by Julian Miles | Aug 20, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The snow is so fine it sometimes drifts about for hours before finally settling. The result is a mist that makes everything vague before fallen snow obscures it completely. This being acid snow, obscuring may become erasure when thawing drenches everything in acid.
On organics, the snow is quicker to harm. Every member of our group has snowburn – blotches where snow melted on contact and scarred the skin. You’ve got to be well covered to survive out there. Even the toughest organics have a lifespan measured in days, which drops to hours if any snow is allowed to melt on whatever it is.
Every lair has a sluice, where those coming in are rinsed thoroughly as soon after entry as sensible. Filtering the water used is a continuing nightmare, as we can’t let it contaminate our potable supplies and even the vapours are noxious to varying degrees.
“Rack and ruin, rain and burn, will we see another turn?”
It’s a well-known rhyme, used to keep those who pedal the generator in time. Everyone gets to pedal, it’s a rule. Electricity allows us to keep the luxuries going, like educators for the kids and the special lights that keep the plant vats growing.
Vegetables: beans, okra, cucumber, melon, and more. We have nineteen varieties. That gives us trading rights with every group for ten miles. We even get trekkers that come from the haven over at Lewes and the forts at Southampton. They’re hardened types, grown from ex-military cliques. I’d call them strange, but we’re all a little ‘off’ these days. Good thing is, with the end of natural fresh water and everything wet falling from the skies liable to melt your face, the bandit problem just petered out. You can’t raid to live anymore.
“I’d question if we’re actually living.”
That’s Ethel. She’s looking over my shoulder, getting a feel for this writing thing. Someone has to, and she’s inherited her mother’s knack for words. All she needs to do is take the plunge and write something from what she feels, rather than what she sees. It’s a factual existence, these days. No room for whimsy when the planet’s out to purge you.
Which brings me to her question. We’re working very hard to live. So hard that anything not directly associated with it has been let go. Me writing is a gift from having lost my legs in a bad fall. I needed something to do, so I’m writing a guide to everything we do, so we don’t lose any of the ways we’ve worked so hard to perfect – and continue to refine.
“You and Kaden Leader are the same. Keep insisting that we’ll eventually be able to not work at surviving all the time. I still don’t understand what we’ll do with – what do you call it?”
“Free time.”
“That. What do you do with it?”
“Anything you want. Do something for fun. Relax.”
“Not sure I’d like that.”
“You’ll be surprised.”
She thinks on that, then grins.
“When it happens, I’ll cope. Like we always have to.”
I laugh for so long she wanders off in disgust, not understanding just how funny the idea of people having to cope with free time is.
Which is unfair. I can remember people, long dead, who’d agree with her. They had the same problem, even back when we had non-lethal snow and leisure time.
by Julian Miles | Aug 13, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I see her shoulders tense, then one hand releases as the other arm swings out and round. Ashes form a plume on the wind.
“He’s gone, Darion. Free at last.” Essa blinks back tears as she smiles at me. There’s a release in her eyes, a relief and a parting. The peace she so desperately sought has finally found her.
She watches as I think, my reply lost in the churn of memories. The man she mourns had my back across thirty worlds and ninety campaigns. We held the line at Rokuna and were part of the rearguard at the retreat from Sebastien. I held him up after he lost a leg to Blemenase Marauders off Shiristan, forming a three-legged fire team those brutal, poetic bastards still sing myth-songs about. Barely a year later he carried me from the ruins of Depnu, leaving my arms behind.
Powered prosthetics with shield generators became our trademark. On Talkinur we went from military service to mercenary elite without a blink. That’s where we were when an air conditioning unit plummeted ninety floors and expunged our squad, leaving us standing on the edge of a ten-metre crater, covered in crud, but alive to tell the tale.
Darion Metcha and Larier Dorece, survivors of everything. For twenty years it was good, ten years jaded, and five years later we quit. Bought a bar on a backwater world. Larier met Essa and had children. The aftermath of the last offensive on Karshiur meant I couldn’t. He kept the fact that I was damn happy about it secret; my genetic imprint is better off leaving with me.
“Darion?”
She’s slightly concerned. Us career veterans tend to zone out every now and then. Those about us either adjust or leave as their tolerances dictate.
“He refused to share his views on death. Will you tell me?”
I look at her. He never said anything because Essa has faith. Not an in-your-face variety, but a quiet, unshakeable belief in some unseen entity ‘out there’, and a life after our bodies fail.
Larier is gone. The rituals after death are for the living and I have to engage, to admit. He valued my honesty. I suppose, this last time, nothing less will do.
I get up and move to stand by her. I can’t do this while looking at her. Watching the sunset between sea and storm clouds, the words come easier, originally spoken by him over some fresh graves on Carduso. He was replying to a question from some trooper. I don’t recall much about question or trooper because his words eclipsed the details.
