by Julian Miles | Nov 7, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Gantel waves me over.
“Chief, I know this woman. How did she get selected for a dissident watchlist?”
He looks worried, and is right to be: first degree contact can turn to guilt through ideological contamination very easily. But he’s raised it, which goes in his favour.
I wave my ID over the authorisation pad for his terminal.
“Bring the details up. Let’s see.”
Polly Tanith Smythe, 22, of just down the road from here. That’s surprising. The disaffected tend to migrate to the outskirts or unwanted sectors, like the Port. She’s a certified artist, subcategory: literature. That’s never good. People who work with words have been known to rouse the public. At least she’s not a folk singer. We got rid of most of them during the New Year Purge at the start of the One England Initiative. Any left are keeping their heads down, and play their illegal shows far away from anywhere that could matter.
Gantel points to an entry on a side screen.
“Found it: content creation – detrimental allegorical political comment.” He nods: “She always was a bit vocal about freedom and all that. Even when we explained the 1EI, she couldn’t grasp it.”
You have a go at the powers that be, and the powers that be will have a go in return. It’s an uneven match, but people know the odds. I never understood why they’d risk it. Then again, I’m now a Senior Supervisor at Monitor One, Division Two. The rest of my class are Urban Processors or members of Utility Crews.
“What’s her social media score? Skip the aggregate with shopping and public behaviours, just give me the raw social stability number.”
He checks, then shakes his head sadly: “Whitelist, currently at 1.4, with a strong downward trend.”
Four tenths from blacklisting? I swing the other sidescreen so only I can see it, then bring up her interaction matrix with Gantel. He’s not seen her for eight months, but there’s a sexual liaison query flag. I negate it. Gantel’s been in a stable relationship for two years. I sign off on the quarterly vetting myself.
“Gantel, I don’t think there’s anything you can do. I can transfer her to another monitor if you’d prefer?”
He shakes his head.
“Last time we spoke she said she couldn’t tolerate a friend working for any branch of GCHQ. The argument after that was horrible. I’d be wrong to let this get passed to someone else because of discomfort. Plus, I might spot something others would miss. She’s slipped down very fast.”
“Sterling attitude, Gantel. Clear this through and carry on. At this rate, it looks like you’ll finish your task queue with time to spare, and get a performance brevet for today.”
He smiles and nods. There’s nothing we need to be concerned about with Gantel. I put a pre-emptive ‘cleared’ on his side of the interaction matrix, then close the sidescreen and turn away.
Back to policing the things that could threaten our society. It’s a never-ending, ever-expanding remit.
by Julian Miles | Oct 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I watch the spheres orbit about one another as they spin within the space defined by the delimiter field. Fractal printers are fascinating. I find their intricate revolutions calming.
“What do you think it is, Derry?”
Gia’s always trying to predict what’s next.
“I have no idea, young being. What do you think it is?”
She grins delightedly. Rocking back and forth on the dampers of her work boots, she points to the delimiter field.
“It’s taller than it is wide. Makes me think it’s an established tree or something like that. Can’t be fauna, because it didn’t put a constraint wire down before starting.”
“Aren’t trees mandated to start as saplings?”
She purses her lips, then shrugs and whispers up her infoscreen. Being polite, she says the query out loud.
“Tree printing size law.”
The screen flashes a single line of text back to her. Looking across at me, she nods.
“Saplings without exception, so it’s not a tree, and not fauna.”
Today’s game is getting interesting.
“Some sort of bush or shrub? Something with berries?”
Gia whispers up another couple of laws, then shakes her head.
“Seedlings only.”
Natan enters the printbay, feathers rippling in the final stages of preening.
“Hello, you two. Guessed it yet?”
Gia stares at me, a look of revelation dawning on her face.
“Fungus! You’re printing a Plutochrome!”
The two of them share a knowing look. I sit there, waiting for someone to give me details.
Natan catches my expression. With a slight bow, they explain.
“Apologies, Leader Being. I received permission to print one of my world’s adaptive organisms. As it’s going to be dropped in the Salantium Marshes, I also received permission to print a mature specimen.”
I nod.
“What’s a Plutochrome, Natan?”
“An environment-salvaging toadstool appearing like a giant member of the earthly Russula class. A distinctive red cap sits above a metallic stipe from which the common name is derived.”
That’s part of the name explained.
“What about the ‘Pluto’ bit?”
Natan nods: “Before our races established relations, your decision to develop a base on Pluto caught us by surprise. We’d been there observing Earth for two of your decades. We levelled and abandoned our outpost, but part of our garden regrew. When you humans saw them, the name ‘Plutochrome’ arose.”
Gia leans in.
“So we’re using the wrong name. It came from your homeworld. What do you call it there?”
Natan coughs a quiet, surprised squawk.
“We have names for every variety, which are distinguished by cap colour and aroma. Unfortunately, the diversity of both fall outside human perceptive ranges. What I got permission to print-revive is a second-year growth Sholtri.”
