by Julian Miles | May 24, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Space, the never-ending frontier, the long night, the sea of stars. That last one should have given us a warning. Look what we did to the seas of Earth: filled them with our discards to the point where we nearly choked the planet.
“Ping ping ping, Reiter.”
“Three hits?”
“Close formation, no movement.”
“Leftovers.”
Saldi hums the first few bars of a death rite from Chal-Dy-Mer, her homeworld.
“What are the words that go with that?”
She pauses for a moment, lips moving as she translates.
“It loses a lot, along with the rhyme and meter, but put roughly, it’s ‘let them who scavenge from graves, be taken in their stead, that the number of evil hearts be reduced, and life be better for it.’”
“I could get behind the idea. Shall we?”
She nods.
We switch to manoeuvring thrusters and sidle up to the trio. A quick look confirms our suspicions: these freespace burials have been looted. The coffins have been stripped of panels; corpses broken in the haste to remove anything that might be of value.
“Stripship?”
That would be my guess, too.
“Agreed. Two-suit team on umbilicals cracked them open. One tore the coffins apart, the other smashed through the bodies. I’d guess they chucked it all into a haulage sack and got wound back in. Done and gone really fast.”
“No point in looking for identification. I’ll get samples for the Book.”
The Great Book of Remembrance: a huge database containing DNA samples from every cadaver found drifting, along with any names or identifying marks remaining.
We’ve been blundering around out here for nearly five hundred years. Our dead have been recognised navigational hazards for the last three hundred. The sheer arrogance of casually punting corpses into space caught our neighbours, the Cheteny and the Klact, by surprise. Took them a while to work out a currently spacefaring race was being so inconsiderate. When they found out we also let our lost ships stay lost, they pointedly enquired if we were going to pay them to clean up after us.
Starside Recovery Division was created soon after that. Spacers can call us to come and deal with any debris they come across. We’ll either handle it directly or refer it to the owning race. Our clearing up is done with as much reverence as we can spare, and always guarantees the sanctity of any cadaver enclosures and their contents.
Strippers make a living by scavenging from the dead. Stripships turn that ghoulish activity into a business in relics and scrap. Frequently, a stripship will support their own crew as well as acting as a hub for a mob of independent strippers.
“Where’s the nearest sun?”
I check the navigational archives.
“A month at sublight. We’ll need to burn them.”
Our preferred way to let cadavers go is to send them into a star. I like to think that fits with the intent of the original burials. However, when doing so would mean sending what amounts to an unmonitored missile on a long journey, we use ship armaments to vaporise the remains instead.
“Sad but true. I’ll back us off. You ready the beamers.”
Saldi leaves us slowly drifting away from the sombre cluster. I bring the dorsal battery to bear and task the starboard side anti-meteor quadmounts with catching any scatter.
She and I chorus the SRD saining for the dead.
“Now we lay thy bodies down, that thine souls may find surcease should it have been denied them. Requiescat in pace.”
Blinding energy beams make the remains coruscate, then disintegrate. The long night resumes.
by Julian Miles | May 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Hey, Cherry. Who’s that freak you know? Reynard?”
Constable Dalforth grins nastily.
Inspector Cherry Fasslin of the Tactical Response Group grimaces. He knows she knows exactly who he’s insulting. She also knows he wouldn’t say word one if that particular gent were actually nearby.
“It’s Reinhardt. Why?”
“Maybe you should call him. The polar bear has a katana. Might be a challenge.”
Cherry sighs. She’s spent so long working on animorph relations with members of the regular police. This caveman seems to have missed every session.
“Constable Dalforth, that’s a white-pelted ursimorph with an ōdachi. Calling it a polar bear might offend it, and calling it’s heirloom monumental blade a small sword is sure to.”
“I see a furball with a samurai sword, I’m not worried about the niceties. I call in the TRG. You are the TRG, aren’t you?”
Officer Lupin Blue has moved up on Dalforth’s blind side.
