by Julian Miles | Jan 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two figures meet outside the Ship o’ the Line tavern on Marquis III.
“No, no. You sit there. I’m more comfortable when I can see the ways in and out of any place I’m stopped in.”
The reply is a flicker of tentacles and a telepathic acceptance. After the slight visitor is seated, food and drinks are ordered from the hovering ovoid of a serving ‘bot.
Tentacles wave and a thought is sent.
“A revelation from my centuries amongst humans?”
A callused hand scratches at the stubble on his chin, then waves towards the spaceships standing amid the towers of the spaceport.
“The uncanny resemblance, come evening, between a harbour full of tall ships with their rigging and lines going hither and yon, and the spectacle of a free worlds spaceport filled with rocketships all festooned in stabilisers, conduits, and cabling.”
The tentacles ripple, then curl tightly as a more piercing question is communicated.
There’s a bark of laughter that trails away to a deep chuckle.
“No. We are, by nature, solitary wanderers. By the time we truly understand our longevity, we have forgotten our origins. Near death experiences take memories from us. Some of us seek that oblivion, spending lives as the most extreme daredevils or warriors for whatever cause offers the greatest danger. Others seek to avoid it, clutching memories like a miser hoarding money. I daresay an unknown number of us die after shockingly short – by our standard – life spans. Those who fall we never know. The fervid stories of our intergalactic powerplays and control of humanity are nothing but childish nightmare tales dressed in adult trappings. Your kind know our telepathic abilities to be rudimentary. No doubt you have encountered absolute refusals to believe that from some human groups.”
The slight figure nods slowly, then takes a quick sip of a luminous yellow beverage, the glow from which illuminates the quartet of dark vertical slots where it’s eyes should be. As it savours the drink, another question is silently asked.
“You need not worry. I’ve booked passage out of here on several ships. I’ll be gone, and damnably difficult to follow, by the time you compile and release the documentary. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to depart a place due to risk of discovery, but it’s nice to be able to do so with a modicum of grace for once.”
The next query prompts a snort of derision.
“We came to a tacit agreement with the authorities ages ago. Our potential for causing long term harm far outweighs any advantages we could provide. On top of that, there are superstitious criminal groups and religions with legends and traditions that predate the current ruling classes. We can bring a fearsome amount of grief down upon any who test us. That is not bluster, either. It has been proven several times.”
Tentacles flick again while food that looks like charred seaweed is consumed with gusto.
“I have no idea. I have been around long enough to develop a surety that whatever divinities might be attendant upon the drama called human existence have no great scheme for my kind, nor for humankind, be that of any relevance. We are, the universes are, and so the great and colourful dance goes on. And with that, so must I.”
The slight figure gestures towards passers-by, presaging a final question.
“I stopped wondering about that over 3000 years ago. Wasting too much time on something you can’t answer is a bad habit. Good evening to you.”
The figure strides away and disappears into the passing crowd.
by Julian Miles | Jan 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The light from the triple row of screens reflects in their eyes as they watch the protest from eleven angles for the sixteenth time. When the replay ends, they look to the monitors on the desks in front of the three seated members of the team, then at each other.
Clark waves disgustedly towards the screens.
“Nothing.”
Maggie indicates the monitors.
“The threat recognition came up short again. Only the four it originally flagged.”
The pair of them look around their fourteen subordinates.
Clark’s expression turns stern.
“This isn’t a private conversation, people. I need an explanation for the director. That means we have twenty minutes to find out why our multi-million-pound real-time threat detection missed ten people getting murdered. This is the third major protest with fatalities in the last six months.”
Maggie’s gaze falls on the newest recruit, a transfer from some disbanded project, foisted on the team. Time to start making her unwelcome so she’ll transfer out quickly.
“Clarice. Care to share something to justify your glowing recommendation?”
Clarice takes a slow sip from her cup. It’s a play for time, but done well enough to not be incriminating. She stands up and moves to the screen.
“Do we have any shots of the victims before they went down?”
Davy uses touchscreens with both hands to quickly bring up forty images.
“Highlight where they went down, and timings if we have them.”
That takes a little longer.
Clarice nods and gestures to the screen.
“Whoever it was worked left-to-right through the crowd.”
Clark nods, but appears sceptical.
“Less than five minutes, first to last. Anyone moving that quickly through the crowd would have registered as a threat.”
“It’s only when they went down. I bet the poison was administered earlier.” She checks the notes, “the protest was contained twenty minutes before the first victim fell.”
Davy looks round.
“You think that’s when they started?”
Clarice smiles.
“Would be my best bet. Now, can this software look for predatory behaviour?”
Davy looks puzzled.
“Why?”
She gestures to the screens.
“The killer moved through the crowd, looking for those vulnerable to whatever application method they had. My guess would be bare skin on arms or back. That means their behaviour would exhibit recognisable hunting patterns. The software didn’t see it because it’s set up to detect threats coming from the crowd. It treats this crowd as an origin, not a target area.”
