The Death and Life of Superman (52 page)

“Whoa!” Superboy’s voice sounded as if it were in danger of changing at any moment.
“Who
is
that
?”

“Hmm?” Lois followed the direction of his gaze to the young woman who was striding through the City Room.
Well, why am I not surprised?
The young woman was African-Asian, strikingly beautiful, with dark, flawless skin, almond eyes, and glossy black hair.

“She’s a college intern—Tana Something. I don’t remember her last name. Listen, ah. Superman, I’ve been thinking, maybe we should talk.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure, Lois—but some other time, huh?” Superboy was already halfway across the City Room. “Right now I gotta bail. Personal emergency. See ya!”

The elevator doors closed shut behind Tana just as Superboy got there. For a second, he considered forcing open the doors and pulling the car back up by the cables, but he quickly dismissed the idea.
Wouldn’t be cool to needlessly cause property damage, especially when there’s a better way to say hello!
Grinning, he headed for the nearest window.

Moments later, Tana stepped out onto the sidewalk, muttering angrily under her breath. “I must’ve been crazy, thinking it would be easier to break in at the
Planet
than at WGBS. A bake-off . . . I can’t believe they wanted me to cover a bake-off! Well, I’ll show them. I’ll—”

There was a sudden rush of air and Tana found herself soaring off the ground, a powerful arm around her waist and a cheerful voice ringing in her ear. “Hi, there. Care for a lift?”

“What’re you doing? Put me down! Put me down this instant!”

“Oh, that’d be a bad idea. We’re at least thirty stories up, and you probably wouldn’t land as well as I do. How about if we set down over here?”

Superboy touched down atop a nearby office building. “Yeah, this is better. Alone at last. You’re Tana, right? Sorry, but I didn’t catch the last name.”

“Moon.” She answered automatically, even as she slowly eased away from him. “The question is, who
are you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m Superman. Couldn’t you tell? Come on, an intelligent woman like you must have heard of me already.”

Despite her still-racing pulse, Tana Moon began to smile. Of all the Supermen sightings, the latest one had indeed featured a teenager whose description perfectly fit the young man who had literally swept her off her feet.

Superboy returned her smile a hundredfold. “So what brings you to the big bad city, Tana Moon?”

“I’m a reporter. At least, I’m going to be one, if anyone’ll ever give me a break.” Her eyes widened slightly, and she gave the Boy of Steel a speculative look.

He applauded. He’d understood that look immediately. “See, I knew you were quick. You’ll go far, Tana. But reporting for the
Planet
? No way! You’re too hot to hide in the print media. I see you more as the video type.”

“Well, I
had
put in an application at WGBS.”

“Of course you did. Well, here’s your big story. I’m Superman, babe—and I’m all yours!”

“Superman? Really?” She looked him up and down. “Don’t take this personally, but—you look so young.”

“I know. It’s the hair.”

“The hair.”
Sure it is. He’s at least five years younger than I am.

“You don’t buy that, huh? Okay, okay.” Superboy looked around conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you the whole story. And I guarantee it’ll land you the job of your dreams. You interested?”

Tana raised an eyebrow. “Completely. Please, tell me more.”

Sydney Happersen came running into Lex Luthor’s private gym to find his boss in his shirtsleeves, swinging a Louisville Slugger at an imaginary ball.

“Mr. L?”

“Come in, Sydney. Just loosening up a little. Softball season’s coming up, you know. I thought I might play with the LexCorp team, enjoy my youth while I can, eh?”

“Uh, y-yes, sir. A-as you say, sir.”

Luthor’s face darkened. “You’re stammering, Sydney. When you stammer, there’s always bad news. What is it now?”

“The n-newest Superman . . . he’s on WGBS right now.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Luthor hit a switch on the wall, and a television monitor came up out of the floor.

The screen showed the Boy of Steel seated across from an exotic-looking young interviewer. Any other time, Luthor would have given more of his attention to her, but now what the boy was saying proved even more of a distraction.

