by Julian Miles | Mar 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
No guns down there. No swords, either. Nothing bigger than a table knife, and nothing double-edged. The humans who first founded a colony on Kenshun were an unarmed combat cult. Their teachings quickly became the laws by which this odd world lives. Since then, their aesthetic has attracted devotees from across known space, and a few points beyond.
Just because they don’t use technological weapons within their atmosphere doesn’t mean they’re averse to using insanely big guns to keep their atmosphere clear of those who use firepower to plunder and kill. The Kenshuni also pay exceedingly well for beings who know how to use those guns, and how to use the unbelievable Benthusian sensor technology that aims them.
Ergol raises a tentacle.
“Miklo? True detection. It’s a Bantiti. No, wait… It’s nine of them; three visible. Each is cloaking two.”
I reach down and bring up the specs on their craft.
“Version Twenties? If they can afford them, why are they bothering to raid… Oh. White Alert! Bounce main battery initiation requests to Jericham and Conthrae. These twits are scouts. Somewhere nearby is whoever sent them.”
“How are we responding to them, Miklo?”
“First, let’s find the miscreants who sent them our way. Then we can decide.”
Wasal from Jericham beats us all to it.
“Hey, hey. Take a look at quadrant 114.”
Someone switches that quadrant display to the main holotank. Well, there’s something you don’t see every year.
Ect from Conthrae whistles.
“Is that a pair of Khongrevu?”
Wasal is chuckling.
“Recycling at it’s very best. How old are they?”
Ergol checks before replying: “If they’re Generation T, only three hundred years. But if they’re Generation A, they’re over a thousand years old, and worth more than our installations on Nakirol, Jericham, and Conthrae combined.”
I clap my hands.
“Vandalisation of ancient war machines aside, they’re clearly up to no good. What grade are their defences?”
As Jericham is the nearest moon to quadrant 114, Wasal has the details soonest.
“They’re using hybrid Tychean/Arburan stealth and shield units.”
Those would be formidable against most things this side of the Orcan Trade Union. Which gives me an idea.
“Somebody scan for traena emanations. I bet they’re running Orcan beam weapons.”
Ect laughs.
“You’d be right. The nearest is running the usual cluster installations. The furthest has only one, but the residuals extend beyond the nearest.”
Only one type of installation does that: “Go to Red Alert!”
Looks are exchanged. I can afford a moment to explain myself.
“The furthest Khongrevu has the firepower to shatter moons and crack continents. Such weapons are outlawed, and present a significant threat to others.”
Ergol waves to get my attention.
“Scan complete from sun to outer system. The two Khongrevu, a group of twelve Hambury strike ships, and the Truneedo troopship that sent those Bantiti.”
“No warning shots. Increase the outputs to overwhelm their defences. Conthrae will destroy the Khongrevu in order of threat. Jericham will destroy the lead Hambury, then any who prove stubborn. Nakirol will destroy the Truneedo if it doesn’t recall and flee after those strikes.”
Kenshun defends itself without hesitation, but we’re instructed to limit wholesale slaughter if possible.
I look about: “Ready?”
“Conthorae ready.”
“Jericham ready.”
Ergol nods: “Nakirol ready.”
“Execute.”
The rear Khongrevu becomes a ball of white light that expands to consume the other Khongrevu before fading. A Hambury explodes, pieces of it damaging at least four others. The rest begin rescue operations.
“The Bantiti are peeling off. The Truneedo is turning away.”
Hint taken. Good.
“Stand down. White Alert until end of watch.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Captain Jennie Ray arrives on the bridge to find her entire executive team bent over monitors or indicating things to one another on diagnostics displays. It’s a picture of activity she’d usually associate with blaring alarms and an air of mild panic. This is too calm. She coughs loudly. The 2XO spins about.
“Sorry, Captain. Good morning. We were hoping to resolve this before you arose.”
“Too late. As you’re not all running around, I presume nothing is broken. So what have you lot discovered to make my watch interesting?”
