by Julian Miles | Sep 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I can hear his controller yelling at him to shoot. His eyes flick left and right, then he stares at the woman with the kid a short distance behind me. That shouting must be deafening. It’s certainly not helping him do anything useful.
Overcast afternoon, leafy plaza, man in a suit pointing a gun at thin air while sweat runs down his face. People are starting to notice. I turn and raise my hand towards the CCTV, fingers spread. I start folding them down one by one.
4…
They’re still shouting.
3…
Single voice. Urgent. I check my position and step sideways to keep the woman and kid directly behind me.
2…
A single word being shouted. I see his finger go from frame to trigger. I crouch, he fires. A woman screams. I stand and walk away as the man falls to his knees. People run about screaming. I don’t look to see who he hit. I don’t look back when another shot sounds.
By the plaza entrance, a second operative rushes towards me, eyes roaming, desperately trying to find the menace they’re shouting about. I locate the nearest CCTV and raise my hand again.
4…
Frantic shouting over the headset. Confused, he charges at me. I step to one side.
3…
He stops and spins, gun coming up, finger on the trigger. I quickstep until I’m behind him. I was always the best at this game as a kid, and that was when my opponent could see me.
2…
We dance about as he frantically tries to turn to face me. The voices are getting louder. Any second –
Now. I see his elbow bend and duck to the opposite side of where he fires blind over his shoulder. Then I hop back as he swings the gun to shoot under the other arm. That second shot elicits a scream from behind us.
He spins to see who he hit. I bat his arms down, then open his throat with my bone knife. They grew it from a bit of my femur and a few stem cells after they became certain I couldn’t make normal objects be like me. A clever bit of thinking, and it works. Doesn’t keep an edge for very long, but they hone them very sharp, and have grown spares.
Drone!
There it is. Loaded with multiple ways to ignore my curious case of not being visible to the naked eye – the scientists have promised they’ll explain what happened, one day. I don’t think it’ll be anytime soon. At least it’s a useful mishap.
I raise my hand and make childish shooting gesture towards the drone. It drops, going up in flames as it does so. Laser! Tasty. I never know what my support will bring, but they do try to be appropriate, and monitor me for cues. Today’s theme is ‘invisible killer’.
We’re done here. I move my hand in a throat-cutting gesture. Support takes out the surveillance in the park and on two streets, one at either end. Then I run into the bushes next to this entrance and shimmy down the shaft opened by an unseen support team member. As I’m throwing on clothes, an unseen person closes the hatch. Nothing left to chance.
One day the opposition will get their act together. Until then, it’s open season.
I emerge from a distant storm drain. In a nearby car park is an SUV that recognises the key in my pocket. I’ll call for my next assignment in a week. Time to disappear properly for a bit.
by Julian Miles | Sep 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Have you ever tried to outrun God? An idle question, but valid. Can any sinner avoid their fate? Pondering such considerations passes the time.
Hunkered down in a grassy nook amidst the densely planted fields that surround Karnourie, a sprawling town that is, to be honest, a defensive nightmare. Villas and farmsteads scattered all over the place, no fortifications, no hills, barely a bump in the earth for miles around. Nothing but several species of exotic grass amidst the stands of hybrid maize that’s the primary crop hereabouts.
My talkbox crackles.
“Sleepest thou, trooper?”
I grin.
“Nay, Leftenant. Merely resting my armour.”
There’s a laugh.
“Likewise.” He sighs. “These fields. Watching the wind bend the grasses is like watching waves cross an ocean. The synchronicity of God’s works is wonderful.”
I’ve never seen an ocean. Born in Titheport and recruited right off the streets, this galaxy is ever a source of marvels to a simple man like me.
The talkbox screams: one of ours warning us as they die.
“What chances?”
The Leftenant may well ask. I feel a tremble and stand to confirm what I dread.
A division of Nadbar Monotracks burst from the concealing foliage, each rolling on a single jointed tread wider than two men. Their favourite tactic is to slot together and roll over anything in their path, the momentum of a two-hundred-metre-wide wall of treads crushing all before them. The howitzers they mount in their blocky turrets ensure very little remains to slow their advance.
“Run, Leftenant!”
I pause to launch a warning flare, then obey the same instruction.
Curse that Sellean Grass! It grows to six metres in height and is renowned for its sound-deadening qualities. Ideal when you want your armoured assault to go unnoticed until the ground shakes.
It’s a warm day to be sprinting to save one’s soul in fifty kilos of armour. Funny how the sustained exertion gives the mind a chance to wander. I recall my tactics tutor one day, warm like this, digressing into the amusing considerations that remain unanswered due to there being nobody stupid enough to try them.
“Lochstein postulated that a wall of monotracks had channels a man might pass through unharmed. One could argue that him dying when facing that very thing proved him wrong. I disagree, but am minded to pray I never have a chance to test it.”
I laughed, then. Not now.
The gap below the side armour, between the tracks. I chance a look back. What gains on us are not rigged for city storming – they have not the ground-brushing kilts to prevent close flank attack.
“I expect to see thee at the Pearly Gates, trooper.”
“Lochstein’s Gambit, Leftenant!”
