The Death and Life of Superman (55 page)

“I’m not sure. Maybe.” Sawyer picked up the photo of the Kryptonian. “How’d we get this shot?”

“Bank camera from that Metropolis Mercantile job.”

“Ah. This one—this one looks a lot like Superman. If only I could see his eyes—he’s hiding something there, I’d bet on it! He also acts like Dirty Harry with a cape—or maybe a Super-Batman, considering that he’s mainly done his work at night.” She tossed down the photo. “I see him as a real problem, Commissioner. Today, he’s breaking safecrackers’ arms. Tomorrow, it could be jaywalkers’ legs. How far do we let him go?”

“A better question is, ‘Can we rein him in?’ But I know what you mean. If he steps out of line again, we have to be ready to take a stand against him and make it stick. Do you think we can do that?”

Sawyer grinned sardonically. “We can try.”

A little more than twenty-four hours later, Henderson and Sawyer made their position public.

The day’s early morning news programs opened with graphic evidence of the visored Kryptonian’s latest actions. As WGBS newscam shots of flashing red lights and battered hoodlums filled the screen, morning anchor Mary Louise Bromfield told the story.

“Responding to a predawn call from Guy Gardner of the Justice League, Metro police within the past hour arrested a Bakerline gang allegedly involved in a drugs-for-weapons swap. Gardner, a former Green Lantern, refused credit for the bust, saying that ‘Superman, the
real
one, did the job.’ ”

The screen cut to a painful close-up of one arrested hoodlum. His face was bruised and swollen, and bloody bandages covered half of his head and one eye. “It was Superman, awright! Big guy . . . cape, ‘S’ on ’is chest, gold shades . . . he was like a maniac! He nearly kilt some of the guys!”

Bromfield came back on screen, her brow knit with concern. “City officials are reportedly disturbed over the violent actions of this masked Superman, who is but one of four claimants to the name—”

The anchor stopped in midsentence, bringing a hand to the wireless earplug hidden beneath her hair. “Excuse me . . . I’ve just received word that Metropolis’s new commissioner of police, William Henderson, is about to make a statement. We go now live to City Hall—”

Even as Bromfield spoke, the screen cut to a long shot of the city hall auditorium. Henderson stood with Maggie Sawyer close by his side behind a podium bearing the official seal of the City of Metropolis. The commissioner rushed through his introductory comments and quickly got to the heart of the matter. “Citizens react with outrage—and rightly so—when their police use excessive force. The brutality of this self-proclaimed ‘Superman’ is no less an affront to public decency! I have instructed Inspector Margaret Sawyer of the Special Crimes Unit to give the highest priority in responding to and stopping this reign of terror. Inspector—?”

As Sawyer stepped up to the podium, she little suspected that her image was being received via satellite feed to a bank of monitors deep below the Antarctic wastes. The Kryptonian watched intently as the new inspector’s face filled one of his video screens.

“We will not tolerate vigilante justice in Metropolis!” Sawyer hit her index finger against the podium as she emphasized the word “not.” “I
knew
the real Superman, and he would
never
have resorted to the reckless mayhem that this masked man has practiced in his name.”

“Masked?” The Kryptonian brought a hand up to his visor. “They’re calling this a mask? They’re calling me reckless?” He muted the sound of the GBS feed. “My every move has been carefully calculated. Can’t they see that?”

A close-up of Guy Gardner came up on another screen. The Superman frowned and turned the volume back up. “Now, there—that one is truly reckless. What does he have to say for himself?”

Guy was all but crawling into the camera. “Hey, I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I thought the guy with the visor was just another fake like the rest of ’em. That’s why I came to Metropolis in the first place—to kick all o’ their butts. It’s just a good thing for the rest o’ them that I found the genuine article right off the bat. Lemme tell you, he kicked my butt from here to next week—and then he took care of those drug-dealin’ Bakerline punks, to boot! So, hey, all I can say is, if the man I met wasn’t the real Superman, then he oughtta be! I’m leavin’ things in his hands—he won’t have any trouble fightin’ his own fights.”

The reporter had to pull hard to reclaim his microphone. “What’s your reaction to official condemnation of this Superman’s actions as an unnecessarily harsh use of force?”

“So he got tough with that bunch of creeps. So what?” Guy smirked. “It’s not like they didn’t have it comin’! Okay, maybe he lost his temper a little. Like, who hasn’t, huh? Besides, after all he’s been through, he’s entitled!”

