by Julian Miles | May 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
He stares from the screen, hair in fashionable disarray, jowls freshly barbered, teeth so white they nearly shine, eyes like glass beads.
“Good evening. I am appearing before you tonight to explain a few things that have been attracting media attention. As the topics I need to discuss are important, all other programmes have been suspended until this broadcast is complete.
“I have attended several meetings to discuss how to tell you what I need to tonight. In the end, we all agreed that truth will save time and provide clarity, despite possibly being upsetting.
“To that end, I feel it best to start with a simple statement: if you do not provide something, you will soon be no longer of use. The delusion of free time is no longer tenable. You need to be either performing useful labour, or engaged in nurturing of the next generation of labourers. Titles and descriptions of what constitutes ‘useful labour’ will appear on the front pages of government websites at the end of this broadcast.
“I know this is going to be a difficult pill to swallow. Some of you with socialist or charitable tendencies may consider some form of protest over the next few days. I would strongly advise against it. The Marutya have no understanding of civil liberties and are liable to respond with excessive force.
“Which brings me to the biggest change that should have the smallest impact, if you act calmly. Earth has been purchased by the Marutya, a race of golden-skinned bipeds from Utya, the planet our astronomers call ‘Teegarden b’. Earth will henceforth be known as ‘Saaitsau’. The Marutya envision no real changes except for the modifications to ‘free time’ as I have already described.
“We, the leaders and rulers of nations, along with business heads and selected other notaries, have collectively accepted the Marutya’s offer on behalf of all of you, and will soon be departing for Utyasaat, where we will establish a colony from which we can act as advisors to the Marutya, should we be asked. Rest assured we will be working assiduously to ensure that centuries of human heritage are respected.
“This planet, Saaitsau, is now a produce world. Your Marutya owners will provide further information, such as quotas and shortfall penalties, to you directly via the sixth-generation telecommunications network that will become active immediately after this broadcast. Should you not have a personal handset, one will be delivered to you within the week. Like all sixth-generation technologies, it will be free of charge or tariff.
“We expect there to be a minimum of disruption during the transition period. The Marutya are experienced civilisation integrators, after all.
“For now, please stay calm and remain in your homes. The curfew will remain in force, along with the restrictions on movement and public gatherings, until the Marutya have finished analysing the labour potential of each neighbourhood. After that, freedoms will be restored based on agreed targets being met.
“Thank you for bearing with us during the difficult times we have endured over the last two years. Be assured things will soon return to a new normal, one in which you and your loved ones can finally achieve lives of rewarding production.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 28, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Not for you, but for me.
“Emily, Uncle Karl, and the twins. All together in that great big truck of his. They’ll be laughing and we’ll laugh too.”
Laughter. You’re my only source of that, but I’m not the only cause of it for you. Watching your delight at things I dread, like the mutaflys that flutter by looking so pretty you can almost forget they’re hunting for fresh blood. A swarm can suck a small human dry in the time it takes her brother to run up two flights of stairs, find the insect spray and get back too late to use it except in petty revenge.
“Karl will have one of his flame throwers and he’ll make the garden safe again.”
You love the garden, all the waving leaves and those pointy-edged flowers in the pond. They’re very pretty. Hypnotic. Even a big man can’t resist being lulled off guard and pulled down by whatever waves those pointy-edged flowers.
“The twins will have new dresses and shoes to show off, and ribbons from the market for your hair.”
They’d called to say they were coming to do just that when the last round of mutanukes whistled down, most exploding close enough to the ground to set the tops of the tallest buildings on fire. The luckiest got caught in those fires and died. Everything else was enveloped in a cloud of biological horrors. It caused various maladies, but foaming lung, hypercancer, and explosive dysentery were the most common ways to die.
“We’ll go down to the basement and drink the last of grandpa’s wine, then we can all hop right into that truck and get away from here.”
That’s where I was, down in the basement, all masked up against the dust and mould, cataloguing poor Grandpa Roget’s wine so we could sell it off. I should have been out back, mowing the lawn, snatching glances at you in your flowery shorts and halter top. As usual, you only wore one gardening glove and I’d guess you were singing off-key while you pruned the roses.
“Everyone will be far out of town before evening and we can watch the sunset together.”
The mutanuke that went off high overhead was likely a misfire. I heard the noise and I swear I heard you scream. I scrambled out through the coal chute, leaving the hatch open so we could get inside quicker.
Outside the murk had started to settle. I saw you and the ladder on the ground. You’d either breathed in a little or fallen off the ladder in haste. I dragged you into the basement, closed the top and bottom hatches, then used a lot of the wine to wash us both off. Stinking of fermented, sun-kissed berries, I patched your head wound before carrying you up through the screens at the entrance to the basement.
“There’s beer and ham and cheese, sweetheart. Won’t you come and join us?”
