The Death and Life of Superman (12 page)

“Going somewhere?” In a half century of police work Harper had developed the ability to assume a very businesslike monotone.

“Oh, man, he’s Jack Webbin’ us,” whispered Flip. “We’re in trouble now.”

“Guardian, we . . . uh . . . we were just catchin’ a little air. Ain’t we, guys? Guys?”

“Yeah, Gabby’s right,” insisted Scrapper. “We’re growin’ boys, after all. The docs said we needed more fresh air.”

“I see.” The Guardian drummed his fingers against the side of the long silver vehicle. “And these . . . doctors . . . advised a nice long drive in the country?”

“Yeah. Sure!”

“In a stolen car?”

“Yeah, we . . . no!”

“We din’t steal no car! Tell ’em, Words.”

“Yes, well . . . ahem . . . there may have been a slight lapse in acquiring the proper requisitions, sir, but I assure you, it was never our intent to abscond with the Whiz Wagon. We have the greatest respect for all Project equipment.”

“Yeah, we didn’t
mean
to break it!”

Scrapper clamped a hand over Gabby’s mouth. “Will you pipe down?”

Tommy slumped glumly behind the wheel as Big Words nervously cleared his throat. “I’m sure you realize, sir, that some of our progenitors worked on the design of this vehicle, so naturally we would have a proprietary interest in it.”

The Guardian towered over them. “But you don’t own it, do you?”

“Well, technically . . . we . . . ah . . . no.”

“And did any of you ask permission to use it?”

“No.”

The Guardian locked eyes with Tommy. “I didn’t realize you were even old enough to have a driver’s permit.”

“I-I’m not sure how old I am, sir.” Tommy tried—and failed—to keep from blinking. “It’s hard for a clone to know. Sometimes, I feel almost thirty.”

“How do you feel right now?”

“Like mud.”

“And how do you think your fathers will feel when they find out what you’ve done?”

“I don’t know, sir. Surprised?”

“I doubt that. You’re too much like them.”
Entirely too much like them!

“Well, if our pops turned out okay, then there must be hope for us! Right, Guardian?” Flip was thinking fast and talking faster. “I mean, we can’t help being the way we are.”

“Yeah!” Scrapper set his jaw at a determined angle that the Guardian knew all too well. “We’re just livin’ out our genetical hermitage . . . doin’ what our old men woulda done under the same soicumstances.”

“ ‘Soicumstances’?” Under his helmet, Jim Harper raised an eyebrow.
I’d like to know how that Bowery Boys accent managed to become genetically programmed.

“What he’s trying to say, sir . . .” Gabby was making a feeble attempt to choke back mock tears. “. . . is that we’re just poor, misguided youths, trying to find our way in the world. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“What about the stink bomb, boys?”

They all looked at Big Words.

“Ah, yes . . . well . . . that was the result of an experiment in organic chemistry, sir. And like many experiments, it was none too successful.”

“I’d say it was very successful in clearing your way through the motor pool.”

“Guardian—?”

“Yes, Tommy?”

“We just
had
to get out for a while. We were going stir crazy in there.”

The Guardian sighed. “I know, but that doesn’t excuse—!”

“Oh, you ‘know.’ Right!” Scrapper’s face was a study in disgust. “You can waltz outta the Project anytime you like. You get to pal aroun’ wit’ yer buddy Sooperman, an’ help ’im fight aliens, an’ have all kinda great adventures—an’ all wit’out us!”

“I’ve aided Superman a few times, yes. But those were dangerous missions. There’s no way you could’ve gone along.”

“Hey, man, it doesn’t matter.” Flip sounded just as disgusted as Scrapper. “The fact remains that you’re allowed to leave the Project, and we’re not.”

“Ain’t fair,” sniffed Gabby. “Ain’t fair at all . . . keepin’ us cooped up all the time.”

The Guardian nodded. “You’re right. It isn’t fair.”

“Huh?”

“We are?”

“It’s not?”

“I’ve been working on getting approval to take you characters into Metropolis for extended periods—”

“All right!”

“—but if you keep setting off stink bombs and causing mayhem, I’m never going to get that approval. Paul Westfield takes a very dim view of such shenanigans!”

“Dat bum? He don’t like nothin’! He don’t even like Sooperman!”

