Letters from home
Letters from home
Getting the gang back together
The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1980s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real
Previously: The former Met police detectives have fled through the portal to Max-Earth, to escape arrest and persecution at the hands of the compromised government. It’s been five years, and they had assumed that Lola Styles, stranded on Palinor, was long dead…
New Delhi.
2550. January.
The parade was quite the thing. It had been going on for days, a display of soft and hard power like nothing Kaminski had ever seen. They’d been in India for two years but he’d always managed to miss it. He sipped at his tea and looked out from the bar’s balcony as the procession continued on its way, military vehicles and personnel along the roads, people on horseback and camels, planes and spaceships overhead, while drones painted pictures in the sky.
As with most national celebrations on Max-Earth, it was a largely symbolic gesture. Most of the planet’s countries had long ago been absorbed into the global government as a matter of necessity. Poland was a distant memory, the European block no longer defined by the old borders. India had fought hard to keep its traditions, but it felt like show rather than substance to him.
It was a good show, though.
One thing that was still absolutely true, despite everything the planet had apparently been through, was that there was still a lot of people. That was particularly evident in New Delhi, which had made it an especially good place to disappear. Plus, Nisha had only visited once back on Mid-Earth, when she was a child.
Kaminski liked the noise of the city. It kept his mind busy. The quiet moments were the ones he tried to avoid.
“A wanker in there just asked me to marry him,” Nisha said, returning to their table and sitting next to him.
“Oh yeah? What did you say?”
She threw him a glance. “I said yes, obviously.”
“I hope I get an invite.”
“Fuck off.”
Kaminski smiled. He puffed on whatever the pretend cigarette was that he’d found in a corner shop. The future was far less fun when it came to 20th century vices, but the healthcare was great. Nisha was back on her feet, all the aches and pains of the dopur healed up by whatever magic they had in their hospitals.
Not magic magic, of course. 26th century science. What, really, was the difference?
She clicked open her beer and took a sip. Some things the future couldn’t fix. One thing at a time. It was on Kaminski’s very long list of matters left half-done.
A beep drew his attention and he looked at his screen to check the new message.
Kaminski, it’s been a while. Ready to close that old case? Meet me in Addis. Lola Styles.
There was an almost simultaneous beep from Nisha. Her eyes widened as she read her message.
“Holy shit,” she said. “Listen to this ‘Chakraborty, how are you holding up? Hope the future is treating you well. Meet me in Addis. Lola Styles.” She looked over at him, mouth agape. “Lola Styles!”
He grinned. “I know,” he said, showing her his message. Something was washing over him, clearing his mind, as if he was rising from a fog.
“Oh my god,” Nisha said. “Oh my god.” She raised her hands to her mouth, covering the lower half of her face. “Zoltan, she’s alive.”
“I know.” His heart thudded. It was as if someone had flicked a switch and turned him back on.
Tears were streaming down Nisha’s face as she leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder. “Lola’s alive. I don’t believe it.” She sat upright and wiped her eyes. “How? Why now?” She took a deep breath. “We have to get to Addis.”
He nodded, holding her hands in his. “I know.”
The crashed ship was illuminated only by what remained of the overhead lighting, flickering and swaying on tangled wires. Sparks burst from wall panels.
Moving through the corridors towards what he assumed would be the bridge, Frank Holland hefted his assault rifle and checked the remaining ammo. The mission was nearly a bust, but he wasn’t giving up yet. Getting on board had been the hard part, given where the ship had come down, right smack in the middle of a lava field. It was perched precariously on an outcrop of solid rock but he’d need to get it airborne soon if he wanted to avoid sinking into the molten surface of the moon.
On his way in he’d encountered the slavers, trying to fix the reactor. Dispatching them had been too easy; they’d clearly not expected visitors.
Passing through a bulkhead door, he entered a re-pressurised area. Checking his suit readings, he then removed his helmet and took in a tentative breath. Part of the rear of the ship, including the cargo bay, had been crushed, but she still looked space-worthy.
He reached the door to the bridge and keyed in the code that his handler had provided. It slid open with a hiss and he darted onto the bridge, a large command room with a wide viewing window at the front and several desks and stations dotted about.
To his surprise, he was not alone. There were three others already there, examining the consoles, who jumped at his entrance and shrieked. They were all female aen’fa, scantily clad in light, flowing robes that did little to hide their curves and may as well have not been there at all.
“Ladies,” he said, lowering his gun.
“Who are you?” asked one of them, a chain still attached to her ankle. The slaves had escaped before the crash, then.
“I’m here to get you off this rock.”
“What about the slavers? We’ve been waiting for them to retake the bridge and imprison us again—”
“I took care of them,” Holland said, moving to the command chair. “We need to get out of here, now.” He started tapping commands into the console, and the room lit up as the engines came back online.
