by Julian Miles | Feb 14, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
February, again. I remember, it was today I first heard it. You left your window a little way open so I could hear you playing our songs as I walked to work. Those grey mornings, snow blowing by. They always seemed a little less bleak after I walked past your place.
Then the war came. Six years without playing a note while I helped your people go from tragedy to ceasefire, and capture two planets along the way.
I came back with a new leg, and a limp on the other side. How long did you wait up that day? I never knew. All I know is I was somewhere down and dark, lugging a kitbag that had no respect for my mismatched stride. Then I heard our music. I stumbled, then smiled. Staggering down a road conspicuously short of victory parades, I might as well have been feted from space port to reservation gates.
Then the stuff they gave me to stop implant rejection screwed me up.
The next time… That would have been the second victory day. The day your papa stood up at the flag ceremony and called me a ‘snakeskin coward pretending to be a veteran’ so I could get away with ‘troubling’ his daughter. Don’t know what you whispered to him afterwards, but I’ve never seen a man’s face fall so far, so fast.
Third victory day. I got that one right. First one I’d been clean for, but you were the one off-planet, doing your best not to die while helping more people survive.
I stayed up for nearly two days straight to make sure I could play music when you walked home with your folks. Your family didn’t make the connection, but your smile nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought it would blow my chest open, it was beating so hard and fast.
Fourth victory day I shipped out while you were in rehab. Seems the ‘new’ drugs they gave you didn’t do much beyond giving you the same problems I had.
Fifth victory day: I heard about the Integration Order while I was growing a new tail on Eldebarre. Then the cause of the first victory day decided they weren’t beaten. I missed both sixth and seventh victory days defeating them again.
Now here I am, standing in your street. Got a cerametal arm to go with the leg, and a guitar in the case at my side. War’s over. I can be a musician again. But… My matriarch sent word you got badly hurt.
What a pair we make. My family love you from the ground up, and your family hate me from the horns on my head to the scales of my soles. I guess we were never destined to be anything beyond stealthy meetings in unlit places, but I’d have liked to try. Just the once, you know. To see if we really could be as magical as it felt.
I wrote a new song. Would you like to hear it? Your neighbours can’t complain anymore. I’ve as much right to sit on a kerb and play rockin’ blues as the next citizen. Valusians and humans are one glorious society now… Excuse me if I keep my chest armour on. Some humans have funny ways of expressing their joy over Integration.
“Hey, you.”
Sweet Mother Hydra… You’ve had your cerametal etched with scale patterns!
“I learned to play bass. Thought we could play together. See where it takes us?”
I open my arms. You run to me.
To the stars, beloved. It’ll take us to the stars.
by Julian Miles | Feb 7, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I bounce twice before landing in the sucking pit, the mire like leaden glue about my legs. In the dim flashes of light from the battle above, I see this place is littered with bodies in outlandish armour impaled on barbed spikes. Looking to my left, I see I avoided that ugly fate by His Grace and a hairsbreadth.
The Goddrochi are even-handed in their hatred. All intruders are considered thieves. No matter that we seek to bring the Lord’s light to their benighted ways, nor that we would raise their barbarian culture to the heights enjoyed by all planets under the Grace of God.
In the darkness to my left, something moves. As it slowly approaches, a flash of light from above shows me the bright colours on its tall helm. God’s Wrath, I’m stuck in here with a Larsh Devilcaller!
We fight for the greatest cause: to bring peace to all creation under the Lord’s watch. The number of beings that oppose us are legion, but most are simply misguided. Only a few are clearly inspired by the Adversary himself. Of those, the Larsh are regarded as his equivalent of us. They are warriors for the Devil himself, and seem proud to be so.
Of their malign host, the Devilcallers rank highest as candidates for immediate and inexorable damnation. Leaders of raids, fomenters of banditry, and teachers of thélisimancy across the Heavens, they are oft portrayed by the misguided as ‘freedom fighters’, but are merciless in their opposition to us.
“Trooper. Let us have a truce so we may aid each other up out of this pit.”
The voice is rasping. Rendered by some translation device or malign magick? I know not, nor care.
This very scenario came up during my last year at training college. It’s called the Survival Dilemma: stuck in a situation where assistance from an enemy of the Lord is the only way to survive and continue the Lord’s work, do you accept?
“What do you have in mind?”
“I lift you with my helm in hand. When raised, you take, set, and stand upon the helm. With that added elevation, you should be able to reach the frame about the entrance of the pit and haul yourself free. After that, you cut the frame so it sags down, and go on your way. Tomorrow we will be enemies again. Today, we work together so that we survive this dishonourable Goddrochi death-trap.”
“Verily, a workable solution. Can you assist me in freeing my right leg?”
“Aye.”
The towering warrior approaches with a stride that ignores the effort of wading. It’s something I couldn’t manage, and it scares me. Be it brute strength or infernal gift, it’s a powerful advantage.
