by Julian Miles | Jul 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a star on the horizon, and it’s golden, not white. Tasmisa is what the people who live there call it.
They spent thirty-eight years developing the world-shifting technology that allowed them to escape the destruction of their world by a colossal asteroid. An offshoot of that technology let them deliver a warning to us, along with all their research, and a library of wonders to support it.
When their desperate transition ended, there were problems. Atmospheric bleed and tectonic instability being the most obvious. A year after their arrival they had recovered enough to assess their state. What they found was a horrific irony.
In escaping their doom from an asteroid, they’d made themselves the doom for us both. Their rogue planet will collide with Earth in four years’ time. There’s nothing they can do. It took every resource they had for them to leap from their distant star system to ours. They admit they don’t even know if they originate from our reality. Certain crippling changes to what were their accepted laws of physics makes them think so.
Frustrated by this quirk of fate, they decided to tell us, and give us knowledge. We’re ‘quite advanced’ from their perspective. Most importantly, we have the resources to create the solution to the problem, possibly even saving ourselves and the Tasmisians.
They might think us quite advanced, but as I listen to the news drone on about another theatre of war opening in the global conflict over control of Tasmisian technology, I think we’re still stone-throwing savages who are going to die fighting over who gets to be the boss of saving us.
by Julian Miles | Jul 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The scream of fighters passing overhead fades. Silence resumes. The three sat at the undamaged end of the table return their gazes to rest on the woman sitting at the other end. Minutes pass. Finally, the middle one of the trio speaks.
“I’m not sure ‘you’re late’ adequately covers this.”
The one on the left adds.
“Good point, Virgo. Maybe ‘treason’? What do you think, Runcie?”
The right-hand one shakes their head.
“No, Shane. More likely ‘cowardice’.”
The woman smiles.
“The thinking behind those three sentences is reason enough for my tardiness.”
The Virgo raises a finger.
“I’m thinking it’s more about the cost of Project Bifrost.”
The woman whispers.
“Money or power. Every time.”
Runcie leans forward.
“What?”
She looks up.
“Have you read the report?”
Bemused glances are exchanged. Shane replies.
“My people prepared an executive summary. The short version of it is: you failed.”
The woman bursts out laughing.
“The failure lies not with Project Bifrost.”
Bemusement turns to astonishment, then scorn. Runcie points at her.
“We brought you in on a frankly ridiculous proposal as part of a worst-case scenario initiative. Three years later, the worst case is rapidly becoming true. Yet the initiative we spent trillions upon can offer nothing to save us.”
The woman shakes her head.
“Project Bifrost does. The criteria are very clear. You have chosen not to meet them.”
Virgo shakes his head.
“That nonsense? I fail to see how suicide gets us anywhere, unless you’re working for the other side.”
She brings her hand down on the table so hard they hear it crack. Splinters of wood spin away from fingers sunk into the tabletop.
“Then listen well: the concept of immortal warriors has fascinated those obsessed with war for as long as man has had gods. Project Bifrost proposed that the mythical rainbow bridge is, in fact, a novel variant of an Ellis-Deutsch wormhole. It further proposed that establishing a link from our world to the one regarded as, or containing, the mythical destination Valhalla would yield a near-inexhaustible army of hardened veterans for the principals to draw upon.”
Virgo snorts derisively.
“Ignoring the obvious limitation that if the place exists, the beings who oversee it might have a few things to say about us borrowing their army, not matter how righteous our cause.”
The woman nods.
“A factor taken into account by the offering of whatever war being fought here as an extension of the training regimes legended to be performed every day by those in Valhalla.”
Shane shrugs.
“A good idea, that.”
Runcie chuckles.
“So, you covered all the bases and made your variant wormhole. Why am I not seeing Viking berserkers with XM7s rolling the opposition up like a rug?”
“You know why.”
Virgo sighs loudly.
“Suicide again? Pathetic. This failure will ruin your career, Professor Gefna.”
She stands.
“Gefna gave everything to save those she worked with. Such dedication persuaded me to come here.”
Virgo leaps up.
“Hold on. If you’re not Gefna, just who are you?”
She waves her hand dismissively.
“One final time: the criteria are clear. Will you rise to meet them?”
Virgo grins nastily.
“One final time: suicide is not an option, woman.”
Her eyes start to glow.
“You refuse to prove your worth as leaders of warriors in the same way you expect of them. Thus, you offer nothing. Therefore nothing shall be given. I, Valfreyja, have spoken.”
She vanishes.
Shane slumps back in the chair.
“That could have gone better.”
