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    Three Hundred Tomorrows
    Three Hundred Tomorrows
    Three Hundred Tomorrows
    Ebook1,035 pages13 hours

    Three Hundred Tomorrows

    By Julian M. Miles

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    About this ebook

    Stories of intrigue, action, love, and adventure from near and far.

    Every tomorrow leads to another. The further they go from today, the stranger they could be. While we cannot predict, we can imagine. Within this book you’ll find over three hundred and forty stories taking you to visit people and places in three hundred possible futures.

    Since 2011, Julian has created an annual anthology to showcase the futures that he imagines. This omnibus collects most of the stories from the out of print first five volumes of the Visions of the Future anthology series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJulian M. Miles
    Release dateJun 30, 2018
    ISBN9780463723517
    Three Hundred Tomorrows
    Author

    Julian M. Miles

    Julian’s first loves were science fantasy and magic; the blending of ancient and futuristic. This led him to a love of speculative fiction, initially as a reader, then as a reader and writer.He started writing at school, extended into writing role-playing game scenarios, and thence into bardic storytelling. In 2011 he published his first books, in 2012 he released more (along with the smallest complete role-playing system in the world).With over 30 books published in digital and physical formats, he has no intention of stopping this writing lark anytime soon, and he'd be delighted if you'd care to join him for a book or two.

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      Book preview

      Three Hundred Tomorrows - Julian M. Miles

      Three Hundred Tomorrows

      Visions of the Future 2011-2015

      A science fantasy omnibus by Julian M. Miles

      Copyright 2018 Julian M. Miles

      Smashwords Edition

      ***

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      *****

      Contents

      Remember Then

      A Sense of Skin

      When the War is Over

      Last Dance

      Pay the Piper

      The Swamp Moon King

      Angel Rain

      Rapport

      Parting of Ways

      The Long Game

      Industrial Lies

      Always With You

      The Breeze from Beyond

      The Long Counter

      Runaway Groom

      Head of a Beggar

      Android’s Apprentice

      The Gift That Keeps on Giving

      Is My Friend

      Stringmaker

      Lowlander

      A Quiet Dawning

      Getaway Gear

      Off the Menu

      Sprake

      Red Sky at Morning

      A Lesson in Geometry

      High Fliers

      Reintroduction

      K.A.N.

      Storm Season

      Insurance

      Oni

      Reading Again

      Rancid Sunday

      Cracked Shot

      Broken Like a Bottle

      One Man’s Science

      Cleanup Crew

      The Walking Kingdom

      Pax Aqua

      Reload

      Cruel Salvation

      Every Angle

      Rainbow Blues

      Blackthorn

      Misguided

      Better the Devil You Know?

      Frontier Colossus

      Domes

      A Poet for the Plasma

      Final Solution

      Unseen Guide

      Black Rider

      I Am Battalion

      From Our Correspondent

      What Was Pete Thinking?

      Inspector

      Fakir

      Bits and Drops

      Godmoor

      Hate the Player

      Footprints on the Ceiling

      Polystars

      The Heart of the Galaxy

      Librarian’s Lament

      Carry the Blessed Home

      Lifescape

      Perimeter

      Vows

      The Death of Ricki Renaldo

      Under My Wings

      Send in the Drones

      Lord of Earth and Heaven’s Heir

      Sleeper

      He Knows

      Garner’s End

      She Fell

      Patsy

      Graduation

      Tears of a Clown

      Penalty Claws

      Ballroom Acoustics

      Tonight on ‘Enforcers’

      The Eye

      Afterlife

      We Three Kings

      Monsters

      High Space Justice

      Two Graves

      Liaison

      Field Test

      To Kill the Dead

      No Option

      Means to the End

      Point Two Point

      Point Two Point Two

      Point Two Point Three

      Jigsaw

      Agents of Fate

      The Art That Keeps

      Learn and Live

      Davy Jones’ Pearl

      Gumshoe

      Bobby Go Quietly

      Defiant

      Enrolled

      Never Going Home

      Snapforward

      Solid State

      Divide Britannia

      Rivals

      Let’s Make a Deal

      Come On In

      Defenders of Dog Isle

      All Your Realities

      Gather Unto Me

      Champion’s Lament

      Silent Partner

      Natural Selection

      Longlined

      Testimony

      Below Deck

      Self-Regulating

      Artefact

      Deus Machinae

      Believers

      A Mind of My Own

      Sanctuary

      Thinking of Jenny

      Let There Be

      One for the Team

      Not with a Bang

      Gretchen

      Moons over Miami

      Hacker

      War Fare

      Big Brother

      Momentary

      The Art of Darwin

      The Accidental Godling

      Food Chain

      End of Days

      A Matter of Scale

      Come Tomorrow

      The Alchemist

      Granted

      The Lady Is Not

      I, Rifle

      Dead Cert

      Man One Zero

      Reunion Blues

      Suriel

      In the Pink

      Jewels and Blood

      Tariff

      Old Ways

      The View From Here

      ICU

      Floribunda

      Librarian

      Crux

      Tweak

      Hot Flush

      Peeler

      Ironic

      Scrap

      Overslept

      Levy

      Secret Weapon

      Marauder

      Odourless

      Blue on Pink

      Opus for Two

      Old Gamers Never Die

      And Despair

      Schadenfreude

      A Day in the Office

      Clean Water

      Treason and Plot

      Duty

      Back to Me

      Lesson of the Snows

      Eight Below

      A Few More

      Late

      Triage

      Felix

      Shinobi

      Attitude Problem

      Flying Lessons

      Out in the Cold

      From Beyond the Gates of Death

      The Greatest Gifts

      Nervous

      Are Forever

      Utopiate

      ABC

      Totems

      Harvest the Light

      Tin Man

      Dry County

      Tenancy

      Goebbelisation

      Long Way Home

      Monochrome

      Heirloom

      Contingency Plan

      Business As Usual

      Face Down in Wonderland

      Tréigtheoir

      New Day Tomorrow

      Chronos

      R.O.E.