Far ago, my class argued back and forth over the correct answer, once the faint-hearted abstainers had been taken to task. In the end, the consensus was that it was meet to accept, providing one struck the miscreant down as soon as escape has been effected. I disagreed with them, and refused to yield my position no matter what reasoning they tried. The tutor failed all of them.
As the mask of the Devilcaller comes close enough for me to see myself reflected in the mirrored finish of the leftmost half, I disarm the safety restraint on my power pack and press my thumb onto the ‘Oblation’ button. With a harmonious chime, the pack overloads, giving me until that sound fades to make my peace before it explodes.
My answer was ‘to accept would be cowardice’.
I shall never waver. Glory Be.
by Julian Miles | Jan 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two figures meet outside the Ship o’ the Line tavern on Marquis III.
“No, no. You sit there. I’m more comfortable when I can see the ways in and out of any place I’m stopped in.”
The reply is a flicker of tentacles and a telepathic acceptance. After the slight visitor is seated, food and drinks are ordered from the hovering ovoid of a serving ‘bot.
Tentacles wave and a thought is sent.
“A revelation from my centuries amongst humans?”
A callused hand scratches at the stubble on his chin, then waves towards the spaceships standing amid the towers of the spaceport.
“The uncanny resemblance, come evening, between a harbour full of tall ships with their rigging and lines going hither and yon, and the spectacle of a free worlds spaceport filled with rocketships all festooned in stabilisers, conduits, and cabling.”
The tentacles ripple, then curl tightly as a more piercing question is communicated.
There’s a bark of laughter that trails away to a deep chuckle.
“No. We are, by nature, solitary wanderers. By the time we truly understand our longevity, we have forgotten our origins. Near death experiences take memories from us. Some of us seek that oblivion, spending lives as the most extreme daredevils or warriors for whatever cause offers the greatest danger. Others seek to avoid it, clutching memories like a miser hoarding money. I daresay an unknown number of us die after shockingly short – by our standard – life spans. Those who fall we never know. The fervid stories of our intergalactic powerplays and control of humanity are nothing but childish nightmare tales dressed in adult trappings. Your kind know our telepathic abilities to be rudimentary. No doubt you have encountered absolute refusals to believe that from some human groups.”
The slight figure nods slowly, then takes a quick sip of a luminous yellow beverage, the glow from which illuminates the quartet of dark vertical slots where it’s eyes should be. As it savours the drink, another question is silently asked.
“You need not worry. I’ve booked passage out of here on several ships. I’ll be gone, and damnably difficult to follow, by the time you compile and release the documentary. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to depart a place due to risk of discovery, but it’s nice to be able to do so with a modicum of grace for once.”
The next query prompts a snort of derision.
“We came to a tacit agreement with the authorities ages ago. Our potential for causing long term harm far outweighs any advantages we could provide. On top of that, there are superstitious criminal groups and religions with legends and traditions that predate the current ruling classes. We can bring a fearsome amount of grief down upon any who test us. That is not bluster, either. It has been proven several times.”
Tentacles flick again while food that looks like charred seaweed is consumed with gusto.
“I have no idea. I have been around long enough to develop a surety that whatever divinities might be attendant upon the drama called human existence have no great scheme for my kind, nor for humankind, be that of any relevance. We are, the universes are, and so the great and colourful dance goes on. And with that, so must I.”
The slight figure gestures towards passers-by, presaging a final question.
“I stopped wondering about that over 3000 years ago. Wasting too much time on something you can’t answer is a bad habit. Good evening to you.”
The figure strides away and disappears into the passing crowd.
by Julian Miles | Jan 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The light from the triple row of screens reflects in their eyes as they watch the protest from eleven angles for the sixteenth time. When the replay ends, they look to the monitors on the desks in front of the three seated members of the team, then at each other.
Clark waves disgustedly towards the screens.
“Nothing.”
Maggie indicates the monitors.
“The threat recognition came up short again. Only the four it originally flagged.”
The pair of them look around their fourteen subordinates.
Clark’s expression turns stern.
“This isn’t a private conversation, people. I need an explanation for the director. That means we have twenty minutes to find out why our multi-million-pound real-time threat detection missed ten people getting murdered. This is the third major protest with fatalities in the last six months.”
Maggie’s gaze falls on the newest recruit, a transfer from some disbanded project, foisted on the team. Time to start making her unwelcome so she’ll transfer out quickly.
“Clarice. Care to share something to justify your glowing recommendation?”
Clarice takes a slow sip from her cup. It’s a play for time, but done well enough to not be incriminating. She stands up and moves to the screen.
“Do we have any shots of the victims before they went down?”
Davy uses touchscreens with both hands to quickly bring up forty images.
“Highlight where they went down, and timings if we have them.”
That takes a little longer.
Clarice nods and gestures to the screen.
