Mayhem, Chapter One

Dylan Cook sat slowly back in the communication suite’s swivel-chair. It was unlike him to be anything but happy in a room jam-packed with state-of-the-art technological equipment, but this was one of those rare occasions.

“Come now, Dylan,” the voice of Professor Grindo crackled coaxingly from the telespeakers. “Dedicated peacekeeping action. The Four Heroes’ officially-approved representative. Subversive presences that might side with The Foretold One. You do go to the cinema, don’t you?”

“I’ve seen the newsreel, Prof,” Dylan sighed. “And I’ve not forgotten you saved my life. So did Joe, too many times to count. When I’m not enjoying the latest Grindotron blockbuster I like to kick back with a good prophecy, and there’s one that makes interesting predictions about where it’ll lead if the Alliance sends me after him now. In fact, there’s a lot more than one. Joe was like a brother to me, and I can’t think of a single Earth-legend where that sort of thing ends well.”

“We’re not on Earth, Dylan my lad,” Prof pointed out. “We’re at the forefront of a galactic union which seems to be suffering from the rapid onset of growing-pains. First, the kidnap of our most revered farns. Then Prince Agaric’s abdication, which to my finely attuned senses reeks like a Bogg Thore proving-ground at the height of summer. And now this. That’s why the Alliance leadership – or to be specific, one very particular body among those that make it up – says enough is enough.”

“I’m having a hard time figuring out what Joe’s done that’s actually wrong, Professor,” Dylan declared. “Besides taking a field-trip with a few of his followers to some system in the back of beyond. Maybe his choice of holiday locale needs a little work, but I didn’t realise there were Alliance laws against that.”

On the monitor Prof’s face, which as he was a Grindo meant the whole of him, remained almost inscrutable. There was however a tiny touch of wryness about his yellowing saggy features, and the opaque eyepiece could not keep Dylan from intuiting a twinkle beneath.

“No-one in this galaxy has ever seen a Vernderernder panic,” stated Prof. “Scientist that I am, I therefore know to proceed with caution in the absence of empirical evidence. But I’d stake my reputation that that’s what I witnessed, when Toothfire contacted me to break the news.”

“Because Joe and a handful of Mini-Flashes and beatniks have gone on an excursion?” Dylan repeated, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the other agreed gamely. “Nor does it end there. Toothfire has refused to take part in the investigation. Instead they pulled rank, insisted as first signatories of the Alliance Treaty that some other member-world determine at once what Joe’s up to. But they’re not going anywhere near that system themselves. I hardly need tell you we can’t put this down to cowardice. You’ve seen Vernderernders. There must be some other reason your friend’s harmless little outing has flurried the whole coop of them. Yet when it comes time to do something about it, then for the first recorded instance in Toothfire’s eons of empire, they delegate.”

The situation by now was taking Dylan’s interest too. He leaned closer to the monitor screen and continued confidentially to Prof:

“Am I right in thinking, then, it’d be a waste of breath my trotting out any pre-prepared whiny queries about why it had to be me? Rather than the usual Flash Club beefcakes or your own battle-robots? Is it that you wanted someone on the ground who could look into a few of these questions about our Vernderernder friends while he was there, maybe because that might prove even more important in the long run than anything to do with Joe?”

Adequate confirmation was to be found in Prof’s wrinkled wily smile.

“I love peace, lad,” were his words. “I was never a weaponsmith by choice, however good at it I happened to be. It was Toothfire who forced me into the role of warmonger. If they’re hiding truths from their supposed allies now, it behooves me and all my people to find out just what. Treaties are fine, but outright trust in Toothfire would be asking too much of any Grindo.”

That was difficult to dispute. So Dylan accepted the assignment and signed off from Prof, then settled back in his seat again.

Phoenix and 4-H-N were certain to join him, and there was no-one Dylan would rather have had by his side. That still left their ranks somewhat depleted however, and although Dylan was anxious to avoid open hostilities against Joe and his faction, he knew all too well that that worst-case scenario must be prepared for. Phoenix Prime was gone, Carmilla had vanished without trace in search of her, and Dylan would have been the first to admit he was wary of inviting their parents. The grudge James bore Joe could only speed matters in the wrong direction, especially as Dylan would already have to contend with Phoenix who felt much as her father did. What was more, there was no getting away from the fact that both James and Iskira were becoming too old for this kind of thing, however admirably they had acquitted themselves in active service during the Solidity War. If they were indeed Dylan’s future in-laws, then it was surely up to him to start putting limits on the number of interplanetary escapades he dragged them into.

