The Death and Life of Superman (13 page)

“This is Captain Brian Stang, Ohio Highway Patrol. We’re not certain, but we may have a problem involving a metahuman or superbeing of some sort.”

“You’re not certain—?”

“Reports are still sketchy, but something’s tearing up sections of highway in the northeast quadrant of the state . . . something big. We recorded a call just a few minutes ago.”

Oberon listened intently as Stang relayed the tape of Chuck Johnston’s call for help. “A monster . . . big as a house, eh? Now, this
does
sound like a job for the Justice League.”

Less than five minutes after Oberon hit the priority alert, a strange flying object lifted off from the Justice League compound. Outwardly, it appeared to be a giant, thirty-foot water bug. It was, in fact, a supersonic aircraft of a highly sophisticated design. Its creator, Ted Kord, sat in the pilot’s seat, his face masked by the hood and goggles of the Blue Beetle.

“Next stop, eastern Ohio! Hold on to your hats, kiddies!”

“I am not wearing a hat,” said Maxima, looking disdainfully at the Beetle, “and I am not a ‘kiddie.’ ”

“Chill out, Max, it’s just an expression.”

“My name is Maxima, Mr. Gold. You may address me as ‘my lady.’ ”

“Whatever you say, ‘your lady,’ but you don’t have to call me ‘Mr. Gold.’ You can call me ‘Mr. Booster Gold, sir’!”

“Could you please hold it down?” Fire raised her hand to cover a yawn. “It’s too early in the morning for all this noise.”

“It’s not that early, Fire!” The snowy-haired young woman seated beside her gave Fire a gentle nudge in the ribs. “Of course, if you hadn’t been up all night—!”

“Ice, please! Don’t remind me.” Fire stifled a second yawn and ran her fingers back through her mane of green hair. “Is there any coffee service on this flight?”

“Coming right up!” Blue Beetle flipped a switch on his control board, and a china mug popped up from the armrest of Fire’s seat.

“Yuck! This coffee . . . it’s tepid.”

“Sorry. I’ve been having a little trouble with the dispenser. I can try to reheat it.”

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” As Fire clutched the mug tightly, a gout of emerald flame flared up from her hands, bringing her beverage to a quick simmer. “Mmm, now that’s coffee!”

“Neat trick, Fire. If the hero biz ever gets slow, you and Ice could always become caterers!”

“If I might interrupt?” The sepulchral tones of Bloodwynd’s voice brought Booster’s needling to a sudden halt. “Have we received any further word on this monster whom we’ve been asked to find?”

“Not so far . . .” Beetle paused to enter a code into his communications console. “. . . but we should be getting a fax from the Ohio Highway Patrol soon . . . hopefully before we arrive.”

“I wish Superman was with us.” Ice looked uncertainly toward the forward view port, worry lines deepening beneath her bangs.

“Hey, we don’t need that Boy Scout!” The new voice emanated from a glowing wall in the aft section. From out of the light, a tall man clad in leather and denim materialized through the side of the craft. His sharp features were topped by an unruly mop of red hair that was cut close on the sides. Upon the middle finger of his right hand glowed a golden ring. “You don’t need nothin’ but your favorite Guy!”

Oh, fine,
thought Beetle. “Morning, Gardner. Nice of you to make it.”

“Guy, I was wondering where you were!” Ice’s eyes sparkled as Guy Gardner folded down the jump seat next to her.

Fire just shook her head as he brushed past.
I wonder what Ice sees in that self-centered louse?

“Hey, as America’s foremost hero, I’m one busy Guy!” Gardner settled in next to Ice and took her hand in his. “Ever since those jerks in the Green Lantern Corps decided that they were too good for yours truly, I’ve been twice as busy—”

“Trying to convince people that you’re not as worthless as they thought?” Fire suggested sweetly.

“—teaching lowlifes that I still have what it takes to kick their behinds!” Gardner favored the green-haired woman with his best sneer. “Yeah, my new power ring is just as effective as the ones the Green Lanterns use, maybe more so. After all, it does respond to my willpower . . . and there’s nothin’ that’s stronger.”

“Except maybe your socks!” needled Booster.