“We live, we die. Like all animals from the dawn of time until a race better than us finds out how to ignore it, we are bound to a biological clock that can be slowed but never stopped. We’ve also been unable to shake the compulsion to fight over just about anything. The ironies of being unreasonable in the name of reason and killing to live longer still seem to avoid us.
I’ve seen a host of wonders and atrocities, but I’ve never seen a dead man rise, never seen a ghost come back to comfort loved ones. This life is a single passage from darkness to darkness. We can be a light during our time here or we can play games in the shadows with all the other animals. But, at the end, it’s only an end. After the remains are scattered and the tears have fallen, as we stand in the rain on a world that’s not home, who can tell ashes from dirt?”
by Julian Miles | Aug 7, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The truck crests the ridge with a loud whine from the drive servos momentarily rising above the sound of tyres on rough ground.
“There!”
A slim figure leans against a rocky outcrop: shirtless, barefoot, a cigarette hanging from her mouth.
Sheriff Ron Cheadle slaps Deputy Cal Danvers: “We got her. Grab your gun and let’s finish this.” He grabs Cal’s shoulder: “And no staring. Y’hear me?”
Cal nods. His fear has already overridden his usual interest in a lady wearing only briefs. He exits the vehicle and brings his pistol to bear: “Brigitte Noma, place your hands behind your head and kneel on the ground.”
She holds up her cigarette: “Couple of minutes.”
Ron’s not having any of it, leveling a shotgun: “Now.”
She shrugs and flicks the half-finished smoke toward them. Moving slowly, she complies with the instructions.
“Happy?”
Ron nods his head toward her.
Cal steps wide, then approaches from behind. As he reaches for her wrist, her head whips round and her grip somehow twists. She pulls Cal into her. When her head swings back, she tears Cal’s throat out. He collapses next to her, blood spurting.
Ron shoots her.
“Had to have one last kill, didn’t you?”
Tears in his eyes, he takes three steps closer and shoots her again. An arm still moves.
“After nine years, you’re done. There’ll be no trial.” He moves in, racking another shell.
Her other arm flashes over and she shoots him with Cal’s pistol.
He drops the shotgun and topples, eyes wide in disbelief.
She rolls over, wounds closing before his eyes.
“I landed here when you lot were still killing the natives with cavalry charges. The idea was to weaken you before our invasion. But you breed so fast. The planners got it wrong. By the time the leaders accepted the inevitable and aborted the operation, you were too numerous and technically capable for a covert retrieval attempt. My leash-master suicided out with the rest of the infiltration team. They left me, their weapon, behind. Therefore, I do what I was made for and ordered to do. I will do it for as long as I can.”
Ron watches as she kisses Cal’s eye. His mouth opens and air escapes with a shriek as their features start to warp. Hissing steam obscures Ron’s view. When it clears, a shirtless Cal kneels by a dead Brigitte, a bullet wound clearly visible in her throat.
The new Cal talks as he swaps clothing with the transformed cadaver: “Good shot, Sheriff. Remarkable, actually. She ambushed us, overpowered me, and fatally wounded you using my weapon. Yet you still managed to bring her down before she finished me off. It’s so sad. I’m going to be shell-shocked with grief for a long while. May never recover. Might have to move on. Or, I might commit suicide after I start living with someone who helped me through my grief. Such a shame, everybody thought I had gotten over the guilt of your death. My heartbroken partner will be unable to stay, will have to leave the area.”
He smiles, stands up, takes six steps back, and aims the pistol at Ron.
“Now for that fatal wound. You can try and survive if you must. It makes no difference.”
by Julian Miles | Jul 23, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“‘The shell is the key’? He said that?”
“Yes. The carapace is the most remarkable aspect of this truly unusual species. In layman’s terms, it’s a pico-honeycomb that has all the useful properties of a hybrid of Kevlar and graphene. Add the light-diffusing filaments that cover it and it’s a perfect natural armour against our weaponry.”
“I always thought the ability to resist our weaponry was a bit too convenient.”
“The ‘tailored genocide’ and ‘monsters under control’ rumours? Scientist-Commander Greven says they’re nothing but conspiracy theories. Even with humanity on the brink, civilisation still needs urban legends.”
“So what has he come up with?”
“It’s an ultra-low frequency sound weapon, derived from some obscure Third Reich research.”
“Good grief, he went a long way back.”
“That’s why Scientist-Commander Greven leads us. He’s brilliant and committed; humanity’s best chance.”
“So when do we get this new super weapon?”
“It was deployed last night. Take your position, Sergeant. This should be quite a show.”
Silence falls and the thunderous noise made by the approaching legions of mutated six-legged death becomes clearer.
