Flash Gordon

by Arthur Byron Cover

  When Ming withdrew the sword, the globe shut off the blue glow; the dead Prince dropped into his followers’ arms. Ming stared at the bloodstained blade and then tossed it away. Already the irrepressible passions were leaving the Emperor; already the boredom and weariness were regaining their control over him.

  Thun’s followers carried away his body, presumably to bury it on their native moon.

  Quivering with resentment at the cold-blooded murder, Flash mumbled, “This Ming is a psycho!”

  The globe above them repeated for all to hear: “THIS MING IS A PSYCHO!”

  Flash and Dale looked at the globe in shock. Zarkov slapped his palm on his forehead.

  Ming merely looked at Klytus.

  “Who said that?” demanded Klytus.

  “THE FAIR-HAIRED PRISONER,” said the globe.

  The masked man indicated the captives. “Come forward.”

  “Well, this is it,” Flash mumbled. “Zarkov, I hope you can turn on the charm.”

  Zarkov’s only reply was a helpless shrug.

  “Will you stop that?” asked Dale between her teeth.

  “What?” asked the dumbfounded scientist.

  Putting his finger over his mouth, Flash quieted them before Dale could explain; it looked like petty squabbling on Mongo could lead to some disastrous consequences. As the crowd made way for them, they were subjected to a wholly different sort of examination; now they were to face Ming, who held absolute power over them, and the crowd, made bloodthirsty by the murder of Thun, anticipated a satisfactory conclusion to their audience. Flash returned the stare of the crowd with unflinching eyes; though the touch of Dale’s hand pleased him, he did not have the opportunity to see how Dale and Zarkov were bearing up. As for himself, he was finally beginning to adjust to the barrage of new information; now the sights and smells of Mongo began to take on meaning, and each second promised unlimited possibilities. He was well aware that among those possibilities was his imminent death, but rather than depressing him and filling him with defeat, the potential infused him with a hopeful spirit that made the time of his living all the more precious.

  The young woman in the scanty gold costume moved closer to the steps. Flash looked at her closely for the first time. The vision of her overwhelmed everything else. He had met, even experienced, women whose only purpose in life was to drink in all available sensual delight, who lived only for the pleasure they could receive and bestow—he had noticed many such women among the crowd—but never before had he seen a woman whose sexual magnetism and thirst was so overpowering. The scent she conjured in his mind eradicated the stench of Thun’s death.

  She looked as if she had stepped from a portrait by a dreaming, passionate artist. Stray strands of brown hair appeared auburn when the light struck them in a certain way. Her oval, tanned face possessed a mien both innocent and perpetually pouting, despite the lustful appetites Flash sensed. He almost allowed himself a fantasy concerning his favorite position, that is, until he noticed a certain familiarity to the shape of her eyebrows.

  “Hey, remember me?” asked Dale.

  Flash looked at Dale and squeezed her hand, as if to say “Of course.”

  When the captives halted, Ming stared at them as if his mere gaze could turn the weak into cinders.

  “Who are you?” asked Klytus.

  Flash presented them with his number-four smile, the one he used during preseason interviews. “I’m Flash Gordon. Quarterback, New York Jets.”

  Dale swallowed audibly, then she, too, smiled. “Dale Arden, Your Highness. Live and let live—that’s my motto.”

  Zarkov cleared his throat. “My name is Hans Zarkov. I’m a scientist. I kidnapped them in an effort to save our planet Earth.”

  Ming looked at Klytus.

  “That is the planet we were toying with earlier in an effort to relieve your boredom, Sire. You remember: the world of cosmic pawns.”

  Ming nodded.

  “But why?” asked Zarkov. “We’re only interested in friendship. Why do you attack us?”

  “Why not?” asked Ming.

  Zarkov opened his mouth, only to close it in shock when the implications of Ming’s words sunk in.

  “Go ahead; reason with that!” said Flash sharply to Zarkov.

  Ming leaned forward as if he wished to leap down upon them and personally choke them. “Pathetic Earthlings—hurling your bodies out into the void without the slightest inkling of who or what is out here,” he hissed. “If you had known anything about the true nature of the universe—anything at all—you would have hidden from it in terror.”

