by Julian Miles | Aug 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The view outside is breathtaking, one that many would pay to see. The lights of Xīn Xiānggǎng spread as far as the eye can see, both into the distance and up into the skies above: islands of light connected by the coruscating ribbons and kaleidoscopic fireflies of the ways and vehicles that link them.
Inside a room the size of a tennis court, the spectacle outside is ignored. Holoscreens bigger than luxury coupes are arrayed in a semicircle two deep and three high about a king-size chaise-longue.
Sprawled on that gigantic piece of furniture, looking like a child in an adult’s seat, Alois Jean Danube IV plays his fingers across the trio of holographic keyboards before him like some crazed organist at a recital.
“To complete the spaceport within eight hours will require 180,000,000N$.”
The fingers stop moving. Alois looks up and to the left, into the main focus of his AIPA.
“How much to do it in eleven?”
“147,600,000N$.”
“Do it in eleven. Divert unused resources to the reception dome.”
“Reception dome completion now expected in nine and one-half hours.”
He smiles: “Confirm colony ship arrival.”
The silence stretches for four minutes. Alois sits motionless.
“ETA for ECS Margaret Hamilton is sixteen hours twelve minutes.”
Alois nods.
“Subcontract residential builds on Tescona to tier one and two players. Ensure they receive a completion date that is one Terran month before the reception period completes.”
He’s made the mistake of trusting lower league members before. Now he always has a top-tier player stage a one-year ‘city life’ sim on any new build. They regard it as a recognition of their abilities and never let the slightest thing slip by. Fatalities due to infrastructure failure in colonies SIMbuilt by his company have dropped to 0.04% since he instigated the procedure.
“Next greenfield site?”
“Pethtornay. We have a NeoGenesis Explorer 4.0 in orbit. It has just confirmed that all initial assessments were correct. The planet is ideal. SIMbuild 1.1 will be sufficient.”
Alois sits up.
“We are Danube Planetary Development. ‘Sufficient’ is for other companies. Institute a SIMbuild 2.0 frame with luxury pack 12.”
“That will offer more accommodation than a single consignment can deliver.”
“Then notify both ECS Katherine Johnson and ECS JoAnn Morgan. Have them confirm our projection of their ETA being seven months.”
“Done. Reply will take nine minutes, give or take.”
“Give or take?”
“I have updated my interaction routines. I selected ‘give or take’ as a suitable conversational substitute for ‘deviance of less than eight percent’.”
“Valid, and I like it. Next item: order me a six-course meal with a Szechuan bias, but with wines from California. While I wait for that, give me a roster of the next ten brownfield sites. It’s been a while since we ran a competition for entry to the top tier. As the petty cash could do with a top-up, a premium entry contest with the usual paid viewer packages should get us a new recruit, pay for their induction, and fill the coffers.”
“Very well, Alois. Meal ETA is twenty-two minutes.”
“Wine ETA?”
“That request I was able to predict. Double decanted, chilled, and here in three minutes or less.”
“Excellent.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nine years ago today, I think, is when my fervent wish came true: my mundane life was transformed into a thing of wonder.
Wonder… Plus confusion, pain, fear, grief, longing and, right now: abject terror.
The cause of that is crouching next to where I lie in the torn ruts of the field I’d been hoeing. It plummeted from the green clouds above, paused a few metres off the ground, then proceeded to float down.
They look like ochre smoke captured in a human-shaped plastic bag. They smell like apple pie. They squeak when they move. They’re faceless, fingerless, and toeless – but have thumbs on all four limbs.
“Hello, Malcolm.”
I wet myself. Feeling the warmth spurs me to do something.
“H-Hi.”
The head moves like it’s looking about.
“I see you’ve got the settlement up and running. With an emphasis on running.”
I think that was a joke?
“N-not f-funny.”
It nods.
“I can understand that. Anyway: thought you’d like the explanation I promised.”
I remember. Amidst that whirl of light and sound, I’d screamed out, demanding of God why I’d been picked to die in a freak accident when there were so many bastards deserving of death still walking about. God didn’t answer. Something else did: ‘If you survive, I’ll come and tell you.’
I’d blacked out at that point.
“It was you?”