“Join who where, Gareth?”
I look down and see a child’s innocent recognition shining in adult eyes. I was overjoyed when you first came round, convinced you’d get better. Now I curse myself for the selfishness of dragging you inside. Any second now, you’ll smile and I’ll fall in love with what remains of you all over again. I can’t grieve for the family we lost while you laugh as you draw rainbows across the wallpaper. I can’t grieve for you, because darkness waits for me there.
All I can do is tell you lies while you are sleeping, so I can be true when you wake.
by Julian Miles | Apr 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We’re eighty-four days out from Sondehaven before we pick up the right beacon. I get everyone’s attention with a short blast of the klaxon, which prompts a round of rude guesswork as to my parentage and next sexual partner.
“You’re all hilarious. Now, we’re on beacon, so decide what we need to get repaired and fake it. You’ve got about an hour before we enter nosey bastard range. I’ll klaxon again five minutes out.”
The Firefly-class freighters that gad about the free trade routes often provide settings for broadcast soap opera. I presume scriptwriters associate independent minds and close quarters with dubious morals and tempestuous relationships. I wish. While free traders might be prone to cowboy-esque antics, the real problems occur in the freespace habitats. Even the folk on orbitals have the option of getting groundside for a holiday.
In space, no-one can hear you argue. Having to put up with every little foible without respite is a recipe for disaster when you add the levels of stubborn and strange that attract people to living in the big empty. No-one can hear you kick the living spit out of your partner – or partners – either. Cults and abusers love freespace.
I let the klaxon wail fade slowly this time, knowing how the diminishing sound spurs us on to get things completed before it goes quiet.
The moment we get within range, Sarah comes over the comm.
“Emma, we’ve just been double-tapped by lifeform and weapons scans. Both wide spectrum, just inside legal limits for civilian use.”
Indicator number one: paranoid overreaction. Somebody’s expecting something.
“Jahnee, time to turn the macho up and do the aggrieved owner routine.”
I listen in.
“Bluebitch calling beacon site. Bluebitch calling beacon site. Request assistance.”
The voice that comes back is grating: “Bluebitch? Good name for a ship, brother. What can Halla Station do for you?”
“Something in the air scrubbers is fried and none of the fluffies on this tub have enough mechanic to fill a cup.”
“See that too often, brother. A breathable berth and tech access for a day do you? Got decent food if I gee my skirt up, so you come down for a chinwag and leave the fluffies to the scutwork. They’re on your tab, after all.”
“Got a point there. I’m Dean. What do I call you, and can I bring my own waitress?”
The laugh is menacing.
“Name’s Tom. Bring whatever you like, as long as it’s pretty.”
I’m going to enjoy this.
An hour later, Jahnee’s in combat gear, while I’m in a demure little bodysuit that’s a size too small. I call it my ‘fishing gear’.
Jahnee might as well be invisible. Tom’s an eager lad. With him pawing my anatomy, this is too easy.
“Hello, precious. What’s your name?”
“Stungun Surprise.”
“Wha-?”
Down he goes. Jahnee gets the sedative in fast.
Natalie and Mike dash past, calling for our passengers: “Nameh? Raxon? We’re from Bluebird.”
We help victims vanish into the big empty, off to better lives. As we’re free traders operating under aliases, the abuser has next to no chance of tracking us.
Another thin woman, another boy with haunted eyes, another small trunk of belongings.
Natalie explains.
“A shipman on your supply run called Bluebird. They monitored things for a while. After they confirmed the shipman’s opinion, they sent us.”
Nameh gestures to Tom.
“What about him?”
“There’s warnings on the courtesan networks and other useful places. He’ll have to adjust.”
Or die.
She looks at me like I said the last two words out loud, then nods.
“Let’s go.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Every day he was there, walking funny and slowly waving his arms about like he was directing the spaceships that thundered over his head as they went to and from the port.
Chan and Ling Di led a group of us up there. We hid in the bushes near the top and watched him, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. After a while, we went off to do something more interesting.
The next time I went up there, I went alone. Chan had been taken away for data theft and Ling Di was running drugs for one of the Night Clans. My friends didn’t play anymore. They still looked like me, but refused to be children. At first they mocked me. Then they shunned me, thinking I didn’t get it.
I understood too well. Big bro had done what they did. Now he lived in a carved wooden box on the windowsill, so his spirit could look into the mountains, so mama said. Papa said nothing from the box next to big bro.
I watched the man wave his hands and in the silence between ships – then in the silence I found amidst the noise – I saw patterns. That made me more determined to wait for whatever happened. We’d missed it last time. I wouldn’t this time.
It was a long morning.
“You have more patience than your friends, young man.”
He’d stopped moving and I hadn’t noticed. Like part of him still moved, while only his body paused to talk with me.
