Early shift

On duty: DC Frank Holland and DC Marion Hobb

London.

1972. July.

The phones started ringing. Robin was the first to pick up, as always, wedging the handset in the crook of her shoulder. "You've reached Specialist Dimensional Command, go ahead."

She listened carefully. Five seconds into the call she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the reception desk. Ten seconds later she'd transferred the call through to the highest ranking officer on duty, which meant DCI James Miller. She could see him picking up the phone through the glass of his partitioned office. "Officer down," she said, before connecting him through to Control. Placing the handset back on its cradle, she sat for a moment at her desk, leaning over the papers to be filed, the framed photo of her parents, the foil-wrapped sandwich for later.

Miller's door banged open and he emerged into the main office. "Listen up," he said, his voice loud and clear. "We have officer down near Plaistow, details still coming in. DC Clarke is on the scene, officers en route." He pointed at Holland and Hobb, who had been talking over by the kettle. "Holland, Hobb, get ready to go. Once we have information on the suspect I want you there to supervise. Full gear, be armed and dangerous."

Robin stared ahead of her as the office erupted into action. She sat in her chair, at the reception desk, a rushing noise in her ears. Slowly she realised she was clenching her jaw so tight it hurt. Her hands gripped the arms of the seat, because otherwise they'd be shaking.

Holland erupted first. "What the fuck happened?" He was one of those men whose voice carried across great distances, cut through any conversation and overwhelmed anyone else who was speaking. "One of us?"

"Who else is on this morning?" Hobb looked around the office, as if counting invisible people. "Shit, was it Yannick?"

Miller had one hand on the door frame and was leaning at an awkward angle, as if being weighed down by something. "Not Yannick," he said.

"Fuck me," Holland said, "Callihan? Jesus."

Releasing her grip on the chair, Robin accidentally knocked over a mug containing her collection of pens. They scattered across the desk in a clatter, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. The roaring in her ears subsided, as if she'd surfaced from being underwater.

The main doors swung open and Ford and Collins rolled in, laughing at a joke nobody else had heard. They stopped short, Collins holding a can of coke in one hand, one finger on the ring pull. He looked at the staring faces and laughed nervously. "What, did somebody die in here?"

"You're a fucking idiot, Collins," Holland said, dumping his mug in the sink and heading towards the locker room.

*

Robert Ford was one of three DIs assigned to the Specialist Dimensional Command. He kept the ship afloat, ran investigations, kept everyone in line. He'd never intended to wind up in London, never mind the SDC, but that's where he was and he was going to do it right.

He put a hand on Collins' arm, only for a second, but enough to calm the man.

"Right, then, lads," he said, pocketing the chocolate bar for later, "tell me the situation."

It was bad. Callihan had been caught in a confrontation during a routine call, killed instantly according to the initial report. His partner was still on site. DC Yannick Clarke. Shit, that wasn't going to make the old man any cheerier.

Ford sat on the edge of his desk and gathered everyone near. "The boss is on his way in," he said, "but until he gets here I'm running this shitshow. One, Miller, stay near a phone. Once the papers get this we're going to need some smooth talking and that isn't going to come from me. Collins - Andrew! Pay attention - get Clarke back on the line as soon as you can, I want you talking to him. Pull every detail you can about what happened. Was this a gang thing? Domestic? Robbery? What are we talking? And also, make sure he's alright. Holland, Hobb, once you're suited-up take a car and get over to this place. Check the scene, make sure those beat coppers aren't trampling all over it." He thumped the desk with the palm of his hand. "Alright, get to it, not dilly-dallying." Once they'd all dispersed, Ford leaned in towards Robin. "Listen, bring the others up to speed. Tell them to come in, even if it isn't their shift. We need to all be here. Especially Nisha. Got that? Good girl."

The world was a bin on fire and they were standing in it. Ford had moved to the SDC to get away from this: a squad of detectives, working cases, away from front line policing. That was the whole point - the portal crime squad, off doing their own thing, without having to worry about London's usual mess. What had Callihan and Clarke been doing responding to a residential disturbance? They should never have set foot on that street. Callihan was practically a kid. Was he even late-twenties?

Ford lit a cigarette. Someone was going to have to tell the kid's wife. No, not wife - fiancé. What a shitshow. They had to get that done before the press did it for them. Callihan had been the kind of optimistic arsehole that made Ford feel bad for being such a pessimist. The kind of guy that was going to go far and believed in doing the right things for the right reasons. Didn't get many of them come around.

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"Guv, I've got Clarke on the line," Collins called from across the room. "He says it was a koth."

He spat the cigarette onto the floor, where it started burning into the carpet. "A koth?" He ground it into the carpet with his heel. "What the hell was a koth doing in Plaistow?"

*

Holland gripped the wheel as he weaved between trams and rickshaws and pedestrians. "Never lost anyone on the squad, not like this."

"Twelve years is a good run of luck," said Hobb, checking her pistol. This might be her chance to make an impact at last - Callihan's killing would draw the attention of the Commissioner and all the rest, which would give her a shot at finally getting out of the SDC. It had meant to be a brief tenure with the portal squad, a stepping stone on the way to better things, but she'd been there for three years already. Being relegated to portal crimes was holding her back from doing real police work.

