by Julian Miles | Apr 11, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Day 2. Pieces of the Eridani Dawn are still leaving blazing trails across the sky, day and night. Not that there’s a lot of difference between them on this world. It’s always some sort of twilight. Estoro says the cold will be our main problem.
Day 4. Keeping the fire going has drawn survivors in. I never realised how many beings it took to run a spaceship. Hallie says we must search for things to help us stay alive.
Day 7. There’s not much left. Very little food. Indri says we have hard times ahead.
Day 9. Estoro says I should keep this diary going. Nataloc says it’s a waste of time. Bruno is still crying. The Lakshane and Morobus keep arguing. They’re starting to worry me. Those two races outnumber all the others here combined.
Day 11. The Morobus attacked the Lakshane last night. Then something long and black came out of the trees and attacked them both. There was a battle. After the creature left, Estoro came over and told me to note this:
“It’s a furred, serpentine form, about nine metres long and two in diameter. No visible eyes or nostrils. Powerful bite. Tough hide. Only became enraged when we fought back. I think if we hadn’t, it would have just taken prey and departed.”
Day 12. Nataloc led the three surviving Lakshane away after they killed the wounded Morobus. Estoro made everybody remaining drag the bodies and all the bloody dirt a long way from the camp before leaving them in a pile. Some complained. He said they could do whatever rites they wanted there.
Day 13. Something happened. Those who stayed to do rites haven’t come back. We heard screams.
Day 14. Hallie went to check. Says they’re all dead. She looks worried.
(40% power. Will update fortnightly.)
Week 4. The Lakshane attacked two nights ago. Bruno was taken, two others were killed. Hallie says Lakshane are carnivores.
Week 6. Estoro led us away from the camp. Others elected to stay, but he said he wouldn’t be cattle for the Lakshane. We left at night. Hallie covered our tracks.
Week 8. Still moving. Headed uphill for days. Charlie got taken by a smaller furry serpent.
Week 10. Found some caves. Eighteen of us left. Don’t think Cliore will make it. His wound got infected.
(25% power. Will update monthly.)
Month 4. It’s colder. Cliore died. Moved deeper into the caves. Hallie is teaching us to forage.
Month 5. Still really cold. I enjoy hunting. Penny got bitten by something like a big beetle. She died.
(15% power. Going to hibernate this. Will update every Earth year if I can keep track.)
Year 1. Bostal died to a furry serpent, but we killed it. Moved to better caves. Hal and Viv jumped off the peak together. I’m good at making hides into clothes. Estoro says our ship will have been moved from ‘missing’ to ‘lost’.
Year 2. Nataloc attacked us! Estoro and Splassarn died fighting him. Crow dragged him down. Elizabeth and Mabduk beat him to death with rocks. We voted: Hallie is our leader.
Year 3 (Probably). Going to use the last of the battery to burn this diary into permanent store. My name is Jo. We are Hallie, Mabduk, Trimm, Henrick, Elizabeth, Tapuln, Shavel, Abdorc, Crow, and Indri. We’ve decided to go on for as long as possible.
This planet is now called ‘Harmr’. Trimm says it means ‘sorrow’ in Old Norse. We who live here build cairns for our dead. Please build a cairn for the one of us who couldn’t.
by Julian Miles | Apr 4, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dawn breaks as we head uphill, the path laid on top of the trench that covers the power cables. Passing through the bulwark, the noise of the chillers drowns out all natural sounds.
Patrick gestures to the viewport. I pull the lever that works the wipers. We peer through.
The valley below is covered in snow, dead trees sticking through the drifts. At the cliff end, great doors can be seen above the remains of the old landslide that obstructed them. I can feel the cold through the transparent pane.
I look to Patrick.
“Don’t they suspect?”
He nods.
“I’d be a fool if I thought there aren’t people in there asking questions. But, so far, we’ve detected no activity that indicates attempts to open the doors or to tunnel out.”
“It’s been twenty-eight years. How long before their predictive models disagree with what we’re showing them?”
