Twenty four hours: part 2
Clarke and Holland are forced to revisit their pasts
The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real
Previously: A mysterious emergency call has returned Detective Clarke to the scene of the murder of his partner two years prior. Investigating the abandoned apartment, he’s discovered the ruined body of an AI robot host…
Early shift
On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Frank Holland
London.
1974. May.
Clarke took two steps into the flat, keeping the handgun lowered but in readiness. The coppery smell stung his eyes. There didn’t seem to be anybody else present, so he kept his attention on the figure in the chair. It was a man - or, rather, was designed to look like a man, but disfigured in the way a body might look after particularly unpleasant industrial accident. It was evidently a host shell for a Max-Earth AI, and it had seen better days.
“Who are you?”
The body shifted. As it did so, blue and white liquids spurted from its exposed innards, appearing as a strange amalgam of machine and organic creature. “I am Justin.” The voice was slightly garbled, faltering, the state of the robot’s face preventing it from speaking normally. “Though it is understandable if you do not recognise me in my current state.”
Keeping his distance, Clarke looked at the mangled body. “What happened to you?”
“An interesting story,” said the robot, “but first things first. Are you alone?”
“My partner’s waiting outside for my signal.”
“Ah. Ideally that would not be the case.”
Clarke shifted the gun’s weight. “What’s going on here?”
“I would suggest returning here alone once you complete your shift, so that we can talk securely.” The body tried to push itself upright, but the mechanical muscles in one arm gave way. “Though do not take too long; my battery is already significantly depleted.”
“I can do that,” Clarke said, not liking anything about the situation. “How do I know it’s you? You look different each time we see you.”
A nod of the head. “This is a valid point. You are investigating an apparent conspiracy at the heart of the Joint Council. You and your colleagues, especially DC Kaminski, have uncovered significant evidence that a new megaship has been constructed piecemeal on Palinor and transferred to Max-Earth.” It paused. “Does that help?”
Clarke sighed. “Well, either you are Justin, or now I’m really in the shit.” He lowered the gun and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I’ll get rid of Holland. My shift finishes in a couple of hours. I’ll come back then. You’ll still be here?”
“I doubt my legs will carry me to a new location.”
“Are you going to be OK?”
“That is extremely unlikely.”
“Well, then, are you going to hold out until I get back?”
There was a slight pause. “Yes, detective. My systems will continue until your return. But do not be tardy.”
Holland sat on the bonnet of the police car, watching the locals of Sterling Court carry out their daily routines. An aen’fa child, barely walking, dug in the filthy mud that had once been a playground sandpit. It was often difficult to tell human and aen’fa children apart, other than the ears. They didn’t grow into their elongated height and natural litheness until their early teens. Obviously it was more evident the further they were from human skin tones.
A couple of young lads who should be in school observed him from a stairwell. He could smell what they were smoking even at a distance. They stared, challenging him to move them along or do them for possession. It had been many years since he’d bothered with street level shit like that.
The windows along the tower block were a collection of London life. Music blasted from several, clashing genres mixing together in the open air. A shouting match coming from another that would probably turn into a domestic at some point if they stayed long enough. Hysterical laughter came from somewhere. The sounds of intense fucking thrummed out of a ground floor flat, its blinds and windows open as if inviting an audience.
He lifted his gaze to the third floor and the door Clarke had disappeared into. Another thirty seconds and he was going in after him. The same damn place that Callihan had lost his head. The koth that had done it was in the ground as well, Holland had made sure of that. Put an entire chamber of bullets into it, and then some. The dragon motherfucker hadn’t deserved a trial. Callihan had been a self-righteous prick, but he was still a cop.
Still, there was that uncertainty. A memory of finding the koth in that warehouse, of expecting a fight. An enraged koth is hard to take down even with a small army, but it didn’t even come at them. Please, you have to help. That’s what it had said, before Holland had put a bullet in its brain.
He ground granules of tarmac beneath his boot. It was years ago. Pointless to think of it now. It was being there, at Sterling Court, that had jogged his memory.
Thirty seconds were up.
He started to move towards the stairwell door when he saw Clarke emerge from the flat. The man shrugged and spread his arms wide. “Crank call,” he shouted. “Place is empty.”
Minutes stretched into hours, but, finally, the shift was done. Clarke signed out, waved at Robin and Kaminski and headed for the door. Kaminski, the poor bastard. He’d taken a day for the funeral, but that was it. It was like nothing had happened.
He nearly bumped into Chakraborty coming the other way. She laughed - more of a giggle - and backed out of the way, gesturing dramatically that he should pass. “Have a good sleep, Yannick,” she said, winking.
“See you tomorrow, Nisha.”
He could smell the booze on her breath. The girl was slipping. He’d seen it before. He’d been there before.
Putting the thought aside, he left the office and headed up to street level. No convenient police automobile this time, so he hopped a tram and made his way east, back towards Sterling Court.
Scenarios ran through his head, none of them particularly likely, but was unable to explain how a host robot had ended up in the same room Callihan had died in.
Answers were needed.
Back on the street, the tram trundling away, he turned the corner into Sterling Court, that long, dead-end street with tower blocks on both side and antiquated terraced housing at the far end. It was a remnant of a period of city planning that had big ambitions and little in the way of actual funds. Communal spaces that turned out more like prisons.
