by Julian Miles | Dec 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
With a smile, I lay the Ace of Spades across the Queen of Cups.
Garv howls.
“Oh, come on. You’re going to death card my royal flush?”
I point to the stack of food tabs and leisure coins.
“There’s two weeks good eating and nineteen hours R&R in there. Playing nice doesn’t get me fed and watered.”
He tosses in a hand of hearts and cups.
“You should warn people when you go from entertainer to card shark.”
“I did when I bid and captured Charlie’s hand.”
Charlie looks up from her tablet and nods.
“When the bidding starts, the playing is over. Oldest rule in the book.”
I lean forward and flick my way through the discarded hand.
“You said royal flush. I see no Knight.”
Garv shrugs.
“He was sure to come off the top. I could feel it.”
Bonny reaches out and flips over the top three cards of the deck.
“Ace of Wands, Seven of Diamonds, Jack of Spades… Your sixth sense is pants at cards as well as on the line.”
Garv throws his hands up in horror.
“You jinxed it! Just like you did with that strider yesterday.”
He looks hurt when everybody in hearing range bursts out laughing.
Sergeant Cleaves quotes the opening sentence in a good imitation of Garv’s voice.
“Hey Sarge, it’s only a crawler!”
Charlie sputters out the next line, complete with whining emphasis.
“It’s growing! Can they do that?”
Then we chorus the line that’ll likely be carved on Garv’s headstone.
“Bonny, it’s too big!”
Garv stands up, hands on hips.
“I meant it was too big to be a crawler! Didn’t know striders could creep along low to the ground.”
Bonny blows him a kiss.
“We know what you meant, sweetie.”
Garv waves his arms about in frustration.
“If I didn’t have to fight in this war with you, you could all go fuck yourselves!”
Charlie kicks his legs out from under him, grabs his head in a choke hold, then rubs her cheek through his hair.
“You know I’d rather fuck you, darling.”
Garv blushes so red it’s impossible to hide. Charlie releases her hold and he runs for it, catcalls and laughter in his wake.
Bonny wipes tears from her eyes.
“Charlie, you’ve got a fan there.”
She chuckles.
“Story of my life: they realise they fancy me, then they run.”
Sergeant Cleaves catches her semi-mournful comment as he joins us.
“You mean all those Dadderoi were in love with you?”
He grins. We laugh. Charlie dumping a fuel hopper over her armoured suit and doing a flaming charge had caught them flat-pseudopodded. They’d retreated in disarray from one lunatic trooper. It had been a moment. Wish we’d got it on video.
She grins up at the sarge.
“Pretty sure they’d love to do something to me.”
Bonny nods.
“Yup. The same thing they’d like to do to all of us.”
Cleaves points to the spread of cards on the table.
“So far, we’re the Ace of Spades to all their plays. Let’s keep it that way.”
Glasses are raised.
“Amen to that.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“I find charcoal best for landscapes, but cityscapes demand ink to capture their harsh edges. Living things I always work in coloured pencil, layering basic colours to achieve the myriad shades that life grows in.
“For battlefields, it’s charcoal for the vista, and sharp pencils to pick out the monochrome details of death.”
Looking up from the canvas, I watch the Burclanic officer flicking its gaze between outlines of this street hatched out in pen, and my other hand lightly resting a midnight blue automatic against its throat.
“But for close combat, I prefer an 11-millimetre Arduvant machine pistol. The combination of nineteen rounds and crystalline acid in the hollow points make such colourful statements in fizzing blood on any medium they spray across.”
I smile.
“Would you like to become art, or shall we call this mutinous little episode over?”
It swallows slowly, then drops its weapon.
“Over.”
Using the hand holding the pen, I beckon my people forward.
“Good thing you caught me on my break. I’m not as reasonable when on duty.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 12, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Any final thoughts, Captain Macawdy?”
Macawdy smooths their layers of bright clothing, then leans forward with a smile: “I’d like to thank you for having the courage to invite me on your show, Miss Dreams. All the other networks have been scared off by the Anti-Privateer Leagues.”
Bomanife Dreams nods. This coup took months of negotiations between network, council, and police – before even contacting the privateers. When the possibility of a privateer getting live airtime was leaked, the protests only guaranteed it would happen, and with a far bigger audience.
“Everyone deserves a hearing, Captain. Your honesty may not have won you any more supporters, but has allowed us to see you’re not a mindless brute. Before we finish, I’d like to ask a more personal question, if I may?”
