“The scientist will be conditioned by the Imperial Police,” said Ming. “Klytus, I assume you will wish to supervise?”
His hands concealed in the sleeves of his black robe, Klytus nodded.
As the soldiers took Zarkov away, Dale spat on the floor. Acting nearly as one, the members of the court babbled, expressing their shock and dismay to their neighbors.
“This is what I think of you and your kingdom,” said Dale, punctuating the sentence by spitting again. “You’re cruel, pitiless . . . you’re merciless!”
Throwing back his head, Ming laughed in a tenor that echoed throughout the palace hall several moments after he had ceased. “Merciless! Indeed, that’s exactly what I am! Ming the Merciless!” Suddenly growing thoughtful, he placed his forefinger on his lips. “Ming the Merciless. I like it. Where’s my Minister of Propaganda?” This last was spoken angrily, devoid of patience.
“I am here, Sire,” croaked a wheezing old man wearing immaculate yellow and black robes. Wild tufts of white hair grew like weeds from his liver-spotted skull. He nervously scraped together his toothless gums and twitched his chin as he bowed before the throne.
Ming regarded him with disdain. “You have failed Us. You have been charged with making Our name feared throughout the kingdom, and now this primitive Earthling has coined a nickname much more frightening than your uninspired concoctions.”
The Minister of Propaganda fell to his knees and hung his head. “You are correct, Sire. Have mercy upon this pitiful old worm, this useless conglomeration of rank grease and slime.”
Ming snorted. “I, Ming the Merciless, should have mercy?”
The old man grinned, the inkling of a crafty light gleaming in his gray eyes. “The inconsistency will intensify the fear you inspire. For if a man knows to expect death, he can make peace with himself and thus be prepared for it; but if he should not know his fate, then he will cling to the hope of life regardless of the odds, and thus he shall fear all the more your royal wrath.”
“If I might speak a word in the minister’s behalf. Sire?” said Klytus.
“You?” Ming actually sounded surprised.
“Until now, the minister has performed his duties well. But even the lowest and most insignificant of Earthlings has a talent for advertising and propaganda unique in the entire universe. It must be something in the soil, or perhaps the very air they breathe.”
“You may go,” Ming said to the minister after considering Klytus’s counsel. “But remember this: We have yet to decide your fate. Our decision may arrive at any moment between this instant and the hour of your natural death. Each breath you take is Our gift of mercy to you. You may use the phrase ‘Ming the Merciless’ as frequently as is artistically desirable in your work until such time as we find a suitable Earthling to replace you.” As the Minister of Propaganda bowed and shuffled away, Ming turned to Dale. “And now, my dear, I believe I have already decided your fate, have I not?”
Interlude
AFTER the initial barrage of moon fragments had died down, meteorologists noticed certain disturbing alterations in the patterns of the atmospheric conditions that determine the weather. Unusual cloud formations were presented as evidence that hurricanes and tropical storms were developing at places and at times which could not have been anticipated by extrapolating from previous weather patterns. The mean temperature of the atmosphere began rising and falling drastically over short periods, another departure from pattern.
The results were confusing; not even the weathermen of major network affiliates knew what to make of them. The snow in the Rocky Mountains unexpectedly melted, causing rivers to overflow; a few days later, towns which had withstood floods were covered with fresh layers of snowfall. Australia fell victim to a devastating heat wave. In Brazil, tropical storms lasted for days at a time, diminishing into drizzles; then the storms returned at full force. There was no scientific explanation of this continuous rainfall, as the cloud formations in the upper atmosphere perpetually indicated that the rain should soon cease altogether. None of these occurrences, however, provoked scientists as much as did the revelation that slowly, surely, the polar ice cap was melting.
Meteorologists in the United States attempted to convince the President that a state of emergency should be declared, but the President declined on the grounds that since no one had been able to do anything about the weather for thousands of years, he did not believe the American people were going to let him start now. He did promise to ask Congress to authorize some sort of compensation for compilers of almanacs who suffered economic hardship when the public discovered the inaccuracies of their tables and predictions.