“Most were in the forty-year range. Many of the counter-arguments would’ve fallen by the wayside when ‘Nuclear Summer’ or similar changes hadn’t occurred after five years. As for what they’re thinking now, nobody out here knows.”
I step back and take a seat. These duties might be tedious, but everyone agrees they’re essential.
“Patrick, how many bunkers are there?”
“Thirty-five remain under management. The Integration Commission decides if and when they will be approached. Sadly, the six major ones will never be breached. Those inside are considered irredeemable.”
“What about others?”
“We’ve brought seventeen back into the world. Most were astonished at the subterfuge, but on seeing the result have agreed to participate.”
“Most? What happened to those who disagreed?”
Patrick frowns.
“We offered them a chance to transfer to one of the isolationist communities. There are three bunkers that contain voluntary withdrawals: those in Kentucky and Siberia are full. The latest, and biggest, is in the Taklamakan Desert.”
“Weren’t there some disturbances?”
“Yes. Texas and England. In both cases, lethal force was used. A lot of us aren’t happy about that. The next time we’ve resolved to do better.”
“Will the isolationists ever be released?”
“I suspect a couple of generations will be needed before negotiations can start.”
“What about nukes?”
Patrick grins.
“Full of questions this morning, aren’t you? The last unsealed stockpile is somewhere in what was Wyoming. I’m told research is ‘ongoing’. I’m also told that research may have to be forcibly stopped. Old greeds are surfacing.”
“Warminds? Nationalism?”
“Many people still remember how it was. Most don’t care. A few do, and some care too much. The switching out of nuclear warheads was a clandestine international initiative, the start of the nationless world. When the warminds pressed the buttons, enough first wave tactical nukes remained to drive them underground, convinced that ushering in the end of the world to stop people from thinking differently was reasonable. Luckily, all the strategic warheads fired had been swapped to conventional explosives. They made a mess, but nothing toxic.”
“That’s when United World stepped in and set up the cold zones about each bunker?”
“They didn’t openly declare themselves until the bunkers were secure, and after the hold-outs had been dealt with, but yes.”
I look at the man I chose to be my father figure. His eyes have narrowed.
“You’re not convinced United World is the solution, are you?”
Patrick smiles.
“There are signs of totalitarianism within the hierarchy. Too many older folk with lying smiles. I want to start something to set things right. Work out how to stop history repeating itself.”
“Not I. ‘We’.”
He smiles, then nods.
“Alright, then. Welcome to the beginning of a fresh start.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The moonlight turns the billowing drapes violet where they intrude on the silver trails it throws across a marble floor. The distant sound of a saxophonist is barely discernible, like some fey melody carried on a breeze to tempt the unwary into folly.
“We can’t go on like this, Hubert.”
Hubert rolls onto his side, sucking in his gut as he does so.
“Whyever not, Daphne?”
She turns from watching the play of the harbour lights.
“He suspects. I fear what he would do.”
“Piffle, dear heart. You’re imagining things.”
A tall man in a red suit brushes the drapes aside as he steps into the room from the balcony.
“She’s not. He knows. The thugs he hired are waiting in the alley for your departure. Daphne’s going to be the victim of a brutal home invasion. You’re going to be found floating in the harbour, nothing but a mugging gone wrong.”
Hubert lunges from the bed, snatches one of the pistols from his discarded gun belt, and drills the intruder through the heart.
The red-garbed man looks down at the neat hole in his suit.
“Commendable aim.”
Daphne passes out. Hubert keeps looking back and forth between the smoking gun and the shrinking hole in the red material.
The shot gentleman cuts a short bow.
“Daniel Continuity Plotmore, at your service. Please, call me DC.”
“What?”
DC moves quickly, retrieving and then handing Hubert his trousers.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just an assistant.”
“To who?”
