by Julian Miles | Jul 7, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“They’re fighting again.”
Bryr-na-ne rouses from her nap and looks up at Bael-la-le.
“What’s new?”
“Nuclear warheads.”
She launches herself off the recliner.
“How long?”
“Their spears launched as I came to tell you it looked bad. I’d say twenty or so of their minutes?”
Racing from the room in a flash of green scales, she leaves only a terse reply.
“Time for them to learn.”
Bael-la-le looks up at the ceiling.
“Eighty years. I’m surprised they lasted this long.”
He finds her standing in the temple, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Who are you intending to teach?”
Bryr-na-ne gestures for him to accompany her as they walk to where the scrying sheets drift, their course and content controlled by the tidesowers who run this never-ending monitoring ritual.
“All of them, to varying degrees. We warned them repeatedly, but they have a problem believing when not confronted with greater force. It’s time to properly evidence our greater force.”
He beckons a pair of screens closer.
“Looks like the first launch was by a rogue faction. Then came automated responses, followed by revenge or fear driven reactions.”
Bryr-na-ne puts her hands on her hips, then switches to resting her knuckles there so her claws don’t dig in.
“Misfire the lot.”
Heads turn, multiple eyelids flickering back in shock.
She looks about at her tidesowers.
“If we’re going to be unsubtle, let’s not make the mistake of doing it surreptitiously.”
One of the elders raises a long claw.
“What about other big bombs?”
Bryr-na-ne shrugs.
“If the landwalkers want to throw death about, it’s on them. We only rein them in if they threaten the Tide.”
“What of further launches?”
“Partial misfires. Let them fly, but no nuclear warheads detonate.”
There are nods. The Tide move to do her will.
Bael-la-le shakes his head.
“They’ll blame combinations of chance, sabotage, or divine intervention.”
“That’s good insight.”
She raises a hand, fingers moving in a summoning gesture. A black guard rushes to her side.
“That rogue unit dies. If they’re already dead, all well and good. If not, make them so.”
As soon as that guard departs, she calls another.
“Take as many teams as necessary. The leaders of the powers who launched, supported or instigated are to be wearing their deputies remains before sundown tomorrow. Not bothered where, nor about witnesses. The deaths should be silent, awful, and inexplicable to their science. Make eldritch art of them.”
She turns to Bael-la-le.
“Set our tidebinders to working mischief: after the misfires, I want the message ‘You will never use nuclear weapons again.’ to appear on several walls in all the residences of their leaders.”
He shakes his head.
“Are you sure that’ll be enough?”
“No. They’ll bluster, lie, and try to evade. Our watch continues, plus every nuclear spear now misfires.”
He nods and starts to turn away, then pauses as Bryn-na-ne starts talking.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. For every spear sent after the warnings are delivered, a senior member of the ruling assembly of the country that fired it gets to be eldritch art.”
“You’re going to start them alien hunting again.”
“Which doesn’t inconvenience us.”
“What of the organisations that know?”
“They’ll not tell. They’re upset at being considered jokes for so long, and most are on our side anyway. Besides, all of them have committed too many atrocities to risk drawing attention.”
“Excellent observation.”
She summons another black guard, whispers to them, then waves them away. He points curiously to the departing figure.
“That looked… Purposeful.”
She grins.
“Actually, that one’s fetching me a snack. I’m famished.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 23, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dropping in from on high is never my favourite part of an op. Jumping off high places pains me more, though. A primitive survival thing, I’m sure: don’t step off cliffs, it’s a really bad idea. There aren’t any cliffs this time, but coming in from just under LEO gives my ‘survival thing’ too much time to worry.
“Jitters on the way down again?”
I check right: Frances waves jauntily, armoured arm and bulky shoulder mount wagging back and forth.
“You know me. Always jitters before the off. Adding height just makes them colder.”
Frances points downwards.
“Might be justified.”
Looking down, I zoom my display to see a group of olive ants running about a-
Autocannon array!
“Where the frag did they get anti-mech weapons?”
I switch to tactical channel.
“Topside, Topside, this is Heavy Dog Two. We have hostile big guns in the LZ.”
