by Julian Miles | Oct 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The squad’s sitting there having breakfast when Tommo’s head explodes. Just like that, we’re all on the deck.
Except Bert. He’s still sat there noshing his way through a bacon butty.
“Bert! What the frack?”
He swallows before replying.
“When was the last time they missed? We’re the ones who shoot everywhere.”
Well I’ll be a unicorn’s other horn. He’s right. We all grab our nosh – although nobody sits back up at the table.
Sandy grins.
“Got any more insights, o bacon oracle?”
Bert nods.
“Why are we still alive? Check our sensors. Nothing spotted anything, yet we’re a trooper down.”
Clem nods.
“Just like when we lost Avro.”
Just like… I stand up and look about. Three hundred and sixty degrees of sodden moorland, with a pair of turd-brown duck-billed hawks flapping their ungainly way eastward.
Damon hisses.
“Billy. Don’t be a hero. Get your head down.”
I reply without complying.
“When was the last time we lost more than one in an attack?”
That starts something. Notes are compared. Clem even calls his oppo in Unit Two. End result: nobody can remember.
Bert burps softly.
“I seem to have started something. Try this: how often do we lose that one trooper?”
The casualty schedule checking is easy after Clem calls Sergeant Winifred, his brother-in-law, and head of the field hospital guard.
Winifred returns the call quickly.
“Twenty-five days ago. Twenty-one before that. Then twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-one, twenty-three… You get the idea?”
Damon curses under his breath.
“Full moon.”
Oh, frack. Of course. This place has a twenty-odd day lunar cycle.
“We lose a trooper on the night of each full moon.”
Sandy pulls out his datapad and starts hunting hard.
“What’s up?”
He replies, but doesn’t look up.
“We’re tasked with maintaining a presence so the locals don’t molest our scientific expeditions.”
“So?”
“Before we arrived, they took casualties. I’m reconciling their losses with ours,” he points at the screen, “and it ties up. Every full moon.”
Sergeant Winifred chimes in.
“Didn’t early survey reports mention something about sacrifices?”
Bert nods, then speaks, realising Winifred can’t see him nod.
“Yes. One of the positive influence points was us being able to persuade the locals into stopping the ritual killings.”
Sandy states it.
“Persuade? Or offer up disposable, non-local victims?”
Damon shudders.
“That’s fracked.”
Bert shakes his head.
“Just because you’re not paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to sacrifice you.”
We laugh. Then go silent.
Sergeant Winifred breaks first.
“What next?”
Clem points at me.
“If the kills are arranged, then whatever’s doing them has clearance for our detectors. I think Lieutenant Billy should raise a zero-tolerance alert next full moon.”
He’s right. The system won’t allow tampering, but a hostile action state negates all exceptions, and lasts two days before it’s queried.
I nod to Clem.
“Excellent idea. Plus we service all weapons the day before.”
Twenty-three days later we’re having breakfast when the intruder alarm howls. Sentry batteries snort out a barrage of lethal. Something crashes to the ground over by Unit 2.
We get there in time to meet Sergeant Winifred.
“Big, winged hostile carrying a standard issue sniping beamer. Verified by serial number.”
They even provided the weapons!
“Secure imagery and evidence.”
I look about.
“Units One and Two, pack it up! We all RTB, then kick up a fuss. Go public and wide.”
I’m betting the few responsible will fade back, letting selected idiots take the fall. Doesn’t really matter. We’ll stop losing friends.
Revenge will have to be done carefully, but it’s inevitable. There will be an accounting.
by Julian Miles | Oct 7, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
George is waving his arms about again: never a good sign. Neela catches my eye and nods towards him, raising her eyebrows and frowning. Receiving the ‘sort it out’ message loud and clear, I take a last drag, then stub out my smoke.
His voice fades in as I approach.
