by Julian Miles | Jun 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I watch Nona and Paul walk away, then drop back down. Nothing to do for a while. My next workday is Thursday, so I’m free for the next five days. I wonder if Wanda… No, she’s off with Eber doing resistance stuff. I couldn’t do that. Wearing one of those heavy respirators and sleeping in pressurised tents? No. To be honest, I don’t see what they’re resisting. I mean, there hasn’t been a war in ten years. Can’t remember the last time I witnessed a fight. Haven’t heard of any, either.
Eber and the die-hards say we’ve been conquered and our proud heritage demands we should strive for our freedom from the aliens with every breath, every drop of blood. That whole ‘never surrender’ thing.
Which is where he and I parted ways. I asked one question: “Why should we fight to get back to a situation far worse?”
He hit me. Called me a defeatist. He called me a lot of other things, too. But it doesn’t matter – another thing he couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
The alien race have a name that sounds like ‘Bangarstom’. Somebody called them Bangers, and that was the end of the naming discussion.
Technically, they didn’t invade. Fifteen years ago, an unexpected meteor shower lit the skies for a week. Unusually, many of them survived the burn and landed. By the time the authorities realised the scale of the problem, it was already out of hand. Vena advena is what the scientists called it – a majority decision after weeks of wrangling gave way before the effects of what the rest of the world had come to call Peace Weed.
It spread fast. Where meteorites landed in urban areas, the response was able to contain the effects with only a few accidents. Those only occurred after the authorities realised burning the alien plant released a smoke that acted like a concentrated dose of the chemicals given off by the living plants. So they experimented sloppily, killing an unknown number of people and animals, then settled on a couple of forms of hard radiation. Which also killed things, but not immediately, and nowhere near as quickly as it killed Peace Weed.
When it became clear that huge tracts of wilderness had become infested with Peace Weed, several governments proposed the use of methods that ranged from nuclear weapons down to radioactive crop spraying. None of the options were adopted. The amount of land that would be sterilised would spell the end of civilisation. Scientists noted Peace Weed was a non-competing species, and that it had become effectively established worldwide in record time.
The results of the chemicals given off by the weed were never properly categorised, because nobody cared. Science, like everything else, moved to providing solutions for the ills and deficiencies that had plagued humanity for decades. Nobody wanted to compete anymore. Many wanted to co-operate. The rest wanted to just live their lives without hunger or pain.
Then the Bangers arrived, asking politely if they could set up a few towns on the understanding they would share non-military technology without reserve. Everybody agreed it would be a good idea, as we hadn’t quite sorted out the transition from capitalism to where we’d arrived without warning.
That was twelve years ago. Between us all we sorted the final details of becoming a ‘quiet planet’, and have been that for ten years.
We are, at last, at peace.
Wanda flops down next to me.
“Why is Eber determined to return to a dystopia?”
“Fear, probably. You done with them?”
She kisses me.
“Yup.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Standryl looks down from the walkway. It’s like peering into one of those curio shops on a winter evening – corridors of angular junk filled with mysterious shadows and twinkling lights – except here, every constellation of lights is an old spaceship. The perspective is deceptive, too. The ‘corridor’ he’s looking down is many kilometres long, running parallel to the north-south axis of this satellite.
He turns to his guide, a cyborg so old all its biological components have mummified. It sounds like old dresses crinkling when it moves.
“Tell me how he did it.”
The voice is dry as well. Completely toneless. But the eyes brighten as it tells the tale.
“The Jessop family operated a salvage operation back on Old Earth. When humans went into space, Horace Jessop figured they’d make the same messes they had on their home planet, just spread over a bigger area. He started operating a salvage service, where one of the Jessop Wrecking ships would go anywhere – for a fee – and take away space junk.”
Standryl watches a robo-tracer drift by, locator beeping softly as it seeks the particular make and model of ship a spacer tasked it to find.
“I recall he was famous for the volume of stuff he cleared up. Wasn’t there something shady about that? Accusations of fraud?”
“Yes. The base claim was that the recycled material he returned to market was only a fraction of what he took in. Tenuous theories of unsafe practices used in the disposal of gravitic cores and similar perilous scrap were built on suspicion and guesswork. But, apart from the raw numbers being largely correct, nothing criminal or dangerous was ever found. Jessop Wrecking returned thirty percent of its salvaged material to market. What happened to the rest became the topic of media speculation and fictional accounts for decades.”
“Then the wars rolled in.”
