by Julian Miles | Feb 25, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The airlock used to be palatial. Now the four-metre walls are coated with sickly golden crud: the exudations of a million desperados.
The bouncer is vaguely human. He waves at us: “Leave your weapons here.”
Pointing to an upturned crate next to the inner door, I grin at Ella: “Stay.”
The bouncer looks puzzled. Ella shrugs and thumps her backside down on it.
I smile at him: “Ando Morre.”
He presses the ‘open door’ panel: “Whatever.”
Inside is a typical portside speakeasy. I look about. Weather forecast: stormy with outbreaks of violence.
“Ando, you woeful excuse of a man. Come to do me a solid, brother?”
Definitely come to do you something, chum.
“Parchment Dan. Just the being I didn’t want to meet.”
Yet.
His skin rustles as his face splits nearly in half, letting out a belly laugh. His crystalline teeth glow yellow.
It’s not a pretty sight: “I see you’ve had your head replaced. Is gaudy and tasteless in this season?”
“Ando, if I wasn’t in a good mood, I’d have you diced.” He waves toward a pair of grey-suited guards: cybereyes burning red above lime green ties over pink shirts.
I nod to them: “Matching outfits. Lovely.”
They glower.
“Now you’re being rude. I think I’ll settle for what you net as bodyparts. Boys? Organ salvage this specimen.”
Already? I was hoping for a drink before things turned ugly.
A set of knuckleblades open my armour and my side. Damn, these guards are fast.
“Told you.” She sounds cheerful over our link.
I duck a double cut that crops my hair way too close to my scalp.
“Ella!”
The airlock door glows white, then disappears. A wave of blistering heat blasts across the room – slower than she who caused it.
The cyborg on my left is limbless before he hits the floor. The cyborg on my right brings a gun up, only to lose it along with that side of his torso. I can’t even work out how she did that.
“Ando, what the- Glark! Umodruuuuuuuuuu…”
Dan’s shiny head rolls past, teeth shattered.
The gunfire is incredible. Automatic weapons, both projectile and energy, blasting away.
Silence.
Peering from under my crossed arms, I see why it all missed. Ella was the only one shooting. Having dealt with the threats before they could respond, she spent the rest of the time cutting the kanji for her designation into the wall behind the stage: ‘3774’. The calligraphy is beautiful. Clean strokes, parallel curves.
“That’s outstanding.”
She drops the smoking guns and turns to me with hands clasped behind her: “You mean that?”
“I do. The way you shadowed the bullet holes with consistent char patterns is art.”
My adopted daughter bursts into tears. Smiling and crying, she runs into my arms.
“Love you, slowdad.”
I tap her on the head: “I’m only slow compared to you. I could have taken those cyborgs.”
She looks up at me: “You’re bleeding all over the floor.”
The bad ones only hurt when you notice. I have to sit down. Ella grabs a medibot from behind the counter and sets it on me.
I grin: “Maybe only one of those cyborgs.”
“Next time, I’ll do the guards and you take the boss. No more going in first so you can be cocky.”
There’s real concern in her eyes. My girl, the killing machine, has become so human. They said it couldn’t happen. Which means I can’t let her down. After all, I only get to show off because she’s so dangerous.
“Okay.”
She hugs me until we hear my ribs creak.
by Julian Miles | Feb 18, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The view goes negative, then my tummy does the thing where it tries to chuck everything out whichever end is the nearest.
It’s an hour before I can pick up the coffee left by an orderly barely older than my little sister. She doesn’t say a word. Literally runs off as soon as she’s put the cup down.
I need to clean myself up. Then someone needs a crash course in datamancer etiquette.
Stalking down the corridor in clean fatigues, I can see people moving away. I’m sensitive enough to read data as it passes by, and able to adjust it by act of will. It’s not hard to detect the clumps of electrical impulses bundled up in lifeforms.
“Specialist Leeson. What are you doing away from your post?” Sergeant-Major Ipswich sounds annoyed.
