The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real
Previously: Earth First have swept to power. Portal travel has been heavily restricted. The board is set.
Recommended soundtrack:
London.
1974. September.
22:26
It was late for the city, though it was early for the night shift. The offices of the Specialist Dimensional Command were quiet, down in the basement of the Joint Council tower where nobody thought to visit. Sounds of the streets were blocked by fifty feet of steel and concrete and glass.
Banging the door to the women’s toilets open, Detective Sergeant Caitlin Shaw stumbled in and stood for a moment in the entrance, wavering, as if caught in a breeze, then she tottered to the sinks. She stared back at herself in the mirror, her hair all mussed up on one side. Her reflection recoiled in disgust. She wanted to whisper the word, the W word, but she stopped herself. There was a stinging in her eyes, a throbbing in her temples and just behind her eyes, like a migraine waiting to happen. Air lodged somewhere in her chest, uncomfortable and tight, like she’d eaten something bad. Gripping the cool stone of the line of sinks, she ground her teeth together, wishing she had a toothbrush.
It rushed up unexpectedly, a violent convulsion, and she dashed into the nearest cubicle only barely in time. Some vomit caught the edge of the seat before she could lift it properly. Bracing herself against the walls, her guts exited through her mouth and tears filled her eyes such that the small space became blurred. She sank down and down, down to her knees, and retched and retched until there was nothing left.
14:04
Earlier.
Everything was slotting into place. They’d set up the dominoes and they were falling one after the other, just as planned. To DCI James Miller it meant new days were coming, in which he’d really be someone and make a difference. Secure a meaningful legacy. Make an impact. Leave a mark.
He had a couple of offices in the Joint Council tower. One down in the SDC basement which was mostly to help keep up morale and keep him as one of the team; his main digs were up here, with a view over the city. It made sense, given that as the de facto public relations guy for the department he couldn’t go hiding away underground. Being DCI Miller was all about liaising and making deals and opening doors. Seizing opportunities. He’d always been ambitious, but there had always been a whisper of doubt in the back of his mind, that perhaps he was over-reaching. That he was getting in over his head.
The election had silenced that voice. The plan was proceeding. The new way was approaching and he was right there, in the thick of it, riding the wave, on the cutting edge. There’d be no leaving him behind, not when he was such an integral part of it. Chancellor Baltine wouldn’t have formed such an effective and unseen network without him. Lord Hutchinson wouldn’t know his arse from his elbow without Miller pointing it out. Ambassador Matheson might be a Max-Earth heavyweight, but it was Miller that had connected him with the right people there on Mid-Earth. Next step was to get in with the JC Secretary-General. But one thing at a time.
Point was, Miller was untouchable. He’d picked the right allies, chosen the right battles, and had won them all. Would Nigel Maxwell be Prime Minister without Miller’s advice, interference and greasing of the political wheels? Unlikely. Miller was the one moving the chess pieces.
Some dirt along the way, for sure. Changing the world - worlds - came with some unfortunate side effects. He’d promised himself he’d only have regrets if the ultimate mission was a failure. The ends very much justified whatever means were called for in a game with stakes this big.
“Anyone home, Miller?” Holland’s voice rattled through the office. The detective, sat on the other side of the desk, grinned lopsidedly. “Looked like you drifted off to a special place just then.”
“Lots to think about, Frank,” Miller said, smiling his most confident smile. “I trust that all made sense. With the new government there are going to be changes, like we’ve been talking about. New opportunities for hard working and loyal people. The SDC is going to become increasingly important, and I want to make sure you’re at the front of all that. The referendum will come around sooner than we think, and we need to get everything in place.”
“I’m not one for liking change, Miller.”
He shrugged. “Well, we have to take the rough with the smooth. It’ll be worth it. You’ve always been one of the special cops, one of the good guys. Got your head screwed on right way round.”
“That’s what everyone says about me.”
“The SDC is going to play a more integral part in the wider Met Police and governance of the city, which means we need to know where we stand with everyone currently on the team.”
“This again?”
Miller tapped his finger on the desk, pushed a pen from one corner of a folder to another. “It’s critical, Frank. We need to know who we can trust. Who is a proper patriot. We all know there’s been an incursion into the civil service, into government, into the Met. We’re doing something about all of that. We’ve got the right people in power at last. But we need the right people on the ground, too.” He shifted his weight in the seat. “We need to know about Clarke, Kaminski, Chakraborty. You’ve had your suspicions. I have, too.”
