by Julian Miles | Aug 25, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“It really is nice that world leaders would meet me at such short notice.”
The President waves a hand towards the kilometre-long spaceship that had appeared without warning above Washington DC.
“Your presence is impossible to conceal. Panic is escalating. We thought it best.”
The garishly-dressed triped nods.
“Given the time constraint, we decided to be obvious for once.”
Concerned looks are exchanged.
The Prime Minister glares at the alien in the room.
“You’ve visited before? What constraint?”
“We’ve been visiting for longer than you’ve been here. The constraint? One moment.”
It pulls out an ornate scroll, then reads from it.
“Greetings, residents of the star-orbiting mass locally identified as ‘Earth’. In accordance with the terms retranscribed during in the Ker-Ys Reaffirmation of the Nesoi Treaty, notice is hereby given that the sentients-in-residence, self-identifying as ‘humans’, now need to depart for the non-local residence codenamed ‘Heaven’ as they agreed to do. In accordance with conditions set upon those terms, a delay is granted for the arrangement of those departures due to difficulties previously encountered in contacting the non-local entities that operate the aforementioned destination.”
The being looks up.
“It being around midsummer here, I’m happy to say Galaxus have agreed a convenient expatriation date: we’ll start the mass reset on the next summer solstice at this location. We prefer to use celestial events for timings – leaves no room for confusion.”
The scroll retracts.
“Anyway, if you could all pop off before that moment, it would be lovely. We’re even prepared to offer early departure bonuses for those emigrating before winter solstice.”
The Premier looks about at her ashen-faced peers.
“Excuse me… Actually, who are you?”
The being bows.
“Thank you for asking. I’m Galaxus Ambassador Dougalla Brox.”
The Premier frowns.
“You’re aware we don’t have the technology for large-scale space flight?”
“Yes. One of my predecessors raised that matter and was reassured by Gralon Meriadoc Liege that your owner, Almighty God the Creator, would find it simple to implement. I can also reconfirm the stipulation that any sentients left behind be made aware of their unworthiness can also be met. By the way: do you have an updated text for us to use, or will the original suffice?”
First Member stabs a finger frantically at his phone, then looks up, eyes wide.
“You expect us to leave Earth based on a treaty agreed with a minor European king over fifteen centuries ago?”
The being turns to face him.
“Euro-what? Anyway, the answer is ‘Yes’. There are only so many times we can extend the half-millennia wait period. Three is the absolute limit. Really, my management team have been expecting you lot to do your ‘ascend’ thing for the last half-millennia. When it didn’t happen, they decided we’ve been patient for long enough, and here I am.”
The Chairman slams his fist down on the table.
“How could a pissant monarch dictate to the world? It is he who was unworthy, not us!”
The being pauses for a minute, then raises a claw.
“Please forgive us, we’ve made a horrible error. We missed that your worthy have already ascended. I’ll leave you to your preparations for extinction.”
The being fades from view.
After a moment, the Premier stands up.
“I propose that all media are to speculate about ongoing delicate negotiations and the like, but the pervasive tone must be relentlessly optimistic: ‘a new age is coming’. Meanwhile, we need to jumpstart a top-secret offworld colony project with an eleven-month window. Mars is now stage one, not the final destination.”
The show of hands is unanimous.
by Julian Miles | Aug 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Wizard One, remind me again why I’m face down in a flower bed in downtown fuck-knows-where?”
“Maintain comms discipline, Fighter Zero. However, I am authorised to say you look lovely with a sprinkling of daisies on your arse.”
“Tell Gandalf to get himself a new hobbit, because you’re gonna be visiting Mount Doom when I get back.”
“Promises, promises. That’s the problem with you orcs, all talk, no- Whup! Incoming on your five.”
The buildings about me are lit by the blue radiance that comes from whatever it is that stops anything we have from getting to them.
Seventeen months ago they came from nowhere and fucked up just about everywhere so fast nobody even got a chance to name them. Quite honestly, we’re not sure we’ve got a whole planet left to save. But sorting that out will have to wait.