“That’s right, Ms. Moon. I’m Superman’s clone! I don’t have his old memories, because there was no living brain to tap into, but aside from that—I’m Superman. I wish I could tell you more about the process, but it all has to remain top secret for now.”

The screen cut to a most flattering close-up of the interviewer. “Not a hoax, not a dream. The Metropolis Marvel is back in action—and GBS has him.” She smiled confidently. “Stay tuned for more exclusive updates over this station. For GBS News, I’m Tana Moon.”

The television screen erupted in a shower of glass and sparks as Luthor’s bat struck home. Glass crunched under his shoes as he stalked back and forth across the gym, smoking bat in hand. “Happersen, do we have a new mole in place in Cadmus yet?”

“Y-y-yes, sir. And a very highly placed one, I might add.”

“I want him in my office—ASAP! Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Superman’s clone. Just bloody marvelous.” Luthor flung the bat to the floor and stormed from the room.

In the boardroom of Galaxy Communications, CEO Vincent Edge rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the overnight ratings. “The switchboard’s been going nonstop since we started running those teasers. Seems that the public just can’t get enough of your Superboy, Tana.”

“That’s Super
man
, Mr. Edge.” Tana cautiously spoke up. “He doesn’t like being called Superboy.”

“Well, I don’t care what he calls himself. I just want that kid on the air as much as possible.”

A half dozen heads nodded, and the newest commandment of Vincent Edge was duly noted on an equal number of executive notepads. Tana looked around the room. Superboy—
Superman,
she corrected herself—had been right on the money when he’d told her that his story would land her a job. She still couldn’t believe how fast she’d gotten on the air; the fact that she was in a meeting with the company’s chief executive officer, hobnobbing with experienced news talent like Cat Grant, seemed like some wild fantasy.

Edge laid his palms on the table and leaned forward, as if passing on a great wisdom to his underlings. “When the masses think of Superman, I want them to think of
our
Superman!”

“But, Mr. Edge—” One of the news producers raised a pencil to get the CEO’s attention. “At last count there were three other superpowered individuals operating as ‘Superman.’ Shouldn’t they all be covered equally? Shouldn’t they all be investigated, for that matter? They can’t
all
be Superman.”

“Of course, of course!” Edge waved his hand dismissively. “It’s the duty of the news bureau to cover everything as thoroughly as possible, and that includes these Superman pretenders. But we can do much more with our Superman. This goes far beyond the news, beyond even programming.” Edge spoke with an almost messianic fervor. “We have the opportunity to recreate a
legend,
people! A legend to which GBS would hold exclusive rights. But we have to
grip
the public’s imagination!” The communications executive leaned forward and snapped his hand closed, as if grabbing hold of the air itself. “We have to grip it hard and not let go—or someone else will claim the legend for himself. We need to show something that’s never been seen on TV before. I know—” He snapped his fingers. “A live broadcast of our Superman capturing a wanted criminal, the whole shooting match, from start to finish. Now all we need is the right criminal. Any ideas, people? Yes, Briscoe?”

Donald Briscoe shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, sir, word on the street is that an old Intergang don has holed up in Suicide Slum and is consolidating his power, hoping to start a new organization. We could send the kid in after him.”

“Just a minute!” Cat Grant piped up from the end of the table. “That isn’t reporting the news, that’s staging the news!”

“Not at all, Catherine. What Briscoe is suggesting is a sort of sting operation—a logical outgrowth of good, investigative journalism. And we’ll naturally make sure that the police are well-informed. I’ll speak with the commissioner personally. Given the current state of affairs, I don’t think they’ll mind a little helping hand.”

Edge aimed a finger at his news director. “Get me all the information on this gangster that you can, Briscoe.” He then turned and gave Tana his most beatific smile. “We can count on your young Superman, can’t we, my dear?”

Tana fairly glowed in the attention. “I think that can be arranged, Mr. Edge.”

