by Julian Miles | May 2, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Is your head deformed in some way?”
I spin left, taking the still-habitual extra step to back off a bit while doing so.
It’s an Uglonos herder, complete with brow spines painted blue. The contrast with his lime green hide is striking, but not as much as the clash with his lurid pink compound eyes.
“No, it’s normal sized, for a human.”
The triple jointed legs stop moving, except for the rear toes. They keep moving, lifting and pressing the ground one after the other, going right to left, then left to right, in a never-ending rhythm, marking this one as a devotee of Namedna the Ever-Walking.
“Then why is your warhead so wide?”
‘Warhead’: Uglonos only wear head coverings to protect their brow spines when in combat. The concept of wearing a helm or hat – sandogasa, in my case – for other purposes is incomprehensible to them. On a planet where sunlight is the strength of a desert afternoon on Earth within an hour of sunrise, most humans choose to remain inside the habitat domes. It’s a shame. All it takes is a little harmless guile and you can spend your life roaming this serene paradise.
“I am under oath to Torlyn of the Lowering Cloud. From the moment I saw the first buds of spring on the foan tree outside my family dome, until I return and see them once again, I am denied the sight of Roanna’s Wheel.”
The herder raps his claws against his forearm ridges to honour my devotion. It’s a shame humans don’t get out here more often. These insectile saurians have a society over nineteen millennia deep in peace. No world-blighting wars, no continent-spanning industrial addictions. Their only weakness is religion. They have over eighty thousand deities. From gods of individual village ponds to goddesses of grey clouds traveling westward, they have them for every occasion and space.
“Namedna walked with Torlyn for a whole two-moon year. To honour that journey, walk with me today. The village ahead has the finest bridges from which wayfarers can watch the shineer dance in the moonlight. They also have a sourblossom broth that is a delight to savour while engaged in that watching.”
There it is. The gods and goddesses of this world fit together like a subtle, complex machine that orchestrates every interaction to maintain a sublimely functional society. It’s uncanny how well it works. Could make a cynic think it’s a brilliant piece of civilisational engineering. Luckily, I’m not one of those anymore. I was looking for a place to make a better percentage on my goods. Instead, I ended up selling my ship along with the goods to buy a permit to stay.
“Then in honour to them both, I shall agree, but would prevail upon you to tell me the tale of their journey while we walk. I have not yet been graced with it.”
I fell in love with their etiquette before the sun set on my first week here. From there, it didn’t take me long to fall for the lifestyles and natural beauty of this place. I’ve become a wanderer, making my home on the endless winding ways.
It’s been nine years. I don’t regret a single step. If more of us took the time to exchange stories with travellers, and sit with strangers to sip sourblossom broth while watching shineer dance, things would be much better all over.
Come walk a new way.
by Julian Miles | Apr 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The advantages bestowed by the digitally-enhanced lifestyle are many. On the other hand, I’ve never found it… Warm. There’s an intimacy to tactile media, an emotional connection with the turn of a page, the smell of a second-hand bookshop on a rainy afternoon – not that there are many of them left. I have to take the IP19 shuttle over to Targive XIV, then go down to the Old Earth quarter to find one.
Then there’s the handwritten form: the letter. Did you know they used to create so many they had beings tasked with delivering them every day?
The letter has become a stock clandestine communication method of modern plots: the secret too dangerous to risk on digital media, and the machinations that transpire around it’s revelations, concealment, or in the wake of its passage.
Being someone who prides himself on being an afficionado of vintage media, I know the letter used to be more a feature of romantic fare, but times change. The speed of life continues to evade attempts to slow it down. The venerable letter is simply not quick enough.
Today, I received a letter! Katharine delivered it without a word, turning away before I looked up from the wrapper. I had to search that up: it’s called an ‘envelope’. This one has Georgia’s writing on it. I’d recognise it anywhere, having sat through evenings of tears and laughter while she learned to write. A media star, darling of the newsfeeds and screamsheets, sitting cross-legged on my battered sofa, tip of her tongue peeking between her lips as she concentrated on achieving consistent handwriting.
One word: ‘Den’.
Like everything she did, she excelled at the written word. Even in the simplicity of penning my name, she somehow translates all of her grace into the smooth sweep of cursive script.
“I’ll write you a letter one day.”
That’s what she’d said. I never expected it to happen after we parted ways. Well, after she left me. I’ll admit to being besotted to the point of never recovering, for all that I’ve kept my promise to not become a nuisance.
I know her latest tour has taken her further across the habitable universe than ever before. There have been various pundits harping on with their interpretations of her reasons. I remember her explaining the truth to me, sitting curled up where I’m sat now.
“I’ve had Benthusians coming to my concerts. Chekkru, too. Something about what I do appeals to them. They tell me of humans in bands we’ve never heard of making a living touring the outer stations. I’m going to go there. I want to hear those bands play. Maybe it’ll help me understand what I do that appeals in ways other human singers don’t.”
Even after she received the diagnosis, she didn’t waver. Wouldn’t talk about the treatments or what the specialists said. Every now and then I’d catch her staring off into the night, pensive expression like a classic study of light and shadow.
She left on the tour six months ago. Tonight, a year since we parted, her aide delivers a letter…
I’ve been looking at it for hours now. Turning it over and over.
As dawn drills a ruddy sunbeam down between the towers to stain my carpet, I get up and put the unopened letter behind the framed picture of the two of us, caught by some paparazzi at a sidewalk café when she visited last summer.
If I hear the malady has killed her, I’ll open it. Likewise if I hear she’s safely returned from tour. Before then? I just can’t.
by Julian Miles | Apr 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I come through the doors at a run, dodging consoles and furniture while trying to figure out how they got past our drone hunters.
