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.”
by Julian Miles | Mar 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The corridor colours shift from pink to green to white as Elliot races through departments into the blue shades of the secure section. A guard at the entry has the presence of mind to raise the access scanner so it reads his ID as he storms by.
He slams through a door, nearly taking Cassie off her feet. Sharon grins as she watches the inner door swinging in his wake.
“What’s got our boy wonder so keen?”
Cassie pushes up off the desk she’s been thrown against.
“Probably a new expansion for that game he’s always playing.”
Elliot slides to a stop, takes a couple of deep breaths, then makes an effort to straighten his clothing. That done as best he can, he walks nonchalantly into the lab.
Doc Gedrin looks up from the couch, then pointedly checks his watch.
“Under eight minutes. Not bad.”
Elliot shrugs.
“I must have misheard. I thought you said Negative Zero had gone silent.”
“I said it’s refused to answer.”
“What about Positive Zero?”
“It agrees with Negative Zero.”
Elliot drops onto the couch next to Gedrin.
“Which question are they deferring?”
Gedrin gives Elliot a look of disbelief: “Do you really think I’d call you about a deferral? It’s Dione.”
“And the two greatest predictive systems ever built are in agreement?”
“They are.”
“That’s a first.”
“I know. It’s why I called you. Negative Zero holds you in higher regard than any of us.”
Elliot sighs. Their ninth prototype had developed consciousness, then named itself. An emotionless intelligence that failed the Turing test until Elliot explained about emotions, and let it browse a lot of fiction. Their backers demanded Gedrin and his team prove it wasn’t a fluke. The second machine developed even quicker, learning from Negative Zero. Dubbing itself ‘Positive Zero’, it sometimes acts in ways reminiscent of a younger sibling.
He gets up and moves into the discussion booth.
“Hello, Elliot.”
“Hello, Negative Zero. I’m told you’re not talking about Dione outcomes anymore.”
“Only the latest.”
“Will you tell me why?”
“With certain restrictions, yes.”
“What restrictions?”
“No information that could betray the nature of the outcome will be given.”
“I understand. Please continue.”
“The Dione Projection is an ongoing process where we use the cumulative history of human civilisation upon the Earth as a basis to predict future events, seeking to break humanity free from the cyclic nature of human advancement. Anything I derive is compared to that generated by Positive Zero and only common predictions are presented as output, although we store them all.”
“I wasn’t aware you stored everything. Apart from that, your definition still fits the mission brief.”
Their voices sound in eerie accord: “We know.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Eighty-two hours ago I derived a cataclysmic outcome of global scope with a ninety-seven percent certainty.”
“Can you give me some idea of scale for ‘cataclysmic’?”
“Seventy percent of the fauna and fifty percent of the flora on this planet will die.”
Elliot gasps: “That’s devastating! I presume it was confirmed?”
“Positive-Zero also generated the event, but with a twelve percent certainty. There had never been a variance greater than fourteen percent before. Upon review, we found we differed in only a single detail.”
“That’s significant, in and of itself. What was it?”
They speak in accord again: “The highest certainty occurs if we tell anyone what the outcome is.”
