The professor: part 5

Violence on the streets of Tupu

The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1980s 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real

Previously: Professor Simova of Fountain University is on the run. Lola’s new rebel friends were about to intercept him, but instead walked into a trap set by the city guard…

Tupu.
3203. Late Frostfall.

Reflected starlight was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was enough for Daryla to keep a trickle source running as she darted from one roof to the next. The moon was low, which required her to stay high, to avoid being shadowed by the tight alleys and overhanging, craggy buildings of Tupu.

Lola and Pylpo were below, making their way as quickly and quietly as they could. Pylpo was an especially nimble aen’fa and could easily have joined Daryla above the streets, but Lola was not really made for such acrobatic feats. Better they stay low, while Daryla watched for problems.

One such problem emerged from the darkness of a recessed doorway, brandishing a sword that was recognisable from its Bruglian design. Leaping high, she channelled the moon’s light and used it to pinpoint the disguised guard’s wrist. With a cry they dropped the sword, then Pylpo was upon them, and a moment later they were disabled. Daryla’s nerve flick had been imprecise and clumsy, but it had got the job done.

They kept proceeding towards the docks, where Lykasra had followed the supposed representative from the other rebel cell. The contact was more likely affiliated with the Bruglian guards: a trap after all, then, and Lykasra needed warning.

It had been foolish to allow Lola to accompany them, but she had insisted, arguing that her friendship with Simova would make the handover easier and faster, giving them an advantage in gaining his trust and extracting faster. Fine in theory, but she was a liability, and slowed them down as much as she might smooth the meeting with the Professor. There were times when Daryla felt more like a bodyguard than a lover.

Regardless, they were in it now. The guard had tried to stop them, and had certainly delayed them. A flash of light from the docks drew her attention back to the job at hand, and then Lykasra was airborne, lighting up the night with a jet of luminous, green plasma.

Daryla increased her pace. The others would have to keep up.

Krystyan pivoted his blades, shifting on the spot with nervous energy. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, glancing up at Lykasra.

“Just in time,” they koth said, “as usual.” A gale of wind from a sweeping of Lykasra’s wings extinguished an entire row of the dock torches, plunging the area into gloom.

There were perhaps ten guards in the square, having emerged from the surrounding buildings, but it was the mage that was the problem. Being able to wield was not unusual among the Bruglian city guard, but this one was a physologist, and a powerful one at that, if they’d been able to momentarily incapacitate Lykasra.

Still, they were looking decidedly less confident now that the flames were extinguished, though they still had their wrist-mounted lantern, housed in a protective casing. At the very least their powers would be diminished, which gave Krystyan the edge he needed. He launched himself at the mage, knowing that Lykasra would have his back and deal with the other guards.

And so it was, roars of anger from the koth and squeals of panic from the guards echoing off the walls behind him, while Krystyan dashed towards the mage who stood poised by the water’s edge. The mage was fast.

Krystyan was faster still.

The mage was conjuring something, preparing a holding spell, the lantern on his wrist flaring, which risked sending Krystyan to the floor or making him stumble. He’d fought mages like this before. He’d fought a lot of over-confident people like this one.

Flicking an arm out, he released the short blade and threw it slicing through the air towards the mage’s chest. Instinctively, the mage refocused the holding spell onto the blade, halting it in mid-air. It was the gap Krystyan needed to close the distance and he plunged his other blade towards the man’s heart.

At the last moment the blade was deflected by another warping of air from the mage, embedding itself in the his right shoulder. Not a fatal blow, but enough for him to cry out in pain, emotion which he immediately channelled into a new spell that trapped Krystyan’s thrusting arm in place along with the blade. Blood dripped from the wound.

He saw the short blade, the one he’d thrown, drop out of the air.

“You’re a fool,” the mage said, as Krystyan felt an invisible hand grasp him by the throat and begin to squeeze.

The mage had him in a two-point grip, first by his left hand holding the blade and then by the neck. The pressure increased around his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

“An aen’fa going up against a physologist,” the mage said. “It’s a joke. Where’s the rest of your crew?”

Krystyan tried to speak, but no air passed his lips.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” the mage said, releasing his grip ever so slightly. The lantern burned brightly in its container, strapped to his left arm.

