by Julian Miles | Oct 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I raise my hand above my head, knuckles to the rear, palm to the sky, fingers softly curled, thumb tight. As the weight tips the arm leftward, I let it drop and curve away to the right, knuckles uppermost until that extension stops like there’s a wall at my back. The wrist rotates to place thumb uppermost, forming a straight line that runs from mind to arm to blade.
The entity tumbles past, thoughtlessly falling, its attention taken by the purple flood that spills from the gashes cut just above both knees.
My fist turns, my arm curls inward until the heel of my palm touches my brow. The fist tilts and I whip the blade over and down, flinging ichor from it before reversing grip and coming to a standstill. The blade parallels the back of my arm, tip level with my ear.
“You did not kill dyn?”
I flick a glance in the direction of the voice. She hasn’t moved. My duster shifts in the wind that crosses this alien steppe.
“It would have been a waste.”
“Dyn would have killed you.”
“That much was obvious. It is why I struck instead of conceding.”
“You are not like your companions.”
“Inasmuch that I am not dead, or in some other detail?”
Spinning hard left, I stop by kicking my right foot into the dirt. My right arm swings like throwing a hook punch with knuckles up. I twist, lean, and extend. My wrist flexes and the reversed blade flicks out to carve a gory track through the dorsal crest of dyn who had scuttled in from behind.
Returning to an upright stance, I switch grip, flick more ichor across the grasses, reverse grip once again, and bring the blade back to rest behind my shoulder.
“I was leading into a witticism as you toppled, riven to the quick by that dyn. You have lifemarked two of my finest. I may have to reconsider the claims of my dynar as to their excellence.”
There are unhappy growls from the multitude that ring this impromptu challenge circle.
“Lifemarked?”
“Your strikes will leave marks upon their healed forms. Until those marks fade, those dyn live and move to your will. That is our way.”
“And if the marks do not fade?”
“Then they serve for life. Thusly we call it ‘lifemarking’.”
“If I die?”
“It is dishonourable for them to kill the lifemarker. Moreso, should you die before them, they will also be killed.”
“Simple and effective.”
Another dyn is sneaking in. Snapping my left hand out, I extend a finger. In a silence of bated breaths, I wag the finger from side to side. The dyn rises from the long grass and slinks back into the crowd.
“You chose not to lifemark a third?”
“Eventually, some dyn will get lucky. I would prefer that to happen whilst in service, rather than as a ronin upon a foreign plain.”
I turn to face her.
“I’m a long way from home, dynri. My ship is wrecked, my ammunition spent, and my companions are dead. All I have is some small skill with this blade and a willingness to kill for a cause. Will you give me one?”
“Killing tools like yours are called ‘shongi’. But what you wield is far more. My dynar whisper that it is lightning sworn to your service.”
I’ll take that as an omen.
“We could be at your service.”
“Then welcome, dynar. What names do it and you bear?”
I grin.
“Call us Raitoningu.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 12, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“This project costs more than every other clandestine operation put together! In fact, I could equip a division with the best we have right now, and still have change to buy a squadron of F35s!”
Senator Godley starts hammering his fist on my desk for emphasis. Senator Swanwick hastily picks up his cup.
I smile at them both.
“Gentlemen, I understand that this new focus on oversight has ushered your department into a golden age of power and influence. However, I implore you, please turn your attention to the unspecified assets that caused the other 1.1 trillion hole in your budgets. What my department does is untouchable, and will never be disclosed.”
*
Senator Swanwick stands up, drains his cup, and smiles at me.
“Godley was convinced he needed to expose some egregious malfeasance on your part. I am more inclined to trust the decades-old Constitutional Writ that places your office beyond oversight or reproach. Thank you for the coffee. You have a good day.”
“I shall try to. Please convey my condolences to Theresa Godley. It would be inappropriate for me to visit at the moment, given the late Senator’s statements about me.”
“I’ll do that, Vernon. Goodbye.”
The door closes behind him and I check my watch. My schedule has cleared for the day. I can slide out and surprise Susie before her recital.
From the door of the office I look back at my desk. The same one the Director of Internal Logistics has sat at since the department was founded. I think I’m the ninth director, but it’s just as likely I’m the twentieth. That’s the thing about managing the secret Time Directorate of the United States Government. I never know what is genuine history, and what is the result of a manipulation.
All those writers and scientists missed the one obvious outcome of time travel: reality adjusts. We are sure that time as we know it is often meddled with. Causality adjusts reality for every slip-up, every carefully planned intervention, every surgical strike. Whether it does so by rewriting the world’s recall, or by spawning another reality, is unknown.
The outcome is nobody knows about any change to history, because the changed state becomes our history. I know that sometime this month I have to make a decision regarding a problem that seems intractable. I also know that if I decide on temporal intervention, the problem will cease to exist as far as everything is concerned. The operative will return with no memory of what they did, except for a certainty of success.
