The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real
Previously: Detective Lola Styles has stopped the transit of illegal migrants through the portal to London. She’s now on her way to the prison in Bruglia to talk to those arrested…
Bruglia.
3202. Leafless.
Dear Clarke,
I’ve had a day. I don’t know where to start. Or even what to think. I wish you were here, right now, properly here, so we could talk about this. I wish I could open a portal tear of my own and meet you at the White Horse for a pint. Chakraborty, too. The old gang. This whole time I’ve been running away from you all, from London, from Mid-Earth.
I love it here. I still do, I think. But the layers have been stripped away one by one. When I got here it was all gleaming towers and magic and wizards and princesses. One formal dinner after another, grand balls, dances with visiting dignitaries. Sitting in the kinds of meetings I’d never have access to in London. As the only police representative here I get invited to everything. Made me feel important.
But then I started noticing things. The state of the jails. The lack of any kind of justice system as we’d recognise it. The barely concealed slavery, under the guise of indentured servitude, or family debt, or never-ending apprenticeships. The canyons on the outskirts, full of refugees. Camps stretching for miles, snaking between the mesas, while everyone up top pretends they’re not there. The way the triverse infects and corrupts everything here, how it’s all about money and power that can be pulled through the portal.
I’ve been doing good work, which kept me going. Difficult, but rewarding mostly. And I’ve made some friends. I know myself better now than I ever have. I’ll tell you more about all that next time we speak in person.
You know that feeling we’ve talked about back in London, of things unravelling? How everything seems fine on the surface, but it’s like someone is scooping out the foundations from under your feet? That’s happening here now, too.
It happened today. And I didn’t see it coming.
She’d visited the city prison once before, when Clarke had been with her and they were in the process of overseeing the extradition of Henry Goldspeth. Over a year prior and long before she’d moved to Bruglia in a more permanent capacity. Felt like a different lifetime. A different woman.
Arriving for the second time was no less intimidating. The stone walls, chiselled and blasted to a dark, burnt colour, almost blackened, with cracked tiles suggesting an earlier, more refined time. She wondered if it had once been a fortress, or a palace even, before its current status. Buildings went through different lives just like people; built for one purpose, used for another, destroyed and rebuilt or forgotten in ruins. The architecture was offensively sharp and aggressive, with the walls jutting into the sky like knives, and the tiles deliberately placed such that their edges protruded over the edges of walls, ready to cut unwary visitors. She was expected and ushered inside by the guards at the front gate. Doorways were not simple tall rectangles but were diamond-shaped, semi-sunken into the floor. Hard edges everywhere, as if the building itself was determined to make a stay within its confines as unpleasant and uncomfortable as possible.
She was taken to a different part of the prison to where she had visited previously. As filthy as Goldspeth’s cell had been, it was luxurious in comparison to the true depths of the place. Descending staircase after staircase, down into the dark where there were no windows and only torchlight lit the way, she became aware for the first time of what dungeon really meant. There were no dungeons left on Mid-Earth, not really. The worst jails held a certain standard of humanity, even if reluctantly. The Bruglia prison had no such niceties. She found herself in a cavernous room, dropping away below into several steep-walled pits, as well as above to cages that hung on creaking chains. High above a filthy skylight to the very top of the prison permitted only the dimmest of illumination. Metal bars in the outer walls led to cells, within which she could only barely make out the shapes of beings, shadowed and hidden, the dim light rendering them as little more than shades. Perhaps it was to dampen the potential of any magic wielding, cutting people off from strong light sources. Or it could be simple cruelty. The sides of the hanging cages were slick with bodily fluids from where prisoners had relieved themselves, clearly trying to dispose of the mess over the sides, which then caused it to drip to the pits below. It was a place of rot and decay, of the sort that one did not expect to leave. It’s where prisoners were sent to die. If anyone was ever released, a piece of them would always remain within the dark walls.
The refugees were kept in one of the pits, large enough to keep them all together, and the top covered with a wire mesh - presumably to dissuade koth from attempting to fly out. Bruglian law, such as it was, had zero tolerance for illegal emigrants. To leave without permission was considered tantamount to treason. She’d heard some prominent wielders talk at parties of how each Palinese-born that left for the other dimensions of the triverse served to diminish magic; that somehow their leaving was harming the natural order of things. It was an unproven theory but a popular one. Others simply disliked the idea of the unworthy finding better lives elsewhere - the aen’fa and the magic-less escaping to a world where such things mattered less. It didn’t help that the fees that refugees paid for portal transit were astronomical, and tended to fund local crime syndicates. As such, the city guard regarded the refugees as effective accomplices to any organised crime in the region.
