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Ming laughed. “You’ll never reach it. The harmonic field will shred you atom by atom.”
“Ming,” Flash said, swinging himself upright and landing softly on the crystalline floor. “You’re right. I can’t compute the VPX’s frequency. But I know someone who can.”
Flash took a step forward. The air shimmered. His sleeves began to smoke.
He tapped his temple. A tiny blue light flickered—a synaptic uplink that Dr. Zarkov had installed hours before, just in case. “Zarkov,” Flash murmured. “Now.”
“Dale,” Flash said calmly. “Now.”
His fingertips brushed the surface of the VPX Core.
From the shadows, a slow clap echoed. Ming stepped out, his cloak woven from living shadow. His fingernails were razor shards of obsidian.
Flash closed his eyes. He wasn’t a scientist. He wasn’t a wizard. He was a quarterback from Earth who’d fallen into a rocket ship.
Ming stared, his composure cracking like cheap porcelain. “Impossible.”
“The core is protected by a harmonic resonance field,” Dale continued. “Flash, your pulse rifle, your rockets… even your fists. Nothing physical can touch it. You need to destabilize its frequency .”
He moved.
“You made one mistake, Ming,” Flash said, tossing the shard from hand to hand. “You assumed thinking and doing are different things. On Mongo, maybe. But on Earth? We call that play action .”
