by Julian Miles | Apr 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Slowly revolving like Christmas decorations, sparkling under the spotlights of the Seacole.
The barbarism of those we face brought an old quote back to me: ‘An honest soldier will regard the battlefield as dawn breaks across it on the morn after the battle. He will take in the awful beauty revealed. Set against the death-dealing evidenced by that vista, something he knows full well, having oft dealt such, he must acknowledge the sacrifices made. He should then give thanks unto God for his survival, no matter it be by the fortunes of war or the vicissitudes of rank.’
Every time I come to a field like this, I start by looking at it unfiltered, admitting my relief at not being part of it.
“When you’re ready, Jackie.”
We call the enemy ‘Triclaws’. Not much is known. They’re secretive, ruthless, and never ones for what humanity considers a ‘fair fight’. Merciless, overwhelming force is their trademark. We have some basic descriptions: at least two metres tall, two clawed arms on one side, a giant pincer on the other. There may be other limbs, because they can use our keyboards and the like. They never leave their dead, and delight in taunting us. Every atrocity is capped with some disgusting trophy display. When it comes to space battles, they leave only wings and fins.
“Seacole, I’m going in.”
We search every site. The first clue we got was from a lone tech on an isolated orbital station. She took one of them out. Had to use herself as bait, and kill herself, to manage it. Left us a description and some clues. Since then, re-investigations have revealed many supposed accidents as likely Triclaw attacks.
They aren’t infallible. Horrifically good, hinting at long practice, but not perfect. Their advantage is in leaving so little of themselves behind. One fine day we’ll bury them. Painstaking efforts like this are how it’ll come to pass.
“What are you thinking, Jackie?”
“That we should change our parameters. The Triclaws obviously use heat sensors. I’d guess movement detection too. For anyone to survive a post-battle purge, they would need to be cold and still. Everybody knows, so anyone with the skills and materials would have to be fast.”
“And lucky?”
“Only if we find them alive.”
“True. We reckon whatever they came up with would be of diminishing effectiveness, too.”
So, my theoretical survivor is hiding in plain sight – or inside plain sight.
“Seacole, give me a 3D map of the debris field. Highlight all remains with an internal volume over a square metre.”
This search would be nonsensical if the Triclaws hadn’t taken everything but the wings. My grid fills with coloured debris.
“How long since the battle, do we reckon?”
“Twenty hours.”
“I’m heading towards the nearest. Scan the others for raised temperature. There’s no way to hide body heat for that long without prepared containment.”
Please. I want to prove they’re not perfect killers.
“Jackie, the ventral fin from the ‘HSS Expedient’ is warm! A check of the original schematics reveals it had a manned weapons cubicle that was sealed up during a refit. It’s flashing on your grid.”
That’s a way off.
“Seacole, I’ll rendezvous there. Go get them.”
Darkness returns as the Seacole moves off.
The thing that offends me most is how pretty the wreckage looks in the light of the distant sun.
I take my time and check all the other possibles. Finding two would be a miracle, but I have to be thorough.
“He’s alive, Jackie.”
Here’s hoping he’s got information: another rivet for the Triclaws coffin.
by Julian Miles | Apr 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Well, now. What do we have here?”
I yelp in surprise and shoot him. He disappears from view. There’s a splash.
“Did he just fall into water?”
“Definitely sounded like something wet.”
“Does that mean we’ve arrived somewhere useful?”
“No idea. Go look.”
“You’re the mad scientist who dragged his family into warp space using a faulty home-made hyperdrive.”
She’s got me there. I lift my tired bones off the bottom of the pool and peer over the edge.
“We’re a barge. In a river. I see boats with flashing lights coming this way.”
“Told you that gun was loud.”
Dammit.
“Dad, our barge is leaking.”
I look down. The turquoise ceramic of the tropical paradise pool has finished translating itself. It’s now the hold of a derelict barge that clearly hasn’t been maintained in a very long time. Still a long way from the garden shed it started out as.
“Looks like we’re swimming.”
“Dad, let’s dive off the opposite side to the flashies. Shoot the hyperdrive as we go.”
“Can’t do that, Nancy, it’s our way back!”
She slaps me.
“Your fucking way got us lost, got my stepmom and Max eaten by some alien monstrosity, then sent Jimmy running off with a Terbulantic dancer. There are no answers in your delusion. Use your busted machine again? Fuck no. We need to get off this ride somewhere liveable before something kills you and I end up dead – or doing something fucking awful to survive on a world I don’t belong in.”
“You swear too much.”
“Apart from that: I’m fucking right, and I’m fucking leaving. Come if you want.”
Nancy runs across the hold, scrambles up the far side and drops from view. There’s another splash. Damn damn… Oh, balls to it. My daughter’s clearly the brains of this outfit. I run across the hold, clamber up on the edge, then pause while I take aim at the flawed device that started all this. I shoot it twice, then drop the gun into the hold and roll off the side of the barge.
