Bruglia.

3201. Verdant.

The route from the prison to the portal station would be long, winding and full of awkward choke points. Princess Daryla had organised an escort and had even shown up herself. Clarke was impressed: he hadn’t been expecting the support. Working in the SDC was more an exercise in barely managed frustration, understaffed, under-resourced and generally under-siege from every bureaucrat and cost-cutter in the Met.

He stood outside the prison, its towering red and black walls high above. The skies were a vibrant blue, dotted intermittently on the horizon by fluffy clouds. It was hot, even in the shade, and the ground was caked with a layer of compacted, coppery dust. Clarke could feel the granules on his skin, in his shoes, under his nails.

“It is a shame you’ll be leaving so soon,” Daryla said, as they waited for Styles to emerge from the cell block with the prisoner. “You are more than welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

Clarke smiled, then cleared his throat. “Thanks. I’m not one for being away from home for long. And one of us needs to make sure Mr Goldspeth gets where he’s going in one piece.” He looked back towards the doorway. “Besides, this is Styles’ thing. You know she studies Palinor? Always has? Being here is a big moment for her.”

“She mostly hides it well.”

“Well, she’s a professional. She’ll wrap up a few other things while she’s here, stay for a few more days. Your assistance and hospitality is appreciated, princess.” Clarke meant it, which surprised him. The word ‘princess’ still stuck in his mouth, like a piece of food wedged between teeth and just out of reach of his tongue. It felt awkward and silly, as if it belonged in a book, rather than in a conversation with a real person. Then again, it was Palinor. The place made even the strangest corners of London seem positively mundane.

“My pleasure,” Daryla said. “Now, for this transfer. Are you expecting difficulties?”

“If it were just me, I’d say no. But Goldspeth is convinced he’s being targeted, and we’ve not been able to track down the rest of his team yet. Seems like none of them returned home after the expedition., best we can tell. So maybe he’s full of shit - pardon me - but maybe, just maybe, something is going on.”

“Better safe than dead.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

The gates to the prison scraped open. “We’ll take the fastest route we can, though not the shortest. There are some streets best avoided, under the circumstances.”

Clarke nodded. “There’s no need for you to accompany us.”

“Why ever not?” She glowered at him. “Did you already forget that I can handle myself?”

“It’s more that I can’t imagine a politician from Earth wanting to be seen escorting a prisoner exchange.”

“I’m not a politician, detective,” she said, “I’m a princess. There is a difference.” Then, quieter: “Although perhaps not as much as one would like.”

Styles emerged with Goldspeth in tow, arms bound at the wrist. Two prison guards saw them clear of the gates, then withdrew and clanged them shut again. She smiled at them. “All good?”

“Ready to go,” Clarke said. He turned to Goldspeth. “You up for this?”

“Detective Clarke, I have never been more ‘up’ for something. Please do get me out of this cursed realm with maximum haste.”

With a sigh, Clarke turned back to Daryla and shrugged apologetically. “We’ll follow your lead.”

Putting two fingers to her mouth, Daryla uttered a piercing and unexpected whistle, causing Clarke to wince involuntarily. Having acquired their attention, she gave orders to the accompanying guards, of which there were four, and they began the long walk to the portal.

*

Addis Ababa.

1965. Sene. (Gregorian: 1973. June.)

The three of them walked back through the portal station concourse, huge and tall and bright and welcoming, back towards the busy street outside.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“We have numerous problems,” Justin said, “many of them interlinked and pernicious. There is much we still do not know, which I find most disconcerting.”

“Welcome to the club,” Kaminski said, lighting up the moment they passed through the automatic doors, “us humans spend most of our time feeling like that.” His head was still spinning from what they’d uncovered on the records in the security office and the noise of the street didn’t help.

“Then I will attempt to enjoy the experience. Or at the very least use it as further research into human existential dread and despair.”

Kaminski and Chakraborty both stared at the robot. Kaminski took the cigarette from his mouth. “What was that?”

“That was a joke, detective.”

He shook his head. “Keep working on it, Justin.”

“OK,” Chakraborty said, “now that we’re out of there, what are we thinking?” She placed a hand on Justin’s arm. “You really think they’re building…one of you?”

“Not one of me, no,” Justin said, his tone verging on patronising. “I am unique, detective. A megaship, though? That does appear to be the case. Which is a peculiar endeavour to undertake on Palinor.”