“Talking, yes. Picking you up, no. That was done using an energy field generated by one of our machines.”
I sit up.
“Go on, then. Tell me.”
“Nothing personal, I assure you. We just prefer your kind. The population of what you call Earth has a usefully delusional approach to anything outside the realms of their accepted beliefs, and if anyone does know about us, they’re too busy trying to find ways of exploiting the situation to their advantage. Either way, when we grab a few people, no-one investigates in any effective manner.”
“You prefer us?”
“Yes. Apart from the self-deluding aspects of your minds, you have a trait that is unique: you adapt and survive no matter what. It’s quite incredible to behold. Pick up a few hundred of you from Earth, fix that degenerative inbreeding thing – and slow your aging while we’re in there – then drop the lot of you on some appalling planet and leave you to it. We come back a century or so later and eight times out of ten you’ve sorted the place out enough for us to live there. There’s sometimes a bit of conflict over us moving in, but, like I said, you’re adaptable. Most of you make the switch to serfdom nicely.”
“What about those who don’t?”
It stands up.
“Those who want to serve usually make short work of them.”
“What about the unusual ones?”
The thing shrugs.
“We transplant hundreds of you between galaxies, modifying your bodies with barely any effort during the process. Updating those modifications is simple.”
“You force the uncooperative to comply?”
“No. We bring about their deaths. No resistant strain can be allowed to survive.”
It shrugs like it’s reluctantly acknowledging a point: “Infectious stubborn is the other thing humans do too well.”
We regard each other in our own ways, a metre and a vastness between us.
It nods to me, then rises into the sky.
by Julian Miles | Aug 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
A thousand droplets of unseen dread. The sudden transition from person to pariah. You see me wipe my eyes and tear the mask from my face with that same tissue, crumpling the lot and sending them with sure aim into a nearby bin.
Without bothering to look up to see your looks of condemnation, I pull another mask from my pocket, slip it from the wrapper and put it on. That done, I take the two steps to the bin so I can dispose of the wrapper as well.
I look about. You all look away. I turn and exit the store.
I’m a block away by the time the active component in the mask reacts to my saliva. The resulting compound combines with the one soaked into the tissue. The wrapper adds the final ingredient.
Two blocks away: I hear a scream from behind.
Three blocks away: I turn into an alley and use a tissue from a different pocket to remove mask and face. The pile they make is starting to smoke before I’ve taken three steps.
After reversing my jacket, I emerge from the other end of the alley, a cheerful smiley face mask concealing my features while the reflective weave in it ruins any attempt at facial image capture.
The autocar is waiting in the taxi bay, a private hire booked by someone who only exists for the next twelve hours, and answered by an autocar that isn’t on the company’s books.
As it takes me to the train station, I watch the news about an incident downtown. Something about a suspected gas leak at a convenience store. There are unsubstantiated rumours of it being an attack.
They won’t be confirmed before I exit the train with a different jacket and mask, and disappear into the evening of a nearby town riding another autocar that doesn’t exist, booked by a new temporary digital ghost.
Some pandemics actually walk amongst you, taking advantage of what you sacrifice in the name of a freedom you never actually had.
by Julian Miles | Jul 27, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The walls are clad in something cheap that’s meant to look like metal. The table I’m attached to has one leg bolted to the floor. Likewise the chair, but I’m not tethered to that. The door looks like it might actually be metal, but the frame is wood and the hinges are on the inside. Whoever signed off on this ‘secure room’ needs stabbing. With something blunt. A lot.
The police sergeant sat opposite me is the first combat trained anything I’ve met in the last nineteen hours. He’s looked through the notes and is now watching the video for the second time.
“Is that the incident scene video or were they monitoring the room?”
He pauses the playback and smiles at me.
“Incident, miss. The Sunset Apartment Complex is one of the rare clean operations in this city. By clean I mean they change the laundry between guests, have a two-hour minimum on all rooms, and don’t eavesdrop.”
Back he goes to watching the video. Time passes. He watches it again. If he goes for a fourth pass, I may cry. Or kill. It’s fifty-fifty at the moment.
Putting the tablet down on the table, he points to it.
“You said you hit him once. Difficult to reconcile that with breaking both arms, nine ribs, and his jaw. What did you hit him with?”