The explosions behind are accompanied by a lightshow that makes our short swim easier. I get to the ladder as Nancy reaches the top, and make it halfway up before the final blast flattens me against the embankment. Maintaining my hold with difficulty, I force myself to climb. After clawing my way over the edge, I force myself to ignore the sirens and run with her.
She darts to the left. I hear a startled cry. Before I can gather myself to look, she’s back.
“Got a bag. No, I didn’t kill anyone. Hopefully there’s money in it, and the thing sticking out is some sort of newspaper.”
Who is this? Three years ago she screamed for a day after we had to scramble back to the transformed shed through a jungle filled with insects the size of cars. Two years ago she was hysterical over seeing her dog eaten, but still dragged me away from Anne’s severed leg so we could escape. She was the one who bandaged the wound where Jimmy stopped my arguing with a long knife, hatred burning in his eyes.
“What now?”
We run a long way before she scoots down an alley and settles herself.
“Sit down. Time to turn your brilliant mind to being a criminal. I love you for trying to fix your fuck ups, hate you for not quitting sooner, haven’t forgiven you for getting Max killed, and I’ll leave you if I need to.”
My daughter, the survivor. Hope I can keep up.
by Julian Miles | Apr 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“You have to understand. He is an exemplar of all that is godless in our society. He and his ilk will lead us down the road to perdition.”
I reached out and lifted his chin with a finger.
“What will you do afterwards?”
He looked confused.
“Afterwards?”
“There has to be a ‘next’. So many dedicated men fail because of a lack of ambition.”
I felt his trembling intensify.
“Carson. Reagan. Maybe McCartney. I’ll go on to get all the rest, God willing.”
Such irony.
I gave him a gun.
“He’s going to set them free! How can any decent man even consider such insanity? After all we stood for, after all we sacrificed and surrendered, I thought at least he wouldn’t betray us like this.”
I pushed the bottle his way. He nodded in thanks and refilled his glass.
“What will you do?”
“It’s not will, it’s an imperative. I must stop him to save the nation that will emerge from this hellish fight with itself.”
“You have a plan?”
“He’s at the theatre tomorrow night. He’ll be vulnerable in small company. It’s my best chance.”
Petty ideals, but amusing.
I gave him a gun.
“Ilya says it’s all a façade. He’s going to drag the world into a war so terrible we may never survive. His own people know that. They’ve got some ex-marine set up to do it, but his position is useless. There’s a spot by the Book Depository that would be ideal.”
I nodded, as if I had some care as to his reasoning.
“And?”
“When their guy fires, I can get a better line and be gone while they hunt the source of the echo, which his shot is bound to do. They’ll perjure themselves hiding the fact they couldn’t catch the real assassin. Help me stop him. This guy is lying to the people.”
The deceit was not where he thought it was.
That’s when I gave him a gun.
“My homeland must be freed!”
Not drastic enough. I waited.
“Unification is the only way. We must have independence. The archduke has to go. In the chaos that follows, my people will win through.”
That’s what I wanted. His being young enough to avoid the death penalty was a bonus. Incarceration of such a famous radical could have spawned many useful things, had an event of the kind I sought to start not come to pass.
So I gave him a gun.
Those are my favourites. If ever there was a device more suited to evil, yet so often promoted as a tool for good, I have yet to find it. A gun will serve the backhand from on high. I am a being with wealth, refinement, and no need of introduction. My work is precision itself. The game is agreed: one man, one gun. One of the players I gift will bring down your lamentable civilisation.
Time – and firepower – are on my side.
by Julian Miles | Mar 22, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“You’re a killer, Jorn. What you’re doing out here? Everybody whispers about it.”
There’s only so many precautions you can take when you’re planning escape routes. Eventually, you will arrive somewhere others know you want to be.
“Why, matey? We were the finest special ops team. They used our missions as tutorials, man. Tutorials!”
Another fact of military life is that you spend your time hoping to meet soldiers who magnify your skills, and for you to do the same for them. The team gestalt is exhilarating. Betraying it is usually unforgivable. Right now, I’m hoping for a miracle.
“Jorn, mate: you’re done. The rest of the company are scattered across this wasteland. I click once and they’re headed this way, covering every escape option you can think of along the way.”
Tino’s already clicked. This is a delaying tactic. My record of escaping has started coming with bodycounts that make even hardened killers and their masters nervous. I see him quickly tap his belt. His comms have gone dark and he doesn’t like it one bit. Give him his due, he doesn’t show me anything other than that.
Time to try.
“Funny thing about Escalanza, Tino. How we had so many go off mission and never understood why?”
“They stopped enquiries after you vanished.” He flicks a finger up. “You found out!”
Four years. It’s taken him four years, and confronting me, to put that together.