Lola stared at the huddled group, terrified, entirely alone despite having been kept in a group together. She wanted to ask them why they’d taken such a terrible, stupid risk, but knew the question was pointless. Each one of them would have a good answer, a personal reason that would make complete sense. Nobody would even attempt illegal portal transit unless they were running from something far worse. A lot of it would go over her head, or involve the complex depths of Palinese culture that she’d never understand, but they’d each have an explanation. A justification for upending their lives and risking it all.
Yet here they were, in the prison pit, the gamble having failed. She’d been the one to figure out the shipping anomalies. It had been her who had found the containers, and seen through the illusion masking their presence in the container. The refugees were in the prison because of her actions.
It’s what she was paid to do.
“I want to talk to them,” she said to the nearest guard.
“Can’t do that,” he said, “they’re in the pit.”
“I can see that. Can one of them come up from the pit to be interviewed?”
“Interviewed?”
“Interrogated.”
“Oh.” The guard scratched the side of his nose. “Interrogations aren’t until tomorrow. So, no. Nobody comes up.”
She looked into the mire below, the walls of the pit running with faeces from above, the dirty mulch filling the bottom where the refugees cowered. “Then can I go down?”
“Down? You want to go in the pit with them?” The guard laughed as if it was a joke.
“Is that possible? How do you get down there?”
“We don’t. But if you want to go down, sure, you can do down. If they rip you limb from limb, don’t go blaming me, though. Shout when you want to come back up.”
A hatch was opened in the wire mesh and she was lowered on a makeshift device which looked a lot like a child’s swing, bumping and scraping against the wall on the way down. No way she was going to be wearing that shirt again, she realised. The eyes of the refugees watched her as she descended, none of them speaking. She hopped off the wooden contraption, wincing as her shoes sank into what was certainly not mud. The shelf she’d come down on was lifted back up, out of reach.
The elderly koth she’d met in the container stepped forward. “Lola Styles,” they said. There was almost a smile beneath the sadness.
“I need to know more about the smuggling operation. The one that organised your transit.”
The koth lowered their head and sighed. “And why would we talk to you about that?”
It was a good question. “I might be able to put a stop to it. Prevent others from ending up in your situation.”
“So now the detective wishes to help those like us?”
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Lola said, “but the organisations that run the underground railroads aren’t there to help you. If you’d got through the portal you’d likely have been even worse off than whatever was going on this side.”
“Unlikely.”
“I’ve seen it. I’ve seen what happens to people who make it to London. You’re cargo, you’re their property as soon as you get into those containers.”
“Yet perhaps not this time,” the koth said, again with the slight smile. As if they knew something she didn’t.
“What do you mean?”
“We were treated well. Promised nothing. We had food, enough to last through even the portal blockade. I would not have led my friends if I did not trust those who were helping us.”
“That’s what you’re always told. That it’s safe, that it’s a sure thing. It isn’t.”
“Except when it is,” the koth said. “Much has changed in the past two years. Some of it thanks to you and your Specialist Dimensional Command. You shut down the main trafficking ring that operated in Bruglia. At first those of us trying to escape despaired, but then alternatives became available. Then you and the city guard smashed the gangs, and the routes were closed. And then, once again, they reopened. Each time better than the last, each time under…new management, shall we say?”
The koth knew an awful lot. Were they referring to the Collins-Thomas gang? That one had been largely forced out of Bruglia after they’d arrested Thomas, even if Collins was still at large. That meant someone else had moved in, perhaps picked up the reins without the city guard noticing. Had the smuggling routes been reactivated for months?
“I’m going to need a name.”
“You are in no position to make demands or bargain, detective. We are already in the worst possible situation. There is nothing you can threaten us with now.”
“If you cooperate I could plead for leniency, for you and your friends.”
The koth erupted into laughter, a booming sound that echoed around the pit. She thought she saw a flicker of fire at the back of their throat. “Even now, after so long, you don’t know how things work in Bruglia, detective. If our representative wishes to contact you, they will do so in their own time. Comfort yourself as much as a you wish, but there is nothing you can do for us here.”
The prison wasn’t the worst of it. That was just the start. I felt like shit. Like it was all my fault. Everything I’ve been doing lately, every case closed, feels like a half-win. Each time I can’t help but think I’ve done more harm than good. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. When we were working cases together, we always figured a way through. Maybe that was more you than me. Maybe I’m not good enough for the task.
