Random acts of violence: part 2

Safety through strength

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

Previously: A raging koth attacked a busy street in London in the early evening without warning, seemingly targeting bystanders at random. The attack is ongoing…

Ganhkran’s day at the office had been a successful one. Deals had been closed, money had been made, everyone was happy. Mayfair had beckoned, and so Ganhkran and their city colleagues - mostly Mid-Earth humans, though there was one aen’fa - had decamped to their regular restaurant to celebrate the end of the week. Having lived on Mid-Earth most of their life, Ganhkran was used to startled glances whenever they entered a room. It was even understandable, if tedious: even small koth were taller than an average human, with some being easily seven to eight feet tall. They physically commanded any room and presented a silhouette that could be intimidating to anyone from the countryside who was less used to London’s big mix of peoples.

Carving out a space on Mid-Earth had been far from easy. Enduring frightened looks, being rejected from job interviews without even having had a conversation, anonymous abuse from the across the street, being denied entry to bars. Even simple things, like trams being too small to accommodate the frame of a koth. Public transport was off limits by design. But Ganhkran had built their reputation, had proven their skills ten times over, more than any human would need to do, and had found a company in the city that was uniquely forward-thinking. A broader range of staff meant a broader range of clients, went the argument. Profit motive rather than anything ethics-based, then, but Ganhkran didn’t like to miss an opportunity when those two aspects happened to align.

It wasn’t easy making one’s way as a koth on Mid-Earth, which was why they felt a clutching horror in their chest as the fireballs started bursting at the other end of the street. There’s a particular heat signature and gaseous growth to a fire koth’s emanation that sets it apart from, say, a mechanical flame-thrower or a home-made explosive. Ganhkran knew immediately that it was a koth attacking.

Pilpa, their diminutive aen’fa colleague, was staring wide-eyed at them. There was nothing a small, female aen’fa could do to stop a koth. It would take many armed humans to bring the situation under control, and the beat officers nearby would only have batons. The look in Pilpa’s eyes was clear: you have to do this.

“Excuse me, friends,” Ganhkran said, pushing their seat back and tearing their tie off. Stepping away from the outdoors seating area of the restaurant, Ganhkran flexed their wings, extending them out to their full breadth, red feathers fluttering in the gale caused by the fires. Deep in their throat a fizzing sensation, a building of pressure, of static friction as long-dormant glands began to activate. Ganhkran hadn’t been in a fight since they were five years old. The damage a child koth could inflict was considerably less final than an adult.

Breaking into a run, they took to the air a moment before they reached the attacker, using the extra momentum to drive the impact as they grappled them to the ground. There was a brief moment when Ganhkran locked eyes with the other koth: half-expecting to see the dilated pupils of intoxication, instead there was only fear and anger. Ganhkran had wanted the attacker to be out of their mind, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

“Stop,” Ganhkran said, trying to pin the attacker’s arms behind their back.

Writhing, the attacker rolled onto their back and pushed up with their wings, which in turn brought their jaw close to Ganhkran’s face. There was a bright burst from inside and Ganhkran only barely managed to avoid the fireball as it plumed into the night air.

All around them Ganhkran was dimly aware of screams and running, of tables and awnings on fire. The other koth attempted to break free and become airborne, but Ganhkran reached out and pulled them back down by the leg, slamming them into the pavement. The attacker had a cut on one arm, just above the shoulder, where their plating was misaligned. Ganhkran took a breath, building the pressure within, then allowed the energy course up their throat. Electricity leapt from one koth to the other, loosely targeted into the wound, and the attacking koth’s arm was severed, spinning away across the street, followed by an arcing trail of blood.

“Why are you doing this?” Ganhkran shouted, their voice rough and grating, like chains over stone. “It’s what they want!”

The other koth scrabbled to get free but the fight was already fading from them.

Then another voice, human, from a short distance away. “Hands in the air! Now!”

Late shift
On duty: Sgt William Golding and squad

London.
1974. June.

