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    Chiliad
    Chiliad
    Chiliad
    Ebook194 pages2 hoursVisions of the Future short fiction anthologies

    Chiliad

    By Julian M. Miles

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Bringing you stories of intrigue, action, love, and adventure from near and far.

    In a world headed for some form of cataclysm, the possibilities for the future range from bleak, thru dystopian, to utopian. One thing is increasingly certain: the further they go from today, the stranger they can be.
    We cannot predict the events and outcomes accurately, but we can imagine. From that simple inspiration, Julian M. Miles has spent the last year creating dozens of vistas of what could be, and in this anthology, he shares them with you.

    From alternate history, through dystopian tomorrows, to the furthest reaches of mankind’s colonisation of space, he uses the flash fiction format, interspersed with short fiction pieces, to provide many tales to enchant and entertain.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJulian M. Miles
    Release dateDec 29, 2022
    ISBN9781005808891
    Chiliad
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    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.

    Read more from Julian M. Miles

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      Book preview

      Chiliad - Julian M. Miles

      Chiliad

      Visions of the Future, Volume 12

      A science fantasy anthology by Julian M. Miles

      Copyright 2022 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

      RTFM

      Hodgeson Creek

      Nothing Special

      I Am Leg End

      Lop Off

      Out of Zone

      Another Reason

      Foggy

      Bitter Taste

      Crashdown

      Plan B?

      The Man from UnMod

      Addicted to Stagnation

      Dynamics

      Lazarene

      Gloriana Days

      Sometimes It Comes Back

      The Survival Dilemma

      A Letter from Georgia

      The Letter from Georgia

      A Place in the Dusk

      Mister Ordinary

      Demon’s Eye

      To Those Who Survived

      All Rise

      Containment

      Cairns of the Lost

      Lateral Striking

      To Metebelis and Beyond

      Stealthy

      Delivered

      Pick Up a Stick

      Walk This Way

      Go Home

      The Rings of Nadsukar

      Just Passing

      Promises

      The Magma Fields of Slarrul

      Beached

      Under the Hand

      Never Ready

      The Customer is Always...

      Thread

      First Day

      Pretty People in Dead Poses

      Double Trouble

      Priestess of Set-Up

      Little Flags

      Appletop

      Time to Go

      Evolver

      Faking It

      Patchwork

      Start Something

      Drive On

      The Last Parcel

      Down in the Printbay

      Message from an Angry God

      I, Edit

      To the Stars

      About the Author

      Connect with Julian Miles

      Other Books by Julian Miles

      Credits

      *****

      RTFM

      The grey muffling my senses relinquishes its hold. I find myself lying in the same berth I lay down in. I’m in the same clothes. My digital chronograph tells me eight seconds have passed. I look to my other wrist. The vintage analogue watch has stopped. I’ll do for that antiques dealer. He said it was in full working order. I wound it just before we set off.

      I lift my head and look to my right. I can’t see Sasha, but I can see her arms where they play across the control panels mounted above her berth.

      Did we do it?

      She raises a finger in a ‘wait’ gesture. Time crawls by.

      Lewis, we’ve succeeded.

      Lifting my head again, I see her green eyes sparkling with tears. Triumph! We took a chance to do something people said was impossible, and it worked!

      Where are we?

      She stops smiling, looks puzzled.

      No idea. Beyond charted space.

      I release my upper belt so I can sit up and look her way without straining my neck.

      What do you mean ‘beyond charted space’?

      You remember the speech that Doctor Krakor gave? The one where he said that while wormholes were navigable, we had no way to tell the endpoint because the act of traversing a wormhole would collapse it?

      Yes. But probes…

      She shakes her head.

      We couldn’t send a probe because that would collapse the wormhole.

      How on earth can you go somewhere without knowing where you’re going? GPS navigation doesn’t do that.

      So where are we?

      She shrugs.

      A long way from the planet we grew up on, and all its woes.

      This is why I hate working with people who can’t grasp the complexities of life.

      That I know. How do we let them know I was right?

      Sasha just stares at me.

      Alright. How long to get back and deliver the news?

      Longer than the lifespan of anybody on this ship.

      I shake my head. Maybe she’s not as clever as I thought?

      How can we not live long enough to get back when we got here so quickly?

      Did we? My ten chronographs each show different elapsed times. The lowest is eight seconds. The highest is 18,142 years. We may have inadvertently outlived human life on Earth.

      We what? The woman is babbling.

      Let me spell it out for you: find the wormhole and take us back.

      Sasha grins at me.

      What wormhole? It collapsed when we used it.

      I thought we collapsed other ones for fuel! Not the one we were using!

      Then find another!

      No point. The chances of finding one that will deliver us back to Earth within a reasonable time frame at that end are negligible. Plus, you’ll need to go and tell our single-use Casimir-Bordeg field generator to stop being dead metal.

      ‘Single-use’…!

      So we were never going to be able to go back?

      Sasha rolls sinuously out of her berth and floats across to me.

      What part of ‘one-way trip’ did you not understand? How many of the rich backers and their staff who joined the mob of scientific misfits I recruited are expecting to get back home in time for tea?