“Boo.”
Her whispered greeting causes him to jump, literally, which ruins his trained response to spin, crouch, and be ready to defend or draw. He lands with his feet mid-move and stumbles sideways until he bounces off a gyrocar.
“’kin’ ’ell, a moggie.” His voice is flat with anger.
Cherry winces. Definitely missed every session.
Lupin’s ears drop flat.
“That would be felimorph, but you’re forgiven. Once.”
“’kin’ TRG…”
His red-faced reply trails off as the barking laughter of the ursimorph gets louder.
Cherry looks over. It’s leaning on a lamppost, ōdachi resting on a shoulder, pointing at Dalforth.
“You can’t dance for shit, notepad.”
Dalforth’s hand goes to his sidearm.
“What did he just call me?”
Officer Joe Tremaine, the other member of Cherry’s patrol, places a hand on the shoulder of Dalforth’s gun arm.
“He called you a ‘Notepad’. It’s military slang for a police officer who’s not as tough as they act. I think he’s nailed you, mate.”
Dalforth glances about.
Cherry hopes he sees what she does: Joe is leaning forward, using his long reach, so he has room to react. Lupin’s taken two steps back, has a hand on her sidearm. If Dalforth tries anything, he’ll be down before his piece clears the holster.
The laughter stops.
“Ey, TRG boss lady. You the one who knows our Cat?”
Cherry gives a quick smile and discreetly gestures for the snipers to stand down.
“Had dinner at her and Marie’s place last night. What’s with the blade, big bear? Bit late in the day for a shave.”
The ursimorph chuckles, swings a giant scabbard round from behind, then sweeps the ōdachi into it with a single, smooth movement. Standing with the scabbarded blade in one hand, it salutes her.
“I’m Captain Seiji Guevara. Been away for a while. Got myself turned about in these rebuilt back ways, saw a uniform exchanging packets with someone, went to ask directions. The someone scarpered. The uniform screamed and drew on me. I had a flashback, caught it in time, but drew before I stepped back. We were in a standoff until he holstered his piece when you lot rolled in.”
Cherry nods. As it happens, she recognises his name. Reinhardt mentioned it last night.
“Officer Blue, could you update Captain Guevara’s datapad with the latest Southwark maps? Then we’ll let him get on his way.”
She checks her datapad, then glares at Dalforth.
“After that, we’re going to have a long chat with Constable Dalforth about why he’s so far from his beat, who that someone was, what’s in the other packet, and why he’s so jumpy.”
Dalforth swallows so hard they hear it.
Joe chuckles.
“Gotcha, dirty badge.”
by Julian Miles | May 10, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The roof is a tarpaulin, sheltering walls braced with lengths of burnt wood and fungus-like runs of building foam. The floor had been churned mud before a levelling blazer converted it to blackened glass. At the centre of the room a figure is tied to a chair, clothing reduced to rags. Wires criss-cross his body. Everything’s covered in dirt, except for the officer leaning on the wall in front of the figure. She’s gazing at a holographic display that floats in the air between them.
“Let’s try again, Captain Thirm. You claim your unit intercepted Major Proth’s retreat. Somehow, despite managing to kill all the grunts, you missed him.”
The figure in the chair spits.
“Interrogator Reed, my reply stands: your commander is a prick.”
The veracity indicator flashes bright green.
“Still telling the truth.” She coughs. “From his point of view.”
The shadowed image in the video window wobbles as a fist slams into the camera.
“I told you to stop him doing that!”
“Commander, the only way to do that will render him unable to reply.”
A face looms close enough for the light from the screen to pick out the shine of his scars.
“I authorise the use of special measures.”
“Commander, we’ve been making this man’s nervous system light up like a Christmas tree for three days. In that time, the only information we’ve obtained is 1,442 reiterations of his opinion of you. The time for psionic interrogation is when the subject’s neurosurgical landscape is uncompromised, where the nuances between truth, lie, and obfuscation can be discerned.”