The 2XO looks almost embarrassed.
“A derelict.”
Jennie claps her hands together.
“Marvellous! You know I love coming across old vessels. What have we got? Freighter? Battleship? Liner?”
“Freight and passenger.”
“A free trader? Out here? That’s got to be a Barsoomian Soomsak. When would that be?” She gazes off into thin air for a moment before nodding to herself: “24th century, 23rd if we’re lucky.”
The Engineering XO turns from his sensor screens, shaking his head.
“Try 19th century, and Jasoomian.”
Jennie elbows a couple of slow-reacting subordinates out of the way so she can see the main display. Her eyes widen.
“You cannot be serious…”
The vessel is covered in ice, sparkling in the light from the nearby star. Between the two masts a single funnel protrudes from the minimal upperworks. The hull is long and rather narrow.
She reaches out to magnify the view.
“There are people standing on the deck!”
The 2XO moves up next to her.
“Flash frozen at point of transit is the most likely explanation.”
She looks at him.
“Portal uptake casualty?”
“That’s what we were trying to confirm. Back then, the only vessels touching Jasoom were Blemenase or Zetaret raiders. That ship is over 90 metres in length. Which means it could only have been scooped up by the portal field of a Blemenase Vortern. Even they should have recorded a transit uptake error of that size.”
Jennie gives a low whistle.
“Those things were huge. Would have taken this and a fair swathe of ocean along with it. I pity those on board, but at least it was quick.”
“I’m not sure how close to absolute zero portal non-space gets, but you’re right. They would have frozen solid before they realised anything.”
“Why are you having problems?”
“That sailed centuries ago. Even in the twentieth, records were minimal. Now? It’s barely above guesswork.”
“Get the scout to move aft. They often had the name and other identifiers painted on the stern back then.”
Surprised looks are exchanged. The image blurs, then stabilises.
The Engineering XO mutters the strange words under his breath before speaking out loud.
“S.S. Ismailia, Glasgow.”
There’s a flurry of activity. The Navigation XO speaks up first.
“1873. Lost with all souls aboard on the way from New York City to Glasgow.”
Jennie turns to the 2XO.
“Permission granted for Freespace Grave Beacon placement. Send notice that some of those once lost have been found.”
She looks about. Everybody on the bridge straightens up. Head coverings are removed. Jennie takes a slow breath, then says the words they all hope never to have read for them.
“There lies another vessel that did not return to port. Grant those who fared forth upon her peace, oh powers, and let them return at last from the long night to the heavens they call home. Blessed Be.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 20, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
A figure looks both ways along the street. Nothing but dust devils spinning across the plasmac. With a resigned shrug, he steps up to the entrance of the Constabulary House, waiting for it to scan him.
Inside the building, he ambles over to the nearest desk and lands his backside on it hard. The figure crouching behind the desk comes up fast, hand flicking to holster, then relaxes upon seeing the crest on his uniform. She settles onto the bench behind the desk.
He smiles.
“Space-Side Investigator Atom Pruemyn, reporting as ordered, and wondering why. I arrived without having to fight my way in. Where’s the emergency?”
“Planet-Side Enforcer Judith Blass. Chief Harub insisted I call after I spotted the problem. It’s an unusual situation.” She looks up at him and smiles: “The honourable crustacean doesn’t want to touch this. He’s up for promotion next quarter.”
Atom hooks a bench closer and shifts himself off the desk. Seated, he looks back to Judith.
“Tell me this isn’t connected to the two of yours who’re up for commendations?”
Silence.
He sighs: “Go on, then.”
“Planet-Side Enforcers Turterril and Gathgore held off a band of marauders for three days, killing over half of them in the process. Chief Argondy, leader of our reinforcements, was so taken with their humility he put them up for commendations when he returned to Constabulary Central. They were informed a week ago, and disappeared two nights later.”
“Disappeared?”
“Without the slightest trace. All devices abandoned.”
“Which vessel did they steal?”