  “I think that’s a matter of opinion,” said Flash.

  Ming laughed loudly, from his belly. “Opinion? Flash Gordon, I am the Ruler of the Universe. My every statement has the effect of law.”

  “A law is not a truth,” said Flash. “That’s something the Founding Fathers of my great nation, the United States of America, realized when they threw off the yoke of ruthless tyranny!”

  “You tell him, Flash!” Dale urged. Zarkov frowned, but nodded in approval.

  “You call yourself the Ruler of the Universe,” said Flash. “As far as I can see, all you rule is a puny little system surrounded by a maelstrom. And as far as your ‘law’ is concerned”—he turned to the court—“you people must be ashamed to face yourselves, toadying to this paper tiger the way you do. The only reason he holds the power of life or death over you is because you permit it.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “You should rebel. As my friend Steve Rogers once said, ‘Freedom is the only cause worth dying for!’ You should never die at the whim of a worm such as this Ming.”

  “He’s right!” said Zarkov. “Take away this Ming’s title and what do you have: a being such as yourselves, no better, no worse!”

  “Is that so?” asked Ming dryly. “I daresay not. And the reason? We Ourselves personally augmented the tracking ray which undoubtedly guided your landing so that it would automatically implant rudimentary knowledge of the Mongian language into the brains of any intelligent species inside, thus sparing Our kingdom many precious man-hours in labor. It is far more convenient to have the audience with guests as soon as they have arrived, while We still have some small interest in the matter. Have you not wondered how you’ve come to understand Our language?”

  “Yeah! Once!” said Flash defiantly.

  “We personally programmed the vocabulary. Perhaps you have grasped words which stood for shades and nuances of the stages of spiritual heights, stages you may have reached but did not possess the words to describe.”

  Uh-oh! He’s right! thought Flash. Looks like this Ming’s holding all the cards.

  “We have educated you as well,” continued Ming. “We made Our improvements one weekend while We were tinkering around with some equipment. You imply democracy must have some virtues; it does not. The masses must have a ruler, that is the order of the universe. You imply I am not first among men; my accomplishments and the accomplishments of my ancestors prove I am first beyond a doubt. You imply Mongo is not the center of the universe; it is. Do not the cosmic whirlpools bring all the matter of space to Us, and thus provide Our system with plentiful natural resources via Our mining operations?”

  “We had some people who thought the entire universe, including the sun, revolved around the Earth,” said Flash, “people who shunned the progressive ideas of Copernicus. But it turned out they were wrong!”

  Suddenly Ming seemed to lose all interest in the conversation. He stared at a fingernail. This was his way of telling Flash the matter was closed. His scowl indicated deep concentration on his part. Then his facial muscles relaxed, and he looked at Dale as if seeing her for the first time. His manner practically intimate, he spoke softly, calmly. “Come closer; let Us see you.”

  Dale tensed, took a step backward, put her fist over her mouth, and stared at Ming as if he was a rattler in the desert.

  Something in the vision of Dale recoiling excited Ming. A barely perceptible tremor cou
rsed through him. Flash realized that in one respect the tyrant was absolutely correct, for Ming’s passions imbued him with a charisma definitely beyond the reaches of the common man.

  Ming turned his hand so the jeweled rings faced Dale. He pressed a near-microscopic button and a yellow beam emanating from the jewel of his middle finger bathed her. She immediately relaxed, her shoulders slumped and her arms dropped to her sides, her eyes closed, her mouth opened, her breathing became heavy. She turned her head at little angles as if responding to an immensely gratifying pleasure.

  She saw the silver-haired man push down the emergency brake and switch off the ignition. The moon was full, the sky studded with stars; the trees and the grass and the lake smelled so fresh and potent. Her companion wore a blue three-piece suit. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and then looked at her. Soulfully. Frankly. There was no mistaking his meaning. “I’ve some wine in the cooler in the trunk,” he said, retrieving a blanket from the back. “We’ll drink some . . . afterward.”

