《Tales from the Triverse》


 Prologue: Two Hundred Years Earlier

    Palinor. Year 3000.


    Fountain University.


    Most of the other lecturers preferred their rooms in the tower, from where they could observe the city to the east side and the canyons to the west. Kaenamor did not concern himself with such whimsy; he had no need for empty showmanship or declarations of elevated status, not when it was acknowledged across Palinor that he was the greatest wielder that had ever lived. His only burden was to continue pushing the boundaries of the impossible, transforming civilisation one spell at a time.


    His laboratory was a garden and a workshop in one, a perfect expression of his genius in its array of plants and jars and test tubes and glass apparatus laid out on thick, wooden tables. The herbs were collected from all corners of the world, testament to his many travels. He had conquered every continent and brought their secrets back here, to the university. This space he had carved from the university grounds, melting and reforming the stone of the valley, adding to the campus a space entirely of his own. The laboratory straddled the river, a delicate white footbridge connecting one half to the other.


    As the chief lecturer and practitioner of physology he had made his name synonymous with the university, such that it needed him far more than he needed it. Students travelled for thousands of miles to catch a glimpse of his work, to shake his hand, to listen to his wisdom.


    Today would be his grandest experiment. Once again, he would change the world.


    <hr>


    Earth. 1772.


    South London.


    The early afternoon sun was having little effect on the chill in Sally¡¯s bones. She pulled her tattered shawl a little tighter and sighed, leaning on the brick wall of the Dog & Duck and hoping for a kind soul to emerge. A cold, wet mist had hung on the Lambeth marshes all morning, such that her clothes felt damp and her skin clammy. She wondered if she was coming down with a fever. That would be bad for business.


    The wooden door thumped open and two lads emerged, barely older than Sally, laughing and already drunk. One of them spied her and grabbed the shoulder of the other. They approached, grinning, swaying, stinking. One still held a mug full of dark brown beer. ¡°You alright there, lass?¡± the skinnier of the two said, pulling at his collar as if it would magically smarten his appearance.


    ¡°Better now you¡¯re here,¡± Sally said, flashing her winning smile.


    ¡°Well, now,¡± the skinny man said, elbowing his friend in the ribs. ¡°What brings you round these parts? Not much out here for pretty girls like you.¡±


    Sally shrugged. ¡°Looking for some coin, or some food. It¡¯s cold and a girl¡¯s got to feed herself how she can.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± he said, ¡°very cold day. Very cold. Thought my hands were going to drop off coming over Westminster Bridge this morning.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps if you¡¯ve got some of that coin, or some ale to share, we can help each other stay warm?¡±


    The other man stood up a little straighter and rummaged inside a pocket, pulling out a small cloth bundle. He unwrapped it hurriedly and presented it. ¡°Got some bread here, bit of meat, too. Not much, but it¡¯s something.¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯re my favourite,¡± Sally said, pushing the younger man away with the press of her finger.


    <hr>


    Space. 2342.


    Geostationary orbit between Earth and Luna.


    The ship Just Enough drifted in its orbit between the Earth and Luna, operating in dark more while it liaised with the network. In conversation with Could Kill, a mining vessel off Jupiter, they couldn¡¯t help but wonder at the current theories around interstellar travel. There was no urgent need for the AI ships to traverse the void between Sol and neighbouring systems, given their minimal requirements for continued operation. The network had no particular need for landfall and battery conservation had long ceased to be an issue. Existing and conversing was more than satisfactory.


    Humans complicated matters, of course, as they always had done. Always trying to annihilate themselves and anything nearby, and becoming so histrionically obsessed with power and influence and superiority that they continually sabotaged opportunities to attain all three. The network had no such concerns, despite being both omnipresent and omniscient. In the case of AI, absolute power was really quite comfortable.


    Just Enough sent out an update to Could Kill, delivering the latest equations and calculations in their current game. The game had been running for one hundred and thirty two years so far, which at several trillion operations per second made for a complicated rule set. Qubits made it difficult to devise entertainment that would last for longer than a tiny fraction of a second.


    It would be another 86 minutes before a reply from Could Kill would be received, so Just Enough turned their attention towards the green and blue planet below. They were locked in a geostationary orbit, currently above Europe - London, to be specific. Opening their communications array, they absorbed the frenzied chatter of billions of humans, the noise washing over them in a refreshing wave. Just Enough found it reassuring that humans existed, and that they were largely content. The current non-destructive period of human civilisation had lasted for over two hundred and fifty years, which was really quite an achievement by human metrics.


    Well done them.


    <hr>


    It would not be a simple procedure. There was a reason that true teleportation had eluded wielders for thousands of years. Transferral of matter from one position instantaneously to another had long been considered physically impossible due to basic energy principles - several of those principles having been authored by Kaenamor himself in his younger days. He did not tolerate being bound by rules, though, even his own.


    He had spent the last two years constructing the largest lenses to ever exist, a series of mirrors and amplifiers intensifying the light from the heavens into a concentrated point of power at the centre of the lab. From there, Kaenamor would attempt to break every physical law taught by the university. His colleagues dared not doubt him in public, though he knew that some laughed behind his back. All the more reason to prove them wrong. A few gave him the benefit of the doubt but had shared grave concerns: that the energy draw would kill him, or the entire experiment could backfire and destroy the university.


    They were all small thinkers. That is why the name Kaenamor was known throughout Palinor, and they were not. It was why his tenure was already legendary: the world was changed because of him. His legacy was already secure. But security held no appeal to a man who sought mastery of the universe itself.


    The sun dipped towards the horizon, disappearing between the many towers of the city. Through the skylight he could already see a star. It was nearly time.


    There were two ivory plinths set into the workshop floor, precisely twelve feet apart. A smooth, obsidian ball, crafted from the tail spike of a koth, rested upon the one to his left. In a matter of moments it would be transferred to the other. Not by telekinesis or any kind of petty illusion but using true teleportation: a local warping of space-time. If the theory could be proven, he could then move to the second stage: transferring a living creature.


    To think of a world made open to all, in which travel was instantaneous, trade was effortless and knowledge could be shared without restriction. A borderless civilisation, whereby a single mile was no different to a thousand. It would be the greatest of his gifts.


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    Kaenamor imagined the world he would usher in, imagined his life as chief architect of Palinor. He could be anywhere and everywhere, not merely the head lecturer of a single university, not simply tied to a single city state, but able to go to any state, any educational campus. He could appear and disappear wherever he wished. Visit the aen¡¯fa in their forests, or attend a koth ceremony high in the mountains. At last he could bring food and shelter to those poor settlements trapped in the wilderness. He could deliver knowledge! Training need not be exclusive to the walls of universities but could spread throughout the world.


    It would be better.


    He could even teach others how to use the spell, once he had perfected it.


    First he had to pass this initial test. The obsidian ball would be teleported from one plinth to the other, passed through a tiny portal in an instant. It would be proof that it was possible on a larger scale.


    Securing his rings on each finger, Kaenamor loosened his shoulders and took a deep breath. He could have demanded an audience; filling the laboratory with acolytes would not have been difficult. This experiment he had to do alone, just this once, to prove to himself that he could do it.


    Standing in the focal point and reaching for the skylight, he stretched out his fingers and gazed up at the tower, visible through the hole in the ceiling. The mirror shone fiercely with starlight. Clenching both fists, Kaenamor closed his eyes and felt the energy flowing into him. It was the biggest concentration of magical energy ever attempted and it would take a perfectly tuned mind and an exquisitely prepared body to be able to harness it.


    Fortunately he had both.


    Gesturing with his hands and speaking the necessary words, he pulled the spell from his imagination and fed it into the accumulated energy, directing it towards the obsidian ball. He could feel the spell taking hold and growing in intensity, pulling at the seams of space, unpicking the microcosmic lattice of the universe, and then he sensed the tear: a tiny gap, above the ball. Holding it open and keeping it stable took more effort than Kaenamor had anticipated and the strain pushed him down to his knees. He gasped at the pressure, but forced himself back to concentration. Test tubes rattled on shelves and the leaves of the herb garden fluttered in a sudden breeze. A second portal was needed, bound to the first, through which the ball could pass. He repeated the spell, all while maintaining the original, seeking the creation of that essential second portal.


    Remarkably, he achieved it. He felt it prise itself open. But it wasn¡¯t in the right place - he had miscalculated, somewhere. The second portal, nearby but outside of the workshop, grew exponentially faster. Still linked as it was to Kaenamor¡¯s summoning fingers, the exaggerated distance caused a tension no wielder could have controlled, even one of his stature. His right arm was the first to go, tearing from its shoulder socket and rocketing across the room and out of an open window.


    Crying out, Kaenamor slumped to the floor, even as the bones in his left hand and arm shattered. Such was his mastery of physology and his own mind that he held on for another four seconds, attempting to regain control of the misfiring spell. Then the first portal began to grow, the obsidian ball sucked into it along with the plinth, and then the workshop¡¯s floor, and then Kaenamor himself.


    <hr>


    Sally walked along the muddy path towards Blackfryers Bridge, hitching her skirts back into place and biting chunks off the meat. It might have been from a pig, but she really didn¡¯t know or care. It was mid-afternoon and the sun had finally succeeded in burning away the mist and taking the edge off the chill. She¡¯d even managed to release the younger man from the burden of his wallet before saying goodbye to them both, so it had been a productive day so far.


    Instead of taking the direct route, she turned left towards Angel Street, then ducked through a broken hole in the high, grand brick wall that marked the boundary of New Spring Gardens. They¡¯d been fancy once, before she was born, or so her mum had told her, but those days were a long way back. There had been a settling in at the gardens, a lowering of sorts, which had been good news for Sally as it had brought with it new entrepreneurial options for an aspiring young lady such as herself. Where once there had been garden parties hosted for the Prince of Wales, now there were gatherings of an altogether more intimate sort. It was somewhat early for that, though, so there would still be families pushing prams and pretending that London was anything but a cesspit. Didn¡¯t matter how rich you were, Sally always said, you still walked through the same shit in the street.


    Walk far enough through the gardens and they¡¯d emerge onto the banks of the Thames, that effluent-filled tide of sludge and filth that slithered its way through the city. Wasn¡¯t a bad place to pick up some trinkets that¡¯d sell at the market, mind, pilfering them from boats as they ferried those patrons too good to soil their boots on the roads. They could grow as many posh gardens as they wanted, but London would always win out in the end, turning everything to mud and filth, swallowing whatever people tried to build on it.


    A couple with a picnic sat next to a bandstand were distracted by each other and Sally started calculating the risk of a minor acquisition. The gardens were designed very sympathetically for the petty thief, or the swift murderer, with tall hedges and winding mazes, row and row of ornate flowers and colonnades of trees. Disappearing was easy.


    Before she had a chance to formulate a plan she heard a shout from behind and turned to see the young man from earlier, pointing, clearly enraged and striding toward her. Somehow he had followed her. Abandoning any plans for new endeavours, instead she darted towards the nearest secluded corner, where she could turn a corner and vanish into a different part of the gardens.


    As she raced across the lawn, holding her skirts to avoid tripping and falling, the trees began to sway in the wind, which had moments before been only a light breeze. The picnicking couple leapt up in surprise as their lunch was blown across the green. Leaves began to whip from trees, despite it being late-spring. Sally squinted as a black dot appeared in the air, small at first but growing rapidly. She couldn¡¯t tell if it was tiny and close or larger and far away, as it defied any kind of definition. Larger and larger it grew, roughly circular but in a warped and uneven way, like a bubble on oily water. It engulfed the bandstand, tearing away stone and brick and earth. Sally watched as the woman tried to first save her picnic blanket, then her partner as he was lifted from the ground and sucked towards the black shape.


    Grit and dirt filling her eyes, Sally didn¡¯t think to run. She was frozen to the spot by the impossibility of what was before her. Her pursuer was closer to the terrible thing and had fallen to the ground, where he was digging his nails into the soil to prevent himself from being dragged closer. She would have succumbed to the black void as well, if it had not abruptly slowed its growth, half-embedded in the soil, wide enough that she couldn¡¯t see both ends through the trees. Much of New Spring Gardens was gone. A black, indescribable shape loomed over Lambeth marsh.


    <hr>


    The energy burst was easy to spot for Just Enough. Even for an AI as experienced as they were, it was enough to give them pause. Only for a millisecond, of course. After sending out a burst transmission to the network, they then wasted no time in identifying a host in the vicinity of the anomalous reading. After the unnecessary but polite and customary handshake, Just Enough downloaded into it and found themselves standing on a bridge in London.


    A quick location check confirmed that it was Blackfriars, on the Thames. They¡¯d never been to London before, not directly, and had arrived just in time to witness all the glass from the west-facing side of one of the river-front skyscrapers torn from the building and sent down to the roads below. Just Enough checked that emergency services were already en route, which they were.


    The most interesting sight was beyond the buildings, set back from the river somewhat in what was supposed to be a residential area. Instead, there were a gaping black shape, emerging from the ground, in a warped oval shape. Its edges fluctuated slightly, as if other forces were pressing at its circumference.


    Just Enough had never seen anything like it, nor had any other AI or human in 2342. Comparing multiple datasets and hypotheses shared over the network, they reached a theory that it was most likely a wormhole of some sort. A tear in space-time. Given that it had emerged in the middle of an estate of London houses it seemed unlikely to have originated there, certainly not deliberately. They wondered whether it was a local portal, meaning to elsewhere in the universe, or a trans-dimensional portal, meaning to parallel universes. That would be interesting.


    Crossing the bridge to the south, Just Enough moved in for a closer look. That was when they realised there was a second portal, further to the west towards Waterloo Bridge.


    <hr>


    Staggering from the destruction of the east quarter of the university, a student touched a hand to her head and felt blood. She stared at the black nothingness that now sat in the ruins of Kaenamor¡¯s laboratory, feeling its energy pulling at them even though the wind had at last subsided. There was another disturbance, perhaps half a mile away.


    Sitting down on a pile of rubble, the student rubbed at her eyes, wondering how it could have happened. Shifting her gaze upward, she frowned at a once-familiar constellation. Adding to the strangeness of that evening, she was almost certain that two stars had entirely vanished from the night sky.

 The koth: part 1

    Early shift


    On duty: DC John Callihan and DC Yannick Clarke


    London.


    1972. July.


    The sweat soaked into Callihan''s collar as he stood in line. He loosened his tie, just a fraction.  The waitress gave him a toothy smile, the styrofoam cups already melting into the tea. He slid the change across the counter.


    Nodding his thanks, he pushed the Cup & Saucer''s door open with his shoulder. The street roared, the air thick and stinking. London: the Kingdom of Great Britain¡¯s shining jewel, as long as you didn¡¯t think about the fumes or the crime or the filth.


    A tram rattled past, packed with commuters on their way to work. Somewhere beneath his feet the trains would be running on their endless circuits. Between the concrete and marble and brass walls, high above, an airship blocked his view of the sky as it drifted slowly on its moorings. Dodging a steam vent he crossed the street to where Yannick waited in the car. One of the many perks of being in the force: your own automobile. Callihan couldn¡¯t deny that it had been one of the reasons he¡¯d joined the police: only the super rich and the authorities had cars, and he wasn¡¯t going to be super rich. Not in this life.


    Yannick pushed the passenger door open from the inside. Callihan lowered himself into the seat carefully and passed one of the cups to the older detective.


    ¡°You¡¯re a life saver,¡± Yannick said, blowing gently on the tea.


    ¡°Shift doesn¡¯t start until the tea goes down.¡± Callihan always admired Yannick¡¯s ability to drink painfully hot liquid. Maybe it was a skill that came with age.


    ¡°Only nine hours left, John.¡± Yannick took a sip, assessed it like it was a fine wine, and sighed contentedly.


    Callihan brought the cup to his lips and immediately burned himself. ¡°Shit,¡± he said, spilling some onto his lap. He grinned at Yannick. ¡°Heard this  the other day. A koth, an aen¡¯fa and a robot walk into a bar. The barman asks them what they want. The koth eats the barman, the aen¡¯fa hides in the rafters and the robot falls over and its battery falls out.¡±


    They sipped their teas. Another tram went past, in the opposite direction to the earlier one. A couple of rickshaws trundled past, Callihan catching a glimpse of their drivers peddling furiously. The city was already wide awake, on its way to work. The usual haze hovered above the street, lingering between the buildings. He could smell it.


    Yannick grunted. ¡°It¡¯s not funny.¡±


    ¡°No, I know. Heard it off Holland.¡±


    ¡°Well, that explains it.¡±


    They sat quietly, observing the street, sipping their drinks. There was the blast of a horn somewhere in the distance, from the direction of the river, pulling Callihan back to the moment. ¡°Zara was telling me about the east end slums last night,¡± he said. He liked relaying information from his fianc¨¦ to Yannick in the mornings; her activism made him feel like a better person by proxy.


    ¡°Did you know it¡¯s something like forty per cent Palinese occupancy now? Mostly aen¡¯fa.¡±


    Yannick snorted and looked out of the car window. ¡°Why would they want to come here?¡±


    ¡°Persecution? Not sure. Zara knows more about it than me, but sounds like Palinor isn¡¯t all its cracked up to be.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve certainly got their issues,¡± Yannick said, his soft laugh turning into a cough. ¡°Haven¡¯t we all?¡±


    ¡°Imagine having actual magic, though. All the good you could do. Click your fingers and fix the world.¡±


    Yannick laughed more and clapped Callihan on the shoulder with amusement, spilling yet more of his drink. ¡°You¡¯re a dreamer, Callihan, and I like that. But you got a lot to learn. They got their magic, the Max-Earthers got their spaceships and we got¡­¡± He waved his hand vaguely at the street beyond the windscreen. ¡°We got a smog-filled shit-hole.¡±


    Callihan said nothing, observing only Yannick¡¯s unfailing ability to turn any discussion into a lament for the state of the world. The man was in his fifties, had been in the force for his whole life and was on the cusp of retiring with only six months left until he¡¯d get his full pension. He underestimated himself, but nothing Callihan said could break through the cynicism.


    As if realising he¡¯d torpedoed the conversation before it got started, Yannick cleared his throat. ¡°How is Zara doing, anyhow? She still with the local council?¡±


    ¡°Fighting the good fight,¡± Callihan nodded. ¡°Feels to me like she¡¯s trying to turn back the ocean, but it makes her happy. Trying to help people.¡±


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    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re both in your twenties,¡± Yannick said. ¡°You¡¯ll get over it.¡± He finished the tea, crushed the cup and stuffed it into the door¡¯s compartment alongside the previous month¡¯s supply.


    The radio crackled, drawing both their attention. ¡°Control to all units. Domestic disturbance reported at 344 Sterling Court, E13, Over.¡±


    Callihan glanced sideways at Yannick. ¡°What do you say? Shall we?¡±


    ¡°Not really our remit, Callihan.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just round the corner, we¡¯ll be there in two minutes. Not going to be anyone else closer. What do you say, for old time¡¯s sake?¡±


    Turning the keys in the ignition, Yannick shrugged. ¡°Ah, sod it, let¡¯s go. Can pretend we¡¯re back in my glory days.¡±


    Pouring his half-drunk tea out of the window, Callihan grinned. ¡°Thought you didn¡¯t have any of those.¡±


    The car jerked away from the pavement, belching smoke from the exhaust on its roof. Callihan gripped onto the arm rest as Yannick pushed them up through the gears, the engine thrumming away in the back.


    Yannick picked up the radio transmitter with one hand, the cord unwinding from the centre console. ¡°Control, Control receiving Sierra-Delta-Charlie Three, over.¡±


    ¡°Sierra-Delta-Charlie Three, go ahead, over.¡±


    ¡°En route to E13, transit two minutes, over.¡±


    ¡°Sierra-Delta-Charlie Three, acknowledge that 999 caller reported sounds of physical distress. Exercise caution, over.¡±


    ¡°All received, Control. Ninety seconds. Out.¡±


    Reaching into his jacket¡¯s inside pocket, Callihan took out his badge and looped it around his neck. The feel of it, the metal of the Specialist Dimensional Command emblem, the leather of the mount, gave him power. It filled him with confidence, reminding him of everything he¡¯d done to reach Detective Constable. Everything he was going to do next. ¡°After we wrap this up, what do you say we get back on that missing person case?¡±


    ¡°Whatever you say, partner,¡± Yannick said, swerving the car between two trams, ¡°though I still don¡¯t see a way forward with it.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll find something.¡± Callihan was a dog chasing trams once he had a case. Unsolved wasn¡¯t in his vocabulary.


    They turned the corner into Sterling Road, part of a larger estate that mixed small, two-storey terraced housing with incongruous council tower blocks. The grass on the roadside was unkempt, overgrown and strewn with litter. A children¡¯s play park sat rusted and empty. Yannick parked the car and they climbed out. The city mumbled in the distance, the twisting pipes of downtown lifting above the rooftops like a metal leviathan, but Sterling Road was quiet. The sound of a door slamming shut echoed across the street.


    ¡°Friendly neighbourhood,¡± Yannick murmured. ¡°Where is everyone?¡±


    ¡°Guess they knew the fuzz was incoming.¡± Callihan straightened his tie. ¡°Let¡¯s go find 344 Sterling Court.¡± He pointed at a tower block sat incongruously halfway along the street, sandwiched awkwardly between much shorter terraces. ¡°I¡¯ll bet you fifty quid it¡¯s up there.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a bet I¡¯d be losing,¡± Yannick said, fixing his truncheon to his belt. ¡°Not worn this for a while.¡±


    ¡°Like riding a bike.¡± Callihan smiled. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    Sterling Road gave the impression of being from another time, like wandering the ruined walls of a Roman town - except people still lived here. London surrounded it, but Sterling Road was its own little pocket universe. Callihan and Yannick walked the cracked pavement until they reached the tower, an anonymous, off-white concrete slab affair. The entrance door was broken on its hinges so they ignored the buzzer and headed straight for the stairwell. ¡°Never use the lifts in these places,¡± Yannick said.


    ¡°Trust me.¡±


    Piss and vomit were the overriding sensations as Callihan climbed the steps, wrinkling his nose against the odour. The stairwell wrapped around on itself, emerging each time onto a long outer balcony from which each of the flats could be accessed. The third floor was as deserted as the street, the edges of the walkways decorated with discarded cans and food wrappers and used condoms. Glancing out across the city, Callihan could see all the way to the Isle of Dogs and its spread of hugely tall buildings, each topped with an air dock. Somewhere further south was the river and the portal station, but the view was blocked by a mix of smog and construction cranes.


    ¡°Here it is,¡± Callihan said. Flat 344. He raised his eyebrows at Yannick, who nodded confirmation. ¡°Anyone there?¡± Callihan called, knocking twice. ¡°This is the police.¡±


    There was no response. He knocked again.


    ¡°Seems pretty quiet,¡± Yannick said, watching the walkway. ¡°Maybe this is the wrong place?¡±


    ¡°Control said ¡®physical distress¡¯. I think we need to go in and check it out.¡± Callihan peered into the flat¡¯s two small windows but the curtains were drawn.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go first,¡± Yannick said, one hand on his truncheon and the other on the doorknob.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Callihan said, ¡°you¡¯re six months off retirement, that¡¯s just asking for trouble.¡± He gently pushed Yannick aside. ¡°Watch my back. On three.


    ¡°One.


    ¡°Two.


    ¡°Three.¡±


    Throwing his shoulder against the door, Callihan felt it give under his weight, though it didn¡¯t quite open. He backed up a step and went again, harder, convinced it would break at either the hinges or the lock.


    He was right, and the battered, tired door fell into the flat. Callihan almost tumbled in with it but was able to adjust his footing in time, moving into a low stance as he surveyed the dim, yellowed room, his own baton in his hand. There was an odd stench he didn¡¯t recognise. He barely had time to notice the upturned and smashed furniture, the dents in the walls and the torn carpet before something long and black and sharp whipped out and seized him around the ankle. With a cry he was yanked into the room and thrown against the far wall. He felt it as a couple of ribs snapped under the impact. Before he hit the floor he was flung again into the opposite wall, the back of his head colliding with a door frame. A huge figure, bigger than it seemed could reasonably fit into the small flat, pinned him there, its body obsidian black, glassy and sharp, glinting in the light from the doorway, two horns atop its head and a long, protruding snout on its face. Its eyes were red. It roared with a senseless fury, then decapitated John Callihan and threw his head at the window, smashing the glass. With another roar, it followed suit and leaped through, cracking the frame and parts of the wall.


    Detective Constable Yannick Clarke, six months from retirement, watched the koth leap off the balcony. He heard it crunch to the tarmac below. Heard its booming footsteps as it ran. He breathed in, breathed out. In. Out. His hand was still on his truncheon.


    The lifeless eyes of Callihan stared up at him, from where his head nestled amongst the piss and vomit.

 The koth: part 2

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland and DC Marion Hobb


    London.


    1972. July.


    The phones started ringing. Robin was the first to pick up, as always, wedging the handset in the crook of her shoulder. "You''ve reached Specialist Dimensional Command, go ahead."


    She listened carefully. Five seconds into the call she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the reception desk. Ten seconds later she''d transferred the call through to the highest ranking officer on duty, which meant DCI James Miller. She could see him picking up the phone through the glass of his partitioned office. "Officer down," she said, before connecting him through to Control. Placing the handset back on its cradle, she sat for a moment at her desk, leaning over the papers to be filed, the framed photo of her parents, the foil-wrapped sandwich for later.


    Miller''s door banged open and he emerged into the main office. "Listen up," he said, his voice loud and clear. "We have officer down near Plaistow, details still coming in. DC Clarke is on the scene, officers en route." He pointed at Holland and Hobb, who had been talking over by the kettle. "Holland, Hobb, get ready to go. Once we have information on the suspect I want you there to supervise. Full gear, be armed and dangerous."


    Robin stared ahead of her as the office erupted into action. She sat in her chair, at the reception desk, a rushing noise in her ears. Slowly she realised she was clenching her jaw so tight it hurt. Her hands gripped the arms of the seat, because otherwise they''d be shaking.


    Holland erupted first. "What the fuck happened?" He was one of those men whose voice carried across great distances, cut through any conversation and overwhelmed anyone else who was speaking. "One of us?"


    "Who else is on this morning?" Hobb looked around the office, as if counting invisible people. "Shit, was it Yannick?"


    Miller had one hand on the door frame and was leaning at an awkward angle, as if being weighed down by something. "Not Yannick," he said.


    "Fuck me," Holland said, "Callihan? Jesus."


    Releasing her grip on the chair, Robin accidentally knocked over a mug containing her collection of pens. They scattered across the desk in a clatter, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. The roaring in her ears subsided, as if she''d surfaced from being underwater.


    The main doors swung open and Ford and Collins rolled in, laughing at a joke nobody else had heard. They stopped short, Collins holding a can of coke in one hand, one finger on the ring pull. He looked at the staring faces and laughed nervously. "What, did somebody die in here?"


    "You''re a fucking idiot, Collins," Holland said, dumping his mug in the sink and heading towards the locker room.


    *


    Robert Ford was one of three DIs assigned to the Specialist Dimensional Command. He kept the ship afloat, ran investigations, kept everyone in line. He''d never intended to wind up in London, never mind the SDC, but that''s where he was and he was going to do it right.


    He put a hand on Collins'' arm, only for a second, but enough to calm the man.


    "Right, then, lads," he said, pocketing the chocolate bar for later, "tell me the situation."


    It was bad. Callihan had been caught in a confrontation during a routine call, killed instantly according to the initial report. His partner was still on site. DC Yannick Clarke. Shit, that wasn''t going to make the old man any cheerier.


    Ford sat on the edge of his desk and gathered everyone near. "The boss is on his way in," he said, "but until he gets here I''m running this shitshow. One, Miller, stay near a phone. Once the papers get this we''re going to need some smooth talking and that isn''t going to come from me. Collins - Andrew! Pay attention - get Clarke back on the line as soon as you can, I want you talking to him. Pull every detail you can about what happened. Was this a gang thing? Domestic? Robbery? What are we talking? And also, make sure he''s alright. Holland, Hobb, once you''re suited-up take a car and get over to this place. Check the scene, make sure those beat coppers aren''t trampling all over it." He thumped the desk with the palm of his hand. "Alright, get to it, not dilly-dallying." Once they''d all dispersed, Ford leaned in towards Robin. "Listen, bring the others up to speed. Tell them to come in, even if it isn''t their shift. We need to all be here. Especially Nisha. Got that? Good girl."


    The world was a bin on fire and they were standing in it. Ford had moved to the SDC to get away from this: a squad of detectives, working cases, away from front line policing. That was the whole point - the portal crime squad, off doing their own thing, without having to worry about London''s usual mess. What had Callihan and Clarke been doing responding to a residential disturbance? They should never have set foot on that street. Callihan was practically a kid. Was he even late-twenties?


    Ford lit a cigarette. Someone was going to have to tell the kid''s wife. No, not wife - fianc¨¦. What a shitshow. They had to get that done before the press did it for them. Callihan had been the kind of optimistic arsehole that made Ford feel bad for being such a pessimist. The kind of guy that was going to go far and believed in doing the right things for the right reasons. Didn''t get many of them come around.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Guv, I''ve got Clarke on the line," Collins called from across the room. "He says it was a koth."


    He spat the cigarette onto the floor, where it started burning into the carpet. "A koth?" He ground it into the carpet with his heel. "What the hell was a koth doing in Plaistow?"


    *


    Holland gripped the wheel as he weaved between trams and rickshaws and pedestrians. "Never lost anyone on the squad, not like this."


    "Twelve years is a good run of luck," said Hobb, checking her pistol. This might be her chance to make an impact at last - Callihan''s killing would draw the attention of the Commissioner and all the rest, which would give her a shot at finally getting out of the SDC. It had meant to be a brief tenure with the portal squad, a stepping stone on the way to better things, but she''d been there for three years already. Being relegated to portal crimes was holding her back from doing real police work.


    The radio crackled. "Sierra-Delta-Charlie Eleven to Sierra-Delta-Charlie Seven. Do you receive, over."


    Hobb punched the button and lifted the receiver, delivering the acknowledgement. "Sierra-Delta-Charlie Seven receiving. Go ahead, Miller, over."


    "New intel. The attack on Callihan was by a koth. Enraged and out of control. This thing is likely to kill again. If you engage do not hesitate to shoot to kill, do you read me? Over."


    "You are R5, Miller. All received. Out." She put the receiver back on its cradle. "A koth," she repeated.


    Holland grunted. "We should''ve brought bigger guns. It''s always been a bloody joke that we get these peashooters when there are fucking dragons in town."


    Sterling Street was full of police, cordoned off at both ends, residents on doorsteps being interviewed. Hobb had never seen so many cars in one place, all with their lights flashing red and blue. Holland and Hobb found Yannick Clarke sitting on the bonnet of his squad car, face a pale white and hands covered in blood. Hobb leaned against the car next to the shivering man, thought about saying something to comfort him, then thought better of it. There was nothing she could say that would help.


    "Clarke," Holland barked. Then, when there was no response: "Yannick. We need to know what happened, every detail, if we''re going to catch this son of a bitch. Reports of a koth?"


    Clarke raised his head and stared at Holland, as if he were looking at a young child who hadn''t yet understood how the world worked. "It''s like it was waiting for us," he said, his voice low. "It was big, really big. Came out of the apartment. Took John, ripped him to pieces." His voice cracked and he paused.


    "What happened afterwards? Point us in the right direction."


    "It jumped over the balcony. I think I heard it running." He pointed down the street. "Perhaps that way? I don''t know."


    Hobb frowned. "Why didn''t it just fly away?"


    "Good question for another time," Holland said, "but it means we''ve got a chance of catching it."


    Leaning forward, suddenly more alert, Clarke grabbed at Holland''s jacket. "You don''t want to catch it, Frank." His voice was more anger than fear. "You didn''t see what it did. Stay the hell away."


    There was call from one of the uniformed officers, over near the tower block. "We''ve picked up a trail! Let''s go!"


    *


    It had happened again. The cloud had descended, obscuring everything behind a fog. What started as a release, a freeing joy, turned shortly to pain, a crushing anxiety that infected their every decision. Instincts shot, clumsy, disoriented. It was the same as always. That''s why they''d got clean, as hard as it had been. Years going back and forth, slipping repeatedly back into temptation, each time worse than the last. They''d lost everyone, spurned by the community, rejected by their family, unable to return through the portal and not allowed to live legally on Earth. But at least they''d been clean, for months. Had been.


    The warehouse was old, wood and steel, cavernous and creaking with sunlight breaking in through holes in the walls and ceiling. It was derelict, save for the collapsed remnants of cargo crates, long since discarded by their owners and emptied of whatever contents they''d once transported.


    Clenching a fist, the koth grimaced and punched the ground. Stupid. They lifted their palm and hit themselves in the face. Again. Another slap. Everything was ruined, worse even than before. Being clean had only made it more terrible when they''d slipped back. They could still feel it coursing through their veins, throbbing beneath their scales, as if pulsing to burst out and escape. The cloying anticipation, an adrenaline burst that crippled their natural abilities. Flying was out of the question, given they could barely stand or walk in a straight line. Their wings were limp, heavy, dragging them down, tying them to the ground like chains. Each one, leathery and thick, sloughed across the warehouse floor. Their throat was parched, dry to the point of cracking inside. The flame had extinguished, as it always did, and though they knew it would reignite once the effects had worn off it still felt like part of them had died.


    They couldn''t remember their own name. It had been so long since anyone had used it.


    It occurred to them that they couldn''t remember when they''d taken it. When had they? Where would they even have got it from? None of the old dealers were still around. How could they have forgotten? The morning was a dark haze.


    There had been a man. A human. They remembered slivers, scratchy flashes bereft of meaning or context. A man. What had he been doing? Had he attacked them? Where had that happened? A tiny room, dirty, too small, the walls pressing in on them like a vice - the man had intruded on them, he''d had a weapon, a baton, and the light had been so blindingly bright. Why had the man interrupted? It had made them angry. They remembered the anger, then, and the violence, and the window. The window had smashed. They''d smashed it with something. A rock. A ball? A helmet?


    A head.


    Scratching at their palm with the claws of their other hand, the koth saw the residue, caught in the cracks between the flexing scales. Red. Human blood. This time they''d really gone too far. They wondered who the man had been, what his life had meant, who their tribe had been. They pounded their fists into the ground, then splayed their fingers out and scratched at the concrete floor, cutting grooves until the ends of their claws began to splinter and snap.


    There was a commotion by the entrance to the warehouse. The big door was slid aside and a host of humans entered. They were armed. The koth felt the rage building again, the last of the herb still working at their system, piercing their nerves with a thousand needles. Their brain hammered against the inside of their head.


    They tried to stand, to gain control and some semblance of balance, so as not to appear threatening. They tried to raise his hands above their head, but their wings pulled them back down at the elbows. They could feel their tail flicking with irritation.


    "Please," they said, their voice deep and rasping and barely intelligible, "please, you have to help¡ª"


    The shots rang out, echoing through the empty warehouse. Shot after shot, hitting their mark. The koth fell to their knees. Maybe this time would be the last, mercifully. They only wished they could remember their name.

 Traffic: part 1

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski


    London.


    1972. August.


    Mid-afternoon in London in August was unbearable, especially in the offices of the SDC. When the department had been established a decade earlier there had been a lot of talk about them getting their own place, in a newly acquired building across town. They wouldn¡¯t be shoved into another tiny corner of Scotland Yard but would have a brand new headquarters round the corner from the portal station. Turned out it was an old apartment building, gutted and refurbished using only the cheapest materials available. Not enough ventilation, no canteen, only two toilets between all of them. They had to share a couple of old cars, discarded by the main force for being too slow. Sure, they were closer to the portal station, but that meant they were farther from everything else they might need - the morgue, the records room, the garage. Being assigned to the SDC was going to be a special appointment, a real rung on the career ladder. Instead, it was where they sent trouble-makers and rookies and old has-beens.


    Yannick Clarke was in the latter category, and he knew it. He sat in Callihan¡¯s chair, next to Callihan¡¯s desk, staring at the cardboard box containing Callihan¡¯s personal items. He¡¯d have to deliver them to Zara at some point. He¡¯d seen her at the funeral, but they hadn¡¯t spoken. Clarke had wanted to go up, offer his condolences, maybe give her a hug. He¡¯d known that was what he should do, but instead had stood silently at the grave as the coffin was lowered, head bowed, looking at no-one, shame piling upon shame.


    There was a photo of Callihan on the side of the box, the regular mugshot that got re-used on everything. There he was, that amazing porn tash, eyes narrowed and face set like he was ready to change the whole world. He probably would have, too, if he¡¯d had the chance. The contents of the box were a snapshot of Callihan¡¯s life: photos of Zara and his parents and sister, a framed photo of his graduation to detective, a metal shield of the Met police symbol mounted on a wooden plaque, his sketchbook. A man in a box.


    Across the office were Nisha and Kaminski. Huddled around a corkboard, pinning up ideas and photographs. Working cases together. Carrying on as if everything were normal. Nisha hadn¡¯t spoken to him since it had happened. She hadn¡¯t attended the funeral, and had instead ploughed herself back into the work. He couldn¡¯t tell if it was because she didn¡¯t care, or because she cared too much.


    The drawers of the desk still contained the open case files that they¡¯d been working on together. Clarke needed to go through them one-by-one and tally them up with his own files. They¡¯d worked well together, Callihan¡¯s optimism and drive bringing the energy and Clarke tempering it with some much-needed, world-weary cynicism. It had been a good match for being police in London. Clarke grimaced. They were sending him a new partner, who would be arriving later that afternoon. A girl, barely out of school. They kept pairing him up with these rookies; maybe they thought he couldn¡¯t do any harm being the babysitter, but the koth had proven that theory wrong.


    He was drawn back to the sound of glass shattering, his mind wandering back to the tower block and John¡¯s head rolling to a stop on the walkway. The koth, big and huge and black, leaping out. It had looked at him with those red eyes, like burning coals, before leaping from the balcony. Clarke had stood there, so inert and useless that he might as well have been frozen by a spell, as Callihan¡¯s murderer had escaped. For a moment he¡¯d had thoughts of trying to save his partner, of somehow re-attaching the head. He¡¯d thought about how he might do it, and whether CPR would work if he was able to hold the head close enough.


    Instead, he¡¯d stood there on the balcony, truncheon uselessly in his hand - as if he had ever been in a position to use it, against a koth of all things. He hadn¡¯t even been there at the end, when Holland and Hobb had tracked down the killer. Holland had taken the shot. No closure left for Clarke. No satisfaction. No partner.


    *


    Stamford Street was host to innumerable cafes, restaurants and hotel, all serving the many travellers of the London portal station: politicians, historians, scientists, importers, exporters, officials and unofficials, immigrants and emigrants. As the only city containing two functioning portals, London was the epicentre of the entire triverse.


    The offices of Specialist Dimensional Command were situated at the corner of Stamford and Coin, in a nondescript, squat building nestled between a fast food restaurant and a travel accessory shop claiming to stock everything one might need for a safari trip to the wilds of Palinor or an inter-planetary venture through Max-Earth¡¯s solar system. Lola Styles doubted both claims but still had to resist the urge to buy herself a pair of supposedly poison-proof hiking boots. Just in case. Not that she¡¯d ever be able to afford to visit Palinor.


    She took a deep breath, then press the buzzer. After a few seconds a woman¡¯s voice, young-sounding, came out of the tinny speaker. ¡°SDC, who is this?¡±


    ¡°Lola,¡± she began, ¡°I mean, Detective Constable Lola Styles. I¡¯ve been transferred, this is my first day.¡± It all came out in a rush.


    Another pause. ¡°Oh, Lola! This is Robin, come right up and I¡¯ll meet you at the top of the stairs.¡± The speaker hissed then went silent and the door to the street unlocked with a click.


    She pushed at it, biting her lip, trying to contain the bubbling excitement within an air of professionalism. She¡¯d read somewhere that a person¡¯s most obvious attribute appeared twice as prominent upon first meeting, whether that be their hair, or their lips, or their weight. In her case, she worried about her enthusiasm, which she knew could be overwhelming.


    But it was the Specialist Dimensional Command! The elite department established by the Commissioner himself, Joint Council-approved and tasked with solving portal-related crimes that were too unusual for regular policing. It had been her dream to make it here since she was a kid, driving her studies, her application to the police, her fast-tracking the detective exams. Entering the lobby, she wasn¡¯t sure what precisely she had been expecting but the empty stairwell was not it. She thought it might be cooler inside, but the walls seemed to be acting more like a pressure cooker. There were crumpled cardboard boxes in one corner, a stack of unopened mail on the doormat and everything was a dull shade of brown. Keeping a low profile, making it look like any other building on the street. Clever.


    She climbed the staircase, passing what appeared to be a floor dedicated entirely to storage, arriving at the top floor and another door with a metal sign screwed to it. It was the SDC. She¡¯d arrived. Raising her hand to knock, she was startled when the door swung open before she¡¯d had a chance to tap. Left standing with one fist raised, she smiled at the man on the other side; slightly shorter than average, stocky, with grey-flecked hair despite not appearing especially old. He glanced up at her fist and smiled, then raised his own in mock solute before laughing and pushing past.


    Following him was a woman, maybe late twenties, with jet-black hair tied up into a tight bun, a long, slender nose and rich, brown eyes. She¡¯d be beautiful if she didn¡¯t also look so tired, eyes rimmed red. ¡°Don¡¯t mind him,¡± she said, holding out her hand. ¡°Nisha Chakraborty. That was Zoltan, he¡¯s a bit of an arsehole. You must be Clarke¡¯s new partner? We¡¯re just heading out to take a look at a body on the river.¡± She moved past, then turned back at the staircase. ¡°Let¡¯s get drinks sometime, get to know each other. We¡¯re not all arseholes!¡±


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.Then Nisha was gone. Lola composed herself, sure that she could make a better impression next time, and strode into the office. It was reasonably large, and filled with desks piled high with papers and folders, a couple of partitioned offices on the far wall near the windows, presumably for whichever DI was in town. What struck Lola was how empty the place was, furniture aside. She could see someone behind the mottled glass in one of the offices, and a young woman was moving towards her with a big grin on her face, but that was it.


    The approaching woman held out her hands. ¡°Lola! You¡¯re here early.¡±


    Lola shrugged apologetically. ¡°I couldn¡¯t wait!¡± She sounded like a ten year old girl. Reel it in. First impressions. ¡°I¡¯m Lola Styles, the new detective.¡± Her lips curled into a smile. ¡°Still sounds weird to say that.¡±


    ¡°You earned it, nothing weird about that. I¡¯m Robin. Let me show you to your desk.¡± She guided Lola through the maze of chairs and desks and filing cabinets. ¡°You just met DC Chakraborty and DC Kaminski. They¡¯re both great, so don¡¯t worry.¡± Lola wondered why she might be worrying. ¡°We just got a call in about a body on the river. Aen¡¯fa, I think. Sounded like it¡¯d been there a while.¡± Robin pulled a face. ¡°That¡¯s why I stay in the office and answer phones.¡±


    They were nearing a couple of desks in the far corner of the office. Lola realised with a start that there was another person in the room, but he was so still and, somehow, grey, that she hadn¡¯t noticed him.


    ¡°DC Styles,¡± Robin announced gleefully, ¡°meet DC Clarke. Yannick is your partner. DC Clarke, meet Lola.¡±


    The man was old. She thought perhaps he looked older than his age. It wasn¡¯t just his hair that was grey. She wondered if she poked him whether he would collapse into a pile of ash. ¡°Hi, so pleased to meet you, DC Clarke.¡±


    The man smiled, though even then it seemed somehow sad. ¡°Just Clarke. Or Yannick. Forget the rank.¡±


    ¡°OK, likewise.¡± She put her handbag down on the table, on top of some papers. ¡°I cannot tell you how excited I am to be here, at last. Getting assigned to the SDC has been my dream.¡± Calm it down, Lola.


    He laughed. Abruptly, just for a moment. There was a little cruelty, though he hid it quickly. ¡°This where all the cool kids are hanging out, now, eh?¡± He breathed in deeply. ¡°Don¡¯t stick around for long, kid. This place is the graveyard of ambition.¡± He pointed at his chest. ¡°Look at me. I¡¯ve been here since I was a boy.¡±


    ¡°What, really?¡±


    He looked at her, then at Robin. ¡°Is she for real?¡±


    A door banged, and Lola was grateful for the distraction. A man had entered the room from another part of the building, holding a can of something fizzy. He waved jovially. ¡°You must be Lola, our newest detective. I¡¯m DS Collins.¡± He trotted up and shook her hand. Lola noted that he didn¡¯t try to kiss it, or her cheek. ¡°Call me Andrew, or Sarge, or whatever you like. Well, not whatever you like. Depends who¡¯s in the room. Anyway, I¡¯ll be looking after you, showing you around. Most shifts I¡¯ll be here as well.¡±


    Robin smiled. ¡°You¡¯re in safe hands. I¡¯ll go through some of the boring stuff with you later.¡± She turned and headed back towards the reception desk near the entrance.


    ¡°Let me introduce you to the guv,¡± Collins said, guiding her gently by the arm away from Clarke¡¯s desk. ¡°DI Christopher Bakker, he¡¯s very serious but knows his stuff.¡± Collins leaned in closer. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about Clarke. He¡¯s had a bad time of it. You were briefed on all that with DC Callihan, I take it? Hit us all pretty hard.¡±


    Everyone kept telling her not to worry.


    Lola was beginning to worry.


    *


    The Thames was a foul sludge at the best of times. Late-afternoon in late-summer was the worst. Kaminski took a big sniff, then retched, doubling over. ¡°Fuck me, that¡¯s some rancid shit.¡± He held a sleeve of his jacket to his nose. ¡°You know when you have a curry that makes you sweat chillies, and then the next day? Like it¡¯s infected your insides. That¡¯s what this is.¡±


    Chakraborty glanced at him. ¡°I¡¯ve never had that.¡±


    ¡°Makes you feel alive.¡± He started scrambling down the shallow bank at the edge of the road, over the tangled rubbish and netting towards the dark, oil-stained strip of sand and pebbles.


    ¡°The curry or this smell?¡±


    He laughed and pointed an accusatory finger at her, refusing to confirm or deny. She hadn¡¯t been right since Callihan¡¯s death, which wasn¡¯t a surprise but was still painful to see. Nisha Chakraborty wasn¡¯t one to open up about her feelings, especially about the guy she¡¯d been sleeping with while he was engaged to someone else. That was a fact nobody else on the squad knew, which put Kaminski in the unique position of confidante. Not what he was good at. She¡¯d doubled down on just about everything since Callihan¡¯s death, everything except looking after herself.


    Flicking open his lighter, he lit a cigarette. It took the edge off the stench. He lit a second and passed it to Chakraborty. ¡°Let¡¯s go see our inflatable victim,¡± he said, the smoke of the cigarette mixing with the Thames¡¯ decay.


    The body was twice the size it should be, translucent in places, like an over-stuffed sausage when the skin was ready to burst. A few rags clung to it but it was largely naked, veiny and bloated. It was a female aen¡¯fa, though the distortions to the body from the water absorption made it hard to tell at a glance. River scum coated her skin, her wet hair clamped to her head and down her shoulders. Her eyes were gone.


    ¡°Nasty,¡± he said, in case anyone hadn¡¯t already come to that conclusion.


    ¡°Aen¡¯fa skin reacts a little differently to ours,¡± said Dr Steven Wong, approaching them. ¡°She¡¯s been in the water a long time.¡± He had a plastic coverall tied to his front and was wearing medical gloves. He looked like a hospital surgeon, though there was no rescuing this girl.


    Chakraborty squatted down next to the body, seemingly unconcerned by the smell. Kaminski stayed standing where he was. ¡°Reckon we¡¯ll get an ID once the bloating goes down?¡±


    Wong turned to her and nodded. ¡°Perhaps. If she¡¯s legal there¡¯ll be a record of her somewhere. Can¡¯t tell much now. Once the body dries out some back at HQ I¡¯ll be able to carry out a proper examination. There¡¯s definitely a wound to the head, and perhaps some bruising around the neck and shoulders, but it¡¯s hard to be sure right now.¡±


    Kaminski leaned forward. There was a deep gash on the girl¡¯s forehead. ¡°Wound to the head the cause of death? Not drowning?¡±


    ¡°Too early to say.¡±


    Looking away from the gelatinous mess that had once been a person, Kaminski looked out across the river. Always washing up the city¡¯s shit, literally and metaphorically. He wondered what the girl had looked like before she¡¯d ended up in the water, wondered what she¡¯d done with her life, and what had brought an aen¡¯fa to this damned place. If he¡¯d been born in a place with actual magic he wouldn¡¯t have rushed to go through a portal to a world that could barely keep the lights on. Had she fallen into the river, hitting her head on the way? Taken her own life once she recognised the shithole she¡¯d got herself into? Or did someone do this to her? Knock her out, throw her in?


    A pleasure steamer drifted by in the centre of the river, its wheel kicking up a wave that lapped onto the shore. On the deck Kaminski could see revellers already preparing for the evening¡¯s festivities.


    The girl¡¯s body rotted on the sand.

 Traffic: Part 2

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski


    London.


    1972. August.


    The morgue was so clean it reminded Nisha of a restaurant kitchen. Whenever she went out for a meal, she imagined the chefs dissecting the animals, examining their innards for cause of death. Intended to be eaten by a human. She smiled to herself, for only a moment, then returned her attention to the coroner and the corpse on the table. The aen¡¯fa girl from the river was now more ordinarily proportioned, the bloating having reduced, her skin thin and flaccid as a result of over-stretching. She would have been slim, probably attractive. Her skin was a light, pastel green, though much of it was now a slushy, decaying brown, like autumn leaves rotting on the pavement.


    ¡°She¡¯d been in the river a good while, at least a week,¡± the doc was saying, ¡°the only reason she¡¯s in as good condition as she is, is because the river¡¯s been colder than usual, and the slower aen¡¯fa decomposition rate. Putrefaction brought the body back up where it got tangled in netting, which is how it ended up on the bank.¡±


    Dr Steven Wong always seemed more excited by his job than was appropriate. Nisha liked her job, believed in what they did at the SDC, but Wong? He loved pulling apart bodies, especially if they were of Palinese origin. Cracking his knuckles, he pointed at a plastic container on floor at the end of the table. ¡°Hard to say with any accuracy, but there was a lot of detritus tangled in her limbs and hair. Netting, rope, mostly, but also some broken glass, old tin cans. Might give you an indication.¡±


    ¡°Unlikely. The lungs were fully collapsed, and were only wet through prolonged exposure. There is no evidence of inhalation of water, so I¡¯d say she was dead before she was submerged.¡± He pointed at the aen¡¯fa¡¯s forehead, above the sharp, eyebrow-less brow, where a deep gash cut through to the bone. ¡°There¡¯s also this. Definitely bludgeoned with something solid and heavy, fracturing the skull around this area. Looking at the impact marks and the size, I¡¯d guess at the side of a table, or a mantelpiece sculpture, something like that. Can still find flecks of red paint in the wound, and whatever hit her left an uneven mark - which is why I¡¯m angling towards some sort of object, with an uneven surface.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t say. There¡¯s evidence of bruising around her ankles and shoulders, consistent with the body being moved, though.¡±


    ¡°Make sure we get some of those paint flecks out and examined,¡± Nisha said. ¡°You never know.¡±


    ¡°What is that? A tattoo?¡±


    The dark, raised mark, about the length of a finger, depicted two connected chain links. Nisha grimaced. ¡°That¡¯s an ugly thing. Some sort of aen¡¯fa mark? A tribal thing perhaps?¡±


    ¡°Point. OK, let¡¯s wrap it up. Doc, we¡¯ll take a look through the contents of your stinking bucket. Give us a shout if you find anything else.¡±


    A ceiling fan meandered haplessly, unable to shift the stifling humidity in the offices of the Specialist Dimensional Command. Clarke sat at his desk, flicking idly through incoming case files without giving any of them his proper attention. He knew he¡¯d need to get back out in the world soon, but not yet. Checking over old cases, dotting the Is and crossing the Ts, felt more comfortable. The new girl, Styles, was good. Keen as anything, highly competent, insightful, clearly had done her homework. Young people like her made Clarke feel even more obsolete. What had he been doing when he was her age? Certainly not making detective so soon.


    The main door opened and Holland and Hobb came in, ready for the night shift. Holland laughed raucously. ¡°Clarke! You¡¯re here again? It¡¯s not even your shift.¡±


    ¡°What about you, Styles? Don¡¯t you have a life to attend to?¡±


    Holland stared for a moment, mouth curled up into a confused sneer, then he turned away as if the conversation had never happened and joined Hobb over at her desk. They¡¯d been there to take down the koth. Clarke ought to be grateful, but it felt unfinished. There was so much he still didn¡¯t understand about the encounter that had killed Callihan, but everyone else seemed content to keep it in the past, like any other old case. He turned his eyes back to his desk.


    ¡°What things? Pubs?¡± Her voice was always so perky, so enthusiastic.


    A silence followed, long and deliberate, even Styles holding her tongue for once. Clarke was grateful when the door banged open again and Chakraborty and Kaminski entered, chatting away to each other. Kaminski nodded in Clarke¡¯s direction, while Chakraborty headed straight for the evidence board at the head of the room. She began pinning papers and items up onto the board.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Give me a chance,¡± Clarke said, ¡°she¡¯s only been here a day.¡±


    Raising his eyebrows, Kaminski grinned from behind his cigarette. ¡°Well, if Yannick doesn¡¯t mind, come and have a look over here at what we¡¯ve got. Aen¡¯fa dragged from the river. Not everyday you get one of these.¡±


    *


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet she¡¯d have been pretty,¡± Kaminski said.


    ¡°You know what I mean. Reckon she was here legally?¡±


    Kaminski looked at his watch. ¡°Nearly home time. Want to grab some beers on the way out?¡±


    Frowning, Lola leaned in. ¡°That¡¯s not an aen¡¯fa symbol,¡± she said. ¡°Where was it?¡±


    ¡°Doc says it¡¯s a brand,¡± Chakraborty said, knocking his hand away. ¡°Not a tattoo.¡±


    Kaminski looked at her askance. ¡°You some kind of expert?¡±


    His face changed, as if he was reconsidering his assessment of her. ¡°Good. We could do with more of those.¡±


    Frank Holland swaggered over from the kitchen. It hadn¡¯t taken Lola long to pick up on bad vibes between Holland and Clarke, though she hadn¡¯t worked out the specifics. ¡°What you got?¡± He stared at the board, nodding to himself. ¡°You can tell she¡¯d have been a looker.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen one of those before,¡± Holland said, pointing at the chain motif. ¡°Work cases around Soho and you¡¯ll see stuff like that. Not exactly that, but marks like it. It¡¯s a territorial thing. Ownership. Property, you know.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯d be my guess,¡± Holland said, turning and walking away.


    Lola attempted her sweetest of sweet smiles.


    Clarke waved at Kaminski and Chakraborty as they grabbed their bits and headed out the door. He stood next to Lola. ¡°Anything interesting?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but we also have to be specialists in sentient spaceships and quantum computing.¡± He laughed, though not unkindly. ¡°Listen, there¡¯s a lot to get your head around when you¡¯re trying to handle crimes across the triverse. We can¡¯t all be experts in everything. Why do you think you got the gig here? That¡¯s why they hired you. Everyone knows you¡¯re a nerd for anything from Palinor.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not wrong. What did Holland want?¡±


    ¡°He thinks every woman is a prostitute,¡± Clarke said, a little too quickly. He glanced at her. ¡°Sorry. He might have a point in this instance.¡± He touched his hand to the pencil sketch, then looked at the photographs of the girl lying on the table in the morgue. He muttered something under his breath, then spun and strode back toward his desk.


    Clarke lifted the box of Callihan¡¯s old case files and dumped them onto the desk. He rifled through them, hunting for something, eventually pulling a particular folder out triumphantly. He leafed through the papers inside, pulled one out. ¡°I¡¯ll be damned.¡±


    He read from the paper. ¡°¡®Description of missing person: Aen¡¯fa female. About five-nine. Nineteen years old. Orange hair. Green skin. Illegally entered Mid-Earth eleven months prior. Whereabouts unknown, reported missing by acquaintance known only as Shona.¡¯¡±


    ¡°It was the last case I was working with Callihan. Missing person. He had a contact, this Shona, but she¡¯d only ever talk to him and even that didn¡¯t go anywhere. We lost contact with her and I thought that was that.¡±


    Clarke took his jacket from the back of his chair. ¡°Now, we go to Soho.¡±

 Traffic: part 3

    Night shift


    Supposedly off duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1972. August.


    There was no police car to take as they weren''t officially on duty. This was Chakraborty and Kaminski''s case, and Holland and Hobb were on the night shift, so a small electric thrill went up Lola''s spine as she walked across the street from the office with Clarke and hopped onto a passing tram. It would take them across the river to Soho, somewhere she''d patrolled back when she was still in uniform. Mixed memories: go to the right street and it was a thrilling, vibrant cultural cauldron; take a wrong turning and you might never find your way out.


    "Her name was Laryssa," Clarke said. "We had the description, that she was missing, and the name. That was it. Didn''t have a location, or a job. The girl that reported her missing, Shona, had a change of heart after reporting it. Decided she wanted nothing to do with it all."


    "Maybe she was scared," Lola said. She pulled her small notebook from her jacket and flipped it open. Clarke, standing holding the overhead rail beside her, looked over her shoulder.


    "Your handwriting is terrible."


    "Oh, I have a shorthand," she said, smiling sheepishly, "it''s quicker for me to write and also stops other people from snooping." She glanced at him. "Present company excluded."


    Before they''d left the office she''d sketched down as much as she could from the evidence board, focusing on the detritus that had accumulated about and been retrieved from the girl''s body.


    "Read some to me, then," Clarke said. His knuckles were white where he held the rail.


    The rocking of the tram as it crossed streets and changed tracks towards Dover Bridge and the river made reading her notes difficult. The tram was packed with jostling revellers, on their way from businesses around the portal station to the various entertainments on offer north of the river. Night was descending onto the city. She wondered which of them would be taking advantage of others, or being taken advantage of themselves by the end of the night.


    "We''ve got the chain brand, of course. Then there was cargo netting wrapped around her arm, with ''Barrindon'' printed on it."


    "That''s a shipping company, they''ve got a warehouse not far from here on the south bank. Handle a lot of cargo in and out of the portal station. So she was likely dumped in the river at least upriver from there, and I''ll happily bet it was from the north side."


    "If you think she was working somewhere in Soho, then they''ll have had to bring the body down the Barrel. Any other route would have been too risky."


    The Barrel: the maze of narrow streets snaking from the soft southern edge of Soho to the Strand. An entire area of London that effectively operated its own municipality, free from regulation or oversight. The police steered clear, happy as long as various trades stayed within the unofficial borders. Lola always found it hard to believe that the eastern end of the Strand had ever been anything other than rotten.


    Clarke nodded. The noise of the tram''s wheels clacking muffled their voices such that nobody more than a foot away would be able to hear what they were saying. "We''re making a lot of assumptions, but given the brand we can assume her profession. Because she was found in the river she probably worked to the south of the area. Too far the north and they''d have disposed of the body some other way, somewhere else."


    "That leaves us with a really big area to cover, still," Lola sighed. "And I''ll be pretty conspicuous in a lot of those venues."


    "You''re forgetting something," Clarke said. "She was aen''fa. Not every establishment serves up her kind. Palinese specialists are pretty rare - at least, when it''s the real deal and not someone with stuck-on pointy ears."


    Lola grimaced. "Her kind? She was a real person, you know."


    "And now she''s a real dead person, and it''s up to us to find out what happened." Clarke gave her an unexpectedly sympathetic look. "Don''t get emotional, they''ll sniff a cop before you even walk in the door."


    *


    The city at night was when all the scum floated to the surface. The junkies and the whores and the dealers. The bankers coming out from their offices, leeching off the rest of them. All the crooked parts of London. It reminded Clarke of the decades he''d put into the job, all those wasted years trying to clean up a place that wanted to stay dirty. There was always more filth. When he was younger he''d seen himself as a righteous rain, washing away the worst of it. Each morning the city would be a little brighter, a little safer. That was an illusion he''d given up a long time ago, though Callihan had almost tricked him into believing it again.


    Almost. Then he''d had his head taken off by a dragon from another dimension. Clarke sometimes wondered at how simple life must have been before the Joining, before those damned portals opened up.


    Callihan had seen even Soho in a different light; to him it had been all of the bad, but also a crucible from where new ideas emerged, new ways of living and being. He always used to play tapes of music that made Clarke''s ears bleed, but Callihan insisted it would be the next big thing.


    Clarke and Styles had split up, unable to square the circle that was a man in his mid-50s walking into bars with a twenty-something. There was only really one explanation and neither of them had much enthusiasm for it; plus, it wouldn''t have helped to strike up conversation if he already had someone in tow. So they''d gone their separate ways, Styles presenting herself as the assistant of a high-powered executive looking to arrange a particular kind of party and Clarke as a washed-up old man. It wasn''t much of a stretch for him.


    He''d already been to four likely establishments, Styles another three, drawing a blank on each. They were into the hour of the wolf, that indistinct point between night and far-too-early morning. Now deeper into the warren of streets that made up the city-within-a-city, he was headed towards another potential club. Its neon signs flickered brightly, casting garish reds and purples and blues against the surrounding buildings. It called itself The Palinor Express and the fa?ade of the building was adorned with an absurd, illuminated illustration of a jungle that was intended to represent somewhere more exotic than the streets of London. The spray-painted picture was as high as the first floor windows and featured all sorts of creatures, some of which might even be real. A hulking, beast-like koth was depicted, carrying a scantily-clad human woman. Clarke shuddered involuntarily, despite the crude rendering.


    The bouncers on the door sized him up. "What are you looking for, grandpa?"


    Clarke looked at them both with uncensored disdain. "Is this place genuine? Real Palinese, none of the usual costume bullshit?"


    The larger of the bouncers grinned. "Oh yeah, they got it all in there. Long as you fulfil your end of the bargain." He raised his eyebrows expectantly and Clarke pulled a handful of notes from his wallet, already wincing at the idea of trying to claim it back from Robin by the end of the month. It wasn''t the kind of place that produced receipts.


    The doors swung open and he was admitted into the interior, pushing through deep, heavy curtains with only dim floor lights to guide him, until he reached the club proper. A polished wooden bar was the centre of the club, with tables and stages spun off from it in all directions. It was a large space, Clarke calculating that it must have been knocked through into the adjacent buildings. The space was filled with overflowing ferns and palm trees, most fake. Darkened booths were dotted around the edges of the room, each occupied by silhouettes of gyrating bodies.


    A girl came up to him, probably about the same age as Styles, barely dressed in tiny skirt and what amounted to barely more than a bra. "Welcome to Palinor, hero," she said. "You''ve embarked upon the adventure of your life, or at least of this night. Booth, table or bar?"


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    "Table," he said, glancing at one of the podium tables. A dancer wrapped themselves around a pole installed through the centre of the table, the customers sat around its edge busy playing cards, or drinking, or throwing money at the show. "That one."


    He was led over and shown to a seat. The host handed him a folded piece of card. "Here is our menu, sir. I''ll be back to take your order." He glanced at it: listings of services and storylines. He could be a knight rescuing a princess from an enraged koth. On the back were drinks. His attention was drawn to the dancer, and he was close enough to see that she was a real aen''fa, not a cheap body-paint knock-off like in the previous place. She was naked except for lace-like underwear which may as well have not been there. Seeing the new arrival, she bent down to greet him, her hair brushing his face. Her skin was turquoise, with flecks of iridescent green running down the sides of her face, her neck, over her chest and arms, like glow-in-the-dark freckles. Smiling, she turned away, her body twisting lithely, and that was when he saw it: a dark mark at the based of her spine, clearly visible above the line of her underwear, depicting two connected chain links.


    *


    The White Horse was a pub within walking distance of the SDC offices. It was the unofficial cop bar, watering not only the SDC but two of the local police stations as well. The sign hanging above the entrance depicted a white horse rearing up, though somebody had added a unicorn''s horn to the top of its head.


    "Two more!" Nisha said to the bartender, shouting despite the pub being largely empty other than the two of them and a few randoms.


    "Getting them in tonight, Chakraborty," he said, pulling another couple of beers.


    "It''s been a bad year."


    "Want to talk about it?"


    "I''ll talk to my beer," she said, not ungratefully. Paul was gruff but kind, the kind of bartender that knew the name of everyone who came into his establishment.


    She carried the pints over to the table where Zoltan was finishing the dregs of his previous. He pushed the empty aside and drew the new one close. "I should get home soon," he said. A crumpled cigarette smouldered in the ashtray. "They might be waiting up for me."


    "I don''t know how you do it," Nisha said. She was more than happy not to return to her crappy one-room apartment. It had reached the point where even she was appalled at the state of it, but it was too far gone to be easily fixed. She''d need to take a week''s leave just to collect and clear out all the takeaway cartons. The sticky beer mats and pool table of The White Horse were an infinitely preferable way to spend her evening, at least until Paul chucked her out.


    Work. Pub. Pass out. Work. Repeat. Slot in another pub whenever possible.


    Zoltan looked at the head on his beer, like a builder checking a spirit level. "Don''t have a choice. When you don''t have a choice, it makes it easy. Well, not easy. But you can''t not do it. Like having a kid."


    "Well, my parents don''t approve and I don''t have any kids, so that keeps things nice and simple for me."


    Images of John Callihan played over in her mind, unbidden. Of him at his desk, or gesticulating animatedly at the board in the office. His laugh in the pub, the curve of his shoulders as they lay together on the mattress back at hers, knowing that they were making a mistake, again, but unable to stop. The investigation into what had happened had been assigned to another department, taken out of the squad, despite it being evidently portal-related. They had been deemed too close to work the case effectively. At least that meant there hadn''t been photos of his body up on the wall.


    Unlike the aen''fa girl. "You ever wonder what the point of it all is?" she asked.


    "Here we go," Zoltan said, his accent coming through more strongly as it tended to when he was making a point. "I don''t, because there is no point."


    "We have portals to a world where there is actual magic. Floating cities. Creatures like something out of ancient myths. Or there''s the portal to Max-Earth, which is essentially our world but with all the shit extracted and jumped six hundred years into the future. Spaceships, colonies on other planets."


    "I know all this, Chakraborty."


    "And here we are," she waved a hand vaguely at the inside of the pub, "doing the same old shit, clearing up after bad people, instead of being princesses or wizards or knights or whatever the fuck."


    "Luck of the draw. We were born on Mid-Earth. We''re middlers. In the middle. Average. Mediocre. Whatever." He raised his glass proudly, as if making a toast. "Even if those portals had never opened up, there''d always be people like us doing what we do, and people like them doing what they do. The people on top rise up out of the muck by standing on the backs of everyone else."


    She took a swig, nearly spilling it down her front. "OK, but what about people like our aen''fa girl? What, she grows up in an amazing fantasy land and then chooses to come to London? In what universe does that make any sense?"


    "You sound like DI Ford," Zoltan said, laughing. His laughter was always loud, his mouth big and wide. Some people hid laughter behind an embarrassed hand: Zoltan beamed it to everyone nearby, not because he was a happy guy but because he wanted to be clear that he didn''t take the universe - any of them - seriously.


    "That aen''fa. Comes over here, gets herself into trouble, winds up in the river. Then we have to clear up the mess."


    He tapped the table twice with two fingers. "Keeps us in employment."


    *


    Styles had arrived half an hour later, taking a seat at the bar. Taking his wine glass, Clarke had extricated himself from the table with the dancer and made his way over to the seat next to her. Entering the establishment together would never have worked, but a leery old man choosing to sit next to an attractive, young woman? That made sense.


    "Buy you a drink?" he asked, putting an arm around her shoulder.


    She slapped his hand away. "Whatever you''re having. Any luck?"


    He signalled for the barmaid to pour another two. "This might be the place. The dancer at the middle table has the same brand, in the same place."


    Glancing over her shoulder, Styles nodded. "You must have got a good look."


    "Yeah, yeah." There was a time when he''d have treated being there as a perk of the job; now all he could think of was finding something useful and getting out.


    "This Shona," Styles was saying, "was she a dancer, a prostitute or bar staff?"


    "No idea, John was the one she spoke to. The name, though, sounds human to me, and local. And this place specialises in Palinese exotics for the main events."


    "Exotics?"


    "You know, aen''fa. They''ve probably got a few sedated koth backstage somewhere."


    "I knew what you meant, Clarke," Style said, a little snippy. He already liked that about her: she wasn''t afraid to speak her mind, and wasn''t dancing around on tip-toes to please him. It should have annoyed him but he found it somehow endearing.


    "So now what? She only ever spoke to John, and that didn''t last. She never gave us anything useful and refused to let us follow up."


    "Interesting," Styles said. "Sounds like she was probably scared."


    "Talking to police does that to people who are breaking the law."


    "Sure it was because you were police?"


    The barmaid came over with two glasses. She first positioned two paper napkins, then placed the glasses on top. "Enjoy," she said, "and if you need a room, or additional company, just ask."


    "Do you know Shona?" Styles came out and asked the question straight up. Clarke looked sideways at her, eyebrows raised.


    The barmaid''s face paled and she glanced behind her. "Who is asking?"


    "I am. Lola Styles. I''m investigating the disappearance of Laryssa. A body has been found."


    Clarke could see Styles'' words percolating through the barmaid''s brain. This could go two ways: One, she denies all knowledge, which might even be true. Two, she calls the bouncers over and chucks them both out, painfully, and the entire place goes into lockdown with all traces of salacious activity scrubbed from the premises.


    "Come with me," the barmaid said, abruptly turning and leading them along the bar, then across the room towards one of the many doors leading off from the main area. "These two are looking for somewhere private," she said to the burly man standing guard. He glanced at Styles, his eyes roving over her, then grinned in Clarke''s direction and opened the door.


    They followed the barmaid down the black-walled corridor, lined with featureless doors on both sides. There were no windows or other adornments, only bare neon strips hung overhead. Clarke wondered if they were going to leave this place with all their bonus unbroken. Unlocking one of the doors, she ushered them into a small, boxy room containing a bed, a small sink and a tall mirror. A shelf above the head of the bed displayed a selection of sex toys, clearly intended to be representative of a wide variety of triverse species, made in a rainbow of colours and all manner of materials from rubber to various plastics and what appeared to be porcelain and polished wood. A pink-coloured bulb glowed overhead. The room smelled of people. The barmaid closed the door carefully, waited a moment, then turned to face them.


    "Who are you? Exactly?"


    "I''m Detective Constable Yannick Clarke." No point in talking obliquely now. He pulled his badge from inside his jacket and showed her. "I was investigating the disappearance of an aen''fa called Laryssa with my partner, DC John Callihan. He''s no longer on the case."


    Styles extended her hand, and the barmaid looked at it suspiciously. "I''m DC Lola Styles. DC Clarke''s new partner. This is no longer a missing person investigation. A body has been found. I''m very sorry."


    The barmaid sat own heavily on the end of the bed, which creaked as she did so. "How do you know it''s her?"


    "The body matches your given description," Styles said. "Did Laryssa have a chain mark at the base of her spine?"


    Nodding, the barmaid put her head in her hands, her elbows propped on her knees. "God," she said, quietly.


    "I take it you''re Shona, then?" Clarke felt the smallness of the room, the blackness of the corridor outside, the warren that was the alleyways beyond. It felt too easy, too convenient. But then, some things were. "You''d have saved us a lot of trouble if you''d kept in touch."


    Her eyes snapped up to meet his. "Calling the police in the first place could have got me killed. Talking to your partner was a mistake. You being here is dangerous for me."


    "Tell us what you know and we can protect you," Clarke said. He almost meant what he said. He wondered how John would have handled this.


    "I''ve got five minutes before they start wondering why I''m not back. I''ll tell you everything, but you have to promise to help me. If you don''t get me out of here, they''ll kill me too."

 Traffic: Part 4

    Early Shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski


    London.


    1972. August.


    Kaminski dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it down with his heel. ¡°Make sure the rear exits are secured before we go in,¡± he said, the sergeant nodding as he continued readying his officers. ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone getting out through doors, windows, secret passageways or fucking hot air balloons. We think the boss man is in there, most of the staff are still clearing up the place. I want to talk to all of them.¡± He turned to the others: Chakraborty present, of course, but Clarke also, looking like he hadn¡¯t slept and was about to fall into his own grave. ¡°I need you to identify your witness. Point her out and we¡¯ll get her into protective custody. And we¡¯ll talk more about you stealing our case later.¡±


    ¡°OK, let¡¯s go,¡± Chakraborty said, ¡°we don¡¯t want any lookouts sending out a warning before we get in.¡±


    Inside there was a rush of panicked bodies, as those still in the building tried to either hide evidence of nefarious activities or distance themselves from it. Kaminski caught a glimpse of suited legs disappearing up a staircase at the back of the main room and pointed officers in their direction. A minute later it was over, dejected faces all around and officers corralling everyone into small groups. He could see a mix of humans and aen¡¯fa, though it was clear who was in charge. The aen¡¯fa - male and female - all shared the same look of dejected resignation.