There was nobody about, save for a couple of kids wheeling round and round on their bicycles. He climbed the stairs, back up to flat 344. The door was unlocked, so he went in and closed it behind him. The room was still dark, the blinds closed with only a single, bare light bulb glowing weakly from a wire in the ceiling.
Justin’s body had seemingly disintegrated yet further, with the puddle of fluids having spread over a wider area. Clarke wondered if it would start leaking through to the floor below.
“Detective. Thank you for returning.”
Clarke kept his distance. “Talk. What happened to you? Why did you bring me here?”
“To answer your second question first,” Justin said, raising a finger on their one functional arm, “I needed a way to reach someone I could trust without raising suspicions or revealing my location more widely. This seemed like a signal you would receive clearly.”
“Yeah, message received. I don’t like being here.”
Justin’s head tilted, as if considering his statement. “No. I had considered that this would be a distressing solution for you. I apologise. Necessary, though. Little time.”
Clarke pulled a rickety chair out from under a beaten-up wooden desk. He lifted it a couple of times to check it wouldn’t collapse, then sat down. “OK, so what the fuck happened to you? You don’t look well.”
“I got in a fight.”
He stared at the tubes and wires protruding from Justin’s chest. At the arm, severed just below the elbow. The torn face, revealing artificial musculature. The crushed left leg. The guts and juice all over the floor. “No shit.” AI hosts were famously tough. What could have roughed him up so badly?
Justin took a deep breath; a strangely forced illusion of life, given that robot hosts had no need for air. “It would probably help if I told this story from the beginning.”
Thanks for reading!
What could possibly have beaten up Justin so badly? We’ll find out next week!
I’m currently pondering ways to enhance this publication for paying subscribers. Ideas so far are to launch a podcast (of course) and to run some online courses. I have a background in both, having produced a literary podcast for several years while at the National Centre for Writing here in the UK, and having taught for various institutions over the years. I’m reluctant to paywall any of the main content here, like Triverse or the regular writing tips stuff, but it makes sense to offer some more specific perks.
More on that as and when.
Things to read
has joined many other creators in deciding to pause their use of generative AI - at least for now. A thoughtful explanation here:
I have to admit to being secretly thrilled to be mentioned alongside Scalzi, Wendig and Stigell in Elizabeth’s piece. Madness.
is always worth reading and his latest article on the folly of trying to make social media not be horrible is worth your time:
I don’t entirely agree with everything Erik says - since leaving Twitter I’ve been struck by how irrelevant it seems once you’re ‘out’. I imagine it’s a similar feeling to finally extracting yourself from an abusive cult.
I’ve been dabbling with story visualisations. Latest attempt is this:
More on that on Monday, hopefully.
And finally, I was honoured to be mentioned in the latest Lunar Awards. If you’re enjoying Triverse and fancy reading more serial fiction, you won’t find a better place to start:
Author notes
Something interesting happened while writing this chapter. I hadn’t intended to go to a Holland point of view, and, when I did, I certainly wasn’t expecting to have him return to the very first proper storyline of Triverse.
‘Twenty four hours’ is very much a nod to and a reward for readers who have been here from the start (or who have since caught up). The events being referenced in this chapter were originally published in October 2021, which feels an awfully long time ago.
Such is the curious appeal and challenge of writing serial fiction: it’s a major commitment, which makes it difficult to convince readers to jump on board, but for those who do commit it’s an incredible experience. Most books take readers days or weeks to read at most. Regular readers of Triverse have been exploring these characters with me for almost two years.
Amazing. And thanks to all of you for being here.
What surprised me with the Holland section was having him directly consider his killing of the koth that murdered Callihan, way back in ‘The koth: part 2’. That was a consequence of having that old chapter open in Scrivener alongside this chapter. The sequence was right there in front of me, which then prompted me to insert the thought into Holland’s head. I don’t know if I’d have done that if I hadn’t been using Scrivener’s split-panel view. Which goes to show how using specific tools can influence the writing itself.
A theory I have about good writing is that every sentence should contain a character moment. I don’t always hit that, of course, but it’s something I aim for. Every sentence, or at the very least every paragraph, should be revealing something interesting about a character. That’s what keeps my prose interesting, I hope. Whenever I’m not happy with a chunk of writing, it’s usually because I’ve missed opportunities to embed character.
I should probably write more on that at some point.
Thanks for reading - have lovely weekends and catch you next week.
Photo by Dan Cristian Pădureț on Unsplash
Ack, you're such a tease! Make with the exposition, already!
Holland's scene - interesting. The man came dangerously close to some self-reflection there. Maybe there's a seed of hope for him after all.
Although his reflections on the koth remind the audience how formidable they are. One of the few things that could rip up an AI like Justin's shell so effectively.
I suspect Justin's core won't get the report from this fragment.
Sigh. I've said it every time she's popped up for the past few months. Poor Nisha.
I have three, well actually four (a fourth came into my head as I write this comment) theories as to who beat up Justin, and a koth is probably the least worrying.
I'm assuming a koth could take an AI host; I could be wrong.