Rollerskater: Desire


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They arrived at their destination at around eleven in the morning, having driven almost non-stop for twenty-four hours. They were near the eastern seaboard of the Federated States, in what was called the Dutch Colonies – the states of New Netherland and New Amsterdam, just south of New England. This region was known for being predominantly Dutch-speaking; they spoke a dialect of Dutch known as Nederlandse Amerikaans.

The vast majority, of course, were bilingual, for the rest of the Federated States spoke English; the British in the eighteenth century had agreed a treaty with the Dutch that allowed them to administer their colonies in return for the safe passage of their troops through Dutch territory, and during the American Revolution, the British and Dutch Americans had, in the spirit of brotherhood and democracy, joined together and ousted the Hanoverian and Orange forces, resulting in the establishment of the Federated States of America.

Soon afterwards, a revolutionary wave had swept across Europe, resulting in the ultimate downfall of the House of Hanover, followed swiftly by the Houses of Orange-Nassau and Bourbon, and a tumultuous series of violent wars, dictatorships, empires, democracies and absolute monarchies established, disestablished and re-established, and then the advent of Communism in the late nineteenth century, which generally threw a spanner in the works of the whole thing and made history a bastard more complicated.

Or at least, that was what Chelsea Rose understood about the whole mess. That was the thing about this new world. That old French saying was true: plus ça change

“I’ve always wanted to visit New Amsterdam,” Dolores said. “It’s so glamorous.” She peered out of the Chariot of Fire’s window at two tall, familiar landmarks. “Oh look, there’s the World Trade Center.”

“Don’t get too starstruck,” Chelsea said. “We’re not staying here long.”

“If only I’d brought my camera,” Dolores said.

Chelsea’s face twinged slightly.

“Shit,” Dolores said, covering her eyes.

“What?”

“I can never go back to my apartment. I left so many things in there.”

“Chances are that FIRE have already smashed the place to fuck,” Chelsea replied. “Honestly, it’s better that you don’t go back there. You didn’t have any pets, right?”

“A pet?” Dolores said, incredulously. “On a waitress’s wage? I’d be lucky if I could afford Sea Monkeys.”

“Just checking we didn’t leave any starving animals behind.”

“No, not at all.”

Chelsea steered the car into an alleyway, and they both got out of the vehicle. She snapped her fingers and the car liquefied, sublimating into a silky golden substance that wrapped itself around her bare feet, forming a pair of gold ballet flats.

“Cute shoes,” Dolores said.

“Thank you,” Chelsea replied. “I know next to nothing about shoes, to be honest. The Chariot seems to have a mind of its own, takes on whatever form it feels is most appropriate. Personally, I think the little pervert has a fetish…”

There was an awkward pause.

“Shall we get lunch?” Dolores said.

They walked away from the alley and into the street.

“What’s the Spear saying?” Chelsea said, tapping her white cane against the ground. She had explained to Dolores that she kept the cane in the boot (that was to say, the trunk, though the obvious pun was not lost on her) of the Chariot of Fire, and when it was in shoe form, she could simply pull it out of the storage space. Transforming the car into a pair of shoes would effectively miniaturise the contents and compress them into the small space until needed.

This had sparked a brief discussion as to what would happen if Dolores were to remain in the car when it was turned into shoes, and Chelsea had advised her not to try finding out.

“We’re close,” Dolores said, weaving around pedestrians, tourists and commuters. “It’s pulsing very strongly now. A little too strongly.”

“We’re right on top of ‘em,” Chelsea said. She held on to Dolores’s arm. “Right, pick a restaurant. I’m not too fussy.”

Dolores studied the restaurants dotted along the sidewalk between boutique shops.

“Lebanese?”

“No,” Chelsea said.

“You said you weren’t fussy.”

“Not in the mood for Lebanese.”

Dolores looked a little way down the street.

“How’s Italian? You can’t go wrong with Italian.”

Chelsea pondered it for a moment.

“Alright then.”

*

Arthur Fenwick’s colleagues were worried about him. He had abandoned much of his professional responsibilities, obsessed with the case of the Chessman and his disappearance. He had purchased a police scanner from some grey-market website, and had become near-reclusive, holing himself away and listening compulsively to police frequencies, trying to hear about something, anything that was out of the ordinary. In doing so, he listened in some of the ugliest parts of New Amsterdam; homicides, gang violence and batteries were a shockingly frequent occurrence, he came to find; but no matter. He wanted to see if he could learn anything, anything at all, about that man and the mysterious sword-wielder.