Due to the curvatures of space, caused in part by the cosmic whirlpool, time passed at erratically different rates on Earth and Mongo. Consequently, when Ming the Merciless sentenced Flash to die, the weather patterns on Earth had been altering for a few weeks, and the seismologists were just beginning to notice a few disturbing signs of activity beneath the Earth’s crust.
7
Flash Bites the Big One
NIGHT was a frequent but not a routine phenomenon on Mongo. In other words, the cosmic whirlpool often sucked in dark clouds of space gas which, as it penetrated the radioactive mists between the whirlpool and the calm eye, prevented the mists’ irradiation from reaching the Mongian system. These same mists, forever fed by the constant stream of matter, had also provided the birthplace of this system, untold eons ago. They protected the system, allowing only an infinitesimal fraction to pass through (though this was an enormous amount in human terms).
It was during one of these nights—which the scientists had been able to predict for thousands of years with some degree of accuracy—that Barin, Prince of the Tree Men, stood in the shadows on a terrace overlooking the courtyard where grotesque, hunchbacked dwarfs erected the chamber wherein Flash was to be executed. Where does Ming get these people? Barin thought as he watched the blackness move across the barren landscape like an evil manifestation. I suppose someone like Ming has to take the kind of help he can get. But he was only, too aware of Ming’s methods of securing labor; he merely disliked admitting, even to himself, that he knew. He also disliked admitting that the vast, open spaces of Mongo unnerved him; he did not feel safe beneath the naked sky. He much preferred the claustrophobic, sweltering forests of his homemoon. Though the space gas effectively cooled down the Mongian atmosphere, he felt perspiration on his forehead. An especially salty drop ran down his nose.
With a grim beauty, the blackness moved across a mountain capped with a forest of crystals, their rainbow reflection of the cosmic light sleeping with the finality of death itself. The scene inspired Barin to make many pessimistic philosophical observations to himself, mostly about the futility of personal accomplishments and initiatives, observations that he completely forgot about when he felt the familiar, warm fingers of Aura, daughter of Ming the Merciless, Rightful Ruler of the Universe, investigate the shape of his muscular thigh. He turned and embraced her, feeling her yielding soft breasts through the barriers of their clothing. He kissed her. He nibbled her ear. Long ago, he had complained (but only to himself) about how her mere presence caused him to lose all pretense of rationality, how her very scent caused him to forget his responsibilities to his people—and to himself. Now he gladly acquiesced to her spell. His pleasure in living entirely for the moment was mitigated only by the fear that the acquiescence was not mutual. “Your bedchamber at midnight,” he whispered into the delicate folds of her ear.
Aura winced, whether at his suggestion or at the sensation of his tongue in her ear, he could not be sure. She clarified the issue, however, by stating, “I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh? I know how executions excite you.”
She shrugged and frowned as if accepting the inescapable truth of his remark. Heartened, feeling the time was ripe to carry out his boldest strategies, he nuzzled her and moved his hands into all sorts of susceptible areas. As he planned, she groaned, relaxing her mu
scles—a prelude to yielding herself to the desires which rose to the surface of her being at the slightest provocation. Then she pushed him away. And none too gently. “I said not tonight!”
Glad she could not see his expression in the darkness of the terrace, Barin bit his lower lip. He did not want her to know how her refusal made him suffer. “You’re impossible.”
“I can’t resist it; I’ve changed my mind. You’re such a . . . such a perfect soldier.” She moved into his arms. “You’re . . . you’re always standing at attention.”
She kissed him with a furious passion.
“Fly back to your kingdom. You may see me sooner than you think,” she said, her fingers searching out Barin’s susceptible areas.
“You’ll come to Arboria?”
“If you fly there tonight. Right now.”
“But the Emperor has commanded everyone to see the execution.”
Aura stepped away and turned her back. He watched the blackness cover the last vestiges of illumination in the horizon. “I don’t care what you do,” she said. “It makes no difference to me.”
