by Julian Miles | Nov 4, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The screen turns to flickering white lines behind a ‘Connecting…’ prompt. I find myself smiling and look up at the night sky. What do the natives call that constellation? Sarg something. Sarga Nol? Bigger… ‘Sarghalor Noghath’! Yes. Conceptual translation gives us ‘The noghath watches’. Neither the indigens nor us have any idea what a Noghath is. The origin of the name predates two civilisations, and has survived four cataclysms, unlike those who gave it. All that remains are fragments of lore that speak of startling wisdom and phenomenal endurance. The latter being entirely appropriate.
Back when I was a child, my great-grandfather ran an antique bookshop. Being his favourite, he let the precocious and avid reader I was browse any tome he had. From an old one I read shortly before he died and the shop was sold, I came across a poem that ended ‘For distance is the answer to grief’.
I can’t remember book, author, or anything else. Just that final line. When June breathed her last after they let me shut down her life support, those words were blazing in my mind. They continued to burn through days of datawork, funerals, distant relatives, and hollow words. It was a mercy Suki, our daughter, had grown up before our loss turned me into a stranger to the life I’d loved up until June’s accident.
In the end, I just left. That final line was the content of the email I sent Suki by way of inadequate explanation.
I went down to the coast. Then across the sea. Then across a continent. Two. Three. Came back to my home from the opposite direction, then promptly took a left and set off again. When a second circumnavigation failed to help, I went up: the Moon. Mars. Titan. Waystation Ten. The Globes of Centauri. Luyten Sanctuary. June still haunted me. So I went on: all four Wolf outposts, and on again, and yet further.
Eight years and a distance I cannot comprehend later, I was sitting across the way but scant minutes ago when I realised my mistake.
A book written in the early 1800s by a broken man – while travelling by varied, primitive means between Britain and the Bahamas – captured his bleak, world-weary outlook all-too well, but was limited by that world: what he knew and understood. While his struggles spoke to me, the solution he realised was presented in his terms.
The relief he perceived as coming from distance is simply the softening of loss as time passes. While he pondered the waves on the passage around Africa, I spent a similar time travelling to Waystation Ten, out on the largest surviving piece of the Fifth Giant, far beyond Pluto. I’ve travelled further than the poet who penned the words that drove me could imagine, yet only seen marvels amidst my grief, instead of laying it down along the way.
The screen flickers to life. It’s too far for a stream, but with a connection made I can record a short video.
“Suki, I’m sorry. I’m coming home.”
With that sent, I look up again, then give a little salute.
The noghath watches a scruffy tourist turn from the callpoint and start to walk briskly towards the spaceport, a measure of wisdom having finally arrived.
by Julian Miles | Oct 28, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Abby whips her wing-tentacles about, making little ‘cracks’ of delight as a gigantic silver dinosaur walks by, its crystal eyes filled with icy fire. Every footfall causes things to shake and drinks to splash about in their cups – unless they’re being carried on the spindly spider-legged copper tables that stalk smoothly back and forth from the restaurants around the edges of the park. They provide a never-ending stream of delicious food and drink for the beings sat at and by the tables spread out across the verdant expanse.
Malcolm points a talon at the floating parasols that hover just high enough to provide the right amount of shade for every species of visitor.
“They seem so delicate. How do they fare against precipitation?”
Colyoy indicates a tower that appears as faint outline against the sky because of the camouflage displays keeping it unobtrusive.
“We don’t let our infrequent showers stop the festivities: at the first hint of rain, squadrons of self-propelled umbrellas dash from those towers to replace the parasols – which form parked clusters on designated rooftops. The umbrellas ensure everyone who doesn’t wave them off is sheltered.”
Abby tears her gaze from the dinosaur and extends a wing to point at the holographic map at the centre of the table. She reads out the text that appears.
“Away from the idyllic coasts and their gravity-defying viewing stairs, great fairs and exhibitions act as centrepieces of vast parks filled with carefully balanced selections of rare flora and fauna.”
She peers at Colyoy over the extended wings.
“What are ‘great fairs’, and what is exhibited?”
Colyoy gestures helplessly.
“There are so many, and I cannot do them justice with words. You’ll have to behold them. It’s why Luna the First decreed that no recording devices are permitted on Village. To visit here is to stimulate your sense of wonder directly. It’s also why ninety percent of those visiting Village are chosen by lotteries.”
“Please try with words. Tell me of your favourite.”
Colyoy looks to Malcolm, who nods.
“The Magnificent Thunderer. Having seen your reaction to one strolling dinomaton, imagine a vast roundabout filled with mechanical megafauna twice the size of them. Camargue Horses, Felmakhan, Raptori Sand Prancers, Technura Megapedes, and a hundred more. All of them spinning as fast as the combined joyous screams of the riders in the howdahs on their backs or bellies dictate.”
Abby gawps until her father reaches across and closes her beak. He raises a talon.
“Now tell her of the Monumental Joust.”
Colyoy turns to Abby.
“Do you know what a dodgem car is?”
She quickly looks it up, then nods enthusiastically.
