Flash Gordon (25 page)

“Oh Imperious Leader,” extolled an officer in a red uniform which, despite its finery, was extremely drab in comparison to that of Ming’s, “would it please you to see those accursed primitives blasted into so many wayward atoms?”

Ming pretended to ponder the question. “Not yet. Send down a shuttle. Bring back Barin, Zarkov, and Dale Arden.”

“And Gordon?”

“No. Prepare Our Imperial Lander.”

Tight-lipped and scowling, Flash watched the shuttle take away the three people who so quickly had come to mean more to him than life itself. His hands behind his back, he faced away from the monstrosity in human form who was responsible for this latest defeat. It was all he could do to restrain himself from tossing Ming off the Sky Palace; he imagined Ming falling between the platform and the disk, his skullcap glistening in the light of the cosmic whirlpool, his form ever diminishing as his limbs futilely waved about. Only the presence of two hooded guards aiming nasty-looking firearms (with yellow fins on either side of the barrel and casing) prevented Flash from fulfilling his fantasy. However, he did not despair. Though things looked pretty hopeless at the moment, he had triumphed over insurmountable odds in the past, and he silently vowed not to give up until this ruthless tyrant was an ignoble wretch in a foul dungeon, or a common laborer in the mines (whichever best served the cause of justice).

Perhaps Ming, with his undeniable understanding of human character, realized Flash’s thoughts as he watched the muscles of the Earthling’s back tense until they were like coiled springs; perhaps Ming possessed the same incredible will and self-control that prevented Flash from reacting to the sudden turn of events like an uncivilized brute. Indeed, Ming barely indicated how much he gloated. He merely waited until the shuttle had disappeared and Flash had turned to him. Only then did he distort his lean features with an evil smile.

Relaxing with an effort, Flash rubbed his palm on the bare skin above the crest of his red and black tank-top shirt. “Why aren’t I going with them?”

Ming’s smile disappeared. He spoke with a neutrality Klytus would have been proud to achieve. “I have other plans for you.”

Flash snorted. “I can imagine.”

“You want to destroy me. Why?”

“I must destroy you if I’m to save the Earth.”

“What if I granted you a kingdom?” Ming rested an elbow on a palm, caressing his mustache with his free thumb and forefinger.

“If you
what?
”

“Ming the Merciless, Rightful Ruler of the Universe, here and now offers Flash Gordon a Kingdom of Mongo to rule over as his own.”

“You’re as crazy as a bedbug. Why would you do that?”

The Emperor divested himself of his imperial manner as much as he dared; his smile was an unsuccessful attempt to breach the social barriers between them. “I confess it: You fascinate me. I’ve never before met your like. You’re a hero.

“You’ve survived every peril of Mongo. Your name is whispered in the streets. You even slew the dreaded Klytus. Who better than you to rule a kingdom?” His eyes suddenly revealed him to be lost in his own thoughts. “You’ll learn the trick of it soon enough. My illustrious grandfather was hailed as the evilest ruler the universe had ever created. During his prime, life was sweet and pleasurable for his subjects, because they never knew when it would become unbearably cruel—or when it would cease altogether. Now it’s easy to see where my grandfather made his mistakes. The reality of his malevolence is something less than the legends would have me believe. Indeed, my grandfather hardly qualified as the embodiment of pure evil, regardless of his avowed intentions. However, there are tyrants whose ideals of themselves are great accomplishments. The knowledge that my ancestor perceived what he must do so clearly has given my life a genuine purpose. Without this knowledge, my highest ambitions would be fulfilled merely by mindlessly slaying and fornicating and communing with the universe, goals any common tyrant in my position can easily achieve. My grandfather’s ideals are as permanent as a thousand monuments, for they have erected a monument nobler than stone in my ruthless heart.”

I’ll buy that,
thought Flash, though Ming’s words uncomfortably reminded him of those of a leader of men he held in great esteem, a leader whose ideals represented tolerance and benevolence, in addition to sacrificing for the good of all, a leader cut down before his first term in office had ended. In recent years this leader’s actual performance in office had been criticized, perhaps accurately, perhaps not (for in the misty land of politics, everything is relative). But no one had ever denied that the mere fact of his ideals had become a potent force in the hearts of a generation.

“You’ll soon enough learn the trick of being a ruthless tyrant,” continued Ming. “Terrify your subjects, give them shows. Barbarous creatures! Violence is all the poor brutes understand. Rule well enough, and I’ll even return you to Earth.”