He had checked in with the hospital regularly to learn of Detective Veck’s status and recovery. Veck had been seriously injured; the blade had damaged several internal organs. It was not known if he would ever be able to leave his bed, such was the catastrophic nature of his injuries. He had been in an induced coma for some time, and was by now up and out of it, and, by all reports, lucid. He tried to arrange to meet with Veck a few times, each time receiving a denial from the family. Eventually, though, Veck overruled them, feeling that he owed Fenwick an explanation.

Fenwick arrived at the hospital on a Vrijday morning and spoke to a receptionist, who directed him down a long series of corridors. Fenwick idly found himself thinking that the hospital looked about as Sino-Soviet as the police precinct. What was it with Americans and their obsession with making every public building look like a prison?

He arrived at Veck’s room, Room 510, and knocked on the wooden door.

The door’s lock disengaged and he entered swiftly.

Inside, a frighteningly skeletal, pale and sickly-looking Veck lay on a bed, an oxygen mask on his face. His eyes widened slightly as he saw Fenwick enter.

“Hey, Fenwick,” he said, weakly. He looked and sounded like a ghost. He would occasionally exhale with a wheeze, then take a deep, ragged breath from the mask. His mechanical right arm was missing. He was deeply unwell.

“Good day to you, Detective,” Fenwick said. “I hear your recovery is going well.”

“As well as it can,” Veck said, bitterly. “Given the circumstances.”

Fenwick decided it was more polite not to dwell too long on Veck’s condition.

“You said that there was something you wanted to talk to me about,” Fenwick said. “Regarding the Chessman.”

“Yes,” Veck replied. “There is.”

He weakly reached over with his left hand to the side of his bed and folded it into an upright position. Veck inhaled and looked over at Fenwick.

“What the hell are you doing?” Veck said.

“What do you mean, Detective?”

“Don’t be a jackass, Fenwick,” Veck spat. “Why are you still thinking about the Chessman case? Am I not evidence enough that pursuing this is bad news?”

Fenwick looked at the ground sheepishly.

“There’s something about that man,” he said, softly. “Call it a gut feeling. There was something strange going on with him. What happened to you just raised further questions…”

Veck sighed. “I’ve seen this happen before,” he said. “Junior detectives on the force. Rookies. Every detective gets that one case that just doesn’t seem to add up no matter which way they slice it. A body found in an industrial park with no visible marks. Whole families wiped out in car accidents with seemingly no perpetrator. They get obsessed, it drives them crazy. Some of ‘em leave the force after having breakdowns. I see the same thing happening to you, Fenwick. You’re obsessing over a case that is unsolvable.”

“No,” Fenwick said. “I…I can solve this. I know I can.”

“Fenwick,” Veck said, sternly. “Look, I appreciate that you’re trying to do something to help me out here. Really, I’m grateful that you care this much. But I don’t want you to destroy yourself trying to solve a case that just doesn’t want to be solved. Cases like this are a dime a dozen. I advise that you go home, get some rest, and try to put this behind you.”

Fenwick nodded, dejected. “Thank you, Detective,” he said. “You’ve…put things in perspective.”

“Don’t call me Detective,” Veck said. “It’s Robert.”

“Yes,” Fenwick said. “Robert. Of course.”

“Hopefully I get out of here soon,” Veck said. “Don’t think I’ll be working in the field any more, though…”

“Get well soon,” Fenwick said. He pulled an envelope from his jacket, opened it and handed it to Veck. Veck pulled out a slim card expressing condolences, with three tulips, one red, one yellow and one orange.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Veck replied.

Fenwick nodded, said his farewells, and left.

One more night, he thought. One more night of trying to crack this. Then I’ll let it be.

*

The Italian place served sandwiches, cakes and coffee. It reminded Dolores a little of Mister Pure’s place. The staff were very friendly. She had realised after walking into the place that she was still dressed in her waitressing clothes – a pink chequered pinafore over a plain white blouse. None of the servers seemed to pay any mind.

She had ordered a tunafish sandwich with a latte, and Chelsea had ordered a black coffee with cannoli.

The tunafish sandwich consisted of tuna mayonnaise and salad greens in a ciabatta, and was served with a small swirl of balsamic vinegar on the side of the plate. She was unfamiliar with the concoction; Italian cuisine was quite rare in Sino-Soviet Ukraine outside of pizza, and her time spent in rural Arizona had not unlocked much in the way of culinary horizon-broadening. The waiter explained what it was and its function on the plate cordially, and then left them to eat.

