by Julian Miles | Nov 3, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles
“Master Osho. The candidates are assembled.”
My brush completes the stroke, leaving a perfect curve upon the paper. I place the brush down on its rest and look up at Matsushige.
“Thank you. I will attend momentarily.”
I examine my completed calligraphy. It is a summation of who we are, to hang in the anteroom of the great hall:
“In feudal Nihon, the place where you were born would define your worth in the eyes of society. We were the Burakumin, the ‘hamlet people’; the untouchables. We were only permitted to hold the most demeaning jobs. If we had the misfortune to also be classified as Eta (literally: ‘abundance of filth’), we could even be murdered with impunity, as we were only deemed to be worth one seventh of a ‘real’ human. That determination was made by a magistrate in the nineteenth century. In the twentieth century we were blacklisted by employers. In the twenty-first, the blacklists were scrutinised by the parents of those we wanted to marry. Only the crime syndicates, the Yakuza, welcomed us. Despite protestations of equality, when the Rising Sun ascended to the stars, Burakumin were taken to run the environmental systems and other things that ‘nice’ people could never be expected to soil their hands with.”
I smile. It never pays to forget that kami play a long game.
“When the Gristplagues struck, those in the overdecks fell victim, their souls and bodies weakened by lives of labourless luxury. The remedies of our healers were useless. That was when Gusamin remembered Tsunetomo’s words in the Hagakure, about how the end of the samurai era had been heralded when the remedies for samurai ceased to work, yet those for women started to be effective on men. Gusamin rightly consigned the sexism to history, but sought out the long-unused ‘samurai-specific’ remedies. Those ancient arts worked for every soul in the underdecks, but only caused pain to those from the overdecks, without providing a cure.”
That had been the turning point.
“Gusamin worked with Grandmaster Osho to define what had occurred. The mission had to continue: taking us all to new worlds. So my predecessor stated that, by empirical proof of Yamamoto Tsunetomo’s own words, Burakumin had become the new Samurai. As we were self-determined, we would not shame that title. We would adopt the Ronin name and bring honour to it by fulfilling the mission. Overdeck and underdeck became the ‘Ship’, and we Ronin continue to lead a united people to the stars.”
In truth, we are all Ronin now.
Turning from the parchment, I stroll from my office and stand upon the balcony, looking down at the two hundred men and women gathered below.
“Today you start our future. To be Ronin is to be one of the manifest kami that keep the Ship on its journey. You will learn. You will train. You will bring pride to your families. There is no failure. You have made it here. All that remains is determining what role you can excel at. Standing among you could well be Osho the Fifteenth. Nothing is impossible.”
The upturned faces are hopeful, happy and strong. The survivors of the overdecks intermarried and the word ‘Eta’ has finally been consigned to its rightful place: an unacceptable insult that is fading from use.
by Julian Miles | Oct 20, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It sat there, yellow feline eyes glowing gently in a face that reminded me of the top of a burned rice pudding. Short, bald, muscular – if what moved under the garment was muscle – and completely at ease.
“Can you understand me, Evan?”
The voice was husky, comforting: grandfather telling a funny tale on an autumn eve comforting.
I nodded.
“Good. Now, are you ready to depart?”
I looked beyond it to where Alicia, the kids and the cat hung in the lounge air without visible reason. They seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
Licking my lips, I coughed to bring up a voice: “But what about our folks? The police? Government?”
The cat-gremlin-pudding shook its head: “This invitation is for you, and it has been extended to your immediate domestic unit as a courtesy. There is no time for you to include anyone or anything else, and your time is swiftly running out.”
“No. I mean warning the people. So they can prepare.”
The spines that lined his paw/claw nipped my chin: “One more time for the hard of believing: your planet has contained a dormant entity that was trapped during the creation of this solar system. That entity has now healed to a point where it is able to continue journeying. Which requires it to climb out of confinement, an act that will sunder this planet into at least two pieces. The resulting devastation will be inimical to every order of life above single-cell organisms. For most of them, it will be a quick end. For the unlucky ones, it will be a lingering death. Your species is predicted to be the seventy-fourth to expire. I am part of an evacuation initiative. We cannot rescue everything, so we have selected at random. You are now one of the few with the option to flee.”
I shook my head. Something was wrong. Something beyond the alien in my dining room…
“But –”
The paw/claw squeezed and tears ran down my cheeks.
“No ‘but’. You may accept this offer or face the end of your world, race and life.”
“We must be able to do –”
It dropped me. I wasn’t even aware it had lifted me. I heard my family hit the carpet.
Yellow eyes blinked and faded. The wide maw remained: “A brave decision. I do not understand it, but it was yours to make. Die gently.” The teeth faded out and Alicia screamed.
We were huddled on the lounge floor sobbing and shaking when events on the television caught our attention.
“We interrupt this program to go live to Yellowstone National Park.”
“This is Anton Fielder. I am coming to you live from the K-News 24 chopper, high above Yellowstone. As you can see, a massive disturbance is occurring. We are not sure what that object is, possibly some kind of superdense tornado effect, but it extends from the heart of the Yellowstone caldera up into the storm clouds. To give you an idea of its size, the peak between us and the phenomenon is Mount Washburn!”
I looked at the picture and saw the gargantuan tentacle that had erupted into the skies. As I watched, Mount Washburn seemed to leap toward the camera. The screen went black.
We hugged and cried as the room started to shake. I sobbed apologies and Alicia told me I had nothing to apologise for. I couldn’t articulate why.
That wrong feeling had not been the alien. It was like when birds sensed they needed to flee a cataclysm.