Prof however had made it clear Dylan would be acting with full Alliance support. That meant all the available resources of that conglomerate were at his fingertips, including personnel. A swift series of keyboard inputs and the central computer was hard at work, scanning parameters and cross-referencing carefully selected files to identify the most suitable agents for this mission. If his directive was to find out what Joe knew, then Dylan needed something better than mere firepower. He needed to understand those residents of the galaxy who had pledged their loyalty to Joe. He needed someone on his team who might be able to bridge that ever-widening divide between himself and his former friend’s strange clandestine circle. In short, Dylan needed Mini-Flashes.

Designation: Flashlight. Mini-Flash status: senior. Oldest member of Neetra Neetkins’ interim Flash Club. Highest power-level of all male Mini-Flashes in interim Flash Club. Served as unofficial second-in-command.

He sounded just right. Dylan hit a signal-button, and parsecs away at Flash Club Headquarters the cheerful fair-haired Flashlight started and dropped his control-pad as an electronic beeper hidden somewhere in his white tunic suddenly summoned him to duty.

Designation: Mini-Flash Bloomer. Mini-Flash status: entry-level. Oldest of five neophytes in interim Flash Club. Approaching graduation to senior status. Powers at peak for female entry-level Mini-Flash.

Pretty Mini-Flash Bloomer with her foot-tall bright pink hairstyle was getting dressed when her tunic began beeping from its peg. She rushed out of the door in just her knickers and boots, then seconds later hurried back inside, pulled the tunic on and left again.

These two Mini-Flashes were only around the age Dylan himself had been when Nottingham was created, but they had played a crucial part in saving Earth from the Solidity, and fighting alongside Neetra would have taught them The Four Heroes’ ways. Having them along on this mission might just do the trick. And if that was the team taken care of, the hardware had been sorted out a long time in advance. At the push of one last button Dylan’s chair eased itself onto the hydraulic track that linked it to every other facility in this vast Grindotron complex.

“Loading-bay,” Dylan voice-commanded. “Outbound.”

A cold sirocco was blowing dust and grit down the sand-dunes to the foot of the slope where two interplanetary racers, red and black, were parked. On this bleak world the architecture apparent was a mere thing of yesterday, crumbly plaster edifices shored-up with wooden beams, though in and out of their dilapidated archways and pillared halls half open to the elements a thriving marketplace was in full swing. Tentacled aliens plied wares of dubious provenance from blankets spread out on the rubbly ground, while elsewhere a trestle heaped with faded pyramidal recording devices boasted forgotten hit singles and obscure albums of yesteryear. Two female Mini-Flashes, one a misty and insubstantial senior and the other a neophyte with silver-blue hair, were intent on these and debating tracks and samples like a pair of sages while the amorphous proprietor smoked. A little distance away from the shouts and bartering stood Joe, with a male Mini-Flash who from the trouble he was having with his tunic-skirt must have been standing at the confluence of several different desert winds at once, both looking out on the chasms and crags which besides a few sketchy trading-posts seemed to be this planet in sum. It did not even have a name these days, just a stellar grid-reference for a largely indifferent galaxy to know it by, though Joe suspected he would only ever be able to remember it as Drenthis.

“Still feels funny to think we’re where the First and Final War was fought,” commented Flashtease. “Guess the histories had me expecting snow. Although of course a lot of climate-change can happen over so many millennia, and the superweapon-use must have sped that along.”

“You know more of such science than I, Flashtease,” said Joe. “But it is at least within my power to assure you I did not err. That much is certain now.”

Flashtease turned his wide blue eyes back from the rocky landscape. “So they’re coming?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“I sense them,” Joe concurred solemnly. “Much as I knew I would, though it grieves me to the very heart. That is why I needed you and Flashshadow, proven operatives who I know I may count on. Contamination likewise is among our party for no reason other than the obvious. As for Mini-Flash Splitsville, her unique abilities have benefited us before and I have every faith they may do so again.”

“Good thing all three of your tunic-and-pants combos were able to get a leave of absence,” Flashtease remarked. “Actually I wasn’t holding out high hopes, as it’s almost unheard-of for so many requests to be granted at the same time. Just plain old lucky, I guess!”

Joe allowed his gaze to stray for a moment to the two girls over by the music stall. The more he thought back on it, the more it seemed the way in which he met Mini-Flash Splitsville had been plain old lucky too. Small wonder he had started to consider the existence of anonymous friends somewhere towards the top of The Flash Club’s hierarchy.