“…then they got control of Area 51 and it all went sideways. The Belters wouldn’t tolerate a Saurian takeover, and the Ice Guardians are notorious for striking down any who threaten the Great Gates – Hiya, Mike – so Breakout Two instigated the genocide early to prevent further chaos.” He points at me. “Couldn’t wait to hear me finish my reveal of the Antarctic Deep Bastions, eh?” Waving to the half-dozen new arrivals gathered about him, he shakes his head, “You’ll have to wait until I’ve finished bringing the latest intake up to speed on our vital role in stopping the completion of the satanic agenda.”
I take a deep breath, consider my options, then speak.
“That’s enough, George.”
He looks at me.
“Enough what? We have to be ready for the call up. That means preparation, and our scavenging must change: it has to prioritise weapons and IED components. It’s too focussed on things to make us comfortable, and we all know how dangerous getting complacent can be: idle minds are grist for Satan’s mill.”
More than enough.
“Where’s Justin, George?”
He waves his hand towards the tents just visible under the trees.
“Volunteered for chores with Pilly. Doing his part, like I’m trying to. Gillian-”
No.
“What about Gillian?”
He catches my change of tone and pauses, momentarily nonplussed.
“She said I should-”
His face goes slack with surprise as Justin wanders up, arriving from the direction of the fish ponds – they’re on the opposite side to the tents. He’s hand-in-hand with Pilly.
“Mum said we’re trying to survive after an apocalypse, but instead of facing reality, you carry on with the fantasies that let you feel important. You told her she’d been perverted by Satan into trying to stop your holy mission. So mum left.”
I nod to him. Polite, but with an edge of anger. Entirely justified.
“Satan lured her away to serve the Saurians. Just you wait: she’ll be back with their lackeys soon, and you’ll all rue the day you ignored me.”
I look about until I spot Chas, our de facto leader. Catching his eye, I raise my eyebrows in query. We’ve talked about our resident conspiraloon often. I think we’ve finally hit decision time. Chas raises one finger, then hitches his thumb towards the entrance. Once chance or out. Got it.
“George, it’s time to choose. Either you shut up and start working with us, or you leave.”
He looks surprised.
“What? No, no. You’re wrong. You need me. I know about what’s really happening. All this,” he waves his hands about, “is a distraction from the satanic agenda. They’re-”
Gillian shouts.
“Coming to enslave us so their conquest of the Earth in Satan’s name will be complete? Or is it to kill us all to spite God? I could never work out which.”
She strolls up, trail pack and rifle cradled in her arms.
“I’m back, puddin’. Time for you to leave.”
George seems to shrink under her gaze.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Satan’s whore. But we both have our crosses to bear, don’t we?”
He looks at those gathered about us, then turns to me.
“Walk me out?”
I nod. The least I can do is endure his final rant.
by Julian Miles | Sep 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Time of death: five twenty-one.”
Ben glances away from the clock as the doors of the operating theatre swing open. Three figures in grey suits enter. Following behind them is a cadaver drone.
The foremost points to the body on the table.
“Ours.”
Ben’s about to obstruct the intruders when Nurse Kino grabs him by the arm.
“Let them.”
The nearest figure turns slightly and inclines their head towards her. Ben notices the rest of the surgical team have stepped back.
The drone opens to reveal a padded bench. As it does so, the body on the operating table lifts into the air. Implements and equipment drift down to settle gently on the table. Sutures and staples spring from the body and alight like feathers.
With the shedding of medical sundries completed, the body floats into the drone and settles on the bench.
The rearmost figure speaks.
“Thank you for your respect.”
Before Ben can formulate a reply, the three visitors exit, drone in their wake.
The doors swing to.
He looks about, watching the others exchange glances.
“Somebody care to tell the contractor what just happened?”
Nurse Kino hastily releases his arm, then pats it lightly.
“That was a retrieval team from Re:Life.”
He pauses, smirks, then bursts out laughing.
“Okay. You caught me with that. Don’t try following up with cryogenics, though. Who were they?”
Senior Nurse Clara steps across to back Kino.
“She wasn’t joking. You just encountered the Beings from Heaven.”
Ben raises a hand.
“You’re serious. You believe those were Angelics?”
“They exist. Third time this year they’ve come for the dead.”
Ben looks about. He sees nods of agreement.
“I thought they only turned up for the rich?”
