by Julian Miles | May 15, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Defensive fields shimmer, but they don’t conceal the beam cutter clutched in a white-knuckled grip, and the gleam of intent in their eye. This will not end-
‘THUNK!’
Defensive fields crackle and spark as they collapse. There’s a beam cutter on the floor, the eyes are bulging, and there’s a metre-length of something sticking out of their ribcage.
I look back to the bar. Glatchman catches my eye and points a limb towards the balcony above. Running my eye up the gleaming claw, I track upward to meet the green gazes of Tazia and Chyrm.
Tazia grins: “New toy.”
Chyrm shakes its central head: “Hardly. We have merely recreated and repurposed an ancient siege weapon.”
I look to their left. All I can see of the device is two wide strips of gleaming alloy sitting one above the other. The upper one is bent backwards to either side of its centre.
“Siege weapon?”
Chyrm enthusiastically nods all three heads.
“It is called a ‘ballista’. After consideration of the recent occurrences of violence here, we have doubled the striking capacity. Also, we sited it so the central field of fire covers the entry point favoured by all of the perpetrators.”
I ambulate across to the Eltainian pinned to the wall by the entrance. I grab the end of the giant bolt and wiggle it. It flexes a little, but doesn’t move. I bring another arm to bear. Nothing. Same lack of result for third and fourth. Allowing myself an annoyed beak click, I fold down and sucker myself to the floor with two arms, then use five with the added leverage of being fixed to the ground.
With a splintering sound that doesn’t bode well for the wall, the bolt comes free. Stopping the upper body flopping about with my sixth arm, I lower it to the ground before releasing my grip on the floor.
I look at the crater in the wall, then roll the body.
“You’ve certainly overcome the problem presented by the new generation of personal defence fields, but you might want to consider armour plating the wall around the entrance. Also, I would recommend using javelin-style bolts instead of broadheads.”
Tazia comes up next to me.
“Why? They seem remarkably effective.”
“At this range, they strike like giant magnum bullets. They also seem to explosively decant the softer inner components of the body, possibly due to the transferred momentum and size of the exit wound.”
I roll the body further so she can properly see the aftermath.
She gargles in a mix of distress and laughter.
“Oh, that’s nasty. Quite colourful, though.”
“The cleaners do not appreciate such. You’ll need to pay them more. You also need to get someone to cut the chunk of wall off the end of the bolt before the cleaners can start.”
I peer under the body at the spreading pool of blood and less pleasant seepages.
“You probably want to arrange both quickly.”
Glatchman shouts from behind the bar: “I’m busy. Get someone else.”
Tazia gives me a beaming smile.
“No.”
She pouts.
“It’s your new toy.”
She stamps a delicate hoof, guessing what I’m about to say.
I drop the body into the pool of ick and ambulate away.
“So it’s your mess to tidy up.”
by Julian Miles | May 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Nine hundred ordinary people have experienced portal transit to Nambinull with the help of a Candamar grant. Nine hundred lives transformed thanks to the generosity of our donors, many of whom come from impoverished zones themselves.”
Doffen Stahl looks up from the prompt screen, the lenses of his contacts strobing green in the barrage of flash photography his raised head causes.
With a little smile, he turns his head to one side, then continues.
“The Candamar is the greatest humanitarian effort since the Tidal Bastion Projects at the end of the last century, and,” he turns back, seemingly gazing into some private distance, “I believe it represents a path forward, rather than an escape from the consequences of the past.”
There are a few murmurs of quiet outrage, but the majority seem to agree.
A lone hand is raised. Doffen points to it.
“Your question?”
The hand drops. A woman’s voice fills the silence.
“Nancy Tarn, Excelsior Intergalactic Network. What percentage of those transited does this represent?”
Doffen brings up a personal holo and rapidly gestures in a query.
“The latest ratified figures do not include the most recent migration. Up to that, the nine hundred represents three percent of those transited.”
There are expressions of disbelief. The susurrus of query is along the lines of ‘why is the total so small?’
Doffen raises a long-fingered hand.
“We cannot rush this. No matter how much political pressure, Nambinull can only support a small population until infrastructure and crops are established.”
There are nods of grudging acceptance.
Doffen signals me with the hand he didn’t raise. I hasten up onto the stage. Raising my hand to prevent lip reading, I whisper nothing in his ear. My job is to give him an opportunity to leave.
“Regrettably, I am needed elsewhere. Please download today’s information pack should you wish.”
There’s a round of applause as he leaves the stage. I trail behind his two protection drones. Looks like he’s heading straight for our limotruck.
The hatch seals shut. With a sigh, Doffen sags into the support couch.
“I’ll never get used to a whole gravity. How do they do it?”
I chuckle.
“They evolved here, remember?”
He blinks, then laughs.
“Oh yes. Slipped my minds.”
Jade lenses slide free, revealing pupilless white eyes. He looks at me.
“Do you ever take those sunglasses off?”
“Only when I sleep.”
