by Julian Miles | Apr 4, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dawn breaks as we head uphill, the path laid on top of the trench that covers the power cables. Passing through the bulwark, the noise of the chillers drowns out all natural sounds.
Patrick gestures to the viewport. I pull the lever that works the wipers. We peer through.
The valley below is covered in snow, dead trees sticking through the drifts. At the cliff end, great doors can be seen above the remains of the old landslide that obstructed them. I can feel the cold through the transparent pane.
I look to Patrick.
“Don’t they suspect?”
He nods.
“I’d be a fool if I thought there aren’t people in there asking questions. But, so far, we’ve detected no activity that indicates attempts to open the doors or to tunnel out.”
“It’s been twenty-eight years. How long before their predictive models disagree with what we’re showing them?”
“Most were in the forty-year range. Many of the counter-arguments would’ve fallen by the wayside when ‘Nuclear Summer’ or similar changes hadn’t occurred after five years. As for what they’re thinking now, nobody out here knows.”
I step back and take a seat. These duties might be tedious, but everyone agrees they’re essential.
“Patrick, how many bunkers are there?”
“Thirty-five remain under management. The Integration Commission decides if and when they will be approached. Sadly, the six major ones will never be breached. Those inside are considered irredeemable.”
“What about others?”
“We’ve brought seventeen back into the world. Most were astonished at the subterfuge, but on seeing the result have agreed to participate.”
“Most? What happened to those who disagreed?”
Patrick frowns.
“We offered them a chance to transfer to one of the isolationist communities. There are three bunkers that contain voluntary withdrawals: those in Kentucky and Siberia are full. The latest, and biggest, is in the Taklamakan Desert.”
“Weren’t there some disturbances?”
“Yes. Texas and England. In both cases, lethal force was used. A lot of us aren’t happy about that. The next time we’ve resolved to do better.”
“Will the isolationists ever be released?”
“I suspect a couple of generations will be needed before negotiations can start.”
“What about nukes?”
Patrick grins.
“Full of questions this morning, aren’t you? The last unsealed stockpile is somewhere in what was Wyoming. I’m told research is ‘ongoing’. I’m also told that research may have to be forcibly stopped. Old greeds are surfacing.”
“Warminds? Nationalism?”
“Many people still remember how it was. Most don’t care. A few do, and some care too much. The switching out of nuclear warheads was a clandestine international initiative, the start of the nationless world. When the warminds pressed the buttons, enough first wave tactical nukes remained to drive them underground, convinced that ushering in the end of the world to stop people from thinking differently was reasonable. Luckily, all the strategic warheads fired had been swapped to conventional explosives. They made a mess, but nothing toxic.”
“That’s when United World stepped in and set up the cold zones about each bunker?”
“They didn’t openly declare themselves until the bunkers were secure, and after the hold-outs had been dealt with, but yes.”
I look at the man I chose to be my father figure. His eyes have narrowed.
“You’re not convinced United World is the solution, are you?”
Patrick smiles.
“There are signs of totalitarianism within the hierarchy. Too many older folk with lying smiles. I want to start something to set things right. Work out how to stop history repeating itself.”
“Not I. ‘We’.”
He smiles, then nods.
“Alright, then. Welcome to the beginning of a fresh start.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The moonlight turns the billowing drapes violet where they intrude on the silver trails it throws across a marble floor. The distant sound of a saxophonist is barely discernible, like some fey melody carried on a breeze to tempt the unwary into folly.
“We can’t go on like this, Hubert.”
Hubert rolls onto his side, sucking in his gut as he does so.
“Whyever not, Daphne?”
She turns from watching the play of the harbour lights.
“He suspects. I fear what he would do.”
“Piffle, dear heart. You’re imagining things.”
A tall man in a red suit brushes the drapes aside as he steps into the room from the balcony.
“She’s not. He knows. The thugs he hired are waiting in the alley for your departure. Daphne’s going to be the victim of a brutal home invasion. You’re going to be found floating in the harbour, nothing but a mugging gone wrong.”