“I’m not at my post because it became irrelevant. I’m looking for the shitstick who gave permission for someone to let off an EMP within a half-kilometre of me without warning. Honestly, SM, I’m trying to help, but all your side seem to be able to muster is piss-taking and casual negligence.”
He grabs my arm. Mistake. He lets go and hastens away, convinced there’s a knife fight going on outside the Officer’s Mess.
Slamming through the doors to the command centre, I lean on the console next to the orderly who delivered my coffee.
“Could you get the idiot behind that EMP to come up here, please?”
She stammers. I delve into the console’s data lines and divert the tactical feed from Zone Six to a vending machine in the canteen. Unhappy shouting starts.
I raise my voice: “Which twit ordered the nearfield EMP?”
Shouting continues. I shut off the main display.
“Hey, people. Who ordered the EMP?”
A voice from behind me: “Release the data or I will shoot.”
I turn, slowly. A balding man in an overtight officer’s uniform. He’s got a lot of stripes on his chest and upper arms. He also has a revolver pointed at me.
“If you shoot me, the system crashes.”
“We’ll reboot it.”
I glance at the orderly and smile: “How long for a reboot, Trooper Barrett?”
She sits up: “About thirty minutes, Specialist Leeson.”
I look at him: “How much war can you lose in half an hour?”
He goes a little pale: “Technowitch bullshit. The interference will drop when you do.”
This man is a senior officer in the army that found, honed, and trained me. He hasn’t got a clue.
“I’m an ‘electrosensitive’ with ‘chronic hypermanipulation’. Street slang for me is ‘datamancer’.”
“Boojuns to scare the natives. You’ve just got supercomputers up your fanny.”
The f-?!
His eyes close and he drops like a sack of spuds. Behind him stands a dangerous-looking gent in baggy fatigues and warpaint: bright eyes, big grin. He cracks his knuckles.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant-General Renvers. I’m Sergeant Malc Green, one of your ‘point removal specialists’. This young lady has been kind enough to save my sorry arse twice in the last month, and is about to crawl through three kilometres of mud to fondle a cable so I can slip past enemy detectors, kill someone, and get out of occupied territory once again. Therefore, mind your fucking manners.”
You could hear a pin drop.
Malc takes a deep breath, then winks at me: “Ready to get dirty, witch?”
“Only for my favourite Uruk.”
I smile at him and restore the feeds.
As we head out, Malcolm pauses by Trooper Barrett and whispers: “Dunno ‘bout you, but I’d take the cartridges out of that revolver before he wakes up.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 11, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Another cold coffee. It’s the last one I’ll have for a while. Tigerhouse closes tonight and affording bean coffee will go back on the luxuries list.
“Last one?”
Elena slides into the seat opposite, looking like a pinup from the side of someone else’s bomber. Her coffee is steaming and she’s got a double-stack bacon and stilton sandwich. It’s amazing what being pretty and having no truck with overbearing bosses will do for the punctuality and quality of your mealtimes.
She spins the plate so half of the pile is facing me.
“That’s yours. Since you haven’t had a break.”
I examine her expression to see if it’s a wind-up.
“Not joking, Doug. Get some while it’s hot.”
The lady watches without comment as I go face down in hot food. Minutes later, I come up for air, followed by cold coffee, then carefully wipe the wreckage from my face.
She grins: “That didn’t touch the sides, did it?”
Looking at the crumbs that remain, I shrug: “Good food doesn’t come along often.”
“How’d you like to afford good food every day?”
I wave toward the Sunny Chino across the road: “They’ve done recruiting.”
“I don’t want you to make coffee. Anyone can do that. I want you to kill. You know: do what you’re good at?”
They always say the one that’ll get you is the one you don’t expect. This pretty lady has obviously been paying way too much attention to me.
“Tell me my service number.”
She raises her eyebrows: “What, no disbelief? 16443790.”
The quickest check is asking for something that’s not on open- or restricted-access records. If answered correctly, the leverage is implicit and most other questions can wait.
