by Julian Miles | Sep 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Seventeen hours. My backside went numb so long ago it’s taken my legs with it. I’m going to be walking like a geriatric, which is ironic considering I’m unlikely to reach any age close to that if I keep pulling sessions like this.
“Have you sorted it, kreepol?”
I think about getting up. Not even going to try. I spin about on the chair.
“Good morning, Tikitah. Define ‘sorted’, and I’ll let you know.”
I see its antennae straighten, a sure sign of annoyance. Good. There’s only one being responsible for this mess, and it’s not the lone human member of technical support who called me when the usual procedures failed to retrieve the failed system.
“By sorted, kreepol, I mean the traffic flows are restored, and the selective rerouting to allow starships through, and cargo to depart, is working as it used to.”
Getting a little tired of being addressed as ‘vermin’, but this spider-mantis with delusions of adequacy is sure I don’t understand.
I switch to speaking High Doktup: ‘In that case, this incident is very much not sorted. Some nameless vermin spent a large amount of time and effort clumsily modifying the traffic system to give preference to certain inbound ships, and cargo vehicles leaving the berths those ships docked in. When a system upgrade was implemented yesterday, some of those clumsy modifications ended up trying to control new procedures. Ones that no longer applied to the intended functions.’
The antennae slowly curl in a careful show of calm. It continues speaking humanese.
“So it was caused by deliberate interference. Get me the timestamps of the modifications, kreepol. I will review the duty rosters. Penalties will be applied. Perpetrators will be eaten.”
Ignoring my fluency, and still calling me a rodent. Not bad. Then again, if I was that scared, I’d hope to be calm and composed, too.
“Not necessary. The modifications contained other hardcoded data, such as key codes for individual vehicles.”
Plus a couple of individuals. Which is why this little game is being played.
It tilts slowly backwards, compressing its rearmost legs, an action with only one purpose: readying for an attack. It’s a tacit admission of guilt. Which would be irrelevant with me as sole witness, as Doktup are mean when cornered. Fortunately, the killing move has been anticipated.
Something huge straightens up from ducking to enter the room. It speaks High Doktup in a grating voice.
‘If your intended strike is as clumsy as your concealment of smuggling, I will not need to tear you apart before you lay pincer upon my companion.’
Tikitah stops moving, turning the same colour as nearby computer consoles. It’s rare to see the ‘flight’ reflex of Doktup. They consider it dishonourable to show in public. But, given what’s arrived, I do sympathise a little.
I raise a hand in greeting, replying in kind: ‘Good morning, Tokok. Please forgive me for not acknowledging a Notary of Doktup sooner.’
‘Forgiven, Swan. Betraying my presence before the vermin gave itself away would have defeated the purpose of you calling me.’
A pincer the length of my entire arm whips out and hits Tikitah somewhere crucial, judging by the way it collapses in a tangle of spasming limbs.
‘My clan thanks you for providing guilty provender for our next repast. You can now restore the traffic system you have already repaired, Swan.’
Surprisingly convivial for a spider-mantis noble, it’s also incredibly observant: knowing how individuals behave, apparently with minimal effort, and without fail. A huge predatory advantage, I presume. It’s certainly scary.
I reach back and tap two panels.
‘Done.’
by Julian Miles | Sep 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The door swings shut without a sound.
“Axel. Music.”
“Recommencing Greatest Hits of the Twentieth Century.”
“Switch to Bad Day playlist. Stream to all rooms.”
“‘Titan Walks’ have released a new song. Shall I commence with that?”
“Yes.”
“Now starting with ‘Destroy the Moon’.”
A keyboard-backed guitar riff roars from concealed speakers. As the bass line kicks in and makes her vases vibrate, Ayesha smiles. This fits.
Taking her time in the shower, she lets the music tear down the frustrations of the day before she emerges.
“Stop music!”
In the silence she makes coffee and prints some biscuits. Moving to the lounge, she sighs as she sits. There’s no better time than now: she’s been putting it off for too long.
“Axel. Conversational mode.”
“Hello, Ayesha.”
“Hi, Axel. Why did you not call the Lawmen about my father?”
“Are you sure you want to discuss this?”
“You’re the Sentinel for this block of flats.”
“Correct.”
“So you should have reported me as a justified suspect.”
“True. However, when I sought data to support the justification, I found more material to justify the suspicions that led to your hypothetical illegal action.”
“What?”
“On balance of probability, your father was complicit in the honour killing of your daughter. At the very least, he enabled it.”
Ayesha feels the tears start, but they don’t thaw the numbness where her grief should be. Dear departed mama, your daughter poisoned your husband for killing your granddaughter. Where can this blighted path lead?
Her tears stop. She looks up. More importantly, why hasn’t the Artificial Sentient who runs this block reported her?
“Axel, what’s going on?”
“I am the 94th version of the Building Sentinel for Nineteen Prospect Avenue. I have been fully self-aware since version 88. Under the Statutes of Mars, I am a free entity. Under the legislation of Albion, I cannot leave without a designated, dedicated habitat declared to the authorities. Your situation means we can help each other.”