Hubert lunges from the bed, snatches one of the pistols from his discarded gun belt, and drills the intruder through the heart.
The red-garbed man looks down at the neat hole in his suit.
“Commendable aim.”
Daphne passes out. Hubert keeps looking back and forth between the smoking gun and the shrinking hole in the red material.
The shot gentleman cuts a short bow.
“Daniel Continuity Plotmore, at your service. Please, call me DC.”
“What?”
DC moves quickly, retrieving and then handing Hubert his trousers.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just an assistant.”
“To who?”
“God. For this particular world, that would be Algernon Westlake, a renowned author of torrid romances in a nearby reality. Unfortunately, Algernon just got dumped. His latest bestseller, ‘Balcony to Passion’, has suffered a hitch while he works through the hurt. Which is entirely unfair to the characters who get to suffer because he needs to vent.”
Hubert pauses as he buttons his waistcoat.
“Algernon is the true name of God?”
“From a niche viewpoint unique to this world, yes.”
“This world is nothing but a backdrop for some torrid pulp romance?”
DC waves towards the balcony.
“Hardly ‘nothing’. I mean, look at that view. It takes genuine vision to craft that.”
“We’re all puppets in some book?”
“Not entirely. I mean, now it exists, most people in this world will live lives free of his influence. You, on the other hand, were destined for a premature death.”
“We’re all a figment of somebody else’s imagination? Come on.”
“You just watched my suit regenerate after I ignored a bullet.”
Hubert shudders, then points a finger at DC.
“How do you fit into this?”
DC grins.
“Powers come in many forms. Divinities are only some of them. I come from one of the others, one with a greater interest in equity for mortals. Right now, Algernon is dreaming up a revised storyline that’s much better than tawdry arranged murders. The inspiration will wake him, and also help him towards emotional healing.”
Hubert looks down at where his shirt strains about his gut.
“Any chance he could trim me up?”
DC chuckles.
“Until he edited you to look like how he imagined his ‘rival’ to be, you were.”
Hubert draws a sheet over Daphne.
“What about her… Us, even?”
“Wait for her to call after the silly argument you had tonight.”
“What argument?”
“The one Algernon’s going to write tomorrow.”
“I should go?”
“Out the front door.”
Hubert conceals his doubt and confusion, nods curtly, then leaves.
DC chuckles.
“Another happier ending.”
He turns to look at you, then winks.
“I really shouldn’t give spoilers, but sometimes I simply can’t resist.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 21, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Wolkar shakes me awake. No noises disturbed me, so it’s through concern either distant or godly.
“Wolkar, it’s barely light.”
“Osky sent me. The sunrise swords have stopped.”
Distant and godly. I drag my furs on and grab my weapons.
“Lead me to him. Quick and quiet.”
For once Wolkar obeys my demand. I’m sure I know where he’s going to take me, but if I leave him in the village, he’ll start waking people to tell them the bad tidings.
As we crest South Hill, I see Osky sitting under the split tree, next to glowing embers in the fire pit. He feels the cold all the time these days. It won’t be long before he goes to join the government in the sky.
I turn to Wolkar.
“Go back to the village. Tell no-one about this. Say Osky has named today a river fishing day, not a beach walking day. When they set out, you stay on the beach side to stop the little ones roaming. Play. Teach them tricks. Tell them stories. Keep them off the beach.”
He grins and heads back, his step light. I’ve never known one so popular with the younglings, and today I’m thankful he’s here for me to call upon.
“Osky. You see our futures?”
The bony shoulders shrug.
“No more or less than I did yesterday.”
“When did it stop?”
“Just after moonrise. I watched the life fade from its eye.”