“Imagine a big one with a crew of four, where three pedal and one wields a compressor-pulse lance. Each of four rounds must have a different lancer. Then if all are willing, another four rounds may be played. And so on for a day of laughter and bruises. The crew with the highest number of victories at the end of each day are feted in riotous style as befits such a demanding triumph.”
He chuckles.
“It’s gloriously silly, and an unforgettable spectacle.”
Abby stares at her father.
“We could form a team with lead bodyguards Sulawe and Begrim.”
Malcolm smiles.
“And the Royal Falcarew of Agremnia shall ride victorious.” He glances at Colyoy, “A decision is finally made.”
Colyoy nods.
“Then you’ll spend the leisure day commanded by Luna the Ninety-First engaging in the Monumental Joust. Only after that may formal matters be addressed,” he grins, “or further adventures had, and formal matters ignored for as long as is feasible.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Did you see that?”
I look at Lopaka.
“What?”
He indicates with the muzzle of his laser.
“Over there. To the left of the big blue rock that’s right of the black cube.”
“Between the dark monolith and the blue boulder?”
He gives me the side-eye.
“That’s what I said, Kimo.”
I shrug. The armoured shoulders of my suit squeak. No matter how much maintenance, cheap kit will always be cheap. Okay, back to it.
“What did it look like?”
“Purple. Came to about three-quarters of the way up the blue boulder.”
That’s a two-metre figment of his nerves, or something to worry about. I switch channels.
“HQ, this is Kimo at Post Seven. Lopaka has a possible. Far side of blue object closest to central monolith.”
“Hold for quick detailed scan.”
Lopaka snorts quietly. I start counting in my head: 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10… 11… 12…
“Post Seven, we show no definite trace.”
“Thanks, HQ.”
I’m about to give Lopaka a piece of my mind when I realise I’m being watched. Looking to one side, I meet the gaze of three shining black eyes arranged in an inverted triangle, set in a bald purple head. The unknown seems to jump in surprise and disappears behind the blue boulder.
“HQ, Kimo at Post Seven. Confirm possible.”
Lopaka turns his head to stare at me.
“Alert raised. Hold for tactical scan.”
I tap the ready button on my laser, gesturing for Lopaka to do the same. Tactical scans take longer than detailed ones. Long enough that people waiting have been known to be dead before the result arrives.
Lopaka comes over private channel.
“That’s against regulations.”
I switch channel and reply.
“They deduct the cost of body repatriation from any death benefits.”
Lopaka has a family. He taps his ready button.
A pair of purple unknowns charge round either side of the rock, coming for us, green crystalline weapons shooting blobs of orange fire.
I start firing as I bring the laser up. Stuff the Proper Fire Procedures, I want to survive. I’m surprised when Lopaka switches his beam to blade style, exactly as required. My needle style beams are going through the left-hand unknown, but it’s not slowing. Lopaka’s first shot takes his target clean off just below the lower eye. It topples. I switch to blade beam, flick it vertical, and cut my target in half just as it enters close fire range.
“Post Seven, we show two traces and unauthorised energy discharges.”
“Engaging, HQ.”
Lopaka does a silent two finger count.
“HQ, Post Seven requesting rescan.”
That’s the quickest type. 1… 2… 3… 4…
“Post Seven, we show no trace.”
“HQ, Post Seven. Requesting after-action processing.”
“Post Seven, confirm implied successful action. Verification and science teams are on the way. Hold until relieved by Fitafita Mauli and Palakiko.”
Lopaka chuckles.
“They will not appreciate being woken this early.”
I grin.
“Serves them right for using hack codes in Tekken 37 yesterday.”
He bursts out laughing.
“Cheat action verified. Penalty applied.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The squad’s sitting there having breakfast when Tommo’s head explodes. Just like that, we’re all on the deck.
Except Bert. He’s still sat there noshing his way through a bacon butty.
“Bert! What the frack?”
He swallows before replying.
“When was the last time they missed? We’re the ones who shoot everywhere.”
Well I’ll be a unicorn’s other horn. He’s right. We all grab our nosh – although nobody sits back up at the table.
Sandy grins.
“Got any more insights, o bacon oracle?”
Bert nods.
“Why are we still alive? Check our sensors. Nothing spotted anything, yet we’re a trooper down.”
Clem nods.
“Just like when we lost Avro.”
Just like… I stand up and look about. Three hundred and sixty degrees of sodden moorland, with a pair of turd-brown duck-billed hawks flapping their ungainly way eastward.
Damon hisses.
“Billy. Don’t be a hero. Get your head down.”
I reply without complying.
“When was the last time we lost more than one in an attack?”
That starts something. Notes are compared. Clem even calls his oppo in Unit Two. End result: nobody can remember.
Bert burps softly.
“I seem to have started something. Try this: how often do we lose that one trooper?”
The casualty schedule checking is easy after Clem calls Sergeant Winifred, his brother-in-law, and head of the field hospital guard.
Winifred returns the call quickly.
“Twenty-five days ago. Twenty-one before that. Then twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-one, twenty-three… You get the idea?”
Damon curses under his breath.
“Full moon.”
