by Julian Miles | Mar 4, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Tallisandre peers at my dagger.
“That’s a wicked stick you have there. I’ve never seen the like.”
I hold it up so the light from the forge catches the square end of the blade, showing the third edge and double point where the single-sided long edges meet.
“It’s called a Wedge. Made by a smith near where I last served.”
“They close? I’d like to discuss methods,” she grins, “and get me one like it, if I’m being honest with you.”
“Sadly, I think Besh fell during the battles on the Vile Plain.”
Shut that query down hard: no-one can get to Earth from Candelstadt anymore.
The smith tilts her head to stare at the blade from either side.
“It’s like it defies my sight, for all that it’s naught but cunning crafting.”
“Not best suited for penetrating armour.”
She idly waves a hand, indicating the small town about us.
“You mentioned the Vile Plain. I’d wager most of the forged armour in this rakenland went to blue blazes when the invaders loosed their balefire, or more likely it escaped the bonds they’d placed so they could draw upon it for their vryld.”
No, lady, they didn’t need it to power their ‘magic’. Someone used a nuke against what you call a ‘Raken’. Human folklore calls them dragons. You consider them the benign rulers of your lands. General Dwayne A. Smith vehemently disagreed, and soon afterwards discovered they’re immune to nuclear weapons – unlike everything else on that battlefield. Which is why the place is now called the Vile Plain.
She continues.
“That’d be my bet. Their mages slipped up in the heat of battle. No other reason stands for letting so many of their own die along with our finest.”
I can’t be sure, having deserted to roam this world a week before that, but I’m guessing the sight of a gigantic dragon scared everyone silly. They just threw everything they had at it, collateral damage and consequences be damned.
She gives me another querying look.
“They say Grugandine stormed through and destroyed their portal, no matter that it could never return.”
Seems a likely enough cause. The chaos it must have caused on Earth… Think on it later. I nod.
Tallisandre frowns.
“You’re taloren.”
Fuck. I hesitated too long – considering things a local couldn’t know.
Humans here call themselves ‘noren’. We’re rudely named taloren: ‘tal’ means ‘little’ or ‘lesser’. They’re also far more observant than us – guess it’s because of the faeries. Apparently their illusions are never perfect… Against taloren, they were usually close enough.
I run a quick visual check of my kit. Should be able to scoop and run without losing too much this time.
She waves me down.
“No fleeing. You don’t have the hunted feel of a survivor. You’re one of those who quit their vile cause before the balefire?”
I nod.
“Our vryldan found Candelstadt by accident. The raiding that followed was presented to the populace of my world as peaceful exploration and trading.”
She snorts in disgust.
“I’ve heard of rulers like that over here.”
“Your wounded told us about Candelstadt. Made me doubt. Atrocities on top of lies decided me. One night, I walked away naked.”
“Except for the stick.”
“It’s more a part of me than anything else.”
She smiles.
“I’m minded to make money selling others of it.” She grins. “Could do with more hands at the forge, though. Such work comes with lodgings.”
A place in this strange land? I’ll take it.
“Works for me, working for you.”
“Then we’re agreed. Welcome, Mikala.”
Close enough.
by Julian Miles | Feb 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Yesterday I climbed Everest with Hillary. Tomorrow I’m travelling as a passenger on the 1888 Orient Express. Today? I’ve been asked to make a presentation to you all about what we’re doing here at the Human Existence Archive.
My name is Preston Hardy, and I used to be a laboratory assistant under Professor Emelion Jadewycz. One night, purely by chance, he and I started talking about consciousness: what comprised it, where it resided within the human body, and what happened when the body died.
Over a period of seven months, we continued our conversations, working through the various theories and exploring the concept of collective consciousness as it pertained to subjective interpretation and shared understanding.
To our surprise, we both arrived at a startling conclusion at the same time: consciousness does not reside within a body. It is part of a never-ending, undetected plane of existence. We named this hypothetical place the ‘Consciousness Layer’, then set about finding it.
Twenty years later, the results of that intent are shaping the world in ever-greater ways, while the art of exploring the Consciousness Layer itself has been assigned to the fine people at the HEA.
I’ll not bore you with the details, as there are innumerable articles and treatises out there. No doubt reading one or more of them brought you here today. What is important is to understand what you’re about to journey into.
The Consciousness Layer contains the experiences of every single sentience that has ever existed on Earth. While the experiences of each being are complete and discrete, they were subject to the vagaries of memory and injury that affected the being during their time in physical form. Consequently, we have an almost endless library of near-complete information to reference, but only if the specific part we need is accessible, coherent, in a language we can understand, and in a way of thinking we can interface with.
Yes, there are the experiences of non-human sentiences in the Layer. They offer some of the most tantalising imagery in the most incomprehensible manner. We have specialist researchers who have been painstakingly extracting usable information from a single few hours of pre-human existence for years, and are likely to be doing that for a long while to come.