As evening fell, the Boy of Steel stood on the landing strut of a WGBS news helicopter high over Suicide Slum. Inside the copter, Tana gave a thumbs-up as the cameras went live, and the young hero dropped feet-first to the streets below. He landed like a bomb, the pavement cracking around his feet, and people scattered at his approach. He then walked boldly up to a boarded-up old night spot called the Silver Glove Club and rapped firmly on the reinforced door.

“Okay, open up in there! This is Superman. I’m looking for the guy they call the Steel Hand!”

Lois turned on her television just in time to see four huge men jump Superboy from behind. The smallest of the men was easily twice Superboy’s size, and all of them wielded chains, brass knuckles, or lengths of pipe—but they never had a chance. Superboy gave a heave, threw his arms back, and sent all four men flying. They landed hard and made no move to retaliate.

Lois watched spellbound as WGBS cut from its aerial cameras to a street-based crew. A little superimposed legend in the lower right hand corner of the screen proclaimed that this was a LIVE GBS EXCLUSIVE, and Tana Moon’s breathless narration informed her that she was watching a television first.

Superboy pounded on the door a little harder, this time leaving several fist-sized dents in it. A gun barrel poked out through a slot in the door. Machine-gun fire suddenly strafed across Superboy’s chest and abdomen.

Superboy just smiled, shoved his hands through the doorframe, and ripped the metal barrier off its hinges. He managed to take one step over the threshold before a bazooka shell hit him squarely in the chest.

Lois cried out as she saw the Boy of Steel fly backward out of the club and smash through the side of a parked delivery truck. The truck immediately erupted in flames.

“Oh, my God!” Tana’s cool narration quickly edged toward hysteria. “My God, it exploded! Superman was still in that truck when it exploded!”

The image jumped from the ground-level view of the burning wreck to an aerial shot and back again. And then, as the street-based camera crew moved in for a closer shot, the twisted, burning metal began to move.

Superboy emerged from the wreckage, coughing smoke. Soot streaked his face, and his hair hung down over his eyes. His skin-tight costume had come through the explosion unscathed, but his leather jacket hung off him in flaming shreds.

For a moment, Lois could have sworn the boy was panicking, so frantically did he seem to beat out the flames. But then he angrily flung the smoldering jacket away from him and streaked into the Silver Glove Club.

The televised image jumped and weaved as the camera crew charged into the club after the Boy of Steel. Across the screen flashed shots of unconscious gunmen and crushed, twisted weapons. The cameramen caught up to the young hero just as two of Steel Hand’s personal bodyguards leveled assault rifles at him.

Superboy just laughed and grabbed the barrels of their weapons. The guns seemed to explode in his hands, sending hundreds of pieces flying in all directions. The bodyguards fell back, hitting the floor and covering their heads with their hands.

The sound of a hoarse bellow came over the camera microphones as the old Intergang don himself charged at the Boy of Steel. Salvatore “Steel Hand” Galvagno was a big, stocky man who had grown up on the waterfront; he had first gained fame among the old crime families for his ability to break a man’s leg with his bare hands. A gang war had cost him one of those hands years ago, and he since wore a steel prosthesis in its place. Without a moment’s hesitation, he swung his steel hand hard against the side of Superboy’s head.

Superboy turned slowly, seemingly more annoyed than angry, and decked the big man with a single punch. “Steel Hand, huh? Glass Jaw is more like it.” He gave a big thumbs-up to the cameras, and the network broke to a commercial.

When they returned, Tana Moon was standing outside the Silver Glove Club, interviewing Superboy while Steel Hand and his henchmen were being led away by the police. “You really had us worried there for a moment, Superman.”

“What, that little thing with the bazooka and the truck?” He shrugged. “Ah, it was a little bit of a surprise, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“We were wondering . . . did you use X-ray vision to determine Steel Hand’s exact location?”

“X-ray vision?” Superboy looked puzzled. “Are you kidding?! I was so mad I just plowed right into the place. I mean, that was my favorite jacket. It was a gift.”