One of the aen’fa girls, green-skinned and taller than the others, moved forward and sat on the arm of the chair. “I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“It’s my job,” Holland said, grinning.
Another of the girls, purple-tinted with deep red hair, sat on his lap and ran a hand over his chest. “How can we ever thank you?”
“I can think of a few things,” Holland said, unclasping the aen’fa’s robe so that it fell from her shoulders.
The other aen’fa entwined herself with the girl sat on the arm of the chair, and they kissed each other passionately.
Through the floor he could feel the ship’s engines reaching full power. He put one hand on the throttle.
The half-naked aen’fa leaned towards him. “Are we ready for take-off, commander?”
There was a beep, and a message box popped up in his peripheral vision. He tried to ignore it, but it kept flashing.
“Pause,” he said, irritably. He looked over at the message and whistled. Pulling off the headset, the bridge and the aen’fa NPCs vanished to be replaced with a dark, grubby hired cubicle. He extricated himself from the simulation chair, disconnected the pelvic dongle and walked over to stand naked at the window.
Outside, the storm lashed at the outpost. Nobody came to Venus, because it was a shithole. Having toured the most salacious corners of the Max-Earth system, Holland had decided it was exactly the place he liked to be.
He brought up the message again.
Holland. I never liked you much, but word has it that you were involved in getting Clarke and the others out. If you want to know what happens next, meet me in Addis. Lola Styles.
Fucking Lola Styles, ruining his evening. He could link back in with the sim, but the moment had passed. Cockblocked by Clarke’s old partner.
The gang was getting back together, then. With their wonderful history of success. When they all pulled together, when they combined their skills, there was nothing they couldn’t fail at.
Holland laughed and shook his head. He couldn’t pass up a meeting of the amateur hero group.
Time to buy a ticket to Earth.
Thanks for reading.
Am now in the thick of summer holiday schedule juggling. Away this weekend, and then again for a week — though should have my laptop with me. Writing when away from home is one of my favourite things, actually: the shift of venue can introduce all sorts of random new ideas.
Apparently we’re into August, which means it’s time to get this thing into your diary:
I will be on one of the panels, talking with
and (she wrote the book that was adapted recently into Damsel on Netflix) about fiction and Substack. You can find out more about Meg in her interview with :
There’s a whole programme of other panels and events covering memoir, book publishing, artists and Substack, illustration, building a writing habit and more. It’s a proper one-day book festival!
The organisers are
and , and I can’t wait to check out the rest of the day. And, of course, it was very exciting to be asked to take part. I’ve noticed an uptick in interesting opportunities in the last 12 months, both online and offline. The writing firmament, at least in how it relates to newsletters, feels especially vibrant.OK, let’s do some behind-the-scenes notes.
Author notes
The question here was always: where do we find our characters? What have Kaminski, Chakraborty and Holland been up to? We don’t get especially detailed answers in today’s chapter, but we get a pretty good sense of how they’ve been passing the time.
Kaminski and Chakraborty have been together — which is lovely, I’m sure you’ll agree — keeping off the radar and simply living. Though, evidently, Kaminski can’t quite leave the past behind.
Holland, on the other hand, has been living his ultimate Holland life. I do apologise for dragging you all into it, but if I had to see it, then so did you. He’s a grim man, and having brief moments of heroism back on Mid-Earth at the end didn’t really change the fundamentals of who he is, and what he does. What has happened is that his job has been taken away: he was an excellent detective, even if he was a fairly reprehensible human being. It’s left only the bad parts.
In fact, it’s interesting contrast with Clarke. He also had little else outside of the job, and in the last 5 years he’s found ways to continue where he left off. Being a private investigator isn’t the same as being a cop, not to Clarke, but it’s close enough. He’s trying, at least. He’s keeping his brain active, waiting for an opportunity to do something more meaningful.
Holland? Nah. He’s using that handy standard wage that everyone gets on Max-Earth to frolic about doing whatever he wants. I suppose they’re each evading the past, in their own way.
Next episode is a big one.
Nisha and Zoltan being semi-stable together - awww!
Holland - I almost bought it. I couid absolutely see him going merc. He's a "bad" man whose redeeming quality is channeling his violent impulses into beating other "bad" people, and at least he pays to indulge his perversions, rather than force. Then I thought "it's a bit pulp for this story." Then, of course, the giveaway of a truly terrible time for anyone to initiate sex...
Anyways, you had more character in either segment of this chapter than the entirety of Deadpool & Wolverine, of which, after seeing it yesterday, I'll say is a hot mess where Hugh Jackman occasionally talks about what sounds like a much better movie.
And here I thought Holland had evolved into Han Solo... should've known better.
It's fun to see the gang coming together again! I did have an inkling that the old case would be picked up again from an unlikely angle. (That's just how narrative works.) Hope we get to see what Lola has been up to before we meet her again in Addis!