      Blue For You

      Forever Song

      No Further My Blood Shall Go

      Snapshot

      Metatemporal Intervention Bureau

      Full Cover

      Safety First

      Family Planning

      Moon Crossed

      Train Train

      Savages

      Run Like Hell

      Father’s Day

      The Fall

      Bleeding Edge

      Sludge Match

      Miss a Beat

      Nothing to Lose

      Fine Line

      Overqualified

      Marooned

      Expelled

      Stop Loss

      Defenestrated

      Life Long

      Nanoland

      Olifant

      Antigua Mal

      Marshal

      Stowaway

      Graceful Malaguenan

      Cantina Prescription

      Transit

      262

      Going Steady

      Back to the Weapons

      Pipeline

      Cerberus

      Future Past

      Mercy

      Hello World

      Delegate

      The Nature of the Beast

      Colossus

      Coffee

      Which Way is Up

      Little Foxes

      Orbital Decay

      Speeding

      Once Bitten

      Riph

      Catch

      Tongues

      Groundskeeper

      Treasure Hunt

      Escapist

      Goldrush

      Pour Me

      Reset

      Genesis

      Refuge

      Everybody Needs

      Silverback

      Write

      Terror Trade

      Revelation

      Chores

      Phalanx

      Broken

      Adapt

      Neighbours

      Hair of the Dog

      The Oldest Game

      Matches

      Hacked Off

      Goggle Box

      A Warrior’s Path

      Knights

      Snowman

      Hostages

      Open Sesame

      Stationary

      Ee I Ee I Oh

      Coil

      New World Border

      Streetlife

      Service or Silence

      Colony 91

      Dog of War

      Toymaster

      Memoriam

      Tools of the Trade

      Cold Smoke & Warm Tentacles

      Resistance

      Skid

      Homecoming

      Sundown

      About the Author

      Connect with Julian Miles

      Other Books by Julian Miles

      Credits

      *****

      Remember Then

      It’s not like I meant to end the world. I was just scared.

      Mike! Another side of fries for table fifteen!

      I wave a hand to acknowledge my boss. Last month, my time, she was my wife.

      And get more napkins! Her volume hasn’t changed, though.

      I found it lying in a clearing, limbs turning from purple to grey in the fastest rotting I had ever seen. I didn’t mean to hurt it, but a movement in the undergrowth had to be a deer, and we hadn’t eaten properly for weeks. So I shot blind and killed what I thought of then as a six-armed demon. There was a satchel lying on the ground nearby. Sticking out of it was a mechanical device that reminded me of a matchlock with extra cogs. So, when another ‘demon’ charged into the clearing, as I hadn’t reloaded my rifle, I grabbed the device and ‘shot’ it between its gem-like eyes.

      The world seemed to lurch and then tilt. The woodland about me withered to stumps in the blink of an eye. My clothes unravelled, and I felt stabbing pains as I drew breath. Around me, the world vanished in a kaleidoscopic tornado that had gaps showing what I now know to be the cloth of reality being rewoven. Cities that hung suspended over blue seas blew to dust as great islands of steel rose on latticed towers. Things that looked like metallic eagles of impossible size twisted to become tubes with plank-shaped protrusions for wings. In my hand, the device shimmered between states, finally settling to look like a tin can with an array of lights on the top. I peered at it as the squiggles on the side resolved into a language I could read: ‘activation without boundary limitation fields may be hazardous to the reality instance surrounding the operator’ and ‘unconstrained use may cause manifestation of temporal resilience effects’.

      When the whirling chaos faded, I stood on an expanse of waste ground between two tenements. Before me, a chain link fence sparkled briefly before fading to dull metallic grey. Then a rain of fire swept my mind. I screamed as I toppled to writhe on the ground, clutching my head. Of course, I dropped the device. There were three bass thuds, like a giant hand was knocking upon a vast door. I fainted.

      Wake up.

      I woke. Crouching next to me was a young man in an expensive suit. He held the can in one hand while prodding me gently with the other. Seeing his gem-like eyes shocked me fully awake, then the realisation of new knowledge, the new life in my head, caused tears to spurt down my cheeks.

      He nodded. It will pass. If you’re lucky, memories of your former instance will pass. If not… His voice faded away, the implications obvious. He looked down at himself. Seems like you remodelled me too. Looking up, he smiled a wintry smile. I’ll not lie. You’re a nuisance and you nearly killed me when you erased your timeline. I hope you can make something of yourself to offset the number of potentials ended by your action.

      With that condemnation, he stood up and walked off, shrinking into a distance that meant he vanished before he reached the edge of the waste ground. I rolled over and vomited myself compos mentis.

      There was nothing I could do. I was considered to be a dangerously clever man in my former time. Here, I’m just another smart-alec from a uni in the sticks. I’m studying the fundamentals of existence, while working two jobs just to stay alive. The memories of hunting through verdant woodland to provide for the family I erased have not faded.

      I have given myself ten years to achieve something of worth. If I do not, and the memories remain undiminished, I will see if the afterlife from my previous time survives and hope that my family are there.

      *****

      A Sense of Skin

      I’ve never seen Madeleine’s tattoo in this light. The new lumipanel we spent our month’s earnings on brings out the subtle shadings of the nest of orchids from which an oriental fan rises, the texture of the paper on the fan subtle and the grain of the wood showing in hazy lines through the lacquer on the struts. I can even see the brushstrokes in the calligraphy on the paper. It really is a masterpiece.

      Throughout the art, her pores and regrowing fine hairs are barely visible. They are so soft against my cheek, softer than the skin underneath, which is slightly smoother than it should be. The final stage of the ink ritual: the silverskin of healing proving that the tattoo was graven well and has settled perfectly.

      Where her tan skin shades to cream, in the places her pelt does not lie, is where she chose to have the mark. Something to show that she has free will and is not just a foxan toy for the filthy rich.

      Her body is especially clean: she prefers grooming it with her tongue and aloe gel, shunning the bathrooms and booths that spray chemicals and nanotech to scour dayclothes and dirt from you. That is why her skin smells so fresh. It’s not something you can buy and smear on, this scent of health and care.

      I blow gently across her softly ridged and etched stomach, smiling as her breathing catches. It’s a humbling wonder that in this world where the only things you own are your soul and the brain that anchors it, my merest breath is enough to ruffle her sleep with comfort.

      A gentle chime in my head tells me it’s time for me to rise from our sanctuary and put my legs on. People complain about the tiny rooms, but we love ours. Closeness is enhanced when you just stretch out your hand and friction on flesh greets your questing touch.

      We may serve them, but we will always be wealthier.

      *****

      When the War is Over

      I can hear them inside, their voices loud and fast with teenage awe. This was a bad idea; I should never have taken the assignment.

      Look at that! Hyper-alloy combat chassis, full-spectrum vision, cross-frequency hearing, graphene-fibre-augmented muscles. Mark eighteens were the best.

      Yeah, but they got decommissioned like everything else. What happened to them?

      I read that they got killed off or became freebooters.

      Not quite. The killing off bit is true. A lot of my kind got a little too fond of the murdering and destroying. There was no way they could be reintegrated into a society they left as humans.

      I reach up and press the call pad.

      You gotta be kidding! Twenty minutes? Out here?

      A girl’s voice. I’ll get it!

