by Julian Miles | Feb 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There are mornings when you wish you could reset the world by going back to bed. For me, today is one of those. I woke to find the newsfeeds saturated with pictures of someone who remained a friend despite their ever-increasing fame.
I am, of course, talking about Vanto Crake, vocalist with Titan Walks, leader of the Daq Ne Yebol Troupe, and author of the infamous handbook ‘Anarchy and Visions for Interstellar Troublemakers’.
I only chatted with him yesterday. For me, death has not yet stained the vitality of recall.
He was upbeat over the recent issues regarding the rights to Titan Walks early work, and raved about the new album they’d just completed. There was also mention of a farewell tour with Daq Ne Yebol, as he’d finally decided to focus on Titan Walks, along with working on his second book. To my surprise, it was to be a romance set during the civil wars that ended the Dystopian Era on Earth.
I wish we’d reminisced a little more. Crazy stuff like the day he crashed a gravbike into a riot truck so the rest of us could escape across the Iridescent Bridge – he had to dive into the river to avoid angry law officers spilling out the back of it. Another favourite is when he and I spent a night careering about in stolen hovercars, painting all the Druckheim City election display screens black.
Everybody’s seen the video of him using a stolen interceptor to skywrite the symbol of the Passionata Rebels above the Passio presidential decennial celebrations. Nobody saw him smuggling beleaguered rebel leader Anstur Yebol off Passio. He started Daq Ne Yebol soon after their affair ended. The name means ‘Souls to the Calling’ in her native tongue.
I first saw Titan Walks play in a garage behind my tenement on Ganrie. A year later, I couldn’t get a ticket for their sold-out gig at the Planet Ganrie Arena. Their rise was that fast.
The day after that gig, Vanto knocked on my door and presented me with a tour programme from the VIP package, and a telling off for not contacting him to get in to the show. I mockingly gave him a hard time for not putting me on the guestlist. I still feel guilty about that because my name has appeared on every guestlist since.
He was one of the first humans to experience personal translight, flitting from Congreave to Ganrie because his sister had been involved in a gravbike crash, then flitting back to Congreave to play the Bountyhouse Festival, managing to do a full two-hour set despite suffering hallucinations from FTL shock.
His far-reaching charitable work has been well publicised, but I need to emphasise his work here on Ganrie. It’s been transformational. The Community Action Party continues to cleave to the principles he laid out in the final appendix of his book. As a consequence, we are a planet without poverty and wars.
That, I think, is what he’d be most proud of. He was always advocating for honest, practical solutions applied with compassion and defended with vigour. ‘If you let hate win, everybody loses in the end’ he used to say. Ganrie has become a triumphant vindication of his principles.
What I’ll miss most is him sitting in the back yard, playing guitar and singing old shanties for my grandparents and the neighbours. Summer evenings will never be the same without him.
Sleep well, Vanto. You did good, my friend. (But I still think Titan Walks concept album ‘Cloister’ was a mistake.)
Antio Durnall, Ganrie City, 15-09-2441.
by Julian Miles | Jan 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We swerve down an alleyway and tuck ourselves up against rubbish bins. Try to catch our breath. What a fiasco. Supposed to be the first demonstration against the British State Act, turned into a series of running battles.
Most of us were only there to object to the shitshow the government are running over us. The police had other ideas. With their new powers, they concluded we were all about to ‘engage in violent activities liable to intimidate or harm’ and decided to pre-emptively arrest everyone. Any attempt at reasoning was met with pepper spray and a spot conviction for resisting arrest. Faced with a situation where they were going to be done for fighting whether they fought or not, most people decided to get stuck in.
We made it out thanks to a group of sabs who were helping oiks like us get clear. After that, Tommy, Bet, Col, and me ran for it. Ended up huddling against these stinking bins.
We set off again. It’s a couple of short runs before we realise we’re a man down. None of us saw what got Col, but all of sudden we’re very aware of being in an industrial area with nobody on the streets except us.
That’s when I hear it. The soft ‘shupshupshup’ of ultra-stealth rotor blades.
“Listen!”
Bet pulls up short and snarls: “Don’t start with your ghostly helicopter shit.”
I peer upwards, then point towards a dark teardrop shape between us and the stars.
Tommy cuffs me round the back of the head: “She’s right. We’ve got enough to deal with.”
The shape is gone.
“But-”
He rounds on me, expression turning hard: “She’s right. Focus on running.”
There’s no use arguing the toss when he’s got a cob on. But running away from whatever that was works for me.
Crossing a main road is a dash from dark to light and back into dark. Tommy goes first, I follow. The rotor noise intensifies as I cross the road, but the lights about hide the sky from me.