“Yes. All Jessop Wrecking ships were destroyed during the defence of Shargyn in the First Conflict. By the time the Third Conflict collapsed into the Great Retreats, there was nothing left of the company. Other wreckers catered to the demand. A demand that had changed. After the depletions of war, resources were scarce. Recommissioning and repair became the thing. Scarcity of old ship parts made it a lucrative business. Spacers started scouring former battle zones and debris fields.”
“Soon after that started, Alison Bant found this, and you.”
“Yes. She was unique. Spent days talking with me, then disappeared for a few months while she changed her name, found two investors, and bought the Jessop Wrecking name back from GalactaBank. The launch of this facility was spectacularly successful.”
“This is the place Horace stored all the ships he didn’t recycle?”
“Yes. In addition to predicting a need for salvaging, he was also sure a need for spare parts would develop, made all the more keen by the long serviceable lifespans of spaceships. He was right. This facility was used to store every vessel in eighty percent or better completion, but impractical or too costly to return to service at the time. He knew he’d never see this place open its docks, but he also knew it would.”
Amazing long-term vision.
“What was he like?”
The cyborg turns to face him.
“A fat man with a love of brandy trifle and fried vat-grown herring. He never drank hot drinks, and was a cheerful player of ancient boardgames who’d quite literally play for days if uninterrupted.”
The venerable companion droid turns to gaze downwards.
“He called this view ‘fascinating’.”
It pauses.
“I wish I could have salvaged him, too.”
by Julian Miles | May 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m wondering about that human. It seems to be contemplating something. Probably violence. It’s the only reason why we allowed them membership, after all. Come to think of it, what is it doing sat in a cafe on the Aslencade anyway? I though civil zones were off limits to combat aspected beings.
At least that’s easily remedied. I tap my callcuff, and indicate a suspected zone violation.
Moments later, a Constable descends to attend at my side. My response to its polite query is delayed by the human giving me a little grin. There’s no mistake. It knows why the constable is here! How? They’re not telepathic except by genetic happenstance, and none of those are let out of Earth Empire space.
“To repeat: please indicate the suspected offender, Exalted.”
I use the cuff to direct it. No need to make things obvious.
“Thank you for reporting your suspicion, but the indicated being is an enfleshed Constable.”
A what?
Before I can work out who to route a pointed query to, the human rises and crosses to attend me.
“To answer your inevitable question, we found on Earth that criminals and police often share identifiable traits. Being ignored out here – where we are always assumed to be inferior brutes on the verge of criminality – turns our key talent into an advantage: the ability to spot a crook by the way they behave is something you lost when you switched to automated enforcement. While it is remarkably effective at intervention, it is noted that prevention is greatly reduced. In practice, if criminality is covert, and beings do not become suspicious enough to report it, your Constables are ineffective.”
The hovering Constable flashes a trio of green confirmation panels in agreement.
“Are you intimating that you can spot potential criminals by the way they behave, Constable?”
“Nothing potential about it. I know a crook when I see one, and you have a lot of crooks about. The only problem is in determining which are guilty of crimes of relevance, to use your terminology. To do that, I have to watch the suspect while colleagues investigate their data. Today, you have witnessed me doing that.”
Just a minim.
“Do you suspect me of criminality, Constable?”
An upward curve of their mouthparts indicates amusement, I believe.
“That would be something I cannot divulge, and for you to know the truth of anyway, would it not?”
How very irritating. Now I’m contemplating violence.
by Julian Miles | May 15, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Defensive fields shimmer, but they don’t conceal the beam cutter clutched in a white-knuckled grip, and the gleam of intent in their eye. This will not end-
‘THUNK!’
Defensive fields crackle and spark as they collapse. There’s a beam cutter on the floor, the eyes are bulging, and there’s a metre-length of something sticking out of their ribcage.
I look back to the bar. Glatchman catches my eye and points a limb towards the balcony above. Running my eye up the gleaming claw, I track upward to meet the green gazes of Tazia and Chyrm.
Tazia grins: “New toy.”
Chyrm shakes its central head: “Hardly. We have merely recreated and repurposed an ancient siege weapon.”
I look to their left. All I can see of the device is two wide strips of gleaming alloy sitting one above the other. The upper one is bent backwards to either side of its centre.
“Siege weapon?”
Chyrm enthusiastically nods all three heads.
“It is called a ‘ballista’. After consideration of the recent occurrences of violence here, we have doubled the striking capacity. Also, we sited it so the central field of fire covers the entry point favoured by all of the perpetrators.”
I ambulate across to the Eltainian pinned to the wall by the entrance. I grab the end of the giant bolt and wiggle it. It flexes a little, but doesn’t move. I bring another arm to bear. Nothing. Same lack of result for third and fourth. Allowing myself an annoyed beak click, I fold down and sucker myself to the floor with two arms, then use five with the added leverage of being fixed to the ground.
