by Julian Miles | Sep 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Yet again, we’re a long way from home. As usual, I get everyone’s attention with a short blast of the klaxon, which – also as usual – prompts a round of rude guesswork over the comm as the likelihood of me ever having another sex partner.
“You’re still not funny, people. We’re on approach to Macho. Get ready. You know how badly this could go wrong. Sarah, what’s the scan count?”
She chuckles.
“Emma, if the various scans were actual weapons, we’d have been sliced to bits. Macho hasn’t become any less paranoid.”
Jahnee snorts loudly.
“Something to do with them being declared a brigand planet, by any chance?”
They loot other worlds because they’ve poisoned their own. ‘Brigand’ is the polite definition.
A wide-hail comes in.
“This is Macho Defence Control. State your business, back off, or burn.”
Nice.
“This is free trader Bluehammer with over a tonne of Bushmills Céad Bliain. Heard you’re in the market.”
Since the trade embargoes clamped down, they haven’t had a drop of legally imported booze, and we’re betting they’ve had nothing of this quality.
“A tonne?”
“One point one five, and someone’s missing it, if you get my meaning.”
“We hear that, Bluehammer. Follow route four. What class are you?”
“Firefly with a Dillingham lift conversion.”
“Land in bay ten.”
“Gotcha, MDC. I presume a dealer will visit?”
“You bet.”
I grin at Jahnee.
“If the dealer arrives, you and Mike are owners aboard. The rest of us are fluffies. You know the drill.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Prepare countermeasures. Get targeting coordinates for their defences. If we’re there long enough, sell the Bushmills. When Queen Gladys Ewing arrives with her kids, we get them all off this hellhole.”
Natalie sticks her head through the doorway.
“Got confirmation the resistance are ready to drop indirect fire on the co-ordinates we supply.”
She shakes her head.
“A resistance movement on the planet of misogynists. Holy hell.”
Sarah chimes in.
“We’re here to help the royal family escape King Frederick. Gladys is off to raise a force to come back and liberate with extreme prejudice. Crown Prince Talon is a baby. Crown Princess Trixabelle is nearly what they call breeding age around here.”
I suppress a shudder. Not going to ask.
We land hard: must get the shock absorption units serviced.
“APC incoming!”
Already?
“It’s being pursued by two limousines. One of them has a bloke stood on its roof with a machine gun in each hand, shooting at the APC!”
Macho by name…
“Okay, I’m betting the APC is Team Queen, and the hecklers are Team King. Swat the goons.”
Somebody’s ready on fire control, because I hear the ‘whoosh-hiss’ of our beam cannon firing. There’s an explosion nearby.
“Took shooter boy off at the hips and turned the rear limo into a crater.”
“What about the front limo?”
“It’s just pulled a screaming U-turn, and is retreating faster than it arrived.”
Yeah. I’d run from a hostile beam cannon, too.
“Okay, get the cargo lift ready, but don’t lower it until we see who’s in the APC.”
It slides to a stop and nine people erupt from it, five women, three kids, and a baby.
“Load all! Sarah, push targeting data on the channels Natalie hopefully provided.”
Natalie shouts up.
“Cheeky mare! What do you think we are, amateurs?”
I laugh.
We’re from Bluebird, anonymously helping abuse victims escape to better lives. As we’re free traders operating under aliases, there’s minimal chance of the abusers tracking us.
“All boarded!”
This one’s going to make history, though.
“Taking off in three, two, one…”
by Julian Miles | Sep 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Carlo looks about suspiciously, looking for those he knows are watching his every move. Turning his gaze back to Doug, he takes a drag on his vape before continuing, talking through a cloud of strawberry-scented fog.
“You see it’s all an illusion. That’s the thing they’re hiding. We’re just here because they set it up like this, you know, it’s like the Matrix and 1984 rolled up and all the greys have lizard eyes.”
Doug frowns.
“Don’t quite follow. So you’re trying to wake up?”
Carlo nods.