Flash blinked.

“Its moon is drifting very close to it right now. Making allowances for time differentials due to the curvatures of space, I should think Earth’s end might come within a few hours.”

“You’d call off the attack?” Flash was almost hopeful.

“I could.” Again, the neutrality of tone.

“Everyone would be
saved?”

“Just those left alive. After the earthquakes and tidal waves and the inevitable breakdown of civilization, they won’t be quite the human beings you remember. They’ll be more tractable, easier for you to rule in the name of Ming.”

“You mean slaves.”

“Let’s say they’ll be satisfied with less.”

“Mindless zombies!” snapped Flash.

“Ask your friend Zarkov. He’ll explain what happens to animals subjected to extreme stress.”

Very funny,
thought Flash.
If you have your way, I’ll never see Zarkov again.
“What about Dale?”

Ming drew himself to his full height. “We have decided to marry her. She promises to take Us on hitherto unimagined pathways to ecstasy. We will breed with her and send our Imperial progeny back to populate your Earth.” He shrewdly assessed Flash’s expression. “You prefer death to a kingdom?”

Flash nodded grimly.

“I’m disappointed, but I suppose I should have expected that a hero would refuse.” He walked to the edge of the platform. “Still, I’d rather see you at my side . . .” He kicked a chalice into the void. “. . . than scattered into atoms.”

By now Flash glared openly at Ming; he reined in his anger with difficulty.

“But as you wish,” said Ming. “We’ll return to the Imperial Rocket,” he said to the hooded guards. “Leave the Earthling here, to his doom.”

Inside the prison ship, Zarkov supported Dale as they peered through a portal and watched the Sky Palace gradually recede in the blue and purple skies. They ignored Ming’s presence.

“Amazing,” said Zarkov, ever the analytical scientist. “Those columns of light below the palace must be solid enough to cut off gravity waves. What an incredible paradox! The most dependable foundation is the most nebulous of energies.”

Zarkov continued expounding on his speculations in order to distract Dale from her concern and fear, but the intellectual exhibition was incomprehensible babble as far as she was concerned, especially when the Sky Palace lurched to one side and then began to wobble like a poorly thrown Frisbee.

Dale covered her face; Zarkov embraced her, expecting her body to rack with the spasms of her crying. But she controlled herself, and Zarkov feared that her heart had become numb, insensitive to its pain. Perhaps something vital in her soul was soon to be snuffed out forever.

The doctor drew in a sharp breath, then immediately regretted it. For Dale looked up to see the Sky Palace falling through billowing clouds.

The palace had fallen for only a few seconds when laser beams stabbed out at it from the vessels of the Imperial Fleet.

A series of small explosions sent out arcs of yellow sparks and torrents of smoke.

Suddenly the entire palace was lost in a blaze of red and yellow. When the smoke cleared, only shards of debris plummeted through the clouds.

Dale turned to Ming. “You murderer!” she exclaimed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

But the only reply of the Emperor of the Universe was a sardonic smile.

N
OT
only was the moon dangerously veering from its orbit, but comets careened wildly into the Earth’s path. The texture of the ether developed unusual, indescribable colors at various places for extended periods, as if the universe itself was somehow sickened by the Earth’s presence. On the planet, things had become even stranger.

Huge evergreens burst through the ice-packed surface of the North Pole. Ricky Montrose of Tazewell, Virginia, fell through a dimensional portal temporarily created by an electrical disturbance in the atmosphere; the kid was never seen again, much to the relief of his parents. (“He was a little terror!” Mr. Montrose became fond of saying.) Enrico Brusati of Rome discovered that his weight consistently registered at thirty kilograms, though his girth remained the most spectacular (or repulsive) in the city; no one could put forth a reasonable explanation for the phenomenon, and Enrico adamantly refused to permit the doctors to puncture his belly with a hat pin, even under the strictest conditions.
Pravda
insisted there was nothing fishy going on in the U.S.S.R., an observation which normally would have passed without notice; but the Soviet news agency made the remark every day, and foreign diplomats sent secret correspondence to their superiors complaining about the tigers stalking the streets of Moscow.

