Random acts of violence: part 4

Those left behind

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. The fallout continues…

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

London.
1974. June.

The papers were running with it. Someone had managed to get a photograph of the two koth on the street, in the middle of the rampage. That one of them was trying to stop the other was not apparent in the image. Clarke ground his teeth together as he looked at the front page. It was the day after and he’d not had much sleep.

Robin placed a cup of tea onto the desk. “Here you go, Yannick,” she said. “Up all night?”

“More-or-less. Thanks.” He took a sip, even though it was still burning hot. He needed the wake-up.

“Me too. I couldn’t stop thinking about all those people, having dinner and a nice evening. And now they’re all dead.”

“It’s grim. Still don’t have a firmed-up victim count. The street was busy.”

Robin sighed. “Shows what one person can do if they’ve got bad intentions, doesn’t it?”

The door to the SDC offices banged open and DI Ford strode in, flinging his coat in the vague direction of the coat rack. “Right, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we need to get out ahead of this. No dilly-dallying. Clarke: do we know who the koth was yet? That’s number one priority. The politicians are going to be sniffing all around this one like a dog and an arse. Miller’s trying to keep a lid on it, but, well. We all remember what happened last year when that koth was accused of attacking a young girl. This time it was a koth, and we’ve got bodies piling up. Expect the worst. I’m requesting increased officer presence across London. Where’s Holland? As soon as he’s in, you pull whatever strings you need to identify that koth. If you need help, ask me or Bakker. You need to call in the others ahead of their shifts? Fine by me. This case is a big pile of fucking dynamite.” He fixed Clarke with a stare. “You got me? Good.”

The man disappeared into his office.

“This is wonderful!” Lord Hutchinson clapped his hands together. “And you’re sure we had nothing to do with it?”

Miller spread his arms wide and grinned. “Not that I know of. It’s not even a false flag. This koth really did just go crazy and smash up a street. We couldn’t have done it better ourselves if we’d tried.”

“Astonishing.” Hutchinson poured himself a small tumbler of liquor and gazed out of the window across the London skyline. “I thought we might have used that drug again. The one that makes them go loopy-doopy. Can’t remember the name of it.”

“No need. Give a koth enough rope and they’ll hang themselves on it, it seems.”

Hutchinson paced the room. “Yes, very good. This is exactly perfect timing. We can use this to our advantage, pressure the government to clamp down further - and either way we win.” He took a deep breath and shivered. “Feels like it’s all slotting into place, doesn’t it? And I’ll tell you what - it’s nice not having to worry about AIs snooping on our conversations any more.”

“Not long now,” Miller said, nodding. He pushed back his chair and made for the door. “I have a press conference. Need to plead for calm and restraint.”

“Make it sound good, won’t you?”

“Always do.”

The Koth Tenement Plan had been a stupid idea in the first place. An attempt half a century earlier to provide a space closer to the communal living of koth on Palinor, it had involved a significant refit of older estates in east London to better accommodate the larger from of koth - higher ceilings, broader doorways - and the shift from old terraced housing to squat towers. They were supposed to allow for the tight-knit communities on Palinor that saw koth forming small, deeply invested tribes. In reality, the buildings were barely fit for purpose upon opening, much less after decades of neglect. The open, warren-like design had led to a rise in criminal activity, with human gangs moving in within a year. Almost all modern involvement of koth in London criminal activity could be traced all the way back to the implementation of KTP.

Policy had changed, shifting away from ideals of cultural integration. Koth had to make their own way in human society. It was up to them to adapt, because society sure wasn’t going to. No free rides.

Holland whistled and looked up at the grey façade of the tenement block. “Shit, remember when these were no-go areas for police? Even just fifteen years ago we wouldn’t be standing here like this without a full squad of backup.” The real mistake, he’d always thought, was allowing them to settle in the first place. Visiting was fine, whether for tourism or business or study, but there was no reason to stick around. Much like Styles going to Bruglia - a temporary liaison officer, serving a specific purpose, then she’d be back. It was a proper job. Transiting through a portal just to sit around and leech off the good will of those on the other side was nothing but selfishness.

“Maybe that means thing have improved?” Clarke was moving slowly and wheezing slightly. The summer humidity was getting to the old git.

“Nah,” Holland said, distracted by a piece of his lunch that was refusing to budge from the back of his mouth. “It just means the problems are more hidden.” He waved his hands. “It’s all been dispersed, throughout the country.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

Holland glanced over at Clarke, who looked about as nervous as he’d ever seen him. “You up for this, partner?”

Clarke grimaced. “I’ll be fine.”

“Koth make you nervous?”

“I’m fine, let’s go.”

The room was on the third floor. Holland knocked, then took a step back. A telephone call had come in from a koth claiming to be a parent of the one that had gone crazy the previous night. They’d seen the photo in the paper that morning, which was fortunate as the SDC had been having a hell of a time trying to identify the body.

