Interrogation room B

Subject: Zoltan Kaminski

2543. 4 January.

The handcuffs were cold on Kaminski’s wrists.

“I’ve been here for days,” he said. “All you need to do is make one phone call, get a message to the Joint Council representative—”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve got friends in all sorts of high places,” the customs officer cut him off, a sneer in his voice. Kaminski would have had to suppress a laugh, if he wasn’t so tired. “Tell us your intended destination and what you were planning on doing there and then maybe we’ll discuss some options.”

“I told your colleague, I didn’t have a ‘destination’. I was inside the container by accident. It was part of a routine investigation—”

“What investigation?”

“That’s classified.”

“Of course it is. So what were you planning on doing when you got here?”

“I wasn’t planning on being here at all.”

“Corporate espionage? Unauthorised settling? Smuggling?”

“You know I wasn’t smuggling anything, I had nothing on me.”

“Your shipping container was holding unidentified cargo.”

“It isn’t ‘my’ shipping container—” Kaminski cut himself off this time, sitting back in the uncomfortable chair with a frustrated sigh. The room was starkly lit, bare except for the table and chairs. He’d sat on the other side of tables just like it many times. “I thought you Max-Earthers were supposed to be clever? Superior to everyone else? How is it you’re being this fucking stupid?”

“I’m not the one in handcuffs, Mr Kaminski.”

Growling beneath his breath, Kaminski rubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He’d not had a cigarette for days and it was making everything feel weird, not to mention leaving him feeling constantly on edge. Apparently cigarettes didn’t really exist on Max-Earth, which was another strike against their supposed superiority. “So what next?”

“We’re still investigating,” the officer said. He was the sort who evidently enjoyed being in charge. The sense that he wielded power. Kaminski had seen dozens like him in the police over the years. Frank Holland was somewhat like that, though in his case it was more about aspirations of becoming the ur-arsehole in general, rather than solely a power thing. The officer was still talking. “Technically you’re not on Max-Earth yet. Technically you’re not on Mid-Earth, either. You’re not legally anywhere, buddy. Once we’re satisfied with the circumstances surrounding your arrival we’ll pass you over to law enforcement with a nice chunky case file and some recommendations. They can then get you in the system for a trial.”

Kaminski let out a cry of frustration. “Fuck’s sake! I’m a police officer myself. Get in touch with my superiors.”

The office laughed. Actually laughed. “You should hear some of the excuses and explanations we get in this place. Yours isn’t even the first time I’ve heard that one.”

“They’re going to be worried. They’re going to be worried about me, because it’s been days and they have no idea where I am. I need to talk to my partner.”

“Listen,” the officer said, leaning over the table, “you don’t need to worry about any of your made-up friends. You should spend more of your time in here worrying about yourself.”

There was a knock at the door, clearly irritating the man. He grimaced and stared at Kaminski for a moment, then reluctantly broke eye contact and stormed over to the door. He opened it a crack. “Yes, what is it?”

Unable to hear what was being said on the other side, Kaminski sat and looked forlornly at his bound hands. This wasn’t how he imagined his first transit through a portal. He’d never been especially interested in visiting the other dimensions, but certainly hadn’t expected to do so as part of such an epic clusterfuck.

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“I’m in the middle of the interrogation—” the officer was saying, protesting at whatever he was being told. Then the door opened wider, the light from the other side bright and warm compared to the cold flatness of the interrogation room. There was another person, standing expectantly slightly to the side, silhouetted against the light. The officer glanced back at Kaminski, his face set in a twist of anger - and perhaps even some jealousy, which struck Kaminski as odd - and then he walked through the door and departed without another word.

Kaminski sat up a little straighter. There was something about the posture of the newly arrived person which made him think he was about to have a very different experience. The person entered: a woman, tall, broad-shouldered and wearing wide-legged trousers and a blazer. She had hair that flowed perfectly around her face and across her shoulders. The way she walked was like a choreographed entrance in a movie. “Hello, Detective Kaminski,” she said, voice clear and confident. “My name is Justin. Am I correct in thinking you are part of the Specialist Dimensional Command?”

*

Early shift

On duty: DC Lola Styles, DC Yannick Clarke, DC Nisha Chakraborty

London

1973. 4 January.

Nisha was going to come apart at the seams. Clarke could see that in her eyes, could feel it in the air, hear it in her voice. It reminded him of how he’d felt in the days after Callihan died. This time it was Kaminski, who had vanished just before the new year and had now been missing for nearly five days. Chakraborty was tough as any of the rest of them but she wasn’t holding it together.

“It’s not being able to do anything,” he said, standing next to her desk in the SDC office.

“What?”

“Feeling that you should be doing something. Tracking down leads. Arresting people. Linking clues. Finding evidence. Anything to feel useful.”

“It’s all dead ends.”

“Want to go over it one more time?”

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, “and there’s no fucking point, Yannick.”

He took a breath. Six months ago he’d have walked away at that point, left her to it. “We don’t know much, but we know some of it. Kaminski came back here, took a copy of the old warrant for the portal station search. We know he was heading down there, but we don’t know why.”

Chakraborty’s eyes flicked up to meet his, then looked away again.

He continued. “You’ve talked to the staff at the station. They claim not to have seen him. Nobody has seen him since then.”

“Well done, you remembered that we have absolutely shit-all to go on.”

“We don’t know why he was trying to use an expired warrant. But he took it, so we can assume he went to the station. Otherwise why take the warrant? He’s not shown up in hospital, so he’s either decided to vanish himself, or someone else has vanished him.”

“That doesn’t help us find him. They could have taken him anywhere.”

She sounded like she knew more than she was letting on. “They? Who are we talking about here?”

Chakraborty shrugged, turned away. “I don’t know, Yannick, can you have this conversation with someone else?” Somehow she managed to use his first name in a way that felt faintly patronising.

He ignored her. “I know we don’t have much to work with, Nisha, but it feels like I’m missing something obvious.”

There was an unexpected squeal from across the office, originating from where Styles had been talking with Robin by the reception desk. Robin had just taken a telephone call, which had for some reason caused Styles to become excitedly animated in her own special way. She ran towards them, winding her way around desks, clutching a strip of paper.

“This is for us,” she said, handing it over and looking like she was about to explode with anticipation. “It’s a telegram. From Max-Earth. Addressed to you and me, partner.” She grinned.

Clarke, frowning, took the telegram, which was printed inside a folder piece of paper, the edges of which were perforated so as to fit into the machine as a roll. A quirk of portals prevented transmission of any sort from one side to the other, meaning that messages had to be physically transferred for subsequent re-transmission. In practice that meant either human couriers or using the vacuum pipes, tiny pieces of paper firing back and forth all day. It drove the Max-Earthers mad, that they couldn’t use any of their fancy futuristic tech.

Styles was almost bouncing. “Well? Open it!”

He broke the pressed seal along one edge and unfolded the message. His eyes scanned the words, widening with each second that passed.

Chakraborty pulled on his jacket’s arm. “What is it, Clarke?”

He began to read. “‘Dear Detectives. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance on the Pluma. I am aware that contacting you in this manner does not adhere to the usual chain of command as exercised by your cultural structures., however it seemed most prudent given the circumstances and our prior cooperation. Your colleague, Detective Constable Zoltan Kaminski, is in my custody and awaits your retrieval. I assure you that he is entirely safe, but there are some formalities which require your presence to complete. Details of transit to follow. All the best, Justin.’”

A perplexed silence hung in the air as the three of them digested the message.

“Wow,” said Lola Styles.

“Unexpected,” said Yannick Clarke.

“Who the fuck is Justin?” said Nisha Chakraborty.