“Mr. Westfield’s likes and dislikes are beside the point. The fact remains that he is the administrator of the Cadmus Project, and what he says goes!”
Whether we like it or not,
thought the Guardian. He was none too keen on Westfield’s hard-nosed approach himself. “Do me a favor, guys. Try to toe the straight and narrow for a while, and I’ll do my best to get some vacation time for you all. Do we have a deal?”

“Well . . .”

“Tommy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Flip?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Gabby?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure.”

“Scrapper?”

“You promise to get us some free time?”

“I’ll do everything in my power.”

The young tough gave the Guardian a toothy grin. “Okay, Officer Harper, ya got me!”

“And I shall be most happy to make it unanimous.” Big Words’s ear-to-ear grin looked to rival even Scrapper’s.

“Good. Now, what do you say we turn this wagon around and head home?”

“Uh, we have a problem there, sir.” Tommy tugged nervously at his collar. “The Whiz Wagon seems to have stalled out, and I haven’t been able to restart it.”

“No problem.” The Guardian pulled a small wireless microphone from behind his shield and spoke into it. “Override stall-out command. Initiate power-up and ignite turbines.”

The Whiz Wagon’s engines suddenly roared to life.

“Holy smokes!”

“Do you mean to say—?”

“You shut us down . . . by remote control?!”

“Well, don’t look so surprised.” The Guardian no longer tried to hide his own grin. “You’re not the only ones who can play it sneaky!”

6

Hundreds of miles away,
in a remote section of the Midwest, the ground began to shudder. Spooked by the underground rumbling, a flock of crows abandoned their perches, filling the sky like a living cloud. A stag stood stock-still, listening for the sound, and then bolted as he realized it came from beneath his hooves. The ground itself began first to shake and then to heave, as the Creature pounded and dug his way to the surface, his progress impeded by the bonds still immobilizing his right arm. And then, with a final, wrenching punch, he broke through to the surface.

Sinking his knuckle spurs into the compacted soil, the Creature slowly inched his way up out of the newly hewn hole. Little of the fresh air filtered through the material of his restraining garment, but he did not seem to care. He strode to the top of a nearby hillock, surveying the surrounding wilderness through the thick goggles of the enshrouding hood. For nearly an hour he just stood there in the dwindling sunlight, as still and unmoving as a rock.

As twilight came, a tiny goldfinch, its curiosity getting the better of it, fluttered in for a landing on the outstretched hand of this strange figure. For a moment, a pair of crimson eyes glared out through the goggles at the peeping little bird. Then, like a vise, his fist snapped shut, crushing the life from the goldfinch. A horrible growl of laughter echoed from beneath the hood.

Dropping into a crouch, the Creature bounded skyward, his leap carrying him thousands of feet into the air and fully a mile away. He landed in the midst of an old growth forest, squirrels scattering at his approach. The Creature lurched forward toward a huge oak which stood in his path. In minutes the tree, which had stood on that spot for well over a hundred years, lay in splinters on the ground.

Again the Creature leapt, this time covering nearly two miles, and then again. From the apogee of one leap, he caught sight of something shining far to the east, and he set out to discover what it was.

Night had fallen when the Creature finally came to rest on a high embankment overlooking an interstate highway. The small cluster of speeding vehicles fascinated him, and he leapt directly into their path.

A late-model Ford pickup braked and swerved in an attempt to miss the hulking form that had suddenly appeared on the roadway. The Creature seemed to take this as a challenge, lashing out with a punch that sent truck and driver rolling over and over into oncoming traffic. A cacophony of squealing brakes and car horns was quickly joined by the crunch of metal and the whoosh of igniting gasoline. An approving howl came from the Creature as he charged headlong at the abutment of the highway overpass. With one arm still tied behind him, he struck and clawed at the reinforced concrete, slamming into the weakened supports with his back and shoulders until, finally, the entire overpass fell in a mass atop the crash scene. The Creature looked around him. No signs of life came from the crushed cars and trucks. No other shiny challenges were to be seen. With almost an air of disappointment, the Creature leapt on, following the highway.