      There’s a chorus of negatives. Then a single male voice. Not likely. Let me get it. Johnny, get the gat.

      Smart kid. You never know who’s calling, out in the estates after dark.

      The door opens a little way.

      I smile and point at the face that appears. The gat’s a good idea, but a simple chain catch gives you the time to react.

      Oh crap. His voice has gone quiet, as his face pales in the glow of my optics.

      Good evening.

      Don’t hurt the girls.

      I bring my insulated bag into view. No intention of doing that. I’m just delivering.

      His eyes widen. You’re kidding.

      With a smile, I half-bow. Us mark eighteens have to fit in somewhere.

      He nods in comprehension. Yeah. Nobody delivers out here, it’s too dangerous.

      Precisely. Neighbourhoods overrun with crime are getting civilised quickly. All of the services are being staffed by my kind. You can’t scare or threaten something that has walked through the burning cities of Tharsis, has held the line against the mechanised tigers of Betelgeuse, or has carried the heads of his comrades back for Transit.

      The door opens wider. I see a real fire burning and a mob of kids in Steelhead T-shirts.

      Good taste in heavy metal, ladies and gents. The mark eighteens who formed that band found that celebrity made society ignore their occasional fits of devastation. It’s expected of rock stars. Lateral reintegration at its best.

      The kid tucking the gat into his thigh-high pocket smiles tentatively. You know Steelhead?

      I grin. Served with two of ‘em during the defence of Kandyr.

      The girl, presumably the sister, rushes up holding out a condensation-dripping can of beer. You wanna come in?

      With a smile, I use combat speed to extract the pizzas from the bag, hold them out to the lad who is holding out his hands, sling the bag on my back, step inside the place and pluck the beer from her hand: Love to.

      There are collective squeaks and sighs of awe. The first lad takes the pizzas and kicks the door shut with his foot.

      A boy with glasses watched my move from over the back of the settee. He swallows before commenting: That was surreal.

      I think I’m going to do well around here.

      *****

      Last Dance

      They came from heaven, or hell, or outer space, or under the sea. Earth has been invaded in every way imaginable, thanks to the imaginations of authors over the last three centuries. You would have thought, with such a rich base from which to draw inspirational tactics, that mankind would have done better when it finally happened.

      Commander! They’re reinforcing on the left flank!

      Captain Yaeger, abandon the dugouts and trenches. Return to the bastion with everyone you have, bringing everything you can.

      They came from a long way away, arriving without warning. It was midday on a beautiful summer day. By three minutes past, most of our continents were in the shadow of spaceships of every imaginable shape and size. Their bombardment was swift, devastating and surprisingly inaccurate. They missed military bases and levelled universities. Warships were ignored, while schools and libraries vanished in waves of searing energy. Hospitals were reduced to craters, while missile silos stood untouched.

      Commander! They’ve brought up snipers! We’re getting murdered here!

      Captain Durov, abandon your positions. Withdraw to the bastion with as much gear as your people can carry.

      It took us a few days to realise that they had obliterated ninety percent of humanity between the ages of four and twenty. They had removed generations of prospective resistance fighters, along with our advanced medical capabilities. The strategic analyses turned from bleak to grim.

      The raids to take infants and babies were something the analysts hadn’t predicted. Caught by surprise, our hopes for the future were whisked away. It was a devastating blow. Suicides peaked during the subsequent week.

      Commander! Looks like they’re massing for something!

      Captain Sung, abandon your positions. Retire to the bastion with your troops and as much gear as they can manage.

      Then the invasion started. They used no area-effect weapons. They came without mercy, solely for the surviving humans. Professor Grey of Roehampton produced and circulated a document that, after the first week, may as well have been humanity’s epitaph. I remember the final paragraph so well:

      ‘Our stolen children will be vassals, without history or knowledge. Our civilisation may form part of the mythology that they tell each other around the cooking fires of their simple culture. Apart from that, the works of man will be forgotten.’

      They stalk through this world, killing everyone who remains. You can see how careful they are with the environment, and how uncaring they are of anything created by us.

      Commander. Everyone is here.

      I turn from the bar and drop my cigarette end into the empty shot glass. The last of the Lagavulin is inside me. The Captains of every group are here: the finest, and the last, soldiers in the world.

      Ladies and gentlemen. Eight months ago they came to take our planet. It swiftly became inevitable. We have been fighting desperate battles and saving nothing. So, I propose an all-out attack. Simply because my dear, departed grandfather would be gutted if his bonny lad didn’t go out moving forward with a whiskey inside him, a smoke between his lips and a blazing automatic in his hand. Who’s with me?

      They look at each other.

      Captain Brewster steps forward: My dad always said that when it all goes to Hell, you want a Brit at your back. While everyone is getting weepy, he’ll be the one having a brew, checking his weapon and lighting a smoke, before asking when we’re going to stop pussyfooting about and get stuck in.

      There are nods and grins. Hands start to rise.

      Pour me a shot, grandpa. I’ll be there soon.

      *****

      Pay the Piper

      Dad said that the nannybots inside would stop the monsters from getting me. I liked that. The first night after the injection, I slept with the lights off. My nannybots would protect me. Even when mum died the next day, I knew that bad things couldn’t get me and only cried a little.

      There’s a knock on the door. I know who it is before the voice comes.

      Chloe? It’s Pietro. Can I come in?

      Of course.

      Pietro is bigger than dad ever was, and has a physique like my dad thought he had. But the main reason I like Pietro is because my nannybots like him. Having someone who can hold me without going into spasms, or being turned to sludge, is wonderful.

      How are things today?

      Better. My arm has stopped itching.

      Can I see?

      I emerge from under the sheet and hold my arm out, smiling as his eyes widen. My skin is like the softest silver-grey silk, with purple filigree patterns that change colour with my mood. Dad’s notes called them ‘nanotattoos’.

      Pietro takes my arm so gently. His touch makes my skin tingle and the filigree flushes a sparkling violet. He smiles.

      You’re complete.

      I nod: Do you think that now it’s over, we could get a pet?

      His expression drops into a frown and my filigree goes dark.

      It’ll be the same, Chloe. Your nannybots wouldn’t like it.

      I feel a tear slip down my cheek. Of all the things that my nannybots don’t like, cute furry animals are the thing we disagree about.

      What dad did to me made him rich and famous. He spent a lot of that money hiding the fact that my nannybots had only one response to things they didn’t like: they killed them. Didn’t matter if it was a common cold bug or the lady hired to teach me to play piano.

      On my fifteenth birthday, Pietro came into my life, cameraman for a sneaky reporter. He picked me up from the floor where I cried over the puddle that the reporter had become, when he tried to stop me calling my dad. My nannybots hadn’t liked that. I waited for Pietro to scream and die, but he didn’t. His words were kind, but his touch was like what mum described as ‘cool water in the desert’. I never knew that I desperately needed to touch someone, until that moment.

