Random acts of violence: part 3

Purely objective responses

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 and stopped only by the quick actions of Ganhkran, another koth who was in the area at the time…

Night shift
On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Frank Holland

London.
1974. June.

The morgue served as a buffer between life and death. Those that went there against their will were already gone but had not yet been released to their families. They were no longer alive, nor were they to be buried or cremated. There would be no funeral until the coroner permitted it. Clarke had never liked the place, though it was better than a hospital - at least nothing bad could happen in a morgue; the worst had already taken place by the time somebody arrived.

Dr Steven Wong buzzed about the examination theatre looking very much like an excited schoolchild with a new toy. The table in the centre had been extended to accommodate the hulking body of the koth. Another, smaller table displayed the koth’s dismembered arm. Attempts to neutralise the smell of death were failing, though the chilled temperature at least dampened the sensation. Clarke wrinkled his nose and watched.

“Shit, look at the size of that thing,” Holland said, leaning against the tiled wall.

“They were a person,” Clarke said, feeling awkward, “not an animal.”

“I didn’t say they were an animal. I said ‘thing’. Everyone is a ‘thing’ once you’re dead. Lump of meat.”

Clarke said nothing. He wasn’t good at calling out Holland, or anyone else. Styles always knew how to do it, how to cut through the bullshit. Clarke felt like a fraud. Secretly, inside, he was terrified of koth. He looked at the body on the slab and saw a monster. He’d been glad to show up at the scene after it had already been neutralised. The koth’s arm lay on its little metal island, disconnected from its body, looking like a halloween prop. It reminded him of Callihan’s head, bouncing off the railing. Humans come apart easily, he’d seen it enough times in the job, but it wasn’t every day you saw a koth in pieces.

“No signs of intoxication,” Wong said. “Not detecting any legal or illegal substances that might have affected their behaviour.”

Holland snorted. “So just an honest-to-god homicidal rampage?”

“That’s for you to figure out, detective.” Wong moved around the table. “Judging from the horn length and diameter I think we’re looking at a relatively young koth. Perhaps early thirties.”

“Why do something like this?” Clarke took a deep breath. “With everything else going on, why would a koth draw this much attention on their community?”

“My guess,” Holland said, mouth curled into a subtle sneer, “is that this guy wasn’t really thinking about the socio-political impact of their actions.” He held up his hands. “I mean, I could be wrong. Maybe this one-armed motherfucker was actually Plato the Koth. Or maybe he just liked breaking shit.”

Sensing his temper rising, Clarke made a move for the door. “Call if you find out anything interesting, doc,” he said.

The London summer was wet and close, the early morning mist never quite managing to fully evaporate. Instead it hung around at head-height, clammy, lingering on skin. It was dark, a couple of hours after the attack over on Mayfair. The city was unusually quiet for a Friday night; the pubs were only half-full, and there were no queues to get into clubs and late night bars. Everyone had heard the news and decided to stay home. Didn’t make any logical sense, Clarke thought, but that’s people for you.

The other koth, the one that had interceded, was being held for questioning at a nearby station. They were shown through to the interview room, Clarke mopping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. The sun was down but the humidity lingered. The city was generating its own heat.

Bruises were apparent on the koth’s skin in places where their scales were thinner. Clarke could see some of the thicker plates were cracked around their shoulders. “How are you feeling, Ganhkran?” He’d practised saying the name in his head several times on the way over.

The face that looked up from the chair was tired. “How long am I going to be here? I’ve already talked to two other police officers. I don’t have anything else to add.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” Holland said, taking a seat opposite. “Why were you in the vicinity of the incident earlier?”

Ganhkran stared for a moment, clearly incredulous at being asked. “I was having dinner.”

“By yourself?”

“With colleagues. I work in the city.”

“What’s your job?”

“Finance. It’s not interesting.”

“I bet it pays well.”

“I am paid a good wage,” Ganhkran said, “though I’m sure it’s less than most of my human colleagues.”

“More than what I take home, either way,” Holland said.

Clarke sat down next to Holland. “Have you been seen by medical staff?”

“I’m fine,” Ganhkran said, touching a finger to the side of their head. “Are you attempting ‘good cop, bad cop’?”

That hadn’t been Clarke’s intention, though the koth had a point. He and Holland slipped into those stereotypes without even trying.

Holland waved his hand dismissively. “Did you know the attacker?”

Ganhkran frowned, then laughed quietly. “Why would I know them?”

“Well, you know…” Holland shrugged. “Maybe you go to the same church.”

“No, I did not know them. Just because we are both koth does not mean we automatically know each other.”

“Not even run into each other in the community? On the convention circuit. What, Kothcon? Palinor reunion get-together?”

“I came to Mid-Earth when I was an infant, detective. I have no memory of ever being on Palinor.”

Holland was deliberately riling up the koth, and Clarke wasn’t sure why. They weren’t a suspect, with the other witnesses and Golding’s crew already providing a clear outline of events. Maybe Holland had something he needed to get out of his system.

“We’ll let you go momentarily, Ganhkran,” Clarke said. “Even if it’s just speculation, do you have any idea why this might have happened?”

“Why? It would seem to me that they were angry, detective.”

