by Julian Miles | Nov 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
My name was Walt. I hunted. Drank beer. Drove a truck. Met my wife, May, skinny dipping down at Hodgeson Creek. We married. Had kids. Lost two sons to wars in foreign countries. Lost a daughter to a war in another state. My other son, Rufus, came back from a war, then met his boyfriend skinny dipping at Hodgeson Creek.
I had trouble with that. Coming on top of my cancer, it didn’t seem fair. Then my youngest, Maisie, told me she had cancer. That broke May. She admitted she’d got the same diagnosis. Something had been seeping into the waters of Hodgeson Creek for a long time.
We mourned for each other as a family, then looked for ways to change things. No vengeance. Saw what that did to my father. We set out to make things better for those who didn’t have cancer yet.
Doc Moses, he saw it first. Some Professor at a fancy clinic over in Russia. Had tried it on animals. Started human trials. They were closed to the public. There were awful rumours, but Moses said he understood why.
Cashed in just about everything we had, took a flight: us, Rufus, his boyfriend, and Moses. Went to a place I couldn’t pronounce. Not surprising: the cancer in my throat meant I could barely talk.
The clinic was set in acres of mixed forests. It was beautiful.
Professor Ed was a nice man. Couldn’t speak English worth a damn, but his assistant was really good at it. She explained why the process was hidden from the public. We sort of got the idea, but Ed said that if we were interested, we had to see before we could join.
May liked the idea. Maisie too. We signed and went to see the changing room. After that, we were all different. It’s not a thing you want to see, until you know where it leads, and what it offers. We talked it over and decided to do it. For the future.
The day came and Rufus formally introduced me to Terry. My boy said he thought it was a wonderful thing we were doing. I called him a poof. He called me a bigot. We laughed. I kissed my son and gave him my blessing, then took May and Maisie’s hands. We went through the hissing doors to our next life.
It’s not death. Those who object are wrong. We’ll grow for centuries. How can we be recognisable to anything that lasts only ninety years? Sure, we talk to each other. We can’t communicate with you except by using devices like the one that created this article. Experts from the clinic brought it. They come by every few years to check in on us. All too easy for doubters to say it’s made up.
If you believe, trust me when I say the change is hard. You can’t wait until you’re about to die. If you die during the vivilig transformation, your corpse will be partially lignified. The process doesn’t stop all neat and tidy because your soul lit out for sunnier climes. Your kin will be left to bury a coffin full of stinking compost.
If you don’t believe, kindly let people have their peace amongst the trees planted in memory of their lost ones. Take your hate away. Better still: let it go.
Rufus and Terry visit the three of us every month, down in the copse on the shore, our roots slowly leeching the toxins from Hodgeson Creek.
by Julian Miles | Oct 25, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I crouch by the fire, gazing across at the mass of blue curls that bob and sway as she works.
“You can still escape. Shake off the ghosts of the past. Fly higher.”
She smiles sadly at me.
“Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to fly?”
“You don’t have to limit yourself anymore.”
Reassembling her pistol, she shakes her head.
“You’ve supported me from slave to free trader. Always had my back. Never doubted me, even when I couldn’t believe in myself. But we’ve come far enough like that. I’ve come far enough.”
She loads the pistol, then holsters it.
“There’s a point where your determination to free me so I can be everything I could be, from your never-repressed view, becomes the very thing I cannot escape.”
How dare she! I launch myself to my feet.
Her other hand comes up, slivergun gleaming in the lights of the fire.
“Down, Brutus.”
At this range, the charged load won’t have time to fully open up. But a quarter-metre hole blown through your chest has the same net effect as a half-metre one. I settle.
“I knew this would be difficult, so just hold still and listen. I’m already far more than I ever thought I could be, back when I was licking boots and mopping floors on Cragryn. Your certainty was my only strength. Without it, this journey would never have started. That certainty changed to became my support as my own strength grew. We all have bad days. Your quiet assurance prevented them from defeating me. You’ve been the wall at my back as I worked out how to be an individual beholden to no-one. You became my companion, but you never stopped pushing me. I thought your vision of me being a star fleet owner was a dream. Then I saw it was possible. Finally, I realised I didn’t want it.”
She raises a calming hand. It’s a politeness I appreciate. The slivergun hasn’t wavered.
“It’s not that I can’t go that far. It’s not that my past is playing on my insecurities. It’s just that I know what I want.”
The smile that comes is the one that lifts my hearts.
“You gave me this: the freedom to choose.”
Firelight reflects in her amber eyes as she leans towards me.
“So let me choose, and accept the choice I’ve made. You’ve been my will for so long. Now, at last, I can decide for myself. Live your life. I’ll live mine.”
I sit and weave the light between my claws – not that she can see that. All humans see is a Draconian ‘wiggling its fingers’.