  Ming grasped Klytus’s sheathed lower arm. It had been some time since the Ruler of the Universe had made an impulsive gesture in the palace hall. “Did you ever see such response?”

  “No, Sire. Truly she rivals your own daughter.”

  Flash made a motion toward Dale, intending to tear her away from the yellow beam, but Zarkov detained him. The scientist ran his hand through his beard as he watched her respond to the emotional stimuli. Hoo-wee! he thought. I guess still waters really do run deep.

  Sitting naked on the blanket, the silver-haired man gave Dale a glass of white wine. She watched the lines of his middle-aged body, examining how his chest muscles moved with his arms. He was so cool, so experienced. The wind rustled the trees. An owl hooted.

  Ming released the button on the ring and the yellow glow instantly disappeared. Dale, flushed and shaken, stumbled as if she was about to fall; Flash grabbed her shoulders to support her.

  “What happened to me?” she asked Flash.

  “I don’t know, but I still respect you.”

  Ming scowled at Flash. That little expression communicated to all that the audience would soon reach a conclusion.

  The woman in gold who had stared at Flash put her arm about Ming’s waist. He looked to her as she ran her long fingernails down his chest with a chilling familiarity. “Don’t kill him yet, Father. I want him. Give him to me.” She possessed one of those voices whose inflections are in the ear of the listener, a voice like a precocious child.

  Ming permitted himself the trace of a smile. “What would your Prince Barin say?”

  “I can handle Barin. I’ll even return his pin if he becomes too much of a bother. Please?”

  “Really, Aura, your appetites are too dangerous. You’re becoming too much like your mother, may the cosmic whirlpool spit out her soul. I refuse.” As Aura grimaced and clenched her hand, Ming moved toward the edge of the platform. He pointed to Dale. “Remove the Earth woman. Prepare her for Our pleasure!”

  Though his chest had suddenly become numb, Flash stepped between Dale and Ming. “Forget it, Ming! Dale’s with me!”

  The Ruler of the Universe looked to Klytus, who looked to the officer on the platform, who gestured to the dark shadows. A dozen men in red emerged. The basic design of their clothing was that of tightly fitting sweatpants and sweatshirts, but augmented by golden pieces resembling helmets and shoulderpads. Each was approximately the same height and weight; each possessed unnaturally large buck teeth. Must be the fluoride, thought Flash.

  “All right, you ugly bastards,” said Flash, suddenly relishing the challenge of fighting them, “let’s see how you do against someone who fights back. Let’s see how you do against an American!”

  The red squadron grunted in several different tones, but most sounded like linebackers whose intelligence had been blunted by too many blitzes across the offensive line, the kind that enjoyed twisting their cleats in the pile-ups. Flash held up his fists, inviting the foremost man to a formal bout. He responded merely by booting Flash in the groin. Of all pains, this was the sort the quarterback had the least experience dealing with, though he had frequently made allusions to the debilitating sensation in metaphors. He sank to the floor. His foes smothered him.

  He spun in a dizzying ocean of agony. His entire identity had been stripped from him, and he became a mysterious creation whose mind (enshrouded in blackness) was the sole universe and whose only purpose was to flee the torture its existence inflicted upon it.

  When the squad moved away from him, Flash shook his head and staggered to a standing position, swaying like a tree stump on the verge of being uprooted. Their legs apart and their arms folded across their chests, his foes stared at him, waiting for him to fall. However, they could not have possibly been aware of Flash’s indomitable will; though his existence had suddenly been reduced to a blazing red river of pain, he would not permit himself to admit defeat.

  A squad member advanced.

  Flash became dimly aware of Dale standing beside him, preparing to defend him from the coup de grace. “Stay back,” he managed to mumble.

  She smiled. “It’s all right. I’m a New York girl. I took karate at the Y!” As if to demonstrate her statement, she delivered to the advancing Mongian a ferocious kick to the groin. The sound of it echoed throughout the palace hall. Her toes dug deep into his skeletal system. Hardened men who had stoically witnessed all sorts of ruthless torture grimaced and writhed, victims of sympathetic pains. They breathed sighs of relief that his immediate suffering had ceased when Dale followed her onslaught with a powerful karate chop to the back of his neck. He landed on the floor like a meteor plummeting from above. Save for the twitching of his foot, he lay absolutely still.