Theoretical physicists, however, became preoccupied with the color variations of the ether, and when Dr. Peter Falkenburg of the Jet Propulsion Labs in Pasadena, California, read a newspaper article on the disappearance of the Montrose boy, he had a startling premonition of Earth’s ultimate fate. “Only one man can construct a device which can send out rays to halt the degeneration of the ether,” said Dr. Falkenburg to a colleague. “We must find this man and offer him all the assistance he requires. He’s our only hope!”

“Who is this man?” asked the colleague, lighting a cigarette.

“Dr. Hans Zarkov!”

F
LASH
was on his knees constructing a parachute from a blanket when the abrupt swaying of the Sky Palace knocked him off the platform. He grabbed a bar, pulled himself into a hole, and found himself sliding down a tubular silver chute, unable to halt or even impede his progress.
I hope there’s some laundry down there so I have a soft landing,
he thought.

The chute took him to a dock. Holding onto the sill he had grabbed to break his fall, Flash realized he was seeing a rocket cycle, probably used by friendly visitors of the Hawk Man Kingdom. He had never before seen this invention, and consequently he had no idea how to fly it. But he thanked the Fates he was a fast learner.

Maintaining his balance with difficulty as he crossed the floor, he straddled the cycle, supporting himself by leaning against a metal bar. He gunned the engine. The force of the cycle’s kick, combined with the violent lurching of the palace, sent him flying against the wall. He pulled himself back onto the cycle and gunned it again, this time prepared for its kick. Exhaling bolts of flame so hot their color was pink, the cycle slid down its short track.

Unnoticed by all, Flash was a kilometer away from the Sky Palace when it exploded.

Sitting on a limb on the forest moon of Arboria, Luro the Hawk Man picked an insect off his chest. “They were brave creatures, Vultan. With respect, the man who rid us of Klytus shouldn’t be deserted.”

Vultan winced. It was bad enough he was feeling claustrophobic beneath the canopy of foliage, but Luro had spoken loud enough for several of his other Hawk Men perched in the trees to hear. “Will you shut up? So maybe I’d do it differently if I could. But there’s no way I can help a man who’s dead!”

“Perhaps . . .”

“Yes?” said Vultan eagerly.

“No. Forget it. I was going to say that you could ensure that Flash Gordon didn’t give his life in vain, but it’s too ridiculous to even contemplate.”

Vultan pursed his lips and nodded. “True, true. Still, it’s too bad.” Resting his elbows on his knees, he placed his large fists beneath his bearded chin.

Suddenly, static drowned the murmurings of the Hawk Men. A familiar voice manifested itself. “Flash Gordon to Vultan; do you read me? Mayday! Mayday!”

The Prince of the Hawk Men looked about. Like many of his kind, he believed in reincarnation, but this development was unprecedented. Then he smiled with relief. He spoke into a wrist communicator. “This is Vultan. I read you! Where are you?”

“Flying blind on a rocket cycle.”

“We’re in Arboria. I’ll send you a homing beam.”

“Thank you, Vultan.” A pause. “For what it’s worth, Ming’s got Dale, Zarkov, and Barin.”

“I see,” the Prince said heavily. “My thanks to
you.
”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Oh, for giving a dumb old bird a second chance. After all, the worth of a man’s life can only be judged by the droppings he leaves behind him. Over to homing beam!”

Vultan suppressed a thrill of pleasure, for he knew he had committed himself and his subjects to a harrowing enterprise which would possibly result in the death or total subjugation of all. Nevertheless, he did not doubt his subjects would accept the risk. Some, such as Biro and Luro, would welcome it.

A certain blond Earthling also welcomed it. While flying a rocket cycle through green and blue skies he let out whoops and hollers and other Alabama war cries.

Dale Arden, on the other hand, experienced no exhilaration, no hope, no sensation, only an overpowering numbness and weariness that caused her every movement to be the result of a tremendous effort. Sitting on a bed of pillows, surrounded by unfortunate harem women who reveled in their exploitation, Dale resisted the comfort offered by the more hedonistic women who liked to keep in practice. Under different circumstances, her pink and blue gown would have inspired a number of sensual fantasies in her subconscious; its touch was soft, like the caress of a tender man. And knowing the caresses she would soon be subjected to, like any woman who permitted powerful men to use her body in any fashion they deemed fit (without regard for the spirit residing inside), she felt like a traitor to everything she had believed in, not to mention everything Flash would have wished for her. The fact that she had no choice but to surrender was not comforting, not in the least.