Flash Gordon

by Arthur Byron Cover

  The space travelers immediately sensed powerful, sinister forces materializing in the atmosphere, as if the leader had cast a sorcerous spell. A white burst of smoke suddenly appeared in the air before the leader, and a disembodied hand moved from the already dissipating smoke and grasped Flash’s wrist.

  I’ve seen this movie, thought Flash. Where are the Blue Meanies? “Don’t you understand me?” he said hoarsely, attempting to pry apart the fingers. “I said friends!”

  The leader pressed the button a second time; a blue ray stabbed out toward the hand, then disappeared almost instantly. The hand flipped Flash forward. As he landed hard on his back, the hand encircled its fingers about his throat.

  Dale and Zarkov slowly raised their hands, hoping this was a universal gesture of surrender.

  The leader said, “You are prisoners of Ming.” He sounded like a computer with a tainted soul.

  Flash looked toward Zarkov. “Thanks,” he said groggily. “You called a real great play.”

  Again, Zarkov shrugged helplessly.

  The space travelers received no indication from their captors as to the nature of their eventual treatment. Though they were not initially allowed to talk, Zarkov blurted out that it was possible the extraterrestrials were merely suspicious types. Listening to the leader’s cold tones ordering Zarkov to be silent, Flash doubted it. He was angry and humiliated; not since his father’s death had his destiny been so dependent upon the will of others. The only gratification he received from the current situation was the warm sensation of Dale’s perspiring palm in his.

  At first Flash feared they would be forced to walk the entire distance to the splendid city, the sole evidence of civilization now within eyesight. However, after they had walked alongside a deep crevice glimmering with white jewels like nothing Flash had ever before seen, and after they had trekked half a mile uphill through a tunnel illuminated by a yellow glowing liquid sheathed within transparent containers, each spaced several yards apart, they arrived at a pneumatic vehicle resting on silver tracks. The leader gestured for them to sit in the back. In the front sat the leader and a single soldier. The remainder of the force stood beside the tracks, their arms folded across their chests and their legs spread apart in an alien version of the parade rest position, and waited; presumably they would wait until the vehicle returned and took the rest of them to their posts.

  Flash felt a tremor of anticipation as the soldier pressed several buttons on the console; the leader lowered his device and turned his back to the captives. The vehicle hummed and gradually began to move. This would be the perfect opportunity to escape! But a transparent shield dropped between the captives and the captors. Flash reluctantly relaxed. He put his arm about Dale’s shoulders. The scent of her hair, mingled with the odors of this strange new world, hypnotized him. He realized there was now no choice but to do what Zarkov was doing: drink in the exotic sights.

  The vehicle took them over wonderfully desolate country. Rocks shaped like crystals, reminding Flash of the Monolith Monsters, projected from the center of an ebony plateau. Peasants of both sexes, clad only in loincloths, scraped a glittering red dust from boulders with tiny knives; they gathered the dust in bowls, as three armed soldiers stood stoically above them. A shower of meteors crashed into a mountainside, causing a slide of sorrel rocks and debris. A mile away, peasants scurried about the entrance to a mine, reacting to an emergency the nature of which Flash was unable to determine. Flash did not know what to think of all this; everything was different here and nothing could be taken for granted. Then he realized that even from a distance, the peasants appeared very human. He noticed Dale smiling with relief and Zarkov looking behind the vehicle toward the scurrying miners with fascination. And somehow they had already been made to understand the language of these people! They were prisoners of Ming, whoever he was. Flash had been so busy attempting to absorb the more outré information that he had overlooked the obvious. He could not resist a smile not unlike those he revealed in the huddle before calling a long pass on third down with a great deal of yardage. He just might be able to deal with this situation after all.

  As the vehicle neared the city, it entered a transparent tube. “See those pale streaks?” asked Zarkov, pointing above the tube’s opening. Not knowing how the robed leader would greet their conversation, Flash and Dale merely nodded. “I bet you a year’s wages that’s a force field,” said the scientist. He whistled. “Protection from meteors, no doubt.”

  “Or from attack,” said Flash.

  “Yes indeed,” said Zarkov, pulling at his beard. “But what amazing technology! I must study it!”