There was no mad scramble, no shocked faces or frozen reactions. Sergeant Golding had made sure of that when he’d hand-picked the squad, selecting only candidates he knew were up to the task. The alarm went off and they were already on the move, heading down to the basement where the SDC’s rapid response team stored their gear.

Over the speakers embedded in the stairwell and then in the locker room he heard Robin relaying the details. A koth. Mayfair. Multiple casualties. Active scene. He recognised the street name, knew it was a place families and white collar workers congregated at the end of the day. Golding also knew that they would already be too late for some of the victims. Nothing to be done about that, but they could help save other lives.

A koth, then. Fire-enabled, too, according to Robin.

“Full coverings,” he said, “maximum load-out. Don’t leave anything on the shelf. Taking down a dragon today.”

Scarra cackled. “Fucking Saint George shit.”

They were ready to go in two minutes. They were in the van and cutting through traffic sixty seconds later. Less than fifteen minutes elapsed between the call and their arrival at the scene.

Not fast enough. Golding would fix that in the debrief.

The quiet street lined with steak houses and wine bars and cafes had been dragged into hell. Everything burned. The tarmac on the road was melted to a syrupy liquid in places. Golding immediately recognised the pungent smell of burning hair and flesh.

The koth stood in the street above a pile of bodies, surrounded by smashed tables and glass. Flickers of electrical energy played over their skin, arcing up and jumping between their horns.

Golding aimed his weapon. “Hands in the air! Now!”

He knew the others would also have their weapons trained on the enemy. The armaments they’d brought could take down even a raging koth: Scarra had a grenade launcher that would blow it clean in two. Golding’s own rifle sported a custom barrel designed for high impact and ammunition specifically designed to penetrate a koth’s natural armour. The SDC was prepared for any and every eventuality.

The koth stood tall and shouted something that Golding didn’t hear through his helmet.

“He could be building up to another flame burst, Sarge,” Scarra shouted.

Jones was a few steps behind them, off to the side with a scope. “There’s another koth, Sarge!”

That’s right: the body lying on the floor was a koth - a single koth, not a pile of bodies at all. Golding checked his weapon, lowered it slightly. The koth that was still standing was generating static charge, not fire.

“I have a shot,” Scarra confirmed.

“Multiple bodies and wounded back here, Sarge,” came Pensthorpe’s voice from the right, over by the burning restaurant. “We need to get this done and let the medics in, ASAP.”

The koth had its arms above its head. “This koth is pacified,” Golding said, “not our perp. Guessing the one on the floor is ours.”

“Shit,” Scarra said, sounding disappointed.

“Move in,” Golding ordered, leading Scarra towards the two koth. “What’s your name?”

“Ganhkran,” the koth said. “This one was attacking everything. I was just here.”

Scarra was still aiming at the talking koth. “You and him working together?”

“I don’t know them,” Ganhkran said, gesturing to an emptied restaurant further down the street. “I was here with colleagues.”

Golding moved cautiously around the fallen koth. It was still breathing, though raggedly. One of its arms was missing. Whatever had happened, it looked like Ganhkran had stopped it. He pressed a button on his helmet. “Pensthorpe, we need a muzzle.”

While he waited, Golding pulled a pair of heavy cuffs from Scarra’s pack. Couldn’t tie the koth’s arms, but he could at least bind its legs. As he attached the restraints, he spoke to Ganhkran. “Any idea why this happened? Did the assailant say anything?”

The other koth shook its head. “Nothing. I don’t know. It just happened. There didn’t seem to be a reason - they didn’t say a thing.”

“There’s always a reason,” Scarra said, eyes scanning the street for any potential threats.

Pensthorpe arrived and knelt to attach the muzzle to the koth’s face - relatively new tech designed to prevent a fire burst. As she got close and reached out, the koth abruptly moved, its remaining arm slashing out and its teeth gaping at her.