The sandwich was delicious – the oily fish melted in the mouth, and the greens added some texture and crunch. She used the porous bread to mop up some of the vinegar, and found that the vinegar added an extra dimension to the flavour. It was quite unlike any vinegar she had ever had before, which she had always found to be revoltingly pungent, like bad breath; this had a delicate sweetness to it and a tartness that transformed the rich and savoury flavour in the sandwich into an explosion of sweet, sour and savoury that she had not experienced anywhere before.

“This sandwich is amazing,” she said.

Chelsea had already eaten her cannoli and was feeling for and picking little bits of deep-fried pastry off of her plate, sipping at her coffee.

“I do like a nice cannoli,” Chelsea said. “First time I ever had it was in…”

She trailed off.

“Where?” Dolores said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chelsea replied.

“You can tell me,” Dolores said. “We’re in this together, right?”

Chelsea sighed. “I just wish you remembered me,” she said. “We were friends, me and you, back then. Well, ‘friends’ is being generous, I suppose. It seems so strange to see you again and you not recognise me.”

Dolores nodded. “The first time you ever ate cannoli was…”

“A long time ago,” Chelsea said. “In a city that don’t exist in this world. Got burned down by Boudica, apparently, and they never rebuilt it. In my world, it was…one of the most famous cities in the world. You should have seen it, Dolores. Well, you did see it. The old you, I mean. Mind you, traffic was a fucking nightmare. And the public transport was always breaking down. And it was polluted. And it stank.”

“Sounds like a lovely place to me,” Dolores replied, sardonically.

“It was my home,” Chelsea said. “But…more than that…”

She trailed off again. She cleared her throat.

“How strong’s the signal for that Bow, missus?”

“Pretty strong,” Dolores said, placing a hand on the centre of her chest.

She looked down. A pulsating gold light was shining between her fingers, and, just under the chatter of patrons in every language under the Sun, a soft thrumming was audible.

“We’re close,” Dolores said. “Remind me again what we need this thing for?”

“It’s ontologically connected to our weapons by fate,” Chelsea explained. “It can be combined with our weapons, plus one other set of objects, to create the most powerful weapon in all creation. I don’t even really know what it does. But I do know that it’ll help us stop this bloke.”

“Which bloke is that?”

“The bloke that killed the old universe. Keep up, love.”

“Alright,” Dolores said. “How do you know all this?”

“Dreamed about it.”

“What?”

“As a kid,” Chelsea said. “Had to grow up, just like you – didn’t really remember who I was until I reached late teens. Just before I got the Chariot of Fire, actually. Had this voice in my head, sounded like a man’s voice as I recall…”

“Singing,” Dolores said, aloud.

Chelsea put down her coffee cup. “Yeah,” she said. “How did you…”

“I…forgot until now,” Dolores said. “When I was a little girl, I used to dream of this man…singing in a language I’d never heard before. He looked a bit like the American President. I remember because our teacher used to show us a picture of him and tell us he was what they in Moskva call vrag naroda – an enemy of the people.”

“The Republican Party said much the same thing of President Gore,” Chelsea said.

“How did I not remember until now?” Dolores said. “It was a recurring dream…and then one day they just stopped.”

“The Spear chose you,” Chelsea said. “Just as the Chariot chose me. Chances are, whoever has the Bow must have a similar experience…”

“Speaking of which,” Dolores said, looking down at her chest.

The Spear’s light was now flickering like a strobe light, and the thrumming had become loud enough to hear even with the chatter.

“It’s very close by,” Dolores said.

“Let’s go find us that bow,” Chelsea said, affecting a Southern drawl again.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Dolores said, laughing. “Your American accent is terrible.”

“Oh, you can talk, Yakov Smirnoff.”

“Who?”

“Oh yeah, this universe doesn’t have him. It’s a long story…”

*

They spent the afternoon searching the city. They thought they’d managed to find it at a hotel in uptown Manhattan, but just as they got there, the signal got weaker and they’d lost it for a bit. They’d wandered the streets trying to pick the signal back up, only to receive it again some hours later, after the sun had set.

The signal led them back downtown to a bar about a block away from the Noortrivier. There was a long queue outside.

“You sure this is the right place?” Chelsea asked, after Dolores had explained to her the length of the queue, which she could not see.

“Pretty sure,” Dolores replied. “What would a person be doing with a crossbow at a place like this?”

“Need I remind you that you have a spear hiding between your tits?”

