by Julian Miles | Jul 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The sky is lit by colossal energy beams throughout an otherwise murky afternoon. Most of them originate from the monstrous shape that looms on the far horizon like a mountain cut from steel.
The outpost on the hill had been deserted since a war over a century before. Now it’s crammed with officers, staff, and equipment. All the people with weapons are on the outside, and are happier there, despite the foul weather. Even standing upwind, they can still hear the General shouting.
“What do you mean we’ve got no tanks left? We had over a thousand last month. I saw them from the Glory Day Overflight.”
Inside the outpost, the quieter reply comes from a bespectacled giant of a man.
“She destroyed the last of them yesterday.”
The General brandishes a cane at the giant’s chest.
“What do you mean, ‘she’? It’s a machine! A damn big one, I’ll grant you, but still a machine. Just because it’s as big as a bloody battleship there’s no need to get soppy about it.”
The giant removes his glasses and massages his temples. That done, he puts the glasses down and speaks with a hand over his eyes.
“Excuse me. Headache from the lights. Tell me, General, what do you know about the Oni-Class Fortresses?”
The General chews a stray bit of his moustache.
“Sodding great wastes of time from a few decades ago, weren’t they? Somebody got a bee in their bonnet and built a couple before it came to light the computers required didn’t exist?”
“Neat summation. Well, times change and computing power increases. I got tasked with seeing if the repulsor-lift fortress dreadnought called the Western Oni could be activated with current technology. Took me a few years, and the co-operation of the AI Research Unit, but we cobbled something together that addressed the shortfalls of the original project and added a few new ideas. We took a Therbithi cryobrain, flashed it into a vegetative state, then loaded seed mnemonics and the whole Oni suite. Like the Therbithi recommend: wake one up, then give it something complex to do. The intelligence will stabilise quicker that way.”
“You lazy bastards put alien technology in my hoverfortress?”
“No, General, us overworked bastards put alien tech in the repulsor-lift fortress because your people insisted we succeed at any cost.”
The General points as the looming threat ploughs through another city, explosions illuminating the angled slabs of its lower armour.
“Well, you certainly did that. Now, how do we call it to heel?”
“Her name is Tabitha. She’s in total rage because I made the mistake of using emotional attachment to reinforce her control routines.”
The General steps closer.
“I don’t understand.”
The giant grins.
“That was my second mistake. Things were going well. We were just preparing for you to be introduced as another authority figure when I cheerfully told Tabitha I was being sent to activate the Eastern Oni.”
“So what?”
The giant colours up.
“Embarrassing as it is to admit, for all intents and purposes, the hoverfortress with enough firepower to level a continent is in love with me. Finding out I was intending to go off and fire up what she perceives as a rival, and giving it all the improvements I’d got from working with her, Tabitha feels I am betraying and insulting her.”
“The hoverfortress is jealous?”
“More like a woman scorned. I might be able to talk her down after she’s levelled the Eastern Oni. Until then? Not a chance. Best stay out of her way.”
“Oh my God. You idiot.”
“Agreed.”
by Julian Miles | Jul 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
They’re on to me. Not bad. Three continents, sixteen countries, four passports, and two illegal border crossings later, the one scientist shouting about me has, finally, received a fair hearing. Way to go, Gerald. I hope it makes your fortune, for all that it’ll never make up for what you’ve lost.
Too bad they’ll never get to me in time. It would be ironic to be the first person saved by their hastily-assembled remedy.
Time for my last Tabultin. Stuff’s been around for years, just another drug to combat flatulence. Still don’t know how they found out it kept the worst of the deleterious effects at bay. Probably some old bloke with a crappy diet somewhere surprised them by not dying quickly, so they analysed his blood, then asked what he was taking.
In case you’re starting with the last entry and working back, my name’s Nancy. I was a nurse, until I got set up to take the fall to save some doctor’s reputation. After that, life went downhill until selling my eggs and unsavoury gig work were all I had.
Then came Gerald Bacan and his drug testing. There were several levels of involvement, but the highest offered accommodation, regular meals, even a salary! I applied for that, and got accepted.
Gerald’s project came at a hefty price: military backing. He admitted his work could be weaponised. He also took pains to hobble any such efforts. In the end, they were pointless. One of the sera turned out to be deadly.
Batch 1.11Y.4g, ‘Illya-G’, hit Volunteer 84, Dav Mikalos, like a truck. Barely had the needle left his arm when he collapsed. He died the next day. Everyone who had been in the room with him died within a week. Everyone who came into unprotected contact with his body died within two weeks. This included Helen Bacan, Gerald’s wife. As Gerald was away, appearing before a committee in Washington, he missed it all.
Helen and I had become friends. She’d confided in me her doubts as to the sanity of trying to save humanity from cataclysms. I thought her a little crazy in that.
I was one of those infected by someone who came into contact with the body. I keeled over, then woke up in a makeshift morgue. My metabolism slowed so much they thought me dead. I’ve since seen a couple of studies that match my pathology.
Being mostly paralysed for a day after coming round, I overheard some interesting conversations between various officials who were using the space by the door for ‘off the book’ discussions. While the topics were awful, it was the anticipatory glee that sickened me most.