“I emphasised special measures. Turning him into a vegetable is acceptable.”
“Commander, use of that discipline is an atrocity under the Convention of Mars. I refuse.”
“If you disobey me, mindwarper, I’ll have you shot for treason.”
There’s a pause, then she steps through the holographic display and places her hand on the Captain’s head. His body jerks. On screen, the shadowed figure nods.
Thirm finds himself unable to move. A burning sensation races about in his head, becomes almost unbearable, then vanishes. A voice speaks within his mind.
*Hello, Walter. I see you volunteered for experimental pain buffering. It seems to have worked. I’ve also browsed other relevant memories. I see events occurred as you reported, and can detect no interference. Do you have any idea why the official record disagrees with the truth you participated in?*
Walter struggles for a moment, then works out how to reply.
*We overran this sector far quicker than expected. Proth had to improvise, starting with the decoys my team met. The Commander has fresh scars. From ten years ago? I patched him up after that battle. Also, like most of our side, he has no problem with psionicists. Commander Adams would never use a derogatory term like ‘mindwarper’.*
*You’re insinuating that the Major has hidden himself within our chain of command?*
*Remote warfare has unique hazards. Proth seems to have exploited them. He’s getting the witnesses killed during interrogations. Tell whoever’s going in to be careful. He’ll be guarded by the survivors of his Special Tactics Executive.*
*Excuse me.*
He’s alone in his head, her hand still in place. Minutes pass.
The shadowy figure on screen slumps sideways and disappears. A woman in PsiCom uniform takes his place.
“Initial reads confirm the hypothesis. We have captured Major Proth and one STE operative.”
Her hand lifts from his head.
“Welcome back, Captain. You’re reinstated, and are scheduled to return to duty after a seven-day furlough.”
“Join me for a drink?”
“I’ve been in your mind.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”
by Julian Miles | May 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I used to watch the fireflies, seeing how they flitted and settled. They seemed to go everywhere, but never intruded on the air above the still waters of the mere. Just like the fireflies above that mere never strayed anywhere else.
As time went by, I noticed the fireflies of the mere were unusual in other ways: appearing all year round being the main thing. I also came to the strange certainty that there were a fixed number of them. But I found a peace like nowhere else, sitting on the shore of the mere and watching those fireflies gather near me.
Before I could follow up on the strangeness, the onset of puberty and life in general distracted me. Thus it was many years before a breakup led to a trip home and an evening of melancholy. As heartache often does, it sought nostalgia to dwell upon: my memories of the fireflies.
Which is why I found myself sitting on the shore of the mere tonight, watching as the fireflies came closer.
They seem quicker. Eager, even. But the peace is still here.
“Bertha.”
I lurch to my feet, spinning to put my back to the water. I’d prefer a wall, but this will have to do. The eerie light of my flying companions shows me very little, until he moves.
“Dunc. What are you doing here?”
I know, but I need him to acknowledge it, or confirm my worst fears – or both.
“You never brought me here. You talked about it, but never invited me. So I invited myself. You know, to be with you. To be us, in your special place.”
He comes closer.
Both, then.
“Dunc, we’re over. It wasn’t working.”
“For you! Not for me!”
He’s got a knife! Too far to anywhere from here. That’s part of the appeal. This isn’t good.
“What’s with the knife, Dunc?” Keep the tone casual.
He looks at it. Then looks at me, at the mere, and smiles.
“Thought we could go together, you know? Show them we had something special.”
His other hand dives into a pocket, emerging with a crumpled envelope.
“Did us a letter. So they’ll know. They’ll all know, those sad fucks who said I was bad for you. They’ll know and be sorry they didn’t have what we had.”
His obsessive streak appealed to me at the start. Big mistake. How do I…?
“Dunc, let’s go get a drink. We can talk about things.”
“No! The time for talking is over. You said that.”
I did.
“So it’s time for action.”
The knife comes up as he steps towards me. I back into the mere. Maybe it’s got a drop-off: I’ll disappear before he gets me.
