by Julian Miles | Sep 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s a bright morning across Ixaroz, the heart of the Consortium. Beings go about their purposes with a spring in their ambulations, buoyed up by decades of peace, and the traditions that accompany it, like traversing the long span of the Great Way to enter the Glorious Citadel. Nothing is allowed to fly in. Every being, regardless of rank, station or opinion, walks in alongside common petitioners. It’s supposed to remind everyone of humility, walking the ancient flagstones past the ever-watchful eyes of the portal guards, and the less forgiving lenses of the sentry forts that float effortlessly over the abyss that yawns to either side.
“Hail citizen!”
A grandette wearing clothing made entirely of stasis-suspended diamonds stops dead.
“Do I look like something as common as a citizen to you?”
“Before these portals, we’re all citizens. That’s why you’ve walked this old bridge before you present your purpose: to be briefly reminded that we’re all equal in the eyes of the Pax Consortia.”
“The Pax is an ancient document, and like all such, is blind to the nuances of life in modern times. There are those who walk because they have to, those who walk by choice, and beings like me, whose purposes are so pressing that walking is an unconscionable waste of our time.”
The guard cuts a short, formal bow.
“Duly noted, citizen. Please enter and be about your pressing purposes. No doubt the King awaits with baited breath.”
The guard opposite interrupts their silent regard with a fit of coughing. The grandette flushes in anger.
“I, Desalonde Cremtian of House Ylsej, am engaged on matters beyond your comprehension. But, since you mention it, I would not be out of place in the High Court. You are impudent, guard. Such a lack of propriety is sad in one with a position that reflects upon the repute of the Glorious Citadel.”
The guard nods.
“It has been pointed out to me that my dislike for incompetents hiding behind etiquette is a weakness.”
“And?”
“I would rather be honest than condemned for the actions of arrogant fools I tolerated, citizen.”
The exchange is starting to attract a crowd.
“Are you insinuating I am a fool, guard?”
“Couldn’t say. I am sure you’re arrogant, but your intelligence is beyond my ability to test right now.”
Cremtian blanches in fury. All conversation in hearing range ceases.
“You’ve overstepped, citizen guard. I’ll have you tag number so I may report it. My recorder is ready. Speak.”
The guard chuckles.
“Eight.”
Someone in the crowd gasps.
Cremtian frowns.
“Followed by?”
“Did you know the Pax Consortia states that all members of the High Court must spend at least a month of every year doing common duties? I’d guess it’s so they don’t turn out like you, which is probably why there are no exceptions, either. My tag number is just that: eight.”
The guard opposite comes crashing to rigid attention, then drops to one knee facing the one who spoke. Every uniformed member of the crowd follows suit within moments.
Cremtian looks puzzled.
“What bearing has that on this?”
The guard opposite sighs loudly, then speaks.
“The rulers of Ixaroz have had the privilege of single digit tags since they founded the peace we have dwelt in for seven previous reigns. Tag number eight belongs to Tarlan Ipsalis Grue. Hopefully you know of him as King Grue the Fourth?”
The king doffs his helm and grins.
“But when I’m on guard duty, they call me Tarl. Now, what were you saying about fitting in with my court?”
Cremtian faints.
by Julian Miles | Aug 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Will burn across the worlds.
From shoreline to mountain top, from wrecked vehicle to ransacked fortress, they will light a night like none will ever see again, and will start a conflagration that will blaze so far onwards we will never know of all those freed by its passing.
“Set her down.”
They do so. Keegan, Habaden, Televa, and Tranger step back. Ponsor spreads our banner over her body.
Newsnets would crash upon showing images of we six gathered, which is why we’ve never come together since the end of hostilities. There is a cause we swore to follow, and it did not include becoming celebrities off the mass murder some had called a justified war.
“Lasira the Dancing Death, you showed us how to find peace.”
I step forward and regard each of them in turn.
“We are resolved?”
Habaden gestures to her body.
“They killed her because she sought to permanently end the Monarchies of Donn.”
Televa waves towards the night sky above.
“They watch us now, gathering their forces to blockade this planet so we cannot return.”
Tranger steps round to lay a hand on my shoulder.
“What of you, Griko, Grim Witness?”
“I will act upon the accord, but only if we are all agreed.”
Keegan shakes his head, a vestige of objection. Then he looks me in the eye.
“Ever have I gainsaid you, until I saw her body. There is a difference between the wounds I see and the manner of death reported. A difference that can only be bridged by a lie. For that, I withdraw my caution. I am agreed.”
A welcome surprise, and fitting cue.
I engage my orbitals and override the video feeds of every network I can reach. To end this properly, I must start with proclamation.
“The Monarchies of Donn told us we were made from common soldiers to serve a common good. Then they used us to further their ends under that excuse. It took us too long to realise, but when we did, we swiftly built a peace in spite of their objections. We thought that peace would hold, but the loss of Lasira has made us realise the Monarchies will never yield.”