Nurse Naront waves a tentacle in disagreement.
“It is said they come for those who have made an arrangement with them. Others do say it’s down to being able to pay. Yet some say they’re being taken to pay for another’s sins. A few believe it’s selection by genetic purity, but there’s no agreement about criteria. The truth? Nobody knows.”
Ben dodges the nurses and runs through the doors. Only way to find out is to ask, because it’s clear the surgical team haven’t. He calls to a nearby orderly.
“Three suits. Drone carrier. Which way?”
The man points back past him towards the grav shafts, then points up. Ben races that way and throws himself into the ascent shaft. Wafting rapidly upwards, he thinks about which floor: long term care, premiere ward, Skyline Restaurant, or landing pad?
“Landing pad.”
Exiting the grav shaft, he jogs along a short hallway and arrives on the open roof, chill early morning air cutting through his scrubs to make him shiver.
The pads are empty.
“We don’t need vessels, Ben.”
Ben spins about. One of the figures stands nearby, a portal of sparkling energy at their back.
“We merely avoid witnesses.”
“Why?”
“Secrecy. The truth you want is simple: some beings deserve a second chance, free from the ties of their previous existence. We provide it.”
“How much?”
“Nothing. We choose.”
“Why bother to talk to me, then?”
“You’re wasting your talent because of one mistake.”
Ben takes a step back.
“If you die without forgiving yourself, we will offer you this chance.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because if this encounter changes the direction of your life, another can be gifted.”
“How will you know?”
“Things work differently where we come from.”
“So that’s it?”
They step back through the portal.
“Yes.”
The portal closes.
Ben stands and watches the dawn, wrestling with both conscience and disbelief.
by Julian Miles | Sep 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Yet again, we’re a long way from home. As usual, I get everyone’s attention with a short blast of the klaxon, which – also as usual – prompts a round of rude guesswork over the comm as the likelihood of me ever having another sex partner.
“You’re still not funny, people. We’re on approach to Macho. Get ready. You know how badly this could go wrong. Sarah, what’s the scan count?”
She chuckles.
“Emma, if the various scans were actual weapons, we’d have been sliced to bits. Macho hasn’t become any less paranoid.”
Jahnee snorts loudly.
“Something to do with them being declared a brigand planet, by any chance?”
They loot other worlds because they’ve poisoned their own. ‘Brigand’ is the polite definition.
A wide-hail comes in.
“This is Macho Defence Control. State your business, back off, or burn.”
Nice.
“This is free trader Bluehammer with over a tonne of Bushmills Céad Bliain. Heard you’re in the market.”
Since the trade embargoes clamped down, they haven’t had a drop of legally imported booze, and we’re betting they’ve had nothing of this quality.
“A tonne?”
“One point one five, and someone’s missing it, if you get my meaning.”
“We hear that, Bluehammer. Follow route four. What class are you?”
“Firefly with a Dillingham lift conversion.”
“Land in bay ten.”
“Gotcha, MDC. I presume a dealer will visit?”
“You bet.”
I grin at Jahnee.
“If the dealer arrives, you and Mike are owners aboard. The rest of us are fluffies. You know the drill.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Prepare countermeasures. Get targeting coordinates for their defences. If we’re there long enough, sell the Bushmills. When Queen Gladys Ewing arrives with her kids, we get them all off this hellhole.”
Natalie sticks her head through the doorway.
“Got confirmation the resistance are ready to drop indirect fire on the co-ordinates we supply.”
She shakes her head.
“A resistance movement on the planet of misogynists. Holy hell.”
Sarah chimes in.
“We’re here to help the royal family escape King Frederick. Gladys is off to raise a force to come back and liberate with extreme prejudice. Crown Prince Talon is a baby. Crown Princess Trixabelle is nearly what they call breeding age around here.”
I suppress a shudder. Not going to ask.
We land hard: must get the shock absorption units serviced.
“APC incoming!”
Already?
“It’s being pursued by two limousines. One of them has a bloke stood on its roof with a machine gun in each hand, shooting at the APC!”
