Overture, Chapter Three

“Greetings, weak fleshling fools!” Steelstreak declaimed. “Welcome to the site of your final conflict! Yes, this futile resistance to our grand design is herewith at an end, for great Space-Screamer wills it to be so, and where our illustrious creator commands, we his loyal underlings obey as if – ”

Only then did battle-noises alert Steelstreak to the pitched war between his addressees and fellow robots that had by now been raging for over a minute, so with pompous pronouncements spluttering to silence he turned and joined in at last. Meanwhile the floor had begun to shake under what felt like extremely slow and extremely heavy footsteps. Things resembling bulldozers that each walked on two hinged metal legs were making their ponderous way through the arches, and the opening salvos flying from their hefty back-mounted turrets spoke of little by way of accuracy but were already racking up spectacular levels of collateral damage.

“Stumgaurs!” breathed Storm-Sky. “We cannot contend with their firepower in tandem with the efforts of this crew!”

“Then go!” Bret yelled without hesitation, even as he brawled on against Steelstreak and his cronies. “I’ll keep the goon squad busy! At least some of us have to make it to the Hub!”

Max began to protest but Storm-Sky cried: “Master Stevens speaks true, friend! Speed, not strength, is our one advantage against this foe!”

“Best advice I’ve heard all day about Stumgaurs,” Amy remarked, beating a retreat for the far exit alongside Storm-Sky and Max while the twin-legged juggernauts plodded in pursuit, their blunt muzzles hammering away. As the last of them stomped out of the war-zone Bret turned his attention back to the four mechanoids with which he now shared this expanse alone. They were surrounding him along the periphery, spread out so that each robot controlled one quarter of the circle they steadily paced, and at whose centre our hero stood.

Cyclotor leapt into a spin with both arms outstretched and transformed himself to a whirlwind of gold screaming at Bret’s position. But our hero was a blue-glowing hurricane to match as he sprang twirling counter-wise to Cyclotor’s revolutions, sword flashing from its scabbard. His blade struck home as the twin spirals of light passed each other and then Cyclotor was flailing off-course, resolving to a robot again and trailing smoke as Bret landed with his back to him. Without so much as a pause for breath he was skyward once more, meeting Steelstreak with a well-timed kick to his exoskeleton that toppled the incoming foe.

Following through on this aerial motion Bret arched his body over the deadly diamond-tip of Drilldome, who was charging at him with head lowered, and thus inverted himself so his palms were pointing floorwards. These he touched to Drilldome’s barrel of a torso and hand-sprung from him into an upright stance on the deck, the dark blue cape of his Flash Club costume tracing his motion behind.

Audio-Wave left fly with all eight high-decibel transmitters at once. Bret dove out of the way and the sonic barrage collided instead with Drilldome’s hindquarters, propelling them and him helplessly at the far wall into which he embedded himself, whilst our hero rolled to his feet and Audio-Wave came about. Cyclotor was still picking himself up in the stretch between them, but Bret had no illusions about Audio-Wave’s compassion for his teammate. He set off running them down headlong, rotating his sword in his fingers as he did so such that it was hilt-first then throwing it ahead, as sure enough the shattering din of another vibratory onslaught erupted from Audio-Wave’s speakers.

Bret reached Cyclotor microseconds before the blast reached them. One booted foot flattened the rising robot again as our hero made a stepping-stone of him and scaled above the torrent of sound, whose rushing fathoms summarily cast Cyclotor asunder. Bret knew from the death-rays searing the airspace around him that Steelstreak was attempting to draw a bead, but he could descend faster than the other could target, albeit into the waiting clutches of Audio-Wave. That one’s featureless visage had never looked so self-congratulatory as he powered-down his sonics and prepared for final victory using nothing more than his vast physical might. Then the sword that Bret had aimed to rebound against one of the pillars impaled Audio-Wave neatly from the rear, and he froze as the gleaming point thrust itself out of his chest.

Our hero cleared the stiff shoulders and let Steelstreak’s straggling beams riddle Audio-Wave’s frontage instead of him. He landed back-to-back with his unwitting shield, and gripped his sword’s jutting handle even as the mechanical knees beneath it began to fold. Turning on one heel Bret cleanly freed the blade from the carcass so that when the latter crashed prone, he was disclosed to Steelstreak facing him across the concourse with weapon in hand. This flew again like a silver dart and skewered the robot’s head.

As Steelstreak slowly keeled over backwards, Drilldome at last liberated his bit from the wall and Cyclotor looked like he was ready to go for another spin. Nor did Bret doubt for an instant it would take more than one sword-wound apiece to put opponents of this mettle out of the fight for good. So our hero mustered up his powers once more, and in a swirling of blue light threw himself back into the dance.

At the core of the Communications Hub sat the monitoring suite, a sphere inside a sphere which being windowless was lit only by colourless holographic images that flickered from flattop projectors and screens throughout its dark concavity. Flights of steps linked the various control-stations and each was manned by a Nemsinod Robig, which were tall robed androids with black bulbs for heads. In a hollow at the centre of the floor stretched the largest projection-plateau, which was beaming images of Bret’s ongoing duel with the elite guard. Their five miniature specters leapt and whirled and clashed against each other atop the table’s surface, under the watchful eyes of Lighting and Space-Screamer by the rim, and Empress Ungus who had installed herself behind.

