by Julian Miles | Dec 28, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’m free of traffic and clear of the city. Time to open this beastie up. I press the accelerator and the response is like a gigantic hand pressing my body into the seat. In the stowage space I hear bullion smashing into the boxes of gems and jewellery. Must remember to check under the carpets when I empty out.
“Unidentified perpetrator, northbound on the MM2 hyperway. Stop now or we will deploy countermeasures that may endanger your life.”
Having just stolen treasures worth over a billion, I’m surprised there aren’t missiles chasing me down the road already. My guess is they don’t want to explosively scatter the goods. Can’t have some heirloom being found by a down-and-out from the sticks. Wouldn’t be right.
“Unidentified perpetrator. We are-”
I tap for two-way.
“The name’s Nat.”
There’s a pause. One-nil.
“Thank you. Okay, Nat. You should know this road is screened on both sides to a height of eight metres, and the baffles mean ten metres either side are impassable for unshielded lifeforms. That racer can’t ram through the screens, so you’re effectively on rails until you hit the waypoint at Leeds.”
I was hoping they’d rely on the installations rather than go for something ad-hoc.
“Big junction there. I could skate a lane or two.”
“No, Nat. Air units have already closed those options off. Your rocket pack won’t have the thrust to get you far enough to evade us.”
So they noticed.
“Somebody deserves an award for spotting that, officer.”
Another pause. Two-nil.
“Thank you, Nat. I’ll mention it, but my boss doesn’t look happy enough. If I could get you to pull over, that might do it.”
The curves around Birmingham go by without any attempt to stop me when I drop under 300kph to navigate the last S-bend. They really think the security fortress at Leeds is going to do it. Only two on-ramps between me and there, and I’m too fast for conventional rolling roadblocks.
“How’s your fuel, Nat? You’ve been running overboost for a while.”
“What makes you think I’m overboosting?”
“That’s a Trefoil 4 with the aftermarket Sprinter conversion. Looks well done, but the consumption at the top end is ridiculous. It’s why they went bust: they couldn’t fix the power drain problem.”
The police lady is a gearhead. Surprise. Two-one.
“A gearhead in uniform? Never thought that would happen.”
Is that a little laugh?
“Nor did I, but a career is a career, and they’re rare these days. Speaking of which, yours is soon to be over. Why not pull over and we can talk Trefoils?”
“You have one?”
“Sprinter body on top, stock Trefoil 3 underneath.”
“So that’s how you knew.”
“Nat, my boss says that at this speed, you’ve got about thirty minutes before you smash into the barriers at Leeds. He’d like you to take my offer, says we can talk while they organise retrieval and arrest, but he’s also arranged for clean-up crews at Leeds. Says the choice is yours.”
“That’s kind of him. So, what’s your name, gearlady?”
“Constable Tuhina O’Conner. What now, Nat?”
My skyscan flashes green.
“I fixed the power drain problem on the Sprinter conversion.”
“How?”
“The Sprinter fastback gives enough room to plumb in a Ceres-Class gravitic core.”
Pause. Three-one.
I pull the stick back and the beastie unsticks like 1000kph is nothing and space is where it wants to be.
“Blow your boss a kiss from me, Tuhina. Chat again next heist.”
“The rocket pack casing conceals your environment module? Clever. Catch you next heist.”
Good comeback. Three-two, and on for a rematch.
by Julian Miles | Dec 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The world burned. Several places only did so until they sank. Congregations sang paeans to the skies, the fires, the waters, or the earth. The rest of us listened to what we had while we could. All of us heard the songs coming from distant hills or clouds above, songs we knew told of melancholy, but never had words we could relate.
I started off riding through the apocalypse in a convoy, sent to help a town defend itself from a rising river and an end-of-days militia. By the time we got there, the townsfolk were screaming like animals as they set the surviving militia on fire one by one.
