by Julian Miles | May 27, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
My peers are very fond of saying how they ‘were fortunate’ or ‘spotted an opportunity’. The more honest have momentary shadows in their eyes when they say it. The raw truth is that to accumulate this much wealth, we’ve taken opportunities, money, and even lives from others.
Not theft or murder per se, but somewhere along the line we’ve all cut people off from the chance to better their lot. In some cases, we merely committed the crime before they did. But in most cases, they won’t even know what they lost. A vanishingly small number of them are aware. The aftermath of the loss either makes them better people, or makes them bitter people. However, becoming inured to the damage we do is part and parcel of becoming the rich people we are. No, I’m not attempting to excuse myself. I’m as guilty as any of us. My realisations have come via unexpected paths for different reasons.
Interstellar trade allowed us access to riches quite literally beyond our wildest dreams. Except one: eternal life. Apparently, the desire to enjoy your wealth for longer is a common theme regardless of species. The other common theme is that extending lifespans is an incredibly difficult thing to do, and prohibitively expensive to attempt. Many of us have been trying, some more desperately than others. You can buy many things, but you can’t bribe the fears you carry in your mind, and fear of death appears to be rife.
Which brings me to the other problem. Those of us who are truly honest about our methods are frequently less averse to more direct ways to get what they want. Entire research teams have been killed. Family members abducted. The vile game of applied force is a lot deadlier when the only law that can restrain the participants is the one regarding loyalty and strength in numbers.
I’ve spent more on securing and concealing the work than the work itself, and I’ve spent billions on that. After ten years the end result of it all was the discovery that mass and genetics play a huge part in the effectiveness of the treatment. If humans remained the size of twelve-year-olds, we could probably live for hundreds of years. As is, we literally outgrow the means to save ourselves from aging. Despite that, I had the teams persevere. They thought I was desperate to find a flaw in their research. I didn’t tell them otherwise.
A year later, they presented me with a single syringe with contents that literally glowed. Then they told me what it did, and what it couldn’t.
“Providing the recipient is under forty kilos, it will restore the body, but cannot heal brain deterioration or damage. Also, we estimate it will only give an extra twenty years of life, at best. Finally: what it does is not repeatable. It is a one-time benefit.”
I swore them to secrecy, and paid them well enough to keep quiet for a few years. This discovery shouldn’t remain hidden, but I’m selfish: I want a while to enjoy this in peace.
I cried while I took the syringe home.
As I sit and watch Bonta tear about the back field in fierce, barking delight at being able to run freely after so long incapacitated, I finally understand what being wealthy should be about.
by Julian Miles | May 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nine at night and residential roads are empty. Everybody is safe inside, either working or enjoying approved leisure activities. Meanwhile, on the intercity hyperways, traffic provides cover for duels between the dishonest and the diligent.
My control board emits an annoying bleep. Somebody is being exceptionally diligent.
“Unidentified perpetrator, westbound on the Coastal hyperway. Stop now or we will deploy countermeasures that may endanger your life.”
Now there’s a voice I haven’t heard for a couple of years.
“Hello, Constable O’Conner.”
There’s a pause.
“That you, Nat?”
Good memory.
“Hi, Tuhina. How’s life treating you?”
“It’s Sergeant O’Conner.”
No surprise there.
“Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
I split-screen, then let the other Trefoil slide into the outside lane and accelerate to 400kph. I love the Coastal, it has no corners tighter than ten degrees.
“Smooth power-up, Nat. What are you piloting these days?”
Ah-ah. No clues.
“Still running my old Trefoil. You mean you haven’t got an image yet?”
“Your ‘old Trefoil’ has some remarkable anti-detection technology. My team are telling me it’s so new it’s likely military. Probably loot from that raid at Aldershot last week.”
You think that’s well-hidden? Just wait.
“There’s no challenge if I tell. You’d be disappointed.”
“I’m more disappointed that you’re still stealing. Were you involved in the assault and Dargurrium heist at Ashford Spaceport earlier?”
Sadly, yes. I hate working with amateurs, especially when they’re violent, but needs must.
“I’m just a driver, Tuhina. But I did pick up this cargo south of the spaceport.”
“You’re a lot more than a driver. You’re a planner. I’ve done my homework on you, Nathaniel Rupert Barslan.”
Fame at last. Whoopee.
Passing Southampton, I accelerate to 600kph, then reach across and switch the main to autopilot. I need to concentrate on not crashing.
“That’s quite the pace you’re setting. You do realise we have drones that are faster?”
Of course I do. I’m relying on them.
“You do realise it’ll cost you one to stop me?”
“Good chance you’ll die.”
“We had this conversation last time. Same answers: I’m not stopping, and you’ll not catch me.”
“Last time I gave you the benefit of my doubt.”
