Flash Gordon
Page 1
DUEL IN THE SKY
Far below the royal perch of the Hawk Men leader, a great battle disk glimmered in the sunlight, supported on a giant shaft, its surface greased and ready.
Flash saw it and groaned—there was nothing under it but the bottomless sky.
He and Barin, Prince of Arboria, were to duel, clad in loincloths and armed only with whips.
They entered the ring and the disk began to tilt and sway, sending Flash slipping and sliding to the lower side. Jumping at the advantage, Barin struck, his whip tearing Flash’s weapon from his hand.
The Hawk Men leader touched a button and hundreds of knives shot up from the battle floor. He grabbed at Flash, bending his body back, back toward the deadly knives.
“Flash!” Dale’s voice rang out. “We have less than twelve hours to save the Earth . . .”
The disk tilted dangerously toward the sky . . .
Copyright © 1980 Famous Films B. V.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to: Permissions,
Jove Publications, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue,
New York, NY 10016
First Jove edition published December 1980
ISBN: 0515058483
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
Jove books are published by Jove Publications, Inc.,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: Cosmic Pawns
CHAPTER 1: Flash Gordon Scores
Interlude
CHAPTER 2: Flaming Death
Interlude
CHAPTER 3: Blast Off!
CHAPTER 4: A Journey through the Barriers of the Ether
CHAPTER 5: Captured by Faceless Minions
CHAPTER 6: The Judgment of Ming
Interlude
CHAPTER 7: Flash Bites the Big One
CHAPTER 8: Crashing on Arboria
Interlude
CHAPTER 9: Zarkov’s Treachery
CHAPTER 10: Beyond Ming’s Law
CHAPTER 11: A Kingdom for Flash!
Interlude
CHAPTER 12: Here Comes the Bride
CHAPTER 13: The End? Well, Maybe . . .
The author thanks Charly Lippincott and Linda Levine for their valuable assistance during the composition of this fast-action extravaganza.
For many reasons, the author would like to acknowledge the cast of thousands who have worked at the Change of Hobbit Speculative Fiction Bookstore in Los Angeles, including Mayer, Mike, Victor, Alan, Barry, Tad, Bill, Gil, Mark, and anyone else, especially one Sherry Gottlieb, and most especially (for personal reasons) one Lydia Marano.
PROLOGUE
Cosmic Pawns
“UNDERLING, I am weary.”
The unconcerned voice which replied to the statement was incapable of warmth or pity. It had never expressed a passion, not even the tacit admission of an emotion. “O Master, what might I do to relieve the weariness which has so mercilessly beset you?”
A pause. “You might amuse me.”
“For the purposes of amusement, there is your harem of submissive, willing slaves.”
“With sleek bodies tanned by discriminating applications of artificial light, that I know. I am not interested in that sort of amusement.” Another pause. “Perhaps later.”
“You have your scholars to present all manner of inventive and obscure arguments for your approval.”
“Underling, today I have no desire to listen to a cowardly old man with quivering knees lecture me on the finer points of logic.”
“Does it not please you to listen to philosophers explain why life is meaningful only beneath the iron hand of your august rule?”
“It pleases me, but it does not relieve my boredom.”
“I might arrange for your tributes to be given within the hour.”
“Do not bother; it can wait.”
“Is there a duty of state which might please you?”
Another pause, this one long and heavy. “Klytus.”
“O Master.”
“What would you say if I informed you that my weariness was the result of my singular loneliness?”
“I would reply that the loneliness of a star blazing in the vacuum of space is a small price to pay for imperial greatness, for the vast spirit which rules the nine moons of a kingdom that is truly the center of the universe.”
“You would make such a reply?”
“Indeed I would, Sire, without hesitation—that is, if you were to say that you were lonely.”
“Do you believe I am lonely?”
“No, Sire, though if you were to say you were, then I would believe it instantly, with all my soul.”
“Klytus, you disappoint me.”
The unconcerned voice expressed the barest hint of surprise. “Sire! How have I failed thee?”
“As We cannot condemn the space-hound for its savagery, We cannot fault thee for shortcomings inherent in thy very nature.”
“I exist only to serve you.”
“And, Klytus—you have no soul.”
“I kneel corrected.” The rustle of robes brushing against metal.
A sigh. “Tell Us, Klytus, since it appears We are doomed to suffer this weariness, at least for the time being, what affair of state should We choose to help Us wile away the hours?”
“Perhaps—the testing of a civilization?”
“Hmmm, yes. The life or death of millions upon millions. That might send the blood flowing through these tired veins. Have the computers make their selection.”
A hand sheathed in golden metal reached out and flicked a switch. It pushed a button and waited patiently before a slot. Green, yellow, and red lights flashed. There were pings and scraping sounds. A white card slipped from the slot into the sheathed hand.