The Superman muted the sound for the entire monitor array, and walked away from the screens, turning their supervision back over to the robot Unit Twelve. “ ‘Came to town to kick their butts,’ indeed. Gardner set an
ambush
for me! And now, since I have humbled him, that idiot has made himself my greatest public admirer!”

Another robot came up alongside him. “Sir, do you wish to change?”

“What?”

“You did not bother to remove your cape and shield when you returned this morning. Do you now wish to change?”

“Ah! Yes, just a moment, Unit Three.” The Superman lifted off his raiment and stood contemplating it.

“Is something wrong, sir? Does the shield perhaps require polishing?”

“No, Unit Three, that won’t be necessary. I was just thinking . . . this shield has long stood for justice. If too many claim it, misuse it, what will it stand for then? Until this moment, my actions felt absolutely right. But I
did
let my anger at Gardner get the better of me, and I took it out on those less capable of defending themselves. And now Gardner cheers me on. That alone is reason to reflect, to question what I have done. Perhaps the police officials were correct; perhaps there have been unnecessary elements of brutality in my actions. Perhaps there is a better way.”

The Kryptonian handed the shield over to Unit Three. “Leave me now, until I summon you again.” He walked off into a quiet corner of the Fortress to think. True to their programming, the robots withdrew and left him to his solitude.

On the sidewalks of Suicide Slum, Bibbo tucked his new pup into the crook of one arm as he read the inscription on a little bone-shaped dog tag. “Hey, this ain’t right!” He stuck his head back through the open window of the storefront engraver’s booth. “This tag says ‘Krypto’! It’s s’posed to say ‘Kryp
ton
’!”

Behind the counter, a squat man in a greasy T-shirt looked up from behind a rack of blank keys. “What the hell kinda name for a dog is ‘Krypton’?” His words worked their way out around a half-smoked cigar that protruded from the corner of his mouth. “Dogs need short names that’re easy for ’em to remember—like Spot or Duke. They ain’t too bright, after all.”

The little pup stuck his head up around Bibbo’s forearm and began to growl. So did Bibbo. “I tol’ja his name was Krypton like the place Sooperman was from! Not Kryp-
toe
, Kryp
-ton
! That’s what I paid to have put on the tag.”

The man in the greasy shirt was unmoved. “Hey, ya see this?” He pointed to a sign on the wall of the booth that read: DOG TAGS $3.00. At the bottom of the sign, in letters just barely visible from the street, was an additional line of copy:
SIX LETTERS MAXIMUM.

“The sign says six letters—I do six letters.” He removed the stogy from his mouth and flicked its ash out onto the pavement. “Course, fer Mr. ‘Lottery Winner’ Bibbowski, mebbe I could squeeze on anudder letter . . . fer a modest fee.”

Bibbo’s nostrils flared and his eyebrows shot up so fast that they nearly knocked his cap off. He reached in through the window, grabbing hold of the man’s cigar by its lit end and crushing it out in his bare hand. The whites of the man’s eyes grew very big as Bibbo proceeded to shove the battered stogy back into his mouth.

“Bibbo don’t deal with no chis’lers!” He turned and walked away, scratching his pup behind the ears. “C’mon, let’s go home . . . Krypto.”

That night, the Shark gang’s enforcers stalked through the waterfront in the shadows of burned-out warehouses and crumbling tenements, their Toastmasters at the ready. As they came around the corner of one building, they found another Shark standing watch. The lead enforcer sauntered up to the lookout. “This be the place, Lenny?”

“This’s it, Asa.” Lenny motioned toward a break in the buildings with his Toastmaster. “I saw that walkin’ pile of junk go down this alleyway, an’ he ain’t come out.”

Asa smiled. “Then he be good as dead.” He raised his hand and motioned the others to his side. “Listen up! This Man o’ Steel’s been interferin’ with our business for days. But now we gonna pay him back. Frame, you ready?”

A smaller youth brandished a camcorder. “All set, Asa. You take down the Steel dude, an’ I’ll record it for posterity.”

“Good. Now, let’s get wit’ the action.”

Their big guns down and primed, the Sharks silently filed down the alley, only to find—nothing. “So where is he, Lenny?”

“I—I don’t know, Asa. He didn’t come out. He has to be here somewhere.”

“Hey, Asa.” Another Shark’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I heard somebody say that the Steel dude had some kinda flyin’ boots.”