The view lurches to the left, tilts upward, shows a dizzying display of sky and tarmac, then breaks down into static.
Her voice is a whisper.
“Not this time. Sorry.”
Decisive. I like that.
“Forgiven, Tuhina.”
“You’re still alive! Hang on, Nat, the crash crews should be with you in about ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
Switching back to manual, I keep going north on the MM3 hyperway, apparently a transplant courier on the way to Manchester. Licensed to travel at 800kph, ten minutes will put me over a hundred kilometres away. After a brief stop at a service station, I’ll be heading into Wales as a bonded courier with MOD clearance. We didn’t just steal stealth tech from Aldershot.
By the time anybody guesses what probably happened, I’ll be on holiday. The stealth tech netted me a fortune. The Dargurrium’s for a trade to get me offworld.
Until then, all I have to do is drive.
“Still with me, Nat?”
I check the timer. Eight minutes elapsed – there’s the service station.
“Where else would I be?”
“If you’re as smart as only I think, my crash team is watching a decoy Trefoil burn.”
Oh, you’re good.
“That would be quite the feat, Sergeant. Too much for a buster like me.”
There’s a pause, then she whispers.
“You stealthy gearhead bastard. You’re gone again, aren’t you?”
“Catch you next heist, Tuhina.”
There’s a pause, then I hear her laugh.
“That’s my line.”
by Julian Miles | May 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nineteen hundred tomorrows, and of them, only I got to see a dawn.
The world below is still burning in places: unfortunate for the natives that their home arrived at the same strategically important position as the main battle fleets of two conflicting interstellar empires.
I’ve tuned into their broadcasts. While I can only grasp the meaning of a word here and there of any language they transmit in, the colours are wonderfully vivid. Some of their feeds seem to be dedicated to landscapes, and they were truly beautiful.
Live feeds just show fields of seared ruins littered with the remains of Coleandi and Drutteln warships. The recordings of those wrecks descending like gargantuan bolts of fury are as terrifying as they are awe-inspiring.
What puzzles me the most is the tone of the live reports: they really seem to believe themselves to be the targets of this! As if any of us would bother with a race still engaged in local wars. They haven’t even got orbital colonies yet. How could they possibly consider themselves worthy of invasion?
I’m sure the clumsy white vessels that have risen on gigantic columns of flame are not here to succour anything, either. They’re scavengers, and military-aspected ones at that. While looking for secrets, they’ll be equally happy to find survivors to interrogate.
I’m also sure their ways are as primitive as their cultures, and those cultures are about to get a massive skip-ahead in warfare and spacefaring technologies.
Which is why I’ve recorded this. The nowhere planet I’m orbiting in an escape pod is the third from the Sun in the Nactenid 34 system. The natives call it Earth, and they’re going to be a threat if they don’t exterminate themselves while learning to misuse our technologies. I recommend a watch be placed on them as soon as possible.
As for me, it doesn’t matter if I was Coleandi or Drutteln. I’m not going to let myself be taken and tortured. By the time you see this, I’ll have joined the remains of my nineteen hundred orbiting above a planet gearing up to commit atrocities during a war they can’t win, but very likely will be convinced they can.
This will be transmitted outbound on the emergency channels of both empires.
Forgive me as I close with the blessing of my clade, that has ridden with us from the shallow valleys of our homeland to every place we find our rest: ‘Find you glory in peace, that war never lure you into folly.’
Live fair, ride free, sleep well.
Teldan Hanvu.
by Julian Miles | May 6, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The loading bay is spotlessly clean – the sort of polish only drone cleaners can achieve. Of all the things officers love, shiny metal in any form still wins.
“Captain Reese.”
I turn to Sarah. She’s shiny too, but only in places. By the time she’s finished, she won’t reflect light at all.
“Yes?”
“I have a question.”
She’s the most inquisitive of the new intake, and always has questions. I’m alone in considering it a good thing.
“Ask away. You know I don’t mind.”
“Major London was insistent that I always ask permission. Said it was ‘correct protocol for servants’.”
He would.
“Best you abide by that, but flag the ‘correct protocol’ definition as rumour.”
“Done. Thank you.”
“So, your question?”
“Why do I have nipples?”
Errr…
“I don’t know. Never even considered it, either.”
“I overheard one of the technicians in Project Chevalier said it was because we were ‘designed to be the wet dream of robot-fixated monsterfuckers everywhere’.”
Really? That opens up some disturbing possibilities regarding civilian uses of this technology.
I step back so I can take in the full view of her spider/horse centaur form. Four metres of body rests on six legs with the tail antenna curving up, reminiscent of a scorpion. At the front the structure curves inward and upward, blending into the upper body, which is clearly feminine human in form, and disproportionate to the lower body. Now she mentions it, I’m sort of horrified the dichotomy didn’t strike me sooner.