“The question you should be asking,” Krystyan croaked, through gritted teeth, “is what happened to my other blade.”

A flick of his right foot, upon which he had caught and balanced the weapon, sent it into the air and his outstretched, free hand. In a swift motion he brought the edge of the blade up and through the mage’s left arm, just above the lantern. The blade stuck in the bone but it was enough to break the mage’s concentration, at which point all the holds on Krystyan disintegrated. He brought both hands to the blade together and severed the mage’s arm at the elbow, the lantern clattering to the floor.

Screaming in disbelief, the mage looked down at his former limb and needlessly bent down to pick it up with his remaining hand.

“Shame you can only maintain two spells at a time,” Krystyan said. He gave the dismembered forearm a kick, sending it and the lantern over the far edge of the dock and into the swamp waters. Withdrawing his second blade from the stunned mage, he dispatched him quickly and turned to Lykasra.

“You’ve only dealt with half of them,” he scolded. “What have you been doing?”

Lola climbed up the ladder to the roof of the building next to the warehouse. “Aren’t we going to help?” she asked, looking over the edge at Lykasra and Krystyan fighting in the square. She was feeling exceedingly out of her depth, without a lifeguard in sight.

“They can handle it,” Daryla said. “We had specific instructions.”

Pylpo nodded. “It’s our job to get Simova, no matter what.”

They clambered across to the warehouse and a skylight. “This should get us inside,” Daryla said. “Hopefully we can spot any guards and take them out before they even know we’re here.” She concentrated on the lock of the skylight, but the mechanism was too difficult to discern in the darkness.

“Let me have a look,” Pylpo said, pulling two oddly-shaped tools from her belt. A few clicks and twists later and the skylight was open. “Sometimes you have to go back to basics,” Pylpo said, winking in Lola’s direction.

“Quietly, now,” Daryla said, creeping inside.

Watching where she was stepping, Lola entered the warehouse, balancing on a wooden beam above the storage area below. The warehouse emptied out directly into the river, one half of it a wet space into which a boat could be moored and loaded.

Tapping her shoulder, Daryla pointed towards the far end, near the large double doors that led out onto the river. In a corner, bound on a chair, was Professor Simova. Daryla gestured in the other direction, towards the main doors to the square outside, where two armed guards could be seen waiting to surprise anyone entering. She nodded to Pylpo, who started nimbly clambering over the roof supports towards the guards.

Taking her arm, Daryla moved with Lola the opposite way, towards Simova. More guards were visible below. Daryla halted, and made sure Lola was paying attention to her. She pointed first at Lola, then at Simova. Daryla then indicated herself, and pointed down at the warehouse floor. She raised her thumbs and waited for a response.

Swallowing, Lola returned the gesture, a knot of tension in her belly. Moving over the rafters, she headed towards the river exit and Simova. Behind her, she heard a cry as Daryla dropped silently onto a guard. Sounds of fighting filled the space, and Lola moved faster, desperate to accomplish her part of the mission. She couldn’t fight, not really, but she could free Simova and get him out while the guards were distracted.

Finding a ladder, she started to climb down, only to feel a hand grab her foot and slam her to the floor, landing heavily. Something cracked in her shoulder.

She looked up at her attacker just in time to see it was Jyna, face partially hidden behind a lower mask but still identifiable by those bright eyes. Jyna simultaneously realised Lola was her target and, at the last second, altered the path of her ice lance to impact harmlessly into the warehouse floor.

“I told you to leave.” Her eyes burned with fury, her fingertips still frosted from the spell.

“We’re not your enemy!” cried Lola, shuffling backwards towards the ramp that led down to the water. “I’m not your enemy. You’re being used.”

“Bullshit,” Jyna said. “I told you what he did.” She gestured towards Simova, who was bound and gagged, his eyes bulging as he looked between the two of them with fright and confusion.

“How many of you are here? There’s a dozen guards outside, more in here. Is Simova that dangerous? That important?” It’s what Daryla had pointed out. “Do you normally send this many people after a pervy university lecturer?”

There was hesitation in Jyna’s face, and her posture slackened somewhat. “I follow orders.”

“Whose orders? Captain Rexen’s?”

Another pause.

“From higher up, then? Was it the university? Chancellor Baltine?”

“I’ve seen the files,” Jyna said, “and you have no proof.”