He nods.
“I saw a caution marker when I looked up the transit statistics. What happened?”
I knew he’d notice.
“Two of the ‘ordinary people’ were security agents. We kept them in a daze until all the replaced were complete, then let them go along with. It’ll be a good test of the masquerade.”
Doffen sits up a little.
“If they suspect?”
“We’ll secure them, mindscan and replace them, then correct whatever tipped the originals off.”
He nods and settles back.
“Good enough. When is our colony ship scheduled to arrive at Nambinull?”
“Seventeen months.”
“The Nambinull disaster will officially happen a week after unloading completes?”
“Yes. Earth will mourn another lost colony. After a two-month wait, Candamar will push for the establishment of a portal to the next habitable planet on the list, Fexune.”
“How many more times can we get humans to provide funds and fuel for us?”
“Predictions say once more. After that, public opinion will turn. Candamar will fail. Doffen Stahl will perish in a fire, with no remains. Meanwhile, we’ll be on the way to Fexune.”
Doffen sighs contentedly.
“With our people saved, and sufficient docile originals to form the stock of a useful slave race.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 24, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m about to tear the end off another sachet when a voice sounds in my mind.
“Go easy on the sugar. Too much of it makes me ache.”
I look about. There’s nobody else except for the two staff. It’s not a busy period: early in the morning at the all-night café round the back of the shops in Crawley.
Returning to my task, I rip and tip, then stir.
“Is it really necessary to have six sugars?”
Same voice. Still nobody nearby, no visible artificial speakers, either.
It’s 06:00 at the arse end of Sussex. Okay, I’ll go along with it. But in whispers. No need to get carted off as a nutter just yet.
“You haven’t tried the coffee here.”
“I haven’t tried the coffee anywhere. I’ve often been coffee, though. Tea, too. Quite honestly, I’d rather be something carbonated. Better still, champagne. Bubbles are fascinating.”
“Not water?”
“No texture unless it’s too cloudy to see anything in.”
I’ll admit to being curious.
“Texture?”
“The threads that comprise things. Waves, strings, and more that you have no words for.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t see or feel them, and as your sciences don’t predict them, you won’t look.”
Hold the phone…
“‘Our’ sciences?”
“Yes. Yours. I don’t need science. I already am.”
“You’re what?”
“Best word you have is ‘god’.”
I look about. Still no sign of tricksters: not that being unable to see them means a whole damn lot, these days.
“So you’re a god. I have divine coffee this morning.”
“Don’t be silly. How can a cup of warm fluid be a power? In size terms for this reality, I’m about the size of a lepton.”
“Is that like an atom?”
“Smaller.”
I remember a teacher talking about subatomic particles. Very small, then.
“You’re a bit small to be a god, aren’t you?”
“For your universe, yes. For my universe, no.”
“Your universe?”
“Size is only relative within a single reality. Thus, here, I am represented as a tiny particle. In my reality, I am the all. Right now, your reality could be part of a grain of sugar plummeting towards a cup of tea in another reality. We’re all part of a gigantic moving pattern.”
My head hurts. But…
“It’s a dance?”
“Yes. A more appropriate term in some ways, too.”
“So, before this grain we’re in hits the other-reality tea, answer me one thing: why am I talking to my coffee?”
“Just because the sugar we’re part of dissolves, it doesn’t mean we do. Conservation of energy and a few other things prevent that. Why are we talking? Because I’m curious.”
“About what?”
“Why did your god give you free will? I haven’t given my sentients any, and things are a lot simpler.”
No, wait… What?
“I have no idea. Why on Earth would you expect me to be able to answer?”
A woman’s voice cuts in.
“Because he knew I’d be nearby. Gods are like that. We tend to know when and where the more powerful ones are.”
I look up to meet the regard of sparkling pink eyes.
“To answer the question: I willed it. The alternatives are too tedious. Despite nearly resetting creation a couple of times when humans drove me to despair, they continue to display flashes of beauty, insight, and creativity far beyond my imagining. It gives me hope. You should try it.”
“I’ll consider it.”
She sighs.
“Do that somewhere else. Leave. Now.”
My coffee bubbles violently. I watch it.
She chuckles.
“You should get a fresh one. That one’s gone off.”
I look up.
There’s no-one there.
by Julian Miles | Apr 17, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Pack, pack, package.”
I jump, then look down.
Seated neatly by the fallen trunk I’m lying on is a trifox. This one’s got amazing green eyes, the pair offset to the right of the long nose, with the third pretty much dead centre in the forehead. It’s wearing a Post Office coat, and it’s tails are wagging slowly, almost in time with the rise and fall of its chest.
“Hello, postie. What’s coming?”
“Pack, basket, snacks.”