The three of us watch it take shape. Once complete, a burgundy cap looks like heavy curtains have been cut to size and thrown over the top of a metre-tall stretch of reflective purple-grey stalk. Metallic shades shimmer in the unvarying light.
“That’s beautiful.” Gia breathes.
Natan dons a curious mask that covers both beak and proboscis-horn.
“One breath of the spores would turn you into a small crop of Sholtri within a week. Best leave now. I need to get this into a drop canister before it can sporulate.”
Gia nudges me as we leave.
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to print intelligent beings?”
“I’ve no doubt we would if we could, but the seat of consciousness is proving to be a difficult thing to locate. Besides, some plants exhibit advanced behaviours. Maybe we’re doing it already, but don’t know it?”
She looks startled.
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’ve just got back from the pyre lighting when a grey and blue Mercy drone descends from the overcast and beeps cheerfully at me. I fish around in my pocket and pull out our fob. After I confirm my thumbprint, the provisions box drops to the ground.
The drone plays an audio clip before rising back into the clouds: “Hello, Mile Oak Foodbank. This message is to let you know this drone shipment will be your last. Due to resource contention amongst the orbital provisioning platforms, we are having to reduce Mercy coverage to areas with the most need. We wish you well, and have included a seed package containing a diversity of crops carefully selected to be compatible with your local area.”
There’s a grim synchronicity in this. The day we say goodbye to Gracie, the supplies stop. She’d always said they would, even though her partner, Minerva, disagreed. They started this place together soon after they arrived with refugees from Shoreham. They’d have gone to Bramber New Port, but couldn’t get a boat across – which was the saving of us up here.
“Tim, what do we do now?”
I turn to Sharon, Minerva’s daughter.
“All the ration bags get halved from tonight, and we give everybody warning. People need to start thinking about how they’re going to get over to Whitehawk, and Mayor Turner will need to negotiate safe passage with the Hangleton Century”.
“You think he can do it?”
“Not in this lifetime. But with him and his officers up there being self-important, we can sort out that alliance with the Portslade Irregulars the Mayor rejected.”
“Only because Drusilla ran off with their deputy. Rumour says she leads them now.”
“She does. But family disagreements are no reason to put us all in danger.”
I look into the provisions box.
“We’ve been given over full measure. Adding what we’ve got, that gives about twenty days for us to organise a merger, a mutiny, and a migration.”
“You going to lead us, Tim?”
Not likely.
“I’m going to let Drusilla take that honour. Gives some legitimacy for those of us who like the born-to-do-it thing. The mayor’s daughter leading us to safety. Cosy.” I grin at Sharon.
She giggles.
“True. The hardliners will like it, especially the ones who think Mayor Turner’s soft.”
“And where the hardliners go, the undecided will follow. End result, we migrate. Somewhere along the way, the hardliners will try to take over, and Drusilla will put them down. Which will neatly complete the merger.”
“The ringleaders are Fiskal and Drew. They’re cunning – Mayor Turner only ever catches their lackeys.”
“Which is why I’ll be pointing them out to Drusilla. With them known, intervention will be waiting when they try something. They’ll be dead before they can make further trouble.”
Sharon steps back and stares at me.
“You’ve been planning this with Drusilla for a while, haven’t you?”
“Gracie talked about the drones. It was Drusilla who explained it to her. I’m not planning anything. I’m just following the long-term vision of the one person I’m sure is up to the job of leading us through this.”
She thinks it over, then nods.
“Good enough for me. Let’s get busy. There’s a lot of packs to unpack, divide, then bag up again.”
Plus a lot of people to tell. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, but a little hope goes a long way. It’s always a saving grace – unless it turns delusional. But we’ve become skilled at spotting and stopping that.
“Tim. Unpack while you daydream.”
I grin.
by Julian Miles | Oct 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s always warning. No matter how sneaky they are, they can’t help themselves. The urge to see our reaction means they telegraph every strike. If our side managed to spot that more often, it’d be hilarious.
“Four o’clock low.”
I flick a glance that way. That twinkling is lenses aligning. I slap the alert panel.
“Up and attem, kids. We have incoming!”
I call Jonas back: “Top spotting, that being.”
“Saw a puff of manoeuvring thruster, Arby.”
“Clumsy of them. Do a sweep the opposite way, would you? They’re not usually that careless.”
“Trish is winging a bat out there now.”
“Please tell me she’s using a REMship.”
A cheerful voice cuts in.
“Arby, you do care!”
Jonas chuckles and exits the chat.
“Trish, the stealth bat you’re piloting is worth more than a year’s budget, whereas REMship versions only cost ten grand apiece.”
“I’m flying with a rolling screen of ten REMships, Arby. We know the new Blemenase detectors can tell the difference. With me in the middle, the swarm will be considered a threat they have to respond to.”
Dammit, she’s right.
“Give you that. So, what’s it looking like?”
Her tone changes from bantering to serious: “Oh, shee-it!”
My screens flash red. Detector data starts scrolling very fast. Hold on. These scale-of-attack numbers can’t be right!
