by Julian Miles | Aug 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I thought the skinny functionary nodded my way. The two of them are approaching, all eager smiles, curious glances, and whispered asides.
“Are these seats taken? The server said they weren’t, but you know, they sometimes get things wrong. So, are they?”
At least there’s two of them. Hopefully they’ll amuse each other like a pair of Charni cubs. I nod.
“Thank you so much, it’s so crowded and people like their space, so it’s really nice of you. Isn’t it, Cassie?”
So the red-maned quieter one is Cassie.
“Oh, it so is. Those are really interesting tattoos. Do they mean anything? My brother has a whole back of fighting eagles over the Appalachians.”
Eagle?
My interlace vibrates and an answer arrives: large avian raptor.
Not quiet, just needed a cue. I shrug.
“I just liked the patterns in the book the tattooist showed me.”
Forgive me, Ettunershal, but telling these innocents they depict the history of my kills for the eyes of my peers is one of those ‘outside chance risks’ always spoken of, but so rarely encountered.
My reply seems to have stalled Cassie’s attempt at conversation.
Not so her companion.
“I can see why you chose them. They’re amazing. Must have cost a fortune.”
I nod.
Cassie puts a hand on her friend’s arm.
“He’s not interested in talking to us, Kath.”
Kath pulls her arm away and leans towards me.
“Why not? Three beautiful people thrown together by chance, but he can’t or won’t look up from his black whatever to flirt with us?”
“I’m waiting for someone. A meeting. It’s very important.”
Cassie nods.
“You need to focus. I can understand that.”
Kath makes a gesture I presume to be dismissive.
“Oh, come on. It’s not like it’s life or death, now is it?”
Not in the way you’re inferring.
On the other side of the open area, a door opens. At last.
I drain my cup in one long pull.
“How did you do that without swallowing?”
Cassie is also very observant.
I smile at her as I stand up.
“Practice.”
All Nundargih consume fluids this way. Goes in through the vents in the roof of our mouths.
Grantom steps through the doorway, pausing to close it carefully. I squeeze the weapon cartridge in my hand as I raise my arm.
The javelin flickers into being with a muted tone. I hurl it with relaxed poise, as learned so very long ago. In another echo of my training days, it leaves a perfectly straight vapour trail as it crosses the distance and hits Grantom just below his armoured hearts and passes clean through, tearing out his aortic junction on the way. It ends its flight by exploding against the wall behind in a shower of sparks and a noise like distant thunder.
Grantom coughs and collapses, yellow blood surging from the hole through him.
I nod to the two females, then leave them staring. Kath at the body, Cassie at me.
Rounding a corner, I duck through a doorway I prepared earlier. The supplies cupboard is cramped, but there’s a narrow path to the end, and the thin section of visible wall is all I need. Pulling a gate cartridge, I drive it into a brick, then squeeze.
The tall oval portal opens silently. I’ve just stepped through when the cupboard door opens and Cassie looks in.
“Hiding in the janitor’s cup- Oh.”
Her eyes widen on seeing the yellow trees behind me.
I give her another nod. The portal collapses.
She’s a smart being. I hope her life goes well.
by Julian Miles | Aug 14, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Got another one. Big cable channel. Going out past Bindenhouse into the wilds.”
“Okay, pop my contacts open and scroll to ‘D’.”
“Got it.”
“You’re looking for ‘Department Q’.”
“Found it.”
“Open it. Click on ‘action request’ and fill what details you’ve got, then forward it to my secure email so I can authorise it.”
“What are we actioning?”
“They send decoys to imitate lights in the sky and generally mess with the watchers. They throw in a few countermeasures, and some noise around the 1.6 gigahertz band too. End result is the experiencers are all happy finding nothing and getting big ratings for doing so.”
“They do all that from a drone?”
“Sort of. It’s a super-stealth run out of Orford Ness. If the tricks don’t work, a high-speed fly past gets them every time.”
“Okay, request coming your way.”
“Got it… And done. One evening of close encounters arranged for the cable audience. Sure to be another ratings winner.”
“Not like it’ll have much competition with the current crop of trash.”
“Hey, the networks requested simpler content. Stuff people can do while they prepare for the next day slaving. Nothing challenging. Can’t have the population starting to think about the lack of actual living included in their lifestyles.”
“True. Hey, this Department Q mob ours?”
“Contractors. Q used to be in-house, but some bureaucrat tried to do alien phenomena deception on the cheap. Got outsourced in the late sixties, if I remember.”
“How can they run a decoy out of Orford Ness? It’s on the east coast of England. That’s nearly five thousand miles each way.”
“Really? I’m sure they only run black helicopters out of Alamogordo. There’s an Orford Ness closer, though. New Hampshire, I think.”
“There are a seven or eight, but there’s only one Orford Ness, and it isn’t in the U S of A.”
“Must be my mistake.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“How to they make them undetectable?”
“Dunno. Look up the operating guidelines. I seem to remember there’s a brief so we can notify them in time.”
