Far, far away: part 3
A moment of perfect beauty
The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1980s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real
Previously: Former Met detective Yannick Clarke is now a private investigator, investigating a young koth who has gone missing on Ceres.
Lower Merkado, Ceres.
2550.
It felt that the reverberations of the koth chanting would be detectable from space. Clarke wondered if people on Mars could hear it, feel it through their shoes. He understood, practically, that the sound would not transfer through the emptiness of space, but it seemed inconceivable that such a sensation would only be experienced within the confines of the community hall. It was in his bones, in the cells of his skin, the tips of his fingers, down to the marrow.
“Welcome,” said one of the koth. “Welcome, my friend.” Clarke had never been good at assessing the age of koth, much less in the dim lighting of the hall. The voice was less deep than other koth he’d met, which he assumed meant youth, though it still somehow cut through the singing. They had a single horn on the side of their head, the other seeming to be missing. “You are welcome here.”
“Thank you,” Clarke said. “I was hoping to speak with someone about—”
The koth lifted a long, thick, clawed finger and moved it towards Clarke, almost touching his lips. “Not now. Later.” The koth leaned down. “First, enjoy. Relax. Be.”
On Ceres, every square foot had a cost. Required more digging, more air, more power. Nothing came for free when you were hurtling through the void. The community hall might have felt roomy if populated by a dozen humans, as it presumably was most days, but packed with koth there was barely space to move. Clarke had to watch his step, for fear of being crushed between the swaying obsidian bodies, skin so tough that it felt closer to rock.
Beyond the spin of Ceres, the triverse continued its slow unravelling. A slouching insurrection, subtle and hard to spot, hidden from the view of the casual observer, driven by the scumbags manipulating from within the Joint Council. A quiet turmoil, everything slightly out of kilter. Economies in freefall. News reports of conflicts breaking out across Palinor, rebellions fighting the city states. On Mid-Earth, Westminster was cracking down across the Kingdom, restricting the movement and rights of koth and aen’fa. At some point, he had no doubt, the politicians would turn their beady eyes to fellow humans, once they’d run out of Palinese to persecute. Even the Max-Earth network was malfunctioning, or running more slowly, or something — he didn’t understand it; nobody did, and that was part of the problem. The AIs had been running the shop for centuries and no humans fully comprehended how the network functioned. Justin had mentioned data poisoning, which sounded nasty, but it was all French to Clarke.
No doubt some people were making lots of money, and gaining influence. Clarke didn’t see the benefits, couldn’t fathom what motivated Hutchinson and the others back home, but that’s why he was a PI skulking about on backwater asteroids rather than doing anything important. Power had never come naturally to him. It had felt like they’d had it for a moment, when they’d arrested Miller all those years ago. Had leverage for about a day and a half.
Still, he was alive, which was more than could be said of some people.
He carried around the accumulated weight of a half-decade of failure, so much so that some days he walked with a stoop. As he stood in the hall, surrounded by beings that had once terrified him, he felt a lightening. Their voices were a blanket, comforting and warming rather than oppressive or intimidating. He didn’t understand the words or the sounds, but there was a simplicity to their gathering. A thin smoke hung in the air, lingering, shifting gently with the movements of those in the hall. It had a sweet smell, similar to cannabis but without turning his nose up.
The chanting didn’t exactly get louder: it felt more like it was going deeper, reaching further into his brain. He became vaguely aware of a singular voice at the very front of the hall, calling out above the group like a pastor giving a sermon. The words held no meaning for Clarke, but their sound infused him with a strange confidence nonetheless. It wasn’t that he was dismissing his worries, or ignoring his past; more that he was rising above them, viewing them from a distance and considering them from a broader perspective. The koth’s chanting was superficially sad, a haunting wail and lament, yet it held a kernel of hope. He wondered at the true meaning, of how they all knew the words and the sounds.
Time was of no consequence.
And then it was over, and they all fell to silence. He could hear the echoes of the chanting, still bouncing from the walls. The lights came on, glaringly, and some of the koth departed, heading off to their jobs and whatever else the day held. Most stayed, talking to each other in small groups.
