This is my ongoing scifi / fantasy / crime fiction serial. New chapter every week.
The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1980s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real
Previously: Earth First has been dismantled and removed from power. Much restructuring is needed, nothing is easy, and the triverse is still reeling from everything that has happened. Meanwhile, on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales…
Pateley Bridge. Mid-Earth.
1980. October.
Rain had begun to fall somewhere near Sheffield, the mottled windows of the carriage fogging and obscuring the view of the countryside whipping by. It looked to be a cold winter. The train creaked and rattled, as did the cracked faux-leather bench. Built into the windowsill was an ashtray, overflowing onto the floor. The stench and grime was reassuring, in its own way.
A change at Harrogate, onto the small line that ran into the dales and terminated at Pateley Bridge. It was a market town but nothing was open, doors sealed and windows shuttered against the gathering storm. The stone of the houses was grey, the streets colourless, the sky a flat monotone. Improvised streams flowed down the hill to the bridge, the river already swelling. On another day, it could have been a nice place.
On another day, Frank Holland wouldn’t have been there. He didn’t make a habit of visiting nice places.
Warming yellow light glowed from the inn, a quirky looking building that must have pre-dated the Joining. He pushed open the door, relieved to get out of the downpour. Someone in the corner of the inn was tuning a guitar. The place was mostly empty, save for a couple sat at a table on the far side. Leaving a trail of dripping water in his wake, Holland lay his waterproof briefcase on the bar then pulled a folded sheet of paper from deep within his thick coat. Running a hand across the creases, he gestured to the barkeep.
“This place,” he said, pointing at the address. “Which way is it?”
The woman, perhaps in her early fifties and as rugged as the stone of the building, squinted at the scrawled note in the dim lighting. “That’s out of town to the north-west. Over the bridge, then follow the road to the right. Keep going for a couple of miles.”
“A couple of miles?” Shit, he was going to be soaked through by the time he got there. He pushed his already dripping hair from his face. Needn’t have bothered having a shower that morning.
“They keep to themselves, that family,” the barkeep said, nodding as she dried glasses. “Showed up, what, five years ago? Maybe more. Come in for groceries on market day. I saw the missus in the sweet shop with the children once. But like I say, they keep to themselves.”
“Thanks.” He turned to leave.
She nodded at him. “You want anything for the road? Going to feel like a long old hike.”
Holland pointed to a packet of scratchings hanging on a peg. “Two of those.”
“Nothing to drink?”
“Not now,” he said. “Maybe when I come back.”
He handed over the coins. When he moved to pick up the packets, she reached forward and grabbed at his hand. “We look after our own, mister,” she said, softly, leaning over the bar. “That family keeps to themselves, and if that’s how they want it, that’s fine. You’d better not be bringing them no trouble.”
“No trouble,” he said, pulling his hand away. He took the packets and shoved them into an inside pocket. “Meeting with an old friend.”
The walk felt long. The rain was coming sideways and was ice cold, biting into the flesh on his face. Another month and it’d be snow. Holland was reminded of why he liked cities, with their trams and underground trains and a bar or cafe every fifty metres. That wasn’t Yorkshire, where everything was far apart and civilisation existed only as isolated oases in a vast wilderness.
In the village the road had been well-kept and recognisably made of tarmac. Out wherever he was, it had mostly given up being a traditional road and was rapidly shifting between a dirt track and a mudslide. He was caked up to his calves, his shoes no longer identifiable beneath the encasing muck.
A cow stared at him from an adjacent field, unbothered by the weather. Holland was briefly envious of the simplicity of the creature’s life, then wondered if the inn served steak and chips.
He’d come back when word had reached Max-Earth, though he didn’t at first know why. There was nothing on Mid-Earth or in London for him. Then he’d seen a notice on a job board in Addis and had followed it to a recruitment office. Next thing he knew, he was gainfully employed. Starting with a couple of simple assignments which had gone well, he was now on the big one. Tapping into his old network of sources and informants had been surprisingly easy, despite being away for so many years. Everyone was coming out of the woodwork since the government had fallen and was keen to do business. It wasn’t for everyone, what Holland was doing, but to him it felt like a homecoming.
The house loomed out of the rain and fog, abruptly closer than he’d expected. There was a low, stone wall and an iron gate, then a winding path that might have looked well-kept any other day of the year. A garden, smashed to pieces by the rain, populated by rustic terracotta pots, several of which were on their sides, some broken with soil scattered in a wet puddle. Holland remembered a murder scene, pooling blood in the gutters.
It was a square, symmetrical house. Front door in the centre, three windows to either side, two floors and a tiled roof. Immediately behind was a steep hill, rising into a forest. The trees were shifting silhouettes, daylight barely registering beneath the storm clouds. Thunder cracked somewhere across the valley.
There was no doorbell, only a large brass knocker mounted to the broad oak door. He tapped four times, then stepped back. There was a small porch which could have protected him from the rain, but some distance seemed prudent. The last time he’d knocked on this man’s door it had led to a complicated conversation.