“God. For this particular world, that would be Algernon Westlake, a renowned author of torrid romances in a nearby reality. Unfortunately, Algernon just got dumped. His latest bestseller, ‘Balcony to Passion’, has suffered a hitch while he works through the hurt. Which is entirely unfair to the characters who get to suffer because he needs to vent.”
Hubert pauses as he buttons his waistcoat.
“Algernon is the true name of God?”
“From a niche viewpoint unique to this world, yes.”
“This world is nothing but a backdrop for some torrid pulp romance?”
DC waves towards the balcony.
“Hardly ‘nothing’. I mean, look at that view. It takes genuine vision to craft that.”
“We’re all puppets in some book?”
“Not entirely. I mean, now it exists, most people in this world will live lives free of his influence. You, on the other hand, were destined for a premature death.”
“We’re all a figment of somebody else’s imagination? Come on.”
“You just watched my suit regenerate after I ignored a bullet.”
Hubert shudders, then points a finger at DC.
“How do you fit into this?”
DC grins.
“Powers come in many forms. Divinities are only some of them. I come from one of the others, one with a greater interest in equity for mortals. Right now, Algernon is dreaming up a revised storyline that’s much better than tawdry arranged murders. The inspiration will wake him, and also help him towards emotional healing.”
Hubert looks down at where his shirt strains about his gut.
“Any chance he could trim me up?”
DC chuckles.
“Until he edited you to look like how he imagined his ‘rival’ to be, you were.”
Hubert draws a sheet over Daphne.
“What about her… Us, even?”
“Wait for her to call after the silly argument you had tonight.”
“What argument?”
“The one Algernon’s going to write tomorrow.”
“I should go?”
“Out the front door.”
Hubert conceals his doubt and confusion, nods curtly, then leaves.
DC chuckles.
“Another happier ending.”
He turns to look at you, then winks.
“I really shouldn’t give spoilers, but sometimes I simply can’t resist.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 21, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Wolkar shakes me awake. No noises disturbed me, so it’s through concern either distant or godly.
“Wolkar, it’s barely light.”
“Osky sent me. The sunrise swords have stopped.”
Distant and godly. I drag my furs on and grab my weapons.
“Lead me to him. Quick and quiet.”
For once Wolkar obeys my demand. I’m sure I know where he’s going to take me, but if I leave him in the village, he’ll start waking people to tell them the bad tidings.
As we crest South Hill, I see Osky sitting under the split tree, next to glowing embers in the fire pit. He feels the cold all the time these days. It won’t be long before he goes to join the government in the sky.
I turn to Wolkar.
“Go back to the village. Tell no-one about this. Say Osky has named today a river fishing day, not a beach walking day. When they set out, you stay on the beach side to stop the little ones roaming. Play. Teach them tricks. Tell them stories. Keep them off the beach.”
He grins and heads back, his step light. I’ve never known one so popular with the younglings, and today I’m thankful he’s here for me to call upon.
“Osky. You see our futures?”
The bony shoulders shrug.
“No more or less than I did yesterday.”
“When did it stop?”
“Just after moonrise. I watched the life fade from its eye.”
I gaze across the water to where the sword towers stand, guardians no more, their triple blades frozen at the moment their strength gave out. Back in grandfather’s time, people thought the dying of a sword tower meant a death in the village. Times have changed. New blood and cleaner ways reduced our early dying. Even so, those spinning blades mean something to us. A remnant of days before the sky fell, before the burnings ships passed for days on end. Before… It doesn’t really matter. Everything we know is built upon the ruin of what was. In those far days, the chieftains decreed that history was for fools and reading for weaklings. Strong folk were needed to claw a living from lands turned barren and wanderers turned hostile.
My father taught me a word from Before: ‘Turbine’. It’s the true name of the sword towers. I’ve never really dwelt upon what I could do with the true name of something so far away, but I’ve kept it my secret.
“The sundown swords?”
Osky points to the west.
“See for yourself.”
I peer into the morning haze and see their slow, steady sweep. It reassures me.
“Take yourself back to the village, Osky. I’ll do vigil until tomorrow.”