There’s so much riding on me being here, as you know, and I’m starting to think you’ve all put your trust in the wrong person.
But as I was saying, the prison wasn’t the worst thing that happened today.
It’s when I got off duty this evening that the shit really hit the fan. I needed a break, to clear my head, just someone to talk to. Back in London that would have meant the pub with you. Here, I have a few options. I’m close to Princess Daryla - we work together a lot - and decided to check in with her before heading home.
That’s when it all went wrong.
Thank you for reading!
As tends to be the case, sometimes plans for chapters don’t quite fit into the weekly episodic structure. Hence you’re going to have to wait until next week to find out what is in the rest of Lola’s letter to Clarke. Sorry!
Another week with a lot to read:
- , one of the biggest (the biggest?) publications to use Substack’s set of tools, has issued a statement on the recent Nazi absurdity. They succinctly demonstrate both the business case and the moral case, and how they’re actually quite intertwined.
I thought this was an interesting observation of generative AI’s complicated relationship with copyright. This is a big part of why I moved away from using it to illustrate triverse - it’s just impossible to know the provenance of the images, and I didn’t want to be accidentally including ‘generated’ images that were in fact copies of pre-existing stuff by talented artists.
I quite liked
’s take on the whole farrago here. Anyone that reads my fiction (see above) will know that I aim to write progressive, inclusive and optimistic stories that celebrate diversity. As such, I’ve really struggled with whether I should continue using Substack to send out this newsletter. Currently I’m of the same thinking as Anne and : I’m going to stay, I’m going to continue to write about what matters to me, and I’m not going to cede any ground to the worst historical hangovers.Our big re-watch of 90s science fiction classic Babylon 5 continues. The show is available on blu-ray and streaming, so come join us!
As you may have spotted, this episode has a voiceover! This is a bit of an experiment, but I’m hoping to include audio for all future chapters of Triverse, and might even go back to update what’s been published so far. Once I’ve figured out the quirks of how this works it should even be available in standard podcast apps, but one thing at a time.
These voiceover versions are very ad hoc. I’m not a professional audiobook reader! I’m not going to be producing them in a fancy way.1 But I hope they’ll be a fun alternative way to enjoy the Tales from the Triverse story, especially if you’re short of time and need something for the commute/washing up/folding the clothes.
Author notes
We’re a long way from the Lola that showed up at the SDC offices back at the start of Triverse, excited about the job and dreaming of visiting Palinor. I suppose in some ways I’m poking at the inevitability of growing older and realising that the world isn’t as simple as you once thought. Sometimes people figure that out really early, sometimes they have to figure it out early. For others it can take decades, or a lifetime, or perhaps that realisation never comes.
The trick, whenever it happens, is to not be entirely consumed by existential dread. It’s so easy to be paralysed by fear and worry and paranoia.
I’m often reminded of an interview I heard on the radio perhaps 15 years ago with actor Brian Blessed. At the time he must have been about 70 years old, if not more, and had just returned from a mountaineering expedition to climb Everest. The slightly incredulous interviewer asked about the risks of doing such a thing, especially at Brian’s advanced age.
His response? “The only risk is in not doing it.”
That always stuck with me, and I try to remember it. I’m not very good at remembering it. I’m very much a homebody who likes to nest in my house with all my comfy things (I was one of those weirdoes that sort of enjoyed covid lockdowns, other than the whole end-of-the-world aspect). I have to force myself to engage with the world, sometimes.
Anyway - Lola’s never had any of those problems. She leaps at opportunities. The risk now is that she’ll lose that spontaneity and verve; that she’ll begin second-guessing herself.
I’ve enjoyed including the letters in the structure of this particular storyline. It’s a useful connection back to the other stories and characters, while also reminding us of their distance. The limitations of cross-portal communication keep the story limited to a pre-internet, pre-mobile phone era, when talk was slow and mysteries couldn’t be solved with a quick phone call or message.
Right, I’ll park it there. See you next week!
I recorded directly into the post for this one, which seems to have introduced a bunch of crackles and is generally a bit scruffy. Won’t be doing that again. Next time I’ll record separately and upload…
Poor Lola. I guess she’s learning, as we all do, that when something seems too good to be true it’s normally built on a lie 😕
Plus, I miss Clarke too!
Liked the voiceover. Didn’t sound too crackly to me 🤔
As for Substack, I guess I’m in the same boat as yourself. Hanging around for now, but taking your advice from a few weeks back to mostly avoid Notes and just stick to my subscribed publications. Seems like the safest bet for now 🙄
The phrase, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions" comes to mind...