Eight weeks ago Charlie and Green teams had a skirmish with a small group of invaders, which they escaped from by dint of dropping a multi-storey car park on them. After-action scouting found an invader flattened under a couple of tons of exit ramp. Probably thought it safe to abandon because they could destroy any attempt at digging it out. What they didn’t know about is the main sewer that runs a few metres under the car park. We dug upwards and retrieved the mangled remains. From the lumpy greenish mince we extracted bent gear, conductive mesh, and one functional miniaturised generator.
I’m wearing what the bright folks back at DR&D – the first ‘D’ standing for ‘Desperate’ – reckon could let us shoot the bastards. After exhausting all the obvious forcefield options and other advanced stuff I don’t really understand, one particularly mad scientist made a discovery: we can’t shoot them because they’re not really here! Their forcefield doesn’t stop things, it puts the wearers slightly out-of-step with our reality. Not enough to make them invisible – the potential of that concept scared a few higher-ups badly – but just enough to make them insubstantial to physical interaction. We can see them, but we literally can’t touch them.
If it works, the mesh I’m wearing puts me on the same ‘wavelength’ as them. If it doesn’t… I’ll be another dead hero.
They’re all about me. There’s a hum that’s making my teeth ache.
Game on.
“Wizard One, going live.”
I bounce up, select targets by fanciest headgear, and let them have it. Three-round bursts, focus on head or upper centre mass until things get fluid.
Their armour is useless! We thought their technology did something with the base materials to make it more effective. Obviously not. AP bullets are punching through fleeing figures. How long have they relied on this displacement trick?
Rolling out of a reload crouch, I pop back up and set to wreaking havoc with FMJ. This shooting range can’t last. Somebody’s got to get their shit together, surely?
I’m on my fifth magazine and hunting the routed when something white-hot and crackling goes past my ear. I spin, bringing targeting sights up on my night vision. Ah-ha. Here they come. Squad of four, diamond formation. I align the grenade pattern on their lead and let the launcher on my back deliver Guy Fawkes Night early.
The rig on my thigh is from a project experimenting with teleportation. The result remains inexplicable: whatever is teleported always reappears at the underground facility where their first test succeeded. Useless for bouncing about, great for getaways.
Like now. As the grenades erupt, I’m gone.
by Julian Miles | Aug 11, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two words. Nothing else.
He turns the envelope over, then puts it down and picks up the ornate Kaldotarnib honour blade and turns that over before sliding it from the scabbard. He makes a few passes in the air, finishing with a swift double strike move. Closing his eyes, he touches the hilt to his forehead, then sheathes it.
A priceless artefact from a bitter war that still rages, accompanied by a mystery message.
He puts the blade down and picks up the envelope. When it first arrived, he’d joked with the courier about including a letter opener. That would be tantamount to sacrilege. He pulls his dagger and slices the top edge of the envelope off, then peers inside.
Tipping the single sheet onto the table, he rotates it with point of the dagger until the words become legible.
Hello, you shovel-jawed bastard, it’s Nat.
These days I’m Flag Sergeant Reece of the 51st Highlanders, but I sometimes wake wondering why you or one of your gang haven’t tipped me onto the floor.
Then I realise college days are nine years past. Well, in my timeline anyway. Not sure what the time difference from FTL transit has done on your side. One of my techs reckons it’ll be nearer thirty years for you.
Wondering why I sent you a letter? Just read it once. You owe me that much, fucker.
Don’t know what they’re telling you on the home worlds, but we are actually winning most of the time. Just my bad luck to be here for one of the times we won’t.
The Kaldotarnib are as ferocious as you’ve no doubt been told. They’re also weirdly honour-bound. Which is how you got this letter, and a beautiful blade along with it. You see, we’re stuck on Agral 3. The locals switched sides a week ago. We’ve been scrambling to get our non-combatants offworld ever since. Despite moments of glory, we’ve been massacred.