Dolores paused for a beat.

“Point taken. How are we going to get in?”

“Leave that to me,” Chelsea said. “Hold my hand.”

“Wait,” Dolores said. “Won’t you rip my arm off?”

“No,” Chelsea replied. “It’s the same principle as being a passenger in the car. You won’t be killed if you’re in the containment field.”

Dolores grabbed hold of Chelsea’s hand. There was a bluish flash, and they were plunged into darkness.

“Chelsea,” Dolores said. “What’s going on?”

“We’re superluminal,” Chelsea replied. “We’re moving faster than light.”

“What if we bump into someone?” Dolores said, uneasily. “Won’t we…explode them?”

“The Chariot will guide us in using your spear,” Chelsea said. “Just take it easy and keep holding my hand.”

Steadily, they walked through, weaving past invisible bouncers and through doors, down a set of stairs. Dolores, realising that it would come as quite a shock if they suddenly appeared on the dance floor, asked where the ladies’ toilet was, and the Spear throbbed a couple of times as if rolling its eyes indignantly, and then they were led through the crowded bar. Dolores felt her nail get caught on some fabric momentarily. She hurriedly extricated herself, and they walked into the toilet and found their way into a cubicle.

Sight returned to Dolores.

“That was freaky,” Dolores said.

“Welcome to my world,” Chelsea said. “Well, not exactly. I’m not completely blind. I can see colours and shapes – I know your hair’s red, for example. But when it comes to finding my way, I’m as good as we were in the dark just there.”

“Alright,” Dolores said. “We’re in. Now what?”

“Ask it where the Bow is,” Chelsea said.

Dolores did so, and the spear began pulling them back out to the bar.

They left the cubicle together hurriedly, generating some odd looks from a few women checking their makeup in the mirrors, and found their way out.

The bar area was fitted with a sort of grid-layout of leather couches with walkways in between, as though forming a square with a plus sign cut out of the middle, as well as a larger, open dancefloor on the far side of the room, in front of which was a stage, where a rock band was playing.

On a sofa nearest the women’s toilets, a young woman in a blue and black dress was holding the hemline in disbelief – someone had apparently managed to put a hole in it, and the cheap polyester from which it was made had somehow melted. She was livid, although Dolores spoke no Dutch, and so couldn’t understand a word of what she was saying. Just as well, she thought.

“Scan the people in the crowd for the Bow,” Chelsea said.

Dolores did, but there was no sign. She felt herself being pulled to the far side of the room, near the dancefloor.

“Reckon it’s one of them dancers?” Chelsea asked.

“Could be,” Dolores replied, annoyed at herself that she had already begun to pick up Chelsea’s strange, succinct mannerisms.

Dolores led Chelsea, cane in hand, to the far side of the room, where a loud song had just finished.

Bedankt, New Amsterdam,” said the lead singer of the band. “You’ve been wonderful.”

The band quickly packed their things and left the stage, and an emcee ran out to keep the crowd going.

“Any sign of the Bow?” Chelsea asked.

“No,” Dolores said. “It…almost seems like it’s not out here at all…”

“You mean one of the performers has it?”

The emcee finished his brief set of gags, most of which were in Dutch, then announced the next act.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the next act of the evening…”

Dolores and Chelsea turned to the stage.

“…Ella Faux and the Oscillations!”

A woman launched herself from backstage, clutching a golden bass guitar, and deliberately forced the strings against the pickups, pointing her guitar across the crowd, creating an audible “bang” sound as if she were firing a machine gun.

She had silver hair in a pixie cut, and was wearing a white tank-top, military trousers and a pair of combat boots.

“Wait,” Chelsea said. “I’ve heard that name somewhere before…”

“New Amsterdam! Are you fucking ready?” the woman shouted, in an English accent.

There was a roar of appreciation from the crowd.

“I can’t hear you! New Amsterdam! Are you fucking ready?”

The roar was louder.

“Chelsea,” Dolores said. “The Bow…it’s close by…it’s really close by…”

DUT-DUT-DUT-DUT

A wall of screaming guitar noise washed over the entire club like an overwhelming tsunami of sound. There was probably a melody, even a vocal in there somewhere, buried under layers of pedal effects and feedback.

Dolores could see three people on the stage – the singer, who was presumably Ella Faux, a stocky drummer with extremely long hair, and a very lean guitarist with a shaved head who, she thought, resembled some sort of hairless burrowing rodent crossed with a Buddhist monk.

