Gatecrashers

Burning in bits amid the ruins of a Xandreth building-site, the prison-ship had sent a dozen unfinished bars and bistros back to the drawing-board but at the cost of no innocent lives. Phoenix Prime’s crash-landing at least had gone according to plan, though she admitted the rest had been a mixed bag so far. Speaking of bags, she clutched for the handles of her empty holdall while hauling herself out of the pilot’s chair.

“Excuse the indignity, Scientooth,” muttered Phoenix Prime, using her free hand to sling a skull-sized green robot inside. He, still shackled in a neuro-restraining clamp, uttered no protest. Shouldering the holdall Phoenix Prime strode through klaxons and smoke to where a long gaunt figure was picking itself up off the listing deck.

“Move, Agaric,” she commanded, marching straight past him.

“How did they know?” moaned the other, who was wearing a faceless three-eyed helmet and while thus masked preferred to be addressed as Spookan the Sinister.

“If you’re referring to Toothfire, they didn’t,” replied Phoenix Prime, gripping the steel rungs of the emergency-escape ladder. “That’s the only reason we were able to get Scientooth out of there at all.”

“Then…?” queried Spookan, following her on the climb and attempting to keep up.

“Our pursuers weren’t Vernderernders,” Phoenix Prime explained darkly, throwing open the ceiling-hatch.

A corresponding clang echoed hers from further down on the transport’s crumpled hull, as Moltron applied characteristically complex thought-processes to the problem of a jammed exit and propelled it clear of its hinges with his foot. Grunting inarticulate machismo the hammer-headed liquiform lout leapt from the hold to the streets, flanked by a flock of fungizoid guerrillas whose bare arms and hairless heads glowed bioluminescent blue against their earthy armour. They alighted even as a quartet of airborne avengers streaked into sight round the bulking corner of the wreck.

These four men spanned a wide spectrum of age, build and aspect, resembling each other only inasmuch as all rode upright atop a flying mini-jeep. Moltron wasted not a minute in bursting his body to part the outlandish bomber-squadron with a skyward tidal barrage, but young Sludge-Man poised atop his yellow-painted partner Little-Track could give as good as he got when it came to flinging fluids, and backed-up by energy-beams blasting from Croldon Thragg’s Wonder-Tool he soon had Moltron and his mushroomlike marauders fleeing this exposed terrain for the shelter of Xandreth’s alleyways.

“First newsflash about Dylan Cook and the old-timers gets sensuous Psiona busting her bra over how Phoenix Prime’s shindig kicks off tonight!” cackled Sludge-Man, as he and his comrades took up the chase. “Who cares how my favourite babe does it? I’ll be stoked to the max just as long as she keeps her pristine precog panties our side of the block!”

Gravely Zeldich drew both swords, his jeep coasting low to the pavement. “A cornered warrior fights not from honour but desperation,” he advised. “Tackle them with caution, team.”

“Ah, the heck with that!” bellowed bestial Grey Bag, bounding from his mount and bringing a dozen of the retreating quarry down with him as he rolled to rest, then immediately resuming his prior brawl with these opponents at the point where it left off.

Far above this fracas, Phoenix Prime and Spookan the Sinister clambered out of the hatchway to the prison-transport’s roof. There on its dented ravaged surface, two more mini-jeeps and their respective riders hovered in wait for them. It was Blaster-Track and his Commander, and beside them Runalong bearing Carmilla Neetkins, resplendent in her Four Heroes uniform of scarlet and gold.

“You don’t want to do this, little sis,” Carmilla informed Phoenix Prime.

“And you’ve never once called me that,” Phoenix Prime replied. “It’s your pet-name for my clone. Easy mistake to make, but you’re confusing the one who began this with the one who’s going to end it.”

“We’re still sisters,” returned the other levelly. “And a sister wouldn’t let you make the biggest mistake of your life.”

“We’re casual acquaintances, Carmilla,” Phoenix Prime corrected her. “If that. It’s more like we’ve shared the same workstations. Because that short stretch helping Prof in his laboratory is the only time we were ever in each other’s presence, apart from the half-year or less between my birth and your disappearance at the age of four. If sisters we truly were, you’d understand why I’m doing this.”

“On that much you may enlighten us at your leisure, after you and your consort here stand down,” Blaster-Track Commander sternly interjected. “I for one should be fascinated to learn what noble motives might inform a union between The Back Garden and one such as Scientooth. Know however your plans towards this shall henceforth proceed no further.”

Phoenix Prime’s expression remained fixed.

“Hey, big sis,” she said to Carmilla, deadpan. “Tag. You’re it.”

On wings of fire Phoenix Prime vaulted from the stranded ship and vanished into the night, her heavy holdall still bumping on her back. Runalong’s jets kicked into high gear and Carmilla was off at once, but as Spookan sprang likewise Blaster-Track Commander whipped out a photon-pistol, blocking with his gunbutt the cunning claw darted his way. They broke the clinch and separated, Blaster-Track scaling back through close-range skies as the second pistol emerged like a whirling wheel of silver. A swift trade-off ensued, pinpoint photon-shots flying one direction and eldritch flames the other. Then Blaster-Track Commander and Spookan the Sinister closed again, two old notions of what good and evil meant to this galaxy locking for battle in an age which had moved on without them.

NEXT: 'PETUNIA AND FLASHTHUNDER'