The Death and Life of Superman (35 page)

When Henry finally came to in the hospital, he’d found out how drastically the world had changed. Superman was killed trying to stop Doomsday, and Metropolis was in a mess. The city was experiencing its first major increase in street crime in nearly a decade, and according to the news, the police commissioner’s job was on the line.

The hospital nurses had told Henry to ignore the news and concentrate on getting well; not that he’d had to concentrate that hard. The doctors were so impressed with his speedy recovery that they’d called him their miracle patient. He’d had to plead to keep them from giving his name to the papers and argue to have them release him as soon as he had a clean bill of health.

Now Henry was home in the apartment that had been his for over a year. And while the neighborhood had never been the best or the safest, things had clearly changed for the worse. Sirens echoed down the street from Avenue M, and the radio was full of reports of gang activity. Superman, Henry knew, would never have allowed this to happen.

The gangs were running wild all around Suicide Slum, and word on the street was that they even had the police outgunned. That was bad enough, but it was the talk about the gangs’ weaponry that especially bothered Henry.

And so Henry went down into the basement of his apartment building and checked the locks on an old storage locker near the furnace room. They seemed intact, and he knew they were impossible to pick without showing some signs of tampering. He knew, because he’d designed them himself. Henry unlocked the door and went in, flicking on the sputtering old fluorescent light. Inside, stacked neatly along one wall, were the remnants of his past, back when he was still the topflight engineer John Henry Irons, back before he’d assumed another name.

As Dr. John Henry Irons, he’d designed armament and ballistics systems for Westin Technologies. He was their rising star—number one with a bullet—until the day he discovered that his new design for a one-man artillery piece had been copied. Bootleg knockoffs of Dr. Irons’s new gun had been produced and sold in the Middle East, and there was some indication that higher-ups at Westin, in collusion with someone in Washington, were responsible. He’d heard that such things happened in the software trade, and he knew how difficult it was to trace such acts of piracy. Tracking down the culprits proved no easier in John Henry’s case; all he knew for sure was that a lot of innocent civilians had been killed by his guns.

That had been too much for John. He’d dropped out, gone underground, and changed his name. But his past was still down here, sealed away in crates and footlockers. The equipment he’d designed had been put to terrible use, but it was still his work. He could not deny it or bring himself to throw it away. Instead, he had tried to bury it here in this basement, where no one would think to look.

Was I wrong? Similar weapons are showing up on the streets. Did someone find my gear?

A moment’s inspection reassured him that it was all there. Nothing had been disturbed, but John Henry still couldn’t shake that sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. The description of the “Toastmaster” guns that some of the gangs were using sounded very close to his BG–60s. If the guns were in fact based on his designs, the police would never stand a chance against them. If the gangs weren’t stopped and the flow of guns cut off, the city could conceivably become a war zone. He couldn’t let that happen.

John Henry rummaged through the crates.
Superman said to make my life count.
His prototype body armor was still there, along with the experimental rocket boots. An idea began to take form.
I owe him a life. There’s no way I can bring Superman back, but maybe I can build Metropolis a Man of Steel.

For days and nights, volunteers had been working alongside LexCorp construction crews, searching for signs of life amid the urban ruin left in the wake of Doomsday. At some sites, sophisticated listening devices were employed to ferret out those who might be buried beneath the shattered buildings. At other sites, rescue teams picked their way through the rubble, using specially trained dogs to sniff out survivors and casualties. As the days passed, they turned up more and more of the latter.

At one midtown disaster site, on the afternoon of the eighth day, a large black German shepherd let out a yelp and began pawing the edge of a patch of crumbled masonry. His human rescue partner came stumbling after him.

“What is it, Akila? What is it, boy?”

The dog barked once and kept on digging. The rescue worker put his ear to the masonry. He could hear a moan. It was very faint, but it was definitely a human voice.

“We’ve found another one over here. A live one!”

“Step aside!” The order came in a high, clear alto, and both dog and workman scrambled to get out of the way as Supergirl dropped down from the sky beside them.

The Girl of Steel ran a hand along the edge of the masonry. It was a section of steel-reinforced concrete, twelve inches thick and roughly ten by thirteen feet.

“There’s a crack running about halfway through this thing, but if I’m careful, it should hold together.” She favored the rescue worker and Akila with a polite smile. “I’ll need room.”

The man nodded and hooked a leash onto the dog’s collar. “Akila, come!”

Once man and dog were a safe distance away, Supergirl knelt beside the fallen concrete. Cautiously, she thrust one arm under the edge of the slab and gripped a piece of thick steel rebar that protruded from the side. Setting her feet, Supergirl slowly began to ease the slab off the ground. When she had it about five feet up, the edge started to crumble and crack. Moving quickly, she ducked under the slab, shifting the crushing weight onto her shoulders.

Looking down, she could see a man wedged into a tiny space between two fallen girders. A cracked water pipe ran near his head. The rubble still looked fairly damp around him. Supergirl paused a moment to center herself; then, every muscle straining, she stood bolt upright, hurling the concrete slab into the middle of a cleared area some fifty feet away.

Supergirl immediately dropped down beside the man, gingerly shoving aside the girders that still pinned him. She felt for a pulse. It was there, but it was very weak. The man’s eyes fluttered, and he tried to talk.

“Help . . . me . . .”

Supergirl was astounded that the man was still able to breathe, let alone speak. “Please . . . don’t try to talk.”

Paramedics quickly slipped in around Supergirl and the injured man, checking the victim’s vital signs and administering emergency first aid. Within moments, they had the man strapped to a backboard. Supergirl helped them carry him to a waiting ambulance.

“Roof fell in . . . jus’ fell in on me.” The man rambled on, as if trying to explain his way back to life. “Couldn’t move. Yelled an’ yelled but nobody came.”