Runcie throws a pen at him.
“Oh, shut up.”
Virgo runs a hand through his hair.
“Well, fuck.”
by Julian Miles | Jul 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Have you decided, Jared?”
Eagle.
The disk spins high into the air in the low gravity, polished metal reflecting the light from the fires about him. Jared smiles. If he had the acuity of vision, he could probably distinguish the reflections from the spotlights of the waiting army. Watching from above, he’d make out the lights of aircraft and spacecraft.
So many beings watching a United Nations of America commemorative medal flip from eagle side to star side, the motto ‘In Victory Is Strength’ indistinguishable – but present in so many ways.
Star.
It’s nineteen years to the day since he first tossed this medal to decide his fate.
That had been half a galaxy away. Penira had asked him to join up after her, saying the UNA was the future. A year after she went, he flipped to see if he would, because duty, family, lust, and peer pressure had completely obscured what he really wanted to do.
Eagle.
He’s going with the same choices as that first time, too: eagle side is duty. Star side is freedom. But, over the years, the star has come to mean ‘yes’, the eagle: ‘no’.
It landed star side up that first time, and in his surprise he found his truth: he’d follow Penira because he was curious – about her and the UNA.
Star.
He found out Penira had been dead before the medal even landed. Before long, he’d found out why. The first President-General of the UNA, Waylon Barker, had set out a vision in his private notes. ‘A shining planet in the darkness’ was how he summed it up. But what he described, although presented as peace and prosperity through unity, was a never-ending empire fuelled by conquests made using commerce or force as best suited to each nation or world.
Eagle.
After that probably well-intentioned beginning, he died too soon. Which left his big dream to the means of little men.
Fast forward 180 years and the human-controlled sectors of space were rebelling against the descendants of the little men. Among battles large and small, the tide turned and turned again. In one momentous turning, Jared did what he thought Penira would have done: he opposed the UNA takeover of a world.
Star.
By chance, his efforts resulted in a resounding victory. From there he led the rebels – half-disbelieving the power he held – to free a hundred worlds, to glory at a thousand battles won, and to be betrayed in a hundred small ways. He never knew if the little men who let him down were working for the UNA, or just doing what little minds do when given limited power within a strategy greater than they can comprehend.
Eagle.
In the end, betrayals let the UNA rally, then strike back ruthlessly.
With the tide firmly turned against him and his decimated allies, Jared hatched a plan from a rumour he’d heard while he served with the UNA: a system bomb. The ultimate weapon of the UNA, hatched in keeping with their mindset: if they couldn’t win, no-one else would be allowed to.
Star.
His desperados succeeded where all predictions said they should fail. He thinks the predictions ultimately true, because he’s the only one left, standing atop a ruin, the fate of spacefaring humanity tied to the dead man’s switch clutched in his hand.
Eagle.
All about, the UNA wait. Their offer is simple: disarm the switch, keep his life.
“You can’t stand there forever, Jared.”
The medal lands.
Star.
Just like the first time, it reveals truth. With a smile, he opens his hand.
by Julian Miles | Jul 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The sirens start to wail behind us. I hate this bit.
“Time to do one!”
Adey swings his backpack onto his shoulders as he starts running, dodging the spotlight of a hunting drones as he goes. Must be nice, being that fit.
“Auntie Jin?”
I look down at Little Em. Ten years old and too serious.
“Go with him, little ‘un. He’s a tool, but right now he’s the getaway gear you need. Tell your mum I’ll be along for a chat and a cuppa tomorrow night.”
If I survive.
After giving me a fierce hug, she takes off. Just look at her go. All angles and speed.
Looking about, I spot a chunky old 4×4 sticking out from under a wind-blown tarp. It’s right up next to a battered container. Almost made for me, and I’m not going to ignore with whatever’s on my side tonight.
Hang on, it’s locked! What bastard game is this? Nothing for it but to scoot myself under. Fresh shattered glass will register with the drone-mounted ambience scanners. I thought artificial intelligence was meant to make our lives easier, not make them better at oppressing us.
Here I am again, stuck at the arse end of nowhere, hiding under a car. Plus ça change, as grandmama would’ve said with a little laugh. I wonder if she ever got to France?
Make it back. That’s the trick, isn’t it? I’ve done too many of these supply raids. I’m long overdue to not return.
Footsteps! Bloody Domestic Army patrols. The bastards just can’t leave us be. Most of them used to be our neighbours. Problem is, too many of them still are.
“What the fuck are we doing out here, Vardy?”