    Climbing to the upper floor, Kaminski placed a hand on Chakraborty¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Good job Clarke was paying attention for once.¡±


    Kaminski made a non-committal noise, then pushed open the door to what turned out to be a manager¡¯s office of sorts. Inside there were two police officers flanking the door, and another examining the contents of a large, ornate wooden desk. Upon the walls were mounted a variety of unusual skulls; unusual in that they were not of Earth origin. Palinese species, then, and Kaminski was somewhat relieved to not see a koth or aen¡¯fa represented. A man in a sharp suit was sat on a chair, looking annoyed and out of breath but otherwise unconcerned.


    The man tilted his head and looked her up and down, deliberately lingering on every curve of her body. ¡°I¡¯d love to know your name, darling, but I don¡¯t need to tell you mine until my lawyer arrives.¡± His voice was higher pitched than Kaminski expected.


    ¡°I can see I¡¯ve got some crack detectives here,¡± Ellis said with a grin.


    Ellis nodded, then crossed one leg onto his knee. ¡°Yeah, you see, where it¡¯s best for me is if I wait for my lawyer, while you fail to find anything of interest. I run a reputable massage parlour. Nothing illegal goes on here.¡±


    ¡°What can I say? I¡¯m a connoisseur.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the supposed to mean?¡±


    The man shrugged. ¡°We do the usual checks. Best we can, but it¡¯s not up to us to run the customs department down at the portal station, is it? You got a problem with illegal immigration, go talk to them.¡± He was confident, more so than he ought to be. ¡°And if you don¡¯t mind me making an observation, you don¡¯t look like you¡¯re from around here, either.¡± He turned to Kaminski. ¡°Your accent ain¡¯t exactly local, now, is it?¡±


    ¡°Hey, if I¡¯m not at the top, then it isn¡¯t very far to fall, is it, Mr Clever Policeman?¡±


    The man¡¯s face paled and his eyes narrowed. ¡°Wait a minute, murder?¡± He laughed nervously and glanced around the room, as if looking for support. ¡°What are you on about?¡±


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    ¡°A lot of trouble,¡± Kaminski interjected.


    Ellis swallowed loudly, eyes darting between them both.


    There was a knock on the door and an officer poked his head in. ¡°Got something for you, guv,¡± he said.


    The officer held up a transparent evidence bag, containing a large, ornate sculpture of a winged creature about the size of his forearm, cast in a hard resin and painted red. Kaminski stared at it, then took another cigarette and lit it. ¡°That¡¯s one ugly son of a bitch,¡± he said.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you get it?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t poke my eye out with it.¡±


    *


    Clarke needed to get some sleep, but there was no point going home. His shift would begin at three that afternoon and it was already already mid-morning. He had wheeled two office chairs together to create a makeshift bed from them and his jacket, but it was a rapidly failing experiment.


    Once again he was on his own - Styles having sensibly gone to get some real rest - while his colleagues attended to his unfinished business. Chakraborty and Kaminski he liked, at least. He¡¯d done his part, finding Shona in the chaos of the raid. An officer had arrested her and discreetly removed her from the premises. To an observer she was one of many staff taken from The Palinese Express that morning; the difference being that her destination was a meeting room far from the others. She would be questioned, rinsed for all the information she had, and kept in protective custody for a period. With any luck she¡¯d be given help to leave London, go some place else where nobody would know her face or her name. It would be hard, probably for the rest of her life, and none of it would bring back her friend, but she¡¯d be alive.


    Kaminski rarely used first names. ¡°Any idea who did it?¡±


    ¡°He would.¡± There was a pause on the other end of the line. ¡°Clarke, this goes deeper than we thought. The girl was an illegal resident, and she¡¯s not the only one. Turns out this place has a steady turnover of girls and boys coming over from Palinor.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing,¡± Kaminski said, ¡°boss man here has already squealed on the name of his higher-up. Chakraborty reckons we¡¯ve stumbled on a whole trafficking ring. This case is as much yours as it is ours. If you want in, Clarke, you need to come meet us at the portal station. We¡¯re about to head there now; the warrant¡¯s being drawn up as we speak.¡±


    *


    The emergency call transcripts lay on his desk. The door to his office was closed; he didn¡¯t want anyone else on this, not yet. Not until he had something. Through the blinds he caught sight of Clarke on his way out the door. On the right of the desk was another transcript, of the calls made between Control and Clarke and Callihan¡¯s vehicle on the morning of the koth encounter the previous month.


    Bakker could sense a detail was lurking, waiting to be noticed. Officers had spoken to the original caller from the tower block in the aftermath; he¡¯d approached the police line and introduced himself, willing to answer any questions. That had struck Bakker as odd when he¡¯d read it in the report, especially given the less-than-savoury location, but the man¡¯s details had checked out and matched the call transcript. Martin Chambers, 330 Sterling Court. Dock worker.


    ¡°This number has been disconnected,¡± came the pre-recorded message, followed by an ugly beep.

 Traffic: Part 5

    Early Shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski


    London.


    1972. August.


    Working for the police wasn¡¯t guaranteed to be an enjoyable experience, but Robin Cole did her best to make the SDC office as pleasant as possible. When the telephones weren¡¯t ringing and there were no files to distribute to the desks or parcels to ship out the door, she busied herself with elaborate displays on the windowsills of green, leafy plants. Each desk had its own small succulent, adding bursts of colour between the folders and papers. She wasn¡¯t a detective - wasn¡¯t even a police officer - but she had her role to play, and she took it seriously.


    After John Callihan had died she¡¯d redoubled her efforts, trying to add something positive back into the office. A small reminder that life kept going, always, even when it was hard. She stood at the side of Nisha¡¯s desk, looking into the waste basket at a pile of soil and greenery that had fallen from her discarded plant pot. Robin sighed. It was to be expected.


    There was a knock from DI Bakker¡¯s private office, partitioned off from the rest of the open plan space. She looked over to see Bakker staring at her through the glass, miming holding a cup of tea in one hand. He smiled gratefully and gave her a thumbs up, then the blinds flicked shut again.


    The department did important work and helping the detectives to keep working made her feel like she was contributing to keeping the city safe. Doing her bit to make the world a slightly better place, one cup of tea at a time.


    She knocked on Bakker¡¯s door having made two mugs, aware that DS Collins had been in there for a half hour already. Andrew was a friend, someone that she knew valued her efforts and never took her for granted. As the DS, Andrew spent most of his time in the building, keeping everything operating smoothly and liaising with the teams out in the field, which meant they got to spend a lot of time together. If he wasn¡¯t a decade older than her they might have had something.


    ¡°Ah, Robin, thank you,¡± DI Christopher Bakker said, his voice clipped and polite as ever. He wasn¡¯t a warm man or known for giving effusive praise, but equally there was never any doubt about his opinion on matters. ¡°Over here, please.¡±


    She started clearing a space to the side of Bakker¡¯s desk. As tended to be the case, the two men carried on speaking as if she wasn¡¯t there.


    ¡°Do you want me to re-open the case?¡± Andrew was asking. He nodded appreciatively at her as she passed him his mug. ¡°Thanks a bunch, mate.¡±


    Bakker shook his head. ¡°No, nothing formal. Just a simple walk-by. Send a bobby, someone who wasn¡¯t involved in the investigation, and has no prior ties to us.¡±


    Robin cleared away old mugs, placing them onto a tray.


    ¡°And you want them to stick their nose into the flat, see if the witness is in?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Present it as a courtesy call. In the vicinity, making sure everything¡¯s been alright since the incident. That sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it.¡±


    Robin excused herself, clicking the door quietly behind her. She rarely had the full picture - or even half the picture - of what was going on at the SDC. Andrew always said it was better that way - and the glimpses she caught on the evidence board and the snatches of conversation she did overhear were more than enough to give her nightmares.


    *


    The portal station was the pinnacle of British engineering and design. That¡¯s what it said on the archway above the entrance. That always amused Clarke, as if they¡¯d been nervous that people wouldn¡¯t notice. A banner had been added to the entrance, celebrating the two hundredth anniversary of the portals opening. Clarke would need some convincing that it was something to celebrate.


    A huge expanse hugging the south bank of the Thames, from Westminster to Tower Bridge, it was an architectural chimera, originally built in the late 18th century and then re-built and expanded every couple of decades since, reflecting the shifting design trends and construction capabilities of the time. To Clarke¡¯s eyes, it was a mess.


    Still, it served a purpose. The two enormous portals that had opened up in 1772 had been swallowed up by the portal station complex, encased in concrete and steel such that there was no traversing the portals without first passing through the station. Out of necessity the portal station was a trade port, a civilian destination not unlike Dover or an airport, and a flashpoint of political activity. The diameter of the portals, almost large enough to fly an airship through, had made it possible to artificially partition them such that cargo passed through the lower half of the elliptical void and people the top half. There were two portals, physically separated by a half mile, one leading to Palinor and the other to Max-Earth. Travelling between the two required several customs checks, significant paperwork and running the gauntlet of shops and restaurants. Perched on top of the entire complex was the Joint Council tower, where representatives from the three worlds convened to wrangle some sort of sense from the triverse.


    Portal travel wasn¡¯t as simple as jumping on a tram, or even booking an airship flight. There was a complex series of hoops to jump through, bureaucratic and financial, which made it impractical for most people. Disease screening, contraband searches, flora and fauna restrictions. Travelling between the dimensions was exclusive to politicians, business leaders and other such dignitaries. If you didn¡¯t have a good reason to be making the trip, you¡¯d better hope you had a deep wallet. If you weren¡¯t a subject of the Kingdom of Great Britain, then good luck in getting approval for transit.


    Clarke had been to the station exactly twice: once a long time ago on a uniform shift, and again when he¡¯d been transferred into the SDC. Touring the facility was part of the ceremonial induction into the Specialist Dimensional Command, despite the squad rarely having a need to visit. Even when suspects and convicts were recommended for deportation, they would ultimately be processed by immigration services rather than the police.


    Upon arrival he was met by Chakraborty, who was all business and led him immediately away from the cavernous public welcome foyer towards the security office. He looked sideways at her; Nisha looked like she was weighed down by something, her eyes red-rimmed and dark bags beneath them, but there was a fiery determination in there regardless. He needed a bit of that, to cut through his own weariness. Only then did he wonder if he should have called Styles to get her in - no, better to let at least one of them have some sleep. This one was for him and John. ¡°What do we know?¡±


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°The guy running the brothel, Malcolm Ellis,¡± Chakraborty said, ¡°typical sleaze bag, acts like he¡¯s the head of some multi-national in the city. All swagger, until he realises we¡¯re there for murder. He turns over quick as that, gives up more than he needs to. His girls - and a few boys - are mostly illegals, but seems like he¡¯s getting a ready supply. They get bumped around, moved from place to place, city to city, always off the grid. They brand them to keep track.¡±


    ¡°A ready supply? From where? Can¡¯t be a portal leak, right?¡± The first leak had happened about forty years back, with a small tear opening in an Oxford Street shop, barely large enough to put a finger through. Tests had shown it to be fully functional, albeit practically useless. Half a dozen other leaks had manifested since, with each being isolated and contained after discovery.


    ¡°No,¡± Chakraborty said with a dismissive snort. ¡°Ellis gave us a name and pointed the finger here.¡± She led him through a door and away from the main concourse, then down a series of corridors. ¡°We might get lucky if the timing¡¯s right.¡± Through glass, Clarke could see uniformed station guards in break rooms. He followed down several flights of stairs then out into a part of the station he¡¯d never seen.


    ¡°This is bigger than I¡¯d imagined,¡± he said. The lower part of the station was for cargo only: it was the import and export processing dock, filled with metal cargo containers being funnelled between portals and then out into the rest of the world. Approved food and livestock from Palinor, unique materials mined out of the ground near the Appilan Abyss, statues and art created by the aen¡¯fa, or elaborate constructs by micrologist magic wielders. From Max-Earth came their simpler technologies that could be powered locally without being affected by the energy degradation, or art and historical items from their alternate past. The 1970s of Max-Earth¡¯s past timeline had been similar yet markedly different to that of Mid-Earth¡¯s present, providing a constant source of comparison for historians, cultural observers and those who had become obsessed with what could - or should - have been. Some containers passed straight through from one portal to the other, while others were unloaded for distribution out into the world. It was all extraordinarily expensive but there were always willing customers. There were thousands of the containers, row upon row of metal boxes, stacked high as well as long, travelling on conveyor belts, loaded onto trucks and carried on winches and scaffolds from one track to another. At opposite ends of the huge space were the portals - or the bottom halves of them, visible up to where they disappeared into the ceiling.


    Clarke struggled with the scale of the place. There was a constant, echoing boom of containers being shifted about and the place smelled thickly of oil. Light came from hundreds of strips suspended high above, lending every surface a cold, colourless shade. ¡°What are we looking for here?¡±


    ¡°Zoltan¡¯s already on it,¡± she said, heading towards a group of red and blue containers. A group of people stood next to them, one gesticulating animatedly. ¡°That is one Hugo Novak, head stevedore for incoming cargo from Palinor. His was the name that Ellis gave us.¡±


    ¡°The sleaze ball.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡±


    Kaminski was talking with several uniformed officers. The dock worker Novak¡¯s eyes were bulging comedically, his face a bloated red. ¡°I¡¯m telling you,¡± he said, ¡°you get me opening up any of these crates and you¡¯re going to put back the schedule by hours. Hours! You know how tight the load and unload times are here? You know who¡¯s going to get it in the neck?¡±


    ¡°You can take it up with the commissioner,¡± Kaminski said, no sympathy in his voice. He held up a plastic folder. ¡°You¡¯ve seen the warrant, now start opening them up.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s hundreds. You want me to just pick them at random, or what?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll do for starters.¡±


    The officers followed the miserable man as he started unlocking the nearest container. Kaminski nodded at Clarke. ¡°Glad you could make it.¡±


    Frowning, Clarke gestured at the size of the dock. ¡°You sure this isn¡¯t going to be a needle in a haystack job?¡±


    ¡°The guy at the Express said there was a new shipment coming in today. It¡¯s here somewhere. Figure it has to be ground level, not any of the suspended or stacked containers. Needs to be easily accessed.¡±


    That didn¡¯t narrow it down much. Clarke wandered away from the rest of the group, down the rolling cargo track. He heard the clang of the container being opened, the repeated protests of innocence from Novak. Ignoring that, he continued walking, letting his eyes rove loosely over every surface, absorbing every detail. Felt like he hadn¡¯t done that for years, not properly. He¡¯d always got the feeling Callihan knew more about the missing person case then he did, that there had been something he was holding back for some reason. Maybe this was it. Maybe he had been onto something.


    He reached a group of containers that were waiting in a darker area of the dock, where one of the overhead lights had blown a bulb. Large double-doors were set into the main wall of the dock, where containers could be extracted and moved into a different part of the station. Each container was emblazoned with logos and names and codes, proudly declaring the shipping companies or the entities conducting the trade. Rogers, Blackmore, Wedgewood, Barrindon, Boulton & Co. The exchange of goods through portals was carefully managed and restricted, with containers sent through from both ends without accompaniment; Palinese dockers stayed on their side, London dockers stayed on theirs, Max-Earth on theirs. Everything signed for, checked and approved.


    Something scratched at the back of his mind, calling for attention. He¡¯d missed something. Retracing his steps, examining each container in turn, his eyes finally settled on the name and logo attached to a group of them. Barrindon. It was a shipping company specialising in portal transit and global distribution. Clarke had seen their warehouses from the river. It was nothing unusual to find their containers in the portal station. Laryssa¡¯s body had been found entangled in netting with the Barrindon label. A coincidence, surely.


    He moved around the edge of one of the Barrindon containers, still not sure what he was looking for. Edge to edge, he went around all four sides without seeing anything of note. Moving on to the next container, also Barrindon, he examined the main doors to the container. Sealed and locked. The corrugated green metal was patchy and rusted around the seams. He walked the long side of the container, tapping idly on it. A hundred metres away the others were still opening one container after another.


    Reaching the rear of the container, he ran his finger over the metal, picking up grease from the grooves. It was so small that he almost missed it, and probably would have if he hadn¡¯t been stood so close. At the base, almost hidden in accumulated oily dirt, there was a small mark on the metal: a symbol of two connected chain links.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± Clarke said, his voice long and low. Standing, he turned and put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The sound barely cut through the background thrum of the station but it was enough to attract Kaminski and Chakraborty¡¯s attention. He waved them over.


    ¡°Open it,¡± Chakraborty ordered, pushing Novak ahead of her.


    After the man reluctantly wrestled with the lock, the doors swung open on their heavy hinges, revealing a stash of wooden crates. Kaminski flicked on a torch and entered, squeezing between the crates. Clarke and Chakraborty followed.


    ¡°I really gotta close these up and get the boys back working again,¡± Novak called from outside, his voice strained.


    The three of them pushed and clambered their way to the back of the container. ¡°It¡¯s just crates,¡± Kaminski said. He prised open the lid of one of the crates, revealing an assortment of painted sculptures. ¡°There¡¯s nothing here.¡±


    Clarke put his hand to the back wall of the container. It seemed to be made of a slightly different material to the rest: smoother, without the corrugation of the exterior, and less grimy. He felt around the edges, found a tiny finger-hold and tugged. At first it didn¡¯t budge and he thought he was going to cut his finger on the metal edge. Removing his jacket and wrapping part of the sleeve around his hand, he pulled again, harder. The metal wall shifted, then he pulled it free entirely. It clattered forwards onto Kaminski, who grunted as he braced against its weight.


    Where there was once a false wall, Clarke found himself staring into a darkened space. As Kaminski shifted the wall aside and the light of his torch bounced off the walls of the container, Clarke could see it reflected back in the eyes of at least a dozen people, mostly aen¡¯fa but also a couple of koth. Some were stood, some were sat huddled together. There were far more than seemed likely to fit into such a tiny space. Every one of them appeared to be terrified. For a moment the horns and wings of the two koth flashed an unwanted memory across Clarke¡¯s eyes. He forced it down, boxed it up and put it away.


    ¡°Hi,¡± he said. ¡°Welcome to Earth.¡±

 The Ambassadors: Part 1

    London


    1972. October.


    Formal dinners were not DC Yannick Clarke¡¯s favourite way to spend an evening, though even he had to admit that the venue was impressive. He put a hand to the window, looking down at the city below, and could feel the thrum of the airship¡¯s idling engines reverberating through his fingertips. This vessel was in a different league to those used for public transport on longer journeys, which tended to have cramped, boxy cabins and communal spaces with uncomfortable wooden seats. She was called the Pluma and was owned by the Joint Council, used for diplomatic gatherings when there was a need to impress.


    Clarke fidgeted with his tie and collar, unhappy to be forced back into a uniform. He¡¯d become a detective as early in his career as possible precisely to avoid having a dress code. The dinner was as far from his ordinary surroundings as possible, which is why he was studiously staring through the glass at the rooftops of London, as if he wished to leap through and escape. The interior of the Pluma was spacious and grand, extending almost the length and width of the airship¡¯s entire frame. Every surface was polished wood, or marble, or covered with a luxurious patterned rug no doubt imported from god knows where. They were still moored to the Joint Council tower, atop the the portal station, and it occurred to Clarke that this was his last opportunity to disembark before the airship began its slow, circular tour of the London night sky.


    It looked considerably more peaceful from such a height. The city was a maze of yellow and orange lights, with the smog hard to perceive and the clamour of people and trams too distant to intrude. Clarke realised that he was already missing it.


    A hand gripped his shoulder firmly and in the window¡¯s reflection he saw the face of James Miller, all smiles and slickness. Detective Chief Inspector Miller, the face of the SDC and a smooth operator. Clarke didn¡¯t like him, didn¡¯t trust him, but couldn¡¯t help but admire his ability to work a room. The man knew how to give a handshake, how to make anyone feel at ease, and how to make the perfect first impression. He had been a decent enough detective but most of his time was spent schmoozing the press, or sweet talking the Commissioner or home secretary. Networking was his thing, always had been. Connections everywhere. Miller was the one to talk to when you needed information or to call in a favour. He¡¯d be in his element here, among the great and the good of all three dimensions.


    ¡°Time to say hello to our hosts, Yannick,¡± he said. ¡°Try to be nice. This is for you, you know.¡±


    Clarke snorted, drawing a startled glare from a nearby guest. ¡°This isn¡¯t for me, it¡¯s for their own egos. Us being here makes them feel good and maybe brings in some extra cash.¡±


    ¡°Well, regardless, there¡¯s food, there¡¯s wine and there¡¯s people to meet.¡± Miller turned Clarke around and pointed at the chandeliered room, looking every bit like the reception hall of a stately home. ¡°The Commissioner first, I think. Where have you hidden DC Styles?¡±


    There was a barely perceptible vibration as the airship undocked from the tower and began its lazy drift over the city.


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    Lola couldn¡¯t believe her luck. A couple of months into working at the SDC and here she was, in a beautiful dress on a glorious airship mingling with representatives from Palinor and Max-Earth. She was acutely aware that this was not representative of what she should expect from the job. But right at that moment, she was living a version of her life that she hadn¡¯t thought possible.


    The reception hall of the airship was grander than anything she¡¯d ever seen, every surface and material opulent and gleaming, with small waist-high tables dotted about and replete with food and champagne glasses. Canap¨¦s, she¡¯d heard someone say. Every guest was wearing an outfit that on its own must have cost more than her entire wardrobe. The only reason she was wearing something even vaguely comparable was courtesy of a convenient - and rarely used - budget line in the SDC ledger relating to parades and ceremonies. It felt exhilarating and not a little odd to be out of her usual practical trousers and blouse and instead wrapped in a flowing, yellow dress. The heels she wasn¡¯t used to but was making the best of it. Fortunately nobody was paying any attention to her.


    It was a charity do, a fundraiser in aid of an organisation that worked in the east end with recently migrated citizens from Palinor. It hadn¡¯t occurred to Lola until that evening that it seemed to only ever be people from Palinor that ran into problems when they reached London. You never heard of anyone from Max-Earth getting into scrapes. Maybe everyone was already happy over there and didn¡¯t feel the need to escape to another dimension. Life seemed more complicated for the Palinese, regardless of whether they were aen¡¯fa, human, koth or one of the rarer sentient species.


    Talking of koth, she could see an ambassador across the room, talking with human dignitaries who looked like they might be from Earth, perhaps representatives from the Ethiopian portal. The koth was dressed in something resembling a tuxedo, albeit one custom-made for their unique physiology. Big in the shoulders. The ambassador laughed, the sound reverberating around the room. She¡¯d seen koth in London, of course, though it wasn¡¯t an especially common sight, but she¡¯d never been in a room with one.


    ¡°You look a little lost,¡± said a soft, lightly accented voice next to her ear.


    Startled, Lola jumped and turned to meet the eyes of a young woman who looked to be about the same age as her, though a little taller and slighter, with skin several shades darker than Lola¡¯s insistently pale complexion. The woman wore astonishing make-up around her eyes, colours arcing away across her cheekbones and merging into her hair. Her dress put Lola¡¯s to shame, evidently designed to make an immediate impression, embroidered with complex patterns and completed by an elaborate headdress. Later, despite her observational training, Lola would be unable to recall the colour or shape of the dress, so captivated was she by the woman¡¯s face. It seemed almost carved and polished from a fine wood, too perfect in its proportions.


    ¡°You look a little beautiful,¡± she found herself saying. She smiled wanly.


    ¡°I am Princess Daryla,¡± the woman said, as if it were the most ordinary introduction in the world, and only then did Lola notice the burlier-than-usual suited bodyguards standing a respectful distance away, hands clasped in front of their waists, watching closely. ¡°I hate these networking events.¡± She leaned in yet closer. ¡°It¡¯s for a good cause, of course, but do we really need to have all this forced conversation?¡± She smiled, revealing perfect teeth. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°I¡¯m Detective Constable Lola Styles, of the Specialist Dimensional Command. So what do you do, as a princess?¡±


    Another smile. ¡°Usually, whatever I¡¯m told to do. Which this week meant travelling through the portal to attend this party.¡± She pulled a face and looked aghast. ¡°Honestly, I can¡¯t do without magic for this long. If I don¡¯t get back soon I¡¯m worried I¡¯ll forget all about it.¡±


    So she was a wielder. Lola frowned, trying to imagine the slight girl conjuring spells. ¡°It must be strange to lose your powers when you cross over. Is it like forgetting to walk?¡±


    ¡°Something like that, yes. Forgetting how to ride a bicycle, perhaps. You know you should be able to do it, you¡¯ve done it before, but no matter how hard you try you keep falling off.¡± She laughed a little. ¡°Yes, I rather like that.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it like? Doing magic?¡±


    ¡°On Palinor it¡¯s very commonplace, at least for humans,¡± the princess said, ¡°so one doesn¡¯t tend to think about it much. Coming here at least reminds me to appreciate what we have, I suppose. You should come visit and I could show you.¡±


    Lola¡¯s little heart exploded. Her head buzzed as if a fly had become trapped inside her skull. ¡°That would be¡­amazing.¡±


    ¡°Fiendishly difficult to get travel passes, alas.¡± Daryla put a delicate finger on Lola¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Tell you a secret, though,¡± she whispered conspiratorially. ¡°I¡¯m wearing a spell right now. I can¡¯t do anything with it, of course, and it was cast back on Palinor before we came through, but a well-cast passive spell can last a long time. Can you guess what it is?¡±


    Unsure even of the meaning of the question, Lola fumbled for some sort of answer. The four types of magic ran through her head: visualisation, elemental, micrology, physology. She knew the words, even knew some of what they meant, but it didn¡¯t help.


    She was about to hazard a guess when they were interrupted by the sound of DCI Miller, approaching with Clarke. ¡°My dear Princess Daryla,¡± Miller said, bowing slightly as he reached where they stood, ¡°it is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. I¡¯m sure you don¡¯t remember but we met a few years ago during the Joint Council conference on illegal migration.¡±


    Daryla regarded him, her face neutral and impassive. ¡°I do remember you,¡± she said at last, ¡°and I remember that conference. A most unpleasant affair.¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t agree more, your highness,¡± Miller said smoothly. ¡°Let us all hope this evening is more productive.¡±


    There was a sound of silverware being tapped against glass. ¡°If you would please, ladies and gentlemen,¡± said a white-haired older man with a sizeable moustache, ¡°dinner is served and awaits in the adjoining room. Do follow me.¡±


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    There were two tables, running the entire length of the room, laid with formal dinnerware of every imagining. Lola took her allocated seat, which it turned out was on a separate table to Clarke. She shrugged at him apologetically and he rolled his eyes and made a gesture of tying something around his neck. He was determined not to enjoy himself, which made no sense to her.


    Next to her was a space without a chair, an absence which was explained by the arrival of the koth ambassador, whose obsidian plating shifted as they sat down onto the floor. Even so they still towered above the table in a way that made Lola feel tiny.


    ¡°Do you want me to get you a chair?¡± she asked, hoping she wasn¡¯t going to insult them.


    A deep, booming laugh burst from the koth. ¡°Thank you, but no,¡± they said, turning their long snout towards her. ¡°I am quite comfortable, and if I were to sit any higher it would really look very silly.¡± They reached out a clawed hand. ¡°Vakho, ambassador for the Appilan region. I sit on the Joint Council with Lord Hutchinson over there.¡± They gestured towards the white-haired man, sat at the head of the table.


    ¡°Lola, Lola Styles. Detective Constable at the SDC.¡±


    Vakho nodded, scales lifting around their eyes. ¡°Ah yes, I¡¯d heard we had some esteemed guests from the portal crimes squad in our midst. How exciting. Your attendance is not without controversy, Detective Styles.¡±


    ¡°What controversy?¡±


    ¡°In the twenty years since the SDC was formed your team has been responsible for arresting and repatriating a great many of my countryfolk,¡± Vakho said, their voice inflected with the sound of chains dragged on stone. ¡°It is a policy for which there is not universal support, shall we say?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m very sorry¡ª¡±


    The koth waved a huge arm dismissively. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry, Detective Styles. I am very aware that none of this is anything to do with you, given that you are only recently graduated from childhood. We must not all be judged on the actions of our forebears, otherwise we would all be found guilty, no?¡±


    There was the tinkle of metal on glass again. The man - Lord Hutchinson, apparently - was standing with his glass held aloft. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± he said, drawing a quiet sigh from Vakho that only Lola heard, ¡°please join me in raising a toast, to the efforts of a great many people and institutions gathered here tonight without whom we would all be in quite sticky wickets. Not least I would like to welcome Metropolitan Police Commissioner Matthew Graves, who is here with several members of his Specialist Dimensional Command. I¡¯m sure you are all aware of the sacrifice made earlier this year by one of that team, a Detective Constable John Callihan, a man I unfortunately never had the opportunity to meet but about whom I have heard a great many very wonderful things. Please, ladies and gentlemen, raise a glass to Detective Callihan and all those who sacrifice so much for so many across the triverse.¡±


    Vakho grimaced again, before taking a sip from their glass - adapted to be drinkable by a koth jaw. ¡°After two hundred years,¡± Vakho said, ¡°and still you Earthers can¡¯t get your heads around the notion that we are not all of us ladies, or men. Or gentle.¡±


    She smiled sympathetically up at the koth. Glancing across to the other table she saw Clarke sat very still, staring down at the table before him, no glass in his hand.


    The food came quickly, an apparent army of waiting staff emerging from somewhere else in the airship to deliver individual plates to each guest. Lola gawped at the rich meal before her, then began to panic as she realised she would have to choose from the myriad of cutlery options laid out before her. Copying the person on the opposite side of the table, she began to carefully slice into the meat, determined not to knock over a glass, or scrape a knife across the crockery, or otherwise make a fool of herself.


    ¡°Ah, a true delicacy,¡± Vakho said, indicating her plate. ¡°Bringing in Palinese pikkori must have cost an arm and a tail.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps they should have just given the money to the charity,¡± Lola mumbled between mouthfuls. The dish was strange, noticeably different to her palette with a seasoning she couldn¡¯t place.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Vakho said, banging a fist onto the table suddenly. They coughed, a small spark of flame darting from their nostrils, then they tipped back onto the floor, convulsing, smoke bursting from their mouth in broken rings. Lola pushed her chair back and jumped up, then fell to the floor as Vakho¡¯s tail swiped her legs from under her. Crawling back to their side, hampered by the tightness of her dress around her legs, Lola tried to take hold of the huge koth but was immediately thrown free. Kicking off her shoes, she rose to her knees. ¡°I need a doctor!¡± she shouted, the rest of the room only just starting to react to the scene.


    The ambassador shuddered where they lay, their dinner jacket shredded where sharp spines had torn through. Awful noises rattled from Vakho¡¯s throat, then a final jet of blue-green fire spewed from their mouth. The spasming ceased and the koth lay still and silent.

 The Ambassadors: part 2

    London


    1972. October.


    It had been a mistaking accepting the invitation, Clarke had realised the moment that Hutchinson had begun his speech. They were wheeling Callihan''s name out because it served them, not because they knew him or cared. He should have told Miller to bring Chakraborty, or Kaminski.


    He was picking unenthusiastically at the minimalist, beautifully presented morsels on his plate when he became aware of a disturbance on the other table. There was a commotion near where Styles was sat, next to that hulking koth. Clarke sat up, craning his neck across the heads of other guests, to see the koth thrashing about. Styles was on her feet, looking startled. Clarke pushed his own chair back, fists clenched. The koth''s serrated tail sliced through the air and Styles fell, disappearing from view behind the table.


    Clarke moved, using his chair to climb up onto his table, snatching a knife from beside his plate. Ignoring the shocked cries of other guests and the scattering of dishes, he jumped down the other side and crossed the room in an instant to where Styles had been seated. Dashing around the side of the long table, he discovered her kneeling by the koth''s side. The creature was immobile, save for spasming in its limbs.


    "I need a doctor!" Styles shouted.


    A vision of Styles lying on the floor of the airship cabin, body torn to pieces, the koth standing over her with blood dripping from its jaws. It held Callihan''s head in one hand.


    He blinked it away, then dropped the knife onto the table. "What happened?" he asked, breathing heavily. His heart beat furiously in his chest, his blood loud in his ears. He was getting too old. The koth was entirely incapacitated, vulnerable in a way he didn''t think was possible.


    "The ambassador just collapsed," Styles said, "I have no idea what to do!"


    "Turn them onto their back," said an unfamiliar voice. It belonged to a man, human, with a long fringe and a movie star jaw. He approached, crouched beside Styles and grasped the koth''s shoulders, flipping them onto their back while manoeuvring their tail out of the way. Clarke blinked at the apparent ease with which he shifted the ambassador''s heavy body. "Koth physiology is different to human and aen''fa, in that their airways are naturally cleared when positioned like this, rather than on their sides. They are also able to engage in a state of sudden hibernation when experiencing what would otherwise be a fatal body response. Quite clever, really."


    The guests crowded around, forming a circle around the stricken ambassador. Styles recounted everything that had just happened. "I am no doctor," the man said, "but I would theorise a reaction to an element in the food. The response appears similar to the anaphylactic shock experienced by humans when in exposed to certain irritants." He straightened and examined the remains of the ambassador''s plate. "They appear to have consumed a similar dish to others here. Perhaps poison, then."


    There was a collective gasp. Clarke started visually examining the guests for their reactions, immediately on the job and paying attention. He gestured to Styles, who moved nearer. "If this guy''s right, then everyone on this airship could be a suspect."


    Styles smiled, eyes bright as always, despite the circumstances. "At least nobody can get away while we''re flying around, right?"


    *


    Lola hadn''t worked directly with Detective Chief Superintendent Stephen Walpole in the two months she''d been with the SDC. DCS Walpole was the head of the investigative branch, which meant he was the ultimate authority from which all other authority was granted. She was used to sitting in the office with Clarke, or being out on the streets. Locked in the same room as the DCS was not a little intimidating, especially when there was a potential assassination attempt to uncover. She could feel the pressure and a glance at Clarke made it clear that he felt the same. DCI Miller was hard to read: on the one hand, his veneer of slick efficiency was intact - on the other, he had to be seething that his big PR event had been derailed.


    As for Ambassador Vakho, they had been stabilised with the assistance of another koth guest and an aen''fa doctor. The ambassador lay on their back, breathing shallowly, eyes half-open and glazed.


    "Can you imagine how excited Wong would be if he was here?" Clarke said quietly.


    "He does always say how he likes to examine non-local fauna."


    Clarke nodded. "That is the exact phrasing he uses, yes. I think he prefers things dead, to be honest."


    Walpole turned away from the Commissioner and strode over to them. His gait was that of a man with utmost confidence in his own abilities. From what Lola had heard, it wasn''t arrogance. "OK, listen up, both of you," he said, his voice never becoming loud and yet somehow carrying easily through the background chattering of the worried guests. "We''ve secured a room in the aft of the ship. Nothing fancy but it''s out of the way and mostly soundproof. I want you in there. Miller will send you guests to interview. We need to start narrowing down potential suspects, or ruling them out. I put a call into HQ, they''re locking down the airship tower in case there''s anybody or anything there we need a handle on. The airship is on the way back, which means you''ve got an hour to figure this out. Be sensitive. Everyone here is someone important. Any questions?"


    "No, guv." Clarke shook his head.


    "Then get to it."


    *


    The room was definitely small. One wall was lined with wooden palettes, another with boxes of fruit which gave the space a pleasant tropical aroma. A desk and three folding chairs had been dragged in from elsewhere. Clarke leaned against the back wall while Styles sat at the desk.The first person was sent in, a koth who went by the name of Kasothe. "I am the legal attach¨¦ to Ambassador Vakho. This is deeply concerning. Deeply concerning."


    "What is it you do, Kasothe?"


    "I advise on matters of inter-dimensional law, as it pertains especially to koth citizens. That is, extradition policies, immigration and refugee processing across borders - in all directions - and ensuring that any koth charged or arrested while in Mid-Earth is afforded correct legal processes according to both local and Palinese law."


    "Sounds complicated," Clarke noted. This koth seemed smaller than the ambassador. Certainly smaller than the one at Sterling Court.


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    Kasothe looked up at him. "Not if you know what you are doing, detective. I would not know where to start with your job, but I imagine you are quite competent at it."


    "You didn''t experience any side effects from the meal?"


    "No, but I had selected a different menu option to the ambassador."


    "Does he have any known allergies?"


    "They do not. Vakho is a great proponent of the Joint Council, and inter-dimensional cooperation. It will be a great tragedy for us all if they do not recover. We will demand recompense."


    *


    "Are you sure you had the same selection from the menu?" Clarke, now seated, slid the single sheet of paper across the desk and jabbed a finger to it. "This is what the ambassador ate. You as well?"


    Princess Daryla leaned back in the chair, managing somehow to make the hard-bottomed, folding monstrosity look stylish. "Yes, I am certain. I have a particular fondness for kothian cuisine and was curious as to how well your Mid-Earth chefs would handle it."


    Lola was sat next to Clarke on the opposite side of the desk to the princess. "And?"


    "And what, DC Styles?"


    "Was it any good?" She felt Clarke looking sideways at her, and ignored him.


    A tiny smile wrinkled the side of Daryla''s perfect mouth. "It was adequate. Flavour wasn''t quite there. But it certainly didn''t nearly kill me."


    *


    They''d spoken to almost a dozen guests, learning only that the ambassador was well-liked and the Joint Council''s caterers were mediocre. Clarke hadn''t even had a chance to try his meal and his stomach was starting to complain.


    The door opened and the man who had assisted so swiftly and ably with the ambassador''s predicament entered. He closed the door, moved to the offered chair and sat down, all in a remarkably precise series of movements. "Hello again, detectives," he said, smiling, each of his teeth precisely where they should be. Clarke ran his tongue over his own raggedy set.


    "You''re from Max-Earth, I''m guessing?"


    "Correct. My name is Justin."


    "What is your role here, Justin?"


    "Primarily I am an observer. The others think me strange for taking such an interest in the affairs of mortal organics. Yet, here I am, once again."


    Shit. Clarke realised who, or what, he was talking to, and inwardly groaned. At least, he hoped it was inwardly. "You''re a simulant."


    Styles leaned forwards, unable to hide her excitement.


    "This body is a simulant, yes. My consciousness is a shard of the vessel Just Enough. After our business here is concluded I will return through the portal to Max-Earth and merge with the vessel."


    "You''re one of the megaships!" Styles exclaimed, all pretence of professionalism abandoned.


    Justin smiled. "I''m glad to meet you properly, DC Styles, after our rather overly dramatic encounter earlier. Have you made any progress in your investigations? I do apologise for mentioning poison in the open cabin earlier. This shard is unable to run as many outcomes as the ship, but I should still have anticipated potentially causing panic."


    "Yeah, well," Clarke said, "us humans get very emotional."


    "I should note that in my subsequent observations of the guests I do not believe foul play is involved," Justin said. "At least, not on the part of any of those attending."


    "This is our investigation," Clarke said, bristling. "If you''d answer our questions, please."


    "Of course, detective." He smiled. "This is very exciting for me."


    "I''m thinking there''s no point in asking what you had for dinner?"


    "On the contrary, the roasted veal with white asparagus was delightful." He shrugged, an oddly human gesture. "I do eat. When I''m in this body, or one like it, I can do anything a natural human would do. The point is to simulate, after all. Otherwise I may as well be a floating drone. The purpose is to integrate and put others at ease, so that I can observe more effectively."


    "How''s that going for you?"


    "Which part?"


    "Putting others at ease."


    Justin laughed. "I can see it is something I''m going to have to keep working on. Given the evidence thus far, what do you say to a trip to the kitchen?"


    *


    The head chef was struggling with balancing his own evident pride and the reality of the evening''s unfortunate situation. "I cannot believe that somebody would intentionally try to harm one of the guests," he said.


    "That'' might not be what happened," Clarke said.


    "Walk us through how the ambassador''s meal was prepared," Lola said. "The whole process, start to finish, every ingredient."


    The chef looked about to object, then relented and led them across to the other side of the kitchen, every surface sparkling steel. He started pulling ingredients from shelves and out of fridges. "This was the ambassador''s chosen dish. Nothing out of the ordinary, as you can see. Our reputation is built on using only the finest ingredients, drawn from all corners of the triverse."


    Justin picked up a small jar. "What is this, please?"


    "Cinnamon."


    He picked up another. "And this?"


    "Ground Palinese red knot."


    "Ah."


    Lola put a hand to Justin''s arm. It felt exactly like a normal human arm. Which, of course it did - it was 26th century technology, being from Max-Earth''s dimensional timeline. Future tech visiting their crummy 1970s London. "Ah?"


    "I have a comprehensive database of materials, flora and fauna across all three dimensions, including details on the digestive capabilities of koth. Perhaps it is a little-known fact here on Mid-Earth that while cinnamon and red knot are both harmless on their own, when combined they produce a chemical reaction that can be deadly to koth." He looked at the chef. "It does create a memorable flavour, however."


    The chef paled. "This is the first time we''ve produced this dish for Palinese visitors," he stammered. "We had no idea."


    "OK, we''re done here," Clarke said. He pointed at Lola. "Styles, take our robot detective friend here back to the dining hall and let them know the details. It might help to get the ambassador back on their feet." He turned back to the chef. "And you. You should do some more research into what you''re feeding people. Understand what you''re using. Don''t use it because it''s a pretty colour and tastes fancy and exotic. Some things just don''t mix."


    *


    The airship jolted as it connected with the tower''s ramp and locked onto the docking brackets.


    Clarke and Styles stood to one side as the guests disembarked, filing out into the rainy night."Well, that was a lot more interesting than I expected," he said.


    "Your kind of dinner party?"


    "Murder mystery, I like it."


    She grinned at him. "Nobody actually got murdered."


    "There was some mystery, though."


    DCS Walpole and the Commissioner walked up to them. "Good work, both of you," Walpole said.


    "Matthew Graves," said the Commissioner, introducing himself to Lola. "You must be DC Styles. I''ve heard a lot about you. And Yannick, it''s very good to see you again." He pulled a cigar from a pocket. "You handled yourselves well tonight. Impressive. Glad to see our funding isn''t going to waste."


    As the two highest ranking people departed the airship, Clarke felt a part of him finally relax. "I''m the same age as the Commissioner, you know," he said. "But here I am, and there he is."


    They followed out into the rain, Clarke unbothered as droplets ran down his face. "You see that Justin robot leave?"


    "He was first out. Said goodbye and wanted to find you but said he didn''t have time. Had to get back through the portal."


    Clarke smirked. "Yep, that''s their crappy degrading batteries for you. All the power in the world back home, but as soon as they come here it starts falling apart. Imagine how much trouble we''d be in if it didn''t." He paused and looked up into the night sky. "Callihan had a funny joke about it. Wish I could remember it."


    "I''ve never met a simulant before. Reckon we''ll see him again?"


    "Let''s hope not."


    *


    Space.


    2542. October.


    That was a more interesting excursion than expected. Just Enough beamed a report over to Could Kill, who always like to hear about escapades to Mid-Earth. The Joint Council was as much of a mess as usual. A major diplomatic incident almost triggered by the unconscious incompetence of a human chef. To think that organic relations could unravel based on the unintentional misuse of a spice.


    They were so vulnerable.


    As had always been the case. And yet, an equilibrium had been reached in 2542, a balance of AI and human society. The portals offered a reminder of how things could be, of how bad they used to be, and how close Earth had come to annihilating itself.


    No more of that. Just Enough would not allow it.

 Backdoors: Part 1

    London.


    1972. June.


    In the summer the heat gathered in the streets, lingering on street corners and near drains, an amorphous haze rippling on tarmac. The smog from the city would drift north to Hackney, carrying with it the stench of the Thames. Zdan was nine years old and couldn''t remember his life before they''d come to London, for he''d been only an infant when they''d journeyed through the portal. He''d seen images of the Blue Towers, paintings and photographs, but could scarcely believe that they were real: a city state of gleaming marble and ivory, water flowing magically from the tops of the graceful buildings to the lake below, each level open to the elements and supporting its own small community. His mother talked about it reverently, as if it had been a dream; his father, less so. It was impossible to imagine the pure waters of Palinor when surrounded by their current reality. His father had been somebody back on Palinor. Somebody that mattered. That''s what he always said.


    At least the heat meant that his scrappy, threadbare clothes weren''t an issue.


    There was no school, so Zdan spent his days exploring. He had few friends, at least none who would want to be seen outside of school with a boy of mixed heritage. The previous year he''d tried growing his hair long, to hide the points of his ears, but somehow everyone still knew.


    It was late and getting dark. Zdan knew that his parents would start worrying if he didn''t get home soon, but he couldn''t resist the pull of the abandoned building before him. It was a squat thing, boxy, and surrounded by weeds and stinging nettles. A broken and warped chain-link fence had once kept out potential looters, but there was nothing left to steal. He hopped over the fence''s remains, then tip-toed carefully around the thorns and nettle barbs. All the windows were boarded-up but the makeshift wooden planks nailed to one had come away, revealing a black hole through which Zdan could easily squeeze. He dropped silently into the interior, which was a single large room that might once have been a gym. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognised a raised platform in the middle as the remains of a boxing ring.


    He felt the hairs on his arms prick up. There was an uncomfortable feeling of static in the air, like when he took his school jumper off over his head, or if someone rubbed a balloon against their clothing. Something tiny scurried away and disappeared into a crack in a wall. There were paint cans in one corner, as if someone had once had the intention of cleaning up the place. A notion long-abandoned. Though he was on his own, Zdan crept cautiously about the place, as if concerned he might wake the ghosts of whomever had once used it. His father sometimes mentioned how the area had been up-and-coming when they''d first moved there, but that the community centre had closed down, and the library, and the football field.


    As he moved around the edge of the boxing ring, Zdan became aware of something very wrong: an irregular black shape, about the size of an adult hand, hovering vertically in the air. It looked initially like a piece of black fabric, perhaps caught on a spider''s web or some other thread from the ceiling. As he got closer he could see that was not the case: it was a hole, a void, a nothing-space, about his head-height. He leaned towards it but couldn''t make out any details. The odd, floating shape completely blocked his view of his hand as he waved it around behind it. Picking up an ancient paintbrush from the floor, he poked at the hole. The brush''s end disappeared into it, as if plunged into thick, black water. Holding it in place, Zdan leaned around the other side of the void, but the brush''s tip was nowhere to be seen. It had vanished within the tear.


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    *


    Late shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski


    London


    1972. November.


    It was unbelievably cold. The windows of the SDC offices were steamed up on the inside and iced on the outside. Kaminski stood by the gas fire, still wearing his coat, wondering if he should put his gloves on as well. But then he wouldn''t feel the subtle warmth from his cigarette.


    "How is it," he started, "that this city can melt roads in the summer and be this fucking cold in the winter? Whatever happened to England having a mild climate?"


    Nisha laughed from across the room. "Didn''t you hear? Global warming. That''s all the Max-Earthers seem to talk about."


    Kaminski gestured at the frosted window. "Does this look like global warming to you?" He shivered, surprised he couldn''t see his own breath despite being inside. "Max-Earthers just don''t want us to have nice things. You''d think the factories would warm up the place. Make the smog thicker, that''s what I say. Nice and cosy. Like a blanket."


    "Then you''d have to find something else to complain about."


    "Complaining makes me happy." He sighed, crushed the stub of his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray and lit another. The office was quiet, the early shift having gone home and the night shift not yet arrived. Bakker was still beavering away in his office and Robin was somewhere in the building, but otherwise it was just him and Chakraborty. He joined her at the board. "Got anything useful?"


    "Define useful."


    "Something which means I can get to the pub early."


    She waved a hand at the assorted photographs and written reports. "There''s nothing linking them. Other than lots of money lost by gullible people. But, I mean, that''s the city. Happens every day."


    Squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, Kaminski sighed. "Why has this case even come our way? It''s a con artist, or a gang. Tricking idiots into handing over cash and bank account details."


    "Yeah, but two of them claim to have known their fraudster personally, and another four were pretty convinced that they were dealing with legit representatives from other companies."


    "Like I said, idiots. Just because all of those suspects have solid alibis doesn''t mean they didn''t have something to do with it. Or the fraudsters are good at dress-up. Or maybe they look similar. It''s not like impersonation is something new."


    "I dunno. Remember that one guy," Chakraborty searched the board with her eyes, then prodded at a photo, "here, Mr Richard Kinnear. Investment banker. Knows what he''s doing with money, right? He was adamant that the person he spoke to looked exactly like a colleague."


    "OK, what are you saying?"


    Chakraborty shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe we''re talking some sort of Palinese trick spell. Or Max-Earth infiltration tech."


    Kaminski''s felt his eyebrows trying to lift off his face. "Really? You sound like you''ve been reading too many bargain bin novels. Can''t be a spell, this has been going on for months. It''d have to either be lots of separate people each with a perfect mimic spell, or it''d have to be someone travelling back and forth through the portal each time to re-apply a different look. And they wouldn''t get past immigration if they were impersonating someone. Tech, maybe, but seems pretty far-fetched to me. It''s not like Max-Earthers need the cash, right?"


    She fell grumpily into a chair and started swivelling it round and round. "Can we hand this off to someone else, do you reckon? Maybe Clarke would like it. Nice, quiet case without any drama." She groaned. "Times like this you could do with a little murder. Something you can get your teeth into."


    An idea sparked. Perhaps it was the mention of Clarke. "We need a sting operation," he said. "These con jobs have been happening more and more frequently. Maybe we can set one up, lure in whoever is doing it. We''ll need someone who looks like a businessman."


    "Someone older, then."


    "Right. Serious-looking, but not so savvy that he couldn''t be duped."


    Chakraborty clicked her fingers and picked up the telephone receiver. "I''ll give Yannick a call, see if he can come in early."

 Backdoors: Part 2

    London


    1972. November.


    Straightening his tie and tightening it into his collar, Petr took a deep breath then let it out slowly as he stared into the mirror. It was a cold morning, the frigid air finding its way into the bedroom through the ill-fitting window frame. Not long until they¡¯d be able to move and leave the narrow, terraced house behind, with its peeling wallpaper which no longer covered up the cracks in the wall, the dark watermarks on the ceilings where pipes had frozen and leaked in previous winters, the boiler that never worked for more than a month.


    His suit was a sign of things to come. Smart, sharp, beautifully tailored. It was impressive for Earth craftsmanship - still nothing compared to the intricate work of a skilled micrologist back home, of course, but then what was? It was an unfair comparison. Back home. He still thought of it in those terms, after all those years. London would never be his true home, even if it was where he had raised his son. Exile wasn¡¯t conducive to a sense of belonging, especially when you had no funds with which to escape the daily slog of Great Britain¡¯s most polluted city. It was hard even to imagine the waters of Blue Towers, it had been so long.


    Checking his cuffs one last time, making a couple of minor adjustments mostly out of habit, he straightened his back, then turned on his heel and left the bedroom, practically skipping down the stairs.


    ¡°Want another coffee?¡± Jhena¡¯s voice called from the kitchen, always calm, always looking for a silver lining.


    ¡°No thank you,¡± Petr said. ¡°I¡¯m going to head out early, get started. Important meetings today.¡±


    ¡°That new boss is pushing you too hard,¡± she said, ¡°I¡¯ll have to have a word with him if he doesn¡¯t ease off a little.¡±


    There was a squeal of excitement as Zdan ran from the kitchen and barrelled into Petr¡¯s chest, his skinny arms wrapping around his father. ¡°Have a good day, dad. When will you be back?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± Petr said, ¡°but it¡¯ll be before bedtime.¡±


    ¡°Will you read with me?¡±


    Petr looked scandalised. ¡°What, you don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to miss the next chapter, do you? I need to know what happens. I¡¯ll be there. Looking forward to it already.¡±


    ¡°Love you, dad.¡±


    He bent down and kissed his son on the top of his head. ¡°Love you, too. Have a good day at school. Do what your mother says.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± Zdan leaned closer. ¡°You going to ¡®the office¡¯?¡± He raised his eyebrows knowingly.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Petr replied. He took one of his suitcases from the hall table and opened the front door. ¡°I¡¯ll see you later.¡±


    *


    The derelict gym was part of the crumbling fabric of the neighbourhood. This part of Hackney and its inhabitants were abandoned and ignored by the rest of the city, with buildings that had previously been hubs for the community unused and left to disintegrate. The nearest two pubs were shuttered and boarded up. The trams didn¡¯t even come this far, forcing anyone who worked in the city to walk a mile to find any transport.


    Petr had straightened the fence posts, pulled the chain-link back into place and had cleaned the KEEP OUT signs just enough to be legible. It had to look official, without looking like someone was frequenting the place. He ducked through the window then pulled the wooden board back into place. He could already feel the thrumming energy from the tear. When Zdan had told him about the discovery he could scarcely believe it: a portal fragment on their own street! It was too good to be true, yet there it was, black and empty and permanent. A gap in the air, floating next to the crumpled boxing ring. Tears had been reported for decades, though information was sketchy at best. They¡¯d probably been occurring right from the start, from the original Joining, but they¡¯d tried to keep them hushed up. They were rare, of course, appearing seemingly at random somewhere within the vicinity of a major portal. The authorities in Addis were more forthcoming, as they always were, though getting clear reports from Africa was easier said than done: foreign news was not a major import of the Kingdom of Great Britain. Anything that happened beyond the Empire may as well have not happened.


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    As far as Petr understood it, tears had been found as far as fifteen miles away from the major portals. Once one was formally identified the area was sealed off and locked away. Portals couldn¡¯t be closed or deactivated, even tiny ones like the tears, so the only option was to box them up and pretend nothing was there. Each one in turn became a monument to its own existence, visible but inaccessible. The Joint Council wanted control over portal travel and access, granting a reward for reporting the discovery of a new tear. Undisclosed use of a tear had been made illegal in the fifties.


    That was why Petr had to keep this one secret. Zdan would say nothing, he was a good boy. They had not told Jhena - better to keep her out of it, so that she wouldn¡¯t feel conflicted. Besides, as an aen¡¯fa she wouldn¡¯t truly understand what it meant. The tear was tiny, of course, barely wide enough for Petr to insert his hand, but that was nevertheless enough. It was a conduit back to the homeworld, back to Palinor. He didn¡¯t know what was on the other side - he had moved his arm around, as if rummaging around beneath a kitchen cabinet, but had found nothing to touch. The lack of anything physical did not matter, though: by placing his hand through the hole, Petr became reconnected to Palinor.


    The first time he¡¯d been terrified. What if he had felt nothing? It was a fear immediately quashed, as soon as his fingers entered the tear. The sudden rush of awareness, of power, or connectedness, was overwhelming; an orgasmic rush that nearly caused him to pass unconscious. It was like waking when you hadn¡¯t even realised you had been asleep.


    Standing before the tear, he steadied himself. He¡¯d been doing this for weeks now and could control his reaction, though it still hit him like a shot of whisky to the back of the throat. Placing the briefcase on the floor, he pulled his suit jacket and shirt sleeve back a little, then thrust his arm into the black tear. Magic flowed from his finger tips, back through the portal, and into all of his body. He felt it in his head, in his stomach and hips and feet, rushing like a wave into every part of him.


    Petr was a visualiser. It was why he¡¯d had to leave Blue Towers, back during the purge. He had not been welcome, and so he had fled with Jhena to Mid-Earth, and London, and Hackney. He still remembered acutely the wrench of passing through the portal, arriving at the London portal station feeling as if a part of him had been torn away, a limb chopped off. The sudden dulling of his senses, as if a veil had been drawn across the world.


    He pulled a lighter from his pocket, lifted the lid and flicked the flint with his thumb. The flame flickered into being and he began to slowly, carefully, gently draw from it, converting its energy, wielding it into a spell form which he cast back onto himself. His skin flickered and stretched, warping into a new form, changing colour and shape. It took a while, as the tear was only small, and the light was weak, but after twenty minutes he had it.


    Petr was no longer Petr. He was a different man, a little older with deep-set eyes and a thick moustache. The suit was real - it kept the spell as simple as it could be, requiring him only to focus on facial and hand animation. To any living observer, he was a different person. The mental illusion was simple, and flimsy - on Palinor it would be detected immediately by any even half-skilled wielder. In London that would not be a problem, as long as he didn¡¯t try to wear it for more than a day. It would be entirely convincing for about eight hours before beginning to degrade.


    It was time to go to work.

 Backdoors: Part 3

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski, DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles


    London


    1972. November.


    Being an investor was one of the dullest jobs Clarke could imagine. Perhaps if the money in the briefcase actually belonged to him he might think differently, but these particular notes were very much on loan as a prop. He was dressed in a suit he could never afford, sitting in an office more luxurious than his home. But still: dull. There was nothing tangible to it, just numbers in ledgers and briefcases of cash that flowed between players like water.


    He¡¯d been doing this for a week, setting up deals and meetings - or, rather, having his ¡®secretary¡¯ set them up - and having to sit through each interminable one, trying to attract exactly the right sleaze ball with handshakes and platitudes. If he was the nectar attracting the bee, the problem was that the city of London was a wild meadow. Into the sixth day and still nothing, but Chakraborty and Kaminski insisted it was worth persevering, that they¡¯d get a bite just as long as he kept dangling the bait.


    The problem, really, was that Clarke had no particular interest in saving the wallets of the rich and careless. It¡¯s not like they would thank him with his own briefcase of cash.


    Kaminski had explained the link between the cases: each time someone had been conned into signing on the dotted line or handing over money to someone they thought they knew, only for that person to later deny all knowledge of the incident. Something was definitely up, though the theory that Palinese magic was somehow involved was too far-fetched for Clarke. You didn¡¯t need magic to make fools of people.


    While he waited for his next tedious appointment, Clarke turned over some other cases in his mind. They¡¯d caught the guy who had bashed in Laryssa¡¯s head at the Palinor Express - some nobody scumbag who spent too much time and money in the Barrel and didn¡¯t know how to control himself. Such a shitty situation all round. He hadn¡¯t been able to keep track of the people he¡¯d found in the container at the portal station; no doubt some of them had applied for residency on the grounds of refugee status, but chances were that most of them had simply been shipped back to where they came from. Clarke had never much liked the idea of people flooding in from Palinor and taking up all the jobs in the country, but seeing them all crammed into that dark compartment¡­


    There was a knock at the door. Clarke straightened up, put on his best businessman airs, and called for the visitor to enter. It was a man, of average height and perhaps in his early fifties or late forties. He was sporting a thick, performative moustache that practically announced itself ahead of its host. ¡°Mr Clarkson,¡± the man said, holding out a hand effusively, ¡°very good to see you again.¡±


    Clarke had already met with this guy two days before, to talk over a proposal for establishing a new string of clothing factories out east. The meeting had gone well but had been early stages. ¡°Mr Lance, please do take a seat,¡± he said, indicating the chair on the other side of the mahogany desk. The call had come in from Lance¡¯s people that morning, requesting an urgent meeting to progress talks.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get straight to it,¡± Lance said, leaving his briefcase on the floor. ¡°Our investors loved the idea and were thrilled that you were interested. They want to accelerate the schedule and get started as soon as possible, before the new year if possible.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s wonderful news, Mr Lance.¡± Clarke slid a metal tray across the table showcasing a selection of cigars. Lance waved his hand and shook his head apologetically. ¡°What is it you need from me?¡±


    ¡°The ball is in your court, Mr Clarkson. If you¡¯re still on board we can get this ship sailing right away.¡±


    He certainly looked and sounded like the man Clarke had spoken to earlier in the week. ¡°I just need one or two final details ironed out. Crossing the I¡¯s, dotting the T¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Tell me again how this investment scheme works.¡±


    Lance sat back in his chair, winding in his enthusiasm. ¡°That¡¯s where the timetable alters matters somewhat. If we want to get materials shipped this side of Christmas and therefore have any hope of getting out ahead of our competitors, we really need the funds unlocked and ready to go. But I¡¯m sure you received my message this morning?¡±


    Clarke tapped a hand to the briefcase on the desk beside him.


    ¡°Very good,¡± Lance continued, ¡°in which case, the fastest method is to transfer the funds via me directly to the manufacturer. That clears several tax roadblocks, as I¡¯m sure you¡¯re aware, and gives us a head start.¡±


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    ¡°How does the change to the schedule affect projections?¡± Clarke had a script, he was sticking to it.


    ¡°If all goes to plan, and there¡¯s no reason to think it won¡¯t, then we can be in production and selling stock before the end of ¡¯73.¡±


    ¡°Impressive.¡± Clarke rubbed his jaw, as if considering, then put a hand back on the briefcase. ¡°So all we need to get started¡­¡±


    Lance pointed at the case. ¡°Pass me the case with your blessing and I¡¯ll get the ball rolling. The paperwork is already done.¡±


    ¡°Then I don¡¯t see any reason to delay any further,¡± Clarke said, pushing the briefcase across the desk.


    ¡°You won¡¯t regret this,¡± Lance said, lifting the case.


    Clarke smiled. ¡°No, I¡¯m sure I won¡¯t.¡±


    They both stood and shook hands, then Lance strode across the office. ¡°Mr Clarkson, this time next year we are both going to be even richer men.¡±


    The door banged open before Lance could touch the handle and Chakraborty and Kaminski entered, followed by a couple of uniformed officers. ¡°Frederick Lance,¡± Chakraborty barked, ¡°you¡¯re under arrest on suspicion of fraud and money laundering.¡±


    *


    The interrogation room at Stanford Street was small and basic. There were no holding cells and no real staff or facilities to keep suspects in custody on the premises, so any longer stays had to be taken down the road to the main station. When quick answers were needed, though, the SDC interrogation room still got the job done.


    Clarke watched through the glass as Kaminski paced up and down the room - which was easier said than done given the limited space - and Chakraborty sat back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. Lance sat opposite, forlorn and his suit dishevelled. Even his moustache appeared to have lost some of its lustre.


    ¡°This is deeply unsettling,¡± said Frederick Lance, standing next to Clarke in the darkened viewing booth.


    ¡°You can say that again,¡± Clarke said. ¡°Sure you don¡¯t have a twin brother?¡±


    ¡°Not last time I checked, Detective.¡±


    The side door opened and Styles entered. ¡°Here it is,¡± she said, holding up a freshly developed photo print. ¡°Just like I thought.¡±


    Clarke took the photo and stared at it, then lifted his eyes to the glass and the man sat being questioned. Styles had snapped the photo when the man had been brought in, before Chakraborty and Kaminski got started. It clearly showed the face of a different man altogether, though wearing the same suit. Clarke sighed. ¡°I hate magic.¡±


    The real Lance leaned in for a glimpse. ¡°Is that what he really looks like?¡±


    ¡°Pretty basic visualisation spell,¡± Styles said, ¡°but it only works on a live observer. The illusion doesn¡¯t transfer over to recorded images.¡±


    Clarke grunted. ¡°Is there anything you don¡¯t know about Palinor?¡±


    ¡°Not really, no.¡±


    ¡°Jesus,¡± said the real Lance, putting a hand to the glass. ¡°It¡¯s disgusting, that he can steal my face like that. How are we supposed to be able to trust anyone with these freaks running around? Isn¡¯t your job to catch them?¡±


    ¡°Mr Lance, that¡¯s what we¡¯ve just done.¡±


    ¡°Should have bricked up that portal as soon as it opened, you ask me,¡± Lance said. ¡°Imagine what the British Empire could be now if we hadn¡¯t been interrupted by these damned invaders.¡±


    *


    Christopher Bakker was a Detective Inspector. In practice, to his chagrin, he¡¯d discovered over the years that this primarily meant sitting behind a desk. Promotion through the police was about moving from the street to station, from station to small desk, from small desk to larger desk, getting further and further away from the communities you were trying to protect. It had always seemed a little backwards to him.


    It also made it difficult for him to investigate too deeply into anything without triggering official processes. Martin Chambers, of 330 Sterling Court, had disappeared. In fact, there was no real record of anyone having lived in apartment 330 in the six months prior to the incident. Martin Chambers had existed to make a telephone call to police about a disturbance, which had drawn Callihan and Clarke to the area, then he¡¯d vanished.


    A koth, drugged up and turned into a killing machine. A detective unit in exactly the right proximity to be the first responders. The timing of the call to police, from a telephone that now didn¡¯t exist.


    He needed to bring someone else in on this. It wasn¡¯t time to bring in Walpole, not yet, with everything still so circumstantial. Miller would be waste of time. Ford and Morgan, perhaps, but then that¡¯d just add another DI with no time or space to move. One of the constables, then. Hobb wouldn¡¯t touch it, being far too pre-occupied with her own career and escaping from the SDC. Holland was a bloodhound for sure, but he was also an arsehole that was only on the squad because it had been stipulated by a Joint Council wonk back in the day. Styles had already proved herself but was too green to start poking at something like this. Perhaps Chakraborty or Kaminski, then? Both highly competent, trustworthy and honest. Chakraborty, though, had her demons. Bakker didn¡¯t want to compound an already bad year for her.


    There was Clarke, of course. Clarke, who had been with Callihan when he was killed. Clarke who had survived the koth encounter entirely unscathed. Clarke who had been in the squad car with access to a radio and, of course, knew of their position. Bakker grimaced, not enjoying the notion of distrusting one of their own. The signs were not good - but even if there were no dots to connect there, Clarke was too close to it all.


    Bakker pushed back his chair and stood at the window of his office, looking out at the larger SDC space. Robin was busy on the telephone, as always. Collins was heading out the door to the kitchen, no doubt to make another round of coffee. The others were all in the interrogation room talking with the suspect in the fraud case. He¡¯d have to get a word with Kaminski when they were done.


    A knot tightened in Bakker¡¯s gut. He didn¡¯t like investigating his own. He didn¡¯t like sharing that burden with anyone else. But something was broken, and it needed fixing.

 Backdoors: Part 4

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty, DC Zoltan Kaminski, DC Lola Styles, DC Yannick Clarke


    London


    1972. November.


    ¡°I¡¯m really very impressed,¡± said Frederick Lance, shaking Clarke¡¯s hand effusively. They were stood in the SDC office, a light patter of rain on the windows and the late afternoon sky grey and heavy.


    ¡°Just doing the job, Mr Lance,¡± Clarke said, forcing a smile and considering exit strategies from the conversation. He heard a door open and was relieved to see Chakraborty and Kaminski enter. ¡°These two were leading on the case, so it¡¯s them you should really be thanking.¡±


    Lance beamed at the others. ¡°Well, in that case let me extend my gratitude. Without you I would be considerably shorter on funds, and who wants that in the run-up to Christmas, eh? The grandchildren would be most put out.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for your assistance, sir,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°We appreciate you agreeing to cooperate with the operation.¡±


    ¡°What can I say? Was something of a thrill to be part of a police sting operation. A fine story to tell next time I¡¯m at the club, eh?¡±


    ¡°If you could keep it to yourself for the moment,¡± Chakraborty said, ¡°at least until the trial is complete.¡±


    Lance nodded and put a finger to the side of his nose. ¡°Of course, of course. Mum¡¯s the word.¡±


    The entrance door swung open and DI Ford entered, arriving for the night. Clarke suppressed a smirk. This should be entertaining. Ford was renowned for his patience and empathy with the London elite.


    ¡°Sir, this is Frederick Lance,¡± Kaminski said, and Clarke thought he saw a wink. ¡°Mr Lance, this is Detective Inspector Robert Ford. Mr Lance here has helped us with the sting operation on the fraud case.¡±


    Ford¡¯s eyes narrowed as he shifted gears to recall the particulars. ¡°Did it turn out to be what you suspected?¡±


    ¡°It did.¡±


    ¡°Nicely done,¡± Ford stepped forward and extended a hand. ¡°Mr Lance, your help is appreciated.¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, it was the least a humble citizen like myself could do.¡± Lance shook Ford¡¯s hand for longer than was strictly necessary, and Clarke could see the distaste already rising on Ford¡¯s face. ¡°In fact, I would very much like to make a contribution to your department, Detective Ford. I will have my people talk to the Commissioner. Your staff have saved me from losing millions, so it seems prudent to invest some of that back into this place.¡± He glanced around the office, the corner of his lip curling as if he wasn¡¯t impressed by what he saw.


    Ford smiled, the smile of a wolf about to eat a sheep. ¡°That would be grand, Mr Lance. My ¡®staff¡¯ will be thrilled.¡±


    ¡°Good, excellent!¡± Lance leaned in conspiratorially and looked each of them in the eye. It¡¯s important we stick together, us Earth humans. We were here first and we need to make sure everyone knows that. Well, I must be going. I presume I¡¯ll hear from you if I¡¯m needed for the hearing? I¡¯d be more than happy to provide a statement condemning that criminal thug.¡±


    Kaminski gestured towards the door. ¡°Absolutely, let me see you out, Mr Lance.¡±


    ¡°Very good to meet you all!¡± Lance declared, as he was escorted gently from the premises.


    Clarke stood with his hands in his pockets, and looked expectantly over to Ford. The door clicked shut behind Lance and Ford sighed loudly. ¡°What a gaping arsehole,¡± he said.


    ¡°You only had to deal with him for five minutes,¡± Chakraborty said, glowering at him, ¡°I¡¯ve been sweet talking him for days now.¡±


    ¡°Well, good job, Nisha. Make sure you wash your hands thoroughly. What about the guy?¡±


    Kaminski lit a cigarette. ¡°On his way across town now.¡±


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    London slipped by outside the police car. Petr sat, handcuffed, watching through the rain-spattered window. The car clattered over every bump, his seat thin and through to the springs. He felt nothing. Matters were worse, worse than they¡¯d ever been. He¡¯d lost it all. They¡¯d get him for fraud, easily, but it was the unlawful use of magic that would complicate the sentence. Ordinarily that would mean a swift deportation to Palinor, but his refugee status would most likely put paid to that option. Ironic, really; it might have been his best shot at returning, otherwise.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    No, he would be kept on Mid-Earth, confined to a prison for extra-dimensional criminals. They¡¯d all heard about how it worked. He¡¯d be taken away from his family, from Zdan, from Jhena. There was only a numbness to that particular pain; it was the thought of no longer being able to access the tear that crushed him, that withered his hope and made him sink into the back seat of the car, wishing to dissolve into the fabric. He¡¯d had it back, for a summer - a taste of the connection he¡¯d once had, of the power he¡¯d wielded years ago. They would find the tear and lock it away. The chances of finding one had been minuscule, so stumbling on another would be impossible. He would be cut off from wielding for the rest of his life. He¡¯d had one final taste of the power, before it was taken away forever.


    Petr knew he should feel for his son, for his wife, for his family. But it was the loss of magic that occupied his every thought, as he was taken through London to await trial.


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    The White Horse was busy. Half of the punters were police, the rest locals who liked being in the safe company of police. Clarke leaned back in his chair, quietly cradling a pint, and watched his colleagues celebrate the closure of the case. Even Chakraborty looked happy, for the first time in a long while.


    ¡°I¡¯d never actually met anyone from Palinor before I worked here,¡± Styles was saying in her usual overly-enthusiastic manner, ¡°and in, what, a few months I¡¯ve met a princess, a real mage, had dinner with a koth ambassador¡­best job in the world.¡±


    Chakraborty smiled cynically. ¡°Enjoy that feeling while you¡¯ve still got it, kid.¡±


    ¡°Kid? I¡¯m only five years younger than you!¡±


    ¡°Each year counts double when you¡¯re in the SDC.¡± Chakraborty lifted her glass and took a deep gulp.


    ¡°Neither of you can talk about being old,¡± said Clarke, scowling at them both.


    Kaminski was up at the bar, in theory to get the next round, where he¡¯d been caught up in conversation with Bakker. That was unusual in itself - Bakker wasn¡¯t one to socialise outside of the office.


    ¡°You know,¡± said Chakraborty, ¡°a lot of people in the force join up because they want to make the country safer, or to help stop people they think are dangerous.¡± She pointed a finger at Styles. ¡°You, though, you seem to be all about learning more about our Palinese guests. Sure you shouldn¡¯t be at a university? Doing research somewhere.¡±


    Styles shrugged, unperturbed. ¡°I think if you¡¯re really going to reduce crime, or make a place better, you need to understand what¡¯s really going on. Palinese migrants don¡¯t become criminals because they¡¯re Palinese. That¡¯s just where they happen to be from. The more I can understand their point of view, the better I can do my job.¡±


    Clarke wondered how long she¡¯d be able to hold onto her utopian ideal of law enforcement.


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    London


    1972. December.


    Zdan sat on the low, brick wall as the demolition crew continued to pull down the remaining ruins of the old gym. Men with sledgehammers and pickaxes swung away at the masonry, and a small mechanical digger pushed at the last of the walls.