“You got it. Wake up so you can see the tiles that make up the sky and the frozen mountains around the edge of the world. See the overlords for what they are, reveal the universal truth and rob them of their power.”
Doug takes a sip of his coffee, pulls a face and pushes it aside, then leans closer.
“You sure about that? I mean, if they built this place, they’re not to be messed with. How many of them are there? How many can they call on? There’s a lot of people on this world, flat or not.”
Carlo reaches out to snag the rejected coffee, then shakes his head.
“No, mate. That’s the thing. Most of what look like people are just programmed shadows. Hollow people, soulless, put here to distract us.”
“So you’re one of a small group of real people?”
“Spot on. Because, like, we question. If whoever you’re talking to doesn’t question things or refuses to see the truth, chances are you’re dealing with a shadow.”
Doug nods, then raises a finger.
“How do you know I’m not one of those hollow shadow people?”
“Because you’re talking with me, mate, not telling me I’m crazy.”
“So this world we see right now is a huge simulation. Hologram or virtual reality?”
Carlo frowns, then snaps his fingers.
“It’s a mix. The sheeple are down in virtual, their unquestioning belief being used to bind their souls. The ones like you and me, we’ve got something they need, so we’re up here in hologram world. Well, better than a hologram. Got all the senses wired in, you know what I mean?”
Doug nods and takes a sip from his coffee. Carlo starts to take a sip too, then stops and looks at the coffee in his hand, down at his empty coffee cup, then points to the one in Doug’s hand.
“Where did that come from?”
Doug smiles. The cup vanishes from his hand. He takes a bite of the bun that replaces it, then talks while chewing.
“That glitch in your worldview is one we keep running into. I’m just trying a new fix.”
Carlo shakes his head.
“What?”
Doug leans closer.
“Did it ever occur to you that there’s nothing to wake up from? You’re a digital simulacrum of a random sentient brought into being to help us run the Earth Scenario through iteration twenty-eight billion and ten. If you literally ‘woke up’, you’d cease to exist.”
Carlo looks at him, aghast.
“That’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Says the walking, talking executable image known as Carlo who just told me I’m living in a hologram. Look, despite your torrential delusions, I like you. So, check your bank balance after you finish screaming. It’ll show a million pounds and forty-two pence.”
“Why will I be screaming?”
“Because you’ll have realised you don’t want to be awake anymore.”
Doug winks and disappears. The bun hangs in the air until Carlo focusses on it, then disappears with a faint ‘pop’.
Carlo starts screaming.
by Julian Miles | Sep 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Sally peers from under the racking, checks both ways, then hisses at me.
“You think they’ve gone?”
I shake my head, then put a finger to my lips. Clichéd it may be, but our unwanted visitors are attracted to sound.
But how did they get in? That’s what’s been bothering me. Well, apart from the obvious ‘what are they?’ We lost Adrian two months ago, and the only Dimitri I can recall was lost during Mission 12. We’re Mission 15, so that’s over six years.
Something that can make bodies move. Plus they’re corpses. So, what do I know of that animates dead bodies? Damn… Not just dead. Frozen.
Ice Ghosts? Out here?
Sally hisses and slaps the floor to get my attention. I wish she’d stop making noise.
“You think we should move?”
I repeat my earlier moves. She frowns, then snarls.
“Fuck this. I’m out of here.”
Her scrambling out from under the rack makes noise. The rack toppling to crash down across the way out of my hiding place is much louder. She runs to the left. I close my helmet and make myself as comfortable as I can. It’s going to take time and effort to get out of here. I might as well wait until my suit is nearly in the red across the board.
There’s a scream, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Sally comes past going flat out, her frantic footfalls a half beat off the rhythm of heavy treads that follow. The expedition suit labelled ‘Adrian’ thunders past. I can’t help but smile: Adrian’s after Sally, again – hope this Adrian doesn’t get her either.