When the koth opened the door, Holland realised he had been expecting a ‘mother’, even though koth society didn’t follow the same patterns. He didn’t really understand it - something about group responsibility, and bloodlines carrying weight but without the typical human setup of a mother and a father. Hell, that wasn’t even necessarily a human thing. It was an Earth thing, and Palinor had its own crazy customs - as did Max-Earth. Things got pretty weird in the future, as well.

“Thank you for calling,” Clarke said, showing his badge and introducing the two of them.

The koth welcomed them into the home, which was run down and smelled strange to Holland’s nose. He wasn’t sure if it was a koth thing or the crumbling plaster and mould. Aen’fa, now those he could get along with. The females especially. But the point was that they were roughly human-sized, so everything just worked. Koth were big, in all directions, and heavy, and could breathe fucking fire. They didn’t fit onto trams, or into normal homes, or onto a standard office seat. They couldn’t type easily onto a typewriter, or a computer keyboard. They made everything awkward, and then expected Londoners to foot the bill to change everything around for them. At least most of them already spoke English. That hadn’t been the case with the early visitors, but English had been adopted as the hub language, with it being a common tongue on all sides of the portals - at least in regions close by; the further one travelled from the portal across Palinor, the more likely it was to run into language barriers. Not that Holland ever intended to put that to the test.

He let Clarke do the talking. The old man had more of a knack for this sort of situation. They were led through to a slightly smaller room - though still large by human standards - which had apparently been the dead koth’s bedroom. The layout of the flat, and the oddness of the materials, made Holland think of a hive. Being inside it was uncomfortable.

“Your, uh, child,” Clarke said, “you are sure that’s who you saw in the paper?”

They nodded. When they spoke, their voice was quiet, slow, sad, and unlike any other koth Holland had ever heard speak. None of the usual booming confidence. “Koloch had a mark above their left eye, and near their horn. Very distinctive. It was Koloch, for certain.”

“We’ll need you to come to the station and confirm the identity,” Clarke said.

The koth made a mournful clicking noise with their teeth. “I understand.”

A pamphlet caught Holland’s attention where it sat on a bedside table. ‘Bedside’ in the loosest sense of the word - the bed resembled a large, flat rock. He picked up the pamphlet and turned it over. It was an incendiary rant against human society, railing against the government and ‘the oppressive masses’. It referred to humans as an infestation to be eradicated. “This is some pretty heavy stuff,” Holland said, whistling. He held up the pamphlet. “You seen this before?”

The koth nodded. “Koloch used to be quiet. But Koloch has been getting angrier and angrier.” They pointed at the pamphlet. “Rubbish like that, getting inside Koloch’s head.” Leaning down, they pulled open a drawer, which was full of even more literature of a similar inclination. “I thought it was just silliness. Never thought Koloch would do something terrible like this.”

Holland arched his eyebrows. “You read this yourself?”

“No. I work hard. Stay quiet. I don’t read that sort of thing.”

“Did Koloch make these?”

“No. Given them. Lots of the younger koth have them. They talk about it a lot.”

“We’re going to need to take samples of these,” Clarke said. “And we’ll need to search the room, in case there’s anything else.”

“Yes, of course. I will wait.” The koth turned and shuffled out.

*

Ganhkran woke late, the sun streaming in through the curtains. They sat up and rubbed their eyes with the back of one hand, only then noticing the pain in every joint and the bruises. For a few brief seconds they’d forgotten about the fight, about the previous night.

Work had already told them there was no need to go in. Take as much time as they needed. Ganhkran wasn’t convinced. Sitting around the house would only let their mind play over the events again and again. The assailant’s arm coming off. Blood. The gunshot. For the longest time, Ganhkran had fully expected to be shot as well.

Such awful violence.

Slipping into a robe, they walked through to the kitchen of the first floor apartment and flicked on the kettle. Coffee was needed. They’d take the rest of the morning, then perhaps head in to the office, if for no other reason than to check on their colleagues. As far as they were aware everyone was fine, and had escaped unscathed, but they had to be sure. That was more than could be said for the people who had been at the other end of the street, where the attack had started. Such arbitrary luck, something as meaningless as a dinner reservation, choosing a restaurant, selecting a table, being the difference between living and dying.

It would make matters worse, and play into the narrative being spun by the tabloids and the worst of the kingdom’s politicians. Humans committed violent crime upon one another tenfold, but that never made the front pages. A single koth’s actions, meanwhile, confirmed all of the Mid-Earthers’ worst suspicions. Unfounded stereotypes and prejudices and assumptions, made real by the actions of one lone lunatic.

The whistle of the kettle subsided and Ganhkran began pouring it into a cafetiere, only then becoming slowly aware of a disturbance outside. There was the sound of voices, of shouting - no, chanting. A repeated cry, over and over, by what sounded like a large group.