“A formidable opponent,” Lightning commented of Bret, adding to Space-Screamer: “More than a match for your buckets of bolts, at any rate.”

“Next we’ll pit him against an army of your short-skirted little boys,” Space-Screamer replied pleasantly. “And you’re wrong, Lightning. All you ever see is strength. That’s what makes you such a fool. Strength’s not what I see when I look at him.”

Space-Screamer’s eyes, which were pupil-less orbs of electric blue, began to softly illuminate as he called on his sinister powers. His lips slid back to reveal glinting teeth.

“What beautiful insecurities and fears,” he went on in a purr. “He doubts he’s doing what’s right by resisting us, and there’s much trepidation as to what will come to pass if he does save the Earth and the prophecy is fulfilled. But also he dreads he won’t be able to save his friends on that same world, and agonizes over the safety of his female too – ah, his female and their spawn. Organic reproduction, it’s disgusting. But none of this can he hide from me. Learn to look for weakness, Lightning, not strength. Then you’ll be able to see him as I do.”

“It’s a good thing his kind never expects the enemy to bicker among themselves,” Empress Ungus remarked dryly, then continued to the nearest Nemsinod Robig: “Tactical, status of the other three intruders.”

The robot enlarged a hologram of Max, Amy and Storm-Sky, who had outrun the Stumgaurs and were now descending through the forest of broadcast pods that protruded from the Hub, jumping from one steel ball to the next on their way down to the largest one at the nexus.

“Mile Hunts at pod ninety-two reports they have passed his position,” droned the Nemsinod Robig. “Their projected course is via the tertiary cluster.”

With an air of satisfaction and anticipation Empress Ungus raised her long arms, and flexed the twenty or so fingers on each hand.

“It’s been a long time,” she declared.

“Not since you vanquished Emperor Frang, last of the great Back Garden powers who opposed you, if Flash Club intel’s up to speed,” Lightning continued peremptorily. “It made for a suitably visceral account. But it’s also dated to over a century ago...”

The Empress’s tiny face, hideous at the best of times, worsened in ways hardly to be imagined under a smile that both acknowledged and mocked Lightning’s unspoken concern.

“Learn from your elders, you sack of blood and bone,” she told him.

So saying the Empress proceeded heaving and spilling and spewing to the transport-tubes. These would carry her speeding through the maze of hollow antenna-masts on a direct intercept-course. Upon our heroes’ valiant endeavour was shortly to be bestowed the rare privilege of Empress Ungus’s personal attention.

Doctor Mendelssohn’s all-terrain-vehicle pulled up outside a lone architectural feature prominent amid horizon-wide red Martian desert. It was a narrow tower like a giant needle, ravaged and bare. The arid winds howling through its dark hollow innards voiced a ceaseless mournful song.

Iskira had already quit the ATV and was keenly surveying this structure from outside, but Doctor Mendelssohn’s expression was grave indeed as he watched her.

“Wait with the car, Bendigo,” he instructed, and stepped out to join his companion.

“The Feeder Ray,” Mendelssohn declared. “Iskira, tell me this is not the solution you spoke of.”

“James and I designed it to fortify Earth’s defences in the event of another invasion,” Iskira reminded him. “Put to its intended use, what could be more providential at this time?”

“Its intended use, certainly!” The Doctor exclaimed. “But have you forgotten it malfunctioned and all but destroyed the world?”

Iskira held up her portable data-file. “I’m confident I’ve worked out all the bugs,” she informed him.

Bearing in mind what had gone wrong before, this was no assurance to be accepted lightly. Doctor Mendelssohn turned from the tower to look at her.

What Space-Screamer achieved through bio-electrical synthesis and intrusive telepathy was possible by other means too. The organic life-forms he so scorned had their own methods for seeing beyond the strong façade, finding the route to the fragile heart, and learning at last the vulnerabilities and longings that dwelled unhidden there. These ways of the living took more time than his, but they were far more accurate, and years of love was the most reliable one of all.

Thus Doctor Mendelssohn saw that as long as Iskira’s family was torn apart and scattered across the worlds and galaxies, the urge to help in some way was what drove her now. They had previously discovered that her estranged husband had already abandoned their home on Mars, bound no doubt for Earth. He at least was taking some part in the struggle. Now with one beloved daughter cast away to the far side of the universe, and four more Iskira called by that name stranded on a planet facing impending destruction alongside the man she married, her need to do something had become more that she could bear. It was this need, Mendelssohn well knew, that had motivated her to make this seemingly desperate choice. But in that moment the Doctor also knew that he, like Iskira, was not one of those capable of standing idly by when somebody he loved was in need.

“We will begin work at once, my dear,” he said to her quietly.

And when his old student smiled her thankfulness back at him, Doctor Mendelssohn knew there and then he was committed to the course that might doom them all.

END OF CHAPTER THREE