The vibration starts at the edge of perceptibility. It rises to become something not-quite audible that shakes everyone’s guts and makes fillings in teeth dance. Cries of pain cut the silence as the oncoming horde pauses. Suddenly, each of the coupe-sized creatures starts to rotate in place, their legs beating a frenetic rhythm as they spin faster. Screams of disbelieving horror rise as the creature’s movements synchronise and their bodies bulge and contort. With chitinous concussions, each monster expands and extrudes knobbly tentacles from under distending carapaces. As one, they all stop spinning. Triangular eyes glow on the truck-sized outlines just visible through the swirling dust
Sergeant Maxim slaps Captain Leon hard to break the man from his wide-eyed paralysis.
“It would appear someone has decided where their best chance lies. Of course, it could be a diabolical piece of combat holography by our enemies, but as they’re supposedly a mindless destructive force, what possible use could they have for tactics?”
“Sergeant, as we’re about to pulped by an unstoppable foe, let’s drop the veiled speech.”
“Works for me. Those monsters are under control. They’re being used by something else and Scientist-Commander Greven is either an idiot or a traitor. Whether his actions were guided or misguided, I would dearly like to take a squad of our most dangerous and have a pointed discussion with him to clarify his position.”
“Will this ‘chat’ result in his death?”
“Of course. Whatever he is, he’s no use to us. We’re going to need to form a resistance and develop some new tactics.”
“To the devil with only taking a squad.”
“Pardon, Captain?”
“All units, this is Captain Rufus Leon. Fall back, get airborne and re-rig for counter-insurgency. All transports to use stealth mode and reform post-sundown on my beacon.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve had a suspicion that you’ve clarified, Sergeant. How did he know the exact frequency to trigger their growth?”
“Could be coincidence. More likely, the highest treason ever.”
“Precisely. Move out!”
by Julian Miles | Jul 16, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I’ve travelled distances that make oceans seem like ponds. I’ve dealt with solar flares and meteor storms, flown half-blind and bleeding from situations that would make a sane man scream for his mother.
As I look up at the snow-white spume that tops this towering wall of grey water, I realise I am a tiny being and for all that I’ve endured, the depths of my terror had not been plumbed until this moment.
“Ketse! Stop staring! Get your sodden butt in here so we can close up!”
Christa, captain of this tub, grabs my belt and hauls hard. Once she gets me moving, the spell is broken. I don’t want to stare into the abyss anymore. I nearly knock her down as I scramble inside and throw myself into my couch. With a rapid series of hisses and clicks, the harness engages.
She slams the hatch and slaps the locking lever down under its restraint. Throwing herself into her own couch, she shouts over the mounting noise.
“This one’s going to be bad. Brace up, there’ll be good finds after this tide!”
“Bigger the wave, bigger the fortune!” Gerder’s cry is greeted with cheers.
The treasures to be found in its wake are small consolation as a wall of water nine hundred metres high descends upon the rain-scoured piece of misery we’re tethered to with the sound that white noise wants to be when it grows up.
I’m spun, shaken, hurled, and dropped. Strapped down inside a thousand tonnes of salvager, being thrown about like this makes the forces at play outside terrifying.
There’s an impact that rattles my teeth and I see Christa go pale as the damage data reaches her via neural link.
I shout across: “One more like that?”
She grins: “Two! What do you think this is, some orbital utility scow?”
There’s a period of freefall, then a second impact that’s harder than the first. There are screams and curses from the crew. I catch Christa’s eye. She mouths: “No more.”
We’re dragged a fair way across something bumpy, then the nauseous, sweeping rush-and-lurch of surfacing behind the wave lets us know we’re going to see another day.
“Time to earn your keep!” She’s not giving us time to celebrate because she knows it’ll turn maudlin. Only failed waveriders live to see old age.
A salvager is a submersible ship designed to resurface even with a few holes in it. In this case, we find our redoubtable vessel – The Kelpa – is about a metre shorter, with the bow having been crushed into an even denser mass of ceremetal laminate.
In the afternoon light, the sea about us moves languidly, whilst the pitiful excuse for an island is festooned with drift caught in the gigantic nets and steel grapples we set up for just that purpose. A gigawave is birthed from the influence of four moons on the benthic deeps. It brings with it the remains of the civilisation that ruled this world before the seas claimed them.
“Treasure ho! Christa, we’ve netted a vessel!”
Emelda’s right. Lying athwart the promontory to our right is something not made by human hands, the nacreous curves of its piscine form catching the light as water continues to trickle from it.
Christa turns to me: “Looks like you’ll be back in space soon. This’ll make us all rich.”
I look about, then nod toward the alien vessel.
“I’d rather spend it on finding a way to get down where that came from.”
She grins: “I knew this place would catch you too.”