Prelude

Planet Grindotron was the Silicon Valley of the quadrant. Peopled by a race of small squashy life-forms that were to all intents and purposes defenceless, the culture that evolved there had predictably enough been one dependent on technology for physical tasks. Thus had Grindotron gradually established its present standing as a wonderland of gleaming megalopolises and meticulously-maintained expanses of outstanding natural beauty, famed the galaxy over. Grindo science was among the most advanced in the known universe, and its spongy exponents lived in contentment with super-intelligent robots catering to their every need.

At the computerized heart of this remarkable world, a family from far away had come to consult with one of the leading minds in pursuance of a quest not wholly unrelated to Joe’s. This Grindo luminary on introducing himself to the voyagers explained that the native concept of self-determination did not extend as far as individual identities, and so he was addressable merely as Professor Grindo or Prof for short. A round yellowing limbless face, so saggy with age that his days of rolling or bouncing were done, he clicked about his laboratory-complex in a mechanical frame of his own invention replete with spindly interchangeable arms and legs.

Together this host and his guests stood before a wall of glass, beyond which sprawled the mightiest operating-theatre in Prof’s compendious medical-bay. Dutiful silent androids busily manned every workstation therein, while on the one bed a dark-haired teenage boy lay under the ministrations of automated medical equipment more advanced than any ever glimpsed by human eyes. His body, rendered as a vector graphic and offset by dozens of endlessly-updating readout captions, was the content of every monitor-screen in sight.

“It’s amazing, Professor,” Dr. James Neetkins declared softly. “Even in this short time, ye’ve done more fuir the laddie than we ever could hae back hame. The most we could dae was stabilize his condition, but ye’re actually regenerating lost cells wherever there’s damage tae Dylan’s molecular structure.”

“That much is within the bounds of Grindo knowledge,” Prof replied. “But completion of the cure will require more extensive working knowledge than I can claim as to the precise nature of the harm done to our patient. This weaponized deployment of anti-matter theory is not my field. We require an expert on such violent applications, and there is only one who might qualify.”

His tone was portentous. Leading the six humanoids Prof tapped across the floor to an upright holographic projector, and with one of his slender chrome appendages switched it on.

“Scientooth,” he announced.

In the projection-beam appeared something akin in scale and dimensions to a human skull, though it was made of green-coloured tin. One side of it was featureless where the eye would have been, whilst from the other a circular optic sensor glared out on the laboratory like a monocle.

“Actual size,” Prof continued, “but don’t let his diminutive proportions fool you. For a time he was Toothfire’s chief munitions engineer and arms-dealer. Not a Vernderernder, as you can see, but one of the many lesser mechanical beings that populate Toothfire Space. He worked his way up the ranks through sheer ruthlessness and ambition, and during the wars for Grindotron, he was my nemesis. Time and again we went head-to-head, to borrow one of your more apt Earth-expressions.”

“There’s peace with Toothfire now, though,” Carmilla Neetkins put in. “Much as I feel we’re building to the reason this is going to be harder than it sounds.”

“You are insightful, my dear,” Prof replied gravely. “For soon after the founding of the Solidity, Scientooth mysteriously defected from Toothfire. Many believed he sought to ally himself with Dimension Borg, though nothing came of that. Grindo intelligence sets his present whereabouts deep in the Junkyard Belts of Nebula Seven, and I fear you will not find him quite so willing to share his research as I have been.”

“No problem, we’ll just threaten him with a can-crusher,” suggested the clone 4-H-N.

“A crushed can will not surrendair ze information we seek,” Phoenix reminded her. “But zat information shall be ours, no mattair ze cost.”

“The two senior members of your expedition will be of greatest assistance back here at the lab,” Prof put in. “Their specialism in anti-matter mutation may lead us to alternative avenues by which to help the boy.”

“My husband and I would be honoured to consult with you,” Iskira Neetkins assured her fellow professor.

Phoenix took a final look through the glass into the operating-theatre. Though The Four Heroes’ future appeared cloudy indeed in the light of their recent adventures, the fate of one among their number had fallen squarely into the hands of the Neetkins family. This was due in large part to the love that Phoenix and Dylan had shared, and her gaze now burned with the resolution only a lover can feel as she rested it on his comatose body. Then Phoenix turned back, to the trio with whom she made up a sorority of biological daughters and clones: Carmilla the eldest, 4-H-N, and flame-winged Phoenix Prime who had said nothing thus far.

