Decency

Considerably more of Schiss-Zazz’s physique than anyone might have wished to see hung at rest above the maximum-security cell-deck. His lithe muscular bare arms and legs were robustly manacled and splayed. Forcefield balls began at his wrists and englobed both hands like giant glowing balloons, lending additional assurance that the deadly shears Schiss-Zazz wore would not be put to use.

When Storm-Sky came to power as leader of The Flash Club, he established scrupulous rules regarding the mistreatment of prisoners. It had in fact been several quick-thinking Grindo medical robots who hit on absolute immobilization halfway home from Nereynis, as the treatment likeliest to prevent their newly-awakened patient turning the ambulance-shuttle’s defenceless spongy pilots into kebabs. As for Schiss-Zazz’s all-too-conspicuous state of nature, this was only because his tiny swimming trunks hadn’t survived the trip, and those well-intentioned mechanoids which made gestures towards his modesty now had missing limbs to show for it.

Bound and naked as he was however, the captive neither struggled nor railed nor even appeared especially unhappy. The stiff scissor-spikes of Schiss-Zazz’s gaudy hair might have been chiselled by that same mad sculptor who bestowed on his features their steady defiant smile. True, Schiss-Zazz never quite seemed to get around to turning this on the Flash Club chief himself. Storm-Sky’s level stare and expression of absolute calm were not to be locked with lightly. The Mini-Flashes gathering close by their commander’s cloaks, on the other hand, were sport for Schiss-Zazz. Uniform tunics seldom stretched to keeping everything hidden at the best of times, and the prisoner’s leer made it no secret that in his mind at least, each Mini-Flash had come to the conference dressed much as he was.

Their newest recruit stepped up bravely. It was 4-H-N, stuffed into neophyte beige and knee-boots, with a matching bow to hold up her brown ponytail and a yellow insignia representing her genetic originator’s teleportation effect emblazoned over her bosom. No tartan was in greater danger of lapsing into obscurity than that of the Royal Clan Neetkins, so many of its heiresses having opted to replace their ancestral colours with those of The Flash Club.

“Positive ID,” reported 4-H-N. “Can’t mistake that face, or the rest of him.”

It was likewise intuitable from Schiss-Zazz’s eyes and teeth that this recognition ran both ways, but the clone stood her ground.

“Well, Mini-Flash 4-H-N,” declared Storm-Sky. “Your first day, and already you’ve earned your keep. It’s all the more commendable since we’ve never before started out a newcomer on this particular task. I’m grateful to you, and the female Mini-Flashes here who sponsored you for membership.”

“So what happens now?” asked the only boy present, a senior Mini-Flash whose white costume made him stand out like a sore appendage among the girls in beige.

“We act in accordance with our obligations under the Alliance Treaty, Flashlight,” Storm-Sky replied. “The Vernderernders have insisted from the outset Scientooth be treated as their internal affair. Now we know for certain he is involved, this man must be extradited to Toothfire space forthwith. Our friends on the High Command may learn from him the whereabouts of their most notorious renegade.”

Gratefully checking themselves out of the compound 4-H-N and friends fluttered down the ramp that led back to the body of Headquarters. Most kept their hands on their hemlines until the menace of Schiss-Zazz and Scientooth had shaded from experience to abstraction, but not long after that each girl set about impressing on the other that as far as she was concerned, not being at liberty to untuck her knickers had been the one distressing part of the interview.

“Typical Storm-Sky,” grumbled Mini-Flash Bobbypins. “Our gender’s supposed to tease his, not the other way round! Fancy showing us such a beautiful specimen of manhood only to send him away next minute, to Vernderernders yet!”

“Big talk for the fall-girl from our last initiation, dearie,” drawled Mini-Flash Meteor. “Pray tell what you’d do if your underclad beau laid hands on a catapult to go with those clippers?”

“Bobby’s got a point though, when you think of the boys we always get lumped with,” 4-H-N added nastily, and whipped Flashlight’s skirt so his underpants showed. There were giggles from the gang.