With a splintering sound that doesn’t bode well for the wall, the bolt comes free. Stopping the upper body flopping about with my sixth arm, I lower it to the ground before releasing my grip on the floor.
I look at the crater in the wall, then roll the body.
“You’ve certainly overcome the problem presented by the new generation of personal defence fields, but you might want to consider armour plating the wall around the entrance. Also, I would recommend using javelin-style bolts instead of broadheads.”
Tazia comes up next to me.
“Why? They seem remarkably effective.”
“At this range, they strike like giant magnum bullets. They also seem to explosively decant the softer inner components of the body, possibly due to the transferred momentum and size of the exit wound.”
I roll the body further so she can properly see the aftermath.
She gargles in a mix of distress and laughter.
“Oh, that’s nasty. Quite colourful, though.”
“The cleaners do not appreciate such. You’ll need to pay them more. You also need to get someone to cut the chunk of wall off the end of the bolt before the cleaners can start.”
I peer under the body at the spreading pool of blood and less pleasant seepages.
“You probably want to arrange both quickly.”
Glatchman shouts from behind the bar: “I’m busy. Get someone else.”
Tazia gives me a beaming smile.
“No.”
She pouts.
“It’s your new toy.”
She stamps a delicate hoof, guessing what I’m about to say.
I drop the body into the pool of ick and ambulate away.
“So it’s your mess to tidy up.”
by Julian Miles | May 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Nine hundred ordinary people have experienced portal transit to Nambinull with the help of a Candamar grant. Nine hundred lives transformed thanks to the generosity of our donors, many of whom come from impoverished zones themselves.”
Doffen Stahl looks up from the prompt screen, the lenses of his contacts strobing green in the barrage of flash photography his raised head causes.
With a little smile, he turns his head to one side, then continues.
“The Candamar is the greatest humanitarian effort since the Tidal Bastion Projects at the end of the last century, and,” he turns back, seemingly gazing into some private distance, “I believe it represents a path forward, rather than an escape from the consequences of the past.”
There are a few murmurs of quiet outrage, but the majority seem to agree.
A lone hand is raised. Doffen points to it.
“Your question?”
The hand drops. A woman’s voice fills the silence.
“Nancy Tarn, Excelsior Intergalactic Network. What percentage of those transited does this represent?”
Doffen brings up a personal holo and rapidly gestures in a query.
“The latest ratified figures do not include the most recent migration. Up to that, the nine hundred represents three percent of those transited.”
There are expressions of disbelief. The susurrus of query is along the lines of ‘why is the total so small?’
Doffen raises a long-fingered hand.
“We cannot rush this. No matter how much political pressure, Nambinull can only support a small population until infrastructure and crops are established.”
There are nods of grudging acceptance.
Doffen signals me with the hand he didn’t raise. I hasten up onto the stage. Raising my hand to prevent lip reading, I whisper nothing in his ear. My job is to give him an opportunity to leave.
“Regrettably, I am needed elsewhere. Please download today’s information pack should you wish.”
There’s a round of applause as he leaves the stage. I trail behind his two protection drones. Looks like he’s heading straight for our limotruck.
The hatch seals shut. With a sigh, Doffen sags into the support couch.
“I’ll never get used to a whole gravity. How do they do it?”
I chuckle.
“They evolved here, remember?”
He blinks, then laughs.
“Oh yes. Slipped my minds.”
Jade lenses slide free, revealing pupilless white eyes. He looks at me.
“Do you ever take those sunglasses off?”
“Only when I sleep.”
He nods.
“I saw a caution marker when I looked up the transit statistics. What happened?”
I knew he’d notice.
“Two of the ‘ordinary people’ were security agents. We kept them in a daze until all the replaced were complete, then let them go along with. It’ll be a good test of the masquerade.”
Doffen sits up a little.
“If they suspect?”
“We’ll secure them, mindscan and replace them, then correct whatever tipped the originals off.”
He nods and settles back.
“Good enough. When is our colony ship scheduled to arrive at Nambinull?”
“Seventeen months.”
“The Nambinull disaster will officially happen a week after unloading completes?”
“Yes. Earth will mourn another lost colony. After a two-month wait, Candamar will push for the establishment of a portal to the next habitable planet on the list, Fexune.”
“How many more times can we get humans to provide funds and fuel for us?”
“Predictions say once more. After that, public opinion will turn. Candamar will fail. Doffen Stahl will perish in a fire, with no remains. Meanwhile, we’ll be on the way to Fexune.”
Doffen sighs contentedly.
“With our people saved, and sufficient docile originals to form the stock of a useful slave race.”