Which does suggest that those who attempt to intervene and fail are lost forever, but we have no record of them. Everything we do is technically a non-event, as no requirements can be recalled, and all causes and targets for the missions are no longer applicable.
That’s why we are the only department with Constitutional Writ and absolute immunity. By any recognised metric of success, we do nothing and cost a fortune.
All I have is the count on the wall outside the bunker that conceals the launch chambers. It’s incremented whenever an operator returns.
It stands at one thousand, nine hundred and forty-one. I think I might be responsible for some of the recent increments.
*
It doesn’t really matter. I do my job to the best of my ability, only using the power available to me as a last resort. That sense of duty, and the love of my family, reassures me.
Enough pondering. Theresa has a recital tonight. I don’t want to be late.
by Julian Miles | Oct 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Miguel Jarvis Wong had lived on three continents before the age of thirteen, and been a trouble-finder on all but the first. To this day he doesn’t know exactly what his father did for a living, only that it meant making home in more rundown areas than on military bases. His mother did her very best, but Miguel was his father’s son, clever and opinionated from an early age. That precociousness transmuted into arrogance after this father died, then drowned in guilt at the manner of his mother’s passing. Standing over her grave, he swore to do better with what he had.
Twenty years later, Professor M. Jarvis Wong straightens up from the lectern, waving his hand to send the displays from local holographic projection to the screens that dominate the arena.
“My father drilled many things into me. One of the useful ones was the concept of ‘intelligent searching’. Which, for my long-suffering students, results in my demands that they seek at least two independent sources for every fact.”
A surprising number of the younger audience nod with resigned familiarity.
“On a higher level, it made me sceptical of research after the theory. When you go looking for things that support your theory, it can lead you to ignore potential discoveries because they don’t fit with what you expect. I believe that you should take what is, then explain why and how. From that belief came the reason for my latest tranche of papers: just because we can’t detect it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
He nods and waves his hands placatingly.
“Yes, I know I’ve been framed as the crazy scientist looking for faeries and ghosts. I’ve been accused of wasting grant monies better spent on conventional research, and have lost valued colleagues who became disenchanted with my aims.”
A bearded man stands and waves a fist toward the lectern: “You’re an egotistical lunatic who should be rejected by the scientific community!”
Miguel points at the man.
“Your work on the detection of anomalous energy effects in inanimate materials was one of the foundations of today’s presentation, Henry.”
The bearded man sits down, shaking his head.
“While I acknowledge the value of Professor Daldene’s input, his reaction is also a reason for today. The demands for something of substance from my work have reached a point, where, to be blunt, I have to ‘put up or shut up’.”
There’s scattered applause, along with shouts of “about time” and “fraud”.
Miguel gestures to the screens about the arena.
“What you see on the screens are simplified explanations of that work. Now, before we progress, I have to admit that today’s discovery came about by accident. I was looking for a way to detect the human soul. I’m still doing that, but what I had been working on was the wrong approach. What I found instead,” he pauses, “is this.”
A dozen huge lights come on, bathing the arena in an eerie off-white glow. There’s laughter that swiftly dies away. Screaming starts.
Miguel extends a hand to rest against the gigantic, scaled head that rests next to him on stage. A stage that many had said was ‘barely big enough for his ego’ is now filled with something that looks a lot like a very large dragon.
“This is Kresdall. He is the First Envoy to Humanity from the Nineteen Realms. Other races of which I gather, from the loud reactions, have been spotted amongst you in the audience.”
He nods to Henry.
“Let us see who and what is rejected, shall we?”
by Julian Miles | Sep 28, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
> >
At least with the second Faraday cage built as an ‘airlock’ around the entrance to the living module, burst transmissions from anything inside won’t do them any good. ‘Them’ – so imprecise. Winning wars depends on information. Having nothing reliable about my opponents always, I hate to admit, brings me down.
> >
Oh, I hear you, Fighter666. But if I attribute to them the worst that could possibly be, I’d not be up against h-
Hierarchies like this.
> >
No, WhiteManzRule, any type of targeted genocide is not the answer. It might be satisfying for you, but it’s never a solution.
> >
CharlieTexan, you crack me up. I’m PrepOne. I’m alone. Not even a pet. My trust in that sides with Fighter666 and Tsunetomo: if it’s all or nothing, then it has to be nothing.
> >
Tsunetomo, WhiteManzRule? He wrote the Hagakure. Last of his kind; I sympathised with him.
> >
No, Chalky37219, strategy from foreign places isn’t useless. You have to understand that man has been fighting amongst himselves, on every level, for a very long time. I guarantee some observer has already understood and noted the principles. Today’s technology makes things interesting, but the fundamentals are unchanging.
> >
Steady, Fighter666. I don’t mean you should betray your brothers. I mean that anyone trying to uphold the ‘noble savage’ ideal is an idiot who will die quickly. Someone will take advantage and blindside the poor fool. It always happens.
> >
Chalky37219, I guess you’re new to this.