I pull up next to Tommy. We look back at the black rectangle of the alley we came from. There’s no sign of Bet.
“Danno, what the fuck did I just hear?”
I look at Tommy.
“Don’t ask me, mate. Nobody knows what they are. All I know is we’ve attracted the attention of one. You want my advice? Fucking leg it.”
We do.
Over in the states, they have black helicopters. After I found some of the articles that opened my grandfather’s eyes, he lent me a couple of books, then told me about the more dangerous variety we have over here. Back in the seventies there were all sorts of sightings – even official investigations – of ‘phantom helicopters’, but they petered out. The authorities said most of the reports were hysteria. Grandpa pointed out they said ‘most’. He reckoned the phantom helicopters just got better at disappearing anyone who cottoned on to them.
“Tommy? Tommy! Where are ya, mate?”
Fuck.
I’m toast. Still running, police far behind, but fucked anyway. I need to be among people and in the light to avoid it. But if I’m out there, the police will likely have me…
Might happen, might not. But being banged up is better than being disappeared. I run faster. Got to get somewhere crowded and bright – and do it soon.
There’s a lull in the traffic noise. The noise comes again. Somewhere up there is an urban legend, and it’s coming for me.
by Julian Miles | Jan 16, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
No matter where you go in this universe, no matter how strange the dominants or disgustingly lethal the atmosphere, you’ll always find a watering hole serving hot drinks and simple food to a motley, and largely transient, clientele.
Last month I was on Charil – emphasis on ‘char’. Imagine a planet-wide desert riven with lava flows cutting deep into the sand, running along channels lined with a purple vitric layer.
That heat-resistant layer is the sole reason anything chooses to visit the planet. For nascent spacefaring races, the aesthetics of heat shielding are secondary to effectiveness, and Charil Vitric is better than anything short of molecularly-bonded cerametal.
The place I frequent there was built from it, and sits on a hundred-metre island of the stuff, left over from an ancient lava flow of what must have been stupefying magnitude.
I loaded and flew two hundred tonnes of it here, Nactor, where the amphibians who rose to dominance barely two hundred of their years ago are desperate to save the tomb of their first unifying leader from the geysers of boiling water that are starting to erode it. I suggested Charil Vitric for its properties, and because purple is a colour that doesn’t occur naturally here.
Right now, I’m sitting in a café built from bricks of multi-coloured coral, sipping something that tastes like coffee and looks like tar. I’m waiting for the Nactorians responsible for saving the tomb to work out how much of my cargo they need to purchase.
Afterwards, I’ll take whatever’s left to Zheno. They make shields from it for use in their interminable civil wars.
They declare temporary truces within the watering holes I visit. Clansmen of all sides meet, talk, trade, and bid vigorously but politely to buy sheets of Charil Vitric. Sworn enemies of nine generations or more sit side by side swapping drinks and laughing as they enter competing bids. Uncanny. If only they’d realise that same camaraderie could save their degenerating society.
But they don’t. After all the bidding is done, they go outside and try to murder one another to steal whatever Charil Vitric each has.
I always wait, sipping green tea, eating honeycomb biscuits, and chatting with any clientele left. Might find a wandering player and have a game of Dara to pass the time. When the fighting and looting has finished, usually around the following dawn, I’ll take myself back to my ship and head for somewhere more civilised to get provisions.
Once I had a diplomat take passage to Zheno. They spent years trying to negotiate a peace. Last time I was there, they’d given up and married into one of the clans.
After resupplying at Caramore or Embergrist, it’s out into the long night again. Apart from my watering holes, I’ll keep roaming. Space is clean. That’s why I stay on the move. Planets can infect you with their craziness.
by Julian Miles | Jan 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“What are doing?”
I step the lance down to standby and look round. There’s a Luminarian fledgling regarding me, eyes lit in glorious shades of orange.
“I’m clearing droppings from this rooftop, young edular.”
It waves stubby wings in disagreement.
“No such elevated, hu-u-man. My fam drular.”
A working class wyvernkin up here? Well I never.
“You’re a long way from the river cliffs, young drular.”
It shrugs.
“Hu-u-man Gaildor demanded I go forth, make progeny. My progenitor translated command as for me to travel far away.”
Commander Gaildor is prone to swearing at beings who irritate him. Luminarians do it by radical acts such as breathing or being within a couple of metres for more than a minute. Humans do it rarely, but enjoying relationships with any of the numerous kin he’s employed is a sure-fire way to achieve it.