My humour dies as her warbling scream is cut short. No gruesome noises, no drumming off heels or other horror movie endings. Just the eerie silence-that’s-not-silent. I can’t explain it. A tune? Some vibration?
Doesn’t matter. Back to thinking this through. Nothing else to do.
The ice ghosts were confined to Titan, but there had been rumours about them being aliens, not a remnant of some outré species native to our home system. Old. That’s what I remember got me. The article belaboured the point of how old they were.
Of course they’d be long-lived. Out here, food must be incredibly scarce. Let’s say this is where they originated, somehow. An insubstantial freespace entity, possessed of some unbelievable abilities to manipulate organic materials in their native environment: freezing vacuum.
Heavy treads coming this way.
The expedition suit labelled ‘Dimitri’ stops in front of the collapsed racking and something inside spends a long time twisting this way and that, inspecting the obstacle between us.
More heavy steps. ‘Adrian’ lumbers into view, it’s front covered in frozen blood. Tiny red crystals reflect the lights of the corridor.
The two hulking forms stand motionless for what seems like an age, then ‘Dimitri’ reaches forward to pull at the racking. It manages to lift one of the toppled uprights a little way, then drops it. I could lift it further. Looks like frozen muscles aren’t very strong.
‘Adrian’ thumps the racking, then points at me. It laboriously makes the astronaut sign language handshape for ‘near miss’!
They wave at me in unison and lumber off to my left.
I wait a very long time. Maybe I hear/feel the main lock cycle, maybe I’m dreaming. Eventually, I have to move, to free myself.
Walking the empty station, I find a lot of dried blood, but no bodies. Fire purging the airlocks gives me a brief satisfaction, but I’m going to be cold inside for a long time.
by Julian Miles | Aug 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The panoramic window that occupies the longest wall of the executive office at the top of the Vimentane Tower shows a breathtaking view of the nighttime traffic in LEO over London. Against the curved inner wall, a buffet has been laid out ready for the next delegation.
A door in that wall opens a little way, hits one of the tables laden with seafood, and closes. Parker Lenting looks up at the sound of it closing. He permits himself a little frown. Sure enough, a few minutes later the main doors to the office open. Technical Analyst Howerd Banton has rushed halfway down the room before it shuts.
“Director Lenting, I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”
Parker smiles at him.
“I’ve been ignoring you.”
Howerd doesn’t even pause.
“The Carminshan contract cannot be signed!” He slaps a datapad down on the desk and points to it.
Parker sees several sections have been highlighted. His smile disappears.
“And that’s why I’ve been ignoring you.”
Howerd stalls.
“What?”
“The quantities aren’t incorrect, Mister Banton.”
That sets him off again. His eyes widen.
“Quantities? I haven’t even looked at them. It’s the thirty-coil Gauss cannons and the cluster munitions with depleted uranium payloads. Both are embargoed under Tycho Treaty. Also, the penalties for shipping Gauss weapons outside Terra Sector Zero are punitive.”
Parker stops idly tapping at his keypad. Steepling his fingers, he gazes at Howerd until the man starts to fidget.
“What do you think we do here, Mister Banton?”
Howerd gives the question serious consideration before replying.
“I thought we were supplying licensed military equipment to Galactic Forces across the Terra Sectors. However, having seen and compared the summaries of the Magdubor, Xhintyl, and Lordintum contracts to the Carminshan one, I can only conclude we are, for want of a better term, supplying illegal weaponry to intergalactic organisations, some of them quite likely criminal in nature. It’s beyond my comprehension how much suffering we have enabled, and also the reasons why elude me, as I can find no trace of profiteering.”
Parker raises a hand for silence.
“Let me provide some context. When humanity first blundered across alien races some 115 years ago, we quickly learned that we were the new kids among an astonishingly old and long-established galactic empire. We were also considered primitives, having managed to enter our interstellar phase while retaining tribal drives. The fact we still fought wars over territories, resources, and religions was not well received out among the stars. Steps were taken to prevent us causing trouble. Somewhere around that time, a galactic criminal organisation noticed we made really effective guns and bombs. Indeed, we’d taken personal and planet-bound weapons technology far beyond that developed by other races.”