Oh, frack. Of course. This place has a twenty-odd day lunar cycle.
“We lose a trooper on the night of each full moon.”
Sandy pulls out his datapad and starts hunting hard.
“What’s up?”
He replies, but doesn’t look up.
“We’re tasked with maintaining a presence so the locals don’t molest our scientific expeditions.”
“So?”
“Before we arrived, they took casualties. I’m reconciling their losses with ours,” he points at the screen, “and it ties up. Every full moon.”
Sergeant Winifred chimes in.
“Didn’t early survey reports mention something about sacrifices?”
Bert nods, then speaks, realising Winifred can’t see him nod.
“Yes. One of the positive influence points was us being able to persuade the locals into stopping the ritual killings.”
Sandy states it.
“Persuade? Or offer up disposable, non-local victims?”
Damon shudders.
“That’s fracked.”
Bert shakes his head.
“Just because you’re not paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to sacrifice you.”
We laugh. Then go silent.
Sergeant Winifred breaks first.
“What next?”
Clem points at me.
“If the kills are arranged, then whatever’s doing them has clearance for our detectors. I think Lieutenant Billy should raise a zero-tolerance alert next full moon.”
He’s right. The system won’t allow tampering, but a hostile action state negates all exceptions, and lasts two days before it’s queried.
I nod to Clem.
“Excellent idea. Plus we service all weapons the day before.”
Twenty-three days later we’re having breakfast when the intruder alarm howls. Sentry batteries snort out a barrage of lethal. Something crashes to the ground over by Unit 2.
We get there in time to meet Sergeant Winifred.
“Big, winged hostile carrying a standard issue sniping beamer. Verified by serial number.”
They even provided the weapons!
“Secure imagery and evidence.”
I look about.
“Units One and Two, pack it up! We all RTB, then kick up a fuss. Go public and wide.”
I’m betting the few responsible will fade back, letting selected idiots take the fall. Doesn’t really matter. We’ll stop losing friends.
Revenge will have to be done carefully, but it’s inevitable. There will be an accounting.
by Julian Miles | Oct 7, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
George is waving his arms about again: never a good sign. Neela catches my eye and nods towards him, raising her eyebrows and frowning. Receiving the ‘sort it out’ message loud and clear, I take a last drag, then stub out my smoke.
His voice fades in as I approach.
“…then they got control of Area 51 and it all went sideways. The Belters wouldn’t tolerate a Saurian takeover, and the Ice Guardians are notorious for striking down any who threaten the Great Gates – Hiya, Mike – so Breakout Two instigated the genocide early to prevent further chaos.” He points at me. “Couldn’t wait to hear me finish my reveal of the Antarctic Deep Bastions, eh?” Waving to the half-dozen new arrivals gathered about him, he shakes his head, “You’ll have to wait until I’ve finished bringing the latest intake up to speed on our vital role in stopping the completion of the satanic agenda.”
I take a deep breath, consider my options, then speak.
“That’s enough, George.”
He looks at me.
“Enough what? We have to be ready for the call up. That means preparation, and our scavenging must change: it has to prioritise weapons and IED components. It’s too focussed on things to make us comfortable, and we all know how dangerous getting complacent can be: idle minds are grist for Satan’s mill.”
More than enough.
“Where’s Justin, George?”
He waves his hand towards the tents just visible under the trees.
“Volunteered for chores with Pilly. Doing his part, like I’m trying to. Gillian-”
No.
“What about Gillian?”
He catches my change of tone and pauses, momentarily nonplussed.
“She said I should-”
His face goes slack with surprise as Justin wanders up, arriving from the direction of the fish ponds – they’re on the opposite side to the tents. He’s hand-in-hand with Pilly.
“Mum said we’re trying to survive after an apocalypse, but instead of facing reality, you carry on with the fantasies that let you feel important. You told her she’d been perverted by Satan into trying to stop your holy mission. So mum left.”
I nod to him. Polite, but with an edge of anger. Entirely justified.
“Satan lured her away to serve the Saurians. Just you wait: she’ll be back with their lackeys soon, and you’ll all rue the day you ignored me.”
I look about until I spot Chas, our de facto leader. Catching his eye, I raise my eyebrows in query. We’ve talked about our resident conspiraloon often. I think we’ve finally hit decision time. Chas raises one finger, then hitches his thumb towards the entrance. Once chance or out. Got it.
“George, it’s time to choose. Either you shut up and start working with us, or you leave.”
He looks surprised.
“What? No, no. You’re wrong. You need me. I know about what’s really happening. All this,” he waves his hands about, “is a distraction from the satanic agenda. They’re-”
Gillian shouts.
“Coming to enslave us so their conquest of the Earth in Satan’s name will be complete? Or is it to kill us all to spite God? I could never work out which.”
She strolls up, trail pack and rifle cradled in her arms.
“I’m back, puddin’. Time for you to leave.”
George seems to shrink under her gaze.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Satan’s whore. But we both have our crosses to bear, don’t we?”
He looks at those gathered about us, then turns to me.
“Walk me out?”
I nod. The least I can do is endure his final rant.
