by Julian Miles | Jan 16, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
No matter where you go in this universe, no matter how strange the dominants or disgustingly lethal the atmosphere, you’ll always find a watering hole serving hot drinks and simple food to a motley, and largely transient, clientele.
Last month I was on Charil – emphasis on ‘char’. Imagine a planet-wide desert riven with lava flows cutting deep into the sand, running along channels lined with a purple vitric layer.
That heat-resistant layer is the sole reason anything chooses to visit the planet. For nascent spacefaring races, the aesthetics of heat shielding are secondary to effectiveness, and Charil Vitric is better than anything short of molecularly-bonded cerametal.
The place I frequent there was built from it, and sits on a hundred-metre island of the stuff, left over from an ancient lava flow of what must have been stupefying magnitude.
I loaded and flew two hundred tonnes of it here, Nactor, where the amphibians who rose to dominance barely two hundred of their years ago are desperate to save the tomb of their first unifying leader from the geysers of boiling water that are starting to erode it. I suggested Charil Vitric for its properties, and because purple is a colour that doesn’t occur naturally here.
Right now, I’m sitting in a café built from bricks of multi-coloured coral, sipping something that tastes like coffee and looks like tar. I’m waiting for the Nactorians responsible for saving the tomb to work out how much of my cargo they need to purchase.
Afterwards, I’ll take whatever’s left to Zheno. They make shields from it for use in their interminable civil wars.
They declare temporary truces within the watering holes I visit. Clansmen of all sides meet, talk, trade, and bid vigorously but politely to buy sheets of Charil Vitric. Sworn enemies of nine generations or more sit side by side swapping drinks and laughing as they enter competing bids. Uncanny. If only they’d realise that same camaraderie could save their degenerating society.
But they don’t. After all the bidding is done, they go outside and try to murder one another to steal whatever Charil Vitric each has.
I always wait, sipping green tea, eating honeycomb biscuits, and chatting with any clientele left. Might find a wandering player and have a game of Dara to pass the time. When the fighting and looting has finished, usually around the following dawn, I’ll take myself back to my ship and head for somewhere more civilised to get provisions.
Once I had a diplomat take passage to Zheno. They spent years trying to negotiate a peace. Last time I was there, they’d given up and married into one of the clans.
After resupplying at Caramore or Embergrist, it’s out into the long night again. Apart from my watering holes, I’ll keep roaming. Space is clean. That’s why I stay on the move. Planets can infect you with their craziness.
by Julian Miles | Jan 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“What are doing?”
I step the lance down to standby and look round. There’s a Luminarian fledgling regarding me, eyes lit in glorious shades of orange.
“I’m clearing droppings from this rooftop, young edular.”
It waves stubby wings in disagreement.
“No such elevated, hu-u-man. My fam drular.”
A working class wyvernkin up here? Well I never.
“You’re a long way from the river cliffs, young drular.”
It shrugs.
“Hu-u-man Gaildor demanded I go forth, make progeny. My progenitor translated command as for me to travel far away.”
Commander Gaildor is prone to swearing at beings who irritate him. Luminarians do it by radical acts such as breathing or being within a couple of metres for more than a minute. Humans do it rarely, but enjoying relationships with any of the numerous kin he’s employed is a sure-fire way to achieve it.
In my case, it was his second cousin twice-removed – I think. It wasn’t clear. Got lost in the bellowing and frothing at the mouth.
“I too offended Gaildor. Therefore, this must be far enough.”
It nods and points to the lance.
“You are in disfavour, yet wield fire.”
Given their reverence for the many forms of fiery death available on this planet, now’s the time to get creative with bland facts.
“It’s lesser fire, young drular. For cleansing alone. Even so, it must be controlled.”
The ears go flat and tilt my way: sure sign of interest.
“Can drular do?”
“Yes. Attend me ”
It moves round to stand by my side.
“If the droppings are not cleared, the weight will crush the dwelling below.”
