The last flight of the Beagle: part 4
A race to the finish
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: The former SDC detectives have pulled off a heist to retrieve Kaenamor’s lost journal. They’ve crash-landed into the middle of Addis Ababa, with a rogue AI in hot pursuit…
Addis Ababa. Max-Earth.
2550. March.
Getting them out was all that mattered. Clarke could react more normally later, could collapse and let the impossibility of the situation flow over him. He could have a nervous breakdown. His heart could give out. He didn’t give a shit, but it’d have to wait.
The girls were all out. Kaminski was up on his feet, though was struggling to walk unaided. Not a surprise, given how off-balance Clarke was feeling. Days of space travel, then the rotational gravity of the space station and the violent re-entry was enough to throw off anyone’s inner ear. Any longer inside the carcass of the Beagle and they’d have suffocated: his skin was oily, covered in smoke residue, a thick stench filling his nostrils even as they staggered out of the smashed airlock into the Ethiopian sun.
For the tiniest moment there was normality, as he took in the buildings and the air and the Earth gravity. Then he noticed the fires and the torn-up road and crushed vehicles. They’d come down hard, clearly, and he hoped to god that they hadn’t killed anyone on the way. He had enough guilt without adding civilian deaths to the tally.
Some other guy, a local, was racing down the road with Chakraborty over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. A shadow lay on the street, and he glanced up to see a black cigar shape hovering above the city.
“I shared a shipping container with a piece of that thing,” Kaminski muttered.
They’d had so many opportunities to stop it, to prevent the rogue AI from being shipped through the portals and constructed on the Max-Earth side. Clarke couldn’t let anything happen now, not at the hands of that thing. He clenched his jaw and kept them moving, towards the line of police and the portal station. Help was at hand.
Justin’s pilot host had collapsed up ahead. Not that they would have been much help in the state they were in, but it would have been reassuring to have at least one machine on their side.
“How’s your leg?”
Kaminski moaned. “Something’s busted in the knee. Putting weight on it hurts like hell. But I’ll manage.”
“Good. Chakraborty needs your help.” He nodded in the direction of the man who had come to help, and who was already carrying Chakraborty towards the wide steps into the station. “Looks like you’ve got some competition.”
“Looks like he’s earning it.”
They reached the police cordon, catching up to Lola and Yana, and a female officer stepped forward. “Detective Clarke, you must all make your way to the portal as quickly as possible. These officers will assist. I have sent word ahead to Detective Birhane.”
“Justin?” Of course, transferring to a different host was something they did all the time. Clarke always had to reset his brain each time Justin showed up with a new body. Each time a new height and build, a different gender, a fresh face.
“Get moving,” Justin said, starting to walk in a different direction. “I will deal with this.”
Then they raised their left arm, which had at some point become a gun, and fired it across the street towards a separate group of cops.
Police host protocol was not dissimilar to military units. Given their armament, it was too dangerous to leave them on the open system which allowed for easy drop-in/drop-out. Just Enough could hop into any typical host on the planet with only a basic handshake, as long as it had sufficient power to run a quantum shard. Police were different, and required closer physical proximity to begin the takeover. They were also equipped with deeper firewalls and countermeasures to handle almost any hostile incursion.
Almost.
The police host Just Enough occupied had been acquired legally, through the approved process. It was considerably more powerful in terms of compute, physicality and weaponry than the Beagle’s pilot, though Just Enough was already running a third generation shard: jumping from the Beagle’s sophisticated internal processor to the pilot and now to the officer had significantly reduced their mental capacity. Just Enough’s megaship was still too far distant to deliver a fresh link in time.
Probably Better, hovering above the street, was less concerned about following the correct procedures. They were hacking into the police units, simultaneously attempting to overload and take control without the handshake permissions. It wouldn’t be possible for a terrorist, criminal or typical human hacker, but the countermeasures had not been designed to resist a quantum AI. The designers were clever, though, and had implemented a fail-safe of sorts: it would take less than half a second for Probably Better to circumvent their defences, but the hosts were hard-wired to self-destruct if such a rapid takeover took place. They would melt before being useful. That forced Probably Better’s incursion to be slow, which gave Just Enough the time they needed.
Two of the police hosts were destroyed by maximum blasts from Just Enough’s arm cannon before they could react. The third turned to slag, presumably due to Probably Better attempting a rapid takeover despite knowing better. That left two, and the arm cannon was still recharging: a lower-powered shot would have little effect against an armoured police host.