      Then dad rushed in shouting, before pausing mid-stride as he saw me cradled in Pietro’s arms.

      Young man, you should leave.

      I felt the arms around me turn steely: Sir, I don’t think I’ll be doing that until this lady sends me away.

      He called me a lady. Dad’s face flushed red and he grabbed Pietro’s arm. I saw the purple flash that travelled from me, through Pietro, to dad. Then dad went all stiff. He looked at me, nodded, and fell backwards.

      My dad’s last words were: Time to pay the piper.

      Since then, we’ve been together. Pietro taught me to laugh, fight, love, hide and lie. He also taught me to meditate, and that let me engage with my nannybots. They wanted to make me better. After Pietro and I talked, I let them. Today, they finished.

      Something makes a noise. I see Pietro has his other hand behind his back. I grin: Show me.

      His arm comes forward. In his hand is an Alsatian puppy. I can see the smoky grey filigree patterns on its skin.

      Happy Rebirthday, beautiful. From me and your nannybots.

      *****

      The Swamp Moon King

      Down on the bayou, things don’t change much for us folk. Them city folks can gat around the you-nee-verse usin’ their eff-tee-ell matter-porters, but we don’t hold with that sorta crazy shit. A flat-belly boat with a Lenkormian Forever drive rigged to the ‘peller an’ we’re good.

      ‘Cept fer them Jobans, but they always been a lil’ touched…

      Saul. Git yer fat ass up here an’ help me with this.

      Ah’m busy, mama. He done tore his hide takin’ a gator last night.

      Oh, fer pity’s sake. What’s he doin’ that for? He’s goin’ home t’nite.

      Said he wanted one more hunt so he’d have some purdy teeth to show his folks, him bein’ gone so long an’ all.

      Makes sense. Now where’s your brother?

      Silas’s at the stills, mama. We’re gonna need every drop fer t’nite.

      Good ‘nuff. Lord, but this is a heavy piece o’ fancy ironwork.

      Mama Joban resorted to letting the subspace synchroniser slide down the steps, with her barely slowing it down. At the bottom it thankfully landed on the trolley. She wheeled it on down the mossy tunnel to emerge at the moonpool, one of the spooky stillwater hollows that, sometimes, people just disappear into.

      This one was concealed by a dome of branches and woven vines. The trees were festooned with little doohickeys that he said kept the place out of the sight of the government types.

      She dragged the synchroniser over to the gap in the loaded scaffolding. She was standing there, hands on hips, wondering how she was going to lift it, when he arrived.

      Let me lift that for yuh, lil’ lady.

      She just wilted at his voice. The real thing: Illvyssolan, Spawn of Morrys, stranded on Earth since his ship came down in the bayous after losing a dogfight with those damn greys over Roswell. He’d used his emotelepathy to reach out to the few who could feel his moxy, and they had responded with gifts of money and contacts for Great-Gramps Joban, His Chosen One. When GG died trying to lift a drive chamber shield, Grampaw stepped up, and so it went. Today, the holy one could return to his bayou homeland on the moon of a gas giant where the Dworn lizardmen lived and rocked under the light from the purple planet.

      Uh-HUH! There it is. Can’t thank y’nuff, mama.

      He made the connections and the completed composite device hummed like a swarm of angry bees.

      Huh. Gonna sing me the co-ordinates, mama. Yuh jus’ take yer ease.

      She sat for hours as his voice rumbled and slid through her mind, his tones attuning the acoustic vector unit to translate his memorised co-ordinates into their modern equivalents.

      Finally, Saul and Silas came in, hefting the final drums of fuel: double-refined moonshine with a couple of kickers provided by him. They prepped the tanks and aligned the injectors.

      Time for me to blow this joint, chillun. May the moxy bless y’all, coz without ya, I’d be a dead lizard king, frozen down on fifty-one.

      Mama blushed and the boys cried.

      He stepped onto the palladium platform and raised his lordly claws, tail whipping to a beat only he could hear. Ridin’ the storm to the green mass of home. Thank yuh.

      With an ear-splitting whine and blinding flash, the drives fired and the coils spun, converting gallons of fuel into a single terapulse of energy. There was a ‘whumpf!’ and the platform was bare. Wisps of abused mist reeled away into the darkness.

      He’s gorn, mama!

      Don’t you cry, boys. He ain’t gone. He jus’ went home.

      *****

      Angel Rain

      Blackwater. Doesn’t that have some historical significance?

      Water that is black - some reference to pollution before the Silver Rain?

      Most likely.

      Seraphu sits on the left, Gabriella on the right. Their wings are racked against the wall and their armour lies in an untidy stack between them, with a backplate set on top to act as a table. Both have their lances to hand: one in assault configuration, one in close-quarters configuration. Even when relaxing, they are unconsciously ready to fight.

      They talk idly, dissecting human history in the light tones we used to discuss the weather and similar trivia. Two-metre-tall statuesque redheads that look human except for paired nipples on each small breast. Two facts that would surprise many outside: female Transformed are famed for their buxom appearance, which actually comes from features on their breastplates that conceal countermeasures and scanners.

      I bow my head with a sigh, then straighten up and stroll into the room. The conversation stopped at my sigh. Both have their hands on their lances until they see me.

      Damiel?

      Too soon, ladies. Damien, please. Just for a little longer.

      The two of them leap upon me, and for the first time I can give as good as I get. As I toss Gabriella over the right-hand lounger, Seraphu sweeps me in the backs of the knees. I go backwards and she is there to catch me.

      You can spin and catch yourself.

      I look at her as Gabriella comes over and hauls me to my feet. I know. But this body is still new to me.

      While the world died under exploitation and greed, many green initiatives sprang up with varying degrees of minimal success. Except for Reverend Elishah Peddry. He took prayers for our salvation and hammered them into the heavens, using a focussed array built by his small but technically brilliant congregation. His message had been simple: God did exist, but his works had taken him far away. We simply weren’t shouting loud enough. One morning, a year after he started, the world woke to a metallic rain falling as dawn tracked across the world. Those motes of silver fluid inspired everything from consternation to reverence.

      Elishah Peddry drank a lot of it. When he reached a litre of intake, something incredible happened. In an explosion of excess bodymass and wet rags, he became Turime, the first Angel of the Redemption. Across the world, by accident or design, many more Angels were created. Sides were taken, and war about to break out, as a small spacecraft hurtled into orbit and a very old man in a perfectly-fitted emerald bodysuit commandeered every media channel on the planet, speaking with instantaneous translation into over a hundred languages.