“The Bow,” she shouted, over the noise. “It’s right on top of us—”

The Spear of Clarity spontaneously manifested itself in the centre of her chest.

“Wait,” she said. “What?!”

The Bow was so close, and the Spear so intent on its mission to find it, that it had decided to do the last leg of the journey on its own.

“Get back in there, you bastard,” Dolores said, gripping the Spear, but to no avail.

The spear launched itself from her chest, passing harmlessly through multiple people in the crowd before the lead singer and bassist realised what was going on and dived out of the way just in time to see it crash into a set of speakers behind her.

The guitarist and drummer stopped playing and she scanned the crowd angrily, pointing at the Spear.

“Who threw that?” she said.

There came no answer.

“Dolores, what did you do?” Chelsea hissed.

“The Spear just decided to launch itself at her at Mach 1.”

“Oh, fuck sake.”

“Who the fuck threw that?” Ella Faux bellowed. “We’re not continuing with the show until we find out.”

The booing crowd turned, pointing to the conspicuous women standing in the middle of the dancefloor, which, in retrospect, had been a rather stupid place to stand while trying to stay out of sight.

“Oh, here we go,” Chelsea said.

“You,” Ella Faux shouted, pointing at Dolores. “Was it you?”

“Er…well, yes,” Dolores said. “But also—”

“Shit,” Ella said. “They’re here for the Bow.”

“Oh hey, she has the Bow,” Chelsea said.

“What should we do?” asked the guitarist.

“What do you think, Lewis?” Ella asked. “Get me the Arrows.” She turned to the drummer. “You too, Ollie.”

Ollie sighed as Ella turned back to the microphone.

“Show’s over, folks,” she said. “But believe me, you’re not gonna wanna miss the encore.”

The crowd booed loudly.

“What a city, eh?” Chelsea said, with a grin.

*

It was dark, and Veck’s words still span in Fenwick’s head. Veck had been right. This had been harming him, professionally and as a human being. He needed to let go of the Chessman case and get back to his passion, helping people. Perhaps, he thought, criminal psychiatry had taken its toll on his own mental wellbeing. It might be time to give it up.

He scanned through the frequencies, trawling the megahertz, trying to find some snippet of conversation, something strange, something odd. Nothing. Just public drunkenness, an arson, a fist-fight on the subway.

He sighed.

Veck had also been right in another regard. The Chessman was long gone, and the story would forever remain unsolved. He ought to let it go and got back on with his life, rather than letting this consume him. He didn’t want to let it—

“Available units near West 16th Street, we’ve had reports of a woman throwing a spear in a bar near the fifty-seventh Noortrivier Pier. Sounds like it’s escalating into a fight. We need responders on the scene.”

Fenwick listened intently.

The Chessman may have been gone, he thought, but he remembered what that officer had told him: Someone with a sword had attacked Veck. Veck had been hesitant to give details, and he hadn’t pressed him for them. But there was something about that image of someone wielding a sword…in a country that prided itself on its gun culture, it was a bizarre weapon to use. Yes, you heard of the odd Japanophile starting a fight on the train by pulling out a katana, but this was different. An expert swordsman had injured Veck. And there was some parity between that, and a woman wielding a spear.

What the heck, Fenwick thought. Even if my hunch is wrong, at least it’ll get my mind off things.

Hurriedly he packed his briefcase, took the elevator down to the ground floor and exited the building, hailing a passing orange cab.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.

“Pier fifty-seven,” he said. “I’ll pay you double if you get me there in under fifteen minutes.”

“You got it, boss,” the driver said. He stepped on the gas, and they were off.

*

The bass guitar transformed in Ella Faux’s hands into a golden crossbow. The six strings of Lewis’s bass guitar and Ollie’s drumsticks transformed in their hands into a set of eight bolts. The crossbow had a repeating mechanism built in the top, into which Ella Faux loaded the bolts, and on top of that, a scope. By now, the majority of the bar patrons had made a break for it.

“Wait!” Dolores shouted. “You’ve got this all wrong!”

“You threw a fucking spear at me,” Ella Faux replied, aiming the crossbow. “You have exactly five seconds to explain yourself.”

“I didn’t throw it,” Dolores said. “It threw itself at you. At your weapon.”

“And why did it do that?”

“Because we’re looking for it,” Chelsea replied. “We need your Bow. And the Arrows too.”

“Oh yeah?” Ollie said. “What for?”

“It’ll take too long to explain. Just trust me.”

“Likely story,” Ella said.

