by Julian Miles | Feb 6, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Old Avon looks up: “That’s going to cost you.”
He always says that. Doesn’t matter if you pick up a piece of twine or a gold ring, his opening lines are fixed.
I grin: “Can’t be worth much if it’s ended up here.”
“It’s here for someone. Worth will be determined by them.”
That’s not his usual banter.
I try to roll with it, words coming too quickly: “What if that someone is me?”
He smiles, knowing he’s thrown me: “If it is, I’ll give it to you.”
There’s no guile in his eyes. He means it. I just stand and look at him, the little box almost forgotten in my hand.
“Open it, laddie.”
I bring it up to my eyes. I never wear glasses outside, so things like this need to be up close. I rotate the box and jump when a cold corner brushes the tip of my nose. Avon chuckles.
It’s dark grey stone, polished to the point where it looks wet. The minuscule filigree gold and silver knotwork must be machine-etched, as I’m pretty sure any artist would have gone crazy trying to do that.
“He made it for his first love, a girl named Helene. When they parted, she gave it away. Said it was an embodiment of love and desire. Said it needed to carry on the truth he betrayed.”
Sure it was. Made ‘with love’ in a sweatshop in Kirkuk.
I open it. There’s a little silver sword set into the underside of the lid. Music starts. It’s not tinny, it’s not some sad old ballad. It’s like there’s an invisible band about me, playing their hearts out. Instrumental. I know the words. Can’t quite remember them.
“Please say you’re not going to buy that.”
I turn my head and meet green eyes. Just. I know? Emeralds. We danced. Music. Like this? What? She’s smiling and it makes the freckles across her cheeks darken.
She repeats her query in French.
“My dad was French. He didn’t stay long enough to teach me.” Why did I just tell her that?
The eyes seem to get bigger: “I could teach you.” She looks nearly as surprised as I probably do.
Suddenly, something makes sense. I tear my eyes away and speak to Avon.
“Give it to her.”
Avon smiles: “I was thinking the same thing. Your first gift.”
What?
I turn back and the eyes are waiting to swallow my ability to speak.
“You’re serious? You’d give that to me?”
Avon laughs: “Only if you take him for a cuppa and a bacon sarnie.”
She glances at him. I feel words brimming under my tongue. Then she looks back, and I’m mute again.
“I’m Jen. Jenny.”
I can speak!
“Art. Arthur.”
She smiles even wider and I feel things inside me dance to the music. I have no idea what it means, and I don’t care. She reaches out and closes the box with one hand while linking her other arm through mine.
“Let’s go, Art.”
Aldo watches them stroll off before settling to pack his stall. It’s been a long sojourn, but the nudging of societies toward the future is a delicate thing. There is no longer any room for grandiose schemes. Every future king was once a child, and good parents achieve more than good intentions ever did.
A decrepit van pulls up. The woman who gets out moves with a grace that defies her wizened features.
“Come on. It’s a long way to the next pitch.”
He smiles: “Hush, Nyneve. We always have time.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 31, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dead-pirate-flying slams past me in silent majesty, drives blazing, weapon ports opening.
I kick the pedals to accelerate port and ahead, then split the sticks: left fully forward, right hard back. There’s a lurch that makes my stomach churn, then we’re pointing back the way we came from a few moments ago. This sort of manoeuvrability is what you get when you take an armoured mining ship and dump all the asteroid grappling machinery. Enough power to push a small moon at luxury liner speeds, with only a fraction of the weight, and vectored thrust ports pointing in all six directions.
Dead-pirate-flying isn’t expecting the ‘scow’ it’s facing to turn like an interceptor. It’s still coming about to place it in an ideal firing position for where I should be.
When they took the asteroid grappling gear out, I got them to leave the huge mantle-cutting beam projector that runs down the centreline of the ship. Everything about me dims as it unleashes a blast of energy designed to punch a hole through a medium sized moon.
I watch as dead-pirate-flying folds inwards around the scintillating crater made by my energy burst. Any moment –
Now! The whole mess turns into a rapidly expanding sphere of hot and lumpy. My frontal shields shed light and I’m thrown about in my seat while various laws of physics have a brawl outside.
The light show finishes. I’m still here: my shields won.
“Parker! You still breathing?”
I grin: “Sure am, Admiral. Just converted another pirate to cinders and dust.”
“You and your mutated asteroid thumper. I keep having to explain why there’s never anything left to analyse.”
“Only to the armchair experts, I’m betting.”
“Too right. Our bounty balance loves you, but not as much as the parents of the late Ellis Mortimer do.”
“He was the kid in the yacht?”