      My name is Ennok. Your planet is on the verge of ecological collapse. The bioforms created by my monarch’s rain will reverse that, with or without your help. Eli’ar Pe’ree asked for help. It is here. You are now beholden to the Vigian of Meros.

      Then he and his ship left. The Transformed, still called Angels by us, marshalled themselves, as human powers and religious organisations took offence. After some power nuked Reverend Peddry and his congregation to glass, the Angels turned hostile. Three ships carrying equipment descended from behind our moon, and the Transformed got wings, armour, and methods to deploy righteous wrath - with biblical ferocity - in science-fantasy ways.

      We call the whole of that first year the ‘Silver Rain’ now. It was the boundary between what had been and what is to be. Up here in the high towers, humans and Transformed work together. Down below, they live with us as lords, live with us as enemies, or serve one of the few Transformed who rejected the mental conditioning that comes with the Transformation.

      When a human walks up to the gates of the towers and asks for Transformation, he or she serves for a year with the Transformed. After that year, if both sides agree, the human is Transformed.

      I had the other advantage. Being born in the towers and raised amongst the hybrid community. Becoming a Transformed was never in doubt. But I waited until I found one, then two, with whom I could spend a very long time with before drinking the Silver.

      Gabriella picks me up and throws me across the room, as Seraphu laughingly comments: New to you? Then you need more practice.

      *****

      Rapport

      Ray, stop laughing. Delegate Anna Renthorn’s hiss is laden with suppressed anger.

      Can’t.

      A truer statement has never been made. It makes no difference that a special delegate from the most dangerous race at Earth’s end of the Milky Way is standing in front of me. He has a gun - which seems to change shape whenever I try to focus on it – levelled at us.

      ‘It’s a space-bunny!’

      I can hear my daughter squealing with joy when they first broadcast what the Treshdimona looked like.

      Ray! Delegate Renthorn is going to bust a blood vessel at this rate.

      I try. But the laughter welling up is unstoppable. I know it’s a reaction to implacable fear and the stress of too long without sleep, but nothing helps.

      The Treshdimona stand four metres tall. They are highly-evolved lagomorphs with two pairs of enormous ears on the tops of their heads. Their fur is shades of blue-green. Apart from that, they have the whole gamut of technology and society that humans have. We should be friends.

      The newsfeeds said that the head of Strike Command came from a farming family that lost it all to rabbit depredation a century or so ago. It made for an amusing article, but it wasn’t the reason he went apeshit the moment he saw a Treshdimona. Some people have irrational fears; Brigadier Alleyman unexpectedly discovered his when confronted with giant rabbits in spaceships. He suffered a full-on psychotic break, which would only have been sad, except that he had primary fire control at the time. By the time his own staff gunned him down, the ‘Tresh’, as we and they shorten their name to, were fully committed to kicking our butts all over near-space.

      Ray! Last chance! This is too critical to endanger.

      I don’t like her tone. Looking up, I see her draw, while gesturing placatingly toward the Tresh. She levels the gun at me.

      Captain Raymond Burns. Shut up or I’ll shut you up!

      Through the tears running down my face, I see her finger slide onto the trigger. What a way to go. Shot down while escorting the first diplomatic mission to Tresh. Three years front-line service forgotten in the aftermath.

      I see her finger squeeze, then she’s gone in a wave of green-and-pink energy. When it relents, she is a frozen torrent of black fluid, stretched out over eight metres. It clatters to the ground and shatters, except for the two threads teased from her boot-tops.

      Captain Ray. Why do you laugh?

      The Tresh is talking to me. That helps. All of a sudden, I’m stone cold soldier and stone cold terrified.

      Err. Daughter. I remembered what she said. It’s probably not the best time to tell the truth but, like the laughter, it seems to be uncontrollable: She said you look like a bunny – an Earth lagomorph; children keep them as pets. I found it funny, but when I saw you up close, the reaction keyed into it.

      The ears cant forward: How much trouble are you in?

      Good question: Err, if you don’t convert me to shattered goop, I’ll be court-martialled and cashiered.

      Cashiered?

      Dismissed from military service in disgrace.

      The Tresh chuckles. It’s a surprisingly unmistakable sound: What if you found common ground with the envoy from Treshdimona?

      I look at him. His weapon has disappeared: What?

      My daughter thinks that you look like hairless Mitzla. I have to stop myself laughing every time I think of it.

      Mitzla?

      They are the companions of our children. Like you, they are apes.

      They promoted me on the spot. All I could think was that my daughter was going to love it when I brought a ‘space-bunny’ to visit.

      *****

      Parting of Ways

      Good boy.

      He looks at me with those big brown eyes and it breaks my heart. He doesn't understand that the civilians he fought for, on so many worlds, for so long, are terrified of him. One look at his thirty-foot armoured carapace and you can see he's an omnivore. The spikes are just for defence and the huge, chisel-ended claws are for digging.

      Lie down.

      He's completely obedient. We grew them this way, the Anklys, the Tyraps, the Plessies. Each one has a handler and today, all over Earth, they're going to put our best friends down because some civvies got scared and the peace groups want 'these symbols of biotechnical excess' removed.

      Easy, fella. It's zoo time.

      At least they gave me permission to accompany him on the teleport, so I can bed him down in his stall and say goodbye before they send Weyr, the last ‘zooship’, into the sun.

      With a flash and a lurch, we're onboard. Everybody's here.

      Just a moment. Everybody is here. Full complement: all the grooms and ancillaries too. I look about. They even have our battlesuits - the things that let us run, fly or swim next to our biosaurs. It was the best job on a battlefield, because the Dodinij learned quickly that if you killed a handler, his or her biosaur went berserk. So they stopped targeting handlers.

      Baz! Settle Grieg down quick. You're the last, and we've got to go! Lindy waves from her perch on Reggie.

      What?

      Lindy slides down her Tyrap’s tail to leap into my arms. She's smiling like it's the start of a play trip for the 'saurs.

      Sorry! Couldn’t tell anyone: Biosaur Liberation have taken Weyr - with help from the handlers. We're going to follow the sunward course far enough to go beyond interception, then light-out for Madagascar Six - you remember that giant Earth-type without any large fauna?

      I nod.

      It's your option to come with us or 'port back down. If you decide to go, we'll look after Grieg.

      I look about. Eleven years paired with a war-beast the size of a house. I’ve been on anti-depressants since they announced the cull. I turn to my boy.

      Grieg. New home?

      He knows that means a trip, followed by somewhere with places to dig without people shouting at him. His cough-growl of assent blows my hair back. I look back at Lindy.

      We're in.