“Give me the casualty count first.”
Might as well get the worst out of the way. Then I can focus on catching the clever bastards.
“Two. One dead, one with serious injuries to their hands.”
“Only two? What were they firing from the drone? Fireworks? While we’re on the topic, how did it slip past our watch? We’re meant to have the best drone screening in the world.”
There’s silence. Nervous side-glances are exchanged.
“Come on, people. Now’s not the time to get shy about a cock-up in the detector net.”
Michael steps away from the group. I point at him.
“You’re the winner. Tell me.”
“They used a sword. A medieval longsword, to be precise. Early examination indicates it might be the real thing, too.”
I take a huge breath and lean against a desk while I recalibrate my expectations.
“They dropped a sword from a drone and hit two people?”
He shakes his head.
“Hit one and killed him. The injuries were caused to his partner when they tried to pull the sword out of him. They hadn’t noticed it had gone clean through and driven into the pavement. Emergency services had to use a sledgehammer to free it.”
One of the operators swings away, hand going to her headset. She turns back, face ashen.
“A Met armed response vehicle got a sword through it’s roof. Killed the driver. Car went off the road, then through a café. There are multiple casualties.”
Another operator ducks and turns to take a call. He raises a hand as he turns back.
“Got a report of a tanker going off the M25 into an industrial estate. Motorway surveillance shows something falling from the sky onto the cab moments before the tanker swerved.”
“How bad is it?”
He grimaces.
“Tanker blew up. There’s a lot of fires. Emergency crews are still arriving. They’re expecting multiple fatalities.”
Good God. We build the finest explosive and bioweapon detection system on earth and they make it look idiotic by flying through with drones carrying swords?
“Get the programmers working on some suitable metal-spotting routines for the detector nets. I’m not too fussed if we get a few false hits to start with. Let’s stop the attacks first, then refine if needs be.”
Swords. Impractical, but the emotional impact is huge. They could have used bricks or hammers – even spears – but a weighty sword? The extra penetration offsets the few misses or flat-of-the-blade hits.
“Get me the PM and prepare a briefing pack for PCCs, DMC&Ps, and Chief Constables. We’re going to need to raise the alert level, and recall personnel UK-wide. I also want our raptors up. Scramble the drone pilots – or whatever the right word is to make them get their toys in the air immediately. If they can’t interdict enough of them, we’ll have to jam the control frequencies and live with the late delivery chaos it’ll cause while we get on top of this.”
This is going to be a nightmare. I need coffee.
by Julian Miles | Apr 11, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Day 2. Pieces of the Eridani Dawn are still leaving blazing trails across the sky, day and night. Not that there’s a lot of difference between them on this world. It’s always some sort of twilight. Estoro says the cold will be our main problem.
Day 4. Keeping the fire going has drawn survivors in. I never realised how many beings it took to run a spaceship. Hallie says we must search for things to help us stay alive.
Day 7. There’s not much left. Very little food. Indri says we have hard times ahead.
Day 9. Estoro says I should keep this diary going. Nataloc says it’s a waste of time. Bruno is still crying. The Lakshane and Morobus keep arguing. They’re starting to worry me. Those two races outnumber all the others here combined.
Day 11. The Morobus attacked the Lakshane last night. Then something long and black came out of the trees and attacked them both. There was a battle. After the creature left, Estoro came over and told me to note this:
“It’s a furred, serpentine form, about nine metres long and two in diameter. No visible eyes or nostrils. Powerful bite. Tough hide. Only became enraged when we fought back. I think if we hadn’t, it would have just taken prey and departed.”
Day 12. Nataloc led the three surviving Lakshane away after they killed the wounded Morobus. Estoro made everybody remaining drag the bodies and all the bloody dirt a long way from the camp before leaving them in a pile. Some complained. He said they could do whatever rites they wanted there.
Day 13. Something happened. Those who stayed to do rites haven’t come back. We heard screams.
Day 14. Hallie went to check. Says they’re all dead. She looks worried.
(40% power. Will update fortnightly.)
Week 4. The Lakshane attacked two nights ago. Bruno was taken, two others were killed. Hallie says Lakshane are carnivores.
Week 6. Estoro led us away from the camp. Others elected to stay, but he said he wouldn’t be cattle for the Lakshane. We left at night. Hallie covered our tracks.
Week 8. Still moving. Headed uphill for days. Charlie got taken by a smaller furry serpent.
Week 10. Found some caves. Eighteen of us left. Don’t think Cliore will make it. His wound got infected.
(25% power. Will update monthly.)
Month 4. It’s colder. Cliore died. Moved deeper into the caves. Hallie is teaching us to forage.
Month 5. Still really cold. I enjoy hunting. Penny got bitten by something like a big beetle. She died.
(15% power. Going to hibernate this. Will update every Earth year if I can keep track.)
Year 1. Bostal died to a furry serpent, but we killed it. Moved to better caves. Hal and Viv jumped off the peak together. I’m good at making hides into clothes. Estoro says our ship will have been moved from ‘missing’ to ‘lost’.
Year 2. Nataloc attacked us! Estoro and Splassarn died fighting him. Crow dragged him down. Elizabeth and Mabduk beat him to death with rocks. We voted: Hallie is our leader.
Year 3 (Probably). Going to use the last of the battery to burn this diary into permanent store. My name is Jo. We are Hallie, Mabduk, Trimm, Henrick, Elizabeth, Tapuln, Shavel, Abdorc, Crow, and Indri. We’ve decided to go on for as long as possible.
This planet is now called ‘Harmr’. Trimm says it means ‘sorrow’ in Old Norse. We who live here build cairns for our dead. Please build a cairn for the one of us who couldn’t.
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.”
