by Julian Miles | Feb 3, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
…And so the seas rose again, while volcanos and storms brought even more devastation and starvation. Those godly ones who led us looked within themselves and made a decision: in their image was the world, and in their image it would be again. But until the disasters abated, they would retire. There would be a time of darkness, but they promised to return in glory. The people lamented, but their gods were resolute: in order for great things to eventually continue, many things must first cease. They were withdrawing to ensure people survived. Doing it with sorrow, but it was the only way: the best for everyone.
And so they went, along with their chosen, into the heart of the land. Under a great mountain they created a haven, and into that they descended. Outside the grand entrance to that place there was a vicious war, as those expelled sought to re-enter and the unchosen sought to enter. Many more – equally unchosen but loyal – kept both hordes at bay until the gates closed.
In the aftermath, a frenzy took hold. Countless were those slaughtered in the killing madness that seized all. In the end, vanishingly few remained. Of them, only one was spoken of with awe.
Jenna strode from those gates so covered in bloody ruin that even those still in the grip of the madness shrank from her presence. Out into the storms and wildfires she went. Many said she had gone to die alone in the manner of all savage beasts.
She did not. Years later she returned, bringing with her an easing of the furious weather.
Upon a crude cart she brought a slab, and walked at the head of a throng, each of whom brought a slab of their own. Big ones, small ones, every possible size, colour, and shape. This multitude confronted those who had remained.
None dared stop her as she walked through and right up to the gates. With enormous effort, she lifted the slab from the cart and staggered forth to set it down against the junction of the two portals. Then she sank to the ground.
Laying hands upon that slab, she spoke her last words.
“Curse you for abandoning when you could have saved. We will do better. Without the fear and greed, without the lies and cruelty, we will remake this world. Stay inside your white god mountain. Watch us do what you would not.”
She died at that moment, anchoring the slab with her life. One by one, those who accompanied her laid their slabs, first to cover her body, then to cover the gates.
Those who had remained were the first to go forth and return with their own slabs. The pile grew into a ring, and still grows. Everyone brings a slab at some point in their lives: to lay a burden down, to mark a new hope, in remembrance, or in thanks.
It is also the way of this new world to bind agreements by placing a slab. Not one promise so made has been broken.
Those old gods were both right and wrong: the mountain has become a shrine, but not to them. It is Jenna’s Grave, and we honour her with every slab.
by Julian Miles | Jan 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Does it ever end?”
Bruce rises slightly and turns to stare at Lilimya.
“If you don’t pay attention, it’ll end sooner than y-”
He explodes from the waist up, a wave of heat momentarily turning snowflakes to steam.
Lilimya is blown backwards, splinters of bone peppering her armour amidst a spray of blood.
She lies there looking up at the stars, wisps of breath rising from her respirator vents. High above, she sees the flickering light of a spacecraft manoeuvring in HEO, probably a drone hunting enemy machines. Combat outside the atmosphere has been automated for many years, just like fighting underwater. If the same had happened on land, Bruce would still…
She whispers.
“Sorry, captain.”
Then again, he hadn’t needed to face her to reply. She caught him off guard. He responded incorrectly. It goes round and round. They’ve chatted and even argued while in battle before. This time was just the time the big scythe in the sky swung too close to survive. With a sigh, she wonders who’ll be his replacement, and if there’s anything left to replace him in. Most likely, she’ll be transferred to another battalion.
Something grinds against a kerb outside. Lilimya powers down her suit. She grins. Start the clock: eighteen minutes to suffocation.
“Scan-far show-no fight-ers.”
The voice is loud and obviously mechanical, but the tone gives her the mental image of her family dog looking back at her while out walking.
“Good work, Arcady Twelve. Move to next zone and assist Unit 24.”
“Thank-you. Mo-ving. Un-it. Two-four.”
The something grinds against a lot more kerb, then crushes what sounds like a vehicle, before crashing and grinding off into the distance.
Somebody sighs loudly.
“Op Sight, this is Arcady Actual. Nobody spotted they had meat in this zone?”
Smug enough to chat with externals still on…
The reply is so cheerful it makes her wince.
“Sorry about that, boss Arcady. Been busy rolling up France and Germany. It’s not like you’re in danger over there, especially from what was likely a non-combatant.”
Lilimya boots her suit into ambush mode. We’ll see about non-combatant, you pricks.
“Op Sight, there are valid arguments for this country having developed the fundamentals of modern warfare. ‘That sort of potential never leaves a population, merely goes dormant’.”
“Arcady Actual, quoting our revered Thought Leader is said – by himself – to be a non-argument. If you want to debate, do so in your own words.”
Lilimya comes up with her Custerson-Daeschler combi shouldered and aiming where she’s looking. The fire selector is set to ‘Everything’. Seeing a bulky form with whiplash antennas rising from helm and backpack, she blips her targeting once. Nothing between this prize prick and the chunky ping that must be Arcady Twelve.
