Late shift

On duty: All officers

London.

1973. February.

Everybody was in, the SDC offices busier than they’d been in years. DCS Walpole was stalking up and down the room, asking questions of everyone. DCI Miller was on the phone to the press, trying to give the impression that they knew what to do. All three DIs were in: Ford, Morgan and Bakker. Lola had barely met half of them, let alone seen them in the same place together. The three detective partnerships were all present, pulled in regardless of which shift they were supposed to be running: her and Clarke, Chakraborty and Kaminski, Holland and Hobb. Holland still looked like he’d stumbled in from the pub and was holding a cup of coffee as if it were a vital medical accessory. Robin was talking into three telephones at the same time, while DS Collins and DS Shaw were at their desks talking into their own handsets.

“You each need a drop of this on your tongue,” Erik said, passing bottles around. “Won’t stop you having a leg bitten off, but it’ll turn a scratch into just a scratch.”

Ellenbrin was sat in a chair opposite the curator, Moira, from the museum. She’d escaped the creature after it had opted to leave the vaults and find richer pickings in the galleries. They were deep in conversation. Lola felt a small swell of pride when she thought back to diving to Ellenbrin’s rescue, knocking her out of the way of the charging kengto. They’d exchanged glances and Ellenbrin had nodded thanks, but they’d not spoken since.

Halbad and Seline were tending to Ngarkh, who was sat on the floor in the corner of the office, a wet flannel pressed to their head.

“OK, listen up, everyone,” said DCS Walpole, his voice immediately cutting through the chatter of the busy room. “The creature, this ‘kengto’, is being tracked by police units and king’s guard. The city is in lockdown, effective thirty minutes ago. Public transport is halted, including the tube. Last thing we want is an encounter down there. Last report had it heading along the river, in the direction of Westminster. If it keeps going the way it’ll hit parliament; if it veers off it’ll be right on top of the portal station - either way it’s not good.”

“What’s the plan, guv?” asked Holland.

“We’re the elite squad, ladies and gentlemen,” Walpole said, “not least thanks to our friends from Palinor, without whom the situation at the museum would no doubt have been far worse. All of us in the SDC and the officers joining us today: our job is to get the Six Blades close enough for them to end this.”

Kaminski raised a hand. “I hear this thing can fly,” he said. “How are we supposed to get near it, let alone kill it?”

“That’s what we’ve been waiting for,” Walpole said, sounding not a little gleeful. “If everyone could follow me to the roof, please.”

*

The building housing the SDC offices at the corner of Stamford and Coin was not designed for use as an airship dock. That made boarding the HMS George V a less that graceful affair, racing up the ramp as it scraped over the rooftop while the crew attempted to keep the ship in position.

“I’ve never seen an airship this low over the city,” Kaminski said.

“Work here long enough and you’ll see just about anything,” Clarke said, holding out a hand to help Kaminski and then Chakraborty board. It occurred to Clarke that having all of the SDC detectives on the one airship was a strange risk to take, even with Walpole and the DIs staying behind to monitor from afar.

“Trust me,” Kaminski said, looking around the interior of the ship, “this year of all years, I believe you.”

The man had a point. If 1972 had been the worst year, with Callihan’s death, then 1973 was quickly campaigning to be the strangest. To think that it was only a year previously that the SDC had been taking part in the bicentennial celebrations of the Joining. Clarke had kept a low profile, other than when officially required to attend events, given that he’d never regarded the opening of the portals to be a positive development for any of the three universes.

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The crew of the HMS George V exhibited the kind of naval professionalism that immediately put Clarke at ease. He knew they were masters of what they were doing, which meant he could concentrate on his job. Though, in this case that had seemingly slipped into hunting monsters. He’d not been trained for it, yet there he was, riding into battle aboard a military frigate with the rest of the SDC, a group of hunters from Palinor and an armed squad from the Met.

To think that he’d considered visiting Max-Earth to retrieve Kaminski to be a peculiar turn of events. There was a cascade at work, one strangeness leading into another before he’d had time to process the first.