“Right,” Kaminski said, feeling like he was about to trip over his own thoughts, “how would they even power it? No tech on Palinor. You guys can’t even visit, am I right?”

“Correct. Battery degradation is severe on Mid-Earth; on Palinor it is quite catastrophic. Most theories point to either some sort of frequency differential between the dimensions, or the act of portal transit itself. Regardless, if I were to take this host body through the London portal to Palinor, it would deactivate immediately upon arrival.”

Chakraborty laughed, though not with any pleasure. “That’s what they’re doing, then. That’s why they’re shipping it in pieces through the portals, taking it to Max-Earth. They’re putting it together there, switching it on there.”

They crossed the street, not walking in any particular direction. Kaminski’s stomach groaned. Finding a restaurant to hide out in while they talked it all through appealed; he felt too exposed outside. The traffic in Addis was unlike anything he was used to: so many individual vehicles, all of them near-silent as if they were trying to creep up and take you by surprise. Crossing the road was a dangerous exercise, especially for anyone unaccustomed to the road signs.

He breathed smoke out of his nostrils. “Why bother doing it at all, though?”

“Construction of new AI is heavily restricted on Max-Earth,” Justin said quietly. “Not illegal as such, but carefully monitored. There is a reason that civilisation was not wiped out by rogue artificial intelligence, after all. Several reasons, in fact. It is not as simple as putting it down to our good natures, shall we say?”

“You’re programmed to not misbehave?” Chakraborty asked. Kaminski raised his eyebrows at her tentative stab in the dark and she pouted in return.

“The term ‘programming’ is an over-simplification for a quantum system, though to describe the early days of AI you would be more accurate. Regardless, there is an equilibrium on Max-Earth which has functioned for hundreds of years. Humans have not wiped themselves out. AI has not turned rogue, as science fiction predicted. Together we have accomplished stability, peace and progress. Unregulated proliferation of AI technology is not something I am keen to see.”

“Why would someone want to get around that? Sounds like it works well.”

“To speculate would be unhelpful, Detective Chakraborty, but I fear the explanation, when we come upon it, will not be a happy one.”

Kaminski was already fiddling in his pocket for another cigarette. “So what do we do? Blow the lid open?”

“I do not think that would be wise, Detective Kaminski. Not at this juncture, at least. We are, as they say, on the back foot. The idea of a new AI being constructed without my knowing is deeply disturbing.”

“At least we have the data now,” Chakraborty said. “You’ve got the records, right?”

“That is correct,” Justin said. “Once I re-sync with myself on the other side of the portal I can begin a deeper analysis, and store the information for future evidential use.”

Callihan knew. That was the real kicker that Kaminski couldn’t get out of his head. The kid had known, had been onto it, even if he hadn’t figured it all out yet. He’d known something was up, and even left them clues to point them in the right direction. And they killed him for it - had to have done. Walking in on a drugged-up koth after a 999 call? That they’d ever thought it to be a random incident seemed absurd. “These people,” he said, “whoever they are - they’re prepared to go to whatever lengths they need. Do anything they got to do. How much damn money would it take to build this, to set up a covert railroad to smuggle this stuff through multiple portals?” He stood up a little taller. “They’ve got to have people in the Joint Council. No way this could go on without having people in high places.”

Justin opened their mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a flash of light and something whipping past, followed by an enormous bang. The side of Justin’s face disintegrated and fell to the pavement, leaving their skull and the interior workings of the host exposed. Kaminski didn’t have time to react before another bang, and Justin’s left shoulder shattered into pieces. The host body slumped to the ground, lifeless as a puppet without its puppeteer.

Barely six feet away the man with the moustache stood wielding a gun of some sort, which he began to turn towards Kaminski. He heard Chakraborty shout something, and he considered whether to take cover or charge the assailant. It was a distant thought, as he knew neither would be fast enough. The real annoyance was that they’d just figured it out - or some of it, at least - and now he wasn’t going to be able to see it through.

Then there were screams and a stampede of bodies, the pavement erupting into movement. The gunman was jostled by panicking pedestrians, knocking his aim off just enough that the shot passed harmlessly over Kaminski’s head. It gave him perhaps two seconds to react. If he was lucky.