The nearest officer, having observed what was happening, turned towards the other and entered into a grapple, which gave Just Enough time to close the distance. Probably Better’s hack was focused on the final officer, rather than attempting a simultaneous takeover. That was a surprising mistake.
Perhaps they didn’t make quantum AIs like they used to.
With the friendly officer still grappling the hacked host, Just Enough was able to move around for a clean shot. The compromised host collapsed to the floor.
“Apologies,” Just Enough transmitted to the assisting host.
“It is understandable,” they replied, then its obliterated body fell to the ground, Just Enough’s weapon still smoking.
Just Enough looked up at the hovering megaship. Strange that it had not simply buried the portal station, or levelled the city district. That’s what Just Enough would have done. For all its power and bluster, Probably Better was an amateur. Just Enough had been doing this for centuries.
The humans had already entered the portal station. There would be more trouble inside.
Alarms sounded through the station, staff and travellers running for the exits. Kaminski, supported by Clarke, moved against the tide, heading towards the concourse and the portal itself. His knee flared with each step, kneecap grinding against the joint. He wondered whether the Beagle’s cocktail of stimulant drugs was suppressing the pain, and how it would really feel once they wore off.
Getting to that point would be a luxury, and he’d welcome the pain.
The others were moving cautiously, surrounded in a protective circle by the human police officers, weapons drawn. Lola smiled at them as they caught up, though her face was a picture of worry.
“Everyone here?” Clarke asked.
Kaminski hobbled forwards. “How is Nisha?”
The man holding her over his shoulder turned: he was young, physically fit in that perfect Max-Earth way. “Hi,” he said, holding out his free hand, “I’m Jiraa. I have no idea what’s happening.”
“Appreciate the help, Jiraa,” Clarke said, as Kaminski shook his hand.
One of the officers lifted their head, face visible through their helmet’s faceplate. “We need to keep moving. I’m Sergeant Tasifa. Follow my lead.”
They advanced as a unit, Kaminski and the others in the centre of the circle of police. It was a welcome change from being wanted by the authorities for years. Reaching the security checkpoint, the lead officer passed through the scanner and signalled for the others to follow.
A member of station security watched from the side as they each moved through the gate. When it was Lola’s turn, in front of Kaminski and Clarke, the security staffer began to move, advancing on her position.
“Halt,” one of the officers ordered, raising their weapon. The security staffer ignored them and reached out towards Lola, until they were stopped by a shot to the head. Yana shrieked and Kaminski felt his gut tighten.
The security officer’s head was half destroyed, revealing plastic and metal, but they were still standing. Turning their attention to the police officer who had fired, they seized their weapon, yanked the gun away and turned it on them.
Sergeant Tasifa fired repeatedly, advancing, knocking the host robot backwards until it was a mangled mess of broken technology strewn across the floor.
“Everyone keep moving,” he ordered, picking up the weapon and returning it to the startled officer. “Assume all hosts to be hostile.”
Clearing the security gate, they made their way through the station, winding between the tourist shops and cafes. Leaping from behind counters came the robots, skittering more like animals than humans. Their silence was the worst of it, Kaminski thought, as wave after wave burst from doorways and ran at them, emotionless, driven by enforced motivation. He’d been complacent about Max-Earth’s technology, spoiled by Justin’s benevolence. As the terror rose within him, as his knee scraped against itself and they inched their way towards the portal concourse, he realised for the first time the fragility of Max-Earth’s entire society, so reliant as it was upon their obedient machines.
Shots rang out, the police escort taking down the attackers before they could get close. They were all dressed in their work uniforms: waitresses, perfumers, chefs, cleaners. The entire spectrum of the service industry, bent on homicide. It required multiple shots to take down a single robot, and they were managing to get closer with each wave.
But they were also near to the portal, the black void towering over the concourse: slightly smaller than the London portals but still intimidating in its sheer nothingness. The station was evacuated, the concourse emptied except for the deranged robots. It was a gauntlet, and they had only to get to the far end of it.
One of the officers to Kaminski’s left was snatched away from the escort, their cry silenced by a synthetic fist punched through their chest, blood spraying across the group. Kaminski squealed involuntarily, tempted to wait for the next blow to be his end; once again, the bad guys had won, as they kept winning, over and over.
He increased his speed, knee wailing in response, pushing at the backs of the others to get them moving faster. They were so close.
