by Julian Miles | Apr 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The bodies plummeting from the starry sky are screaming.
Esteban chuckles.
“Shock fields up!”
Ambusan stares at him.
“Shock fields? Surely you mean catch fields? Shock fields save, but it’ll hurt.”
“If a Mistress saw fit to drop them from that high, she didn’t mean for them to have a gentle landing.”
A tentacle softly alights on each of their shoulders.
“Perceptive of you.”
Seven bodies slam into shock fields, lighting the scene with flashes of dissipating energy.
Esteban turns his head and smiles and the blue-haired woman who’s now standing next to them.
“Mistress Othkn. If it’s not a secret, why are we graced by a Daughter of Trbtha?”
He notices she’s clothed in a figure-hugging purple bodysuit that covers her from neck to ankles, leaving her tentacle arms free.
Smiling at his regard, she answers his unasked question first.
“Our Matriarch and your Uncle Ghost came to an agreement over our nudity. This is it. As for my being here, the Matriarch sent me. Apparently those who prey upon your younglings are overly cautious. The chance of acquiring a young Mistress for their entertainment made them careless. To bring down such depraved prey, we were happy to help.”
Ambusan looks puzzled.
“I didn’t think younglings ventured off your homeworlds?”
Othkn nods.
“Correct. But Mistresses come in many sizes.”
She closes her eyes, then opens them and looks to their right as a diminutive pink-haired figure in a purple bodysuit appears.
“Heyahey, Othkn.”
Esteban turns quickly and bows to the new arrival.
“WarpMistress Nghra.”
“Hush you now! Using my title makes everybody become stiff and polite. I hate that.”
Othkn nods.
“She does, and it does.”
Ambusan looks down at the smallest Mistress he’s ever seen.
“Thank you for volunteering to help.”
Nghra nods her head.
“How could I not? I’d heard of those who prey upon younglings, but never did I think they would make a business of it. It’s been a disgusting and enlightening week.”
Esteban watches seven figures being led away in restraints.
“Mistresses, we were expecting eleven suspects. Were your initial tallies incorrect?”
“Have you heard of Zundeclyn?”
Ambusan frowns, then nods.
“Predatory horror native to the Talun Highlands. I heard their numbers are dropping as the Highlands have been hunted clear of fauna they use to incubate their young. I’ve seen pictures, too. Look like gigantic locust crabs. Why do you ask?”
“The worst four volunteered to help with Zundeclyn preservation.”
“They what?”
Both of the Mistresses smile nastily.
Nghra shrugs.
“Last I saw they were running away from a truly magnificent Zundeclyn who was driving them towards a pair of brood Zundeclyn lying in wait to catch and inject larvae into them.”
Othkn nods.
“It seemed fitting.”
Ambusan pales, then looks to Esteban.
“Is that legal?”
Esteban shrugs.
“The First Governor calls it ‘Borsen Rules’. As he explained: ‘I have yet to find an occasion where our partners in the Confederacy intervening in a law enforcement situation has been wrong. I agree their judgements can be harsh, but I remain convinced they only intervene when it is entirely justified.”
Othkn smiles.
“Uncle Ghost understands.”
Nghra laughs.
“Matriarch Trbtha also. We are told to deal with the spawn of Galad who hide behind your justice system whenever we encounter them.”
Ambusan asks.
“Who’s Galad?”
Esteban leans across to him.
“Their god-analogue of death and evil.”
Ambusan nods, then smiles.
“Sounds like we’re done, officer Esteban.”
He turns to the Borsen.
“I agree. Thank you, Mistresses.”
They vanish. Ambusan shudders. Esteban shakes his head.
“Warp-capable beings. Doesn’t matter if you know, it’s still eerie.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 1, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
That shadow is cast by scenery. The one next to it likewise. The third I’m not sure about, and the fourth will become scenery if the body isn’t found. Sniping lasers give nothing away when killing, although the wounds are distinctive. By the time they’re identifying that, I’ll be off killing beings on another planet.
