The Death and Life of Superman (56 page)

Two days later, Lois Lane met with Perry White behind the closed doors of his office at the
Daily Planet.
The managing editor had an extra worktable set up in the corner of his office just to organize the growing files on the various Supermen.

They worked quickly, with an old portable television tuned to the WLEX midday news as their only distraction. They just about had the files categorized when a WLEX reporter came on screen with a live report from a waterfront soup kitchen. Lois and Perry both looked up as the television image panned over to focus on a big man dressed in red and blue.

Bibbo stared out at them from the screen. “Yeah, I’ve been workin’ real hard lately, helpin’ to find food fer the kitchen. These folks here need food real bad, an’ I’m askin’ ever’body to pitch in an’ help out.” The old roughneck spoke slowly and with great dignity for a man who was wearing an S-shield on his sweatshirt. His outfit would have made most men his age look like ridiculous old pro wrestlers, but somehow it looked exactly right on him. “Sooperman, he woulda helped out. He was always doin’ that. I figure, if we all try to be a li’l like Sooperman, we’ll all be better off.”

Tears came to Lois’s eyes as Bibbo spoke of honoring “his fav’rit,” and she noticed that Perry’s jaw tightened as the television reporter delivered his closing comments.

“Good piece . . . for television.” It was one of the highest accolades Lois had ever heard Perry give a video report. “That man’s heart certainly is in the right place. I wish that more people like him were getting the publicity.” The managing editor surveyed the piles of wire copy and newspaper clippings and shook his head. “And fewer people like some of these so-called heroes. It was hard enough keeping track of
one
Superman. Have you been able to make any sense of this mess, Lois?”

“Not much, Chief. But a lot of money is being spent to cover—and in some cases, promote—their exploits. GBS has been trying to get the most mileage out of their young Superman.” Lois pulled out a videocassette and shoved it into the tape player of the editor’s television. A telephoto shot came up of the Boy of Steel pulling back a carload of teenagers that was teetering on the edge of a bridge. “As far as the police have been able to determine, these kids were driving a little too fast and blew a tire. They were just lucky that they didn’t go off into the river.”

Lois turned up the sound as the screen showed Superboy straining to hold onto the back end of the car. “Leverage is lousy! Don’t know if I can hold on much longer!”

“Great Caesar’s Ghost!” Perry spit out the epithet. “How’d they manage to pick up his voice so clearly?”

“GBS outfitted him with a wireless mike.”

Superboy appeared to be panicking. “It’s slipping—slipping—!” And then, he effortlessly lifted both car and kids over his head. “Hey, Metropolis—made ya look!”

Perry hit the pause button in disgust. “And to think that a television network has the gall to call that young jackanapes ‘Superman’! The boy is like a brain-damaged ox; he has entirely too much raw strength and too little common sense.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far, Chief, but the kid does have a lot to learn.”

“I hope he learns fast—for all our sakes!”

Lois had to smile. “Well, he’s gotten a few lessons. Watch this.”

As the tape continued, Superboy—with car still in hand—was shown being slowly lifted up into the air by Supergirl.

“Oh, fine . . . Super
girl
!” Perry reflexively felt his pocket, searching for the cigars he’d given up. “Did Luthor send her in to show the boy up, or are LexCorp and Supergirl trying to compete with GBS for Superboy’s attention?”

“The latter is a good possibility, Chief.”

“Wouldn’t that be just dandy! The boy’s ego’s big enough already.”

“That’s true, but actually, I think Supergirl could help keep him in line.” Lois fast-forwarded the tape to just after the car had been set down. Superboy faced Supergirl, who stood almost a head taller. The sound had been edited from this portion of the tape, but the boy definitely looked tongue-tied. For her part, Supergirl bore the look of a diligent schoolgirl who was patiently trying to deal with the class clown.

“I’d love to know what they said after GBS cut the sound.” Lois turned to Perry. “Come on, Chief, you’ve got to admit that it was funny when she lifted him and the car up together. The expression on his face was priceless.”

“All right, Lois.” Perry gave in and allowed himself a dry chuckle. “I suppose these days, we should take whatever laughs we can find. But I still think this possible Superboy/WGBS/WLEX triangle bears investigating.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

The television screen went to blue and began flashing a numeric countdown. “Oh, that’s right—there’s more.” Lois stooped over, readjusting sound and picture. “This is from that waterfront firefight between the Sharks and a rival gang, the Reavers. The Man of Steel was breaking it up when guess who butted in?”

The GBS footage picked up with the Boy of Steel diving down into the melee, his left arm tucked behind him. “Yee-hah! Watch this! I’ll bail out the Steel guy with one hand tied behind my back!”