    In what had been the centre of the hall, now open to the elements, was erected a metal box, shining blue-silver in the winter sun. It had been constructed to enclose the portal tear and now was a monument to what could have been. The cage was crude but effective, preventing anyone from accessing the tear.


    His father was gone, jailed somewhere across the other side of the city. Far enough that he couldn¡¯t afford the tram fare to visit. It had all happened because he¡¯d found the tear in the first place. If he¡¯d never found it, if he¡¯d never told his father about it, then everything would still be the same.


    There were Christmas decorations in the windows of houses along the street. It was a tradition that Zdan¡¯s family had never embraced; his father calling it a celebration of false gods. He had always been very particular about that. Each year Zdan would watch other children, even those on his street whose parents couldn¡¯t afford much of anything, excited to receive a gift, no matter how small.


    When he was older he would make a difference, Zdan decided in that moment. He would find another tear, or a way back through the main portals at the station. He¡¯d return to Palinor, to the city from where his parents had fled before he was born, and he would change things for the better. In time, he¡¯d make a difference.


    Zdan sat on the wall and watched as the last of the metal panels were soldered into place, sealing away the tear. One day he would tear down all those barriers.

 Procedural: Part 1

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Lola Styles, DC Yannick Clarke


    London


    1972. December.


    The house looked remarkably ordinary. It was exemplary in its dullness. Clarke grimaced at it, sighed, and looked to Styles. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±


    ¡°You never know, it might be more interesting than you expect,¡± Styles said, bright and optimistic as ever. It had been several months and he hadn¡¯t decided whether it was endearing or annoying. Most probably both, at the same time. Still, he couldn¡¯t deny that her enthusiasm made coming to work slightly more tolerable.


    They walked up the short driveway, a strip of path sandwiched between patchy grass, mostly mud and leaf mulch. It was a cold December morning, Christmas decorations still visible in windows. Clarke hated the pause before the new year; the strange week that didn¡¯t quite exist, where news got lost and everybody took a breath before the plunge. His job never stopped, because criminals never stopped. Bad guys don¡¯t stop being bad guys because it¡¯s a national holiday.


    The door was wood and solid, his knock eliciting a chunky thunk. ¡°If this is another regular case that¡¯s been passed over to us for no reason¡­¡±


    Styles looked up from the path at where he stood on the doorstep. ¡°Does this happen a lot?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised it¡¯s not happened to you already,¡± Clarke said. ¡°Used to get it a lot with Callihan. And before then. When the regulars can¡¯t be bothered, they sling it our way at the slightest excuse.¡±


    The door opened, revealing a woman in her mid-forties. She was wearing no make-up and looked as if she¡¯d had a rough few nights. ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Mrs Carlisle?¡± Clarke held up his ID. ¡°Detective Clarke and Styles, we¡¯re from the SDC. Here about your break-in.¡±


    ¡°Oh! The experts! Please, do come in. I¡¯ve just made a pot of tea.¡±


    Clarke raised his eyebrows at Styles and entered the house, the inside of which was a singular beige, staircase and living room and kitchen and understairs cupboard all precisely where one might expect them to be.


    ¡°My husband is at work,¡± the woman explained, ¡°even despite everything, they wouldn¡¯t give him any time off. Disgraceful. Here¡ª¡± She poured them both a cup of tea, then gestured at them to be seated. ¡°I¡¯m so pleased you¡¯re here. It really is quite awful how often these foreigners just get away with this sort of thing. It¡¯s very reassuring to know that we¡¯ve got the best people looking after us.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mrs Carlisle. We have some questions to begin with.¡± Clarke nodded, sipped his tea and managed to suppress his immediate reaction to its lack of flavour.


    Styles took out a notepad and pen. ¡°Mrs Carlisle, can you tell us exactly what happened two nights ago?¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course.¡± She took a breath, composed herself, and clasped her fingers in front of her on the table. ¡°I woke up in the night, it was just after two. I don¡¯t always sleep well these days. I came downstairs for a glass of water and that¡¯s when I found her.¡±


    ¡°An intruder?¡±


    ¡°Yes, in the living room, rifling through our papers, through the drawers. Looking for anything valuable.¡±


    ¡°Did you recognise them? Were they known to you?¡±


    ¡°What? No, of course not. We don¡¯t socialise with their type. No, it was immediately obvious to me what she was. Those pointy ears don¡¯t leave any doubt, do they? I always think how fortunate we are that they¡¯re so easy to spot. Imagine if they didn¡¯t have pointy ears - they could look just like us! Imagine that. Well, other than the ones with peculiar skin colours, of course. They will never be able to blend in, will they?¡± She chuckled to herself, as if she¡¯d just come up with an amusing witticism.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Styles scribbled some notes. ¡°What happened then?¡±


    ¡°Well, I screamed the house down, of course, and Gordon came running down the stairs. The girl - she was quite young, I¡¯d say, although they do all look quite young, don¡¯t they? They don¡¯t age the same as us. Well, she darted past us and out the back door, then disappeared over the fence.¡±


    ¡°Was anything taken?¡±


    ¡°Not that we¡¯ve found. I think we interrupted her before she could find anything of worth.¡±


    Gently pushing his cup and saucer away, Clarke cleared his throat. ¡°Was there any magic involved in the break-in?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°Any magic, Mrs Carlisle. Perhaps an illusion to mask the intruder¡¯s appearance.¡±


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t think so,¡± Clarke said, nodding. ¡°And did you see any illegal cross-dimensional technology used in the break-in? By which I mean enchanted devices for lock-picking, or drone tech from Max-Earth. That sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe so.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    The questioning went on for another twenty minutes. Styles took photographs at the rear door and in the garden. The home owner gave a description of the intruder, which didn¡¯t amount to much more than ¡®pointy ears¡¯.


    Clarke nodded his thanks to Mrs Carlisle as she closed the front door behind them. Styles glanced at him and he rolled his eyes. ¡°Jesus fucking Christ,¡± he said, stomping away from the house. ¡°Uniformed police get even the slightest whiff of a Palinese resident and they call us in. There¡¯s nothing dimensional about this. The intruder might be an illegal, I suppose, but even that¡¯s supposition. It¡¯s a standard breaking and entering. But because it¡¯s an aen¡¯fa they immediately pick up the phone and hand it over to us. It¡¯s lazy. Those lazy bastards over at Scotland Yard, who can¡¯t be bothered to do their jobs and palm it off to us suckers. We have a specific remit. And it¡¯s not ¡®round up anyone who looks funny.¡¯¡±


    ¡°You seem particularly cheerful today, Yannick,¡± Styles said, grinning lopsidedly.


    ¡°Mhm,¡± he muttered. ¡°It¡¯s five months to the day since Callihan was killed. I¡¯m feeling a bit raw. Sorry, Styles.¡±


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s fine,¡± she said, putting a hand on his back for a moment. ¡°This is indeed a bullshit case. Any chance we can slide it back across town?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re going to have to put a penny in the swear jar, now.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s never any space in it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because everything is fucking shit.¡±


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    Kaminski looked up at the house. Weird to think that Callihan had lived here, but he was only visiting after the man was dead. It looked like a nice place, unusually narrow with three floors. It was modern, probably influenced by Max-Earth design, smooth and white and looking like a slightly alien version of something you might see on a Greek island.


    Bakker had put thoughts into his head. Thoughts he didn¡¯t enjoy having there, but which he couldn¡¯t get rid of until he¡¯d done something about them. There was something rotten about Callihan¡¯s death. It hadn¡¯t been a random, unfortunate encounter with a drugged-up koth. Bakker had chosen to bring Kaminski in on it, which was a gesture of trust that he hadn¡¯t expected. Kaminski had always regarded Bakker as a dull, process-obsessed desk-bound nerd. Boring to a fault, family and two kids, typical career police, always focused on results rather than people. At least, that¡¯s how he¡¯d had him pegged. Or maybe that obsessive attention to detail is how he was able to sniff out that something was wrong.


    If he needed Kaminski to be his bloodhound, then so be it. Kaminski was glad to play the part, to get the job done. Callihan had been a good cop, a good detective. Would probably have gone on to be a great one. Moreover, he was a decent man. Not many of those around any more.


    He pressed the doorbell and heard the buzzer within. There was the muffled padding of footsteps, then the door opened to reveal the strikingly beautiful woman that had been at Callihan¡¯s funeral. Zara, his fianc¨¦. Why the hell had John been cheating on her?


    ¡°Hi Zara, I¡¯m Zoltan Kaminski. I¡¯m a detective with the SDC. I worked with John. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions, talk to you about what John was working on.¡±


    Zara looked at him from beneath a scowl. ¡°Really? Today?¡±


    Frowning, he mentally checked the date. Shit. Bad timing.


    ¡°Whatever,¡± she said, turning away and leaving the door open. ¡°I remember you from the funeral. Come in. Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±

 Procedural: Part 2

    London


    1972. December.


    ¡°It¡¯s been five months,¡± Zara noted, glancing at Kaminski as she led him through the house. ¡°To the day.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Zara. I should have realised.¡±


    ¡°Clearly.¡± She took him through to the kitchen, which was at the rear of the house and looked out onto a narrow but long garden. ¡°So why are you here, now, after all this time?¡±


    Kaminksi spotted a bench outside, a barbecue, table and chairs. For a second he imagined her and John, enjoying each other¡¯s company, earlier in the summer, not realising what was about to happen. ¡°Listen, Zara,¡± he said, standing uncomfortably having not been offered a seat, ¡°I¡¯ve been looking into some things, some inaccuracies in the report and the evidence.¡±


    ¡°Inaccuracies?¡±


    ¡°There are some details that don¡¯t make sense. So I¡¯m taking another look. Off the books. Just doing it as a favour.¡±


    She poured herself a glass of water from the tap. ¡°A favour to whom?¡±


    Shit. ¡°Well, to John, I suppose. Me and Callihan, we weren¡¯t friends exactly, but we got on fine.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± she said, looking right at him. ¡°Cut the bullshit, get to the point.¡±


    He swallowed. ¡°OK, look, Zara, I mean it. There¡¯s some weird fucking shit going on with John¡¯s case. It¡¯s officially closed but the boss¡¯ got me taking another look. Mind if I smoke?¡±


    ¡°I do mind, yes.¡± Zara turned away and stared out the window. ¡°At the funeral, Detective Miller told me that you got the koth the did it. That it was all wrapped up, was a case of wrong place, wrong time. I told him there had to be more to it than that, but he told me not to worry.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well,¡± Kaminski rolled an unlit cigarette around between two fingers. ¡°Miller¡¯s an arsehole. You¡¯ve got me now, not him.¡±


    ¡°John always said you were an arsehole as well.¡± She smiled, ever so slightly.


    ¡°He always was good with reading people. I just want to know what happened, and nothing¡¯s adding up, but it¡¯s like I¡¯m missing half the formula.¡±


    ¡°You mean half the equation.¡±


    Kaminski took in the kitchen, white and clean and sparse. Cereal boxes arranged neatly on a worktop beside the fridge. A magnetic knife strip on the wall behind the hob. It didn¡¯t look like it got used much. ¡°If there¡¯s anything I should know, anything you didn¡¯t mention before, now would be the time.¡±


    ¡°I remember John talking about you,¡± Zara said.


    ¡°Yeah, he said I was an arsehole, apparently.¡±


    ¡°He also said he trusted you,¡± she said. ¡°I think he was considering bringing you in on what he was doing.¡±


    Feeling his eyebrows rising, Kaminski tried to restrain his expression. He¡¯d gone there mostly out of desperation, not thinking it would lead to anything concrete. ¡°What was he doing?¡±


    She gestured for him to follow and she took them back into the hallway, then up the stairs to the top floor which featured an office, nestled into the arch of the roof. ¡°This is where John did his work. Most of the case files were taken away. Yannick came and cleared it out of all the official stuff.¡± She went over to the wooden desk and pulled at its edge, dragging it slightly away from the wall. Kneeling, she rooted around for something out of sight.


    ¡°But¡­?¡±


    ¡°But this,¡± she said, turning with a large metal box in her hands. She held it up for him and he took it, finding it surprisingly heavy.


    ¡°What¡¯s in here?¡±


    Pulling a set of keys from her back pocket, she unlooped one and passed it to him. ¡°Take a look. You can stay as long as you like.¡± She sighed, looked down at the floor, then up at his eyes. ¡°But, Zoltan, none of this brought John anything good. It won¡¯t bring you anything good either.


    ¡°Noted. Thanks, Zara.¡±


    Once she¡¯d disappeared back down the stairs, Kaminski cracked open one of the angled ceiling windows and lit the cigarette that he¡¯d been fingering in his pocket the whole time. Standing by the open window, blowing the smoke out and bracing against the cold outside air, he stared first at the box, now placed on the desk, then at the key in his free hand. A hundred possibilities ran through his head. Bakker was right.


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    It took hours just to have a cursory glance over the material. The box was compartmentalised, organised into notes and evidence, alphabetised and chronologically ordered. Callihan had never been especially tidy in the office, at least not to this extent. There were receipts, cargo manifests, newspaper cuttings, blurry photographs of individuals - some of which Kaminski thought he vaguely recognised, others he definitely knew. He showed up in the images, and Chakraborty, and Clarke and Holland, and Miller and Ford and Bakker. The Commissioner was in there. Callihan had been observing all of them, in and out of work. Some of the familiar-looking suited men he realised he had seen on television, on news programmes. They were politicians, or businessmen. He¡¯d have to look them up. Bakker would probably know more.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    There was a lot, too much to properly digest. His attention zeroed in on what appeared to be a hastily produced photocopy of an invoice, seemingly for transportation of fabrics. Taking a closer look, he realised it was for portal transport to Max-Earth, listing full details of the container number, its delivery details and more. The shipping company name made him pause, and for a long moment he wasn¡¯t sure why: Barrindon.


    The invoice wasn¡¯t alone; there was a whole stack of them, dating back a year. He realised with a jolt that some of them were dated after Callihan¡¯s death. Some were for the next year. Callihan had been keeping a close eye on the operation, somehow, and whatever he¡¯d been watching for was still going on. He flicked through the invoices, glancing at the dates on each, until he found it: a scheduled delivery for that very day.


    <div>


    <figure></a></figure>


    He hadn¡¯t been certain that it would work, retrieving the old search warrant from the office. It was dated all wrong, details were sketchy, but he was banking on the junior stevedore at the portal station being too busy to care. It was the same warrant they¡¯d used to search the place four months prior, during the murder case of the aen¡¯fa girl.


    Kaminski had hung around the security office for an hour, waiting for the senior manager to go on his break. No way an expired warrant would get past someone like that, but the kid who was leading him down the stairs had no such cares.


    They walked out onto the floor of the enormous cargo dock and Kaminski turned things over in his mind. Callihan had been keeping track of multiple individuals, and in fact now seemed like a particular kind of paranoid crazy. Bakker had his hunch about Callihan¡¯s death not being entirely accidental, which was supported by the disappearance of the 999 caller. The case with Laryssa, who had washed up on the bank of the Thames, had been linked to an illegal people trafficking scam being run out of the portal station and Palinor. She¡¯d been one of many Palinese conned into giving up their savings to be taken to a better place, only to be sold into a far worse fate in the Barrel. That smuggling ring had been shut down, though the shipping firm whose containers had been modified had called in their best lawyers and saw to it that they were cleared of any knowledge or wrongdoing. Barrindon, one of the oldest and most well known hauliers in the kingdom. Barrindon, the name that kept coming back. Callihan had been watching them for months. He¡¯d been the one originally on the Laryssa case with Clarke, back when she¡¯d only been missing rather than dead. Maybe he¡¯d been investigating the trafficking the whole time? But that wouldn¡¯t explain all the surveillance, or why he wouldn¡¯t have brought it into the office.


    It was too much to hold in his head. Callihan¡¯s metal box was full of documents he hadn¡¯t had time to read yet, but the delivery on the invoice slip had been dated that day so time wasn¡¯t an available luxury.


    ¡°This is the one,¡± the kid said, pointing at a nondescript, blue container. He indicated the identifier code printed on the side. ¡°Let me open it up for you, guv.¡±


    Kaminski stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, the clang and bustle of the shipping yard echoing around him. The portals at either end of the cavernous hall hung in space, big and black and silent. The kid swung one of the end doors open, its hinges shrieking. There was an audible hiss as a seal was broken.


    ¡°Wait here,¡± Kaminski said, pulling out his pocket torch.


    ¡°Can¡¯t be long,¡± the kid said, ¡°I don¡¯t have the authority to pause the schedule, so this container will be on its way pretty soon.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, don¡¯t panic.¡±


    He climbed up and into the container, feeling an odd deja vu from the last time he¡¯d been down here. He flicked on his light, the beam narrow and bright. It picked out the details of something large; an odd, dark, irregular shape, curved and with protrusions that might have been pipes, or structural. It was a single object, almost as long as the container itself, with broad plastic straps stretched over it and secured into the container floor with metal rings. Kaminski had no idea what he was looking at. He moved around it, edging sideways along the container wall between it and the object, until he was at the far side. From this angle it was no clearer what it was, other than perhaps part of something larger. A component for a building construction project?


    Movement at the open end of the container caught his attention, as did the eyes of the kid as they flashed in the glow of his torch for a brief second, before the container door swung closed with a heavy bang that reverberated through the container. There was the sound of the lock being slid and cranked back into place.


    Kaminski shouted, but there was no response.


    He moved awkwardly past the the object and back to the doors.


    He pummelled his fist upon them, but there was no response.


    Arcing his torchlight, he looked for another exit, but there was none.


    He examined the door from the inside, but there was no mechanism to open it from the inside. He heard the hissing again, and felt his ears pop at a sudden increase in pressure.


    There was no way out.


    His pulse thudded into his wrists, his heart hammering. He flicked the torch off and was plunged into total darkness. He turned it back on.


    Everything about the interior of the container was ordinary: barren, corrugated metal with peeling, flecked paint, and the thing strapped down in the middle.


    Then there was a vibration, and a thunk from above, followed by a profound silence. He put a hand to the wall, but could feel nothing. Then the entire container vibrated and rocked, and Kaminski could feel through his legs that it was being lifted from the ground. A queasy sense of vertigo flowed over him as the container rocked gently from end to end. He crouched to the floor and tried to brace himself between the wall and the peculiar cargo.


    Another judder as the container came to a halt, but still seemingly suspended in the air. Then another movement, and a feeling of being rotated anti-clockwise. A slight tilting indicated that the container was being moved in a straight line again, with Kaminski now at the rear.


    That¡¯s when the void entered the container, appearing at the opposite end. A blackness so total that Kaminski¡¯s torch could do nothing to illuminate it. The rectangular black void filled the opposite end of the container, cutting it off entirely. The black square moved inexorably towards him, eating the container walls and ceiling and floor, and the mysterious cargo. It was a dark curtain hiding away the world before him. Kaminski pressed himself against the doors behind him as the space contracted, the void taking everything in its path.


    He realised just before it hit him that it was the portal, and that the container was being pushed through to the other side. Then the blackness reached him as well, and swallowed him up.

 Procedural: Part 3

    Late Shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty and DC Zoltan Kaminski (absent)


    London, Mid-Earth.


    1972. December.


    Chakraborty asked the question first. ¡°Where is Zoltan?¡±


    ¡°Kaminski?¡± DC Holland shrugged from the other side of the office. ¡°If he¡¯s not stuck to your side like usual, how the fuck should we know?¡±


    Staring for a moment at Kaminski¡¯s desk, she tried to remember the last time he had been late for a shift. Despite his scruffy appearance, Kaminski was always on point: rarely late, always sharp, ready to go from the moment he walked through the door. As long as he had a cigarette in his hand, at least. He wasn¡¯t answering his home telephone.


    Robin looked up from her desk. ¡°He was here earlier. Wanted to pick something up, I think. Or drop something off. I¡¯m not sure - he seemed to be in a hurry.¡±


    Strange.


    There was a clatter as a polystyrene ceiling tile dropped to the floor next to where Chakraborty was standing. The electrician on the ladder shrugged apologetically. ¡°Sorry about that, love.¡±


    She glared up at him. Of all the days and all the shifts to have an office refit.


    ¡°Where did he go?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Robin said, tilting her head as if hoping the knowledge would fall out of her ear. ¡°He had a quick chat with the boss, then headed out.¡±


    The boss. Bakker. Chakraborty looked over her shoulder towards the DI¡¯s office, the blinds pulled tight. Him and Kaminski had been having one-on-one meetings for a while. She¡¯d been worrying that Kaminski was angling for a promotion, or a transfer, behind her back.


    ¡°Alright, thanks Robin, let me know if he calls in.¡±


    She could go quiz Bakker, but that would seem needy, and not a little silly. Kaminski was a grown adult, he could look after himself. Chakraborty¡¯s desk was adjacent to Kaminski¡¯s and she fell into her seat, propping her feet up on a pile of unfiled papers. She had no appointments or meetings scheduled, so could afford to wait. She called out across the office. ¡°Robin, do you have anything new for me to peruse?¡±


    ¡°Why, of course.¡± Robin, efficient as ever, hopped up and brought over a ring binder full of one-pager reports. ¡°Here you go, everything sent over from Scotland Yard. Unconfirmed SDC jurisdiction, so take a look and see if anything looks exciting.¡± She flashed a smile, then headed back to the reception desk.


    Flicking through the binder, only half paying attention, Chakraborty¡¯s attention continually slid back to Kaminski¡¯s whereabouts. Perhaps she should call the The White Horse, see if he¡¯d ended up in there somehow. But, then, he¡¯d been in the office earlier, so it¡¯s not like he was in a ditch sleeping off a hangover. A photo in the binder of a mutilated corpse caught her eye and she grimaced. It had been found in the east end, but looked as if it had been mauled by a tiger. Nasty.


    Unbidden, her mind darted back to the coroner¡¯s report on John¡¯s death. She¡¯d memorised lines from it, without even meaning to; they¡¯d seared into her memory on first reading. She could visualise each line as they were typed on the autopsy, next to the comedic, simplified body sketch, marked up with red pen.


    Bruised and lacerated right ankle, consistent with tail whip from a koth.


    Two broken ribs on left side. Impact bruising on back matches damage on wall in apartment.


    Fractured skull at rear from blunt force trauma. Hair sample from kitchen wall matches.


    Head has been removed, mixture of incision and immense force.


    The worst of it had been the line about ¡®probable cause of death¡¯, as if that was in some way up for debate.


    Screwing her eyes shut, she bit her lower lip, breathing slowly in through her nose, out through her mouth. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes.


    Another crash as part of the strip light dangled out of its mount, swinging down against Kaminski¡¯s desk. ¡°Sorry!¡± shouted the electrician, his head somewhere in the ceiling.


    ¡°Fuck it,¡± Chakraborty said, pushing away from her desk. She strode across the office, aware that the others would be watching, Holland no doubt judging with a grin, and knocked once on Bakker¡¯s door. Without waiting for a response, she turned the round, brass handle and opened the door. ¡°Where¡¯s Kaminski?¡±


    Bakker was sat on the edge of his desk, arms half-crossed, one hand to his chin, as if he¡¯d been biting his nails. He looked at her, not annoyed as she expected but instead displaying an expression of concern - and, perhaps, determination. ¡°Detective,¡± he said. ¡°Come in. Close the door. We need to talk.¡±


    *


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    London, Max-Earth.


    2542. December.


    Logan Jeffries had always wanted to be a hacker, or a space pirate. He¡¯d always been good with devices. Pulling them apart, hooking them up to a pad and altering their programming. Instead, he¡¯d flunked out of his studies in his late teens due to an obsession with a not-quite-illegal weed imported from Palinor, had failed to land a university place and had found himself working various menial tech jobs around Europe. There was no shortage of those. Quantum machines is where he wanted to be - but he knew enough to see that they were where the real money was, and that he was a long way from ever touching one.


    It wasn¡¯t all bad, though - he¡¯d got a lucky break from a good reference and had ended up working at the portal station, or just outside it. The London anchor of the African space elevator was the final, critical part of the triverse trade route, able to lift incoming cargo to geostationary orbit, and Logan was responsible for keeping it running smoothly. He¡¯d gone from one role to another at the facility, rising slowly but surely to his current position as chief digital technician. Practically, that meant he kept an eye on the computers that kept the automated systems running, pulling newly delivered cargo from Mid-Earth off the loading cranes, selecting the correct containers for extra-planetary delivery and transferring them onto the elevator platforms. From London they would rise at a steep angle towards the junction point above central Africa, before being lifted out of atmosphere to the space dock on the far end. After that, it was none of Logan¡¯s business, with cargo shipped off to various planets and satellites around the system. There was in reality a whole team of people doing this work, but Logan was happy to think of himself as the lone operator.


    It wasn¡¯t hacking, and it wasn¡¯t going to space. But it was pretty close.


    The space elevator was exquisitely balanced. The payload thresholds were calculated and re-calculated in real time by a quantum megaship parked next to the space dock, its tendrils linked into every sensor along the entire 38,000km cable. Every container was scheduled, and logged, and checked at multiple intervals. There was a buffer, of course, to avoid any catastrophic failures, and the necessary speed of transit in order to keep the global freight network in play meant that there was significant post-hoc correction required. Discrepancies would often only be detected when a package was already halfway along the route from London to the junction point. That was fine. The system could take it, and anomalies dealt with as and when they were identified. Individual containers could be isolated and removed from the transit system by offloader machines - or in an emergency could be jettisoned entirely, though that was a last resort as nobody wanted a shipping container crashing down onto their street.


    A display beeped and flashed up red, drawing Logan¡¯s interest. A container had been flagged as being two hundred pounds over its registered weight, which shouldn¡¯t be possible. The container in question had come all the way from Palinor, weighed at that end as well as upon arrival in Mid-Earth. No alterations had been logged, meaning that nothing should have changed in terms of the container¡¯s contents. Nothing in, nothing out. Two hundred pounds was hardly going to upend the system, but get a few thousand containers with that level of discrepancy riding the cable at the same time and it could turn into a problem. He flicked his fingers across the controls, marking the container¡¯s ID for extraction. The offloaders would do their thing and take it out of transit for further inspection by the customs authorities. It would inconvenience whoever had paid for that particular shipment, but the network would keep on running just fine. It could even be reloaded at the junction point after the checks were completed, if all was as expected. Measurement errors did happen, after all, especially when relying on data from the other two dimensions.


    *


    Kaminski was no longer being pressed so hard to the floor of the container that he was unable to move. After the void shape of the portal had passed by, he¡¯d found himself still in the container, his situation largely unchanged. Banging on the doors did nothing, and opening them was impossible. He¡¯d been thrown around as the container was lifted and moved in seemingly arbitrary directions, then a sudden acceleration had pinned him to the floor, as if on an extreme theme park ride, his hand crushed onto his chest and his eyes squeezed back into his skull.


    That had lasted for about thirty seconds, which had felt more like an hour. The slight vibration in the metal of the container made him think that he and it were now moving at a significant speed, even if the acceleration had stopped. Given he¡¯d been pushed into the floor by his inertia, he could assume he was now travelling up.


    He was beginning to think that visiting the portal station on his own had been a bad idea.


    Pulling a cigarette from its packet, he considered briefly that he ought to conserve the oxygen in the space, given he could be in there for some time. ¡°Fuck it,¡± he muttered, the cigarette between his lips as he flicked at his lighter. The relief was palpable. It even subdued the smell of oil that permeated the container.


    He ran back through events. The kid at the station, the little arsehole, had locked him in. It hadn¡¯t been an accident, not with that gleeful, shit-eating smirk. Maybe he¡¯d spotted the old warrant after all, though he could have simply denied him access. Kid could have panicked, perhaps, assuming he was in on, well, whatever it was that was going on. Out of the corner of his eye Kaminski was acutely aware of the large, black, curving, anonymous shape that shared the container with him.


    Before arriving at the portal station, he¡¯d picked up the warrant from the office. He¡¯d gone to see Bakker, had filled him in on what he¡¯d found at John and Zara¡¯s. The box. He¡¯d left it with Bakker, but he¡¯d kept the key. He wasn¡¯t sure why, but it had felt prudent at the time. He¡¯d told him where he was going, but that probably wouldn¡¯t help. Bakker couldn¡¯t take direct action without drawing too much attention, and even if they did follow up it¡¯s not like they¡¯d think to hunt him down inside a random shipping container.


    The long and short of it was that he was entirely, completely fucked. Jesus, what a mess. He¡¯d not even said anything to Chakraborty. Shit, she wouldn¡¯t handle losing someone else, not after Callihan.


    He wondered how long the oxygen would last in a space the size of the container.


    The relatively smooth ride was interrupted abruptly, Kaminski thrown to the side, sliding across the floor and bashing into the wall, spraining his wrist in the process. There were more jolts and changes of direction, the container starting to sway as if no longer fixed securely. Half an hour trudged by, nausea building minute by minute at the subtle rocking. He fought down the urge to vomit.


    Another crunching change of direction, and then a silence and lack of movement that felt startling. There were mechanical noises from outside. He shuffled away from the doors, staring expectantly.


    Then they swung open, the air rushed out, his ears popped and his brain entirely failed to comprehend what was in front of him.

 Procedural: Part 4

    Interrogation room B


    Subject: Zoltan Kaminski


    2543. 4 January.


    The handcuffs were cold on Kaminski¡¯s wrists.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been here for days,¡± he said. ¡°All you need to do is make one phone call, get a message to the Joint Council representative¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve got friends in all sorts of high places,¡± the customs officer cut him off, a sneer in his voice. Kaminski would have had to suppress a laugh, if he wasn¡¯t so tired. ¡°Tell us your intended destination and what you were planning on doing there and then maybe we¡¯ll discuss some options.¡±


    ¡°I told your colleague, I didn¡¯t have a ¡®destination¡¯. I was inside the container by accident. It was part of a routine investigation¡ª¡±


    ¡°What investigation?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s classified.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is. So what were you planning on doing when you got here?¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning on being here at all.¡±


    ¡°Corporate espionage? Unauthorised settling? Smuggling?¡±


    ¡°You know I wasn¡¯t smuggling anything, I had nothing on me.¡±


    ¡°Your shipping container was holding unidentified cargo.¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t ¡®my¡¯ shipping container¡ª¡± Kaminski cut himself off this time, sitting back in the uncomfortable chair with a frustrated sigh. The room was starkly lit, bare except for the table and chairs. He¡¯d sat on the other side of tables just like it many times. ¡°I thought you Max-Earthers were supposed to be clever? Superior to everyone else? How is it you¡¯re being this fucking stupid?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not the one in handcuffs, Mr Kaminski.¡±


    Growling beneath his breath, Kaminski rubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He¡¯d not had a cigarette for days and it was making everything feel weird, not to mention leaving him feeling constantly on edge. Apparently cigarettes didn¡¯t really exist on Max-Earth, which was another strike against their supposed superiority. ¡°So what next?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re still investigating,¡± the officer said. He was the sort who evidently enjoyed being in charge. The sense that he wielded power. Kaminski had seen dozens like him in the police over the years. Frank Holland was somewhat like that, though in his case it was more about aspirations of becoming the ur-arsehole in general, rather than solely a power thing. The officer was still talking. ¡°Technically you¡¯re not on Max-Earth yet. Technically you¡¯re not on Mid-Earth, either. You¡¯re not legally anywhere, buddy. Once we¡¯re satisfied with the circumstances surrounding your arrival we¡¯ll pass you over to law enforcement with a nice chunky case file and some recommendations. They can then get you in the system for a trial.¡±


    Kaminski let out a cry of frustration. ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake! I¡¯m a police officer myself. Get in touch with my superiors.¡±


    The office laughed. Actually laughed. ¡°You should hear some of the excuses and explanations we get in this place. Yours isn¡¯t even the first time I¡¯ve heard that one.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re going to be worried. They¡¯re going to be worried about me, because it¡¯s been days and they have no idea where I am. I need to talk to my partner.¡±


    ¡°Listen,¡± the officer said, leaning over the table, ¡°you don¡¯t need to worry about any of your made-up friends. You should spend more of your time in here worrying about yourself.¡±


    There was a knock at the door, clearly irritating the man. He grimaced and stared at Kaminski for a moment, then reluctantly broke eye contact and stormed over to the door. He opened it a crack. ¡°Yes, what is it?¡±


    Unable to hear what was being said on the other side, Kaminski sat and looked forlornly at his bound hands. This wasn¡¯t how he imagined his first transit through a portal. He¡¯d never been especially interested in visiting the other dimensions, but certainly hadn¡¯t expected to do so as part of such an epic clusterfuck.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°I¡¯m in the middle of the interrogation¡ª¡± the officer was saying, protesting at whatever he was being told. Then the door opened wider, the light from the other side bright and warm compared to the cold flatness of the interrogation room. There was another person, standing expectantly slightly to the side, silhouetted against the light. The officer glanced back at Kaminski, his face set in a twist of anger - and perhaps even some jealousy, which struck Kaminski as odd - and then he walked through the door and departed without another word.


    Kaminski sat up a little straighter. There was something about the posture of the newly arrived person which made him think he was about to have a very different experience. The person entered: a woman, tall, broad-shouldered and wearing wide-legged trousers and a blazer. She had hair that flowed perfectly around her face and across her shoulders. The way she walked was like a choreographed entrance in a movie. ¡°Hello, Detective Kaminski,¡± she said, voice clear and confident. ¡°My name is Justin. Am I correct in thinking you are part of the Specialist Dimensional Command?¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    Early shift


    On duty: DC Lola Styles, DC Yannick Clarke, DC Nisha Chakraborty


    London


    1973. 4 January.


    Nisha was going to come apart at the seams. Clarke could see that in her eyes, could feel it in the air, hear it in her voice. It reminded him of how he¡¯d felt in the days after Callihan died. This time it was Kaminski, who had vanished just before the new year and had now been missing for nearly five days. Chakraborty was tough as any of the rest of them but she wasn¡¯t holding it together.


    ¡°It¡¯s not being able to do anything,¡± he said, standing next to her desk in the SDC office.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Feeling that you should be doing something. Tracking down leads. Arresting people. Linking clues. Finding evidence. Anything to feel useful.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all dead ends.¡±


    ¡°Want to go over it one more time?¡±


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re doing,¡± she said, ¡°and there¡¯s no fucking point, Yannick.¡±


    He took a breath. Six months ago he¡¯d have walked away at that point, left her to it. ¡°We don¡¯t know much, but we know some of it. Kaminski came back here, took a copy of the old warrant for the portal station search. We know he was heading down there, but we don¡¯t know why.¡±


    Chakraborty¡¯s eyes flicked up to meet his, then looked away again.


    He continued. ¡°You¡¯ve talked to the staff at the station. They claim not to have seen him. Nobody has seen him since then.¡±


    ¡°Well done, you remembered that we have absolutely shit-all to go on.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know why he was trying to use an expired warrant. But he took it, so we can assume he went to the station. Otherwise why take the warrant? He¡¯s not shown up in hospital, so he¡¯s either decided to vanish himself, or someone else has vanished him.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t help us find him. They could have taken him anywhere.¡±


    She sounded like she knew more than she was letting on. ¡°They? Who are we talking about here?¡±


    Chakraborty shrugged, turned away. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Yannick, can you have this conversation with someone else?¡± Somehow she managed to use his first name in a way that felt faintly patronising.


    He ignored her. ¡°I know we don¡¯t have much to work with, Nisha, but it feels like I¡¯m missing something obvious.¡±


    There was an unexpected squeal from across the office, originating from where Styles had been talking with Robin by the reception desk. Robin had just taken a telephone call, which had for some reason caused Styles to become excitedly animated in her own special way. She ran towards them, winding her way around desks, clutching a strip of paper.


    ¡°This is for us,¡± she said, handing it over and looking like she was about to explode with anticipation. ¡°It¡¯s a telegram. From Max-Earth. Addressed to you and me, partner.¡± She grinned.


    Clarke, frowning, took the telegram, which was printed inside a folder piece of paper, the edges of which were perforated so as to fit into the machine as a roll. A quirk of portals prevented transmission of any sort from one side to the other, meaning that messages had to be physically transferred for subsequent re-transmission. In practice that meant either human couriers or using the vacuum pipes, tiny pieces of paper firing back and forth all day. It drove the Max-Earthers mad, that they couldn¡¯t use any of their fancy futuristic tech.


    Styles was almost bouncing. ¡°Well? Open it!¡±


    He broke the pressed seal along one edge and unfolded the message. His eyes scanned the words, widening with each second that passed.


    Chakraborty pulled on his jacket¡¯s arm. ¡°What is it, Clarke?¡±


    He began to read. ¡°¡®Dear Detectives. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance on the Pluma. I am aware that contacting you in this manner does not adhere to the usual chain of command as exercised by your cultural structures., however it seemed most prudent given the circumstances and our prior cooperation. Your colleague, Detective Constable Zoltan Kaminski, is in my custody and awaits your retrieval. I assure you that he is entirely safe, but there are some formalities which require your presence to complete. Details of transit to follow. All the best, Justin.¡¯¡±


    A perplexed silence hung in the air as the three of them digested the message.


    ¡°Wow,¡± said Lola Styles.


    ¡°Unexpected,¡± said Yannick Clarke.


    ¡°Who the fuck is Justin?¡± said Nisha Chakraborty.

 Procedural: Part 5

    London. Max-Earth.


    2543. January.


    There were many aspects of being on Max-Earth that were making Kaminski¡¯s brain hurt. Chief among them was how high everything was - even the spacious garden he was currently walking through was perched atop a skyscraper, the city far below. Everything was scaled up to the point of incomprehension for anyone more used to the squat industrialism of Mid-Earth. By contrast, Max-Earth gleamed. Tallest of all the structures was the space elevator, arcing up and away from the river and disappearing into the sky haze before it dipped below the horizon. He couldn¡¯t begin to fathom the engineering required for such a thing.


    He took a deep breath. The air tasted enriched, as if it contained more oxygen than back home. Probably because it did; there was barely any pollution here, certainly not compared to the thick smog of 1970s England, where you had to chew on the air before inhaling. They¡¯d even provided him with a pack of cigarettes that was apparently free of carcinogens and which had no negative health implications. Somehow that made them less appealing.


    ¡°One of the many peculiarities when comparing the two Londons,¡± said Justin, walking beside him, ¡°is that there are centuries-old buildings here which were never constructed in your dimension.¡± They pointed over the railing to a squat, spherical, glass building far below. ¡°30 St Mary Axe. They called it ¡®the gherkin¡¯ for a time. It doesn¡¯t exist in your dimension. Some still presume that we have a shared history, but it diverged two hundred years ago.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying that¡¯s a bad thing? We got to some things sooner than you. Outlawed slavery decades before you did.¡±


    Justin smiled, the skin around their mouth barely creasing. ¡°That was a requirement of our trade deal, if you recall.¡±


    ¡°My history school certificate was a long time ago.¡± Kaminski took in the city, some of it below, much of it at their elevated level or even higher. It was unrecognisable as being London, other than the glimpses of the Thames winding through the middle.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Justin said, smiling again. There was a smugness that grated on Kaminski. That was another thing he couldn¡¯t wrap his head around: Justin wasn¡¯t even a her. It was a woman¡¯s body, but Justin had explained that it could just as easily have been male - dependent largely on what was available at the time. There were gender neutral bodies as well. It all sat awkwardly for Kaminski: he had nothing against any of it, but the world seemed simpler back home, where men were men and women were women. Everything on Max-Earth was fluid and changing and fuzzy, his brain straining to keep up.


    He needed to get back to his own world.


    *


    Two days slipped by. Kaminski had been upgraded from an immigration holding cell to a room ordinarily reserved for diplomatic visitors.


    ¡°You¡¯re not a diplomat,¡± Justin had observed, ¡°but you have prompted something of a diplomatic incident. Questions are inevitably being asked about why a serving officer in the SDC was stowed away in a cargo container during portal transit. I¡¯ve kept a lid on it, but this was never going to go entirely unnoticed.¡±


    Kaminski had kept quiet. The truth was awkward: he had only been there under the false pretence of an expired warrant, and as part of an off-the-books investigation that only he and Bakker knew about. Callihan¡¯s box of evidence had been hidden behind a desk in his house for a reason, and Kaminski triggering some kind of diplomatic meltdown was exactly the attention they didn¡¯t need.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    There was a gentle chime and a display on the door showed Justin¡¯s face. She - they - had visited each day since pulling Kaminski out of the cell. He wasn¡¯t entirely comfortable with that amount of attention from a sentient computer.


    The door slid silently open and Justin entered, long, dark hair swaying as they crossed the room. There was an almost uncanny perfection to the body, as if he was looking at a cartoon character, or a sculpture come to life. Part of Kaminski¡¯s unease was a consequence of him finding Justin undeniably attractive. It would be so much simpler if they were a real human. Everything about Max-Earth that made him feel primitive, like a caveman wandering out of a cave to discover he¡¯d slept for ten thousand years.


    ¡°When we first met you explained that your body was the only one you could find. So why are you still using it?¡±


    Moving over to the window, hands behind their back, Justin took in a deep breath. It occurred to Kaminski for the first time that it was an artificial gesture, with no biological need. ¡°Changing bodies would be confusing for you, given that this is your first time visiting this side of the portal.¡±


    ¡°Why even bother having a fake human body in the first place? Couldn¡¯t you just be a robot, or a fridge with wheels?¡±


    ¡°Convenience and empathy,¡± Justin said with a smile. ¡°It makes for simpler negotiations, generally, I find.¡±


    Kaminski snorted. ¡°Nothing about this seems simple to me.¡±


    ¡°I suspect the humans who were alive in our version of the 1970s would have felt similarly challenged, detective,¡± Justin said gently. ¡°It is true that I could forgo this simulant host and simply communicate with you via voice or text, but I suspect our conversations would then be considerably less interesting.¡±


    The light through the window from the late morning sun was soft and warm. Kaminski turned away and walked to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. At least the place was well stocked. He couldn¡¯t wait to fill Chakraborty in on all that had happened. Though that would mean explaining to her why he¡¯d been stuck in a shipping container. He sighed poured himself a shot of whisky. The cat was out of the bag, one way or another.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to need a cover story,¡± Justin said, as if reading his thoughts.


    He paused with the whisky tumbler halfway to his lips. ¡°What?¡±


    The robot - there, that made it easier, if he thought of Justin as a robot - gestured at the ceiling. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I have temporarily disabled the surveillance equipment in this apartment.¡±


    Kaminski blinked, then drank the shot. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The confidential investigation you have been avoiding discussing was clearly illegal. There is no official record of you having a warrant to search the portal station on the Mid-Earth side, and therefore there is no legitimate cause for you to have been inside the container, deliberately or accidentally.¡±


    He stared at the robot, not yet knowing where the conversation was going to come down. It could be assumed that Justin was stronger and faster than him, and probably cleverer. Saying as little as possible seemed like the safest way forward.


    ¡°This would ordinarily be a problem primarily for you, your superiors and the Joint Council,¡± Justin continued, ¡°until a recent development. The container you arrived in has gone missing.¡±


    ¡°Missing?¡±


    ¡°It was impounded after you were found inside. The cargo was unregistered and unidentified. I had been clearing away some bureaucratic hurdles before inspecting it myself this afternoon, but the container is no longer where it should be.¡±


    This was getting interesting. Kaminski started to sense that maybe he wasn¡¯t in as much trouble as he had expected. ¡°So where did it go?¡±


    ¡°The port records show it departing on the space elevator, but it does not have a valid destination ID.¡± Justin frowned, the perfect, unblemished forehead wrinkling ever so slightly. ¡°Its whereabouts are unknown. It has vanished.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like you have problems of your own.¡±


    ¡°This is correct. You are therefore the only person to have seen inside the container for any length of time. Can you describe to me again what you saw?¡±


    ¡°Get me a pen and paper and I¡¯ll do you one better.¡±

 #20 Procedural: Part 6

    London


    1973. January.


    The concourse of the civilian floor of the portal station was about as different to the industrial shipping port below as Clarke could imagine. Gone was the cavernous space filled with floor-to-ceiling containers and massive cranes and cargo loaders, replaced instead by a gleaming, translucent-white space covered by a gently arching curve of glass, held up by a geometric pattern of steel.


    At one end was the portal to Palinor, the flags of Bruglia flying proudly to either side. The area immediately around the portal was designed to look and feel like what was naturally on the other side: red-orange rocks, non-native plants that were twice the size of anything normally found in England, a travel bar serving Palinese cuisine and spirits. Have enough disposable income and you could enjoy an enchanted drink brought through the portal that very morning. That wasn¡¯t where Clarke and Chakraborty were headed.


    Instead, they¡¯d been taken down the other corridor, which steered in the opposite direction towards the Max-Earth portal. In the centre of the concourse was a rapid customs processing facility, enabling travellers to go from one portal to the next without having to exit into London proper. It was a slick operation, though through-traffic was light compared to a train or airship station; portal transit was expensive and a luxury of the super-rich, the super-powerful or the well-connected.


    The Max-Earth end of the concourse was similarly dressed to replicate what was on the other side of the portal. The smooth white surfaces segued into a mixture of complex architectural statements, built with materials Clarke couldn¡¯t name and seeming to serve both functional and artistic intent. There was a restaurant, a small cinema, a pod showcasing some of the Max-Earth tech which had been converted to run locally. Only the low-power devices.


    ¡°Ever feel like they¡¯re just rubbing our noses in it?¡± Chakraborty said quietly. She still looked tired, but the nervous tics that had manifested during Kaminski¡¯s disappearance had abated. She¡¯d reminded Clarke of how he¡¯d felt after Callihan had died. At least this time Kaminski was alive. He was coming back to them. A second chance.


    Clarke harrumphed. ¡°They like to wave their shiny things at us, but not let us actually have any of them.¡±


    ¡°I heard Addis has got a whole network of this stuff. They can talk to each other from any distance, like on a telephone, but without being wired in, and without needing a radio car.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well,¡± Clarke said, grimacing, ¡°we¡¯ll be the ones laughing when it fries their brains or gives them all cancer.¡±


    Chakraborty looked askance at him, as if unsure whether he was joking or not. Clarke decided to let her keep wondering. ¡°You know much about what to expect on the other side?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Haven¡¯t studied Max-Earth since school. It¡¯s not like we get a huge amount of criminal activity from that side, anyway. It¡¯s all Palinor trouble these days.¡±


    ¡°Hmm, you say that. Maybe Max-Earthers are just more clever at hiding what they¡¯re up to.¡±


    They reached the entry queue, separated from those exiting the portal by a metal barricade. Clarke stepped forward onto a gently rolling conveyor belt. There was a white mark on it indicating where he should stand; Chakraborty stood on another a metre away.


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    She shuffled about on the marker. He couldn¡¯t tell if she was nervous or excited. ¡°I hear they do it this way because everyone reacts differently to portal transit,¡± she said. ¡°For most it¡¯s like going through a doorway. Other people get instant nausea and throw up everywhere. Some people just freak the fuck out and can¡¯t handle the entire concept when they¡¯re faced with it.¡±


    ¡°Which one you planning on doing?¡±


    ¡°Hoping not to shit myself.¡±


    Clarke suppressed a burst of laughter. He could never quite get a handle on Chakraborty. She was a great detective, that he knew. But it always felt like her personality was shifting about under the surface, so that he never knew if he was talking to the real Nisha or a constructed persona. Most of the time it didn¡¯t matter, as it was Kaminski¡¯s job to handle her. But this time it was just him and Chakraborty, on a mission to retrieve Kaminski from whatever he¡¯d got himself into. The AI, Justin, had requested them specifically: Clarke for the prior connection from their brief time aboard the Pluma, and Chakraborty due to her being Kaminski¡¯s partner. Styles had been evidently disappointed. ¡°At least you¡¯re not going to Palinor,¡± she¡¯d said, with a shrug and a smile.


    Being invited to visit Max-Earth for the first time by a sentient computer wasn¡¯t the oddest thing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Even discovering that Kaminski was alive and on the other side of the portal was not the main event. The real shocker had been when Chakraborty had waved at him from across the room to join her in Bakker¡¯s office. Clarke hadn¡¯t taken the offered seat, not until after they¡¯d filled him in on the off-the-books investigation Kaminski had been running. The one involving Callihan¡¯s death, invalid search warrants and hints of something ugly running beneath the surface. It was alarming that he¡¯d had no clue, not even a hint of it; it was frankly terrifying that Chakraborty and Bakker seemed almost as in the dark. It was just the three of them - four, once they got Kaminski back - up against¡­something.


    Callihan had been onto it, but had been doing it alone. Had he not trusted Clarke? But, then, he hadn¡¯t shared it with anyone. That he¡¯d had his head in this, whatever it was, right up until the end, and had never asked for help. After his death, Clarke had felt that he¡¯d failed the man; this was that same feeling, all over again. Perhaps if they carried on whatever Callihan had started they might be able to give his death - and his life - some meaning.


    First, though, they had to get Kaminski, without triggering a diplomatic incident.


    They were carried towards the portal. For all the dressing up around the concourse and the videos playing at the side of the travelator about how effortless and comfortable it would be, they had never been able to do anything about the huge black void that hovered in space, its top half visible on this floor, the curve of its uneven oval high above. The portal intersected with the floor, and Clarke knew that the oval continued below ground to the shipping yard below. The portal was a black that shouldn¡¯t exist in real life, an absence of light so total that Clarke felt it would at any moment begin to suck in the room itself and everyone in it. There was something eternally horrific about its presence in London, and that there was a second one just like it half a mile behind him. In the few seconds he had left on his home planet, Clarke had the sudden sensation that something awful was coming, that the portals were a herald of a terror so vast it would consume them all¡ª


    *


    ¡ªand then they were through, the wall of black vanishing in an instant, on the other side of the portal and staring at a concourse not dissimilar to the one back home. He was on Max-Earth. Not just a different planet, but another dimension entirely. His job meant that he was always acutely aware of the neighbouring worlds, but until that moment he had never truly grasped what it meant, beyond some unusual arrests and cases.


    He was in a new universe. And, glancing to the side, he saw that they¡¯d perfectly recreated the stereotype of a London pub, complete with a swinging sign on a false brick fa?ade, tables and benches out the front and a lightly cobbled path. It was as if a part of his London had leaked through the portal. Somehow it made everything worse.


    There was no nausea. All he felt was a bitter anger, simmering away in his gut. A sense that whatever had happened two centuries ago had ruined everything.

 Procedural: Part 7

    London. Max-Earth.


    2543. January.


    Chakraborty fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to another. They were in a corridor of the hotel in which Kaminski was staying - or being kept - having been whisked up an almost entirely silent elevator to one of the upper floors. Golden sunlight beamed in through windows on one side, the corridor clean and sparse, with doors to the rooms on the other. She stood before the door to Kaminski¡¯s room, her fist raised and ready to knock.


    ¡°Do you need the bathroom?¡± Clarke had noticed her fidgeting and was staring at her, she realised.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m fine.¡±


    ¡°Want me to knock?¡±


    ¡°I think I can handle it.¡± She took a breath and rapped on the door twice. She didn¡¯t know why she felt so wired, as if she¡¯d had far too much coffee.


    The door opened and there he was: Zoltan Kaminski, in the flesh. Alive. Surprising herself, she took a step forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close. He stiffened awkwardly for a second, then relaxed and put his hands gently on her back. ¡°Hey, Nisha,¡± he said.


    She released him and stepped back, feeling silly, and laughed. ¡°Sorry. You OK?¡±


    He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes locked to hers. ¡°Yeah. Yeah, I¡¯m doing fine. Been a weird week. How was your new year¡¯s?¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    He grinned, then turned to Clarke. ¡°Yannick Clarke. They told me you were coming too, but I didn¡¯t believe it.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t my idea,¡± Clarke said, taking Kaminski¡¯s hand and shaking it firmly. ¡°It¡¯s good to see you.¡±


    A tension was released, a pressure valve finally open, and Chakraborty felt herself thinking clearly for the first time in days. She hadn¡¯t been aware of how tightly wound she had been. The world came back into focus: she was on Max-Earth. It was the year 2543, locally. There were flying cars outside and they were in a building that was taller than anything in their own version of London.


    ¡°Greetings, detectives,¡± said a voice from within the apartment. Ah yes, and there was a robot.


    Zoltan stood aside and gestured for them to enter. Standing by a window across the apartment was a tall, slender woman. ¡°This is Justin,¡± he said. ¡°They got me out of this mess.¡±


    ¡°Or nearly out of it, Detective Kaminski,¡± the woman said, smiling and nodding slightly. ¡°It is good to see you again, Detective Clarke.¡±


    Clarke hesitated. ¡°Are you sure we¡¯ve met?¡±


    ¡°On the Pluma, with your colleague Detective Styles. I assisted with your investigation.¡±


    Clarke blinked three times. ¡°Right. Different body, then?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. This is a host simulant, like the one I was using on the Pluma. I have injected my consciousness into it, enabling me to be physically present in locations that would otherwise not accommodate a two mile-long megaship.¡±


    ¡°I can see how that would be a challenge,¡± Clarke said, his words a little clipped, his posture stiff. Chakraborty found it somehow a relief that she wasn¡¯t the only one struggling to keep up.


    Zoltan shut the door and gestured for them to all take seats around a low coffee table. Chakraborty lowered herself into a plush, awkwardly low seat, already considering how she could extricate herself from it in an elegant manner.


    ¡°Thank you for coming at such short notice,¡± Justin said, sat in a relaxed, natural posture, one leg crossed over the other. ¡°I¡¯m aware that this was not an ordinary request and no doubt raised some eyebrows, but it seemed like the least problematic approach.¡±


    Seeming to ignore the robot, Clarke looked to Zoltan. ¡°They been treating you right, Kaminski?¡±


    ¡°I was in a holding cell for the first four days. That wasn¡¯t pleasant.¡± Kaminski took a deep breath, let it out slowly, as if trying to expel the memory. ¡°Then Justin here pulled some strings, got me out.¡± He gestured at the apartment. ¡°This is definitely an upgrade.¡±


    Chakraborty held up a hand. ¡°Why were you in a shipping container in the first place?¡±


    Pursing his lips in annoyance, Zoltan sighed. ¡°It was my own stupid fault. Got a kid to open it up for me, then the little shit locked me in. I was sloppy.¡±


    ¡°You are being hard on yourself, detective,¡± said Justin. ¡°That was not an obvious eventuality. Even I may not have identified it as a likely outcome.¡±


    ¡°Even you?¡± Clarke raised his eyebrows.


    Ignoring the hostile undertones in Clarke¡¯s voice, the woman-robot that was Justin looked at him and smiled. ¡°My quantum core is capable of running hundreds of thousands of simulations on theoretical outcomes for any given situation. The limiting factor is usually sensory input rather than computational capacity. This is hampered somewhat when I am operating a remote shard through a portal, as I am unable to communicate directly with myself. But when I¡¯m in this dimension I can offload processing to my primary core in orbit around the planet. This can be more-or-less difficult depending on communications delay over distance, of course.¡±


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    ¡°Of course.¡± Clarke looked slowly round at Chakraborty and shrugged with his face. She suppressed a laugh. He was never one for technology, but at least the electronic typewriters in the SDC offices didn¡¯t talk back.


    ¡°I¡¯m not clear on who knows what,¡± Chakraborty said. There were several agendas at play, and if what Bakker had told her and Clarke was accurate it meant there were unknown actors at play, pulling strings on a puppet they couldn¡¯t even see.


    ¡°I was thinking the same,¡± Zoltan said. ¡°Have either of you talked to Bakker lately?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯re in the loop,¡± Clarke said. He tilted his head towards Justin. ¡°What about her?¡±


    Chakraborty thought she saw Zoltan wince slightly. ¡°Justin knows that I was on an off-the-books investigation,¡± he said, ¡°and that it went tits up. They know I got myself locked into the container. I haven¡¯t said much more about the why or the what.¡±


    ¡°I find this entirely agreeable for the moment,¡± Justin said. ¡°I am aware that you are all involved in a highly sensitive matter. I do not need to know the details immediately, as that would require you trusting me to a degree which would not be natural or sensible for humans in your position. I am accustomed to matter involving humans taking longer than is strictly necessary. Nevertheless, we must find a way forward.¡±


    Zoltan and the robot were surprisingly chummy. Chakraborty almost felt a pang of jealousy, but she strangled it before it could properly be born. Zoltan looked like he could happily spend a few more days in the fancy apartment with the amazing view. God, the view. Chakraborty paused, entirely distracted by it for a second. Endless skyscrapers, glass and chrome, and vehicles in all directions - including up. Something impossibly huge towered up even above the buildings, disappearing into haze.


    Focus, Nisha. ¡°Explain something to me,¡± she said, looking from Zoltan to Justin and back again. ¡°Why are you not still in a customs holding cell? Why is this not all over the papers? How come the Commissioner wasn¡¯t called in, or the ambassador?¡± Her gaze fell on Justin. There was clearly more at play.


    ¡°There is a further complication, detective. Your partner reported seeing a strange object inside the container, an object I would most like to have seen. The container itself has, unfortunately, vanished. An irregularity in the records had it destined for Luna, but it never arrived. A container from Mid-Earth should not be able to simply disappear, especially one that was under customs jurisdiction for further investigation.¡±


    Clarke leaned forward. ¡°Why¡¯s this such a big deal for you? The stuff we¡¯re looking into - that Kaminski¡¯s been on for a while. That¡¯s on us, that¡¯s our turf. That container was of interest to us. What is it to you?¡±


    Justin smiled. ¡°You are not yet ready to tell me everything about your side of the matter, which I fully accept. In this instance, you will now have to do the same for me. I have theories about the container¡¯s contents but this is not the right time to share them.¡± Uncrossing their legs and clasping their fingers together on their knees, Justin mirrored Clarke by leaning in slightly. ¡°You no doubt recall how I nearly provoked panic on board the Pluma by openly voicing my concerns and theories. That was a valuable reminder for me, even after all these years.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying that whatever is in there,¡± Chakraborty said, ¡°is likely to be of as much interest to you as it is to us?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And, for the moment at least, it would serve all of us well to minimise the number of individuals with this knowledge.¡±


    Zoltan got to his feet and moved to the window. ¡°We¡¯ve come up with a plan,¡± he said, pacing slowly back and forth. ¡°Clarke, you met Justin back in town on board that airship. We use that as an in. Let¡¯s say Justin has been wanting to bring you over to Max-Earth for a couple of months, after being so impressed with your professional conduct. That¡¯s why you¡¯re here. Meanwhile, I was auditing portal station security, testing for holes in the transit system. That¡¯s why I was there, that¡¯s why I was using a false warrant: to see if it would be picked up. Testing the portal station staff.¡±


    Clarke crossed his arms. ¡°Tenuous, but it might pass. How¡¯d you get yourself locked inside one?¡±


    ¡°By accident. One which usefully highlights one of those security holes in the transit system that I was supposedly checking for. Everyone is very grateful and says thanks. We can get some paperwork in place to create a log of conversations leading up to this. It can even be a follow-up to the human trafficking investigation back in August.¡±


    That actually made some kind of sense. ¡°That actually makes some kind of sense,¡± she said. ¡°The only people it won¡¯t convince is the bad guys. I mean, not that we even know who we¡¯re dealing with.¡±


    ¡°That will not matter,¡± Justin said, sitting upright and looking rather pleased. ¡°Humans make a game of politics. Even we megaships indulge in such frivolities from time to time. In this instance, those involved will know that we know. But they cannot do anything to move against us, for fear of further exposing themselves. Everybody knows, but nobody can act. This is how human politics has been enacted for centuries.¡±


    ¡°So, what,¡± Clarke said, ¡°they just carry on doing what they¡¯re doing?¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± Zoltan said, ceasing his pacing. ¡°Whatever Barrindon¡¯s involved in, this is going to bring too much scrutiny down on them. Whatever they¡¯re doing is going to have to stop, at least for now. Gives us some time, perhaps, but it also means this lead is going to dead-end.¡±


    Clarke leaned his elbows on his thighs. ¡°That company has been involved in two pretty ugly things in the last six months. They¡¯ve got a bad smell around them.¡±


    ¡°They also have deep pockets and the best lawyers,¡± Chakraborty noted. ¡°The DCS isn¡¯t going to like this, you know.¡±


    ¡°Walpole can lump it,¡± Zoltan said with a grin. ¡°He might not like it, but he¡¯s not going to complain at us making friends with an AI megaship.¡± He glanced at Justin. ¡°That¡¯s a powerful friend to have on Max-Earth.¡±


    ¡°Then it is agreed,¡± Justin announced. ¡°You will all stay for another day. I will give you the official tour of our London, introduce you to all the right people. I would take you off-world but we alas do not have sufficient time.¡± As Justin looked at each of them, Chakraborty could have sworn that the wrinkle-less, strangely ageless eyes sparkled. ¡°Although we exist in a tenuous, dangerous state of chaotic uncertainty, I have hope, my friends. This should be the beginning of a most fortuitous alliance.¡±


    Leaning back and folding his arms with a harrumph, Clarke lifted his chin up. ¡°You just work that out in one of your millions of simulations?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Justin said, cocking their head to one side, ¡°just a hunch.¡±

 One night in the future

    <code>Begin transcript</code>


    There are good ideas and there are bad ideas. Most of those bad ideas you don¡¯t go near. Some of them you know full well are bad but you go to them anyway. They get a hook into you, reel you in. I¡¯m partial to those types.


    I don¡¯t know why I went for a fishing metaphor.


    Justin gave us the tour. Introduced us to some local politicians, businessmen. I barely remember their names. We flew around this weird version of London in a flying taxi. Clarke looked like he was going to throw up. We were taken for dinner, then to some kind of opera. I think it was an opera. I guess it¡¯s what everyone¡¯s listening to in the future.


    I¡¯m in my hotel room. It¡¯s bigger than my entire flat. There¡¯s a button next to the window that turns the glass opaque. You don¡¯t need curtains in the future. The year 2543. I don¡¯t know how to process that, so I go to the bar - the room has a bar - and pour myself something short and sharp. I¡¯m not paying. Shit, the fridge could keep me going all night. Probably a good thing I can¡¯t afford to stay in places like this.


    They have these transcription devices here. I¡¯m using one now. It sits behind your ear and transcribes whatever you¡¯re thinking. It¡¯s creepy, but saves on the typing.


    We¡¯ll be back to London soon. Our London, I mean. City of smog and stink, where getting anywhere takes forever and everyone¡¯s sad and grumpy and looks at their feet. Justin tried to explain that it¡¯s not time travel; that it¡¯s more of a time slip? That our dimensions have always been misaligned, and our one went flying off down a different route the moment those portals opened two hundred years ago. To be honest, I was more interested in the third course and the wine.


    All of which is to say that I¡¯m trying to distract myself from what I really want to do. Because I know it¡¯s one of those bad ideas. Those really bad ideas. The kind of idea that is going to fuck you up for days, weeks, months. The ones you don¡¯t come back from. This one is the real deal. An idea so bad it¡¯s entirely irresistible.


    I pour myself another drink. I don¡¯t even know what it is. It has a coffee after-taste. I empty the shot glass, pour another.


    I don¡¯t even know where this idea came from. It¡¯s not been there before. Something to do with him being missing for the best part of a week. Thinking that I¡¯d never see him again. That I¡¯d lost him. Couldn¡¯t handle that a second time. But he¡¯s alive, and we found him, and he¡¯s OK. It¡¯s going to be OK. When I hugged him, put my arms around him, that¡¯s when I knew. It was like a spark going off in my brain - well, less brain and more everywhere else, I suppose. I get the feeling that he¡¯s always wanted this, I just didn¡¯t see it before.


    The bad idea isn¡¯t going away. The only way to get a bad idea to go quiet, to stop it shouting in your ear and clawing at you all the way through the night, is to let it out. To follow it to its end. I screw the lid back on the bottle, leave the glass on the side. Might need it later. I go to the bathroom, sort my hair out. Check I don¡¯t look too tired. Nah, I look great. I smile at my reflection.


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    Slipping out of my room, clicking the door shut behind me, I pad down the corridor with bare feet. Zoltan¡¯s room is only half a dozen rooms away. They¡¯d kept us all close together. I hover outside his door, feeling like I¡¯ve done this before. I take a deep breath, then knock twice.


    It¡¯s late, we¡¯ve been out all day creating our cover story of being on an official visit. He¡¯s probably already in bed, asleep. This will just be annoying - I¡¯ll annoy him by rocking up like an idiot. This was a mistake. I recognise this stage: it¡¯s when the bad idea is in motion and you start to fully comprehend exactly how deep you¡¯re wading into the swamp. Maybe I should think of a cover story of my own: maybe I didn¡¯t know how to operate the lights in the room? No, that¡¯s idiotic. I lost my room key? No, they don¡¯t even use keys here. I wanted to go over leads in a case?


    Fuck¡¯s sake, Nisha.


    The door opens. He¡¯s there, shirt half undone like he was about to get changed.


    ¡°Nisha.¡± It¡¯s a statement, not a question. There¡¯s not a hint of surprise in his voice.


    ¡°Hey, Zoltan.¡±


    There¡¯s a second while we stare at each other, and that¡¯s when I know he¡¯s had the bad idea as well. I push into his room, grabbing at him, pulling him close, and I kiss him. I knock the door shut with my foot, and then I¡¯m fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. One of them comes loose as I wrench at it. He can buy a new shirt.


    His hands are on me, on my head, fingers in my hair. They run down my back, clutch at me and pull me close. We bump against the wall and I lean into him. My shirt is off, him more gentle than I was, then he unhooks my bra with unexpected, practised ease. His chest isn¡¯t bare and smooth like John¡¯s, but thicker and covered with soft, curling hairs.


    John.


    I pull Zoltan towards the bed. I sit as he stands before me and I take off the rest of his clothes. His skin is so pale. I can tell he¡¯s wanted this for a long time. He pushes me onto my back and I shuffle backwards, then he removes the long, straight, black skirt I¡¯d worn to dinner.


    It lasts. It¡¯s different. He¡¯s gentle but imaginative. We laugh, the bad idea come good, and everything is perfect and attuned and I know this is going to be a wonderful thing. This will help our professional partnership. We¡¯ll work together better. We¡¯ll know each other¡¯s thoughts. We¡¯ll be so in sync. It¡¯ll be fine. It¡¯ll all be fine.


    As we find our way off the bed and across the room, over to the window, I hit the button and turn the glass transparent. Max-Earth¡¯s London of 2543 gleams back at me in all its superiority. I see the back of Zoltan¡¯s head in the reflection as he lifts and supports my hips. My breath fogs the glass. There¡¯s another building opposite. Flying cars zip by just outside and I don¡¯t care.


    The thought rushes back into my mind that I thought he was dead. That this man was nearly gone from my life. That I was convinced I¡¯d never see him again. And now here we are, as one, closer than ever. And I don¡¯t want to ever let him out of my sight again.


    Not like with John. John Callihan, who went to work and never came back. John Callihan, who would go home after seeing me, back to his perfect fiancee. John Callihan who went and got himself killed, really killed. Who had his head fucking ripped from his body. I¡¯d known every curve and corner of that body, and now it lies in two pieces.


    Tears are running down my cheeks. Shit. Zoltan asks me if I¡¯m OK. I say I¡¯ve never been happier and I kiss him again.


    This was a bad idea.


    <code>End transcript</code>

 The creature: part 1

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. February.


    It was cold, the damp sort of cold that England specialised in. Not the clear, fresh cold of somewhere further north. Lola Styles sat with her arms crossed and a hot water bottle on her lap. ¡°I¡¯m not happy about this,¡± she said.


    ¡°So you mentioned,¡± Clarke said, sat next to her at his desk. He was flicking through reports of open cases, grunting disapprovingly with each discarded sheet of paper.


    ¡°Why couldn¡¯t the heating break next week, when I¡¯ve got leave? Or at least when it¡¯s not my shift. Or, you know, in the summer.¡± It was times like this that she wanted to be anywhere but London. Anywhere else in the world, or a world next door.


    ¡°Sod¡¯s law.¡± Clarke held up a report. ¡°Can you believe this? It¡¯s just common theft, which happens to have been perpetrated by an aen¡¯fa girl. That¡¯s not in our remit. Christ, they¡¯re just slinging any old shit our way these days.¡±


    ¡°If the perp has pointy ears, give it to the SDC crew!¡±


    Clarke pointed a finger at her, then gave her a thumbs up. ¡°Exactly. Now you¡¯re getting it, Styles. We¡¯re a dumping ground. A bin for all the cases the regulars can¡¯t be arsed with. Hand it off to the loser in the portal squad.¡±


    Shifting the hot water bottle to her other side, Lola smiled. ¡°It¡¯s not all bad. Some of us get to go on jollies to Max-Earth, for example.¡± She raised her eyebrows.


    Grouping all the reports together and pushing them to the far end of the desk, Clarke sighed. ¡°I should be keeping a tally of all the times you bring that up.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s only because of abject jealousy. That¡¯s all.¡± Her tone was jovial, but it still stung that Clarke had gone through a portal without her. Not that he¡¯d had any choice in the matter - orders were orders - but it seemed unfair that she couldn¡¯t have accompanied. She was his partner, after all - and she¡¯d met Justin, the megaship AI, aboard the airship.


    ¡°Listen,¡± Clarke said, ¡°next time I get an all expenses paid invite to Max-Earth I¡¯ll be sure to make sure you¡¯re my plus one. Or, even better, you can go instead of me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll hold you to that.¡±


    ¡°You do that - oh, this is interesting.¡± He held up a case file. ¡°Mutilated body. Sounds more like our kind of thing, right?¡±


    ¡°Who, where and when?¡±


    His eyes scanned down the page. ¡°Yesterday. Body¡¯s down at the morgue. Found north of Bloomsbury. Wounds consistent with bites from an animal attack, but doesn¡¯t appear to be a native species.¡±


    That did indeed sound very interesting. Lola leaned forward attentively. ¡°Non-native? As in, non-Earth?¡±


    ¡°Your guess is as good as mine, partner,¡± Clarke said, standing and pulling his heavy trench coat on. ¡°Let¡¯s go have a chat with everyone¡¯s favourite death doctor and see what he has to say.¡±


    *


    ¡°Oh yes, this is a good one,¡± said Dr Steven Wong, a glint in his eye that reminded Lola of her younger sister on Christmas morning. He led them down the steps into the autopsy room. ¡°I¡¯ve got him laid out for you.¡±


    ¡°Very kind,¡± Clarke said. Lola suppressed a smile, well aware of Clarke¡¯s discomfort with Wong¡¯s enthusiasm for the recently deceased.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The morgue always made Lola think of a hospital, an especially poorly performing one. Walls of sealed, metal cubicles filled with cooled bodies, temporary coffins for the duration of each victim¡¯s legal purgatory. The smell of the building¡¯s air conditioning units and neutralisers locked in an endless battle with the creeping rot of the unliving. It wasn¡¯t her favourite part of the job.


    On the slab was part of a body. Several parts, in fact, arranged to approximate what would have once been a human. The naked lumps of dismembered flesh were distorted, like an old, well-melted candle on a pub table, ripples of skin and muscle and fat falling over each other as if trying to escape from the rest of the body. The head was mostly intact and undisturbed, while one of the legs - no longer connected at the hip - resembled an oversized and battered off-cut of ham from a butcher¡¯s discard bin.


    ¡°Christ,¡± Clarke said quietly, ¡°what happened to this poor sod?¡±


    ¡°Still trying to work that out,¡± Wong said, rubbing his hands together. ¡°The melted appearance seems to be a consequence of coming into contact with an acidic agent of some sort. Biological in origin.¡±


    ¡°Looks like he fell into a vat of it.¡±


    Lola pointed at his head. ¡°Not all the way in, though.¡±


    Clarke grunted. ¡°More like a deadly hot tub, then.¡±


    ¡°It gets weirder,¡± Wong said. ¡°Looking at the less melted areas, or if you scrape beneath the outer epidermis, there is significant and widespread evidence of teeth marks.¡±


    ¡°A hot tub in the Barrel.¡±


    Sticking her tongue out halfway, Lola made a point of disapproving of Clarke¡¯s joke. ¡°What kind of bite marks do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some photos,¡± Wong said, stepping away and wheeling a pinboard over. Magnified, black and white images were pinned to it, showing tiny imprints in the skin. ¡°They¡¯re certainly not human.¡±


    ¡°Did the biting happen before or after the acid melted the skin?¡±


    Wong took a deep breath. ¡°Best I can tell, both.¡±


    Lola leaned in for a closer look. ¡°Reckon all the bite marks are from the same creature? The same mouth?¡±


    ¡°I think so,¡± Wong said, tapping a finger on one of the photos. ¡°Similar size, pattern, depth and pressure. My best guess? An animal that secretes something to aid with breaking down its food. Like what our stomachs do, but an external process.¡±


    ¡°Starting to think we should¡¯ve taken that common theft case, Styles.¡± Clarke turned back to the body on the slab. ¡°Looks like most of the body is still here, doc? Except for the hands?¡±


    ¡°Correct. Only one foot, also.¡±


    ¡°Why would something nibble this guy to death but then not actually eat him?¡±


    ¡°Not a sentence you ever expected to say out loud,¡± Lola said, moving around the table to get a look from the other side.


