London.

1973. November.

The portal station was always busy, from the passenger concourse above ground to the shipping lanes below. People and cargo were travelling through the portals at all times, albeit only the rich or connected people and the those goods manufactured and shipped by the most influential companies. Day or night it was in motion, an example of perfect efficiency and a blend of Mid-Earth and Max-Earth technology, ingenuity and architecture.

It was near-silent.

The concourse was emptied, the building shut down. The portals remained, of course, black and huge, but with nothing coming or going. The doors were shut, the station evacuated. Above, through the glass ceiling, could be seen smoke billowing from the Joint Council tower. In the cargo dock the conveyor belts had halted, the cranes were still and the dockworkers were gone, evacuated to the mile-perimeter set up by the police. It was highly unlikely that the tower would come down, but there was no sense in waiting underneath to find out.

As the floor manager confirmed that all his staff were out, he hit the final shutdown button and ducked beneath the security shutter as it clattered down. Only a couple of minutes later there was a rumble and clattering as a cargo train drew into the hall, entering through the underground tunnel that connected to the river docks.

Doors were slid open and a new crew jumped out: a small number for operating the entire portal station, but just right for processing a single, very particular shipping container.

*

Geosynchronous Earth orbit.

2543. November.

The debris glittered in space like a cloud of new stars: a plume expanding steadily from the station at the tip of the elevator, ships scrambling in various directions: cargo shuttles disengaging and aiming to get as far from the dock as possible, passenger vessels evacuating staff and travellers, rescue ships en route and moving against the tide.

Earth displayed its expanse, the enormous cable of the space elevator disappearing to nothing as it dropped into atmosphere. Far below the triple anchor would be straining against its supports as the cable flexed and re-strengthened itself following the bombing. The station had been hit strategically, knocking it a fraction of a percentage off its normal axis, which was enough to risk catastrophe. The challenge was not the force exerted by the explosion, or any individual damage, but the cumulative risk of cascade failure.

Just Enough moved in a tight arc around the station, which was in fact a sizeable asteroid pulled from the belt centuries prior. It served as the counter weight, positioned precisely to keep the elevator cable stable and taut. Simulations had been run at the time of the elevator’s construction and many times since: what would happen if the counter weight was damaged, or destroyed? What would happen if one of the tripod anchors was damaged? What if one of the elevators was destroyed halfway up the cable? There were contingencies in place for all of these, in the first instance to prevent them happening at all. That had clearly failed. Which was surprising in itself, given the elevator security.

Having an AI nearby was one of those contingencies. Phenomenal power, both physical and mental, and fast enough to compute for an unfolding calamity. As Just Enough flew around the stricken station, they scanned and analysed from multiple angles, building up a hyper-accurate model of what was happening. Additional data was pulled in from all the other ships in the area and from sensors on the station itself. Observatories on the surface and deeper into space transmitted data about the cable’s trajectory and torque.

It was rare for a megaship to need to be physically in a particular location, especially one such as Just Enough which had no direct intervention motivation. Could Kill was a more explicitly assistive to the outer planets. Just Enough preferred more independence, operating multiple host bodies across different settlements, always keeping an eye on the system and Mid-Earth on the other side of the portal. Gathering information.

There were times, on occasion, when it was necessary to get one’s metaphorical hands dirty. Such as when a space elevator was at risk of collapse. A cable over 40,000km long could go one of two ways, neither ideal: forcibly disconnecting the Earth anchors could potentially cause the entire structure to spin off into space at enormous speed, and that was the cleanest outcome with it managing to escape Earth gravity. Far more likely, especially if it were the counter weight on the end that went, would be the cable collapsing to the surface and wrapping itself around the planet, carving a new canyon. The materials used were designed specifically to burn up in atmosphere, which might work for some of the links - but there would be some travelling too fast, and some at too low an altitude.

Regardless, it was best practice to prevent it from collapsing. Just Enough linked to all the ships and nearby systems on the network to speed up the operation: much faster to have a single AI run the show, rather than attempting to transmit instructions via humans. There was already a solution proposed and simulated, with a near-100% success rate guaranteed. At least, as long as there were no more surprises. Other megaships were approaching from around the system to provide additional processing power and, if necessary, some brute strength.

The calculations were complex and needed to be absolutely precise, as well as processed faster than real time. A relatively trivial matter for a quantum AI, though there were enough chaotic elements at play to make even Just Enough a little nervous.

Messages were coming in from Mid-Earth. Another bomb, at the Joint Council tower.

What were those humans up to now?

*

Early shift

On duty: DC Frank Holland & DC Marion Hobb

London.

1973. November.

There was a circuit of pubs, underground bars and knock-off wine cellars that was a well-known secret. Establishments frequented by various tiers of scum. A whole mix, from political extremists to gangland assassins and professional money launderers. They knew that the police knew, but the police also knew to steer clear. To shut them down was a pointless game of whack-a-mole, so it was far more effective to work on informants - get some eyes and ears into those places and you’d learn about the next six months’ of underworld activity. Break down the door and they’d all scatter to the wind, and you’d learn nothing.

