Early shift

On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb

London.

1973. June.

Frank Holland was not a happy man, Hobb could see that. She could hear it, too, in his incessant whining. “How is it we end up holding the phones back here,” he was saying, “while everyone else gets to fuck about on jollies to every other bloody place?”

He had a point. They were both on duty, as they had been all week, the only properly trained detective constables available to the SDC while Kaminski, Chakraborty, Styles and Clarke were off on specialist missions of which few details had been shared. She knew that Clarke and Styles were on their way to Palinor on some sort of daft diplomatic activity, but Kaminski and Chakraborty’s whereabouts had been oddly hush-hush. There had been an undercurrent of distrust in the SDC for months; a tension that had gripped the team with Callihan’s death and never let go.

All the more reason to try to get out before the whole thing imploded. She had feelers out in half a dozen other departments, even some outside of London. The word was that if you stayed in the SDC too long you got tarred with the same brush that had kept Clarke stuck at DC level for his entire career. That wasn’t for her. She wanted to get out, get a proper assignment dealing with real Earth issues, cases that really mattered to humans, rather than wasting time on complicated portal crimes that were little more than the unwanted cases discarded by the rest of the Met.

Marion Hobb had ambitions, grander than anything the SDC could offer. She needed out. That had been apparent for the last year, but with the team being stretched apart it had become urgent.

“Still there, Hobb?”

Blinking, she took a breath, looked at her partner. Nobody liked him. She didn’t like him, though he was better than the rest. There was no bullshit with Holland. None of Styles’ starry-eyed, girlish wonder, or Clarke’s pathetic ambivalence. Or whatever the hell was going on with Kaminski and Chakraborty. Frank Holland was unpleasant, but he was the kind of reliable unpleasant that she could get along with.

“Still here, Frank. Still here.”

*

Lola suppressed a squeal, double-checked that she had her rucksack and her wheeled case, then grinned at Clarke. “You ready for this, old man?”

“You’re forgetting I’ve already been through a portal,” he said. “You might say I’m an experienced traveller.”

She hadn’t forgotten, but there was still a bitterness at Clarke and Chakraborty having visited Max-Earth without her. Not that she was obligated a free trip to the future, and she understood that it had made most sense at the time. It had been Clarke’s lack of enthusiasm before and after that had saddened her.

Now, though, it was her turn. To Palinor! Through a portal, a gateway to another world. Having read so many books about portal travel - fact and fiction - it was a remarkable thing to be finally experiencing it herself. Countless articles, photo essays, television documentaries and action and romance movies had made the portal station oddly familiar, like a phantom memory unmoored from her actual reality. It was as if she’d been here before, about to step onto the travelator that would shuffle them through to the other side. She’d made this journey in her dreams, which made being entirely awake seem somehow more fantastical.

“Well, this is portal number two for you, then.”

“Number three, actually. I had to come back through the other one, remember?”

“Good point.” She took a long, slow breath. Other travellers, suited dignitaries and professionals in a mix of local and Palinese dress, moved past them on their way, clearly used to the process. “Shall we?”

Clarke smiled. “I’m not the one fretting at the edge of the escalator.”

“Travelator.”

“Whatever you like, Detective Styles.”

Without giving herself time to second-guess, she hopped forwards onto the moving floor, pulling her suitcase along. Clarke raised his eyebrows in amusement, casually following her and taking up position on one of the white markers.

Clarke only had a single backpack, though it was bigger than hers. “How do you think you’ll react to the portal?”

“I don’t know! OK, I hope. I feel like I’ve been preparing for this my whole life, you know? You were fine, weren’t you?”

“I was,” he said, nodding, “much to my surprise.”

“Such a pessimist.”

“Realist.”

It was going to be a busy trip. The timing had aligned unexpectedly well, combining an active case with an invitation from the ruling family of Bruglia. The case involved an archaeologist of dubious reputation, who had been arrested Palinor-side for raiding sacred tombs; a deal had been struck to return him to Mid-Earth for trial. The invite was from none other than Princess Daryla, who apparently had not forgotten all about them after that evening on the Pluma. There was even a chance that they might be able to visit Yvette Field, who was still recovering at Fountain University. It was a full itinerary.