Chuck Johnston stifled a yawn as his rig flashed past the road sign.
TOLEDO. SIXTY MILES.
He’d have to hustle if he was going to make it there by daybreak.
These overnight hauls’re gonna be the death of me!
He shook his thermos. Empty.
Dang! I shoulda got a refill back in Wapokeneta.
Chuck rubbed the bridge of his nose. No time to stop now. He stifled another yawn. He’d need some conversation if he was going to keep himself awake. He thumbed the mike switch of his CB. “Yo! Breaker! This’s Chuckie-Jay, anybody got their ears on? C’mon!”

“Chuckie, baby! This’s Moon Pie, where you been keepin’ yerself, bro?”

Chuck smiled. It’d been a good six months since he’d last seen Donny Moon. Donny was one of the few white men he knew who called him “bro” and meant it.

“Yo, Moon! Been down runnin’ Houston to St. Loo. Got me a load on for Dee-troit this mornin’, though. ’M headed north on I-75 just outside’a Beaverdam.”

“Shoot, good buddy, you must be just ’bout breathin’ down my neck. What d’ya say we hit J. C.’s at Toledo for steak an’ eggs?”

“Okay, man, but I’m buyin’!”

“Woo! Texas musta been good to you, bro! I can’t wait to—what the heck?!”

Chuck’s grin faded. “Moon? What is it?”

“Don’t know. Some big cuss just lit in the middle of the—!”

Chuck heard the weird double-echo of Donny’s horn—half over the CB and half through his partially open window—and realized with a start that he’d almost caught up with his friend’s rig. He, too, could see a huge figure lurching onto the roadway.

“Hey, buddy,” Moon’s voice sounded oddly strained over the speaker, “get outta the way!”

Chuck hit the brakes reflexively as he saw Moon’s rig slam into the hulking figure and flip over! “Moon!” The radio let out an ungodly squeal as the upended tractor-trailer burst into flames.

“Oh, man . . . Moon . . .”

And then a huge, dark figure emerged from the fire, laughing.

Rolling to a stop, Chuck hit the dial of his radio. “State troopers!” he screamed the words. “Chuck Johnston calling state troopers!”

“I read you, Mr. Johnston. What—?”

“Big monster flipped Moon’s rig . . . one hand tied behind its back!”

“Excuse me?”

“A monster, man—on I-75 just south’a Bluffton! It just wrecked my friend’s eighteen-wheeler! It’s burnin’—!”

“Did you say . . . monster?”

“Yeah . . . big as a damn house! It’s tearin’ up the whole interstate!”

Miles away, at the nearest highway patrol post, an alarmed dispatcher immediately put out a call to all cars in the vicinity and punched up an emergency code. If the report coming over was true, they’d need special help.

Dawn was just beginning to break over Manhattan when the call came through. In the shadow of the United Nations Plaza, a low glass and granite complex jutted out into the East River. Deep within that complex a little man sat before a bank of communications equipment, a Manhattan Yellow Pages directory on the seat beneath him. The soft amber lights of the display screen were reflected in his bald pate. Oberon was the only name he answered to, though whether that was his first name or his last, nobody knew for certain.

Oberon was a dwarf. He had spent half a lifetime in show business, first as a clown in a traveling circus and then as sideman to the renowned escape artist Thaddeus Brown. When Thaddeus died, Oberon had gone on to work with his successor, a young man who called himself Scott Free. But Scott was no ordinary young man. He possessed amazing powers and knowledge, and as Mr. Miracle, he became not just a super-escape artist, but a super-hero. When Scott eventually joined with the other heroes in the Justice League, Oberon had tagged along. Before the little man could realize what was happening, he had become second-in-command to the League’s administrator. Scott was gone now, off to God knows where on some wild adventure, but Oberon stayed on. Through changes in operations and membership, he had remained a fixture in the management of the League.

This particular morning, Oberon was enjoying a cup of ginseng tea when the police monitor bank began to warble electronically. Oberon grimaced.
Why can’t they program a decent bell tone into these things? The last thing a man ought to hear at this hour is that infernal chirping.
The little man hit the monitor switch, and command codes started crawling across the soft amber of the screen. Ohio. Oberon smiled.
Haven’t played Ohio in over ten years. What was the name of that place . . . the Richland County Fairgrounds? Yes, good crowd . . . nice audience.
His curiosity piqued, he hit a second switch, and a tiny microphone emerged out of the console. “Good morning, this is Justice League Command. What is your situation?”