The Death and Life of Superman (48 page)

“Missing!” Luthor pounded his desk. “And we don’t know how or why—do we, Happersen?!”

Happersen tugged nervously at his collar. “Well, sir, my people—”

“Your people! ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Luthor, the new hidden cameras will record anything that happens at the tomb!’ Bah! All we have are several hours of blank tape!”

“I assure you, Mister L, it’s just a matter of time before—!”

“How long, Happersen? How long?! After we recovered his body from the Cadmus Project, you assured me that security was improved! And now this!” Luthor slouched back in his chair, stroking his beard. “I swear, Superman’s as much trouble to me dead as he was alive!”

Luthor sat straight up at the sound of a series of loud thumps and muffled shouts from the outer hall. The office door flew open, and a uniformed security guard came tumbling backward into the executive suite.

The youthful CEO slammed a fist down on his desk. “Bloody hell, now what?! I gave specific orders not to be disturbed!”

“S-sorry, Mr. L.” The guard scrambled to his feet and tried to hold the door closed, but he was obviously fighting a losing battle. A sharp cry of pain came through the half-opened door. “We tried to tell her that, but the lady insists on seeing you!”

“Out of my way!” Supergirl came charging into the room, knocking the guard aside and leaving a half dozen others trailing in her wake. She had a rolled-up newspaper in her hand, and her face was flushed with anger. “Lex, we have to talk!”

Luthor wearily rose to his feet as the guards picked themselves up off the floor. “Love, I was in conference with Dr. Happersen. Can’t this wait?”

“Wait?! Lex, haven’t you seen the news?!”

“Of course I have. As a matter of fact, I was just about to send for you.” He turned toward the guards. “You men resume your posts! We’ll forget about this . . . little misunderstanding.”
This time.

“Oh—sorry, guys.” Supergirl suddenly looked acutely embarrassed by what she’d done. “I know you were just doing your jobs. No hard feelings?”

“No, miss.”
Not on our part anyway. I don’t know about the boss.

Once the guards were out the door, the Girl of Steel whirled back around to face Luthor. “I’ve just come from the tomb. I went over every inch of it and there are absolutely no signs of a break-in. Superman really must be alive this time!” She paused, hurt and frustration plainly showing on her face. “Lex, you must have known earlier. Why didn’t you tell me? When I saw this—!”

She threw down a copy of the latest edition of the
Daily Planet.
The front page was dominated by a huge photograph of the open coffin and twin headlines: BACK FROM THE DEAD? SUPERMAN’S BODY MISSING!

Luthor came out from behind his desk, his face a mask of concern. “I didn’t want to upset you needlessly, love.” He reached out and took her hands in his. “All the reports I’ve seen so far have varied wildly, as have the descriptions of this supposed Superman. Or perhaps I should say Supermen. If all the accounts were true, there’d have to be more than one!”

“You’re saying that it could all be some sick hoax?”

“Perhaps, love. We still don’t know.”

Supergirl pulled away from him. “Well, I’m going to find out—one way or another!” She strode from the room, and within moments, Luthor saw her flash past the far glass wall of his office.

“Lord, she’s headstrong!” For a moment he stood at the glass, just watching her fly off over the city.
To have all that power at your beck and call.
Luthor smiled.
But then, in a way, I do.
“Happersen, put everyone we can spare on the investigation. Call in all of our sources. I want to know for certain whether Superman is dead or alive. And I want to see proof . . . or heads will roll!”

In his Cadmus Project office, Paul Westfield flicked off the television and furiously punched up a number on his scramble phone. “Packard?! How goes the work in Lab Thirteen? Have you started feeding our subject information yet? Good, very good. But can you accelerate the process? We need to pick up the pace. Yes, Carl, I understand the need for caution, but some other parties are already out there trying to pass themselves off as the new Superman. How long until the maturation process is complete? Two weeks? Well, if that’s the best you can do. All right, keep me informed if there are any changes. Right. Good-bye.”

Unseen behind the ventilation duct, Big Words silently scribbled down notes, very glad that he had decided to look in periodically on Westfield’s office. The boy did not like the sound of this at all. He had to get back and tell the others about it immediately. The Newsboy Legion, he was certain, would want to take a look at Lab Thirteen.

The sun was just beginning to set in Metropolis when Lois Lane heard the plane approach. She looked up in horror as a small twin-engine aircraft passed by overhead, not more than two stories above the ground.

The driver of a cab at curbside hung halfway out his window, his jaw wide with amazement as he watched the plane go by. “Holy Christ! Who’s flyin’ that thing?”

Lois dove into the back of the cab. “That’s what I aim to find out. Follow that plane!”

The cabbie looked at her as if she were from another planet. “Ya want me to follow—? Are you kiddin’ me, lady?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life. Come on, there’s a big tip in it for you if you keep it in sight.”

“All right, lady, you’re on!” He switched on the meter and shot away from the curb. “ ‘Follow that plane!’ Now I’ve heard everything.”

Inside the small plane, the pilot sat slumped over in his seat. His lone passenger sat in the copilot’s chair, desperately trying to remember how to work the radio. “Calling Metropolis Tower—can anyone hear me? I need help! My brother collapsed against the controls—I think it may be his heart!—and I don’t know how to fly! Oh, God, we’re so low!” Frantically, the passenger wracked her brain, trying to recall the procedures her brother had followed.
We’re too low. Got to pull up! Stupid wheel—why won’t you pull up?!

Slowly, the plane started to gain altitude. But as it did, one wing clipped the side of a building and the plane tilted violently.

“We’re going to crash! We’re going to die!”

No sooner were the words out of the passenger’s mouth than the plane seemed to right itself. People on the streets looked up to see a figure clad in black, red, and blue balancing the craft upon his own broad shoulders, the streetlights glimmering off his amber visor. As the plane’s engines sputtered and stalled out, he brought it down over the narrow stretch of green that was Simon Kirby Riverside Park.