“No vessels are missing.”
“What?”
“Nothing has been taken, apart from the savings they accumulated over the last eleven years on Planet-Side duty.”
“A hidden stealth ship? Impressive.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Still not quite enough to fuss a hard-shell like Harub, though.”
Judith chuckles.
“Hard-shell? Must remember that. What fussed him was the surviving battle video, and the data on their devices.”
“Do tell.”
“The video showed the two of them fighting multi-op style: embedded arm blasters, calf jets, energy blades, the lot. Their devices were set up to prevent or override detection using Fleet War Command codes. Likewise, their fictitious personal and career records were protected from detection or query.”
“Those abandoned devices being the source, you were able to see it all…” He sits forward: “You’ve had persons unknown masquerading as Planet-Side Enforcers for eleven years?”
“Unknowns with combat enhancements using military apps. We didn’t have a clue, and then misplaced the two about-to-be-lauded imposters. Harub is beside himself.”
Atom chuckles.
“Now there’s an image. Tell me, did you get on with them? Were they good at their duties?”
She smiles warmly as memory briefly distracts her.
“They were lovely, and superb Planet-Side Enforcers.”
Atom nods.
“There’s no clue as to their actual identities?”
“Our ID specialist is sure they wiped their records and trace data when they quit their former lives.”
“Combat configurations?”
“Eighty percent likely to be ours.”
“Ingrained techniques at that level are hard to disguise – unless they’re instructors… Disturbing, but no actual help.”
“What’s our next step?”
“Request two Enforcers from Central. If anybody asks, Turterril and Gathgore leveraged their commendations to get roving duties out on the frontier. You said they were superb. That legacy sets a standard rarely met by real Enforcers. Utilise it. I’ll deal with the confidential reporting,”
“We do nothing?”
“Unless you’d like to make this embarrassing incident public, yes. They don’t want to be found, are civilised and peaceful, but could be devastating if cornered. Let them go. Other agencies might pursue them, but I doubt it. Too much could go wrong.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 13, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
You walk out the door and I can’t help but smile. Sure enough, you slam it, then shriek as the last remnant of wall topples your way. The door frame had been the only thing keeping it upright.
The cloud of dust goes away on the breeze to reveal you standing there, hands on hips, face stern but mouth pulling into a smile – despite your best efforts to remain angry. Sunlight in your hair, an orchard at your back, snowy mountains far behind.
Picture perfect. That’s how you’ll always be.
I blink and return from the past captured in the picture.
“Not wanting to doom you to a sad end in the next battle, is that a picture of your other half?”
Shaking my head, I pocket the image and take the battery pack Rena’s offering.
“Aside from me not wearing a red top today, it’s too late. I can’t get back home. Charlotte died a few days after it was taken, hopefully killed in her sleep during the bombardment that sank America.”
Rena nods.
“I know that story. My Alfredo went when Russia became an island chain. Got the same hope, that it was quick for him and the family, not left huddled in the ruins, watching the wave come in.”
I stand up, snapping the blaster stock into place over the fresh battery. Rena comes up to stand next to me, looking out over the remains of the savannah.
“How high are we?”
“About 4000 metres above the new sea level.”
“You reckon there are any lions left?”
I nod.
“Somewhere a long way from here, roaming what used to be a city, sleeping on rooftops amidst broken masts and silent aircon units.”
She smiles.
“I like that. Along with dolphins playing through sunken parks. Got to be some beauty left out there, somewhere.”
With a grin, I strike my very best macho soldier pose.
“Right next to ya, babe.”
Baz shouts from our left.
“Don’t give up your day job, sarge.”
I give him a hard stare.
“Less heckling from the ranks, soldier.”
He glances left and right, then nods towards Rena.
“All two of us.”
Rena brings her blaster up and scans the surroundings with the scope she’s got mounted on it.
“Looks clear out to a kilometre. We might make it to evac without being attacked again.”
Since that would mean our deaths, I’m hoping hard.
