The Death and Life of Superman (2 page)

But the collaboration that produced
The Death and Life of Superman
isn’t limited solely to the present Superman team. Some six decades of source material from various media have shaped and influenced the personality of Superman.

It all began in the comics with the genius of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, who created Superman and gave a new industry its first major star.

It continued with the work of Joe Simon and Jack Kirby, who together created the Guardian and the Newsboy Legion . . . with the work of Julius Schwartz, Gardner Fox, and Mike Sekowsky, who breathed life into the Justice League and gave us new heroes when we so desperately needed them . . . and with the work of Wayne Boring, Curt Swan, Murphy Anderson; of Edmond Hamilton, Otto Binder, Dennis O’Neil, and so many more who added to the legend of Superman.

It’s a legend that. I’m happy to say, continues to grow.

In 1986, my good friend John Byrne went back to the basics and, as both writer and artist, launched Superman’s second fifty years with the
Man of Steel
miniseries. John’s work laid a solid foundation for the entire
Superman
family of comic-book titles and was a major influence on this novel.

As a child of the fifties, I also must mention the contributions of George Reeves, Noel Neill, Phyllis Coates, Jack Larson, John Hamilton, and Robert Shayne. The images and voices of these people, the cast of the original
Adventures of Superman
television series, will forever be a part of my memory. They have been and continue to be a constant inspiration whenever I sit down at the keyboard to put words in the mouths of Superman and his friends.

In writing this book, I also drew upon a small network of folks who provided invaluable advice and support.

Thanks then to the real-life Mark Spadolini, who generously shared the knowledge he has gained as a paramedic . . . to Christie “Walt” Davenport for her medical expertise, and to Joe Davenport, for his geological advice.

Thanks to my military affairs advisors, former Petty Officer Second Class Lou Ann Batts and Army Reserve Sergeant William Val Kone . . . to Richard “Scratch” Lauterwasser for lending technological verisimilitude and other constructive support . . . and to Joseph Collins Edkin who lent time, office space, and his laptop computer and who occasionally supplied dinner to fellow writers who might otherwise have forgotten to eat.

Thanks to Curtis King of DC Comics, and to Ari Kissiloff and the folks at Public Communications, Inc., of Ithaca, New York, for computer logistic support.

And thanks to my copy editor, Zoö Kharpertian, who labored long and hard under the crunch of deadlines to catch my typos and keep my spelling in line.

I must give special thanks to Mike Carlin, my comics editor of many years, who suggested me as the writer of this book. As editor of the
Superman
line of comics, Mike has displayed uncommon strength and patience. Without his guidance, the stories that led to this novel could never have happened. Mike has been a friend as well as an editor. I hope that I will always be worthy of his trust.

In addition, I owe a great debt to all the people at DC Comics and Bantam Books who worked so hard behind the scenes to produce this book.

Finally, there are two people who—more than any others—got me through the writing process alive and with a minimum of scars.

The first is my book editor, Charles Kochman. Working both in person and over the phone, Charlie provided a clarity of guidance (if not always of penmanship), as well as a wonderfully goofy sense of humor that sustained us both through the often difficult process of birthing a novel. Writing this book has been a constant learning experience, and Charlie has been a most generous instructor. My hat’s off to him.

The second is my wife, Carmela Merlo. Carmela organized my notes, kept track of outlines and time-lines, proofread my rough drafts, found problems and devised solutions, and suggested scenes and dialogue. She checked my science, ran down research, and held my hand (often literally) as I battled my way through this, my first novel. Correction,
our
first novel. I couldn’t have done this without Carmela’s love and help. She has been my strength and inspiration; and after eleven years of marriage, she still laughs at my jokes.

So, you see, I really did have quite a bit of help in writing this book. I hope that you enjoy the result.

—Roger Stern

SECTION ONE
DOOMSDAY

Prologue

It was dark as pitch,
the place where he awoke, and the air was stale. The Creature tried to flex his stiff muscles and discovered that he could not move.

The Creature was bound tight, his face covered. Both arms were lashed behind his back, and his feet were manacled. Even the rise and fall of his massive chest was restrained.

The rage grew inside him. From deep within his great chest, a low, muffled growl built to a mighty, defiant bellow. The sound that echoed back seemed to suggest that he was enclosed in a small place, a room with metal walls.

Who had imprisoned him? Where was he, and how long had he been there? He did not know, nor did he care. All that mattered was that he be free.

The Creature began to thrash about wildly, and the bonds that held him began to creak and groan under the strain.

He would be free . . . oh, yes! It was just a matter of time . . .

1

The Sun was still burning
the early morning fog off Metropolis Harbor, but it was clearly going to be a beautiful day. There was just a hint of a breeze in the air, and the sky was forming a bright blue dome over the city’s skyscrapers.

