by Julian Miles | Jun 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
A savage chorus rises about us and I start running, dragging Mitchell with me.
“What? Why are we running? I didn’t see anything.”
I say nothing and try to hit my sprinting speed with a hundred-kilo doughball in tow.
“Slow down! They’re not chasing us.”
Again, I don’t have the breath to reply. Ahead of us, I see an angular shape amidst the foliage. That’ll do! Slamming into the side of an old storage pod, I roll to one side so Mitchell doesn’t slam into me.
“Some warning would have been nice.”
He squeaks when he sees my expression, then wails as I yank him toward the wide end of the pod. He’s still making unhappy noises when I whip him round the corner and stuff him through the door. His whining peaks as I kick him in the bum to get him inside so I can shut the door behind me.
“Now we’re trapped. We should have stayed in the open.”
I look about. It’s an old military model. Solid walls, lever-action rear door, small skylight above, which is covered in green stains and blown leaves.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Scrabbling through the junk and plant life on the floor, I don’t bother to reply. Of all the men to be caught outside with. I’d been dumped on patrol with Mitchell Liverston so he could meet his quota of ‘menial duties’ – a requirement all scientific personnel on this trip have to fulfil.
Not sure what happened, but whatever it was, it happened fast. I’ve never been on a planet like this: everything regards humans as prey. There’s nothing we’ve found that doesn’t want to feed on us in some way. Our base is an artificial hill that towers high above the forest canopy: I kept having dreams about the gigantic alien anteater that would end us all. Sadly, this disaster isn’t that epic.
“Did you bring anything to drink?”
I rock back into a crouch and glare at him.
“Yes. I have the same trail gear as you.”
He blushes. Where’s his harness?
“It was chafing. I took it off when we rested.”
Fantastic. Two people with only an afternoon’s trekking rations for one.
“What happened?”
I shake my head.
“No idea. Comms said something about gorillapards rampaging about inside. Then a killgator escaped from the pool room. The last I heard was Professor Nipde yelling about some ‘lull’ not working. I think that’s what he said. Difficult to make out because of the screaming.”
Mitchell’s gone white.
“What did I say to make you wet yourself?”
I resist the urge to add the words ‘even more’.
“I didn’t- Err, no- You see…”
For pity’s sake.
“It’s a figure of speech. Now, why are you white and shaking? Something about ‘lull’?”
He looks like my kid brother did after mum caught him masturbating in her wardrobe: guilty, embarrassed, and little bit excited.
“‘Lull’ is the name I gave my aggression suppression gas. Designed to make the animals here less hostile toward humans.”
Fuck.
“You got that wrong.”
“Absolutely not. It’s perfectly designed for their biology. I really don’t understand why it failed to work.”
“No, I mean there’s a fundamental error in your analysis.”
That got his attention.
“How dare y-”
“Shut up! You’re suppressing their aggression, but the problem is they’re not angry, they’re hungry. You gave them a chilled-out feeding frenzy. Pray the orbital station sends something to rescue us before the locals calmly work out how to crack open this pod.”
He starts crying.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
by Julian Miles | Jun 15, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Drantill’s become a regular over the last year. His arrival times vary, but he’s always seated by 12:00. From then until 12:30 he watches the long lines of the digitised clockface on his phone move, saying nothing, barely breathing. Then-
“Miss? Can I have a caramel macchiato with a shot of cherry syrup, please?”
“Of course you can, Drantill. Remember, my name is Pellaira.”
He smiles and nods. It’s our little routine. He never uses my name. I make a point of using his. Drantill is, for want of a better term, beautiful. I’d really like to get to know him, but he doesn’t seem interested – in anything.
Except his odd coffee. I’ve never seen a man so transported by just smelling it. His face becomes… Serene. Even more impossibly beautiful. Then his eyes close and he takes a sip, swallows, and sighs.
Maybe I could use that?
“You really like that coffee, don’t you?”
He jerks in surprise. Those wonderful eyes turn my way and it’s like he’s looking at me for the first time.
“Reminds me of home. You blend it well.”
“Thank you.”
“Your name is unusual.”
“It was my mother’s. She died giving birth and dad named me for her. Seemed strange, but I’m used to it now.”