Golding didn’t have time to react. Scarra was in the wrong position to do anything, and had his attention on Ganhkran - who, still having a gun pointed at its head, hesitated.

A shot rang out and there was a dull thud as a bullet entered the prone koth’s head, then a sharp note as it exited and bounced off the cobblestones. The koth slumped, dead.

“Target neutralised,” came Jones’ voice over Golding’s helmet. He was still a distance away, still aiming down that scope of his. Clever boy. Cleverer than the rest of them. What a shitshow.

“OK, all clear,” Golding said into his radio. The ambulances would arrive and the paramedics would do their job.

“Can I sit down?” Ganhkran asked. The koth’s hands were shaking. Scarra gestured with his weapon and the koth sat down heavily on the kerb.

“You’ll need to give a statement,” Golding said. “Don’t leave the scene.” The uniformed officers would take statements from everyone on the street and from survivors. A picture would be painted. The detectives back at the office would get to work, do their thing. He looked down at the body of the dead koth. The son of a bitch probably took its motivations to the grave.

It had all felt too late, and too slow. Innocent people had died. Golding’s squad was the last line of defence, and they weren’t nearly enough. Not when there were dragons in town.

---

Thanks for reading!

That was a complex one, for reasons I’ll get to down in the author notes. Hope you enjoyed it - well, enjoyed might not be quite the right term, but you know what I mean.

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Author notes

There’s some subtle stuff going on here. Well, I thought it was subtle, at least. 🙄

I write Triverse in a subjective third person limited perspective. That is, there’s always a point-of-view character, with the prose filtered through their sensibilities and personality. Hence a chapter focusing on Lola Styles should feel quite different to a chapter about Zoltan Kaminski.

In this case we have two viewpoints: Ganhkran the koth, and Golding the SDC squad leader. On the surface, both are heroes trying to save the day. The ‘bystander steps up’ concept is a bit of a trope: that idea and hope that somebody, anybody, will come to our rescue. And, I mean, it does happen. Sometimes people are heroes.

With Ganhkran we have a koth having to take down another koth. We learn immediately before the fight that Ganhkran has had to fight institutional racism their whole life, has had to carve out their place in a hostile world. As such, another koth inflicting such terror is going to be a doubly distressing prospect. That then drifts into other tropes that I’ll be exploring more in subsequent chapters. You can bet that Earth First and Nigel Maxwell are going to be all over this.

As a counterpoint, the second half of the chapter moves to Golding’s POV. He is super efficient, analytical, determined to do a good job. We can tell he is competent and values having a well-trained team. They handle the situation fairly well, and even manage to avoid shooting Ganhkran.

However. Undercutting all of their actions is a thread of bias and prejudice. It’s not overt, but it’s laced through Golding’s thinking and dialogue. Koth are genderless, being hermaphroditic (that is, all koth have male and female genitals and can take on either role during reproduction), and tend to use neutral pronouns. The entire concept of gender seems peculiar to koth culture. Note, however, that the pronouns shift once the perspective goes to Golding. Ganhkran becomes an ‘it’, rather than a ‘they’. To Golding, a koth is an animal rather than a person. He might not realise that himself - in Golding’s case this is primarily an unconscious bias; though, of course, that makes it all the more pernicious.

Scarra is different again. He specifically refers to the koth as male. Scarra being Scarra, you can imagine him doing this very deliberately, rather than out of ignorance. Similarly, his notion of going dragon hunting reduces the koth to creatures rather than members of society.

Where this is interesting from a writing perspective is that I don’t want to come out and state Scarra is racist. I don’t want to overtly declare that Golding has deeply ingrained prejudices. Having that instead emerge naturally through their own use of language feels more satisfying; though does potentially increase the risk of my writing being misinterpreted - or, indeed, some of these themes and cues could be missed entirely by readers.

Next week we’ll be dealing with the aftermath of what’s happened. Thoughts and prayers, everyone. Thoughts and prayers.

Photo by Bexar Arms on Unsplash