They moved closer to the portal. It was bigger than she’d imagined, much bigger, especially when she considered that only the top half of it was visible on this level. Somewhere below their feet the lower half of the portal was being used for transporting cargo. That’s where Clarke had smashed open the human trafficking ring the previous year. Another time she wasn’t included in proceedings.

“Hold on to your hat,” Clarke murmured, and then they were into the black—

*

—the sensation hit her like a solid, concrete wall and she dropped to her knees on the travelator, fighting down the bile and the urge to vomit. A horrid gurgle bubbled up from her throat. It was like the worst hangover. No, pre-hangover, like she was still drunk. The floor warped and skewed and she planted her hands flat to try to stabilise her perspective.

Then there was a hand on her shoulder, and she heard Clarke’s voice. Couldn’t hear what he was saying due to the pounding in her ears, but it was a soothing sound nonetheless. Her eyes blurred with tears, her nose ran and her tongue felt twice as big as it should be. The nausea subsided as suddenly as it had begun, replaced instead with a splintering headache that felt as if the side of her forehead above her right eye was about to crack open.

“Oh, fuckity fuckity fuck,” she said, breathing through the flood of snot and saliva. “Jesus Christ.”

“I got you, Styles, don’t panic,” Clarke’s voice said. “They’re bringing help. You’re not the only one, don’t worry.”

“How is it this bad? How?”

“Shame you’re not a seasoned portal explorer such as myself.”

“Oh, bugger off. You’re enjoying this.”

“Only a little. You’ll be fine. They’ve stopped the travelator to help you off.”

“This is embarrassing.”

“I wonder if Princess Daryla is here to meet us in person.”

“Oh god, please no.”

Other hands picked her up, taking her rucksack and rolling her gently into what she presumed was a stretcher. She’d never felt so incapable. The stretcher was set down a few moments later and something pungent was waved under her nose. Immediately clarity returned, as if her brain had emerged from a fog, and she propped herself up on one elbow.

A stranger knelt in front of her, his hand outstretched towards her face. She jerked back in surprise. “Please do not move,” he said. She glanced sideways and saw Clarke standing a few feet away, guarding her luggage. “It makes the spell harder to cast, you see.”

“Spell?”

“Yes,” the stranger said. With his other hand he passed her a box of tissues. “Here you go.”

She took it, feeling small and awkward. “Thanks. Can I blow my nose?”

“Please do.”

After wiping her eyes and clearing her breathing, Lola moved into a more comfortable seated position. The magic wielder smiled as he worked, and she felt her headache diminishing moment by moment until it was gone entirely.

“Wow,” she said, “how did you do that?”

“It is a simple aspect of micrology,” he said. “Simple, but requires some delicacy. The the portal station employs several of us to help foreign travellers upon arrival. The first time is often the worst.”

“I’m not looking forward to the return trip.”

The stranger lowered his hand and Lola was momentarily aware of a subsiding of an atmospheric tension between the two of them, that she had not even noticed previously. “Going back to your own dimension should be easier. It is travelling to a foreign dimension that causes people most difficulty. Nobody knows why exactly, though there are theories, of course.” He looked at Clarke. “Your friend seems to take it all in his stride. Here, let me help you up.”

She stood, feeling more stable than she expected. “Thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure. My name is Naveen. I do hope you enjoy your stay on Palinor.”

“I’m Lola. And thank you again.”

Clarke approached, his smile kind rather than mocking. “How you feeling, kid?”

“Bleurgh,” she said. “But better thanks to Naveen there.” The wielder was already rushing off to help another distressed traveller.

“Welcome to Palinor,” Clarke said, grinning wryly. “Not exactly the arrival you’d imagined?”

“Not really.” For the first time she took in her surroundings: the Palinor side of the portal station was different, though shared many of the architectural and design decisions. It was like seeing a Mid-Earth building’s plans interpreted by someone who had never visited. The materials were different, the curves more pronounced, the decoration more intricate and deliberate.

She was on Palinor. Land of koth and aen’fa and warring city states. And magic! And mermaids, and dragons, and kengtos and monster hunters. A place of hidden forest tribes, reclusive mountain hideouts, underwater settlements and towers formed in the heart of active volcanoes. It was everything she’d always wanted. Though for the moment they were still stuck in the relative drabness of the portal station.

“Ready to get moving?”

“Oh yes,” she said, swinging her rucksack back onto her shoulders and taking the handle of her suitcase. “Time to get this quest started.”