“How much? Paid how? Who dies?”
“Five thousand sterling. Banded pack of one hundred B of E fifties. The owner of Tigerhouse.”
“Pay me.”
Her studied calm slips a little. Then, after taking a deep breath, she brings her handbag up and extracts the block of money. I take it, drop it below the edge of the table and fan it. While out of her view, I vet it for tracers and chemicals using the sensors built into my thumbs. It’s clean and genuine.
With a nod, I rise and walk across to the counter. Emilio, the owner, is conferring with Toni, the manager. I lift the leaf and step behind Emilio. He starts to turn and I snap his neck, then collapse her windpipe. Moving out from behind the counter, I close the panel, drop the leaf and reach over to latch it.
Elena’s halfway across the room, an eager look on her face.
I point a thumb back over the counter: “You’ll need to arrange disposal.”
She keys her datapad. As the contacts come up, she looks down, her mouth opening to talk. I take her down in a cybergrip stranglehold and relieve her of datapad and jewellery while she thrashes and dies.
Going back behind the counter, I loot bodies and till before lighting the serviettes, uniforms, and menus. Might go up, might not. Gives the right amateur flavour: a cue for the incident obfuscation mob.
I exit Tigerhouse and call a number using Elena’s datapad.
“Compromised. Vet this datapad and expunge anyone who flags as even remotely suspicious. Demise Doug Chaffin. Who am I?”
“Ian Valent. Chauffeur for Advocate Limousines of Stoke-on-Trent, holidaying in London. Your datapad will be updated by the time you catch your 00:05 train home from Euston. Her datapad is cloned. You may dispose.”
“Thank you.”
A cover where I’m allowed decent food. Just the ticket.
by Julian Miles | Feb 4, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Confined in a 4-metre cube with nothing but my thoughts for company. Poor conversation and haunting memories by day, convoluted dreams by night. The dreams are too disturbing to contemplate long enough to unravel, so they leave varying degrees of disassociation in their wake. I kind of welcome that. Anything to relieve the monotony. After the first sets of 100 press-ups and sit-ups, I switch to jogging on the spot until my legs give way. Takes a while. I’m in the best physical condition of my life. My instructor would be proud, I think. She’d certainly be surprised. I was never one for excelling at anything. Doing just enough to get by without hassle was my way.
Explaining the reasons for that would take a while and requires insight I don’t possess: family problems, inadequate father figure, who knows?
Back to it. Every month or so I like to do this. Tell the walls my story. Keeps things from coming loose in my head.
Earth got attacked. Nothing major, but it took a lot to stop them. ‘Them’ being ‘Naxon’ – as close as we could get to their pronunciation. From the remains, we pieced together coordinates for their homeworld and reverse engineered their technology. When volunteers for the crazy plan to invade the Naxon homeworld came up short, they drafted a few ‘suitable candidates’ to do ‘non-essential roles’.
Having a qualification in plumbing along with a criminal record, I was deemed suitable for ‘flow maintenance’: bathroom cleaning. Clever PR like that meant ‘Defiance’, our massive spaceship, left Earth with a full complement of heroes and heroines.
By the time we reached Naxdoonif, I had become a trainee gunner/navigator on one of the Condor gunships – after fourteen months of cleaning toilets, it was the only escape option. With eighteen months of simulator training, I strapped myself into the seat, ready for our first raid against the Naxon.
I can’t say whether we were outgunned, ambushed, or just hopeless. All I remember is a period of yelling and screaming while shooting at planes that seemed to be able turn on the spot while doing several hundred kph. Someone shouted about ‘teleport orientation’. I still can’t figure that out.
What I did understand was the second sun that grew in the sky when the ‘Defiance’ blew up. Our home, our support, and the only way back, was gone.
Some surrendered immediately, some fought until downed, some flew into enemy machines or installations. I was up for surrendering: a minority vote. When our Condor got shot down and crashed through a forest, I was thrown clear as it rolled into a lake.