“The computers have selected an insignificant planet in Sector 468G29, Sire.”
“Not Sector 468G29! It’s so dreary, so relentlessly, dreadfully boring. Its dullness is legendary even in the society of the drones beneath Our fair citadel. Nothing interesting ever happens there.”
“The prospects do not please me either, Sire, but according to the computers, there has been an inexplicable oversight. This planet’s civilization has never before been tested.”
“Oh?”
“We must test this insignificant planet in this dreadfully boring sector for the protection of the realm.”
“Very well. And have the maintenance man and current programmer executed.”
“O Master, they were executed last week for that little error which allowed Vultan to conceal his daughter’s existence for so long.”
“Have their replacements executed.”
“They have not yet been appointed.”
“Select a few volunteers then, Klytus, and inform them of the price of failure.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Proceed.”
“Yes, Master.”
The sheathed hand pressed buttons and flicked switches, the computer bank hummed as connections were made, gears slipped into place, and electrons coursed through coils. Waves of interference flowed across the view screen in the center of the console. Bright stars gradually appeared, floating like scoops of radioactive dust in the blackness. It was Sector 468G29.
The Master stifled an imperial yawn. A hand in a scintillating red glove waved. “Please, Klytus, I’ve no desire for sightseeing. I can do that while I meditate. Proceed more quickly.”
&n
bsp; “Yes, Sire.” The sheathed hand turned a knob and on the screen appeared a blue world partially enveloped by white and gray mists and orbited by a barren rocky moon. The world was Earth.
“What do you know of this world’s civilization, Klytus?”
“Surely not enough to satisfy your endless thirst for knowledge, Sire.”
“Please try.”
“The civilization has reached Level Two, but the intellect of the inhabitants does not deal with it rationally. A peculiar personality trait, which all the inhabitants possess to some degree, is an amazing ability to refuse responsibility for their own actions, or for their existences, in general. To this end they live in a number of principalities, each with its own government, but there is no dictator to cut through red tape and bureaucracies. I must say, Sire, they are not very reasonable.”
“Interesting, interesting.”
“They possess other unusual qualities, Sire, including a philosophical outlook unique throughout the galaxies, though it has presented them with little advantage.”
“And what is that, Klytus?”
“The deeds and thoughts of life are somewhat arbitrarily divided between those they call ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ The good are supposed to make life better for all people, and the evil worsen it.”
“And is this planet a utopia of well-meaning intentions, a paradise of delight?”
“No, Sire, not in the least. Only a few can meet the behavioral standards which are the results of their ideals, and the others but pretend. There are many ways of carrying out the pretense. One method is to set up a huge faceless body called a ‘corporation’ which insulates each man from the results of his decisions. Orders are carried out through long chains of command so that when a decision backfires, creating an inordinate amount of pollution or contaminating a village, the person truly responsible can blame underlings or forces beyond his control. Therefore, he can believe he is successfully continuing the pretense of meeting the high philosophical standards.”
“And what is the so-called purpose of these corporations, Klytus?”
“To amass tremendous amounts of credits, so that the rewards of the capitalistic schemes can be utilized to earn more profits.”
“Why do they not simply demand tribute from their underlings?”
“As I said, Sire, they are not reasonable.”
“Are the people of this civilization aware of the true size of the universe? Do they meditate regularly, experiencing the myriad forces of the cosmos?”
“A few do, Sire, but in the main that is not considered profitable.”
“Hmmm, I wonder if testing this planet will not be a waste of energy.”
“These people do possess potential.”
The master asked abruptly, “Would they think me good—or evil?”
“Evil, though I confess it is difficult for me to make the distinction between the two. The categories are, after all, arbitrary. If I might be permitted to add an observation . . .” A pause, during which, presumably, the Master indicated his assent. “This planet, called Earth in one of its predominant languages, has produced specimens of a temperament you might find admirable. Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Joseph Stalin. One man, Adolf Hitler by name, possessed the will, but his mind was not strong enough to cope and he became the victim of the very delusions he fostered upon others. Our seers have peered through the veils of time, into alternate dimensions, and they have informed me of the specimens this planet might spawn in the future. Yes, this world is currently insignificant, but there is potential here, potential we must be aware of.”
“It matters not. We can destroy the world if We choose.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Begin the test.”
The sheathed hand manipulated more controls. Momentarily, red and green waves stabbed at the barren moon.
“Do you remain weary, O Master?” asked the unconcerned voice.
“Indeed. But now I ponder upon the indisputable fact that unsuspecting millions depend upon my whim for their very existence, and the knowledge that I might crush them raises my spirits.”
“They are but insects, Sire, pawns of cosmic forces they cannot comprehend.”
“For one who feigns ignorance, Klytus, you seem to know much about this Earth in Sector 468G29.”
“Cosmic pawns are my hobby, Sire.”