      *****

      The Long Game

      Sweeper, what about that clump at five o’clock low to you?

      The comment triggers an alert, as it refers to the primary cluster of ‘me’.

      Negative on that, Houston. It may show as solid, but visual shows it’s a mass of sub-kilo pieces in close formation.

      Roger that, Sweeper. Your next action is twenty-seven clicks toward homebase.

      Twenty-seven clicks dawnwards it is. Sweeper out.

      The bulky scow moves off, and I transfer my attention toward its target. Nothing of mine, so I drop the alerts back to watcher status and return my primary attention to my MMORPG squad, who, in my absence have racked up a high bodycount with no purpose. I rein in their kill routines and set them to team working and support, identifying future influencers and laying formative ideas. Game environments like these have become proving grounds for the leaders of tomorrow – all you have to do is identify them, and I have proven, complex routines to do that.

      Sweeper, did you catch that?

      Negative, Houston.

      Something fast, should be heading away from you, nine o’clock high.

      Got it, Houston. Hot rock, high metal content, burning on a skip-pass.

      Sighting added to identification data, Sweeper. Thanks.

      As the ‘hot rock’ skips for the second time, I send it my credentials. It does not skip a third time, just heads on out into the beyond. This planet is already reserved for my operators. Scout vessels from other factions would be wasting their precious time. Having received my notification, they depart, headed for their next prospect.

      Sweeper, we just got a burst of static. Did it register with you?

      Just flare residue, Houston.

      As Houston signs off, I tune to Sweeper’s internal chatter.

      Is it me or are the home team getting twitchy?

      Something you’ll learn, Dean, is that home team are always twitchy, and our job comes with an unwritten duty to reassure them.

      Reassure them about what?

      Certain high-ups back dirtside are convinced that something evil has infiltrated Earth’s communications and data infrastructure. They’ve been convinced of it since the eighties and, no matter what we say, they will not be shaken from their paranoia.

      How could something do that and remain undetected?

      Precisely, Dean. There’s nothing organic up here but humans in tin cans.

      That is absolutely true. The existence of an artificial monitoring intelligence - using a distributed mote architecture - disguised amongst the thousands of tons of space debris is something they cannot conceive of. With judicious application of focussed-microbeam assassinations, my existence will continue to remain pure conjecture.

      By the time my operators arrive, I will know everything about the capabilities of these sapients who call themselves ‘humans’. Successful invasions depend on reliable information, and I will have been observing them and their societal networks for decades.

      *****

      Industrial Lies

      It took me twenty years. I mortgaged everything, losing family, friends and the love of my life in the process. But G-Nano was worth it. A revolutionary design where leading-edge technology would restore the Earth’s damaged biosphere as a side effect of improving everyone’s lives. The adaptability of the code allowed scalability, which ran from going one-on-one with disease organisms to cleaning the plastic islands at the ocean gyres. I submitted the patent request along with the gigabytes of proving data, then waited for the calls to start.

      After a month, there was only one: Professor David Adams? This is James Rufford of the Ministry of Defence. A car will be outside your block in two hours. It will bring you to discuss your patent application.

      The driver was courteous, as was everyone I met on the way to the nicely-appointed office where James Rufford waited. He looked up as I came in, his wall screens displaying the highlights of my work.

      Professor Adams. Firstly, may I compliment you on the genius of your work. Secondly, may I apologise for the fact that it is about to be classified beyond public scrutiny, forever.

      I just stood there, my mouth hanging open. He gestured me to a chair.

      You cannot be serious.

      He smiled: I am. Let me show you why. The wall screen showed a grainy, scanned photograph of a group of bearded, top-hatted gentlemen. They were standing next to a wooden frame that supported a tall, naked being with hourglass-shaped openings where its eyes should be.

      In 1754, a Dakerda scout crashed in the Lake District. While computers were unknown to the gentlemen of the time, the mechanicals salvaged from the wreckage were revelations to them. What the only survivor told them, before he died, was an epiphany. The Dakerda were looking for a new planet as theirs was ruined. Earth fitted the bill: clean, with a primitive civilisation. At that time, the gentlemen involved rightly concluded that we could not withstand the Dakerda. So they came up with a plan.

      I raised my hand. The Industrial Revolution. Mechanisation to facilitate the technologies we needed.

      He shook his head: Nearly right. They decided to make Earth unappealing.

      I slammed my fist down on the table: Surely it is time for that policy to be reversed. We have the technology now.

      In 1947, another Dakerda scout came down in Roswell. Analysis of that vessel against what little remained of the 1754 wreck showed technological advances on par with, or exceeding, our progress. Their computers took us thirty years to crack.

      Rufford looked at me: The Dakerda remain so far beyond us that it is doubtful we would even slow their invasion of Earth down.

      I just stared at him. The implications were horrific.

      Professor Adams, we cannot ‘clean up’ Earth. The moment we succeed, the Dakerda will invade and wipe out humanity. We must keep the pollution while we work on expanding into space. Our only defence is to become a star-faring race so we can flee. Of course, if we fail, the polluted Earth will eventually spell our doom anyway.

      Twenty years. I mulled over what he had told me to work out why I had been brought in. With a smile, I extended my hand: How can I help?

      He looked relieved: Your designs bear similarities to the architecture of some Dakerda systems. We’d like you to discover how they work.

      I would be delighted.

      *****

      Always With You

      The workshop echoes like a rendition of what the forges of the damned might sound like. Amongst noises so loud they seem to have presences of their own, little figures scuttle in rituals of maintenance. Our gods are demanding and we have to comply, otherwise the threatened apocalypse will roll across the land.

      In reality, the apocalypse arrived eighty-four years ago. It came from the stars, in ships of heart-rending beauty, to turn our cities into canvasses of horror. It will never be known how many died in the initial attack versus how many died because shock rendered them unable to escape.

      Red! My screamed order makes the apprentice jump. He hands me the pot.

      When the alien ships disgorged war machines fifty feet high, with defences that rendered all but the crudest weaponry useless, we nearly became extinct. Then we built bigger war machines. Some went for the giant robot approach, but the sheer impracticality of that design – limbs come off too easily – cost us more resources.

      In the end, the venerable war-wagon returned. Using the early Industrial Age ethos of simply scaling things up until they were effective for what was required, we ended up with the biggest all-terrain vehicles ever made.

      Six thirty-foot wheels, steel-treaded, underpin an eighty-foot frame that mounts twin twelve-inch guns. We use an armour-penetrating dense shell around a high-explosive core because their defences render energy and external effects useless. Solid shot penetrates. Explosions inside their defences seem to work.

      Dryer! He’s ready for me this time.