Davy glances to Maggie. She shrugs.
Clark smiles.
“I’m not convinced, but nobody’s laughing or proposing alternatives, so let’s give it a whirl. Davy, add the crowd as a protection zone.”
The screens go dark for a few minutes, then light up. On the central screen, a grid map overlays they crowd. A green line moves slowly across it.
Maggie swears under her breath.
Clark claps his hands.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Davy nods.
“That’s a lone operator demonstrating prey selection behaviour within the crowd, prior to the first victim falling.”
“Get an image out to the watcher units.”
An image of a bearded figure in a basketball cap and dark jacket comes up, along with a string of body dynamics data.
“Load the dynamics data to the watcher units. Don’t bother with the imagery.”
Clarice nods. It’s clearly a visual disguise. But body dynamics can’t be changed except by those with significant training.
Time passes. A phone rings. Clark answers it and listens for a minute before hanging up. He grins.
“They’ve got her. The jacket has a dozen injectors holstered inside.”
Clarice grins.
Maggie glowers. This girl’s going to be trouble.
by Julian Miles | Jan 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“We’re leaving Earth.”
I smile at the pale pink amoeboid that’s maintaining a human shape out of respect, and wearing clothes out of courtesy.
“Why are you doing that, Dorn?”
“The Council of Futures has decided we should seek a new species to mentor.”
“Not some of the pre-sentients here?”
“The Council of Futures has also decided we should absent ourselves from this planet.”
“Why is that?”
“When we first came to these lands, we were drawn by the optimism of those upon this world. So many dreams of hope and justice. A global will to do better than before.”
“What changed?”
“Nothing.”
I put my coffee down and regard Dorn where I consider ‘his’ eyes to be.
“You’re going to have to explain a little more, my friend.”
“After we made contact, we agreed with various ruling factions that our presence would remain anonymous. Our true purpose was never disclosed. We presented ourselves as refugees, and traded technology for a place to stay. Once that was secured, we started the real mission. For all our care, some – like you – became aware of our abilities.”
They’re dream technicians: working to change societies for the better. I’d thought myself unique in knowing that.
“I’m guessing some who found out did something unwelcome?”
“More unexpected than unwelcome. So much so, we have spent decades trying to understand and adjust. Yesterday, the Council of Futures admitted defeat.”
“What was it?”
“Soon after our abilities became known, three males from differing ruling factions approached us secretly. All three had the same idea: they agreed that societies such as yours, with the power to destroy or otherwise ruin themselves, needed help to make it past primitive urges. Each of them suggested that if we adjusted the dreams of the populace to match their particular beliefs, we would achieve our goal, because their way was the best way for everybody.”
That I can almost see: fervent men in expensive suits trying to harness an unchallengeable advantage.
“What did you do?”
“We asked for time to consider, then set our finest Dreamweavers to refining the dreams of those three men, so they would come to understand the underlying tyranny of their chosen ways.”
“How did that turn out?”
“Each faction then sent a female. She broached the same topic, but with more fervour. One of them clearly did so out of an underlying fear. The other two were as committed as their male counterparts.”
“So you modified their dreams too?”
“And those of their acquaintances. We worked our way through entire political groups.”
“To no effect?”
“To limited effect. However, what we noticed more was the clear division between what a person believed, and what they did to further their position within the group they clove to. A few changed allegiance, but not one tried to change the groups. Self-interest increasingly overrode all considerations of justice, mercy, compassion or responsibility. No matter how often we tried, the lust for power and advantage, coupled with an abject fear of the unknown, represented mainly by change, and often portrayed as some sort of evil alternative, prevented any real progress.”
I smile.
“I believe we term it ‘better the devil you know’.”
Dorn approximates a nod.
“That is the term we consider to be a distillation of the traumatic bonds that enslave you in so many ways.”
“What now, my friend?”
“We will leave you to those ‘devils’. We cannot help if you will not help yourselves.”
I nod.
“A bitter truth. Farewell.”
Clothes fall to the floor as my alien friend fades from view.
by Julian Miles | Jan 3, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The chaos on the streets is nothing compared to the chaos at headquarters. In the end, I give up and hop from desk to desk, then jump down and barge through the queue into his office.
“You called, Chief?”
Clarence Christie, Chief of the San Francisco Special Operations Bureau, grins at the shouts of outrage at my queue jumping, then gestures for Rales – the gent I pre-empted – to close the door.
“One day you’re going to meet someone you can’t get by.”
“Probably.”
He shakes his head, then scoops a file off his cluttered desk and throws it to me.
“Find this man. You’ll have anything you need to make it happen.”
I open the file. There’s an interview document, some psych evaluation notes, a blurred mugshot, and some CCTV stills of him being carried from a building by four sanatorium orderlies. I check the location and dates. Los Angeles. Four years ago, almost to the day.
“How does this loon link to what just levelled Los Angeles?”