“I’m not seeing any guidel- Oh, there’s a note: they can get anywhere given a six hour lead, need no support, and can avoid detection at all points.”
“See.”
“John, that’s not possible. There’s nothing that can manage a stealth round trip of several thousand miles.”
“Long-haul airliners can.”
“Do the distance, yes. Do it undetected, and at speeds up to Mach 7? No.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’ve had an interest in UAP since they were only UFOs. What you say this stealth aircraft can do is outside our capabilities. I know that because we have sight of any of the projects we want, and I keep an eye on all the latest developments.”
“So they’re running a black box operation. Hardly anything new. Somebody knows, and that’s all we need worry about. The fact they’re not resident makes no matter.”
“They’re not local.”
“I said that doesn’t matter.”
“I mean to this planet.”
“What?”
“A black ops project aliased via a top-secret front with legitimate compartmented access. We do it all the time. I’m worried someone is running one on us.”
“You think we’ve subcontracted our alien spoofing program to actual aliens?”
“What better way to keep an eye on us?”
“You’re not funny.”
“But am I wrong?”
by Julian Miles | Aug 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We’d all seen the predictions, and everyone had seen at least one post-apocalyptic movie or series.
Some of us were foolish enough to think we were ready. No matter which flavour of apocalypse story preferred, we’d all missed one critical point.
Hatred.
The two decades leading up to the final breakdown were marked by unprecedented levels of largely propaganda-induced divisiveness. The reasoning was simple: if we were arguing amongst ourselves, we weren’t picking on those who oversaw us.
Those self-obsessed bastards did their job too well.
When it finally fell apart, when the lingering fears of law and consequences were removed, the people didn’t coalesce into survival-oriented tribes co-operating to reach an unknown future: they turned into ravening packs of anger-driven fanatics determined to deal with all those who differed in opinion.
Amongst bloody battles and gruesome massacres, those ravening packs fragmented as internal disagreements went from denunciation to murder in minutes. When internal strife reduced a pack to chaotic groups, bigger packs tore them apart. No thought of any future, nothing in reserve. Scorched earth tactics and petty genocide covered the land in ashes, bones, and horrific totems.
Initially, those who fought also preyed on those who hid, because those in hiding invariably had stockpiles of supplies. After stripping those havens, the meanest packs turned to cannibalism. The biggest thought themselves actually powerful, then got themselves annihilated trying to breach the few fortified cities.
I wonder what life is like inside those spiked rings of electrified walls and towers? I don’t think their strategies are as good as they thought, and the war that burned London to the ground without a single gate opening tells me they didn’t manage to leave all of the rabid factionality outside. I doubt anyone paused to keep a record of the reasons. If they did as I do, I’d like to read their diary – if it survived. Only to assuage my curiosity, though, because the lessons learned no longer have any relevance in this aftermath we now fight through. Sometimes I wonder if there’s somewhere in the world where people farm and live in peace. I don’t know if it exists, but I am sure it’ll be somewhere untainted by that which was laughably called ‘western civilisation’.
The watch fires of Brighton are burning low tonight. An evening drizzle has turned to rain, and I can see shadows moving under the trees by the Old London Road.
They’ll attack over and through the barricades at Preston Park after midnight. It’ll be a brief and brutal raid that’ll cost both sides precious able-bodied people. Those who retreat will be saddened by their losses but buoyed up by the supplies they gain. They’ll settle back into their camp below the flyover, sentries slightly inattentive because of the victory. The ebullience of winners, however brief, is always a vulnerability.
It’s all the advantage we’ll need when we rappel from the flyover to take their lives, what they took, and everything else they have.
We’re a small group, merciless, but without hate for any of those left out here. We will survive, and the particular hatred behind that is what drives us: one day, somehow, we or our progeny will be waiting for those who rule the cities when they finally emerge.
Despite having discussed other options for ages, we remain unanimous: vengeance first. There is a toll to be paid, and we will exact it for all those who cannot.
by Julian Miles | Jul 24, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The clearing lies deserted in the last light of the moon. Amidst the silver glow, two indistinct figures flicker into view, sat on the weathered altar stone at the centre.
Of the two, the smaller is clearer, appearing as a pale woman with translucent butterfly wings. The larger is greener in hue, taking the form of an angular stag with two sets of antlers.
The pale one breaks the silence with a long sigh.
“I’d hoped for better, this being one of the oldest sites on the island.”
The green one emits something between a chuckle and a rolling cough.
“I was running late. Were they a prayer circle or a coven?”
“No such luck. A close encounter group.”
The green one belches.
“Oops. Your pardon. Close encounter? I’ve not come across them.”
“You still suffering gut troubles?”
The green one nods.
“My usual coven are wonderful, but they insist on full fat everything. Something about ‘stint nothing’ and ‘without tampering’.”
The pale one gives a tinkling laugh.
“Come visit my druids next time their grove gathers. I’ve no idea what ‘lacto-free’ is, but the lesser horn-ed who drops by every now and then specifically mentioned it doesn’t upset the guts like regular cow sweat.”