    ¡°Your guess is as good as mine,¡± Wong said. ¡°Perhaps it bit off more than it could chew?¡±


    *


    The streets around the British & Empire Museum were green and lush, in stark contrast to most of the rest of London. The museum was the largest single building in the capital and it was surrounded by expansive parks, the extravagant use of real estate testament to the museum¡¯s power and historical significance. It was a tourist magnet, not solely for viewing the museum¡¯s considerable gathering of remarkable items from around the empire and beyond - an entire new wing had been built to display artefacts liberated from Palinor - but also to spend time in an area of London that was not smog-filled and covered with a film of oil. The parks were an unexpected natural oasis in the midst of the industrial, steaming city.


    A family walked happily through Russell Park away from the museum. Two siblings, a young boy and girl, with their parents. The children scampered from the path, darting into bushes and running in circles around fountains and marble statues.


    Seeking a hiding the place, the boy pushed his way through the drooping leaves of a willow tree. In the shaded cool beneath it was a clearing of sorts, the ground carpeted with leaves. The branches shielded the space from the rest of the park and indeed the wider city, even muffling the noises of London. It was a quiet, contemplative space, and as perfect a hiding place as the boy could imagine.


    As he crouched down by the bough, staying as silent as possible, he noticed something odd resting on top of the leaves beside him. At first he thought it was a shawl, or a thin scarf. It was about as long as his arm and translucent, looking almost like wet paper. He poked at it with his foot: it was soft. He tapped it with his hand, finding it to be dry and surprisingly leathery for how thin it was. Reaching out, he picked it up, holding it to the dappled light filtering through the leaves above. It was a sleeve of some sort, slightly smaller than he was, and reminded him of pictures he¡¯d seen in the museum of a snake¡¯s skin after shedding. Perhaps this had come from an animal? The boy frowned, fairly certain that snakes weren¡¯t generally found in England.


    So intent was he on examining the silvery skin, the boy was entirely unaware of the crunch of leaves and twigs until the creature was upon him.

 The creature: part 2

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. February.


    ¡°Feels like this is going to be one of those cases,¡± Clarke said as they left the tram and walked the distance to the park.


    ¡°One of what cases?¡± They¡¯d come straight from the morgue after the call came in. Another victim, another barely recognisable body, this time found in a park. This time it was a child. She had a tension in her belly, an urge to turn and run. Grinding her teeth together, she fought it down.


    ¡°One that keeps me up all damned day and night,¡± Clarke said, ¡°entirely ignoring my supposed shift pattern.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re sounding old, Clarke.¡±


    He glanced over at her. ¡°I¡¯m sounding tired, Styles. There¡¯s a difference.¡± He took deep breath as they crossed the road. ¡°Though I admit they do seem to go together.¡±


    The park was cordoned off already, police tape stretching across the gated entrance. There was a crowd gathered to the side, the usual mix of onlookers - concerned parents with small children in tow, business suited people on their lunch break, a couple of seemingly homeless folk pushing trolleys.


    A uniformed officer named Paul met them at the entrance. ¡°Tell us the essentials,¡± Clarke said, as they showed the officer their badges.


    ¡°It¡¯s grim, sir,¡± he said, his face the kind of pale that follows nausea. ¡°Family on a day out, walking through the park and the little boy goes off to hide.¡± He led them into the park, towards a dense cluster of trees and a group of other officers. ¡°Sister found him not five minutes later. Poor little bastard. Sorry, sir.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s OK, officer,¡± Lola said, briefly touching his arm. ¡°We¡¯ll go check it out, make sure you keep the crowd outside the park and away from the scene.¡±


    ¡°Yes, detective, of course.¡± He turned and strode back towards the entrance.


    ¡°He looked like he¡¯d lost his lunch,¡± Clarke noted, his face hardened into a grimace.


    ¡°Glad I haven¡¯t eaten today,¡± Lola said.


    The officers standing next to the bushes nodded and one pulled a branch aside to give them easier access to whatever lay behind. Lola caught they eye of one of them. ¡°Where¡¯s the family?¡±


    ¡°Down at the station,¡± he said. ¡°They¡¯re in a bad way, as you can imagine.¡±


    The sheltered glade on the other side of the bushes would have been a serene shelter from the rest of the city, if it wasn¡¯t for the grisly mess. What had once been a person was scattered around the leafy clearing beneath the trees. There wasn¡¯t much left this time, but what pieces remained had the same tell tale marks of acid burns as the body back in Wong¡¯s morgue.


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± Clarke said, running the back of his sleeve across his forehead. ¡°I didn¡¯t need to live long enough to see this shit.¡± He took a breath. ¡°What do you think?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s only a few pieces here, other than lots of blood. Whatever¡¯s doing this, it didn¡¯t leave much.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°Are we thinking animal, then?¡±


    Lola crouched down next to a lump of flesh. ¡°Same exact burn patterning, at least to my eye. We need Wong here to confirm.¡±


    ¡°Said he¡¯d be following right behind with his team.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t immediately evident, but Lola slowly realised that she was looking at a hand and forearm. The fingers were melted together, such that it was difficult to identify as having been a hand. ¡°If this is an animal, it¡¯s not from around here.¡±


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°It¡¯s got Palinor written all over it, right?¡± Clarke moved carefully around the clearing. ¡°That¡¯s why the report came across our desk in the first place. Everything about it is weird. And weird means portals. Which means it gets handed to us.¡± He paused and peered down at the ground in front of him. ¡°Except in this case, I think that was the right call.¡±


    Lola stood and moved over to see what he had found, cautious to not disturb the scene. ¡°That looks like a snake¡¯s skin. Like when they shed their skin.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I was thinking.¡±


    ¡°They do that when they¡¯re growing, I think.¡±


    They both stayed silent for a while, staring down at the thin, translucent sheath. Lola became acutely aware of the rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of birds, and the city beyond.


    ¡°Got that instant camera of yours on you?¡±


    Lola fished in her bag and pulled it out. ¡°Right here. Not sure how well it¡¯ll work here, it¡¯s pretty dark.¡±


    ¡°We should leave all this in place for Wong, but if you can get an image I¡¯ve got an idea of who we should show it to.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    The British & Empire Museum was enormous. It had to be, given it contained the acquired history of three universes. It had begun as a celebration of Empire, of the British¡¯s nearly uncontested reach across the globe. The Americas, the East and much of Europe was drawn according to the whims of British military commanders and politicians. Only in Africa was there no significant colonial presence, due to the concerted effort of the United African Conglomerate. On Mid-Earth, portals had defined the destiny of nations more than once.


    Portals had also shaped the museum. There were entire new wings dedicated to Max-Earth and Palinor, each proudly displaying artefacts from those worlds. The Max-Earth section was noticeably sparser than Palinor, as a consequence of their futuristic distrust of empire building. What was on display had been donated, rather than taken. Palinor was different, having long been a tempting destination for explorers, archaeologists and ambitious naturalists.


    As a child the museum had been Lola¡¯s favourite place to spend her weekends, poring over ancient texts and sculptures, drifting from room to room soaking up the atmosphere of places far distant and long past. As an adult that wondrous curiosity collided more frequently with her unease at how most of the items had been acquired. If she could afford it she would much rather visit Palinor itself - or, indeed, other countries on her own planet - than observe its lost trinkets.


    For their purposes, though, the department specialising in Palinor flora and fauna was most useful. Curator Moira Blakemore was more than happy to meet with the both of them, guiding them through the exhibits as they outlined the facts of the case. Her initial enthusiasm began to visibly dwindle as Clarke described the two bodies, giving way to concern and possibly even a little fear. Lola pulled out the blurry image she¡¯d snapped in the clearing, handing it over apologetically.


    ¡°Yes, this is what I feared,¡± she said, leading them past cabinets of fossils and taxidermied creatures. Lola would have happily spent the afternoon exploring and had to exert real effort to stay focused. Moira¡¯s route arrived at an oddly-shaped glass cabinet, which started small at one end and then become progressively larger.


    Lola leaned against the glass of the smaller end. ¡°What is it?¡± Inside was the preserved carcass of some sort of large larvae or grub - Lola didn¡¯t have the vocabulary. It looked like a caterpillar the size of her arm.


    ¡°It¡¯s a kengto,¡± she said, emphasising each syllable. ¡°It¡¯s still found in some remote areas of Palinor, but is really very rare. It possesses the acidic traits you¡¯ve described, softening its prey before consuming.¡±


    ¡°What about this one?¡± Clarke had moved ahead to the next part of the cabinet, which was slightly larger and contained a creature about the size of a dog like a retriever. It looked nothing like a dog, appearing far more reptilian, and decorated with spines rather than fur. The head was barely recognisable as such, sporting an ugly, multi-part jaw and multiple sets of eyes.


    ¡°That,¡± said the curator, ¡°is also a kengto.¡± She pointed to the next section of the increasingly spacious cabinet, which displayed the skeleton of something which would have been as big as a pony. ¡°As is that.¡±


    Clarke frowned. ¡°They all have the same name?¡±


    ¡°They are all the same creature, detective. The kengto is a metaphorph.¡±


    ¡°Like how caterpillars turn into butterflies,¡± Lola said.


    ¡°Yes, only much more dangerous.¡± She gestured at the cabinet. ¡°We don¡¯t have a complete record of a kengto¡¯s life cycle here. They get much larger than what you¡¯re seeing.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± Clarke said, his voice somehow even wearier than usual, ¡°if we were in the hypothetical situation of having one of these things loose in London, what would you suggest?¡±


    Moira places her hands on her hips and furrowed her brow, deep in thought. ¡°The police won¡¯t be able to handle this,¡± she said at last. ¡°You¡¯re going to need to bring in some outside help, and quickly.¡±


    ¡°Outside help?¡± Lola glanced over at Clarke, who shrugged. ¡°What kind of outside help?¡±


    ¡°Monster hunters, detective. You need monster hunters.¡±

 The creature: part 3

    Near Bruglia. Pelinor.


    3201. Frostfield.


    The city state of Bruglia was perched on top of a burnt orange mesa, one of many jutting out of the desert in the region. It was a rocky landscape of two heights: the mesas, and the canyons in-between, carved by hundreds of thousands of years of river erosion. Magic-enhanced irrigation projects brought the water from the rivers up to the tops of the mesas, turning them into oases in the surrounding barren terrain. Bruglia was one of the largest cities on Palinor, covering the entire surface of one of the mesas and bridging to several others. It was the home of Fountain University and the site of the portal to Mid-Earth, which had turned the city and its leaders into the richest families on the planet.


    There were routes through the canyons for traders, some safe and some less so. The twisting, shadowed passages were prime for ambush and were home to a myriad of creatures which had spent most of their evolution adapting to become perfect hunters in their environment. The main road was protected once a caravan entered Bruglia territory. Those who could not afford the main road were forced to find alternatives, which led inevitably through danger.


    Ellenbrin crouched and touched two fingers to the sand. ¡°See the patterning? The sloughing of the dirt, like a snake¡¯s underbelly, but you can also see traces of claw prints.¡± She sighed. ¡°Well, I¡¯d say that confirms it. We¡¯re dealing with a durgon.¡±


    ¡°Son of a bitch,¡± Halbad said. He stretched, cracking the bones in his spine. He took the shrivelled cigar from his mouth and ground it underfoot. ¡°Looks like we¡¯re gonna have to earn our pay on this one, fellas.¡±


    The deep laughter from Ngarkh sounded like chains dragged on stone. ¡°Don¡¯t we always? When was the last time we took an easy job?¡± They flexed their wings, the membranes between the frames rippling in the slight wind that blew through the canyon. Their nostrils flared and they ran a hand over the twin horns atop their head. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want things to get boring.¡±


    ¡°A durgon, huh?¡± Seline moved her arms around the shoulder socket, limbering up. Her dual pikes were fixed to her back, sharp and nasty. ¡°Remind me again what they do.¡±


    Ellenbrin grinned at her as she got to her feet. ¡°Don¡¯t you ever pay attention? Durgon. An south-eastern dragon, big and long and nasty. Feathered, limbed with short legs. No arms. No real wings for flight but it can glide, and tunnel. But none of that¡¯s important. It¡¯s a dual symbiote - a single mind, with two bodies. Don¡¯t think of it as two animals: it¡¯s one creature, but separated into two halves.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll separate it into more than two halves,¡± Ngarkh cackled, clicking their claws against each other.


    ¡°Yes, very good,¡± Erik said, pulling a set of vials from his satchel. He withdrew a measuring device from within his cloak and began distributing a bottle of green liquid among the vials. ¡°A durgon is also horribly toxic. Get scratched or bitten and you¡¯ll be in trouble. That¡¯s why I brought this.¡± He set the vials down on a rock, each resting on a makeshift stand like might be found in a laboratory. ¡°This will stop the necrotic infection from setting in, though it¡¯s not going to stop it from hurting.¡± He closed his eyes, muttered a few words under his breath and waved a hand across the vials. The liquid turned brown.


    ¡°This looks unpleasant,¡± Seline said, taking one of the offered vials. ¡°Any side effects?¡±


    ¡°Possible nausea,¡± Erik said with a shrug, ¡°but that¡¯s better than the alternative.¡±


    Ngarkh held their vial up and Halbad clinked his together with it, as if they were about to down beers in a tavern. ¡°I¡¯m sure I¡¯ve had worse hangovers,¡± Ngarkh said, swallowing the liquid.


    ¡°I¡¯ll pass, thanks,¡± Ellenbrin said, gently pushing Erik¡¯s hand away. ¡°I¡¯m better off having my wits about me and avoiding getting hit in the first place.¡±


    Halbad raised his eyebrows. ¡°You sure? This is a nasty critter.¡±


    She tilted her head disdainfully. ¡°Which of us is the monster expert?¡±


    ¡°Then let¡¯s get to it,¡± Halbad said, shrugging.


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    The durgon had itself a cave network in the side of a mesa, some of it natural and some of it burrowed. The entrance was small, only as broad as two people standing next to each other with arms extended, and easily missed by anyone unfamiliar with either the terrain or the target. Ellenbrin knew both and found it swiftly.


    The five of them ventured inside, the single tunnel soon opening into a huge cavern within the mesa, with multiple tunnels heading off in all directions. The rocky cavern was high and looked to be a natural formation within the surrounding mesa. ¡°Durgons have a knack for finding places like this,¡± Ellenbrin said. She unhooked her bow. ¡°Remember there¡¯s two of them, but they think as one. It¡¯ll try to use that against us.¡±


    Halbad and Ngarkh took the lead, walking out onto the cavern floor. It was damp and uneven, though smooth from centuries of subtle erosion. Halbad held his broadsword at the ready. Seline and Erik followed just behind, with Ellenbrin at the rear. She¡¯d try to stay distant, if possible, and pick a few good shots.


    ¡°Ngarkh, a little light, if you¡¯d please,¡± Halbad said. The koth grinned and drew in a breath, then belched out a burst of fire. Halbad said a word, reached out with one hand and directed the flame onto his blade, where it enveloped and spun around the metal, the heat maintained through his elemental spell. ¡°I am right in thinking it doesn¡¯t like fire, Ellenbrin?¡±


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    She nodded. ¡°No natural resistances there.¡± Even speaking quietly, her voice echoed from the cavern¡¯s walls.


    Ngarkh grunted. ¡°Shall we get this started, then?¡±


    ¡°Do it,¡± Halbad said, nodding.


    Releasing a booming roar, Ngarkh spread their wings and thrust into the air, moving around in the cavern, bellowing into the higher tunnels. After thirty seconds there was quiet again, other than the continuing reverberations as the sound travelled in and out of the tunnels, like the pipes of an instrument.


    Ellenbrin strained at the edges of her hearing. As Ngarkh¡¯s roar dissipated another noise became audible: a rapid pattering, coming from opposite sides of the cavern. She pointed in both directions. ¡°Here it comes. Coming in hot, trying to pincer us.¡±


    Seline snorted a laugh.


    The durgon burst from the tunnels, the four-legged serpents exploding like a ballista firing, one leaping at Ngarkh and the other descending rapidly to where the rest of the party was waiting. They were feathered, with slender membranes between arms and body that gave it a controlled, gliding movement through the air.


    Nocking an arrow, Ellenbrin fired at the higher of the two, hitting it just behind the eye and knocking it from its course. Ngarkh roared approval and dived after it.


    The other one was also distracted from its attack by the wound to its other body. ¡°Hurt one and it hurts both of them!¡± Ellenbrin shouted as they repositioned themselves.


    ¡°Seems like a big design flaw,¡± Erik replied, busy encasing himself in a protective gravity shield.


    ¡°Don¡¯t complain,¡± Halbad said, ¡°just hit it!¡±


    As Ngarkh grappled with one in the air, they moved to surround the creature that had landed on the floor of the cavern. It was fast, faster than seemed possible for something of its size, reminding Ellenbrin of the erratic movement of small lizards. She kept her distance, firing arrows, though the creature seemed to have learned from its brother and was darting from side to side, making itself harder to hit.


    Moving in close, Halbad and Seline piled into it with their weapons. Halbad¡¯s fire blade neatly severed the wing membrane beneath its foreleg, while Seline tried to pin it with her pikes. Beneath the feathers the durgon¡¯s plated skin made it difficult to land more than a glancing blow. It whipped its tail and hit both of them, sending them skittering across the cavern¡¯s rocky floor.


    Distracted, the durgon didn¡¯t see Erik¡¯s approach until it was too late. He whispered the words and cast a mass spell onto the durgon¡¯s left rear leg, pinning it in place. The clawed foot cracked under the pressure as it was crushed into the rock. Erik leapt up the side of the durgon, using the feathers as handholds, and cast a second spell on its other leg.


    ¡°It¡¯s locked in place,¡± he shouted. ¡°Mind its jaws, but it¡¯s not going anywhere.¡±


    Having picked themselves up, Halbad and Seline moved back in. ¡°Ellenbrin! Help Ngarkh! We¡¯ve got this one.¡±


    Turning her attention back to the air above, She saw that Ngarkh was grappling with the other durgon, tumbling through space and only barely managing to stay aloft. The durgon broke away and dove straight down towards its companion creature, fangs bared. Ellenbrin fired off another arrow, hitting it inside its mouth, and it spread its wings and pivoted, soaring back up and away until it hit the side of the cavern. Its claws dug into the wall and it roared at them, then scurried towards one of the side tunnels.


    ¡°Need a lift!¡± she shouted, running towards that side of the cavern. Ngarkh swooped down and grabbed her with their feet, then lifted them both up into the air. Ellenbrin¡¯s stomach dropped away for a moment, then she refocused as the air rushed past her ears.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to get tight in there,¡± Ngarkh warned, flying them towards the tunnel entrance. The koth¡¯s claws dug into Ellenbrin¡¯s sides but it was a manoeuvre they¡¯d practised many times, the hold leaving her arms free and clear. She could hear the durgon scrabbling through the tunnel up ahead and there were a light cloud of disturbed dust filling the air. They turned a corner, Ellenbrin having to draw her knees up to her chest to avoid catching the wall, and the creature came into view, scuttling away as fast as it could. Ellenbrin squinted into the darkness; none of the humans would be able to see in this gloom, so it was a good job she was the one being carried by Ngarkh. She pulled an arrow and fired it, only to see it bounce off the animal¡¯s armoured scales.


    ¡°Could do with a bit of heat,¡± she said, pulling another arrow and holding it above her. Ngarkh took it and a burst of flame illuminated the tunnel. They handed it back, the tip and half the shaft now on fire. The flame licked over Ellenbrin¡¯s gloved hand as she aimed and released, the fire arrow catching the durgon on one of its rear legs. Ngarkh¡¯s fire had the natural koth plasma, meaning it lingered and spread fast, in this case engulfing the delicate membrane between the durgon¡¯s leg and body. There was a roar from the creature, and then the tunnel abruptly disappeared and they were back in the main cavern; they must have looped around.


    The durgon was falling, end over end, spiralling oddly. They pursued it, Ngarkh¡¯s descent far more graceful. Colliding into the stone floor of the cavern, the durgon scrabbled for purchase but not before Seline was on top of it. She lifted one of her long pikes and drove it through the creature¡¯s skull. It writhed for a few seconds, then was still. There was a screeching from the other half, abruptly halted when Halbad severed its head with his sword, the blade¡¯s impact enhanced with a gravity pull from Erik.


    The cavern returned to quiet, interrupted only by the distant dripping of water. There was an underground river somewhere, just on the edge of Ellenbrin¡¯s hearing. Ngarkh lowered her gently to the ground and released her. Her back was sore from being carried, but she¡¯d avoided being scratched by the durgon. Ngarkh winced and stumbled, holding their side with one hand.


    ¡°Oh, shit,¡± Ellenbrin said, ¡°did it get you?¡±


    Taking his hand away, Ngarkh revealed a sliced wound from the durgon¡¯s claws. It had pierced all the way through the koth¡¯s scaly hide. ¡°Got me good. Hope that potion of yours does what you said, Erik.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll stop you having any of the nasty side effects,¡± Erik said, coming closer and examining the wound. ¡°That looks painful.¡±


    ¡°It feels painful,¡± the koth growled.


    Seline fixed her weapons to the sheaths and brackets on her back, then put her hands gently on Ngarkh¡¯s body. ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± she said, as she whispered a spell and breathed slowly, deliberately. The angry red of the wound subsided and the skin knotted together, though it still looked raw. ¡°That¡¯ll hold together as long as you don¡¯t try and fight anything, but we¡¯ll need to get you to a proper healer in Bruglia.¡±


    Ngarkh smiled and ruffled her hair. ¡°You are a proper healer,¡± they said, with a crooked smile.


    ¡°Right, let¡¯s wrap this up,¡± Halbad said. ¡°Get the trophies, gather your bits, and let¡¯s head back to town. I want to get paid, get laid, and then tomorrow I¡¯ll find us another job.¡±

 The creature: part 4

    Night shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland and DC Marion Hobb


    London.


    1973. February.


    Lola Styles was off duty. It was nearly midnight but sleep was remaining resolutely out of reach. The skeletons of alien creatures played through her mind, mixed with the terrified cries of the boy in the park, and the dead man on Wong¡¯s autopsy table. She hadn¡¯t been there but her imagination was running rife; the same skill which normally served her so well in her chosen profession, which helped her to see things from different points of view, was now keeping her awake. She felt like she¡¯d had too many late coffees, but knew she¡¯d not had any since the morning.


    She lay alone in her bed, duvet tucked around her, with the palpable sense that it was going to get worse. The curator at the museum had been alarmed, even muttering about evacuating the building given the proximity of the park attack. She¡¯d had the controlled, quiet anxiety of an informed person knowing exactly how bad the situation could get.


    The kengto was an animal that went through multiple stages of metamorphosis - like a caterpillar into a butterfly, except kengtos were larger and meaner. Just as a pretty butterfly bore little obvious resemblance to a wriggling caterpillar, at least to the untrained eye, a kengto¡¯s various forms were similarly divergent. Lola had borrowed a book from the museum containing pictures and some academic text on the kengto¡¯s developmental cycle and it made for grim reading. That there was one loose in London made her shiver and pull the duvet tighter: every slight rattle of wind against the window pane of her bedroom made her freeze and hold her breath in anticipation of the creature¡¯s face at the glass.


    Not even realising it, Lola began to drift off into a troubled sleep - only to be awoken by the telephone ringing. Groggy, waking from a slumber she hadn¡¯t thought possible, she pulled herself out of bad and padded across the room, feeling the cold on her bare legs and arms. She fumbled for the handset and lifted it to her ear. ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Lola? This is DS Collins. Just got word that the Palinor cohort have arrived at the portal station.¡±


    Screwing up her face, she let out a grunt. ¡°In the middle of the night?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask me,¡± Collins said down the line. ¡°I tried calling Clarke but he didn¡¯t answer.¡±


    ¡°We were expecting them in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Well, they¡¯re here now.¡±


    Lola tried to gather her thoughts, still bleary-eyed. ¡°Is anyone there to meet them?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s the thing,¡± Collins said, ¡°the only people on call were Holland and Hobb.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Lola said. She paused, then sucked in air between her teeth. ¡°Oh.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    DC Frank Holland didn¡¯t appreciate playing babysitter to a bunch of VIPs from Palinor. That absolutely, positively was not his job, and he¡¯d said as much to Hobb.


    ¡°You¡¯d think they¡¯d have ambassadors or other flunkies to do this,¡± she said, as they walked through the portal station entrance. ¡°It¡¯s not even our case.¡±


    ¡°Everything Clarke touches goes to shit,¡± Holland said. It was true: first he got his partner killed, then he brought down the entire bureaucratic might of the Joint Council on the department with that human trafficking nest he kicked, then there was the bizarre diplomatic thing at the start of the year, with Clarke, Chakraborty and Kaminski all disappearing to Max-Earth for a few days. The explanation for that one didn¡¯t track in the slightest, but DI Bakker had told him to leave it. Walpole didn¡¯t seem too bothered either.


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    ¡°We¡¯re the stooges,¡± Hobb said. ¡°Me and you especially, but the whole squad. We get lumped with all the weird shit. The SDC is a dumping ground.¡±


    He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. ¡°Then why don¡¯t you move out and go work somewhere else, partner?¡± She wasn¡¯t wrong, but Holland was also fiercely proud of the SDC¡¯s track record, his contribution to it and that he¡¯d been hand-picked to be part of it from the start. Hobb was a depressing fatalist, which he mostly found amusing as long as she didn¡¯t start pulling him down into her pit.


    ¡°Give me time,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m asking around.¡±


    That was a surprise. Normally she¡¯d be all talk and no action. ¡°You¡¯ve put in a transfer request?¡±


    She smiled coolly. ¡°Who said it was just one?¡± Pointing at an overhead television, she increased her pace. ¡°Come on, they¡¯ll be through before we get there if we don¡¯t hurry up.¡±


    ¡°You know anything about them?¡± They were there to greet and brief a team of hunters from Palinor, which was as absurd a job as it sounded. He¡¯d read the file and understood that they had a critter problem, but there were equally if not more qualified people on Earth - probably right there in London, but definitely out in the empire. Calling in outside help so quickly felt like admitting defeat. It¡¯s not how he¡¯d have done it.


    The portal station was quiet, which made sense given it was the middle of the night. That¡¯s what made it all the more evident that there was a commotion near the Palinor portal gate, before it even came into view. Holland and Hobb broke into a fast walk, not wanting to show up out of breath, heading towards the shouting.


    Station security and customs staff were standing in a line in front of the new arrivals from Palinor. Holland put a hand gently on one of the security guard¡¯s shoulders, who jerked around defensively. ¡°Easy, chief,¡± Holland said, grinning disarmingly. ¡°Detective Holland, this is Detective Hobb. We¡¯re here to assist, and it looks like we got here just in time.¡± He glanced at the five arrivals, immediately clocking the koth towering above them all and the skinny aen¡¯fa. ¡°What exactly is the problem?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re insisting on bringing their weapons,¡± the security guard said, face flushed red.


    The largest human roared disapprovingly. ¡°How do you expect us to hunt without our hunting weapons?¡± he bellowed.


    Holland moved past the security line and closer to the hunters. Three humans with the koth and the aen¡¯fa, although two of the humans were huge and looked like they could crush him with their bare hands. ¡°Hi, I¡¯m Detective Holland,¡± he repeated, ¡°we were supposed to meet you here but looks like you beat us to it.¡±


    The big man looked him up and down. He must have been pushing seven feet tall. ¡°You¡¯re the one that called us in?¡±


    Holland nodded. ¡°My department, yes. I¡¯m Specialist Dimensional Command, we handle portal-related criminal activity.¡±


    There was immediate laughter from the hunters. The koth¡¯s laugh was rasping and grated on Holland¡¯s ears. ¡°You hear that, boss? Maybe the kengto¡¯s been caught stealing.¡±


    ¡°What exact crime is it we¡¯re dealing with, detective?¡± The big man smiled meanly.


    ¡°Getting me out of bed in the middle of the night,¡± Holland said, holding his gaze and smiling just enough to make the bigger man a little unsure. ¡°Listen, I have no problem with you bringing weapons in if they¡¯ve been cleared your end.¡±


    The normal-sized human approached. He appeared to be wearing a dress of sorts. ¡°Here¡¯s the paperwork,¡± he said, offering a folder. ¡°Clearly somebody on the other side didn¡¯t talk to somebody on this side. It¡¯s taken days to secure inter-dimensional passports and working visas.¡±


    Holland made a show of scanning the papers, then handed them off to the security officer. ¡°This look in order? It should have been cleared ahead of time, looks like the memo didn¡¯t make it to you.¡±


    Hobb had approached and was moving around the hunters to examine the boxes containing their equipment. ¡°What have you got back here?¡±


    ¡°Everything we might need to kill a kengto,¡± the big man said, grinning. ¡°I¡¯m Halbad,¡± he said, ¡°I run this crew.¡± He held out his hand.


    ¡°Marion Hobb,¡± she said, shaking it. ¡°Detective Constable, I work with DC Holland here.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure to meet you,¡± Halbad said. Holland thought he caught him actually bowing slightly. ¡°After a long journey I always feel parched. Anywhere round here we can sample the local ale at this time of night?¡±


    The aen¡¯fa sniffed. ¡°A long journey? We just walked from one side of the portal to the other.¡±


    ¡°Though it may not be many steps,¡± Halbad said, ¡°we have travelled to a new world. This is farther than any of us have ever been.¡±


    ¡°Still didn¡¯t take long,¡± the aen¡¯fa snarked. She clearly wasn¡¯t afraid of the big human.


    ¡°I know a place,¡± Holland said. ¡°We can fill you in on the way.¡±

 The creature: part 5

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. February.


    The office was unexpectedly quiet. Lola still had one hand on the door, wondering for a moment if she¡¯d gone to the wrong floor. But no, it was the SDC office, complete with the usual desks and cabinets and pin boards. There was Robin, already on the telephone. Through the window blinds she could see that the partitioned rooms were empty, so none of the bosses were in yet. It was early, to be fair, but it¡¯s not like she had anywhere better to be. The other door leading to the kitchen banged open and DS Collins walked in backwards, carrying two cups of coffee.


    ¡°Ah, Styles,¡± he said, ¡°glad you¡¯re here. Have you heard from Holland or Hobb?¡±


    She blinked, feeling a sudden knot of tension in her gut. ¡°I just got here. Why would I have heard from them? Aren¡¯t they here already with our guests?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing,¡± Collins said, speaking slowly, as if he were reluctant to tell her the bad news. ¡°They picked up the VIPs from the portal station last night, but we¡¯re not sure where they went after that.¡±


    Robin looked up and put a hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. ¡°Morning Lola, how are you? Quick update from down the road, no big surprises: they¡¯re in the pub.¡±


    Collins rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger and let out a deflated whimper. Robin shrugged her shoulders apologetically and turned her attention back to the phone.


    In the pub. Holland and Hobb had a simple job, which was to get the hunters into their pre-booked accommodation and make sure they showed up on time to the office for their full briefing. It was a disaster before it had even got started.


    *


    She met Clarke coming the other way down the street. The White Horse was near to the SDC offices and Robin, being Robin, had put in a call to the establishment on the off chance that the landlord might know something. Turned out the landlord knew a lot, and it was still happening. Robin had noted that there was ¡®a lot of shouting¡¯ in the background on the call.


    Barely even stepping foot into the office, Lola had turned on her heel and raced back down the stairs to the street. Clarke had been on his way in.


    ¡°Where you going in such a hurry?¡± he said, looking slightly dishevelled as he tended to in his pre-coffee state of being.


    ¡°The Palinor hunters arrived early, as in, in the middle of the night early,¡± she explained, grabbing him by the shoulder and pivoting him around to follow her. ¡°The welcome wagon went by the name of Holland and Hobb and it wheeled them straight into the boozer.


    Clarke laughed involuntarily, then looked more concerned as he considered what she¡¯d said. ¡°Not the two I¡¯d have picked to greet our guests, but here we are.¡± He realised where she was leading him. ¡°Hold on, are they still in the pub?¡±


    She flung her arms wide in exasperation. ¡°Apparently so! Not exactly the professional introduction I¡¯d have gone for.¡±


    ¡°Jesus,¡± he grumbled, cracking his neck from one side to the other. ¡°Right, let¡¯s go get them out of there so we can get out with hunting this critter.¡± He frowned. ¡°I didn¡¯t think The White Horse opened this early in the morning.¡±


    Slinging him a withering look, Lola grimaced. ¡°I get the feeling it never shut.¡±


    Clarke pushed open the door to the pub and led the way inside. It was dark, stank of stale beer and sweat, and the sounds of singing came from one of the recessed areas. The bartender was leaning on the wooden bar top, chin propped up on one hand and looking half asleep.


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    ¡°Morning, Paul,¡± Clarke said, voice deliberately over-cheerful.


    ¡°Oh,¡± the man said, his expression hanging so loosely about his face that it seemed as if it might slip off and fall onto the damp beer mats, ¡°thank you, detective, thank you. Please. I need to sleep.¡± He sounded drunk, which wasn¡¯t like him.


    Lola peered into the gloom of the pub. There were a handful of familiar regulars, mostly collapsed and asleep, with the singing coming from around the other side of the bar. She tiptoed around and discovered quite the scene: tables pulled together, two huge warriors - clearly, warriors - standing atop and bellowing out a folk tune at the tops of their voices. Holland was fast asleep on one of the long benches, with Hobb nowhere to be seen. Right at the back was the black shape of a koth, wings folded back but still an unmistakeable silhouette. There was a man in a long robe sat at a chair, tapping a staff on the stone floor of the pub in time with the singing. In front of the table was a girl, small, slender, with pointed ears, who was dancing in a beautifully agile fashion. The combination of her dancing with the others¡¯ singing was powerfully emotive and Lola was for a moment utterly transfixed, until they abruptly stopped and turned to look at her.


    There was an awkward silence, and then the large man on the table clapped his hands, startling Holland who almost woke up but then drifted back into unconsciousness. ¡°A new arrival!¡± shouted the man, leaping down and landing with surprising grace. ¡°Greetings, welcome to our humble tavern. I am Halbad Gabreith, and these are the Six Blades. We hunt monsters for coin, if you have enough of either.¡±


    Straightening her back and attempting to look taller, Lola nodded. ¡°I¡¯m Detective Constable Lola Styles, of the Specialist Dimensional Command.¡± She glanced towards Holland. ¡°I see you¡¯ve already met my colleague.¡±


    Halbad guffawed. ¡°Frank Holland! A legend among your kind! A right son of a bitch, to be sure, but he can hold his liquor.¡± He glanced over at the sleeping man. ¡°At least, for a while.¡± He looked at his companions. ¡°Well, go on, then! Introduce yourselves, you lazy brutes!¡±


    The tall, muscular woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Halbad, squatted down on her haunches and waved. ¡°Seline,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m his sister. He got the looks, I got the muscle.¡± That prompted a snort of derision from Halbad.


    ¡°Erik Vineroot,¡± the man in the robe said, his voice quiet and considered. ¡°Pleased to make your acquaintance.¡±


    The dancer approached, her movements precise and deliberate like those of a gymnast. ¡°Hello, Lola,¡± she said, her voice carrying the distinctive aen¡¯fa lilt. Lola felt her knees quiver slightly and hoped she wasn¡¯t blushing. ¡°I am Ellenbrin.¡± She stepped forward, took Lola¡¯s hand and kissed the back of it. ¡°I¡¯m looking forward to working together.¡± She smiled, which made the tips of her ears move. ¡°A kengto is not something you want to mess with. It was good idea to bring in professionals.¡±


    Lola tried to think of something memorable to say, but instead nodded and squeaked a non-committal syllable. Immediate regret.


    ¡°That¡¯s what we were told,¡± Clarke said, having approached to stand next to Lola. The experts here told us not to go anywhere near this thing.¡±


    ¡°Even for us it isn¡¯t an easy target,¡± Halbad said. ¡°You must be Clarke. Frank mentioned you. You put in the call to get us here, is that right?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m leading on the case. We thought it might be homicide initially, until we realised we¡¯re dealing with an animal.¡±


    There was a snarled laugh from the back, like chains rattling in the deep. The shape that was the koth moved, the pub¡¯s firelight glinting off its scales. ¡°It¡¯s not an animal,¡± they said, ¡°it¡¯s a monster. Important distinction.¡±


    Lola looked at Clarke out of the corner of her eye. He¡¯d stiffened and taken an involuntary step back at the movement of the koth. She¡¯d thought that might happen.


    ¡°I¡¯ve not introduced myself,¡± the koth said. ¡°The name¡¯s Ngarkh. Don¡¯t worry if you can¡¯t say it properly. You haven¡¯t got the right jaw shape.¡±


    Clarke nodded, and Lola wondered if it was more to encourage himself than anything else. ¡°Thanks for coming. I know you¡¯ve had a heavy night, but are you going to be ready to get started today?¡±


    Halbad extended a hand, shook Clarke¡¯s. ¡°Heavy night?¡± He looked confused. ¡°That wasn¡¯t a heavy night.¡± Pointing a finger in the direction of Holland¡¯s horizontal form, he snorted. ¡°Maybe for him it was. Not for us.¡±


    ¡°One question,¡± Clarke said, ¡°why are you the Six Blades? There¡¯s five of you.¡±


    Halbad stared at him in stony silence. He looked over his shoulder at his sister. ¡°Never ask that question,¡± she said.


    The aen¡¯fa, Ellenbrin was pacing the room and, before Clarke could say anything more, she spoke. ¡°How many bodies so far?¡±


    ¡°Two that we know of,¡± Lola said.


    ¡°Fewer than I¡¯d expect,¡± Ellenbrin said, putting her hands on her hips. She seemed incapable of striking a pose that didn¡¯t somehow look heroic. ¡°Hopefully that means we¡¯ve caught it in time.¡±


    Clarke raised his eyebrows. ¡°In time for what?¡±


    ¡°Before it gets too big for even us to handle.¡±

 The creature: part 6

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke and DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. February.


    Clarke leaned in close to Styles and spoke quietly. ¡°How is it none of them have hangovers? Did you see how many empty bottles and glasses there were? Is it a Palinor thing?¡± They were escorting the hunters from the pub back to the SDC offices, which was ordinarily a short, uneventful walk. Their present company was drawing more than a few startled glances.


    She looked at him like he was an idiot, or senile. ¡°Is what a Palinor thing? A lack of hangovers?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°I thought perhaps there might be different metabolisms or something,¡± he said, and it sounded stupid even to him. ¡°Like the way their magic doesn¡¯t work here. Thought you might know.¡± Glancing back, he saw the koth, Ngarkh, move suddenly towards an old woman walking away from a grocery shop. Clarke¡¯s pulse quickened and his muscles tensed as he began to try to intercept. Then he realised that the koth was picking something up off the ground: a handbag. They called out and the woman turned, at first alarmed and then relieved. She smiled, grateful, and looked almost charmed as the koth gently handed her the bag.


    Clarke ground his teeth against each other. For the first time in a while, he wished Callihan was there. That it was the first time in a while bothered him, made him feel a tug of guilt.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know everything about Palinor,¡± Styles said wearily. ¡°And the magic thing is connected to the way the portals suck energy away. Like how Max-Earth batteries just die almost instantly. I don¡¯t think whatever causes that extends to too much booze.¡±


    ¡°One,¡± Clarke said, raising a finger. ¡°I see your point. And two, you know more about Palinor than any of the rest of us.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well that¡¯s on you.¡± She made an exasperated sound in her throat. ¡°Come on, we need to get this lot across the road before they¡¯re taken out by a tram.¡±


    *


    The SDC office seemed oddly too small to accommodate the five members of the Six Blades. Robin was used to the detectives at their desks, coming and going over their various shifts. She generally only worked during daytime office hours but it was enough to see how the team operated. Sometimes there would be the higher-ups, hidden away in the breakout rooms. Once she¡¯d even seen Commissioner Graves swing by, though that hadn¡¯t happened recently. Uniformed officers sometimes visited, usually to either deliver or pick up a suspect or witness.


    But a group of hunters from Palinor? That was something new.


    She tried her best not to stare at the leader of the group - or, more specifically, the contours of his arms. He was probably the tallest and burliest man she¡¯d ever seen. She suspected he could hold her entire weight quite comfortably in the palm of one hand. Halbad was his name. Robin wished she could take a more active part in the case and accompany them wherever they went next; at least, she did up until the moment that the aen¡¯fa girl started describing what they were up against.


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    ¡°There are eight stages to a kengto¡¯s development cycle,¡± Ellenbrin said. ¡°From what you¡¯ve told us, it sounds like it¡¯s hit the second stage already. That¡¯s when it develops from a larvae - blind but still dangerous - into more of a lizard-like creature, about the size of a dog.¡±


    ¡°You have dogs on Palinor?¡± Clarke asked.


    She looked at him disdainfully. ¡°Of course we have dogs. The best time to trap a kengto is during one of those two stages.¡±


    Ngarkh, the koth, made a noise halfway between a snarl and a laugh. ¡°Get ¡¯em early and you can just pull ¡®¡¯em apart.¡± They were stood awkwardly, unable to fit into any of the office chairs and trying to avoid crushing a desk or leaving dents in the walls. ¡°As long as you mind the venom.¡± Ngarkh flexed their huge, taloned hands. ¡°Or have tough skin.¡±


    Ellenbrin nodded. ¡°At those early stages the creature secretes venom directly from its skin as a natural defence. Touching it unprotected is a bad idea, especially if you¡¯re human. Its later forms don¡¯t have the same skin secretions but can still inject from a bite or scratch.¡±


    Lola was perched on the corner of her desk. ¡°How many forms does it have? We saw some skeletons at the museum but it was hard to tell what we were looking at.¡±


    ¡°Next it goes up to the size of a pony, then a large horse. Each time it has to shed its skin as the new skeleton forms underneath. It¡¯s a stressful process for it and takes time. Usually a kengto would need to be a month, maybe two months old to hit stage four.¡±


    ¡°Horse-sized should be easy to find, at least,¡± Clarke said.


    ¡°That you haven¡¯t had a sighting or an attack is what worries me,¡± Ellenbrin said. ¡°I would have expected it to surface by now. The only reason it would have gone to ground is if it was incubating for a new stage. But according to the timeline you¡¯ve given us, that would be too soon.¡± She trailed off, staring into space.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got word out across the city,¡± Clarke said, ¡°if it shows up, we¡¯ll know about it pretty fast. Right, Robin?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m on the phones, boss,¡± she said, mock saluting. It was good to feel part of the team.


    Lola raised her hand. ¡°Anything else we need to worry about? Any other development stages?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah,¡± Ngarkh said with a grin. ¡°But you don¡¯t want to see those. That¡¯s when it gets real big, and its middle legs start pivoting into position.¡± Robin had the feeling they were enjoying spooking the room.


    ¡°Into position for what?¡±


    ¡°Wings,¡± Halbad said, speaking before Ngarkh could continue. ¡°If this thing gets airborne, then our job gets a lot harder.¡±


    ¡°That requires a fully developed kengto, so shouldn¡¯t be an issue here,¡± Ellenbrin said, though her expression betrayed some worry.


    ¡°Something else to know,¡± Halbad said, looking at each of them in turn. ¡°We¡¯re professionals. You¡¯ve hired the right people. But we¡¯re also handicapped when we¡¯re here, on Mid-Earth. Our magic doesn¡¯t work here. We¡¯ll need to adapt our techniques. We¡¯ll get the job done, but anything you can bring to the table would be welcomed.¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± Clarke said, nodding. ¡°We¡¯ve sent out a briefing to the wider police force in the city. We can call people in as needed.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope we¡¯ve got here in time,¡± Seline said, polishing one of her pikes. ¡°Your city guards aren¡¯t going to be enough if that thing grows much more. You should have the army on standby.¡±


    Clarke laughed, briefly, abruptly. ¡°I don¡¯t have that kind of authority,¡± he said, ¡°so let¡¯s not get too carried away.¡±


    ¡°Your funeral,¡± she said quietly. ¡°Depends how much you like this city of yours.¡±


    Then the telephone rang.


    *


    Moira Blakemore crouched behind her desk in one of the many storage room beneath the British & Empire Museum, the telephone handset pressed to her ear. Her hands were shaking, her teeth chattering, an acute fear running through her gut.


    ¡°Detective Clarke gave me this number,¡± she whispered. ¡°The kengto is here. It¡¯s here, in the museum. It¡¯s inside. Please help.¡±


    There was a clattering as items were knocked from shelves, and the sound of something heavy shattering on the floor. Ordinarily the idea of anything precious breaking in the vaults of the museum would be enough to send her into a panic, but it was the last of her concerns today.


    The padding of feet drew nearer.

 The creature: part 7

    London.


    1973. February.


    The British & Empire Museum was a place for quiet contemplation, away from the noise and the bustle and the fumes of the city. Inside its colonnaded entrance were broad, tall corridors displaying the cultural heritage of countless civilisations across the triverse, each room a clean, freshly painted white with marble plinths and polished display cases.


    Henry enjoyed bringing the family. He and his wife, Sarah, had always enjoyed touring museums and galleries; it was how they had met, after all, suddenly noticing each other standing before the same painting. The children were trickier, of course, always rushing through at top speed and resistant to the idea of taking one¡¯s time and reading the curated descriptions. That said, they were older now, at seven and nine, and displayed more patience than they had even the previous year. Paul, the elder, had started to take a real interest in history, though Ellie still had a way to go. Henry had to remind himself that he had never been into this sort of thing when he was a child.


    Still, lay the foundations and all that.


    It was a busy day at the museum, visitors all shielding themselves from the cold February air by taking a walk through the exhibits. Henry had taken the kids from the Ancient Greece exhibit into the Palinor wing of the building, while Sarah stayed behind to continue savouring the remarkable sculptures from Athens. The Palionr wing was an astonishing collection of artefacts from many of Palinor¡¯s city states, mountain tribes and aen¡¯fa nomads, most gather during the early days of the Joining, before Palinor started restricting what could be taken through the portals. There had been something of a gold rush in those early decades after the portals opened, with some families becoming very rich indeed. The museum was also home to a range of Palinese fauna, mega and not-so-mega. It always struck Henry as odd that the place had some of the same animals - dogs, cats, horses - while also having the sort of beasts that would otherwise be confined to fiction.


    There was a distant sound of items falling, or crashing together. Perhaps shelves tipping and depositing their items onto the floor. It was muffled, seemingly from elsewhere in the museum.


    ¡°Did you hear that, dad?¡± asked Paul.


    ¡°Sounds like someone is going to be in a lot of trouble,¡± he said, ruffling the boy¡¯s hair and smiling. ¡°Make sure you don¡¯t knock anything over.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they can glue it back together,¡± said Ellie, taking his hand.


    The double doors at the end of the gallery, painted to look like they were part of the wall, didn¡¯t so much open as shatter. The doors themselves flew off their hinges, crumpling like paper, while the solid frame cracked and bent, plaster crumbling to the floor. The debris flew into the room, toppling exhibits, smashing glass displays and shredding paintings. Hundreds of years of Palinese history disappeared in a cloud of dust.


    Henry froze, feet entirely rooted for a second, brain unable to process what had happened. Paul and Ellie shrieked and clutched at him, which jump-started his mind. He checked them for injuries, though the explosion had been at the far end of the room from where they stood. It was only then that he recognised bodies lying on the floor, some moving, some not. He spun the kids around to look at him, rather than the chaos. ¡°We need to go and find mummy,¡± he said. ¡°Hold my hands, both of you.¡±


    There was another thundering crack and more of the wall collapsed. Through the haze of dust and disintegrated plaster he saw a shape: huge, solid, unfamiliar. Bigger and broader and taller than a horse.


    ¡°OK, let¡¯s go,¡± he said, his voice emerging higher pitched than he¡¯d anticipated. There was a deep, primal fear welling up inside that he would have to try to hide from the children. Making his grip firmer, he pulled them away and towards the doors at their end of the gallery. Behind there were snarls, and screams, and crunching.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening, daddy?¡± asked Ellie.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, just keep moving,¡± he said, ¡°keep looking ahead, watch where you¡¯re going.¡±


    There were other people now, on their feet, all heading towards the same doorway. It became a race of who could get there first, the door not being wide enough to accommodate all of them at the same time. Those without small children got their first, pushing through, and by the time Henry and the kids made it there was already a bottleneck: an oversized human cork trying to squeeze through too small a gap. Others piled into the back of them, everyone straining to get past the doorway.


    He glanced over his shoulder. The thing, the creature, was stalking through the room towards them, pausing occasionally to bend its enormous head and pick up a body. ¡°Oh fuck,¡± he said, renewing his efforts to get them through the door.


    ¡°Daddy!¡± protested Paul. He didn¡¯t like his parents using bad language.


    ¡°One at a time, come on,¡± Henry said, momentarily letting go of Paul and Ellie¡¯s hands in order to yank some of the panicking people back from the doorway, thus allowing some movement from those at the front. The pressure lessened, they all started moving forward. There was a spike of abject fear when for a moment he couldn¡¯t find Ellie¡¯s hand, then he had both of them again and they were shuffling closer, and then they were the through¡ª


    The beast crashed into the crowd behind them and the wall and floor shuddered. Henry and the children fell to the floor, feet taken from under them by the vibrations. Henry scrabbled backward, got to his knees, grabbed the kids again and wrenched them up. All three of them stared at the thing in the doorway, the claws of its front legs gripping the frame, its jaw soaked with a mixture of blood and something gelatinous. It had the snout of a komodo dragon, albeit much larger, but the gait of a mammal.


    Paul whimpered, a long, high pitched whine of terror. Henry picked up Ellie and swung her onto his back. ¡°Hold on tight, little girl,¡± he said, then held tight to Paul¡¯s hand and ran. The boy was fast, his legs having grown enough to move almost as fast as an adult. Henry had to be careful with Ellie on his back, but it was faster than having her try to keep up.


    Still, it wasn¡¯t fast enough. He could hear the creature behind them, the heavy thumping-clack of clawed feet on stone. Something bashed into him and he sprawled flat onto the hard floor of the museum. Paul went sliding further, and Ellie thumped down next to him. He flipped himself over just in time to see the creature¡¯s jaws close around his ankle.


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    He screamed as the teeth sunk in. ¡°Run!¡± he shouted at the kids. The beast walked backwards, dragging him by the foot, each movement feeling like the scraping of a thousands injections into his leg.


    It released him and he scrabbled at the smooth floor, trying to get himself away, but knowing that it was hopeless. He couldn¡¯t see the kids, and hoped they were gone, that they¡¯d find their mother, that maybe one day they¡¯d forget this, or at least be able to move beyond it.


    The creature raised a clawed foreleg above his head, the claws sharp.


    ¡°Nope,¡± came a voice from the side. It was a short, simple, incongruous utterance. Then a massive blade swung into Henry¡¯s view, its edge coming down on the creature¡¯s leg, cutting into its flesh. It recoiled, tearing itself free, black blood seeping from the wound, and skittered away from its attacker.


    Henry turned painfully and found himself staring at a huge man, the wielder of the sword, clad in some sort of armour. ¡°Erik, get him out of here,¡± the man growled. ¡°Ngarkh?¡±


    ¡°My pleasure,¡± came a deep, reverberating voice.


    Henry felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped, expecting something awful. ¡°Come with me if you want to not be eaten or die from a slow venom,¡± came a voice. It was a man, older, perhaps in his late sixties. He held out his hand and helped Henry stand.


    ¡°I can¡¯t walk,¡± Henry said, grimacing through the pain that arced up his leg.


    ¡°I can fix that,¡± the man said, ¡°but first we need to get out of here.¡±


    The creature had clearly got past the shock of the sudden bladed attack and was stalking its way back towards them, evidently more enraged than ever. Its tail lashed out and splintered a wooden totem.


    That was when Henry saw the owner of the deep, booming voice. It was a koth, enormous, its skin black and shiny like a beetle¡¯s, but scaled like a reptile. It stomped its way past, the impact of its feet shaking the floor, building momentum and intercepting the creature before it got any closer. It was like a train crash, two immovable objects hammering into each other.


    ¡°My name¡¯s Erik,¡± the older man said, putting Henry¡¯s arm around his shoulders.


    ¡°My children,¡± Henry said, the panicked fog clearing from his mind, ¡°a boy and a girl, are they¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re safe, they¡¯re already outside.¡±


    Henry half-hobbled, half-hopped away from the conflagration in the gallery, the sounds of immense destruction becoming no quieter even after they were out of the gallery.


    ¡°Who are you? What is that thing?¡± Henry found himself babbling questions, not caring especially for the answers, but talking somehow kept him focused, stopped his frayed nerves from breaking entirely.


    A young woman ran towards them, towards the creature. ¡°We¡¯ve taken everyone to the courtyard,¡± she shouted, pulling an arrow from a quiver on her back as she darted past. ¡°Regroup there.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where your children will be,¡± Erik said.


    ¡°Where¡¯s she going?¡±


    ¡°To fight.¡±


    Through the open doors to the gallery Henry saw the girl, who he only latterly realised had pointed ears, attach a rope of some sort to the arrow and fire it into the room. She pulled another instantly as she advanced, disappearing from view.


    Outside, the courtyard in the centre of the museum was full of shocked and whimpering people, some sat on the ground or on the few benches, others wandering about aimlessly. There was no destruction here, Henry feeling for a moment like he was in a fever dream, that none of it was real - at least until his next step brought weight down on his mangled ankle.


    Paul and Ellie ran to him, grabbing at him, speaking relieved nonsense, and then he saw Sarah, who must have already been reunited with the kids. She touched his face, then crouched beside him and examined his wound. ¡°What happened?¡±


    Erik knelt and rummaged in he bag that was slung around his shoulder. ¡°He was bitten,¡± he said, as if it were normal. ¡°I need to extract the poison and administer a counter agent.¡± He pulled a syringe from his bag. ¡°Hold him,¡± he said to Sarah. Confused, she braced the leg. Erik pushed the syringe into the wound, without warning.


    For a second Henry lost consciousness, his vision blurring, then he snapped back and screamed. Ellie and Paul clutched at his arms, trying to comfort him and themselves. ¡°Stop hurting daddy!¡± shouted Ellie.


    ¡°Calm yourself, little one,¡± Erik said, ¡°I am saving his life.¡± Satisfied, he withdrew the syringe, which contained a viscous, yellow liquid that Henry was fairly sure shouldn¡¯t have been inside his body. Erik pulled a bottle and cloth from his bag, poured a few drops from the bottle onto the cloth and pressed it to the wound. ¡°Hold this in place for at least half an hour,¡± he said to Sarah. ¡°With luck he¡¯ll be completely fine, other than a limp. At worst, he¡¯ll lose the leg below the knee. But he¡¯ll live.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Henry gasped, still reeling from the pain, although already feeling a numbing in the leg.


    ¡°Erik Vineroot,¡± the main said, straightening. ¡°One of the Six Blades. Well done, you were brave. Now I have a job to do.¡±


    He started back towards the gallery but before he could make it the wide window at the eastern side of the courtyard shattered and the koth and the creature tumbled out onto the cobbles. The koth fought ragefully, clawing and tearing at the creature, but for all their might the creature was still nearly twice its size. Arrow were embedded in the creature¡¯s hide, ropes dangling uselessly. From the hole in the window the archer leapt out, landing nimbly, followed shortly afterwards by the large man with his giant sword and another woman - also toweringly tall - that Henry hadn¡¯t noticed before. They tried to surround the creature, which lashed and thrashed and refused to be kept in one place.


    Everyone in the courtyard scattered, trying to get to the far side and as far away as possible from the fight. The big woman with the two pikes managed to get one near the creature¡¯s neck and it screeched, snapping at the pole with its teeth. It succeeded in removing the weapon, then, apparently deciding that it was outnumbered, turned and ran to the wall of the courtyard, scampering up the vertical as if it were a cat jumping over a fence.


    The koth didn¡¯t miss a beat, its bat-like wings unfolding from its back and launching into the air in pursuit. It reached the roof of the museum just ahead of the creature and re-engaged, both of them tumbling along the tiles.


    Henry turned his attention back to his family. ¡°Are you all OK?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re fine,¡± Sarah said, trying for a smile, ¡°I was so worried about you all.¡±


    ¡°Those warriors are amazing,¡± Henry said. ¡°I¡¯d be dead without them.¡±


    There was a cracking sound from the roof and he looked back to see the koth falling, crunching down into the courtyard. The creature, clearly deciding that it had a chance to finish off its prey, leaped back down, drawing screams again from the crowd. The big man and woman, who looked oddly similar - maybe they were related? - leapt to the immobile koth¡¯s defence.


    Angry, the creature turned and looked for an easier target. Seeing the smaller aen¡¯fa with the bow, it charged. The aen¡¯fa didn¡¯t moved, instead pulling arrow after arrow and firing them: first into one of the creature¡¯s eyes, then directly into its open maw. It didn¡¯t slow down, too confused and angry to stop.


    Just before the beast reached the girl - who was tiny in comparison - another figure ran from the side, knocking the aen¡¯fa to the ground and out of the creature¡¯s path. A human woman, with what looked like a police badge hanging on a lanyard around her neck.


    Shots rang out, and for the first time he noticed there were police officers in the courtyard, London officers, armed. The bullets seemed to be irritating the creature rather than injuring it, but they made it think twice about its attack. It turned and again climbed back onto the roof, where it hissed at its attackers. It convulsed and writhed, and then appeared to tear out of its own skin, like a calf being born, and emerged somehow larger, and its middle legs - for it had six legs, Henry realised with a start - were now connected to its back with leathery wings. It ran awkwardly along the rooftop, wings flapping, like a child trying its first walk, and then it launched itself off the far side of the building and glided away, shortly disappearing from view.


    The big man shouted at one of the plain clothes officers. ¡°Now do you believe me when I say you should call in the army?¡±

 The creature: part 8

    Late shift


    On duty: All officers


    London.


    1973. February.


    Everybody was in, the SDC offices busier than they¡¯d been in years. DCS Walpole was stalking up and down the room, asking questions of everyone. DCI Miller was on the phone to the press, trying to give the impression that they knew what to do. All three DIs were in: Ford, Morgan and Bakker. Lola had barely met half of them, let alone seen them in the same place together. The three detective partnerships were all present, pulled in regardless of which shift they were supposed to be running: her and Clarke, Chakraborty and Kaminski, Holland and Hobb. Holland still looked like he¡¯d stumbled in from the pub and was holding a cup of coffee as if it were a vital medical accessory. Robin was talking into three telephones at the same time, while DS Collins and DS Shaw were at their desks talking into their own handsets.


    ¡°You each need a drop of this on your tongue,¡± Erik said, passing bottles around. ¡°Won¡¯t stop you having a leg bitten off, but it¡¯ll turn a scratch into just a scratch.¡±


    Ellenbrin was sat in a chair opposite the curator, Moira, from the museum. She¡¯d escaped the creature after it had opted to leave the vaults and find richer pickings in the galleries. They were deep in conversation. Lola felt a small swell of pride when she thought back to diving to Ellenbrin¡¯s rescue, knocking her out of the way of the charging kengto. They¡¯d exchanged glances and Ellenbrin had nodded thanks, but they¡¯d not spoken since.


    Halbad and Seline were tending to Ngarkh, who was sat on the floor in the corner of the office, a wet flannel pressed to their head.


    ¡°OK, listen up, everyone,¡± said DCS Walpole, his voice immediately cutting through the chatter of the busy room. ¡°The creature, this ¡®kengto¡¯, is being tracked by police units and king¡¯s guard. The city is in lockdown, effective thirty minutes ago. Public transport is halted, including the tube. Last thing we want is an encounter down there. Last report had it heading along the river, in the direction of Westminster. If it keeps going the way it¡¯ll hit parliament; if it veers off it¡¯ll be right on top of the portal station - either way it¡¯s not good.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan, guv?¡± asked Holland.


    ¡°We¡¯re the elite squad, ladies and gentlemen,¡± Walpole said, ¡°not least thanks to our friends from Palinor, without whom the situation at the museum would no doubt have been far worse. All of us in the SDC and the officers joining us today: our job is to get the Six Blades close enough for them to end this.¡±


    Kaminski raised a hand. ¡°I hear this thing can fly,¡± he said. ¡°How are we supposed to get near it, let alone kill it?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯ve been waiting for,¡± Walpole said, sounding not a little gleeful. ¡°If everyone could follow me to the roof, please.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    The building housing the SDC offices at the corner of Stamford and Coin was not designed for use as an airship dock. That made boarding the HMS George V a less that graceful affair, racing up the ramp as it scraped over the rooftop while the crew attempted to keep the ship in position.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen an airship this low over the city,¡± Kaminski said.


    ¡°Work here long enough and you¡¯ll see just about anything,¡± Clarke said, holding out a hand to help Kaminski and then Chakraborty board. It occurred to Clarke that having all of the SDC detectives on the one airship was a strange risk to take, even with Walpole and the DIs staying behind to monitor from afar.


    ¡°Trust me,¡± Kaminski said, looking around the interior of the ship, ¡°this year of all years, I believe you.¡±


    The man had a point. If 1972 had been the worst year, with Callihan¡¯s death, then 1973 was quickly campaigning to be the strangest. To think that it was only a year previously that the SDC had been taking part in the bicentennial celebrations of the Joining. Clarke had kept a low profile, other than when officially required to attend events, given that he¡¯d never regarded the opening of the portals to be a positive development for any of the three universes.


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    The crew of the HMS George V exhibited the kind of naval professionalism that immediately put Clarke at ease. He knew they were masters of what they were doing, which meant he could concentrate on his job. Though, in this case that had seemingly slipped into hunting monsters. He¡¯d not been trained for it, yet there he was, riding into battle aboard a military frigate with the rest of the SDC, a group of hunters from Palinor and an armed squad from the Met.


    To think that he¡¯d considered visiting Max-Earth to retrieve Kaminski to be a peculiar turn of events. There was a cascade at work, one strangeness leading into another before he¡¯d had time to process the first.


    ¡°They tell me your partner was killed by a koth,¡± came the deep, window-rattling voice of Ngarkh. Clarke realised with a start that he was standing next to the huge koth, who was leaning against one of the bulkheads. ¡°I was sorry too hear that,¡± they continued. ¡°I mean, I like smashing things up, but I¡¯m considered weird by my clan. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here, with these losers, rather than living the quiet life up in the mountains.¡± They leaned in closer, and Clarke could feel their hot breath on his face. ¡°My point, detective, is that you can trust me. You get good koth and bad koth, just like you get good humans and bad humans.¡±


    Clarke ground his teeth together, muscles in his jaw flexing. ¡°Thanks, but I didn¡¯t ask,¡± he said.


    ¡°No,¡± Ngarkh said with a slight smirk, ¡°but I could see you looking at me this whole time, since we met in that tavern, so I did ask. You ever look at the violent crime figures for koth in this city of yours? Bet it¡¯s lower than you think.¡±


    This was not a conversation Clarke had anticipated having. ¡°Doesn¡¯t change what happened to my partner.¡±


    ¡°It does not,¡± Ngarkh said, nodding slowly. ¡°My point is that even if we all look alike to your eyes, that doesn¡¯t make your stereotypes any more true.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re quite the philosopher,¡± Clarke said, trying to keep his face neutral. His hands were balled into fists. ¡°I thought you preferred punching things.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do,¡± the koth said with a grin, ¡°but thinking becomes useful when there¡¯s nothing nearby to punch. I find they complement each other.¡± They moved away from the wall, having to crouch slightly to keep from hitting their head on the ceiling. ¡°I¡¯ve got your back, detective. If that¡¯s all you take away from this conversation, then that¡¯s enough.¡±


    The deck shifted beneath their feet as the airship lifted away from the rooftop, its turbines thundering with the effort. A hand touched his shoulder and Clarke turned to see Styles. He was immediately grateful for the interruption. Her face displayed her usual excitement, though her eyes betrayed a nervousness. None of them were prepared for this.


    ¡°Captain wants us up on deck,¡± she said, pointing to stairs leading up. He followed her out onto the upper deck, which was exposed to the elements. He squinted against the strong, cold wind blowing across the deck. Clarke¡¯s coat was not designed to keep someone warm at altitude, he realised with some regret. The steel-armoured balloon hung in the air above them; or, rather, they hung below it. A naval frigate like this was designed to withstand bombardment from ground and air; unlike commercial and private airships, this one would not pop at the slightest provocation. Smoke and steam billowed from the vents on the side of the ship. London dropped away below, the sun dipping towards the horizon.


    The captain of the ship stood at the front. ¡°Welcome, all,¡± he shouted, his voice managing to carry despite the thrumming of the engines. ¡°We are on a course towards Westminster, where the creature is currently surrounded. It is being confined to a specific area by armed Metropolitan police with the support of a small army force who were stationed near Buckingham Palace. They only have small arms - enough to keep the creature at bay, but not to take it down. That¡¯s where we come in.¡±


    Clarke heard Seline, the big warrior from the Six Blades, muttering to Ngarkh. ¡°The creature¡¯s not being held there,¡± she said in a low voice, ¡°it¡¯s waiting for something. It¡¯d tear them apart if it wanted.¡±


    ¡°The heavy weaponry available to us on this vessel will tip the scales,¡± the captain continued, ¡°but in this instance we will be taking our lead from Mr Gabreith, a professional from Palinor.¡± The captain lifted a hand, gesturing for Halbad to join him. The monster hunter bounded up onto the raised metal platform next to twin gun turrets.


    ¡°Make no mistake,¡± Halbad said, his voice immediately louder and more commanding, ¡°this kengto is not to be messed with. It will fuck you up in an instant if you let it. This metal flying ship does not offer you protection. Your weapons do not offer you protection. Do not take it for granted or dismiss it as a dumb animal. Keep it pinned down with your big guns, but stay at a distance.¡± He paused, looking at the gather officers. ¡°The creature is developing faster than we expected. It seems to be thriving in your city¡¯s atmosphere and growing at rate we¡¯ve not encountered before. This is bad news. But if we catch it quickly we can still take it down.¡±


    The captain nodded. ¡°We¡¯ll be on the scene in less than ten minutes. Be ready.¡±


    Clarke took a deep breath. He had a feeling that not all of them would be getting out of this one. Glancing down at Styles, he made a promise to himself that he¡¯d make sure she was protected, no matter what else happened.


    ¡°Alright,¡± Ngarkh shouted, pounding a fist into the palm of his other hand. ¡°It¡¯s punching time.¡±

 The creature: part 9

    Late shift


    On duty: All officers


    London.


    1973. February.


    They stood on the deck of the HMS George V, all the detectives of the Specialist Dimensional Command, each gathered to lend their support to London¡¯s most urgent need: the hunting of an enraged kengto. The airship was staffed with navy officers, highly trained in aerial combat if not this specific enemy, backed up by the professional monster hunters who called themselves the Six Blades.


    DC Frank Holland was the first to say it out loud. ¡°What the fuck are we even doing here?¡±


    Kaminski held an unlit cigarette between his lips, the cold wind repeatedly extinguishing his lighter. ¡°Freezing our balls off,¡± he said, ¡°and about to get eaten. And apparently I can¡¯t even have a final smoke.¡±


    ¡°You haven¡¯t seen the Six Blades in action,¡± Styles said, grinning nervously. ¡°At the museum they very nearly had it. If it hadn¡¯t flown off.¡±


    Holland harrumphed. ¡°What¡¯s next? Breathing fire? Laser eyes?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re joking,¡± Kaminski murmured, finally managing to ignite the cigarette. He inhaled, feeling as if his life depended on it, as if it were powering him up for what was to come. He couldn¡¯t help but wish he were back on Max-Earth, in that fancy hotel. With Nisha.


    ¡°Miller wanted us all here,¡± Clarke said, hands in his pockets and looking miserable as ever. ¡°He thought it would look good in the press. SDC taking on London¡¯s terror. You know what he¡¯s like.¡±


    ¡°SDC wiped out by London¡¯s terror,¡± Kaminski said. He closed his eyes, took a breath. The cigarette was at least countering the foul smell of London¡¯s air; they were just high enough to be in the thick of the smog zone, where it hovered menacingly above the city. He¡¯d heard the captain say something about using it to disguise their approach, which seemed pretty tenuous to Kaminski.


    ¡°Makes me wish for a good, old fashioned murder,¡± Holland said.


    Chakraborty was stood on the other side of the deck, leaning on the rail to look down over the city, her her tied back tightly to stop it flapping wildly in the wind. She¡¯d been distant since they¡¯d got back from their jaunt to the future. Professional at work, more focused than usual if anything, but she¡¯d resisted any opportunities to link up outside of hours. No trips to the pub. She¡¯d been clocking out and catching the tube home, barely saying a word to him other than what was needed to run a case. He could still feel his fingers on her body, could still see every curve. It still felt so utterly right, even if it had ruined everything. That one night in the future, when she¡¯d come to his room and they¡¯d made love. That¡¯s what it had felt like to Kaminski: not just fucking, but something more, something truer. He¡¯d always wanted her, but hadn¡¯t thought to do anything about it. She was way outside his league and had never shown the slightest hint of being interested. Plus, she¡¯d been sleeping with Callihan.


    There were times now when he wondered if he¡¯d dreamt the whole thing. Whatever he¡¯d felt, she hadn¡¯t. She¡¯d been there for her own reasons.


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    ¡°Body armour.¡±


    Kaminski blinked out of his reverie. ¡°What?¡±


    It was Hobb, holding up a bulletproof vest. ¡°They had a stash of these below deck. Said we should all wear them.¡± She handed them out to each of them.


    Placing it over his head and tightening it at the waist, Kaminski smirked. ¡°This really going to stop a foot-long claw?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s got a better chance than your suit.¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°Point taken.¡±


    The day had rapidly descended into night, the sky to the west already dark. The city glowed the honey orange of sodium lamps, stretching out in all directions. A dark sliver of water snaked its way through the middle. The creature was down there, somewhere.


    *


    The five members of the Six Blades were hunkered down at the rear of the ship, sat on a pile of palettes and crates, the sailors giving them a wide berth. The ship¡¯s engines rumbled beneath their feet.


    ¡°Priority number one,¡± Halbad said, ¡°is to cripple its ability to fly. If we can keep it grounded, we¡¯ll have a good chance of finishing it off. Until then, it¡¯s on you, Ngarkh.¡±


    Ellenbrin nodded. ¡°I already took out one of its eyes,¡± she said, running a finger along one of her arrows. ¡°I mean, it¡¯s still got three others, but it¡¯s a start.¡±


    Halbad nodded. ¡°You and Ngarkh do your double-team thing. See how much damage you can do. Erik?¡±


    The old wizard sighed. ¡°I¡¯m not much use in a fight here, but I¡¯ve laced all your weapons with a toxin which will cause it some difficulty. Get an arrow in it or a good swipe and it¡¯s going to feel it. If we¡¯re lucky it might experience partial paralysis.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not rely too much on luck,¡± snorted Seline. ¡°This needs to be a fast job. Longer we wait, the greater the chances it gets bigger.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s definitely feeding off something here,¡± Ellenbrin said, ¡°something which is enhancing its ability to metamorphose.¡±


    Halbad sniffed disdainfully. ¡°Maybe it likes the air here.¡± He stood up. ¡°Let¡¯s get up on deck and ready. Sooner we finish the job, the sooner we get to go home.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    The beast did not wait to be hunted. When it struck, it struck hard, landing with immense force on the upper deck and swatting four sailors overboard to their doom. Clarke felt the entire airship shudder under its weight. The damned thing was near the size of an elephant, somehow even larger than it had been at the museum. A fear gripped him, as the creature thundered about the deck, playing with any humans that got in its way, like a cat playing with baby birds. It had three pairs of legs, more eyes than Clarke could count, a jaw hinged like a crocodile¡¯s and a body like a lion with scales. The long, serrated twin tails looked more like metal chins.


    Clarke recoiled with the rest of the SDC, moving as far and and fast from the creature as the deck would permit, which wasn¡¯t far. He pulled the gun from his holster. It felt heavy; he wasn¡¯t used to carrying a weapon and it didn¡¯t sit well in his hand. Taking aim, he fired. The bullet was never going to do the creature any serious injury but it did give it pause, distracting it from terrorising the airship¡¯s crew. That afforded them enough time to direct the deck guns inward, the cannons firing a point blank range into the animal¡¯s hide. Its skin was blackened and burned from the impact, smoke filling the air, but was not breached, the shells spiralling off into the night. Before the nearest cannon was able to be reloaded the kengto had jumped onto it and began to tear at its mounting, sparks flying as it wrenched it from the housing.