“You’re so hard to trust,” he said, refastening his trousers.
Flash awoke in darkness. He felt the chains digging into his wrists, his toes straining to hold his weight on the slimy dungeon floor. From the volume of sounds and their echoes, he deduced he hung in the dungeon’s center. He heard creatures scurrying, the groaning of other prisoners, the wielding of instruments of torture by silent guards who, doubtlessly, went about their work with an inhuman detachment. Flash did not have to see to know he had been stripped to leather briefs.
He heard the scraping of metal shoes against the floor, the rustling of robes. The scraping and rustling ceased. A disinterested voice said, “You refused your final meal. The chef is very upset.” It was Klytus. “I hope it’s not the quality of the food.”
Though he knew his voice would be muffled by the spiked hood Ming’s boys had put over his head, Flash replied as loud as he could. “Your food sucks!”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Klytus without concern. “The chef will have to be executed for this. It’s a shame. You were wise, actually. The gas will act quicker on your empty stomach. Have you any final request?”
“Let me see Dale!”
“Of course. How predictable. How droll.” Klytus clapped his hands, creating a hollow clanking noise. “Bring in the Emperor’s concubine!”
Flash struggled mightily—almost childishly—against his bonds. Previously, he had concentrated on placing the flow of his strength in one wrist so as to facilitate pulling a chain from the ceiling in an orgy of spiritual oneness. Now there was no manner of reason to his efforts. He could not free himself, he could not yank the hood from his head; yet he struggled. “Damn you! I said I want to see her!”
He heard electricity sizzling through the atmosphere; the hood flew off his head and landed in a dark corner, breaking the ends of two spikes. Klytus had lowered his hand and placed the device which had removed the hood into his robes before Flash’s eyes could adjust to the dull dungeon light.
Dale stood before him. Her eyes were misty, she was on the verge of tears. She wore a red gown which under different circumstances would have enticed and fascinated Flash, but which he now perceived as hideously degrading. The gown revealed generous amounts of Dale’s pale flesh beneath the gauze cloak hanging from the headdress. Flash managed to grin. “You look great.”
Dale turned to Klytus.
“You have until the sand runs up.” Klytus walked to a shelf and inverted a large hourglass. The sand ran upward from the partially filled bottom to the empty top. With his metal hands concealed in his sleeves, Klytus stood with his mask directed toward the Earthlings, but something in his manner indicated he was totally uninterested in anything they might say or do.
“No kidding, you look great,” said Flash, exulting in the cool sensation of Dale’s palm against his cheek.
“It’s the eye make-up. I hope I remember the trick when I wake up.”
“I’ll be darned. That’s exactly what I was going to tell you.”
Dale’s eyes fluttered. “What?”
“This isn’t happening. We’re not here. It’s just a bad dream.”
“We’ll wake up in Dark Harbor any minute and have a laugh about this.”
“Only next time I won’t just ask the host your name, I’ll walk over and talk to you.”
“You promise?” asked Dale, placing her palms on his chest.
“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to . . .” Flash winced. “I’ll really talk to you.
“What if we’re wrong, Flash?”
“We can’t be.”
“What if this isn’t a dream?”
Flash hesitated. “It’s easy. You’ll find Zarkov, save the Earth, and he’ll take you back in the capsule.”
“But what about you?”
“Don’t think of me. It’s pretty plain that one life or even a love as great as ours doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy, mixed-up universe. We gotta fight for what’s right if we’re ever going to make sense out of this confusing, deterministic existence, and if necessary, we gotta die for it. That’s just the way it is, and there’s nothing we can do about it. So don’t think of me, baby, think of the Earth. She needs you now.”
“She’s a zillion miles away. Maybe farther!
“Bring it close in your head, Dale. Think of the Earth every minute and forget me.”
“Forget you?” Her tears immediately followed one another as she stared into his face. Suddenly she shivered, and she looked at the hourglass. “You bastard, Klytus! You’re making the sands flow faster!”