“Wait!” Dolores said.

Ella pulled the trigger, recocked the bowstring and pulled again –

Simultaneously, Chelsea grabbed Dolores’s hand and went superluminal, running across the room to dodge the bolts.

They exited light speed, having run through several leather seats, which had instantly sublimated into plasma.

Fwip fwip

They ducked. The bolts embedded themselves in the seats behind them, and twitched and buzzed angrily, like trapped wasps.

Ella Faux smiled.

“So that’s your ability,” she said, smiling. “These aren’t ordinary crossbow bolts. The Bow of Burning Gold uses the Arrows of Desire, which are able to track their targets. Apparently, they even work while the target is moving faster than light. That’s pretty cool.”

The bolts burrowed their way through the seats, launching themselves back into the air, somersaulting and coming back for a second round.

Chelsea grabbed Dolores’s hand again and they once again went superliminal.

“We need to get the Spear back,” Dolores said. “But without hurting any of them.”

“I hear you,” Chelsea said. “Those bolts are following us at much lower than light speed. We should be able to get a head start on them.”

“Have you got a plan to stop them?”

“Yeah,” Chelsea said. “But let’s get that spear back first.”

They ran forward and Chelsea exited light-speed. Dolores could see the Spear and the stage. Ella Faux was still looking at where they had been. They went back into light-speed and climbed on to the stage, still holding hands, and exited light-speed again so Dolores could see where they were going. They re-entered light-speed and quickly weaved around the band and their equipment to minimise harm. They exited light-speed once more, and Dolores quickly grabbed the Spear. They then re-entered light-speed for a final time, finding their way back off the stage and on to the dancefloor, then exited for the last time, just in time for Chelsea to transform the Chariot of Fire…

What Ella Faux and the Oscillations saw while this happened was Dolores and Chelsea blipping in and out of view as though lit by a strobe light, the Spear vanishing, and then suddenly there was a large, golden armoured van sitting in the middle of the dancefloor.

The bolts smacked into the side of the van with a resonant twangggg.

“What the hell just happened?” Lewis asked.

“They moved faster than light,” Ella said. “That’s pretty quick thinking under pressure.”

“You’re not saying you’re impressed, are you, Ella?” Ollie said. “They tried to kill you.”

“No,” Ella said, looking behind them. “Look, they took the spear.”

“So? They’re probably getting ready to go after you again and take the Bow from you.”

“So – if they had wanted to kill us in light speed, they would have done. I guess I jumped the gun a bit.”

“I don’t trust them,” Lewis said.

Ella jumped from the stage, Bow in hand, and approached the armoured van. There was a small logo on the side door that read “CHARIOT OF FIRE”.

She pulled the Arrows out and loaded them back into the Bow, then knocked on the side of the van, which, rather than producing a harsh rapping noise, produced a rather pleasant glissando.

“What do you need the Bow for?” she asked.

Chelsea slid open the side of the van. “Do you promise not to shoot your bolts at us again?”

“Provided you don’t piss me off, yes.”

“I think you’d better come inside,” Chelsea said.

“Er, Ella,” Ollie shouted.

“Not now,” Ella said. “I’m negotiating.”

“Ella,” Lewis said.

“Not at the minute.”

“Ella,” Ollie said, calmly. “The cops are here.”

“Everyone inside the van, now!” Chelsea shouted. “These walls are impenetrable to most conventional weapons. They’d have to drop a fucking ICBM on us to get through this armour.”

Ella turned to the other two. “You heard the woman!”

The other two quickly ran over to the van and jumped in, just in time for the police to storm the now-empty bar.

A police captain stepped forward with a bullhorn.

“This is the NAPD,” he said, in English. “We have you surrounded.”

The interior of the van was furnished with cream leather seating rather similar to that of the Chariot’s sports car configuration, albeit with the seats turned inwards. The interior was also remarkably spacious.

“Jesus Christ,” Ollie said. “This isn’t how I expected this show to go.”

“They can’t hurt us in here,” Chelsea said. She was once again barefoot.

“What do we do now?” Dolores asked.

“First things first,” Chelsea said. “Let’s get this cleared up: We’re not here to steal the Bow. We’re here to ask you to help us out.”

“Help you out?” Ollie said. “Sweetheart, you just threw a spear at us.”

Sweetheart?” Chelsea growled.

“It was an accident,” Dolores said. “Look.”

She withdrew the Spear from her chest, and asked it: “Where is the Bow of Burning Gold?”