“What about Collins?”
“Collins is a fucking child. Forget about him.”
“And DCS Walpole? Or what about Bakker, Ford and Morgan?”
“DCS Walpole isn’t a problem. Leave Bakker and the others to me.”
“Fine. I’ll look into it.”
“Find out where they’re spending their free time.”
There was a knock on the door and Caitlin Shaw entered. “Ah, Detective Sergeant Shaw. Just who I wanted to see.” He turned back to Holland. “That’ll be all, Holland. Keep us posted.”
Holland made a disgruntled noise, then made his exit, nodding briefly at Shaw on his way out.
Gesturing to the vacant seat, Miller smiled at Shaw. “How are you, Caitlin? Go on, grab a seat.”
She had the eager expression of a dog expecting a treat. Caitlin Shaw was a typical girl-next-door: slightly dull, got the job done, pretty in a plain sort of way but blessed with a fine body. He knew she’d been rattling around at the SDC for a while, wanting to do more but not knowing how to progress. Now in her late-thirties, single, stuck in a career rut, there was a hint of desperation there that was most useful for his purposes. Too socially distant to be close with anyone in the department, she was a playing piece he could do with as he pleased.
He’d also heard the stories about her wilder days when she first joined the force.
“I just wanted to say,” she said, “that I’m grateful for your trust in me. I’m happy to be part of this.”
He grinned. “And what is this?”
Laughing nervously, she gestured vaguely at the walls. “Whatever we’re building here. Cleaning up the SDC. Rooting out corruption.”
Whatever we’re building. As if she was on the same level as him.
“Exactly,” he said, jabbing a finger towards her. “Exactly right. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I have something for you to do.”
Nodding, she leaned forward. He couldn’t help but notice how much makeup she was wearing.
“Here’s the thing,” Miller continued. “We know there are issues at the heart of the SDC, let alone the Met. The Met is a whole other thing we’ll get to. One thing at a time. Tidy up our own house first. I’ve got Holland looking into some things for me, but we could do with an insurance policy. My sources tell me that DI Bakker is at the centre of this.” A flicker of concern across her face. “There have been rumours for years. You know how people like to talk. We don’t yet know the details, only that he’s been compromised for some time. It could be he’s working with Max-Earth agents, or even a Palinese faction. Maybe the Ethiopians. It’s not just him, of course - these problems are systemic and we’re going to have to look very carefully across all of our institutions. But let’s start with our own.” He paused, cleared his throat. “I’m gathering evidence, and I think we’ll be able to make a move on Bakker sooner rather than later. But he’s clever. We need a back up plan. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
"Collateral is what we need. I know that Bakker is responsible for twisting some of the others. I can’t prove it yet. I don’t know why he’s doing it. Maybe he’s in the pocket of the koth ambassador, or it could be some sort of business interest we don’t know about. But if we’re going to clean up the city, we need to start with our own house. Root and branch, everything has to be right or it has to go.”
She really was very attractive, in an unusual sort of way. Ten, twenty years earlier even more so, most likely. Now she was approaching that middle-aged slump. But still, if they were going to take down Bakker at least they could give him a good time on the way out.
“Do you want me to try to get more details out of him? I don’t think he trusts me. I’ve tried.”
Miller shook his head and tried to look pensive. “No, no, nothing like that.” He leaned forward. “Caitlin, this is about all of us getting what we deserve. Me, you, Holland. The boys in the response squad. Real cops. You should have been promoted years ago! It’s a disgrace. I’ve recommended you to the Commissioner on several occasions, but, well.” He shrugged. “Vested interests, ulterior motives and all that. That’s why we need to use our own initiative and the skills we have available to us.”
She nodded, attentive, still not getting it.
“We need you to seduce him, Caitlin.”
Sitting bolt upright, she tried to form words but nothing came out of her mouth for a few seconds. “What?”
He held up a hand. “Listen, I know, I know. God, I know. I didn’t want to ask you to do this. I said no to the guys at the top. But orders are orders. I didn’t like it, but fuck it - I wasn’t going to let someone else ask. I wanted it to come from a friend. You know I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t necessary.” He pointed at the ceiling. “There’s CCTV all over this building, including down in the SDC. I’ve got access to the video records. I’ll grab the tape, keep it safe, nobody else will ever see it or know about it. But we’ll have him, Caitlin. You’ll have got him by the balls. So to speak.”
