The Death and Life of Superman (11 page)

Since then, it’s been one hassle after another,
thought Clark. It would have been different, if he’d been working alongside the original members. They knew how to work together. But his new partners, on the other hand, were not all team players. New League members Fire and Ice had once been part of a European supergroup and could be counted on to the fullest extent of their powers of heat and cold. Likewise, the Blue Beetle was an expert hand-to-hand combatant and a highly skilled engineer. But if you put him in the same room with Booster Gold, there was trouble. Together, Booster and the Beetle became insufferable practical jokers.

Guy Gardner was even worse. Guy had belonged to an intergalactic corps of Green Lanterns, as had one of the League founders, but he was nothing like the Green Lantern whom Superman had first met. Guy was a loose cannon who shot his mouth off as readily as he did his power ring. He was, frankly, an obnoxious, egotistical oaf. After finally being drummed out of the Green Lantern Corps, he managed to acquire a golden power ring which allowed him to continue operating as a member of the League.

Clark grimaced inwardly. Gardner was a far cry from his idea of a super-hero, but as long as he worked with the League, they could conceivably keep him reined in.

Maxima was yet another matter. The heir to the throne of an interstellar empire based on the distant planet Almerac, Maxima had first come to Earth looking for a suitable consort with whom to enrich the bloodline of the royal family. Arrogant, self-righteous, and quick-tempered, she had set her sights on Superman. He had done his best to persuade her that he wasn’t interested in fathering any future galactic despots. But thanks to the part she’d played in stopping the alien invasion, she had been inducted into the Justice League. Her physical strength and her extensive psychokinetic powers made her a valuable addition to the group, but her imperious attitude continually put her at odds with other League members.

And then there was Bloodwynd. Clark still wasn’t sure what to make of him. None of the others in the Justice League really knew anything about the tall, powerfully built black man, but he had proven to be a valuable ally. Bloodwynd seemed nearly as strong as Superman and claimed to be a sorcerer. As Superman, Clark had had dealings with supernatural entities in the past, and Bloodwynd certainly fit the mold; he was more aloof even than Maxima.

They
are
an unruly lot
, thought Clark. But—barring a massive change in membership—they were
his
unruly lot, and he’d just have to make the best of things. After all, the Justice League had a history nearly as long and distinguished as his own. And there
was
only so much one man, even a Superman, could do on his own. That was why he had welcomed the emergence of the other heroes in the first place.

“If we’re lucky, they’ll all pull together eventually.”

“What was that, Mr. Ken—Clark?”

“Eh? Oh, just thinking out loud, Jimmy . . . about the Justice League. For all their eccentricities, they’re still very capable people. I don’t think we should be so ready to write them off just yet. After all, the original founding members weren’t very experienced when they started out.”

“I suppose so.” Jimmy didn’t sound very convinced. “I just hope that Superman’s as optimistic as you are.”

“I’m sure he is, Jim. I don’t think that Superman would stay with the League if he didn’t think they had promise.”

“Yeah, well, if he’d come out and say so, I’d feel a lot better about it.”

“Maybe he will, Jimmy. Maybe he will.”

As the alarm Klaxon went off in the Cadmus Security Office, Jim Harper crossed the room in three giant strides and hit a switch on the comlink.

“Guardian here. What’s going on?”

“It’s those blasted kids,” choked a voice which Harper recognized as belonging to one of the Project’s resident mechanics. “Those Newsboy clones! They set off a stink bomb in the motor pool and made off with the all-terrain wagon.”

Not again,
thought Harper. “All right, I’ll take care of it. Have my bike ready.” He quickly fitted his helmet into place.
“Those blasted kids,” eh?

The “kids” were, in fact, the result of an experiment in human cellular replication that had gone awry, producing young teenage doppelgangers of the five Cadmus Project department heads. The young clones had adopted their progenitors’ old street names, and “Flip”—the clone of Cadmus biochemist Walter Johnson—had been welcomed as a new member of this second-generation Newsboy Legion.

Scooping up his shield on the run, the Guardian sprinted down a corridor.
They’re even more of a handful than their fathers were . . . and now there are five of them!
The Guardian shook his head.
A stink bomb
. . .
I’m getting too old for this.