Nobody disturbs my watch. Between Wolkar and Osky, everybody will be happy all is right. My presence or absence causes no comment unless either lasts for more than a moon.
As night falls, I see the last baleful eye open. Without flinching, I stare right back. Nobody ever told me why demons were imprisoned in the towers. Penance? Harnessed to provide energy? Their red eyes have haunted me all my life. At least they seem to die with their towers.
Tabitha said they only sleep, waiting for the last tower to fail. Most people laughed at her.
I didn’t. That’s why, as I keep watch, my will is turned to a command chant timed to match the pace of the sundown swords. It’s a very basic chant. I’m a hunter-druid like my father. Unlike him, I’m far more a hunter.
“Turbine. Heed me. Turbine. Obey me. Turbine. Never stop.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 14, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The man sitting in the waiting room looks like a typical, middle-aged office worker. His suit might be his best rather than his daily wardrobe, but from freshly-shined shoes to carefully slicked-back hair, he’s a shining example of average as portrayed by media outlets for decades.
Cleon, the new recruit, turns from the one-way panel.
“Why on earth did the powers that be call this Joe in?”
Taram, the one tasked with mentoring Cleon, sighs.
“If you’d read the briefing pack delivered to your preferred device this morning – another of the ones I said should be read before you arrive at your first designated location each day – you wouldn’t need to ask.”
Cleon waits. Taram offers nothing more. With a start, Cleon pulls out his phone and scans through the briefing pack.
“Picotech?”
Taram smiles. At least the new dork is a quick reader.
“Correct. Mister average is Bernard Royus.”
Cleon looks back at Bernard, then down at his phone, trying to reconcile the two extremes.
“He’s so, so…”
“Ordinary?”
Cleon nods.
“We think it’s deliberate. He doesn’t stand out, except for being an early adopter of synthetic prostitutes. Which, when you factor in his unique nature, is no surprise.”
“Is he aware?”
“We’re sure not. We’re also convinced he’s subconsciously guided in some things, for example: intimacy partners. Anything that could conceivably betray what he carries is behaviourally managed to mitigate even a slight risk.”
“Yet we’ve left him free to wander about?”
“You wouldn’t believe the number of people he interacts with who are members of this department. From those who collect the bins he throws anything away in to those who intervene to ensure any bodily soil is contained. This man is the single biggest mission we’ve ever had.”
“Why?”
“Agent Cleon Daniel, think it through, and do it openly. Consider this a mission exam.”
Cleon swallows. Exams are unarguable. You pass or you get transferred somewhere you can’t be a risk. Sometimes that’s a graveyard.
“Bernard came to our attention after a road accident in Devon. His car was found blown to pieces about him, but he was apparently unharmed, apart from having no memory of the previous week. That gave us the excuse to call him in for irregular ‘check-ups’.
“His body is permeated with microscopic machines. The term ‘picotech’ has been coined to describe them. Nothing like them have ever been encountered anywhere else. Some of the materials they are made from do not appear in the periodic table. The postulation initially made as a joke has been reluctantly accepted as fact: what’s in him came from an extra-terrestrial source.”
Cleon snaps his fingers.
“That fact changes how we handle this. Such advanced technology and stealth, but we have no visible opponent. We’re in the dark. All we can do is limit the exposure to what he carries and disseminates. Everything that comes from him has to be securely contained to limit the spread of the picotech into the environment.”
He puts his phone away.
“We’re waiting. Something modified Bernard Royus. Was he intended to be a Typhoid Mary, a hub, some other form of infiltrator, or is he an experiment in his own right? We simply don’t know. We have to make sure Bernard lives a contained life. On top of all that, there’s the possibility he was meant to be discovered.”
Taram nods.
“Well done. That last possibility is the scariest thing. Many fail to pick up on it.”
Cleon sighs.
“Justified fear of the unknown. Terrifying.” He grins: “Exhilarating.”
Taram smiles. Cleon is going to fit right in.