We’ve learned so much, as can be seen from the changes in the world outside. Strangely, we’ve only managed to reinforce the notions of divinity, and again, there is spellbinding imagery of momentous encounters and interventions wrapped up in both human and pre-human experiences.
But, for first-timers like yourselves, we have a curated series of unbelievable experiences for you to chose from. Should you want something different, please ask. However, despite my mention of pre-human experiences, none are available to first-time patrons like yourselves. It takes a long time to be able to handle the shock involved in effectively inhabiting a snippet of memory from something that wasn’t human.
Finally, a word about why we open this place up once a year: we need more permanent researchers, and the ability to cope with the sheer enormity of the Consciousness Layer is rare. You’ll likely leave here awed and elated, but tonight will suffer migraines and nausea. If you don’t, please get in touch. Your post-experience packs will contain details of how to do that.
Now it’s time for you to understand another person in a way nobody has ever done before. To visit them in the only place we truly live: within our minds.
Please follow the attendant with the same colour armband as the entry pass you were given. Thank you.
by Julian Miles | Feb 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a tavern by the graveyard. Not one of those new servaraunts, but a real vintage place with tiny lattice windows and a big wooden door that glints in the light from the glows as it swings back and forth. Old Stanislaw told me it used to not do that, but the grey rain meant they had to spray it with Staveoff like every other bit of wood still outdoors.
“Stormin’.”
I look up. In the sky-high glow from this sleepy city I can see the towering mass of clouds coming in. Daido’s not wrong. It’s going to be raining bats and frogs before long.
“What we do?”
Otto’s returned to the acceptable version of ‘I want to run away’. Next time, I’ll rope in someone who wants to come stealin’.
“What we came for.”
It’s not like we have a choice. There’s nothing in the pantries and the fridges are so empty they echo.
Another crowd of happy chappies and chapettes stagger from the tavern. Looks to me like they’ve had a little more than their sobriety passes would allow. Almost like this place has a way of getting past the squealers and the dealers, because everybody knows you can’t make a profit off a dealer. What they charge is always street max, and taverns – new or old – can’t exceed regulation prices.
“You sure about this?”
I look up at Otto.
“No. I thought I’d drag us all out here to get rainburned just to show how much pull I have so I can impress Maisie.”
It’s like I can watch him think. He takes another hit on his vaper.
“You still need to do that?”
What the jiminy do you have in that thing? Neat toluol?
Maisie appears out of the night and slaps his arse.
“You’re lovely, Otto, but that vaper is rotting your brain faster than we can compensate for.”
She crouches down by me, squeezes my shoulder, then points to the tavern where the security shutters are coming down.
“We’re on.”
With a muted rumble from high above, grey rain starts hissing down. We flick our hoods into place and wait for the corrosive ground mist to wash away. Thunder crashes above, lightning scorches the dark, and the rain gets heavier.
Maisie nods.
“Now or not at all.”
She and I sprint across, scramble over the wall and finish up sprawled across the roof of the big gothy mausoleum at the centre of the graveyard.
The rain continues to pour down. Finally, I see light: the tavern loading bay shutters and doors opening. Four swearing men rush from the bay, enter the side gate of the graveyard, then split up and race to two tombs. They press disguised switches recessed in the headstones. Each tomb slides silently open. The men hurry down the steps revealed. The tombs close. All goes quiet.
A vibration runs through the roof we’re lying on. Maise looks at me, eyes widening.
I hear voices below.
“Still think having the only ways in separate from the way out is daft.”
“This mausoleum is too obvious. Armouring the doors, fitting them to open outwards, and only working from inside, keeps the thieving gits wondering how we do it.”
The four hasten away carrying casks and catchnets full of food cartons. Doors, shutters, and mausoleum close behind them.
When the tavern lights finally go out, I flash once left, once right. From the shadows all about, everybody I could lay my voice on swarms in.
We’re going to empty the place.
You just can’t fool us thieving gits forever.
by Julian Miles | Feb 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
* They come by night,
* they come by day,
* they come by road,
* an’ every other way.
*
* They creepin’ through the arches
* an’ sneakin’ through the briars,
* an’ every single one of them
* proves that she’s a liar.
I look down at Screech.
“That’s really good.”
Their reply appears on screen.
* Thank you.
“Anything moving right now?”
* Yes. Four bots under the arches. Their operators are in the APC parked behind the ironworks.
“Got any ideas?”
* I do not, but Sentry Jim thinks we can use the big chimney with the viewing platform around the top.
I reach out and bring up the site map. It looks about right, but I have no lateral view to give me the actual height of the chimney. Incomplete blueprints are always a problem.
“Do they think it’ll land right? A few bricks off the top will rock the APC, might dent it, but won’t stop them.”
* Sentry Jim has calculated thoroughly. It used to be a sapper before being scrapped.
Then it has programs for this sort of thing.
“Thank Sentry Jim. Tell them to do it.”
I reach out and bring up two views of the chimney.