Parker pauses to take a drink before continuing.
“So they approached several Earth governments with an offer we quite literally couldn’t refuse.”
Howerd leans forward.
“Which was?”
“Those ‘steps to prevent us causing trouble’? It means exterminating humanity and turning Earth into a farm planet. The only reason we’re still here is because of those illegal weapons, which we supply at cost or for free.”
He waits for Howerd to draw the obvious conclusion. When that doesn’t happen, he sighs, then continues, voice coarse with anger.
“We do that because the moment we’re no longer useful to their organisation, our protection vanishes, and we’re all fertiliser within a month.”
Parker glares at Howerd.
“Any questions?”
He considers for a moment, then steps back.
“I’ll ensure the Carminshan contract is checked and ready for them, Director Lenting.”
“Thank you, Mister Banton.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The room used to be part of a well-appointed apartment. Under the ravages of damp and neglect, it looks like it was abandoned hurriedly. If you peer through the grimy windows and look down, you’ll see waves breaking against ruined shopfronts, and seagulls perched upon tide-tossed vehicles.
In one corner there’s a desk. On the open leaf lies an old personal datapad, one of the first generation of ‘long life’ mobile devices that arose after the technological excesses of the early twenty-first century were outlawed.
A gloved hand disconnects a rapid charge pack and pockets it.
The datapad screen glows faintly, almost obscured on the upper half where the accumulated muck hasn’t been wiped away.
It finishes starting up. A single notification flashes slowly: ‘194 unopened messages’.
There’s a soft sigh, like someone had been holding their breath.
“Play most recent.”
There’s a moment’s silence. The notification changes to ‘Message left 71:06:21:35 ago’, then displays a ‘No Image’ banner.
The voice is hoarse, the sentences broken up like the speaker is concentrating on doing something else.
“Hey, Helen. Must be a couple of months since I last called. Don’t know why I keep doing this, but I never get a decline or a bounce, so I guess that pad I bought you is lying in a drawer somewhere, long forgotten. Anyway, here I am over the United States of Australia, flying something that should’ve been scrapped last century, on the way to somewhere I can’t say to deliver something I can’t tell you about.”
The speaker stops, mutters unintelligibly, then continues.
“Okay, I’ll keep this brief as getting distracted like that again will end me and my latest glorious career. Like I said: I’m not sure why I keep leaving messages for you. But, hey, at least I’ve stopped pouring my stupid heart out. You’re off doing whatever you were doing when we collided and fell in love. I’d like to think it was roving journalist like you told me, but, if I’m honest – and if I can’t be honest while effectively talking to myself, what’s the point? – I think you were lying. Still don’t understand why I’m so sure of that, but there you go. I’d guess it’s a part of me looking for a bigger reason than you just not loving me as much as I loved you.”
A second soft sigh turns into a sob.
“Funny, that. Sad, too. Of all the things I could hold onto as a surety, I’m convinced you lied to me. Which, in the end, explains why you left: I wasn’t the man you thought I was.”
The speaker swears. There’s a distant sound of autocannon firing in short bursts.
“Right, this episode of my irregular confessional’s going to have to end early as it looks like these arseholes won’t leave me alone until I make them. So, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I wish you well.”
The pause is filled with the roar of powerful engines. It ends with a throaty chuckle.
“Actually, I wish I was with you, and not just because it’s a mugs game I’m playing out here. Best wishes, lady. Sorry for not being who you expected.”
The message ends.
The single notification flashes: ‘193 unopened messages’.
The datapad is picked up and brushed off.
“Shutdown device: mypad.”
The notification changes to ‘Shutting down’.
Another sigh. The gloved hand trembles, then crams the datapad in with the rapid charge pack.
“Sorry for not being who you thought I was. Love you, Phil. Maybe, one day…”
The voice trails off. A door closes.