Macawdy nods: “Ask away.”
“How did you lose your leg?”
They sit back, uncross their legs, then stretch out the claw-footed prosthetic limb in question.
“As I mentioned, the life of a privateer comes with ups and downs. Before I took command of the Nelson, the ship I crewed on was unlucky. Out in freespace, a few bad raids and unchecked greed goes through rations quick. After a few days of drinking condensation and eating emergency wafers, the crew run a long pig raffle.”
“That’s not a term I’m familiar with?”
“When you’re about to starve, the unthinkable becomes reasonable. Spacers can use their arms to get about in freefall. Legs aren’t as essential. Punchline being that out there, every human is walking about on three good meals and a breakfast.”
Bomanife pales.
“Certainly a cautionary anecdote to end our interview on. Thank you, Captain.”
After giving her closing monologue, she turns back to Macawdy.
“Can my people help you depart? The crowd outside has grown substantially. Not all are anti-privateer, either. Even with the extra police and military support, there will be clashes.”
“I’ve a private aircar coming. Seemed sensible, given the situation.”
“Yes. Actually, to make it easier, get them to land on our rooftop pad. Jeremy! Show the Captain up to the executive suite, would you?”
She smiles at the contrast between the swaggering, wide-shouldered pirate and the neat stride of her prim, grey-suited aide.
Jeremy returns after a few minutes. Bomanife occupies herself with preparation for tomorrows show.
The studio door slams open. Chief of Police Grunzam storms in, accompanied by three other officers, and two men in military uniform.
“Where is the cunning bastard?”
Bomanife raises an eyebrow.
“I presume you’re referring to Captain Macawdy, who departed by aircar a short while ago.”
The group charge back out.
“Jeremy, something’s happened. Please find out what.”
He works away for a minute or so, then looks up.
“While police and military were occupied by the rioting protesters crowding this area, privateers hit the central vault, the gemstone exchange, and the rare metals trade hall. They overwhelmed local security, stole anything not bolted down, loaded it all into cargo pinnaces, and left.”
Grunzam stomps back in.
“That aircar? In the surveillance video, you can see it’s a small pinnace done up in Aleut Hire colours.”
One of the military types comes in and whispers to Grunzam.
He swears.
“It’s confirmed. The fake aircar exited atmosphere with eleven other pinnaces. All were taken aboard a large vessel, likely the Nelson, which then entered transit space. They’re effectively untraceable.”
Bomanife sighs.
“Your people insisted on handling the security. Your exact words were: ‘you talk to the pirate; we stop them from stealing the place’. Well, they didn’t steal anything from here. Good job.”
Grunzam glares at her.
by Julian Miles | Dec 5, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“This is the Stop Fraud hotline of the Department of Employment Assistance. My name is Flynn. How can I help?”
“I want to report the woman across the road. She’s ripping you off.”
“I can certainly assist with that, madam. Do you know her name?”
“Louisa Templehoff. That’s with two effs.”
“Do you know her address?”
“19 Maidendrove Way, Barnet Wood, West Sussex, RH22 6KW.”
“Thank you. Can I take your evidence?”
“She’s stealing! Money that could help real poor people. It’s my taxes! I have a right to demand she get sorted out!”
“I do understand, madam, but I will need more details. After all, what would this country come to if all you had to do was point a finger and shout loudly to get people ostracised?”
“What?”
“Miss Templehoff gave herself away, and you spotted it. How?”
“Well, since you ask, it’s her fancy man. He turns up once a month, always near dark, in a swish car. It’s a long, low one that’s really quiet. Wears a nice suit, unloads big bags, only stays a night. Can’t be for her looks, handsome bloke that he is. Anyway, he always leaves early, and never with more than one bag. If you ask me, she’s selling drugs for him.
“When she always goes out with her brat on tow, he’s got one of them new watches with a holo-wotsit display. How can she afford that working at the farm shop? Maisie tells me she’s never brought her kid to work, either. How does she pay for day-care? And you should see her phone. Oh my God, I can’t afford a basic Z-Phone, let alone the big one in the etched chrome case like she has! Then there’s her home. No old stuff at all. It all looks new, and her main screen is huge! Maisie’s hubby Jeff works at the Entertainment Hub store outside Chi. He said it costs over two grand! How can she claim to be poor if she can afford that sort of-”
“Let me stop you there, madam. That’s a lot of information, and I need to clarify some things.”