It nods.
“In the heartlands, the fams use such gifting to build famcaves.”
That’s not going to catch on with humans anytime soon.
“As offworlders, our elders have decreed we are not worthy.”
I turn the lance up to half power. The energy beam makes the atmosphere scream as it rips the flammables from it, giving itself a fiery aura.
“Such magnificence.”
Nothing I can say to that. I nod.
“Attend. This is half power. It will carve through dro-, giftings up to a metre thick. The danger is that this eager fire will cleave the roof of the human famcave below with greater ease ”
The wings droop.
“Such is the way of fire. Only deep waters will stifle it.”
My turn to nod.
“Does this wielding offset your disfavour?”
“The disfavour will pass with time. This allows me to earn chits in the meanwhile, so that I may pay my way.”
The beautiful eyes widen.
“My fam has no earner of chits. It would be a thing of wonder for their least drular to bring that.”
I pull out my tab, bring up my worksheet, add a ‘trainee’ option, then offer it.
“Then you will be a wonder, young drular.”
It reads the text, clawprints it, then grins at me.
“I be Viri of Fam Parfar.”
“Will of… Fam Jones.”
“To wielding, then, my mentor.”
Yes. To work it is.
by Julian Miles | Jan 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Another street carpeted in things once considered essential. I wait. Nothing moves. Picking up a can of beans, I swing my arm back, then stop. Put the beans in my backpack. Spotting a can of prunes, I throw that instead.
It lands hard and skids into a discarded suitcase. The collision makes a good, loud noise. I wait. Still nothing moving. Probably safe to head on in.
Looks like this way’s been scoured hard already. Whoever dropped the cans must have been a latecomer. Dried blood and personal items reveal stories of families fighting for their integrity in the face of situations they never thought would happen to them.
A teddy bear sits upright against a parked car like someone tenderly set it down. It’s grey, but the eyes are clear blue. In what little light remains, they stand out. Like someone’s abandoned pet, watching without comprehension, waiting for someone to console it.
I pick it up and tuck it under one of the straps on my backpack.
“You got my six, grey bear?”
With a grin, I take a step, then stop. Now I can see there’s a small body under a blanket on the rear seat of the car.
I put the bear back down.
“Sorry, buddy. Didn’t spot you were already on duty.”
Fleeing people quickly discover just how far they’ll go to live a little longer. Morals and civilisation mean nothing when there’s eight people after one bottle of water. The winner might shed a tear or two, but they’ll survive regardless.
Not being one for people since I got out of the service, the end of civilisation stalked in with me watching in disbelief. The sentinels online, the worthy causes, the petitions, the speeches – dear gods, the speeches. Mum would have called it purple prose.
When it all went down, despite the years of warnings, ninety percent of the world got caught with their collective knickers down.
The first week was all sirens, alarms, screeching tyres, screaming, and running battles. I didn’t bother to check the sides involved. People desperate enough to fight? I’ll be off to the side, in cover, and waiting for the ones like me. Only met five so far. Got three from concealment with a pellet crossbow, took one down with a brick, and had a right ruck with the fifth, but he only cut me shallow. I left his guts on the ground. Got good gear from all of them.
Second week was quieter. Towards the end of it, the remaining holdouts quit because of the smell. A city full of rotting corpses reeks. I went through a pot of vapour rub that week.
Back to the water thing: only one group I’ve come across shared their last bottle: they used it to down cocktails from the pharmacy they’d just looted. I found them sprawled in a circle about a fire. They’d clearly made a party of it, then passed a bowl full of poisons around along with the bottle.
Fuck that.
I can understand the reasoning, but reject the acceptance. If the end wants me, it’ll have to come and take me.
A crossroads. Well, now. I look back towards the car with the grey bear. He’d been looking south before I disturbed him. Question is: hopefully or warily?