By the time he reached the Project’s motor pool, exhaust fans had already drawn off the worst of the stink bomb’s residue. But there was still an acrid stench in the air and more than a few puffy-eyed mechanics. One grease monkey was suddenly seized with a coughing fit. When it had subsided, he glared at the helmeted man through his tears. “Guardian, you have to do something about those brats!”

Harper straddled the gleaming motorcycle that had been wheeled out for him. “What do you suggest we do?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Find them and lock them up, I guess.”

“We already keep them locked away in this Project as if they were prize guinea pigs. They’re young teenage boys . . . they didn’t ask to be born into this.”

“None of us asks to be born.” The new voice was low and even and unnaturally distinct. All activity ground to a halt as its speaker stepped into the chamber.

He stood just under six feet tall, and his skin was a light gray. His green eyes were elliptical, like those of a cat. But by far his most striking features were the two hornlike protuberances that grew from his high, wide forehead. He was called Dubbilex, and though he had been a fixture at the Project for many years, there were still many who felt uncomfortable around him.

Jim Harper was never one of those. Quite to the contrary, he found Dubbilex fascinating. The gaunt gray man reminded Jim of a benevolent alien from an old science fiction pulp of his youth, and that image wasn’t far from wrong. Dubbilex, he knew, was the creation of Dr. Dabney Donovan.

One of the Cadmus Project’s three original founders, Donovan was a brilliant and—unfortunately—highly unstable genius who had become obsessed with the idea of creating whole new species through genetic engineering. Dubbilex had been the first survivor of a series of experiments to produce a race of what the doctor called his DNAliens. When the other Project heads had begun to raise questions about Donovan’s ethics and place restrictions on his research, he committed suicide.

If it
was
a suicide,
thought the Guardian.

Dubbilex looked at the Guardian quizzically.
“Then you also have doubts about my creator’s supposed death?”

The Guardian looked around him. He had heard the DNAlien’s thought as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud, but no one else in the room seemed aware of it.

“Sorry,”
came another thought,
“I didn’t mean to pry. But the thought was so strong in your mind, I couldn’t help but ‘hear’ it.”

That’s all right, Dubbilex,
thought the Guardian.
I guess I’m still not used to working with a telepath.

“I quite understand,”
came the reply.
“It hasn’t been all that easy for me, either. Mastering the powers of the psyche is a bit like learning to master Rollerblading. You fall on your tail a lot.”

The Guardian grinned, tickled by the very image of Dubbilex on Rollerblades.
I read you.

Dubbilex nodded toward the staring mechanics.
“I believe they’re feeling a bit ill at ease. Perhaps we should say something?”

Ah, yes. The Guardian broke the silence. “We could use your help, Dubbilex. The youngsters have taken off on a joyride. Any ideas as to where they might be headed?”

Dubbilex cocked his head to one side and stared off into space . . .
Trying to hear beyond hearing, to see beyond sight,
thought the Guardian.

The lanky DNAlien slowly brought his hands to his temples. “I think that they are not far away. Yes, I can feel their exuberance. I feel . . . freedom.”

The underground vault rang like a blacksmith’s anvil under the force of the Creature’s hammering blows.

The Creature kept pounding.

Sparks flew from the metal, sporadically lighting the tiny chamber.

The Creature kept pounding.

Finally, the tortured metal of the wall began to give, curling away as if trying to escape from that pounding fist.

With a muffled bellow, the Creature tore at his bonds, and more of the thick metal cables snapped. Now more mobile, he threw himself against the tiny opening, pushing the twisted metal farther apart. Then, when he’d widened the hole enough for his shoulders to slip through, the Creature began to claw at the compacted clay and rock beyond.

“Free at last, free at last!” Young Flip Johnson punched the air, feeling the slipstream sting his fists, as an experimental high-performance vehicle emerged from a cave near the base of Mount Curtiss.

“Hey, Johnson, keep yer mitts inside this Whiz Wagon, if ya don’t wanna lose ’em!”

“Aw, lay off ’im, Scrapper! Ain’t a guy entitled to celebrate a little? I mean, geez Louise, this’s been our first chance to go outside, since . . . since the last time we ran off to the city.” Gabby stopped only briefly to take a breath before rambling on. “I mean, I feel like celebratin’! Don’t you feel like celebratin’? You oughtta! I think this is great, really!”