“Procedure says areas tangential to the alarm site have to be swept by a patrol after the drones. So here we are. It’s bollocks, but has to be done. Obey orders or go join the riff raff. Mind you, some nights I think that might be a better choice.”
The reply sounds angrier than I’d expect.
“You worry me sometimes, old man. It’s wall-to-wall ubiscum out in the ‘burbs. I know, I walk past them every day. Only a few like me do real work. All the whining and cheating got the freeloaders where they deserve to be: outside the New Era Mandate.”
Vardy coughs, then chuckles.
“Like the One England Initiative wasn’t enough. We should have stopped you lot back in ’28 before the lying bastards got in properly. All our protesting about national service and we still missed the fact that for a lot of conscripts, it gave them the identity they craved, a gang they wanted to be part of, and permission to pick on all the people they didn’t like. It also gave your neo-fascist government a pool of bigots from which they could build a new Schutzstaffel.”
“You’re talking treason.”
“No, I’m talking history. This is treason.”
That was a gunshot!
There’s a wheezing laugh.
“You know, of all the things I expected tonight, finding you hiding under a truck again wasn’t one of them. Still leaving distinctive tracks in the dirt, I see.”
Wait… Vardy? No way!
“Five years back. You let me and Em go.”
He crouches down and peers under the truck. Damn he’s old. Got fire in his eyes, though.
“That’s the one. How’s your tall friend?”
“Her ankle didn’t heal straight.”
“That’s a shame. Can I give you a lift?”
“What?”
“They’re about to bust me for helping people like you, so I’m leaving. You’re hiding under my getaway vehicle.”
Oh.
“Go on, then.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 24, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The corridor is just far enough off-true that it messes with your vision and balance if you’re not careful. Or if part of you relies on an exoskeleton to function.
“You okay there, Zeno?”
I flick a glance and grin towards Leroy.
“I’m seventy-one, godammit. Been doing this war shit for nearly fifty years, and it still sucks.”
He chuckles under his breath.
“I hear that, and I’m only eighteen behind you. When did the old guard get so old?”
Susan comes back to us at a fast lope, exoskeleton humming as she jumps the hole in the floor in front of me.
She lands. The floor gives way. The exoskeleton whips my arm out in time to catch her flailing hand. It pulls her up, over, and past me before both exoskeletons release our bruised limbs from automated rescue responses.
I slowly stretch my abused shoulder. A couple of degrees more and the damn rescue would have dislocated my arm. Then again, if it’s that or lose another of us, it would be a cheap price to pay.
Leroy helps her sit up. She grins at me.
“Your shoulder objecting to moving as fast as you used to?”
I grin right back.
“Like yours isn’t.”
There’s a shrug, then she brings a finger to her lips and points to our right. Leroy and I crouch down, bringing weapons round with care. Sure enough, her uncanny hearing has saved us from a sneak attack.
Without another word, we kill our sensor packs and move with aching slowness to take up positions either side of the two places Susan indicates. She does a finger countdown from four.
Three. Two. She closes her fist: pause.
Her eyes widen. She points to the section by Leroy with one hand, making the sign for him to drop with the other. He obeys.
The mandibles of a Scortan come through the wall either side of where he’d been but a moment before. He reaches up and grabs their outer edges, using the ridges to keep a grip as he slams his boots against the wall to trap it.
I step back, then lunge through the door. Rotted wood explodes outward as I correct my aim and shoot the grey horror in it’s armoured head.
Partially deafened by the noise of my antique 8-gauge in a confined space, I turn a slow circle with the hammer back on the other barrel. When a second centipede/scorpion hybrid doesn’t charge in, I allow myself to relax.
Susan peers round the door.
“You blew that up good. The mandibles came off in Leroy’s hands.”
“Handy. I’ve wanted a Scortan machete for a while.”
Leroy steps into view, curved mandible in each hand.
“Machete nothing. You seen these? I’m thinking scimitars.”
Susan moves down the room, cuts the stinger from the armoured tail, then brandishes it at us.
“Scortan tail stabby thing for me.”
“That a technical term?”
“The technical term is khanjar, but I didn’t want to confuse you with long words.” She points to the mandibles. “Scimitars are definitely what you’ll get from those.”
Leroy looks down at the Scortan.
“Real shame the only way to stop them is to destroy the bit we need to defeat them.”
I lean over and look at the torn wires and unidentifiable components amidst the bloody ruins of the head.
“We’ll get one. Burying it under rocks is the current plan. Until then, we need to stay lucky.”
Susan chuckles.
“Absolutely. I want to have a long, violent talk with whoever infested the Earth with these.”
She’s not alone in that.