Sparkling globes appear high above as our automated defences deal with their clumsy attempts to silence us. I continue.
“Lasira was the only one of us who did not trust polite words and signed treaties. We five were dismissive of her work, until she was murdered to prevent her revealing what she found, and what she’d built in response.”
Habaden adds his voice.
“We might still have ignored her, had they not overstepped.”
Televa joins in.
“Our sister is gone.”
Keegan coughs, then finishes for all of us.
“The Six have been made Five. The only fitting response is for the Monarchies of Donn to mark her passing by burning to the ground.”
My monitoring is quiet for less than a minute. Then, across ninety-four worlds, explosions rock Monarchy installations and barracks. Lasira prepared well. Patrol craft fall under the fire of those they thought loyal lackeys. Space ships duel and explode into globes of fiery death. The casualties will be savage, but we have the military numbers, and the people of sixty systems behind us.
I nod, then add a coda.
“You would not leave us as passive observers. Now you will answer to us as your rulers. The Six Warriors have, by necessity, become the Five Crowns. We will forge a new peace in the seventeen thousand fires ignited by her murder.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I thought the skinny functionary nodded my way. The two of them are approaching, all eager smiles, curious glances, and whispered asides.
“Are these seats taken? The server said they weren’t, but you know, they sometimes get things wrong. So, are they?”
At least there’s two of them. Hopefully they’ll amuse each other like a pair of Charni cubs. I nod.
“Thank you so much, it’s so crowded and people like their space, so it’s really nice of you. Isn’t it, Cassie?”
So the red-maned quieter one is Cassie.
“Oh, it so is. Those are really interesting tattoos. Do they mean anything? My brother has a whole back of fighting eagles over the Appalachians.”
Eagle?
My interlace vibrates and an answer arrives: large avian raptor.
Not quiet, just needed a cue. I shrug.
“I just liked the patterns in the book the tattooist showed me.”
Forgive me, Ettunershal, but telling these innocents they depict the history of my kills for the eyes of my peers is one of those ‘outside chance risks’ always spoken of, but so rarely encountered.
My reply seems to have stalled Cassie’s attempt at conversation.
Not so her companion.
“I can see why you chose them. They’re amazing. Must have cost a fortune.”
I nod.
Cassie puts a hand on her friend’s arm.
“He’s not interested in talking to us, Kath.”
Kath pulls her arm away and leans towards me.
“Why not? Three beautiful people thrown together by chance, but he can’t or won’t look up from his black whatever to flirt with us?”
“I’m waiting for someone. A meeting. It’s very important.”
Cassie nods.
“You need to focus. I can understand that.”
Kath makes a gesture I presume to be dismissive.
“Oh, come on. It’s not like it’s life or death, now is it?”
Not in the way you’re inferring.
On the other side of the open area, a door opens. At last.
I drain my cup in one long pull.
“How did you do that without swallowing?”
Cassie is also very observant.
I smile at her as I stand up.
“Practice.”
All Nundargih consume fluids this way. Goes in through the vents in the roof of our mouths.
Grantom steps through the doorway, pausing to close it carefully. I squeeze the weapon cartridge in my hand as I raise my arm.
The javelin flickers into being with a muted tone. I hurl it with relaxed poise, as learned so very long ago. In another echo of my training days, it leaves a perfectly straight vapour trail as it crosses the distance and hits Grantom just below his armoured hearts and passes clean through, tearing out his aortic junction on the way. It ends its flight by exploding against the wall behind in a shower of sparks and a noise like distant thunder.
Grantom coughs and collapses, yellow blood surging from the hole through him.
I nod to the two females, then leave them staring. Kath at the body, Cassie at me.
Rounding a corner, I duck through a doorway I prepared earlier. The supplies cupboard is cramped, but there’s a narrow path to the end, and the thin section of visible wall is all I need. Pulling a gate cartridge, I drive it into a brick, then squeeze.
The tall oval portal opens silently. I’ve just stepped through when the cupboard door opens and Cassie looks in.
“Hiding in the janitor’s cup- Oh.”
Her eyes widen on seeing the yellow trees behind me.
I give her another nod. The portal collapses.
She’s a smart being. I hope her life goes well.
by Julian Miles | Aug 14, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Got another one. Big cable channel. Going out past Bindenhouse into the wilds.”
“Okay, pop my contacts open and scroll to ‘D’.”
“Got it.”
“You’re looking for ‘Department Q’.”
“Found it.”
“Open it. Click on ‘action request’ and fill what details you’ve got, then forward it to my secure email so I can authorise it.”
“What are we actioning?”
“They send decoys to imitate lights in the sky and generally mess with the watchers. They throw in a few countermeasures, and some noise around the 1.6 gigahertz band too. End result is the experiencers are all happy finding nothing and getting big ratings for doing so.”
“They do all that from a drone?”
“Sort of. It’s a super-stealth run out of Orford Ness. If the tricks don’t work, a high-speed fly past gets them every time.”
“Okay, request coming your way.”