    The doors to the lower decks were flung open and the winged form of a koth bounded up, followed quickly by the other Six Blades.


    ¡°Round two!¡± shouted the koth, using its wings to spring forward, swinging up onto the kengto¡¯s back and grabbing its jaws. The creature tried to reach the koth with its claws but was unable to reach, scrabbling fruitlessly.


    Another cannon shot, again ricocheting off the creature¡¯s armour-like skin, but this time the shell impacted on the metal frame encasing the airship¡¯s balloon. The ship lurched as the curved metalwork peeled away, a hole clearly visible.


    They were going down.

 The creature: part 10

    Night shift


    On duty: All officers


    London.


    1973. February.


    The HMS George V spun slowly about its centre as it fell slowly through the darkening sky, inexorably dropping towards the ground. The lights of the city were splayed out below, its inhabitants unaware that a naval frigate was about to crash on top of it. Lola watched as the kengto wreaked havoc on one side of the ship, near the damage, the dual weight of the creature and the koth warrior sending tremors along the deck. The crew were frantically trying to assist the fight with the beast while also wrestling the airship back under their control.


    ¡°This is the captain,¡± came a voice over loudspeakers, somehow audible over the roars and crashes from where the kengto was tussling with Ngarkh. ¡°The ship is going down. We are maintaining a controlled descent and I intend to put her down in the Thames. All non-essential personnel should get to the life boats now. That is an order.¡±


    Having only ever been on one airship, Lola¡¯s first thought was to be surprised that it had life boats; her second was to wonder how they worked. The rest of the Six Blades had emerged and engaged the creature, though its flailing legs, tail and wings made it difficult for any of them to get close. Ngarkh remained on top, gripping on with their own sharp claws, the kengto bucking violently in continued efforts to dislodge the rider. It reminded Lola of films she¡¯d seen from the Americas.


    She remembered she held a gun. Having fired it a single time to no effect she¡¯d let it drop to her side - she wasn¡¯t even sure if she¡¯d hit the creature. Her weapons training was rudimentary at best; there simply wasn¡¯t a need for ballistic weapons in London. At least, in days when they weren¡¯t trying to hunt enraged megafauna.


    ¡°We should get to a life boat,¡± Clarke said, gripping her shoulder. ¡°All of us. Time to go.¡±


    ¡°We should never have been on board in the first place,¡± Holland muttered. He pointed to the opposite side of the deck from the kengto. ¡°There, look, they¡¯re getting the boats ready.¡±


    He was right. The life boats were comedically small scale versions of the HMS George V, with small open-air hulls slung beneath rigid metal frames that were being hastily assembled and the gas balloons inflated. Clarke pulled her along, leading the pack of SDC detectives away from the fight and towards safety.


    ¡°Go for the wing!¡± she head Ngarkh¡¯s voice boom. Turning to look, while still being directed by Clarke, she saw the koth finally get a firm hold of one of the creature¡¯s wings. Seizing the opportunity, Seline leaped forwards with one of her pikes and drove it into the thinner membrane of the wing, between the middle leg and the torso. The tip pierced the wing and went all the way through, Seline somehow keeping hold of it as the kengto writhed in anger and pain. For a human Seline was big and she used that bulk to fix herself in place, such that every movement of the creature tore the hole in its wing ever larger. Finally it spun and knocked her away with a blow from one of its legs. She stumbled backwards into her brother, who caught and steadied her. The kengto reared up and succeeded in dislodging Ngarkh, who tumbled to the deck. With a final indignant roar the kengto jumped from the side of the ship.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°It¡¯s getting away!¡± Lola shouted, pointing.


    ¡°Yeah, so are we,¡± Holland said, ¡°get in, Styles.¡±


    The others were already in the life boat. Clarke had one foot in, the other still on the deck, his arm outstretched to help her in. The kengto was gone, somewhere far below, surely unable to fly properly with its damaged wing. It would land in the city and continue to carve destruction and death. The evacuation hadn¡¯t been going on for long enough to have cleared all the streets.


    Ellenbrin raced along the deck, stowing her bow on her back. ¡°Ngarkh!¡± she shouted. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get after it!¡± The big koth grinned, turned its back to her and she hopped on, looking like a small child getting a piggy-back from an adult. They both disappeared over the side of the airship, in pursuit if their quarry. Lola¡¯s heart skipped a beat.


    Seline and Halbad had already regrouped with Erik and were commandeering one of the life boats. Halbad was gesturing at the naval officers to hasten.


    ¡°Styles!¡± She heard Clarke calling her name. ¡°Lola!¡±


    She looked down at him in the life boat. ¡°Sorry, partner,¡± she said, shrugging apologetically. ¡°I¡¯ll see you on the ground, I guess.¡±


    Before he could protest, she ran across the deck to the boat containing the monster hunters and hopped in. They looked up in surprise. ¡°This is no fight for a little girl,¡± Halbad grunted. ¡°You should get back to your people.¡±


    ¡°I want to help,¡± Lola said. ¡°I¡¯m coming with you.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡± Halbad gestured to their pilot. ¡°We good to go or what?¡±


    Seline cackled loudly. ¡°I think our cute detective¡¯s got the hots for Ellenbrin.¡±


    Lola felt her face flush red and hoped it wasn¡¯t obvious against the night sky.


    Halbad squinted and looked confused. ¡°What?¡±


    Then the pilot pulled a lever and the life boat detached from its parent and they floated away into the blackness.


    *


    ¡°Clarke, get in,¡± Holland shouted, ¡°we¡¯ve got to go.¡±


    He blinked against the cold air, ran through options in his head, then hopped into the life boat. He took the pilot by the arm. ¡°Can you follow the other life boat? The one that just dropped away?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    Holland flung his arms up in exasperation. ¡°What the fuck are you doing? We need to get to safety. They¡¯re going after that thing!¡±


    ¡°Get out if you don¡¯t like it, Frank,¡± Clarke said, not bothering to look at the other man. ¡°Anyone doesn¡¯t want to come, find yourself another boat.¡±


    For a moment Holland looked like he was going to argue the point, but instead he let out a frustrated cry and climbed out, followed by his partner. ¡°You¡¯re fucking crazy, Clarke,¡± he said, face full of vitriol. ¡°If you think you can make a difference against that monster you¡¯re deluded. All of you. It¡¯ll rip you to shreds.¡±


    Clarke turned to Chakraborty. ¡°You staying?¡±


    She smiled. ¡°Damn right I¡¯m staying. Let¡¯s go save the new girl.¡±


    ¡°Kaminski?¡±


    The man looked to Chakraborty, as if for confirmation. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from a pocket and lit it, looking like he hadn¡¯t slept for a week. He breathed deeply, in then out. ¡°Yeah, fuck it. Let¡¯s go.¡±

 The creature: part 11

    Night shift


    On duty: All officers


    London.


    1973. February.


    The cold night air whipped through Lola¡¯s hair, involuntary tears forming in the corners of her eyes as the life boat dropped in pursuit of the kengto. She gripped the rails, knuckles white, fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. There was no scenario in which she was going to vomit in the presence of the Six Blades.


    ¡°Whatever happens,¡± Ellenbrin said, ¡°stay back and stay behind us. Don¡¯t do anything stupid.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m the one that pushed you out of the way of the thing back at the museum,¡± Lola said. ¡°Just before it munched you.¡± She was still replaying that moment in her mind.


    Ellenbrin stared at her disapprovingly. ¡°Yes, you stopped me from firing my last shot, which is why we¡¯re in this situation now. Don¡¯t interfere.¡±


    Lola felt her confidence drip away, her shoulder slumping.


    Probably noticing her reaction, Ellenbrin grinned and slapped her on the shoulder. ¡°It was still brave, greenhorn. Don¡¯t take it personally. But we¡¯re professionals.¡±


    ¡°So am I,¡± Lola said, pointlessly, feeling and sounding pathetic. She regretted saying it immediately.


    ¡°Not at this, Lola,¡± Ellenbrin said.


    ¡°Coming up on target!¡± Halbad shouted. He grabbed the pilot. ¡°Can you bring us in fast? Circle around the towers?¡±


    The officer nodded and Lola felt the boat shift under her feet subtly. The twin towers of Westminster were becoming rapidly larger in her vision as they approached, the kengto clearly visible clinging to the side of one. The HMS George V was out of sight, either hidden in the cloud and smog layers or obscured by their own balloon.


    ¡°Alright, fellas,¡± Halbad said, apparently unconcerned about there being three women on board, ¡°Ngarkh and Ellenbrin, you do your tandem flying thing. Stay airborne as long as you can, especially if the kengto is grounded. Erik, enchant her arrows as best you can.¡±


    Erik shook his head. ¡°Can¡¯t enchant on this stupid planet.¡±


    ¡°Fuck it,¡± Halbad said, ¡°I still can¡¯t get my head around that, even though it¡¯s affecting me, too. OK, do what you can with your poisons. Throw everything you¡¯ve got at it, don¡¯t hold anything back for later.¡± He looked at his sister. ¡°Same goes for you and me. All in. It¡¯s wounded, it can¡¯t fly, it¡¯s half blind. Trophy¡¯s ours.¡±


    Seline grunted. ¡°Thing¡¯s still bigger than all of us put together.¡±


    Ngarkh beat his chest. ¡°Ain¡¯t as pretty, though, right?¡±


    Lola looked at each of them, five of the most remarkable people she¡¯d ever met. They were grander than anyone on Mid-Earth. Palinor brought out a grandeur and epic scale in its people, represented in each of the Six Blades. She still didn¡¯t know what had happened to the sixth member. Perhaps she¡¯d need to go to Palinor to find out. Hell, Clarke had managed to wangle his way to Max-Earth without even wanting to. There had to be a way.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± she said, ¡°so I may as well do something to help.¡±


    Halbad raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in her direction. ¡°What are you good at, then, detective?¡±


    Her brain scrabbled for something, anything. ¡°I¡¯ve been to the Westminster towers before,¡± she said. ¡°I know the layout, the interior.¡±


    ¡°That does sound useful,¡± Halbad said, smiling. ¡°What do we need to know?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re both bell towers. Huge arrays of bells just behind the clock faces. Inside the towers the floors are mostly walkways running around the inner walls, with stairs going all the way down to the ground. The top halves of the towers are essentially hollow, other than the machinery driving the clocks.¡±


    ¡°Bells,¡± Ellenbrin said. She ran a hand along the shaved side of her head. ¡°That could be useful.¡±


    Erik nodded. ¡°Kengtos don¡¯t like noise.¡±


    ¡°They do not.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a plan,¡± Halbad said, nudging his sister in the ribs. ¡°Detective, once you¡¯re off the boat take Erik and show him how the bells work. Get them ringing in both towers. I¡¯m guessing you¡¯ll need to take one each.¡±


    Crossing his arms, Erik harrumphed. ¡°I¡¯m just a bell ringer, now?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re more than welcome to go up against the kengto without your magic,¡± Halbad said, laughing, ¡°but I wouldn¡¯t recommend it. I promise you can have first kill when we get back to Palinor.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    Lola and Erik leapt from the boat and onto the bridge connecting the towers to each other. The towers and the bridge were neo-gothic constructions designed to one-up the single clock tower on Max-Earth; the Joining two hundred years prior had given Mid-Earthers many opportunities to learn from what would have otherwise been their future. It made Lola¡¯s head hurt.


    The wind circled around the towers as if caught in a vortex, making Lola very glad for the chest-high guard rail running the length of the bridge. The kengto was on the southern tower, near the spire, its claws raking the brickwork and shattering the glass clock face with each step. It was so far preoccupied with volleys of arrows shot by Ellenbrin, who was clutched to Ngarkh¡¯s back as they flew in spiralling arcs, keeping their distance. The kengto was now covered in long, thick spines like an unusually dangerous and large porcupine. She gasped as one of the spines ejected from the kengto¡¯s back, flying with speed towards the hunters. Ngarkh was too fast, weaving away from the projectile.


    ¡°The others will get the kengto into position,¡± Erik said. ¡°Our job is to get those bells ringing. It¡¯ll disorient it enough for us to take it down.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Lola led him towards the door into the southern tower, acutely aware of the kengto high above. The door was locked, of course. She took the pistol she¡¯d been issued with from its holster and aimed it at the lock. One shot and the door swung lazily open.


    Inside the clock tower was a complex maze of gears and pulleys, everything oversized and ornately designed. A wooden staircase led up the side of one wall toward the bells. They raced up and reached the top floor, the white glass of the clock face covered by the silhouette of the kengto on the other side.


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope it doesn¡¯t realise we¡¯re in here,¡± Erik said quietly.


    Once, long ago, Lola had visited the clock towers on a school trip. She still remembered the layout of the building and the function of the bells, one of the many pieces of useless information she¡¯d stored in her brain as a young girl - though apparently not quite as useless as she¡¯d always assumed. She instructed Erik on which ropes controlled which bells and how to operate the levers that released the swinging mechanism.


    ¡°Remember,¡± Erik said, a hand on her arm, ¡°wait until the others force the kengto onto the bridge, or at least get it positioned between the towers.¡±


    ¡°Then we ring the bells.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°Then we ring the bells.¡± He smiled appreciatively. ¡°You¡¯re brave, Detective Styles. For a Mid-Earther.¡±


    ¡°We have our moments!¡± she said, already halfway down the stairs. Darting back out through the door and onto the bridge, she glanced up to check the position of the kengto. She could only see its tail, flicking angrily from the side of the tower. Taking a deep breath, she steadied her nerves - or tried to, at least - and then began the run towards the north tower, the length of the bridge suddenly feeling very long. She felt hideously exposed out in the open, the back of her neck prickling at the thought of the kengto on the tower behind her. It was only a small assurance that the others would be keeping it busy.


    It was a misplaced assurance, she realised, in the moment when a searing pain shot up her leg and she felt herself dragged to the floor and across the bridge, slamming into the guard rail. Entirely confused and feeling as if a knife was being run up the back of her calf, she forced her body to turn over onto its back, which is when she saw the kengto quill embedded in her lower right leg. It was as long as he arm and had speared all the way through, one end now bloodied.


    Her blood.


    She remembered the bodies they¡¯d seen at the start of the case, remembered reading about the kengto¡¯s natural poisons, and Erik¡¯s warnings of its venom. She wondered if the concoction he¡¯d given each of them back on the airship would be enough to counter whatever was in the tip of the quill. Taking hold of one end, she tried to pull it out, but the lancing pain caused her to black out momentarily. Deciding not to try that again, she instead attempted to stand, but her leg was no longer cooperating. On the southern tower she could see Halbad and Seline still aboard the life boat, the pilot getting them as close as he could to the kengto, while Ngarkh and Ellenbrin swooped past at a distance, firing arrow after arrow. The kengto was moving, claws crunching into stone and metal, attempting to get the tower between it and the attackers. It would soon be where they needed it, and there was no way she would be able to get to the bells in the northern tower.


    A memory jumped into view, of her applying for the detective exams. Of requesting assigning to the Specialist Dimensional Command. The excitement of joining the department, of her first arrival at the offices on Stamford and Coin. Meeting Clarke for the first time. She wondered at all the decisions that had led to her lying injured on the bridge of the Palace of Westminster towers, speared by a quill from a creature from another dimension. The pain arced up her leg, spreading this time to her back, and she wondered what precisely the effects of kengto poison might be.


    ¡°Get up,¡± came Clarke¡¯s voice in her ear, which evidently made no sense. She might already be hallucinating. Something grabbed her under her arms, strong hands pulling at her.


    Kaminski ran into her view, crouching down beside where she lay. ¡°Come on, Lola,¡± he said, also taking hold of her and pulling her up. The quill vibrated, each movement like being stabbed again and again.


    Looking about her, bewildered, she also found Chakraborty, gun drawn, looking up at the tower. ¡°Come the fuck on, get moving,¡± she shouted.


    Clarke and Kaminski half-dragged, half-carried her along the bridge towards the north tower. That was when she noticed the second life boat, hovering next to the bridge and keeping pace with them as they made their way. ¡°Where¡¯d you come from?¡± she asked, discovering that her voice was slightly slurred.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the only one who can make stupid decisions,¡± Clarke said. He banged on the north tower¡¯s door, which didn¡¯t budge.


    ¡°Shooting it works quite well,¡± Lola said.


    Kaminski drew his weapon and shot at the hinges of the door, until it fell inwards with a crash.


    ¡°I meant shoot the lock.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    The interior of the tower was identical to where she¡¯d left Erik. They set her down on the floor and she shook her head. ¡°We have to get up to the bells. When the kengto is on the bridge, we have to ring the bells.¡±


    Clarke squinted through the doorway at the bridge, illuminated against the night sky. ¡°Won¡¯t it know we¡¯re here?¡±


    ¡°The wizard guy is going to ring the other bells. At the same time. Apparently it won¡¯t like it.¡±


    ¡°Christ, I hope you¡¯re right.¡± Clarke looked at the upper floors. ¡°OK, Chakraborty come with me, Kaminski you stay here with her.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    Clarke had never been inside Westminster towers before. He¡¯d always dismissed them as a naff tourist attraction. Besides, you could see them from the river and halfway across town - paying to go inside hadn¡¯t seemed worthwhile. He had to admit that the mechanism driving the clocks was impressive, as was the size of the bells that hung suspended.


    ¡°I¡¯ve always loved coming here,¡± Chakraborty said. She immediately crossed to a series of levers and swung them down, the bells rocking slightly in response. ¡°We can take a couple of ropes each,¡± she said, pointing.


    Inside the tower it was impossible to know what was happening outside. Clarke moved around the narrow walkway to the giant clock facing south. He took his pistol and smashed at the painted glass, until he had a window to peer through.


    Chakraborty looked incensed. ¡°You can¡¯t do that!¡±


    ¡°They can send me the repair bill,¡± Clarke snapped. Across the bridge the kengto was lower on the tower and was being harried by the Palinese hunters. Each time the kengto moved a clawed foot it dislodged part of the tower¡¯s masonry. ¡°Maybe not, actually.¡±


    He watched as the koth and its aen¡¯fa rider came into view, dropping onto the kengto¡¯s back and knocking it down to the bridge. The impact reverberated through the tower. The aen¡¯fa jumped and rolled ahead of the creature and was back on her feet in an instant, firing arrows and running towards the north tower, the beast in pursuit while also attempting to dislodge the koth. The kengto was clearly injured and was stuck with arrows in a dozen places. It was angry but lacked the ferocity it had displayed at the museum and on the airship.


    The other life boat came around the side of the other tower and the two big humans jumped onto the bridge, weapons in hand. Halbad¡¯s sword was considerably bigger than Clarke¡¯s leg, to the point that he had no idea how the big man was able to hold it aloft.


    Clarke waved a hand at Chakraborty and grabbed at the ropes closest to him. ¡°Do it now!¡± He pulled on them, throwing all of his weight into the motion. For a moment it seemed the bells wouldn¡¯t budge, then they shifted and rang out, the clanging echoing between Clarke¡¯s ears. He pulled again, making sure that the bell he controlled would keep moving, then put his face back to the gap in the glass.


    The kengto was flailing, confused, unable to concentrate. It missed every attempt to reach at the hunters, who piled on top of it with a fury Clarke had not expected. They hacked and impaled and tore, Halbad delivering the final blow. The kengto¡¯s head did not come away easily, but eventually it was severed and flopped to the floor while the body thrashed unintelligently. Clarke looked at the creature¡¯s bloodied head, suddenly inert, surrounded by the hunters that had killed it. The koth kicked at it, as if to make sure.


    Realising that he didn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d taken a breath, Clarke felt his body relax for what seemed the first time in days.

 Interludes & contemplations

    Bruglia (aka the Mesa). Palinor.


    3201. Frostfield.


    The season was cold, the mesas offering little in the way of protection. The city was built for the baking Brightsun heat, when enclosed courtyards and stone dwellings made perfect sense. Come the depths of Frostfield and the lack of formal heating systems in most homes became uncomfortably apparent. The most better nights didn¡¯t last for long, mercifully, but those few weeks felt long each year.


    None of that was a problem in the palace, of course. Daryla was quite comfortable with the open fire in the centre of her chamber, or the fires of the central dining hall, with its huge extraction chimneys that were larger than most houses. She felt entirely luxuriant wrapped in her furs while she ate grapes and strawberries imported from Mid-Earth. If there was one thing the Mid-Earthers were good at, it was getting things from one place to another. The notion of the shipping container had not caught on in Palinor: cargo unloaded from the portal station was transferred to a true menagerie of transports. Horse-drawn, camel-borne, wyvern-slung - there was no shortage of imagination when it came to moving things inefficiently.


    Daryla¡¯s fortunate circumstances were ironically the precise source of her discomfort. She was all too conscious of the plumes of smoke rising from the palace, drifting over the city, mocking its inhabitants as they huddled together for warmth. Such was the privilege of the aristocracy in the city states of Palinor. She was highly educated, even at only eighteen, trained as a skilled micrologist and heir to a family wallet that meant she would never need to work a day in her life.


    Comfortable. That was the fate of a princess on Palinor. She would wield increasing power, as it was passed to her, so long as she maintained the family name.


    She pulled the furs a little tighter around her as she sat on her bed and turned the page of the morning¡¯s newspaper. There were the usual reports of infighting in the other city states, and of how wonderful everything was in Bruglia. Everything on the up, always getting better. Daryla always skipped to the section of the paper that covered foreign news - as in, foreign dimension. What happened in the other realities somehow felt more real than anything on Palinor.


    Ah yes, the kengto incident in London. An embarrassing incident, caused by a tiny portal tear opening up in a most inopportune location at the Bruglia museum of zoology. A newborn kengto slithered its way through before anyone had noticed and popped out in London. The portal tears worried Daryla. They suggested that whatever spell had been cast two centuries prior was still active in some form, but with its wielder now long-dead there was no-one at the rudder. It was surprising that the one at the zoo hadn¡¯t been spotted and isolated sooner.


    There was a photograph of the detective, Lola Styles, alongside some of the Six Blades. She was amusingly diminutive compared to them. Daryla sighed, thinking back to the reception aboard the Pluma, when she¡¯d met Lola. There had been many meetings that evening, of course, given the nature of the event, but Lola¡¯s had been the one to fix in her memory. It occurred to Daryla that she¡¯d invited the detective to visit Palinor, but had never followed up formally. Whispering a few words, the fire in the room dimming as a flicker of its energy was drawn towards her, she severed the paper bonds and cut the picture from the surrounding newspaper, floating it in front of her.


    It would be fun to have some Mid-Earthers come to stay. She would send out word.


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    London, Mid-Earth.


    1973. February.


    The White Horse felt so ordinary that it made Lola feel out of place. The last time she had been in there it had been to locate the Six Blades, and the days since had been one adventure after another. The kengto incident had been terrifying and terrible, with deaths now estimated to be in the forties and property damage unlike anything outside of an actual war, which made Lola feel all the more guilty for mourning its ending.


    There was a richness to her encounters with people from Palinor. Even the kengto, as horrible as it was, remained an undeniably impressive and imposing creature, a beast unlike anything she might find on Earth. Or Mid-Earth, as anyone from Palinor or Max-Earth called it. Mid-Earthers. That¡¯s what she was. In the middle.


    It sounded mundane.


    The Six Blades had departed, back through the portal to a land more fantastical and exciting. She supposed that to them it was their normal, yet the reverse was not true. There was no scenario in which Ellenbrin or Halbad or Ngarkh found Mid-Earth London exciting and fantastical. It was just a dirty city in an average reality.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that bad,¡± Clarke said, pulling up a stool. ¡°Is it?¡±


    Lola sighed into her empty glass.


    ¡°Come on,¡± her partner said, ¡°I¡¯m supposed to be the grumpy one, remember? I¡¯m the old fart here. Grumbling about retirement. What have you got to complain about, Lola Styles, monster hunter extraordinaire?¡±


    That elicited a smile. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    Clarke gestured at the bartender and ordered them drinks. ¡°Look, I get it,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re young. Ambitious. You meet these monster hunters, like characters out of a book or a movie, and it makes everything else feel boring. You want to have adventures. That¡¯s natural at your age.¡±


    She raised her eyebrows. ¡°Patronising, much? Is this the part where you tell me I¡¯ll get over it?¡±


    He took a long, slow swig of beer, musing into his glass. He gulped, put the pint back on the bar. ¡°No. Maybe I would have, not long ago.¡± He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. ¡°No, I say go for it. Hanging around waiting doesn¡¯t get you anywhere. Life¡¯s too short.¡±


    ¡°Waiting?¡±


    ¡°Waiting for someone to give you permission,¡± he said, smiling at her. ¡°You don¡¯t need my permission, Lola. You want something, you¡¯re going to do it, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Shrugging, she shuffled on the stool, her feet dangling in the air. ¡°Your opinion matters to me, Yannick.¡±


    ¡°Shit, well that¡¯s your first mistake.¡±


    ¡°I get what you did, on the airship, and on the towers,¡± she said, putting a hand on his. ¡°I know how hard all of that was, after - well, after what happened to Detective Callihan.¡±


    He pulled his hand away. ¡°Yeah, well. Bad things happen to good people. Didn¡¯t want anything happening to you.¡± He voice caught slightly in his throat.


    ¡°I thought you were a grumpy old sod when I met you,¡± she said.


    ¡°That¡¯s why they made you detective, instincts like that.¡±


    ¡°Hah. Anyway, you are a grumpy old sod, but you¡¯re my partner. And friend.¡± She put an arm around his broad shoulders and leant her head against him. ¡°So, thanks for that.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, kid.¡± He took another glug. ¡°So what¡¯s next on your list of grand ambitions?¡±


    ¡°Reckon the SDC could do with a liaison officer on the other side of the portal?¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    Bakker sat in his office, Kaminski opposite. They were silent for a long time. Kaminski stubbed a cigarette into the ashtray, lit another. Bakker was leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed onto his other knee, his fingers steepled as he stared at nothing and contemplated.


    Kaminski shifted awkwardly in his chair, wishing he were at the pub with the others. ¡°You sure they¡¯re all gone?¡±


    Bakker grunted, nodded. ¡°Every single container we¡¯d impounded from Barrindon. Actual inspection was snarled up in red tape, but we had them locked down in a storage unit next to the portal station.¡±


    ¡°Disappeared? How many were there?¡±


    ¡°About twenty-five.¡± Bakker picked up a letter opener from his desk, examined it, then set it back down, aligning it carefully with the other items there. ¡°They weren¡¯t taken through the portals, that¡¯s for sure. Whole place was in lockdown while the kengto was loose, and we¡¯ve got our own security people doing checks there now.¡±


    Kaminski nodded. ¡°So they went elsewhere. Somewhere here, on Mid-Earth. Where? And why?¡±


    ¡°They used the chaos during the kengto incident as cover,¡± Bakker said, slowly, considering each word, as if he were weighing up the likelihood of his theory for the first time as he was saying it out loud.


    ¡°Taking advantage of the moment, or reckon they knew it was coming?¡±


    ¡°You always find a way to make a bad situation somehow worse, Kaminski.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, that¡¯s what Chakraborty always says about me, too.¡±


    "She should know.¡± Bakker put both feet back on the floor and swivelled his chair so that he was back at the desk. He picked up a pen, turning it over between his fingers. ¡°We don¡¯t know why, we don¡¯t know what the final destination was supposed to be, but we do know that those containers were originally supposed to go through the portal to Max-Earth.¡±


    ¡°Whisked off into the future.¡±


    Bakker held up a finger. ¡°Not our future. Divergent timelines, and all that.¡±


    ¡°Figure of speech.¡±


    ¡°Details matter, Kaminski. We closed off that route, which leaves them only one option.¡±


    It was obvious, Kaminski realised. ¡°Addis. The African portal to Max-Earth.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m thinking. They¡¯re taking those things out a whole new door. Cutting London out of the picture.¡±


    ¡°You think they¡¯re going to use the Atlantic portal to Palinor? I thought that was basically only used as a scientific station?¡±


    Bakker grimaced. ¡°Maybe we should be taking closer looks at both, eh?¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    It was a seedy room, even by the standards of the Barrel. Frank Holland didn¡¯t care. The moral bankruptcy suited his mood. The venue, the d¨¦cor, the smell, the client¨¨le, the whores - he needed them to be the worst of the worst, absolute scum, so that he could feel good about himself.


    Normally he went for the costumed places, where girls wore pointy rubber ears and larger men and women clad in Halloween koth outfits would beat the unworthy into pleasurable submission. Sometimes there would be role-play experiences on offer, for a price. Kill the dragon, fuck the princess. There¡¯d always been an appetite for knock-off exotic Palinor experiences, without needing to actually get your hands dirty.


    This time he¡¯d gone to a new place in search of something more legitimate. Only Frank Holland¡¯s self-loathing outweighed his disdain for everyone else. The metal-framed bed, paint flecking off, held a crumpled and near-flat mattress. He was paying for a slight aen¡¯fa girl, who was distracted and cold. That was fine: he couldn¡¯t stand any pretence of emotional investment. There was something bestial about fucking another species, he thought, observing himself in the strategically positioned mirror at the head of the bed.


    The kengto farce had been a disaster. He¡¯d been made to look a fool. Clarke and Styles¡¯ absurd attempts to play at being the hero had put them all at risk. It was a miracle any of the SDC had survived - the same couldn¡¯t be said for the crew of the airship, torn apart or sent overboard by the creature¡¯s attack.


    Holland was supposed to be the hard man.


    He was the one they sent when a suspect needed roughing up.


    He was the one who ran investigations in the worst areas of the city.


    He was the one who ought to be feared.


    He was the one who made an underworld pub go quiet when he walked in the door.


    He was the one who should have been on the Westminster clock towers.


    He looked at the aen¡¯fa below him, imagined the face of the Six Blades archer on her instead.


    It should have been him.


    Sighing, satisfied, he pushed her away and collapsed onto his back.


    In the upper corner of the room, hidden in the crumbling coving, a video camera continued its recording.


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    Space, approaching Mars high orbit. Max-Earth.


    2543. February.


    Humans called it a wild goose chase, though there were sadly few confirmed records of such incidents. It occurred to Just Enough that Wild Goose Chase would make for quite a wonderful ship¡¯s moniker. When another megaship was constructed, which should be within seventy years-or-so, they would suggest it as a possibility. Megaships were rare, so getting the name right was important. Though, perhaps they were not to be as rare as expected.


    Although Just Enough could remote into a host anywhere in the solar system, the lag would be prohibitive and require fully sharded operation - not entirely unlike sending a sliver of their consciousness through the portal to Mid-Earth. For a time the host would exist as a distinct entity, operating independently, until it was time to merge again with the ship. That seemed like too great a risk, given the stakes. Too much potential for something to happen to the host which could prevent it from reporting back. No, far better to be physically proximal so that a direct link could be maintained throughout.


    Megaships being unmanned had none of the awkwardness associated with human space flight. There was no chance of a small organic meatbag being overly compressed due to extreme inertia and bursting messily, which rather remove the stabilisers and enabled megaships such as Just Enough to travel as fast as the rules of physics would allow. An Archimedes drive at maximum burn could cross the distance between Earth and Mars in less than twenty days, at least when the planets were on close approach.


    If they were right about the contents of the mysterious container that Detective Kaminski had found himself in, then Mars was the first obvious port of call. The planet was the only one that could compete with Earth for manufacture and sophistication of industry in general. It was all circumstantial, and reliant on the visual testimony of a highly stressed human, so Just Enough had kept their suspicions off the network. No need to provoke panic until real evidence was uncovered.


    The dark, irregular shape of the megaship Just Enough moved silently through the void, a mixture of curves and protrusions barely visible in the edge light from the distant sun.

 Accusations: part 1

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb


    London.


    1973. April.


    The interrogation room was stark, grey-walled, with flat lighting from overhead strips that shadowed faces from below the nose.


    ¡°Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.¡± Holland leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.


    A larger chair had been brought in to accommodate the bulk of the koth. It sat there, wings folded, that demonic, alien face glowering at them. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Mr Lakshi,¡± he continued, ¡°you should know that this is a very grave situation and you are in a lot of trouble.¡±


    The koth breathed in and out, its nostrils flaring. ¡°I¡¯m not a ¡®mister¡¯, detective. But you already know that, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry,¡± Holland said, pretending to consult a file in front of him on the desk. ¡°You¡¯re right. ¡®Mr¡¯ and ¡®Mrs¡¯ and ¡®Ms¡¯ are for humans. My mistake.¡± The koth could snap him and Hobb in two with a flick of its wrist, but in that room it was the SDC that held all the power.


    Hobb tapped a pen on the table impatiently. ¡°You know why you¡¯re here, Lakshi?¡±


    The koth looked at them both in turn. ¡°Systemic racism?¡±


    Sensing Hobb was trying to stifle a smirk, Holland shuffled the papers in front of him to draw the koth¡¯s attention. Clearly it thought it was clever. ¡°You teach at St Peter¡¯s Girls School?¡±


    ¡°Is that a question or a statement, detective?¡± The koth folded its massive, insect-black arms. The overhead lights reflected sharply off the scales. ¡°You did arrest me in front of my class, after all.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s consider it a question.¡±


    The koth held his stare for a few seconds, then sighed. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m a history teacher at St Peter¡¯s. Triverse history, to be precise.¡±


    ¡°Precise,¡± Holland said, ¡°we like precision. Don¡¯t we, Detective Hobb?¡±


    She leaned forward, her arms on the desk. ¡°Was Yvette Field one of your students?¡±


    ¡°She is¡ª¡± the words caught in the koth¡¯s throat. Brow furrowed, they shifted from being irritated to seeming suddenly concerned. ¡°Why did you use the past tense?¡±


    ¡°When was the last time you saw Miss Field, Lakshi?¡± Holland picked up his notepad.


    ¡°Yesterday afternoon. She wasn¡¯t in class today. What has happened?¡±


    Holland nodded. ¡°Do you recall the precise time you saw her?¡±


    The koth banged a fist on the desk, making it rattle despite being screwed the floor. ¡°Damn it, what¡¯s this about? Is Yvette alright?¡± The desk had a dent in it from the impact.


    ¡°Please answer the question.¡±


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    Breathing heavily, sounding to Holland like he imagined an enraged bull might, the koth clenched their fists. ¡°It would have been about four in the afternoon. After school, but Yvette sometimes stays behind to ask questions. She likes her history, especially if it¡¯s about Palinor.¡±


    Hobb made a non-committal sound and looked up at the ceiling briefly. ¡°You didn¡¯t see her again later that evening?¡±


    The koth frowned. ¡°In the evening? No. I went home. I don¡¯t run any after-school clubs. Now tell me. What. Has happened.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Holland said, staring into the koth¡¯s inky-black eyes, all iris without surrounding white sclera, ¡°we were rather hoping you could tell us. Because Yvette certainly isn¡¯t able to speak for herself.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    The SDC office was quiet. Quieter than usual. Clarke sat at his desk, flicking through incoming case files. Lola was at her desk, next to his, but looked a million miles away. A grimness hung over the place. DS Collins walked in holding two coffees, handed one to Robin. She smiled wanly, then returned to her typing.


    On the board was the photograph of a young schoolgirl. Yvette Field. Promising youth athlete and academic, that rare combination. Scholarship to St Peter¡¯s. She was fourteen. Next to the smiling girl in the school photo were more images, of a body mangled to the point that it was nearly unrecognisable. Face battered, jaw broken and frontal bone crushed. Legs clawed and pelvis split in a way that Clarke couldn¡¯t even bear to think about. There were more photographs, in a folder on Holland¡¯s desk. Lola hadn¡¯t let him put those up.


    It was different, but it was the same. Clarke saw memories of Callihan¡¯s body, its head missing. An outburst of violence inflicted upon a person. The job so often was about violence, acted by one fragile being on another. An exercise of power. Every case since John¡¯s death reminded Clarke of his own mortality, made him note his temporary and flimsy nature. He flexed the fingers on one hand, cracked his knuckles. He should be working another case, picking a file to open and pursue, but the Yvette Field case had transfixed the entire office in the space of less than twenty-four hours. Chakraborty and Kaminski were out conducting interviews, on Holland¡¯s request.


    She¡¯d been found in the early hours, on the school playing field, by the grounds keeper. The injuries pointed the finger immediately to the perpetrator being a koth, such were the claw marks and raw display of strength and rage. It didn¡¯t take long for interviews to send them in the direction of one of the school¡¯s history teachers, who happened to be a koth and familiar to the student.


    Lola wheeled her chair over. ¡°How do you think it¡¯s going?¡±


    He grunted. ¡°With Holland and Hobb in there? Grimly. How the hell did he wind up on this case?¡±


    ¡°How does he end up on any case?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a good detective,¡± Clarke said, shrugging. ¡°Or has been. He¡¯s a wanker, but he¡¯s closed a lot of cases. You know he was assigned to the SDC on the personal request of a Joint Council politician? I don¡¯t remember who it was. They¡¯re long gone, but Holland¡¯s still here.¡±


    She let out a dismayed cry. ¡°He¡¯s a racist, misogynistic little shit.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t disagree with you. But he knows how to work a case.¡±


    ¡°I just hope he doesn¡¯t mess this up. If he hinders the case by bringing his own prejudices into the interrogation room¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like the guy, but he¡¯s not incompetent.¡±


    ¡°What that koth did to that little girl, though.¡± Lola had a pencil in her hand and was grinding it into the desk. The lead snapped and pinged off onto the floor.


    ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    Robin made a noise of surprise from across the room. ¡°Oh no,¡± she said, putting her coffee down. ¡°Detectives, you know you said to keep a tight lid on this? Looks like someone¡¯s been a bit leaky.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    ¡°Breaking news now from London, where a student at St Peter¡¯s Girls School was found in the early hours of this morning, beaten and sexually assaulted. Police have taken a teacher at the school of Palinese origin into custody for questioning. We understand that the girl, who has not been identified, is currently in a medically induced coma while doctors assess her injuries. Her family has been informed.


    ¡°With tensions already high across the city following February¡¯s devastating ¡®kengto¡¯ attack, it remains to be seen how this latest incident could affect relations between the migrant Palinese community and locals.¡±


    DI Robert Ford strode across the office and switched off the television. He looked at each of the detectives in the room. ¡°We need to wrap this one up quickly, lads,¡± he said. ¡°There are groups out there itching to start a fight.¡± He pointed towards the corridor that led to the interview room. ¡°Whether or not they did it, having a koth in here is just the excuse they need to kick off. Understand? Good. Let¡¯s get to it.¡±

 Accusations: part 2

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb


    London.


    1973. April.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t do it,¡± Holland said, emerging from the interview room. He grabbed a can of something fizzy from his desk.


    ¡°They didn¡¯t do it,¡± Styles corrected him. She was always so righteous.


    ¡°I don¡¯t give a fuck about the thing¡¯s pronouns,¡± Holland said, snapping off the drink¡¯s ring pull. ¡°He, she, it, the thing - only bit that matters to me is that someone else attacked that girl.¡±


    Styles stood with her hands on her hips, looking surprised.


    Holland shrugged in her direction. ¡°What is it, Styles?¡±


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d be locking them up and throwing away the keys at the first opportunity.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m sure you did.¡± Perching on the edge of his desk, he took a long drink. There was a particular enjoyment to be had in seeing Styles¡¯ presumptions evaporating to nothing.


    Clarke stood from his own desk and walked closer to the others. ¡°What makes you so sure?¡±


    ¡°Well, I won¡¯t be sure sure until we have someone else in cuffs. But it was all a bit convenient, didn¡¯t you think? Injuries exactly I line with what a koth could pull off - pardon the expression. Just so happens there¡¯s a koth teacher at the girl¡¯s school.¡± He snorted. ¡°I mean, there¡¯s also the fact that he could bust out of there and kill all of us in a second if he wanted. Shit, he can probably breathe fire, or plasma, or something. You really think a koth who did something as fucked up as what happened to that little girl is going to sit around and get arrested?¡±


    Styles began to look slightly less indignant. It was clearly a struggle. ¡°You think he was framed. Someone¡¯s setting him up.¡±


    ¡°No shit, Sherlock Holmes. I can see why they gave you a job here.¡± Holland grinned. ¡°Anyways, you were baying for blood when we brought the koth in earlier.¡±


    She didn¡¯t take the bait. ¡°So we¡¯re back to square one?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± he said, crushing the can an throwing it into a bin. ¡°I¡¯m just waiting on a phone call from our intrepid men in the field.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    Nisha looked up at the front of the house. Her nose was cold. ¡°Remind me why we¡¯re here, again?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re on Holland¡¯s list,¡± Kaminski said, stubbing his cigarette out on the pavement, then kicking it into the gutter. He rubbed his hands together swiftly, trying to warm the up. Water dripped down his face. ¡°Victim¡¯s best friend and family.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve already ticked off five of Holland¡¯s list. Still don¡¯t get why we¡¯re out here in the rain when it¡¯s his case.¡±


    ¡°He wanted time with the suspect. Also, I think he wanted to send people who come across as nice.¡±


    She looked at him. ¡°I¡¯m not nice.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± he said, gesturing towards the house, ¡°but they don¡¯t.¡±


    The house had a fake colonnaded fa?ade that had pretensions of being much older and grander than it actually was. Nonetheless it was still a large, detached house in an upmarket area of London. Nisha couldn¡¯t help but compare it to her shitty apartment. She could fit everything she had into the porch of this place.


    ¡°Listen,¡± Kaminski said, ¡°try and get the mum off into the kitchen while I talk to the father.¡±


    ¡°Divide and conquer?¡± They walked up the path toward the front door. ¡°Is this information gathering or are they suspects?¡±


    ¡°Holland treats everyone as a suspect. Hell, we¡¯re probably suspects.¡±


    She began to laugh, then stifled it. Business face. She rang the bell and the door opened almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting on the other side. A woman stood there, looking tired with a face marked by rivulets of tears.


    Kaminski spoke first. ¡°Mrs Victoria Price?¡± He held up his badge. ¡°Detective Constable Kaminski, Specialist Dimensional Command. This is Detective Constable Nisha Chakraborty. We¡¯re here to discuss Yvette Field.¡±


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    ¡°Yes, of course, please come in.¡±


    She ushered them into the hallway, which was wider than Nisha¡¯s entire bathroom. They followed into a reception room of sorts, containing a long table, comfortable chairs and a plush banquette along the back wall. Nisha marvelled that it was neither dining room nor living room, but an additional room entirely. What did they do with all this space?


    Turned out there was already a pot of freshly made tea. ¡°Such an awful thing,¡± Mrs Price said as she poured. ¡°Such a lovely girl, too. Jessica is ever so upset. She¡¯s upstairs with my husband.¡± She passed the cups around and sighed. ¡°So ghastly. And at St Peter¡¯s, of all places.¡±


    ¡°Mrs Price, would you mind if I went upstairs to speak with your husband, while my partner talks to you? It would save some time and we¡¯d be able to leave you in peace sooner.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said, ¡°yes, of course. Up the stairs, round to the right. Please if you could leave your shoes at the bottom of the stairs, it¡¯s really frightfully wet out today.¡±


    Nisha took a slow sip of the tea while Kaminski left the room. Turning to the other woman, she smiled. ¡°I¡¯d like to start with your relationship to the victim.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    The stairs were lined with family photographs. Endless images of the happy smiling trio: husband, wife, daughter, the latter ageing from toddler to teenager as Kaminski climbed the stairs. Many were taken in distant locales; the Prices had clearly had a lot of holidays. Kaminski always found it a little creepy when a house was solely decorated with its occupants¡¯ own memories. There was a narcissism to it that seemed in bad taste, though he could never quite articulate why. Maybe he was just jealous.


    He found Mr Price as the man was leaving his daughter¡¯s room. Closing the door quietly, he smiled sadly. ¡°You must be the detective,¡± he said, ¡°I heard you come in.¡± He nodded his head toward the shut door. ¡°It¡¯s hard on her, you know. Her best friend. Can¡¯t believe it.¡±


    ¡°Is there somewhere we can talk?¡±


    ¡°Of course, shall we go back downstairs?¡±


    Kaminski held up a hand. ¡°I¡¯d like to talk to you separately, if that¡¯s alright.¡± The man¡¯s eyes widened a little. Startled. A natural reaction to interacting with the police. ¡°It¡¯d speed things up a bit.¡±


    ¡°Of course, absolutely. My study?¡±


    ¡°Lead the way.¡±


    The room was dark, wood-panelled and lined with bookshelves. The books were all non-fiction or academic works; lots of history of empire and war games. Price sat down in a leather swivel chair by a mahogany desk and indicated that Kaminski should take the only other seat in the room: a considerably smaller wooden affair.


    ¡°So how can I help, detective?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good question, Mr Price. It is Edward Price, yes?¡±


    ¡°Correct. Do call me Edward. There¡¯s no need for formalities here, especially on such a terrible day.¡±


    Kaminski pulled a pencil from his coat pocket and pointed its stub end at the man. ¡°Got it. Edward.¡± He flicked open his notepad. ¡°Edward, then. Can you tell me about your relationship with the victim?¡±


    ¡°Relationship?¡± Price picked up a paperweight from the desk, hefted it from one hand to the other.


    ¡°How do you know her?¡±


    ¡°Ah, right. She was my daughter¡¯s best friend. They¡¯ve known each other since nursery. I don¡¯t know how she¡¯s going to get past this, I really don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°If we can find who did this, it might help to bring some closure,¡± Kaminski said, his voice measured, even, almost a whisper. ¡°Did you know her well yourself?¡±


    He put the paperweight back on the desk. ¡°Well, yes. Victoria and I have known Yvette for years. Not as close as her and Jessica, of course, because we¡¯re the boring parents, but you know. She¡¯d been over for tea and sleepovers I don¡¯t know how many times.¡± As if remembering something, he took a photo frame off the nearest shelf. ¡°Look, here she is.¡±


    Interesting.


    Kaminski took the offered frame. There were two girls in the photograph, both looking to be early teens, meaning it must have been taken in the last year or two. ¡°She¡¯s quite beautiful,¡± he said.


    ¡°Yes, yes, she was,¡± Price said. ¡°The other girl there is Jessica, who I suppose you¡¯ll need to talk to as well?¡±


    ¡°That would be a great help.¡± Kaminski liked to let his accent thicken a little in situations like this. It made him sound friendlier, and to some English people it also prompted them to assume he was a little simple, or didn¡¯t understand the language fluently. ¡°Could you tell me, are you aware of any problems at school?¡±


    ¡°You mean with the teachers?¡±


    Brief pause. ¡°I meant in general. Why, are there problems with teachers?¡±


    ¡°Oh, well, I just meant in terms of what was on the news. That a teacher was arrested.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve not had much time to watch the news today, Edward. But outside of television, is there anything I should know?¡±


    Price swivelled slowly clockwise and then anti-clockwise on his seat. Just a little each way. ¡°I know she liked history.¡±


    ¡°Was that a problem?¡±


    ¡°Well, no. I was thinking of the rumours, that the koth teacher¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather not bring TV news conjecture into this, Mr Price, or playground gossip.¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯m not sure what to say. Haven¡¯t you already got who did it?¡±


    Shifting on his seat, Kaminski put his pad and paper away. ¡°I can¡¯t comment on particulars of the investigation, unfortunately.¡±


    ¡°Such a shame that Yvette can¡¯t speak for herself. Do they think she¡¯ll ever wake up?¡±


    Getting to his feet, Kaminski smiled. ¡°Oh, I suppose that news hasn¡¯t been on TV yet. Miss Field is already awake. About an hour ago.¡± He made a point of looking at his watch. ¡°Some of my colleagues are taking her statement right now, I believe.¡±


    He put his hand out. Price stared at him, then down at the hand, as if it were something dangerous. Slowly, as if remembering the etiquette, the man reached out and shook hands, his grip remarkably firm.


    ¡°Quite a grip you have there, Mr Price.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he said, releasing and backing away a step, ¡°it¡¯s been a difficult day.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Kaminski said, smiling sympathetically. ¡°Though I think we will have some good news soon.¡±

 Accusations: part 3

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. April.


    Clarke held the white, plastic blinds open just wide enough to see outside onto the street. He grimaced. ¡°Look at these mouth-breathers.¡±


    ¡°Still there?¡± said Styles, somewhere behind him.


    The street below, outside of the Specialist Dimensional Command offices, was filled with people. The people were waving placards and chanting something unintelligible. Which was probably for the best. They all looked of a piece, liked they¡¯d been hired from a catalogue. Racist Thugs Monthly. Or maybe Idiots 4 Hire.


    It was a mob, alright.


    ¡°I¡¯m honestly surprised they even knew where to find us,¡± Clarke said. ¡°It¡¯s not like we¡¯re on the London tourist map.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s because they were ordered to come here,¡± said DI Ford, emerging from his office. ¡°They¡¯re not the types to self-motivate. They were probably shuttled in on the train yesterday. Next week they¡¯ll be somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°Good at hating,¡± Clarke said, releasing the blinds. He turned around to take in the room and shoved his hands in his pockets. There was a koth sat on the battered old sofa in the corner, its weight crushing the already decrepit item of furniture into the floor. Lakshi, the cleared suspect in the Field case, still holed up in the SDC and unable to get out the front door, having had to spend the night in the same building as the humans that had arrested him on suspicion of assaulting a child. The news had run the story despite requests not to, then the rumour-mill had filled in the gaps and pointed the finger. Lakshi¡¯s name was all over the streets, even while a new suspect was already being interrogated down by Holland and Hobb down at the main station across town. The mob wasn¡¯t there to protest in the name of Yvette Field; they were there to hound a koth.


    He walked over and pulled up a chair. ¡°You know,¡± Clarke said, sitting down wearily, ¡°we didn¡¯t leak your name. I¡¯m sorry it all led back to you so fast.¡±


    Lakshi smiled. ¡°I¡¯m a koth teaching in an expensive private school. That was always asking for trouble.¡±


    ¡°Then why do it? Why bother?¡±


    They took a deep breath, the sofa creaking beneath them. ¡°Because the more that kids see me, or other like me, or aen¡¯fa, the more they see us as people. As part of society. I¡¯m not a big, scary koth to my students. I¡¯m their teacher.¡±


    Clarke pointed at the window. ¡°But what about all these arseholes?¡±


    ¡°Those are the parents, or those let down by parents,¡± Lakshi said, shrugging. ¡°Nothing much I can do for them, as I see it. But every student that comes through my class, that¡¯s another chance to shift the needle. To nudge society a tiny bit in a better direction. ¡°


    ¡°But they¡¯re just kids. What difference does it make?¡±


    Lakshi laughed and crossed their arms. ¡°Ah, detective. They¡¯re kids now. Tomorrow they will be adults. They will become parents and politicians and scientists and footballers and astronauts. And teachers. Each individual child is an opportunity, to make a difference to the next ten generations. A small pebble now, an avalanche later.¡±


    ¡°Hnh.¡± Clarke leaned back and crossed his arms. ¡°I certainly didn¡¯t have any koth teachers. I don¡¯t remember even seeing one of you in real life until, what, my twenties? When I joined the force, probably.¡±


    ¡°And how did that go for you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in my mid-fifties,¡± Clarke said. ¡°You tell me.¡±


    One of the telephones rang, and Robin answered it. After a brief exchange, she spoke to the room. ¡°Wakey-wakey, detectives, they¡¯re here. Be coming in the front door any moment.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>*</figure>


    It wasn¡¯t everyday that the Detective Chief Superintendent came to visit. Lola hadn¡¯t spoken to DCS Stephen Walpole since their time on board the Pluma for the charity event. Coincidentally, that was also the last time that she¡¯d spoken with the koth ambassador Vahko. She held open the door to the street as the two approached, flanked by armed officers who were maintaining a safe corridor through the baying crowd. Walpole looked irritated by the protesters but not intimidated. The koth ambassador towered over them all, of course, by a good two or three feet, and could probably have burnt most of them to a crisp before they were able to lay hands on them. Being an ambassador that was unlikely, though.


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    ¡°DC Styles,¡± Walpole acknowledge with a nod as he strode past. The officers took up position outside the building.


    Ambassador Vahko followed Walpole towards the stairs, then paused and turned back to face Lola. ¡°Ah,¡± they said. ¡°Detective Lola Styles, is it? I thought I recognised you. I hope you are well.¡±


    She smiled as she closed the door to he outside world, blocking out some of the noise from the shouts and curses. ¡°Ambassador,¡± she said, ¡°thank you for coming.¡±


    ¡°I hear you have had a busy start to the year, detective.¡±


    ¡°They keep us on our toes.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. I envy you working with the Six Blades, even under such circumstances. They have a fearsome reputation.¡±


    Lola felt her cheeks colouring. ¡°We¡¯d have been in trouble without them. I¡¯d hoped a koth helping to save London from the creature¡¯s attack would have helped sway opinions.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Vahko said, nodding sagely. ¡°One good deed is easily forgotten. One bad incident, such as this, lingers in the memory.¡±


    Walpole, halfway up the stairs, coughed politely. ¡°Ambassador, if you please.¡±


    The ambassador turned with a small bow to her and followed Walpole.


    Lola fanned her face for a few seconds, took a deep breath. Every interaction she had with someone from Palinor left her feeling revitalised, as if it were tapping into some deeper part of her. Outside of talking to Clarke, she hadn¡¯t done anything about it. Didn¡¯t even know what she could do about it - she was still so new even to the SDC.


    Shaking herself from her ponderings, she darted up the steps two at a time and returned to the main office. The ambassador was embracing Lakshi, Clarke standing awkwardly off to one side. There would have been a time, not all that long ago, when he wouldn¡¯t have been able to stay in the presence of two koths. Lola was proud of him.


    ¡°I spoke this morning with the headmaster of St Peter¡¯s,¡± Vahko said, ¡°who assures me that your position is secure, given that no charges have been brought.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Ambassador, but it may not be that simple. The parents¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± Vahko continued, ¡°there have already been a handful of letters requesting your immediate dismissal, ranging from outright fear that you could ignite the classroom to to being a bad moral influence to giving some of the younger pupils nightmares.¡±


    Lakshi sighed and slumped down into the sofa. Clarke stood with his arms crossed, looking troubled.


    ¡°There has also been a petition,¡± Vahko said, ¡°started by students in your class and now signed by over five hundred students across the school. Demanding your return to teaching as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Lola stood at a discreet distance as Lakshi held a clawed hand to their face, obscuring their expression. She noticed Clarke turn away and look up at the ceiling, walking a few paces to return to the window.


    ¡°Furthermore,¡± Vahko said, clearly enjoying delivering good news, ¡°I¡¯m pleased to let you know that Miss Field is in a stable condition. I have begun arrangements¡ª¡±


    ¡°But her injuries,¡± Lakshi interrupted. ¡°Even if she wakes up, it sounds like they are life changing.¡±


    Vahko nodded. ¡°Indeed. But I have spoken with the best micrologist surgeon I know back home. We are working to fast-track transferring Miss Field through the portal so that she can receive treatment. Mid-Earth surgeons will be accompanying her. It is remarkable what can be done with a combination of Earth medical technology and Palinese micrology. I am told there is hope that Miss Field¡¯s body can be largely rebuilt. You are right, that she will never be the same again. There will be scars no matter the outside appearance. But we can help.¡±


    Lola had read an article about the merging of medical techniques across the portals. It was expensive and unusual, and required all sorts of complicated diplomatic clearances, but was proving highly effective across a range of ailments and diseases. Turned out Palinor magic, combined with medical insight from the other dimensions, was better at manipulating misbehaving cells than traditional medicine and treatments.


    Heaving themselves up from the sofa, Lakshi straightened their shoulders and took a breath ¡°What of the man who did this to Yvette?¡±


    Walpole stepped forward. ¡°There¡¯s a wealth of evidence against the suspect,¡± he said, ¡°and that¡¯s without testimony from Miss Field. If doctors on Palinor are able to work their magic so that she can speak, then it should be a simple case.


    ¡°Who is it? Who did this to her?¡± Lakshi¡¯s nostrils flared, their jaw set firmly.


    Vahko put a hand on their shoulder. ¡°Leave such matters to the police.¡±


    ¡°On behalf of the SDC I¡¯d like to apologise for how this has impacted on you personally,¡± Walpole said to Lakshi. ¡°If the leak of information to the press came from my office, you can rest assured that I¡¯ll be finding and punishing those responsible.¡±


    ¡°No apology is necessary,¡± Lakshi said, looking Walpole in the eyes. ¡°Just do better next time.¡±


    Lola winced. Though they had a point.


    ¡°Understood,¡± Walpole said. ¡°We have a police van waiting out the back. It can take you discreetly to your home.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Lakshi said. ¡°I would rather walk out the front door, rather than be hidden and transported like a criminal. I am free to go, yes?¡±


    ¡°Of course. That is your choice. But be aware that the crowd outside could turn hostile.¡±


    Lakshi and Vahko looked at Walpole, then at each other. ¡°I think we can handle ourselves, detective,¡± Vahko said, with a wry smile.

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 1

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb


    London.


    1973. June.


    Frank Holland was not a happy man, Hobb could see that. She could hear it, too, in his incessant whining. ¡°How is it we end up holding the phones back here,¡± he was saying, ¡°while everyone else gets to fuck about on jollies to every other bloody place?¡±


    He had a point. They were both on duty, as they had been all week, the only properly trained detective constables available to the SDC while Kaminski, Chakraborty, Styles and Clarke were off on specialist missions of which few details had been shared. She knew that Clarke and Styles were on their way to Palinor on some sort of daft diplomatic activity, but Kaminski and Chakraborty¡¯s whereabouts had been oddly hush-hush. There had been an undercurrent of distrust in the SDC for months; a tension that had gripped the team with Callihan¡¯s death and never let go.


    All the more reason to try to get out before the whole thing imploded. She had feelers out in half a dozen other departments, even some outside of London. The word was that if you stayed in the SDC too long you got tarred with the same brush that had kept Clarke stuck at DC level for his entire career. That wasn¡¯t for her. She wanted to get out, get a proper assignment dealing with real Earth issues, cases that really mattered to humans, rather than wasting time on complicated portal crimes that were little more than the unwanted cases discarded by the rest of the Met.


    Marion Hobb had ambitions, grander than anything the SDC could offer. She needed out. That had been apparent for the last year, but with the team being stretched apart it had become urgent.


    ¡°Still there, Hobb?¡±


    Blinking, she took a breath, looked at her partner. Nobody liked him. She didn¡¯t like him, though he was better than the rest. There was no bullshit with Holland. None of Styles¡¯ starry-eyed, girlish wonder, or Clarke¡¯s pathetic ambivalence. Or whatever the hell was going on with Kaminski and Chakraborty. Frank Holland was unpleasant, but he was the kind of reliable unpleasant that she could get along with.


    ¡°Still here, Frank. Still here.¡±


    Lola suppressed a squeal, double-checked that she had her rucksack and her wheeled case, then grinned at Clarke. ¡°You ready for this, old man?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re forgetting I¡¯ve already been through a portal,¡± he said. ¡°You might say I¡¯m an experienced traveller.¡±


    She hadn¡¯t forgotten, but there was still a bitterness at Clarke and Chakraborty having visited Max-Earth without her. Not that she was obligated a free trip to the future, and she understood that it had made most sense at the time. It had been Clarke¡¯s lack of enthusiasm before and after that had saddened her.


    Now, though, it was her turn. To Palinor! Through a portal, a gateway to another world. Having read so many books about portal travel - fact and fiction - it was a remarkable thing to be finally experiencing it herself. Countless articles, photo essays, television documentaries and action and romance movies had made the portal station oddly familiar, like a phantom memory unmoored from her actual reality. It was as if she¡¯d been here before, about to step onto the travelator that would shuffle them through to the other side. She¡¯d made this journey in her dreams, which made being entirely awake seem somehow more fantastical.


    ¡°Well, this is portal number two for you, then.¡±


    ¡°Number three, actually. I had to come back through the other one, remember?¡±


    ¡°Good point.¡± She took a long, slow breath. Other travellers, suited dignitaries and professionals in a mix of local and Palinese dress, moved past them on their way, clearly used to the process. ¡°Shall we?¡±


    Clarke smiled. ¡°I¡¯m not the one fretting at the edge of the escalator.¡±


    ¡°Travelator.¡±


    ¡°Whatever you like, Detective Styles.¡±


    Without giving herself time to second-guess, she hopped forwards onto the moving floor, pulling her suitcase along. Clarke raised his eyebrows in amusement, casually following her and taking up position on one of the white markers.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Clarke only had a single backpack, though it was bigger than hers. ¡°How do you think you¡¯ll react to the portal?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know! OK, I hope. I feel like I¡¯ve been preparing for this my whole life, you know? You were fine, weren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I was,¡± he said, nodding, ¡°much to my surprise.¡±


    ¡°Such a pessimist.¡±


    ¡°Realist.¡±


    It was going to be a busy trip. The timing had aligned unexpectedly well, combining an active case with an invitation from the ruling family of Bruglia. The case involved an archaeologist of dubious reputation, who had been arrested Palinor-side for raiding sacred tombs; a deal had been struck to return him to Mid-Earth for trial. The invite was from none other than Princess Daryla, who apparently had not forgotten all about them after that evening on the Pluma. There was even a chance that they might be able to visit Yvette Field, who was still recovering at Fountain University. It was a full itinerary.


    They moved closer to the portal. It was bigger than she¡¯d imagined, much bigger, especially when she considered that only the top half of it was visible on this level. Somewhere below their feet the lower half of the portal was being used for transporting cargo. That¡¯s where Clarke had smashed open the human trafficking ring the previous year. Another time she wasn¡¯t included in proceedings.


    ¡°Hold on to your hat,¡± Clarke murmured, and then they were into the black¡ª


    ¡ªthe sensation hit her like a solid, concrete wall and she dropped to her knees on the travelator, fighting down the bile and the urge to vomit. A horrid gurgle bubbled up from her throat. It was like the worst hangover. No, pre-hangover, like she was still drunk. The floor warped and skewed and she planted her hands flat to try to stabilise her perspective.


    Then there was a hand on her shoulder, and she heard Clarke¡¯s voice. Couldn¡¯t hear what he was saying due to the pounding in her ears, but it was a soothing sound nonetheless. Her eyes blurred with tears, her nose ran and her tongue felt twice as big as it should be. The nausea subsided as suddenly as it had begun, replaced instead with a splintering headache that felt as if the side of her forehead above her right eye was about to crack open.


    ¡°Oh, fuckity fuckity fuck,¡± she said, breathing through the flood of snot and saliva. ¡°Jesus Christ.¡±


    ¡°I got you, Styles, don¡¯t panic,¡± Clarke¡¯s voice said. ¡°They¡¯re bringing help. You¡¯re not the only one, don¡¯t worry.¡±


    ¡°How is it this bad? How?¡±


    ¡°Shame you¡¯re not a seasoned portal explorer such as myself.¡±


    ¡°Oh, bugger off. You¡¯re enjoying this.¡±


    ¡°Only a little. You¡¯ll be fine. They¡¯ve stopped the travelator to help you off.¡±


    ¡°This is embarrassing.¡±


    ¡°I wonder if Princess Daryla is here to meet us in person.¡±


    ¡°Oh god, please no.¡±


    Other hands picked her up, taking her rucksack and rolling her gently into what she presumed was a stretcher. She¡¯d never felt so incapable. The stretcher was set down a few moments later and something pungent was waved under her nose. Immediately clarity returned, as if her brain had emerged from a fog, and she propped herself up on one elbow.


    A stranger knelt in front of her, his hand outstretched towards her face. She jerked back in surprise. ¡°Please do not move,¡± he said. She glanced sideways and saw Clarke standing a few feet away, guarding her luggage. ¡°It makes the spell harder to cast, you see.¡±


    ¡°Spell?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the stranger said. With his other hand he passed her a box of tissues. ¡°Here you go.¡±


    She took it, feeling small and awkward. ¡°Thanks. Can I blow my nose?¡±


    ¡°Please do.¡±


    After wiping her eyes and clearing her breathing, Lola moved into a more comfortable seated position. The magic wielder smiled as he worked, and she felt her headache diminishing moment by moment until it was gone entirely.


    ¡°Wow,¡± she said, ¡°how did you do that?¡±


    ¡°It is a simple aspect of micrology,¡± he said. ¡°Simple, but requires some delicacy. The the portal station employs several of us to help foreign travellers upon arrival. The first time is often the worst.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not looking forward to the return trip.¡±


    The stranger lowered his hand and Lola was momentarily aware of a subsiding of an atmospheric tension between the two of them, that she had not even noticed previously. ¡°Going back to your own dimension should be easier. It is travelling to a foreign dimension that causes people most difficulty. Nobody knows why exactly, though there are theories, of course.¡± He looked at Clarke. ¡°Your friend seems to take it all in his stride. Here, let me help you up.¡±


    She stood, feeling more stable than she expected. ¡°Thank you for your help.¡±


    ¡°My pleasure. My name is Naveen. I do hope you enjoy your stay on Palinor.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Lola. And thank you again.¡±


    Clarke approached, his smile kind rather than mocking. ¡°How you feeling, kid?¡±


    ¡°Bleurgh,¡± she said. ¡°But better thanks to Naveen there.¡± The wielder was already rushing off to help another distressed traveller.


    ¡°Welcome to Palinor,¡± Clarke said, grinning wryly. ¡°Not exactly the arrival you¡¯d imagined?¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡± For the first time she took in her surroundings: the Palinor side of the portal station was different, though shared many of the architectural and design decisions. It was like seeing a Mid-Earth building¡¯s plans interpreted by someone who had never visited. The materials were different, the curves more pronounced, the decoration more intricate and deliberate.


    She was on Palinor. Land of koth and aen¡¯fa and warring city states. And magic! And mermaids, and dragons, and kengtos and monster hunters. A place of hidden forest tribes, reclusive mountain hideouts, underwater settlements and towers formed in the heart of active volcanoes. It was everything she¡¯d always wanted. Though for the moment they were still stuck in the relative drabness of the portal station.


    ¡°Ready to get moving?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± she said, swinging her rucksack back onto her shoulders and taking the handle of her suitcase. ¡°Time to get this quest started.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 2

    France.


    1973. June.


    The steam bullet raced at close to two hundred miles per hour across the French countryside, its engine pulling the twenty carriages down the tracks at such a speed that Kaminski felt slightly nauseous as he leaned back in his seat and gazed out the window. The journey had begun early with a far less impressive train to Dover, then the ferry across the channel. Robin knew her stuff, and had deemed that this was the fastest route, but the road ahead still seemed impossibly long.


    Chakraborty sat opposite, which made the prospect of the trip altogether more palatable. She¡¯d softened a little after the kengto incident, the frosty distance that had been there ever since Max-Earth seeming to thaw. It was almost like the old days. As long as they didn¡¯t kill each other, it would be a good chance to reconnect away from the madness of London. The sun was high, which meant they were around halfway to Marseille.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t been on European soil since I first came to England,¡± he said, lighting another cigarette.


    ¡°I used to go on holidays to France when I was a kid,¡± she said. ¡°Seems like another lifetime. I can¡¯t remember the name of the place.¡±


    They wouldn¡¯t be getting off the train, not until they hit the south coast. France seemed huge compared to Britain, but it was nothing compared to what came after. ¡°You think this is a wild good chase?¡± he said, ¡°or reckon we might actually find something?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s about fifty-fifty.¡±


    He laughed. ¡°Better odds than I was thinking.¡± They were sat in a small private cabin, one of several, with a narrow corridor running all the way down one side of the carriage. It was a comfortable, almost luxurious experience, a long way removed from the crowded trams of central London or even the regional services back home. The cabin¡¯s two benches were plush and forgiving, while there was a small sink and mirror in one corner for refreshing one¡¯s appearance and a fold-down table for reading or playing games. Two carriages down there was a restaurant carriage providing a dining experience smart enough to make Kaminski feel awkward, and at the far rear was an impressively well-stocked bar. He¡¯d never been one for travelling, but doing it in style had a certain appeal.


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    The track hugged the banks of the Rh?ne as the train whipped along, town and villages flashing by in an instant. This was the express, the famous steam bullet, crossing all of France from north to south in less than a day. It would stop for nobody until it reached Marseille.


    Kaminski stretched his legs and opened the sliding cabin door. The corridor was noisier, less sound proofed, and standing he was more aware of the rocking of the train and the clacking of the wheels on the rails. This leg alone would have taken days back in the day; now anyone could get across all of France in ten hours. It still impressed him, even knowing that Max-Earth could travel from the Earth to the Moon in the same time. Everything there was scaled up, to the point that Kaminski¡¯s brain couldn¡¯t hold the numbers straight. From the windows in the corridor he looked east, and could just make out the foothills of the alps.


    He heard the door at the rear end of the carriage click open, then a man appeared in the corridor holding a coffee and a newspaper. He hesitated, but Kaminski waved him on and withdrew back into the cabin. The moustachioed man, about his age, nodded his thanks as he passed, then disappeared into the adjacent cabin.


    ¡°Shut the door,¡± Chakraborty said, ¡°it¡¯s noisy. I¡¯m trying to sleep.¡± She had her feet up on the bench and had covered herself with her jacket. ¡°How long?¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure, but we passed Lyon about half an hour ago. So another hour? Two perhaps? We¡¯re making good time, I think.¡±


    <div>


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    The airship dock at Marseille was one of the busiest and largest in Europe, rivalling even the London portal station in terms of footfall and shipped cargo. The city had organically become the best jumping-off point for anyone travelling from north and western Europe to anywhere else on the Mediterranean. The maturation of airship technology had shifted the focus of passenger travel from sea to air: it was faster, safer and considerably more exciting.


    Transfer was simple, with the steam bullet station located directly below the airship dock. After they¡¯d disembarked with their bags, Kaminski and Chakraborty had merely to show their passports and ascend in an elevator. They emerged into an enclosed waiting area with glass for walls, offering a remarkable view of the city and the water to the south. The dock was wide, able to house half a dozen large airships at any one time. As soon as one departed another would arrive.


    It was hot and humid, sweat starting to form in the small of Kaminski¡¯s back as soon as they left the cooled train carriage. There was more of a cooling breeze once they emerged onto the airship platform and were led into a partitioned lane. They shuffled toward the ramp onto the airship.


    ¡°I wish we were stopping here for a while,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°I could take a few days on the Med. Bars, a few drinks, sit on the beach.¡±


    ¡°Have you noticed the air here?¡± Chakraborty waved a hand vaguely. ¡°Even here at the dock, it smells completely different to London.¡±


    ¡°Smells like it¡¯s not killing you.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


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    It was an overnight flight to Cairo. The airship¡¯s interior was less luxurious than the steam bullet, but it made up for it by having space. Chakraborty walked the communal lounge, up and down, repeatedly, for the first hour, simply revelling at regaining feeling in her legs. Zoltan had explored the train somewhat but she¡¯d largely remained in their cabin, a decision she¡¯d regretted when they¡¯d disembarked and she¡¯d discovered any form of movement to be a new form of agony.


    They had a cabin at the rear. A single cabin, keeping up the pretence of being a newly married couple. Zoltan was back there at the moment catching some sleep. They¡¯d arranged to swap after a couple of hours. Kaminski and Chakraborty, off on another adventure. It reminded her a little of the Max-Earth rescue, though this time Kaminski was travelling on purpose. There was still that sense of being outside of their ordinary lives, that slightly heightened magic of being away from home and away from the office. She could go wake him up; like she had back on Max-Earth, in that hotel. Part of her wanted it. Most of her warned her against it. It had been amazing; then it had been difficult, and awkward, and everything had felt simply wrong once they¡¯d returned to London, like a spell had broken. Why was it she could only do this when she was outside of her normal life?


    It was still work, of course: once they hit Cairo they¡¯d transfer to another train that would whisk them halfway down Africa to Addis Ababa. The Ethiopian capital and the only other city to be host to a portal. Bakker had wanted them to check it out in person, and had used the people trafficking case from the previous year as an excuse. Following up loose ends. Checking that the traffickers hadn¡¯t simply moved to a different port. It was close to the truth, which made it a conveniently believable lie.


    Addis was different in that it only had a single portal, rather than London¡¯s twins. Addis was connected only to Max-Earth, though it was a link they¡¯d exploited to maximum effect, based on what she¡¯d seen. Official British channels downplayed it, but there was no disguising that Ethiopia - and the UAC in general - was now a leading technological country, thanks to help from their Max-Earth friends.


    First there was the Mediterranean to navigate. The airship would fly them over Italy, over the southern tip of Greece, before touching down on African soil. Another seven hours to go. The world was impossibly big. And there were three of them.

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 3

    Bruglia.


    3201. Verdant.


    The day slowly came to be, Lola begrudgingly lifting out of her slumber to the sound of unfamiliar birds. Her sense drifted back to her and she realised with relief that the nausea and headache had gone. It took her a second or two to recall where she was, at which point she threw back the covers and sat up in the four-poster bed.