She’s right. In my determination, I’ve come close to being a source of oppression.
I release the light.
“Meriel, you have the right of it. Be free of my dreams and live your own.”
There’s a little laugh and the slivergun is lowered.
“I still need a Master at Arms, Brutus.” She grins. “There’s no way I can bring the Tangaris down if they get rowdy.”
“I recommend broad-beaming them with stunner on its lowest setting. It takes their edge off.”
She stares at me in shock.
“All this time I thought it was your mighty presence.”
“My teacher always told me that influencing brute force requires more than greater force.”
Meriel bursts out laughing.
“And until you work out what he meant, you’ll use the stunner.”
I grin at her.
“A bitter truth.”
“Better put this campfire out before the cargo bay fire alarms trigger.”
“True. Let’s get back to having fun and making a living.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Flickering light fills the clearing, reflecting in the wide eyes of five people in restraint sleeves laid out next to a pair of freight containers.
I wait until they turn their attentions to me.
“Good morning. Welcome to Dantalius Nine. The sunrise is particularly beautiful, isn’t it? The rays interact with tiny crystals in the thermosphere, providing a magnificent lightshow to start the day. It does persist, but is best seen at dawn.”
The mother is looking about. The father is going from scared to angry, and getting angrier because he’s been scared. Both daughters are quiet, the older one showing early signs of digital withdrawal. The son, youngest of the siblings, is watching his father with a look I’d not want directed at me.
I crouch down and continue in my best news presenter manner.
“Hi. Right now you’re wondering what’s happened.” I gesture to all of them except the father. “You four are here because he,” I point at the father, “is being given a chance to demonstrate his extraordinary skills at colonisation.”
All attention falls on daddy dearest.
“Milo Wilkins, I’m delighted to say your persistent efforts are being rewarded. Only last month on FNXN you commented at length in reply to the ‘Colonies Beg for Aid’ article. You insisted the colonists were bleeding Earth dry because they were ‘too damn lazy to work for their privileges’. Your revolutionary ideas regarding crop growing, medicine, hunting, and the frontier family attracted a lot of attention. I must admit I thought some of your counter-arguments a little weak, but the approbation your comments received was startling. Your loud lamentations about not being able to ‘get out there with my family and prove them scroungers wrong’ were noted.”
If his wife’s eyes get any wider, they’ll crack her skull.
“I also noticed you commiserating with your followers regarding how a ‘truly independent thinker’ who ‘refused to fall for government and media lies’ would never be allowed to emigrate. That gave me an idea. What better way to prove that opportunity and justice for all still exist in this century than to give you that very chance?”
He’s gone very still, and very pale.
“Naturally, this can’t come entirely for free. After all, the exploration and colonisation of space is meant to be a co-operative effort. To realise something from this largesse, we’ve established a network of monitors, so your ground-breaking ideas and techniques can be codified to create a new guide for future colonisation efforts.”
The oldest daughter is starting to show signs of shock, on top of her withdrawal.
“You see those two containers? They’re settler pods. Each one contains enough gear and supplies to sustain six people for twelve weeks, plus the basics to get hunting, gathering, agriculture, and your homestead started. The restraint sleeves you’re in can be used as sleeping bags after they’re relaxed, which is done by an injection to change the state of the material. That process takes about an hour to complete. I did that just before I woke you to watch the dawn.”
Milo glares at me. I shrug.
“I’ll be in orbit before you can move. Also, any form of rescue would be prohibitively expensive, but I’m looking forward to watching desperate crowdfunding attempts.”
I stand and stretch.
“The live stream starts in about two hours. I’d recommend getting the louder recriminations over with before then.”
Turning away, I give them a casual salute.
“You’re going to be famous. Not only that, but one of the outspoken commentators on your stream will provide the next object lesson. Good luck. Goodbye.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 11, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
They’re sitting in the middle of the road, a bearded older gentleman facing a young girl in a saffron tutu. He’s sitting cross-legged, she’s kneeling. His hands move as he talks, face a picture of concern. She’s gazing at the ground, head down, dirty blonde curls stirring slightly in the freshening breeze.
I can see the woman who called us behind the controls of the flitcar stopped a coach-length beyond the pair of them. She’s beckoning to me, then pointing at them.
“Control, this is A614298. Please connect me to the reporting unit for Incident BB14-8092.”
“Will do. Anything we need to prep for?”
“No. Just comms and the usual safeguards, please.”
There’s a click, then a ringtone. I see the woman tap her ear to pick up the call. It rings again. I see her pound on the dash. The ringtone stops abruptly.
“…oddamn stupid tech- Oh. Hello?”
“Good afternoon, ma’am. This is Officer Gonzales of the South East England Rapid Response Unit. You called in an emergency?”