Around then is when I became what you’d call crazy. It gave me clarity and motivation like I’d never experienced. After sneaking out, I raided the pharmacy; turned the loot into cash to get me started. I preyed on anyone, and at every opportunity. Didn’t have long: no time for niceties. I used public transport, hung out in crowded malls, packed restaurants, everywhere people congregated in the last throes of the joy at COVID-19 being ‘defeated’.
What gave me away was the text I sent Gerald: “My condolences. She was right.”
What let me get this far was the disbelief that met his claim of someone deciding to spread Illya-G in an effort to end mankind.
I love the silence of snow-covered woodland. Deep amongst the trees, where only wolves and white rabbits disturb me, I’ll feed the scavengers and decompose. Hopefully I’ve done some good for them with my passing deed.
Goodbye.
by Julian Miles | Jul 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The valley is smoking, trees nothing but scorched gravestones for the life they once sheltered. The farmland around here used to be really scenic, but the only tourists today are the subject of my little excursion.
“Good morning, Elizabeth. Welcome to this ashen paradise.”
With Cardy as my overwatch, this is going to be nothing but fun.
“Morning. Who am I partying with?”
“Seventeen hardcases with a penchant for scorched earth tactics.”
They’re good at their jobs. Holy hell, what a mess.
“Does anyone need to talk to them?”
“No.”
“Do I need to be discreet?”
“No.”
“Anything left I shouldn’t hurt?”
“Don’t be silly. Your targets just finished a sweep. They sure as shit ended anything living.”
Then it’s open season.
“Set the clock.”
“Engage in 3… 2… 1… Go!”
I reverse the direction of my knees and charge, letting my targeting arrays prioritise victims by proximity as I accelerate to a whisker under 55KPH; I can’t hit shit at anything over 60.
“They’ve spotted you.”
“I’m leaving a rooster tail 10 metres high. You’d be wasting my time if they hadn’t.”
Powering up a low hill, I launch myself into a somersault, letting me shoot the three twats huddling in the lee before I land. Two down, one staggering.
“Left a stray.”
“I’ve rolled a posse from 42 Commando in on your tail. Nothing’s escaping.”
The landing isn’t as pretty as I’d like, but no-one’s watching bar the boys and girls who’ve made me and my kind legendary, so I’m allowed a skid or two.
The next fire team is five strong with heavy weapons. I don’t like GPMG. They scratch my plating. Plus, a close-range hit could tear my head off, but that’s beside the point. A trio of minimissiles with frag heads leaves only their outlier.
He feints right, goes left, then breaks his dagger on the ceremetal chainmail across my gut. Funny how ancient warfare tech often works really well when made with modern materials. I box his ears with my stubby assault rifles. He’s wearing a helmet, but it doesn’t matter. With titanium-wrapped weighted jackets on each barrel, I halve the width of his head.
The next mob are in two pairs, and enhanced. I can see their raised body temps. Which makes the colder sections revealing their junction boxes really easy to target with the baby railguns on my right arm. I only get ten titanium ball bearings to play with, but they travel at four kilometres a second.
Three targets go down, crippled at best. The fourth is fastest, but a futile dodge only changes where he gets hit. Paired supersonic projectiles make a godawful mess of his head.
Last are the command team. Four around one. I go straight at them, flat out, assault rifles spitting. One goes down on the way in, the railguns do for his partner, and I’m on their leader before the furthest two can cover. She lets me have both barrels from a sawn-off shotgun, which hurts, and slows me down a bit. I’m going to be picking pellets out of my softer bits for a week.
Even slowed down, I still hit her at 45KPH and stop dead, launching my empty guns into the last two. The transferred energy hurls her broken body away as the rifles knock her cohorts down. I pull my automatics. Simultaneous headshots finish the party.
Cardy whoops.
“26 seconds from first contact. New record!”
Mission complete. I switch my knees back and retract the lenses over my eyes. I prefer to look passably human when I’m not being devastating.
by Julian Miles | Jun 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Here goes nothing.”
I always thought being stuck in a time loop would be fun. It’s what started me on the scientific path that led to my current state: Professor Emeritus Epa Shadel, prodigy and teen superstar turned hardworking genius in the field of time studies. Right now, I’m supposed to press the activation button to try and escape this loop for the 47th time (subjective).
Building a time machine had always been my intention. Time observation turned me cold. I didn’t want to watch, I wanted to experience.
It is, I have to say, sobering to know my decision to run the prototype device was so wrong. In a fit of pique at having my funding pulled after 12 years, I discovered it worked!
For nine years after that, the fame was wonderful, despite the new technological race I’d started. Then reality changed state. Everything unravelled. Nothing survived.
The confusion at waking in my device at the moment I stepped back from closing the door for the first time was awful.
The second time it happened was heartbreaking.
The third, terrifying.
For 45 iterations of those nine years, I’ve tried to prevent the technological escalation I set in motion.
This time, I’m determined. I’ve concluded that killing myself is the only way.
Which I proceed to do.
I watch my lifeless form fall with a feeling of alarm. Seeing my head bounce off the activation button as my body collapses is accompanied by a rush of both humour and fear.