“God’s teeth! It’s worth a try.”
I turn, pick a gap, and crouch. As the roaring wall looms over me, I utter the family prayer my mother left me and throw myself down on my sword arm, striving to keep myself taller than wide.
Dust chokes me, noise drowns me, and shrieking steel claws at my armour. I am about ready to meet my Maker when the storm passes. I drop onto my back, turning my head to see the mail across my shoulder where the shield pauldron has been torn completely away.
“Praise be.”
The Leftenant’s voice replies, sounding as tremulous as mine.
“Indeed. Dear Lord, pass our thanks to Emmanuel Lochstein. Beest thou hale, trooper?”
“Aye. My plate be breached, but my mail untouched.”
“Then rise, trooper. The Lord did not guide thee that we be idle for it. We have sinners to send His way.”
That we do.
by Julian Miles | Sep 13, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m running down a corridor lined with tall computers. There’s a government goon hot on my tail. What scares me most is his non-stop shouting about “can’t fire on the slippery bastard because hitting a system will ruin my shot at promotion”.
The phone chirps. It’s a strange sound, like no ringtone I’ve ever heard. Certainly nothing I chose. I tap my earpiece and wait for the hissing to subside. Her voice is calm.
“How are you doing?”
“Coming to the end of a hall lined with computers. I’m being chased.”
“Go through the door, then smash the security panel.”
“Speaking of that security panel…”
“02411.”
I punch the code. The door opens. A bullet from behind spins me through it. Screaming in pain, I bounce off the wall opposite and stagger back to slam my elbow into the panel on this side. The door slides shut, cutting off the view of the goon sprinting my way from the crouch he took to shoot me. I hear him hit the door. Hear him shoot the door.
“Can you continue?”
“Yes. He only shot me in the bulletproof vest.”
Listen to me, all fired up on near-hysteria and CCE.
“Sounds like that Chemical Combat Enhancement is working.”
“So let’s get going before it runs out.”
She told me where to find it, how to use it, even warned me about taking too much.
“Don’t worry. It’s only a short way now.”
I run down the corridor, then go through a blast door and hurry down a long staircase.
“There’s a guard at the bottom. They’ll be wary. Have the amber card in your hand ready to show them.”
“Halt! Identify yourself.”
The guard is partway up the stairs.
I raise a hand.
“I’m getting ID from my back pocket.”
It seems to take ages to get the card out. The guard visibly relaxes, then salutes and steps to one side so I can pass. I nod as I rush past. Very soon now, he’s going to be told the truth, and his gun is a lot bigger than the one the goon in the corridor has.
“The amber card goes in the slot on the door.”
It opens to reveal another corridor, then closes behind me. I pass several doors on my way to the one at the end, a faded green door that leads into a place that looks like a dirty workshop. Over in a corner is a cage containing a woman in a stained lab coat.
“Say nothing. I’m here to get you out.”
She looks puzzled, and relieved. I use a club hammer to smash the padlock off the door.
Time to get more guidance.
“What now?”
“Lever up the manhole cover in the centre of the room, then the one under the big tool trolley. Help her into that one, close it, then put the trolley back. You take the other one. Leave the lid off.”
“I’m a decoy?”
“Yes. You’ll be safe. They’ll fixate on finding her.”
The voice hasn’t let me down for a year. Helped me make a new identity, and enough to live comfortably forever.
After exiting the maze of sewers, I yield to curiosity.
“Before I throw this phone into the incinerator across the road as instructed, please satisfy my curiosity.”
“She’ll be my mother. She told me about the mystery man who helped her escape certain death. Then one of the prototypes she built connected me to a phone destroyed years before I was born.”
Huh?
“After you told me when you were, I realised what I had to do.”
by Julian Miles | Sep 6, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Sir Kenneth Greyling’s eyebrows rise as a uniformed youth rushes into the members’ lounge, looks about frantically, then heads his way.
“Michael, I do believe this one’s for you.”
Major Mike Greyling looks up from his apple pie, catches his father’s gaze, and flicks a glance over his shoulder.
He put his fork down.
“Give me strength.”
The Lance Corporal comes to attention and salutes.
“Sir Greyling, excuse me for the intrusion. Major Greyling, Captain Rudd sends his apologies, but you’re needed at Control immediately.”
“At ease. So, you drew the short straw, they all laughed, then Captain Rudd gave you directions to find me, along with that demand. By any chance did he mention something after that? Maybe a colour, possibly a number?”
The Lance Corporal jumps a little.
“Yessir. Sorry sir. Gold Zero, sir.”
Mike’s right eyebrow twitches.
“Excuse me, father. It seems this interruption is warranted.”
Kenneth grins at the pair of them.
“I look forward to lurid headlines tomorrow.”
Mike looks longingly at his unfinished dessert, then accompanies the Lance Corporal from the room at the double.
Kenneth shakes his head, then raises his hand.
“Elliot? I’ll have a neat three fingers of Nolet’s to finish, and page my driver, would you?”
Mike barges into the control room to find it packed.
“Captain Rudd! You auditioning an audience or did I miss a memo?”
Heads turn. Uniformed bystanders pale. People start leaving.