“Where I come from, it’s the name of a great city. To name a child after it is considered a brave act, dooming the child to greatness and a terrible fate.”
“I’ve never heard of a place called Pellaira.”
He smiles and takes another sip.
“It’s far away.”
“You come from there?”
“A little village nearby. Goshtan O’er the Fyres.”
“Strange name.”
“It’s at the edge of a huge lava field. The main trade is pumice. Not thrilling for a young lad. I volunteered for something that took me far away,” he sips and sighs, “now I regret it.”
“What did you volunteer for?”
He looks about, mutters something, and gives a little laugh.
Those eyes catch mine.
“They wanted men and women for an impossible mission, one from which there might be no return. We formed the crew of a great boring machine, powered by the biggest creniuld engines ever cranked. Our mission was to prove for once and for all that our ice-ringed world was set fast upon a bed of endless rock, just as stated in the Latturlidan Scriptures.
“We spent months living in that vibrating tube as it chewed through the foundations of our world. Just as we approached the return point, we tore through. Everything flew into the air. Up became down. Our machine toppled and rolled, then fell, breaking apart in the hideous impact that followed.
“A few of us crawled from that wreckage, finding ourselves at the bottom of a deep ravine. Crazed and confused, we wandered until we came upon a settlement.
“Each reacted differently to the epiphany. To save conflict, we agreed to go our separate ways for a year, then meet up and share our tales so we could work out what to do next.”
He looks at me, tears at the corners of his eyes.
“That was twenty-nine years ago. No-one came to that meeting, so I went looking. Not many killed themselves. Most settled. Some found love. A few started families. Only one yearns for home so much he cannot rest, and tortures himself by visiting the daughter who bears the name and face of her mother, his lost sister. But today he told her the truth, and will never see her again.”
He gets up and rushes out.
…What just happened?
by Julian Miles | Jun 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Two figures stand on the observation deck of the patrol ship ‘Camelot’. The taller of the two points at an object silhouetted against the planet.
“That has got to be the ugliest spaceship I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not a spaceship,” replies the shorter of the two, tail flicking in irritation.
“One end is blunt, the other end is sharp, and it’s got fins that slope backwards toward the blunt end. What is it, then? Orbital art?”
“It’s a sunbomb.”
“A planetary defence antique powerful enough to appear as a star in the sky, eh? Impressive.”
“No, it’s for use on a sun.”
“I’ve seen a starburster. That would fit inside one of the drive tubes.”
“Not designed to explode. Designed to age.”
“Do what?”
“The writings upon it speak of many interference effects – including several we’re not familiar with – along with a schedule of causes that we have yet to fully understand. There is also a time manipulation component of baffling complexity.”
“You said it was a bomb.”
“‘Sunbomb’ is easier to grasp than ‘alien chronosolar accelerator’.”
“They wrote instructions on the outside?”
“In big characters.”
“Why?”
“Think of it as a huge signal flare.”
“Signalling what?”
“To attract their attention.”
“Who?”
“They call themselves Barsiliumonalf – it’s as close as we can get with any language on Earth. An ancient star-faring race, arrogant and powerful. Some of their phrasing indicates they regard everything as theirs if they want it: stars, planets, beings, it makes no difference.”
“Why make this?”
“Laziness. They got bored of looking for intelligent races, so they scattered a few of these about. Any race smart enough to figure out how to set one off, and mad enough to do so, might be worth talking to.”
“Could we set it off?”
“Detailed translation is going to take a while, but I’m confident we could be in a position to do it within a decade.”
“While you do that, our superiors will decide which sun we can lose. Better get started on creating better defences.”
“Defences? They left star-warping time-distortion devices lying about like litter. How can you possibly hope to defend against the technology they have now?”
“Oh, I’m not preparing for the inevitable and brief shooting war. I’m talking about places to hide in, and observe from.”
The shorter one swings to face the taller: “What?”
“No matter what we recommend, many factions will be sure we’re exaggerating and will go looking for a fight. Which, as you pointed out, is almost certain to go very badly for anyone opposed to the Barsi-whatchamacallits. I’m going to make sure the sensible are protected until the stupid have been swatted.”
