Flash Gordon 6 - The War of the Cybernauts

by Alex Raymond

  “Oh, no!”

  “What is it, Doc?” Flash asked. The fighting, he thought, had been dying down a bit. He had hopes that Zarkov’s theory might prove right—that both sides would leave and forget the battle.

  “Look!”

  Zarkov handed the glasses to Flash. He put them to his eyes, adjusted the lenses, and saw what had made Zarkov groan.

  Two Orange progs were gathering up parts of cybernauts on the battlefield, and carrying them to one side. As Flash watched, he could see another prog assembling several sections together.

  “They’re cannibalizing a new robot,” growled Zarkov. “Can you beat that?”

  Flash shrugged. “It figured all the time, Doc. You just can’t get these people to sit still for peace when they love war.”

  Before the sunettes set that night, the first cybernaut had been assembled and programmed. The Oranges beat the Greens by three minutes, actually. A group of Green progs, working under the supervision of General Zena, had assembled the second cybby, a Green warrior.

  The cybernauts dashed back to their respective headquarters and immediately sat at the big War Computer Machines, flicked the dials and controls, to begin rebuilding materials and hardware and technoids.

  And the progs got moving on more cybernauts which would be working not at the central brain, but at the outlying weapons systems.

  “I don’t believe it,” groaned Zarkov a little later.

  “What?”

  He pointed to the sky. The first of the jetcraft resurrected from the ruins on the battlefield was airborne, zooming out toward the Green position.

  After a moment or two there was a loud explosion, the first mechanical sound since the wipe-out of the cybernauts by Zarkov’s signal-output machine.

  After that, it was all downhill.

  Bombs dropped. Tanks crumpled other tanks. Aircraft shot down aircraft. Missiles slammed into targets and bunkers collapsed.

  The war was on.

  Flash and Zarkov huddled behind the rock where they had found momentary security and stared out at the chaos. Night closed in with the sinking of the sunettes from sight.

  Haze settled over them, and smoke rolled into their lair.

  “Well,” Zarkov sighed. “I was going to end war on the planet and then ask the two Generals to help me build a rocket to get us back to Earth, but now that theory’s all knocked into a cocked hat.”

  “Right,” said Flash. “What do we do?”

  Zarkov shook his head. “If we go to either of the Generals, we’ll be crisped for traitors.”

  “So?”

  Zarkov shook his head. For once he had nothing to say in that booming, self-confident voice of his.

  The earth shook about them and a mortar landed perilously close. They crawled deeper into the crevice between two big rocks, where they covered their heads with their hands.

  CHAPTER 18

  The war continued with unabated fury through the night and through the next day. Flash and Zarkov remained hidden in the crude rock shelter they had found. There they were safe from the concussion of bombs and the strafing of jet-fighters.

  When the first full day of war had passed into night again, the two earthmen emerged to search the ruins of the battlefield.

  “Lucky thing I had my pocket full of these miserable vitamin cubes,” Zarkov said. “Otherwise we’d be forced to forage for food and risk capture.”

  Flash rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Doc, I don’t even think they’re going to send out search parties for us.”

  “I suppose we’re safe. It’s a cinch we wouldn’t be welcome at either camp. General Ild would grind us up in a meat grinder, and General Zena would let the cybbies slowly dismantle us organ by organ.”

  They stood on the hillside and surveyed the bleak desolation below them, faint but visible in the starlight from the heavens.

  “What are we going to do?” Flash mused. “Live like outcasts on the battlefield for the rest of our lives?”

  Zarkov shrugged. “It’s better than risking the wrath of either of our fairy godmothers.”

  Flash winced. “You are so right.”

  “We’ve got vitamins enough for a week or so,” Zarkov said, counting the cubes in his pocket. “Should we explore the planet?”

  “Waste of time,” said Flash. “They’ve been fighting for so long I’m convinced the whole surface is as pockmarked as our own moon. Just like this plain in front of us.”

  Zarkov sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  “If only we had a rocket of some kind,” said Flash. “Even a missile like the one General Ild sent us up in.”