Macho by name…
“Okay, I’m betting the APC is Team Queen, and the hecklers are Team King. Swat the goons.”
Somebody’s ready on fire control, because I hear the ‘whoosh-hiss’ of our beam cannon firing. There’s an explosion nearby.
“Took shooter boy off at the hips and turned the rear limo into a crater.”
“What about the front limo?”
“It’s just pulled a screaming U-turn, and is retreating faster than it arrived.”
Yeah. I’d run from a hostile beam cannon, too.
“Okay, get the cargo lift ready, but don’t lower it until we see who’s in the APC.”
It slides to a stop and nine people erupt from it, five women, three kids, and a baby.
“Load all! Sarah, push targeting data on the channels Natalie hopefully provided.”
Natalie shouts up.
“Cheeky mare! What do you think we are, amateurs?”
I laugh.
We’re from Bluebird, anonymously helping abuse victims escape to better lives. As we’re free traders operating under aliases, there’s minimal chance of the abusers tracking us.
“All boarded!”
This one’s going to make history, though.
“Taking off in three, two, one…”
by Julian Miles | Sep 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Carlo looks about suspiciously, looking for those he knows are watching his every move. Turning his gaze back to Doug, he takes a drag on his vape before continuing, talking through a cloud of strawberry-scented fog.
“You see it’s all an illusion. That’s the thing they’re hiding. We’re just here because they set it up like this, you know, it’s like the Matrix and 1984 rolled up and all the greys have lizard eyes.”
Doug frowns.
“Don’t quite follow. So you’re trying to wake up?”
Carlo nods.
“You got it. Wake up so you can see the tiles that make up the sky and the frozen mountains around the edge of the world. See the overlords for what they are, reveal the universal truth and rob them of their power.”
Doug takes a sip of his coffee, pulls a face and pushes it aside, then leans closer.
“You sure about that? I mean, if they built this place, they’re not to be messed with. How many of them are there? How many can they call on? There’s a lot of people on this world, flat or not.”
Carlo reaches out to snag the rejected coffee, then shakes his head.
“No, mate. That’s the thing. Most of what look like people are just programmed shadows. Hollow people, soulless, put here to distract us.”
“So you’re one of a small group of real people?”
“Spot on. Because, like, we question. If whoever you’re talking to doesn’t question things or refuses to see the truth, chances are you’re dealing with a shadow.”
Doug nods, then raises a finger.
“How do you know I’m not one of those hollow shadow people?”
“Because you’re talking with me, mate, not telling me I’m crazy.”
“So this world we see right now is a huge simulation. Hologram or virtual reality?”
Carlo frowns, then snaps his fingers.
“It’s a mix. The sheeple are down in virtual, their unquestioning belief being used to bind their souls. The ones like you and me, we’ve got something they need, so we’re up here in hologram world. Well, better than a hologram. Got all the senses wired in, you know what I mean?”
Doug nods and takes a sip from his coffee. Carlo starts to take a sip too, then stops and looks at the coffee in his hand, down at his empty coffee cup, then points to the one in Doug’s hand.
“Where did that come from?”
Doug smiles. The cup vanishes from his hand. He takes a bite of the bun that replaces it, then talks while chewing.
“That glitch in your worldview is one we keep running into. I’m just trying a new fix.”
Carlo shakes his head.
“What?”
Doug leans closer.
“Did it ever occur to you that there’s nothing to wake up from? You’re a digital simulacrum of a random sentient brought into being to help us run the Earth Scenario through iteration twenty-eight billion and ten. If you literally ‘woke up’, you’d cease to exist.”
Carlo looks at him, aghast.
“That’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Says the walking, talking executable image known as Carlo who just told me I’m living in a hologram. Look, despite your torrential delusions, I like you. So, check your bank balance after you finish screaming. It’ll show a million pounds and forty-two pence.”
“Why will I be screaming?”
“Because you’ll have realised you don’t want to be awake anymore.”
Doug winks and disappears. The bun hangs in the air until Carlo focusses on it, then disappears with a faint ‘pop’.
Carlo starts screaming.