“Good. It is a useful hobby, and you are useful to Us. We cannot help but notice that this life-or-death situation the unsuspecting Earth faces has excited Us. We shall retire and visit Our harem. Continue the testing while We exorcise some of Our majestic passions.”
“As you command.”
1
Flash Gordon Scores
FLASH GORDON would have gladly divided the thoughts and deeds of the world into two distinct and arbitrary categories, but like many young people of his age, he realized that throughout the course of history the distinction had never been an easy one. When he had seen the newspaper photographs of a South Vietnamese officer ruthlessly executing a prisoner by shooting him in the head, Flash noted that no honorable man would commit such an act without the formalities of due process. Nor did he believe the National Guardsmen who had slaughtered the student demonstrators at Kent State to be honorable, courageous men; instead, he believed that protesting the senseless brutality of war was an act every bit as “American,” if not every bit as brave, as fighting and dying for the ideals of the United States. He did not understand why a former President had not simply admitted he had lied. He did not understand the concept of executive privilege; executives had no more privileges than other men, and to be honest, however belatedly, was certainly no shame, even if one were surrounded by the liars and sycophants of Washington, D.C. He could not understand why the delegates of the United Nations, who professed to be waging a bloodless war for peace, allowed a terrorist, a murderer of innocent children, to brandish a machine gun at the podium, whatever the merits of his cause. The distinction between good and evil seemed irrelevant in a world which routinely permitted such events to occur. Flash Gordon never pondered these matters to the point where they grew tedious, but they affected him all the same.
Flash’s mother had died of internal hemorrhaging three hours after she had given birth to him in a Tuscaloosa hospital. His father was a janitor at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, and one of his duties was sweeping a section of the stadium after a football game. Flash watched all the games for free, with the inevitable result that he dreamed of one day playing quarterback for the college team. He dreamed of nothing but football. During the week, he spent all his free hours playing it with other children. (Baseball bored him practically to tears, though as he grew older he acquired an intellectual appreciation of it.) He never confided his dreams to his father.
Maxwell Gordon had named his son “Flash” for reasons he could never quite recall. The name was a joke he had made while in a drunken stupor the night of his wife’s death. If Maxwell was both father and mother to his child, it was only because he felt it was his duty, never because he truly loved the boy. When Flash was five and capable of taking care of himself without getting into too many fights and making too much of a mess, Maxwell left him alone to play sandlot football or to listen to the football games on the radio. After a time he acknowledged the boy, only to condemn him as the killer of his wife. Maxwell often threatened to kill Flash. He raged at the youth between drinks from his bottle of Southern Comfort, but Flash endured the cruel words with an infuriating compassion. Flash never hated his father; he understood that Maxwell carried within him a tortuous grief time could never heal, and that Maxwell dealt with it in the only fashion he knew.
Sometimes Flash heard his father making love to waitresses in the bedroom or in the kitchen, but he was not upset or confused. His father’s escapades inspired him only to turn up the radio a little and to lean forward on the couch, to be closer to the speaker. He imitated the announcers of New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, sometimes pretending to be them
rather than the quarterbacks. He whispered their words, he strove to talk like them in all respects. They became more real than the friends he made during the sandlot games, and, as a consequence, his southern accent became subdued. As he grew older, he lost it completely. The environment had not molded him; he had molded himself.
Maxwell Gordon died when Flash was twelve. Maxwell had gotten in a fight with a young lady in a bar. It turned out the lady was fifteen and her father had taken exception to her plans for the night. The perpetrator, a county clerk as well as a lifelong Democrat, pleaded self-defense. Since all the customers in the bar had been so involved in their own affairs and so uninterested in the fight that they had not seen who had pulled out the knife, Maxwell’s murderer was put on probation for six months. Flash bore the county clerk no malice; he believed the man would still have to face the justice of his conscience.
It was only at the funeral that Flash realized just how alone his father had been. The pallbearers were employed by the funeral parlor, and the services were attended by Flash, Maxwell’s superintendent, another janitor, and Flash’s maiden aunt, the twin sister of his mother. They listened to a slightly inebriated Baptist preacher speak of the great spirit and noble heart of Maxwell Gordon. Flash could not help but notice that the preacher offered no specifics.
His aunt Candace took him to a small farm she owned in the northern part of the state. When Flash wasn’t at school or helping the hired hands, he threw a football through a limp tire hanging from a gnarled tree in the backyard. For his birthday, Candace gave him a brand new football, and now Flash was able to throw two before retrieving them. When he became bored throwing with his right arm and needed a challenge to sustain his interest, he learned to throw with his left arm. At night he studied and read the paperback mysteries Candace was addicted to. Although the young Flash never fully comprehended the passions that drove a person to commit murder, he could not deny his fascination with the individual who guildessly defied the most important law of society, and he could not deny his relief when the detective finally exposed the culprit.