The Death and Life of Superman (60 page)

The note was anonymous, but it told him where to find the factory.

The Man of Steel lit his rocket boots and blasted off. Breakfast would have to wait.

The delivery man watched him depart, then reached into his truck and punched up a number on a special scrambled radiophone. “Dr. Happersen? Our fish has taken the bait.”

Hours later, in Lex Luthor’s private office at LexCorp Tower, Sydney Happersen divided his attention between a WLEX news broadcast and his boss; the latter was far and away the more fascinating to watch. Lex Luthor was positively glued to the television monitor, chortling over video footage of the ferocious fire that was still consuming Dr. Lapin’s illicit weapons plant.

The afternoon news anchor earnestly reported that the fire had been preceded by a tremendous explosion of unknown origin, and that there were as yet no known victims or survivors. She cut to a spokesperson for the plant’s former owners; he swore most vehemently that his company had not left behind any volatile chemicals or other dangerous substances. He looked forward, he said, to reading the fire investigators’ report, confident that his company was not to blame for the blaze.

Luthor hit the mute button on his remote and smiled broadly at Happersen. “Ah, but we don’t need to wait for the fire investigators, do we? We already know the cause of the blaze. Excellent work, Sydney.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It was a class operation all the way. We got rid of a weapons dealer at no risk to ourselves, and in the process, we ran a splendid field test on the Man of Steel. Remind me to personally commend our industrial espionage team.” Luthor affectionately patted an audiocassette that Happersen had played for him earlier. “The sound quality on their tape rivals that of the official news, and of course, the content was far more interesting.”

The tape had indeed been startlingly informative. Dr. Lapin, it seemed, had recognized immediately both the design and the designer of the Man of Steel’s armor. Luthor had carefully filed away the fact that the Man of Steel’s real name was John Henry Irons. “Most fitting, wouldn’t you say, Happersen?”

Lapin had freely admitted to appropriating Irons’s weapons designs and selling the big guns to the street gangs. She’d brushed aside John Henry’s outrage and coolly offered to cut him in on her profits. And when he’d refused, when he instead began to take her assembly line apart, she tried to kill him.

She’d blasted him with an even more advanced weapon based on his designs and trapped him in a hydraulic press. But she’d far underestimated his augmented strength. He’d fought back against the crushing power of the press. As the big machine began to shake itself apart, Lapin seemed to snap. She fired round after round at John Henry. Most of the ammunition glanced off the hydraulic press, some to deadly effect, igniting a store of munitions and, in turn, setting off the explosion and fire.

Contrary to what the WLEX news anchor had reported, there was definitely one survivor—Dr. John Henry Irons.

Lex Luthor regarded the tape thoughtfully. “It was interesting that while Lapin admitted to selling the guns on the street, she vigorously denied Irons’s assertion that she was also involved with bootlegging his weapons to the Middle East. She conceded only that the international incident had “inspired” her to seek her own personal gain.

“I recall reading of that Middle East incident.” Luthor looked at Happersen decisively. “Put a team onto Westin Technologies; see what you can learn. One never knows when a little inside information might come in handy. Oh, and keep tabs on this Man of Steel. He has a certain . . . integrity that might be useful.”

Luthor glanced once more at the report, then strode from the room, feeling happier than he had in days.

From a distant building overlooking the former weapons plant, John Henry watched as fire fighters finally extinguished the blaze. Unlike Lex Luthor, he had seen the action live, and most unlike Luthor, he had taken no satisfaction from the sight.

He was still in shock that someone he’d known personally could have sold out so thoroughly.
Funneling weapons like those to the street gangs was like dumping white phosphorus into pure oxygen; like throwing elemental cesium onto troubled waters.

Even worse than the shock, however, was his creeping sense of depression and feeling of futility. He had cut off one supply of deadly weapons, but how long would it be before another supplier came forward? Months? Weeks, perhaps? Whenever—the market would still be there. As long as people felt they had nothing to lose, the senseless violence would continue; people who had little regard for their own lives would hardly respect anyone else’s life.

How could a Man of Steel, even ten or one hundred Men of Steel, give those people something to live for?
He had begun to despair, when the calming thought came to him that he didn’t have to fix everything. No one, not even Superman, could fix everything. But that didn’t mean he should give up. There was plenty he
could
do, both as John Henry
and
as the Man of Steel.

He looked down at his armor. Through his munitions work at Westin Technologies, he had created a veritable Pandora’s box. Other people might have opened the box, but he had created it, and he had to live with that. But the mythic Pandora’s box had released hope as well as trouble. Others had used his work to create havoc; he would have to work to inspire hope.

Half a million miles from Earth, Mongul’s ship approached the planet from the shadow of the moon.

Mongul slouched back in his command chair. “Distortion shields up! We shall not let the Earthlings see us until it suits my plans.”

A slug-shaped creature obsequiously approached the warlord. “Lord Mongul, we are receiving a communication from advance intelligence.”

Mongul’s features darkened, and he lifted up a headset. “Route the communication directly to me. This report is for my ears only!”

The being retreated swiftly to carry out the order.

Mongul listened in silence for several minutes and then nodded in acknowledgment of the unseen voice. “Understood.”

He lowered the headset. “Show me the Earth.”

The planet now loomed considerably larger, filling the forward screens.

“Study it well, my crew. You may well be the last living beings to behold this planet in its unaltered state.” Mongul wore the smile of a B-movie villain who foreclosed on widows and orphans.

“Targeting sites!”

In answer to Mongul’s command, a half dozen cross hairs flared to life over the image of the Earth. “Demote sites one through four, and site six, to secondary status. Intelligence reports that site five is the ideal prime target. Navigation is to lay in a course for that site, and all stations are to prepare for full atmosphere incursion.”