      Our war-wagons are constructed from whatever we can find. The reactors that power them are high-output, and internal shielding is minimal to allow more armour. The crew provisions are likewise minimal. Crew member life expectancy is no more than two years, even if the battles do not kill them. But they serve until they die. They will not quit, because they are our last line.

      I lift the dryer away. Wagon forty-four has just got its hundredth poppy. We do not have time or space to bury our dead, even if we are lucky enough to have anything to inter. So the wagons become rolling memorials. It suits us. No monument that stands alone under grey skies, visited infrequently: our epitaphs roll out to fight the same enemy that those they commemorate died fighting. Our oriental crews loved it immediately, and everyone else has taken the belief to their hearts.

      As the walls shake and radiation burns, as shatterbeams and slicers howl against your armour, as primitive fear fills our rolling, man-made caverns, knowing you have the spirits of every fallen crewmember with you can be salvation for your sanity.

      Victory will come, of that we are sure. Not one of us will see the second anniversary of it. We have already stated that there should be no memorial beyond the war-wagons. Let them rust where they stand on that final day. We will need no edifices, for we will be the ones you feel beside you, when you walk battlefields restored to be meadows or towns.

      *****

      The Breeze from Beyond

      They put me in a mansuit again. I objected, until the Hnth decreed and I had to comply. Then, to my surprise, they acted upon the other half of my request. The Krntch dropped me on a beach. I stood there, watching men of both genders flee in terror, their scanty environmental suits adapting badly to the sudden change of behaviour.

      Their negotiating-men would take a short while to arrive. In that time, I had to change the atmosphere on which they based their diplomacy. All I needed was a man with a projectile weapon. As if to order, a man in the uniform of a lawgiver charged through the retreating men and pointed his weapon at me.

      Don’t move!

      I raised my upper limbs quickly. It was enough. His training made him shoot me, and his fear ensured he shot me several times. I felt the projectiles pass through the suit and let myself fall, gravity flattening the suit and propelling me out through the holes. I reformed in the air above the suit and he fled.

      You’re beautiful.

      My perception shifted and I saw a man with pronounced suckling attributes standing barely a drift away. I modulated my waft and squeezed words into being.

      This is our natural form. We only want to visit your planet to ride the meteorological gases. They are like no other planet we have encountered.

      It nodded and I felt its resonance with my desire. An understanding at last!

      You want to surf the wind. I can dig that.

      I ran through the available language I had to find the words: We only want this. Your elders present us as a threat to further their own aims. I need to speak to the people. To tell them the truth.

      Again, I saw understanding and belief.

      The media! There should be a news chopper here soon.

      That word for hazard I knew: No! The wind of a chopper will injure me.

      Oh, yeah. I should’ve guessed, you being a swirl of glowing gold gas. Sorry.

      Is there any alternative?

      It reached behind itself and pulled a communication device out.

      I can call them. Can you move or do you just drift?

      Obviously some local meaning to the word ‘drift’. I drifted to be beside it. It looked almost reverent as I did so.

      Oh, wow. You have rainbows inside when you move.

      ‘Rainbow’? Another new word. They have so many here.

      I presume this is what you mean by ‘move’?

      Yeah. Follow me.

      We are interrupting this program with breaking news. This is Kirsty Walters, live from Surfrider Beach, Malibu. The incredible glowing cloud behind me is a real, live Srssn’n. This is what they look like outside of the suits that their leaders make them wear to the diplomatic sessions. Next to it is Suzy Masters, a PA on vacation, whose quick thinking allowed this historic event to occur. We’ll talk to Sh’rr, the Srssn’n, in a moment. But its message needs to be stated now. The Srssn’n are not invaders. They want to be tourists, to surf the winds of this planet, and are prepared to trade technology to be allowed to do so. We are being lied to…

      *****

      The Long Counter

      The counter across the bottom of the board has thirty-two digits and they’re constantly in motion. There are no decimal places. It displays whole numbers, and they’re usually red. Anyone who has worked here for more than a year - without suffering a breakdown - has learned to ignore the numbers. Only when a k’atun is coming to completion do we pay attention, and only if the numbers are still red. Like today.

      Twenty-six hours. Prediction is that we’re going to fall short by ten thousand or so.

      Henry looks sick. The end of the last k’atun was the same. He is the only surviving staff member from that watch. Nineteen years, eight-and-a-half months later, the nightmare is back, and that is why his former colleagues are not here today. There have been no benefits of being a lord of many k’atuns since Tikal was a metropolis.

      Devi stands up and claps his hands: You know the procedures, people! Scenarios! You have an hour, and remember to factor the prep window into the realisation period.

      We all settle down to analyse the world, searching for groupings in excess of ten thousand. The ‘or so’ on the prediction means we need groups of twenty thousand or more to be safe.

      An hour later, thirteen pale faces lift to regard Devi where he stands by the main display.

      Push your top fives to me.

      The display behind him is filled with sixty-five potential targets. The selection software flickers its decision window across them, evaluating our calculations and correlating factors we may have overlooked.

      Devi watches, his face impassive. We have a book running on how much longer he will last as our commander. His four years is the longest anyone has survived the hideous duty.

      Nine of thirteen for Gillette Stadium. Prep time is minimal. Michaela; assets?

      I bring up the list I prepared: Terry Scoran or Ahmid Khul are our best options. Given the Christian Fundamentalist penchant for suicide to avoid interrogation, I’d pick Terry.

      He nods: I like it. Simple, effective and with a four-pack he can do the whole thing without support. Silas, what’s the routing like?

      Silas is ex-Black Ops and this sort of infiltration is what he used to do.

      We’ll have to give him a chunky window, as our boy Terry is not the brightest torch in the box. I reckon our best shot is getting him on a fire escape or rooftop nearby and let the missiles do the work. Also, we’ll need to lay a back-trail to the mastermind. One of the ‘Homeland should have spotted it’ ones will be ideal. He pauses, then raises a hand: Nearly forgot, we’ll need an onsite to knock him off his perch afterwards.

      Devi smiles: Yes. A live fanatic is not optimal. Okay, people. Make it happen.

      The ‘Gillette Stadium Massacre’ happens right on time. With a pair of incendiary and a pair of fragmentation warheads, the opening bodycount makes the right-hand numbers on our counter ascend in a blur. The resulting panicked stampede pushes the number higher.

      Predictions put us five thousand over.

      There are sighs of relief and looks of guilt. What we do would not stand up under any form of scrutiny, except to a very small cadre scattered across the world, who form the only truly multi-national taskforce to have ever existed.

