by Julian Miles | Sep 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Sally peers from under the racking, checks both ways, then hisses at me.
“You think they’ve gone?”
I shake my head, then put a finger to my lips. Clichéd it may be, but our unwanted visitors are attracted to sound.
But how did they get in? That’s what’s been bothering me. Well, apart from the obvious ‘what are they?’ We lost Adrian two months ago, and the only Dimitri I can recall was lost during Mission 12. We’re Mission 15, so that’s over six years.
Something that can make bodies move. Plus they’re corpses. So, what do I know of that animates dead bodies? Damn… Not just dead. Frozen.
Ice Ghosts? Out here?
Sally hisses and slaps the floor to get my attention. I wish she’d stop making noise.
“You think we should move?”
I repeat my earlier moves. She frowns, then snarls.
“Fuck this. I’m out of here.”
Her scrambling out from under the rack makes noise. The rack toppling to crash down across the way out of my hiding place is much louder. She runs to the left. I close my helmet and make myself as comfortable as I can. It’s going to take time and effort to get out of here. I might as well wait until my suit is nearly in the red across the board.
There’s a scream, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Sally comes past going flat out, her frantic footfalls a half beat off the rhythm of heavy treads that follow. The expedition suit labelled ‘Adrian’ thunders past. I can’t help but smile: Adrian’s after Sally, again – hope this Adrian doesn’t get her either.
My humour dies as her warbling scream is cut short. No gruesome noises, no drumming off heels or other horror movie endings. Just the eerie silence-that’s-not-silent. I can’t explain it. A tune? Some vibration?
Doesn’t matter. Back to thinking this through. Nothing else to do.
The ice ghosts were confined to Titan, but there had been rumours about them being aliens, not a remnant of some outré species native to our home system. Old. That’s what I remember got me. The article belaboured the point of how old they were.
Of course they’d be long-lived. Out here, food must be incredibly scarce. Let’s say this is where they originated, somehow. An insubstantial freespace entity, possessed of some unbelievable abilities to manipulate organic materials in their native environment: freezing vacuum.
Heavy treads coming this way.
The expedition suit labelled ‘Dimitri’ stops in front of the collapsed racking and something inside spends a long time twisting this way and that, inspecting the obstacle between us.
More heavy steps. ‘Adrian’ lumbers into view, it’s front covered in frozen blood. Tiny red crystals reflect the lights of the corridor.
The two hulking forms stand motionless for what seems like an age, then ‘Dimitri’ reaches forward to pull at the racking. It manages to lift one of the toppled uprights a little way, then drops it. I could lift it further. Looks like frozen muscles aren’t very strong.
‘Adrian’ thumps the racking, then points at me. It laboriously makes the astronaut sign language handshape for ‘near miss’!
They wave at me in unison and lumber off to my left.
I wait a very long time. Maybe I hear/feel the main lock cycle, maybe I’m dreaming. Eventually, I have to move, to free myself.
Walking the empty station, I find a lot of dried blood, but no bodies. Fire purging the airlocks gives me a brief satisfaction, but I’m going to be cold inside for a long time.
by Julian Miles | Aug 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The panoramic window that occupies the longest wall of the executive office at the top of the Vimentane Tower shows a breathtaking view of the nighttime traffic in LEO over London. Against the curved inner wall, a buffet has been laid out ready for the next delegation.
A door in that wall opens a little way, hits one of the tables laden with seafood, and closes. Parker Lenting looks up at the sound of it closing. He permits himself a little frown. Sure enough, a few minutes later the main doors to the office open. Technical Analyst Howerd Banton has rushed halfway down the room before it shuts.
“Director Lenting, I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”
Parker smiles at him.
“I’ve been ignoring you.”
Howerd doesn’t even pause.
“The Carminshan contract cannot be signed!” He slaps a datapad down on the desk and points to it.
Parker sees several sections have been highlighted. His smile disappears.
“And that’s why I’ve been ignoring you.”
Howerd stalls.
“What?”
“The quantities aren’t incorrect, Mister Banton.”
That sets him off again. His eyes widen.
“Quantities? I haven’t even looked at them. It’s the thirty-coil Gauss cannons and the cluster munitions with depleted uranium payloads. Both are embargoed under Tycho Treaty. Also, the penalties for shipping Gauss weapons outside Terra Sector Zero are punitive.”
Parker stops idly tapping at his keypad. Steepling his fingers, he gazes at Howerd until the man starts to fidget.
“What do you think we do here, Mister Banton?”
Howerd gives the question serious consideration before replying.
“I thought we were supplying licensed military equipment to Galactic Forces across the Terra Sectors. However, having seen and compared the summaries of the Magdubor, Xhintyl, and Lordintum contracts to the Carminshan one, I can only conclude we are, for want of a better term, supplying illegal weaponry to intergalactic organisations, some of them quite likely criminal in nature. It’s beyond my comprehension how much suffering we have enabled, and also the reasons why elude me, as I can find no trace of profiteering.”