Mother used to tell me an old tale about the two wolves within me. Urged me to feed one and let the other starve. Uncle Enapay suggested I feed them both, listen to both, then decide wisely. Didn’t tell me where I could get wisdom from, though.
A fifth shadow? Not a target. Looks like an early scavenger visiting the cause of shadow number four. Come on, number three. Either reveal yourself to be the local equivalent of a bear, or as my other target, but please move soon. It’s cold out here, and I have a long flight to the spaceport on a skiff so old the heater barely works.
Grandmother nodded politely when mother spoke of the two wolves, but shook her head when mother said they were what guided us still. I never understood why, until one day grandmother told me about the dream the last chief of our nation had, about the two guns. Unlike the wolves, they’re not inside. They’re awful tools, brought by invaders and taken up before their menace was realised.
A sixth shadow slides from behind the fourth and moves away, trying to be stealthy. No heat signature, and the movement profile of small fauna. It’s very well done. However, I’m up high enough to see the one thing they forgot: their shadow on a white snowfield. I let whoever it is get a good way off, then kill them.
The two guns are what my people sometimes called ‘soul tools’. To go back to my mother’s tale, they are things that – while outside of us – can taint the wolves within.
Both guns are shiny and fascinating, and both do only one thing well: kill. They give you strength when you slay, but the only the bright one gives you greater strength when you put it away without killing. The dark one feels cold when you put it away like that.
Speaking of tools, that’s a drone rising from behind the third shadow. A rescue beacon. If it reaches a hundred metres up it’ll emit a signal powerful enough to be picked up at the far spaceport, let alone the near one.
Guessing the lead required, I manage to wing it with the first shot, then skip a second as the drone spins down to crash a short way from where it took off.
Whichever gun you use the most decides where your desires lie. Some folk switch guns after a while, some stay with the one they first used. Nobody switches back and forth, even if what they do with their chosen gun doesn’t match the lives they lead. I often wonder if those folk are ever truly happy.
Scenery doesn’t send drones. I put a beam through the third shadow. It slides sideways, then settles.
The thing is, everybody chooses a gun. Many never draw it. Even so, their actions and inactions will be influenced by it.
I’ve drawn mine often, and I’m probably doing good by killing bad beings.
But I know my gun is dark.
What about yours?
by Julian Miles | Mar 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“The only things I work with are killers and currency. You don’t look dangerous, and I don’t see you waving cash.”
The man brushes imaginary specks from his lapels with the hand not holding a dagger, then gives a little grin as he replies.
“Appearances can be- aack!”
The man coughs blood and stares at his empty hand in disbelief.
Ragnar holds up the bloody dagger.
“Tested easily.”
He wipes it on a lapel as the man folds slowly to the ground.
Evi tilts her head in fascination, pointed ears twitching while she watches the man bleed to death.
Ragnar chuckles.
“Humans don’t do anything while dying.”
She looks up.
“I live in hope, Inspector. My kind reveal their true forms in death. Your kind show the scale colours of their next incarnation. Surely the most numerous biped in the multiverse offers some truth in death?”
The man at their feet expires with a sigh. Ragnar shrugs.
“Nothing beyond private realisations.”
Two security guards rush around the furthest corner and charge towards them. Ragnar nods towards them.
“No killing.”
Evi charges towards them, bouncing from floor to ceiling, running with equal ease. The two figures slow at the sight. She leaps down, twisting in the air to pass between them. Slashing the arm of the one attempting to draw a weapon, she touches down with the offhand and hooks her legs in hard, sending the other guard stumbling backwards. Folding into a short roll, she comes out of it next to the stumbling guard and chops him unconscious.
Ragnar applauds. She rises and gives him a little bow.
The doors at the other end of the hallway explode inwards and a group of armed police charge in.
“Nobody move!”
Evi grins at Ragnar. He gives a little shake of his head.
The police slow as they see Ragnar’s horns and Evi’s ears. The officer of the team pushes his way to the front.