Our captain got himself gutted trying to control the situation. Then Sergeant Jones recognised one of the militia, and things went the way you’d expect. When the shooting stopped, all the screamers were dead. To our surprise, both townsfolk and a militia emerged from hiding.
We were all at a loss for what to do next when the river made a concerted attempt to drown us all. Those who escaped listened to the news, saw the signs in the sky – not all man-made – and decided to become a tribe.
Eleven winters is all it took for me to go from soldier to tribesman to pack leader to sole survivor. In the five winters since then, I’ve seen things I can’t explain, and survived more by luck than judgement.
I usually avoid supernaturals. Most of them are very, very unhappy with humans. I get the feeling they’re trying to fix our busted planet, which includes killing us to make sure we never get a chance to break it again.
But there’s something about the winged figure on that hill…
A hard slog to get up here, but it’s worth it to stand in the emanated heat. Not even the winter winds dare disturb this one. I join it in looking down at the choppy sea. Skeletal vehicles and dead hedgerows protrude from the shallow waters. I glance sideways. It’s sitting on a broken bench.
Curiosity triumphs over fear.
“What was this place?”
Ruby eyes regard me. I see that tears have left scald marks from eyes to chin.
“They used to call it Mount Caburn. On winter nights they would gather fallen yew branches to make ritual fires.”
There is no menace to this being. I’ve fled from many who were more threatening… But less dangerous. So powerful; too calm. Running would be futile.
But… I know what he’s doing.
“A vigil? Why bother?”
He smiles.
“I’ve talked to many powers during my time down here. I came to realise that humanity had become a force none of us could rein in. We, the chosen, set above the wiles of mortals by groups of mortals needing objects to venerate – or seeking excuses to condemn – were nothing but sideshows.”
“You cry for us?”
His laughter is like a body blow. I collapse to my knees.
“Never. Every winter solstice I keep vigil for those who followed me down. I told Him that humanity should end because man would always ruin Eden, no matter how big He made it. His reply banished me.”
I know this angel.
“Fundamental truths are rarely welcomed, especially by the powerful.”
He nods.
Taking a seat on the other bit of bench, I dig out my last two cans of beer and offer one to him.
“Really?”
“Drink it before it gets warm, Lucifer.”
He chuckles.
The fallen angel and an old soldier, keeping watch through the longest night… Hosanna, for what it’s worth.
by Julian Miles | Dec 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Opening clip: a heavily-built man sits on the tailgate of blue pickup truck. He’s smiling and unshaven, taking tiny sips from a red and white can of beer so quickly it doesn’t interrupt his speech.
“Well, it’s been difficult, that’s for sure. Never thought them libtards could fight worth a damn, but Lord, they proved us all wrong about that. Digging them out of the sanctuary cities hereabouts took weeks. Can’t say I held with the burnings and suchlike, but I do hold with our founders proclamation that we have to be forthright in heart and deed, even if a few of those deeds sit badly with some folk’s interpretation of the good book.”
A band starts playing somewhere beyond his truck. He glances back, then his attention returns.
“We’re not monsters or fanatics. The Free States of America are about individual rights and freedoms under the auspices of God. Can’t say or be fairer than that.”
Next clip: a thin woman leans against the wide shoulders of a bearded man in a torn T-shirt. She starts, then the sentences go back and forth between them.
“After our warnings were ignored,”
“we discussed online,”
“before the nets went down,”
“and decided to become the haven for those who wanted to evade the lies,”
“the surveillance,”
“and the manipulation.”
“Nobody tells us who lives,
“who dies,”
“what goes in our bodies,”
“or our minds.”
They smile.
“We’re part of the Independent States of America.”
“If you want a chance to live free of the enslaved dystopia the rest of the world has fallen into,”
“come fight alongside us.”
Followed by: an elderly woman gestures to the trees about them.
“When my son married a Lakota woman, we fought. Then he challenged me. I went to their reservation to prove him wrong. Instead I had an epiphany: realised what I was lacking. Never had much time for technology as it was presented, liked how it was used even less. Didn’t take long to find out a lot of folk felt the same way.