A thrown brick smashed through the front window, shattering the glass across the floor. Ganhkran rushed across the room, their thick feet unbothered by the shards, and looked out of the broken window. Below, on the street, must have been at least forty angry humans, some carrying placards or waving kingdom flags. They spilled out into the road, forcing traffic to go around or stop altogether.

“There he is!” bellowed someone.

The chanting started up again, and this time Ganhkran was able to discern its meaning.

Monsters go home. Monsters go home. Monsters go home. Monsters go home. Monsters go home. Monsters go home. Monsters go home. Monsters go home. Monsters go home.

---

Thanks for reading!

Schools break up today, which means my 10 year old will be home for the foreseeable future. On the one hand this is of course lovely. There’s nothing better than spending time with him. On the flipside, though, I’ve found that holidays always mean one thing: less writing time. The shift of schedules and routines eats away at normal habits (which is, of course, the entire point of a holiday), which is a real challenge when you’re writing a weekly newsletter.

We shall see how it goes. 🙄

Meanwhile, there’s been a lot of good stuff to read this week.

• This is from the start of the year but remains ever-pertinent. Cory Doctorow’s explanation of the ‘Enshittification of TikTok’ is on-point and should be taken by

  Mills Baker
  ,
  Hamish McKenzie
  and the rest of the Substack gang as an instruction manual of how to not mess up. So far, so good.

• Talking of Substack,

  Russell Nohelty
  put together a detailed article on the pros and cons of using Substack as a key part of your author pipeline. How ‘Substack fits into the future of publishing’ is full of detail and I rather wish that I’d written it myself.

• On the fiction side,

  Daniel O’Donnell
  published his first short story in 25 years. I don’t want to say too much about ‘Look’, other than it is nice and short and absolutely worth your time.

• The wonderful Nimona comic by

  ND Stevenson
  was recently turned into an equally wonderful movie, which is now on Netflix. NDS posted up an amazing selection of early sketches which any creator worrying about how to get from A to B should check out.

• As the tech bros continue to sully the reputation and potential of AI with their anti-creative cynicism, a bunch of Rather Fancy authors have signed a letter demanding compensation. Don’t argue with Atwood. I find it fascinating to juxtapose the general response to AI from creative people and the techno-optimism of business and articles like this one, in which AI is posited as the saviour of all humanity and the planet. It’s still way too early to know where this is going to settle, but I’ll always side with the artists over the tech bros. Hopefully the pointless inroads into disrupting the creative industries can give way to more important and interesting applications of AI sooner rather than later.

Fancy some free ebooks? Check out these promos, which I’m taking part in:

• Fantasy Freebies

• Strong Women in Fantasy

Photo by Gabe Pierce on Unsplash

Author notes

Trying to find a stock image to use for today’s chapter was a tricky one. An Unsplash search for ‘placard’ revealed primarily images of protests from #BLM, #MeToo and other such movements, with participants in full view, and I really didn’t want to co-opt one of those to represent the unsavoury types protesting at the end of today’s chapter. Fortunately I managed to find an anonymous image that didn’t slander anyone in particular.

Last week I was asked in the comments whether Holland had featured as a POV character yet. It’s happened a couple of times, but I don’t often go inside his head due to it being a grim place. Well, turns out today was one such example, and Holland is still not a nice guy.

Choosing the point of view character for each chapter or scene is absolutely critical. Each scene has two aspects: the things that happen in it, and the perspective response to those things. Matching the two for maximum drama (or dramatic irony) is what makes a scene interesting (or not).

In this instance, we open with a Clarke POV, which sets up a nice contrast with the Holland POV later. There’s a slight vocabulary and tonal shift between the two characters. The scene at the koth’s house could have had the third perspective from their POV, of course, but I chose to stay with the detectives: Holland’s prejudices and lack of empathy provide a more interesting angle.

We then end back with Ganhkran, our guest star for this storyline. There’s an immediate comparison to make with how they live - in apparent middle-class comfort - with the parent we’d just met. There’s a lot to digest there about what the Mid-Earth society expects of people, which this storyline is only going to touch upon briefly.

Talking of point of view, the newspaper coverage at the start of this chapter reminded me of the Haitian earthquake coverage from many years back, which was skewered satisfyingly by Charlie ‘Black Mirror’ Brooker:

It’s not mentioned in that clip, but there was a particular photo highlighted by the British press that was presented as being Haitians fighting over a box of food - when, in fact, it was jubilant excitement being misrepresented. That’s what was in the back of my mind with the newspaper Clarke’s reading at the start of this: that wilful desperation to find a story that compels some news media to make facts malleable.

My approach with most of Triverse is to dip in and out of these concepts and build up a broader picture, rather than dwelling on any one thing for too long. I’m more interested in raising questions than providing answers - primarily because I don’t have answers for many of these things, and I’m not really in a position to make up my own solutions.

Anyway, that’s it for today. Next week I’m away, but I’m still hoping to get the newsletters out. I have a long train journey ahead, which should help with the writing!

Thanks for the support, as ever.