Bracing herself against the wall behind, she pulls the triggers all the way back.
“Boo.”
The combi roars as it unloads three magnum rounds, a ten-gauge sabot, an incendiary grenade, and an anti-vehicle minimissile.
The armoured suit staggers under impacts as fire blossoms across its side and back, then the minimissile drives through and explodes inside the wearer. As black smoke erupts from it’s respirator vents, the suit falls.
Lilimya straightens up from where the recoil knocked her back regardless of her bracing. Her shots hadn’t hit dead centre because of that, but an untidy kill is still a kill.
She grins, then switches her suit from ambush mode to silent running mode. A callsign like Arcady Twelve hints at there being at least eleven other dangerous automata prowling about. It’d be embarrassing to get killed on the way home.
by Julian Miles | Jan 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The afternoon is chill, clear, and sunny. The quiet is unearthly. The smell isn’t too bad – yet.
I tap another ‘play’ icon.
“I’ve got moments to dictate this, so I best keep to essential- Damn. I’m wasting time telling- Fuck, this isn’t it. Anyw-”
I listen to the sound of a body hitting the ground and dropping the phone I just picked up. I put the phone down, then look about: a street littered with corpses arrayed in similar caught mid-action poses. I do a rough count. More died filming than trying to get away from it. Yet to find one with a decent shot of what killed them, though.
Whatever it was, it was quick, but not fast enough to be a surprise. Most of fleeing victims… I turn until I’m facing what they seemed to be moving away from.
Pay attention to details: so what do I see?
No. Stop. What do I see that’s out of place for a kill of this size?
No holes. Nothing burning. No wounds.
No tops on any tree over thirty feet tall?
I turn again, slower. Yes. Treetops are gone. But there are taller buildings? To the top of… That one, then.
Most of the bodies on the second floor are by the windows. A few died moving away, but most died with their phones in their hands. I step over and around the remains, checking for a live device.
Those near the windows are all dead: recorded until the battery died. So, I should restart with the body furthest from the window… Winner – and loser: fingerprint lock.
Fingerprints are incredibly durable, even after death. Using fingers of the dead is a pet hate, though.
Right, breath out. Scroll. Last video. Tap.
“Oh my God, what is that? Is it a space shuttle?”
I peer at the shaky image. People who ‘talk with their hands’ should shut up while filming, or at least learn to hold still. I can make out why she thought it was one, though.
“What’s happening over there?”
The view swings left and zooms to the end of the main street. The air seems to be distorted. People are falling down. The view moves right and up to bring the rear of the aircraft into view. I can see more intense ripples in the air behind it.
“I think we should get back.”
She realised too late, but left me the evidence I need: the emanations from the propulsion system are lethal. As it was moving so slowly, people saw, but couldn’t escape. Actually –
There are side roads cutting across main street. Some people must have made the right choice: a swathe of destruction always has edges. Get beyond them and you’ll survive.
Time. I’ve got enough. Pulling out my satphone, I speed dial headquarters.
“This is Garrett. Apart from phone and outlier retrieval, the zone is clear.”
“Device Neutralisation Team ETA is one hour. How many outliers?”
“Unknown. Some must have dodged in the right direction. Ranger patrols and media teams will need to be ready.”
“They’re already on it. Do you have a cause?”
“Absolute proof that the Kecksen Drive is deadly. Prototype Two is recognisable in the footage.”
“Recommendations for mitigation?”
“Water tower at the centre of town, pump problems upstream, switch to emergency supply, water contaminated due to poor maintenance.”
“I like it. Anything else?”
“Prototype Two was flying low and slow. If that wasn’t in the flight plan, find out why.”
“We most assuredly will. Another good job, Garrett. Now make yourself scarce. We’ll be in touch.”
“Yessir. Going now.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 13, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The gigantic purple and gold sphere is set at the centre of the dining table when Menna races downstairs.
“You’re home! I thought I- What’s that?”
Vendi gives me a smile. She predicted every word. Then again, she’s been working from home and living with our delightfully stream-of-consciousness tornado of a daughter ever since winter closed in.
“Hi Menna. Lovely to see you. Do I get a hug or do I have to…?”
She pouts, putting one hand on her hip while pointing the other at the huge intruder.
I chuckle as Vendi curls up, rocking with silent laughter.
“I have to. Okay. That is called a Winterheart Charm, and this one comes from the town of Nodenhame, which is the northernmost fishing community in Larkenmand, which itself is the northernmost territory of the northernmost continent on the planet Winshe.”
Menna considers both my words and the sphere.
“Can I put a candle inside it?”
I get up and tilt it towards her, so she can see the small hole in the top, and through that the larger hold in the bottom that I’m waving a hand at her through. She giggles.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. These are spun from melted Sherum crystals by crafters known as Tandars, and they’re made to be hung as ornaments or lit from within like lanterns.”
She claps her hands. I raise a finger.