I had been too civilised to recognise my survival instinct.
by Julian Miles | Oct 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Section three. All clear.”
That’s Christov. Which is clever, because according to the heartbeat monitor I have, Christov’s heart stopped beating ninety-four seconds ago.
My claw comes down on the ‘Section Three Purge’ button as people about me register my movement and open their mouths to shout. Far to our west, an outlying section of the metropolis dies under neutron charge detonations and layered EMP.
“Section three was compromised one hundred seconds ago. The dead man talking confirmed it.”
Shock registers, then sorrow, gratitude, and finally: renewed resolve.
Nanowar is a tainted thing, a combination of chess, sociopathy and gambling. As the enemy can work through things so small, a certain paranoia has to be practised, and it is hard keeping the equivalent of Level Three Disease control everywhere that could be threatened. Errors occur. People die before they are even aware of being killed – or even invaded.
I am a Telemeter, the latest edge for my side. A totally sealed armoured unit, impervious to anything below macro-scale invasive attack. I look like a giant beetle and move with a silence that makes anyone who has a fear of multi-legged things incapable of working with me.
My purpose is to monitor everyone else, to make tactical decisions and enact suppression routines that are simply too hard for humans to make in the correct timeframe. They lose precious seconds in emotional quandaries, seconds that cannot be lost if we are to counter the insurgencies.
“Section four. All clear.”
That’s Michaela. She’s clever, and has a heartbeat too.
I do not move.
There are sighs of relief.
by Julian Miles | Oct 2, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There is always an uncertainty after you’re restored. The time between your last backup and the point when you died is an unknown. You can get various synopses if you ask, and you can catch up with the events via media reports or conversations with those who saw you. But you weren’t there. It can be difficult to reconcile.
“Finally, for conspicuous gallantry in the face of overwhelming odds: for giving his life to save his comrades, I award this Conciliator Star to Officer Banto Rhees.”
I never thought of myself as a hero. Never considered myself to have the right mindset to plunge into a room full of drug-crazed Neo-Jamaican heavies, taking multiple hits before using one of their own grenades to take them all out, allowing my team to use that gap in the encirclement to escape their own certain deaths.
Police work never gets any easier. I hear that even the rural beats have drug labs and water smugglers to deal with, these days. It’s a thankless task, bringing law to the lawless while politicians, press and custodians watch for the slightest deviance from their perceptions of ‘proper police procedure’.
My grandfather came to the UK from Nigeria in search of a police force that wasn’t venal and corrupt. By and large, he found it. My dad served until his retirement, and I went into the police after two years in the army, having gone in straight from college. You could say that police work is in my blood. You would also be right in saying detective work is in my blood, as my dad spent thirty years as one.
Thirty years. Plus a decade of my own experience. So when I checked my comrades’ reports of my heroic demise and found that they were identical, one of my father’s first lessons came to me: “Witnesses never see the same thing. They never say the same thing, either. Unless they practice their stories. Which always means the witnesses have something to hide.”
I have a medal and a team who actively assisted – or caused – my heroic death in the line of duty. I think I shall use the commendation to facilitate me following in my father’s footsteps: a transfer from Armed Response to New Scotland Yard. Then I shall investigate just how many murderers are hiding behind my medal.
by Julian Miles | Sep 11, 2015 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Hawking proposed that information was not consumed by black holes, just held in super-translation holograms at the event horizon. I proposed that stored information is always accessible. Discounting the chaotic infoforms emitted as Hawking radiation, I was sure that there had to be a way to interrogate the universe’s archives.
Like the rest of humanity, I had witnessed the global schisms instigated by the Transit phenomena, although I was only a child. To me, the ability to switch from physical body to virtual was a magical thing. By the time the Hawking proposals were reaching tenuous confirmation, I had been Transited for over a century. With the fortune made by my own work multiplied nearly a hundredfold by speculators eager to reap the rewards of the biggest big data to ever exist, I spent the next century working with the most brilliant minds I could find. Many of them so brilliant that science regarded them as crazy.
Being Transited, I needed no life support of other bulky luxuries. The huge, freespace-built drive unit to carry the superdense, solid-state device I had transferred my consciousness to was fired up on what would have been my two-hundred and fiftieth birthday. Within minutes of launch I had attained ludicrous speeds, heading towards V404 Cygni faster than anything man had ever built. From that pinnacle, my ship dived into subspace and I left what is termed as reality for a while.
When I returned from the place where machines misbehave unless sentience is within to keep them anchored, I beheld V404 – and experienced helpless terror.
I remained in the throes of that terror until ejected by my vessel, whereupon I entered a state that I can only describe by theoretical allegory. If one was being eaten alive, I suspect the experience may share some with what I felt. The flashes of pain, the reduction of sensation, the frantic thrashing of phantom limbs. That last one finished me. I had never missed my body, until then – the moment where my consciousness was dying.
The blackness took me in chunks, something wholly alien to my digitised perceptions of self. When the dark consumed me, I was puzzled by my continuance, before resolving to at least fade away with some vestige of grace.
Then the community reached me and night turned to day.
And that is where I remain, dwelling in a proof of Hawking’s contestation that goes so far beyond it as to almost make it erroneous.
Everything is here. The information of a universe consumed. The sentiences of all those consumed, too. Not all survive intact, but those that do not are purposed with whatever they can achieve. Our reality is a toroid of super-translated data holograms architected by the sentiences that survived the transition into it.
This place grows as the hungry infostar we encircle draws in and translates everything without into dataforms within.
Of all the wonders I have encountered, it is the fact that I am content that staggers me most. This place is, I believe, the nearest a scientist can get to heaven.