She’d gone even paler than usual. “But why me?”
“Listen, if Bakker swung that way I’d do it myself, but that’s not how this works. And nobody’s going to fuck Holland unless they’re being paid. It has to be you. You’re a beautiful young woman, he’s a man in his mid-forties, there’s no way he’ll be able to resist.”
“Isn’t he married? With kids?”
“Yes, but that’s why this will work. The family will never see this. Nobody will ever see it. Hell, we don’t even need the footage. We just need Bakker to think we’ve got it.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“That’s up to you. Not my area of expertise. Something suitably incriminating.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of whisky. “What do you say? Would a drink help?”
21:40
A little later.
Kaminski and Chakraborty were out on an investigation. DS Collins had gone home, as had Robin. The phones were quiet. Clarke was off-shift, though Holland was presumably still in the building somewhere.
It was as good a time as any. Caitlin checked herself in a pocket mirror, then unbuttoned the top of her blouse. Her heart thudded in her chest, trying to escape from the entire situation.
She’d done worse in her twenties, when she was starting out, coming up through training. It had seemed like a mutually beneficial arrangement back then; a bit of fun, a slightly higher score on the sheet. That had been back then, though. She’d become a detective the right way, she’d earned it. But shit, it was the 70s, she was a woman, and it was the police. Maybe she’d been kidding herself the whole time. That’s why she’d been stuck as a DS in the SDC for so long.
Bakker was in his office. She could see the light was on. Nobody else was about.
It was no different. It wouldn’t be Bakker giving her a promotion, not directly. But if he was taking handouts he didn’t deserve to be on the force in the first place. Maybe she could close her eyes and help usher in a better time. A police force everyone could respect. And nobody would ever know. This would be it. They were all going to have to make sacrifices. This was hers.
She knocked lightly on his office door.
“Come in,” came his voice. Friendly, welcoming. He looked up from his work as she entered, closing the door behind her. “Ah, Caitlin. You’re in late today. Weren’t you here this morning?”
“I had a lot to catch up on.” She worked the blinds, closing them to the rest of the office. “And now it’s just us. Everyone else is out on a job or down the pub.”
“Ah, the pub,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “I remember the pub.” He looked at her a little quizzically but said nothing.
She walked slowly around his desk, running two fingers along its edge. “What are you working on?”
“Tying up some loose ends. Reading over some reports Clarke and Holland filed. I like to get it all signed off before I go home.”
“You haven’t come out of your office for hours.” She sat on the desk next to his chair, such that her skirt was lifted a little, revealing more of her legs and her dark green tights.
“Someone’s got to do the slog work,” he said, rotating his shoulders. “I probably should get up for a walk, though.”
She moved closer, so that her left leg bumped up against his. “Maybe I can help you relax a little?”
He looked up at her, his eyes sharp. He knows what you’re doing, Caitlin. He didn’t move or respond. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee, began slowly sliding it towards his crotch. “It’s not the first time it’s been just you and me left in the office,” she said, “and I’ve always wondered.” Her hand reached between his legs. There he was. And evidently interested. She pushed his chair with her leg, rolling it backwards on its wheels, so that she had more space, then hopped down from the desk and climbed onto his lap, her legs either side. They sat there, her on him, staring at each other. He didn’t try to stop her as she unbuttoned the rest of her shirt. She’d left her bra in her handbag back at her desk. Taking both of his hands, she lifted them up and placed them on her breasts, then leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.
His lips parted, for a moment, then he moved his hands down to her waist and gently pushed her away a little. He smiled, then looked frustrated. “Who put you up to this?”
Shit. “What do you mean? It’s been hard waiting this long.”
He looked rueful, and pulled the two sides of her shirt back together. “You’re very attractive, Caitlin. But I’m a good decade older than you, my stomach’s not what it used to be and I’ve got an embarrassing bald patch. You wouldn’t look twice at me unless you had a reason. So I ask again: who put you up to this?”