“Oh, thank God. He’s got this girl in the middle of the street and is threatening the poor thing. There’s some useless plod just stood watching! It’s heart-breaking. Are you going to be here soon? If not, can’t you get him to step in?”
Always nice to be appreciated…
The guy makes a ‘wait a moment’ gesture to the girl. The other goes into his pocket.
“Oh god, I think he’s going for a knife. Isn’t there a riot drone you can send?”
Not that again.
The guy’s activated the personapad in his pocket. It links to my dutypad. I request IDs. Stepfather and daughter. Looks like she’s got medical issues, poor kid. My interference won’t help.
He pulls out an inhaler with an attached spacer.
“He’s offering her something! This is terrible. Just like you see on ‘Real People, Real Lies.’”
That well-known source of largely fictional ‘reliable’ information – including riot drones. I particularly liked their documentary entitled ‘The British Police Have Been Replaced by Androids’.
The woman is gesturing angrily at me.
The daughter slowly reaches for the inhaler.
“I have to save her. I’m going to ram him.”
Glad I asked for safeguards. I disable her flitcar.
She starts thumping on the dash again. There should be a big ‘Police Override’ banner flashing right where her fist is landing.
“My car’s died!”
She tries the door.
“I can’t get out!”
“Please stay calm, ma’am. We’re working on that.”
The father pantomimes how to use the inhaler properly. The daughter nods. She takes it from him and uses it, face a picture of concentration. Her hands slowly drop into her lap. A beaming smile spreads across her face. She looks about, then hands the inhaler back to him. He pulls a hydropouch from another pocket and indicates she should rinse her mouth.
She does so. Keeping the hydropouch clutched to her chest, she stands up and offers the other hand to him. He takes it. She grins and leans back. He stands up, grinning at her. They walk off, hand-in-hand.
Good luck to you both.
I enable the flitcar, noting the woman couldn’t flit over the pair because of a three-month aerial activity ban for ‘aggressive queue jumping’.
The flitcar pulls over next to me. She glares, then registers my name tag. This could be amusing.
“You related to Officer Gonzales of the South East England Rapid Response Unit?”
Best not to say anything. Just nod.
“He obviously inherited the balls and brains in your family.”
She accelerates away.
Always happy to help, ma’am.
by Julian Miles | Oct 4, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There we are, minding our own business, watching our quarters, when some maniac breaks cover and sprint towards us. Charlie Four – John – knocks him down and sits on him.
“Heads up!”
A mob of ragged soldiers burst from the trees. Not a weapon in sight, but they sure look motivated. That much snarling can’t be good for your facial muscles.
Charlie Four cold-cocks the one he sat on and rises into a smooth uppercut that flips the next one arse over apex. Charlies Two through Six are similarly playing human skittles.
I’ve knocked two down when a third drops from a branch above me. How did she get up there without anyone seeing her?
She bites my ear! I yell, toss her off me, and draw steel. Instead of coming back at me, she moves off into the fight. I take one step to follow, then my world goes fuzzy-dizzy. I drop into a big black puddle of not-awake-anymore.
I come round when she bites my ear again. I try and swat her, but Godzilla’s big brother is sitting on my chest. Somebody spits.
“Easy, boss. Just first aid.”
That’s Charlie Three – Charity; misname of the century – muttering by my ear. She fastens on my ear again and sucks.
“What the everloving f-”
“The unarmed kung fu crazies came with ninja snake women, boss.”
I look up at Charlie Four, who’s getting off now I’m not a danger to myself or those trying to fix me.
Charlie Three spits again.
“Fecking stuff tastes nasty.”
She lets me go, sits up, and grabs the hip flask offered by Charlie Two – Alex.
I sit up slowly and look about. All five members of Charlie Team, looking a bit ruffled but otherwise intact. Charlie Five – Lira – is resting on a cot bed like me. She gives me a wave.
“Got bitten by two of them.” She gestures to a bandaged breast. “Second one bit me on the nipple, the vicious cow.”
I swing about to take a look out at the encampment. Local troops are guarding our prisoners. All of them have their mouths taped.
“What fresh hell is this?”
Charlie Six – Fred – shrugs.
“Got chatting with one of the girls after I let her get a good tug on a whisky bottle. They all used to be university students. When our lot rolled into the country to help the local junta, one of their professors asked for volunteers. Apparently all humans have the biological components to make our saliva venomous. Some ancient leftover. This professor worked out how to switch it on. It’s not always lethal, but it makes for a good guerrilla warfare tactic when you top it off with something to bring the angry out.”
I’ll say.
“Somebody get hold of our agent. ‘Poison’ comes under the biological weapons clause, and that’s a premium rate hike. Two weeks backdated and danger rates for every sortie, or we are on the next transport to a warzone without venomfreaks.”
There are five nods. Never had all of them agree so quick.
