Early shift

On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty & Zoltan Kaminski

London.

1973. August.

Lola yawned and stretched her arms, leaning back on her chair. The SDC office was about to change over for the day, which meant she would be on her way home any minute. Her bed beckoned. She could practically hear it calling out to her.

The night had been uneventful, especially by 1973’s standards. She’d filed some reports, run through some open case files with Yannick and put up with some of the usual edgy banter from Frank Holland. Everyone said he was good at his job, that he got results, but his attitude rubbed Lola the wrong way. No matter how many cases he’d closed, there was a rottenness at his core that she could feel seeping into the office whenever he was there. Like it was going to rub off on her and everyone else. He had that wandering man eye, too, always roving up and down and over her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Sometimes even when she clearly was. That leeriness she’d encountered elsewhere in the force, and during her training, but it was blessedly absent from the SDC for the most part. Except for Holland.

Fortunately for everyone, he’d gone home an hour earlier, as had Hobb. How that woman put up with him, Lola couldn’t begin to fathom.

She yawned again. “Right,” she said, mostly to herself. Standing up, she wearily pulled on her coat and hooked her satchel over her shoulder.

The door to the office swung open and Kaminski and Chakraborty arrived, waving cheerfully. Kaminski grunted a hello then disappeared immediately into Bakker’s office.

“You heading off?” Chakraborty asked, emptying her bag unceremoniously onto her desk. Lola caught a glimpse of a metal hip flask among the make-up, notepads and pens.

“Just going to nip to the loo,” she said, “then I’ll attempt to get home without collapsing in the street.”

“Long night?”

“Easy night, but that just makes it more boring and last longer.”

Waving, Lola pushed open the other door to the back corridors, then headed to the women’s wash room. She grimaced as she entered a cubicle and locked the door. Still, she’d bet the men’s was in an even worse state.

A couple of minutes later she opened the cubicle door to find Chakraborty leaning against the sink. “Hi, Lola.”

“Oh, hey.” She washed her hands as Chakraborty stood to one side. “You been there a while?”

“Just got here,” Chakraborty said, smiling.

She was being weird. “You’re being weird,” Lola said, drying her hands.

“Yeah, I don’t mean to be,” Chakraborty said. “Back to the office, then.”

Lola frowned and looked at the other woman quizzically. Sighing, assuming that her tiredness was making her misunderstand the conversation, she opened the door and walked back into the corridor towards the office. A hand gripped her shoulder.

Turning, she found Chakraborty with her other hand held up, a finger to her lips. She pointed in the other direction, away from the main office. Again, she emphasised the apparent need for silence.

What had at first seemed silly, or amusing, started to slide into something more sinister. Lola followed dutifully, as Chakraborty led her to the rear stairwell, then up to the top floor of the building. It was unused, other than by rats, and was used primarily for storage of ancient filing that wasn’t so confidential that it had to be moved to Scotland Yard. Chakraborty led her through a couple of doorways, past dusty cabinets and shelves, until they reached a pile of boxes stacked high to the ceiling. Pointing to a small gap at one side, hidden from view until Lola got close, Chakraborty shuffled around the stacked boxes and disappeared.

Wondering if she was already asleep and dreaming, Lola followed. There was another door, hidden behind the boxes, which Chakraborty now opened. She gestured for Lola to enter.

Clarke was sat on a chair in the middle of the room, arms crossed and looking unhappy. “Lola,” he said. “This is long overdue.”

*

Kaminski looked out of Bakker’s office through the blinds. “Fancy that coffee now, boss man?”

There was a creak as Bakker pushed himself up from his desk. “That sounds like a very good plan, detective. Nothing like some watered down SDC mud to start off the day.”

He gave a thumbs up gesture to Bakker as they left the room. As they crossed the office they made a point of discussing mundanities. “How are your parents, Zoltan?”

“Old,” he said. “Old and cranky. They don’t like me being away.”

“Funny how we look after our kids, until a certain point when they have to look after us.”

“Your kids ready to be cooking you meals, sir?”

Bakker laughed. “It’s hard enough getting them to lay and clear the table, let alone prepare the damned meal.”

A little way down the corridor they entered the tiny kitchen area and Kaminski filled and flicked on the kettle. He nodded to Bakker and they both headed for the stairwell and up to the top floor.

“OK, we should be good now,” Kaminski said. He’d scoured the entire building as best he could: there were several bugs in the main office, one in the kitchen, even a couple in each wash room. Best they could tell, they must have been installed when the lights were refitted in December. That was a long time for their conversations to have been listened to. It was just after he’d been shipped off to Max-Earth in a container - that must have been what put them on someone’s radar.

“Sneaking around in my own building,” Bakker said, grimacing. “I’m looking forward to making some progress.”

The others were already there. The five of them, up against something much larger. Lola was pacing back and forth with her hands on her hips, while Chakraborty and Clarke stood patiently on the opposite side of the room.

“Thanks for coming, Lola,” Bakker said.

“I didn’t even know I was coming until I got here.”

“We need to get more chairs for next time,” Clarke said, indicating the lone seat in the middle of the room that everyone was avoiding claiming.

“Let’s do this quickly,” Bakker said. “Lola, the first thing you need to know is that the SDC building is bugged. There’s been a covert surveillance op on us since at least December. Audio only as far as we are aware. This floor and this room is an exception.”

“What? Who’s responsible?”

“That’s what we’re working on. We think it’s connected back to DC Callihan’s death, Kaminski’s unscheduled trip to Max-Earth at the start of the year and the attack on them in Addis. Furthermore, the human trafficking operation run through the shipping company Barrindon that we uncovered last year, plus the incident that your contact Goldspeth was involved with on Palinor - both of those are linked.”

Kaminski watched Styles for her reaction. To her credit, she stayed remarkably calm.

“What? What’s this all about? And why are you telling me now?”

Bakker glanced at Clarke, who stepped forward. “We’ve wanted to bring you in for a while,” Clarke said. “But as events have shown, this is dangerous territory. I - we - didn’t want to put you in harm’s way. Once you’re in on this, there’s no getting out.”

“As for what it’s about,” Kaminski said, “we think they’re assembling a megaship on Max-Earth. But they’re doing it under the radar.”

“Quantum AI is heavily regulated there,” Chakraborty said. “Regulated by the AIs that already exist.”

Styles nodded. “So they’ve dispersed it across all three dimensions, making it harder to track.”

“Only us five are in on this,” Bakker said, “plus the AI Justin on Max-Earth. I want to keep it that way for now. Maybe we can bring others in later, but there’s a risk each time. For us and for them. This doesn’t go any higher, either. Whoever is running this op, it goes right to the top. No other way they’d be able to pull all these strings.”

“I guess that makes up my mind, then,” Styles said.

Clarke looked at her. “To do what?”

“While all of us are stuck here on Mid-Earth, we’re blind to what’s going on elsewhere,” she said, brow furrowed. “You say Justin on Max-Earth is working with us. We need someone on Palinor.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about applying for the liaison officer post. This seems like as good a time as any.”