“I don’t know about that, but you’re right to question things like this. Curiosity keeps soldiers alive.”
Actually it’s paranoia, but close enough.
She slings a laser rifle across her back, then rests her hands on the cooling vanes of the racked phalanx blaster affixed to the hardpoint extending forward from her lower body.
“Before I decided to seek clarification, I did consider the matter for a long while. As you said before: spur of the moment non-combat questions often waste time.”
I keep forgetting she’s effectively got an eidetic memory.
“What did your considerations come up with?”
“I started from the basic truths of my existence: I am an assault unit, inhuman, all machine. Underneath I’m a hyperalloy combat chassis – microprocessor-controlled and fully armoured. ‘Very tough’ was the judgement of the field trial observers.
“Factored against that are the details of my upper body, clearly influenced by Sorayama. It’s extensively reinforced with coltanium to allow this undersized torso and arms to support the loads mandated in the design. Somebody deliberately created me to look like this. I became more curious when I could find neither reference nor reason within any of the project documentation.”
I bet you couldn’t.
“Sarah, I’d guess at some artistic attempt to incorporate elegance into a brutal war machine, and yes, there might well be fetishistic elements within that.”
If you’re as good as I think you are, you’re ahead of me in realising the sexual aspects could act as a lure for recruitment. Some tech officer even decided your official designation is S1R3N. I bet they thought that was clever and funny.
“An adequate reply, Captain. Thank you. I have one final question, if I may?”
“Go for it.”
“Are there any camouflage directives or uniform rules that prevent me from adding a peephole brassiere to my combat ensemble? It may add psychological advantage.”
I-
Wh-
F-
‘Psychological advantage’…?
I give up and burst out laughing.
“Restrict yourself to colours that complement the CADPAT palette for the applicable theatre of operations, Siren One.”
“Noted, Captain. Thank you.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The nightlight downgrades again, becoming a dim glow. Frankie squints at it, then turns his attention back to me, pupils wide above the patched duvet cover that contains more shredded dry rubbish than actual duvet.
“Tell me about the Call to Arms.”
I shake my head. Every week his school feed has some programme or other that favourably portrays the event that redefined humanity. I can always tell which day, because Frankie asks to be told about the Call to Arms at bedtime.
“Okay, kiddo. Settle down.”
He wriggles for a bit, then gives me a thumbs up.
“It was a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday in August 2025. I was sat in the park with your mum and dad. We were watching a dog chase a frisbee when everything went dark.”
I dropped my beer. They were just starting to laugh when we looked up to see a city-wide Gandrax warship. Their laughter died.
“We were so scared, but couldn’t move. Next thing we knew, there’s a voice in our heads. They said: ‘Fear not, peoples of Earth, we come in peace to beg your aid in resisting the forces that would exterminate us. We will provide you with our science and technology if you will agree to provide us with your strength.’”
Another case of telling a big enough lie.
“Governments met them. We all watched the tall, beautiful humanoids with purple skin float down from their ships all across the world. They brought so many gifts.”
Frankie murmurs drowsily.
“Like the one that made mum better?”
“Yes. Like that.”
How could we deny visitors from space who opened negotiations by providing the cure for cancer? From there to the world-governing Human Defence Alliance took a shockingly short time.
“The Gandrax visited so many people, playing games with children, meeting everybody they could between their resting times.”
Frankie snores softly into his pillow. I wait, but he’s drifted off early: sound asleep.
The Gandrax couldn’t handle Earth gravity for long periods, but making sure to meet every major protest group in livestreamed debate was a brilliant strategy. They either won over the protestors, or the protesters ended up appearing like selfish lunatics. Within six months, all disagreement had been marginalised.
After that, society started ‘gearing up’ to assist the Gandrax with a truly frightening single-minded enthusiasm. Humanity had finally been given a ‘big bad’ that wasn’t human. They were united against a common enemy: the evil Hiltula.
Now the global population are either soldiers, or working in factories to support the soldiers. Society revolves around sending those soldiers off to fight among the stars.
Frankie has three years before he goes into an HDA Youth Battalion. His mum is dreading it. I’m terrified – I know what happens next.
I’m part of a Hiltula Observation team that’s been on Earth since 1952. Having no idea how the Gandrax were recruiting their alien armies, this operation spread across several suitable worlds to find out. Watching them manipulate human society into the wretched state it reached in late 2024 was harrowing. I can’t see how we Hiltula and our allies can fight the Gandrax without becoming as bad as them, but greater minds than me are working on it.
2050 is when humanity ‘ships out’. Soon after that the Gandrax will strip Earth down to bedrock. Not one human soldier will ever be coming home: the fate of cannon fodder remains the same, regardless of the technology involved in a war.
We’ve got two decades to stop them. I hope those greater minds are working fast.