Looking down at the puddle of blood about the man, he shakes his head.
“Well, this is unusual – for a Monday.”
Ragnar indicates the guard clutching a sleeve gone glossy with blood.
“That one needs attention.”
Evi steps out the way as the team medic rushes past. The officer nods.
“Thanks. So, you are?”
Evi points to Ragnar.
“Inspector Ragnar Ocke, Orion-Cygnus Rangers.”
He points to Evi.
“Sergeant Evi Lai. Same.”
The officer points to the body on the floor.
“And this?”
“Evlon Rostalic. Premier assassin for Orthus Roper, leader of the Shokarn.”
The officer nods.
“I know them. Run all sorts of non-organic contraband. Unreasonable beings.”
Evi nods.
“That’s them.”
“I also heard their higher echelons are impossible to find.”
Ragnar nods.
“Usually, but I exploited a weakness.”
“Do tell.”
“Evlon was a knife collector. His position allowed him to indulge his passion, acquiring the rarest of the rare. His one unfulfilled obsession was to obtain a Lenkormian Forever Blade. So I let mine go onto a specific market. It’s taken two of your years, but I knew he couldn’t pass it up. The Lenk no longer trade them: they cause too many crimes.”
“I heard they’re special.”
Ragnar hands the dull grey dagger to the officer.
“An owner always knows where their blade is. It’s a sort of remote viewing. More importantly, an owner will always have their blade when they attack.”
He takes a step back, then lunges. The dagger disappears from the officer’s hand and appears in Ragnar’s. The officer retreats, eyes wide.
Ragnar straightens up.
“In some civilisations, buying second-hand blades is considered bad luck. A stolen Forever Blade ensures it.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m not one to fight against futile odds, no matter what current bravado, ancestral habit or bloody-minded tradition dictates. That creed has taken me from police constable to Colonel in the British Resistance – after we split from the Anti-Alien Battalions. I loved their determination, but uncompromising fanaticism contrary to all evidence became intolerable.
Today I think there might be hope. I’m standing in a car park high on a hill somewhere in Sussex. Behind me is the helicopter gunship that brought me here. In front of me is a green-skinned biped with huge grey eyes stood in front of a silver teardrop the size of a double-decker bus.
My earpiece clicks.
“Well, you were right. Now what?”
Captain Molton, recently ex-AAB, sounds equal parts angry and enthused. He’s still reconciling bigotry with facts, so it’s not surprising.
An F-22 bursts from the low cloud and hurtles down. I swear under my breath. All this effort for an AAB kamikaze in a super-stealth converted Raptor to kill the lot of us before we can even start.
A pale amber beam shoots from the top of the teardrop. A humming fills the air. The F-22 explodes. I duck back towards the gunship, then stop in awe as flaming debris bounce and slide off an invisible dome that shields the car park.
“I do hope he wasn’t a colleague.”
The voice is high-pitched, and has a Texan drawl.
I glance towards the alien, then stand up.
“A former colleague demonstrating why I left the AAB to join BritRes.”
The alien chuckles.
“A wise move for all of us. Your AAB are intractable.”
“They think you should all be killed, along with the sizeable portion of the population who think fighting to the death is a bloody silly idea.”
“Will the population who think otherwise cause trouble?”
“Initially, yes. Depends entirely on what you want, to be honest.”
We’ve been fighting them openly for eight months, and by all accounts a secret war went on for decades before that. In all that time, nobody even tried to ask why.
My earpiece clicks.
“Ask him, her, it, whoever what that amber beam is.”
The alien nods. They can eavesdrop!
“Easier if you call me Adro. As for the beam, I’m surprised you didn’t recognise it. It’s the latest version of a Teleforce projector. Obviously decades of development have allowed us to refine it, but the heart of it still obeys the core principles set down by your visionary Tesla.”
No fucking way!
“A Tesla death ray?”
“It can do more than that. The effect ranges from shutting down a vehicle right up to what you just saw. Bigger installations can exceed his original design capacity of destroying 10,000 targets at 400 kilometres.”