Lifting her gently, with surprising strength, he moved her off his lap until she was standing before him. Standing, he paced to the window. Presumably someone’s got that on tape somewhere.” He sighed. “Listen, Caitlin. I don’t know what they’ve told you about me. I don’t know what they’ve promised you. But you’re in with the wrong crowd.”
She started buttoning up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “If you didn’t want me you could just say so, rather than…making up all this conspiracy nonsense.”
“It’s not too late, Caitlin. If I can help—“
“No, fuck you. Sir.” She was taken aback by her own outburst, which seemed somehow less appropriate than anything that had gone before. “You have no idea.”
She felt sick. Something was bubbling inside. God, she didn’t want to start crying in front of him. Instead, she left the office, slamming the door behind her.
09:06
Much earlier.
Nothing quite like starting the day with a phone call from her disappointed father. Caitlin slammed the handset down, grabbed her coat and left her small, terraced house. Every time they spoke he’d annoy her, always bringing up her job, always asking when she’d be commissioner, as if that was a thing that could happen. It had started as a joke when she was a cadet, and then he kept asking it, over and over again, until it stopped being a joke and was instead an admonishment.
Before getting the tram she stopped in at her local coffee shop, a literal hole in the wall barely big enough to contain the equipment and Eliope, the owner-barista. He was cute, in a way she’d never noticed before about an aen’fa. Too often she thought they looked and behaved a little too much like cartoon characters, but Eliope was different. He had a serenity that appealed to her. She could do with a bit of serenity. That’s why she kept coming back for his coffee, and had been building up the courage to ask for something a bit more. That’s why she’d worn the green tights today, to match the colour of his skin. She wondered if he’d notice.
It had been so easy when she was younger! Now she felt all tongue-tied and shy, which was very much not who she wanted to be. It drove her nuts, that feeling that she’d lost something along the way. The most energetic part of her.
“Ah, Miss Detective Caitlin Shaw, police lady,” he said in greeting. “A cappucino, I would assume, as ever?”
They stood in silence as he worked the machine, the frother burbling away. He made it an art. Watching him work was like seeing a performance. She waited for the right moment, perhaps as he handed her the hot drink. Then she’d ask him out. On a proper date! It had been a while.
Finally the coffee was ready and he passed it to her. Their fingers briefly touched.
“You know,” he said, “I was talking with my husband last night. Talking about you. My favourite detective customer, I was saying. And he said, ‘how many detectives do you know?’ And I said, ‘just the one, but she’s the only one I need’.” He laughed that noisy, uproarious laugh, with that gigantic, gorgeous smile, and Caitlin’s hopes sank into the pavement.
The tram ride was grim as ever. Despite it being well past rush hour, it seemed that the earlier four trams had been cancelled, which meant everyone had piled into hers. Sweat and jostling for twenty minutes. She hopped off at an earlier stop than usual. The coffee was cold; she’d been unable to lift it to her mouth due to the crammed tram.
Everything was just a bit shit. What had seemed easy when she was a kid, a teenager, was now hard. It felt like she was getting worse at everything, not better. Weren’t you supposed to get better at things with experience? She was slipping backwards.
Still, she had a meeting with Miller later. That would be good. He was the only one to properly, truly respect her. He recognised her potential, that’s why he’d brought her in and trusted her. She wasn’t the biggest fan of Holland, but there was no denying he got the job done. That was a glimmer of hope, at least. For the first time in a long while she felt like she was actually riding the wave rather than being washed away by it. She didn’t want to jinx it, but it was the only thing that was exciting her, that got her out of bed in the morning. Miller had promised she’d get to meet some of the higher-ups soon, some of the really powerful Joint Council bigwigs. Maybe that would bring her in from the wilderness.
Then she could really make a difference.
Thank you for reading!
Apologies for dropping something quite so grim into your inboxes on a Friday. The rot is going to infect everyone in this story if they’re not careful. More on all that in the author notes below.
A big HELLO! and welcome to new subscribers. We just tipped over the 3,000 mark, which is quite mind-boggling. Writing this newsletter has brought with it so many exciting new opportunities, to the point that I’m increasingly concerned about what might happen if Substack is subsumed by Muskification at some point in the future. That will be a real cultural loss, I think.