He caught a flicker of movement at one of the curtains, heard the patter of small feet on stairs. Still he waited, feeling rain finding its way beneath his collar and down the skin of his back. Coming here may have been a mistake.
The sound of heavy locks being undone, then the door swung open slowly.
“Alright, guv?” Holland said, no smiles.
Christopher Bakker, former detective inspector with the Specialist Dimensional Command, stood there in shirt and jeans, leaning on a cane. He said nothing.
“Took me a while to track you down,” Holland continued.
“Why are you here, Frank?” Bakker’s face was neutral, his body tense. “Trouble’s never far behind you.”
“Not this time, guv, promise. I have something for you I think you’ll be interested in. Let me show you, take a look, and if you’re not interested I’ll be on my way. Your shout.”
A silence, the only voices belonging to the storm. The two men stared each other down, a wall of distrust between them, built from years of betrayal.
“You’ve got thirty minutes,” Bakker said, opening the door more widely and stepping aside, his weight on the cane.
Nodding thanks, Holland tried to shake off some of the water on the porch before entering, then dried his feet on the doormat as best he could.
“You’re meant to do that on the boot scraper outside,” Bakker said, indicating towards the metal strip.
“Ah,” Holland said. “Fuck. Bit late now.” He pulled off his boots and put them to one side.
“Bring your coat through, we’ll hang it in the utility room.” Bakker took the cane and dropped it into an umbrella stand, then moved down the corridor without even a hint of a limp.
Holland sniffed in amusement, and followed.
The cup of tea looked like it would be the best cup of tea he’d ever had, once it was cool enough to drink. Holland grasped it with both hands, willing the warmth back into his fingers.
“Alright,” he said, lifting the briefcase, spinning the combination and opening the locks. From inside he pulled a brown folder, identical to the ones they’d had in the SDC office back in the day.
Bakker’s eyebrows raised and he laughed under his breath. “Working a case?”
“After a fashion. There’s a load of contracts out on former Earth First members. MPs, prison guards, executioners, secret police. A lot of them got out of London when they saw the writing on the wall. Same in Manchester, Birmingham. They had people everywhere.”
“Ah,” Bakker said, nodding with understanding. “You’re a hunter.”
“There’s worse things I could be doing with my time, trust me.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Bakker was sat back in his chair with his arms crossed. “What does this have to do with me?”
Holland pointed at the file. “Take a look. Thought this one might be of interest.”
For a moment, it looked like Bakker might refuse, and choose to turf him back out into the storm. Then curiosity got the better of him and he flicked open the folder, revealing a stack of photos and written reports. Frowning, he spread them out on the table, arranging them as his brain started to form connections.
“Shit, I could squint and think we were back in Stamford and Coin.” Holland took a sip. The tea did not disappoint.
“Alas, you and your conspiratorial friends put paid to all that.”
Holland spread his arms wide and grimaced. “Come on, really? I got there in the end, Bakker.”
“You did. And yet here I am banished to Yorkshire. I hear Graves is dead. Half of London is shot to pieces. Hundreds dead in the streets. Thousands more koth and aen’fa piled in quarries.”
“That’s not fair. That’s not on me.”
The other man sighed, still parsing through the photographs. “No, it’s not. But I liked my job, Holland. It’s who I was. I’ve spent five years rotting up here into an early grave. Those Earth First bastards took it all away. I didn’t work fast enough to stop them, and we all paid the price.”
“Right, and that’s not on you.” Holland leaned forwards and tapped on the photographs. “Besides, that’s why I’m here.”
Bakker shook his head. “The last time you brought me evidence I thought it was the smoking gun. I thought we had them. But they were several steps ahead of us all the way.”
“Not this time, guv. Take your time. Look closer.”
The kitchen was cosy, the perfect farmhouse room. It didn’t look like too bad a place to live out a forced retirement. He waited for Bakker.
“Wait a moment,” Bakker said, picking up one of the photographs. He looked up at Holland, startled. “Is that?”
“Yep.”
“Nigel Maxwell?”
“Nigel Fucking Maxwell. Prime Minister Dickhead.”
“Where were these taken? When?”
Grinning, Holland leaned across the table, gesturing at the relevant documents. “That’s the best bit. Just down the road, as it happens. The most recent pics were last week.”
Rubbing at the stubble on his face, Bakker took several deep breaths, then pushed his chair back and began pacing the room. It was slotting together in the man’s head, Holland could tell. The detective had his suspect.
“Why bring this to me?”
“Why?” Holland got to his feet and walked around the table. “I thought you might like to take down this son of a bitch with me.”
Looking up the ceiling, Bakker let out a long, anguished groan. “I’ve got a new life, Frank. We’re doing well here. The kids are in school. Lauren has a job in the village.”
“Doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying yourself much, no offence.”
“It’s not all about me.”