“Flyin’ boots?!” Asa’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “What you been smokin’, man? The dude’s a walkin’ stove! He’d have to have rockets stuffed up his butt to fly!”

There was a sudden rush of air, and the Man of Steel came flying down into the midst of the Sharks, scattering half of their weaponry with one swing of his hammer. “You boys looking for me?”

“It’s him! Toast ’im!”

With high-caliber fire rattling off his armor, John Henry hammered their guns away and sent the Sharks running. As they scattered, he reached out and grabbed Asa, holding the enforcer helpless against a wall. “You look like the leader of this little band—so sing, pigeon. Where do I find your supplier?”

Tears came to Asa’s eyes, and the shaken young man opened his mouth to speak. But before more than a syllable could escape his lips, automatic gunfire peppered his body, and he slumped lifeless in the armored man’s grasp.

Enraged, the Man of Steel whipped around and fired off two spikes from his power gauntlet. The metal spikes flew true, bracketing the wrist of the assailant’s gun hand and pinning him to an old utility pole.

The killer was Frame. He dropped both his gun and his camcorder, trying to pull free of the spikes. But when he saw there’d be no escaping, he boldly stood his ground and thrust out his chin. “Hated to do that to Asa, but the Sharks can’t let finks live.”

Behind his mask, John Henry clenched his teeth so hard that he could hear his molars grind. He silently cursed himself for underestimating the little punk and coldly picked up Frame’s gun, waving it under his nose. “I don’t like your guns, video-man, and I don’t like you. Now tell me, where is your supplier?”

“I wouldn’t tell if I knew. I’d rather take my chances with you!”

John Henry snapped the gun in two. “You’re gonna take your chances with the cops.”

“I’ll be out tomorrow, man.” Frame’s whole face was a sneer. “You can’t prove nuthin’.”

“Oh, no?” John Henry picked up the camcorder and pointed it at Frame’s face. “You caught this whole thing on tape, didn’t you? I think that the cops just might find it interesting.”

Frame’s face fell. He hadn’t thought of that.

The Man of Steel stepped back, kicking the fallen Toastmasters into a pile. “But no matter what happens, one thing’s for sure. These pieces are
not
going to make it back onto the streets.”

As he brought his hammer down on the pile. Frame finally began to cry.

In a plush conference room at LexCorp Tower, WLEX News Director Stephen Conally screened the video of the confrontation between the Man of Steel and the Sharks for Lex Luthor and his chief science advisor. The three men watched, fascinated, as the camera caught the Man of Steel’s destruction of the weapons.

When the tape finally ended, Luthor smiled tightly at his news director. “I can see why the police are interested in finding out more about this Man of Steel. How was it that you were able to obtain this footage?”

“I’m afraid it’s not an exclusive, Mr. L. The Police Information Office has made copies of the video available to all local news teams, but I think we can still get plenty of mileage out of it.” Conally gave the tape a positively lustful look. “All we need is a good tag line to distinguish our broadcast from the competition’s. Something like, ‘This video was made by gang members to record their victory, but the real victory belonged to the Man of Steel in his one-man war on crime.’ ” The news director tilted back in his chair. “And that could be just the beginning! WGBS appears to have a semiexclusive deal with Superboy, or Teen Superman, or whatever it is that he wants to be called. Perhaps WLEX should form a similar arrangement with the Man of Steel, or one of the other Supermen.”

Luthor inclined his head graciously toward the director and broke into a wide smile. “A sound suggestion, Conally. Happersen and I were already thinking along those lines. Rest assured, as soon as any such arrangement can be made, you will be informed.”

Dr. Happersen nodded to Conally as Luthor personally escorted the man out.
If anything, the boss has gotten smoother,
thought Happersen.
I know for a fact that he thinks that Conally is about as bright as a dead firefly, but you’d never know it from the way he handles the man.

By the time Luthor returned to the conference table, his corporate smile had vanished utterly. “Well, Happersen? Do you think we can learn any more from that tape?”

“Perhaps, sir. The gang leader was starting to talk about their weapons source. Using computer enhancement, we might be able to decipher something that could give us a lead to finding the supplier.”

“Do all that you can, Sydney. This Man of Steel wants to shut off the flow of guns. If we could give him what he wants, we might well get him into our camp. We must try to open lines of communication to him—and to the other pretenders, as well. I was unable to persuade the original Superman to work for me, but perhaps I can get his successors under my control.” Luthor balanced their copy of the videocassette on the fingertips of one hand and smiled. “Wouldn’t that be rich?”