Cheryl laughs.
“Yes, they’re mounted on your shoulders.”
Frances cuts in.
“Topside, Heavy Dog Three. Big guns operated by hostiles. We’d love to not die before we hit the ground.”
A channel hisses as it opens. Cheryl turns formal.
“Barrage Actual, Heavy Dogs request assistance with hostiles in their LZ.”
“They on with us?”
I get in.
“Yes.”
“Okay, Heavy Dog. Name your problem.”
“Autocannon array.”
“I was going to ask for coordinates, but for something that big we don’t need ‘em.”
He shouts.
“Jeff! Roll a Thunderhead across the Heavy Dog LZ. Some local’s got themselves autocannon.”
What’s a Thunderhead?
I hear a distant reply.
“Rude bastard to be toasty. Got it. Wait… Harpy Ten’s nearest.”
Barrage Actual chuckles.
“Tuck your feet up, kids. Ten’s new, a big bird, and incoming.”
Quick response. Ye gods!
Dazzling patterns of white light, fire, and flickering darkness scour the LZ top to bottom and side to side. The olive-clad soldiers vanish in balls of flame, along with their autocannons and just about everything else that’s not already smoking dirt.
Frances swears.
What sweeps in below has a wingspan wider than the LZ itself, is patterned in matte grey and black diamonds, and has actual turrets on the wing roots. Up front is what looks like a smoked-out cockpit canopy.
As I think it, the canopy turns transparent to reveal a trio of crew. One looks up and waves. My IFF squawks frantically as the weapons in one turret aim where that crew member is looking.
Before I can brace for anything, the canopy goes dark and Harpy Ten flies on. I still can’t see how it stays in the air.
I get back on comms.
“Thanks Barrage Actual, Topside. We’ll take it from here.”
Frances whispers.
“They said there might be new tech rolling out on this trip, but a specific warning would have saved me from heart failure.”
That gets a short laugh out of me.
“Can’t do that, might give the enemy a heads up. If we nearly lost it at first sight, how do you think they felt getting strafed by it?”
Frances extends a suit arm horizontally, then dramatically stabs a finger downwards repeatedly.
“Them that’s not dead are gone.”
I grin and switch my systems from ‘drop’ to ‘combat’.
“Let’s keep them in that frame of mind, shall we?”
Frances goes wide-hail.
“Heavy Dogs, the LZ is ours. Let’s go take as much ground as firepower and surprise give us.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The fizzing sound stops as the skies turn from vibrant blue to dull purple. A golden sun sinks from view on the horizon.
“The sunset always takes my breath away.”
To be correct, the lack of heat excitation causes the Moatalbana moss to stop emitting oxygen. But the play on words is amusing.
Hanna punches my shoulder, then hands me a breather.
“Good joke. Made me smile.”
“Thanks.”
I pull the straps into place and take that first wonderful hit of full-oxy air. Every night it’s the same. Says a lot about the excitement levels of my days, but I’m here to observe, not become a viral sensation.
Settling next to me, Hanna points to the thin yellow line that’s appeared along the horizon line with the departure of the sun.
“Okay, describe that to me.”
I think I have the words.
“Algae growing on mats of floating seaweed. It fluoresces briefly with the departure of the sun. There’s a study underway to find if it emits or attracts anything.”
We never found that out, either.
“How’s the study going?”
I glance sideways and grin.
“Not thrilling.”
She chuckles briefly, then sighs.
“Story of this planet.”
Ontabalmy is a tired world. A few million years older than Earth, it used to host an advanced technological culture, thousands of years ago. They even looked like humans: news that stunned everyone across human-inhabited space. Which isn’t a big area, to be fair. Three planets, four if Ontabalmy is approved for colonisation.
“It’s a truth. This place is peaceful and benign.”
“Apart from humans being unable to breath after dark?”
“Largely benign, then. Certainly better than Mars. Better sunsets, too.”
She twists to look at me in surprise.
“How do you know that?.”
I smile. I don’t, but –
“An interstellar being of mystery, me.”