“If luck it is, Flashtease, then let us hope it endures,” declared Joe, reverting to more immediate concerns. “I myself will be ready to believe in our good fortune if we are able to leave this planet without incident. As per the plan, we should remain here only as long as it takes us to rest and resupply for our journey to Nereynis. Any alternative would be playing into Harbin’s hands.”

He put his arm around Flashtease, and deep in thought continued:

“I or Dylan must stand by him. That is the prophecy. But I swear, Flashtease, my son shall not make a villain of me.”

“He shan’t while I’m around,” the staunch Mini-Flash reassured him in reply. A third space-racer was howling back from the far-off peaks, and glimpsing it Flashtease continued: “Oh, and there’s Contamination with news about our secret hideout!”

“In the light of my very last utterance, Flashtease, do you feel it is any help your referring to it as that?” Joe inquired patiently.

Out among the stars a great Grindo freighter forged on for the planet once known as Drenthis. Dylan was down in the storage-hold with his two Mini-Flashes, showing them the cargo which waited huge and silent there. This imposing inventory included two units which the Mini-Flashes themselves were to deploy.

“Business,” Mini-Flash Bloomer breathed in heartfelt commendation. “Bags I orange!”

“Then green’s fine by me!” declared the amiable Flashlight. “You won’t be disappointed in giving us this opportunity, Dylan. We Mini-Flashes always show our best performance, as well as. So you see, Bloomer,” he added to his friend with a laugh, “I told you he’d be another one of the good sort of Four Heroes!”

“Not half,” agreed Mini-Flash Bloomer. “Nothing like…” and instead of finishing the sentence she rolled her eyes disdainfully and wrinkled her freckly nose.

Even so, it was no stretch for Dylan to deduce she was not referring to Bret. Together they set off back for the bridge.

“Now you’ve brought him up, Mini-Flash Bloomer, this seems as good a time as any to talk about how you kids are feeling,” Dylan said. “As far as I’ve heard you’ve never even met Joe, but I’m reading a whole lot of animosity towards him from the pair of you right now. I think I’d better know a bit more about that before we get to where we’re going.”

“Put yourself in our pants then,” replied Mini-Flash Bloomer. “How do you reckon we felt? There we was at the Arcology, all ready to head to Earth and save the day, and I’m sitting on me Vernderernder thinking what a giggle we’d had with this hot girl our own age in charge instead of that geezer Lightning, but I’m also having a quick shufti round me ’cos I’m thinking cor, Neetra and Flashthunder are taking their time, aren’t they? No need to tell you what that looked like! So anyway he gets here at last, but poor love, he’s on his own. And straight-up Flashthunder comes out with it. You know that bloke she’s always on about? The one who hurt her and abandoned her for someone else? Well, he’s clicked his fingers. And that’s that.”

“I’m getting it,” Dylan told Mini-Flash Bloomer sympathetically. “On my planet we’d say Joe’s your Yoko.”

“None of us from out of Neetra’s Flash Club have got very much time for him, that much I can tell you,” continued Flashlight, speaking as shortly as the other had been verbose. “Except Flashshadow, that is. She’s always seen things differently to the rest of us. But she’s still our friend, and that goes for Flashtease too, especially as it’s at least a little easier to understand how he ended up going over to Joe.”

“Wasn’t there,” Mini-Flash Bloomer elucidated. “Didn’t live it. If he’d been through what we’ve been through with Neetra, he’d be on this ship helping us not down there helping him.”

They had by now reached the freighter’s cockpit, where Phoenix Neetkins sat at the controls and her sister clone 4-H-N hovered close by atop her faithful friend Micro-Mallet, a Grindo air-robot the approximate size and shape of a manhole-cover. On the main viewscreen the sandy-coloured sphere of their destination was drawing into view.

“They weren’t kidding about this place,” observed Micro-Mallet from between 4-H-N’s feet. “I’m going to be blowing silt out of my servos for weeks!”

“It’s not a sightseeing tour, Micro-Mallet,” Dylan smiled. “Joe’s masking his telepathic signature from me, so we’re not going to locate him the easy way. But on a ball of rock like that, human and Mini-Flash telemetry can’t be any needle in a haystack for our scanners, right?”

“I ’ave a basic fix,” Phoenix confirmed. “Some mannair of settlement at zese co-ordinates. ’Owevair, zere is a considerable expanse of surrounding mountainous waste.”

“Then the legwork is up to us,” Dylan decided. “Set her down, Phoenix. Time to see what kind of trackers we make.”

END OF CHAPTER ONE