In my case, it was his second cousin twice-removed – I think. It wasn’t clear. Got lost in the bellowing and frothing at the mouth.
“I too offended Gaildor. Therefore, this must be far enough.”
It nods and points to the lance.
“You are in disfavour, yet wield fire.”
Given their reverence for the many forms of fiery death available on this planet, now’s the time to get creative with bland facts.
“It’s lesser fire, young drular. For cleansing alone. Even so, it must be controlled.”
The ears go flat and tilt my way: sure sign of interest.
“Can drular do?”
“Yes. Attend me ”
It moves round to stand by my side.
“If the droppings are not cleared, the weight will crush the dwelling below.”
It nods.
“In the heartlands, the fams use such gifting to build famcaves.”
That’s not going to catch on with humans anytime soon.
“As offworlders, our elders have decreed we are not worthy.”
I turn the lance up to half power. The energy beam makes the atmosphere scream as it rips the flammables from it, giving itself a fiery aura.
“Such magnificence.”
Nothing I can say to that. I nod.
“Attend. This is half power. It will carve through dro-, giftings up to a metre thick. The danger is that this eager fire will cleave the roof of the human famcave below with greater ease ”
The wings droop.
“Such is the way of fire. Only deep waters will stifle it.”
My turn to nod.
“Does this wielding offset your disfavour?”
“The disfavour will pass with time. This allows me to earn chits in the meanwhile, so that I may pay my way.”
The beautiful eyes widen.
“My fam has no earner of chits. It would be a thing of wonder for their least drular to bring that.”
I pull out my tab, bring up my worksheet, add a ‘trainee’ option, then offer it.
“Then you will be a wonder, young drular.”
It reads the text, clawprints it, then grins at me.
“I be Viri of Fam Parfar.”
“Will of… Fam Jones.”
“To wielding, then, my mentor.”
Yes. To work it is.
by Julian Miles | Jan 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Another street carpeted in things once considered essential. I wait. Nothing moves. Picking up a can of beans, I swing my arm back, then stop. Put the beans in my backpack. Spotting a can of prunes, I throw that instead.
It lands hard and skids into a discarded suitcase. The collision makes a good, loud noise. I wait. Still nothing moving. Probably safe to head on in.
Looks like this way’s been scoured hard already. Whoever dropped the cans must have been a latecomer. Dried blood and personal items reveal stories of families fighting for their integrity in the face of situations they never thought would happen to them.
A teddy bear sits upright against a parked car like someone tenderly set it down. It’s grey, but the eyes are clear blue. In what little light remains, they stand out. Like someone’s abandoned pet, watching without comprehension, waiting for someone to console it.
I pick it up and tuck it under one of the straps on my backpack.
“You got my six, grey bear?”
With a grin, I take a step, then stop. Now I can see there’s a small body under a blanket on the rear seat of the car.
I put the bear back down.
“Sorry, buddy. Didn’t spot you were already on duty.”
Fleeing people quickly discover just how far they’ll go to live a little longer. Morals and civilisation mean nothing when there’s eight people after one bottle of water. The winner might shed a tear or two, but they’ll survive regardless.
Not being one for people since I got out of the service, the end of civilisation stalked in with me watching in disbelief. The sentinels online, the worthy causes, the petitions, the speeches – dear gods, the speeches. Mum would have called it purple prose.
When it all went down, despite the years of warnings, ninety percent of the world got caught with their collective knickers down.
The first week was all sirens, alarms, screeching tyres, screaming, and running battles. I didn’t bother to check the sides involved. People desperate enough to fight? I’ll be off to the side, in cover, and waiting for the ones like me. Only met five so far. Got three from concealment with a pellet crossbow, took one down with a brick, and had a right ruck with the fifth, but he only cut me shallow. I left his guts on the ground. Got good gear from all of them.
Second week was quieter. Towards the end of it, the remaining holdouts quit because of the smell. A city full of rotting corpses reeks. I went through a pot of vapour rub that week.
Back to the water thing: only one group I’ve come across shared their last bottle: they used it to down cocktails from the pharmacy they’d just looted. I found them sprawled in a circle about a fire. They’d clearly made a party of it, then passed a bowl full of poisons around along with the bottle.
Fuck that.
I can understand the reasoning, but reject the acceptance. If the end wants me, it’ll have to come and take me.
A crossroads. Well, now. I look back towards the car with the grey bear. He’d been looking south before I disturbed him. Question is: hopefully or warily?
No matter. I don’t think echoes of intuition coloured with emotion can really help. I was heading west. I’ll keep going. That said, I give the bear a salute before I go. Good luck to both of us, buddy.
