The Communique, Epilogue

Contrary to the lyrics, that boyfriend of Cherry’s wasn’t so far away. For some time now Flashthunder had served more as her live-in groupie than a commissioned Mini-Flash, but since he was still strictly speaking a senior and happened to be present when the extraction teams arrived, the adult Flashes mostly for the sake of appearances drafted him into some sort of active role. He for his part weakly attempted an excuse about the music having been too loud for him to hear his skirt-alarm, but it was symptomatic that no-one really minded.

As per procedure, one of the spacecraft that settled at the concert-site was crammed with entry-level Mini-Flashes. A whole flank of this teaching-vessel was like a gigantic shutter, which when retracted disclosed rows of seating akin to bleachers or the benches at a sports ground. Elbow-to-elbow along these forms boys and girls dangled their booted feet in the hovering ship’s slipstream, while Flashthunder from a mobile podium talked the class through what was going on below.

4-H-N, in one of the middle rows, resisted the urge to wave to her sister Phoenix. The latter was being checked by Flash Club medics, while another crew took charge of extraditing the creature which now slumbered in a forcefield-cage. To be honest, Flashthunder’s timid narration on this wasn’t holding 4-H-N rapt, and many of her schoolfellows likewise looked more interested in whether Cherry was going to be granted leave to start the show again. Indeed, even the Meems had started meeming prim indignation in marshmallow voices.

With an effort 4-H-N swung her attention back to Flashthunder, who due to the backwash that swirled about his stage was having as much trouble with his hemline as he was his lecturing technique. His lucky red pants had given out today, although happily only in the superstitious sense, since their practical application was very much needed.

4-H-N couldn’t help twinkling a smile at his struggles. “One of my other sisters knows him,” she whispered to the girl next to her.

Far off at the back sat Mini-Flash Phytolith.

Even so, he noticed when 4-H-N briefly turned round.

He couldn’t not notice her.

Not after talking to her for the first time today. Mailroom memories had mocked at him since, wracking him, denying him rest. Still his entire unsettled body flinched and quivered.

It would have been quite enough to be going on with. But unfortunately, there was more.

Mini-Flash Phytolith took his last look at the white breathing defective in its translucent box of a prison. Then the Flashes sealed the hatch of their security-shuttle, and Phytolith’s misdirected messenger was gone from his sight.

For it was surely the same defective which had brought him his communique.

Not all of them were immediately culled on emergence from the genesis chamber. Some could be trained to carry out basic tasks, such as unobtrusively depositing a pre-addressed package in a remote galactic mailbox. It was sound military strategy, because you didn’t have to bother about bringing defectives back to the compound once their mission was accomplished. They were programmed to simply destroy themselves, in a manner that left no physical remains.

This one had apparently objected to the last part, and gone mad instead.

It would tell no tales in the verbal sense, which was of course another reason defectives were deployed. Nevertheless, Mini-Flash Phytolith’s expression was intent as the field agents began to talk about takeoff. A return journey and clocking-off were all that was in their near future. In Phytolith’s was a clean-up operation all his very own.

Because until he did something about it, The Magnetic Stones were compromised.

TO BE CONTINUED