“You’re a real funny man, aren’t ya, Gold? Well, I’ll put this ring up against all the fancy microcircuits in that battle suit of yours, any day of the week.”

“Hey, everybody,” called Beetle from the front of the cabin, “that fax is coming across now. Sketchy stuff, but this monster sounds like one tough hombre.”

“Bring ’im on! I’m ready for ’im.” Guy put his boots up against the seat in front of him. “You’ll see, Ice. We don’t need Superman to put one lousy monster in his place!”

7

In his third-floor apartment
at 344 Clinton Street, Clark Kent stepped from the shower and slipped into a gray terry cloth robe, whistling the theme from
Star Wars.
Wiping the condensation from the mirror, he reached into the medicine cabinet, removing a small, curved piece of polished metal that he’d long ago scavenged from the stardrive that had brought him to Earth. He stopped whistling to concentrate his attention on the metal, directing a slender beam of radiant heat from his eyes. The curved metal reflected the beam back at his chin, neatly searing away the exposed whiskers. In a matter of seconds, Kent was clean-shaven.

The sound of a key being inserted into the lock of his apartment door caught Clark’s attention. He glanced at the far wall, and it seemed to dissolve away as he focused past it to the rooms beyond. As he watched, Lois entered the apartment, shifting a brown paper bag from hand to hand as she dropped the keys back into her handbag. “Oh—” The word escaped her lips as the bag slipped from her grasp.

The next instant, Clark was at her side, deftly snagging the bag in midfall, even as she finished, “—darn it.”

The big man grinned at her. “Consider it darned!”

Lois stood there with her mouth open for a second. Then her hands went to her hips and she assumed a look of mock exasperation. “Mr. Kent, I don’t think I am ever going to get used to that!”

“No? Well, how about this?” He leaned down and planted a kiss full on her lips.

“Mmm.” Lois smiled. “Maybe not . . . but it’ll be fun finding out!”

“Same here.” Clark glanced down at the bag. “Oh, boy! Cinnamon bagels and . . . What’s that? Neufchâtel cheese? You’re such a good provider!”

Lois heaved a sigh. “I can see where coming up with ways to surprise you will be one of the bigger challenges of married life, Mr. X-ray Vision!”

“I have every faith that you’ll find a way, dear.” He gathered her up in his arms. “You’re very resourceful. That’s why I asked you to marry me!”

“It is? And here I thought it was because you liked my hair.”

“Oh, I do.” His smile softened. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Not since last night.” She snuggled closer. “I wish we had time for a more leisurely breakfast.”

“So do I, but this is going to be a busy day. Superman has a live interview with Cat Grant today, and I have to get into the office early enough to set up my cover story.”

“What did you finally settle on? What will the great reporter supposedly be off investigating?”

“Gun smuggling.”

“Sounds very sexy.”

“Potentially very deadly.” He frowned. “From the tips I’ve picked up, some street gangs are trying to get their hands on a shipment of extremely sophisticated ordnance. I’ll actually be checking it out as soon as I finish Cat’s show.”

Lois looked Clark over, as if seeing him for the first time. “I’ll never know how you managed to juggle two identities for so many years.”

“It hasn’t always been easy.” He nuzzled her ear. “But things have improved considerably since I found a fiancée to help cover for me.”

“Just keep thinking that way.”

“Believe me, Lois, I will.”

On the western edge of Metropolis’s central business district stood the thirty-seven-floor
Daily Planet
Building. Though long since dwarfed by larger office towers, the building, with its signature rooftop globe, was still one of the most recognizable landmarks in the Metropolis skyline.

As the elevator doors were closing on the lobby floor, a red-haired young man rushed to get on. He broke into a wide grin. “Morning, Mr. Kent, Ms. Lane!”

Clark and Lois winked at each other, then turned and answered in unison, “Good morning, Mr. Olsen, sir!”

Jimmy Olsen blinked, then blushed, turning almost as red as his hair. “I did it again, didn’t I? Sorry, Clark . . . Lois.”

“Jimmy, we’ve known each other how long?” Lois fixed him with a world-weary look. “Almost a decade, for heaven’s sake! I remember when you were just a runny-nosed kid hanging around the City Room.”

