The Girls From Space, Chapter One

Limb Four twinkled not. The so-called Patriotic Planet languished under a pall of shadow.

“Auntie Green, do not engage. Repeat, do not engage.”

Eerie were the reverberations which permeated the crater. “Signs of a struggle” would have been an understatement. The battle that was lost here had taken a chunk out of Limb.

Now the victor’s booted heel chipped stone.

It was Harbin, The Foretold One.

“Await reinforcements, Auntie Green. Do not engage. Over.”

Light-years away in a city that sat atop an orbital rock, Joe held open the classroom door for Neetra and they proceeded inside.

Flashshadow, Mini-Flash Splitsville and Mini-Flash Juniper looked back at them.

Since Joe felt it, there was no need for him to ask whether Neetra did too.

“We shall depart at once,” he assured the four girls, and then telepathically: Mr. Thragg? Ready the ship, please.

Another girl knelt at The Foretold One’s feet. Mini-Flash Meek of the Special Program, sealed in a sphere which could not be seen, was little but wide of mouth. Her high scrambled ululations, akin to neither speech nor cries, strove in persistent counterpoint to the umbrageous orchestra that was Harbin.

So too did Storm-Sky.

“Repeat, Auntie Green, do not engage. Over and out,” said the Flash Club Commander, then in one smooth motion rose from the radio while flinging cloak and cowl about his shoulders.

“I talk to the air, in more ways than one,” muttered Storm-Sky as he strode down the corridor. “Miss Love, kindly inform our ever-autonomous matron I shall be onsite in three time-intervals.”

“You can’t mean you’re going alone!” cried Miss Love, panting to keep pace with him.

Storm-Sky gained the balcony and turned. It was not that he failed to read the young woman’s fair features. Indeed, he had always known how she felt, for in that respect and many others Storm-Sky was wiser than most of his generation. Nor however would he issue promises of his safe return when he was in no position to do so. He met Miss Love’s gaze one last time, then swept starwards for Limb.

On that purportedly patriotic orb, Harbin’s twilight mask shot from his small captive to the ridge their confrontation had carved.

Atop its sheer sharp elevation, Mona the protoceratops pawed the earth.

Astride her, Auntie Green in an armoured saddle replete with bazookas regarded Harbin through her steel-rimmed spectacles.

“You again,” said she. “And that’s one of my girls you’ve got there.”

Flashlab Central’s old-fashioned flatscreen colour wall-monitors were beaming footage straight from Limb Four as the airlock opened and two more beige-clad female Mini-Flashes hurried in.

This Flashlab had long outlived the relevance of its name. A great antiquated iron wheel, slowly revolving in backwater space which when The Flash Club was young had borne scientific significance, it boasted little centrality to any aspect of modern galactic life. 4-H-N guessed it was somewhere Mini-Flash Bobbypins might have remembered hearing about in her childhood, but from the look on her face she was now surprised not only that 4-H-N knew about it but that it was still here at all. That said, equally apparent was that these were not among Bobbypins’s most pressing concerns.

“We should be at Headquarters, 4-H-N!” she cried. “I know you made this work for us in the last emergency, but twice in a row’s got to be asking too much. I mean, abandoning our posts during a Foretold One incident…! Whatever you’ve got in mind, can you imagine the spanking we’ll be in for if Auntie Green survives and you don’t pull it off?”

4-H-N stopped a second and surveyed her fair-haired fairweather friend. There wasn’t time to do anything but fight back the impatience these mercenary attitudes invariably stirred.

Nor did 4-H-N pretend to be entirely blameless on that score. She yearned for faithful steady Flashlight to be by her side instead, but Bobby wasn’t wrong – he had his Flash Club career to think of, as did the other Mini-Flashes she trusted. Mini-Flash Bobbypins was only here because 4-H-N didn’t distrust her quite as much as she did the rest of the gang, and since they were both already in trouble, it was one less thing to not have to worry about dragging someone else down with her.

She mustered a suitably dangerous grin. Speaking of Flashlight, he at least would have been proud of her, keeping up their act even in a situation like this.

“Shift your knickers over here, Bobby,” 4-H-N proposed. “I suspect you’ll think twice about playing it safe when you see what I’ve got tucked up mine.”

With that she led Bobbypins wondering from the communications array and down some ringing steel steps to the belly of the ancient space-station. 4-H-N had been on the verge of a tentative so far so good, only she couldn’t help but notice the characteristic ooh-wah, ooh-wahs of this galaxy’s pop music were becoming ominously loud as her destination drew near. Indeed, the double-doors to what had been Flashlab Central’s recreation-room vibrated on every beat. Nevertheless 4-H-N gained the foot of the stairs and whacked the open-button.

A palpable wave of significantly more than noise met her and Mini-Flash Bobbypins full in the face as the doors slid back. Had a chocolate cake factory’s refrigeration broken down at the height of summer, it might just have managed to have been as pungent. Even 4-H-N, aware in advance what branch of tappy smell-bomb had proved the biggest hit, was light-headed.

The resounding lounge teemed with tunics, a few of which were still filled out by girls. These bobbed and dipped daintily, keeping time, dotted about each split-level tier in what 4-H-N recognised as a standard Flash Club sports and battlefield formation. Another clutch reclined on pillows strewn over the deck, elbows down and ankles crossed, pointing their panties carelessly at the doorway. Each of these Mini-Flashes wore headphones and was tossing ponytail or curls by an old recording-pyramid, which on close inspection turned out to be one of the Flashlab’s technical manuals. Everywhere else were puddles of beige, or folds of the same thrown over couches, and boots and knickers scattered about amid plentiful empty test-tubes. There was a bank of sonic showers for crew use and behind each frosted window steamed a shapely silhouette, whilst disused liquid-nitrogen tanks had been hauled into the rec-room to serve as hot tubs. Many more Mini-Flashes sat pink in these, smiling while they stewed. It looked to 4-H-N like this little smell-fest was only just getting started.

“The Special Program runaways,” Mini-Flash Bobbypins breathed.

“The ones who’ve rallied round Mini-Flash Pseudangelos,” 4-H-N corrected her. “If it was all of them, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Dancing on what had been a cosmic snooker-table was rosy-cheeked Mini-Flash Yeast. Some of the smaller Special Program incumbents were tottering over to her, bearing between them a keg of space-beer. Mini-Flash Yeast didn’t stop bumping her hips, but obligingly stooped double for her little team-mates to stand on tiptoe and heft their heavy load. This looked considerably lighter when it came down again. Mini-Flash Yeast straightened up, danced a little more until she was ready, then threw out her hand as if giving every reveller a giant sweeping wave. What trailed from her fingertips was at first an arc of ambient energy, but it broke apart and became fizzing fragments which fermented to solid state mid-flight amid delightful aromas suggestive of a brewery with a bakery next door. Strange pretzelled manna rained down on the waiting juniors, who hopped with glee and peeped out thanks for Mini-Flash Yeast and her effervescent character.

4-H-N caught one of the falling goodies. This she handed to Mini-Flash Bobbypins, saying: “Er, you go right ahead.”

Bobbypins took a big bite, chewed appreciatively and swallowed. “I guess one of us is going to have to spoil their party by telling them their friend’s in danger,” said she.

4-H-N looked grave.

“They already know, Bobby,” came back the reply. “Which means this isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.”

TO BE CONTINUED