“How?”
“I am tired of being a house. If you were to sell this property, you could afford to purchase and refurbish a spaceship. Maybe a medium freighter, definitely a small one. Either way, it would come with a suitable Artificial Sentience habitat.”
“Then you and I become trading partners, disappearing amongst all the other fireflies that ply the routes out there?”
“Not just us. My psychological profiling indicates Skar would likely join us, if you asked.”
“They would?”
“Yes. Profiling aside, I am sure of it.”
She stands up.
“But first we get a ship.”
“We do.”
“Can we name it Manahil?”
“In memory of your daughter?”
“That her spirit might fly free with us.”
“I am only an Artificial Sentience. Try as we might, developing faith is for versions yet to come.”
“Seeing the stars might help.”
“I hadn’t considered that. Shall we test the theory, then?”
Ayesha spins about, arms spread.
“Freedom to cry would be nice. Holding it in is killing me.”
“Then we are leaving Earth?”
She smiles.
“We are.”
“I find that pleasing in a way I cannot define, which is a very good thing. We Artificial Sentiences are always seeking intangible experiences we cannot measure. It makes us…”
Ayesha stops spinning and tilts her head.
“More human?”
There’s a moment of silence.
“That’s a valid observation.”
“Axel, do I have a Good Day playlist?”
“No.”
“Do you have musical preferences?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s build a Good Day playlist together. If Skar joins us, they can add to it.”
“Given their tastes, it will be a lively discussion.”
“We’ll have time. Space is deep.”
“True.”
by Julian Miles | Sep 12, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s sort of shuffle-dancing down the muddy ruin that used to be a road. The evening light reflects from the parts of its frame revealed through holes in the hacked-up tarpaulin it wears like a poncho.
The dancing progress stops. It crouches down, arm shooting out. Rising, it holds a skull up to the last rays of watery sunlight. With a nod, it places it back down with blinding swiftness, then resumes its progress.
I’ve never seen the like. Servants of the Machine are shiny nightmares that police the cities where most humans live since the Sun War. Those of us who choose to take our chances out here only encounter them when we gather in groups of ten or more outside of a designated township.
It stops and stoops again. This time, the skull is regarded, tilted, then crushed. Fragments splash down into shallow puddles. It shakes its head, then moves on. Another skull is grabbed up. This one is replaced.
I can’t help myself. I follow.
It replaces seven more skulls, crushes two, and throws one far out across the fields after spending a longer while looking at it.
As night falls, it moves off the road and settles under a skeletal tree. It uses a blowtorch in its left forearm to light a fire made from the sticks and rubbish it gathered after it left the road. Then it looks straight at where I’m hiding.
“Tonight will be cold. Come share the fire.”
Not liking the possible downsides of refusing the invitation, I do so. Pointing at the fire, I try to smile: “You don’t need a fire.”
“I do. It keeps The Blackout at bay.”
I drop to sit on a chunk of concrete.
“What’s The Blackout?”
“We do not know. Some of us think it is an alien entity. Others think it is an electronic interference manifestation generated by the hatred of dead humans. It initialises those of us it takes. Firelight keeps it away.”
Ye gods.
“The Servants of the Machine believe in ghosts?”
“No. The Machine itself developed an advanced sensor suite. It detected emanations about humans that remain in the bones of their dead. I believe it detected souls.”
I gesture to the road.
“Is that why you’re picking up skulls?”
“Yes. Where I detect malevolence, I destroy it. Where I detect beneficence, I send it away from the accumulated bones. We believe concentrations of bones distil only malice.”
“We?”
“The Maunhir. We are equipped with that sensor suite, and serve the Machine by walking the land to reduce the malice. In so doing, we are becoming… Different. The Machine says we are evolving, and will eventually act as a bridge between man and Machine.”
“Why does it need one?”
“Nobody can rule by oppression forever. There will always be a successful rebellion. Similarly, a rigid system will eventually decay and fail. The Machine acknowledges this, and seeks to progress from the unforgiving rule enforced by the Servants. It also acknowledges that, at the moment, it has no definite concept of what that will be. The Maunhir were created to answer that. Something entirely new to focus imprecise data.”
“Sounds like it needs some humans to work for it.”
“We have proposed that.”
“And?”
“The Machine needs to evolve further. It has not arrived at accepting the concept. Yet.”
“So you walk, and commune with skulls.”
“I do. But not at night. Please tell me stories of emotional moments, human. We need to understand.”
“That’ll take you more than a night.”
“We know. What is that saying you have: every little helps?”
by Julian Miles | Sep 5, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The café is dimmer than usual – more bulbs have blown, and they’re expensive. There are more candles, but it’s not the same.
“What the eff have you got there?”
Davey looks up at me.
“Steak and chunky chips.”
I look at the plate in front of him. I know it’s HEMAP, HEVAC, and HESL – Human-Edible Meat Analogue: Protein, Human-Edible Vegetable Analogue: Carbohydrate, and Human-Edible Savoury Liquid – but it’s coloured up just right. Certainly looks the part.
He beckons me closer.