“Hey-hey! Turn off the faucet, will ya?” Scrapper peered out from under the brim of his cap at Gabby, fixing his buddy with a look of exasperation. “I was jus’ tryin’ to give a li’l friendly advice. It ain’t safe to stick a hand out, not as fast as we’re goin’!”

Big Words nodded judiciously. “Our colleague is quite astute, gentlemen.”

“What?!” Scrapper lunged toward Big Words, straining against his safety harness. “Who’s a stupe?! C’mere an’ say that again, ya four-eyed, walkin’ encyclopedia!”

The gangly teenager pressed a big, bony hand against Scrapper’s chest, holding him at arm’s length. “I merely meant that you spoke wisely.”

“Well, why din’t ya say so?”

“I believed that I had.” Big Words scanned the array of indicators before him. “As a matter of fact, our present velocity is a hundred and seventy kilometers per hour. At such a speed, a chance encounter with another object, whether in motion or at rest, would prove quite injurious, not to mention painful.”

Flip, who’d fought to keep a straight face through the exchange, nodded in mock imitation of Big Words. “I can dig it. So, Tommy, how long till we get to Metropolis?”

From behind the wheel of the Whiz Wagon, Tommy just grinned. “We’re not going to Metropolis.”

“Huh?”

“Not goin’—?!”

“Oh, man—!”

Tommy downshifted, and the silvery vehicle began to decelerate. “Tell ’em, Words.”

“Well, simply put . . .”

“That’ll be a good trick fer you,” Scrapper grumbled.

“. . . our previous attempts at freedom met with failure when we were intercepted either in or
in transit
to the city. Clearly, a change of destination is in order, if we are to succeed.”

“Okay, okay, I can see that, sorta, but if we’re not going to Metropolis, where are we gonna go? Where else is there? Around here, I mean?”

“Gabby’s got a point, man. We have the wheels and the fuel to get us to Philly or Gotham or . . . heck, even all the way out to California, if we wanted. But the Whiz Wagon ain’t exactly a Chevy.” Flip gazed appreciatively out past the windscreen and patted the padded dash. “Not to put her down, but she does look like a cross between a grand prix racer and somethin’ outta
Star Trek.
We’re gonna attract attention wherever we go.”

“Oh, most assuredly. There is, however, within close proximity an arboreal sanctuary wherein we can conceal ourselves for the preparation of any further course of action.”

Scrapper pulled his cap low over his eyes and sank back into his seat. “Can anybody put that into plain English?”

“Arboreal?” Flip looked skeptical. “You mean we’re gonna hide out in some trees?”

“Not just some trees . . .
those
trees!” Tommy pointed across a small clearing. Big Words smiled smugly, as three sets of jaws dropped in amazement. Ahead of them loomed wooden towers, terraces, and avenues.

“Holy cow.” For once Gabby had trouble finding his voice. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“It’s dat big tree city what the Project built! I remember now . . . they called it ‘Have-a-trap’ or somethin’.”

“
Habitat,
Scrapper! And it wasn’t built, it was grown—right into the shapes of buildings and streets.”

“Correct, Flip. But Habitat wasn’t exactly a product of the Project
per se.
Strictly speaking, it was more of a by-product or offshoot of allied research into—!”

“Yeah, yeah. We get the picture, Words. The Project don’t keep close tabs on the joint, do they? So we can hide out here for as long as we want, wit’ no one the wiser.”

“Well, within reason, Scrapper. By the time they’ve exhausted their normal search patterns, we shall be—!”

“Nuts!”

“What’s wrong, Tommy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why’re you slowing down?” asked Flip.

“I’m not. We’re losing power. The Whiz Wagon’s turbines just shut down.”

“Don’t tell me . . . we’re gonna have to get out and push.” Scrapper was already starting to unbuckle his seat belt.

Tommy fiddled with the starter. “Maybe. But we’re still on a bit of an incline. With a little luck we can coast the rest of the way into—uh-oh.”

“ ‘Uh-oh?’ ” Flip gave Tommy a worried look. “What’re you ‘uh-oh’in’ about?”

“Him!”

Straight ahead of them, the Guardian sat astride his motorcycle, arms folded across his chest. Tommy hit the brakes, and their vehicle rolled to a stop barely a foot in front of the man clad in blue and gold.