I gaze across the water to where the sword towers stand, guardians no more, their triple blades frozen at the moment their strength gave out. Back in grandfather’s time, people thought the dying of a sword tower meant a death in the village. Times have changed. New blood and cleaner ways reduced our early dying. Even so, those spinning blades mean something to us. A remnant of days before the sky fell, before the burnings ships passed for days on end. Before… It doesn’t really matter. Everything we know is built upon the ruin of what was. In those far days, the chieftains decreed that history was for fools and reading for weaklings. Strong folk were needed to claw a living from lands turned barren and wanderers turned hostile.
My father taught me a word from Before: ‘Turbine’. It’s the true name of the sword towers. I’ve never really dwelt upon what I could do with the true name of something so far away, but I’ve kept it my secret.
“The sundown swords?”
Osky points to the west.
“See for yourself.”
I peer into the morning haze and see their slow, steady sweep. It reassures me.
“Take yourself back to the village, Osky. I’ll do vigil until tomorrow.”
Nobody disturbs my watch. Between Wolkar and Osky, everybody will be happy all is right. My presence or absence causes no comment unless either lasts for more than a moon.
As night falls, I see the last baleful eye open. Without flinching, I stare right back. Nobody ever told me why demons were imprisoned in the towers. Penance? Harnessed to provide energy? Their red eyes have haunted me all my life. At least they seem to die with their towers.
Tabitha said they only sleep, waiting for the last tower to fail. Most people laughed at her.
I didn’t. That’s why, as I keep watch, my will is turned to a command chant timed to match the pace of the sundown swords. It’s a very basic chant. I’m a hunter-druid like my father. Unlike him, I’m far more a hunter.
“Turbine. Heed me. Turbine. Obey me. Turbine. Never stop.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 14, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The man sitting in the waiting room looks like a typical, middle-aged office worker. His suit might be his best rather than his daily wardrobe, but from freshly-shined shoes to carefully slicked-back hair, he’s a shining example of average as portrayed by media outlets for decades.
Cleon, the new recruit, turns from the one-way panel.
“Why on earth did the powers that be call this Joe in?”
Taram, the one tasked with mentoring Cleon, sighs.
“If you’d read the briefing pack delivered to your preferred device this morning – another of the ones I said should be read before you arrive at your first designated location each day – you wouldn’t need to ask.”
Cleon waits. Taram offers nothing more. With a start, Cleon pulls out his phone and scans through the briefing pack.
“Picotech?”
Taram smiles. At least the new dork is a quick reader.
“Correct. Mister average is Bernard Royus.”
Cleon looks back at Bernard, then down at his phone, trying to reconcile the two extremes.
“He’s so, so…”
“Ordinary?”
Cleon nods.
“We think it’s deliberate. He doesn’t stand out, except for being an early adopter of synthetic prostitutes. Which, when you factor in his unique nature, is no surprise.”
“Is he aware?”
“We’re sure not. We’re also convinced he’s subconsciously guided in some things, for example: intimacy partners. Anything that could conceivably betray what he carries is behaviourally managed to mitigate even a slight risk.”
“Yet we’ve left him free to wander about?”
“You wouldn’t believe the number of people he interacts with who are members of this department. From those who collect the bins he throws anything away in to those who intervene to ensure any bodily soil is contained. This man is the single biggest mission we’ve ever had.”
“Why?”
“Agent Cleon Daniel, think it through, and do it openly. Consider this a mission exam.”
Cleon swallows. Exams are unarguable. You pass or you get transferred somewhere you can’t be a risk. Sometimes that’s a graveyard.
“Bernard came to our attention after a road accident in Devon. His car was found blown to pieces about him, but he was apparently unharmed, apart from having no memory of the previous week. That gave us the excuse to call him in for irregular ‘check-ups’.
“His body is permeated with microscopic machines. The term ‘picotech’ has been coined to describe them. Nothing like them have ever been encountered anywhere else. Some of the materials they are made from do not appear in the periodic table. The postulation initially made as a joke has been reluctantly accepted as fact: what’s in him came from an extra-terrestrial source.”
Cleon snaps his fingers.