“Leave ze tin can to us,” Phoenix declared.

Prof had granted the sisters full use of his high-tech armoury and their choice of spacecraft for the task of going after Scientooth, so together they made their way from the medical level to the hangars below. In the gloom of the corridors and stairwells the light from Phoenix Prime’s wings was a brooding presence cast across the company.

“So, Phoenix,” Carmilla commenced without preamble. “Off into battle with the evil robots again. Kind of makes you think of 2596, doesn’t it, not to mention all the millions of other times? Back when it was always nice to know we had Four Heroes powers on our side?”

There was no need to make the hint any more explicit. “We are not asking Joe for ’elp,” came back Phoenix’s reply. She did not stop walking. “’E is more zan welcome to contact us, if zat is what ’e wishes. ’E knows where we are.”

“He knows we’re in this galaxy,” Carmilla corrected her. “You’ve not exactly been sending him Grindotron postcards, Phoenix.”

“We ’ave no reason to doubt ze words of le petit monsieur Flashthundair,” Phoenix said briskly. “Neetra will surely make ’er way back to Joe sooner or latair. Ze time will thereby come when we must perforce see ’im again. Until zen, I am in no ’urry. Besides, from all I gathair ’e is ’appy enough without us, as ze self-styled object of a cult following among zis sector’s young. Le plus ce change, ce le plus ce même chose.”

Her lips closed tight. This time she was the one making a thinly-veiled point. Carmilla sighed.

“I know how you feel about that, Phoenix,” she told her gently. “But if Joe had left Dylan or Neetra alone to have an ordinary childhood, the world would never have been saved. All he’s doing here is what he did before, teaching The Four Heroes’ cause to the ones who might listen.”

“It is no longair sufficient to regard Joe as ze last authority on zat cause, ma soeur,” Phoenix pronounced. “Dylan nevair faltered in ’is beliefs. Joe did, and ze moment ’e abandoned ’is cause, ’e brought about a more terrible threat zan any evair known to ze future of ze universe. ’Ow can you be sure zese children are learning anything from ’im zat so much as resembles ze Four Heroes’ cause as we once knew it? And ’ow many of zem will one day lie on life-support as my love does now, thanks to ze imagined glories Joe filled zeir ’eads with?”

“Nobody was tougher on Joe than me,” said Carmilla. “But I’m older, Phoenix, and I’m the only one here who knows what evil looks like from the inside. What Joe’s been through, fighting with a friend and hooking up with the wrong person…that’s what happens when you’re his age. You wouldn’t turn a regular teenage boy into the bad guy for doing it. Real evil would be trying to make someone feel that’s what they were, just for living that time in their life. Yes, Joe has responsibilities that mean the stakes are higher and the consequences heavier. But it’s not fair of us to assume those usual troubles growing up weren’t ever meant to apply to him, just because of who he is. Dylan and Neetra were both old enough in the end to understand the risks, and to choose for themselves whether to stay a part of The Four Heroes – ”

“Absolutely,” put in a new, third voice. “Phoenix makes it sounds like what happened to Dylan was Joe’s fault.”

It belonged to Phoenix Prime. Here, the procession did halt.

Having educated herself in solitude using only scientific journals, Phoenix Prime was never much on the social graces. Bald unequivocal statements were her way, and that had not changed. However, the days when she was able to deliver them with complete detachment were a thing of the past. Exploring her own humanity had for Phoenix Prime entailed learning about the price to pay for misdeeds, and though she comprehended rationally the manner in which guilt followed the law of logical outcomes, it was proving quite a different matter to bear with the emotion itself. A terrible helplessness was etched in Phoenix Prime’s every word, as she confronted the failure of her powers of expression to articulate the pain under which she suffered.

All her three kinswomen could do was offer their comfort and reassurances, in the hope Phoenix Prime might know from it that they were family now, and none of them wished for her to face her remorse alone. Carmilla, as she joined Phoenix and 4-H-N in this, could not help reflecting inwardly that original and clone were starting to look disturbingly alike in more ways than the physical. Phoenix’s stubborn insistence that this must remain her quest was raising odds which would surely have been evened by Joe’s powers, but Phoenix Prime in her determination to make amends was desperate too. Both, for their own reasons, were approaching this mission as if they had nothing to lose, so long as the result was Dylan’s recovery.

Carmilla hardly needed her trace-residue of psychic power to feel a sense of unease.

NEXT: 'CODE'