“I am truly sorry,” said Klytus, unable to muster an iota of sincerity. “But I just remembered an important appointment.”
Dale rushed to the hourglass and attempted to lift it.
When she realized her efforts were doomed to failure, despite the fact that Klytus had lifted it with ease, she beat upon the unbreakable glass with her fists. Finally she was unable to strike it due to the spasms racking her body, spasms caused by her crying. She ran to Flash and embraced him. Her tears dropped from her face and onto his stomach.
Beyond the glass chamber and apparatus the hunchbacked dwarfs had built was a large terrace overlooking one of the most beautiful sights of the Mongian city—the pits of radioactive material (the radiation was virtually harmless) tapped to supply power. At various points throughout the terrace were stone vases holding glittering crystals of a variety of shapes and colors, standing in black soil. Barin and Aura had overlooked this scene when the space gas had brought the darkness to Mongo. Still, there were flecks of color in the sky.
Wearing a black gown and an ornate gold headdress, Aura stood near the chamber and watched as a few members of the court chatted and milled about. Her arms folded across her stomach, she stuck out her lower lip, an indication she was in a fiery, rebellious mood. She said nothing, she acknowledged no one. Her thoughts were mysterious, even to herself. She did not notice the Imperial Presence of her father until he had been standing next to her for several moments. “Father! You startled me!”
Ming exchanged no word of greeting; instead he partook of a strong purple wine laced with a mind-expanding drug of his own invention. He wore black robes and a black skull cap; his eyes were dreamy with the wisdom of his visions. Finally he asked, “Did you and the doctor enjoy yourselves on Sybaria last week? Don’t look surprised. You know Klytus tells me everything.” He smiled. For most, Ming’s expressions were meaningless; but not for Aura.
“Klytus wants me for himself! His agents are always making up lies about me!”
“And why is that, Daughter?” His voice was grave, even for him.
Aura knew only the truth would suffice. “Your power potions and your communions with the mystical essence of the universe won’t keep you alive forever, Father. One day I will succeed you, as is my destiny and my right. And what of Klytus then? He merely plans f
or his future. He is well advised to, though he does so ill-advisedly,”
Ming placed his hand on her shoulder. Three of his fingers rested on bare skin, and as usual the touch of his ever-cold rings sent involuntary shivers through her, shivers she controlled with minimal success. “I’ve brought you up well, Aura. You’re so much like me.”
She did not trust the fondness in his voice; it was the result of natural love or the natural desire of an emperor to dissuade his children from hastening the future. “Father, we haven’t been close enough the last few years. Perhaps we should remedy the situation.”
“Oh?” She did not have to see her father’s eyebrow to know he had raised it.
“I’ve missed the security of your company and the thrill of private moments when you drop your reserve and demonstrate your love for me.”
Ming rubbed his beard. “Yes, I freely admit I have missed that closeness between us as well. When I am through with this Dale Arden—I do not believe it will take very long—we shall strip down to our essences and I will tie you to my royal bed and I shall flog you senseless, until the blood flows from the wounds on your pert buttocks, just as we did during happier, more innocent days.”
“Oh yes, Father, yes!”
He took her right hand and kissed it tenderly. “And who can say? Perhaps your spanking shall be but the beginning.”
Her voice possessed a huskiness she had not quite planned on. “Yes, Father, that would be wonderful.”
By now virtually the entire court, silent and still, awaited the execution. The presence of death was very familiar to Aura, but she savored its sensation as never before. Her mind reeled at the plots she had hatched, the games she played, not for personal reward, not for power, not for sexual satisfaction (though that played its usual important supporting role), but for the purpose of alleviating the dreadful boredom that was more like a disease than a habit.
A spotlight caught Flash Gordon, escorted by two hooded, bare-chested guards, slowly walking toward his doom. The Earthling’s hands were bound by electronically sealed cuffs. He wore only black leather briefs. The women of the court audibly drew in their breaths as the spotlight accentuated Flash’s muscular torso.
Flash Gordon Page 11