I’m huddled in a wrecked building with the last of my own. We’re all writing. There’s no way eighteen of us can stall the advance. If they keep going, the civilians crammed into the spaceport will be slaughtered.
So we’ve challenged the Kaldotarnib to an honour tournament. By their codes, those certain to be defeated can redeem their honour by facing a succession of combatants, providing they kill at least one of them.
They’ve stopped their advance while eighteen of us die in ritual single combat with Kaldotarnib bladekin. If we manage to slay one or more, the honour blade of our first kill is granted to our family, along with the last letter. If we don’t, the letter is burned along with the corpse. More importantly, us fighting one at a time will give the transports time to lift and FTL out.
It’s so fucking sad that you’re the only person I have to send this to. I left because of the bullying. Couldn’t even come back when my parents died.
I raged against you for so long. Oddly, it made me tougher. Made me kick the crap out of the bullies I came across. Nobody should have to go through what you put me through.
But –
Those kickings revealed the bullies had problems of their own. That made me think. Eventually, it made me let my rage go. Made me want to ask what fucked you up so badly.
So here it is –
Have you escaped your demons, Jon?
I hope you have. I really do.
Take care of yourself,
Nat.
Jon wipes away tears, then whispers into the silence.
“Bastard… Sorry.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Mum always said ice mining is a stupid idea. Whenever she said that, Dad just shrugged and went back to watching videos about playing the markets to get rich.
I’m not sure if it was her crazy enthusiasms for anything that might get us ‘a better life’ or his stubborn insistence everything would be great ‘this time next year’ that drove me to leave as soon as I could.
“Jamal.”
Laetengrand is an ice planet in the Qwang-Chi Archaeological Zone. A very long time ago, back before it froze over – they’re still arguing about how that happened – it was at the heart of the Qwang-Chi Empire. Long story short: it froze over really fast. Under a millennia or two of ice there’s a huge chunk of a civilization several centuries advanced from ours. While we’ve yet to reach any cities down there, we’ve found a few exotic flying vehicles and crystalline veins of a substance someone named ‘klectothene’.
“Jamal!”
We presume it used to be a fuel of some kind. The storage ruptured and it leaked. A strange process induced by cold, pressure, and time has resulted in the veins which yield purple crystals that can power spaceships. Our radiant core drives were traded from the Lenkormians. Attempts to reverse engineer them have been unsuccessful. However, putting a chunk of klectothene in place of the core – the part we couldn’t replicate – results in a drive twenty percent more powerful that lasts twice as long.
“JAMAL!”
I wake. I’m up against the right bulkhead, which is now the floor.
“Here. What happened?”
“Terfor set a thermic charge to collapse the tunnel.”
“This close to The Scar?”
We’re meant to be a pioneer culture: friendly rivalry but pulling together when it matters. Outright greed means some of us fall short of the pioneering spirit.
“Exactly. He set it to trigger on movement. Luckily you had that drone skitter running ahead of your digger, which set it off early. Terfor was still in the section that cracked off.”
That sort of iceshift can’t have been good for- oh no.
“How much went in, and how far am I under?”
“The Scar is gone. The biggest ice crevasse on Laetengrand has become a thirty-kilometre-long dip in the snowscape that’s still settling in places.”
“How far?”
There’s a ‘do we tell him or not?’ period of silence.
“Over three kilometres.”
Deeper than any have gone and survived. Deeper…
“Am I over land or sea?”
Ice sheets cover the whole planet, including a couple of sizeable oceans. Way back before they discovered klectothene, they used another crevasse to drop a space battleship down into the depths to act as an underwater base. The method sounds crazy but works because the old dreadnoughts were built to withstand solaric weapons. Being underwater, the only threat is faster corrosion.
“Sea side.”
“Call Dreadnought Base. Find out where their submersibles are. There’s no point in me going swimming if all I’m going to do is consign myself to a watery grave.”
Another long silence.
A deafening ‘ping’ sounds throughout my rig.
“Did you hear that?”