Parker raises a hand for silence.
“Let me provide some context. When humanity first blundered across alien races some 115 years ago, we quickly learned that we were the new kids among an astonishingly old and long-established galactic empire. We were also considered primitives, having managed to enter our interstellar phase while retaining tribal drives. The fact we still fought wars over territories, resources, and religions was not well received out among the stars. Steps were taken to prevent us causing trouble. Somewhere around that time, a galactic criminal organisation noticed we made really effective guns and bombs. Indeed, we’d taken personal and planet-bound weapons technology far beyond that developed by other races.”
Parker pauses to take a drink before continuing.
“So they approached several Earth governments with an offer we quite literally couldn’t refuse.”
Howerd leans forward.
“Which was?”
“Those ‘steps to prevent us causing trouble’? It means exterminating humanity and turning Earth into a farm planet. The only reason we’re still here is because of those illegal weapons, which we supply at cost or for free.”
He waits for Howerd to draw the obvious conclusion. When that doesn’t happen, he sighs, then continues, voice coarse with anger.
“We do that because the moment we’re no longer useful to their organisation, our protection vanishes, and we’re all fertiliser within a month.”
Parker glares at Howerd.
“Any questions?”
He considers for a moment, then steps back.
“I’ll ensure the Carminshan contract is checked and ready for them, Director Lenting.”
“Thank you, Mister Banton.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The room used to be part of a well-appointed apartment. Under the ravages of damp and neglect, it looks like it was abandoned hurriedly. If you peer through the grimy windows and look down, you’ll see waves breaking against ruined shopfronts, and seagulls perched upon tide-tossed vehicles.
In one corner there’s a desk. On the open leaf lies an old personal datapad, one of the first generation of ‘long life’ mobile devices that arose after the technological excesses of the early twenty-first century were outlawed.
A gloved hand disconnects a rapid charge pack and pockets it.
The datapad screen glows faintly, almost obscured on the upper half where the accumulated muck hasn’t been wiped away.
It finishes starting up. A single notification flashes slowly: ‘194 unopened messages’.
There’s a soft sigh, like someone had been holding their breath.
“Play most recent.”
There’s a moment’s silence. The notification changes to ‘Message left 71:06:21:35 ago’, then displays a ‘No Image’ banner.
The voice is hoarse, the sentences broken up like the speaker is concentrating on doing something else.
“Hey, Helen. Must be a couple of months since I last called. Don’t know why I keep doing this, but I never get a decline or a bounce, so I guess that pad I bought you is lying in a drawer somewhere, long forgotten. Anyway, here I am over the United States of Australia, flying something that should’ve been scrapped last century, on the way to somewhere I can’t say to deliver something I can’t tell you about.”
The speaker stops, mutters unintelligibly, then continues.
“Okay, I’ll keep this brief as getting distracted like that again will end me and my latest glorious career. Like I said: I’m not sure why I keep leaving messages for you. But, hey, at least I’ve stopped pouring my stupid heart out. You’re off doing whatever you were doing when we collided and fell in love. I’d like to think it was roving journalist like you told me, but, if I’m honest – and if I can’t be honest while effectively talking to myself, what’s the point? – I think you were lying. Still don’t understand why I’m so sure of that, but there you go. I’d guess it’s a part of me looking for a bigger reason than you just not loving me as much as I loved you.”
A second soft sigh turns into a sob.
“Funny, that. Sad, too. Of all the things I could hold onto as a surety, I’m convinced you lied to me. Which, in the end, explains why you left: I wasn’t the man you thought I was.”
The speaker swears. There’s a distant sound of autocannon firing in short bursts.
“Right, this episode of my irregular confessional’s going to have to end early as it looks like these arseholes won’t leave me alone until I make them. So, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I wish you well.”
The pause is filled with the roar of powerful engines. It ends with a throaty chuckle.
“Actually, I wish I was with you, and not just because it’s a mugs game I’m playing out here. Best wishes, lady. Sorry for not being who you expected.”
The message ends.
The single notification flashes: ‘193 unopened messages’.
The datapad is picked up and brushed off.
“Shutdown device: mypad.”
The notification changes to ‘Shutting down’.
Another sigh. The gloved hand trembles, then crams the datapad in with the rapid charge pack.
“Sorry for not being who you thought I was. Love you, Phil. Maybe, one day…”
The voice trails off. A door closes.
by Julian Miles | Aug 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The door opens slowly. Lawgiver James comes in, helmet in hand. He’s got a look on his face that tells Maddy everything she doesn’t want to know.
“They found him, didn’t they?”
James nods.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Deputy Evans nods as he follows James in.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looks at them.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
James steps forward to put a battered datapad on the counter. She recognises the tattered charm hanging from it: she and Tanya spent a summer afternoon making it, three years gone.
James points to it.
“He left you a message. Report that accompanied this said someone listened to it, as it could have contained evidence.”
“You listen too?”
Evans shakes his head and points to James.
“He wouldn’t let me.”