  “Cease this mindless prattle,” commanded the leader. The captives complied at once. They watched the silent citizens standing on conveyer belts that periodically halted, allowing them to disembark near their destinations. The class system of this world was immediately apparent. The peasants in loincloths were the common laborers; they carried their products, or possessions in sacks; their shoulders were slumped, their posture atrocious, their bellies frequently protruded in the manner of those subsisting on the edge of starvation. The contrast between these poor and the glittering opulent city enraged Flash, and he bit his lower lip and clenched his fist with frustration. The other citizens of this world fared much better. The men wearing filthy spacesuits mined the debris of the cosmic whirlpool. Merchants and/or businessmen, sometimes wearing insignia designating their wares, wore bulky robes with flowing sleeves, decorated with intricate gaudy patterns. Soldiers riding the conveyer belts rested their hands on their swords as if they expected disobedience at any second, from any source. Other male citizens whose occupation Flash could not deduce—perhaps they were students, scientists, or bureaucrats—wore trousers, shirts, and boots of more subdued fashions, but the colors remained outrageous.

  “Flash, notice the women and children,” said Zarkov with an air of urgency. “The mothers have so many children. If they’re so fertile, why isn’t this world one huge suburb?”

  “Perhaps they’re not mothers at all, but daycare teachers,” ventured Dale.

  “I thought I told you three to cease this mindless prattle,” said the leader, his voice a little muffled through the shield. Flash was forced to keep his comment to himself. He had deduced, however, what Zarkov had been trying to tell him, and he realized Dale was mistaken. The women bestowed love and anger upon the packs of children as only mothers could, and each group ran a gamut of ages. The reason why this world wasn’t overrun with teeming crowds like some Terran cities was that the death rate matched the birthrate. This was due to factors other than rampant diseases. The people were clean, overall, and their technology had reached pinnacles beyond his most realistic dreams. Flash, Dale, and Zarkov had been thrust into a savage, treacherous society, where life was a meaningless commodity.

  As if the Fates had conspired to punctuate his thoughts, on a street below the transparent tube a soldier walked up to a robed man and withdrew his sword. The soldier sliced off his head. Flash stared wide-eyed; his heart pounded and there was a constriction in his throat. He glanced at Dale and Zarkov, but they were looking in another direction, whispering something among themselves so as not to offend the leader. Flash hoped they would not notice his anxiety. He looked backward as the vehicle rounded a corner; he saw the soldier cleaning his sword on the victim’s robe; a few people stood nearby, perhaps commenting to themselves; but for the most part, no one seemed to notice the execution, lending credence to Flash’s suspicion that death was very commonplace on this world.

  After they had traveled in the city for approximately fifteen minutes, the vehicle passed into the most ornate, gaudy red and yellow building of all, with crystalline domes and strange alien animals carved from jewels unknown on Earth. One such statue—an eight-legged reptilian beast—breathed bursts of fire at intervals. For the first time they noticed spaceships, designed for both long and short distances, landing and taking off at a port near the top of this opulent building. F
lash, Dale, and Zarkov glanced at one another; they knew, without discussing the matter between them, that they were entering the lair of this Ming, whoever he was.

  Flash had never before experienced such trepidation; he had never before seriously considered that his death might be less than a few hours away. Yet he had never before felt so alive. Not even victory in the Super Bowl matched this sensation. He was glad he had been thrust into this alien environment; it had caused his every organ to function at its peak. He perceived the nuances of life with an unprecedented clarity. And the love he felt for Dale crippled him even as it strengthened him.

  The vehicle took them to a large, sterile interior, a room with green walls and blue floors, save for a single yellow level supporting a transparent tube down which a platform descended. An elevator.

  The pneumatic vehicle stopped, air hissing from its rear like a falsetto groan of relief. Being careful not to trip on the hem of his red robe, the leader got out of the vehicle as the shield imprisoning the captives in the back rose and folded inside the roof. Using the device which had caused the hand to materialize, he gestured for the captives to enter the elevator.

  Other lamellar-clad soldiers joined the leader and the space travelers on the platform. As the leader pressed several buttons, and the platform rose with a faint hum through the transparent tube, Dale stared at the diminutive white eyes of the soldiers before her, eyes she normally would have associated with those of zombies. She did not know if she imagined or if she actually heard mechanical parts whirring and pinging, muffled and erratic, emanating from the interiors of her captors.