No matter. I don’t think echoes of intuition coloured with emotion can really help. I was heading west. I’ll keep going. That said, I give the bear a salute before I go. Good luck to both of us, buddy.
by Julian Miles | Dec 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
With a smile, I lay the Ace of Spades across the Queen of Cups.
Garv howls.
“Oh, come on. You’re going to death card my royal flush?”
I point to the stack of food tabs and leisure coins.
“There’s two weeks good eating and nineteen hours R&R in there. Playing nice doesn’t get me fed and watered.”
He tosses in a hand of hearts and cups.
“You should warn people when you go from entertainer to card shark.”
“I did when I bid and captured Charlie’s hand.”
Charlie looks up from her tablet and nods.
“When the bidding starts, the playing is over. Oldest rule in the book.”
I lean forward and flick my way through the discarded hand.
“You said royal flush. I see no Knight.”
Garv shrugs.
“He was sure to come off the top. I could feel it.”
Bonny reaches out and flips over the top three cards of the deck.
“Ace of Wands, Seven of Diamonds, Jack of Spades… Your sixth sense is pants at cards as well as on the line.”
Garv throws his hands up in horror.
“You jinxed it! Just like you did with that strider yesterday.”
He looks hurt when everybody in hearing range bursts out laughing.
Sergeant Cleaves quotes the opening sentence in a good imitation of Garv’s voice.
“Hey Sarge, it’s only a crawler!”
Charlie sputters out the next line, complete with whining emphasis.
“It’s growing! Can they do that?”
Then we chorus the line that’ll likely be carved on Garv’s headstone.
“Bonny, it’s too big!”
Garv stands up, hands on hips.
“I meant it was too big to be a crawler! Didn’t know striders could creep along low to the ground.”
Bonny blows him a kiss.
“We know what you meant, sweetie.”
Garv waves his arms about in frustration.
“If I didn’t have to fight in this war with you, you could all go fuck yourselves!”
Charlie kicks his legs out from under him, grabs his head in a choke hold, then rubs her cheek through his hair.
“You know I’d rather fuck you, darling.”
Garv blushes so red it’s impossible to hide. Charlie releases her hold and he runs for it, catcalls and laughter in his wake.
Bonny wipes tears from her eyes.
“Charlie, you’ve got a fan there.”
She chuckles.
“Story of my life: they realise they fancy me, then they run.”
Sergeant Cleaves catches her semi-mournful comment as he joins us.
“You mean all those Dadderoi were in love with you?”
He grins. We laugh. Charlie dumping a fuel hopper over her armoured suit and doing a flaming charge had caught them flat-pseudopodded. They’d retreated in disarray from one lunatic trooper. It had been a moment. Wish we’d got it on video.
She grins up at the sarge.
“Pretty sure they’d love to do something to me.”
Bonny nods.
“Yup. The same thing they’d like to do to all of us.”
Cleaves points to the spread of cards on the table.
“So far, we’re the Ace of Spades to all their plays. Let’s keep it that way.”
Glasses are raised.
“Amen to that.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“I find charcoal best for landscapes, but cityscapes demand ink to capture their harsh edges. Living things I always work in coloured pencil, layering basic colours to achieve the myriad shades that life grows in.
“For battlefields, it’s charcoal for the vista, and sharp pencils to pick out the monochrome details of death.”
Looking up from the canvas, I watch the Burclanic officer flicking its gaze between outlines of this street hatched out in pen, and my other hand lightly resting a midnight blue automatic against its throat.
“But for close combat, I prefer an 11-millimetre Arduvant machine pistol. The combination of nineteen rounds and crystalline acid in the hollow points make such colourful statements in fizzing blood on any medium they spray across.”
I smile.
“Would you like to become art, or shall we call this mutinous little episode over?”
It swallows slowly, then drops its weapon.
“Over.”
Using the hand holding the pen, I beckon my people forward.
“Good thing you caught me on my break. I’m not as reasonable when on duty.”