“Nothing launches, people! Trish, hightail it back here. I have three full flights of Barracudas backing a Mantis. Five o’clock low.”
A flight of Barracuda-class harassers we can take. Two flights, maybe. With a Mantis-class warbird on top? Survivable – if we’re very lucky. Add a third flight? We’re done for.
“Arby, they’re a feint.”
“You what?”
“There’s a pair of cloaked Wolverine-class, nine o’clock high. They’re coming in on residual momentum.”
Furled their sails and engaged cloaking without firing up their drives. No energy trails for us to detect. The Wolverine is what’s laughably defined as a mini-dreadnought. We couldn’t take one down, even if we rammed a drive core. Their shields are strong enough to damp a range-zero core detonation.
“Trish. Flit off towards one o’clock high like you’re still looking for threats. Be ready to abandon your REMships for a passing pickup.”
“Net me, Arby. You’ll be able to salvage a few REMships from the mess, and you won’t need to slow down for docking.”
“Okay. Shock gel yourself when we swing in, because we’re not going to be hanging about.”
A spaceship is never still, even when supposedly stationary. In our case, we’re slowly revolving. I launch chaff from the lower dispensers only. Our nose lifts.
“All hands, brace for high-speed evasion.”
I prepare all four sling nets, because I don’t know which side Trish will come up on. I tell the snatch system it’s looking to scoop stealth bats in passing. It does the impact calculations, then prepares damper fields so we won’t crush the catch.
The nose is pointing the right way.
“Three, two, one… Drive!”
Even acceleration dampers struggle with full thrust. The slight deformation of eyeballs and internal organs is brief, agonising, and the main reason we avoid using it whenever possible: beings still occasionally die.
Somewhere amidst the pain and acceleration, I feel the impact of a sling net deploying.
Moments later we hit freespace and transition to FTL.
Trish chuckles.
“Arby, did you know REMships have a long internal spar?”
“No?”
Always thought they were flexible spheres full of hologram projectors and drives.
“Scramble a repair team, would you? I can’t get out. There’s a spar through my external lock control panel.”
“Will do.”
We lived to fight another day. Marvellous.
by Julian Miles | Oct 3, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The city burns behind them. Long shadows stretch almost to the citadel of government. Late afternoon sunlight picks out moments in bright clarity: metallic reflections from the bent panels of a vandalised coupe, a discarded sheet spread like spilt milk, the sparkle of falling tears.
Ahead of such scenes, a mob stands. The roaring of righteous anger has faded in the face of the rows of masked soldiers who block the street. Behind them can be seen the squat forms of armoured cars.
This impasse has stood unchanged for nearly an hour. Within the mob, a few arteries of anger seek to drive it forward. Veins of unspoken reticence keep it still. Within the serried ranks, there is little movement: mainly the shifting of position that betrays discomfort. This crisis arose faster than expected. A number of the troops are locals. For all that command has tried to minimise the number of them at the front, unit cohesion has to take precedent over the threat of adverse emotional reactions.
There’s a stirring within the mob. Surveillance images are confused for a moment, then a smarter observer pulls the watchers back so an overview can be gained: a figure moves forward. The mob parts and reforms behind. Little eddies of concern can be seen in the wake.
Stepping into the clear space between the groups, the figure is revealed to be an older man in nondescript casual clothing. He bears no placard, displays no holograms, wears no badges or disguise. In his arms a child is cradled.
Walking to a point between the two groups, he crouches and places the limp figure down, taking a moment to tuck a roll of material under the child’s head.
A hesitant voice calls from amongst the soldiers: “Is… Is he hurt?”
The man straightens up, shaking his head: “Bless you for asking, but no. Royan got overstimulated when the drummers joined in. He’s taking a nap to process it.” He looks down and smiles: “Pretty soon he’ll be back to demand we all play football with him.”
There are nods of understanding on both sides.
The man looks about. He raises his voice. It’s deep: carries well.
“Four minutes ago, somebody made a mistake. A press release about this,” he waves his hands to encompass the stalled riot, “was sent to Reuters earlier than intended. It says dozens of soldiers and rioters were killed by a suicide bomber. It also says left-wing fanatics claimed responsibility.”
Soldiers grip their weapons tighter. A few begin to bring them up, but are ordered to stand down.
On a nearby rooftop a hidden observer receives a terse message, then recalls a drone with its cargo undelivered.
The man points towards the citadel of government.
“I came here to protest against the uncaring bastards who are driving ordinary people to destitution and death so they can hoard even more wealth.”
He looks down: “I want my boy to be able to carry on playing football, because the medical care he needs is affordable, the social care he sometimes needs is available, and both are given by experts.”
The man sits down cross-legged, spreading his arms in a gesture for others join him.
“I will not be party to a hoax that kills. Will you?”
The ripple of people sitting down is halfway through the mob when one of the soldiers steps forward, slings his weapon, and sits down. The ripple that starts travels faster.
Sitting by his sleeping son, he looks up at the hovering watchers from between two groups of seated people.
“No massacres. No compliance. Your move.”