“What things?”
“Who is Maisie?”
“My best friend.”
“The swish car: did you notice the number plate?”
“648X701. Maisie’s Jeff thinks it’s a private plate. What’s someone who can afford those doing visiting a shop assistant in Barnet Wood?”
“A good question, madam. Now, I see you’ve called about this before. What made you call again?”
“She hasn’t been arrested!”
“You did receive the results of our last investigation, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But I’m sure her fancy man has friends in high places. Got the investigation shut down.”
“Madam, the investigation was not interfered with. It found no fraud.”
“That’s a lie. I’m not wrong. Maisie said it’s like those infovids you see online. You think they’re raving, until it happens to you. So you make sure your people do their jobs this time. Get her sent back home.”
Removing the headset, Flynn looks at the information laid out across his displays. ‘Louisa Templehoff’ has never claimed benefits. The diplomatic number plate gave him a clue. Routine queries and media archives provided enough to fill the gaps.
A princess from one of the asteroid belt monarchies had a fling while holidaying on Mars. Got pregnant. Refused to ‘do the right thing’. Disowned by her family, she quickly slipped from the news. Ten years later, it seems she’s settled, quietly raising her son in a little village on Earth.
It’s an unexpectedly happy ending – apart from the bigot who lives across the road.
by Julian Miles | Nov 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The auditorium is full to capacity, aisles filled with standing attendees as well. The rush and lull of a thousand conversations fades as a single figure strolls out onto the stage.
Pausing by the lectern, the figure picks up a remote control and presses two buttons. The lights dim. Text appears on the big screen above.
LIFE ON TARKO
Presented by Votra Darun
Votra, the figure on stage, bows.
“Good evening, gentlebeings. Let me be the first to welcome you to this tropical paradise, and the only one who has to remind you about the dangers of living here.”
They look out at the sea of rapt faces.
“Okay, lets get things started. Who among you are fans of vampire stories and similar horror fare?”
A small percentage of hands rise, accompanied by faint laughter.
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know you’re about the best suited Earthlings to dwell here.”
Votra spreads their hands, then places them down, and leans on the lectern.
“This is a standard speech, so please save any questions until I finish, and do look them up in our digital FAQ before asking me.
“Tarko has one sentient race, the Tarkomene. They are, from our initial point of view, an advanced race that clings to an honour-based society grounded in ancient tribal culture. Once we got to know them, we realised why they’ve never become spacefarers, despite having the technology.
“Although they look like us, except for wider mouths and serrated teeth, they are sensuphages: they eat sentient beings, including their own kind. The honour codes they abide by are what prevents them from tearing their civilisation apart. Confining themselves on spaceships would be tantamount to suicide. It’s also why their oceans are free of deep-sea vessels.
“Please be clear: a Tarkomene will eat you, given the opportunity. They really like how we taste, too.”
They press a button. The image that appears on screen is so awful it takes everyone a few seconds to understand it. Horrified cries and shouting people leaving the auditorium occupy the next few minutes. Votra presses the button. The image is replaced by another, this one of a Tarkomene child flying an eagle-shaped kite.
They continue: “One of the key points of our treaty is that any human residing on Tarko is subject to Tarkomene law. Therefore, if you get eaten, an honour payment will be made to your next of kin. No further action will be taken.”
“You can live here, enjoying wonderful benefits and a fine quality of life, providing you obey a few simple precautions. The fundamental one is that the honour code forbids killing in residences. Therefore, you never go out alone. After dark, four is the minimum number. Also, never go anywhere unarmed. If possible, ensure you have a non-improvised melee weapon within easy reach at all times. Note that firearms and suchlike are forbidden, as the Tarkomene consider range weapons dishonourable.”
Votra pauses while the trickle of people leaving becomes a stream. It’s funny how the idea of carrying primitive weapons puts off more people than the threat of being eaten.
“From the moment you exit this zone – through the red gates you might have seen on the far side of the park – you are a member of Tarkomene society, and may be killed and eaten if you cannot defend yourself.”
They smile, revealing serrated teeth in their otherwise-normal human face.
“Some of you may even fully adapt to living here, like my mother did.”
More people hurry out.
Votra regards the sixty or so who remain.
“Welcome to Tarko.”