I see the edges of teeth in the wide grin behind her faceplate. Her eyes flash with amusement.
“You’re too charming to be real. Explorers are independent types. Rough and ready. Direct and devoid of whimsy.”
“There’s nothing that indicates we can’t also be well mannered.”
There’s a pause. Her expression turns thoughtful.
“True, but being convivial could encourage proximity. We’re still unclear on deeper social mores and mating behaviours.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder.
“That’s our mistake. They’re not all well-balanced, socially adept gregarians. Most of them are anxious, awkward, and stressed. They’re all making it up as they go along, trying to compensate for lives lived in virtual isolation due to their society’s dependence on digital interaction. If we become smooth-talking, socially competent caricatures, we’ll stand out more, not less. Clumsy and unsure, hesitant and slow to trust. That’s the way we need to be.”
She leans in until her mask rests against mine.
“You mean we’re alright as we are?”
I’d nod, but that would break the moment.
“We are. We’re humans, now.”
She sighs.
“Not the last of the Ontabalmins.”
I pause, then laugh softly.
“There’s your proof. You said ‘Ontabalmins’, not ‘Corodatillu’.”
She leans back.
“Is this really it? After four thousand years, we’re awake?”
“Briefly. It’s not like we can do anything except live a while, give a little, then die out. The chamber survival rate was worse than predicted.”
Hanna takes my hand.
“Two out of twenty thousand pairs? I’d say that’s a catastrophe that claimed its creators, not ‘worse than predicted’.” She stops, then smiles. “But… A second life where we know each other from the beginning. I’ll take it, no matter how short.”
I place my other hand over hers.
“Let’s live. Anything else is a bonus.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 9, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
In a dusty corridor away from busy areas of Area 702, two people with ill-fitting lab coats concealing their uniforms are huddled under a disconnected monitoring camera. One takes a hit on a vape stick. The other lights a cigar.
“I heard old Kendrix panicked after Prof Devensor collapsed. Nobody told me why, though. Except that Kendrix was shouting about DEFCON 1 before a security patrol got him with a tranquiliser.”
The vaping one chuckles.
“True enough. Shot him in the ass, neat as you like. Then the dipshit folded down and sat on it. He’s face down in the infirmary with a dressing on his butt. Pantroben has taken over for now.”
The cigar waves for emphasis.
“What on Earth could cause Devensor to faint? The man’s been cutting up things nobody else would touch for decades.”
“Terror. The most fundamental fear of brutal regimes: the opposition finally being able to do to you what you’ve done to them. Doesn’t matter if they’re unlikely to. The fear of getting a dose of ‘do unto others’ is enough. After all, it’s why the bad ones don’t let up until forced: too scared to consider other options.”
“Not fanaticism?”
“To an extent. But lurking under that is the fear. Bullies always fear.”
“We’re drifting off topic.”
The vaper takes another hit, then continues.
“True. Anyway, Dirry-”
“Who?”
“Dirrikillid. Prefers to be called Dirry.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“As you know, Dirry’s dying. Wants to go home. Was promised that when it stayed on voluntarily after Roswell. Which is something the current Administration wasn’t interested in honouring.”
“Am I right in getting a bad feeling?”
“Absolutely. When Dirry got told ‘no’, it just smiled, then told us the other side of why it stayed.”
“Other side? Russia?”
The one with the vape snorts.
“No. I’m sure they’ve got their own visitors hidden away, though.”
“What, then?”
“Back in ’47 Dirry was in contact with what it said was the headquarters for the portion of space that include Earth. Anyway, our Administration figured dismantling the ships put an end to that. Turns out Dirry is in direct communication with the headquarters, and always has been.”
“Bet that reveal didn’t go down well.”
“You’d win. Oh my God did it not.”
“Okay, I’m beginning to understand why you asked for a meet. Give me the rest.”
“If we don’t send Dirry home, then ‘home’ will come for Dirry. In force. With representatives from all the races involved in keeping watch over Earth. Turns out several of the ‘alien beasts’ Devensor vivisected were actually dignitaries from interstellar superpowers. Those superpowers haven’t been given the gory details of the ‘unfortunate deaths while on confidential missions’ – otherwise we’d already have been reduced to surviving in bunkers and internment camps.”