“When things started to unravel, we gathered ourselves, chose our ground, and stood for what the spirits wanted. If you hear the call of the wolf, the eagle, or the crow, come find the Tribal Nations of America. Fight with us to save the land.”
Then: a middle-aged man straightens his tie before pointing at the camera, his expression stern.
“You’ve got to understand that in trying to drain the swamp, he made himself a target. That he’s still with us is a sign. The Evangelical States of America will be his legacy. The corporations he permits to trade here are all certified by the Robertson Committee to be abiding by the Lord’s tenets. But we need soldiers for the Staunch Defenders. If you can’t fight, you can donate. We must always stand ready to protect our way of life.”
The screen shows a prairie sunset. A voiceover starts.
“These represent the major extremist factions in what was the USA. There are dozens more. Most are militant, some aggressively so. As I record this, overseas aid has once again been stopped, as having what is deemed to be unacceptable pigmentation, ornamentation, or clothing has caused aid workers to be attacked and, in some cases, killed.
“The people are still united. They still pledge allegiance. But only to those who hold the same views. All others are considered fools or enemies. In many cases, extermination of any who differ is seen as an acceptable solution.”
The sun sets.
The screen goes black.
A minute passes before closing credits appear.
by Julian Miles | Dec 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The cargo bay seems deserted. It should be packed. We know someone performed a ‘war action’ here. They overrode emergency reseal functions and warning routines, closed off internal access, then dropped the environment fields. We don’t know why. Also, the venting of the bay was actioned from inside. That’s the detail that bothers me: somebody killed themselves to do this.
“Mikey Four, this is Pattison. We’ve secured all the dumped ships. They’d all been locked in unsealed states nine hours before the bay was vented.”
Colson chuckles.
“This ride has left weird and is headed toward menacing.”
He’s right.
“Too true, partner.”
The lights come on. The place is a typical cargo bay, done in regulation shades of pale blue or grey. Except for the copious amounts of red daubed across the floor and up the walls to about twice human height.
I gesture to the décor.
“Welcome to menacing.”
He turns completely about.
“Pattison, this is Colson One. Please inspect dumped ships for unusual traces.”
“Colson One, this is Pattison. Was about to call. Looks like some of these ships hosted bloodbaths. Savah, our Dadil Huntswoman, tells me the spatter patterns are right for a large predator slaughtering human-sized prey.”
All vessels and stations have Giger’s Alien on their safety displays. Any form of new infestation could do for us all. His creation encourages paranoid proaction.
“Where are the bodies?”
Colson has a point. I don’t want to be the one to answer, but he and I are first recon. It’s our job.
With Savah’s analysis in mind, I set the forensic reconstruction to ‘track’ the massacre from the traces. Four drones flit from my backpack. Now to find something to do while the process completes.
Turning around, I see Colson standing in the centre of the bay. He’s motionless. I jog over to him.
“What’s up?”
He doesn’t reply. I see his head is back, like he’s looking at the ceiling above. I move round so I can see into the same section.
“You see?”
His whisper is my saving grace. I shake my head and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes. It’s not DSHS.”
‘Deep Space Hallucinatory Syndrome’ can happen to any human spacer without warning. There’s no cure except to get, and stay, planetside.
“That’s all of them, isn’t it?”
I set off a Mass Casualty Alert. It lets those who come next prepare, and gives me access to additional routines. Looking up at the tangle of bodies and hull sealant, I wait.
294. All personnel, minus one…
“Last one triggered the venting. Let’s go find them.”
She’s in the dented emergency control room. Barricaded the door, patched herself up, then dragged the needed kit onto the floor rather than trying to stand one-legged..
“Her name was Siobhan O’Malley. There’s a note scrawled on the wall: ‘Never seen the like. Tripeds in body armour. Two clawed arms on the right, giant pincer on the left. Disabled our systems before making entry. The one that got my leg goes with this bay.’”