Holland chuckled. “When I’m angry I kick over a bin on the way home. I don’t murder a bunch of people and torch an entire street of shops.”

Ganhkran ignored him and continued to look to Clarke. “Perhaps they were angry about not being able to get secure employment. Perhaps they were angry at being unable to apply for state support, due to being non-human. Perhaps they were angry at not being allowed to vote, despite living here for years and paying taxes. Perhaps they were angry at being sick from your climate and your bad food. Perhaps they were angry at being jeered at on the street, at being called names. Perhaps they were angry at your politicians smearing us and scapegoating us at every turn, even while denying us basic rights? Perhaps they were angry at the way you all sleepwalk into fascism, welcoming each turn of the screw like some sort of warm embrace? Perhaps they were angry at the newspapers making up lies every single week, calling us child killers and sexual predators and devils. Perhaps they were angry at ‘funny’ cartoons presenting us like the demons from your ancient mythology.”

“Come on, Ganhkran,” Holland said, “tell us what you really think. And let us not forget that the perp we’ve got on the slab is, in fact, a child killer and a predator. They literally just killed over twenty people. Also, I don’t think that fucker was paying much in taxes.”

There was a silence. It occupied the room, swelling, filling it edge-to-edge, to the point that Clarke thought it would push the door from its hinges and crack the glass. He half expected Ganhkran to reach across the table and tear Holland’s spine out of his back. Then, Clarke hated himself for even thinking such a thing.

God, he missed having Styles around.

“Any other questions, detectives?”

Holland shook his head. “Nothing from me. DC Clarke?”

“Come with me,” Clarke said, opening the door to the interview room. “I’ll see you out.”

Squeezing through the too-narrow doorway, Ganhkran followed Clarke through the police station, drawing stares from every officer. The walk to the exit felt endless, but finally they were out onto the street.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke said. “It can’t have been easy.”

“Many terrible things happened tonight, detective.”

“As I understand it, it would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there.”

Ganhkran stared down at him, their black eyes glinting in the streetlight. “I appreciate that you’re trying to be enlightened, detective. I can see you wrestling with it. The likes of you will not be enough to prevent what’s coming.”

There was a tightening in Clarke’s guts. “What’s coming?”

“More of this,” Ganhkran said, waving a hand at the city. “More of all of it. You’re trying to see me as a person, but you’re struggling. Most people, they won’t bother. They see one koth, they see all koth.”

Looking down at the pavement, Clarke nodded. “Are you going to be safe getting home?”

“Of course,” Ganhkran said. “I’m a koth.”

Then he spread his wings, smiled sadly, and lifted up into the night sky, vanishing to a bat-like silhouette before disappearing over the rooftops.

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Thanks for reading!

Yesterday I was startled to read this:

But, I don't like Science Fiction

It’s an interesting article by itself, exploring genre definitions and how they get assigned different cultural worth, but near the end it segues into a celebration of Substack fiction and includes a mini-review of Triverse. I’ve had many lovely comments on individual chapters, but I think this is the first time I’ve seen an assessment of the project as a whole.

In particular, I can’t get enough of this quote from Daniel:

“But, mostly, it just a cracking urban fantasy science fiction version of The Wire with the twist being anything is possible and nothing is as it seems.”

That’s essentially a better blurb than the one I’m using, and I might have to steal it.

Stumbling on a review - especially a positive one - is a weird experience, triggering all kinds of responses. First excitement, then disbelief, followed by a sort of humble quietness, gratitude and an inner calm. Primarily, it makes me think oh, I’m doing something right.

At some point somebody will write a negative review of Triverse. I’m not looking forward to that.

MEANWHILE, I’ve been busily planning out the future of this Write More newsletter. There will be changes coming. Good ones, I think. More stuff for free readers and, crucically, more stuff for paid subscribers. I’m excited.

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In unrelated news, I’ve started playing Return to Monkey Island, which has one of the cleverest retcon narrative twists I’ve ever seen. I think I might have to write a Small Talk article about it.

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Author notes

Triverse stories quite often turn out to not be about what they initially seemed to be about. ‘Random acts of violence’ is a case in point, as it is now shifting into examining the everyday acts of violence against people - not necessarily physical violence, but a continual aggression and lack of acceptance.

There’s at least one more instalment for this storyline. Triverse stories have a lot of flex within them, often taking longer than I expect. You’d think after doing this for a year and a half I’d have a better handle on the pacing. Part of it is due to Triverse being my first ‘adult’ project, I think. My three previous books were all snappy page turners, with much tighter pacing and more overt action. Triverse tends to be a bit more introspective, and is much happier to spend an entire chapter in conversation with characters, or even following a single character’s inner monologue.

That took a good while for me to wrap my head around. In the early days of writing Triverse that shift in priorities and pacing felt quite alien and a real challenge, especially while I was also figuring out how to tell detective stories. In the case of ‘Random acts of violence’, I expected the first two chapters to be a single opening chapter, but that expanded into two: I could have reduced it, but that might have meant cutting the insights into Ganhkran.

At some point in the far future I’ll edit Triverse into a book form, so it’ll be interesting to see what I keep and what I cut during that process.