  Wiping perspiration from his forehead, Zarkov whistled softly. “I was mad, utterly mad to forget a camera!”

  Grateful for the distraction, Dale grinned weakly. “Where will you get your film developed, Doctor?”

  Zarkov replied as if they were conversing over tea. “Munson does it. Or rather, he takes it to the drugstore down the road. They do wonderful work and they’re very inexpensive. They . . .” He halted, turning quite pale. “I’m sorry. For a moment I completely forgot where we are.”

  Dale touched his shoulder. “It’s all right. I understand.”

  “Listen, whoever they are, they’re intelligent,” said Zarkov. “I’m sure we can reason with them.”

  Soon the elevator shaft was no longer transparent; they passed story after story of gray metal. As they did not know their destination, they had no indication how much longer it would take for them to reach it; but each second was interminable. They could not even hazard a guess as to how fast the elevator was traveling; it seemed to have altered its speed a few times.

  The elevator slowly halted with a pneumatic hiss only slightly deeper than that of the vehicle. The doors opened. Awaiting them was a squad of soldiers clad in red lamellar and gold, standing five to a column on either side. The red-robed leader gestured for them to walk ahead. They had not walked twenty steps when a line of prisoners joined by chains running between heavy metal collars, guarded by more soldiers, entered that section of the hallway. Flash, Dale, and Zarkov stood stunned. The impatient proddings of the leader were unable to goad them forward.

  For the prisoners, blindfolded and gagged (when possible), represented specimens they had never before conceived. There were five Mud Men; Zarkov suspected one was a woman, but he could not be sure. The features, distinguishing physical characteristics, even the sexual organs, were obscured by the glistening, bulky mud covering their bodies. The moisture preventing the mud from caking and breaking off was possibly secreted by glands, Zarkov theorized. However, they left little deposits of dirt behind them.

  The Mud Men were truly disgusting dregs of humanity, that is, if they were human at all. But the deposits of dirt were not nearly as repulsive as the trails left behind by the shiny Slime People. Dale wrinkled her nose as they passed by. Their odor was so horrendous that an extremely potent skunk smelled as pleasant as a freshly picked rose in comparison. Their gags and blindfolds were tied tightly about their heads, lest the substance coating them cause the cloth to slip out of place. Dale felt a tremor of sickness in her abdomen when she spied a thin wire about the face helping keep a gag secure, a wire cutting into his cheek, causing a tremble of yellow pus to run down onto his neck. The Slime People wore white loincloths tied tightly about the hips; the cloths were drenched in the odorous substance manufactured by their bodies. Dale realized that Zarkov, being a scientist, was doubtlessly speculating upon their native environment, and she decided she did not want to know anything about a world which nurtured creatures such as these.

  Behind the Slime People were hissing green Reptile Men with long, thick tails and crooked scaly arms held close to their yellow-green chests. They were not blindfolded and gagged due to logistics, for they possessed faces within their perpetually open jaws. Tiny eyes peered from the red flesh shielded by the two fangs hanging from the upper jaw. An inch below the eyes, thin forked tongues protruded from little mouths. Their scaly feet were unable to maintain traction upon the slime trails left by their predecessors.

  When the prisoners turned a corner and were gone from sight (but not quite from smell), Zarkov said, “At least three different lines of evolutionary development there. I don’t see how that’s possible in a single environment.”

  “The answer to that one’s no problem, Doctor,” said Flash. “My guess is: Once upon a time these moons developed independently of each other. By the time the civilizations came into contact, the lines of evolution had been clearly established.”

  Zarkov beamed. “Why, my boy, that’s absolutely brilliant! A superb example of deductive reasoning!”

  Flash lifted the right side of his mouth in a half smile. In his heightened state of awareness, even a compliment seemed monumental.

  “But you must realize,” said Zarkov with a confidential air, “that evolution and biology are outside my fields of specialty.”

  “Of course.”

  By this time they had resumed their journey; they walked down dark corridors with high ceilings. Thankfully, the prisoners had traveled a different route. The décor consisted of pillars, portraits of evil and mysterious men, vases containing plants that swayed with music of their own making or plants that swiped at insects. The uniforms of the soldiers behind them jangled and clinked with the heavy rhythm of their footsteps. Otherwise, the soldiers were totally silent; unless the mechanical sounds of their interior were some kind of a strange language, they uttered not a whisper among themselves.