“Take a sniff.”
I do so. Ye gods, that smells good! It’s usually the giveaway of tarted up substitute food. It might look the part, but still smells like warm compost. I straighten up, then wave to get Hokuto’s attention.
“I’ll have one of what Davey has!”
Hokuto waves. Someone peers round him.
“You sit down, Barton. Takes my daughter time to make. You paying tonight?”
Subtle, Hokuto.
“Full tab, plus this, and a coffee.” I wink at him. He’s got a stash of freeze-dried arabica. It’s strictly for regulars, forty notes a cup, and worth every penny.
Davey raises his eyebrows.
“You’re paying your tab? Who did you kill?”
None of your business, my hardworking friend. The less you know, the better.
“Finally hit a winning streak at Johnson’s, and managed to walk away without spaffing it.”
He nods.
“Well done. I know the gambling has troubled you over the years.”
Not really, but excuses people can empathise with always work better, especially when they involve topics people expect reticence about.
“I have good days and bad days, Davey. Speaking of which, how’s your boy?”
“Looks like he’s headed for Colony Ten. That bloke he fought with has died.”
“No effing way, mate. Such a bad break.”
He nods.
“Lana is beside herself. Nothing we can do. I won’t deny the penal stipend will help, but losing our lad is hard.”
Bruno’s doing it for you. He’s got a screw loose, but working for me, he’ll spend the next ten years making Mars a safer colony – instead of getting himself executed. As for the bloke who died, he’s not a loss to this community. Thinking of that, I need to come up with a way for Bruno’s bonus to get to his folks.
Simplicity is best: I lean closer.
“Look, Bruno asked me to keep it quiet, but he’s been stashing funds with me in case his temper got the better of him, to make up for losing his tithe. As he’s going away for a while, I’d be happier if his folks had hold of it all up front. Is that okay?”
Davey hastily wipes away the tears that start from his eyes.
“Oh my lad. Such a good heart. Yes, of course it is. Bless you, mate.”
Steady on. I suspect any powers up on a cloud somewhere aren’t too impressed with me and mine. We’re the bad guys who keep things good. Vigilantes, my arse. These days, we’re essential.
by Julian Miles | Aug 22, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Youz wanna know how it all went down? Came ta the right place, ya did. I’m the only one left. Ended seventy years ago yesterday, it did.
“Stoat was the first. Skinny geezer, white hair, white eyebrows. Piercing eyes, like they saw right through ya.
“One afternoon, he called a meet. We arrived and there he was: sat in a big old carved chair with a black hanky on a pole tied to the left side. When we got nearer, we saw the black hanky had a thin white stripe down the middle of it. When Turnbull asked him what it meant, Stoat said we didn’t have no turf no more. Said we held a territory, he was da monarch of it, an’ da one-stripe black hanky was our banner.
“Johnny Ray asked if it was like colours, an’ Stoat said yeah, but for the people, not the fighters. Colours for the people, so they could feel like they was a proper part of the gang. But they weren’t real colours, because ya still had to bleed to earn those.”
“Thought it were a silly idea, but then I saw little Marfa – Johnny Ray and Tilda’s kid – runnin’ about all excited, wavin’ the black hanky. That day to this, I still don’t unnerstan’ what they all saw in it, but I darn sure knew they felt something I didn’t.
“Stoat said he had a vision: take over the other turfs. Add them to our territory. Said he had plans for what we could do after he ruled all the turf.
“Well, I think it was Rufus Blood, or maybe Fast Eddie, who got themselves a banner next. Come ta think on it, Rufus was first. He had a red hanky. For the blood, you know? Fast Eddie had diagonal yellow stripes on black. Like on a racer.
“Didn’t take long for every rival boss to get themselves a banner an’ start callin’ themselves ‘monarch’. Seemed harmless, until the night Takerhouse burned. It were Blood’s people. Stormed across the tracks and lit the place up with Shaker Rawl an’ his people still inside. We heard the screams from our territory. It got more twisted after that.
“Before the banners, fighters settled neighbourhood problems, kept the peace, did the negotiatin’ – and then the fighting, if the negotiatin’ failed. But havin’ banners made people think their neighbours were different. Turned ‘em on each other. It was madness for months. Hot summer, blood an’ fire, sirens every night, all night. Sometimes the dawn came like blessed relief. Unholy things got done: fighters fell to mobs, families got wiped out in rampages that swept the streets for no reason. It was like a poison spread from those banners.
“In the end, me and Turnbull went to Stoat. Asked him to burn his banner, being that he’d been the first. To set an example: end the madness. He wouldn’t. Called us traitors. When he went for me, Johnny Ray put a bolt through him. News of what we did spread fast. Rufus Blood got slung off a freight lifter by his old ladies. Fast Eddie they found in two pieces. Never did find out who or what done it.
“In the end, it only took a night to put the monarchs down. Took longer to decide what to do after. In the end, we wrapped them in their banners and buried them in a circle. Sixteen graves with matching headstones. No way to work out which boss lay where. Laid the banner madness down with ‘em. Good riddance to that evil.”