Dolores carefully holding on to it, the Spear pointed at the Bow in Ella’s hands, like a magnet crossed with an excitable puppy dog.

“I guess it was just excited to see you,” Dolores said.

“Heh,” Ollie replied, and Ella punched him in the arm. “Ow!”

“Alright,” Ella said. “I believe you. Sorry about the misunderstanding.”

“It happens,” Chelsea said.

“So what do you need the Bow and the Arrows for?”

Chelsea sighed. “Your Bow and their Arrows, combined with my Chariot and Dolores’s Spear. Combined together, they can make a powerful weapon. We need to create that weapon.”

“Why?” Ella asked.

Chelsea frowned. “Well,” she said. “You see—”

“We were friends, once,” Dolores said. “In a universe that died. We don’t remember each other…I don’t remember you…but somehow…all of us in this room together, with these weapons…I feel a connection. Like we once knew each other well, and now we’re perfect strangers. I don’t remember you at all. Chelsea might. But I do know this: Whoever did this to us, whoever tore us apart, is still alive in this world, and he might try to finish us off. We only get one more chance at this. And if we bring our weapons together, maybe we will be friends once more.”

Chelsea had an expression of amazement on her face.

“Dolores…”

“Don’t call me that,” Dolores said, smiling. “My name is Dolly.

*

Fenwick leapt from the cab, throwing double his fare at the cab driver. There were police cars all around the bar and a set of barriers had been put up. He was getting old; he could not so much run as lightly jog (although “hobble” was a more accurate description), and by the time he’d made it to the barrier he was wheezing and panting.

“You okay, sir?” asked a patrol officer, standing by the barriers.

“Arthur…Fenwick,” he wheezed. “Criminal…psychiatrist. Here…to help…defuse…situation.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Fenwick flipped open his briefcase and pulled out a payroll sheet and his state-issued ID.

“Working…for…NAPD…years now.” Apparently being out of breath made his Dutch resemble that of a five-year-old. “Need…get in…talk…people…”

The officer looked it over.

“Were you summoned here?”

“Yes,” Fenwick lied. He could taste blood. Christ Jesus, why did anyone enjoy running?

“Alright,” the officer said. “Well, you’re on our payroll, I guess. We’ll let you through.”

“Thank…you…” Fenwick gasped.

He was escorted through the police line and into the bar. He noticed scorch marks on the floors, wondering where they had come from.

He entered the bar to see a large semi-circle of policemen, guns drawn, aimed at what appeared to be a golden armoured van sitting in the middle of the dancefloor.

“What the hell?” he said.

The police captain turned to see the newcomers.

“Who the hell is this?” he asked the patrol officer.

“Arthur Fenwick,” the officer replied. “He’s on our payroll.”

“I didn’t call for him.”

Fenwick was sweating, partly from running and partly because he didn’t want them to find out he’d used a scanner to find this place. The patrol officer looked at him.

“Well, someone must have done,” the patrol officer did.

“Not me,” the captain said. “This is a dangerous situation. Get him out of here.”

“No, wait,” Fenwick said. He’d given up on speaking Dutch at all and was now speaking English. “Let me talk to them.” He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “Please.”

The police captain looked at him, then at the patrol officer.

“You get five minutes,” he said.

Dank je,” Fenwick replied.

“Lower arms,” the police captain shouted, taking Fenwick firmly by the arm and dragging him over to the van. “Get in there. Earn your goddam payroll. If you can’t defuse the situation in five minutes, then we’re blowing the doors in with you inside.”

“Understood,” Fenwick said.

He stepped forward, tentatively.

He knocked sheepishly on the side of the van.

“Er…” he stammered. “My n-name is Arthur Fenwick…I’m a psychiatrist working with the NAPD, and…” He lowered his voice. “I have some information that might be of importance to you.”

There were a few moments of silence, punctuated by chatter from inside. The side of the van opened and Fenwick was whisked inside by hands, before the door slammed shut again.

“Present arms!” the police captain yelled, looking at his watch. 20:28. “Don’t fire until my mark or I’ll have you demoted!”

*

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Ollie asked.

“I’m Arthur Fenwick,” Fenwick repeated, timidly. “Er, and you would be…”

“Ollie,” the drummer said. “Of Ella Faux and the Oscillations.”

“I see,” Fenwick said. “I’m not familiar with that…particular band.”

“You wouldn’t be, grandad.”

Fenwick cleared his throat, too stressed to be insulted by the slight (and, to be fair, was he wrong?)