“That’s just the point, Ms. . . . Lois! I was just a kid, and you were already a hotshot reporter! I still feel like a kid next to you two!”

“Next to us old folks, you mean?” asked Clark.

“Yeah. No! It’s just that . . . it’s a habit, you know? Mom brought me up to show respect for my elders—!”

“Deeper and deeper, James!”

“I don’t mean that you guys are old like Mom . . . I mean—”

“I’m going to tell her you said that!” Lois scolded.

Jimmy blanched. “You wouldn’t!”

Lois and Clark gave the young photographer their most serious looks for at least fifteen seconds before they both broke up.

“Aw, gimme a break, you guys!” Jimmy thrust his hands into his pockets and slouched back against the side of the elevator. “I’ve got enough on my mind without having to get the needle from my friends.”

The elevator door opened with a ping, and the three filed out, entering the bustle of the
Daily Planet
City Room.

“What’s the problem, Jim? If you’re a little short, I can float you a loan until payday.”

“Money’s no big deal, Clark . . . not now, anyways. The problem is time! Remember that contract I signed to play Turtle Boy?”

Clark nodded. There’d been some serious cutbacks at the
Planet
earlier in the year, and Jimmy had been temporarily laid off. One of the many odd jobs he’d taken in the interim had been playing the part of the Godzilla-like “Turtle Boy” in a pizza commercial.

Jimmy lowered his voice. “Well, WGBS made a deal with the pizza shop owner to produce a Turtle Boy kids’ show . . . and the contract I signed made me part of the deal. Now I’ve got to juggle my regular assignments with playing a monster on a kids’ show!”

Clark leaned over his desk and punched up his computer monitor, checking his messages. “Surely the contract has some sort of escape clause?”

“I don’t know. Mom’s lawyer is checking it over for me. In the meantime, I’ve managed to talk the production team into scheduling my scenes for my lunch hour.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone on the paper’s legal staff.” Lois stopped and looked at Jim pointedly. “Does Perry know about this?”

Jimmy looked around guiltily at the mention of their managing editor. “No. I haven’t had the nerve to tell him. I mean, I’m not all that recognizable in the makeup, and they’re not using my name in the credits or anything. But I don’t think the Chief would be too keen on having one of his photographers playing a monster on TV. I’m hoping to get the whole mess settled before he finds out. You won’t tell him, will you?”

Clark clapped Jimmy on the back. “Don’t worry, Turtle Boy! Your secret is safe with me!” He winked at Lois.

“And me! Clark and I are very good at keeping secrets!”

“Well, I’ve got to go,” announced Clark. “Big story brewing in midtown.”

“Is that the street gang story?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, be careful.”

“I always am.” He leaned down and gave Lois a peck on the cheek. “At least as careful as you are, m’dear!”

“See you later, Mr. . . . Clark!”

“Later, James.”

No sooner had Clark passed through the double doors of the City Room than a bell went off on the wire service machine. Curious, Jimmy wandered over and tore loose the latest printout.

“Anything interesting, Jimmy?”

“Not unless you’re into stories about Bigfoot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jimmy chuckled. “According to this, there’s some monster tearing up part of Ohio. Unbelievable!”

Exiting the City Room, Clark headed toward the elevator bank. When he was certain no one was watching, he slipped into the stairwell and started up, three steps at a time. Moments later, he was standing on a metal catwalk within the hollow globe atop the building. There he removed his glasses and began to doff his street clothes. In seconds, Clark Kent had disappeared, replaced by the bold figure of Superman!

Glancing around, he used his X-ray vision to make certain that the coast was clear. And then, when he was satisfied that no one would see him, he exited through a cleaning port in the side of the globe and launched himself heavenward.

Superman soared over the city, indulging himself by making a few loops as he went. It was a bright, sunny morning, a good day to be alive, another great day for flying.

The arc of his flight carried Superman high over Hob’s River toward the northwest borough of Park Ridge. From five miles away, he spotted the flag flapping majestically from the pole on the roof of Roosevelt High School and the WGBS broadcast van with its microwave uplink dish parked just outside. Inside, he knew that Catherine Grant would be waiting for him to arrive for his interview.