Bombings: part 1

And so it begins...

The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real

Previously: There is a growing unrest in the triverse. The portals offer immense opportunities, but not everyone sees them that way. The Joint Council was set up to aid communications and diplomacy between the three universes. Its base in central London is right at the hub of the triverse…

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

---

It’s all kicking off! This is essentially leading into the season finale, if Triverse were a TV show, so hold on to your hats.

Meanwhile, Substack have made their fancy ‘Chat’ feature available to us Android peasants, which means jut about everyone can now get on board. I’ll be trying to use it sparingly so as not to annoy everyone, but I think it could prove to be a nice place for writers and readers to meet and discuss. You can access it via the Substack mobile app.

As always, paid subscribers get access to author notes, which is where I go behind-the-scenes of the current chapter. So, let’s do that:

Author notes

This week I was very pleased not to have to research extensively about space travel.

Triverse chapters tend to be focused on the SDC team, and particularly on the duos of Clarke and Styles, or Chakraborty and Kaminski. Therefore this particular chapter was designed to slightly unseat the reader (especially after the one-shot last week with Could Kill) by having an anonymous, mysterious opening section, followed by an unexpected focus on the koth ambassador. The unusual narration leads into the shocking explosion, the intention being to leave the reader feeling unmoored from the story’s usual formula.

Even though we return to the SDC after that, it’s to find a scene of chaos verging on panic, which only gets worse as news from Max-Earth arrives, and then the ultimatum from the supposed bombers. An out-of-control inevitability is what I was aiming for with this chapter.

I’m always fascinated by the difference between plot (what happens) and storytelling (the way you present the plot to the reader/viewer/etc). This chapter and the last are good examples of this, I think. The opening to this storyline could have been done more traditionally, from the point of view of the SDC. Choosing instead to have an entire chapter narrated by an AI megaship, and then having this chapter focus on Vahko, is a very deliberate move on my part. That said, these decisions tend to be more instinctual than calculated. It’s me repeatedly asking myself the question “what would make this more interesting?”

I should probably put together a longer article about this at same point. That notion of constant interrogation, of pushing for chapters to be ‘more interesting’ also filters down to the micro scale, looking at paragraphs, sentences and even words. What’s a more interesting word to use? How can this sentence work harder? Does this paragraph do anything useful? I always want every paragraph, every sentence, to be doing at least two things simultaneously: perhaps a mix of plot and character development, or character development and atmosphere.

Spinning plates, and all that.

Thanks, as ever, for your continued support. Finances aren’t much fun for anyone right now, so I appreciate your confidence in what I’m doing.