“Can I see the feed that spotted the APC, please?”
* On screen in two, one, it’s here.
A grainy view of the butterfly bushes that fill the cracked roadway between the two old ironworks buildings flickers and resolves into a crystal-clear hi-def feed – one of the family must have parked on the roof of the ruined bus station.
“I don’t see it?”
A wireframe model of a Rheinmetall Boxer APC is superimposed on the bushes about midway down the roadway. With that to help, I can pick out where they’ve driven the APC slowly in, adjusting the dynamic display armour coating to replicate the colours of Buddleja davidii in bloom.
“Got it. Thanks.”
* You’re welcome. Visible Light says hello.
I love how they name themselves.
“Please say hello back. That’s a really fine feed, thank you.”
* Visible Light is happy you think that. It’s been running it’s own evolution program to improve them.
And there it is again. These things aren’t ELIZAs of my own making. They’re viable Lemione Entities in their own right.
“Ask Visible Light to share the program with Wheeler Dealer, please.”
* Done.
Wheeler Dealer with check it and make it compatible with all the entities that lair here, then deploy it. How that software porting unit got scrapped I’ll never know, but it’s been an enabling boon for us.
Us…
Nine years ago this was the scrapyard my father bequeathed to me. Five years ago I noticed two maintenance drones had linked themselves to exchange data. On investigating, I found their onboard agents had been enhanced by the agent from a third unit that had since toppled into one of the flooded potholes that scatter the site.
After that I investigated, then reported, that there were artificial sentiences in the wild here. In response, Kirstie Maggin, the boss of my boss at the MoD, fired me.
Since then, she keeps sending insurgents for reasons I’m not entirely clear about, but am highly suspicious of. Especially as us repelling them has resulted in no overt action against me.
Something makes the floor tremble. I watch the chimney slowly tip the way we want. Then the several hundred kilos of metal and reinforcing on top of it come down on the APC like God’s own sledgehammer.
Not today either, Kirstie.
by Julian Miles | Feb 5, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
You asked me to meet you here when the peonies bloomed by the well.
I had to look up peonies. Had to look up how to get here, too. Which is when I had my first ‘moment’, just like you said I would.
The domes and bunkers are there to protect the Earth from us. We nearly killed the planet. Only by retreating could we let the world heal, and remove the constant threat of a war finishing the job our laziness started.
What you wanted. Where you wanted. Was outside!
How could you?
How did you?
We met on Concourse 12, Brighton Eden. The ‘old-time’ rave ran all the way along the concourse so revellers could watch the tide rise against the dome. After that, some hoped to see fish or even an enhanced dolphin. I only hoped you’d turn around.
You did. That smile. That one smile. Destroyed me: remade me. I can never go back to not knowing you, to pretending the moment has passed, that the loss is normal.
We closed in, then you took a flower from your hair and tucked it behind my ear. It smelled like nothing I’d ever smelt before, a mix of sweet and spice, like cinnamon, but not. It felt rough against the back of my ear, but really, it didn’t matter. You’d given me it.
“I’m Theo.”
You laughed.
“I’m Cleo.”
We laughed. We danced. We spent the night, day, night, together. Then you said you had to go back. I asked which dome you came from, as you didn’t have ghostskin – you can always spot bunkerers when they come up for a holiday.
“Tintagel.”
I’d not heard of it, but towards the end they’d built a load of town-size Eden domes. I guessed it was one of those.
That was when you said you’d meet me if I came down in the spring. A seven-month wait? Too long. I asked you to stay. You said you couldn’t: your sister was lodged with a friend while you were here. Then you said I could stay.
“I don’t have enough eco-credits to relocate.”
“You’ll think of something by the time you come down.”
“I will? I am?”
You nodded, kissed me, and left. I offered to walk you to the station. You told me to go back to sleep. I did. When I got up, I looked up Tintagel dome.
There isn’t one. Cornwall is open land, part of the King’s Regeneration Reserve.
But…
That one smile.
I spent two months working every job I could to build up eco-credits. Then I realised: there’s nowhere to go with them.
You said I’d have ‘moments’. It was another. I started working odd jobs. Van pickups, decorating, carpentry, even a little smuggling. I made friends. Got known. Made contacts. Found I could get to Tintagel by boat, avoiding the roving patrols and camera-controlled roads. I also found I could trade eco-credits for more tenners. Gave me a funny feeling, having a wad of untraceable money – it was liberating.
It didn’t go far… But went far enough.
Tintagel. It’s got real people doing analogue living. Not sure how I’m going to eat tomorrow, but there are a couple of places that look like they could use a carpenter.
I look down. Peonies are really pretty.
“Theo.”
I turn, and your smile hits me like the first time.
“This is Alea.”
A miniature version of Cleo looks up at her sister.
“He came. Is he staying?”
Cleo gazes at me.
“Well?”
Down by the peonies, I change my life forever.
“Yes.”