> >
Easy there. What I mean is you’ve got some of the right ideas. After all, you found your way here. But you’ve still got a head full of mainstream garbage. Remember, no matter what the situation, the Road Warrior is an archetype, not a lifestyle. Live as alone as possible, trust very few, make the best of every situation, and always fight to kill. That saving the weak or riding about in a hopped-up coupe is strictly for television. If you’re going to be long-term, you’ve got to figure out that any type of chariot is too noisy. Plus, they need maintenance and space. If you must get wheels under you, get a decent bicycle or tricycle and learn how to fix it. Means you only have to worry about fuelling yourself.
> >
CharlieTexan, I’m safe enough. Watching the goings-on in the world with interest over secured feeds, and working on ending my weakness for spicy burgers with a side of greasy fries.
> >
No, Fighter666, I don’t think it’s going to happen soon. It’s just another facet of preparing. When it happens, I don’t want to be distracted again by silly cravings while trying to act decisively.
> >
When, Chalky37219? Well, there needs to be more decay. You know, further breakdown of urban infrastructure along with government indifference to it, then shortfalls in services that rely on someone apart from the individual paying for them. Followed by shortages of staple diet items for those without access to wealth. Around all that will be creeping fascism with Victorian British values, encouraged with tenuous but media-backed justification. That’ll be the main indicator. Soon after, someone will get desperate enough to do something drastic, and that’ll light the fuse. But remember, it’s NEVER going to be one of the conspiracies. It’ll be a perfect storm, and it will wash this world clean like has happened and been forgotten so many times before.
> >
What, Fighter666? Just me getting tired and wordy in the early hours. Doesn’t mean anything. Okay, people. I’ll be back discussing the latest good fight tomorrow. Valē.
> >
by Julian Miles | Sep 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“You know, I think Adolph is rightly regarded as inspirational.”
Darius spins round, his expression horrified.
“That’s not how I’d describe Kristallnacht, Mister Lamen!”
Russ Lamen points at the screen.
“Crystal-what? I mean his first exhibition of watercolours at the Neue Galerie in Vienna. 9th of November, 1938. He even broke new ground by having a midweek opening.”
Darius crosses the room as quick as he can.
“What the Holy Fires has gone wrong?”
Russ looks up at him, a look of blank incomprehension on his face.
“We’re overviewing Adolphus Alois Hitler, first master of the post war period. Given that a number of his early works were lost during the American invasion of Europe, Professor Dagenauer got permission for chronoimaging to bring the reference portfolio up to date. I thought the first exhibition was the most likely place to find the missing pieces, and in a setting conducive to high quality image capture.”
“Good thought, Russ.”
Darius steps away and looks about. Nothing untoward. He brings up his Chronopol managerial access and checks Hitler’s timeline. There! A huge swing in chronobalance, affecting the whole of October 1918. But, after that, the problematic ‘assassination attempt’ period that usually caused Chronopol so much grief had dropped to nothing.
He looks up at the ceiling. The Tienard – unseen future dwellers who established the agencies that police the timelines – hadn’t raised an alert, and they’d left his managerial causality buffer in place. This peaceful Hitler wouldn’t be the only Hitler he knew of until he next awoke.
What had happened? Clearly not an assassination, but such a pivotal being and the resilient causality surrounding him cannot have just decided to go a different way. Someone had meddled, and done so extremely well.
Stepping out of the control room, he routes a priority call uptime. This has got to be an enormous gaffe. It needs fixing before causality – which has ruined every attempt at establishing alternate timelines – kicks in and delivers some unexpected cataclysm to achieve the same effect as World War Two and the century of stagnation that followed.
“This is Control. Why the alert, Captain Kane?”
“We’ve got a huge, unrectified anomaly linked to C20 Hitler.”
“One moment. Patching you through to Tienard Ultam.”
Ultam? He’s going to talk with one of the founders of Chronopol?
“Darius Kane. We are aware of the situation. It has taken far longer to reoccur than we expected, but all remains within mandate.”
“Mandate? We’re about to have a cataclysm that could obliterate two centuries of evolution and memory.”
“Captain Kane, what I tell you now will not persist past the chronophasic reset you will experience when you next sleep. As I feel a certain obligation due to knowledge of a service you will render me in a time to come, I am prepared to accept the minimal risk entailed by assuaging your concern.
“The timeline you are now in is the one that leads to us. It is the only one that does so. We have spent longer than you can comprehend trying to restore this chronoinstance while sustaining the paradox we represented until a few minutes ago. The pivotal event in October 1918 must remain a mystery. We have survived too many near-obliterations to say anything else, except to conclude that Causality likes mysteries. The ramifications of that are not open for discussion. Continue with your duties, Captain.”
The line goes dead.
“Causality likes mysteries?” It comes out as a whisper.
Impossible, incomprehensible…
Intolerable. Darius runs toward his quarters. He’ll forget when he sleeps? Then it’s time for a nap.