“Whoever it was worked left-to-right through the crowd.”
Clark nods, but appears sceptical.
“Less than five minutes, first to last. Anyone moving that quickly through the crowd would have registered as a threat.”
“It’s only when they went down. I bet the poison was administered earlier.” She checks the notes, “the protest was contained twenty minutes before the first victim fell.”
Davy looks round.
“You think that’s when they started?”
Clarice smiles.
“Would be my best bet. Now, can this software look for predatory behaviour?”
Davy looks puzzled.
“Why?”
She gestures to the screens.
“The killer moved through the crowd, looking for those vulnerable to whatever application method they had. My guess would be bare skin on arms or back. That means their behaviour would exhibit recognisable hunting patterns. The software didn’t see it because it’s set up to detect threats coming from the crowd. It treats this crowd as an origin, not a target area.”
Davy glances to Maggie. She shrugs.
Clark smiles.
“I’m not convinced, but nobody’s laughing or proposing alternatives, so let’s give it a whirl. Davy, add the crowd as a protection zone.”
The screens go dark for a few minutes, then light up. On the central screen, a grid map overlays they crowd. A green line moves slowly across it.
Maggie swears under her breath.
Clark claps his hands.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Davy nods.
“That’s a lone operator demonstrating prey selection behaviour within the crowd, prior to the first victim falling.”
“Get an image out to the watcher units.”
An image of a bearded figure in a basketball cap and dark jacket comes up, along with a string of body dynamics data.
“Load the dynamics data to the watcher units. Don’t bother with the imagery.”
Clarice nods. It’s clearly a visual disguise. But body dynamics can’t be changed except by those with significant training.
Time passes. A phone rings. Clark answers it and listens for a minute before hanging up. He grins.
“They’ve got her. The jacket has a dozen injectors holstered inside.”
Clarice grins.
Maggie glowers. This girl’s going to be trouble.
by Julian Miles | Jan 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“We’re leaving Earth.”
I smile at the pale pink amoeboid that’s maintaining a human shape out of respect, and wearing clothes out of courtesy.
“Why are you doing that, Dorn?”
“The Council of Futures has decided we should seek a new species to mentor.”
“Not some of the pre-sentients here?”
“The Council of Futures has also decided we should absent ourselves from this planet.”
“Why is that?”
“When we first came to these lands, we were drawn by the optimism of those upon this world. So many dreams of hope and justice. A global will to do better than before.”
“What changed?”
“Nothing.”
I put my coffee down and regard Dorn where I consider ‘his’ eyes to be.
“You’re going to have to explain a little more, my friend.”
“After we made contact, we agreed with various ruling factions that our presence would remain anonymous. Our true purpose was never disclosed. We presented ourselves as refugees, and traded technology for a place to stay. Once that was secured, we started the real mission. For all our care, some – like you – became aware of our abilities.”
They’re dream technicians: working to change societies for the better. I’d thought myself unique in knowing that.
“I’m guessing some who found out did something unwelcome?”
“More unexpected than unwelcome. So much so, we have spent decades trying to understand and adjust. Yesterday, the Council of Futures admitted defeat.”
“What was it?”
“Soon after our abilities became known, three males from differing ruling factions approached us secretly. All three had the same idea: they agreed that societies such as yours, with the power to destroy or otherwise ruin themselves, needed help to make it past primitive urges. Each of them suggested that if we adjusted the dreams of the populace to match their particular beliefs, we would achieve our goal, because their way was the best way for everybody.”
That I can almost see: fervent men in expensive suits trying to harness an unchallengeable advantage.
“What did you do?”
“We asked for time to consider, then set our finest Dreamweavers to refining the dreams of those three men, so they would come to understand the underlying tyranny of their chosen ways.”
“How did that turn out?”
“Each faction then sent a female. She broached the same topic, but with more fervour. One of them clearly did so out of an underlying fear. The other two were as committed as their male counterparts.”
“So you modified their dreams too?”
“And those of their acquaintances. We worked our way through entire political groups.”
“To no effect?”
“To limited effect. However, what we noticed more was the clear division between what a person believed, and what they did to further their position within the group they clove to. A few changed allegiance, but not one tried to change the groups. Self-interest increasingly overrode all considerations of justice, mercy, compassion or responsibility. No matter how often we tried, the lust for power and advantage, coupled with an abject fear of the unknown, represented mainly by change, and often portrayed as some sort of evil alternative, prevented any real progress.”
I smile.
“I believe we term it ‘better the devil you know’.”
Dorn approximates a nod.
“That is the term we consider to be a distillation of the traumatic bonds that enslave you in so many ways.”
“What now, my friend?”
“We will leave you to those ‘devils’. We cannot help if you will not help yourselves.”
I nod.
“A bitter truth. Farewell.”
Clothes fall to the floor as my alien friend fades from view.