There’s a flash.
I die?
“Good morrow, stranger. What should we call you?”
The voice sounds masculine. I get the feeling of multiple presences. It occurs to me to open my eyes.
I’m sitting up in a low bed. The room about me is draped in fabrics that move in the gentle breeze. No, wait. The bed is rippling in the breeze, too. I hold a hand up. That ripples as well. What?
“Like a pebble dropped into a pond from a great height, your arrival has impacted what passes for reality around here.”
I turn my head to regard the speaker. He’s rippling, too. Aside from that, he looks like a classical picture of a pirate. Next to him is a tropical warrior queen. Then there’s a mechanic and a businessman. At the end is an elfmaid cradling a huge leatherbound book.
“I know, it’s crazy. I’m Anton. Left to right, that’s Porey, Jim, David, and Mehalnor.”
Words. He’s using them. So can I.
“Hello.”
David cheers.
Mehalnor places the tome on the foot of my bed, then sits on it cross-legged.
“You were doing something involving time. Science, magic, or accident; doesn’t matter. Whatever you were doing, you persisted for longer than you should have. Regardless of origin or effect, in the end, you tried to kill yourself.”
I nod.
“Unfortunately, by then, what you originally did had become part of the passage of time. When you tried to change it irrevocably, you became the paradox. Causality removed you.” She grins. “Think of it like trying to remove scars. They might fade, but you can never go back to the original skin.”
Fascinating.
“I presume that’s a simplified explanation.”
Jim nods.
“Best we’ve got.”
I smile.
“So how did we end up here?”
Porey shrugs.
“Good question.”
Well, now.
“I’m Epa. I’m a scientist. Maybe I can help find an answer.”
Anton nods.
“Anything to help pass the time. Nothing to do here except walk the beach, admire the dozen suns setting, or talk.”
Marooned after destroying all creation. Is there even anywhere left to escape to?
by Julian Miles | Jun 21, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The streetlights have been off for an hour. The rain has been constant for three. Through the sodden darkness comes a stranger, clad in earthy hues and righteousness.
I listen to him coming in. A mind is usually a noisy place, except in rare cases, or due to rigorous training. I’d say this intruder benefitted from both. He’s actually playing back the briefing in his head while his body moves with thoughtless, flawless stealth.
“You’ll be inserted just after full dark, with a window of sixty to ninety minutes. We know the target’s active security stands down from nightfall to dawn. The reasons for that are still unclear, but we believe some form of automated system takes over during that time.”
Fair guess, but wrong.
“Your suit gives you the profile of a small predator, so providing you don’t move like anything else, even layered motion detectors will be nullified. We’re sure there isn’t any form of pressure grid or similar, as overflights have revealed no expanses of metal big enough.”
Overflights? I’ll pass that titbit to sky-side security. They’ll be annoyed.
“Once inside the building, our intel indicates it was an average six-bedroom residence.”
‘Average’. Not a word I’d use for any home with six bedrooms.
“How it has been modified since is anyone’s guess, but given our inability to strike the target – or even come close – we have to presume baffled corridors, airlocks, maze rooms, and likely a number of lethal-effect traps too.”
Walking through their secure sites unharmed must be a challenge.
Elsie interrupts my eavesdropping with a telepathic comment.
*He’s good. I didn’t hear him open the door.*
*Yes. Definitely the best so far. Anton?*
*I don’t recognise his intrinsic pathways. I’ll need to dive him to get the details.*
Which lets Elsie and I off the hook for tonight.
*Is he far enough in to not hear the door relock?*
Anton gets in before I instruct Elsie to hold off on using her telekinesis.
*Better if he isn’t. A trained mind like his will be momentarily imbalanced by the unexpected event.*
Good enough.
*Lock the door, Elsie. All yours, Anton.*
The briefing playback stops dead as he hears the door lock behind him. I’ll give him credit, he’s an elite-plus operative. He immediately checks his vicinity, then starts running scenarios – interesting that they too are in briefing playback style.
Then Anton barges into his mind. I see the kaleidoscopic explosion of interrupted consciousness, then get out before the insanity starts.
The best way to identify attackers is how they attack. Well, according to Anton, that is. I’m betting that without being able to map the ‘shortcuts’ the mind develops in training, it’s an imprecise visual art. Problem with getting that deep into a mind is that the psychological damage from having someone else inside your head is ruinous.
I gently rouse one of the security detail.
*Sorry, Randy, but there’s a downed intruder in corridor three needing mercy.*
He wakes fully, rises and heads out, grabbing one of the silenced pistols racked above the door to the ready room.
Anton calls us.
*I had to keep him down until Randy shot him! Mental resilience like I’ve never encountered. He was ex-Delta recruited to a joint Lekem/GCHQ blacker-than-black outfit.*
*Who are Lekem?*
*Supposedly disbanded Israeli secret technology acquisition group.*
That’s grim but essential knowledge.
Elsie chips in.
*She’s undisturbed.*
Using psionics openly attracts all the wrong kinds of attention. We’d been hiding for years. Then she quietly recruited us into the clandestine psionic outfit that protects her inner cadre.
We’ve not failed her yet.