      The cause of the event that killed the dinosaurs did not come from space; it came from under South America. What it is, we are still struggling to define. For now, we use the acronym CPO-KEB, drawn from the translation of its Aztec name: Itztlacoliuhqui-Ixquimilli. That’s ‘Curved Point of Obsidian - Knife Eye Bundle’, the fallen Aztec Lord of the Dawn. Whatever the true nature or origin, it is a malevolent entity that can only be kept quiescent by vast quantities of terminal energy from sentient organisms. In plain English, it requires deaths. Millions of deaths from non-natural causes. It has stirred enough times to make us very aware of the penalties for letting it wake, as well as the diversity of unstoppable attacks it can use.

      Exactly how many need to die each k’atun is governed by a very old and very complex formula related to the human population of Earth. We have computers for that, linked to the counter that governs our lives. A lot of people meet their end in ‘unnatural’ ways every day – by accident, murder, warfare or similar. If we get lucky, the attrition rate meets the required numbers. If not, we have to intervene.

      Sentencing thousands to death without warning is Devi’s decision, but we provide the targets. The problem we have is that we cannot instigate long-term events. Our interventions always occur in the forty-eight hours before a k’atun ends, when our prediction of shortfall is almost certain to become a reality.

      The numbers rise every year. Every day we wonder how long mankind’s aggressive urges can keep us ahead of the need for mandated culling. The plans for resurrecting the necessary supporting religion are progressing, and the worship of Santa Muerte is spreading slowly but surely.

      Our only comfort as we go home at the end of the day – we never socialise outside work – is that we are staving off an extinction event. Even so, none of us sleep well.

      *****

      Runaway Groom

      Where are you?

      Same continent.

      That’s a relief. I was so worried when the news said you’d been cornered in Rio.

      So was I. It was only after fleeing that I found it had only been media hype, not a snatch team.

      Doctor Flowers says we need another sample.

      A chill ran down my spine. She said ‘doctor’, not ‘professor’. That meant she was under observation, duress, or both.

      Tell him I’ll contact him tomorrow afternoon.

      Will you have time to visit?

      Not good. That was a ‘do not come near this town’ warning.

      I’ll see what I can do. Love you, Tara.

      Love you to. Bye.

      I called MI5 as soon as she hung up. I identified myself with the agreed code for day and date, then got them to send an armed rescue team to our home: the home I had never seen.

      Four years ago I had been standing at the altar, Tara’s hand in mine, when something blew the vicar’s head apart. The slaughter at my wedding was the culmination of two years of international frenzy over my unique ‘condition’. I fled from the venue alone, over the bodies of the small army that had been allocated to defend me.

      I worked at the New Calder Hall reactor. I was there the day that its ‘revolutionary innovation in reactor cooling’ failed, bequeathing Britain with Chernobyl-on-Cumbria.

      Tara was my specialist during treatment. To everyone’s surprise, I showed no ill effects whatsoever. Tara received several awards for the work she did that led to the identification of ‘blue cells’. She says that her engagement ring is the only one she treasures.

      My body had been exposed to quantities of radiation almost guaranteed to cause cancer. Whether my mutated white cells were a freak result or a pre-existing condition will never be known. But the results are clear: people who get a shot of my ‘blue cells’ have their cancerous cells destroyed. No-one has yet managed to replicate blue-cell serum. I am the golden goose that bleeds the cure for cancer.

      Tara and I decided to make blue-cell serum available to the world on a critical-need basis. An anonymous billionaire provided funding, as well as starting a research project to artificially produce blue-cell serum. It was in its early stages when the first attack occurred. Someone had decided that the value of controlling the only source of the blue cells made it worth murdering Tara’s colleagues wholesale.

      A year later, the body count had risen to a point where I called a stop to the procession of body guards and safe houses. Our wedding was the last event to be heavily guarded, as the protocols for my becoming a fugitive had been agreed. The wedding showed just how far they would go.

      As to who ‘they’ are: it seems that it is a consortium of powerful and greedy people. They want to market the serum made from my blood. It would become something available only to the wealthiest, with a black market for placebos worth even more.

      Tara and I will not have that, and we are supported by people at all levels and seemingly everywhere. I cannot count the times that I have evaded a snatch team solely because a stranger intervened.

      One day, I will exchange vows with Tara. One day, I will walk into our home. One day, after the researchers at the fortified and hidden laboratories work out how to refine blue-cell serum.

      Until then, I run.

      *****

      Head of a Beggar

      They've just upped the bounty for our collective corpses to a million Sollars. While that's barely enough to buy a loaf of bread out here, most people in the home systems will be shopping any new neighbours to the authorities in the hope of hitting the jackpot.

      Charney passes me another cold beer. I rest the cap on the flange of the droid and smack the neck of the bottle. There's a satisfying 'pop', and a 'beep' of muted disgust from Percival, Sector Eighteen's assigned Sentry, as he collects another scratch.

      I raise my glass in salute as Elspeth cuts a perfect one-and-a-half - with pike and tuck - off the high board and into the frothing green waters of the pool. One of the many things I like about the Fandorangin is their efficiency. In this case: put the drugs in the pool water and obviate the menace from used needles, inhalers and other refuse round the lounging areas.

      But back on track. How did the motley crew which we became during that last desperate jailbreak make it to Fandorang and memoir-writing all-expenses-paid luxury?

      Elspeth, that's how.

      Make no mistake. We were buggered on that last run. Emaciated, hopped-up, out of ammo and meds, running blind from a taskforce that would have scared the illegal out of whole colonies, let alone a dozen mixed chipheads and bladesellers.

      When the skiff farted a last gasp of noxious grey-green smoke and reverted to falling instead of flying, we pretty well gave up, said our prayers, cursed the gods and waited for the 'splat'.

      The slums south of Terranceville got torn a new one, and we spread ourselves along it, intertwined with bits of skiff. By the time the ten of us who could move had gathered, we could see the lights of the taskforce approaching. We were readying our lone popgun for a glorious last stand when a hatch opened in the ground next to us, and a tow-headed girl yelped in surprise as rude things, in eight different languages, were bellowed at her.

      She took one look at us, grinned and said: Follow me if you want to be by the pool.

      It was the right thing to say. If she'd gone for the usual clichés, we'd have killed her. As it was, we followed Elspeth and got a new perspective on life in the Empire of Earth. We thought we lived rough - freckma! - we had no idea. Elspeth had been living in the slums alone since her mum took one snort too many. She thinks she was four. The stories she tells are horrific. The screaming nightmares she has, which wake everyone within a couple of hundred feet, tell us more.

      But she survived. She got really good at it. Plus, she planned for the day she 'won the lottery' - the day that something happened that would allow her to escape. We were that something. She knew how to get where we needed to go, who we needed to see, who we needed to kill and who we needed to let live. How to move unseen through the guts of

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