“Keep going!” shouted Sergeant Tasifa, as his escort team set up a semi-circular perimeter around the portal. There were no human staff or other travellers left and the automated travelator that would normally whisk them through the portal was disabled. The station was deserted, save for their small island of humans in a sea of hostile automata.
The shots continued ringing out, the black immensity of the portal filled his vision and then they were through: Lola, Yana, Clarke, Nisha up front still carried by the random guy that had come to their rescue. The familiar nausea hit him as his body transited from one dimension to another, flung across reality in an instant as he stepped through the portal. The noise of gunfire and shouting was silenced, no sound or visuals able to penetrate through from Max-Earth.
Another squad of police were lined up, old school weaponry and clothing marking them as very much belonging to Mid-Earth. Detective Birhane was there, his face showing his relief at seeing them. For a moment, Kaminski thought they had made it: the opaque blackness of the portal gave the impression of it being a wall, when it was in fact an open door.
Emerging from the void first came a police officer, tumbling end over end and crumpling to the floor. Another figure followed them, leaping straight out of the darkness, an uncanny, inhuman posture revealing their nature despite having the appearance of a friendly food stall worker, complete with striped apron and a small, folded white hat. Their expression was entirely neutral, devoid of emotion, as they impaled the Max-Earth officer with what looked to be a rotating spit for cooking. The fat of the meat, still clinging to the metal, sprayed across the portal’s welcome area as the robot withdrew the spike and looked for its next target.
There was a shout from Birhane, and then they were all scattering, trying to get out of the way, and the Ethiopian forces were opening fire. Bullets shredded the aproned robot’s clothes and skin but did little to disable it or even slow it down. It was disinterested in the police, and instead strode towards Lola and Yana, both of whom had fallen to the ground and were desperately scrabbling backwards.
Their weapons doing nothing, the police ceased firing, looking to each other for orders or ideas. Kaminski looked about for something, anything that could help.
Clarke got there first. He came out swinging, holding the end of a metal pole that still had a guide rope attached to it for wrangling queues of people. The pole came down hard on the robot’s neck, staggering it. Clarke lifted it again and smashed it down, something audibly snapping in the robot’s shoulder. The pole was dented, and Clarke lifted it for another big swing.
Instead, the robot pivoted and thrust the cooking spike through Clarke, blood spattering onto Kaminski’s face.
In his peripheral vision he saw movement: there was something else coming through the portal. More robots intent on killing them all. Kaminski didn’t know why it was happening, or how a stolen journal could possibly justify the intensity of the response.
The new arrival was a Max-Earth police officer: a robot, but familiar.
Justin bounded forwards, seized the cooking spike in one hand and used the other to forcibly push the robot away. Glancing at Clarke, then down at the spike, Justin took Clarke’s hands and moved them onto it. “Hold this in place, please.”
The police host inhabited by Justin was clearly more capable than that of the food stall server. Justin pounced onto it, pinning it to the floor with the weight of their body, then took hold of the robot’s head and ripped it away. For good measure, they tore open the robot’s chest and pulled out the power core, crushing it in their fist.
“You must keep moving,” Justin said, standing and turning to face them. “Thank you for giving me time, Detective Birhane. There will be more coming. A host body cannot maintain battery integrity for long on Mid-Earth. At maximum capacity, most of the service hosts from the vicinity of the portal station will degrade after transiting through the portal after a matter of hours. A day or two at most.” They looked to Kaminski and the others and attempted a reassuring smile. “You must keep moving. You will not be safe until you have at least a day’s travel between you and this portal.”
Lola was back on her feet. “We can go to the Atlantic portal station. I have people waiting there.”
“That will suffice.” Justin turned back to Clarke, who had become pale. “Detective Clarke, you are fortunate to have suffered a minor wound despite the injury passing through your body. Hold still please.” Justin took hold of the spike and withdrew it in a single, short, sharp motion. Clarke gasped, and Justin took hold of him, supporting his weight. “My estimation is that your significant organs were not harmed. You are at risk of infection, however.” Retrieving something from their utility belt, Justin lifted Clarke’s shirt and sprayed a substance onto the wound, on his chest and back. “This will stop the bleeding, but you will need proper medical attention at your earliest convenience.”
“What about you?” Kaminski asked, his knee still hurting but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. “We could use your help.”
“I will be helping, Detective Kaminski. I will remain here and hold the line.”
Birhane waved a hand. “Follow me, please. I’ve made some calls. Remember our mutual friend Ganhkran? Aide to the koth ambassador. Former ambassador, I should say. They will get you out of the country and away from the portal.”