“What did you think?” It was the koth that had welcome him. They held out a cup containing a liquid.
“What’s this?” Clarke was well aware that koth metabolisms could handle substances that would disintegrate a human’s guts.
The koth smiled. “Water.”
He took it gratefully, suddenly aware of the heat in the hall and the sweat beading on his forehead. “I’ve not experienced anything like that before.”
“We search for moments of perfect beauty,” the koth said. “It becomes harder with each day, and the further we are from home.”
“Where’s home?”
“For me, beyond the Appilan Abyss. Two universes and 280,000,000 kilometres from where we stand, you and I.” The koth bowed their head slightly. “I am Vuotch.”
“Yannick Clarke.” He’d never been sure of the etiquette when greeting a koth: a human hand shaking a koth’s was an absurd sight.
Vuotch’s eyes narrowed as if trying to recall a memory. “What brings you to Ceres and to us?”
“How do you know I’m not from Ceres?”
“Your hands are too clean, and your accent betrays you as a Mid-Earther.”
“You’ve got me bang to rights,” he said, smiling. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for someone. Young kid, name of Pa’kan. Went missing over a month ago back on Earth. The trail led me here.”
“Were you once a detective in London, Yannick Clarke?”
Being identified was potentially a problem. Nobody was bothering to look for him or the others, he was sure of that, but it didn’t hurt to keep a low profile.
“What makes you think that?”
“My cousin has spoken of you. Their name is Quotch, do you know them?”
Clarke frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“They work for Ambassador Vahko. They spoke highly of you. Said you were a good man. That you fought to help other koth.”
The name was unfamiliar, but the ambassador had many staff. It was entirely possible that Clarke would have met a Quotch without learning — or remembering, at least — their name. It struck Clarke as odd to be recognised by the community; he could feel his old thoughts intruding, those decades-long suspicions of the Palinese migrants, of being a beat officer and stopping every koth he encountered on the street, of fearing and hating them all after Callihan’s death. Lola had changed him.
“It was a long time ago,” Clarke said.
“You were there, and now you are here.” Vuotch lifted their snout as if appraising him. “Why is that?”
The koth was straightforward, Clarke had to give them that. “I’m looking for this kid, like I said.”
“No. Why are you not on Mid-Earth? Why are you police officer no more?”
Clarke smiled, shrugged, looking down at his feet. “Back home, Mid-Earth, it stopped being overly welcoming to me and my colleagues.”
“I think not very welcoming to any of us, no?” Vuotch gestured for Clarke to follow and led him away from the centre of the hall. “I hear from my cousin, though not so much now. Difficult to get messages through, so they have to go via the Ethiopian gate, which is expensive and takes a long time.”
“They should probably think about getting out while there’s still a route to Africa,” Clarke said.
Vuotch shook their head. “They are fine, for now. Works for Ambassador Vahko. Very prestigious, and protected.” They leaned in closer, conspiratorially. “Besides, we koth can look after ourselves, am I right?” A long, low, chesty guffaw boomed from the koth’s mouth.
A selection of chairs and benches were arranged in the corner, of varying types and sizes. Vuotch perched on one of the larger chairs and indicated that Clarke should sit close.
“You have something for me?”
“I tell you this because you’re a good human, a good man. You have a reputation among koth, Yannick Clarke. You are an ally.”
“That’s very kind. I don’t know if I’d agree—”
Vuotch held up a hand. “I am not finished. We have only now met, but I think of you as a friend. Because of that, I am warning you to be careful. There are many factions here, not all as friendly as I am.” They sighed. “It seems that factions are all the triverse is, these days, does it not?”
A threat, or genuine concern? It was hard to tell. “I can’t go back to this kid’s parents with nothing.”
“If you insist,” Vuotch said. “In that case, I would suggest turning your attention to the Ceres Expansion Guild. They do like to dig.” Vuotch slapped their hands on their knees and stood. “Well, I have others to talk to. I am happy that we met, Yannick Clarke. Do stay as long as you wish.”
It was a lead, at least, of a sort. The next step. One at a time. Left foot, right foot. That’s what he’d been doing for the last five years, so he might as well keep going.
Thanks for reading.