Henry Johnson eased his big frame down onto the high steel of what would soon become the fifty-third story of the Newtown Plaza and sat staring off into the canyons of Metropolis. The big ironworker’s mood was anything but bright. He looked out at the gleaming towers before him and wondered if he deserved to live.
It would be so easy,
he thought,
just to push off and fall. Everybody’d say it was an accident. It’s not as if anyone would miss another single black male. Probably wouldn’t rate more than a mention on the evening news. How long could it take? Fifty-three stories . . . twelve feet per story . . . acceleration of thirty-two feet per second per second.
A mathematic equation whizzed through his head—
a shade over six seconds.
He frowned, realizing how effortlessly he had computed the figure.
Always were too damn smart for your own good,
came the inner voice.
Just remember, you’re not an engineer anymore . . . that was a different Henry. You’re not a weapons engineer anymore. You’re working CONstruction now, not DEstruction.
Henry removed his hard hat to wipe his brow, angry with himself. As he grabbed the cable to pull himself up, he heard someone yell, one story above him.

Pete Skywalker had tripped and tumbled over the edge. Without thinking, Henry pushed off from the girder, grabbing for Pete’s belt. The metal strands of the inch-thick cable cut into Henry’s hand as it drew taut under the weight of the two men, but he would not let go. For an instant, they were suspended in midair, with the whole city beneath them. And then they went swinging back in over a completed floor. Henry shoved the big Mohawk to safety, but his own wrist had become enwrapped in the cable. His pendulum swing carried him back out into space. Then the cable came loose.

In the split second he began his fall, Henry knew for certain that he was a dead man, and he mourned, less for himself than for those people he had wronged in his life.
Sorry, Grandma . . . Grandpa. Wish I could’ve told you how sorry
—

Suddenly, he was not alone. At the fifty-story level, Henry felt a jolt as a powerful arm reached out, grabbing him by the wrist with a hand as strong as steel. A calm, confident voice rang out, “Don’t worry, I have you!” For an awful moment the fall continued, and Henry felt his guts start to clench. No!
I’ve pulled another man down with me.
But then the sting of rushing air began to ease, and by the forty-sixth floor the fall had stopped. Hanging in midair, Henry craned his head around to look at his rescuer.

He was a big man, as big as Johnson, and the dark blue overshirt fit him as snugly as a second skin. Emblazoned across his chest was a pentagonal shield of red and yellow, and tucked in at his collar was a bright, flowing red cape. His jaw was firm and wide, and a lock of unruly black hair curled down over his forehead.

“Superman!” Henry choked on the name.

The big man smiled back. “Relax. You’re going to be all right!” Before Henry could draw another breath, Superman effortlessly swung about and set them both down onto the solid flooring of the forty-fifth story.

“You . . . you . . .” Henry couldn’t make his mouth work right.

“Easy does it!” Superman put a hand on his shoulder. “Take a deep breath and let it out.” His voice was soothing, reassuring, and Henry reflexively did as the caped man said.

“You’re Superman! You’re really Superman . . . the Man of Steel!” The words finally came tumbling out. “You saved me—!”

“My pleasure,” said Superman, clapping him on the back. “You know, I saw how you helped that other man. I’d say that your efforts were more impressive than mine. You certainly took a much bigger risk than I just did.”

“Doesn’t matter, man. I owe you my life!”

Superman smiled gently and shook his hand. “Then make it count for something!”

With a wave, Superman leapt into the air, soaring away across the city skyline. Johnson watched him disappear behind a maze of high rises. For a second, all was deathly still, save for the whistle of the wind through the high steel. Did that really happen? Henry looked down at his lacerated hand, inspecting the cable cut for the first time. And then a crowd of workers came rushing up around him.

“Henry!”

“You okay, man?”

“Geez, I thought you was a goner for sure!”

Henry rubbed his hand. “For a second there, I
was
a goner.”
I was a dead man. But I’m not anymore. Superman’s given me a second chance at life, and I can’t blow it this time.
Henry stared off across the skyline.
Got to make it count for something. It’s the only way I’ll ever pay him back!

Superman flew in a long, lazy loop out over the West River. He loved spring days in the city, and any morning that started with saving a life seemed especially sweet.
I got back from Tokyo just in time for that one,
he thought.
Another few seconds—!
Superman repressed a shudder. Early in his career, he’d had to recognize the simple fact that he couldn’t save every life.

It was an unpleasant realization he had gradually come to accept, much as he’d adjusted to the growth of his superhuman powers throughout early adulthood. The more powerful he became, and the more he tried to do, the more it became apparent that he couldn’t do everything. Still, he’d resisted facing his limits until that hellish week nearly a decade ago . . .

Superman had been away from the city for three days, helping to put out a forest fire in Northern California, and returned barely five minutes after a jet crashed shortly after takeoff from Metropolis International. The flight crew had done a heroic job of bringing the plane down in a nearby field, but three passengers had died. For days after that, Superman had maintained an almost constant presence in the city’s skies. He’d brooded over those three deaths to the point at which it put a strain on his double life.