It’s already complicated, of course. This week saw
publish an investigation into the use of the platform by the far right, which makes for deeply uncomfortable reading. As with any free service there will be people I disagree with using it, just as I’m sure deeply unpleasant people also use Mailchimp, Gmail and so on. A key difference is that Substack’s leadership seem to quite like encouraging it. Obviously the optimum number of Nazis in any given situation is zero, so we’ll see what comes of it all.I also read
’s article The elite capture of Substack, which was fascinating. It really highlights the way the newsletter and Notes ecosystem creates siloed experiences, because I don’t recognise Cydney’s account in my own direct experience. For me, writing this newsletter and having conversations on Notes is like being part of the best writing group. Evidently some writers are having a better time than others - I seem to have been fortunate to fall in with an absolutely lovely bunch of people. Hopefully everyone else can find their right tribe sooner rather than later.Author notes
While I was working on this week’s chapter I posted this Note:
I had many amazing responses to that note (do go check them out). Thanks to everyone for offering such great advice.
Aside from writing this chapter I spent a lot of time this week on plot wrangling. The thing about plot is that you want it to just happen naturally in the background rather than calling attention to itself. It needs to fit in and around characters, and their motivations have to drive the plot, rather than the other way around.
I’ve known for a while that Miller and his cronies would go after Bakker sooner rather than later, but I didn’t know exactly what shape that would take. As this week’s chapter came into focus I felt quite uncomfortable: it wasn’t going to be a nice story to write. Especially when I decided to make part of it from the POV of Miller.
My previous two books weren’t exactly aimed at younger readers, but I designed them to be accessible to younger readers. So there’s nothing in them that would preclude a teenager or middle-grade reader from diving in. Triverse is very much aimed at adults, which has been a real challenge for me. I’ve had to adapt a lot of my story instincts, and its led to writing some material very outside my comfort zone.
This chapter is not pleasant to read or write. It’s awful for Shaw, it’s painful to see it happening to Bakker, and Miller is, of course, a deeply unpleasant time. In the end, writing Miller wasn’t the hardest bit. The tricky bit was writing Shaw, making certain that she was a sympathetic character here despite the mistakes she’s made (and is making). Although the chapter dips into Miller’s narrative POV for the middle chunk, this is otherwise very much Shaw’s story.
Then there’s Bakker. He’s so far been the uncorruptible hero type. Not flashy, not exciting, but he’s the rock around which our other ‘hero’ characters gravitate. He’s clever, strategic, honourable, ethically sound. Which is why his hesitation here is so disappointing: he doesn’t immediately put a stop to what goes down in his office. He knows he should, and he does eventually, and he does it in a kind way. His character does shine through, eventually. But he also sits there passively, and waits just long enough that it becomes uncomfortable, and Shaw has already compromised herself and him. The title of this chapter refers to both Bakker and Shaw, after all. Bakker has to wrestle with his own ethics, and is this close to ignoring them.
I told this chapter in a non-linear way, hopping back and forth on the day’s timeline. That’s not something I do much with Triverse. That’s something I really enjoy about writing a long form serial: it provides the space in which to experiment and try stuff. I don’t need to be as structurally rigid as I might be in a traditional novel. For this chapter’s story, bouncing back and forth made most sense, with each scene re-contextualising what’s come before. The opening scene sets up certain expectations, the Miller scene doubles down on those, then the Bakker scene doesn’t go quite the way we expect. And that final, heart-breaking sequence with Shaw on her morning routine, not knowing what’s about to go down, shifts the entire chapter into a more tragic key.
This was also a much longer chapter than usual. It didn’t seem like one to rush.
OK, thanks again for reading! I’ll let you get back to your Fridays.
If you know someone who might enjoy Triverse or the Write More newsletter, do pass it along:
There's a line in one of the Discworld novels somewhere; I haven't read all of them yet so I don’t know the context but the gist is that the nature of sin starts with treating people as things. I was reminded of that reading this.
Hi Simon, Just catching up with this. Thought it was a really strong chapter. Dark, like you said, but challenging as we were confronted with the issues and decisions that Shaw has to face. You handled that perfectly
As for Substack, I think I’m just about done. There are lots of good people on here but the amount of bile and hatred on Notes is, as someone who has never been on social media before, truly horrifying and, frankly, I’m too old to have to see or deal with all that crap. So, I reckon I’ll finish off what I’m doing and be on my way for the New Year. I’ll miss a lot of great writing but sometimes you’ve got to know when to quit
Keep up the great work 👍🏼