The Incursion, Chapter Two

Petunia’s performance of the three odd-numbered songs from her repertoire had gone down well on the Rings of Xandreth. True, it was only a small nightclub some distance from the VIP ascension of that galaxy’s ten thousand mega-mile orbital pleasure-strip, but if Petunia had touched even this handful of lives with that which she represented, she was satisfied. From their hoots and howls and waving pseudopods it sounded as if she had, so with a last half-circle twirl she treated them to one more look at the symbol they were doubtless cheering for.

A gang of female Mini-Flashes had been doing tappy smell-bombs throughout the set. “Shove your solar space-racer!” Mini-Flash Bobbypins shouted from this table, and the girls sniggered loudly then tapped their test-tubes and smelled as one. Petunia pretended she hadn’t heard, though her little nose was higher than it had been as she finished deactivating her dancer-androids and daintily descended the stage-steps.

“Swishing round like those pristine petticoats hold the rest of us in thrall,” Mini-Flash Meteor pronounced to her company. “And in the presence of the girl who single-handedly averted a resumption of Grindo-Toothfire hostilities, yet.”

She raised her tiny eyebrows significantly at 4-H-N. No more than this was needed to make it clear she had issued a command. The others started to watch with eager grins.

4-H-N suppressed a sigh. These dares, if that was what they were, were becoming so frequent she was no longer sure she could keep up her own act in front of this toughest of crowds. Had the Mini-Flashes somehow rumbled her, and were they now sneakily turning her deception into a double-bluff to see how long it took her to crack? Or could it be there was genuine paranoia on Mini-Flash Meteor’s part? She had already alluded once to the fame 4-H-N’s quick thinking earned her during the Nereynis incident, and Meteor was just the sort of girl to fear that as a threat to her status as leader. If so, 4-H-N only wished the latter knew how welcome she was to it as she wearily switched to character yet again and thrust herself into Petunia’s path.

“Surprised to see you here,” she challenged the girl. “Thought your sort was too good to mix with the galactic riff-raff these days.”

Petunia’s tight sweater was more than equal to thrusting right back at 4-H-N’s beige bodice. “Er, maybe because this is where I’m needed,” was her pert retort.

The Mini-Flashes’ eyes were on 4-H-N, hungrily. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” she demanded. “You’d be better off back in Nottingham shacked up with Joe. Marrying him,” she added with a snort, “since you’re so obviously off your pants for his interpretation of the cause.”

Colour rose to Petunia’s cheeks. 4-H-N, in all fairness, couldn’t have known what a sore point she’d inadvertently stumbled upon.

“To address your opening question, I have heard of you,” Petunia declared. “I think you’ll find most girls have, though I’m sure it’s not the kind of reputation I’d want!”

So saying she showed 4-H-N her tail-end and in a magnificent flip of turned-up tresses strode for the exit, underskirts flaring. For all that this presented the clone with a kaleidoscope of powder-blue and baby-pink emblazoned with scarlet and gold, she herself was suddenly seeing nothing but red. Starting forward so her tunic-skirt bloomed fiercely over her own white silk she clutched a handful of flying flouncy hemline and yanked hard, such that with a cry Petunia bounced and blundered backward on her flat soles to end up standing more or less where she was.

“I told you just now about being a bit too free flashing off that symbol!” 4-H-N rounded on her. “Some of us were fighting for it long before you decided to stitch it on your little butt!”

“Yes, and I’m sure the first one who ever fought for it would be so proud of you now,” were Petunia’s words, as she cast her violet eyes unafraid over the table-top’s disarray and the belligerent smiles of the Mini-Flashes. Then she swept out, so forcefully as to bump 4-H-N that worlds collided and jostled in the aftermath. A characteristic cloud of tinned peaches perfume was all that remained.

4-H-N at that exact moment wouldn’t have liked to have had to say how much of the preceding was part of her performance, and how much an unrehearsed loss of temper. Her friends however certainly looked as if they’d enjoyed the show, and that she supposed was the point. Still a little short of breath she resumed her chair.

“When stuffy met peachy,” drawled Mini-Flash Meteor, sounding pleased with herself. “On an olfactory level it had all the qualities of saga.”

“Bet you’re going to pay her out for that, 4-H-N,” Mini-Flash Bobbypins put in.

Stay in character. With that in mind, the clone banged a full beaker and smelled.

“Got that right, Bobby,” she intoned. “Not that The Flash Club or my parents or the whole stinking galaxy would understand. They don’t know what it’s like for girls on our side of the spaceway. Life’s handed me an empty envelope and written on the outside are instructions to hike Miss Peachy Petunia’s prissy knickers as far up her bumcleft as they’ll go!”

Mini-Flash Splitsville cruised the Nottingham highway, triple-carburettor chugging away while the rest of her souped-up black-painted space-racer was a smooth blur gliding through luminous night. Joe’s mind-message coming in loud and clear on the telepathic hi-fi was some real-gone jazz, like the Daddy-o was having a little trouble with the neighbours.

“We all got our hang-ups, heart-throb,” was Splitsville’s laconic response. “Only I been gone from the Tablet too long and every Betty and Sally wants a piece of my rep, dig?”

“Croldon Thragg this very morning acquired 1956’s cinematic classic Hot Rod Girl,” Joe replied. “My influence over Dean may extend as far as negotiating an early slot on this week’s schedule. The score is by Alexander Courage.”

“For this one drag I’ll stick around, Dad,” conceded Mini-Flash Splitsville, and letting go her steering-wheel put both palms together and drew them wide apart. Then with shoulders well back she accelerated into the portal thus opened and burst out upon new neon skylines and a different streetlamp-lit strip, to bear down headlong at the uninvited guests burgeoning their way up every lane. Grindo Booster units bulked in formation, four-wheeled robot off-roaders each equipped with a rollbar-mounted laser-carbine, and over the dust-cloud their thick tyres kicked up skimmed a fleet of pentagonal Micro-Mallet sky-saboteurs kitted out for combat.

On a cannonball course Mini-Flash Splitsville punched fearlessly through the front line, then hit her handbrake and etched an arc of fire across the asphalt. Rockets reignited and she roared back again through the aisle she had carved, even while the disarrayed intruders still scrambled to come about. In just a few short revs however retaliatory shots were zinging by and Splitsville rigged her racer for a full-throttle chase, standing in her seat to offer her pursuers the traditional Mini-Flash target.

END OF CHAPTER TWO