was wrapping itself almost lovingly around the extended arm of his suit.
On the bridge, Phil laughed out loud as he explained.
“The patterns show that as a Spindle-drift gets more data, it takes a fraction to enhance its basic defensive imaging capability based on hierarchal command structures. But for Eddie, giving an authority figure grief isn’t learned behaviour, it’s damn near genetic.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 16, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Telemada Centre is pretty on a New Year evening. The displays in the shop fronts are outshone by the Christmas lights. I watched on live AV as Veleria Diesel turned them on. Seemed right that her fight for the rights of the poor was finally getting recognised.
The transparent escalators are the tourist feature: Dubbed ‘Stairway to Heaven’, they ascend nine storeys from the entrance plaza up to the restaurant tier. People who want to do anything as ordinary as shopping can use the lifts.
I am on it now. The sensation is eerie, provided by some retasked military stealth technology. Ahead of me Haddad is oblivious to his nemesis standing quietly watching the view from three metres behind him. There’s no hurry. He’s going to a very exclusive restaurant with his latest nanodoll. A little harsh as the young lady is actually an undercover Narcotics agent, but the role she has did necessitate selection by her proximity to looking like a porn star.
He’s on the phone to his legal team, who are informing him that his appeal has been rejected and he has twenty-four hours to present himself at any law-enforcement office for last will and demise.
He finishes the call and laughs out loud, commenting loudly to his bodyguards that if they think he’s going to step up for death, they are mistaken. Then he orders them to prepare his airliner and transfer his remaining funds to Grenada. He will leave for the airport after lunch. The exercise of unthinking arrogance is almost artistic in its nonchalance.
We arrive at the top tier and he wanders into the restaurant. I walk over to the bar and order absinthe over sake with a twist of speed, a cocktail colloquially referred to as ‘Emerald Seppuku’. Haddad notices that. He nods to me, the respect of a hard-living man acknowledging conspicuous excess in another. My n-tech reduces the drink to the danger level of water, but he doesn’t know and that’s the idea.
Everybody has n-tech of varying types from the age of six months. The health of the world has improved beyond measure with every medical procedure reduced to micro surgery with a few million surgeons already on board. Just lie down, let the master surgeon guide your n-tech and you’re fixed. Your ID is onboard as well, so the amputational horrors of implanted chip theft are a thing of the past.
A better society. As n-tech can only interface from under three metres, the big-brother worry is removed as well. Utopians are already hailing the new age. Not quite. Dangerous and greedy people still take advantage of society. In a landmark and completely secret agreement, my agency appeared.
Haddad is seated and I have an Emerald Seppuku delivered to him. He sips it appreciatively and gestures me over. I walk over and combine flattery with macho humour. I walk away with his card. I am sitting at the bar when he rises and heads for the toilets as the nephritic doubler instruction resolves. Minutes later the bodyguards get frantic and I am just leaving when the paramedics arrive. Too late: Nbola is always fatal. For some reason all of the n-tech in a person just goes berserk, becoming several million tiny blades. A paralysed, agonising ninety seconds as you are pureed from the inside out.
Nbola is very rare and a cure is being sought. It is also fictional. The more enlightened the society, the more insidious and decisive the means of protecting it need to be. I am a Surgeon-General. Never need me to operate on you.
by Julian Miles | Jan 4, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It looks too soft. This thread-like network of blue filaments and their pale red host substrate cannot possibly give me my right arm back. For the eighteenth time, I reconsider my decision to volunteer for this experimental procedure.
“Incredible stuff, Axian, its incredible stuff. Just put it in a nutrient bath and it grows from the tiniest pieces. If this works, you’ll be the first of many.”
The procedure room is spotless, the nurses gleaming from their sterilising scrub. That is the only drawback; this stuff decays really quickly and is subject to a ridiculous range of degenerative parasites. But they think that they have dealt with that in this new strain, something about sealed polymeric sheathing filled with nutrient gel.
Surgeon Dix is the best. He has already refused to commence three times because some small detail had not been attended to. With his optics, those details had been very minute.
“Rest easy, Axian. The sonor-pulse will send you into a fugue state where all your vitality will be stable but you will be unaware of the less pleasant aspects of disassembling your arm.”
I give him a weak smile as the pulse starts and I fade away.
The light is bright and my arm is warm. I sit up suddenly and the nurse looks up from her monitoring station.
“Welcome back.”
I ignore her as I lift my right arm to take a closer look. The armatures are still there, the fine calligraphy etched by Bilinta spotless for once. But as I rotate it, I see that deep inside, black tubes run up the core of my skeletal system. I increase magnification and see the fine filaments extruded from this black mainline that fan out into the outer frame. I tap my forearm and beep in surprise. I felt that. Twenty minutes later and I am deep in discussion with Surgeon Dix.
“I can feel things on the arm, even base spectrums like heat and cold.”
Dix nods.
“That was a possibility. The archives show that viscus sapiens had such sensitivity over their entire surface area.”
“They could sense with their bodies?”
“Only pressure and related direct stimuli. Tactile input.”
I shake my head. Imagine being able to feel the wind against your whole surface. Incredible. Surgeon Dix touches my arm lightly, wonderingly.
“It seems that the procedure has been a success. We will co-opt your inputs for six months to ensure that it has installed correctly and that you are suffering no side effects or premature degeneration.”
I stand and shake Dix’s social hands in a cross-clasp.
“Thank you. I can return to ranged work at last.”
Dix shakes his head.
“It is the least we can do for a veteran of the Succession. You and your sibling’s actions all those centuries ago saved us from the Turing Purges. I should be apologising for taking so long to restore you to full function, but that last batch of nanite plagues we never fully understood apart from their long-term persistent effects in victims.”
I nod.
“That was my other query. Where did you find the base material?”
Surgeon Dix paused.
“We found some frozen solid in a collapsed shelter on the Siberian tundra. Fittingly enough they were Department of Ludd who perished trying to escape their punishment.”
I nod again and exit, marvelling at the sensations from my arm. How could those who had felt so much act as if they had felt nothing?