“Alright, now I’m inside,” he said. “I’ve been having some strange experiences in the last couple of weeks.”

“Really?” Dolly said. “Like what?”

Fenwick propped himself against one of the Chariot’s walls.

“I was recently called to the 20th Precinct of the New Amsterdam Police Department to interview a profoundly disturbed man,” he explained. “The police were calling him the Chessman. They found him in Central Park clutching two chess pieces – a black king and a white queen. Nobody knows his real name or where he came from. He had these violent outbursts. I was about to have him committed, when suddenly…”

“What?” Chelsea asked.

“He vanished in the night without a trace. Someone came and let him free. He – or she – had a sword on him, from what I can gather, and ran through a few policemen with it. Since then, there’s been no clue as to their whereabouts.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Ella asked, pointedly.

“Because,” Fenwick replied, anxiously, “Who uses a sword in a police station rather than a gun? When I heard about this on the police scanner just now, I thought, who, in New Amsterdam, runs around wielding a spear? And I figured, there must be a connection. I deduced, I suppose, that anyone bringing a sword or a spear to a city filled with guns must have a very special sword or spear indeed. And when I saw this van, my suspicions were confirmed. By God, I must be going daffy, but…this is magic, isn’t it? Real, honest-to-God magic. Not stage tricks or illusions.”

There was a silence.

“Do the police know that you know this?” Chelsea said.

“Heavens, no,” Fenwick replied. “My colleagues think I’m having a breakdown already. There was one other thing, too…”

“What?” Dolly asked.

“The Chessman,” Fenwick said. “Like I say, a very disturbed man. He would wake up in the night and scream for twenty minutes. He had these night terrors. He would see this…thing, I suppose. A ghostly apparition, by the sounds of things. He called it the Threnody.”

Blank looks. He had hoped they’d know what he was talking about.

“Go on,” Chelsea said.

“Well…when I was interviewing him the last time I ever saw him…just after he was removed from the room for a violent outburst…I saw something. In the corner of the room. I thought I was just seeing things and I was sympathetically manifesting psychosomatic symptoms but…the truth is, I know what I saw.”

“Chessman…” Chelsea said. “He might be the man we’re looking for.”

“Really?” Dolly said. “How can you tell?”

“I don’t know,” Chelsea said. “Call it a gut feeling.”

“I hope I was of help,” Fenwick said.

“Surprisingly, you were,” Chelsea said. “Right, lots to do. We need to get on to the river.”

“Why’s that?” Ella asked.

“Because I think I’ve got an idea of where he’s disappeared to,” Chelsea said, quickly making her way to the front of the van. “Hold tight,” she said.

“Wait!” Fenwick shouted.

*

The police captain looked at his watch. 20:33.

“Open fire!” he shouted.

The police guns went off and immediately bullets deflected in all directions, striking a few officers.

The van’s engine came to life with a musical hum, and suddenly it was on the move.

“Don’t let it get away!” the police captain shouted. “Fire at will—”

There was a blue flash, and suddenly there was a van-shaped hole in the wall. The policemen quickly ran through it, finding what was left of a bodega, thankfully empty of any life, and an empty street.

“Where the hell did they go?!” shouted a police officer.

“Oh, the superintendent is not going to be happy about this,” the police captain said.

*

In the Atlantic Ocean, there was a power-boat. It was gold, and on its side was etched its appellation: “MISS CHARIOT III”.

They’d made it on to the Noortrivier, and managed to escape through the New Amsterdam Harbor.

“Everyone alright?” Chelsea asked. “That was a close call.”

“I’m alright,” Dolly replied.

“Well, I guess that’s our equipment gone,” Ollie said, indignantly.

“I think we’ve got bigger problems,” Ella said.

Fenwick had his head in his hands.

Dolly put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she said. “Are you all right?”

Fenwick sighed. “God,” he said. “I just had to get myself involved, didn’t I?”

“We’ll take care of you,” Ella said. “Don’t worry about that.”

“It’s not that,” Fenwick said. “It’s just that…I can’t go back now. They’ll arrest me. My career is finished.”

“Hey, join the club,” Dolly said. “At least you don’t have FIRE after you.”

“You have FIRE after you?!”

Chelsea turned around.

“A quiet life is a wasted life,” she said. “Now strap in. We really picked a day to go sailing.”

“Where are we going?” Ella said.

Chelsea smiled.

“Where do you think?” she said. “Merry old England.”


Another place, another time…


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ARC TWO: ROSE GOLD
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