  The captives entered a corridor leading to the large doors of a circular entrance. Dale gripped Flash’s arm. They knew, as if by instinct, that beyond those doors they would come face to face with Ming.

  The guards abruptly halted. The captives did likewise, not knowing what else to do.

  A buzzing reverberated throughout the corridor. Dale held her hands over her ears and Zarkov tensed, but Flash, used to the deafening roar of the crowd, took it in stride. A huge panel raised open in the center of a wall, and through it flew a shiny golden globe topped with two antennae. The panel closed, the buzzing ceased. The globe hovered before the captives. An impersonal, sexless voice emanated from a tiny grill: “Prisoners—march!”

  “Let’s not argue with it,” said Flash, thinking to himself, not yet.

  The space travelers followed the globe, slowly walking toward the circular entrance, looming ever larger like a portent of doom. Suffering, wailing demons were carved from the dark, green-tinged wood bordering the doorway. A huge grinning face—fanged, red-eyed, with pointed ears and a single tuft of hair atop an otherwise bald dome—was carved above the center.

  “We’re being taken just where we want, all right,” said Zarkov nervously.

  “Would you say that again?” asked Flash.

  “We’re being taken to the ruler,” said Zarkov, slightly annoyed that Flash had not instantly understood what he had meant. “Through subtle deductive means, by picking up scraps of information and extrapolating with a rigid
sort of logic which is too complex to go into now, I’ve become certain that this Ming character is responsible for the attack on Earth.”

  “I believe you,” said Dale, her eyes fixed on the huge malevolent face. Her next remark was forever silenced by the sharp slapping noise of a Lizard Man’s bare feet pounding the hallway behind them. Dale held her fingers tightly about Flash’s arm as the fleeing Lizard Man emerged from a corridor and halted in shock ten yards before the orb. The creature’s eyes widened and bulged, nearly touching the fangs at the top of its head.

  “Halt, Lizard Man,” came the voice from the orb. “Escape is impossible.”

  An electrical current shot from the orb in a jagged path. Seeming to singe the very air, it encircled the Lizard Man in a painful aura. For an infinite second Dale stared at the terrifying tableau of the paralyzed creature attempting to break free of the electrical snare.

  Then, instantly, the Lizard Man was turned to dust.

  Dale looked at Zarkov. “Doctor, my faith in reasoning is diminishing rather rapidly.”

  Zarkov whispered, “Don’t worry. If reasoning fails, I’ve still got the gun in my pocket. I’ll make it plain I’m acting on my own. You’ll be all right.”

  “That’s plain suicide,” said Flash between his teeth.

  “No. A rational transaction. One life for billions.”

  Without thinking, Zarkov patted his jacket pocket. Whirring like a stricken banshee, the globe darted toward Zarkov and hovered at his side. It promptly disintegrated the revolver, leaving the pocket intact.

  Once again, Zarkov shrugged helplessly. “Reason’s the only way.”

  6

  The Judgment of Ming

  THE globe guided the captives through the parting crowd of the main palace hall and took them to a small area in the rear, where they stood before a red curtain. The crowd faced a circular opening before a long flight of steps. Nervously rubbing his chin and mouth, hoping he appeared stoic, Flash studied the Spartan yet colorful décor. A dark crimson tile, the floor was the shade of a sparkling scab. The ceiling, twenty-five yards above them, emitted a soft, fluorescent light; as there were no fixtures, Flash could only surmise the light was the result of the material’s chemical composition. The opening, through which there were a number of curved silver bars, lending it the appearance of a portal from another dimension, dominated the palace hall. There was no furniture; everyone was forced to stand. Flash searched for clues to Ming’s character from this décor, just as if he were in an office preparing to negotiate a salary increase. Eventually, he realized the lack of furniture was a deliberate attempt on Ming’s part to dominate all in the room; each individual was inconvenienced and subliminally rendered faceless. Flash wished he had a lawyer with him, just as he did during his contract negotiations. Well, this Ming can’t be much worse than the IRS. At least I won’t have to worry about them for a while.