by Julian Miles | Jan 9, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Unauthorised access to archives. Overdue viruser ‘Aloysius’ in serious breach.”
The info-alarm finishes as I slide onto the longseat, dermal plates on mesh conducting me into the antechamber. Checking my vody for artefacts, I find my virtual self complete and in the right sequence. Thinking a filter onto my command tab narrows the probable spoofers to two. Subsetting them by touchpoints highlights Angela Capel as aberrant, being a six year old querying the socio-data impacts of the Nazi putsch of 2098.
BritLib digitised the last library book in 2037, adding it to their info-archive which was established in 2024. They became the leading adoptee of crystalline storage and pioneered holistic archiving with vody access in 2052. By 2074, BritLib housed 3.2 yottabytes of information. Holographic recording and mind mapping quadrupled that. Near-exponential storage demand forced them to pioneer self-replicating crystal lattices, so the archives could grow unhindered throughout the Spadeadam complex without capacity restrictions.
Depending on your access permissions, you can retrieve any of the works of man from this morning’s quiz shows back to the pictures we scrawled on cavern walls. There are secrets here too, things deemed too critical to be lost yet simultaneously too dangerous to be known yet. Those are the usual targets, secrets being valuable in this info-dependent world.
Virusers like Aloysius-cum-Angela are either thieves or ‘Open Access’ fundamentalists who will not accept that some things are too risky to be known. They insist that civilisation can moderate itself, despite centuries of proof to the contrary. I am a member of the BritLib team that ensures none of them succeed.
I flash through the sectors back to the twenty-first century. There I pick up the intrusion and bi-directionally traceroute, pursuing while sending trackers back toward the originating noderooms. Angela’s teachnode will get a shock when Infosec barge in, but they’ll understand. The other hit will be Aloysius. Most breaches are met only with closetab actions, but any serious violation or a viruser hitting ten breaches is classed as ‘Overdue’ and referred to us for moderation.
Alighting in the data-draped halls of the Nazi subsection, I trace him past the putsch into the fimbulwinter caused by their nuclear totenreich. There are no lockloops to trap me in memory, but I find a shunt in the metadata and instigate an action prompt: “Immediate fix; prevent usage of index links to bypass access tabs.” The remediation team are going to love that one.
Slipping down the link, I overlay my vody to appear as a government privileged user. Let his access fixation bring him to me.
Emerging in a BritLib closed subsector is a surprise. I knew the library became the secure depository for all data during the fimbulwinter, but the fact they stored the entire preamble is unindexed. Too much information obscures many things, even from us. A scan of the infoclumps shows me that this subsector lists the actual location of BritLib. That fact is staff only. Game over, Aloysius.
I wait until he tries to subvert my simvody, falling for the lure of high level access.
“What the – who are you?”
That’s all he gets out before I lock his vody, diagnose his interface, select the correct overload and end him by turning his longseat into an electric chair, holding him in place with tonic seizures. Then I view his noderoom to ensure the orchestrated series of hardware overloads I deliver burn everything beyond salvage.
Infosec will clear up a ‘clumsy amateur killed by his own incompetence’ and his messy demise will add to the mythology that defends BritLib better than the firewalls.
by Julian Miles | Jan 1, 2013 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
After the successes of breeding for telepaths and telekinetics, they moved on to the more esoteric strains. My mum and dad had the right genetic markers for rarest of them, precognition. So they joined the program and had two kids with everything paid for.
I was the first, “a beautiful baby boy who turned into a reclusive weirdo”, according to grandma. My sister, Sandy, was even better looking and far better at being social.
Precogs have affinities. Attunement to earthquakes, fire, weather, aircraft and anything else you can imagine. The range is forever expanding.
Sandy is lying motionless on the bed in intensive care, the scars of her multiple suicide attempts a roadmap of sadness on her forearm. This time she stole a shotgun. The fact she is alive is purely down to the fact that the gun was too big for her to hold properly against anywhere vital. She’s lost an arm and one side of her face is a ruin, but she’s alive.
“Hey Stu.”
Her voice is a whisper, but my lil’ sis is back.
“I screwed up, didn’t I?”
I smile through the tears. “Yeah, sis. You missed. But I’m happy you did.”
She reaches slowly and I take her hand. She squeezes it as hard as she can, which isn’t very hard at all.
“Why, sis? You were there. Fully manifested at rank six. You were set for life.”
A tear rolls down her cheek.
“My affinity, Stu. It’s disease. All I see is families dying horribly, all the time. I have this six-year view and I see them all, starting with whatever causes the most pain and death.”
That’s common. Seems that the more people in agony, the stronger the ‘signal’ to be picked up.
“If only you could manifest, Stu. At least I could share.”
Oh sis, I’m so sorry. I never realised that my secret would cause you to feel so alone.
“Sis, you’ve got to promise to keep a secret before I tell you something crazy.”