      I don’t know. I gave each of them the same manual you gave me.

      She folds herself about to sit cross-legged in mid-air.

      Let’s hope they read it, unlike you. We’ve got about a year to find a habitable world. There won’t be waiters, waitresses, or concierge services for a very long time.

      Sasha leans forwards.

      All the life replication equipment is keyed to people I trust, and none of it to me. We’re going to try to make a better society, not another hell on Earth.

      ***

      Hodgeson Creek

      My name was Walt. I hunted. Drank beer. Drove a truck. Met my wife, May, skinny-dipping down at Hodgeson Creek. We married. Had kids. Lost two sons to wars in foreign countries. Lost a daughter to a war in another state. My other son, Rufus, came back from a war, then met his boyfriend skinny-dipping at Hodgeson Creek.

      I had trouble with that. Coming on top of my cancer, it didn’t seem fair. Then my youngest, Maisie, told me she had cancer. That broke May. She admitted she’d got the same diagnosis. Something had been seeping into the waters of Hodgeson Creek for a long time.

      We mourned for each other as a family, then looked for ways to change things. No vengeance. Saw what that did to my father. We set out to make things better for those who didn’t have cancer yet.

      Doc Moses, he saw it first. Some Professor at a fancy clinic over in Russia. Had tried it on animals. Had started human trials. They were closed to the public. There were awful rumours, but Moses said he understood why.

      Cashed in just about everything we had, took a long flight: us, Rufus, his boyfriend, and Moses. Went to a place I couldn’t pronounce. Not surprising: the cancer in my throat meant I could barely talk.

      The clinic was set in acres of mixed forests. It was a beautiful place.

      Professor Ed was a nice man. Couldn’t speak English worth a damn, but his assistant was really good at it. She explained why the process was hidden from the public. We sort of got the idea, but Ed said that if we were interested, we had to see before we could join.

      May liked the idea. Maisie too. We signed and went to see the changing room. After that, we were all different. It’s not a thing you want to see, until you know where it leads, and what it offers. We talked it over and decided to do it. For the future.

      The day came and Rufus formally introduced me to Terry. My boy said he thought it was a wonderful thing we were doing. I called him a faggot. He called me a bigot. We laughed. I kissed my son and gave him my blessing, then took May and Maisie’s hands. We went through the hissing doors to our next life.

      It’s not death. Those who object are wrong. We’ll grow for centuries. How can we be recognisable to anything that only lasts ninety years? Sure, we talk to each other. We can’t communicate with you except by using devices like the one that created this article. Experts from the clinic brought it. They come by every few years to check in on us. All too easy for doubters to say it’s made up.

      If you believe, trust me when I say the change is hard. You can’t wait until you’re about to die. If you die during the vivilig transformation, your corpse will be partially lignified. The process doesn’t stop all neat and tidy because your soul lit out for sunnier climes. Your kin will be left to bury a coffin full of stinking compost.

      If you don’t believe, kindly let people have their peace amongst the trees planted in memory of their lost ones. Take your hate away. Better still: let it go.

      Rufus and Terry visit the three of us every week, down in the copse on the shore, our roots slowly leeching the toxins from Hodgeson Creek.

      ***

      Nothing Special

      The man makes his way down the street with care. It’s the care of old age, where a misstep could lead to a fall. As I get closer, I see it’s also wariness. This man doesn’t trust the things about him. Up close, I see he’s not that old.

      He gives me a nod.

      Evenin’, trooper. Stuck on the roaming night patrol, eh?

      Looking about, I move my assault beamer to side port, as it gives me the best line to the blind spot behind him. Putting it in ‘wary’ mode, I grin at him.

      You know our routes?

      He nods.

      I know most of them round here. I also know you must have annoyed someone something fierce to get sent out for this walk on your tod.

      He’s got that right. Sergeant-Major Nompins doesn’t like me.

      You’ve served, sir?

      Save the polish for them that likes the taste, trooper. I did my time. Went in a Private, came out a Corporal. Seven years, three tours. Betelgeuse was a doddle, Sirius wasn’t much fun, then I drew a short straw and got sent to Mintaka in time for the downshift.

      ‘Downshift’. The reason Orion’s Belt has only two stars now. Humanity doesn’t know how the Triclaws managed it, but our attempt to invade their home world failed spectacularly when they moved their planet out of the way. The event generated an exotic energy effect that annihilated everything around it, then went on to consume several nearby stars, and devastate the systems about them.

      "You were on the Banjax?"

      "No such luck. I was on the Wyx."

      The Banjax was tail end Charlie in the invasion fleet, spared the worst energy effects by the ships ahead of it acting as collapsible shields. The Wyx had been one of the scout ships. It was mid-transfer to hyperdrive as the shockwave hit. It drifted in Hirschian subspace for two years before a combat engineer named Wola Ruxon, working with Emelia Laesmann - who would go on to marry Emil Hirsch, after meeting him because of the Wyx tragedy - managed to return them to reality as we know it. What the rescue teams found in the Wyx has remained classified ever since.

      You knew Ruxon and Laesmann?

      I’m Ruxon.

      I snap him a salute.

      It’s an honour to meet you, sir.

      The revolver

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