A policeman came running up as the Superman emerged from beneath the craft. “Officer! Please radio for assistance.”

It took the policeman a moment to find his voice. “I . . . already have, sir.” He looked up and down at the tall man with the cape.
The Captain’s never gonna believe this.
I
don’t believe it!
“You are . . . Superman?”

“Who else would I be?” The Superman turned and pulled the door off the side of the plane.

Yeah,
thought the cop,
who else
could
he be
?
His outfit’s a little different, but I don’t wear the same thing every day, so why should he!

The Superman helped the sobbing passenger down into the policeman’s arms and turned to check on the pilot.

The cop put an arm around the woman and did his best to console her. “It’s okay, ma’am. You’re down safe and sound. Do you know where you are?”

“It’s . . . it’s Metropolis, isn’t it? We took off from O’Hara Field. My brother . . .” She took the policeman’s proffered handkerchief and tried to dry her eyes. “One minute, Johnny was laughing and smiling, and the next—he’s . . . he’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” The Superman emerged from the plane. “His heart failed. Too much time has elapsed; he cannot be revived.”

The policeman stared at the caped man in disbelief.
Jesus, buddy, did you have to be so blunt
?

Not fifty feet away, Lois’s cab braked to a halt just inside the park entrance. “I can’t get you any closer, lady. I’m breakin’ the law just by pullin’ in here.”

“It’s okay, this is close enough.” Lois saw a crowd starting to form; she tossed the driver double what was on the meter and sprinted toward the plane. When she’d spotted the rescue several blocks back, she hadn’t been sure whether she believed her eyes. But now that she was within hailing distance, she was determined to get some answers. “Hey! You with the cape! Hold it right there, buster!”

As Lois reached the Superman, the cheering crowd began to close in around them.

“See? It’s him! It’s really him!”

“Superman!”

“He’s back! Oh, thank the Lord Almighty, he’s come back!”

“Let me touch you!”

“Please, heal my child!”

Lois could see that the situation was fast getting out of hand. She grabbed the caped man by the arm. “We need to talk. Get us out of here.”

The Superman scooped Lois up in his arms and leapt up into the sky, leaving the mob far behind. So swiftly did they soar up over the rooftops that Lois’s head began to spin. It had been over a month since she had flown in Superman’s arms, and she had thought that she would never fly like that again. She drew in a deep breath and pointed to the roof of a tall office tower. “I think this is far enough. Set us down over there.”

The Superman nodded. “As you wish.”

“As you wish”?! He resembles Clark, but he sounds so cold, so . . . hollow.
Lois looked him over closely. “You know, I’ve been trying to find you since I first heard about you. Who
are
you? What’s your game?”

“I am Superman. I don’t understand your second question. I am not playing any game.”

“Oh, really? Superman never hid his face, he didn’t wear a metal shield on his chest, and he didn’t wear black like some executioner!”

“No. Not before. But I have been through much. I have changed.”

“If you’re really Superman, tell me who I am. Or don’t you know me?”

“You?” Superman studied Lois as if seeing her for the first time. “Yes . . . I know you. You’re Lois Lane . . . a reporter. Before my passing . . . you were an important part of my life. You were the first to write about me.”

Lois felt her throat constrict.
His voice—it’s softening. He’s starting to sound more like Clark. Not like Superman—like Clark! Don’t you cry, Lois Lane. Don’t you
dare
start to cry! And don’t give anything away—demand proof!

“That I’m a reporter is a matter of public record. Tell me something that only Superman could know!”

The Superman reached out his hand, gently touching her cheek. “I know . . . that we were more than friends. You were engaged to marry Clark Kent.” His voice came haltingly. “Kent loved you very much. He trusted you completely—even with the secret of his double life.”

“Then you
are
—!”

“I am.” He suddenly pulled back his hand, as if he could no longer bear to touch her. “I am sorry. I grieve for your loss, Ms. Lane.”

The Superman turned and began to walk away from her.

“What’re you saying? If it’s really you—” The words were catching in her throat. “Clark—?”

“No! We must not speak of this again.” He looked back over his shoulder at her. “As I told you, things have changed.
I
have changed. Kent is gone. There is only Superman now.”

And then the Superman rocketed away into the sky.

“Wait! Don’t go!” Lois looked skyward, her face a mixture of fear, sorrow, and confusion.
Dear God in heaven. If he’s lying, someone’s learned that Clark was Superman. And if he’s telling the truth, then I’ve lost Clark all over again.

20

Hidden away
in the basement of his apartment building, Henry Johnson finished soldering one last contact and stepped back to survey his work. Here, in his makeshift workshop, it had taken him over a week to integrate all the components of his prototype equipment into a functional battle suit, but he was finally done. All that remained was the field testing.
Might as well get started. The problems on the streets aren’t going to clear up by themselves.

The streets in and around Suicide Slum had never been really safe. For over a century, one neighborhood or another had been written off, their people told that they were unneeded, unwanted, expendable.

The telling used to be quite blatant. John Henry had seen pictures of earlier days, when employers posted help wanted notices telling certain groups not to even bother to apply. As the years had passed, the discrimination had become much less obvious but not necessarily less pervasive; the underclass hadn’t gone away, it had simply changed color somewhat.

No, human nature hadn’t changed, but the weaponry had. Knife fights had given way to gunfights, and handguns had given way to automatic weapons. The addition of drug money had resulted in increasingly deadly turf wars. In some neighborhoods, the murder rate was nearly as high as it had been during Prohibition.

Henry knew that it would take something on the order of a Superman to stop the killing. He prayed that his work could make a difference. He began to suit up.