“I said I attacked once, not hit. Completely different thing.”
He nods.
“I’m familiar with the terminology. Give me it field report style, Specialist.”
Ah-ha. Combat trained ex-officer.
“Twenty hundred hours. I was impersonating a normal woman looking for a one-night stand. The target landed his tight buns on the stool next to me and flashed a full set of Purple Devils ink. As they were the rivals of my outfit, Nighthawks, I thought I’d found a way to unwind without risk to persons or property. We had the regulation three drinks, then adjourned to Sunset Apartment 312.”
He raises a hand.
“Purple Devils being the Mars Rangers, Nighthawks the First Spacebourne?”
I nod. He gestures for me to continue.
“On our way up to the room I vetted him. Being unable to detect combat enhancements, I placed him as a stealth operator, likely Recon team: power and precision. Just what I needed.”
The hand goes up again.
“Just sketch me the intimacy.”
“I thought he was testing when he offered a fourth drink. Nearly backed off when he drank, but it had been a while since I unwound. We were both up for it until he started strangling me. That kicked me straight into active response. I attacked. He wasn’t Special anything: he broke.”
The man grins.
“I think the term is erotic asphyxiation.”
“Can’t help how my combat enhancements interpret soft action.”
He sighs.
“Not your fault you ended up with vermin.”
I nod, then can’t resist.
“Speaking of rats that shave, which one signed off on this room?”
He laughs.
“My predecessor. I’m Manuel Tegua. Formerly a Captain in the Sixth Armoured.”
“Your mob lit up Trabanth City to cover the withdrawal that got my mob decommissioned.”
“Wasn’t up for letting the turncoats kill more, no matter what the ceasefire orders said. They decommissioned me, too. With no pension, I had to get a job.”
He waves his hand, indicating this place.
“Now I get to do good with only occasional violence.”
Nothing to lose: ask once.
“Need any veteran Special Weapons types?”
He grins.
“Actually, I do. But you’ll be on probation until the caution for last night expires.”
I salute.
“Offer accepted, sir. When’s lunch?”
by Julian Miles | Jul 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Good morning. What a glorious day to be chugging through the cosmos in a scow named Cameron.”
“Fuck off, Mike.”
“No need for that, my esteemed colleague. We should revel in the sinecure we’ve been given.”
“Are you high?”
“Merely full of the joys of spring.”
“Keep your hands to yourself, then.”
The bearded roughneck chuckles as he slides into the pilot pod that has ‘Mike’ stencilled on the side.
“Do you know you’ve got a narrow worldview?”
Dan sighs and reaches up from his pilot pod to slap the bald spot on Mike’s head, then points out the vertical cockpit window.
“Yeah. It’s about a metre wide, five high, and shows me nothing but stars and spaceshit.”
“I rest my case.” Mike brings up the flight schedule.
“Well, Dan, your digital horoscope shows an improvement in mood. Care to guess?”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, dipshit.”
“We’re collecting a double load from Connecticut Orbital and heading on out to Trashteroid 42. Going to overnight there as we’re bringing a train of empties back.”
“Suzy!”
“Yes, I’m going to be drunk on my own tonight while you slave over a hot girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend! We just get along.”
Mike grins. He’s never known a couple so determined to deny they’re a couple.
Dan confirms their course and checks for any HEO traffic they could conflict with.
“Hey, Mike. I don’t think you’ll be getting drunk tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Looks like the train we’re bringing back is the Christmas and New Year overspill. So many we’re coming back with tugs fore and aft. We’re tail-end. The lead tug will be the Johnson.”
“Stacey’s going to Trashteroid 42?”
“Docking a few hours before us, according to the conflict list.”
“I say, old bean, fancy a double date?”
“Providing you promise to only show off your scars to Stacey, and only after we’ve left the room, yes.”
“Top hole, old chap.”
“Let’s not get into details.”
Mike chuckles.
“Cue up some Tygers of Pan Tang, brother. Let’s rock the rubbish all the way there.”
“Classic rock the rubbish, you mean.”
“More than merely classic. Noah was headbanging to this stuff on the Ark.”
They both laugh as the opening riff of ‘Suzie Smiled’ shakes their consoles.
“Hell yeah.”