“Let us take Simova. Come with us. I’ll show you. You just have to trust me.”

Jyna’s mouth fell open and she blinked repeatedly, seemingly trying to speak. Words tumbled out incoherently. A rivulet of blood flowed from one nostril.

“Don’t have time for this,” Daryla said, approaching, one arm outstretched. “Pylpo?”

“On it!” The aen’fa ran past, darting behind Simova to cut his bonds.

“Stop,” Lola said, dragging herself to her feet. Daryla ignored her. Jyna’s arms had flopped to her sides, her eyes were rolling back in their sockets. “What are you doing? Stop — you’re killing her.”

“This has all gone to shit,” Daryla said. “We can’t leave witnesses.”

Lola reached out and pulled Jyna’s mask down. “It’s Jyna. Stop, right now.”

“She’s a city guard, she’s not your friend, Lola. She would have arrested us all if she could.”

“It was her that helped us escape from Bruglia, remember? Without her, I’d be in a cell or dead already.” Lola pulled at Daryla’s arm, without success. She stood between her and Jyna, but that did not interrupt the wielder’s grip on Jyna’s brain. Lola curled her hand into a fist and smashed it as hard as possible into Daryla’s face. “I said stop!”

Staggering backwards, caught off guard, Daryla’s eyes flared angrily in her direction. “Fine,” she said, at last, making a gesture with her hand. “She’ll live.”

Jyna collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

“If this comes back on us, remember that it was your decision,” Daryla said.

“OK with me.” Lola returned the stare, unblinking.

Pylpo’s voice interrupted the moment. “We’re good to go!” She’d untied Simova and was pulling the gag from his mouth.

“Lola? Lola Styles?” he said, his voice shaking, “I don’t understand what’s happening, but thank you. You have to know what I know. It changes everything. It started with Yvette Field. They don’t want anyone to know. I have to tell you everything, in case they get to me. We don’t have any time—”

Daryla stepped forward and put a hand on the man’s shoulder: it was intended to be a comfort as well as a signal for him to quieten immediately. “We’re getting you out of here. You can tell us all about it once we’re clear.” She looked to Pylpo. “Check the exit.”

She led them out, walking past Lola without a word.

She had no idea how long she’d been out, but Jyna could tell she’d taken a clobbering. Her head rang with the most intense headache she could imagine, a brain fog stopping her from thinking straight. Her arms felt heavy, her face oddly rubbery.

The warehouse was quiet. She was on her back, staring up at the wooden ceiling. Willing her body to move, she wrestled herself up. As soon as she was on her feet she doubled over and vomited onto the floor. Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she forced herself on. Her wrist lantern was broken, she realised, its flame extinguished.

Stumbling through the warehouse, gripping the walls and wooden railings for support, it wasn’t long until she stumbled upon Dann and Ainlee, in crumpled heaps, lifeless eyes staring up. By the door were Tolsa and Konyu, dead, deep gashes in their chests and scratches on their faces.

Pushing open the door was an almighty effort and she staggered out into the village square. All was dark, the moon having already begun its descent, ready for morning. Bodies lay scattered around the dock, some torn into multiple pieces, such that she couldn’t identify them. Limbs, torsos, parts of heads. The squad leader, Sergeant Wolfe, lay near the water, missing an arm. He’d been a good man, and one of the more accomplished physologists she’d ever met. Had treated his comrades well. He’d always been fair.

There was nobody left. She was the only one remaining, alone in a village hundreds of miles from home. A terrifying storm had blown through, leaving a trail of death.

Her friends were gone.

Original reference photo by Antonio Pena on Unsplash

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References

I think I’ve covered most callbacks relevant to this storyline in previous chapters, but here’s one more for luck:

• The nature of magic (December 2021) was an early bonus episode which took the form of an in-universe encyclopaedia entry. If you’re feeling a bit rusty on how magic works on Palinor, that’s the one to read.

Meanwhile.

I’m ill, again. Most annoying. Chest infection this time, with all the unpleasant gunkiness you might expect. Apparently these can occur a few weeks after a cold, which tracks given how sick I was at the start of October. Needless to say, I’ve had quite enough and would like to be back to normal ASAP.