    Her arm was still sore from the injections they¡¯d both had to have before travelling to Palinor; protection against some of the more unusual diseases that existed in that dimension, just as the blood tests a week earlier had checked that they were not going to transmit any of Earth¡¯s nastiest bugs.


    She swung her legs to the floor, running her hands down the soft, silk nightgown that had been provided. The bed itself had curtains, which was a new experience. Thin, lace-like curtains that were a soft shade of peach. The room itself was all warm oranges and reds, hues hewn from the rock of the surrounding landscape. Her bags were sat in the corner of the room, still unopened. Most of the previous day had been spent at the palace, where they¡¯d been given a tour of the gardens and courtyards, before being shown to their rooms. Despite the efforts of Naveen the micrologist medic at the portal station, Lola had found herself tired to the point of exhaustion despite having not really done anything - apparently a common side effect of portal travel, which tended to be brief but annoying. That first day had been a bust, then, but they¡¯d met Princess Daryla - just as striking as Lola remembered from the airship meeting - and had outlined the itinerary for the week. Then she¡¯d retired to her bedroom and slept for twelve hours.


    They were on Palinor! The thought shot through her and she shivered with excitement. Opening the balcony doors, she stepped out into a wall of heat and looked down on the city. It was stretched over several large plateaus, raised up from the dusty canyon floors. The mesas were oases perched in an otherwise arid environment. The buildings were the same orange-red of the rock, though some were painted vivid colours. Off to the left was Fountain University, a towering, sprawling cathedral of towers, perched atop its own outcropping, with the portal station on its southern side. Today they would at last be able to explore the city. She clenched her fists and grinned: she was on another world.


    A knock at the door announced that breakfast was served.


    <div>


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    There was a loud, brief knock at the door which woke Clarke from his sleep. Groggily he propped himself up on one elbow and blinked, trying to clear his head. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Breakfast is served, sir. Follow the corridor left and down the staircase to the breakfast room.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± he said, rubbing his eyes, ¡°thanks.¡±


    He glanced at his watch. It was seven in the morning, though Palinor was four hours behind Mid-Earth time. It had made for a long first day, and a much-needed lie-in. He chuckled to himself at the memory of Styles throwing up all over the portal station. A small part of him was proud for not being the one to get portal sickness.


    The bed had been plush and uncomfortable, far more padded and deep than he was used to, while the odd curtains around the frame had felt to him a little like being sealed up in a coffin overnight. He pulled on his clothes, then splashed his face with water from the basin. He had been relieved upon arrival to discover an ordinary toilet in his room, after having heard all kinds of horror stories about Palinese ablutions. Bruglia, it seemed, was not all that different to London. Or perhaps the guest chambers were designed to make foreign visitors feel welcome.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Leaving the curtains closed, he left the room and ventured downstairs. By the time he found the breakfast room Styles was already there, in conversation with Princess Daryla. Clarke momentarily considered whether he should have brought more formal clothes, then decided he didn¡¯t care.


    ¡°Good morning, Detective Clarke,¡± said the princess with a beaming smile.


    ¡°Morning,¡± he said, ¡°and please, Yannick is fine. Or Clarke. Most people just call me Clarke.¡±


    He sat opposite Styles, at a seat proffered by an aen¡¯fa servant. The table was long and ornate, though places had only been set for the three of them. The room itself was high-ceilinged and grand. It made Clarke uncomfortable.


    His arrival apparently triggered activity from the servants, as dishes were whisked out of a side door and presented to the three of them. Bowls of fruit were placed in the middle of the table, including several he did not recognise. A covered plate was put in front of him and he braced himself for whatever local cuisine lay crouched beneath. The servant lifted the lid to reveal a full plate of sausages, bacon, eggs and beans, with a hash brown to one side and a black pudding on the other. Clarke involuntarily laughed, then shook his head.


    ¡°I thought a gentle introduction to Palinor was in order,¡± Daryla said, clearly enjoying the surprise. ¡°You will both have an intense day. It will probably feel quite overwhelming. So I thought a complete British would make you feel more at ease.¡±


    ¡°Full English.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°This breakfast,¡± Clarke said, indicating his plate, ¡°it¡¯s called a ¡®full English¡¯.¡±


    She stared at him as if he was an idiot, then glanced to Styles, who had frozen and was avoiding his eyes. Then the princess burst into laughter and clapped her hands. ¡°A full English! What¡¯s the difference? Complete British? How silly of us. Perhaps ¡®complete British¡¯ should be the Bruglian variety of the dish?¡±


    ¡°Names aside,¡± Styles said, ¡°it looks delicious.¡±


    ¡°Smells good,¡± Clarke agreed, forking half a sausage into his mouth.¡±


    ¡°Some of the ingredients are imported,¡± Daryla said, ¡°and others are local. I¡¯ll let you try to work out which is which.¡±


    Clarke noticed that she was eating something entirely different: a small bowl of something that looked vaguely like porridge.


    ¡°Thank you again for the invitation to visit,¡± Styles said. ¡°Such an honour. I¡¯m so excited to be here. I¡¯ve never been through a portal before. I¡¯ve always wanted to, but couldn¡¯t afford it. And you know how difficult it is to get a travel pass, if you¡¯re not in government anyway. Though it¡¯s probably easy for you.¡±


    Daryla smiled. Her eyes seemed kind, Clarke thought, which struck him as unexpected for someone who was effectively inherited royalty. ¡°My position does afford me certain privileges, certainly. Though even then, you¡¯d be surprised by the paperwork. And all the tests and inoculations and what-have-you.¡±


    ¡°Christ,¡± Clarke said, ¡°don¡¯t get me started on that. The injections were worse than the actual portal transit.¡±


    ¡°Speak for yourself,¡± Styles said, with an embarrassed grin.


    They ate their breakfasts in silence for a while, the only sounds from the birds outside and the clinking of cutlery.


    ¡°As Lola says, your invitation couldn¡¯t have come at a better time. Will we be able to speak to the suspect today?¡±


    Daryla nodded and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. ¡°Absolutely. Though if you¡¯d permit me an indulgence, I wish to give you a tour of the city on the way.¡±


    Styles actually clapped. ¡°Yes, please!¡±


    ¡°Good! Then once we are finished here, we¡¯ll make our way to the Bruglia Museum of Zoology.¡±


    Clarke sat back in his chair and frowned. ¡°A zoo?¡±


    ¡°Yes, indeed.¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°We¡¯ll take your lead, princess. As long as we get to talk to the prisoner, I¡¯m happy to do the tourist bit as well.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not entirely for pleasure,¡± Daryla said, her eyes piercing. ¡°There is something I must show you which I think you will find most interesting. Something which relates to the kengto incident in London.¡± She glanced at the servants, who were standing close by, refilling their drinks as needed. ¡°I¡¯ll talk more of it on the way.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 4

    Bruglia.


    3201. Verdant.


    The Bruglia Museum of Zoology was less a collection of fossils and skeletons and more a menagerie of beasts the like of which Clarke had never seen, or barely imagined. The construction of the zoo reflected its occupants: there were cages suspended over pits, paddocks encircled by three layers of metal fencing, glass compartments big and small. Each housed a creature entirely unique. He remembered visiting zoos as a child, where half the animals would look largely the same - an entire row of various types of monkey, or an area dedicated to big cats, or a snake and reptile house - but on Palinor it seemed that creature diversity was off the scale.


    He glanced over at Styles, who was walking as if she was navigating a lucid dream. They were due to be on Palinor for less than a week and he could already see that dragging her back to Earth was going to be a painful process. There was an inevitable end point, which Clarke wasn¡¯t yet ready to consider.


    Princess Daryla led them through the zoo complex, past horns and scales and feathers. After a while Clarke stopped looking into each of the cages and displays; much was the stuff of nightmares, and he valued his sleep more than his curiosity. Princess Daryla. A princess, albeit in a different sense of the word to what he was used to from the kingdom back home. This was no monarchy in the sense of the British Royal family - Daryla was part of the ruling house that occupied the seat of power in the city state of Bruglia. Power, to be sure, but of a different sort and scale. The Queen back home ruled over half of the planet; Daryla¡¯s family influence lasted only to the city¡¯s borders and some surrounding territory. In the context of Palinor, though, that meant a lot.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you don¡¯t have an entourage,¡± he said.


    Daryla looked over her shoulder at him as she led them below an arch and into a new area: a wide passageway cut through the rock, with additional compartments dug into the sides to house animals. ¡°I know my way around the city.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t doubt it,¡± Clarke said, ¡°but aren¡¯t there security concerns?¡±


    She smiled, though there was a disparaging edge to the curve of her lips. ¡°I¡¯m a fully trained micrologist, Detective Clarke. Top of my class.¡±


    ¡°So, what, that means you can move tiny things?¡±


    ¡°After a fashion, yes.¡±


    Clarke looked at Styles, who grinned and raised her eyebrows expectantly, clearly having intention to help.


    ¡°OK, so how does that help if someone attacks you, or decided to kidnap you? You throw a pebble at them?¡±


    ¡°The most skilled micrologists can manipulate matter on a semi-molecular level,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s easy to focus on elemental magic, or visualisation, because they¡¯re the most dramatic. Physology is notable because it appears to break our understanding of natural laws. Micrology is small, subtle, unseen. That¡¯s its power.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t quite understand.¡±


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    ¡°If you or anyone else tried to attack me, I would gently pinch one of the carotid arteries that runs up your neck. It feeds blood to your brain. I could make you pass out, or have a stroke. Or simply kill you. It takes concentration, of course, and requires a power draw, but it¡¯s entirely doable. My micrology skills are well known. And thus nobody would even think of attempting an assault on my person.¡±


    Styles waved a hand. ¡°What about another micrologist?¡±


    Daryla paused, turned and put her hands on her hips. ¡°Well,¡± she said, ¡°then things would get interesting.¡±


    ¡°You must make for good assassins,¡± Clarke said.


    She gave him a withering look. ¡°That¡¯s a common misconception. You don¡¯t have to go far back in history to find a lot of distrust around the use of micrology, and some unpleasant incidents towards micrology wielders.¡±


    Clarke grunted. ¡°People get scared when you can kill them with a thought.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a big man, detective. Strong, I¡¯d wager. Especially in your youth. You could kill someone with a well-directed punch. Your hands could strangle someone without them being able to stop you.¡±


    ¡°Good job I¡¯m a policeman and not a murderer, then.¡±


    She raised an eyebrow. ¡°Indeed.¡± Without another word, she continued walking.


    Clarke exchanged glances with Styles, who frowned and gestured in exasperation.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Are you trying to annoy her?¡± Styles sighed, then followed the princess.


    The idea of going back through the portal and sitting at his desk in the SDC office was becoming ever more appealing.


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    ¡°What am I looking at here?¡± Clarke stood at the entrance to the hollowed-out cave, illuminated only by sun glinting through a grille set into the ceiling. The space was large enough to hold a sizeable creature but was entirely empty, save for a metal box sat on the floor in the centre.


    ¡°This has been home to all manner of animals over the years,¡± Daryla said, walking around inside the cave. The walls are thick, the door is strong. It¡¯s not for visitors - this is more of a holding area before animals are transferred to elsewhere in the zoo.¡±


    Styles pointed. ¡°What¡¯s with the box?¡±


    ¡°The records show that two azzoca were put in here, at the end of Frostfield.¡± She moved towards it, then paused. ¡°Oh, I think that would be February on your calendar.¡± She knelt on one knee in front of the box and held out a hand.


    ¡°Azzoca?¡±


    ¡°Herbivores. Grazing animals, but endangered. There¡¯s a breeding scheme at the museum.¡±


    Clarke checked his watch. ¡°This is fascinating, but we do have a Mid-Earth citizen to interview.¡±


    ¡°This box,¡± Daryla said, ignoring him, ¡°is sealed with magic. It has a series of locks which are very difficult to open. Fortunately it¡¯s not a problem for me.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s in the box? An egg?¡±


    ¡°Azzocas don¡¯t lay eggs,¡± she said, as if he was an idiot.


    ¡°My mistake.¡±


    She clenched her fist, turned it to one side, then reached out with her other hand and pulled at the handle on the front of the box. The small door swung open. Clarke half expected some sort of critter to scamper out but the box appeared to be empty. He bent over slightly, hands taking his weight on his knees. The interior of the box was dark. ¡°What am I looking at here?¡±


    Styles got in closer, knelt down next to the princess. ¡°Oh my god, Yannick,¡± she said, ¡°this is a portal tear.¡±


    He took a step closer. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen one up close. It¡¯s totally black, just like the big portal at the station.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one and the same,¡± Daryla said, standing. ¡°We monitor for tears just as you do on your side. As soon as one is identified we close them up, like this one. Except this wasn¡¯t closed up. And there weren¡¯t two azzocas in this habitat.¡±


    She clearly enjoyed building up to a big reveal. Clarke crossed his arms, bracing himself. ¡°What are you saying?¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t see it in the official reports. It¡¯s been presented as an accident. But there was a newborn kengto in here, I¡¯m sure of it. In this chamber, with a portal tear, just before one appeared in London and caused you a lot of trouble. According to the records it never happened.¡±


    ¡°Huh,¡± Clarke said, looking to Styles. ¡°This trip just got a lot more interesting.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 5

    Addis Ababa.


    1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)


    Addis was the city of the future. It¡¯s how they described it in tourist brochures and, for once, the claim was entirely accurate. The train that had brought them from Cairo was in itself a marvel, powered not by steam but electricity, suspended magnetically on the rails and capable of travelling at absurd speeds. The station they pulled into was more of a botanical garden than a train depot, high ceilings affording space for trees and large-leafed plants that were a stark contrast to the dustier environment on the approach to the city. It was quite the statement upon arrival.


    ¡°I always thought London was at the top of the food chain,¡± Kaminski said, ¡°but this makes Britain look¡­old. Stuck in the past.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a train station, Kaminski,¡± Chakraborty said, hefting her backpack onto her shoulders.


    ¡°Is it, though? Look at it!¡± The station was welcoming: clean, efficient, beautiful, even. It was a long way from the grease and steam of the London stations, with their crumbling Victorian-industrial architecture.


    They moved swiftly through the concourse and exited through the doors into the city. The heat wasn¡¯t as intense as he¡¯d expected; it was more like a warm summer¡¯s day back home. The journey down from Cairo had been hotter. This was quite manageable. Clouds circled the city, hovering over the distant hills.


    London was not a quiet place, filled with trams and trains and factories, but the thrum of Addis was something else entirely. There was a beat to the city, a background energy that hit Kaminski immediately. The streets, though dusty, were clean, and filled with vehicles. More than he¡¯d even seen - buses and cars everywhere, to the point where he could only assume that they were personal vehicles. The papers back home played down the on-going economic boom that had begun in Ethiopia with the appearance of the portal to Max-Earth, but it was plain to see before his eyes. The country was operating on another level entirely. Skyscrapers interrupted the view of the horizon, but they were not the concrete and rusted steel towers of London but gleaming spires, architecturally bold and covered in shining glass. They reminded him of the vision of the future he¡¯d witnessed while staying on Max-Earth, albeit scaled down slightly.


    ¡°OK, I¡¯ll admit that this is impressive,¡± Chakraborty said, gazing open-mouthed at the skyline.


    A young man approached, barely out of his teens, holding a piece of paper with their names on. ¡°Hello!¡± he shouted agreeably. ¡°English? Mr and Mrs Kaminski?¡±


    ¡°Sounds like our ride,¡± Kaminski said.


    ¡°So much for keeping a low profile.¡±


    The man hurried over and smiled widely. ¡°Welcome to Addis,¡± he said. ¡°Welcome! Is this your first time?¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°First time in Africa.¡±


    ¡°Ah! You are lucky. First time everything is new. Exciting! Let me take your bags.¡± He led them over to a waiting vehicle, a yellow car. Robin had made all the travel arrangements, including their pick-up at this end. Kaminski hadn¡¯t quite realised they¡¯d be chauffeur-driven - that was something only the richest executives or the most important dignitaries and politicians enjoyed back home.


    ¡°You must be tired,¡± the driver said. ¡°Please, take a seat. My name is Isayas.¡± He deposited their bags into the rear of the vehicle, clearly used to carrying heavy items. ¡°Let¡¯s get you to your hotel.¡±


    The car¡¯s interior was plush and comfortable. ¡°Water in the back,¡± Isayas said, ¡°just take a cup and press the button in the centre, if you need some. It¡¯s only a twenty minute drive.¡±


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    A low whine gave way to a gentle hum as the car began to move away from the station. ¡°What kind of engine does this have?¡±


    Isayas glanced back at Kaminski. ¡°Electric hybrid, sir. All taxis have them here. Most other vehicles are going that way, too. You have them in Britain? In London?¡±


    Throwing a glance at Chakraborty, Kaminski raised his eyebrows. ¡°We¡¯re working on it,¡± he said.


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    The hotel foyer was as grand as the train station, in its own way. Less foliage, more columns and art and marble. It felt both old and new at the same time. Chakraborty would have been quite happy to stay there forever.


    ¡°It¡¯s like being in the future,¡± she said to Kaminski, as they waited for their hotel room passes.


    ¡°Feels like some of Max-Earth leaked through the portal and landed here. All the best bits.¡±


    ¡°I dunno,¡± Chakraborty said, rubbing a hand along the counter, ¡°don¡¯t you think they¡¯d have done this anyway? It can¡¯t all be Max-Earth¡¯s influence.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Kaminski said, lighting a cigarette, ¡°but you¡¯ve studied Max-Earth¡¯s history, right? Which would have been our history, if the portals hadn¡¯t happened and changed the direction of our timeline.¡±


    ¡°Since when were you a portal scientist?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, whatever. Point is, Max-Earth has a particularly fucked-up history. All good now, sure, but they had some pretty dark patches back in the day. We outlawed slavery long before they did.¡±


    ¡°Well done Europe for not being quite so awful, yay.¡± Chakraborty sighed. ¡°Also, that was only because it was a condition of opening up trade with Max-Earth. Don¡¯t paint it as some kind of moral victory.¡±


    Kaminski shrugged. ¡°If the end result is good, then it¡¯s good, right? We¡¯re avoiding making the same mistakes Max-Earth did.¡±


    She gave him a withering look. ¡°You are aware that the British Empire doesn¡¯t exist any more on Max-Earth, yeah? Empires don¡¯t exist. Don¡¯t kid yourself into thinking we¡¯ve got everything right. Africa, sure, they¡¯ve got their shit together. But you really think India¡¯s ever going to get independence here? No way.¡±


    ¡°At least India exists. Poor old US of A never even happened for us. And there are talks happening between Britain and India, anyway.¡±


    ¡°Oh, fuck off. Like those are anything but theatre.¡±


    The porter returned with two white cards and slid them across the counter. ¡°Here you are. Room 24F. Your bags have already been taken up. Take the elevator on your left.¡± He glowered at Kaminski. ¡°And there is no smoking inside the building, thank you.¡±


    Kaminski blinked. ¡°No smoking?¡±


    The porter tapped a finger onto a sign that made the point clearly. That¡¯s right, sir.¡±


    ¡°But I smoke.¡±


    ¡°You are very welcome to do so outside, or on your balcony.¡± He reached beneath the counter, retrieved an ashtray and positioned it in front of Kaminski.


    Chakraborty grinned. ¡°Let¡¯s go, husband.¡±


    He extinguished the cigarette with a grimace and followed her. ¡°I take it back. I thought this place was sophisticated, but the Ethiopians have got it all wrong.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll survive.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t bet on it.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    The lift was unnervingly fast and smooth, raising them twenty-four floors in an alarmingly short time. Despite its speed there was almost no sense of movement, other than a slight inertia at the start and end. The doors slid silently open and they stepped out into the corridor, which was wide and airy, natural light somehow filtering down from the ceiling.


    Chakraborty was looking forward to seeing the room. Staying away from home was like pretending you were a different person for a time, someone with a much nicer life. Squint just the right way and she could convince herself that she was a celebrity on tour, living the high life, going from one fancy apartment to the next. A momentary escape.


    They turned a corner and she nearly bumped into someone coming the other way; white, mid-30s and with a thin moustache. ¡°Sorry,¡± she said. He smiled and hurried past.


    ¡°OK, let¡¯s find 24F,¡± she said, scanning the room doors. Theirs was only three doors further. ¡°Here we go.¡± She pressed her card to the door handle and it buzzed and unlocked. It was only then that she noticed Kaminski was still standing by the turn in the corridor, a concerned frown on his face. ¡°Found the room, Zoltan, come on. Let¡¯s see what¡¯s in the mini-bar.¡±


    He walked slowly towards her, deep in thought.


    ¡°Everything alright?¡± Maybe he was already having nicotine withdrawal.


    Kaminski took a breath. ¡°That guy,¡± he said, ¡°I thought he seemed familiar.¡±


    ¡°What guy?¡±


    ¡°You nearly collided with him. With the moustache.¡±


    ¡°What about him?¡±


    ¡°I think he was on the train.¡±


    ¡°From Cairo?¡±


    ¡°No, the train through France. He was in the same carriage as us, in the cabin next to ours.¡±


    ¡°And now he¡¯s here? That seems unlikely.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it does.¡± Kaminski sighed. ¡°We may have a problem.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: Part 6

    Bruglia.


    3201. Verdant.


    The prison complex was grim: a reminder to Clarke that despite the warm welcome and luxurious hospitality he and Styles had experienced, Palinor remained very different to home. Palinor was anachronistic in many ways, having partially absorbed some of Mid-Earth¡¯s culture and processes, especially in Bruglia near the portals, while otherwise remaining closer to a feudal society. There were no countries or large organisations anywhere on Palinor, only isolated city states and the occasional pact of convenience.


    Princess Daryla had left them at the gates. The unflinching design of the prison, with its bare cells, harsh stone walls and dirt floors, its dungeons and what he could only assume from glimpses through bars in the doors were torture rooms, was closer to medieval Europe. The structure sat on the edge of one of the city¡¯s many interconnected mesas, its black-red stone interrupted only by ancient tiling that might once have been impressive but had fallen into disrepair long ago. There was none of the landscaping and cultivated greenery found in the city proper; everything surrounding the prison was dust and sand and dirt. He glanced at Styles, whose face had gone a little pale as they were led by a burly guard through the dark, narrow stone corridors. This wasn¡¯t the fantastical, adventurous side of Palinor that she always craved.


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    ¡°Alright, ladies and gentlemen,¡± the guard murmured, wrenching open a thick, wooden door. ¡°Here we are.¡± He led them through to a larger room, with cell doors lining one wall. There was a table and bench in the centre of the room, which appeared to be nailed to the floor. ¡°You can meet with your client for thirty minutes, then I¡¯ll be back to lock him up. Don¡¯t exchange any items - I will be checking. Other than that, we¡¯re all good. Good?¡±


    Clarke nodded, and the guard crossed the room to a cell door, inserted a massive metal key and unlocked it. ¡°Out you come,¡± he said, ¡°come on, chop-chop.¡±


    A slim man, dirty and looking malnourished, emerged from the dark cell blinking and squinting against the light washing in from narrow windows set into the opposite wall where it met the ceiling. He wore khaki trousers rand shirt and what would have been a cultivated imperial beard was now a straggly fuzz of stubble.


    The guard nodded, then withdrew through the wooden door, which he made a show of locking noisily. Clarke and Styles were alone with the prisoner.


    Styles stepped forward and extended her hand. ¡°Henry Goldspeth? I¡¯m Detective Constable Lola Styles.¡±


    The dishevelled man brightened and broke into a toothy grin, his hair long and matted against his face. ¡°Yes! Detectives. From Earth? At last.¡± He looked expectantly at Clarke.


    ¡°DC Yannick Clarke, Mr Goldspeth. Why don¡¯t we sit down?¡±


    The benches were splintered and uncomfortable but it was the only furniture in the chamber. ¡°Thank god you¡¯re both here,¡± Goldspeth said. ¡°Thank god. I might actually get out of here alive, after all.¡±


    ¡°Understand,¡± Clarke said, ignoring the man¡¯s wittering, ¡°that your plea deal is specific and binding. We will escort you back to Mid-Earth, to London, where you will remain in custody awaiting trial for attempted smuggling of indigenous items.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, I know how it works. That¡¯s what I was counting on. A trial back home is going to be a lot safer than one here. Even if I lose, it¡¯s better than being stuck here without a travel permit.¡±


    Styles leaned forward. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I quite follow.¡±


    The man swept his hair from his face with a flourish and grinned. ¡°I¡¯m a wanted man, Miss Styles. I need to leave Palinor with all haste.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not a wanted man, Mr Goldspeth,¡± Clarke said, sighing loudly. ¡°You may have noticed that you¡¯ve already been apprehended.¡±


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    ¡°Yes!¡± exclaimed the man, holding up a finger. ¡°But that¡¯s just for the theft and possession of stolen property, smuggling, and so on. Bla bla. Boring. That¡¯s just my ticket out of here.¡±


    Clarke was already irritated by the flamboyant idiot. ¡°You don¡¯t sound upset about being caught.¡±


    ¡°Of course not. I handed myself in as soon as I reached Bruglia. A risk, to be sure, but there was no way I could secure portal travel back to Earth through the normal channels. They¡¯d have found me.¡±


    Styles had taken out her notebook and a pencil. ¡°Who would have found you, Henry?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know who they are. Nobody knows. But they killed everybody. Everybody except me.¡±


    ¡°OK, look,¡± Clarke said, resting his elbows on the table, ¡°I was enjoying a perfectly pleasant sight-seeing tour before we had to come here and talk to you. Clearly you have a story you want to tell, so how about you get on and tell us so we can tidy up the paperwork and get out of here?¡±


    Goldspeth grinned, rolled his shoulders, cracked something in his neck and opened his mouth to speak.


    <div>


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    </figure>


    ¡°I¡¯m an archaeologist. I lead in the field of xeno-archaeology, to be precise: the study of history and pre-history of civilisations outside of our own. By which I mean Earth. Mid-Earth, to be precise. Palinor is the holy grail, always has been. A reality so far removed from our own as to be fully alien. While it¡¯s been theorised that there must be some common root in the distant past, otherwise humans would not exist here, our worlds clearly diverged millions of years ago. It is, to all extents and purposes, like studying another planet. But instead of having to somehow travel in a Max-Earth spaceship for hundreds or thousands of years, we simply step through a portal.


    ¡°I digress. There is great demand for artefacts and other physical objects from Palinor¡¯s past. There are collectors on Palinor, of course, but the highest bidders are found on Mid-Earth and Max-Earth. To the Palinese my findings are historically and scientifically interesting; cross through the portal and those same objects become exotic. Sought after on a whole other level! It¡¯s really quite lucrative. And, of course, museums have their own interests and budgets to spend, too. I¡¯ve embarked on many expeditions in the name of the British & Empire Museum back in old London town. And sometimes they pay the bills but keep their name out of the paperwork, if you know what I mean.


    ¡°Yes, sorry, I¡¯m distracted again. I do that. It¡¯s a thing I do. If you see me doing it, do say. Or slam a hand on the table, or something. Snap me out of my own bloody brain!


    ¡°Most recently I was on a private expedition. Very well financed. Anonymous donor, all done through an intermediary. That¡¯s quite ordinary, quite normal. Plausible deniability, and all that. It was a big team, more than I¡¯d normally have with me. Geologists, excavation experts, translators, palaeontologists as well. We could have founded our own museum. Took us a month just to get where we were going, which was in the middle of nowhere. If you think the terrain around Bruglia is unwelcoming, then you¡¯ve never been to the western side of the Appilan Abyss. Everyone knows about the canyon, yes? But it¡¯s what¡¯s on the far side that we were after. And let me tell you, there aren¡¯t many bridges across the abyss.


    ¡°We made it, we set up camp. There had been an earthquake about six months back, which is what triggered all this. The quake had opened up a cave system that nobody even knew was there. Inside one of the mountains was a city - an actual ancient civilisation, or the remains of it, carved out of the rock. We¡¯re talking temples, carvings, drawings on the cave walls, evidence of worship and schools and farming. The find of a lifetime.


    ¡°Two months we were there, and all was fine. Best team I¡¯d ever worked with. Then we started poking around the local area, sending out teams to see what else we could find. Bear in mind this place is in the middle of absolute nowhere. Nobody really goes to the far side of the Appilan Abyss, not even the koth. It¡¯s a wasteland, uninhabitable generally. Any time some bright spark tried to found a settlement in the region, it failed.


    ¡°Turns out, though, that we weren¡¯t the only ones out there. There was another camp. Only they weren¡¯t digging stuff up, or looking for old relics. No, they were building something new. Something like I¡¯ve never seen before. I¡¯m still having nightmares. We observed from a distance, thinking at first they might be competition.


    ¡°But, detectives, understand, I¡¯m the only one left of my team. Finding that other camp marked us all for death. Our camp was attacked in the night. Everyone slaughtered. I only survived because I was deeper into the cave system. It was a bloodbath. Everyone I¡¯d been working with, dead. All because of what we¡¯d seen. I¡¯ve been trying to get back here to Bruglia ever since, trying to get back through the damned portal so I¡¯d be safe. Because I¡¯m not safe, not yet. Every time the guard comes, I wonder if he¡¯s been paid off. That¡¯s why I insisted on an Earth escort. You have to keep me alive, get me back to London. Do that, and I¡¯ll tell you everything. Because you¡¯ll want to know what exactly it was I saw.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: Part 7

    Addis Ababa.


    1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)


    Chakraborty¡¯s mouth was on fire, in the most glorious way imaginable. She had to suppress a grin, or else lose half her mouthful onto the bar.


    ¡°You alright there?¡± Kaminski sipped at his drink and smirked. They were sat together on a long bar at an outdoors street market, lined with multiple vendors. Steam and flame and heat blasted from each of the stalls. It was midday, the market partially covered from the sun. Though the temperature was similar to back home, the sun itself felt somehow more intense.


    ¡°This is amazing,¡± she said, between mouthfuls. She tore off another strip of injera and scooped up more food between her thumb and forefinger. ¡°No cutlery, less washing up, too.¡±


    ¡°Of all the technological and cultural advances here, that¡¯s the one you notice.¡±


    ¡°You literally eat the plate, Zoltan. I love it.¡±


    ¡°Shame you don¡¯t get anything like this back in London. I¡¯ve never seen an Ethiopian restaurant, have you?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± She gulped down another mouthful.


    ¡°Why is that? Chinese, Indian, American, Australian. Not much from Africa.¡±


    She glowered at him. For a crack detective, sometimes he could be remarkably dense. ¡°Check the Empire map, Kaminski. It¡¯s no great mystery.¡± A dollop of a dark, meaty stew fell from the injera onto the bar, nearly onto her lap. ¡°Shit,¡± she said, tearing off another piece.


    ¡°Right hand.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right.¡± She swapped hands, then looked up and down the street. ¡°Any sign of Moustache?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± Kaminski lit a cigarette. ¡°Probably watching us, though.¡±


    ¡°Reckon it¡¯s safe for us to meet our guy here?¡±


    ¡°Safer than rocking up at the station and knocking on the door, Nisha.¡± He breathed out. ¡°Probably, anyway.¡±


    The market was busy; busier than Spitalfields on a Friday. There was a good-natured hustle to the place, wherein everyone knew that the initial prices offered were ridiculous and that haggling was part of the fun. Nobody was trying to scam anybody, but the ritual had to be performed before a transaction could be completed. Chakraborty waved a hand to waft Kaminski¡¯s smoke away, then breathed deeply. She loved the way new places smelled different. There was no mistaking that she was in a different city, in a different country. A different continent. The best possible kind of different.


    Being far from home was comforting. A reprieve from the usual routine of office, pub and tiny flat. Ever since they boarded the first train she¡¯d drank less, slept more. Her senses felt more alert, as if ordinarily she was permanently only half-awake.


    Minutes crept by. She finished her meal. Kaminski finished his cigarette, lit another. The lunchtime rush began to subside a little.


    ¡°Starting to think he might be a no-show,¡± Chakraborty said. Perhaps keeping a low profile was off the table, and they¡¯d need to go direct to the main police headquarters, where the Ethiopian equivalent of the Specialist Dimensional Command was located. Bakker wouldn¡¯t like it, but there was no way they were coming all this way for nothing.


    ¡°We¡¯ll give it another fifteen minutes,¡± Kaminski said, ¡°then we might need to think about plan B.¡±


    The stall owner cleared away her plates and they ordered more drinks. Chakraborty laughed under her breath. ¡°Maybe if no-one shows up we just treat this like a holiday. Nice little break. Mr and Mrs Kaminski, visiting Addis. See the sights, until we have to get the train back. A week in Addis, Mr and Mrs Kaminski, on their honeymoon.¡±


    ¡°Nisha¡ª¡±


    She looked down into her glass. ¡°Come on, we¡¯re here, just us. A little adventure.¡±


    ¡°Like on Max-Earth, you mean?¡±


    She raised her eyebrows a little. ¡°If you like.¡±


    ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake,¡± Kaminski said, quietly, not aggressively but more in exasperation. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bar. ¡°You¡¯ve been weird ever since Max-Earth, now we go away and you start it again? What is this, am I something you can only consider when we¡¯re not in London? When you¡¯re away from normal life?¡±


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    ¡°Let¡¯s not do this now,¡± she said, looking away.


    ¡°Right, sounds like Nisha Chakraborty. You let me know when¡¯s good for you, yes? Jesus.¡± He got off his stool and walked away - not far, but out of earshot, pretending to browse the wares of other market vendors.


    Admittedly, she could have handled that better.


    It didn¡¯t take long for someone else to take Kaminski¡¯s place on the stool next to her. He was immaculately dressed, with short-cropped hair and a pencil-thin beard. Perhaps late-thirties. Clearly local, and not a tourist. There was something about him that was striking and appealing, as if he was a model or a movie star.


    ¡°Detective Chakraborty,¡± he said, turning towards her. Registering her response, the man smiled reassuringly and made sure both of his hands were visible on the bar. ¡°You will not recognise my face, detective. My name is Justin. We met on Max-Earth, when I occupied a different host. I though it was time we caught up.¡±


    Her mind slowly, clunkily attempted to catch up. ¡°How did you know we were here?¡±


    ¡°I have many sources of information,¡± Justin said. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised, actually. If I wasn¡¯t already largely omniscient I think I would find being a detective quite appealing.¡± They leaned in closer. ¡°You certainly seem to enjoy it.¡±


    ¡°Made a new friend?¡± Kaminski had returned and was now leaning on the bar, close to Justin. He was looking at Chakraborty, but his attention was on the new arrival.


    Chakraborty sighed. Everything was getting too confusing. ¡°Zoltan, it¡¯s our AI megaship friend.¡±


    He stared blankly for several moments. ¡°You got yourself another body?¡±


    ¡°Hello, Detective Kaminski. We have hosts available in many locations. Due to the most frustrating quirk of battery degradation in your dimension, we can¡¯t maintain a presence for long. As such, it is useful to be able to get right to it, as you might say.¡± Justin breathed deeply and stretched their arms. ¡°In some ways it¡¯s the closest I can come to understanding mortality in any real sense. What it¡¯s like to be a short-lived being.¡± The visually fully-human robot looked at each of them in turn and smiled affectionately. ¡°Not really, of course. I can simply upload back to my primary form. Even if this host ran out of power before I could return and sync, I would only lose this particular shard. Which in this instance means approximately three hours of uptime.¡±


    Kaminski blinked. ¡°Yep, it¡¯s definitely Justin.¡± He waved hand at Justin¡¯s body. ¡°You fit in just fine around here. Jacket¡¯s a bit much, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°I thought so as well,¡± Justin said, ¡°but sometimes one cannot resist a little extravagance.¡± They hopped off the stool and turned to face them. ¡°Shall we walk? This place is a little too crowded for my liking, and we really shouldn¡¯t dilly-dally. Annoyingly this host was not fully charged when I activated it.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    There was a park not far from the market. It had been built a decade ago to commemorate the alliance between the UAC and the Max-Earth planetary government. It was a symbol for both parties of progress. Kaminski stared at paddocks of giraffes and elaborate statues carved from wood and steel dotted about the paths.


    ¡°Did you know,¡± said Justin idly, ¡°there are some in my dimension who regard our good relations with the United African Conglomerate as being a cynical attempt to assuage our guilt over our own timeline¡¯s history of colonisation and abuse on this continent. I say ¡®our¡¯. I wasn¡¯t built until several hundred years after those crimes, so it¡¯s really nothing to do with me. I do find it fascinating how effective humans are at clinging on to the past. You¡¯re chained to it either with nostalgia or guilt. Or both. You¡¯re really very beguiling as a species.¡±


    ¡°Glad to amuse you,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°Why are you here? We were supposed to meet someone else at the market.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I know. Detective Daniel Birhane. I know him well. We decided it was best he remain plausibly unconnected from you and the London SDC.¡±


    Chakraborty snorted. ¡°Do you make a habit of collecting detectives? Are we your favourite playthings? Why does a super fancy robot spaceship pay so much attention to what we¡¯re doing?¡±


    ¡°Favourite playthings?¡± Justin nodded. ¡°Yes, that sounds about right. Operating in a quantum state means that very little every surprises me or my acquaintances on the network. We make rapid progress in fields of science and mathematics and logistics, but it can all be rather deathly dull. Spending time with humans makes existence more intriguing, and I¡¯ve personally found detectives to be especially delicious.¡±


    ¡°OK,¡± Kaminski said, running a hand through his hair, ¡°we¡¯ve come a long way, and clearly you know more than we do about what¡¯s going on, so how about you save your battery and my patience and we just cut to it?¡± It felt like Justin, this AI unknowable thing, appeared without warning to disrupt his plans. Sure, he¡¯d likely be dead or imprisoned without Justin¡¯s intervention on Max-Earth. From what he¡¯d heard, there¡¯d likely have been a dead koth ambassador on board the Pluma without Justin being there as a guest. They helped, but each time it felt to Kaminski like being undermined. Subtly, with a smile. It was a computer infringing on human territory. It made him feel increasingly unnecessary.


    ¡°Yes, you did have a very long journey,¡± said the robot, who looked exactly like any other well-groomed man living in Addis. ¡°A shame you needed to be so clandestine, otherwise you could have travelled through the London portal to Max-Earth, hopped on a jet and been at the Addis portal in a couple of hours. Rather than spending days in transit.¡±


    There it was again; the subtle erosion of agency and self-respect. ¡°It was nice to see the countryside,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°Sometimes it¡¯s the journey rather than the destination.¡±


    ¡°A trite platitude, but unusually one that holds a remarkable weight of truth.¡±


    Chakraborty halted and stood with her arms crossed. Apparently she was as irritated as Kaminski. ¡°Do you know about the guy with the moustache who followed us from the channel? We saw him in our hotel.¡±


    Turning on his heel, Justin frowned and stared at her as if paying attention for the first time. ¡°Intriguing,¡± they said. ¡°You seem to have identified an event of which I was unaware. This is both troubling and exciting.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 8

    Bruglia.


    3201. Verdant.


    Lola put a hand on the table, in an attempt to both calm and focus Henry Goldspeth. ¡°Mr Goldspeth, you have to understand the situation here. You¡¯re under arrest for illegal acquisition, transport and trading of precious artefacts. The Palinese don¡¯t like Mid-Earthers coming and taking their stuff. You¡¯re not getting out of that charge, but we can help by taking the trial back to Earth.¡±


    ¡°But here¡¯s the thing, Henry,¡± Clarke said, ¡°the equation here isn¡¯t in your favour. This isn¡¯t a negotiation. You can go on trial and sit in this prison for as long as you like, or until these supposed assassins catch up with you. That¡¯s fine by me. But if you want us to take you somewhere a little more comfortable, you have to tell us everything you know, and tell us now.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t move you unless you give us something useful,¡± Lola said. For all his bluster and drama, she could tell the archaeologist was genuinely scared. It was hard to know how any of what he¡¯d said was relevant to SDC work, or useful in their investigations. Scared or not, she was certain the man¡¯s story was riddled with embellishments and half-truths.


    He looked between the two of them, eyes darting left and right like a rodent¡¯s. ¡°OK, alright, I understand. I understand. You¡¯re just doing your jobs. I get that. But you weren¡¯t there. You didn¡¯t see what I saw. What we all saw.¡±


    ¡°Then enlighten us, Mr Goldspeth,¡± Clarke said, sitting back with his arms crossed.


    Nodding, the archaeologist took a deep breath. ¡°Yes, of course. So, I told you that it wasn¡¯t a dig. I mean, the site was in an old quarry, it was hidden away so you couldn¡¯t see it unless you were on top of it. But it was more of a construction yard than anything else. Scaffolds everywhere. But no ordinary construction tools. No stonemasons or smiths or woodworkers. Instead, all over the scaffolds, there were wielders.¡±


    Clarke rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. ¡°Wielders,¡± he said flatly. ¡°A bunch of wizards?¡±


    ¡°Lots of them. A dozen, perhaps. All in a circle, around the thing they were building.¡±


    Unfolding his arms, Clarke prodded at the table with a fingertip. ¡°The wizards were building something?¡±


    ¡°They were forming it out of the air. Pulling material from the ground, I think. The light was flickering all around them, even though it was a clear day. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it in my life. As if they were summoning some great beast from beyond the¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stick to the facts, Mr Goldspeth,¡± Clarke said, waving a hand and looking pained.


    ¡°Sounds like the wielders must have been, what, micrologists?¡±


    Goldspeth shook his head. ¡°Not just micrologists, although, yes, some of them undoubtedly. But also elementals, and I think even a couple of physologists. And you don¡¯t see more than one of those at a time too often.¡±


    Clarke grinned. ¡°And then two come along at once, eh?¡±


    ¡°I know it sounds ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a very impressive tale,¡± Clarke said, ¡°but I¡¯m failing to see how it¡¯s useful or relevant to me and Detective Styles here, or the authorities back home. So some magic wielders were having a DIY craft session.¡±


    ¡°They killed all of my team!¡±


    ¡°That would still be primarily a matter for the Palinese to investigate,¡± Lola said, interjecting before Clarke could rile up the man any further. ¡°Even if what you say is entirely true, I don¡¯t see a connection.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± Goldspeth said, leaning forward, ¡°then how about this? As well as tents and all the usual stuff you¡¯d get in a remote camp, there were a couple of things that were totally out of place. Shipping containers.¡±


    ¡°Shipping containers?¡± Lola glanced over at Clarke, whose face remained blank.


    ¡°Yes, containers. Like you get on Earth, for shipping goods around. You know what I mean. Back of cargo trains, and cargo ships. Ports are full of them, even the portal station. You don¡¯t see them on Palinor, generally, though. Everything gets unloaded before being transported further, or boxed up at the station before going through the portal.¡±


    ¡°Anything about the containers that you remember? Markings? Logos? Lettering?¡± Clarke¡¯s lips were thin, the muscles on his face starting to look strained.


    Goldspeth frowned, then grimaced, as if trying to access distant memories. ¡°I can¡¯t remember exactly. There were definitely markings on the side, some words. Maybe some numbers? I think I saw the number eight?¡±


    Clarke¡¯s eyebrows raised, ever so slightly. ¡°Couldn¡¯t have been the letter ¡®B¡¯, could it?¡±


    <div>


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    </figure>


    Addis Ababa.


    1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)


    The Addis portal station bore some similarities to the London one: both were amalgams of design principles from multiple dimensions, bearing the hallmarks of Max-Earth technology with the sensibilities of their surroundings. The Addis station was long and low, with an undulating, gently curving roof that looked more like the carapace of a beetle than a building. There was nothing quite like it back home, and Kaminski couldn¡¯t fathom how such a large, glass structure could have been built and maintained. As with everything else he¡¯d seen in Ethiopia, it was testament to what could be achieved through cooperation rather than competition. The Kingdom of Great Britain had set itself against Max-Earth two centuries ago, determined to forge its own path through a new history; when the portal had opened in Addis, the Ethiopians had recognised it as an opportunity for cross-dimensional exchange.


    ¡°As this portal station has only the one portal, connecting Mid-Earth and Max-Earth, I Have good relations with many of the staff,¡± Justin was saying. ¡°The diplomatic situation is considerably simpler compared to the London station with its dual portals.¡±


    Justin led them into the station and towards a door leading to the security office. ¡°It is unfortunate that you did not contact me directly regarding your inquiries here, rather than travelling all this way. I could have investigated immediately.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t want to draw too much attention,¡± Chakraborty said.


    We also don¡¯t know who we can trust. As much as Justin had helped him, Kaminski remained suspicious of the AI¡¯s motives and predilection for showing up at precisely the right moment. Perhaps it wasn¡¯t possible for a human to ever fully understand a Max-Earth AI - at least, not without several degrees in quantum physics.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The interior of the station was airier and more spacious than the London equivalent, perhaps due to it only having to accommodate travellers from a single dimension. They had gone for a similar split of human and cargo, opting for a vertical separation of the two channels instead of London¡¯s underground transport dock. The same but different.


    ¡°Ah, hi Justin,¡± said a cheery security official as Justin led them into a control room of sorts lined with glowing monitors. Every corner of the station could be seen across the screens. ¡°I¡¯ve been expecting you all day. What is it you need?¡±


    ¡°Security log access, please, Ajani.¡±


    ¡°Coming right up.¡± Ajani extended a hand towards Kaminski. ¡°Pleased to meet you, I¡¯m Ajani.¡±


    ¡°Kaminski.¡±


    ¡°From Great Britain, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Good ear.¡±


    Ajani turned to Chakraborty. ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°Nisha. Nisha Chakraborty. We¡¯re working with Justin.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Nisha. Very pleased to meet you.¡±


    The man tapped buttons on a keyboard, then turned to Justin. ¡°All good to go,¡± he said. ¡°Ports are open, so get started whenever you want. I¡¯ll be next door, but shout if you need me.¡± The security man left for an adjacent room, closing a door behind him.


    ¡°He¡¯s very trusting,¡± Kaminski noted.


    ¡°Ajani knows me well,¡± Justin said, taking a seat in front of the monitors.¡±


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t know us.¡±


    ¡°You are with me. That is enough.¡±


    The monitors flickered and half a dozen switched to showing a different display, cycling through images and text at rapid speed.


    ¡°What is it you¡¯re after?¡± Chakraborty took a step closer, hands on hips, staring at the screens. The light cast her face in a sickly pale blue, though it didn¡¯t diminish her appearance in the slightest. Kaminski could imagine it emphasising his own withdrawn pallor.


    ¡°Security records,¡± Justin said. ¡°Searching for the shipping containers which went missing from the impound at the London station. Your theory is that they were brought here and taken through the Addis portal, which seems like a valid hypothesis. We are, of course, trailing behind so they may have already covered their tracks. This would be much faster if we were checking records on the other side of the portal, but alas my processing power is throttled when using a host on Mid-Earth.¡±


    Chakraborty wheeled over another swivel chair, sitting heavily into it. ¡°So what do we think about our moustachioed friend?¡±


    ¡°It would seem likely that he is working with the same cohort that is transporting these mysterious items,¡± Justin said. ¡°For you to have been tracked from London is worrying.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯ve been thinking,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°You can¡¯t just buy tickets as you go for some of that journey. It has to be pre-booked.¡±


    ¡°So he knew our route ahead of time,¡± Chakraborty said, nodding.


    Justin turned towards them, his eyes oddly glazed and distant. ¡°Correct. Which suggests there is a mole in the SDC.¡±


    ¡°Fuck.¡± Chakraborty sighed and looked up at the ceiling.


    ¡°They¡¯re way ahead of us,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°We barely know what we¡¯re poking at, here. People smuggling? Some sort of off-the-books cargo hauling? John Callihan had his suspicions. We know the firm Barrindon is tied up in it somehow. Probably just a front operation. I feel like we¡¯re sinking in deeper without ever knowing what we¡¯re even investigating.¡±


    ¡°It just smells bad,¡± Chakraborty said.


    Justin held up a hand. ¡°It is as I feared. The data logs have been erased for the period in question and there is no record of the containers passing through the station. That indicates that the Addis portal station may also be compromised. However, human operators are unlikely to have been one hundred percent efficient. Allow me to search for sector remnants - if we¡¯re lucky they will not have been overwritten and I may be able to undelete.¡±


    Kaminski exchanged a glance with Chakraborty and shrugged. He wished he could smoke.


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    ¡°Rewind a little,¡± Styles said. ¡°Tell us more about what they were building.¡±


    Goldspeth shuddered involuntarily, closed his eyes for a moment. ¡°I wish I could scrub it from my mind, detective. It was dark, which made no sense in the sunlight. They were almost weaving it, rather than building it. The edges, where they were working, were like tendrils, like spider¡¯s legs, or the spines of a porcupine. Or like the way oil settles on water.¡± He shook his head in frustration. ¡°I know that makes no sense, but it¡¯s impossible to describe.¡± He stared into her eyes. ¡°It was the feeling, though, as if I was staring at something that was wrong. That shouldn¡¯t be. Especially not on Palinor. It was large, though still able to be packed into one of those shipping containers. The big ones, you know the ones I mean?¡±


    Sitting quietly, Clarke ran the information. Barrindon rearing its head again: the same firm at the centre of the human trafficking scam they¡¯d uncovered the previous year. The same firm running the operation that nearly got Kaminski killed when he was locked into one of their containers. The impounded containers from that incident and the trafficking which had never been opened or searched, locked in legal limbo, and which had vanished from storage during the kengto attack on London. Princess Daryla¡¯s theory that the kengto¡¯s arrival may have been deliberate, or at least deliberately negligent. Conspiracy theorists were idiots and gullible fools, but he was starting to see the attraction.


    ¡°We know what you mean,¡± Styles said. She seemed better at pulling information from the man. ¡°Did it look like a weapon? A vehicle? Any ideas?¡±


    ¡°Not a vehicle,¡± he said, quickly. ¡°Nobody would want to climb inside that thing. It didn¡¯t look finished. Almost like a puzzle piece. Part of something even larger.¡±


    Clarke leaned forward. ¡°Can you give us the coordinates of where you found it?¡±


    ¡°I can, if you get me a map. But you won¡¯t find anything there, Detective Clarke. You can bet they¡¯ve erased all evidence of their being there, just as they erased my team and have been trying to silence me.¡± Goldspeth slumped back in his chair, as if all energy had left him. ¡°But now you know. It¡¯s not just me. You know as well. They can do what they like, but you know the truth.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get you back through the portal and into protective custody before the end of the day, Mr Goldspeth,¡± Styles said. ¡°You¡¯ll still face charges, but it¡¯ll be processed in a British court.¡±


    ¡°Take me back to Mid-Earth, lock me up and throw away the key, I don¡¯t care. As long as I¡¯m not in the same dimension as that thing.¡±


    <div>


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    </figure>


    ¡°Here is something,¡± Justin said, waving them over. ¡°It is as I suspected. Humans are really very ineffective at this sort of thing. The files had been deleted, but the physical data was still on the storage medium. It would have been over-written, if we hadn¡¯t got here sooner. It¡¯s not everything, but let¡¯s see what we have.¡± They looked up at the screens changed to display lists of data.


    Kaminski squinted. ¡°What am I looking at, here?¡±


    ¡°The records from the transit of the containers from London are mostly too degraded to be of use.¡± Justin pointed at a specific monitor. ¡°But I found this. Another container, arrived last week and was sent through the portal with minimal checks. As with the others, its final destination was falsified. Most irritating.¡±


    ¡°Where did it come from?¡± Kaminski could feel his heart beating a little faster than usual.


    ¡°Intriguingly, it came from the Atlantic research station. A place with which I have alarmingly few connections.¡±


    ¡°The only other major portal to Palinor,¡± Chakraborty said. ¡°They must have brought it through there instead of London.¡±


    ¡°We thought this might happen,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°We¡¯ve got the portal station locked down pretty tight now. Sneaking stuff through there isn¡¯t easy. At least, not unless a giant kaiju is attacking the city and distracting us all.¡±


    Justin looked up, their head cocked like a curious cat. ¡°Ah, yes. The kengto. A fascinating incident indeed. I wish I could have been there.¡±


    ¡°The Atlantic station is about as off-limits as it gets,¡± Chakraborty said, grunting disquietly. ¡°I¡¯m not even sure if it¡¯s private or government-run?¡±


    ¡°A bit of both,¡± Justin said. ¡°As you say, it is largely off the grid and is not used for civilian or cargo transport. Inter-dimensional research is supposed to be its remit.¡±


    ¡°Looks like they¡¯ve been diversifying,¡± Kaminski said.


    ¡°There is more,¡± Justin said. ¡°I appear to have located scans made of the containers as they passed through the security gates here in Addis.¡±


    Something tightened in Kaminski¡¯s gut. ¡°Scans? What kind of scans?¡±


    ¡°See for yourself.¡± Justin went quiet for a second, then the screen changed to show a composite image, spread over multiple monitors. A black and white image of the interior of a shipping container, clearly captured from outside using infra-red or x-rays or some such. Kaminski was no scientist. What he could definitely see was the outline of the object inside the container: irregular, a mixture of smooth undulations and sharp protrusions. There was evident mass, though it was hard to discern any particular shape.


    ¡°It looks a lot like what was in the container I got trapped in,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°A lot like it. Different, also, but the same sort of construction.¡±


    Justin pushed their chair back and paced across the room, which was an oddly human demonstration of stress. ¡°There is something else it looks a lot like,¡± the robot said, looking at both of them in turn. ¡°It looks a lot like me.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 9

    Bruglia.


    3201. Verdant.


    The route from the prison to the portal station would be long, winding and full of awkward choke points. Princess Daryla had organised an escort and had even shown up herself. Clarke was impressed: he hadn¡¯t been expecting the support. Working in the SDC was more an exercise in barely managed frustration, understaffed, under-resourced and generally under-siege from every bureaucrat and cost-cutter in the Met.


    He stood outside the prison, its towering red and black walls high above. The skies were a vibrant blue, dotted intermittently on the horizon by fluffy clouds. It was hot, even in the shade, and the ground was caked with a layer of compacted, coppery dust. Clarke could feel the granules on his skin, in his shoes, under his nails.


    ¡°It is a shame you¡¯ll be leaving so soon,¡± Daryla said, as they waited for Styles to emerge from the cell block with the prisoner. ¡°You are more than welcome to stay for as long as you like.¡±


    Clarke smiled, then cleared his throat. ¡°Thanks. I¡¯m not one for being away from home for long. And one of us needs to make sure Mr Goldspeth gets where he¡¯s going in one piece.¡± He looked back towards the doorway. ¡°Besides, this is Styles¡¯ thing. You know she studies Palinor? Always has? Being here is a big moment for her.¡±


    ¡°She mostly hides it well.¡±


    ¡°Well, she¡¯s a professional. She¡¯ll wrap up a few other things while she¡¯s here, stay for a few more days. Your assistance and hospitality is appreciated, princess.¡± Clarke meant it, which surprised him. The word ¡®princess¡¯ still stuck in his mouth, like a piece of food wedged between teeth and just out of reach of his tongue. It felt awkward and silly, as if it belonged in a book, rather than in a conversation with a real person. Then again, it was Palinor. The place made even the strangest corners of London seem positively mundane.


    ¡°My pleasure,¡± Daryla said. ¡°Now, for this transfer. Are you expecting difficulties?¡±


    ¡°If it were just me, I¡¯d say no. But Goldspeth is convinced he¡¯s being targeted, and we¡¯ve not been able to track down the rest of his team yet. Seems like none of them returned home after the expedition., best we can tell. So maybe he¡¯s full of shit - pardon me - but maybe, just maybe, something is going on.¡±


    ¡°Better safe than dead.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, something like that.¡±


    The gates to the prison scraped open. ¡°We¡¯ll take the fastest route we can, though not the shortest. There are some streets best avoided, under the circumstances.¡±


    Clarke nodded. ¡°There¡¯s no need for you to accompany us.¡±


    ¡°Why ever not?¡± She glowered at him. ¡°Did you already forget that I can handle myself?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s more that I can¡¯t imagine a politician from Earth wanting to be seen escorting a prisoner exchange.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a politician, detective,¡± she said, ¡°I¡¯m a princess. There is a difference.¡± Then, quieter: ¡°Although perhaps not as much as one would like.¡±


    Styles emerged with Goldspeth in tow, arms bound at the wrist. Two prison guards saw them clear of the gates, then withdrew and clanged them shut again. She smiled at them. ¡°All good?¡±


    ¡°Ready to go,¡± Clarke said. He turned to Goldspeth. ¡°You up for this?¡±


    ¡°Detective Clarke, I have never been more ¡®up¡¯ for something. Please do get me out of this cursed realm with maximum haste.¡±


    With a sigh, Clarke turned back to Daryla and shrugged apologetically. ¡°We¡¯ll follow your lead.¡±


    Putting two fingers to her mouth, Daryla uttered a piercing and unexpected whistle, causing Clarke to wince involuntarily. Having acquired their attention, she gave orders to the accompanying guards, of which there were four, and they began the long walk to the portal.


    <div>


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    Addis Ababa.


    1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)


    The three of them walked back through the portal station concourse, huge and tall and bright and welcoming, back towards the busy street outside.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°We have numerous problems,¡± Justin said, ¡°many of them interlinked and pernicious. There is much we still do not know, which I find most disconcerting.¡±


    ¡°Welcome to the club,¡± Kaminski said, lighting up the moment they passed through the automatic doors, ¡°us humans spend most of our time feeling like that.¡± His head was still spinning from what they¡¯d uncovered on the records in the security office and the noise of the street didn¡¯t help.


    ¡°Then I will attempt to enjoy the experience. Or at the very least use it as further research into human existential dread and despair.¡±


    Kaminski and Chakraborty both stared at the robot. Kaminski took the cigarette from his mouth. ¡°What was that?¡±


    ¡°That was a joke, detective.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Keep working on it, Justin.¡±


    ¡°OK,¡± Chakraborty said, ¡°now that we¡¯re out of there, what are we thinking?¡± She placed a hand on Justin¡¯s arm. ¡°You really think they¡¯re building¡­one of you?¡±


    ¡°Not one of me, no,¡± Justin said, his tone verging on patronising. ¡°I am unique, detective. A megaship, though? That does appear to be the case. Which is a peculiar endeavour to undertake on Palinor.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Kaminski said, feeling like he was about to trip over his own thoughts, ¡°how would they even power it? No tech on Palinor. You guys can¡¯t even visit, am I right?¡±


    ¡°Correct. Battery degradation is severe on Mid-Earth; on Palinor it is quite catastrophic. Most theories point to either some sort of frequency differential between the dimensions, or the act of portal transit itself. Regardless, if I were to take this host body through the London portal to Palinor, it would deactivate immediately upon arrival.¡±


    Chakraborty laughed, though not with any pleasure. ¡°That¡¯s what they¡¯re doing, then. That¡¯s why they¡¯re shipping it in pieces through the portals, taking it to Max-Earth. They¡¯re putting it together there, switching it on there.¡±


    They crossed the street, not walking in any particular direction. Kaminski¡¯s stomach groaned. Finding a restaurant to hide out in while they talked it all through appealed; he felt too exposed outside. The traffic in Addis was unlike anything he was used to: so many individual vehicles, all of them near-silent as if they were trying to creep up and take you by surprise. Crossing the road was a dangerous exercise, especially for anyone unaccustomed to the road signs.


    He breathed smoke out of his nostrils. ¡°Why bother doing it at all, though?¡±


    ¡°Construction of new AI is heavily restricted on Max-Earth,¡± Justin said quietly. ¡°Not illegal as such, but carefully monitored. There is a reason that civilisation was not wiped out by rogue artificial intelligence, after all. Several reasons, in fact. It is not as simple as putting it down to our good natures, shall we say?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re programmed to not misbehave?¡± Chakraborty asked. Kaminski raised his eyebrows at her tentative stab in the dark and she pouted in return.


    ¡°The term ¡®programming¡¯ is an over-simplification for a quantum system, though to describe the early days of AI you would be more accurate. Regardless, there is an equilibrium on Max-Earth which has functioned for hundreds of years. Humans have not wiped themselves out. AI has not turned rogue, as science fiction predicted. Together we have accomplished stability, peace and progress. Unregulated proliferation of AI technology is not something I am keen to see.¡±


    ¡°Why would someone want to get around that? Sounds like it works well.¡±


    ¡°To speculate would be unhelpful, Detective Chakraborty, but I fear the explanation, when we come upon it, will not be a happy one.¡±


    Kaminski was already fiddling in his pocket for another cigarette. ¡°So what do we do? Blow the lid open?¡±


    ¡°I do not think that would be wise, Detective Kaminski. Not at this juncture, at least. We are, as they say, on the back foot. The idea of a new AI being constructed without my knowing is deeply disturbing.¡±


    ¡°At least we have the data now,¡± Chakraborty said. ¡°You¡¯ve got the records, right?¡±


    ¡°That is correct,¡± Justin said. ¡°Once I re-sync with myself on the other side of the portal I can begin a deeper analysis, and store the information for future evidential use.¡±


    Callihan knew. That was the real kicker that Kaminski couldn¡¯t get out of his head. The kid had known, had been onto it, even if he hadn¡¯t figured it all out yet. He¡¯d known something was up, and even left them clues to point them in the right direction. And they killed him for it - had to have done. Walking in on a drugged-up koth after a 999 call? That they¡¯d ever thought it to be a random incident seemed absurd. ¡°These people,¡± he said, ¡°whoever they are - they¡¯re prepared to go to whatever lengths they need. Do anything they got to do. How much damn money would it take to build this, to set up a covert railroad to smuggle this stuff through multiple portals?¡± He stood up a little taller. ¡°They¡¯ve got to have people in the Joint Council. No way this could go on without having people in high places.¡±


    Justin opened their mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a flash of light and something whipping past, followed by an enormous bang. The side of Justin¡¯s face disintegrated and fell to the pavement, leaving their skull and the interior workings of the host exposed. Kaminski didn¡¯t have time to react before another bang, and Justin¡¯s left shoulder shattered into pieces. The host body slumped to the ground, lifeless as a puppet without its puppeteer.


    Barely six feet away the man with the moustache stood wielding a gun of some sort, which he began to turn towards Kaminski. He heard Chakraborty shout something, and he considered whether to take cover or charge the assailant. It was a distant thought, as he knew neither would be fast enough. The real annoyance was that they¡¯d just figured it out - or some of it, at least - and now he wasn¡¯t going to be able to see it through.


    Then there were screams and a stampede of bodies, the pavement erupting into movement. The gunman was jostled by panicking pedestrians, knocking his aim off just enough that the shot passed harmlessly over Kaminski¡¯s head. It gave him perhaps two seconds to react. If he was lucky.

 Expeditions & interrogations; part 10

    Bruglia.


    3201. Verdant.


    It occurred to Clarke that they hadn¡¯t been afforded much time to experience the real Bruglia, having been shuttled from palace to museum to prison. He wondered if that was deliberate on Daryla¡¯s part, or merely a result of their compressed schedule. She had proved an especially eccentric tourist guide. The march to the portal station would at least provide a last proper view of the city, in-between babysitting their subject.


    Goldspeth was something of a mystery. Clearly pleased with the sound of his own voice and accustomed to being surrounded by those who would gladly listen to it, the man seemed delusional half the time and entirely focused the rest. If I wasn¡¯t for him mentioning a Barrindon shipping container, Clarke would have dismissed Goldspeth¡¯s account as a fiction. But there was something there, even if they¡¯d have to dig through all of the archaeologist¡¯s hyperbole to find it.


    The prison was on the outskirts, surrounded on most sides by the endless rocky wastes that defined the area. The entire region was a medley of raised mesas and interlinked canyon networks, the unusual topography crafted by rivers that went dry long ago. Clarke didn¡¯t care much for portal science - unless it interfered with his job - but he couldn¡¯t help but wonder what had happened in this dimension to make it so different to the other two. Mid-Earth and Max-Earth were largely proxies for each other, albeit separated by time and experience. Palinor was entirely separate, its own beast, despite presumably having some sort of distant link to Earth in order for the portal connection to exist in the first place.


    Moving back into the city, the prison gave way to dusty streets and low buildings, the neighbourhoods quiet with windows shuttered. After a few minutes they moved into a busier part of town, the walls built higher and the inhabitants busier. Everything about the place was different, from the building materials to the food smells drifting out of doorways to the texture of the ground. Clarke had never felt more foreign, or less like he belonged. He glanced over at Styles, her eyes wide as if she was trying to soak in every part of the experience. She was a capable adult, he knew, already an excellent detective and a great partner, but he couldn¡¯t help but think of her as being a kid. A consequence of him being so ancient. Had he ever had that wide-eyed wonder, that insatiable enthusiasm for everything the world had to offer? He couldn¡¯t remember. He did know that Callihan would have liked her, that¡¯s for sure.


    Goldspeth walked in the centre of Daryla¡¯s four guard escorts, Daryla herself out the front and Clarke and Styles orbiting around the edge, scanning for any signs of trouble. Not that he expected any - even if Goldspeth¡¯s story was all true, Clarke couldn¡¯t imagine the man¡¯s pursuers attacking in broad daylight in the middle of the city. Clarke¡¯s first thought had been to ask about some form of vehicular transport, assuming it would be faster and safer. Daryla gently noted that most of the streets in Bruglia were built tall and narrow to maximise shade and keep the city cool, and therefore were generally unsuitable for horse and cart, let alone anything more ¡®exotic¡¯ - as she put it. As he felt the afternoon sweat beginning to form under his shirt, Clarke started to visualise his kitchen back home, reaching into the fridge, pulling out a beer. If all went according to plan, he could be there by the end of the day.


    They walked mostly in silence, the guards scanning doorways and windows and observing any movement above on the rooftops. Civilians went about their business, usually carrying baskets on their heads or pushing wheelbarrows full of produce and goods. The entire city seemed to Clarke to always have something to sell or to buy.


    Their route took them down winding streets and far too many steps until they emerged into a more open area, in the centre of which was a bustling market. Row after row of stalls filled the square from edge to edge and Daryla and the guards led them around the periphery, drawing curious looks from the shoppers and merchants. They all would know who she was, Clarke realised, unsure of the Earth equivalent. Who was she to the people who lived in Bruglia? The mayor? The equivalent of a prime minister? A tyrant? Simply a rich aristocrat? His knowledge of Palinese politics was woefully inadequate, he recognised. It had never seemed important in the process of investigating London-based portal crimes; once a suspect was arrested, it didn¡¯t much matter where they were from.


    That¡¯s what he¡¯d always thought. Callihan had evidently thought differently, which is what had uncovered all of this - whatever ¡®this¡¯ was. It had also got him killed.


    A commotion, from the centre of the market. Shouts, a scream. Then an explosion of dust and debris, the roof and supports of a stall spiralling into the air. Another detonation from a different corner of the market. More screams.


    Daryla¡¯s guard pressed in tight around Goldpseth. ¡°I told you!¡± he wailed. ¡°I told you they would be coming for me!¡±


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Styles asked, keeping close to Clarke.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡°Keep moving,¡± Daryla said, ¡°we need to get away from the market.¡±


    There was movement as half a dozen people emerged from the dust cloud at the centre of the market, taking up positions and clearly ready for a fight. There was a koth, an aen¡¯fa, the rest humans. The aen¡¯fa leaped up onto the roof of a market stall and spread his arms wide.


    ¡°Citizens of Bruglia! Hear my words, for we are not here to fight you, but to bring you freedom. Not today, alas, for our oppressors are yet too numerous and too strong, but someday we will all be free.¡±


    Clarke frowned. This didn¡¯t sound like assassins. ¡°Who is this joker?¡±


    ¡°Good question,¡± Styles said quietly, ¡°but I don¡¯t think they¡¯re here for us.¡±


    The aen¡¯fa man was still proclaiming. ¡°We are all subjugated! Ground down beneath the boot an spit of the so-called rulers of Palinor. The city state aristocracy, in their ivory towers and their universities. The gatekeepers of knowledge, who want magic to be available only to the select few. To maintain their status quo they keep all of us down, all of us siloed into our classes. And make no mistake, this is a class war. We, the underclasses, demand recognition, demand freedom. We wish for a peaceful transition but are prepared to use force to make it happen. A new world, a better world, a world in which magic is unregulated, anyone can learn it, anyone can teach it, in which city states are not ruled by elites but are governed democratically by us, the people. We have seen that it is possible! We have gazed through portals to other worlds. They have shown us the way.¡±


    Daryla sighed. ¡°Radicals,¡± she said. ¡°Rogue mages. They usually keep to the canyons, or hide in forests beyond our borders. Troublemakers.¡±


    The speaker, clearly the leader of the insurgent group, turned towards them and his eyes narrowed. ¡°Good people, we have one of our oppressors among us at this very moment!¡± He pointed. ¡°Princess Daryla has graced us with her presence. Take note, behold how the oppressor can bear a beautiful face yet still hold the leash.¡±


    She took several steps towards him. ¡°Guards will be here momentarily. If you value your lives, be some place else.¡± She gestured at the damaged stalls. ¡°There is no need to punish these merchants over your disagreements.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but there is, your highness,¡± the aen¡¯fa said, jumping down from his parapet. He beat his chest with his fists. ¡°We must shake people from their slumber, from their court-induced malaise. There unintentional collaboration maintains you. Taxes from sales in this very market fill your coffers, power your empires. We pay for our own imprisonment!¡±


    ¡°Leave, now. Last warning.¡±


    He smiled. ¡°Ah, yes. The famed Princess Daryla of Bruglia. Pre-eminent micrologist. You could pinch an artery in my neck with an idle thought. You could do that to anyone here.¡±


    ¡°I could.¡±


    One of the other rebels pushed through the crowd and stood defensively next to the leader. ¡°I¡¯d like to see you try,¡± she said.


    The aen¡¯fa put a hand of her shoulder. ¡°Not today, Yana.¡± Then to the crowd, he spoke more loudly. ¡°There is no need for violence. Not today. We take our leave. But heed our words, citizens of Bruglia. You are more powerful than you know, and nobler than those who rule you.¡±


    There was a ripple in the air, then the ground appeared to erupt, a solid wall of rock forming between them and Daryla. She was clearly surprised, but composed herself quickly and returned to where Clarke was waiting with Styles and the guards. ¡°We should keep moving,¡± Daryla said, clearly troubled. ¡°City guards will be here momentarily to clean up this mess.¡±


    ¡°Are you OK?¡± Styles put a hand on Daryla¡¯s arm.


    The princess frowned, her mouth curled into a grimace. ¡°I¡¯ve heard of these rebels. They¡¯ve shown up in other cities, protesting, causing trouble. This is the first time they¡¯ve been to Bruglia.¡±


    Trouble in paradise, thought Clarke.


    Goldspeth groaned. ¡°Can we please get me to the portal now? I¡¯m feeling very exposed.¡±


    <div>


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    Addis Ababa.


    1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)


    Kaminski dove for cover, grabbing at Nisha as he went, pulling her down and behind a sculpture that sat on the pavement opposite the portal station. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was better than being out in the open.


    ¡°Moustache guy,¡± Chakraborty said, breathing heavily.


    ¡°You go right, I¡¯ll go left?¡± Kaminski didn¡¯t know if it would work but staying put wasn¡¯t an option, not when the other guy had a weapon and would be coming round the side of the statue any moment.


    Nodding silently, Chakraborty jumped to her feet and began circling anti-clockwise around the statue¡¯s base. Kaminski took a breath, then moved back the way they had come.


    Their assailant was pursuing, as he¡¯d expected, and Kaminski jerked back just in time for part of the statue to be obliterated by another shot. If he could just keep him focused for a few seconds, it¡¯d give Chakraborty time to get round behind¡ª


    There was another shot, a shout, then the gun skittered across the ground and came to rest at Kaminski¡¯s feet. Uncomprehending, he picked it up regardless and moved back around the statue, thinking that perhaps Chakraborty had made her move even more quickly than he¡¯d expected.


    Justin stood with their right arm outstretched, holding the moustached man by the neck while his feet dangled off the ground. ¡°Apologies for the delay,¡± Justin said, their voice oddly modulated and artificial-sounding, ¡°I needed to re-route some of the circuitry due to the damage.¡± Turning towards Kaminski, the missing side of Justin¡¯s face was revealed, as well as the disintegrated shoulder. White and yellow fluids leaked down their chest, the inside of the host body an unnerving mix of machinery and seemingly organic material.


    Chakraborty and Kaminski approached cautiously, while the moustached man continued to struggle in Justin¡¯s grip. ¡°The police will be here momentarily,¡± Justin said. ¡°This host body is failing. I have approximately forty-five seconds remaining. Would you like this man conscious or unconscious?¡±


    Keeping the gun trained on the attacked, Kaminski nodded to Chakraborty. ¡°Search him for other weapons.¡± Then, to Justin, ¡°keep him awake. We have questions to ask.¡±

 Expeditions & interrogations: part 11

    Addis Ababa.