“How?”
“We bought his work via subterfuge. In 1935, after being dismissed by the US and UK governments, he thought he was entering a contract with Russia via the Amtorg Trading Corporation.”
“You’ve been around for that long?”
“We live about 300 Earth years. This operation is still being run by those who instigated it.”
“To what ends?”
Here it comes.
“Wheatgrass, hemp, and bamboo. Having lost our equivalents long ago, we’ve been looking to replace them. We’d have raided, but we also require human horticultural expertise to adapt them, as such things are long-dead sciences for us.”
Fear, secrecy, and the limitations of men. So much hatred and death could have been avoided.
“First we stop the fighting. Then we get you growing.”
Adro pauses, then nods.
“A good plan. Entirely acceptable.”
The AAB are going to hate this.
Tough.
by Julian Miles | Mar 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Condor’s back. Ten years ago he stood in front of me, the rain streaming down his face failing to dim the fire in his eyes. In reply to my question about why I should hold off reporting, he offered me a datacard.
“Your enthusiasm gets you involved in dangerous events. Bad things can happen to good people for no reason, yet you go hunting bad things. You’ve heard the old one about a ‘get out of jail’ card?”
I nod.
“This is a ‘get out of hell’ card. One day, you’ll be in so deep nothing can help you. Use this. We’ll come. That’s why you’re going to hold off broadcasting.”
I cursed myself up and down for complying. Lost a promotion over it, too. But something about his words struck deep. I’m a reporter. It’s a career that’s never been highly regarded, especially by those with things to hide. In a universe-spanning empire of very human bureaucracy, corruption, and power games, that card gave me the confidence to do things my competitors wouldn’t. I made my name as fearless and incorruptible. But, like he hinted, bad things will eventually happen. Yet, even when they did, I held off from running the datacard until I lost my drones, the mercenaries, my crew, and my left arm.
His eyes haven’t changed.
“Camilla. Problems getting in or out?”
I smile: “News is news. The scope has widened. The access hasn’t.”
He gestures to my stump.
“You left it until limb loss.”
“The missile convinced me I was in too deep.”
Which I’ll never forgive myself for. My crew didn’t deserve to pay that price for me.
He frowns.
“It happens. Now, we upset a lot of people on the way in. I’d like to know who we’re in opposition to.”
‘Upset’? I saw dozens of them out there, with armoured vehicles and everything. All owned by –
“Alouize Barch.”
He and his team exchange looks, then nods. He crouches down.
“Then the easiest way out is by finishing the exposé you started. Without him to fight for, our drones will force the rest to break and run. I presume you were about to reveal his private army, but got ambushed?”
“Yes.”
“Then you deserve a few words with him. Come on.”
What?
The team move smoothly into some formation that seems to let them shoot everywhere. The one who tended my arm carries me through ten minutes of screaming chaos and gunfire. I have no idea what’s going on! There are explosions, falling masonry, and burning people. The team stalk through it all with practiced ease.
After an intense moment of firing, a door ahead of us explodes and we storm into a luxurious office. In the silence, I’m deposited in an armchair facing a desk, behind which I can see the pasty features of Alouize Barch.
“Councillor Barch. Care to explain why her friends are dead?”
“No.”
Condor points an enormous gun at him.
“Humour me.”
Alouize shrugs.
“She’s part of the conspiracy. This planet is run by weaklings. The people need a true leader.”
I lean forward.
“Like you?”
He smiles.
“Obvious, isn’t it? Me, leading a glorious hierarchy. Those who obey will prosper.”
“Those who don’t?”
“Will serve.”
“You lost the last election with that.”
“Corruption! The people wanted me.”
“Even if they didn’t vote for you?”
“I was cheated of my just victory.”
The enormous gun fires. Alouize vanishes from sight.
Condor shrugs.
“You can’t win with his ilk. Kill or comply are the only options.”
Sadly true; rarely acknowledged.
“We need better politicians.”
He grins.
“Too right.”