The thickset Captain elbows his way through the thinning throng.
“Didn’t Lance Corporal Letting bring you up to speed?”
“Wound so tight he could barely speak. I dropped him by the path to the barracks and told him to get himself some food before coming back here.”
Rudd shakes his head.
“They’re sending us kids.”
“Focus, Captain.”
“We had a problem with the Ambassador.”
The six-hundred-kilo leader of the Phalastakn delegation. Imposing, yet disgustingly cheerful.
“What happened?”
Rudd mutters something under his breath. Mike snaps his fingers.
“Out with it.”
“A breach.”
Mike leans back against a desk. He looks about.
“Everybody else, out! From the top, Captain, and do keep it concise.”
“Five activists from ‘Alien Lie’, led by Emric Allen himself, managed to get into the compound and confront the delegation. He challenged them to prove they weren’t actors or puppets. There was a heated exchange that culminated in the Ambassador offering to eat Emric to prove he wasn’t any sort of fake. He insinuated that Emric’s brain would emerge intact as it was too dense to digest.”
Mike keeps his smile under control, then the possibilities hit.
“Please tell me Emric didn’t call his bluff?”
Rudd pales.
“Safe to say the surviving activists are now convinced the Phalastakn are real aliens. However, the backlash is mind-boggling. There are government departments I’ve never heard of ringing up, demanding access, answers, you know the drill.”
Mike does. After action comes reaction – from everybody who wasn’t there. Many of whom are incapable of fully understanding the dynamics of the original situation.
“Okay, Captain. I’m presuming the survivors are in a state. Provide first aid, ensure trauma referrals are made, then release them. Detention will only increase speculation. Extend the exclusion zone around the compound to a mile. Declare it a diplomatic enclave – gives us more control. But, before the new plans are broadcast, I want whoever let the activists in found. Get them fired or dishonourably discharged, pronto. No point in making a circus of it.”
Rudd salutes and starts to turn away. Mike snaps his fingers again.
“Nearly forgot. Ask the biologists if Phalastakn can suffer from indigestion, would you?”
by Julian Miles | Aug 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
As natural satellites go, it’s different.
“Amy, that doesn’t look like a moon.”
“No, it’s an asteroid that’s been captured in passing. I think.”
Uh-huh. I punch ‘auto-evade’ and ‘auto-countermeasures’. My eyes are drawn back to that ugly chunk of battered rock. Something nags at me.
“Did I hear you cueing automated defences?”
“I’d rather be over-cautious and harangued by you than under-prepared and dead.”
She blows a raspberry.
“Can’t fault that, much as I want to.”
“Well, while you’re trying to find a way to blame me, give me some other possibilities.”
We continue to swing in-system at a gentle pace, supposedly slow enough to not trigger any leftover autonomous war machines.
“Well, if it’s not a capture, their moon has been subject to some violent times in the past. It looks like someone launched a mountain peak – or tried to carve it into one.”
“I see what you mean.”
Actually, she has a point.
“Amy, hypothetically, if we take that as assault damage, what would you say happened?”
There are advantages to having a pilot who happens to be a war historian.
She chuckles.
“Playing to my weaknesses, eh? That sort of damage indicates going for something under the surface. Something substantial. My guess would be an orbital defence fortress, taken out as an opening action.”
I bring up the most recent sensor sweeps.
“How do you explain the lack of bombardment damage to the systemward face? Plus a debris field that’s only half as dense to system side?”
There’s a surprised noise, then silence. I wait.
“Rupel, we’re going to be famous.”
“Why do you say that, Amy?”
“The damage was done from planetside. They aimed at their own moon and opened up with everything they had.”
I’m still missing something.
“A bombardment this big would have made it into military records.”
“Unless no-one was left.”
Sweet Gaia! Everybody learns the sentences from the First Book of The Conflict.
“‘They fired everything they had, uncaring of cost, to strike down the insidious force that had settled so close. There was no way they could win against what approached, but they would take revenge for the innocents lost.’”
“That’s it, Rupel. This is Earth!”
Could it be?
“Convince me.”
“They spent ten years turning the Moon into an assault base. They worked via clandestine channels, taking advantage of the political state on Earth to get humans to build it. Every human involved was convinced it was a secret base for their own side’s use.
“The Roekuld advance force waited until their fleets came into detection range. In the midst of the chaos caused by the detection of over a hundred thousand warships, the base opened fire. Nuclear warheads rained down in the wake of the craton shakers that rendered most of Earth’s defences ineffective. Thankfully, the vessel they’d arrived in only allowed the Roekuld to bring six of those nightmare devices with them.
“Our surviving command concluded surrender would be futile. They also knew what forces they had couldn’t defeat the massed warships. So they issued the famous ‘Earth is Invaded’ communique to every receiver in the Terran Empire, told all in-system ships to flee, then chose a symbolic end: to kill those who had killed so many innocents without warning.”
The first battle of the Roekuld Conflict was a staggering, horrific defeat. As the near-extinction raged, we lost so much – even our homeworld. It was fifty years before we rose again, then turned their home planet to dust. Twenty years later, we’re still struggling with the aftermath.
Maybe this rediscovery can help us heal a little more.
