Tales from the Triverse

The koth: part 1

Early shift
On duty: DC John Callihan and DC Yannick Clarke

London.
1972. July.

The sweat soaked into Callihan's collar as he stood in line. He loosened his tie, just a fraction. The waitress gave him a toothy smile, the styrofoam cups already melting into the tea. He slid the change across the counter.

Nodding his thanks, he pushed the Cup & Saucer's door open with his shoulder. The street roared, the air thick and stinking. London: the Kingdom of Great Britain's shining jewel, as long as you didn't think about the fumes or the crime or the filth.

A tram rattled past, packed with commuters on their way to work. Somewhere beneath his feet the trains would be running on their endless circuits. Between the concrete and marble and brass walls, high above, an airship blocked his view of the sky as it drifted slowly on its moorings. Dodging a steam vent he crossed the street to where Yannick waited in the car. One of the many perks of being in the force: your own automobile. Callihan couldn't deny that it had been one of the reasons he'd joined the police: only the super rich and the authorities had cars, and he wasn't going to be super rich. Not in this life.

Yannick pushed the passenger door open from the inside. Callihan lowered himself into the seat carefully and passed one of the cups to the older detective.

"You're a life saver," Yannick said, blowing gently on the tea.

"Shift doesn't start until the tea goes down." Callihan always admired Yannick's ability to drink painfully hot liquid. Maybe it was a skill that came with age.

"Only nine hours left, John." Yannick took a sip, assessed it like it was a fine wine, and sighed contentedly.

Callihan brought the cup to his lips and immediately burned himself. "Shit," he said, spilling some onto his lap. He grinned at Yannick. "Heard this the other day. A koth, an aen'fa and a robot walk into a bar. The barman asks them what they want. The koth eats the barman, the aen'fa hides in the rafters and the robot falls over and its battery falls out."

They sipped their teas. Another tram went past, in the opposite direction to the earlier one. A couple of rickshaws trundled past, Callihan catching a glimpse of their drivers peddling furiously. The city was already wide awake, on its way to work. The usual haze hovered above the street, lingering between the buildings. He could smell it.

Yannick grunted. "It's not funny."

"No, I know. Heard it off Holland."
"Well, that explains it."

They sat quietly, observing the street, sipping their drinks. There was the blast of a horn somewhere in the distance, from the direction of the river, pulling Callihan back to the moment. "Zara was telling me about the east end slums last night," he said. He liked relaying information from his fiancé to Yannick in the mornings; her activism made him feel like a better person by proxy. "Did you know it's something like forty per cent Palinese occupancy now? Mostly aen'fa."

Yannick snorted and looked out of the car window. "Why would they want to come here?"

"Persecution? Not sure. Zara knows more about it than me, but sounds like Palinor isn't all its cracked up to be."

"They've certainly got their issues," Yannick said, his soft laugh turning into a cough. "Haven't we all?"

"Imagine having actual magic, though. All the good you could do. Click your fingers and fix the world."

Yannick laughed more and clapped Callihan on the shoulder with amusement, spilling yet more of his drink. "You're a dreamer, Callihan, and I like that. But you got a lot to learn. They got their magic, the Max-Earthers got their spaceships and we got..." He waved his hand vaguely at the street beyond the windscreen. "We got a smog-filled shit-hole."