Since capture, I’ve been here. No interrogation, nothing. Just two meals a day, unlimited water, a toilet that auto-flushes at sundown, and a new bar of soap each week. The guards who bring the food aren’t Naxon. These guys have rocks for heads and tentacles for fingers. Over the last few years, I’ve found out they’re from a slave planet, just like Earth has become.
I’m never going home. The guards reckon I’ll be transferred to the Human exhibit at some huge museum-cum-zoo, whenever the Naxon finish building the enclosure. They have small groups of every race they’ve conquered on display. It’s an educational thing.
The possibilities of that are the stuff of my daydreams: meeting a pretty woman, making the best of our exile, and all the usual ‘last hero’ fantasies. Deep down, I know I’m going to end up on my own, cleaning toilets. But, until that happens, I’ll let the daydreams make me smile.
by Julian Miles | Jan 21, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The walls are sweating as I labour up the stairs. Intravenous packs are heavy and I have to buy in bulk, otherwise I couldn’t afford enough of them. The door opens to my retina print and I barge in, pushing the door closed with my arse.
Colin’s left me a fresh sterile pack with needles – he must have got his overtime. Shame he doesn’t care enough to stay realside and celebrate. Virtual sex may be athletic, but it’s just not squishy enough.
Drink a half-litre of sugar water and strip. Into the recliner, sort the wires and tubes, sliding the needles into my arms. New steel feels strange, for all that I know there’s no real difference. At least he hung full bags for me. I don the headset but leave the gloves. Reaching into the left one, I press the ‘engage’ toggle. As the wires slide into my brain, my hands clench and arms shake. Medsites say that’s a symptom of nerve damage, but it’s irrelevant. Not like I can afford to have it treated, let alone fixed.
With jitters out of the way, I lie back, slip the interface gloves on, and press the ‘dive’ toggle. The darkness goes grey, then I’m standing on a moonlit balcony, overlooking a beach. The sun is setting and Colin is leaning on the rail next to me.
“Got out early?” He grins. Perfect features move smoothly, no trace of psoriasis. He is an Adonis of his own making. I look at my zebra-striped short fur and smile. Who am I to pick at someone’s affectations?
“Yes. There was a bomb scare, so they sent us all home. Starting an hour early on Monday.”
“Nothing’s free these days.”
I suspect that’s always been true. The cost has simply increased to a point where that truth is unavoidable. Extended childish logic: if I don’t realise it, it’s not happening.
I shrug: “What scenario are we doing?”
“Falmeddar. A noble quest against the Ravening Keep. Going in with Solange, Andre, Tierney, and Klimdt.”
Colin’s happy. He idolises Andre and has a virtual thing with Solange: hours spent in a two-person private domain. I would mind, but occasionally those ‘late shifts’ give Tierney time to visit and get squishy with me, when he’s in town.
“Let’s go.”
He nods and vanishes. I remember when he’d hold out his hand so we’d get the buzz from the signal bleed as we switched domains.
There’s a grey flash and I’m standing in an autumnal clearing with the five of them. Colin’s next to Solange. Andre and Klimdt are checking their gear. Tierney’s watching Colin with a little smile. As I go from 2D to 3D, he turns to me and winks. At that moment, a patrol from the Ravening Keep burst into the clearing.
“Ambush!”
Why not state the bloody obvious, Colin?
Before I can raise an energy barrier, a spearhead emerges from my chest and things go grey.
I’m still on the recliner when a message from Colin arrives: “Bad luck, Layla. See you tomorrow eve. I’ll tell you all about it.”
He’s going straight from scenario to a ‘late shift’? Tosser.
Another message, this one from Tierney: “Took ages to set up that ambush. I got a transfer. Come live with me, if you want to.”
I so want-
The door opens. Glad I aliased him onto the access list. I shed needles and gloves, am in his arms before the door finishes closing.
“Good to go.”
“Wearing nothing but a headset. The taxi driver will stare.”
“Don’t care.”