Clarence gestures to the SD card in the plastic bag stapled to the inside of the folder. He pushes his laptop over.
“Slot and play.”
I do so. It’s a short video. The figure is dressed in a ragged T-shirt and chinos. Manacled and chained to both chair and table, he glares from the screen. I can almost feel his rage as he starts to speak.
“One more time for the hard of believing: I come from a time 176 years ahead of this today. We’re told The Singularity has happened for those deserving of it. The EHAI – Enhanced Humans and Artificial Intelligences – created a supposed utopia in which there is nothing for the unmodded to do except work in factories accruing credits towards enhancement. Production lines are human powered because we’re better at maintaining and replacing ourselves than machines.
“Some of us unmodded decided to carve out a future for ourselves: an independent nation where we could live free of implants. At first, EHAI ignored us. Then they laughed. Then they legislated. That’s when the riots occurred. Soon after that, the resistance started. Fortunately, leaders rose to turn UnMod into a cohesive force. We won: got ourselves a decent size island. We’re getting more and more disaffected coming to join us. People are shutting off their enhancements and leaving EHAI.
“The ruling polity decided to stop the UnMod movement. Tracing the bloodlines back, they found a critical point where the ancestors of many key UnMod figures were in geographic proximity. They’re going to send something back to deal with them.”
An indistinct question comes from off-screen. There’s laughter. The soldier looks confused, then angrier.
“Why would they send a cyborg assassin? It’s simpler to send a K-bomb.”
He stares at the screen.
“They’re going to erase Los Angeles sometime in the next five years.”
The video ends. I look at Clarence.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He shrugs.
“Four years ago, the name he gave was Kevar Jykson. After transfer and evaluation, he did two stints at Langley Porter Psychiatric Hospital right here in San Francisco, then some new therapy worked. He was declared sane and released eleven months ago.”
My boss sighs.
“Yes, I think he played along to get released. Question is, why? What did he know that could have prevented the five hundred square miles containing Los Angeles from being vapourised?”
I tuck the file into my jacket, then smile at him.
“More importantly, does Mister Jykson have a Plan B?”
Clarence sighs.
“That’s the essential question. Go find him and ask.”
by Julian Miles | Dec 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Out of the grey-blue fog comes a five-armed green pudding in fancy breeks, waving two ray guns and a cutlass. It takes three attempts to blow a hole in it with my beamer. I’m too drunk for this.
The world only comes in to focus every little while. The rest happens on the other side of a comfortable grey-blue haze. The locals call the stuff ‘shebler’. It’s an acquired taste, like someone crossed good whiskey with dirty absinthe, but it does a fine demolition job on one’s higher functions. Tonight’s unexpected mutiny party started after I’d tucked away a bottle of the stuff during a drinking contest I think I won. Not sure.
A while passes. Think so. Whatever. Back in focus. I’m in the long corridor leading to the bridge, in the middle of a draw-down. Got three gunsells ahead of me, hands hanging by their pieces, eyes narrowed. I’m in a similar position. The one on the left makes his move. I drop to one knee, drawing as I go. My beamer takes that one off at knee and thigh, the middle through groin and guts, and the rightmost across chest and shoulder. Then the mist rolls in. Clearly my body is doing fine while my mind is off dancing with Miss Drunk.
The crew had been fractious for several months. Muttering that I’d been conspiring with the Captain – ah-ha! He was the one winning the drinking contest when some swab shot him – to keep the raid profits for ourselves. Never mind that the piss-poor excuse for pirates we’d got couldn’t buckle a swash if their lives depended on it. Piracy is as much showmanship as it is bloody-handed pillage. Unfortunately, if you forget to be stylish, people start to take notice of the slaughter. Most of our profits were consumed in paying off witnesses.
Bloody hell! Midshipman Conrad nearly did for me with that broadbeam. I drop flat and let him cut patterns in the bulkhead with his industrial cutting tool. When he exhausts the charge pack, I’ll leap up to shoot him.
What actually happens is I lunge upward and sling an arm over a console. Which lets me swing the arm with the beamer up and over so I can spray shots in his general direction while resting it on the console top. One of them gets him.
This had better end soon. I need to fall over and get the drunken oblivion bit over with.
Why has my drunk self brought me staggering to the bridge? Oh yes, I remember: Midshipman Simms yelling at me.
“You’re the last, you shitfaced liar! Hold still and die like the man you should have been.”
I’m the last? Okay then. If I get this done, I can keel over for as long as Miss Drunk needs.
Fear of a violent death at the hands of idiots lets me repel the grey-blue fog crowding my focus. Close and seal the bridge bulkhead. Remember the emergency code. Enter it. Open the engineering console. Flick the ‘isolate bridge’ lever. Wait for the light above it to turn green. Press the ‘fire purge’ button. Feel the thump through my feet as all the airlocks below open at once.
Drunken officer: 1. Mutinous idiots: 0. Note to self: need a new – and higher calibre – crew.
Wake me when the help arrives.