“But, to do that, you’ll need to find the candles from my surprise birthday party the year before last, and bring one of the copper saucers, too.”
“Easy as done already!”
She rushes off.
Vendi leans across the table and takes my hand.
“You realise we’ll be clearing up the wreckage from her search for hours after she goes to bed, don’t you?”
I grin.
“Worth it.”
Things start crashing about from the direction Menna ran off in.
She grins right back.
“Remember those words later. Now, speaking of worth, why is this the only item you’ve come back with? Jurgen came past rolling a big steel wheel, Suzana was dragging a chunk of armour, everybody was carrying something, and they all had pockets filled with trinkets. Except you.”
I lean back.
“They couldn’t hold the Winterheart Festival because it was banned by the occupying forces. For five years they’ve hidden their culture away. Then we rolled in, bounced the bad guys, doing a little bad guying of our own in the process, then announced the Larkenmand Council restored. While they hugged and danced, many of my companions turned to the time-honoured mercenary pastimes of looting and securing trophies.”
She smiles.
“You’ve never been a fan of either, I know.”
I shrug.
“We get paid enough, and there’s no glory in greed or bloody mementos.”
Vendi shivers. I continue.
“Larkenmand is a lovely place, when it’s not being used as a source of forced labour. The folk of Nodenhame decided to celebrate the return of their lost ones by holding a belated Winterheart Festival, and invited us to join in, because without us, their loved ones wouldn’t be back.”
I nod towards the sphere.
“The custom is that Winterheart Charms are given to those you favour, as thanks or well-wishing. A baker I saved from a bayoneting presented that to me. His whole family came along to sing a blessing so that the luck would spread from the Charm to my family.”
Menna rushes back, candles in one hand, copper saucer in the other. I grin, then look worried and start patting my jacket.
“Now where did I put that lighter?”
“Daaaaad!”
I get pouted at again.
by Julian Miles | Jan 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m not supposed to care which particular variety of illegal folderol a target has been committing. My job is to bring them to whichever form of justice is applicable. We default to it being that of the reality flow they’re in, unless whatever they’re up to is particularly awful, in which case we’re free to use immediately lethal penalties. Which is a decision for my superiors. I might personally disagree, but vigilantism isn’t what I’m being paid for.
All that said, I hate reality skaters. People who get their kicks by invading their lives in other flows, taking what they want, doing what they feel, then skating out ahead of the consequences, leaving their in-flow selves to face all manner of predicaments. However, for all my loathing, I will admit an admiration for their impeccable timing, as meeting another of yourself while in their reality causes a small but mutually lethal explosion.
Tonight’s target is Sebastian Li. He’s been a very bad boy across 123 flows already, and here he comes to continue his rampage through the life of Sebastian Li 124 – technically instance J6P5Z226, but only arrest warrants and scientists care about the actual where/when of any who in question.
“Sebastian Li, instance A6K9L680, your skate is over!”
The tanned figure in the black jumpsuit stops dead, then twists down and around, raising a hand and peering at us from under it.
“Well, well, well. Only two officers? Didn’t I tell you last time you’d need a lot more?”
Scanlon hisses at me.
“There was a last time?”
Getting tired of being his secretary… I hiss back.
“No idea. We got the same datafeed. Now focus.”
“Who’s our third tonight?”
“Brigast. On the rooftop across the way.”
Who gives away his concealed sniper position by shooting Scanlon!
I growl into my throat mic as Scanlon sinks to the ground, blue sparks spitting from his eyes.
“Wrong target!”
There’s a low laugh from my headset.
“For you, maybe.”
I know that voice?
Sebastian turns to face me.
“Your partner isn’t dead – yet. You’ve got about six minutes to get him to medical care a lot more advanced than this flow has.”
“You conniving bastard.”
He grins.
“My parents were actually married in my home reality, so that’s untrue. Now, are you going? Alternatively, Seb Four can shoot you as well.”
He points to where Brigast is.
Four?
The low laugh comes again.
“I don’t think they filled this one in, Six.”
Six? I should be understanding something, but I’m not…
A figure steps out of the alleyway across the way. This – Sebastian! – is dressed in a tasteful three-piece suit and is carrying a harpoon gun. He waves at me with it.
“Sorry to be melodramatic, but sporting goods shops are easier to rip off than gun stores. Oh, sorry. I’m Seb Three.”
Dear gods. There’s a team of them. Too hell with those who sent us blind into this!
“I’m going to take my partner and go.”
Seb Six, in the black jumpsuit, nods.
“You’re handling it well. The last couple of teams didn’t, and there were more of them.”
Are we a case of incompetence or revenge, I wonder?
“Is Brigast alive?”
The reply comes over my headset.
“No. I’m from a reality at war. Old habits. Sorry about that.”
I heft Scanlon over my shoulder and walk away. This is more than negligence, and quite frankly my superiors can pick someone else. If I can’t trust those who send me patrolling the realities, I’m out.