“They tell me your partner was killed by a koth,” came the deep, window-rattling voice of Ngarkh. Clarke realised with a start that he was standing next to the huge koth, who was leaning against one of the bulkheads. “I was sorry too hear that,” they continued. “I mean, I like smashing things up, but I’m considered weird by my clan. That’s why I’m here, with these losers, rather than living the quiet life up in the mountains.” They leaned in closer, and Clarke could feel their hot breath on his face. “My point, detective, is that you can trust me. You get good koth and bad koth, just like you get good humans and bad humans.”

Clarke ground his teeth together, muscles in his jaw flexing. “Thanks, but I didn’t ask,” he said.

“No,” Ngarkh said with a slight smirk, “but I could see you looking at me this whole time, since we met in that tavern, so I did ask. You ever look at the violent crime figures for koth in this city of yours? Bet it’s lower than you think.”

This was not a conversation Clarke had anticipated having. “Doesn’t change what happened to my partner.”

“It does not,” Ngarkh said, nodding slowly. “My point is that even if we all look alike to your eyes, that doesn’t make your stereotypes any more true.”

“You’re quite the philosopher,” Clarke said, trying to keep his face neutral. His hands were balled into fists. “I thought you preferred punching things.”

“Oh, I do,” the koth said with a grin, “but thinking becomes useful when there’s nothing nearby to punch. I find they complement each other.” They moved away from the wall, having to crouch slightly to keep from hitting their head on the ceiling. “I’ve got your back, detective. If that’s all you take away from this conversation, then that’s enough.”

The deck shifted beneath their feet as the airship lifted away from the rooftop, its turbines thundering with the effort. A hand touched his shoulder and Clarke turned to see Styles. He was immediately grateful for the interruption. Her face displayed her usual excitement, though her eyes betrayed a nervousness. None of them were prepared for this.

“Captain wants us up on deck,” she said, pointing to stairs leading up. He followed her out onto the upper deck, which was exposed to the elements. He squinted against the strong, cold wind blowing across the deck. Clarke’s coat was not designed to keep someone warm at altitude, he realised with some regret. The steel-armoured balloon hung in the air above them; or, rather, they hung below it. A naval frigate like this was designed to withstand bombardment from ground and air; unlike commercial and private airships, this one would not pop at the slightest provocation. Smoke and steam billowed from the vents on the side of the ship. London dropped away below, the sun dipping towards the horizon.

The captain of the ship stood at the front. “Welcome, all,” he shouted, his voice managing to carry despite the thrumming of the engines. “We are on a course towards Westminster, where the creature is currently surrounded. It is being confined to a specific area by armed Metropolitan police with the support of a small army force who were stationed near Buckingham Palace. They only have small arms - enough to keep the creature at bay, but not to take it down. That’s where we come in.”

Clarke heard Seline, the big warrior from the Six Blades, muttering to Ngarkh. “The creature’s not being held there,” she said in a low voice, “it’s waiting for something. It’d tear them apart if it wanted.”

“The heavy weaponry available to us on this vessel will tip the scales,” the captain continued, “but in this instance we will be taking our lead from Mr Gabreith, a professional from Palinor.” The captain lifted a hand, gesturing for Halbad to join him. The monster hunter bounded up onto the raised metal platform next to twin gun turrets.

“Make no mistake,” Halbad said, his voice immediately louder and more commanding, “this kengto is not to be messed with. It will fuck you up in an instant if you let it. This metal flying ship does not offer you protection. Your weapons do not offer you protection. Do not take it for granted or dismiss it as a dumb animal. Keep it pinned down with your big guns, but stay at a distance.” He paused, looking at the gather officers. “The creature is developing faster than we expected. It seems to be thriving in your city’s atmosphere and growing at rate we’ve not encountered before. This is bad news. But if we catch it quickly we can still take it down.”

The captain nodded. “We’ll be on the scene in less than ten minutes. Be ready.”

Clarke took a deep breath. He had a feeling that not all of them would be getting out of this one. Glancing down at Styles, he made a promise to himself that he’d make sure she was protected, no matter what else happened.

“Alright,” Ngarkh shouted, pounding a fist into the palm of his other hand. “It’s punching time.”