“That fact changes how we handle this. Such advanced technology and stealth, but we have no visible opponent. We’re in the dark. All we can do is limit the exposure to what he carries and disseminates. Everything that comes from him has to be securely contained to limit the spread of the picotech into the environment.”
He puts his phone away.
“We’re waiting. Something modified Bernard Royus. Was he intended to be a Typhoid Mary, a hub, some other form of infiltrator, or is he an experiment in his own right? We simply don’t know. We have to make sure Bernard lives a contained life. On top of all that, there’s the possibility he was meant to be discovered.”
Taram nods.
“Well done. That last possibility is the scariest thing. Many fail to pick up on it.”
Cleon sighs.
“Justified fear of the unknown. Terrifying.” He grins: “Exhilarating.”
Taram smiles. Cleon is going to fit right in.
by Julian Miles | Mar 7, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Colin claws his way through a ruined doorway, his sight near-obscured by the blood smeared across his face. Slumping to the floor, he wipes his vision clear with his sleeve, then surveys his surroundings.
An ancient stone vault, lit by an ultra-modern lamp. The soft light highlights the exquisite etchings on a steel coffin, and is reflected in the smoky chrome of the blaster clutched in a taloned hand.
A calm voice emanates from the shadows above the gun.
“Good evening, Mister Dawson. A stimulating journey, I trust?”
“Bastard.”
The reply tails off into a wrenching sob.
“I take it your little army came to a sticky end?”
He gathers himself. There’s still a chance.
“They did.”
“Well, here we are, exhausted hunter and indifferent prey. What next?”
“Smug bastard!”
“Defiance. How sweet.”
“We’ll get you. Not me. Not my team, God rest ‘em. But someone will find the data caches.”
Hopefully enough impetuous fools will have vanished by then to make the rest wary. Make them investigate this evil thoroughly, using all the technology available, and then not make stupid assumptions based on centuries-old cinema.
“You left them with Susan?”
“Not just her.”
“Then other people might see them.”
The choice of words catches his attention.
“But not if we’d only left them with her? What have you done?”
“Nothing new. Now, enough byplay. Time waits for no-one, not even me.”
“So?”
“Choices. You may join us, or you and your family will simply disappear.”
“Us?”
“You didn’t think I was a singular aberration, did you? That was a rash. Our attrition rate is vanishingly small amongst those who fully adapt.”
“So I work for you, or you eat my family?”
“In short: yes. Technology still trips us up occasionally. Having someone who can intervene is essential. Since you discovered and then killed Tez Wallace, you will take his place. It can be quite lucrative, and the health benefits are excellent.”
Colin nods. A sop to his selfishness to make servitude bearable: old techniques, but effective. The data is his only hope. All he has to do is buy time.
“I’ve no choice. I’ll obey our bloodsucking overlords.”
“The term is ‘nightwalkers’, and I am not one of the voivodes. We should both pray to whatever gods we have left that we never attract the attentions of such. They are busy trying to save my kind from the ravaged planet your kind have created. Petty distractions receive short thrift.”
“You’re trying to sneak onto the colony ships!”
Fangs flash in the darkness.
“Very good. A few self-contained feudal domains are the ultimate goal, I believe.”
Marty’s crazy idea had been correct. He’d been right to insist it be included in the cached data.
Colin smiles. Good on you, Marty. When Susan gets the truth to the media, you’ll be famous.
There’s a chuckle from the shadows.
“You still haven’t realised, have you?”
He looks up.
“What?”
The sound of skirts rustling makes his eyes go wide. A raven-haired figure in a pale ballgown steps into view.
“Did you really think you had any sort of advantage? Susan has belonged to my voivode for years. Our monitor within the hunter collectives. Bringing about your downfall was her final task before being embraced.”
She smiles, revealing long, delicate fangs instead of canine teeth. Green eyes show no hint of regret.
Colin feels hot tears start down his face.
“We of the dusk are eternal. Will you serve us?”
He nods, still crying. This surrender is only to save his family. It will never be more than skin deep.