“It rattled my teeth.”
“Hey, Bacarude. That hit you got is Jamal. Patching you in.”
“Hi, Jamal. You’re only eight metres from open water. Lucky for you we came to see what the collapse shook loose.”
“Prepare to catch a sinking digger.”
“Ready.”
I scramble over and activate the side cutters. There are grinding noises, everything shakes, then there’s a lurch, followed by silence.
Something clangs against my hull.
“Gotcha. Next stop: Dreadnought Base.”
I’m not dying today. Excellent.
“Thank you!”
by Julian Miles | Jul 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Go left. Left! Between the trees.”
“Rule nineteen: do not follow a road.”
“Not the gap on the right. The gap on the left. Left!”
Tersi rests a hand on my shoulder and cuts into my comms.
“Check definition: road. Query application of rule. Go left.”
“Revision: indicated route is not in contravention.”
I watch the view shift until rows of trunks are hurtling past on either side. Muting the line, I pat their hand.
“I don’t know how you do it. Every day I hate the asshat who mandated A.I. for frontline ops.”
“I’m immune. Spend four years seconded from tactical to A.I. training and command clarification becomes second nature.”
“Must make it easier.”
They pat me on the head.
“Well, dealing with the A.I. is.”
“Set myself up for that.”
“True. Right, the swarm are approaching the first marker. What’s on the menu?”
I check my defensive breakdown.
“We’ve got Taranis engaging the top cover, so we’re up against gatling cannon, rapid-fire missile batteries, and net casters. Plus the usual hawks.”
They slap my head.
“Wired trees!”
“Altitude plus twenty.”
I see the view rise. The makeshift wall of cable-strung branches passes below.
“Mission default.”
The view drops again. My display lights with red and blue markers.
“Red Flight engage. Blue flight engage. Green flight engage.”
Tersi crouches down by me.
“Green flight already?”
“They’re looking to drive us down to the gatlings. Standard tactic is to accelerate under the hawks and missiles.”
“So green flight are a pre-emptive response. When the gatlings pop their hatches…”
“They’ll be ready.”
“What are you payload wings?”
“Yellow flight: double stack of Darts. Standard 20-kilo HE. One in four is split-load with incendiary. One in ten has special ordnance instead.”
“Which we’re not mentioning. Out of curiosity, though: razors or pellets?”
“Duriken.”
“They went ahead with those? All hell will break loose when warfare monitors find out.”
“There’s a Red Wolf flight in a holding pattern, ready for clear up.”
“How exactly do you ‘clear up’ depleted uranium using flyers?”
“Seeding strike on their munitions piles.”
“So it’s not our depleted uranium mines they’ll find. The enemy was planning a war crime. Lucky we stalled it, etcetera. Good headlines, pats on the back all round.”
“You got the whole thing in one. I had to explain it some.”
“Which is why you run them and not the other way round.”
I check the statuses.
“We’re through. Took down eight out of ten of theirs, lost half of ours. You want to add the rest to the delivery or loop them back?”
“That doubles the strike size. Add them.”
“All flights go yellow.”
An extra hundred lights turn yellow. I watch views shift as they join the strike formations.
“Looking good.”
All the views go dazzlingly bright, then blink out.
Tersi leans forward.
“Surely that’s too soon.”
They’re not wrong. I bring up the Red Wolf station scans: a collage built from views when each is pointing the right way.
Flames. A sea of flames. I call for statuses. Nothing.
Tersi flicks her comms to ‘all’.
“This is Home Flight. Op Abort. If you’ve got anything, bring it back.”
They glance at me.
“I’d heard about a low flying drone response based on a banned World War One weapon. A Livens Flame Projector. It was banned for being too horrific. Fired a hundred-metre cone of napalm.”
I watch the flames.
“Mounted in towers, two hundred metre range, pitched towards the right altitude. No humans to incinerate.”
I glance at Tersi.
“The atrocities restart here.”
She frowns.
“True. No way they’ll hold back.”