  Zarkov was stroking his beard with suppressed excitement. “Yeah. That’s the ticket, Flash.”

  Flash turned to Zarkov with concern. “You’re not working up another big scheme, are you, Doc?”

  “Huh?” Zarkov said innocently. “Is that any way to treat an old friend, Flash?”

  “You’ve got that look,” Flash said wryly. “The last time you had a great scheme, you know what it did for us.”

  “Stopped a fifteen-hundred-year war and started a longer one,” Zarkov grunted. “I know.”

  “All right,” said Flash, as they headed back for the rock shelter. “What is it?”

  Zarkov looked up at the stars. “Nothing, Flash.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Flash.

  When Flash awoke next morning, he found that Zarkov was gone. He stirred from the small den they had formed under the rocks and yawned, stretched, and ate a vitamin cube. Grimacing at the taste of it, he climbed out of the hole and stared around.

  The war had apparently passed by the plain. In the distance, he could hear the sound of bomb explosions and the muttering of battle wagons. But the plain below him was at peace in its utter desolation.

  A movement in the distance caught his eye. Shading his eyes from the three sunettes, he squinted and made out Zarkov’s form in amongst a pile of rubble.

  “I knew he was up to something,” said Flash to himself. “The thing to do is to sneak up on him and find out what he’s doing before he can bluff his way out of it.”

  Flash made his way quietly through the sea of destroyed tanks and fighter jets to a broken mound of fragmentary geologic detritus and peered around the corner at his friend.

  There was Zarkov, wrench and screwdriver in hand, wrestling with what looked like a half-wrecked cybernaut. Flash almost laughed. Zarkov looked like a man dancing with half a woman.

  “I’m cutting in,” said Flash, stumbling over the broken rocks and metal toward the scientist. “That’s the craziest dance step I ever saw.”

  Zarkov turned, startled. “Uh? Oh, it’s you. Flash. For a minute I thought General Zena had found me.”

  “No. Only me. What in the name of sense are you doing?”

  Zarkov flushed. He sat down on a bent ammunition cannister, wiping his forehead of perspiration. “I’m making myself an assistant, Flash,” he grinned.

  “So he can take over and return us to General Ild or General Zena?” Flash asked sarcastically.

  “In no way.” Zarkov was becoming enthusiastic now. He jumped up and began pacing back and forth in the tin and stone. “Look,” he boomed. “It’s as simple as the war itself.”

  “War is simple?” Flash repeated in astonishment.

  “This one was. What happened?” Zarkov was waving his arms about. “A prog put together a cybby, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And the next thing you know, another prog put together another cybby. Right?”

  “Come on, Doc! That’s enough of the catechism. Speak your piece.”

  “Then the cybbies put together technoids and they built themselves a war.”

  Flash frowned. “You’re building a third army to go mix in the war between the Greens and the Oranges?”

  Zarkov shook his head. “You have no creative imagination, Flash,” snorted the scientist. “I’m building a cybernaut to help me build some construction technoids. I’ll b
uild another cybby to help him, and they’ll in turn create technoids for the project.”

  “What project?” Flash was frowning, but he thought he could anticipate Zarkov’s answer.

  “Project Rocketship-to-Earth, Flash!” cried Zarkov happily.

  Flash rubbed his chin. “Well, it may work.”

  “May? It’s got to.”

  “A spacecraft is a big thing to build, Doc. Where are you going to get the parts?”

  Zarkov swept his hand around the former battlefield. “Look. Temporarily the war has moved out of this sector. We’ve got tons and tons of material here. The cybbies and technoids can use anything they want.”

  “And you’ll program the cybbies to get the technoids to do the right thing?”

  “Why not? The progs do it all the time. I saw how they worked.”

  Flash sighed. “It’s a hare-brained scheme, but maybe it’ll succeed,” he allowed.

  “You’re eternally the pessimist, Flash,” said Zarkov with a euphoric grin. “Come on. Lend a hand. I want to get Cyb Number One in the works as soon as possible.”