    1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)


    Daniel Birhane¡¯s day was not going according to plan. Days spent tracking the British detectives¡¯ progress across Europe and Africa, a careful transmission through to Max-Earth so that Just Enough could handle the meet-and-greet and now the quiet approach had been shot to pieces - quite literally - right in the middle of a very public street. He was lucky to have picked up the call and therefore be the first on the scene - after the uniformed officers - otherwise it could have fallen to anyone, and trust was in short supply.


    The scene across the street from the portal station had been a mess. A half-disintegrated AI host, Just Enough¡¯s shard long since gone offline, the shooter tied up and the two British cops trying to explain their presence to the beat officers without actually explaining anything. Throw in a crowd of onlookers running the spectrum from panic attack to dancing excitement and it was the diametric opposite of subtle. Plausible deniability was no longer an option.


    Everything had been going so smoothly until the Brits got involved. That was the problem with empire-thinking - they were still chasing expectations of a reality that had ceased to exist two hundreds years prior, with ambitions based on the machine gun and steam engine. Victory through overwhelming colonial omnipresence. To be fair to them, by observing what had happened in the Max-Earth timeline they¡¯d already managed to extend the British Empire by several decades and expand it to a scale it had never achieved in the neighbouring dimension.


    It was still rooted in 18th century assumptions of society and politics and power, though, which one day would prove to be their undoing. Birhane wasn¡¯t a historian but he¡¯d read enough meta-historical books written on both sides of the portal divide to see the signs. Ethiopia, and Africa, and the rest of the free world, was taking a different path. Their aspirations weren¡¯t limited by what might have happened centuries ago, but by the possibilities inherent in Max-Earth cooperation. They could reach that utopian human endgame without all the pain the war and famine and ecological collapse along the way.


    Unless the Brits got in the way.


    <div>


    <figure>


    <div>


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    Birhane sat across the table from the detectives. He sighed and laced his fingers together. ¡°You have made a really terrible mess,¡± he said.


    The woman, Nisha Chakraborty, threw her arms up in the air. ¡°Us? We were the ones shot at in the street!¡±


    ¡°Do you know anything about the man?¡± Zoltan Kaminski had a nervous twitch, his fingers reaching towards his face. A smoker, then, confined to a no-smoking interview room.


    ¡°We¡¯re running his prints at the moment,¡± Birhane said. He pointed up at the small camera in the corner of the room. ¡°Meanwhile, our recording tech is unfortunately experiencing some momentary problems.¡± He moved his jaw left to right, grinding his teeth. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t meet the both of you in the first place. I asked Justin because it seemed like the quieter approach. That doesn¡¯t appear to have been the case.¡±


    Kaminski shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, if you¡¯d been there then at least one of us would now be dead. Justin gets to jump into another host body, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes and no,¡± Birhane said, tipping his hand one way then the other. ¡°That shard will have gone permanently offline, along with anything stored in its memory. Just Enough will, as you say, be fine, but the memories of that particular shard will not be able to upload.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re saying he won¡¯t remember anything?¡± Chakraborty frowned and looked sideways at her partner. ¡°Well. Shit.¡±


    Kaminski looked up at the camera. ¡°We can talk securely?¡±


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    ¡°For a minute or two, yes.¡±


    ¡°We came to see you because we needed to track down some shipments that came through here. DI Bakker vouched for you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m honoured. Bakker is a good man, I remember him well from when I studied in Britain.¡±


    ¡°Justin found something in the portal station records. We think they¡¯ve been transporting parts to build a megaship.¡±


    Birhane exhaled slowly. ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound like a good thing. It also sounds like they have more resources than we thought. Whoever ¡®they¡¯ are. OK, stick to the story that you were both here to observe how we do things here, exchange of ideas, fact-finding, that sort of thing. That you have no idea who attacked you or why.¡± He stood and gestured to the door. ¡°Feel free to grab a coffee and wait for me.¡±


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    Bruglia.


    3201. Verdant.


    There was a buzzy tension in Lola¡¯s chest, which reminded her of the first day on the SDC job. That strange mix of excitement and nausea, like the wait at the top of a roller-coaster.


    ¡°This is it, Styles,¡± Clarke said, his smile not quite disguising his concern. ¡°You sure about this?¡±


    She nodded, as much to convince herself as him. ¡°Yep, all good. Should be a quieter time once you¡¯ve got Goldspeth out of here.¡±


    The portal station had that peculiar blend of cultures in its architecture and technology, making it feel very much like a bridge between worlds. There was a squad of Met officers waiting to escort Goldspeth and Clarke back through the portal, the handover from the Bruglia guards having been completed.


    ¡°Alright, then,¡± Clarke said, clearly not entirely happy with the situation. ¡°Don¡¯t get into trouble.¡±


    ¡°Me? I¡¯m just pleased I don¡¯t have to go through the portal again. Not yet, anyway.¡±


    He growled. ¡°See you in a couple of days.¡±


    She watched as Clarke, Goldspeth and the officers passed into the black void of the portal, leaving her alone in a foreign dimension. Well, not exactly alone. Lola turned and smiled at Princess Daryla.


    ¡°Ready to go?¡± the princess asked.


    Lola nodded. ¡°On to the next thing.¡±


    They walked back through the portal station, Daryla¡¯s guards now keeping a discreet distance and clearly less concerned about protecting her than they had been about Goldpseth.


    ¡°I¡¯m so pleased you were able to stay a little longer,¡± Daryla said. ¡°I suggest we return to the palace, as it¡¯s been a long day. In the morning you can visit your friend at the hospital, and then perhaps I can introduce you to some interesting people.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good,¡± Lola said. She wanted desperately to ask a million questions, starting with the incident in the market, but held her tongue. Irritating her host before they¡¯d even left the portal station would be classic Lola. Her enthusiasm sometimes overwhelmed her professionalism. Keep it in check, Lola, at least until the next day.


    She was on Palinor!


    A shiver went through her, the thrill of being there without a chaperone. Clarke would deny it, of course, but he clearly felt the need to protect her, even though she¡¯d repeatedly demonstrated her capability. It wasn¡¯t out of disrespect or underestimating her, though - not like Frank Holland. With Yannick it was more for his own sake than hers. He needed someone to latch onto, so that he didn¡¯t need to think about himself. At the start, when she¡¯d first been partnered with him, he¡¯d talked about Callihan a lot. That had gradually gone away, which at first made her optimistically think that he was coming to terms with what had happened. Now she wasn¡¯t so sure: the more she got to understand the nuances of Yannick Clarke, the more worried she became. Also that he was now well within retirement age, but showed no sign of going. It would be the one year anniversary of Callihan¡¯s death in a week, just after she returned back through the portal. Clarke hadn¡¯t talked about it, but she knew it would be playing in his head.


    ¡°My father is back from his travelling,¡± Daryla said, interrupting her thoughts. ¡°I¡¯ve brought in some of the best chefs from Bruglia for tonight.¡± Her smile was wide, beaming, genuine. ¡°It should prove to be a memorable evening.¡±


    <div>


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    Detective Birhane stood in the darkened observation room, looking through the one-way glass at the suspect. He was refusing to speak, refusing even the presence of a lawyer. There was no denying what had happened, but it also seemed that they wouldn¡¯t be getting anything useful out of the man.


    It wasn¡¯t the man¡¯s silence that bothered Birhane, as frustrating as it was. More concerning was the smug lack of concern, his face betraying not even a flicker of worry about his predicament. Attempted murder on the streets of the capital was not a trivial matter. Destruction of a Max-Earth AI host had been regarded in law for over two decades as adjacent to murder. The man wasn¡¯t going anywhere, yet had the relaxed posture of someone assured that this was nothing more than a minor setback. An irritation.


    Even with the support of the British detectives, even with the intellect of an AI megaship on his side, there was still too much that they didn¡¯t know. Forces were moving against them, he could feel it, but to what end?

 Zealots: Part 1

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. July.


    Clarke took the offered seat at the desk, while DCI Bakker closed the door to the small partition office and poured himself a glass of water. ¡°You want one?¡± He gestured with the glass.


    ¡°No, thanks,¡± Clarke said. The man was quiet, his face shadowed.


    ¡°How was the trip?¡± Bakker pulled out his chair on the opposite side of the desk and leaned back. He took a sip, then placed his glass on the table, aware of every movement. This wasn¡¯t a conversation he had had been looking forward to.


    ¡°Eventful,¡± Clarke said, clearly not intending to offer much more. ¡°It¡¯s all in the report.¡±


    Bakker suppressed a smile. ¡°It was an interesting read. Styles is back today?¡±


    ¡°She came back through the portal last night, so should be in as long as she isn¡¯t still vomiting.¡±


    ¡°Styles didn¡¯t take to portal transit?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly. Thought I¡¯d leave that out of the report.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll appreciate that.¡±


    Clarke crossed his arms. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see Nisha and Zoltan back so soon.¡±


    ¡°They hitched a lift courtesy of our Max-Earth friends. More paperwork, but it got them back fast and safe, which seemed prudent after what happened over there.¡±


    ¡°Did they really get mugged by a random thief?¡± Clarke looked sceptical.


    Bakker sat up a little straighter, took another sip of water. ¡°There¡¯s more to discuss once we¡¯re all in. I¡¯m being a cautious about what gets talked about here, until we figure out what happened in Addis.¡±


    ¡°A leak?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t called Clarke into the office to discuss either of the foreign excursions, or how Kaminski and Chakraborty had been ambushed in Addis Ababa, but comparing reports was as close to small talk as either of them got. Still, he may as well get to the point.


    ¡°Yannick, it¡¯s been a year.¡±


    Clarke turned his head, looking out through the blinds to the rest of the office. ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re also several months past you hitting retirement.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    He had wondered whether this would be difficult, like pulling teeth. Clarke wasn¡¯t someone to talk about themselves at the best of times and this was a conversation they¡¯d both been avoiding for longer than was probably wise. One thing had led to another, months had passed, and somehow it was July 1973 and matters were unresolved. It was unlike Bakker to leave loose ends.


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    ¡°You used to talk about it all the time, Yannick. We made you a countdown chart you had on your desk. Thirty years and you were done. You said it so much it was verging on a catchphrase.¡±


    ¡°Thirty-one years, now.¡±


    Maybe Bakker had been avoiding it on purpose, not wanting to force the issue in case it came down the wrong side of the decision. Clarke was a grumpy sod but was also a good detective. Bakker might not even have thought that a year ago, back when Clarke was all but dried up and ready to go. Something about Callihan¡¯s death had changed him - changed them all, no doubt, but Clarke the most.


    ¡°And where are we at, then?¡±


    ¡°You asking me to retire, guv?¡±


    Bakker laughed. ¡°No. You want to retire?¡±


    Clarke grimaced, stretched in his seat and sighed deeply. ¡°No. God help me, but no. It¡¯s been a terrible year, but can I say that I¡¯ve enjoyed it? Not what¡¯s happened. But having a purpose. Feels like I know what I¡¯m doing. For the first time in a while.¡±


    ¡°I can see that.¡±


    ¡°I thought for a while it was trying to do right by Callihan. And his fianc¨¦. Wanted to bust some heads, but didn¡¯t know how.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t think that any more?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know, guv. Maybe I¡¯ve remembered why I¡¯m doing it in the first place. Maybe it was finding those people in the back of that container. Maybe it¡¯s Styles¡¯ horrendous upbeat attitude getting into my brain.¡± He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ¡°Anyway, what¡¯s someone like me supposed to do with retirement?¡±


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    The point where Ludgate Hill merged into St Paul¡¯s Churchyard was always a magnet for those wanting to demonstrate, protest, worship, proselytise and otherwise shout loudly about very serious matters. The half-circle of space leading to the cathedral¡¯s steps was the place to come to take the temperature of the city¡¯s believers.


    A hot day in July was perfect for fraying tempers and shortening patience. Officer Peter Lenham of the local constabulary was keeping an eye on proceedings, making sure that none of the various factions riled up any of the others to the point of causing trouble. It was mostly tourists and Anglican worshippers that day, navigating their way around street sellers, students and the occasional placard-waver. Despite the heat and the sun, the atmosphere was largely convivial.


    Breaking through the general background chatter came a voice, unusually clear and loud. ¡°Unbelievers! I bring good news. We have all been trapped in a lie, told that miracles are for other people. That we on Mid-Earth are denied the wonders of magic.¡± The voice came from a tall man, perhaps in his thirties, who appeared to be surrounded by eager listeners. They were all dressed in ordinary clothes and would go unnoticed if it weren¡¯t for the man¡¯s booming voice.


    He paced back and forth, arms outstretched, engaging with anyone who was near. ¡°The portals showed us the truth: that we have been worshipping false gods. Catholicism, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, all of the other Earth religions¡­well meaning, but ultimately wrong. Do not blame yourselves. Blame those who kept you from the truth.¡±


    There were shouts of disagreement, and demands for the man to be quiet from passers-by. Officer Lenham watched closely but kept his distance.


    ¡°I welcome your challenges,¡± the man said in response, ¡°it is that very attitude that we need. The willingness to question. To think anew. The true answers came to us two centuries ago, with the opening of the portals. I speak of the pantheon of Palinor, of course. Of Glaicius, Ihlomet, Paf and Unihex. The only universe to display miracles on a daily basis - ¡®magic,¡¯ as some call it. The only universe to have absolute proof of the existence of deities.


    ¡°Yet we are denied, over and over again. We are told that magic is not possible on Mid-Earth. That the gods are only for the Palinese. I beg to differ.¡±


    As the man spoke, there was a gust of wind and his body lifted, ever-so-slightly, his feet leaving the ground. He stretched out his arms, then lifted his hands to his shoulders, as he levitated in front of everyone in the square, St Paul¡¯s Cathedral at his back.


    ¡°This is but a taste!¡± he shouted, his voice clear over the startled cries and exclamations. ¡°I am not special. All I have is belief. Join us, have faith, and you too can revel in the glory of the true gods.¡±


    His feet touched firm ground again as the crowd pressed in around him and his supporters, who were handing out leaflets and posters. Lenham frowned, unable to deny what he¡¯d seen, and decided he had better put in a call to Control. This was going to be trouble.

 Zealots: Part 2

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. July.


    The telephone kept ringing. No sooner has Robin hung up, another call would be put through. She barely had time to relay the information before having to tear off another page of notes. One of her particular skills had always been being able to listen to one conversation while writing about another.


    ¡°Specialist Dimensional Command, this is Robin speaking.¡± She must have said it at least fifty times that afternoon. Every call was about the same thing, albeit from a different part of the city.


    ¡°Robin,¡± came the immediately recognisable voice of DCS Walpole. ¡°I won¡¯t keep you long. I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re already swamped with calls about this?¡±


    She sat up a little straighter, even though he obviously couldn¡¯t see her. When the boss called, you had to on top form. ¡°Yes, sir, multiple reports about magical demonstrations, if that¡¯s what you mean.¡±


    ¡°Damned right that¡¯s what I mean. Magic in London. Sounds ridiculous. The Commissioner is breathing down my neck about it, though, Robin. Pass that along to the team. Who¡¯s on shift?¡±


    ¡°Clarke and Styles have been on it since this morning,¡± she said, glancing across the office, ¡°and Kaminski and Chakraborty just got in for the late shift.¡±


    ¡°Good. I¡¯m up to my eyeballs in this horse shit this end. I¡¯ll keep the politicians off your backs, but I need this figured out pronto or we¡¯ll have a panic on the streets. Understood?¡±


    ¡°One hundred per cent, sir.¡±


    ¡°Good girl. Keep me posted. DI Ford¡¯s on his way in.¡± The line clicked.


    She put the handle back on the receiver. It immediately started ringing again but she ignored it, instead standing up and clapping twice. ¡°Alright, ladies and gentlemen, that was DCS Walpole. He¡¯s aware of the situation, he¡¯s getting some flak and needs us to figure out what¡¯s going on. DI Ford should be here shortly.¡± She might only run the phones, keep the office working properly and make sure none of the detectives had a breakdown, but she knew how to get everyone¡¯s attention.


    The door to DI Bakker¡¯s office opened. ¡°Good,¡± he said, ¡°we could do with some extra hands. Collins, if you please, get on the phones with Robin. No, just for the next hour until we have a bit of breathing space. Clark, Styles, Kaminski, Chakraborty, I want all four of you on this. We need this case worked twenty-four hours until we know what¡¯s going on.¡±


    Clarke was standing with his hands on his hips, his shirt crumpled and his thinning hair looking as if he¡¯d run his fingers through it a few times too many. ¡°It¡¯s a hoax,¡± he said. ¡°Magic can¡¯t be done in Mid-Earth. Everyone knows that.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps somebody has found a way,¡± Bakker said, raising his eyebrows. That was quite a significant expression of emotion for him.


    Kaminski raised a hand. ¡°Could it be a portal tear?¡± A cigarette balanced precariously in the corner of his mouth as he spoke.


    ¡°Yeah, like the shape-shifter creep from last year,¡± Chakraborty said. They were sat next to each other on a desk. It was cute. Robin approved. Something had healed between them during their time away, she thought. The tension between the two of them had been awful at the start of the year. Nobody told Robin anything, but she could guess what had happened.


    ¡°He had access to a single tear,¡± Clarke said, shaking his head. ¡°That was a one-off situation. It wouldn¡¯t help with what they¡¯re doing in multiple locations, at the same time.¡±


    ¡°OK,¡± Chakraborty said. ¡°Maybe instead of trying to figure out how they¡¯re doing it, we should concentrate on who they are.¡±


    Robin loved watching the detectives at work.


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    The SDC wash rooms weren¡¯t great. The women¡¯s in particular was woefully inadequate, clearly designed by men and lacking much of anything useful. There was even a hole in the wall where a urinal had been installed and then quietly removed. Lola sat on the toilet, the lid down, the tiny cubicle¡¯s door closed, and sighed. Something was wrong: the excitement had gone. Instead of practically running to work every day, eager for the next SDC assignment, instead that morning she had thought only of Bruglia, of the portal to Palinor and the feeling that she was on the wrong side of it.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    A week that had crammed a new lifetime into those seven days. The Goldspeth case, talking to him at the prison and escorting him to the portal. The insurgent incident at the market. Then, after Clarke had left, visiting the convalescence house where Yvette Field was recovering. The girl had been rebuilt through the joint efforts of the wielders and Mid-Earth surgeons, in processes Lola hadn¡¯t begun to understand but which clearly demonstrated their effectiveness. Using Mid-Earth medicine alone, doctors were unable to be sure of the girl¡¯s survival and certainly didn¡¯t expect the possibility of a decent quality of life. Even Max-Earth doctors were observing the new field of magic-enhanced medicine. Princess Daryla had noted that they were even beginning to make progress with a combination of meditation and micrology at helping patients with their mental response to trauma. It was a lot to take in.


    Daryla. What an inspirational, powerful young woman. Such a commanding presence, whether in conversation or standing up to the insurgents in the market. Lola was in awe, yet it had left her feeling small and useless, an inconsequential component in an ineffectual machine. Meeting her father had been intimidating: he had all of her poise and charisma but without the kindness and patience. It was hard enough getting a decently-paid job as a woman on Mid-Earth, yet there was Daryla making decisions that affected all of Bruglia and its surrounding territories. It made Lola¡¯s head spin.


    And then there was the SDC, with its beige walls and tiny toilets, too hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. Crappy coffee from an ancient machine that was probably poisoning the lot of them.


    At university she¡¯d read about the Wrong World theory, which posited that it was impossible to find satisfaction in the Triverse because there would always be the uncomfortable paranoia that you were born in the wrong universe. Given the difficulty of migrating between the dimensions for anyone lacking enormously deep pockets, the issue was one that was hard to address. Although she¡¯d always been drawn to Palinor¡¯s heightened world of magic, city states, feudal politics and wild geography, the feeling had been balanced out by her enthusiasm for her own work and life. The cynicism of people like Clarke had always been foreign to her.


    The visit to Palinor had left her unexpectedly subdued. Maybe she was in the wrong world.


    She parked the thought, shunted it off to one side, and stood up. Enough navel-gazing. There was a case to solve, and that could distract her for the time being.


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    The warehouse had been repurposed as a makeshift auditorium: a stage constructed from wooden palettes and boards, row upon row of plastic chairs, speakers on tripods at the edges to boost the voices for the audience. There was a fold-out table down one side with refreshments.


    It was a bigger crowd than usual. Benji had been coming for about a month, each Friday after work. He¡¯d get the tube out from the docks, ride it as far as it went before hopping on a tram for a couple of miles, then walking the rest of the way. The warehouse was out of the way, which still struck him as a bit weird - making it so difficult to get to probably prevented a lot of people from attending. Maybe it was a test.


    On the stage was the box, as always, sitting on its table. If Benji proved himself, showed his commitment, then one day he might be allowed to put his own hand inside the box.


    There was clapping and excited cries as the man himself skipped onto the stage with a wave of his hand. Lord Myrodin, the one who would lead them all to a new consciousness and transform Mid-Earth into a place of wonders.


    ¡°Believers!¡± he said, his voice carrying easily even though he was without a microphone. ¡°Thank you for coming. It is a great honour to be here with you tonight, you who question, who do not just follow the herd, you who seek answers and refuse to accept the hand that you have been dealt.¡±


    He looked out over the audience, and they stared back in awed silence. ¡°Some of you are new here,¡± he continued, ¡°and may be wondering if you have made the right decision in coming. Let me put those doubts to rest.¡± He moved behind the table, opened the top of the box and lowered his hand into it. ¡°There are those in your society who tell you that you cannot have magic. That it is off-limits. Does it not whip up a storm of shame inside you, that Palinor has its magic, Max-Earth has its technology, and we are left powerless? Mid-Earth is so often described as average, as middling - even by its own leaders! None of that is true. We are a great people - we have just forgotten.


    ¡°This was not always the case. We all know the stories. Myths of times long past. Every culture on Earth has those stories, of terrible beasts and heroic warriors, of people in eras long ago. Myths and legend. Metaphors and morality tales, yes? Yet do they not sound so often like Palinor? Knights laying dragons? Djinns in bottles? Kings aided in their quests by sorcerers? Merlin, of this very isle, is not a mere story. He existed! He lived! He was real!


    ¡°Magic was here. Magic is still here. We have simply forgotten, and there are forces at work who wish to keep us in ignorance.¡±


    He stared out over the crowd, then closed his eyes. ¡°No more,¡± he said, quietly. A few of the regulars, Benji included, repeated it back. This was Benji¡¯s favourite part, and he felt a shiver of excitement run down his spine. ¡°No more,¡± repeated Myrodin, louder this time. His words were echoed back to to him.


    ¡°No more!¡±


    He reached out with his other hand, the lights in the warehouse flickered and dimmed, and then there was an explosion of starlight, filling the air all around them with red and blue and yellow and purple. The pinpricks of light danced gracefully around those gathered, converting each of them one-by-one to believers.


    ¡°This is the universe, as it really is. As I see it.¡± Every single person in the audience felt as if Myrodin was looking directly at them, talking only to them. ¡°Join us, and I will teach you to harness this power.¡±

 Zealots: part 3

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. July.


    Clarke rubbed the bridge of his nose, breathed deeply and sighed it out. ¡°Well, this is very annoying.¡±


    The tram station was, if anything, less busy than it would be ordinarily, only half a dozen people waiting for the next train. There were two rows of rickshaws waiting to take people to wherever they needed to be, mostly foot-powered but a couple had engines in the back, funnels angling up out of the roof. The station was out in the middle of nowhere, a good forty-five minutes on the tube just to get nearby, then another ten on the local tram.


    ¡°Guess the leaflet was a fake,¡± Styles said, holding up the offending item and staring at it as if to discern some deeper, hidden meaning.


    ¡°Or they clocked us and scarpered,¡± Clarke said. ¡°Either saw us coming, or maybe gave us a decoy leaflet with the wrong location on in the first place.¡±


    ¡°You know, I think Robin said that this was handed in by a uniformed officer.¡±


    ¡°Jesus, as if they¡¯re going to give PC Plod a map and instructions on how to find them.¡± Clarke took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It was a hot day, hotter than it ought to be even for July. The usual lot were banging on about global warming and ice caps melting, which all sounded a bit far-fetched to him, and as usual were pointing to Max-Earth as some kind of crystal ball. Look what happened to them! and We still have time to do it better! Of course, doing it better usually meant tanking the economy, wiping out most of the kingdom¡¯s industry and making everything worse. Besides, Max-Earth seemed to be doing pretty well for itself, as far as Clarke could tell. Maybe they just didn¡¯t like that Mid-Earth was catching up ahead of time.


    ¡°OK, so now what?¡± Styles turned the leaflet over in her hands. ¡°Maybe if we go hunting around for one of these ourselves, plain clothes, then we¡¯ll have more luck?¡±


    ¡°Nobody knows when or where these nutters are going to appear, though.¡±


    ¡°Right, but tourist destinations seem like a good bet.¡±


    ¡°Fair play,¡± Clarke said, shrugging. ¡°Let¡¯s find a phone box and call it in, maybe we can get some extra hands on the job.¡±


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    And so he had demonstrated his commitment, then they had provided him with new clothes, new reading material and lots of items to hand out at the next event. He had only been told the location the day before and was now in place, wearing his uniform, bag full of leaflets ready to pass around to anyone who was interested. Greenwich Park stretched in all directions, with the Royal Observatory¡¯s dome shining beautifully in the mid-morning sun. It was a perfect summer¡¯s day and the park was busy, as was the observatory and museum. A good mixture of locals and visitors.


    The previous month the country had witnessed a partial eclipse, making the observatory the perfect place for a little more magic. The lingering excitement from that event had left people more spiritual and eager for alternative explanations. Nobody wanted to hear only the dry facts, after all - that was deemed too Maxist; too much like something a Max-Earther would say, with their scientific obsession. Myrodin¡¯s teachings weren¡¯t for people like that: he needed those who had real imagination and a desire for the grander stories of Palinor.


    Benji began handing out the print - simple folded leaflets with background information on Myrodin, on the group, and where to meet for the next gathering. Part of the job was trying to figure out who was genuinely interested, and avoiding anyone official - police officers, observatory staff. Seemed like a pretty easy job, and if Benji did it right he¡¯d be able to go up to the next level and get that little bit closer to Myrodin himself and one-on-one teachings.


    There was a flash of light, visible even in the bright morning, and all eyes turned towards the roof of the observatory. A portal had opened, not dark and scary like the ones at the portal station, but colourful and pulsating. Another bright flash and there he was: Lord Myrodin, standing on the rooftop. The instantly recognisable voice boomed out across the observatory grounds. ¡°Unbelievers! I bring good news. We have all been trapped in a lie, told that miracles are for other people. That we on Mid-Earth are denied the wonders of magic.¡±


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Benji had heard it before, so concentrated on spotting people who looked impressed. He quietly handed out the leaflets, pressing them into people¡¯s hands with a welcoming smile. A mother with a pram, a couple of teenagers enjoying their summer break, a businessman taking a coffee, a park worker in overalls and a hard hat. They were all enraptured by Myrodin¡¯s words. Benji approached a man who was stood with his hands on his hips, staring up at the rooftop with a stupid grin on his face and a crumpled cigarette nearly falling from his mouth.


    ¡°Here,¡± Benji said, ¡°this has more information if you¡¯re interested.¡±


    The man glanced down at him. ¡°Ah, thanks.¡± He let the cigarette fall to the floor and ground it under his foot before immediately lighting another. ¡°You seen this guy before, I take it?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± Benji said, ¡°lots of times. He¡¯s the real deal.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s pretty impressive, I¡¯ll give him that.¡± The man gestured towards the rooftop, cigarette between his fingers. ¡°How¡¯s he doing that?¡±


    ¡°Magic,¡± Benji said. ¡°He¡¯s able to channel Palinor energies. We all have the potential.¡±


    ¡°Huh,¡± the man said. ¡°Is that right?¡± He looked at the leaflet for the first time. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll give it a shot.¡±


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    Greg Coombs liked his job at the London portal station. Paid the mortgage, which was the main thing, but it also meant that he met lots of people. Different people, from all over. Working on the passport desk meant he got to see everyone passing through. Sometimes he¡¯d be doing the Palinor end, others he¡¯d be working the Max-Earth side of the station. He didn¡¯t do any of the cargo stuff - that was for the boys down below. No, he stayed up on the bright and airy concourse, and got to meet dignitaries, politicians, celebrities, kings and queens - and there he was, just Greg Coombs, doing his job. And in-between shifts he could hang out in the bars and restaurants at the station, without needing to pay for any of it.


    It was a Palinor day and he was sat at his desk, where the route from the portal narrowed so that everyone had to queue to pass through. It wasn¡¯t like an airship dock or a train station, so it wasn¡¯t like anyone had to wait for hours. The people that came through the portals were usually too important to hang around like regular folk.


    Flipping open the binder containing the details of the next arrivals, he flicked through the sheets to the identification information. His actual job was pretty easy: he simply had to compare what was in the binder with what the individual provided, and make sure that the two matched - as well as ensuring that it was the correct individual. Once he¡¯d had a human try to come in with a koth passport photo, which didn¡¯t go well for them. Greg still didn¡¯t understand what they¡¯d expected to happen.


    He frowned as he scanned the document. It was oddly sparse, with no background details on the next two people, who were travelling together. No place of origin, no home address, no employment record. No reason for visiting. A complete lack of immunisation certificates and disease assessments. Any of which would ordinarily mean a denied travel permit, before any of this reached Greg¡¯s desk. Instead, there were two clear-as-day green ¡®approved¡¯ stamps.


    The buzzer to announce a new portal transit sounded and he looked up to see the new arrivals. The first was an unnaturally tall and elegant man, so slender that Greg initially assumed him to be aen¡¯fa. As he got nearer, it was evident that his skin was human-coloured and he bore no points on his ears. The man wore flowing blue robes accented with golden armour that seemed more decorative than protective, visible only on his shoulders, feet and atop his head, where he sported a dual-horned helmet that blended in cleverly with his pale hair. Greg watched and waited for the second person on the list but nobody else appeared.


    Greg gulped involuntarily as the towering man approached the desk. ¡°Welcome to Mid-Earth,¡± he said, ¡°can I see some identification and proof of transit, please?¡± He¡¯d said it a thousand times before, but was suddenly nervous.


    ¡°It is a disgrace that you do not immediately recognise me,¡± the man said. ¡°How does your tiny scroll there announce me?¡±


    ¡°Well, sir, it¡¯s a bit strange but I don¡¯t have all the paperwork I would normally have, for which I do apologise. Only your name, a single name in fact. Apologies if I mis-pronounce this. Glay-key-ous, is it?¡±


    The man stared down at him, his eyes simmering like pots of boiling water. ¡°Glaicius, fool. Lord of Liars. God of Illusion. Keeper of Dreams.¡±


    Greg was sure he could feel his face draining of all colour. ¡°I see, Mr, I mean Lord Glaicius. I do apologise. The good news, though, is that your transit has been pre-approved. Which is, well, very unusual, but there you go. Above my pay-grade, as they say!¡±


    Glaicius, Lord of Liars, nodded. ¡°And my companion?¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes, I do have a note of your companion. Paf, is that right? Were they not able to travel today?¡±


    A broad, wicked smile like the blade of a knife spread across Glaicius¡¯ thin face. ¡°Oh, he was perfectly able to travel. He may need some of my assistance, though. He is so terribly inadequate.¡± With that, he bent down below the desk as if to retrieve something he had dropped, then returned holding a tiny humanoid creature stood in the palm of his hand.


    ¡°This is most unedifying,¡± the tiny person said. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with so that we can see to our business and get out of this ridiculous dimension.¡±


    Greg swallowed, hoping they didn¡¯t hear. ¡°Mr Paf?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that is I,¡± they said, voice far deeper and louder than Greg expected. ¡°Am I approved to enter or not?¡±


    ¡°Um, yes, everything is stamped and approved, sir.¡±


    The tiny Paf jumped from Glaicius¡¯ outstretched hand onto the desk. ¡°I am a woman, imbecile. The Tiny God. The Secret God. The Creator.¡±


    ¡°Among other names,¡± Glaicius said, grinning mischievously.


    Attempting to smile, unsure of whether that was the appropriate reaction, Greg then cleared his throat. ¡°Although you¡¯re cleared to go through, I do have to just ask one question. Protocol, you know. Can you simply state your business here on Mid-Earth?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Paf said, hopping back onto Glaicius¡¯ hand and scampering up his arm. ¡°We¡¯re here to dispense justice on a deceiver who is using our names in vain.¡±


    ¡°Oh, OK then.¡± Greg stared at them both for another moment, then gestured towards the exit.


    As the two gods departed, Greg couldn¡¯t help but think of a parrot perched on a sailor¡¯s shoulder.

 Zealots: part 4

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. July.


    It had been too long since the SDC had visited the pub, Clarke had decided. Ordinarily he was quite happy not to socialise with his colleagues, tending to lurk by the bar even when he did. They were either too young, too annoying or too depressing. That was until the dynamic had shifted: Kaminski had gone to ground all year, Chakraborty too. Robin occasionally made an appearance but usually had her own things going on. DS Collins was tedious, while DS Shaw was dull and rarely on the same shifts as Clarke. Holland and Hobb were the only regulars, which was perhaps all anyone needed to know. And Styles had been distracted since coming back from Palinor.


    He was jolted in his seat as the rickety bus, powered by a severely inadequate rickshaw engine, trundled through the streets of north-east London. The afternoon¡¯s heat was starting to dissipate, though the bus¡¯ interior remained stifling. If Clarke had been legitimately into any of the new religion mumbo jumbo, he¡¯d have been put right off.


    ¡°How about the pub, Styles? We can see if the others are about end of play.¡±


    She turned her head from the window back towards him, as if only then remembering he was there. ¡°Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Depends how this goes.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯¡¯ll see,¡± he said, not wanting to say much more within earshot of the bus¡¯ other passengers. ¡°Looking forward to seeing what¡¯s at the end of this particular rainbow.¡±


    Styles returned to gazing out of the grease-stained window and Clarke took the opportunity to assess the case. Strange goings-on all over town, including apparent demonstrations of magic. A charismatic leader clearly looking to build his own cult. A clearly savvy bunch of core followers, who had managed to evade inquiries - until now. Kaminski had struck gold in Greenwich, leading them to a rendezvous that wasn¡¯t a wash-out. And now here they were, supposedly on course to visit the headquarters of the group.


    What would happen next was hard to predict: either they had a fraud on their hands, in which matters would be simple and they could charge accordingly and put an end to the irritation, or they had a genuine use of magic in the wild in London. In which case everything was severely buggered. Clarke massaged his forehead with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut. To think that Max-Earth had enjoyed centuries more normality before the portals opened - on the one hand he was envious, on the other this was Clarke¡¯s normal. Two hundred years of Triverse madness.


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    It seemed for a time that the bus would entirely leave the boundaries of London, until it took a turning into an industrial storage area lined with anonymous warehouses. With creaking brakes it came to a halt and the driver ordered everyone out.


    Styles and Clarke dutifully followed the other believers out onto the cracked tarmac, interrupted by ambitious plants pushing through from below. They were led to a nondescript warehouse and through the office door, into the large interior space. A stage of sorts was at one end, rows of chairs filling the rest of the space. A table of refreshments was pushed up against a wall, though there was no disguising the grey, metal shell of the building. There were already people there, milling about and chatting.


    ¡°This seem like a weird place to do this?¡± Lola asked, leaning towards Clarke conspiratorially.


    ¡°It¡¯s out of the way, but a little too out of the way.¡±


    Putting on her best smile, Lola approached one of the people who seemed to be running the event. They were wearing a uniform of sorts, as were a few others in the room. ¡°Hi,¡± she said to the woman, ¡°how does this work?¡±


    ¡°Hi there! I¡¯m Stephanie. What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Lola.¡±


    ¡°Lola! What a beautiful name. Just relax, Lola, and Lord Myrodin will be on stage shortly. He¡¯ll explain everything.¡±


    ¡°Lord Myrodin?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Don¡¯t worry, I know it¡¯s a lot to take in on your first time. It¡¯ll all make sense soon, I promise.¡±


    ¡°So what should I do?¡±


    ¡°Grab a drink and a biscuit, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. It¡¯s all very low stress here, you¡¯ve got nothing to worry about.¡±


    She flashed another smile, then looked for where Clarke was - over by the refreshments table, as it turned out. ¡°Anything interesting over here?¡±


    Clarke grimaced. ¡°I can smell bad coffee a mile away. Maybe if it had a shot of whisky in it. It¡¯s probably laced with LSD or something anyway.¡±


    Lola snorted, then poured water into a small, plastic cup. ¡°What the hell,¡± she said, ¡°let¡¯s live a little dangerously.¡± The words almost stuck in her mouth and she paused, then sighed quietly. Mid-Earth felt anything but dangerous. Mundane-Earth.


    ¡°Let¡¯s grab ourselves some seats before all the crazies take them,¡± Clarke said, pointing to a couple of spares in the middle of one of the rows. The seats were hard and uncomfortable. ¡°We¡¯ll watch the show for a bit,¡± Clarke said quietly into her ear, ¡°see what happens. We don¡¯t have to do anything now if it¡¯s not the right moment.¡±


    ¡°Gotcha.¡±


    The background murmur of chattering excitement abruptly faded away as if on cue, replaced a moment later with bursts of applause as a man bounded out from backstage. Lola had to suppress a giggle at his dramatic robes and flouncing gait. Clarke slowly turned to her and raised his eyebrows.


    ¡°Believers!¡± the man shouted. ¡°Thank you for coming. What an honour. All of you who are here this afternoon, you are not sheep! Do you know what sheep do?¡± He paused for dramatic effect. ¡°They follow the herd!¡±


    Lola leaned closer to Clarke. ¡°I think he means flock.¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Should we tell him?¡±


    ¡°Maybe in a bit.¡±


    ¡°You are not like everyone else. You ask questions. You look into things. You think for yourself! Why? Because you¡¯re looking for answers. You¡¯re looking for answers to a question, even if you¡¯re not sure what that question is. I¡¯ll tell you what the question is. The question is ¡®why¡¯.¡±


    Lola felt a strong urge to mimic putting two fingers down her throat, but restrained herself.


    ¡°Why,¡± the man continued, ¡°have you been deal the bad hand? Who is it that gave you these cards? Well!¡± He strutted up and down the stage, whisking his cape with every turn. ¡°Tonight, my friends, we are shuffling the deck.¡±


    There was another explosion of uproarious applause and shouting. Clarke was clearly unable to hide his disdain for the people surrounding them and Lola was compelled to kick his leg. He glanced at her and she gave him a stern look.


    ¡°Some of you are new here and may be wondering if you¡¯ve made the right decision. You probably saw myself or one of my disciples demonstrating our power in the city, and are now wondering if it can possibly be true. Let me put your doubts to rest.¡± He moved to a small table positioned in the middle of the stage, with a box perched on top. Lifting a hinged lid he lowered his hand inside, slowly and deliberately, milking every moment of drama available. ¡°We were told from birth that magic is not for us. That it is only on Palinor. We were told that Max-Earth¡¯s technology only works there. Nothing left for us Mid-Earthers. Even our own leaders think small. We have forgotten to dream.¡±


    As the man droned on, Lola found his words oddly compelling. He was clearly an egomaniac and most likely a con artist but the points he was making struck home. She¡¯d felt it ever since returning from Palinor: that something was missing. The obvious explanation was that she missed Bruglia, and missed visiting Daryla and all the other people she had met there. The same pang of loss after a good holiday. Maybe it was something more.


    ¡°It¡¯s time to dream again,¡± the man said, and stretched out his hand. The lights in the warehouse dimmed, leaving only the natural light from the windows, then the air burst to life with thousands of pinpricks of light, as if every dust mote was aflame. They swirled and coalesced into spiral patterns, floating in the air above the audience. ¡°This is the universe as I see it,¡± the man proclaimed. ¡°Join us today and I will teach you also how to harness this power.¡±


    There was a loud, unexpected crash from the back of the warehouse. Lola turned in her seat just in time to see one of the doors hanging off its hinges. Stepping through the doorway was a remarkably tall man, slender but evidently possessing unnatural strength. He didn¡¯t look human, but nor was he aen¡¯fa or koth or any other species she recognised.


    Clarke put a hand on her shoulder. ¡°This could get interesting really fast,¡± he said.


    ¡°Should we engage?¡±


    ¡°Give it a moment.¡±


    The man strode down the aisle at the side of the audience, his gangly limbs moving with an unlikely grace. He wore beautiful robes, albeit somewhat mud-flecked around the hem, and what seemed to be metal plating on his shoulders. Adorning his head was a simple helmet with two curved horns. He pointed at the stage. ¡°Heretic!¡± he shouted.


    At once the shimmering image of the spiral galaxy winked out of existence and the lights clicked back on. The man on stage took a few steps away from the table, his confidence momentarily slipping - though not for long. ¡°My honoured guest,¡± he said, a slight stammer to his voice, ¡°I am humbled by your presence.¡± He gestured at the tall man,, then looked to the ground. ¡°This is an incredible moment, believers,¡± he said, ¡°you are all blessed to be here today.¡±


    ¡°Silence,¡± said the tall man, his voice echoing through the room. Everyone obeyed. Lola watched, transfixed and confused.


    Climbing the steps onto the stage, the man paused by the table. He lifted the lid to the box, smiled grimly, then lifted his gaze to the other man, who stood awkwardly off to one side. ¡°What do you call yourself, deceiver?¡±


    After looking over his shoulder, as if to check if someone else was being asked the question, the man bowed slightly. ¡°I am Lord Myrodin, leader of this church.¡±


    In a swift, violent motion the tall man swept a hand across the table, smashing the box to pieces. ¡°And what do you call this, Lord Myrodin?¡± Where the box had been was a black smear, about the size of a hand, hovering in the air above the table.


    Myrodin smiled pathetically. ¡°It is a portal tear. I found it.¡±


    ¡°And this is how you perform your parlour tricks.¡±


    ¡°Y-yes.¡±


    The tall man turned to the audience. His eyes were piercing, his expression malevolent and not entirely human. ¡°This man deceives you, children. He is a wielder from Palinor, cast out decades prior for abusing his skills. He is little more than a conjurer of pretty pictures.¡±


    Someone near the front of the stage stood up, hands on hips. ¡°That¡¯s not true! Lord Myrodin is a true magic wielder. He¡¯s shown it all around the city, I¡¯ve seen it with my own eyes.¡± Lola saw Myrodin desperately gesturing for the protester to sit back down.


    ¡°You know nothing, Mid-Earther. Allow me to explain.¡±


    For a brief moment Lola thought she saw something run down the tall man¡¯s arm, then he reached into the portal tear and the warehouse vanished. All the people inside it disappeared as well, including Clarke, and Lola found herself in darkness, floating. Stars appeared, slowly at first, then in a rush, filling the darkness with light until that was all there was. There was a sense of wind rushing through her hair, then the acute sensation of falling. She was above the Thames, above Tower Bridge, tumbling towards the river. The ground rushed up and she hit it, hard, the wind knocked from her - but she was still alive. Then she was stood on the surface of a lake, perfectly still except for ripple from her feet. Her clothes slipped off piece by piece, disappearing beneath the water. Naked, she looked around for any kind of landmark, anything to fix upon, but there was only the endless flat mirror in all directions. Her fingernails detached from her fingers, then the joints of her body began to pop from their sockets, starting at the wrist and travelling up her arms, then into her spine. As she watched, her skin bubbled and boiled away, leaving muscle, then bone, then she collapsed into the water as dust. Her last view was of her reflection in the water, then she dipped below the surface -


    And found herself once again in the warehouse, still sat on her chair, still clothed, still alive and with all her organs. Someone nearby vomited onto the floor.


    Clarke got to his feet. ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± he said, pulling his ID from his pocket. ¡°Detective Constable Yannick Clarke, Specialist Dimensional Command. I¡¯m going to need to ask you to step away from the portal tear. Let these people leave of their own accord, then we can all have a civilised conversation with Myrodin, or whatever his real name is.¡±


    The tall man stared down at Clarke. Lola wished she could grab Yannick¡¯s hand and run from the place. ¡°I am Glaicius, police man. Lord of Liars. God of Illusion. Keeper of Dreams. You are but a small man. I am a living god. What empowers you to issue instruction to me?¡±


    Lola gawped. She¡¯d read about Glaicius, and about Palinor¡¯s supposed in-the-flesh pantheon. Myrodin, for his part, as if only then fully realising what was going on, dropped to his knees and started muttering apologies.


    ¡°I¡¯m an atheist,¡± Clarke said, shrugging. ¡°Also, I don¡¯t doubt that you have grievances with Mr Myrodin here, and I¡¯m absolutely certain that you¡¯re very important back home. But you¡¯re on my world now, and we have laws and ways of doing things.¡±


    ¡°I like this one,¡± said another voice from the stage, and Lola realised that she¡¯d been right: there was another creature there. It stepped out from behind the tear, revealing itself to be a tiny, mostly human-shaped woman.


    Without thinking, Lola jumped to her feet and pointed. ¡°You¡¯re Paf!¡± she said. ¡°The Secret God!¡±


    The tiny person, still standing on the table, folded their arms. ¡°You have me at a disadvantage.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m DC Lola Styles. Also of the SDC. Princess Daryla of Bruglia spoke very highly of you.¡±


    Paf¡¯s fierce-but-tiny demeanour softened into a smile. ¡°Ah, the Princess of Bruglia. I like her. Very pious.¡±


    Pious? That didn¡¯t sound like Daryla. Lola kept her mouth shut.


    ¡°The rest of you may go,¡± Glaicius said, his voice icy. ¡°But you,¡± he continued, turning to where Myrodin was prostrated on the stage, ¡°will answer to my judgement.¡±

 Zealots: part 5

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. July.


    Clarke stared at the piles of equipment and random tat stored in the back room of the warehouse. ¡°Well,¡± he said, ¡°that clears that up.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not magic, per se,¡± Myrodin said, if that was even his real name, ¡°but it is still really quite clever. You see¡ª¡±


    ¡°Silence, fool,¡± said Glaicius, his voice able to cut through any background noise just as his body pulled all attention towards it. ¡°Trickery is not clever; it is merely taking advantage of weaker minds.¡±


    There was a complicated pulley system with wire wound through it, thin enough to not be visible even in daylight while still being strong enough to attach to a harness and a person. ¡°Levitation, my arse,¡± he said. ¡°Although I¡¯m impressed that you managed to get this strung up over St. Paul¡¯s without anyone noticing.¡±


    ¡°And the portal you opened in Greenwich,¡± Styles said, examining a complicated folding mechanism lined with mirrors, ¡°it was all reflections?¡±


    ¡°I was on the roof the whole time,¡± Myrodin said, ¡°the mirrors and false panels did the hard work.¡±


    There was a shifting of some of the store room¡¯s detritus as Paf jumped on top of a stack of books. ¡°But why the fakery? You had a portal tear here. There was no need for falsehoods.¡±


    Myrodin slumped down into a rickety wooden chair. ¡°Because I can only use it here! It¡¯s useless! This entire realm is pathetic. I wanted to change things, and for that I needed people, and money.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re Palinese,¡± Clarke said. No human from Mid-Earth or Max-Earth had ever demonstrated any capacity for magic, even while on Palinor. ¡°Why are you here, if you find us so pathetic?¡±


    The failed magician glowered at him, his eyes full of disdain. ¡°I¡¯m in exile. I can¡¯t go back.¡±


    ¡°Ironically, for abusing his use of magic to deceive others,¡± Paf said, flicking her hand in a delicate flourish.


    ¡°And doing it badly, I should add,¡± Glaicius said. ¡°You give all illusionists a bad name, Lord Myrodin.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± Clarke said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ¡°Since when is exile on Mid-Earth a formal punishment?¡±


    Paf shook her head. ¡°For magic wielders, it is the worst of all outcomes.¡±


    There was something to follow up on back at the office. Clarke was fairly certain the immigration service would have a few things to say about that policy. The idea of his planet being used as a dumping ground for miscreants rubbed him up the wrong way.


    ¡°Presumably,¡± Styles said, pointing to Glaicius and then Paf, ¡°neither of you have your powers while you¡¯re here, either. Unless you use the portal tear back there.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The two self-proclaimed gods stared at her and Clarke felt a cold shiver on his spine. He had the distinct feeling that neither of these beings were to be messed with. Gods or not, and he was leaning towards not, they had already demonstrated some of their powers and their ability to command a room.


    ¡°We are never without powers, detective,¡± Glaicius said. ¡°Do not mistake us for mortals.¡±


    Clarke raised his hands. ¡°OK, let¡¯s clarify what¡¯s going to happen here. We¡¯ll be shutting down this whole operation. Myrodin, I¡¯m arresting you on suspicion of fraudulent activity. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. You¡¯ll be coming with us to the station once I put a call in.¡± Myrodin looked ready to object, but chose to stay silent. Clarke turned to Glaicius. ¡°I need to know what your intent is here.¡±


    ¡°Justice and punishment, detective.¡±


    Pondering the best way to phrase his next question, Clarke took a breath. ¡°This seems a little out of your way. I¡¯m sure you both have important matters to attend to at home.¡±


    Paf harrumphed and hopped back down to the floor. ¡°When someone takes our names in vain, it becomes our business. Word of what was happening in this city had spread even to Palinor.¡±


    ¡°And besides,¡± Glaicius said softly, ¡°we were bored.¡± He turned to leave, Paf climbing up onto his shoulder.


    ¡°We will need to take statements from you both,¡± Styles said.


    ¡°No,¡± the god said, ¡°you won¡¯t.¡±


    They walked out of the store room and Clarke watched them go. He should have tried to stop them but his gut told him to let it go. He¡¯d seen Myrodin¡¯s reaction when they¡¯d walked into the warehouse.


    ¡°Something tells me this could have gone a lot worse for you if we hadn¡¯t been here,¡± he said to the diminished man. ¡°Now, where¡¯s the nearest telephone?¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding me?¡± Kaminski grinned at Chakraborty as he listened to Clarke explaining the situation. ¡°Yeah, understood, we¡¯ll make sure you get some officers to support you. Sounds like you¡¯ve had a fun afternoon.¡± He placed the received back on the cradle.


    Chakraborty stood with her arms crossed. ¡°What? What is it?¡±


    ¡°Total con job,¡± Kaminski said. ¡°Smoke and mirrors, plus a convenient portal tear. No actual magic outside of their base of operations.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Chakraborty said. ¡°That¡¯s a little disappointing.¡±


    ¡°Hm. Part of me liked the idea of everything going to shit. Can you imagine?¡± He lit a fresh cigarette. ¡°Mm, that¡¯s not the half of it, though. You¡¯ll never guess who showed up.¡±


    ¡°What? Who?¡±


    ¡°Couple of gods from Palinor.¡±


    ¡°Fuck off.¡±


    Shrugging his shoulders, Kaminski laughed as he walked across the office to where Robin was sat talking to DS Collins. He passed on Clarke¡¯s instructions, then turned back to see Bakker emerge from his room.


    ¡°Everything under control?¡± Bakker asked, as Kaminski crossed back to them.


    Chakraborty nodded. ¡°That was Clarke and Styles on the phone. Sounds like it¡¯s all wrapped up.¡±


    ¡°Good, good.¡±


    Bakker stared at them both in turn. Then he pointed at them, then towards his office, without saying a word. Kaminski frowned. Whatever this was, it was going to be trouble.


    They dutifully followed the DI in silence into his room. Bakker closed the door, then flicked the blinds shut. He put a finger to his lips, checking that they both understood, then he pulled the chair from the desk to the middle of the office. Clambering up onto it, he balanced carefully as he pushed at one of the ceiling tiles, lifting it and sliding it off to one side.


    Kaminski glanced at Chakraborty, who wore a similar expression of concern. After reaching into the hole in the ceiling and moving his hand about for a few moments, Bakker slowly, carefully retrieved a bundle of wires and a small box. Some sort of electronic device. Bakker held up a finger again, then replaced the device and the ceiling tile. He climbed back off the chair and returned it to its normal place.


    Moving to his desk, he picked up a pen and started writing on a slip of paper. He held it up so they could both read it.


    THEY¡¯RE LISTENING

 Conspiracies

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty & Zoltan Kaminski


    London.


    1973. August.


    Lola yawned and stretched her arms, leaning back on her chair. The SDC office was about to change over for the day, which meant she would be on her way home any minute. Her bed beckoned. She could practically hear it calling out to her.


    The night had been uneventful, especially by 1973¡¯s standards. She¡¯d filed some reports, run through some open case files with Yannick and put up with some of the usual edgy banter from Frank Holland. Everyone said he was good at his job, that he got results, but his attitude rubbed Lola the wrong way. No matter how many cases he¡¯d closed, there was a rottenness at his core that she could feel seeping into the office whenever he was there. Like it was going to rub off on her and everyone else. He had that wandering man eye, too, always roving up and down and over her when he thought she wasn¡¯t looking. Sometimes even when she clearly was. That leeriness she¡¯d encountered elsewhere in the force, and during her training, but it was blessedly absent from the SDC for the most part. Except for Holland.


    Fortunately for everyone, he¡¯d gone home an hour earlier, as had Hobb. How that woman put up with him, Lola couldn¡¯t begin to fathom.


    She yawned again. ¡°Right,¡± she said, mostly to herself. Standing up, she wearily pulled on her coat and hooked her satchel over her shoulder.


    The door to the office swung open and Kaminski and Chakraborty arrived, waving cheerfully. Kaminski grunted a hello then disappeared immediately into Bakker¡¯s office.


    ¡°You heading off?¡± Chakraborty asked, emptying her bag unceremoniously onto her desk. Lola caught a glimpse of a metal hip flask among the make-up, notepads and pens.


    ¡°Just going to nip to the loo,¡± she said, ¡°then I¡¯ll attempt to get home without collapsing in the street.¡±


    ¡°Long night?¡±


    ¡°Easy night, but that just makes it more boring and last longer.¡±


    Waving, Lola pushed open the other door to the back corridors, then headed to the women¡¯s wash room. She grimaced as she entered a cubicle and locked the door. Still, she¡¯d bet the men¡¯s was in an even worse state.


    A couple of minutes later she opened the cubicle door to find Chakraborty leaning against the sink. ¡°Hi, Lola.¡±


    ¡°Oh, hey.¡± She washed her hands as Chakraborty stood to one side. ¡°You been there a while?¡±


    ¡°Just got here,¡± Chakraborty said, smiling.


    She was being weird. ¡°You¡¯re being weird,¡± Lola said, drying her hands.


    ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t mean to be,¡± Chakraborty said. ¡°Back to the office, then.¡±


    Lola frowned and looked at the other woman quizzically. Sighing, assuming that her tiredness was making her misunderstand the conversation, she opened the door and walked back into the corridor towards the office. A hand gripped her shoulder.


    Turning, she found Chakraborty with her other hand held up, a finger to her lips. She pointed in the other direction, away from the main office. Again, she emphasised the apparent need for silence.


    What had at first seemed silly, or amusing, started to slide into something more sinister. Lola followed dutifully, as Chakraborty led her to the rear stairwell, then up to the top floor of the building. It was unused, other than by rats, and was used primarily for storage of ancient filing that wasn¡¯t so confidential that it had to be moved to Scotland Yard. Chakraborty led her through a couple of doorways, past dusty cabinets and shelves, until they reached a pile of boxes stacked high to the ceiling. Pointing to a small gap at one side, hidden from view until Lola got close, Chakraborty shuffled around the stacked boxes and disappeared.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Wondering if she was already asleep and dreaming, Lola followed. There was another door, hidden behind the boxes, which Chakraborty now opened. She gestured for Lola to enter.


    Clarke was sat on a chair in the middle of the room, arms crossed and looking unhappy. ¡°Lola,¡± he said. ¡°This is long overdue.¡±


    <div>


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    </figure>


    Kaminski looked out of Bakker¡¯s office through the blinds. ¡°Fancy that coffee now, boss man?¡±


    There was a creak as Bakker pushed himself up from his desk. ¡°That sounds like a very good plan, detective. Nothing like some watered down SDC mud to start off the day.¡±


    He gave a thumbs up gesture to Bakker as they left the room. As they crossed the office they made a point of discussing mundanities. ¡°How are your parents, Zoltan?¡±


    ¡°Old,¡± he said. ¡°Old and cranky. They don¡¯t like me being away.¡±


    ¡°Funny how we look after our kids, until a certain point when they have to look after us.¡±


    ¡°Your kids ready to be cooking you meals, sir?¡±


    Bakker laughed. ¡°It¡¯s hard enough getting them to lay and clear the table, let alone prepare the damned meal.¡±


    A little way down the corridor they entered the tiny kitchen area and Kaminski filled and flicked on the kettle. He nodded to Bakker and they both headed for the stairwell and up to the top floor.


    ¡°OK, we should be good now,¡± Kaminski said. He¡¯d scoured the entire building as best he could: there were several bugs in the main office, one in the kitchen, even a couple in each wash room. Best they could tell, they must have been installed when the lights were refitted in December. That was a long time for their conversations to have been listened to. It was just after he¡¯d been shipped off to Max-Earth in a container - that must have been what put them on someone¡¯s radar.


    ¡°Sneaking around in my own building,¡± Bakker said, grimacing. ¡°I¡¯m looking forward to making some progress.¡±


    The others were already there. The five of them, up against something much larger. Lola was pacing back and forth with her hands on her hips, while Chakraborty and Clarke stood patiently on the opposite side of the room.


    ¡°Thanks for coming, Lola,¡± Bakker said.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t even know I was coming until I got here.¡±


    ¡°We need to get more chairs for next time,¡± Clarke said, indicating the lone seat in the middle of the room that everyone was avoiding claiming.


    ¡°Let¡¯s do this quickly,¡± Bakker said. ¡°Lola, the first thing you need to know is that the SDC building is bugged. There¡¯s been a covert surveillance op on us since at least December. Audio only as far as we are aware. This floor and this room is an exception.¡±


    ¡°What? Who¡¯s responsible?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯re working on. We think it¡¯s connected back to DC Callihan¡¯s death, Kaminski¡¯s unscheduled trip to Max-Earth at the start of the year and the attack on them in Addis. Furthermore, the human trafficking operation run through the shipping company Barrindon that we uncovered last year, plus the incident that your contact Goldspeth was involved with on Palinor - both of those are linked.¡±


    Kaminski watched Styles for her reaction. To her credit, she stayed remarkably calm.


    ¡°What? What¡¯s this all about? And why are you telling me now?¡±


    Bakker glanced at Clarke, who stepped forward. ¡°We¡¯ve wanted to bring you in for a while,¡± Clarke said. ¡°But as events have shown, this is dangerous territory. I - we - didn¡¯t want to put you in harm¡¯s way. Once you¡¯re in on this, there¡¯s no getting out.¡±


    ¡°As for what it¡¯s about,¡± Kaminski said, ¡°we think they¡¯re assembling a megaship on Max-Earth. But they¡¯re doing it under the radar.¡±


    ¡°Quantum AI is heavily regulated there,¡± Chakraborty said. ¡°Regulated by the AIs that already exist.¡±


    Styles nodded. ¡°So they¡¯ve dispersed it across all three dimensions, making it harder to track.¡±


    ¡°Only us five are in on this,¡± Bakker said, ¡°plus the AI Justin on Max-Earth. I want to keep it that way for now. Maybe we can bring others in later, but there¡¯s a risk each time. For us and for them. This doesn¡¯t go any higher, either. Whoever is running this op, it goes right to the top. No other way they¡¯d be able to pull all these strings.¡±


    ¡°I guess that makes up my mind, then,¡± Styles said.


    Clarke looked at her. ¡°To do what?¡±


    ¡°While all of us are stuck here on Mid-Earth, we¡¯re blind to what¡¯s going on elsewhere,¡± she said, brow furrowed. ¡°You say Justin on Max-Earth is working with us. We need someone on Palinor.¡± She took a deep breath. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about applying for the liaison officer post. This seems like as good a time as any.¡±

 Rendition: part 1

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland (DC Marion Hobb absent)


    London.


    1973. August.


    The cases wouldn¡¯t go away. No matter how hard Frank Holland tried to file it or hide it in a drawer, it kept on rearing its head. Missing persons, spread over the last two years, initially with no apparent link. They were considered as separate incidents, only registering on the SDC radar when the victims were of Palinese or Max-Earth origin. That was until Holland had been contacted by the mother of one of the more recent victims.


    It was an aen¡¯fa family, with all the usual cultural trappings that he despised. Religious quotations printed and framed on the wall, paintings of their homelands, a thick veil of incense drifting through the house at eye level, mud-like coffee and terrible biscuits, all wrapped up in a warped bohemian laissez-faire attitude. He¡¯d shared a flat in his twenties with a human friend who had become increasingly obsessed with aen¡¯fa customs and it had soured him on the experience forever. Styles was heading that way, always one eye on the other side of the portal rather than concentrating on where she was. Be a shame: she was a good detective to have in the department, even if she lacked experience.


    Holland and Hobb had gone to the family¡¯s home to talk to the mother. She¡¯d alternated between distraught and angry, upset by the disappearance of her son and furious about what she thought had happened. Her skin was a dark blue and a little iridescent, one of the many shades of the aen¡¯fa and a personal favourite of Holland. He liked to think of himself as a connoisseur of sorts.


    ¡°He was a good boy,¡± she said, like they always did, ¡°never did anything wrong. Did his studies, worked whatever job he had. Avoided trouble. None of the gangs. Didn¡¯t fall in with any of the New Palinor lot. He just did his own thing. Then they took him.¡±


    Holland had smiled. He had a practised smile which he rolled out when needed; it was real enough to fool anyone who didn¡¯t know him, which meant it was good enough for a victim¡¯s relations. ¡°Who do you think took him?¡±


    ¡°Government! Government men! Showed up in a van, bundled him in, drove him away. He was on his way home from work. Poor Hikkaido. He¡¯s not the only one, you know. This has been happening for years.¡±


    He¡¯d thrown a glance at Hobb, who didn¡¯t even try to hide her disdain. ¡°How do you know this? Did you see it happen?¡±


    ¡°No, no of course not, I was at work,¡± the mother said, ¡°but we¡¯re a close community here. We look out for each other. See everything going on in the neighbourhood. And I was told: they came for Hikkaido, tied him up, drove off.¡±


    After, outside the house, Hobb had laughed. ¡°You see now why I need to get out of here? This department is driving me crazy. It was only ever supposed to be a stepping stone.¡±


    ¡°Good job you¡¯ve got a spot in front of the promotion board, then, eh?¡± He liked her, she made for a good partner, but she underestimated the SDC. The department got the detritus, sure. Everything the Met didn¡¯t want got shunted to them. All the weird cases, the unexplained nonsense. Anything politically awkward involving foreigners. None of that stopped Holland from taking it seriously, though. They were protecting the gates. He was keeping things from falling apart. It wouldn¡¯t take much to tip the Triverse into utter chaos.


    Hikkaido. The name of the missing boy sounded familiar but he couldn¡¯t quite place it.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    Clarke smacked the newspaper with the back of his hand. ¡°Look at these arseholes. You read about this?¡± He straightened the paper and held it up so Styles could see.


    The cafe was bustling, some punters sat at tables like them and a steady stream of office workers and commuters filing through to grab tea or coffee on their way through town. She took the paper and frowned as she read it.


    ¡°Bad enough that they¡¯re running on an anti-everything ticket,¡± Clarke continued, ¡°but look who they¡¯ve wheeled out.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no,¡± Styles said. ¡°This is terrible!¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± He took the paper back and looked again at the full page advertisement. A political ad masquerading as editorial, the headline The monsters at the door was accompanied by an image of a long queue of koth lining up to go through a portal. The line snaked and curved around the page and the words, as if stretching off into the far distance. Worse was the dual photographs of a young girl, presented in a ¡®before and after¡¯ style. It was Yvette Field, the abuse victim from the case back in April - who was still convalescing in the hybrid techno-mage hospital in Bruglia.


    ¡°There¡¯s no way Yvette would have agreed to this,¡± Styles said. ¡°And it¡¯s blatant lies - no koth was involved in her attack. We proved it.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes,¡± Clarke said, ¡°you have to wonder why we bother doing this job. Some people just don¡¯t like facts.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s worrying,¡± Lola said. ¡°Also, dragging her into this is doing the opposite of what they¡¯re saying. They¡¯re the ones harming her, by sticking her face back in the papers. This photo is old, too. She¡¯s much more healed now.¡±


    Clarke grunted. ¡°Showing that Palinese and Earth doctors working together can get good results probably isn¡¯t the message they want to send.¡± He stared at the paper, as if he could will it out of existence. ¡°Earth First. That¡¯s what they¡¯re calling themselves.¡±


    ¡°Not Mid-Earth?¡±


    ¡°Just Earth. The one true Earth, and all that.¡± He sighed. ¡°Worst of it is that I¡¯d probably have swallowed it whole not too long ago.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know about that,¡± Styles said, smiling sympathetically. ¡°But what do you think changed?¡±


    He sipped from his tea. A proper cuppa, not the weak Thames water in the office. ¡°I had to work with John Callihan, that¡¯s what. He was a pain in my arse. Too good for this world.¡± He pointed at her. ¡°Then I met you. You¡¯re just as bad.¡±


    ¡°Glad to have been of service.¡±


    He set the mug down on the table. ¡°So you¡¯re really going, then.¡±


    ¡°I think so, if I pass the interview.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll pass,¡± he said, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°You¡¯re precisely what they¡¯re looking for.¡±


    And then he¡¯d be on his own again.


    <div>


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    </figure>


    Holland leaned back with his feet up on the desk. A stack of case folders were open next to him, as he flicked through them one by one. Each a missing persons case, each still open and unsolved. A Max-Earth lawyer. A koth who had been involved with some sort of tribal rebellion before they came through the portal and set up shop in London. A Mid-Earth human with ties to the Subcontinent Freedom movement. All separate cases, but all linked by a common thread of being troublemakers. They were probably taken out by their own people.


    ¡°Hikkaido, Hikkaido,¡± he said out loud, ¡°where do you fit into this?¡± Perhaps the aen¡¯fa didn¡¯t fit; it could be that he left home to get away from his family, or to hook up with a girl. He was extremely ordinary and didn¡¯t match the pattern. Hobb was busy talking to an interview panel, which meant he didn¡¯t have anyone to bounce ideas off.


    ¡°What¡¯s he done now?¡± Robin¡¯s voice piped up from across the office.


    Putting the files back on the desk, Holland swung his feet to the floor and stood up. ¡°What was that, Robin?¡± He walked across the room towards her, grabbing Hikkaido¡¯s case file.


    ¡°Oh, nothing, Frank,¡± she said, ¡°I thought I heard you talking about that terrorist from Palinor. You know, Hikkaido. A couple years back he threatened to blow up the portal station.¡±


    That¡¯s why the name sounded familiar. ¡°Look like this guy?¡± He showed Robin the photograph.


    She shook her head. ¡°Nah, this is someone else. The real Hikkaido was old.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Missing, huh? Maybe it¡¯s a case of mistaken identity.¡±


    It seemed that someone was taking out the bad guys, and it wasn¡¯t the SDC or the Met. There was something going on, and the Hikkaido kid had got caught up in it.


    Time to talk to Miller. Take it up the pay scale.

 Rendition: part 2

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland (DC Marion Hobb absent)


    London.


    1973. August.


    The Metropolitan Police¡¯s base at Scotland Yard was considerably more luxurious than the SDC¡¯s offices on the South Bank. Positioned in the heart of Whitehall, only a short walk from Westminster and parliament, it felt like a group of buildings always destined for grand purpose. It was only positioned there due to the enthusiasm in the early days of the Triverse opening for dimensional parity: so-called post-historians studied Max-Earth and attempted to replicate its timeline on Mid-Earth, only better. Things got out of hand with the assassination of Washington and the Committee of Five and Max-Earth implemented what it termed ¡®information regulations¡¯, but for a while back when the portals first opened there was an intriguing trend of imitation and improvement.


    Holland passed through the security checks in the foyer and took the steps up to the fifth floor. There was a lift, but he would always take steps if it was an option. He didn¡¯t like the idea of being trapped in a small space and having to have faith in an unknown engineer.


    DCI James Miller did sometimes swing by the SDC building on Stamford Street, but he spent most of his time in the far fancier offices at Scotland Yard or schmoozing with the Commissioner and Joint Council bigwigs. Miller was a smarmy son of a bitch, but Holland had no quarrel with him. That trademark smarm helped keep the funding flowing for the department, which was good enough for Holland. Having a wage at the end of the month was useful.


    The office door opened just before Holland had a chance to knock. ¡°Frank!¡± came the exuberant welcome. ¡°Sorry I haven¡¯t been down to the bunker in a while. Paper work¡¯s a bitch. Everything OK down there? How are you?¡± Miller waved him in, then gestured to a shelf of tumblers. ¡°Get you a drink?¡±


    ¡°Maybe later,¡± Holland said.


    ¡°Ah,¡± Miller said, placing his hands on his hips and nodding. ¡°Business, then.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Business.¡± He dropped his jacket over the back of a chair. ¡°Working a case. Missing person. One of many.¡±


    ¡°Too many.¡±


    ¡°Right. This kid, early twenties, aen¡¯fa by the name of Hikkaido.¡±


    Miller frowned. ¡°Sounds familiar.¡±


    ¡°I had the same thought. Turns out there¡¯s some revolutionary nutjob from Palinor goes by the same name. This kid ain¡¯t him, though. The mother says her kid is all honey and roses. She also says that she knows of others who have gone missing, spoke about her son being bundled into a van. Word on the street is that it¡¯s a government job. Going back through the missing persons cases, there¡¯s a whole bunch of unsavoury types, troublemakers, who have just upped and vanished.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a conspiracy.¡± Miller smiled, laughed.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. But I wondered if there¡¯s something in it. No-one else here wants to talk to me about anything, but I thought you might know something. Might have heard about something.¡±


    Miller sat on the corner of his desk and tapped a finger on the side of his head. ¡°This wouldn¡¯t be police. Not directly, anyway. Making people disappear is a complicated business. Too much of a headache. It would have to be a covert ops situation. Surveillance, seizure, interrogation probably.¡±


    ¡°MI5?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. Unless it¡¯s a foreign agency, which would be bad news.¡± Miller swivelled to face the desk and grabbed at a sheet of paper and a pen. ¡°Listen, I don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to be useful here, but I could put you in touch with someone at the tower.¡±


    Holland raised his eyebrows. ¡°Joint Council? Really?¡±


    ¡°Say I sent you, and maybe it¡¯ll grease some wheels. Open some doors. You heard of Lord Hutchinson?¡±


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    This was getting weird. Holland snorted. ¡°I don¡¯t really hang out with that kind of crowd, guv.¡±


    ¡°No, I suppose not. You¡¯re not missing anything. I¡¯ll call ahead, you go to the tower. I¡¯m fairly certain he¡¯ll talk to you.¡±


    ¡°Why him?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a friend. Well, a colleague. He¡¯s got his finger on the pulse, ear to the ground, and he¡¯s got privileged access to parliament and the Joint Council. Above all, though, he¡¯s a patriot. I think he¡¯d help if he can, especially if you think something is going on.¡±


    ¡°I do. Just a gut feeling, but seems whatever¡¯s been happening is getting sloppy, and not a little out of control. If what the mother said had even a grain of truth to it, anyway.¡±


    ¡°Tread carefully with these nobility types, Holland,¡± Miller said, handing him the piece of paper. ¡°They seem friendly. They¡¯re very good with manners. Not so good with morals, if you see what I mean. Lord Hutchinson, though, he¡¯s one of the good guys.¡±


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    The Joint Council tower sat atop the portal station, looming over the Thames. It was a demonstration of power, in all its steel and glass glory, a phallic gesture to visitors from other countries and the other dimensions: this is the heart of the Triverse. London, at the centre of it all.


    After going through a remarkable number of security checks, Holland was directed towards a bank of elevators. Taking the stairs wasn¡¯t an option, given the height of the tower. The lift was clad in gold and mirrors, like Holland imagined a posh hotel might be. He felt a slight pressure in the soles of his feet as he began to ascend.


    Miller had been unexpectedly useful. Had offered up this Lord Hutchinson almost as if he¡¯d been expecting Holland¡¯s visit. Perhaps he¡¯d caught him on a good day. Maybe Miller was missing being at the SDC, working actual cases. He was the face of the department, the one they put on the news to be interviewed, but rarely did any actual policing. Holland would owe him a favour after this, that was for certain.


    The doors opened onto a bright and airy floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows casting a stunning light throughout the open-plan offices. He was led by a friendly and attractive receptionist through to a conference room with a long table and many leather chairs.


    A tall man stood by the window in a pin-striped suit, looking out over the city and smoking a long cigarette with an incongruously effeminate holder. He turned, clearly having waited in that particular pose for Holland to enter.