“What happens when you finish? Chan said you scare dragons. Ralio says you’re cleaning the air.”
The man laughed and moved his hands in a motion like a circle, but they never touched each other.
“The art is to never finish. That way, I can keep learning, keep being, keep respecting.”
That’s when I stood up and took the last few steps out onto the mountaintop. The rock under my bare feet was worn. I turned my head, trying to make out the pattern I saw. It was there, but it wasn’t showing itself to me.
“Five thousand years, little brother. That’s what you see there. Now, follow me, if you will. Let’s see what happens.”
I followed him for eighteen steps and something happened. He smiled, like he could see what seemed to gently explode inside my head.
“Don’t try to understand. Just move. Knowledge will come.”
Many steps later, today would have been his two hundredth birthday. I do the Swallow-Crosses-Water form he loved so much while the suns rise over this world of jade mountains and golden grasses. Returning to balance, I centre myself before turning a calm gaze toward the thicket on my left.
“You have watched me for a long while, youngling. What would you ask of me?”
A quadrupedal avian steps delicately forth, flicks a pair of wings flat, then cuts a quick bow before lifting its head and hesitantly smiling at me.
“My sire says you worship the suns. My dam says you spin wonders for those who walk unseen. The brethren say you are summoning, the sistren say you are an avatar, but they cannot yet say if you be for luck or harm.”
“And yourself?”
“You remind me of brethren until you move. Then you are the wind that disturbs my dreams. What you do is older than what you are.”
I beckon it forward.
“Five thousand summers, wind kin. That’s what you feel. Now, follow me, if you will. Let’s see what happens.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The map on the wall shows a wash of orange with occasional zones of red or blue. Above is yellow, denoting the Canada-Alaska Alliance, below is green: Mexico. All bordered by the black of the oceans.
“D.C. has fallen.” Analyst Stevens touches a screen and Washington state turns orange.
Wing Commander Ashford looks up from his tablet.
“What’s the rest looking like?”
Analyst Radford turns to face him: “California and Texas are the biggest independents. If the treaty between Virginia and both Carolinas holds, they’ll form the next largest.”
“Wildcards?”
“Hawaii. Already recognised by Mexico and China.”
“Not outliers, I want mainlanders that could chuck a spanner in the works.”
“Ohio and Pennsylvania are engaging in negotiations, purposes unknown. Given their respective military presences, it’ll be a political initiative rather than the use of overt force. Georgia could start something, but we’ll have to reassess after they’ve finished conquering Alabama.”
Ashford looks at the map.
“They could sucker punch the Virginia-Carolinas, which would throw the east coast into chaos.”
“In that case, my money is on New York to pull a blinder. Solid SDF, quality devolved mainline forces, all led by Termaine Grant.”
Stevens nods.
“I’d agree with that. By the time Georgia and Virginia-Carolinas work out something’s happening and settle their barney, NY could have a near-unshakeable grip.”
Ashford waves toward the ‘motivations’ desk.
“Anything to add, people?”
Analyst Carver walks over to join the conversation.
“We’re seeing significant migrations of non-white populations out of some former states. While they appear disorganised, they all have personnel willing and able to sort out supremacist and bandit encounters with effective lethal force. That sort of competence at ad-hoc combat means whichever state accepts them is going to gain significant veteran forces.”
“Evolved underground railroads. At least some have learned the lessons of history.”
He looks back at his analysts.
“So, who are our major players, influence-wise?”
Analyst Jones stands up.
“Rising above the rabble are the BKK, a hybrid of former SBC hardliners and KKK believers. They’ve got a lot of clout because they have many sympathisers, but they’re having trouble getting traction in the northern states. Even in the southern states, the Elvi are giving them all sorts of trouble. I’d expect escalating skirmishes for a year, breaking out into full-blown religious war after that, providing other factions don’t intercede. Making things more interesting, Trumpists have elevated their dead 45th to be the martyred agent of the Second Coming, with suitable levels of outrage to appeal to those who feel powerless and confused. Then we come to Aryan Nation, who have to be described as zealots with the very best training the late USA could provide. They have most of the former OMGs, too.”
Ashford frowns: “OMG?”
“Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. They’ve been around for decades and – when you get past the hooligans on loud motorcycles aspect – are highly organised criminal operations with networks of members that quite literally can be found everywhere.”
“Delightful.”
Standing up, he straightens his uniform.
“Time to brief the PM, then. She’s not going to be happy. Unless one of you can tell me who killed President Sanders?”
Analyst Dores stands up.
“Our investigations point to a lone actor with military experience, plus access to black market heavy weapons and countermeasures technology. Air Force One was downed by something powerful that didn’t register until it was within two hundred metres.”
Ashford smiles: “So the odds are that the fall of the USA was precipitated by a fanatical white man trying to make ‘his country’ safe. There’s irony and justice to that.”