“If we don’t co-operate, they’ll be informed?”
The vaping man turns his vape off.
“Yes.”
The cigar gets stubbed out on a wall.
“The president will announce a new age of space exploration within a week. How long do we have?”
“Dirry estimates it has less than a year to live, but reassures us that we only need to get it out beyond Mars. Any vessel we send past there will be met.”
“That’s doable. Using an unmanned shuttle for the last stage, of course. Leave it with me.”
“Thanks. Good to see you again, old friend.”
“Been a while, true enough. Stay clean. I’ll be in touch.”
The vaping man reaches up and reconnects the monitoring camera. As it pans left, he walks quickly to the right. When it pans back, his old friend strides off leftwards.
by Julian Miles | Jun 2, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Joey looks around at the crowd.
“I see we’ve some new faces tonight. Thanks for coming.”
He presses his palms flat on the table.
“You’ve done what each of us has done at some point in the last few years: you’ve realised there’s something deeply wrong with our world. Those we’re told are leaders, and those we’ve had held up as experts, are all lying.”
Sounds of wordless agreement swell, then fade.
“Some of you have already lost friends and family over this. For those who haven’t, trust me when I say it’ll happen to you. Every person returning here tonight has been cancelled by people they thought strong. People they thought loyal. It’s a hard path we walk.”
There are nods. Sympathetic glances and pats on the shoulder are exchanged.
“You can’t explain to them. You’ll try, but until each of them takes the steps you have, they’ll reject the truths you offer.”
“What truths are they, though?”
Joey swings his gaze to meet that of a short, wiry guy. He sees himself reflected in the lenses of the spectacles this retro-styled apparition is wearing. Are those video glasses? No. Just deeply vintage. The exotic earbuds kind of spoil the ensemble, though.
“Welcome, friend. Before I answer, let me ask where you are in the Matrix? Shadow government? Slave cities? Project Eurostate? Tartarian Empire?”
He adjusts his glasses.
“I’m from beyond the ice wall.”
Everybody turns their attention to him.
Grinning, Joey straightens up.
“Another veteran reality pilot! Well, those territories are still out there, but only a select few will get to see them.”
The short guy nods.
“Because of the Satanic Cabal?”
Joey waves his hands dismissively.
“That’s just another diversion. Tartaria didn’t fall. It’s the hidden Fourth Reich. Until we’re ready to colonise the lands beyond the wall, they’ll keep us here. No point in invading until we’re sure to conquer.”
The short guy bursts out laughing.
“Oh, by the gods! A new conspiracy!”
He leans forward to stare Joey in the eye.
“Is it your truth, or did someone give it to you?”
Joey nods.
“Took me a while to see it, but the only thing that makes sense is we’re being restrained.”
“You think the stagnation has a cause beyond the maniacal thirst for power?”
“Without question. There’s no way the population of an entire planet would let itself be ruled by a tiny group of self-centred sociopaths without some sort of intervention.”
“Something beyond the abilities of those sociopaths and their schemes?”
“Absolutely.”
The short guy smiles.
“Can I run the alternative past you all?”
There’s a pause, then nods and looks of surprise.
Joey grins.
“Go for it.”
The short guy claps his hands together.
“All of the conspiracy theories are true, but not all are true for this Earth.”
A voice comes from the back of the room.
“What?”
The short guy checks his bulky wristwatch.
“Quick version, then: beyond the ice wall are twenty-six other Earths. Each has two active conspiracies. However, right now, your Earth has no conspiracies because it’s the control world for this century. The simple truth is that you only have yourselves to blame for what you’re living through.”
Joey looks about at the stunned faces, then bursts out laughing.
“That’s too far gone to even be funny.”
The short guy slowly looks about, then shrugs.
“Have it your ways, then. Cheerio.”
He turns and leaves. People chat and laugh. More drinks are ordered. The evening carries on.
Joey wakes just before dawn, heart pounding. Why did the short guy count how many people were nodding?