The green one nods.
“Will do. Okay, back to ‘close encounters’.”
“Oh, it’s a new thing. They think we’re alien beings.”
“We are.”
“No, not like that. As in ‘beings from another world’.”
“Been considered worse.”
“That’s not it. The problem is that the determining majority of them are convinced aliens are energy beings from another dimension that rarely manifest in this world, and never do so completely.”
The green one rests jaw on fist. The antlers start to glow.
“So us visitors to the circle are prevented from appearing. Ghost forms being all we can manage.”
The pale one nods.
“That, the age-old flying lights, and playing with their devices.”
“All of which are useless for getting a good offering to snack on.”
“Snack, nothing. Some of the little ones hereabouts are starving.”
The antlers glow brighter.
“That settles it. We’ll leave this site to these close encounter types. I’ll take the little ones with me, and bring them to your grove when next they gather.”
The pale figure silently applauds.
“I like it. Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?”
“They used to call themselves ‘star followers’. I thought the habit passed after we settled the matter.”
“Settled what? With who?”
“Visitors from other suns were getting to be a problem. A short while after the humans got done with their last world war there was the start of a colony on the continent across the ocean. The locals had to call in a dragon – they call them ‘thunderbirds’ over there, did you know? It burned a couple of vessels down and swatted three more. The rest emptied their nearby colony and lit out for friendlier stars.”
“I never knew that. You think these close encounter types are on to something?”
“Not a chance. I’d be more concerned if they were trying to summon elder gods.”
The pale one squeaks delightedly.
“Well, they are alien in the right sense.”
The green one barks a laugh.
“Plus they’re the sort of aliens human governments really should be afraid of.”
“Appropriate, given the scaremongering they’ve been doing in that area.”
“Not amusing.”
The pale one sobers.
“True. I wasn’t ill-wishing. Hey, let’s go and greet the dawn.”
“I’d like that. We’ve not done it together for an age or two.”
Silence returns. Moonlight fades from a deserted clearing.
by Julian Miles | Jul 17, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
She slowly places her hand on his shoulder, then digs her thumb into the back of it where the Patrolman can’t see. One last attempt to get her son to calm down. He shifts uncomfortably, but continues to glower at the uniformed man they used to call a friend.
“Jerome, you have to understand. The statutes are clear: any deliberate noise above eighty decibels after twenty o’clock in a residential area is prohibited. Out of respect for your mother I gave the first incident a discretionary pass, but this time you were witnessed by a Civil Order Device.”
“CODs don’t scare me.”
Miriam sighs, then uses her grip to spin Jerome about to face her.
“Whether you’re scared of a Civil Order Drone or not is irrelevant. You’ve been formally recorded while breaking the Public Safety Statutes. I can’t afford to pay another fine, and I’m sure you’ve already spent your UBen this quarter.”
Finally she sees realisation get through the anger.
“You’re going to be serving for a while.” She looks up. “How long will it be, Patrolman Smythe?”
Patrolman Derek Smythe brings his forearm close to his face so he can read the display on his datacuff accurately. Only a few more months before he can afford new glasses.
“The discretionary pass had been noted, so this breach has been escalated to ‘flagrant’, which carries a £500 tariff.”
He taps the lad on the shoulder, waits for him to turn round, then reads the formal indictment.
“Jerome Tarley, you have been found breaking the PSS for the second time in a month. As you rejected the generous pass awarded by a Civil Order Patrolman, the charge is five hundred sterling, payable either as an immediate whole-tariff debit or by fifty hours work in a Community Support Hub.”
“He’ll take the fifty hours.”
Jerome twitches. Derek taps the relevant choice and waits for the update.
“You’ll report to Durrington Community Support Hub at seven o’clock tomorrow. Working periods are four, six, eight, or ten hours. Please notify the Supervisor there of your intended work period as soon as you arrive. They will load the charge and tracking app to your portable device of choice. Thank you for your diligence in making reparations for your disorder.”
With that, Derek nods to Miriam, spins on his heel and walks off down the hallway. Saving this call until last means he’s only two floors from home.
Jerome balls his hands into fists. Miriam slaps his head before he opens his mouth and digs himself a deeper hole. He spins round and glares at her. She leans in so she’s nose to nose with him.
“What? What exactly are you going to do, stupid son? I told you to save your UBen until the end of each quarter so you can cope with karma like this, then spend what’s left. But you’re special, aren’t you? Never been caught, always got mummy to cover your arse. Guess what, Jerome? Saving your stupid arse has cost mummy her savings. From now on, there’s nothing except what we bring in.”
He blinks.
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying get used to your time at the support hub, because I’m going to need you to do a day there each week from now on. You want to eat regularly? You have to help pay for our food.”
Jerome rocks back like she hit him. She keeps the angry expression on her face. Can’t be helped. He’s got to get a grip on the realities of living, or he’s going to get crushed.