Entry!
“Code Red, all units. This is Mikey Four. Check all ingress points for unrecognised traffic. Shoot first.”
The silence lasts for five minutes.
“Mikey Four, this is Pattison. Ventral lock records an unidentified docking nine hours prior to venting. It departed four minutes after we arrived in-system. Residuals indicate it probably exited near L5.”
We entered at L4.
“Relay a Code Red to everything within range: ‘New hostile sentients. Technically advanced, stealthy, very capable, and lethal.’”
Colson adds: “Likely they’ve struck before.”
True. But now we know.
Thank you, Siobhan.
by Julian Miles | Nov 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two guns: one an Earther automatic, the other a Lenkormian beamer.
“Holy Marduk, that’s a Grifone!”
And we have an enthusiast. I grin at the young trooper.
“Only by looks. It’s a custom Perez .557 automatic. I spent some time at his compound when I was stationed in Lima.”
He points to the white steel death on my other hip.
“Lenk or Kor?”
I do like a being who knows their xenohistory.
“Lenk body, Kor chassis. Genuine Lenkormian cell.”
He goes whiter than the weapon we’re discussing.
“A Forever Gun?”
I nod. Any second now…
He starts to bring his rifle up. The Forever Gun flits from its holster to be in my hand by the time I need to think ‘fire’. The beam goes through his right eye and exits through the left parietal.
“Stand down! Your fancy beamers won’t cut cerasteel.”
I turn to face the armoured warrior with Lieutenant’s stripes on the left chest. A man with that many service bars should be better than enthusiasts like the one I just killed. I level the Perez at him and put an armour-piercing round containing depleted uranium pellets floating in liquid Teflon through his stripes. Either load would be sufficient, but the excessive blend seems to really upset the people we need to annoy.
He hits the floor, blood already seeping around the torso plates. I hope they open him in a container. It’ll take ages to clean the smaller bits off a floor.
“I recognise that cannon blast. Have you started, Red?”
My overwatch. As the cliché goes: if you think I’m nasty, just hope I don’t need her to intervene.
“Ran into a gun collector at the gate. He recognised the combo.”
“Didn’t the cannonball go straight through?”
“That was mincing his Lieutenant.”
“Didn’t think you’d waste a shot. Okay: target is in the central compound.”
“That’s three gates and a couple of towers away?”
“Yes. While I would never doubt your abilities, it might be an idea to flush game.”
I’m dangerous, but without my war machine about me, the second fire tower will turn me into prime cuts and carbon. Jogging towards the next gate, I use the Forever Gun’s ridiculous range to drop all three troopers before I get there. Sadly, I have to shoot their Lieutenant in the back as he’s too busy running. Never put a soft officer on critical duty.
“General Ranno! Remember the Twenty-First Keshichan Lancers? I’m Khevtuul Chloe Bastia, and I’m here to end your days!”
Four years ago he led us into an ambush. He used that betrayal to get himself a promotion into enemy ranks, going from Cherbi to General at the cost of the people who trusted him.
“Nicely over-the-top, Red. He’s moving.”
“Away from me?”
“You need confirmation?”
“As a Khevtuul, I reported directly to him. If he’s not running, that’s a body double. Politics and cowardice were his only competencies.”
“He’s exited the central compound, heading away, but slowly.”
“Do I need to crack another gate?”
“Use something splashy.”
I point the Perez at the distant gate house and thumb the integral laser designator. In the car park across the road, an assault drone ruins its camper van disguise by sending something fast with a thermobaric warhead to do my destroying.
As flaming bits of gate and soldiers rain down, I hear a chuckle.
“Konnichi wa, General-kun.”
The sky lights up as Saeko-chan fires the anti-ship beamer she affectionately calls ‘Torchy’.
“He’s done. Spread like smoking geography. Let’s go home.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime. I love killing things with you.”
That’s my girl.