“Better still, let’s forget about this device.”
“Too late. It’s been found. Eventually, someone’s going to use it. All we can do is prepare. Which includes making sure nobody drags it off for use on a sun orbited by anywhere nice.”
“You have a low opinion of the tendencies of your fellow humans, monkeyboy.”
“Like draconians don’t like igniting stuff for fun, scaly?”
“Touché.”
by Julian Miles | Jun 1, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Wish I’d been braver. I knock.
Nineteen.
Kim opens her door.
Eighteen.
“Pete? Are you crying?”
Seventeen.
“I’ve always loved you.”
Sixteen.
“I love you, too.”
Fifteen.
Now she’s crying.
Fourteen.
Wish we had longer.
Thirteen.
I raise my phone: “Seen the news?”
Twelve.
“Can’t cope with it.”
Eleven.
She doesn’t know!
Ten.
“It’s started.”
Nine.
Her eyes go wide.
Eight.
“Really?”
Seven.
I nod.
Six.
“You came here?”
Five.
I nod.
Four.
“Why?”
Three.
“To see you.”
Two.
“Kiss me.”
One.
Her hands on my face.
Zero.
Our lips –
by Julian Miles | May 25, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We were battling the Roekuld, part of humanity’s last stand against an overwhelming foe. We fought for hours. I wonder how it ended?
Our heavily armoured assault cruiser, Thunderer, got well and truly stuck in. We reaped the rewards: cut through their fighters, blew up their cruisers, mauled their warships, and only took light damage for our trouble.
Just when we were feeling pretty good about the ‘last-ditch attempt’ thing, a Roekuld dreadnought – think it was the ‘Windgrace’ – battleskipped itself in on our flank and complimented us on our efforts by sticking a full broadside in from barely five hundred metres out.
Ever read the analyses of what a ‘hundred percent strike’ from a Roekuld dreadnought can do? It’s ludicrous. Waves of firepower preceded by specific countermeasures, with a few effects that shouldn’t be possible – or used by sane beings – thrown in to make things memorable.
With all the electronics misbehaving, being one of the ‘hotwired’ enhanced cadre became no fun. We flew the fighter drones that defended the Thunderer, so I was attached to the ship, and outside the ship, in unique ways. Those ways got corrupted, then one of those ‘impossible’ effects hit and my world went grey. Completely grey. I could feel it: like slow-flowing oil and sand. It sang me a song I’ll misremember forever. Then sparks. Big fat ones. Then black.
When I woke, I thought I’d been blinded. Couldn’t feel heartbeat or breathing. My body was obviously badly broken. Just trying to move resulted in falling. I was aware of my fall, knew when I stopped falling, but there was no sense of impact. I lay there for a long while, recalibrating like I’d been taught to do after every new bit of me went in. My whole body was messed up, so I treated it all like a new prosthetic. Apparently, I had no toes to try and wiggle. It took me ages to realise that bending the little finger on my right hand had become the same as flexing my right leg, while my left leg matched my right index finger. From there, after a period of screaming denial, I explored my new state.
Of all the extras and replacement bits in me, my right hand was the most recent addition. Hosting onboard memory and processors, able to make me faster by augmenting the needs communicated by my brain. It had a ‘fat’ connection, taking intent as well as mechanics, and felt very strange. I’d still been getting used to it. During the broadside I’d found that deep connection helped to stabilise against the disorientation the rest of the cadre were experiencing. Whatever that grey moment was, it took things further.
I am my right hand, without a body. Not even a wrist. Apart from touch, my senses are irrelevant. The fall had been this prosthetic hand slipping off the top of my console – where I’d braced myself when the broadside effects started to bite – onto the keyboard.
I’m still on that keyboard: wandering about like a five-legged spider. Perched on the four digits that correlate to arms and legs, using the middle finger – which correlates to my head/neck – to type. Counting key positions by touch to find the right character takes so much effort.
Can’t remember much more than what’s here. Not even my name.
Is this reversible? I suspect not. I also think there’s a dead ship about me. That’s why I’m saving and sending this via every channel – if I’m accessing them correctly– hoping someone scans the data before I get salvaged to death.