  On the fourth day it looked as if the entire project would be doomed to failure. In the early morning a reconnaissance jet from Orange Headquarters zoomed across the battlefield and then circled back again. Hours passed, however, while Flash and Zarkov hid in the rocks, and it did not return.

  Meanwhile, work was continuing at a rapidly advancing rate on the space ship. With each succeeding generation of technoids, more and more workers and pieces of material were put into play. The rocket was beginning to rise from the pad on which it had been started.

  Zarkov supervised the operation with considerable zeal, wandering about with Flash, and checking the components and parts as they were put into the growing rocket.

  “How are we going to get the thing off the ground?” Flash asked Zarkov.

  “I’m having my cybby build a computer that will fire the damned thing automatically.”

  Flash nodded.

  Zarkov squinted sideways at his friend. “Flash, why do you doubt this will work? Don’t forget I built the first rocket you ever rode in.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m doubtful,” Flash snorted. “That was a pretty primitive affair, Doc. You know that.”

  “Yeah, but it worked.”

  “Sure. And we crash-landed on Mongo.”

  “Wouldn’t you settle now for a crash-land on Earth?”

  Flash smiled. “All right. You’ve convinced me. How many more days do you think we’ve got?”

  Zarkov made some rapid calculations and punched the information into the computer which controlled the construction of the rocket. The computer rattled and punched out an answer.

  “Three days,” said Zarkov, reading the tape.

  That evening, another reconnaissance plane roared overhead and circled back. It was a Green air probe.

  “You think the cybby at the controls spotted us?” Flash asked Zarkov in troubled tones.

  “I don’t know,” Zarkov said. “But I don’t like all this recon activity overhead. Do you?”

  “I had begun to think the Generals had forgotten us,” Flash admitted. “Apparently not. Frankly, I don’t like it one bit.”

  “It’s not us, particularly. It’s the rocket that’s obvious.”

  “Right,” said Flash. He shrugged. “There’s not much we can do about it. Hope, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” muttered Zarkov.

  Zarkov was running one last check on the rocket with the ground control computer installed next to it when another recon plane circled the sky.

  Flash looked up. “There’s that pesky spy ship again.”

  “Look. We’re almost home free. I’ve got every component in that spacecraft. It’s right up to test time. If we can hold off any kind of attack—if that’s what’s in the works—we can always get out of here fast.”

  “Are you ready to start the test?”

  “All ready,” said Zarkov. “We’ll do the phantom run-through in half an hour. I’ve got the cybbies all lined up at their stations.”

  “Right.”

  Flash climbed down from the computer scaffolding and walked over to the blast-off pad. He stood there looking up at the missile that was supposed to take them back to Earth.

  “Here’s luck,” he said, and patted the side hopefully.

  He turned and saw Zarkov jumping down from the computer. The scientist was very excited. He was waving his arms.

  “What is it?” Flash asked, running out to met him.

  Zarkov pointed to the top of the hillside.

  Past the ruins of the rocks and the war hardware, Flash could see a wide line of cybbies just marching over the rim of the rocks, spread out in a line of skirmishes.

  “Cybs!” cried Flash. “Whose are they?”

  “They aren’t ours,” Zarkov retorted.

  “What do they want?” Flash asked.

  “Let’s not wait to find out,” yelled Zarkov. “Get into the spacecraft, man.”

  “But you haven’t run that final test.”

  “We don’t have time. Come on.”

  They could hear the metallic shouts of the cybbies advancing over the hill.

  “There you are, traitors from another world. Aliens. Peacemongers. We come to deliver you to General Zena.”

  Flash stared at them. “Hey, Doc. Direct our own cybbies to engage them in battle.”

  “Good idea,” said Zarkov. “I’ll keep half the force here to ignite the rocket-fuel engine, and let the other half tear into the forces of General Zena.”

  Flash watched as Zarkov’s cybbies began turning out to advance on the Green cybernauts. Zarkov made some last-minute adjustments on the console of the ground control, gave orders to the cybs attending the computer, and came running over to the launchpad.