Her one eyebrow raises and she nods, then winces in pain.
“I manifested when I was eight. At rank fifty-five.”
Her eye widens and she nearly crushes my hand.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone? That’s forty ranks beyond the best. What’s your affinity?”
I smile and lean closer.
“I’m only telling you because you have to know you’re never alone. I’m always going to be here for you.”
“But what’s your affinity?”
“Me.”
She looks puzzled. “What?”
“My affinity is me. Nothing more. I know when every member of the family dies, because I have felt my grief. But I don’t know which family member it is. I do know that I will outlive all of you.”
She smiles. “So that’s how you got here so quick. You precog’d your pain over my shotgun surgery.”
I nod. “Too right, little sister. Don’t you ever try that again…”
Her eyes widen as I drop into farsee without warning. Then I’m back and smiling even wider: “Good girl. Some events I felt have gone.”
She squeezes my hand: “Rank fifty-five? Why there, do you think?”
I look at her, a sorrowful smile spreading across my face.
“That’s when I die, sis.”
“That’s amazing. Why don’t you announce?”
“I really don’t think that knowing the exact time I will be taking a shit for the next forty-four years is going to help the world.”
She laughs so hard that the automed sedates her. I stay, holding her hand and knowing that my little sister is finally going to be okay.
by Julian Miles | Dec 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The problem with early FTL journeys was the failure rate. Just like the first elevators, the disappearances were hidden from the public to prevent the rejection of the innovation. It was the mid twenty-second century before better understanding and implementation reduced the errors to less than one in a hundred thousand.
Back in the early twenty-first century, there was an AV series that had dinosaurs appearing through time portals. A scientist in the twenty-second century named Eduard Samson was a fan of that series. An intuitive leap led him to postulate that the FTL disappearances were due to the vessels vanishing through time. Now those time-lost on their outbound journeys are probably not an issue beyond the tragedy of their loss. However, those time-lost on their return could have appeared in Earth’s past. Backtracking was a brilliant concept that he documented with flair and diligence. His treatise gained him some awards and was then forgotten.
Three centuries later, Samson’s treatise resurfaced when our second generation temporal mapping revealed the backtracks; our term for stress fractures in time itself, that we knew through bitter experience could escalate into reversion zones, where entire swathes of history disappear. It’s terrifying to watch every record of an event morph into something else and know that by tomorrow, your own memory will have made the same adjustment.
That’s why the Temporal Rectification Taskforce was formed. We’re a small group, because the psychological impact of what we do takes a rather peculiar outlook. Our job is to repair the backtracks. The complication is finding out where they exited and what impact they had, if any. Then we have to deal with any untoward influence they may have had on whatever time period they arrived in and we have to do it in a way that fits with recorded history, including mythology.
Rescue is impossible as an FTL infrastructure does not exist, let alone something that can support Temporal Loop Transit, and size limitations on self contained units preclude anything bigger than a one-man vessel.
Take a look at history. The number of anomalous beings and civilisations that end catastrophically occurs so often it is regarded as the ancient archivist’s standard trite explanation. Eduard Samson’s treatise weighed the odds and stated that the actions of a future agency to correct backtrack impacts would have to be treated and reported as supernatural action by the observers of the time.
After the first few attempts at interactive intervention, we had to adopt a no-contact approach. When the time-stranded find out that you’ve only come to ensure they meet their end in the historically correct manner, they always become hostile.
So we do our research, determine the best corrective action and apply it regardless of the usual moral considerations. In fact, regardless of any moral considerations. Our only measure of success is a backtrack fading from the maps, indicating a successful mitigation.
I was the first member of the action team. I take the horror mitigations, the apocalypses. The stuff that makes formerly dedicated people hesitate or resign, suddenly doubting the validity of our purpose due to the scale of annihilation needed.
My ship is ready, carrying a payload that even made the ordnance loading crews blanch. No one knows if the warheads will cope with a time journey. If I survive this trip, I will finally deserve the name that our research team have determined is the one most likely to have been given by ancient witnesses to the TRT agent who tears down civilisations.
Tonight I go to sink Atlantis.
by Julian Miles | Dec 18, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The Neosatian hits me at the base of my spine so hard that I flip over backwards and land heavily, knocking the wind from me. By the time I get my breath, I cannot breathe properly because it’s sitting on me, front paws on my shoulders.
I stare up into the trio of glowing green eyes while slowly sliding my hand toward the shock-rod at my belt. Its burgundy-tipped ears cant forward and it shakes its head in negation. I stop moving.
“Damo Adraste. You are under arrest for sentient slaughter in the thousand-being range. You are also charged with fleeing penalty, your fugitive run of eight years removing all appeal options for both charges. Although it will be duly noted as the longest evasion on record.”