She nods her thanks to James. He points to the datapad.
“That’s yours. Sorry we couldn’t return more. We’ll leave you, now. Our condolences for your loss.”
The two Lawgivers don their helmets and take their leave. James pauses to turn the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ before exiting.
Maddy looks at the datapad, then at the clock. Surely there’s enough time before Tanya comes in from school. She needs to listen first, to see if they can listen to it together, or whether it’s something for Tanya to hear eventually. She reaches out and taps the screen. It lights up with a single icon –
‘For Maddy’.
Taking a deep breath, she taps it. Brion’s voice is clear, like he’s standing there. ‘He sounds tired’ is her last cohesive thought for a while.
“Hi there, Derry girl. Sorry for this, but I had to give you something. You never kept anything from me. By now, you’ve guessed I had secrets. All I can do is ask you to forgive me, one day. I trust you to tell Tanya what she needs to know.
“Before we met, I was what you joked about that first time. You the poor girl who found her home among the stars, a long way from North Eire. What a contrast: me a street kid who only made it off Portena by being willing to do what others wouldn’t. You said I looked like some interstellar assassin off some cheap AV show, then laughed when I blushed. I should have done what half of me wanted to do right then: run. Instead I went with the other half: I stayed.
“Yes, there was someone on Chanton I was sent to kill. No, I didn’t. Once I met you, it all changed. But running a store was hard. I’d gotten used to living high. The change brought my childhood back. I admit, I got tired of it; nearly gave up several times. Then we had Tanya. We went from having nothing much to having one thing that mattered above all… But it was still difficult, and even more tiring. Every day I watched hard choices grind you down. Even when things picked up, your expression played on my mind. Every little frustration got magnified. I couldn’t see we were actually happy. I was headed for ruining everything through worrying over nothing.”
He sniffs.
“Then I recognised a pair of ex-colleagues at the spaceport. Might as well have been a sign. The tiredness lifted. I took the next ship out.”
He clears his throat.
“You don’t need to know anything of who I was before we met. That was a different person. All you need to know is I love you both more than life itself. Kiss Tanya for me. I’m sorry, Maddy. Goodbye.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 5, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The farthest corners of the room are lost in shadows as the night draws in. A small group huddles closer to the fire and the pool of light shed by the bulky oil lantern, hung high enough above that its thick smoke goes up and out rather than down and around.
All are attentive to the four elders sat with their backs to the fire. As the audience sorts itself roughly by height as well as status, the elder wearing the tallest hat nods to an even taller figure stood in the shadows to one side.
“Is it done?”
The figure steps into the light, shoulders wider than any present, and dressed in hunting leathers from head to toe.
“It is.”
The elder in the shortest hat clears her throat.
“Will you tell?”
The leather-clad one shakes their head and extends a beckoning hand. From the utter darkness on the other side of the room, a slight figure in leather robes treads lightly onto view, then stops and bows to the elders.
“I hight Jonas, Apprentice Blightbinder. To me falls that task.”
The elder in the second-tallest hat waves impatiently.
“Yes, yes, protocol must be observed. But tell us quick: what of the Michael?”
Jonas claps his hands together.
“That blight is bound, elders. Slain in his sleep, thence into the ground with his head, heart, prick and ballocks. For the rest, down to the sea.”
The elder in the second-smallest hat leans in, eyes narrowing.
“What of his outlandish creations?”
“His eldritch cart was dragged entire to the cliff above Shipkiller Cove, then cast down for the rocks and waves to render harmless.”
“And his familiar?”
“You mean ‘Fone’? For all that he pronounced it mobile, it showed no signs of stirring from the cage we confined it in. Indeed, by the time it went over the cliff, it had even stopped flashing angrily when prodded.”
The four elders nod. The one in the tallest hat continues.
“What of his remains?”
“The parts removed have by now been interred at three separate crossroads. The spademen went in different directions, and none saw whence the others headed. The offal went into the wolf pit, and the husk went over the cliff on the other side to his cart. It was wrapped in chains of cold iron first. Thus, we are doubly sure this blight will not return, turn revenant, or gift a changeling.”
The one in the shortest hat addresses her questions to the Blightbinder themselves.
“What think you of his claims to be from tomorrows unseen?”
“I think it unlikely.”
“Was he a harbinger of doom?”
“All agree he spoke of himself as a ‘time tourist’ seeking ‘selfies with witches and druids’. I’m also told by many drinking with him in the moot hall that he boasted about becoming contagious.”
“Your gleaning from these ravings?”
“He came to liaise with the Mhor Druids about imbuing throwing weapons with frightful diseases.”
The one in the tallest hat wrings his hands.
“What an awful plot. It’s a joyous fate we stumbled across him and stopped his evil.”
The Blightbinder nods.
“We have done well. The powers will look kindly upon us for many moons after this.”
Everybody heaves sighs of relief.
Down on the rocky shore, the rising tide starts to pound the wreckage of the first prototype of a temporal relocation pod into smaller pieces.