I’m still backing up. He’s in the water too. It’s only up to my knees.
“Help.” It’s whisper, but it’s the best I can do.
Fireflies dive into the water. A glow spreads between me and Dunc, getting stronger with each bug that hits. He wades straight into the glowing patch, then stops.
He drops the knife. Reaches for me. It’s not hostile. It’s pleading. His eyes start to glow. He topples into the luminous water and sinks from view.
The fireflies come out of the water. They’re brighter. One hovers right in front of me. A gem-like body, shining wings that don’t move, and eyes like orbs of mercury.
A reedy voice. Hissing, crackling.
“Never come into the water alone. We’d have no choice.”
I sprint from the place, screaming my thanks.
It’ll still be peaceful.
But never for me.
Not now.
by Julian Miles | Apr 26, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I wake with a dagger in my hand. The other end of the dagger is in someone’s neck. Raising my gaze, I see the life fade from his eyes. The moment stretches as details sketch themselves in around the face of someone I don’t know. A ship’s bridge. Crew members staring in horror. A purple and green planet on the view screens.
The nearest person’s gaze flicks to my left. Something hits me from the left. I’m knocked down, dagger seemingly locked in my hand. Blood fountains across my falling view. I hit the floor, then hit my head. Darkness.
“Is she awake?”
“She’s coming round, sir.”
I open my eyes. The ceiling is blue, the lighting soft and indirect.
“Welcome back, Shistal. If that’s your real name.”
It’s not.
“Becky. Rebecca. Rebecca Ethelsdotter.”
“Dotter? You’re from the Scandic Worlds?”
“Issker.”
“Why do you have greenish skin?”
I raise my hand. Long fingers. Their colour is wrong. I giggle.
“Eisa said I had green fingers. Don’t think she meant it literally.”
“Eisa?”
“My sister.”
Him!
“Faen!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Eisa got a new boyfriend. Madden Lars. I thought he was a creep, and that was before he tried it on. I told her, she finished with him. He said he’d get me for doing that.”
“How is this pertinent?”
“She said he described his job as ‘cyberpsychiatrist’. We laughed about robots lying on a couch. A few days later, I found out what they do is adjust behaviour with implants.”
A bearded man with blue eyes leans into my view.
“We’ll have to continue this conversation later. Something just came up.”
It goes quiet, then crewmembers come in and wheel whatever I’m lying on into a grey room. I hear the door close with a hiss.
The bearded man reappears.
“Sorry about that. I think I got where you were going with that line of thought. Hold still. We’re about to do a passive scan.”
“Why passive?”
“Because I think anyone who set you up with an implanted cyber-identity so you could assassinate someone, but rigged it to have you live long enough to realise, is nasty enough to have booby-trapped it. That’s why I moved you to a shielded room: so this Madden or whoever he works for can’t detonate you before we’re done.”
Swallowing hurts; my mouth has gone dry.
He leaves. Time passes. Things hum and stop, then click and stop, then hum again. There’s a hissing noise. Things get blurry. Darkness.
“Welcome back, Rebecca.”
I’m lying in a bed with a raised back. The bearded man is sitting to one side. There’s a nurse on the other. A uniformed man in body armour stands by the door.
“Was I booby-trapped?”
He nods.
“Very much so. You’d been set up to injure or kill everyone near you. The medical team have taken it all out. Our security team have already extracted enough information to prove that, despite your body being used, you’re not actually guilty.”
“What about Madden?”
“He’s been arrested and taken off Issker for questioning. I also requested a protective detail for your family. Just in case.”
“I thought he meant it, too. But I was preparing for petty vandalism, not kidnapping.”
“It certainly raises some dark possibilities. You’ll be questioned when you return home. They’re sending a vessel to collect you. Until then, you get to enjoy the cruise from this private room in our medical centre.”
“Thank you.”
Questioning isn’t the problem. I’m more concerned about how I stop being green.