This chapter came in rather late, due to various Life Things getting in the way.
I created a spreadsheet at the start of the year to note down the books, films, games, comics and so on that I encountered. I always forget half of the excellent thing I’ve enjoyed, and it’s also a way to keep an eye on how much of each I’m digging into. Short version: I play a lot of games, read some books, and hardly watch any movies. That’s something I want to address.
So much of life is about time juggling. Increasingly I’m finding that if I incorporate writing about things, I’m more likely to do them. Hence I’m pondering whether to start an entirely separate newsletter all about working my way through the backlog. Might be a fun side project.
This week I wrote a guest article for
which you can find here:
It’s a very me essay, with the usual mix of helpful tips and diarising, so do check it out. If you like my newsletter, I think you’ll get a lot out of it.
Back in the day — by which I mean, 2016 — I was entirely obsessed with Simon Sinek. I therefore found this critical piece fascinating:
I still think Sinek’s basic concept has value as a thought experiment/prompt/provocation to get you to think about what you’re doing with a fresh pair of eyes, but I can’t disagree with Nick’s broader takedown. There’s a lot of Marketing Guru stuff that I lapped up back in the day, when I was shifting over from the private sector to the charity space.
If I was to characterise the 2020s so far, it would be as a general, polite rejection of a lot of the thinking from the previous two decades. There’s a lot of stuff that got bigger than it probably should have due to the shape of the internet at the time, and now that the social media genjutsu has been dismantled we’re starting to reappraise the value of everything.
Talking of the old ways going away, following the slow death of Instagram have any of the visual artists among you found your way to Cara? If so, do come find me so I can find you and check out your work.
Lastly, and still on the theme of rethinking stuff, this longish piece from Russell is worth ingesting:
I’m not especially keen on some of the names for the writer types, but the central positioning of Medium and Substack that he does in the article feels accurate and encapsulates a lot of my reasoning for shifting over to Substack in 2021, having previously published on Medium and Wattpad.
Haven’t looked back since.
Author notes
I’d originally made the time skip slightly shorter, so that it landed in 1977. That would have made the ‘Far, far away’ title of this storyline hit in a slightly more fun way, but never mind.
This is one of those chapters in which absolutely nothing happens, for which I can only apologise. Clarke stands in a room and listens to some chanting. I hope it still reads well and is compelling, as it’s a big moment for Clarke himself.
For him to be in that room, surrounded by koth, talking to Vuatch, getting that lead: everything that happens in this chapter is as a consequence of his decisions over the previous two and a half years of Triverse (real time). He’s been on a journey, as they say.
The twin memories of Callihan and Lola Styles hang over this chapter. They’re the Force ghosts, looking down on Clarke. Er, not that I’m saying Lola is dead. Seriously, I’ll get to her sooner rather than later, I promise. So while not much happens in this chapter, it’s also a culmination of everything that has happened before.
That Clarke is still going, at all, is testament enough. Bearing in mind he was as good as done before Callihan came along, and then had to climb out of that hole once Callihan was murdered.
We also get a mini callback to some earlier chapters: we did in fact meet Quatch VERY briefly back in the ‘Bombings’ storyline. Of course, that character was introduced back then specifically to pay off in this week’s chapter.
I’m kidding. That’s not how this thing works.
Right, it’s nearly 9pm and I should probably actually publish this thing. Thanks for all your support, as always.
As you noted, not much action in this chapter, but a lot of buried infodump.
I don't mind infodump. I like background information and lore.
Nice to see Lola's effect on Clarke has lasted over the past five years.
Hmmm... Now Justin DID get the flash drive, right? I'd think, with five years to mull, they'd have put 2+2 together and informed other AIs. Then again, he may have, and the issues Clarke has noticed with the network would be far worse if the megaships weren't already doing things. I dunno.
I can't imagine why, in this scene with Clarke and the kosh, er, koth, I visualize Clarke as Bruce Boxlightner surrounded by candles. Not at all. Total mystery.
I can't imagine
I think thanks? I mean the article only exists because of the categorization system. So, I don’t see how you can like the article but dislike the crux of the article. Still, thanks, I think.