“Got it… And done. One evening of close encounters arranged for the cable audience. Sure to be another ratings winner.”
“Not like it’ll have much competition with the current crop of trash.”
“Hey, the networks requested simpler content. Stuff people can do while they prepare for the next day slaving. Nothing challenging. Can’t have the population starting to think about the lack of actual living included in their lifestyles.”
“True. Hey, this Department Q mob ours?”
“Contractors. Q used to be in-house, but some bureaucrat tried to do alien phenomena deception on the cheap. Got outsourced in the late sixties, if I remember.”
“How can they run a decoy out of Orford Ness? It’s on the east coast of England. That’s nearly five thousand miles each way.”
“Really? I’m sure they only run black helicopters out of Alamogordo. There’s an Orford Ness closer, though. New Hampshire, I think.”
“There are a seven or eight, but there’s only one Orford Ness, and it isn’t in the U S of A.”
“Must be my mistake.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“How to they make them undetectable?”
“Dunno. Look up the operating guidelines. I seem to remember there’s a brief so we can notify them in time.”
“I’m not seeing any guidel- Oh, there’s a note: they can get anywhere given a six hour lead, need no support, and can avoid detection at all points.”
“See.”
“John, that’s not possible. There’s nothing that can manage a stealth round trip of several thousand miles.”
“Long-haul airliners can.”
“Do the distance, yes. Do it undetected, and at speeds up to Mach 7? No.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’ve had an interest in UAP since they were only UFOs. What you say this stealth aircraft can do is outside our capabilities. I know that because we have sight of any of the projects we want, and I keep an eye on all the latest developments.”
“So they’re running a black box operation. Hardly anything new. Somebody knows, and that’s all we need worry about. The fact they’re not resident makes no matter.”
“They’re not local.”
“I said that doesn’t matter.”
“I mean to this planet.”
“What?”
“A black ops project aliased via a top-secret front with legitimate compartmented access. We do it all the time. I’m worried someone is running one on us.”
“You think we’ve subcontracted our alien spoofing program to actual aliens?”
“What better way to keep an eye on us?”
“You’re not funny.”
“But am I wrong?”
by Julian Miles | Aug 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We’d all seen the predictions, and everyone had seen at least one post-apocalyptic movie or series.
Some of us were foolish enough to think we were ready. No matter which flavour of apocalypse story preferred, we’d all missed one critical point.
Hatred.
The two decades leading up to the final breakdown were marked by unprecedented levels of largely propaganda-induced divisiveness. The reasoning was simple: if we were arguing amongst ourselves, we weren’t picking on those who oversaw us.
Those self-obsessed bastards did their job too well.
When it finally fell apart, when the lingering fears of law and consequences were removed, the people didn’t coalesce into survival-oriented tribes co-operating to reach an unknown future: they turned into ravening packs of anger-driven fanatics determined to deal with all those who differed in opinion.
Amongst bloody battles and gruesome massacres, those ravening packs fragmented as internal disagreements went from denunciation to murder in minutes. When internal strife reduced a pack to chaotic groups, bigger packs tore them apart. No thought of any future, nothing in reserve. Scorched earth tactics and petty genocide covered the land in ashes, bones, and horrific totems.
Initially, those who fought also preyed on those who hid, because those in hiding invariably had stockpiles of supplies. After stripping those havens, the meanest packs turned to cannibalism. The biggest thought themselves actually powerful, then got themselves annihilated trying to breach the few fortified cities.
I wonder what life is like inside those spiked rings of electrified walls and towers? I don’t think their strategies are as good as they thought, and the war that burned London to the ground without a single gate opening tells me they didn’t manage to leave all of the rabid factionality outside. I doubt anyone paused to keep a record of the reasons. If they did as I do, I’d like to read their diary – if it survived. Only to assuage my curiosity, though, because the lessons learned no longer have any relevance in this aftermath we now fight through. Sometimes I wonder if there’s somewhere in the world where people farm and live in peace. I don’t know if it exists, but I am sure it’ll be somewhere untainted by that which was laughably called ‘western civilisation’.
The watch fires of Brighton are burning low tonight. An evening drizzle has turned to rain, and I can see shadows moving under the trees by the Old London Road.
They’ll attack over and through the barricades at Preston Park after midnight. It’ll be a brief and brutal raid that’ll cost both sides precious able-bodied people. Those who retreat will be saddened by their losses but buoyed up by the supplies they gain. They’ll settle back into their camp below the flyover, sentries slightly inattentive because of the victory. The ebullience of winners, however brief, is always a vulnerability.
It’s all the advantage we’ll need when we rappel from the flyover to take their lives, what they took, and everything else they have.
We’re a small group, merciless, but without hate for any of those left out here. We will survive, and the particular hatred behind that is what drives us: one day, somehow, we or our progeny will be waiting for those who rule the cities when they finally emerge.
Despite having discussed other options for ages, we remain unanimous: vengeance first. There is a toll to be paid, and we will exact it for all those who cannot.