“What do you know about the Nineteen Realms, Tino?”
“All the magic crap from kiddy cartoons and fantasy books rolled into a comfy blanky for tree-huggers, headcases, and cowards.”
There’s the heart of the problem. The revelation about the faerie worlds sent mankind into a collective epiphany of denial. Decades later, they’re still trying to erase the hated reality.
“So why are they still hunting Professor Wong? Why are you still stomping across worlds that seem empty, yet kill hundreds? Why do the MIA counts keep rising?”
I see his brows furrow. He’ll either talk or engage.
His elbow flicks outward. We trained for weeks to get the ‘nought to kill’ time down to quicker than most people can react. The enhanced projectile comes from his open-ended holster at nearly twice the speed of sound. It stops eight millimetres from my face.
She does so love giving me a scare.
“Tiny death,
screaming ore,
fall to nature,
and exist no more.”
The lilting refrain comes from the air to my left. The projectile turns to glowing dust and drifts away on the wind.
Tino staggers, eyes turning glassy. Bastard trick, overriding a man’s own body.
“Mathrey, we need to be gone. They’ve puppeted him.”
He vanishes. A tiny creature of midnight hues appears before me, hovering like a hummingbird on wings of molten silver.
“We knew they would. He was your friend. Their best chance to get close.”
Sick betrayal ending a loyal career. Gods damn them all.
“Where did you flicker him to?”
She rests a tiny hand on my eyebrow.
“To the puppeteer’s fortress in the sky.”
That should get their attention. Nothing like your own human bomb arriving in your command centre to make you cautious.
Two squads of former Earth special forces appear about me, each member with one or more specialists from the Nineteen Realms as partners.
“Mathrey, let First Envoy Kresdall know that I waive my objections. The only way to stop this, and to save the Twentieth Realm, is to save the humans that infest it from themselves.”
“That which Earther politicians call an ‘intervention’?”
“No, Mathrey. We go with honesty, as always. This means war.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The sign on the small shack reads ‘Booth 7’. The gate next to it is a long steel pole with heavy chains hanging down.
The uniformed man looks unimpressed, in the way that gate guards have honed to perfection in the many centuries since guarding gates became a vocation.
“Department 51. Fifty… One? Like Area 51?”
The man sitting in the car blinks sweat from his eyes and sighs.
“Something like that.”
“So you’re here to see what the boys and girls brought in last night?”
The man in the car stops blinking. Sweat rolls across his glassy eyeballs as he stares at the guard.
“I wasn’t aware of anything of significance being discovered where that aircraft came down, soldier.”
The guard salutes. Another trait honed by gate guards since time immemorial is the ability to know, without question, when an odd-looking stranger trying to get in is actually so powerful he or she could bring all sorts of trouble down upon them.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll still have to call it in, sir.”
The man in the car nods.
The guard picks up the handset and punches a button.
“Colonel Edwards? Sayers, Booth Seven. I have someone from Department 51 demanding entry, sir.”
He listens for a moment, then puts the phone down, steps out, and walks the gate open. The driver goes by without acknowledging him.
After closing the gate, he re-enters the booth. His partner looks up from the screen she’d been pretending to work at so as not to get involved.
“Sounds like you dodged that right.”
He heaves a sigh of relief, then raises a finger.
“Funny how the Colonel didn’t ask for the bloke’s name.”
His partner pauses, then snatches the handset from the cradle.
“Line’s dead.”
They look at each other, grab their rifles, and dart round to the back of the booth.
“Where’s the line go?”
“We’re at the end of the spur that strings the booths together. It runs from Booth 1 to the base along the side of the main access road.”
“You stay here.”
He watches as she grubs in the earth until she pulls a cable into view. With a grin, she heads off along the fence, dirt spraying as the cable comes up. She disappears into the distance.
A fair while later, she comes sprinting back.
“The wire’s been cut! Our end is spliced into a line that runs out towards the woods beyond the fence. Our radios are dead, too.”
He grips his rifle tighter and looks about.
“What in tarnation is going on?”
The orange and blue flash of the base disappearing in a sphere of crackling energy is all the warning they get. She dives behind a weed-covered concrete divider left behind after resurfacing work on the road. He stands there and watches.
The blast tears him from his feet. His flailing form disappears over a low hill. She braces her back against the divider, willing it to hold. Heat sears exposed skin and chars clothing.
After what seems an age, she rolls to her knees and looks towards the base. A cigar-shaped turquoise object rises from the pall of smoke that shrouds what remains. It hovers, swings about, then accelerates away towards Edgewood.
She lifts her radio and switches it to a general military channel. It clicks and hisses reassuringly.
“Break-break. This is Private Mally Clarke at Camp Fitzgerald. Lone survivor, declaring security breach and disaster state. Emergency, emergency.”
While waiting for the helicopters to arrive, she decides on what will be left out of any reports she makes.