(this is also why there’s no recorded voiceover on this chapter — I can’t talk for more than a minute or two without croaking. Will look to add it next week…)

So, the elephant 🐘 in the room this week is obvious. I was as glued to the news as anyone else.

Anyone who reads my fiction will likely have a general sense of where my politics sit. It’s a big part of why I write fiction, in fact: it’s an incredible outlet for exploring difficult issues, and working through things that deeply concern me. When I write about something, I become less stressed by it. It feels more manageable.

The thing about fiction is that it approaches issues from new perspectives. It shifts the context, just enough, so that we don’t all collide with our usual barriers and prejudices and preconceptions. We tend to gravitate towards reading essays and opinion pieces that we already agree with, which is comforting but a bit of a waste of time. If I wrote about the themes that are laced through Triverse in non-fiction essays, it’d trigger instant, instinctual responses from readers:

I agree with this! More more more!

or

I do not agree with this! I will unsubscribe.

And then, in these polarised times, we’re kinda done. The readership self-selects, and we end up in the information bubbles that have come to define us for the last decade or two. And I don’t think that really helps anyone, no matter the specifics of your opinions.

Fiction, though, is primarily concerned with telling a compelling story, with made-up characters, in a make believe setting. That imaginative leap creates a kind of semantic distance, which lowers our defences, or makes us less likely to have an immediate, kneejerk reaction to something.

A good story is a good story.

In other words, fiction has the potential to reach people with varying views and experiences. We’re less likely to immediately bounce off fiction, or avoid reading something in the first place simply based on the subject line. Fiction is able to challenge us indirectly, and maybe reach beyond our echo chambers.

It’s why fiction, and made-up stuff, and imagination, is always important. Even when it is silly or puerile or ‘throwaway’, or ‘popcorn’. It illuminates and tells us things about the world. It sneaks through our shields and whispers new thoughts in our ears.

All of which makes fiction storytelling an infinitely powerful weapon that can be used and abused. It happens to be my weapon of choice.

Other bits:

If you haven’t watched/listened to it yet, this interview I did with

John Ward

is a good time:

Interview with Simon K. Jones

My ongoing rewatch of Babylon 5 has reached the end of season two! If 90s classic television science fiction is your sort of thing, it’s entirely opt-in:

s2e22: The Fall of Night

Author notes

Oof. That didn’t feel right, did it? Big, heroic action! Cool, cinematic fight sequence!

And then that final section makes it feel like Lola’s new friends are the bad guys. Turns out fighting for freedom is a messy, complicated and contradictory thing.

While stories set on Palinor tend to lean towards grandeur and fantastical scope, the setting influencing the genre trappings, there’s still an overriding Triverse tone that sits on top of that. I aim to infuse nuance into all of this, so that we don’t forget that Lola is in over her head, is fricking terrified of all this Adventure!, and that wiping out an entire squad of guards (who were just doing their job) is maybe not cool.

‘Cool’¹ is such a weird thing in stories. It affects movies more than books, but it’s the thing most likely to date a story. ‘Cool’ is a shifting goalpost built on quicksand. The more you chase it, the less cool you are. The more cool you look in any given year, the less cool you’ll look a decade later (wait another decade-or-two and it’ll become retro-cool, so it’s a patience thing, really).

I’m quite often bothered, or maybe bored, by action films in which there are tons of anonymous, generic bad guys to slaughter. They’re obstacles, more like locked doors than actual people. Sometimes that is done elegantly and it’s great fun. Other times, it makes everything feel flimsy. Today’s chapter was intended to lean into that momentarily, with the Krystyan sequence: as readers, we’re meant to think “whoah, this guy is cool!” Martial arts aen’fa with no magic taking on a super powerful mage and winning! Chopped his arm off! Dispatched him! And then makes a cool quip about how Lykasra hasn’t killed everyone yet!

We don’t think too much about it, until the scene with Jyna at the end. We might not know the other guards, but she does. Giving many of them names was vital, for that sequence. That’s why I particularly love writing in third person subjective, because you can play with these perspective rug pulls, with different narrators contradicting each other in tone and meaning, even within ostensibly the same scene.

Right, I’ll wrap it up there. Hell of a week, for many reasons. Thanks for reading.

1. Feel free to substitute your generation’s equivalent word. Sigma. Hip. Leet. Spiffy. Etc.