DC Frank Holland knew this. He’s cultivated connections all through London’s less salubrious scene. Very useful for long-view intelligence and seeing what was coming down the pipe. It was a game that clearly hadn’t worked. There was a hole in the Joint Council tower to prove it. That didn’t sit right with Holland.

Time for a change of tactics.

Hobb kicked the bar door so hard it half came off its hinges. They strode in, Holland not feeling the need to swagger. They knew who he was. How he liked to operate. He walked up to a table and swiped a pint glass from under a patron’s nose, then threw it to the floor. If their entrance hadn’t caught people’s attention, the shattering of the glass did.

“Alright, you cunts,” he said as the bar went silent, save for a quiet saxophone playing somewhere out of a jukebox, “you may have noticed a bit of a bang earlier. Bigwig tower, you know the one I mean. I need information now. Give me a name, point a finger, waggle your eyebrows, I don’t give a fuck, but none of us are leaving until I’ve got something useful.”

The big man whose pint he’d swiped pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’ve got some nerve, copper.”

“Yeah,” Holland said. “You going first?”

*

The fourth stop delivered the goods. Holland nursed his bruised knuckles where the skin had split. It had been a heavy morning, but the clock was ticking. Nobody knew how many explosive were set, and there was no way the bombers were getting their demands met.

As it turned out, that particular fight had been useful. In the middle of it all, Holland had caught a distinct and unmistakable whiff: the same smell from the bomb site at the tower. A younger guy, scrawny, caught his eye and tried to make a break for it, but Hobb was there first, blocking his exit with an arm to the face.

After the place had calmed down, three things had become clear. The kid was a lackey; barely more than a delivery boy. He also claimed to not know what the package had contained. True or not, it didn’t take much arm twisting to get him to nod in the direction of the group he was working for. A dimensionalist group, one that Holland had heard of previously for causing a fuss at various big events - nothing like this, though. One true Earth, and all that. On a good day Holland might even agree with some of their points, but that didn’t give them the right to go around blowing shit up.

They marched the kid up the steep, slippery steps that led out of the literally underground bar and back onto the street, where two uniformed officers were waiting with a van. As the kid was loaded into the back, Hobb picked up the radio from the cab and called it in. He was going to miss her when she transferred out. She knew how to get things done. For her part, it was evident that she couldn’t wait to leave the SDC far behind.

“They’ll send a squad to the address,” she said.”

“Good. Bomb squad?”

“That’s what they promised.”

Holland nodded. He could feel a bruise above his eye. “Then we’d better get moving or we’ll miss all the fun.”

*

DI Christopher Bakker’s morning had been busy. He’d hopped from one telephone call to another: first DCS Walpole on the bombing situation, stressing its severity and that it was all hands to the pump, then DCI Miller to downplay the threat and emphasise that the press should be reassured that they were on top of it, then even Commissioner Graves had called to express his confidence in the team. The Commissioner never called direct, preferring to go through Walpole. While he’d been taking calls, DI Ford had been running the shop from the main office.

As a consequence, Bakker had got absolutely no work done and contributed nothing of value to the operation. Fortunately the SDC team was the best in the Met, so he had no concerns about that side of things.

The handset finally back on it cradle, he opened the door and leaned out, stretching his back, to find Kaminski and Chakraborty at their desks. Ford was over with Robin and Collins, presumably managing the wider situation.

“Morning, guv,” Kaminski said, nodding. “Or is it afternoon?”

“I have no idea,” Bakker said massaging his jaw from side to side. “What are you two doing here? You haven’t been signed off for return to work.”

Chakraborty groaned and looked up at the ceiling. “Do you have any idea how boring it is not doing anything?”

“Glad to see you up and about, detective. How’s the recuperation?”

“It’s awful,” Chakraborty said, “but I’m getting there.” She pointed. “He’s way ahead of me.”

“I got off lucky,” Kaminski said, shrugging.

“From the officer’s report that I read, it sounded like it was more than luck that got you both out of that house. Good to have you back. Let’s just keep the paperwork away from HR for another week-or-two.”

Kaminski ran a hand through his hair, then lit a cigarette. “So what have we got?”

Bakker gestured across the office. “DI Ford will know more than me. I’ve been cooped up in my office all morning. I know there’s been three bombs: the one here, another on Max-Earth and the most recent one at the Bruglia university.”

“This is bad, then.”

“Very bad, detective. Very bad.”

Kaminski spun his chair to look at Chakraborty, as if for permission. She shrugged. “OK, call me crazy,” he said, turning back to Bakker, “but I think there’s more going on here than just bombings.”

“‘Just’ bombings?”

He waved his hands. “Not to play that down. But with everything that’s been happening this year, it feels like we’re missing something.” He looked up at the ceiling panel, clearly as a reminder of the presence of unwanted surveillance microphones.

“Understood,” Bakker said. He’d been so caught up in the chaos of the morning that he’d not had time to consider the bigger picture. A distraction, then. But to distract them from what?