“We’re here now.” Supergirl held the man’s hand.

“I didn’ give up . . . ’cause I knew
you
wouldn’ give up. Knew you’d save me—Superman?” The man’s eyes finally seemed to focus on the figure beneath the bright red cape. “You—you’re not Superman.”

“No. No, I’m Super
girl.
But it’s all right. You’re in good hands now!”

Supergirl smiled brightly for the man as he was loaded into the ambulance. But once it had pulled away, her face fell, and she heaved a weary sigh.

One of the paramedics on the scene walked up, holding out a steaming paper cup in offering. “Coffee? It’s not very good, but at least it’s hot.”

“Thanks.” She cradled the cup in her hands. “What do you think his chances are?”

“Hard to say, Supergirl. A lot depends on how much water he was able to get from that pipe. A human being can’t go more than a few days without water. And he was down there for a long time.” The paramedic glanced off to his right. “At least he’s still alive. That puts him one up on these poor souls.”

Supergirl followed the paramedic’s gaze. Nearly two dozen bodies had been laid out, side by side, covered with sheets and awaiting identification. Some of the lumps beneath the sheets were heartbreakingly small.

“Kids.” The paramedic shook his head. “They never had a chance.”

Supergirl slumped back against a pile of girders. “How many more are still out there? How many are still alive?”

“Not many. It was a miracle that fellow hung on like he did. He must’ve had an amazing constitution. No, at this point, I wouldn’t think there’d be any more that we’ll find alive.”

Supergirl stared numbly at her steaming cup. She’d yet to take a drink.

The paramedic looked at her more closely. “How long has it been since you had a night’s sleep?”

“Hmmm?” It took her a moment to realize he’d put the question to her. “Oh . . . I don’t know. What’s today? Monday?”

“Try Wednesday. You don’t need coffee, you need rest.”

“No time. There are so many places left to search, so much work to be done.”

“Make time.” He snatched the cup away from her hands.

Supergirl stared blankly at her empty hands for a moment and then gazed, bewildered, into the man’s face. He’d caught her totally off guard.

The paramedic raised an eyebrow. “See what I mean? Would I have been able to do that if you were on top of things? Go home; get some sleep. Or the next time you go to lift a chunk of concrete, you’re liable to drop it on yourself—or on someone else!”

“All right. But if you need help—”

“We know where to call. Now go home!”

Supergirl sprang unsteadily into the air, feeling as wrung out as an old washcloth. The rush of air helped a little, but in her heart she knew that the paramedic was right—she did need sleep. As the city swept by beneath her, she could see the rescue efforts continuing at other sites.
If only I had Superman’s X-ray vision. Maybe I would have been able to find more of those people before it was too late. If only
—

Supergirl shook her head. Life was full of “if onlys.” Maybe she would be better able to face them tomorrow.

Midnight passed, and Wednesday night gave way to Thursday morning. Paul Westfield paced impatiently at the far end of a long tunnel that connected Metropolis with the Cadmus Project. It had taken him days of maneuvering and subterfuge to get this new operation up and running. Westfield’s handpicked field team had, of necessity, been working incommunicado for over twenty-four hours while he was forced to placate both the Washington bureaucrats and his own department heads. But if all went well, he would soon have what he wanted.
If only they’d report in. What’s keeping them?

A walkie-talkie hooked to Westfield’s belt emitted a soft buzz. He pulled the unit loose from its clip and thumbed the scramble switch. “Report.”

“Snatcher here. Sorry for the delay. It was touch and go there for a while. With so many people visiting the tomb, we were afraid that some of the mourners might hear our drills.”

Westfield’s breath caught in his throat. “They didn’t, I hope.”

A dry chuckle came over the walkie-talkie. “If they did, they didn’t do anything about it.”

“That is not an acceptable answer.”

“Uh, no, sir. There were no problems, sir. According to our spotters on the surface, no one took any notice that would compromise our operation. Phase one of the mission is complete. The body is ours. Repeat, the body is ours.”

“Well done.” Westfield allowed himself a smile. “Return to base on the double. We will meet for initial inspection in Lab Seven. You are to maintain strictest security at all times.”

“Understood. Snatcher out.”

Westfield switched his walkie-talkie back to standby and exited the tunnel.
Now, all we need is a cell—just one, single viable cell—and I’ll give this poor misbegotten world a hero it’ll never forget.
Despite the late hour, there was new energy in his step. Westfield could feel destiny calling him, and he had his answers all prepared.

15

An alarm sounded
on the ninetieth floor, awaking Lex Luthor II from a sound sleep.

“Bloody hell!” Muttering under his breath, Luthor threw on a dressing robe and pushed open the double doors to his private office. “Alarm off!” he ordered. “Identify the problem.”

The alarm instantly shut off, and a soft computer-synthesized voice responded in answer to Luthor’s command. “Infrared sensors registering movement in outsector ten.”

“Damn and blast! Show me.”

“Impossible to comply. Surveillance cameras have been disabled, Mr. Luthor.” The computer voice sounded almost regretful.

“What is it, Lex?” Supergirl shuffled out of the bedroom, stifling a yawn. “What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Computer, give me a full-range schematic.”

“Projecting outsector ten . . .” A holographic grid immediately lit up in the air over Luthor’s desk, a glowing X moving slowly across it, like the cursor of a computer screen. “Heat source now moving away from vector point zero.”

Luthor began to curse, softly but steadily, in a way that, Supergirl knew, he did only when he was greatly distressed.

“Lex? Where is outsector ten?”

“In Superman’s tomb, love.” Luthor stuck his finger into the glowing schematic. “Or, to be more precise, some ten meters beneath it.”