They began hurrying away from the black void, escorted by Birhane’s squad. Kaminksi’s last view of Justin was as a lone female police officer, standing guard, facing the portal.
He looked to Clarke, who was hobbling along, wincing with each step. Kaminski touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “We’re getting too old for this shit.”
Clarke laughed, which made him wince even more.
The young man from the other side of the portal, Jiraa, had transferred Nisha to a stretcher, now carried by two of Birhane’s officers. Kaminski walked by her side, looking down at her. She seemed peaceful, blissfully unaware of all that had occurred since they’d crash-landed.
“How is she?” he asked anxiously of the officers.
“Steady pulse, breathing fine. She should wake up of her own accord,” one said. “Make sure she gets treatment once you’re aboard.”
“Aboard?”
“There’s an airship waiting on the roof.”
Jiraa was keeping pace with them. “Thanks for helping us,” Kaminski said.
“Not a problem, not a problem,” Jiraa said. “I was supposed to be starting a new job this morning.”
“Sorry about that.”
“All good, man, all good.” Jiraa wasn’t even out of breath. “You know what I’d really like to know?”
“What’s that?”
“Who all of you are. Why all those bots tried to kill us all. Who that police officer was. Why your ship crashed in the city. What that other ship was. Where you’re going. How you got into this mess!”
The corners of Kaminski’s mouth curled up in a smirk. “Everything, then.”
“Yeah, that’d be a good start.”
Meanwhile.
Did you know there’s a separate chat area for readers of this newsletter? I always forget to mention it. You can find it in the Substack phone or web app. Here’s the most discussion, taking a look at what we’re all planning to work on next:
I usually try and pop into the chat on Thursday evening for a check-in, as I prep the week’s Triverse chapter.
and are running a series taking a look at magic systems in speculative fiction. Part 1 was a blast, taking a look at ‘hard’ magic:
They’ve just published part 2, taking a look at ‘soft’ magic. I’m looking forward to giving it a read. It’s made me think about where Tales from the Triverse fits on that spectrum: somewhere in the middle, I reckon. There are limits to Palinor’s magic, and we know it requires light as an energy source, which restricts most magic to daytime use. But I’ve deliberately not gone into the fine detail. Much like the technology of Max-Earth, it’s an important part of the world but I’m not especially interested in diving too deep into the lore.
Right, let’s talk about today’s chapter…
Author notes
Something of a bumper edition! Twice as long as a normal Triverse chapter. Big action sequences have a habit of doing that: when it’s all kicking off, I don’t really want to break the pace and make readers wait a week. Sometimes that can create an effective cliffhanger, but it can also kill the momentum dead.
In this case, a relentless sense of pursuit was important. Of a hopeless situation. Kaminski’s lament that ‘the bad guys keep winning’ is something many of us can empathise with in 2025. And yet my writing is intended to be inherently optimistic, even as bad things happen to good people.
Hence we get Clarke’s Big Heroic Moment. It almost goes very wrong, but he steps up when it counts. There’s no greater declaration of his friendship with Lola, of that almost paternal relationship. He’s lost one partner, and he’s not going to lose another. He doesn’t hesitate to put himself between Lola and danger. Not that she isn’t capable of looking after herself: but the specifics of the situation called for Clarke. (plus, he hasn’t seen her in action on Palinor!) Clarke was never going to be able to take down the robot, but he damaged it enough to throw off its aim: hence him surviving the impaling. Birhane’s squad couldn’t take it down either, but slowed it down and no doubt inflicted some damage as well. By the time Justin shows up in the nick of time, it’s a trivial fight.
The challenge here was determining the consequences. I was sorely tempted to kill off some characters. Surely they couldn’t all get through? I could have pulled off a Whedon-esque Sudden Death scene, leaving Yana the only survivor.
But that’s not really my style. It’s not the kind of story I want to tell, even if Triverse has got grim at times.
I will own up to one thing, though: when I introduced Jiraa a couple of chapters back, it was partly so that I had an expendable character who could make an impact and then get killed. And yet, he’s still standing. Clever guy. We’ll see what becomes of him.
Still, while all of our main characters survived (a fair few police were not so lucky), they’re hardly unscathed. Kaminski is heavily traumatised and can barely walk. Clarke’s been stabbed. Nisha has concussion and may have bitten off her own tongue.
Anyway, they’ve escaped — more or less — and they’ve got the journal. Now things get really interesting.
This was great, and thanks for the mention!
Love it !