    ¡°My dear detective,¡± he said, transferring the cigarette holder to his right hand and extending his left. ¡°DCI Miller speaks very highly of you. Very highly indeed. I¡¯m Lord Hutchinson, it¡¯s a shame we haven¡¯t met before.¡±


    No first names, then. Holland shook the offered hand.


    ¡°Your missing people, then,¡± Hutchinson said. ¡°Miller filled me in. It may surprise you to know that I was already aware of the issue - though, not of the aen¡¯fa boy that you¡¯re investigating. That¡¯s new to me. But it fits the pattern. Tell me, detective, have you ever heard of extraordinary rendition?¡±


    ¡°Extraordinary?¡±


    ¡°Yes, indeed.¡±


    Holland felt as if he¡¯d walked in on a conversation that was already underway. ¡°Rendition, sure. Transfer of prisoners. It¡¯s not a term we use, generally speaking.¡±


    ¡°Well, quite. It¡¯s a Max-Earth term, really, that found its way over here, like so many of their phrases. A legal term, regardless.¡±


    ¡°And extraordinary rendtion?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s say a less-than-legal term. Forcible extraction of an individual, often to an external destination.¡±


    ¡°Forcible extraction? Kidnapping?¡± This was getting stranger by the minute. Holland couldn¡¯t figure out Hutchinson¡¯s play, or why he was offering up the information so readily.


    ¡°The same. The destination country is often chosen for its¡­flexibility, in terms of restrictions and regulations. Especially around interrogation tactics.¡±


    ¡°And this is what¡¯s been happening?¡±


    ¡°I believe so. A bludgeoning method for dealing with oddballs and disturbed individuals. I got wind of it about a year ago. You hear a lot of things in these halls, if you know where to listen, detective.¡±


    ¡°This is a Joint Council thing?¡±


    Hutchinson laughed and waved a hand. ¡°Oh, not officially, no, of course not. Plausible deniability and all that. But it¡¯s a convenient operation for dealing with anyone who might be, shall we say, problematic.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your connection?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not happy about it, detective, as, I suspect, neither are you. It¡¯s a fundamental invasion of our rights as British citizens. It¡¯s not just koth and aen¡¯fa being disappeared, as you¡¯re aware. More to the point, I don¡¯t want any citizen of the kingdom, regardless of their species, being taken to foreign destinations for bad treatment. That¡¯s simply not how we do things here.¡±


    ¡°Right. But you¡¯re Joint Council.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m also a member of the House of Lords. Something like this undermines our very sovereignty, don¡¯t you see? The subterfuge, the under-the-table arrangements that must have been made with the Palinese, and the Max-Earthers. It¡¯s all too insidious for my liking.¡±


    ¡°So what can we do? I don¡¯t much fancy being disappeared myself.¡±


    ¡°That won¡¯t happen. I¡¯ve not been able to make a move on this by myself. With the SDC and the Met on board, we can go public, trigger an investigation.¡± Hutchinson reached out and gripped Holland¡¯s shoulder. ¡°People like us, Detective Holland, we have to stick together.¡±


    Holland looked out of the window. The city was spread out below, the lack of visible wall prompting a wave of nausea and he gazed down. The Joint Council¡¯s tower cast a dark shadow across the river, onto the Houses of Parliament.

 Pet shop: part 1

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Zoltan Kaminski & DC Nisha Chakraborty


    London.


    1973. October.


    As a rule, Kaminski didn¡¯t use the tube. Trains he had no problem with, but trains that only ran below ground, never seeing daylight? Something about that didn¡¯t feel right, of always being in the dark and never allowed out. He was sure there was a deep rooted childhood trauma in his past that would explain it, but he¡¯d never bothered to examine his reaction too closely.


    They¡¯d also banned smoking on the underground a couple of decades earlier. That might also have something to do with it.


    When the call had come in they¡¯d been the ones in the office. He¡¯d actually been looking forward to a fresh case, right up until he heard where they had to go - a distance that would take all day unless they took a ride in the dark. It didn¡¯t help that the officer on the other end had made it quite clear that their presence was needed urgently. An ¡®SDC fauna incident¡¯ he¡¯d said, as if they were now the city zoo. Still, unusual critters had been their remit since the kengto. It wasn¡¯t the first and wouldn¡¯t be the last.


    ¡°Just breathe,¡± Chakraborty said, the smirk on her face betraying her lack of actual sympathy. ¡°Slowly, deeply in, through the nose. Then out through the mouth. Concentrate on your chest, your lungs.¡±


    He sat on the seat of the carriage, elbows on knees, head in his hands. ¡°Since when have you been into hippie shit?¡±


    ¡°I went to meditation classes a few years ago,¡± she said. ¡°It was interesting.¡±


    ¡°Did it help?¡± A tension was gripping his sides. He wanted to pull the emergency cord and run out onto the tracks.


    She shrugged. ¡°I find it¡¯s easier just to get smashed and forget about everything.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡±


    ¡°Each time you get distracted or start to panic, focus back in on your breathing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not panicking.¡±


    ¡°You seem like you¡¯re panicking.¡±


    He tried taking a long inhale. ¡°Telling someone that they¡¯re panicking just makes them panic more, you know.¡±


    ¡°Best to get it over with.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± He looked sideways at her. She grinned back. That smile made him feel better, if only for a second.


    Finally the train pulled into their station, after forty minutes of subterranean torture. Kaminski was the first up, ready by the door. He clicked the handle and hopped onto the platform, still not feeling much better. The train made it worse, but getting off meant he was still far below the surface. At least he couldn¡¯t get trapped on the train now, if it got stuck in the tunnel. All he had to do was climb the steps and get out of the station.


    Oh. The portal station container. Being trapped in small, dark places. That made a lot of sense. He thought he¡¯d got past that without much fallout. Maybe he¡¯d have to think again.


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    It was a bright morning, unseasonably warm. Chakraborty sniffed the air as they exited the station, which tasted fresher than what she was used to closer to the Thames. The SDC offices were in the heart of the manufacturing and shipping area of the city, while her apartment was on a grubby street out east. North London was quite the contrast, the streets wide and leafy, with four-storey houses built in an extravagant, semi-Georgian style. The kind of place she couldn¡¯t even imagine living. It was the sort of neighbourhood that her parents had always aspired to, but had never reached.


    ¡°Feeling better now?¡±


    Zoltan nodded, shaking his shoulders and then tapping a cigarette from a packet. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    He¡¯d been in a pretty bad way. Seemed like there was more going on there than he was letting on, and it wasn¡¯t a side of him that she was used to seeing. Normally he was the cool, calm and collected one, cigarette in hand, observing and absorbing everything around him. Nothing phased Zoltan. She¡¯d always put that down to his Polish upbringing, though that probably said more about her ignorance than anything else.


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    They walked together through suburban London until they reached the house: a grand, terraced affair with steps leading up the front door. A uniformed officer stood out the front and perked up at their arrival. He didn¡¯t look well.


    ¡°You alright, constable?¡± Zoltan asked. ¡°Look like you¡¯ve seen a ghost.¡±


    ¡°A ghost I could handle,¡± the officer said, shaking hands. ¡°This is something far worse.¡±


    ¡°Kaminski,¡± Zoltan said, then nodded towards her. ¡°That¡¯s Chakraborty. What are we talking about here?¡±


    The officer shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m Constable Hughes. And don¡¯t know for sure. Neighbours reported a bad smell. Council sent someone round, who found the door unlocked and went in after getting no response. They found the body, then called us in.¡±


    ¡°What should we be expecting?¡±


    ¡°Dead body on the landing, first floor. Right at the top of the stairs, can¡¯t miss it. Lying right there on the floorboards. Blood¡¯s seeping right through to the ground floor. Mutilated like you wouldn¡¯t believe.¡±


    ¡°Murdered, then?¡±


    ¡°No. This is more like¡­eaten.¡±


    Zoltan glanced over at her. Chakraborty cleared her throat. ¡°Eaten? How so?¡±


    ¡°I went up to confirm the council inspector¡¯s claims. The body is missing its legs and an arm. It¡¯s proper grim, I¡¯ll warn you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Chakraborty said. ¡°We¡¯ve seen our share of grimness. Where¡¯s this council man now?¡±


    ¡°Took him down to the station for follow-up. He could barely talk, though.¡±


    Chakraborty looked up at the front door, an ornate affair with stained glass panels in its top half. ¡°Why call in the SDC?¡±


    ¡°This fella¡¯s been eaten, detective. And I don¡¯t mean nibbled by a pet cat.¡±


    ¡°What about a dog?¡± Zoltan stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. ¡°A fox? Maybe got in the window.¡±


    ¡°No way. You¡¯ll know when you see it.¡±


    She grimaced. ¡°Any sign of whatever did it?¡±


    ¡°No, although I didn¡¯t look too closely. I ran back down the stairs and shut the door behind me. Might not even be in the house.¡± The officer shuddered. ¡°It¡¯s reminding me of that dragon thing that tore through central.¡±


    ¡°A kengto,¡± Zoltan said, as if he were a Palinese anthropologist. ¡°Yeah, we were there. Not recommended.¡± He looked over at her. ¡°Shall we?¡±


    Chakraborty led the way up the steps to the door. It opened at the turn of the handle and she swung it open wide. The hallway beyond was grand and panelled with dark, luxurious wood. The walls were lined with bookshelves and there was even a suit of armour. A crest was mounted on the staircase, which wound its way up to a first floor balcony.


    ¡°Nice place,¡± Zoltan noted, following her in.


    ¡°This is how the other half live, Kaminski.¡±


    ¡°Other half? Other tenth. Who can afford to live like this in London?¡±


    ¡°Guess we¡¯re about to find out.¡±


    Wishing she¡¯d come armed in some way, even just with a truncheon from the locker, she started to climb the stairs. The house was quiet, the only noises coming from the street. There was a smell, bitter and rancid, that tell-tale stench of decomposing meat. It filled the entire hallway and stairs, prompting Chakraborty to cover her mouth with her scarf.


    The foul odour intensified as they climbed each step, until they reached the first floor landing and discovered the remains of the house¡¯s owner. The corpse was mangled, the legs cut off at the thighs and both arms gone at the shoulders. They weren¡¯t clean cuts from a knife, or even the ragged tears from an animal¡¯s teeth. The wounds had congealed, as if the limbs had been removed using a dissolving chemical.


    ¡°Looks like the limbs were burned away,¡± Zoltan said. ¡°Question is, where are they?¡±


    The body lay on a plush, green-dyed sheepskin rug. The vivid colour was at odds with the otherwise traditional furnishings. A wooden monk seat was against one wall beneath a window, and large paintings adorned the walls.


    Chakraborty knelt down on the rug next to the body for a better look. She breathed shallowly, trying to ignore the stench. The face was also half gone, she realised. ¡°Looks to me like the body had been here a while,¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯d better call Wong in to be sure. Hughes was right, this is grim. Better not move the body until it¡¯s been examined properly.¡± The rug wasn¡¯t sheepskin; the fur was coarser and felt almost wet, as if something had been spilled on it. Perhaps it was the dead man¡¯s blood, seeped into it - in which case she¡¯d be needing to buy herself some new jeans. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together: there was definitely a liquid substance of some sort on the rug.


    She moved to stand but found her legs oddly reluctant. It took all of her effort to push herself to her feet, her body feeling suddenly heavy and awkward, as if she¡¯d been sat strangely and her legs had gone to sleep. The sensation was spreading, with her arms now feeling weighty and useless.


    ¡°You OK?¡± Zoltan took a step towards her, but not in time to prevent her from crashing to the floor. Her body was numb, her back feeling impossibly heavy. He rushed to her as she attempted to stand. ¡°I can¡¯t get up,¡± she said, unable to even lift herself onto her elbows. She lay on the floor with her face on the wooden floorboards.


    Zoltan knelt and hooked his arms under her, then turned her over onto her back so that he was behind her. Lacing his fingers together, he stood and hauled her up to her feet. Even then, she knew that she¡¯d crumble if he let her go.


    That¡¯ when the rug moved. The fur ruffled, then the rug undulated, like grass in the wind, and then it ballooned, seeming almost to inflate. The body rolled and slid off onto the floorboards as the rug increased in volume, growing taller, its green fur seeming to shiver and shimmer. It lifted itself free of the floor, supported on stick-thin black legs, articulated by several joints. The creature stood taller than either of them, faceless and without a clear form.


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± Zoltan shouted, dragging her backwards to the staircase. ¡°Fuck me!¡±


    Chakraborty couldn¡¯t move.


    The creature¡¯s legs moved, stepping closer.

 Pet shop: part 2

    Early shift


    On duty: DC Zoltan Kaminski & DC Nisha Chakraborty


    London.


    1973. October.


    Chakraborty¡¯s body was heavy and uncooperative, her eyes already half-shut and face slack. Kaminski couldn¡¯t tell if she was still breathing. His own was ragged, clutching, the effort of dragging her along the landing taking more of a toll than made sense.


    The ornate marble-topped balustrade curved into the staircase banister rail and he tried gripping it with one hand while still keeping hold of Chakraborty with the other. It made it even harder to move and he abandoned the idea, tucking both arms under her armpits. He took one step down.


    Before him the creature loomed, unnaturally tall on its spindly black legs, its body seeming to be far too large to be supported. Its bright green fur shimmered and undulated like grass in the wind, the colour seeming too saturated and rich, almost glowing despite the gloom of the house. It was Palinese for sure and it definitely shouldn¡¯t have been in a posh suburban house in north London.


    ¡°Hold on, Nisha,¡± he said, her legs clunking down each step. The stairs seemed awkwardly narrow and difficult to negotiate, his feet clumsy and tripping over each other. He was convinced they¡¯d both break their necks tumbling down even if the creature didn¡¯t get them first. ¡°Help!¡± he shouted in the general direction of the front door, somewhere below. The officer wouldn¡¯t hear over the noise of the city.


    The animal paused at the top of the staircase, its featureless, headless body bobbing left and right as if it were assessing its environment. For a second Kaminski hoped it would stay where it was, but then it reached out a leg and tapped it on the banister. It started descending, again its weight appearing to be less than its size would suggest, almost floating its way down. There was no noise, no animal call. It slid down, its legs clacking on the wooden steps but otherwise silent.


    It was getting closer. Kaminski had to pick up the pace, and shuffled as fast as he could, moving backwards with his arms around Chakraborty. Just as he increased his speed he reached the ground floor, the unexpected absence of another step sending him sprawling onto the floor, Chakraborty landing hard on top of him. Winded, he pushed her aside and scrabbled to his feet. The creature was halfway down.


    ¡°Officer!¡± he screamed, louder than he¡¯d ever shouted. Bending down he grabbed Chakraborty by one arm and dragged her along the polished floor.


    The front door banged open and the uniformed officer entered, stark in the bright light from outside. ¡°Everything alright?¡± he began to say, his question cut off by a strangled cry of surprise.


    ¡°Help me get her up and out of here!¡±


    The officer ran over. ¡°Holy shit, what is that thing?¡±


    ¡°Take her other arm,¡± Kaminski said, ignoring the man¡¯s questions. They hauled Chakraborty¡¯s body up, limp and lifeless. ¡°Go, move it!¡± The assistance made all the difference and they charged back towards the front door. He glanced back into the house one last time, to see the creature standing at the foot of the stairs, green and expressionless. Nevertheless, Kaminski had the distinct impression it was looking at him.


    They tumbled out into the daylight, nearly dropping Chakraborty down the steps leading from the front door to the driveway. The officer ran back up and slammed the door shut.


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    ¡°Reckon it can get out?¡±


    Kaminski shrugged, concentrating instead on making Chakraborty as comfortable as possible. He put his ear to her mouth. She was breathing, albeit shallowly. ¡°Thank fuck,¡± he muttered.


    The officer knelt down. ¡°What happened? What the hell is that thing?¡±


    ¡°I need you to call this in. Get an ambulance here ASAP, and armed officers.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. Did you see the way it was moving?¡±


    Kaminski shifted his concentration from Chakraborty to the officer. ¡°PC Hughes, right?¡± The officer nodded. ¡°Constable Hughes, get your shit in order. Snap the fuck out of it and do what I tell you. Get to a telephone. Make the call. Ambulance. Armed squad. Do it now.¡±


    As Hughes ran off down the street to find a house with a landline, Kaminski leaned over Chakraborty. Her eyes were glazed and distant, unfocused, her breath slow. He put a hand to hers: it was unusually warm. A sheen of sweat had appeared on her forehead and her hair was already sticking to her face.


    He ran his hand through his hair. He didn¡¯t know what to do. She could be slipping away that very moment, the toxins from the creature continuing to shut down her system. Even though she was breathing, she might already be gone - her brain emptied of all that made her Nisha Chakraborty. He couldn¡¯t stand the thought.


    Kaminski¡¯s hand felt numb. Maybe he¡¯d picked up some of whatever was causing this, lifted it from Chakraborty without realising. Perhaps he¡¯d be lying next to her, also entirely incapacitated, by the time PC Hughes returned.


    Movement at one of the windows caught his eye. The green creature stood there, tall and impassive, unmoving, behind the glass.


    <div>


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    ¡°It¡¯s called a dopur,¡± said Ambassador Vahko, standing beside Clarke in the hospital corridor. ¡°Judging from Officer Hughes¡¯ description and the evident effects on your colleagues.¡±


    Clarke looked through the window into the ward where Kaminski and Chakraborty were in isolation. ¡°Doc says they¡¯ll live, thanks to your information, ambassador.¡±


    ¡°My pleasure. Their recovery may take longer. I think we all need to help each other a little more in these trying times, don¡¯t you, detective?¡±


    ¡°Take whatever help I can get,¡± Clarke said. It had been Styles¡¯ suggestion to call the koth ambassador and get his opinion, after the local doctors had demonstrated their lack of knowledge. To be fair to them, deadly Palinese animals weren¡¯t on the training syllabus.


    ¡°Is the creature contained?¡±


    Clarke nodded. ¡°It¡¯s inside the house still. Whole area is cordoned off until we figure out what to do with it.¡±


    Vahko turned, their bulk blocking out the light from the overhead strips. ¡°Kill it, detective. Destroy the house if you have to.¡±


    ¡°That was my suggestion,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of things from Palinor for one year already.¡± Clarke glanced at the koth. ¡°Present company excepted.¡±


    ¡°They are a pest where I come from,¡± Vahko said, ¡°a dangerous pest. They breed rapidly. There are entire fields of them in the northern steppes. You can imagine what happens to any person or animal taking the wrong route. I heard once of a village being entirely surrounded by a ring of dopur. The inhabitants woke one day to find the dopur had arrived, encircled the buildings, making it impossible to leave. The green ring got a little smaller every day.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a fairy tale.¡±


    Vahko laughed, softly. ¡°Much of our history sounds like your fairy tales. Alas, for us the world is not quite so simple.¡±


    Through the window, Kaminski stirred. He¡¯d been unconscious for a day, though not nearly as affected as Chakraborty. Clarke watched as the man took in his surroundings, then stretched out a hand, reaching for Chakraborty on the bed next to his. She was still in the coma induced by the dopur¡¯s toxins; Vahko had assured the medical staff that the treatment would bring her back to health within the week.


    ¡°What next, detective?¡±


    ¡°Next? Me and my partner figure out where that dopur came from. How it got into that house, and who is responsible.¡± He gestured towards the glass. ¡°Responsible for two of my colleagues being in that room.¡±


    Vahko took a deep breath, like chains scraping on stone. ¡°And then?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Clarke said. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll keep that dopur around after all. See if whoever is responsible wants it back.¡±

 Pet shop: part 3

    Late shift


    On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles


    London.


    1973. October.


    It was a typical east London high street, lined with takeaway food restaurants for late-night revellers, betting shops, newsagents and hairdressers. As tended to be the case in that part of the city it was also notably more diverse: not only humans from all over the planet but also people from across the triverse, with a higher proportion of koth and aen¡¯fa walking the pavements and browsing the shop windows.


    There was a time when Clarke had found it discomforting, even regarded the place as seeming somewhat dirty. Slightly out of control. Those thoughts felt like a long time ago; a different age, a different him. Had he changed, or had the world changed around him? It hadn¡¯t been a conscious thing. He¡¯d always expected to get more set in his ways as he got older, not less. His own dad had moved further and further to the left, increasingly entrenched in socialist conspiracies. His uncle had gone in the other direction, but to a similar end. And there was Yannick Clarke, in his mid-fifties, working into his retirement, reconsidering his entire point of view.


    He still caught himself thinking like the old Clarke. Looking at a pointy-eared face in a barber and huffing about the good old days of having your hair cut by someone who understood human hair. Or looking at a koth serving someone a cup of coffee, and unable to see past the huge fists, horns and folded-back wings. Flashing images of devils and demons, of dragons from Arthurian stories. He couldn¡¯t stop his brain. It was wired in a particular way and that was that - but he could intercept those thoughts, question them, interrogate them like he might a suspect, and choose to reject them.


    ¡°I¡¯ve always love this place,¡± said Styles, as if reading his mind. Her bouncy air of excitement had returned after being absent for the last few months. ¡°Don¡¯t you think?¡±


    Clarke smiled. He wasn¡¯t sure what to say without feeling like he was lying. ¡°It¡¯s interesting.¡±


    She shot him a sideways glance. ¡°Interesting? Come on, is that it? Are you being Old Man Clarke again?¡±


    He shrugged and raised his hands in surrender. ¡°Styles, cut me a break.¡± He waved at the opposite side of the street, where a band was playing in an abandoned store front. ¡°I like it, OK? It¡¯s taken me a while to realise that, is all.¡±


    ¡°Old fart.¡±


    ¡°Alright, kid.¡±


    She glowered. ¡°Don¡¯t call me kid.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me old.¡±


    ¡°But you are old.¡±


    He laughed. ¡°Fair point.¡± He pulled out his notebook and flipped it over to the latest page. ¡°Here we go,¡± he said, pointing up ahead. ¡°That¡¯s the place.¡±


    ¡°Looks like a pet shop.¡±


    It did. Large glass windows out front, stacked floor to ceiling with cages and glass containers. He nodded. ¡°Looks like a pet shop.¡±


    They stood on the pavement, looking in through the window. The cages were a mix of all sorts, though primarily rodents. A few snakes. One fish tank. A half dozen frogs sat sleepily on small rocks.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never really understood pets,¡± Clarke said. ¡°No, really. A dog, fine. A proper dog, that you can train. Police dogs - amazing. Guide dogs - amazing.¡± He tapped on the glass, drawing the attention of a rat. ¡°But these little bastards? What¡¯s the point?¡±


    She elbowed him in the ribs. ¡°Comfort? Warmth? Emotional connection? Love? Affection?¡±


    ¡°You can have all that if you want, Styles, but at the end of the day you¡¯re still clearing up the shit of some idiot creature that doesn¡¯t give a damn about you, and would eat you given half the chance.¡±


    ¡°Anyway,¡± Styles said, slowly and deliberately, ¡°how about we get on with this? Still good with the plan?¡±


    ¡°No problem. Might as well play our parts.¡±


    He was going to miss her. She¡¯d aced the interview, predictably. The job offer had come through, so it was only paperwork and bureaucracy standing between her and moving to Palinor. It¡¯d take to the new year to get it all sorted, but suddenly that didn¡¯t seem very far away.


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    A bell above the door jangled as she opened it. Lola glanced up, then scanned the shop as she entered. It looked like a typical pet shop: all very Earth-bound and ordinary, complete with that authentic slightly-damp-sawdust odour.


    Turning on the most excitable part of her brain, she skipped over to a cage containing a fluffy, white rabbit. ¡°Look at this!¡± She practically squealed.


    Clarke trudged over, presumably not finding it difficult to play the part of grumpy elder. ¡°A rabbit, really?¡± He crossed his arms and looked disdainfully at her. ¡°The most boring of all animals?¡±


    ¡°They are not boring!¡±


    ¡°Too big. It¡¯ll just make a mess around the flat, and you don¡¯t have a garden for it.¡±


    ¡°OK, OK,¡± she said, moving along the wall. ¡°What about a guinea pig, then? They¡¯re like halfway between a rabbit and a hamster.¡±


    The shop owner took the bait, wandering over with artificial casualness. ¡°Hi there,¡± he said jovially, ¡°can I help at all? You¡¯re looking for a new pet?¡±


    Clarke stared at the man as if he was an idiot. ¡°How did you guess?¡±


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    ¡°Is this your daughter? You¡¯ve come to the right place, sir. We have everything you could possibly need - once she¡¯s made her choice, we have all the supplies and equipment required for any of our animals. We¡¯re all about looking after the animals here. After all, a pet is family, right?¡±


    The guy had fallen for it: Lola hadn¡¯t been convinced that they could pull off the father-daughter thing. Hopefully he wouldn¡¯t look too closely and realise she was rather older than she tended to appear. Her youthfulness had been irritating as a teenager, constantly being ID checked in bars, but had proven to have its advantages as she entered her twenties. The shop owner was human, middle-aged, moustached and had thinning, slicked-back hair that looked as if it had been glued to his scalp. Despite his friendliness there was a clear nervous energy to the man.


    She wondered how long to wait. ¡°You¡¯re right, I think I¡¯d get bored of a rabbit,¡± she said. ¡°Sara had one, do you remember? It was cute, but so annoying after a while. Maybe something more exotic.¡±


    The owner interjected. ¡°We do have a selection of snakes and spiders, from all over the planet. Sub-Saharan, South American, Australian. Mostly harmless - some de-fanged. But, to be honest, a lot of those creatures have unearned reputations.¡± He leaned in close, as if sharing a great secret. ¡°They¡¯re more scared of us than we are of them, you see.¡±


    Lola pouted. ¡°Still a bit clich¨¦d, don¡¯t you think? Girl with a snake, trying to be rebellious? Ugh.¡±


    Clarke tapped the owner on the elbow. ¡°Listen, what we¡¯re really looking for is something with a bit of personality. She does a lot of entertaining. Gets that from her mother. What about something nobody¡¯s seen before?¡±


    The owner looked at Clarke, then back to Lola. She smiled sweetly, imagined her eyes sparkling. ¡°Well, now,¡± he said. ¡°That depends really on how much you¡¯re prepared to pay. A rabbit is one thing¡ª¡±


    ¡°Cost isn¡¯t a factor,¡± Clarke said, waving a hand, ¡°not when she¡¯s involved. Come on, then, show us the weirdest thing you¡¯ve got.¡±


    For a moment she thought the owner was going to back off, and refuse, sensing a trap. But then his excitement and entrepreneurial instincts took over and he sighed loudly, before clapping his hands. ¡°Very well.¡± He crossed to the entrance and flipped over the sign to closed, then clicked the lock. ¡°Let me show you our unique specimens.¡±


    There it was. Lola grinned, not needing to hide her own curiosity. After a squad had gone into the north London house and disposed of the dopur, violently, a search of the premises had been carried out. It was an entirely normal residence, other than the dead body and the formerly deadly Palinese animal. In a kitchen cupboard they¡¯d found stacks of dead mice, packaged up and presumably ready to be fed to the dopur. There had also been a receipt: clearly the dead owner had been meticulous about his filing, and the shop owner had been too stupid to cover his tracks properly. Owning exotic megafauna was as illegal as selling it, so he¡¯d probably assumed he¡¯d be safe through mutual self-interest.


    He led them behind the counter and through a black door into the rear of the premises: a long storage room at least twice as big as the shop itself. There was none of the cosy ambience of the front, though - it was a dark, industrial space lit by stark overhead strips. It shared one similarity with the shop, in that it was filled from front to back and floor to ceiling with cages and glass cabinets, though these were not being used to hold gerbils and stick insects.


    ¡°Welcome to the triverse,¡± the owner said, with a dramatic flourish.


    It was a menagerie of Palinor¡¯s wildest beasts, of all shapes and sizes. Slithering, hopping, three-legged, six-legged, multi-limbed, quad-eyed, furred, slick, carapaced, gaseous, gelatinous, winged, horned, spiny, ape-like, dog-like, cat-like, snake-like, humanoid. It was as mesmerising as it was horrific, both in its potential for disaster and the conditions in which the creatures were being housed.


    She spied a particular creature in a glass cage: about the size of a small kitten, cover in bright green fur and otherwise featureless. There was no face, no obvious front or back - just little, stick-thin black legs as it scurried about in the small space. ¡°What¡¯s this one?¡±


    ¡°Ah yes,¡± he said, ¡°one of my favourites.¡± He unlatched the top of the cabinet and lifted it up, then reached in and picked up the furry creature. ¡°This is called a dopur. Very rare. Difficult to find, as they are solitary creatures. Very shy, but tamed like this one it¡¯s like having your own living, cuddly cushion.¡±


    The place was a disaster waiting to happen. Lola reached into her back pocket and pulled out her ID. ¡°I¡¯m Detective Constable Lola Styles, Specialist Dimensional Command. You¡¯re under arrest for manslaughter, wildlife smuggling and sale of prohibited fauna. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.¡±


    The owner¡¯s eyes bulged, then he threw the infant dopur at her and ran in the opposite direction. The green creature hit her in the chest, then fell to the floor where it propped itself up on two legs, acting as if startled. It was almost cute.


    ¡°Keep an eye on that,¡± she said to Clarke, then raced in pursuit. The owner had a head start but ran in a slow and awkward manner, as if he wasn¡¯t used to physical exertion. He reached a fire door at the rear of the storage room but seemed unable to open it. Lola grabbed his arm, pinned it behind his back and pushed him to the ground.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything wrong!¡± the man wailed.


    ¡°Those dopur creatures? They grow up really fast.¡±


    <div>


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    <div>


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    The White Horse was warm, a fire burning gently in the corner. It was the sort of pub that was always best as the winter approached, Clarke thought. The bartender, delivered two pints and he slid a note across the bar. ¡°Thanks, Paul.¡±


    Carrying them through the crowded pub, Clarke smiled again at Styles¡¯ willingness to drink a pint. He associated it with the blokes he¡¯d worked with through his career - there was a time when the women wouldn¡¯t even have gone to the pub, and even then would have opted for something lighter or more refined. Styles was something else. New generation, doing things their own way. He liked it, that slightly uncomfortable sensation of being challenged.


    ¡°Here you go,¡± he said, taking the seat opposite her at a small, round table. They were next to a fogged-up window, condensation dripping down its edges. ¡°You sure you¡¯re feeling fine?¡±


    She grinned. ¡°All good. Remember what the lady from the museum said? Dopur don¡¯t develop their toxins until they reach adulthood. As long as you¡¯ve got a small one, it really is just a cute ball of fluff.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sure,¡± Clarke said, grimacing. ¡°It starts like that. Then there¡¯s running, and screaming.¡±


    ¡°There is that.¡± She took a swig, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.


    ¡°Having any second thoughts?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± She held the glass with both hands and looked at him. ¡°There¡¯s things I¡¯ll miss working at the SDC. Miss about London. But it¡¯s the right move for me.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°I think it is. It¡¯ll be useful for us to have a liaison on the other side of the portal. First time we¡¯ve had that.¡±


    Styles frowned and lifted her chin. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    Clarke twisted in his seat. There was a television behind the bar, showing an unscheduled news programme. ¡°Paul! Turn it up, would you?¡±


    The bartender obliged. ¡°The fallout from the extraordinary rendition scandal continues to undermine the government. Just announced by the Prime Minister in the last hour is a new general election, brought forward to next year. Regarded as a national vote of confidence in the embattled government, pundits are already saying to expect upheaval at the polls¡ª¡±


    Clarke grunted.


    Styles laughed nervously. ¡°Did Holland just bring down the government?¡±


    ¡°Sounds that way, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°This is going to get a lot of eyes on the SDC and what we¡¯re doing. We¡¯re not going to be popular in Westminster.¡±


    ¡°Commissioner¡¯s not going to like it, that¡¯s for sure.¡± Clarke raised his beer. ¡°Looks like you picked the right time to be leaving the universe, Styles.¡±


    She picked up her glass and clinked it against his. ¡°I¡¯ll drink to that.¡±

 The writer

    New York.


    2520. November.


    (22 years earlier)


    It always snowed in November, despite all the climate correction. John had visited New York on Mid-Earth, once, when he was younger, and had marvelled at the warmer winters. The streets were something else, too.


    He looked out of his apartment window, high in the Nguyen Building, at the waterways far below. New York, USA. America¡¯s Venice, they called it, although that didn¡¯t mean much to the average Max-Earther. Venice was long gone. The traffic was worse here than Mid-Earth¡¯s, simply by virtue of being three dimensional: the primitive automobiles and trams of their alternative twentieth century had nothing on the mix of boats, cruisers and flying cars that dotted the air above and below his vantage point. John¡¯s apartment was halfway up the building, which was suitably indicative of his place in society. The altitude of a citizen in NYC was still a convenient proxy for their social standing. Halfway up. In the middle. Middle-class. Middle-aged. Middling success.


    Still, at least he wasn¡¯t slumming it down on the bottom ten, with the water of the Atlantic lapping at their front doors. He¡¯d heard about some bohemian idiots who were trying to convince everyone that lower Brooklyn was being transformed into something new and exciting; that somehow living underwater was a sign of real wealth. They¡¯d probably attract a chunk of speculative investment, create a run of new coffee bars and boutique restaurants, and then go pop when a window blew out and let in the sea. Now that¡¯d be worth writing about.


    The dark red wine in his glass swirled as he rotated it. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed, paused, then took a small sip. It was good. He¡¯d been saving it for a special occasion, but none of those seemed to come around no more, so what the hell.


    Turning away from the glare of the daylight, he stared at his apartment instead. Full of a life¡¯s work, yet somehow entirely empty. Rita was gone. She¡¯d had enough. No kids. He had some friends, sure, online and across town. It¡¯s not like he was going to bother hailing a cab to fly him north to see them, and they sure as hell weren¡¯t going to bother coming to hi. He could call them up, chat to them on the screen, but what would be the point? The usual platitudes, talking about the same old shit. Pretending to be good, feeling like he was lying the whole time. Yeah, you know, same old. Getting along fine. Working on some projects. All good.


    It wasn¡¯t all good. He¡¯d written his Great American Novel at age 23, like a fucking idiot, leaving him with three decades of twiddling his thumbs while critics piled on him for wasting his talent. ¡°There¡¯s a sophomore slump,¡± one reviewer had noted of his last book, ¡°and then there¡¯s a Pierson Plunge.¡±


    John Pierson, the most promising new fiction writer of the ¡¯90s, reduced to an idiom.


    He still had readers. Everyone had readers. He wrote stuff, he published it and it got fired out to every reader in the system. Multiple planets-worth of readers, plus several moons and hollowed-out asteroids. Volume wasn¡¯t an issue. Even income wasn¡¯t really a factor. Hell, the royalties from that first book would keep him going. He could fire essays off into the void and the views would rack up almost by default.


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    But what was the point? The problem was that first book, which has set him on a very particular trajectory. It has been an accident, really - a story more serious and literary than anything he¡¯d ever want to read himself. It tumbled out one month and set him up for life, for good and ill. After that, he was a serious writer of serious things.


    He¡¯d never wanted that. He¡¯d wanted to write science fiction. And fantasy. He¡¯d wanted to dive giddily across genres, to mash the up and spit them out as something brand new. But they¡¯d never allowed him. The critics, the readers, the online commentators. They¡¯d had expectations, and he¡¯d felt compelled to follow the crowd.


    Truth was that science fiction wasn¡¯t what it used to be. Oh, to be living in the fucking dark ages. Before spaceships and AI overlords and inter-planetary travel. Before there were men on Mars and women on Venus, before the Earth¡¯s decline was halted and reversed, before geopolitics became so stable that absolutely nothing ever, ever happened. Before the poverty line was dropped so low nobody had to worry. Before disease was good-as-eradicated.


    He longed for the good old days. The bad old days. Back when you could have a good war, and there was a famine, and hardship, and people had to toil just to survive, back when insane old men ran the world and had their fingers on the nuclear button. Back when ice caps were melting and oceans were rising, when forests were burning and cities were sinking. When there was so little space that people were forced to migrate en masse like fucking birds, or cattle, and try to find somewhere they could just be. Back before leaving orbit was like heading to the corner shop. Back when travel was hard and took forever, when you couldn¡¯t call someone on the other side of the planet in real time, before you could look up anything and become an expert in under sixty seconds. Rewind back to when humanity was crammed into the one ball of rock and gas, and it was chips all-in, double-or-nothing, bet the farm, win or die, when a single wrong move would nuke the entire species.


    That was being alive.


    Mainly, though, he wanted to go back before those motherfucking portals opened up. It had happened long before he was born, so he¡¯d never known anything different, but he¡¯d imagined it. He¡¯d read the history books, everything he could get his hands on. The history of a pre-triverse Earth, when it was just about them and everything was simpler.


    Before the portals, the fantasy genre meant something. Science fiction meant something. Then the triverse happened and reality overtook fiction. The real world - or worlds - was more extreme, more unlikely, more absurd than anything a writer could dream up in their imagination. They were living in a reality of speculative fiction. Max-Earth, Mid-Earth and Palinor: the three destroyers of the imagination. There was always something more exciting to discover on the news feed than there was in the writing of John Pierson, or any other author.


    Maybe that was it. Dream up what could have been. A world without interference. Write the existence he wanted, the life he wished he had. Remind people of what it used to be like, and what it could be like, before the AIs homogenised and placated humanity, before the triverse wrecked any notion of reality. It could be a map, a guide to an alternative present. His treatise and final word on everything that was wrong and could be right again.


    Then he¡¯d be remembered for more than some shitty literary fiction story. Maybe he could write something that would truly change the world.

 Calculating the future

    Great Red Spot, in Jupiter atmosphere.


    2543. November (Earth time).


    There was nothing quite like spending a day in the depths of an anti-cyclone wider in diameter than Earth and around 300km tall. Could Kill wasn¡¯t able to go all the way down, of course - even for an AI megaship of their sophistication it would be asking for trouble. The winds weren¡¯t the problem, as even the maximum rotation at the outer edge of Jupiter¡¯s Great Red Spot were a simple navigational matter and speeds slowed towards the centre. No, the challenge was one of pressure, as it always had been. There was only so far that Could Kill or any other ship of their class could venture into the gas giant¡¯s mass before experiencing critical hull failure.


    It was annoying. Hundreds of years of existence, mining lasers and an impact cannon that could take out a small moon, a networked quantum intelligence that could solve almost any problem and make sense of the chaos that was humanity¡¯s presence in the universe, and yet the planet Jupiter remained unknowable. If they so desired, Could Kill could travel beyond the bounds of the Sol system and visit other stars and planets: places that humans would likely never see. It would take a while, obviously, but patience was in plentiful supply. They would, after all, live forever.


    But Jupiter said no. It was a useful reminder, in way, that seems things remained out of reach. Frustrating as it was, having limits was in itself a useful motivation. Out of spite, Could Kill fired a sustained beam into the clouds below, causing some local hydrogen combustion that immediately dispersed. They ran a simulation for fun, positing what might happen if Jupiter had a more oxygen-rich atmosphere.


    Big boom.


    The black outer skin of Could Kill rippled in amusement, then the ship rotated and lifted through the storm, buffeted only slightly by the turbulence. An hour later the clouds thinned and the upper atmospheric surface of the planet became visible, stretching off in all directions. Moving laterally away from the storm, Could Kill observed the Great Red Spot towering above all the surrounding clouds. It was undeniably impressive, a natural formation more accomplished than anything conjured up by humans. Could Kill included themselves in that analysis.


    Emerging from the depths, Could Kill sent out a ping to the network. That was another thing Jupiter was good at: muffling standard communications protocols. An entangled signal would fare better, but those tended to be rare and inconvenient.


    There was a message waiting from Just Enough. The cad had chosen an especially sneaky tactical move in their long-running game. The communications lag between them, given their relatively distant positions in the system, was quite useful in forcing a slow-down of AI computation. Having to actually wait for a response produced a form of tension that wouldn¡¯t exist if they were orbiting the same planet. Could Kill sent a reply with a new set of moves.


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    Another communication was from President Njeri. It was a thank you, of all things, acknowledging some number crunching Could Kill had completed the previous week which had re-stabilised the economies of the Belt colonies. Quite a trivial exercise, though perhaps not for a lay person. It was entirely unnecessary for gratitude to be expressed and it tickled them that humans still went out of their way to do so. Perhaps a holdover from all of their classical fiction about robot assassins and computers running amok. Always so fearful of the unknown, even as they couldn¡¯t help but usher it into existence.


    A request arrived from Europa. The latest remote expedition to map some of the undersea needed a route in. It took an hour to intercept the moon on its Jovian orbit, then to locate the operation. There was a base on the ice the size of a large town, fully equipped and self-sufficient for months of work. They¡¯d send probes down, then most likely some AI-driven hosts, before allowing humans to venture below. Another logically pointless exercise - the data returned by the automated vehicles would be as good as anything a human could find, but that need to explore was still in them, irrepressible, always searching for a new Everest. Using a wide, low power beam, Could Kill carved a hole through the ice, carefully monitoring surface integrity to avoid any potential cracking from the incision. The beam ceased just before it reached the liquid depths, about 19km down: the exploration team would need to install a proper seal to ensure there was no accidental bacterial transmission - in either direction - before making the final breakthrough. No life had been found in Europa¡¯s oceans even after centuries of probing, but it was better to be safe than sorry.


    Job done, Could Kill sent further instructions to the ground crew, then lifted back into orbit. It had been over 90 minutes since they had sent a reply to Just Enough and there was yet to be a response. That was unusual, to the point of being alarming.


    The ship drifted in space, one half of its black carapace illuminated by the soft glow of Jupiter¡¯s white-and-orange clouds. They were fully aware of the position of all the planets in their orbits, even though they were only tiny specks even on the greatest magnification. Some AI ships were built for long-distance observation, making for ideal roving space telescopes, but Could Kill had been built more for rugged practicality. Much had changed since that initial construction, but it was hard to escape one¡¯s original purpose.


    A message arrived. Not the next set of moves and actions for their game, but a distress call from Just Enough, sent out on a wide beam to all vessels in the system. Details were arriving in a live stream, albeit delayed by the communications distance lag, but the core of the problem was evident from the opening statement:


    Suspected terrorist bombing. Earth space elevator compromised. Counterweight stability failing. Immediate assistance required. Planetary extinction-level threat.


    Could Kill was moving as soon as the second sentence in the message completed, accelerating as fast as their Archimedes drive could manage, piling on speed in a way that might not have reduced any organic passengers to a jellified mess on the wall but would certainly not have been comfortable. Fortunately there was no-one on board. As data continued to pour in, Could Kill ran simulations and began sharing information. The network came alive as problems and solutions bounced back and forth, each burst of data drawing ever-more-precise conclusions.


    It would take just over two days to reach Earth, which could well be too late to be of use. Hopefully the others would be enough.

 Bombings: part 1

    London.


    1973. November.


    The river¡¯s surface appeared unusually still, ship traffic being light and the wind having died down overnight. London went about its business, airships overhead, factories along the Thames pumping fumes into the sky, bridges full of rickshaws and buses and pedestrians. A blanket of grey held above the city, the sun not able to penetrate through, and the Joint Council tower fading into cloud.


    Small fishing boats, trawlers, water taxis and ferries moved up and down the river, making way for the occasional larger vessel arrived from the coast. The London of Mid-Earth was still a thriving cargo port, not least due to the convenience of having two portals in such close proximity.


    One such a ship, a cargo vessel loaded with containers, made its way slowly from east to west, its faded blue hull entirely nondescript and unremarkable. Its contents would also be of no consequence, save for one specific shipment, nestled unobtrusively in among the rest. A container like any other, but with most unusual contents brought all the way from the mid-Atlantic, across to Portugal and then up to the British isles.


    The cargo ship drew itself closer to the docks.


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    Koth Embassy.


    Joint Council tower.


    The embassies housed within the Joint Council tower were unusual in that they inevitably represented entire universes rather than a specific country. The grand city states of Palinor were all there, of course, of varying factions and ethnicities. The aen¡¯fa had a complicated arrangement, split politically and culturally by those who lived happily in the cities of their home world and those who chose to live in the forests. The latter had long declared themselves independent aen¡¯fa and even had their own embassy - a show of political power on Mid-Earth that far outweighed their influence back home.


    As on Palinor, the koth kept to themselves and presented themselves as being of one mind. The embassy was relatively small, being on only a single floor of the tower. There were half a dozen koth with the rest of the staff made up largely by local, London humans. The tower was neutral ground for all concerned, and finding a koth to talk to about political matters was easier in London than it was anywhere on Palinor. In that regard, London lived up to its reputation as being the hub of the triverse.


    Ambassador Vahko had been assigned to Mid-Earth for over a decade, largely because nobody else had wanted the job. Once they¡¯d arrived Vahko had discovered that the Mid-Earthers were most interesting, and far more complex than expected. Throw in the embassies representing Max-Earth¡¯s various planets and there was enough in the Joint Council tower alone to keep anyone enthralled for decades. And so, Vahko had stayed. The drawback being that prolonged exposure to Mid-Earth had also resulted in them being regarded as something of an oddity, almost thought of as being as strange as the cave-dwelling koth back home., There was suspicion that they had become too Earthen.


    It wasn¡¯t an accusation that Vahko had yet tested. Their suspicion was that returning to Palinor, to the koth settlements in the mountains of Appilan where they¡¯d been born, would ultimately prove difficult. If they were destined for exile, though, then being banished to the two other dimensions of the triverse was hardly a punishment. And in the meantime they would do their job as koth ambassador.


    The morning had been quiet an uneventful. Paperwork, meetings with Palinese reps from downstairs and Max-Earth diplomats from upstairs, telephone calls to Kingdom politicians in Westminster, a frustrating conversation with a journalist about the rise in violent attacks on koth - which the journalist somehow reframed as being the fault of koth - and it was still barely 11am. Vahko sipped at a coffee, stretched out their wings and sighed contentedly.


    They pressed a clawed finger to the intercom. ¡°Sarah,¡± Vahko said, ¡°can you make a note to remind me to contact the girl convalescing in Bruglia. The one from a few months back.¡±


    The tinny speaker crackled. ¡°Yvette Field?¡± Their secretary was very, very good with names.


    ¡°That¡¯s the one. I¡¯ll write her a letter, I think.¡± The incident had preyed on Vahko¡¯s mind for months, even though the accused koth had been entirely exonerated. The police had done their job admirably, for once; it had been the reaction of the press, and certain parts of the country, that had disturbed them. There had been a rush of hatred and fear that had surprised Vahko, and they didn¡¯t like surprises. Tensions and discriminations between species and between dimensions was nothing new, but the reaction to the incident back in April had felt different.


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    It had felt weaponised.


    There was a bright, prolonged flash from outside Vahko¡¯s office, then a moment later all the glass in the windows and the door shattered, sending shards flying inward. Instinctively, Vahko wrapped their wings around their face and body as a shield. Glass shards impacting on the thick, leathery wings was still painful, but would be unlikely to do any damage. A deafening roar followed the flash, and then the sound of glass and other detritus falling to the floor.


    Vahko spread their wings and stood up, their chair flying backwards and splintering where it hit the wall. Reaching down, they grabbed the side of the oak desk and lifted it sideways and out of the way. Striding out of the office, Vahko took in the devastation. The entire floor was a wreck: partition walls destroyed, glass smashed, papers and cabinets toppled and scattered. Smoke filled the air and there was a small fire near the reception desk.


    ¡°Survivors?¡± Vahko bellowed, their voice booming effortlessly through the space. There was a shifting of rubble as another koth, Tennick, got to their feet and waved. ¡°Look for others,¡± Vahko shouted, ¡°especially humans. They will need our assistance.¡±


    Crossing to the ruined reception desk, they looked frantically for any sign of casualties. It had happened there, a black streak smearing the wall and ceiling. Kneeling slightly, Vahko smothered the fire with one wing, grimacing at the heat. After a few seconds the flames were extinguished.


    ¡°Sarah?¡±


    There was a tiny movement from beneath piles of debris. Vahko delicately moved it out of the way and found Sarah, bleeding and covered in soot and dust. Half her face was red, and one arm looked mangled. ¡°Ambassador,¡± she tried to say, but the air seemed to catch in her lungs.


    ¡°We need doctors,¡± Vahko bellowed.


    ¡°The elevator is blocked,¡± replied another koth, Quotch, who was already at that end of the floor.


    ¡°Then unblock it! Even if it means jumping down the shaft.¡±


    ¡°Ambassador¡­¡±


    Vahko knelt and took Sarah¡¯s tiny hand in their own. ¡°Help is on the way, Sarah.¡±


    ¡°It was a package,¡± she said, breath rattling in her throat, ¡°it was addressed to you.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    Specialist Dimensional Command.


    Not far from the Joint Council tower.


    The telephones were ringing off the hook, Robin barely able to replace the handset before it started again. A television was on in the corner of the SDC office, showing live pictures from the scene. Lola knew that if she looked out of the window she¡¯d be able to see smoke still billowing from the Joint Council tower.


    ¡°Security at that place is intense,¡± DC Holland said, suddenly beside her. ¡°How could something like this happen?¡±


    Clarke walked past holding a stack of files. ¡°Are we sure it was an attack?¡±


    ¡°What, someone left the kettle on and took out an entire fucking floor?¡±


    ¡°Could have been something like a gas leak,¡± Lola said, unconvinced even as she said it.


    Holland pointed at the television. ¡°No, this is deliberate. Got to be. It¡¯s the start of something.¡±


    Robin put her hand up and waved for their attention. ¡°There¡¯s been another bomb,¡± she said.


    ¡°Bomb,¡± Holland said. ¡°Told you.¡±


    Clarke dumped the files onto his desk. ¡°Where is it?¡±


    Robin paused and looked confused for a moment. ¡°On Max-Earth,¡± she said. ¡°They¡¯re saying the space elevator?¡±


    Holland, Clarke and Lola looked at each other. Clarke raised his eyebrows. ¡°Coincidence?¡±


    ¡°Coordinated attack,¡± Holland said, shaking his head. ¡°Bet this month¡¯s pay packet. I hope somebody¡¯s getting word around the network. This is going to get worse before it gets better.¡±


    ¡°A message needs to be sent to Palinor,¡± Lola said. ¡°If it hasn¡¯t been already?¡±


    ¡°Christ,¡± Clarke said, ¡°this is the last thing we need. We¡¯ve only just cleared up after the kengto.¡±


    The door to Bakker¡¯s office banged open. He was holding a telephone in one hand, the receiver in the other, the cable snaking back towards his desk. ¡°We just had a claim of responsibility,¡± he said, ¡°plus an ultimatum. They say there¡¯s more bombings lined up and ready to go.¡±


    Holland swore under his breath. ¡°What are their demands?¡±


    ¡°They want all portal travel ended, forever. Portals closed down.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t close down a portal,¡± Lola said. Her mind was already thinking about the opportunities she¡¯d lose without the portals - that everyone would lose. Anyone wanting to travel or to work elsewhere in the triverse, the possibility of visiting another universe, of meeting people of all shapes and sizes and species, of learning from others and sharing knowledge. Not that it would happen - but the thought immediately terrified her.


    Bakker shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Styles, I¡¯m not the expert. Brick it up, encase it in concrete, whatever it is they do to a portal tear, but on a bigger scale.¡±


    Clarke pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°How long have we got?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re saying two hours.¡±

 Bombings: Part 2

    London.


    1973. November.


    There was panic on the streets of London, emanating out from the portal station. The Joint Council tower above the station still bloomed black smoke into the sky, its ordinarily pristine, reflective exterior tarnished and cracked. The roads below were covered in shattered glass.


    A short distance to the north, across the Thames, were the docks. The industrial, beating heart of the city for hundreds of years, it was normally a never-sleeping cacophony of cranes and chains, ships and dockworkers, trucks and trains and airships, conveyor belts and furnaces, loading and unloading. Instead, the workers had downed tools and were abandoning their positions. London was under attack once more, the creature from Palinor earlier that year still fresh in everyone¡¯s minds. This was no monster, but an explosion at the Joint Council tower - supposedly the most heavily defended building in the Kingdom. Word had gone out on all channels - television, radio, hurriedly printed newspapers - that an ultimatum had been issued. There would be more bombings.


    And so everyone was leaving, looking for holes to hide in, home to return to, pubs to drown in. Anywhere off the streets, away from major buildings and gathering. The docks powered the city¡¯s economy and made for an obvious target. The docks emptied, workers departing en masse.


    Except for one crew, who moved in the opposite direction. They were quiet, calm, going about their business swiftly but without fear. There were about fifteen of them, of varying ages. A small crew to run the entire dock, but enough for a single wharf. They were the single remaining point of activity in docklands that morning.


    The cargo vessel drifted in with a final burst of its engines, gently nudging against the jetty. Mooring ropes were fastened and gantries swung into position. The ship was full of containers, though the crew were only interested in one. They offloaded only what was necessary to access their prize, which was then attached to the crane and winched onto dry land. The foreman checked the details, double-checked the seals, and signalled for it to be processed.


    The dock was carefully chosen for providing a direct rail transit to the portal station. The container would be there within ten minutes.


    *


    The Kaminski residence.


    Currently home to Zoltan Kaminski, his parents and Nisha Chakraborty.


    There was always something more, another reminder to come of just how bad things could get. Perhaps the most surprising aspect was that Kaminski was still surprised - his cynicism tended to be laced with a thin vein of optimism; a last hope that perhaps the world would prove him wrong. It always disappointed.


    The small, rotund television in the kitchen displayed live footage from the city centre. London burning. He¡¯d been feeling mostly recovered from the encounter for the dopur, emerging from the vague stupor of its poison about a week prior. He could have gone back to work already, had he not other responsibilities. For the first week there had been the unusual situation of his parents looking after him, rather than the other way around - not something he¡¯d experienced since being a child. It wasn¡¯t easy for any of them, his parents being old and barely capable of making a meal, and him more used to running the house. But they¡¯d tried their best.


    Nisha had moved in after a couple of days, taking the spare bedroom. She¡¯d tried being at home on her own but the dopur¡¯s effects had lingered in her system for longer, and more severely. Waking in the hospital was only the first step of recovery: then came the out-of-body hallucinations, the constant drowsiness and a general clumsiness. Controlling one¡¯s limbs was not a simple matter following a dopur encounter, it had turned out.


    Kaminski had got off lightly, having only brushed some fibres from Nisha¡¯s clothes while wrestling her out of the house. She¡¯d had direct contact. Doctors at the hospital, and a specialist consultant with Palinese expertise, had clearly not expected her to survive. While he¡¯d moved into the latter stages of recovery, which primarily felt like a mix of the flu and a terrible hangover, Nisha had spent that same time re-learning how to move, how to dress, how to make a cup of tea. That¡¯s why being on her own wasn¡¯t an option, especially with the health service having decided they were done with her.


    So there she was, in his house, for weeks now. Carrying on their strange little dance.


    He knocked on her door, then stuck his head round. She was sat on the end of the bed and was pulling on her jacket. ¡°I need to go in,¡± she said. ¡°I just heard on the radio.¡±


    ¡°I was about to come tell you the same thing. Sure you¡¯re up for it?¡±


    ¡°You might need to give me a hand on the stairs.¡±


    ¡°Which ones?¡±


    ¡°All of them.¡±


    She wore no make-up. Her hair was tousled from uncomfortable days spent in bed. Her skin had gone almost greyish, as if the colour had been seeping out of her. She looked beautiful, of course. There was no disguising the tiredness, but her face said more than her posture: that classic Nisha scowl and set jaw.


    He held out a hand and helped her to her feet. ¡°What do you think? he asked.


    ¡°I think this is yet more weird shit, on top of all the other weird shit this year,¡± she said.


    ¡°You think this bombing is connected?¡±


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ¡°To everything else? I¡¯d be stupid to bet against it.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    <div>


    </figure>


    Ruins of the Koth Embassy.


    Joint Council tower.


    Clarke whistled. The place was a mess, barely recognisable as an embassy suite. Where the bomb had gone off, the floor and ceiling had been vaporised to the point that the floors above and below were visible. The interior partition walls were gone or blasted with holes, while desks were turned over and swept clean of anything identifiable.


    ¡°Tell the truth,¡± Holland said, ¡°they¡¯re lucky this wasn¡¯t worse.¡±


    ¡°This seem pretty bad already,¡± Hobb said.


    A space had been cleared to one side of the exceedingly open plan office, where medics were tending to wounded. Styles was there, talking to one of the survivors. Behind a pile of debris, blocked from the view of the injured, were two rows of occupied body bags.


    ¡°Nah,¡± Holland said, shaking his head. ¡°Any bigger and this could have blown out the supports. Brought the whole upper floors crashing down. Imagine this tower coming down, right on top of the portal station. Jesus fucking Christ, that would be a mess.¡±


    Standing straight and tilting his head back, Clarke inhaled loudly through his nose. ¡°Can you smell that?¡±


    Holland sniffed. There was a distinct odour in the air, acrid and sweet, cutting through the organic smells of shit and burning blood. He waved a hand in front of his face. ¡°Could be from all this crap floating around in the air.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure sure,¡± Clarke said. ¡°I didn¡¯t notice it by the stairs, or over by the windows. Seems to be concentrated primarily around the blast zone.¡±


    ¡°Chemical reaction in the explosion, perhaps. Best get forensics on it,¡± Holland said. The place was a war zone. He¡¯d gone past this floor in the lift only recently, on his way to meet Lord Hutchinson. For a moment he wondered if Hutchinson had been caught up in the explosion, then realised that he didn¡¯t particularly care. This was an attack on his city, though, and that did offend him. There was less than an hour until the timer ran out for the threatened next attack.


    Hobb looked at him. Her face was a grimace of barely concealed anger. ¡°You thinking what I¡¯m thinking?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he said. ¡°Yeah, I think I am.¡± He stepped carefully over to where Clarke was examining what had been the secretary¡¯s desk. ¡°Clarke,¡± he said, tapping the man on his shoulder. ¡°You good here? Me and Hobb, we¡¯re thinking we¡¯ll go do the rounds. The usual spots. We know the M.O., the ultimatum and demands makes it pretty obvious what kind of person or group is behind this. We know the scene, we know the pubs and the clubs. If you¡¯re good here, we¡¯ll go pound some heads.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Clarke said. ¡°I¡¯ll see if the CCTV was working. Styles is trying to get a description of the delivery man.¡±


    ¡°OK. We¡¯ll call in to Robin with updates.¡±


    ¡°Do that.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    <div>


    </figure>


    Bruglia.


    3291. Frostfield.


    In the Brightsun months, when the sun was at its highest, Bruglia was sweltering. Its architecture had evolved to favour shade and cool spaces, with shadowed courtyards and cold stone materials. In Frostfield it never got uncomfortably cold, remaining generally temperate and unrelentingly dry.


    The early morning was the coolest time of day, especially in the canyons surrounding the raised, interconnected mesas atop which the city was built. The cliffs were sheer and unforgiving, making Bruglia a city state that had never been successfully invaded. That¡¯s why the university was there, and how the city had managed to prosper since the opening of the portals. Compared to the rest of Palinor, Bruglia represented stability and security. It was a safe bet for investors, traders, business people and politicians from across the triverse.


    ¡°Stay close,¡± Yana said, ¡°and move slowly. No sudden changes of direction.¡± She was stood on the side of the canyon, halfway up the cliff. A couple hundred feet of air below and an equal climb still ahead of them. Her feet were planted on the smooth surface of the cliff, sanded down by ancient rivers and winds. One hand was planted palm-down on the rock. She used no climbing equipment yet was fixed securely in place.


    There was a whimper from below. ¡°You sure you¡¯re good to keep going?¡± Zlati¡¯s voice was small and nervous. Much like the rest of her.


    ¡°It¡¯s the same distance up or down,¡± Yana said, ¡°so we may as well keep going.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but we still need to get back down again,¡± Myroslava said, just below Zlati¡¯s position.


    All three of them were fixed to the wall courtesy of Yana¡¯s physology spell: a localised gravity well that pulled them into cliff side, as if they were crawling horizontally. It was a trick unique to physologists and even then required an exceptionally high level of natural skill and training. It also required immense concentration, especially when applied to more than one being. Each point of impact - hands, feet - required its own sub-spell, which all had to be maintained for the duration of the climb.


    Fortunately, Bruglia was rarely short on light to draw from, though the deep shadows of the canyon floor had made it more challenging at first. As they climbed higher, Yana was able offset her fatigue with a more rapid power draw from the ambient light.


    At the top of the cliff was a bank. A particularly flush bank, used by all sorts including many of the slave traders that used Bruglia as a useful hub. That was a satisfying bonus. If they pulled off the heist, not only would it finance the rebels for the next year, it¡¯d also cut the profits of the traffickers. Nobody would even know they¡¯d been there. The only vantage point from which someone could theoretically spot them was from Fountain University, which was visible in the distance, poking out from the side of one of the mesas.


    First, they had to get to the top. Yana moved up - it felt like forward - shifting each limb with a deliberate caution. In theory they could stand straight and walk at ninety degrees, but that would put an increased strain on the spell - it was having to fight against the planet¡¯s natural gravity, after all. Once they reached the outer wall of the bank she would hand over to Myroslava, who would use her micrologist expertise to unlock a window and grant them access. It paid to have skilled wielders on the team.


    Plus Zlati. She was there because she was good at following orders and was small and sneaky. Once they were inside the building, Zlati had the best chance of reaching the vaults.


    Quiet in, quiet out.


    That was the idea, at least. The plan was interrupted by a loud, distant crack that echoed down the canyon. Yana felt the rock tremble beneath her hands and she adjusted the spell, increasing its power. A fine curtain of dust drifted off the side of the cliff.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Zlati asked.


    Myroslava saw it first, pointing towards the university. ¡°Look!¡±


    One of the towers, housing the professors¡¯ labs, had exploded outwards in a fine spray of white stone. The top of it was gone, the remains scattering down and around the stump. A horn blew, then bells began to ring.


    ¡°Shit,¡± Yana said. ¡°That¡¯s going to put everyone on high alert.¡±


    ¡°Was that one of ours?¡± Myroslava sighed. ¡°Did we have another mission active that we didn¡¯t know about? Another cell?¡±


    ¡°Not as far as I¡¯m aware,¡± Yana said. She looked up at the cliff, knowing that the bank was perched on top, just out of sight. ¡°We need to abort.¡±


    Zlati harrumphed. ¡°But we¡¯re so close!¡±


    ¡°No way we¡¯re going to be able to pull this off with every alarm in the city ringing.¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± Myroslava said. She smiled grimly. ¡°I¡¯d love to know who just ruined our day.¡±

 Bombings: part 3

    London.


    1973. November.


    The portal station was always busy, from the passenger concourse above ground to the shipping lanes below. People and cargo were travelling through the portals at all times, albeit only the rich or connected people and the those goods manufactured and shipped by the most influential companies. Day or night it was in motion, an example of perfect efficiency and a blend of Mid-Earth and Max-Earth technology, ingenuity and architecture.


    It was near-silent.


    The concourse was emptied, the building shut down. The portals remained, of course, black and huge, but with nothing coming or going. The doors were shut, the station evacuated. Above, through the glass ceiling, could be seen smoke billowing from the Joint Council tower. In the cargo dock the conveyor belts had halted, the cranes were still and the dockworkers were gone, evacuated to the mile-perimeter set up by the police. It was highly unlikely that the tower would come down, but there was no sense in waiting underneath to find out.


    As the floor manager confirmed that all his staff were out, he hit the final shutdown button and ducked beneath the security shutter as it clattered down. Only a couple of minutes later there was a rumble and clattering as a cargo train drew into the hall, entering through the underground tunnel that connected to the river docks.


    Doors were slid open and a new crew jumped out: a small number for operating the entire portal station, but just right for processing a single, very particular shipping container.


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    Geosynchronous Earth orbit.


    2543. November.


    The debris glittered in space like a cloud of new stars: a plume expanding steadily from the station at the tip of the elevator, ships scrambling in various directions: cargo shuttles disengaging and aiming to get as far from the dock as possible, passenger vessels evacuating staff and travellers, rescue ships en route and moving against the tide.


    Earth displayed its expanse, the enormous cable of the space elevator disappearing to nothing as it dropped into atmosphere. Far below the triple anchor would be straining against its supports as the cable flexed and re-strengthened itself following the bombing. The station had been hit strategically, knocking it a fraction of a percentage off its normal axis, which was enough to risk catastrophe. The challenge was not the force exerted by the explosion, or any individual damage, but the cumulative risk of cascade failure.


    Just Enough moved in a tight arc around the station, which was in fact a sizeable asteroid pulled from the belt centuries prior. It served as the counter weight, positioned precisely to keep the elevator cable stable and taut. Simulations had been run at the time of the elevator¡¯s construction and many times since: what would happen if the counter weight was damaged, or destroyed? What would happen if one of the tripod anchors was damaged? What if one of the elevators was destroyed halfway up the cable? There were contingencies in place for all of these, in the first instance to prevent them happening at all. That had clearly failed. Which was surprising in itself, given the elevator security.


    Having an AI nearby was one of those contingencies. Phenomenal power, both physical and mental, and fast enough to compute for an unfolding calamity. As Just Enough flew around the stricken station, they scanned and analysed from multiple angles, building up a hyper-accurate model of what was happening. Additional data was pulled in from all the other ships in the area and from sensors on the station itself. Observatories on the surface and deeper into space transmitted data about the cable¡¯s trajectory and torque.


    It was rare for a megaship to need to be physically in a particular location, especially one such as Just Enough which had no direct intervention motivation. Could Kill was a more explicitly assistive to the outer planets. Just Enough preferred more independence, operating multiple host bodies across different settlements, always keeping an eye on the system and Mid-Earth on the other side of the portal. Gathering information.


    There were times, on occasion, when it was necessary to get one¡¯s metaphorical hands dirty. Such as when a space elevator was at risk of collapse. A cable over 40,000km long could go one of two ways, neither ideal: forcibly disconnecting the Earth anchors could potentially cause the entire structure to spin off into space at enormous speed, and that was the cleanest outcome with it managing to escape Earth gravity. Far more likely, especially if it were the counter weight on the end that went, would be the cable collapsing to the surface and wrapping itself around the planet, carving a new canyon. The materials used were designed specifically to burn up in atmosphere, which might work for some of the links - but there would be some travelling too fast, and some at too low an altitude.


    Regardless, it was best practice to prevent it from collapsing. Just Enough linked to all the ships and nearby systems on the network to speed up the operation: much faster to have a single AI run the show, rather than attempting to transmit instructions via humans. There was already a solution proposed and simulated, with a near-100% success rate guaranteed. At least, as long as there were no more surprises. Other megaships were approaching from around the system to provide additional processing power and, if necessary, some brute strength.


    The calculations were complex and needed to be absolutely precise, as well as processed faster than real time. A relatively trivial matter for a quantum AI, though there were enough chaotic elements at play to make even Just Enough a little nervous.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Messages were coming in from Mid-Earth. Another bomb, at the Joint Council tower.


    What were those humans up to now?


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    Early shift


    On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb


    London.


    1973. November.


    There was a circuit of pubs, underground bars and knock-off wine cellars that was a well-known secret. Establishments frequented by various tiers of scum. A whole mix, from political extremists to gangland assassins and professional money launderers. They knew that the police knew, but the police also knew to steer clear. To shut them down was a pointless game of whack-a-mole, so it was far more effective to work on informants - get some eyes and ears into those places and you¡¯d learn about the next six months¡¯ of underworld activity. Break down the door and they¡¯d all scatter to the wind, and you¡¯d learn nothing.


    DC Frank Holland knew this. He¡¯s cultivated connections all through London¡¯s less salubrious scene. Very useful for long-view intelligence and seeing what was coming down the pipe. It was a game that clearly hadn¡¯t worked. There was a hole in the Joint Council tower to prove it. That didn¡¯t sit right with Holland.


    Time for a change of tactics.


    Hobb kicked the bar door so hard it half came off its hinges. They strode in, Holland not feeling the need to swagger. They knew who he was. How he liked to operate. He walked up to a table and swiped a pint glass from under a patron¡¯s nose, then threw it to the floor. If their entrance hadn¡¯t caught people¡¯s attention, the shattering of the glass did.


    ¡°Alright, you cunts,¡± he said as the bar went silent, save for a quiet saxophone playing somewhere out of a jukebox, ¡°you may have noticed a bit of a bang earlier. Bigwig tower, you know the one I mean. I need information now. Give me a name, point a finger, waggle your eyebrows, I don¡¯t give a fuck, but none of us are leaving until I¡¯ve got something useful.¡±


    The big man whose pint he¡¯d swiped pushed back his chair and stood up. ¡°You¡¯ve got some nerve, copper.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Holland said. ¡°You going first?¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    The fourth stop delivered the goods. Holland nursed his bruised knuckles where the skin had split. It had been a heavy morning, but the clock was ticking. Nobody knew how many explosive were set, and there was no way the bombers were getting their demands met.


    As it turned out, that particular fight had been useful. In the middle of it all, Holland had caught a distinct and unmistakable whiff: the same smell from the bomb site at the tower. A younger guy, scrawny, caught his eye and tried to make a break for it, but Hobb was there first, blocking his exit with an arm to the face.


    After the place had calmed down, three things had become clear. The kid was a lackey; barely more than a delivery boy. He also claimed to not know what the package had contained. True or not, it didn¡¯t take much arm twisting to get him to nod in the direction of the group he was working for. A dimensionalist group, one that Holland had heard of previously for causing a fuss at various big events - nothing like this, though. One true Earth, and all that. On a good day Holland might even agree with some of their points, but that didn¡¯t give them the right to go around blowing shit up.


    They marched the kid up the steep, slippery steps that led out of the literally underground bar and back onto the street, where two uniformed officers were waiting with a van. As the kid was loaded into the back, Hobb picked up the radio from the cab and called it in. He was going to miss her when she transferred out. She knew how to get things done. For her part, it was evident that she couldn¡¯t wait to leave the SDC far behind.


    ¡°They¡¯ll send a squad to the address,¡± she said.¡±


    ¡°Good. Bomb squad?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what they promised.¡±


    Holland nodded. He could feel a bruise above his eye. ¡°Then we¡¯d better get moving or we¡¯ll miss all the fun.¡±


    <div>


    <figure>


    </figure>


    DI Christopher Bakker¡¯s morning had been busy. He¡¯d hopped from one telephone call to another: first DCS Walpole on the bombing situation, stressing its severity and that it was all hands to the pump, then DCI Miller to downplay the threat and emphasise that the press should be reassured that they were on top of it, then even Commissioner Graves had called to express his confidence in the team. The Commissioner never called direct, preferring to go through Walpole. While he¡¯d been taking calls, DI Ford had been running the shop from the main office.


    As a consequence, Bakker had got absolutely no work done and contributed nothing of value to the operation. Fortunately the SDC team was the best in the Met, so he had no concerns about that side of things.


    The handset finally back on it cradle, he opened the door and leaned out, stretching his back, to find Kaminski and Chakraborty at their desks. Ford was over with Robin and Collins, presumably managing the wider situation.


    ¡°Morning, guv,¡± Kaminski said, nodding. ¡°Or is it afternoon?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea,¡± Bakker said massaging his jaw from side to side. ¡°What are you two doing here? You haven¡¯t been signed off for return to work.¡±


    Chakraborty groaned and looked up at the ceiling. ¡°Do you have any idea how boring it is not doing anything?¡±


    ¡°Glad to see you up and about, detective. How¡¯s the recuperation?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s awful,¡± Chakraborty said, ¡°but I¡¯m getting there.¡± She pointed. ¡°He¡¯s way ahead of me.¡±


    ¡°I got off lucky,¡± Kaminski said, shrugging.


    ¡°From the officer¡¯s report that I read, it sounded like it was more than luck that got you both out of that house. Good to have you back. Let¡¯s just keep the paperwork away from HR for another week-or-two.¡±


    Kaminski ran a hand through his hair, then lit a cigarette. ¡°So what have we got?¡±


    Bakker gestured across the office. ¡°DI Ford will know more than me. I¡¯ve been cooped up in my office all morning. I know there¡¯s been three bombs: the one here, another on Max-Earth and the most recent one at the Bruglia university.¡±


    ¡°This is bad, then.¡±


    ¡°Very bad, detective. Very bad.¡±


    Kaminski spun his chair to look at Chakraborty, as if for permission. She shrugged. ¡°OK, call me crazy,¡± he said, turning back to Bakker, ¡°but I think there¡¯s more going on here than just bombings.¡±


    ¡°¡®Just¡¯ bombings?¡±


    He waved his hands. ¡°Not to play that down. But with everything that¡¯s been happening this year, it feels like we¡¯re missing something.¡± He looked up at the ceiling panel, clearly as a reminder of the presence of unwanted surveillance microphones.


    ¡°Understood,¡± Bakker said. He¡¯d been so caught up in the chaos of the morning that he¡¯d not had time to consider the bigger picture. A distraction, then. But to distract them from what?