What Psiona Saw, Chapter Two

4-H-N blinked when that one opened her hotel room door. It let onto the interior of an asteroidal cave, whose rocky walls were embellished by various items of technological apparatus. Seated before a monitor-screen and control-panel was another, identical Psiona, this one clad in the diaphanous gauzy garments of her homeworld.

It was the Nereynis Incident, so named, although the action which interested 4-H-N had taken place in the last hour of that planet’s twin, Drenthis. The slightly younger of the two Psionae had left her viewscreen dull and blank, but she was on that doomed desert orb nevertheless, living the fateful events in a manner more visceral and immersive than electronic images might have afforded. The brain beneath those phantom fiery tresses was striving beyond the limits of its design, to bestow equal telepathic attention on half a dozen friends and at least as many foes warring on the opposite side of the galaxy. Psiona in full Mini-Flash uniform led 4-H-N from the doorway and deeper into the past, so that they stood directly alongside her seated prior self.

A moment ago, 4-H-N had wanted to call Psiona a show-off. Now once again she watched her powers at work, only this time in nothing but admiration and awe. Long lashes flicked intermittently under eyelids lowered in concentration, while throughout the subterranean chamber a tense portentous silence held sway, broken only by such murmurs as escaped on occasion Psiona’s quivery lips:

“Wonder-Tool blast should nail Moltron at ninety-two degree declension…”

“Sludge-Man, I don’t wish to know what you’re thinking about Magnolia…”

“Deploy Bolter’s plasma-cannon, three-second interval – correction – four…”

“We’re getting to it,” issued in the same voice but from a different height, making 4-H-N jump, so absorbed she’d been.

“I’m on Joe, Commander,” the sitting Psiona said aloud. “And he’s on…yes. I think our mission to see Prince Agaric brought to justice is about to be accomplished, even if it won’t be by us. Only…wait. Something’s wrong…”

And something was. 4-H-N could see it written all over those freckled pretty features.

“Get someone there, Commander. Get someone there right now.”

It was the pacing of these things you had to get used to. No sooner had 4-H-N settled into the hush of a brief reply inaudible to her, than the younger Psiona outdid her future iteration for bringing 4-H-N’s heart into her mouth.

She shot upright in the chair, eyes suddenly staring wide.

“Don’t tell me about The Four Heroes’ way!” flew spiralling and spinning to the asteroid’s craggy vaults. “Trust me, Commander, handing Agaric over to the authorities is the last thing on Joe’s mind! Carmilla!”

Even as a spectator, 4-H-N flinched at the wrenching sensation of shifting mental focus so sharply. Psiona that day had taxed her teenage talents to extents that would have exhausted a telepath full-grown, even before what had happened, happened.

“Carmilla, you’re nearest, you have to stop Joe!”

The palm of one hand banged a button on the control-board so hard it made 4-H-N cringe again, this time for the sake of Psiona’s slender wrist.

“Runalong, get her there!” that one shouted into the communication-channel. “I’ll guide you! Catacomb mouth at fourteen degrees!”

Even though 4-H-N knew nothing she did could distract the Psiona who was hard at work, still she scarcely dared breathe throughout what came next. What it must have taken was more than 4-H-N’s mind could even properly grapple with. To keep pinning Joe and Prince Agaric telepathically, while translating their whereabouts quick as thought to coordinates which were then relayed via clacking fingers on the keys to an electronic mind incapable of receiving psychic instruction…the one thing 4-H-N knew for sure was she suddenly felt very small for thinking about cold showers. If that was another way of talking about what a girl could achieve when she buckled down, then 4-H-N thought she might give cold showers a try herself. That upper-sixth-former was going to get into a great university, if the present performance was any indication of what her exam results –

“I can’t, Carmilla!”

Jeez. 4-H-N wished she’d stop doing that.

“Not until you acquire visual! Yes, I promise, as soon as you do, I’ll withdraw!”

Psiona by 4-H-N’s side was wearing a look which the latter couldn’t fathom at first. Next second she had it. The sixth-former, now evaluating how she’d done in a games lesson by watching herself on video afterwards. Absurdly a third Psiona rushed upon 4-H-N, red tresses so clashing with tennis whites as to stop any ball-boy’s heart. Nevertheless, her sole spectator in blazer and tie seemed anything but satisfied.

“And Carmilla acquired visual,” that Psiona murmured, no more than half to 4-H-N. “It was me, not her. Too slow. I could have been out of Agaric in time if I’d got my act together.”

That was when the seated Psiona screamed.

It was the end for 4-H-N of frivolous fantasy on classroom and sports field. What burst upon her hearing in that moment transported her immeasurable dark distances from school. There you might talk about atrocities, but even the grittiest and most uncompromising textbook dealt in mere abstractions compared to the noise this particular atrocity had made. Then when a brutal wave of telepathic backlash bore Psiona headlong from her chair, 4-H-N witnessed what no class had ever been required to watch in all that beauty, all that brilliance, reduced to a twisting howling heap on the rocky cave floor.

“Psiona, it’s horrible,” 4-H-N begged the other, near tears. “Please make it stop.”

In an instant, two beige tunics were standing amid the clean quiet functionality of a Flash Club Headquarters guest suite, night black and calm outside the windows.

Which wasn’t the same thing as saying it had all gone away.

Not for either of them, 4-H-N reckoned. Certainly no fleeting moment of what she’d stared on had yet shown the mercy to let her be, and she could only suppose her case was mild to that of the girl upon whom each excruciation had been inflicted.

A living being.

A sentient being.

Her sister’s friend.

And to think that since Limb, 4-H-N had started to doubt what Joe was capable of.

She for her part wasn’t yet capable even of words. So she gazed helpless at Psiona, who for one last time proved the form-prefect to her fluttered little first-year.

“Now you know why I don’t like talking about it,” said she.

TO BE CONTINUED