The radio crackled. "Sierra-Delta-Charlie Eleven to Sierra-Delta-Charlie Seven. Do you receive, over."

Hobb punched the button and lifted the receiver, delivering the acknowledgement. "Sierra-Delta-Charlie Seven receiving. Go ahead, Miller, over."

"New intel. The attack on Callihan was by a koth. Enraged and out of control. This thing is likely to kill again. If you engage do not hesitate to shoot to kill, do you read me? Over."

"You are R5, Miller. All received. Out." She put the receiver back on its cradle. "A koth," she repeated.

Holland grunted. "We should've brought bigger guns. It's always been a bloody joke that we get these peashooters when there are fucking dragons in town."

Sterling Street was full of police, cordoned off at both ends, residents on doorsteps being interviewed. Hobb had never seen so many cars in one place, all with their lights flashing red and blue. Holland and Hobb found Yannick Clarke sitting on the bonnet of his squad car, face a pale white and hands covered in blood. Hobb leaned against the car next to the shivering man, thought about saying something to comfort him, then thought better of it. There was nothing she could say that would help.

"Clarke," Holland barked. Then, when there was no response: "Yannick. We need to know what happened, every detail, if we're going to catch this son of a bitch. Reports of a koth?"

Clarke raised his head and stared at Holland, as if he were looking at a young child who hadn't yet understood how the world worked. "It's like it was waiting for us," he said, his voice low. "It was big, really big. Came out of the apartment. Took John, ripped him to pieces." His voice cracked and he paused.

"What happened afterwards? Point us in the right direction."

"It jumped over the balcony. I think I heard it running." He pointed down the street. "Perhaps that way? I don't know."

Hobb frowned. "Why didn't it just fly away?"

"Good question for another time," Holland said, "but it means we've got a chance of catching it."

Leaning forward, suddenly more alert, Clarke grabbed at Holland's jacket. "You don't want to catch it, Frank." His voice was more anger than fear. "You didn't see what it did. Stay the hell away."

There was call from one of the uniformed officers, over near the tower block. "We've picked up a trail! Let's go!"

*

It had happened again. The cloud had descended, obscuring everything behind a fog. What started as a release, a freeing joy, turned shortly to pain, a crushing anxiety that infected their every decision. Instincts shot, clumsy, disoriented. It was the same as always. That's why they'd got clean, as hard as it had been. Years going back and forth, slipping repeatedly back into temptation, each time worse than the last. They'd lost everyone, spurned by the community, rejected by their family, unable to return through the portal and not allowed to live legally on Earth. But at least they'd been clean, for months. Had been.

The warehouse was old, wood and steel, cavernous and creaking with sunlight breaking in through holes in the walls and ceiling. It was derelict, save for the collapsed remnants of cargo crates, long since discarded by their owners and emptied of whatever contents they'd once transported.

Clenching a fist, the koth grimaced and punched the ground. Stupid. They lifted their palm and hit themselves in the face. Again. Another slap. Everything was ruined, worse even than before. Being clean had only made it more terrible when they'd slipped back. They could still feel it coursing through their veins, throbbing beneath their scales, as if pulsing to burst out and escape. The cloying anticipation, an adrenaline burst that crippled their natural abilities. Flying was out of the question, given they could barely stand or walk in a straight line. Their wings were limp, heavy, dragging them down, tying them to the ground like chains. Each one, leathery and thick, sloughed across the warehouse floor. Their throat was parched, dry to the point of cracking inside. The flame had extinguished, as it always did, and though they knew it would reignite once the effects had worn off it still felt like part of them had died.

They couldn't remember their own name. It had been so long since anyone had used it.

It occurred to them that they couldn't remember when they'd taken it. When had they? Where would they even have got it from? None of the old dealers were still around. How could they have forgotten? The morning was a dark haze.

There had been a man. A human. They remembered slivers, scratchy flashes bereft of meaning or context. A man. What had he been doing? Had he attacked them? Where had that happened? A tiny room, dirty, too small, the walls pressing in on them like a vice - the man had intruded on them, he'd had a weapon, a baton, and the light had been so blindingly bright. Why had the man interrupted? It had made them angry. They remembered the anger, then, and the violence, and the window. The window had smashed. They'd smashed it with something. A rock. A ball? A helmet?

A head.

Scratching at their palm with the claws of their other hand, the koth saw the residue, caught in the cracks between the flexing scales. Red. Human blood. This time they'd really gone too far. They wondered who the man had been, what his life had meant, who their tribe had been. They pounded their fists into the ground, then splayed their fingers out and scratched at the concrete floor, cutting grooves until the ends of their claws began to splinter and snap.

There was a commotion by the entrance to the warehouse. The big door was slid aside and a host of humans entered. They were armed. The koth felt the rage building again, the last of the herb still working at their system, piercing their nerves with a thousand needles. Their brain hammered against the inside of their head.

They tried to stand, to gain control and some semblance of balance, so as not to appear threatening. They tried to raise his hands above their head, but their wings pulled them back down at the elbows. They could feel their tail flicking with irritation.

"Please," they said, their voice deep and rasping and barely intelligible, "please, you have to help—"

The shots rang out, echoing through the empty warehouse. Shot after shot, hitting their mark. The koth fell to their knees. Maybe this time would be the last, mercifully. They only wished they could remember their name.