“Yeah. The engineer who evacuated the passengers then used the yacht to shield their pod from the pirates. His last words were ‘Find these bastards and kill them for me’.”
There you go, Ellis. Hail and farewell.
by Julian Miles | Jan 24, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The Nighthawk café is quiet. In the dim light cast by grimy neon tubes, two men sit nursing mugs of coffee and shot glasses of whisky.
“Looks good, Crow. Looks good.”
The older of the two waves his hand, encompassing the café and buildings nearby.
“Thanks, Jonah. The ‘Nighthawk’ is the heart of this. People have so much to talk on, since the war.”
“Yeah, every man and woman served. Makes for some deep common ground. Conversations go better when you’ve got shared experience. And, if the experiences are grim enough, truths come out.”
Crow coughs and grins: “Ain’t that a fact. But, the truth that built this came from my old man. He always said ‘when everything changes, take time to watch how people change in response, before you make a move’.”
“That’s why you didn’t reopen the bar straight after disarmament?”
“Yes. Looking after a bar was a good game for lively types before the war. You should know, you were one of my regular bouncers. But, the war changed the game. So, I took the old man’s advice. Let every other joint open up, thinking business was back to normal.”
“How could it be, after ten years of hell-on-Earth?”
“Spot on. The new bars got torn to pieces, restaurants demolished, concert halls razed. Everyone knew how to fight: every brawl became a battle when you threw in PTSD and other lingering souvenirs. That’s when law enforcement resorted to simply holding perimeters until the fighting died out.”
“But you learned.”
“I did. The new place has a stage with force screens to protect the band. The arena is a single piece of cerasteel – nothing that can be torn up for use as a weapon. The bars are shuttered and all drinks come in paper mugs.”
“I miss pint glasses at gigs.”
“Levels of violence change things.”
“Sadly. So, I understand the Nighthawk, and ‘Fortress’: the arena. But a hospital?”
“The bands I host are energetic. The audience is always violently enthusiastic. Seems only fair to offer to patch-up to my patrons after the event. Fun shouldn’t leave you unable to work the following week.”
“I know a few who’d disagree, but no matter.”
“I bought an army surplus field hospital. The volunteer staff just turned up, almost overnight. This area is rundown, services are scant. Free care for all stabilises the area and makes my enterprise immune to criminal pressure: they like a place that fixes combat wounds without questions.”
“I think your new generation security team might have a little to do with that immunity.”
Crow chuckles: “You could be right. They’re all former assault troopers, the fully enhanced kind. They have difficulty fitting into society. I’ve given ‘em a job where hopped-up lunatics try to kill ‘em every night. The challenge of restraining without killing works off the assault kids violent drives. Keeping the whole place safe from criminals eases their hypervigilance issues. I get top security and they get therapy – it’s a win-win situation.”
“It’s nice to be part of the audience instead of watching it, I’ll admit.”
“You should come along for the assault trooper family gigs. It’s all acoustic stuff, with throat singing and mad-ass breakdancing. It’s so strenuously peaceful, it’s insane.”
Jonah sighs: “I like the idea. Something new under this tired sun would be nice.”
“Amen to that. So, you want another shot to keep the last of the coffee company?”
“I’d like another coffee to keep the next pair of shots warm.”
Crow waves to the counterman: “Jimmy! Two more coffees, two more shots, and leave the bottle.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 16, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Tendrils of smoke rise from the ancient bridge, but it stands strong. Atop it’s singed arch, two men stand, their powered-down armour dulled by dirt and char. The tension between them is palpable, even to the concealed observers, far back on both banks. This is a moment that will go down in history, yet the witnesses are only present to prevent betrayals.
The participants nod as they acknowledge each other.
“Major Rano.”
“Brigadier Seum.”
“What now, Rano?”
“Rano’s doppelganger, to be correct.”
“Ah. You’re aware. Then all that remains is what you intend to do with the knowledge.”
“I’ve spent a while on that.”
“Before we get down to it, humour me: how did you find out?”
“The resupply after Tiranti Ridge. In amongst the crates was one that, somewhere along the way, had been used for waystation supply. It hadn’t been cleared out before reuse. There was an unopened library datapack stuck behind a stanchion. We just didn’t get that sort of stuff. So, we cued it up, browsed, and found out why. The history section was… Unexpected.”
Seum frowns: “Go on.”
“We found a whole folio on the Galahad War. About the sins committed to save our race at the brink of extinction. You cannot imagine our surprise when we found that the war ended sixty years ago. It stated that all the questionable last-ditch projects had been terminated. But someone couldn’t let the winning one go, could they?”
Seum sighs: “No.”