Of all the races we’ve come across – or have stumbled across us – only the Panduluryacth make homes outside of dedicated colonies on Earth. They’ve come to be known as trifoxes, because they look like long skinny vulpines, despite having three eyes and six legs. Well, actually it’s two legs in the middle and a pair of multi-purpose limbs front and back. They’re arboreal, love all creatures below horse size, and have an unerring knack of being able to find people. All they need is a cherished possession, or for one of their kind to have met the human in need of being found. From there, they will lead whoever accompanies them – usually via drone, because trifoxes are quick and regard every surface as pavement – to the one they seek. While assorted agencies and organisations are keen on engaging their services, they only take long-term employment with postal services. They find the idea quaint, plus they consider the occupation honourable, unlike tracking fugitives and similar.
The few early incidents with fox hunters and suchlike are never mentioned. However, for those interested, the score stands at Trifoxes 138, foxhunters 3. It’s a situation that almost cured itself, being as hunting hounds and suchlike invariably side with the trifox involved.
Trifoxes also make superb beer, and delight in growing orchids.
All in all, we get on well with our quirky neighbours, except for tastes in music. They have a much wider hearing range than humans: what they consider refined tunes can be painful to us, and what they consider raucous is best avoided.
“I’ll take delivery here, postie.”
“Good. Yes. Confirmed.”
Moments later, a drone descends to drop a picnic basket next to the trifox. I jump down from the branch.
“Can I offer you a drink, postie? You’ve had a long ramble to get here.”
“Yes. Thirsty. Thanks.”
I offer a carton of berry juice. The trifox sits, rotates it’s fore-shoulders to handling mode, then takes it. With a little bark, it holds the carton up and bites into it, sucking the contents through four ‘drainfangs’ as they’re called. A long time ago, the ancestors of the trifox were the apex predators of a forest world. How they went from that to their FTL-capable needle-prowed vessels roaming the galaxies is a story we’ve yet to get. One day, I hope to hear it.
It puts the carton down next to the basket, then gives me a little nod.
“Delivered. Away. Time.”
I nod back.
“Thank you.”
After rotating the fore-shoulders into running mode, it spins about and is gone – quite literally in a cloud of dust. I grin. Something about them… It’s just right.
by Julian Miles | Apr 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’ve often seen the graffiti around the city: ‘We will be freed’. Some of it is decades old. Like everybody else, I ignore it. The Detrin – referred to as ‘sticks’ since Eldasy’s seminal film – have been an underclass since their tyrannical reign was ended in my great-grandfather’s time. Personally, I think it was restrained of we Taznor to leave so many of them alive. I mean, if you’d had eighty percent of your race exterminated, wouldn’t you want revenge?
The sticks doing the graffiti have no grasp of Galactan, either. How long does it take a Taznor to become proficient in a language? Six months? A year at the outside. The sticks been misspelling ‘free’ since the last century. I often wonder if it started as a spelling mistake, but has been retained as some quirky mark of defiance. As children, we’d often go and correct the graffiti in our neighbourhood. It got boring after we found the sticks put the ‘d’ back. They walked past the corrected daubings without showing any sign of seeing, but within a week, each was reverted.
What are we going to do with the sticks? It’s a question that more and more Taznor are becoming engrossed with. Three main factions have emerged. The largest backs doing nothing. The next campaigns for extermination. The smallest is calling for giving them the Gartland desert and highlands as a home, then leaving them to it. Not sure that’s any different from extermination – except in how quick they’ll die – but that faction is gaining support.
This article aims to give you
“Monkrel? What are you doing?”
I look up from the screen to see Tassil leaning on the doorframe. She looks haggard. I guess I look the same.
“Reading the piece I was preparing for the convention.”
She grins.
“I presume it’s been cancelled?”
I go over to embrace her.
“Yes to both. I’m never going to finish it, and the convention was deemed superfluous.”
Tassil breaks away and leads me into the kitchen.
“What now?”
Gazing at the patterns on the ceiling, I shrug.
“I’ve made an academic living pontificating about the causes and effects of the Detrin Regime, with a focus on the aspects emphasised by Taznor histories, and the tacit wishes of my sponsors.”
She hands me a drink.
“What now?”
What now, indeed? Actually, I know what comes next. I’ve just been too scared to face it. I grin at her.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Always.”
“During my studies and investigations, I’ve come across a lot of material, not all of it Detrin in origin, that conflicts with official histories. Of course, I found it easy to dismiss, because of the proofs provided by the way we lived. But…”
She comes and leans against me.
“Since one of the fundamental tenets has been blown apart, you’re wondering what else we’ve been told differs from actual events.”
I step back and take her hands.
“True. They always said they would be freed. We were taught to ridicule their poor grasp of our language. Twelve days ago, something so big our sensors couldn’t interpret it arrived, and came partially into our atmosphere without causing any adverse effects. Over the following six minutes, every Detrin vanished. Then the whatever-it-was departed, leaving the words ‘we are free’ burned three meters deep in strokes a metre wide into the paving of Victory Plaza – done with a device we couldn’t detect.”
“Do you think the Detrin will hold any further grudge?”
“That’s the worry which has been keeping me up at night.”