All voices on the bridge rose in unison. “Yes, Lord Mongul.”

On the big screen, the Earth seemed to swell and expand as the image was magnified to better show the prime target area. It appeared to be a large urban center on the western shores of a large continental land mass. The navigator began a long-range scan of the area, monitoring broadcast communications as a matter of course. Within seconds he had learned the terrestrial name of site five.

The natives called it Coast City, California.

24

Mongul’s ship
was just above the Hawaiian islands when it dropped its distortion fields. Immediately, alarms went off at land, sea, and aerospace tracking stations. Moments later, a U.S. naval convoy twelve hundred miles off the coast of California reported a visual sighting of the huge, glowing craft.

Aboard the starship, Mongul’s communications officer reported to the warlord. “We have been detected, my Lord—by at least one large military base, by satellite, and by air and oceangoing vessels. The trackers have estimated our position, course, and speed; they are very close to triangulating our position more precisely.”

“Excellent.” Mongul smiled. “We have planted the fear in their minds. Now to plant the doubt. Raise the fields.”

Instantly, energy began to warp around the ship, and it disappeared both from radar screens and from view.

The Cyborg Superman had just rescued a group of mountain climbers from the face of Mount Whitney when the call came from Washington. An electronic signal buzzed briefly in his cybernetic left ear and then came a human voice. “White House calling Superman.”

A microphone deployed from the Cyborg’s right shoulder. “Superman here.”

In the west wing of the Executive Mansion, a military attaché almost dropped the tiny communications device that the Cyborg had given the President, startled by the clarity of the transmission. He gripped the device tighter and found his tongue. “We have a strange situation. Defense reports an alien spaceship headed across the Pacific toward California.”

“Alien? Are you certain?”

“A visual sighting confirmed that the thing’s at least a mile across. There’s certainly nothing like it on Earth—or wasn’t, anyway.”

“Where is it now?”

“Unknown. As we were scrambling interceptors, it vanished off our screens. Before it disappeared, naval defense had calculated that it would reach Coast City in a matter of minutes. Now . . .” The attaché floundered. “We don’t know where it is. That’s why we called you.”

“I understand your concern.” The Cyborg shot away from the Sierra Nevada. “Fortunately, I can be in Coast City in minutes as well.”

“You may have company. One of those Superman pretenders is in Coast City now.”

“Yes, the visored one; I am aware of that. It could be a coincidence, I suppose.”

“Superman, do you think that this impostor could have some sort of connection with the alien vessel?”

“It’s conceivable. Superman out!”

In Coast City, the Kryptonian had spent the night saving lives. He’d saved a half dozen boaters from drowning and stopped six holdups and an assault. He had just finished extinguishing a warehouse fire when the air high overhead began to shimmer and glow.

Abruptly, Mongul’s starship appeared a mile above the city, its shadow falling over midtown. As it hung motionless in the sky, thousands of metal globes—each nearly twelve feet in diameter—shot from ports in the sides of the craft. The globes rained down upon the city and its suburbs, embedding themselves deep in the ground wherever they hit.

The Kryptonian immediately launched himself into the sky toward the hovering ship. He was still a hundred yards from the vessel when a deep, resonant voice rang out.

“Halt! Don’t go any further!” The Cyborg streaked in from the east, blocking the Kryptonian’s path. “I want some explanations. Why are you wearing that uniform and what are you doing here?”

The visored man regarded the Cyborg with impatient disdain. “Despite your claims to the contrary,
I
am Superman—and I intend to deal with the threat posed by this vessel.”

“Are you sure that you don’t have anything to
do
with this ship?” The Cyborg held up his human hand, palm out, motioning for the Kryptonian to stay put. “It seems a little too convenient that you just happen to be in Coast City when an alien spacecraft shows up. And the government thinks so, too.”

“Nonsense!” The Kryptonian shoved his way past the Cyborg. “I don’t have time for foolish accusations. The situation is too serious.”

“I agree.” The Cyborg folded his bionic hand back on itself, deploying the barrel of a powerful energy cannon. “I agree wholeheartedly.” With his free hand, the Cyborg grabbed the Kryptonian, then shoved the cannon into the visored man’s back and fired three times.

Three dreadful wounds opened up in the Son of Krypton’s chest. He screamed, clutching at his wounds, and spun around to face his attacker. “Why—?”

“Still alive? I’m surprised.” The Cyborg raised the cannon to his victim’s head and fired again.

The Kryptonian fell back even as the blast hit. With his visor shattered and his hair on fire, he dropped like a stone toward the Earth below.

The Cyborg wasted not a single downward glance as he turned and rocketed toward the hovering ship.

On board the ship, Mongul gave the command: “Shields up, full intensity—and detonate!”

Seventy-seven thousand metal globes exploded at once, all across and around Coast City. The force of each separate explosion was powerful enough to have obliterated a skyscraper; together, they combined into one colossal blast that flattened the entire metropolitan area and all surrounding land for miles around.

The shock wave slammed into the Kryptonian, hurling him over a hundred miles out to sea. Barely alive, he fell into the Pacific, still clutching at his wounds, and sank beneath the waves.

In a matter of seconds, everything within twenty miles of the city center was gone. Every house, every office, every hospital and school was atomized. It was as if the sun had come to Earth.

Seven million people had called Coast City home. In less time than it takes to report, all seven million were wiped from the face of the Earth. Coast City and her citizens suddenly ceased to exist.

The heat of the explosions roared on, creating a vast fire storm that swept up the side of the Sierra Madre and ignited the Los Padres National Forest. A fifty-mile section of the San Andreas Fault heaved like waves in a storm.