Mini-Flash Meteor sauntered by him, tunic bumping on her fabled contours. “Thus our rookie to their veteran,” she observed archly, a cold glint in her large long-lashed eyes. “It’s exquisite, darling. Sweet as we kept our perfumed panties to tantalize our divine guest, I detect another aroma all the same. Could it be the stuffy scent of boy-obsolescence? Breathe it in, dearie, for that is the future you smell.”

Taking their cue from Mini-Flash Meteor, which was all they ever did, the girls duly followed her in strolling off for their various posts. 4-H-N and Flashlight, however, tarried. Once they were certain they were alone, the former let her shoulders drop and looked mortified with shame.

“I’m overdoing it,” she said to him at once.

Flashlight however appeared anything but hurt. Indeed, he was beaming broadly and making no effort to contain his enthusiasm.

“You’re spot-on,” he corrected 4-H-N. “Keep it up. It’s obvious you’re a natural!”

“Don’t ever say that again,” she pleaded. “I’m not sure I can go on with this.”

The clone threw herself down on the nearest corridor-bench. All too prominent in her recollections was the last hour she’d spent with Phoenix Prime, when the topic of their disastrous conversation had been The Four Heroes’ cause. As 4-H-N expressed to her sister then, maybe Dylan and Joe saw a big picture that was worth fighting over, but to her it looked more like a friendship needlessly torn apart by a mere idea. Now here she was, supposedly serving that same higher purpose, and repeating the pattern when it came to her friends. 4-H-N reminded herself yet again it was all an act, one in which Flashlight was a knowing participant, and then toiled through a by now well-rehearsed catechism on respecting the cultural differences that existed between her galaxy and his. Only how could she do that, 4-H-N pondered hopelessly, when blending in with Flashlight’s culture required her to show such disrespect to him?

“You’re still thinking like you’re back on Earth,” that one said to her kindly. “Put yourself in their place. Imagine you’ve already got most of the powers we male Mini-Flashes are only going to grow into when we reach full adulthood, flying and energy-projection and what have you. Don’t forget that round these parts, 4-H-N, there are solid scientific reasons for the second-gender mindset.”

4-H-N felt like giving him a solid scientific shake.

“Stop defending them with that excuse, Flashlight!” she flung out. “It’s not that different to where I come from. Girls develop faster on my planet too. That doesn’t mean it’s acceptable for us to go round behaving like Meteor and her cronies. The way The Flash Club lets it happen, as if being inevitable makes it right…you can’t know how horrible that looks to me. I’m sorry, Flashlight, to say it about your home, but there are times this galaxy’s views on power are something I just can’t get used to.”

Flashlight sat down beside her. “Then how about this?” he suggested. “You’ve told me you once wore a kind of disguise, and kept a huge secret from the general public. Isn’t what we’re doing now at least on the same Flashball court?”

Funnily enough, 4-H-N reflected, it was in a way. Flashlight however had no option but to envisage Houkase High as more or less identical to Flash Club Headquarters, and she longed to be able to make him see how little that was so. Even her friend and fellow Avion Biko Aramashi, who loved nothing more than gym class victories against the boys, had never called on her special powers to give herself an edge. As it happened that would have been impossible, because their Avion abilities hadn’t worked that way, but Biko wouldn’t have done it even if she could. Fair competition was what she’d liked, and in her superhero identity she’d saved boys and girls and women and men without the least shred of discrimination. Why couldn’t Flashlight understand that that was nowhere near the same Flashball court as having powers that were yours all the time, and finding fun at the expense of people who didn’t?

Still, 4-H-N had never been so thankful for the Mini-Flash’s support, so she gave him a grin. Then, on impulse, she gave him a kiss to go with it.

“Only don’t read too much into that,” 4-H-N added jokingly. “Maybe I’ve gone native and I’m just teasing you.”

“Good, she knows absolutely nothing about how our society works, you can’t ask for more in an undercover agent,” returned the fond Flashlight, and standing they said their see-you-laters then parted.