  Dale turned to face her foes. She waded into them.

  Flash stood like a crumbling pillar as the bodies moved back and forth about him.

  Zarkov grabbed a tribute from a Mongian standing beside him. He briefly examined it—an object wrapped in a glimmering green substance, somewhat resembling a football. Bet this is made out of chocolate, he thought as he hefted it in one hand. He threw it at Flash.

  The blond quarterback caught the tribute instinctively. Through his groggy haze he saw the red squad running about, attempting to subdue Dale. He ran forward, stiff-arming the first man in his way. Somehow he managed not to trip over his own feet, though Dale was pushed into the court by the tide of men rushing to tackle him.

  A lamellar-clad soldier pressed a weapon into Dale’s back. She understood she was no longer to participate in the row. However, the threat did not prevent her from shouting, “Go, Flash, go!” like a cheerleader.

  A squad member landed on the floor at Vultan’s feet. The Prince of the Hawk Men looked upward to the ceiling as he cracked his weapon on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious despite his helmet. Vultan glanced about to ascertain if his timely aid had been noticed. The narrow, piercing eyes of Prince Barin were fixed upon him. Barin stood nearly thirty yards away, but there was no doubt he had seen the Hawk Man’s assistance, a deed Ming would certainly disapprove of—if he knew. And thanks to Barin, Ming would know. Vultan was certain of it.

  Then a squad member flew into a group of nobles beside Barin. The nobles prevented the man from falling, pushing him back toward the conflict. Barin stuck out his foot. The squad member landed with a resounding thud and then lay still.

  Well, may all my eggs be putrefied. thought Vultan, twitching his mouth as he regarded Barin. The Prince of the Tree Men pretended to ignore the Hawk Man. Vultan believed it was very interesting that one of Ming’s favorites—if the tyrant could be said to have favorites—would aid this Gordon, however surreptitiously, however futilely.

  During this time, Flash had recovered his full wits. He ran back and forth through the hall, his adrenaline flow encouraged by the unsolicited approval of the court. He knocked men right and left; he ran over others. Zarkov, by now, was throwing tributes similar to the first with an accuracy Flash
appreciated; each toss struck a guard on the head, dazing him and forcing him to collapse momentarily.

  Ming spat at Klytus, “Are you certain your men have been taking the right pills?”

  Klytus nodded and called for his men to huddle in his corner. Though the tone of his instructions was flat, his gestures were emphatic. The men left the huddle with a collective grunt, rushing out to greet Flash with renewed energy and determination.

  However, they had not expected Flash to charge them with greater effectiveness, and when he ran through them, he scattered more than before. The court cheered louder, verging on open defiance of Ming.

  Zarkov’s passes of tributes were also more successful. Unfortunately, he misjudged an angle and threw a tribute at the wrong trajectory, knocking Flash unconscious. The game was suddenly over.

  Ming waved his hand at Flash. “This one has defied Us before Our subjects. We order him disposed of tonight by public execution.”

  As the squadron carried Flash out of the palace hall, Dale turned to Zarkov and said, “What about you? Can’t you do something?”

  Yet again, Zarkov shrugged helplessly.

  “Don’t shrug! Do something! Say something! But I can’t stand it when you shrug like that!”

  “Dale, I can’t help it. As a scientist, I’ve been trained to shrug whenever I face a problem I cannot solve or become involved in a situation where my greatest effort is of no avail before I begin. Sometimes there’s no point in being emotional or sentimental or even poetic. That’s one of the first things I learned in graduate school.”

  Dale shook her fists beside her face and ground her teeth. “Ooh! You analytical men get me so mad. I could . . .” She suddenly terminated her verbal barrage. She and Zarkov looked into one another’s eyes; in this way, they communicated their mutual sorrow, their pain, their love and respect.