“The ‘Tears of Miroku’ is our base. Then we saw that, officially, it’s a ‘manifestation of hideous desperation, best consigned to history’.”
Rano looks Seum in the eye: “That’s our home, brigadier. Our sanctuary is a spacefaring war crime.”
“Mistakes were made. But defence of empire must take precedence.”
“Mistakes? You used the DNA of veterans from a war six decades gone to create clones who think the war is still going on. Our abilities bring victories because what we survived was a war like no other.”
“Put like that, I can understand where you come from.”
“No. You can’t. I’ve spent five months burying suicides and wondering how many graves bear their names. One soldier, one grave. That should be sacrosanct. It will be sacrosanct.” The last sentence is a whisper.
“What are you going to do, Rano?”
“The ‘Tears of Miroku’ is the single vessel equivalent of a modern capital fleet. We’re taking her home. Then we’re going to consign it, and us, to history.”
“A sundive? That’s not a good way to go.”
“We’re going back to what’s left of Miroku Beach. Going to turn the ‘Tears’ into the start of ‘New Miroku’. A place where we can live and die in peace.”
“And we’re meant to just let you go?”
“The ‘Tears’ is untouchable in any way you could action covertly. Plus, it still has sunbombs. New Miroku will have them as its primary defence line. Also, we’ve seeded datapacks across the empire – you come for us and some nasty history becomes intergalactic news. Oh, and I wouldn’t put it past some of my meaner boys and girls to have set a sunbomb or two near certain core worlds. Just in case someone gets a silly idea about taking out the whole Miroku system.”
“What if we insist that you confine yourselves to the Miroku system?”
“Given that non-disclosure trading with independent merchant vessels would occur, that would be acceptable.”
“Then we’re done. Good luck, Rano Ninety-Four.”
“You’re a bastard, Seum.”
“Apologies. That was a cheap shot.”
“Accepted. This must sting.”
“It does. But, Miroku is yours. Hold it hard.”
“We will.”
by Julian Miles | Jan 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The fist that passes over my noggin ain’t much smaller than my skull. The knuckles are ridged with bony plates. I see them facts register with the moke who was threatenin’ me just before his face disappears from view with a sound like a sledgehammer hitting a door.
“Boo.” Jared’s voice is deep; sounds amused. He’s nine-foot eight barefoot, and I’ve seen him toss cars like they was apples. His mama and I have no idea what his papa was, except a whole lot more than the goodfella from Marsville he claimed to be.
Jared plucks a serviette from the counter and wipes his fist: “Uncle Roy, why do they keep coming back?”
I flick a glance at Wanda, Jared’s mum. She nods. True story time.
“Long time ago, we came here from a place called Little Italy. Back then, Earth was a hellhole that we swore this new place would never become. We had our guilds and our bosses, our made men and cradle-to-grave. We could make a new world.”
“Mum’s a made man, isn’t she?”
Listen to him! No accent. Crisp English. I love this kid.
“She is, Jared. Me, too.”
“What about me?”
“I don’t think there’s a fool left in this system who’d consider you anything else. They call you ‘Walking Omerta’, you know that?”
“I only do what I learned from you: trust in blood. Everyone else, cash or obligation.”
There’s no arrogance to him. Just a purity and clarity I ain’t seen since Sister Maria left us, God rest her. He scares me more than she ever did, but in a good way.
“You do right by everyone, Jared, no mistakin’ that. Now, after our forefathers got here, we had an outbreak of politics. Shouldn’t have happened, but little men and big rewards breeds cowards and liars. End result is the set-up we have now: whole damn planet mortgaged to the Federati so lily-livered scum can keep their hold on powers the families rightly deserve. We’ll get ‘em back, just need someone we can all get behind. Politics is insidious. Softens the spine, divides familia. We need someone to lift us out of the muck, so we can see the games for what they are; realise the lies that keep us at each other’s throats.”
I watch my adoptive nephew work out a whole lot from the brief I given him. This kid’s gonna be gold.
“Those are Federati stooges that keep coming, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, Jared. They think you’re gonna be the man to lead us.”
“I’m a bit more than a man, Uncle Roy. You know that.”
Wanda bursts out laughing: “You’re Jared Montana. Named for history: both past and future. The fact that no familia can claim you is what makes you strong.”
“That’s why you and Uncle Roy never take shelter, and we spend the holidays with a different familia each year. No favours. No honour debts. Extended Omerta.”
The kid gets it! I see tears in Wanda’s eyes.
“Jared, you want to come with me on my next job? Meet some made men without family, people your mum and I think you should know.”
“The start of our familia. Building from clean ground to take the stars.”
Dammit. Kid started me cryin’ with that line.