Talking to a friend had certainly cheered 4-H-N up. It was an additional comfort to remember Flashlight for now at least was the Mini-Flash norm, while delinquent females remained a mere sign of the times. He and the rest of Neetra’s interim Flash Club had been friends irrespective of gender, and there were girls among them such as Mini-Flash Bloomer who 4-H-N had met and liked. Pretending to fall in with a bad crowd was easier when you knew not everyone was thus. Nor, deep down, did 4-H-N neglect the bigger picture previously glanced at, though she was sure she’d already subjected poor Flashlight to enough embarrassment without trotting that out to him too. It was imperative 4-H-N seize on the opportunity to investigate what these incipient girl-cliques portended. Mini-Flash Meteor was vile, but not necessarily in error. The words with which she’d taunted Flashlight posited an argument that had borne some weight even before the Special Program notched up their quadrant’s first decisive win against The Foretold One.

4-H-N saw she was starting to pick up The Flash Club’s sporty vernacular, if nothing else. Realising she’d delayed too long as it was, she braced herself for a little more of Meteor’s delightful company and was about to set off when she heard voices. It was Storm-Sky and someone else, around the corner by the entrance to the cell-block.

“I only just heard you’d arrived, Master Manual,” said the Flash Club leader. “It’s always an honour and a pleasure to see you. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made preparations.”

Already for 4-H-N’s keen instincts that hinted at some sort of emergency. When the visitor’s reply touched on the subject of Schiss-Zazz, it became one which concerned her. Good manners were a luxury spies couldn’t afford. She tiptoed nearer and peeked round the edge of the wall.

“I’ve little choice, Master,” Storm-Sky was saying, very grave. “The Treaty required Toothfire to cede Grindotron. Were I now to trample on their concessions, in the light of such a strategic sacrifice, it would surely not end well.”

Old Manual, iron-haired, wiry and worn, seemed to 4-H-N in grim accord not so much with his former student’s words as the ominous tone in which they were spoken.

“I didn’t train you for politics, Storm-Sky,” said he. “But it’s clear I taught you something. You sense it too, don’t you? That terrible foreboding which has brought me here.”

“You give me too much credit,” replied the humble one. “Any cinemagoer knows from the newsreels Toothfire’s conduct has been baffling to say the least. I doubt any among my generation expected to see the day Vernderernders enlisted Grindo assistance. This groundless dread over current events leading them to the twin planets – for you did not teach me false modesty either, Master, and I do sense it – Toothfire to all appearances have been of the same mind. Indeed, we may safely surmise they know more of the matter than we do. Nor do I suspect they are alone in this,” Storm-Sky added ruefully, thinking of Joe.

“Vernderernders and their ilk tolerate only so much provocation,” pointed out Manual. “If Scientooth is there, as the capture of his mercenary on Nereynis implies, they will go.”

The other sighed his agreement. “Yet even then, we speak but of Toothfire taking such action as they deem appropriate against their own escaped criminal,” he went on. “Our apocalyptic presentiments are out of proportion to that. Master Manual, I cannot determine what knowledge, what wisdom, we want of to unravel this mystery.”

Manual’s look was heavy and resigned.

“Nor can I,” he confessed. “Your mentor’s getting old, Storm-Sky. So are Albazorascabaranthi and Prune, and the Arch of Titus put years on us all. It’s beyond any doubt our powers aren’t what they used to be. Benmor though, with one foot already in the spirit-realm, sees much the rest of us can’t. While we were imprisoned he was somehow able to send a psychic message to the two other members of The Four Heroes at large in our quadrant. That message ran: ‘Don’t intervene.’ Whatever predestined business Alliance frontman Dylan Cook had to transact with The Foretold One, it was strictly between the two of them. You’ve some tough decisions coming, student of mine, as to where your responsibilities lie.”

Storm-Sky observed a solemn silence, while 4-H-N hardly dared blink.

“This much we know,” the Master concluded. “In your custody is a man more dangerous than either of us can imagine. Not for what he is, but for what information he might divulge. You feel them, billions of lives which even now hang in the balance. Let them weigh on your conscience, Storm-Sky, and remember all I ever told you, before you make the move that sets this tragedy in motion...”