  Meanwhile the skirmish force of the Green cybernauts had advanced halfway down the hill. The force of Zarkov’s cybbies was moving out to meet the line.

  “Unidentified cybernauts,” clacked the metallic voice of one of General Zena’s cyb Lieutenants.

  “This is restricted property,” Zarkov’s cyb clacked back.

  Zarkov grinned. “How about that?”

  Flash pulled at Zarkov’s arm. “Come on, Doc. Let’s get in this thing. Do you want to go back to General Zena?”

  “No way!”

  “Restricted property not authenticated,” snapped the Green cyb.

  “Entrance forbidden on pain of crisping,” said Zarkov’s cyb.

  “Not programmed for threats,” said the Green cyb. “Advance, cybbies.”

  The Green cybbies kept on moving.

  Zarkov’s cyb leader moved forward. “We are programmed to engage in combat with enemy cybernauts,” he clattered.

  “Engage!” said General Zena’s cyb leader.

  The cybernauts were battling one another. There were more Green cybs than those of Zarkov. Those not engaged cyb-to-cyb overran the line of battle and came on down the hill.

  Flash and Zarkov were climbing the long metal ladder as fast as they could.

  One of the attacking cybs reached the bottom just as Flash opened the hatch to the cabin and pulled himself in.

  “Hurry up, slowpoke!” he yelled at Zarkov, hauling him in by the shoulders.

  “Hey, my cybs did pretty good, though, didn’t they?”

  “Oh, stop the chatter, and let’s get this thing going!”

  Zarkov secured the hatch and glanced around. “Boy, it’s a jerrybuilt mess, but it should fly.”

  Flash stared at the controls grimly. “I hope so. It’s a long way back, but I have a feeling the Wright brothers are looking right over our shoulders.”

  Zarkov frowned. “You sure can hurt a guy, Flash.”

  Flash glanced out the porthole. “The cybs are halfway up the ladder. Dozens of them!”

  Zarkov nodded. “But we’re programmed to blast off right about now.” He stared at his watch. “Four, three, two—”

  “Ignition
!” cried Flash happily.

  “Down in the seats,” snapped Zarkov.

  They buckled themselves in.

  “What happened to those Green cybs on the ladder?” Flash wondered.

  “Guess they turned into instant fuel for the blast-off.”

  Flash shrugged. “They were only metal ideations anyway.”

  The rocket began moving upward with a surge of power. It shuddered and vibrated and shuffled about in the air as it made the first few yards of altitude.

  Zarkov closed his eyes and crossed his fingers.

  Then the rocket gained momentum and steadied itself.

  “Correction for burn,” the metallic voice of the cyb at the computer said in Flash’s headphones.

  “Right,” said Flash, and made the correction as the cyb read it off.

  “It’s time for oxygen,” said Zarkov. He pressed the button for the oxygen tank to fill the cabin with pressurized air. The button blinked red.

  “Malfunction,” said Flash. “What happened?”

  Zarkov shook his head. “That’s what we get for not running through the test. It looks like we’ve got everything going for us but that little thing called oxygen.”

  “Oh-oh,” said Flash.

  “Well,” Zarkov said philosophically. “At least we don’t have to end it all on that war-hungry planet. We’ll go out like astronauts should—high up in good clean old space.”

  “Right,” said Flash, smiling faintly.

  “Well, Flash. It’s been a good life, at that, hasn’t it?”

  “No regrets, Doc,” said Flash.

  They shook hands.

  It was getting difficult to breathe in the heat of the cabin.

  The air about them burst into brilliant blue streaks.

  “Hey!” called Flash. “What’s that?”

  “Green interceptors lobbying missiles at us,” Zarkov said, staring out the porthole. “They’ve got us in the sights, all right.”

  “This is it, Doc.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Flash and Zarkov watched the interceptors zoom up to attack.

  “Well, I’m glad General Zena is still on the ball,” Flash said. “I suppose it bothers her that we got away.”