The owner of the dulcet voice strolls up, still beautiful in the bodysuit that leaves nothing to the imagination whilst simultaneously scaring you out of any interest beyond survival. She settles down by me, resting against the alley wall after relieving me of the rod. She catches my gaze and smiles.
“It was always going to end like this. Did you really believe the bollox about Neosatians being avoidable?”
I had hoped it was true. The Mondocalm had gifted humanity with twenty of these enhanced creatures, saying they were all we would need to usher in a new era of crimelessness. The huge black lupines were immediately labelled ‘godwolves’ by the media.
“This furry gentleman is Ebenezer. He’s very pleased to finally meet you.”
The jaws part to reveal a lot more teeth than I am comfortable with at this range.
“While we wait for the custody patrol, Ebenezer wants me to tell you why you could not escape.”
I look up at the godwolf. I would swear that the damn thing is grinning at me.
“Imagine that every living thing leaves a trail. Think of them as multicoloured lines drawn through time and space, with every one being unique. Normal dogs can do amazing things with scent alone. The Mondocalm took the lupine variant of that ability and mated it with their ability to perceive these sentient contrails in a four dimensional continuum. Ebenezer and his kin can never lose your trail as long as you exist.”
Well, that explains a lot. From the deep mines on Spira to the skytowns of Ruben, from the asteroid fields of Cantor to the spiral wastelands of the Eternal Reaches, Pursuit Marshal Sheba Griffon and her loyal godwolf had kept on reappearing, no matter what I did. The fact that the rest of humankind treated the godwolves with an almost religious awe meant I could never get any support for trying old fashioned methods of losing pursuers permanently. Sure I had blown up several places, but bombs are so damn inaccurate.
“Why exactly does he want me to know?”
“So you can tell all your fellow inmates. Eventually you felons will realise that getting away with it is not even an outside option.”
I had done it. Five years and the tariff for my original crime went from mortal to custodial.
“So I’m going to jail?”
“I think there will be several jails between here and Earth.”
And a free trip home. I smile.
“Then you’re going to be incinerated. Tariff reduction is waived as crimes during flight are deemed contiguous with the causal felony.”
Damn.
by Julian Miles | Dec 4, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I am a rifle.
There are few like me, but I am unique.
I will fire true.
I will fire straighter than any other.
I know that only hitting the target counts.
I will maintain myself clean and ready.
I will defend my country.
I will master the enemy.
The creed runs through my frontal RAM as it always does, because they think it helps.
“Camera One, pan the crowd.”
That is my confirmation. I leave the gathering quietly, entering the stairwell using the card from the security guard I left sleeping in the toilets.
Letting the door close I kill the biomass masquerading as my heart and extend my tibia and humerus, then leap into the gap between the staircases and progress rapidly upward, something only my extended reach permits. Intense security leaves holes. In this case, detecting for life signs in the stairway and movement on the stairs, not dead things moving in the gap between them. Foolishly they considered a metre-wide, sixty storey drop secure.
I slide to the edge of the parapet and reform. My vertebrae alternately revolve ninety degrees to lock, while my head cants back and swings up to locate above where oesophagus-muffler has risen to align with spine-barrel, as my lower jaw bifurcates to become the bipod. My left femur rotates and swings back, feeding a 13mm long cartridge into the breech that forms my sacral curve, while my arms swing out to stabilise my incline, counterbalanced by my extended right leg.
My Zeiss-lensed eyes feed compensated targeting data to the dedicated math processor that handles all the windage and other variables in less time than it takes Senator Lindham’s bodyguard to open the door of the limousine.
As his head rises into view, I wait until I see the carotid pulse in his neck in my holographic cross matrix. I exhale death and his head explodes. I use the recoil to slide back, letting my head drop forward as I disengage my osteo-locks and deform. I roll off the parapet and sprint across the roof as alarms start. I dive from the back of the building, sixty storeys up giving me the angle to plunge into the deep end of the public pool across the road and a block down. Water pours from me and startled lovers exclaim, but I am gone over the fence and into the bushes. As I climb the tree by the next road over, the evening run to the recycling plant is passing. I leap from the tree into the back of the truck, amongst metals and electricals that will mask my presence, just as the pool eradicated all detectable miasma of rifle shot. I may have left some pieces of overskin, but it leads back to the only man who had cloneable cells, like every other piece of vatflesh on this planet.
On the slip road to the industrial estate that surrounds the plant, a rescue and recovery hauler sits. I drop from the back of the recycler and roll under the hauler, pulling myself through the belly hatch into my residence.
William says: “Fine work, Swan.”
He means it. He only ever uses my nickname over my designation, S-One, when he’s exceptionally pleased. Which means Ruger-Sony are paying him a lot, again.
I settle into a solvent bath and idle my processors. After I’m clean I’ll upload the mission log. As I am scoured, I run my creed in private RAM.
I am Sniper One.
I never miss.