Holland put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “No, it’s not. It’s about the Commissioner. And Styles. And all those dragons and elves that those Earth First bastards rounded up and slaughtered. It’s about all of them.” He looked into Bakker’s eyes. “I know you, guv. You don’t like unfinished business. Loose ends. Come on, one more for the road.”
“Maxwell’s a figurehead, you know. The face, not the brains.”
“Yeah, but it’ll make a bloody good statement. Put the fear of god into the rest of them.”
Slowly, Bakker’s face changed. The lines around his eyes hardened, his jaw clenched and he returned Holland’s gaze. Extending his hand, he took Holland’s and shook it firmly.
“How’s the tea?”
Glancing back at the table, Holland nodded. “Best cuppa I’ve had for years.”
“How about something a little stronger?” Bakker suggested, taking down two shot glasses from a shelf.
References
The main reference point here is the previous encounter between these two at Bakker’s house in London. That went down in ‘Unintended Consequences: part 3’, published March 2024.
Meanwhile.
Not even a week into 2026 and reality continues to outpace fiction. In my rewatch of 1990s show Babylon 5 (join me here!) I’ve noted repeatedly how its themes of rising authoritarianism, state propaganda, alien-as-enemy scapegoating and so on feel far more relevant today than they did back then.
In the 1990s it was a show looking to the past, explaining how 20th century regimes came and went, and giving us an instruction manual on how to avoid it happening again. Clearly, we didn’t pay enough attention. In 2026, it feels more like a call to arms, an urgent warning to do something now, or never.
I find myself in a similar place with Tales from the Triverse, albeit on a horribly compressed timeline. When I started writing in 2021, I was looking back at the previous decade and trying to make sense of it. As I write the final chapters, the themes I’ve been exploring have returned to the real world with a vengeance. I’m considering writing a post about the politics of Triverse once I wrap the serial, though that does feel like a quagmire I might not want to step into.
Being a struggling optimist, Triverse is winding down with a more-or-less positive resolution. Feels like we’re a long way from that in real life. Hold fast, and all that.
Right, here’s some picks of things to read that aren’t so gloomy:
Being British, the idea of naked public baths is terrifying, but Brent makes it sound wonderful. Reminds me of all those bath scenes in Naruto. Although hopefully without Jiraiya being a creep.
In big news, Ben Wakeman is starting a new serial! Something I’m looking forward to once I wrap Triverse is having more time to actually read serial fiction, so I’ll be diving into this one. Check it out:
Fully agree with everything Ben says. There’s something very special about being there with readers while the story is still forming, rather than simply providing them with a finished product and walking away.
Right, time for some author notes….
Author notes
Frank Holland! Christopher Bakker! Hopefully that was a nice surprise and you didn’t anticipate them both showing up again.
There’s a couple of things going on with this story. First up, these are two characters who exited the story early. They played important parts, then were sidelined. Holland chose to step back, Bakker was forced out. They both deserved a slight return, before the end.
Secondly, this was an opportunity to switch back to a style of storytelling closer to the traditional, early police procedural stories that form the bulk of Tales from the Triverse. The last 12 months of stories have shifted into a more direct, novelistic style, and I really wanted to squeeze in one more case file. Neither Bakker nor Holland are police by this point, not officially, but that’s not going to stop them.
In Bakker, we have someone who perhaps thought of themselves as the main character, until they abruptly discovered they were not. Bakker set everything in motion, and none of our lead characters would have been able to do what they did without Bakker’s early lead. Despite that, he’s surrounded by a sense of failure. More than anyone, as we find him here, he blames himself for all the bad things that have happened.
Holland we’ve always known to be a broken man, constantly on the run from himself. Perhaps he’s recognised that himself, consciously, for the first time. Choosing not to go on the heist mission with the others would have been a blow to his self-esteem, to his sense of being the Big Man. Combine that with his playing both sides, of almost siding with Miller and Earth First, and we have someone consumed with guilt, but lacking the vocabulary or emotional maturity to deal with it. And so he works through that damage by hunting down former regime criminals.
That Holland would wind up as Mid-Earth’s equivalent of Nazi hunters is not something we could have easily predicted back at the start of Triverse.
These are both men who blame themselves, and haven’t been able to do anything about it, to atone for past actions and failures. Until this moment.
Tonally, this was a fun chapter to write. It’s a geographically very different setting — most of Triverse takes places in cities. The filthy weather, and the image of a man in a long, heavy coat carrying a briefcase, trudging through the countryside: it’s all very gothic and Victorian.
I’m still on track to finish Tales from the Triverse this month. That said, I’m travelling for work next week so the usual timings might be disrupted somewhat. We’ll find out!
Have good weeks, all.
Thanks for the link!
Minor addendum - I needed to double check the times given for this chapter and the prior chapter to see how long a time jump you'd done here. Roughly four months, meaning, assuming Lola lived and was unfused from Probably Better, hopefully she's up and around?
Maybe her just being released into being up and around is the incident setting up a big group chapter with many of our principles meeting up for a pint (or something) to reflect and share a toast to making it out the other side. We shall see.