Lowering the blaster, she nods towards my pocket.
“Why do you carry a picture of her?”
“At night I don’t need light to see. I can feel it. I know what it is. Just holding it will do.”
She opens a pocket and flashes me Nadal’s dog tags.
“I know that story, too.”
Somedays I think that’s all we do: carry memories, because we’re running out of people to remember them. How many have we lost who we’ll never know about? How many cherished moments went as their holders died?
Giving myself a shake, I peer to the west.
“Point the ungainly rig you’re toting thataway. See if you can see our transport.”
Rena does so.
“Why have you got a scan and view scope welded to your blaster?”
She grins, gaze unmoving from the eyepiece.
“I like being able to shoot where I’m looking. Lost a friend to a sneak attack while they were using binoculars. With a short rig like this, I could kill any Exthe trying that on me.”
She points.
“Transporter inbound. We’ll be out of here soon.”
Baz jumps up.
“Home for tea.”
Rena sighs.
“Just a real home would be nice.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There are mornings when you wish you could reset the world by going back to bed. For me, today is one of those. I woke to find the newsfeeds saturated with pictures of someone who remained a friend despite their ever-increasing fame.
I am, of course, talking about Vanto Crake, vocalist with Titan Walks, leader of the Daq Ne Yebol Troupe, and author of the infamous handbook ‘Anarchy and Visions for Interstellar Troublemakers’.
I only chatted with him yesterday. For me, death has not yet stained the vitality of recall.
He was upbeat over the recent issues regarding the rights to Titan Walks early work, and raved about the new album they’d just completed. There was also mention of a farewell tour with Daq Ne Yebol, as he’d finally decided to focus on Titan Walks, along with working on his second book. To my surprise, it was to be a romance set during the civil wars that ended the Dystopian Era on Earth.
I wish we’d reminisced a little more. Crazy stuff like the day he crashed a gravbike into a riot truck so the rest of us could escape across the Iridescent Bridge – he had to dive into the river to avoid angry law officers spilling out the back of it. Another favourite is when he and I spent a night careering about in stolen hovercars, painting all the Druckheim City election display screens black.
Everybody’s seen the video of him using a stolen interceptor to skywrite the symbol of the Passionata Rebels above the Passio presidential decennial celebrations. Nobody saw him smuggling beleaguered rebel leader Anstur Yebol off Passio. He started Daq Ne Yebol soon after their affair ended. The name means ‘Souls to the Calling’ in her native tongue.
I first saw Titan Walks play in a garage behind my tenement on Ganrie. A year later, I couldn’t get a ticket for their sold-out gig at the Planet Ganrie Arena. Their rise was that fast.
The day after that gig, Vanto knocked on my door and presented me with a tour programme from the VIP package, and a telling off for not contacting him to get in to the show. I mockingly gave him a hard time for not putting me on the guestlist. I still feel guilty about that because my name has appeared on every guestlist since.
He was one of the first humans to experience personal translight, flitting from Congreave to Ganrie because his sister had been involved in a gravbike crash, then flitting back to Congreave to play the Bountyhouse Festival, managing to do a full two-hour set despite suffering hallucinations from FTL shock.
His far-reaching charitable work has been well publicised, but I need to emphasise his work here on Ganrie. It’s been transformational. The Community Action Party continues to cleave to the principles he laid out in the final appendix of his book. As a consequence, we are a planet without poverty and wars.
That, I think, is what he’d be most proud of. He was always advocating for honest, practical solutions applied with compassion and defended with vigour. ‘If you let hate win, everybody loses in the end’ he used to say. Ganrie has become a triumphant vindication of his principles.
What I’ll miss most is him sitting in the back yard, playing guitar and singing old shanties for my grandparents and the neighbours. Summer evenings will never be the same without him.
Sleep well, Vanto. You did good, my friend. (But I still think Titan Walks concept album ‘Cloister’ was a mistake.)
Antio Durnall, Ganrie City, 15-09-2441.