The gang members instinctively raised their big guns skyward and blasted away at the newcomer. Superboy actually laughed. “What are those goons shooting? Rockets?” His smile was clearly visible as he looped around their fire. “Hey, ya missed me! Missed again!”

“That’s enough!” Perry hit the stop button and switched off the set. “Armed street gangs are one of the more serious problems facing the city, and that young fool was treating it like some joke. His grandstanding could’ve gotten someone killed!”

“It almost did, Chief. I was there, remember? It was a real war zone.” Lois felt a chill at the memory. “When Superboy drew the gangs’ fire into the air,
he
evaded it easily enough, but a police helicopter above and behind him wasn’t so lucky. The Man of Steel flew up and pulled the chopper cops out just in time. By the time he got them back down to Earth, the gangs had pretty much gotten away, and GBS’s media darling was back in front of the cameras, taking credit for saving the day. I tell you, Perry, I wanted to give that kid such a slap—!”

“Too bad I wasn’t there. I’d’ve held him for you.”

“Yes, well, the Man of Steel hauled him up and chewed him out royally. You won’t see that on any tape, but I heard enough to know that the armored man set Superboy straight about a few things. I just hope it took.”

“This ‘Man of Steel’ . . .” Perry shook his head. “I wish we knew more about him.”

“So do I. He spoke with me for only a few minutes; he wouldn’t stick around for a real interview. Of the four who are wearing Superman’s insignia, he’s the only one who hasn’t declared himself Superman. Yet, in listening to him, I get the weird feeling that there is more of Superman’s heart in him than in any of the others.”

“Lois, don’t tell me you’re buying into that psychic hogwash about the man being possessed by Superman’s spirit!”

“No, of course not, Chief. It’s just that he has that certain something that all the others are missing, and he’s not Superman, so how could they be?”

“Well, one of them has been quietly campaigning to be recognized as Superman, and he appears to have convinced the right people.” Perry picked up a copy of the
Planet’s
morning edition from his desk. The banner headline read: SUPERMAN IS BACK? The subhead underneath proclaimed CYBORG THWARTS ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT. The front-page article covered all the details.

The
Planet
had gotten the exclusive story thanks to their editorial assistant Ron Troupe, who had gone to Washington on his own initiative to cover a trip made by Metropolis Mayor Frank Berkowitz. Ostensibly, Berkowitz had gone to Capitol Hill to angle for more federal disaster money, but Troupe had gotten a tip from some old friends of his at Howard University that the mayor had actually been asked to the capital to advise the President on the four new Supermen.

Troupe had caught up with Berkowitz as the mayor strolled along Pennsylvania Avenue. The fledgling reporter had been hoping for a lead on what His Honor intended to tell the chief executive. Troupe was just engaging the talkative mayor in conversation on the street outside the White House when a car bomb went off.

Ron Troupe shoved the mayor to the ground as a second car roared up and five men piled out with automatic weapons in hand. The reporter found himself in the middle of a firefight between terrorists and White House Security, hoping that the mayor was all right and praying that he’d stay alive long enough to file the story.

That’s when the Cyborg arrived. He hit the terrorists cleanly, sweeping through and collecting their weapons so quickly that they were literally spun senseless. One moment, bullets were flying. The next, the ground was covered with half-conscious terrorists, and the Superman was calmly asking the captain of the guard to take possession of the captured weaponry.

The Cyborg then proceeded to march right up to the White House. Moments later, he was conferring with the man whose life he had helped save. It was an historic meeting between two individuals who were among the most powerful men in the free world. The Cyborg had accepted the President’s thanks for foiling the assassination attempt and told the commander in chief that should he ever be in special need of a Superman, he only needed to call. Literally. Right there and then, the Cyborg extruded a special communications device from the side of his robotic arm. The President solemnly accepted the device and shook the Superman’s metal hand.

And Ron Troupe had been there for all of it. He’d chanced upon the sort of story journalists dream of finding, and he’d done a good job of reporting it. He also came away personally convinced, as was the federal government, that Superman was back.

It was not a surprising conclusion. The Cyborg had, after all, thwarted an attempt on the life of the President of the United States. Moreover, it turned out that the Cyborg had been meeting in secret with officials of the state and defense departments, trying to convince them that—despite his strange new appearance—he
was
Superman, rebuilt and returned to life.

Perry White, however, still wasn’t so certain. “Call me a skeptic, but I find it a little too convenient that the Cyborg just happened to be in the area of the White House when that car bomb went off. I don’t know if that’s despite the Cyborg’s meetings with state and defense, or
because
of them. Maybe I’m just getting paranoid. But what about this Cyborg, Lois . . . what do you think?”

“I think maybe I’m getting a little paranoid, too. I’m beginning to worry even when we
don’t
hear from these new Supermen. That visored one!” Lois took a deep breath. “He’s kept a very low profile lately. I keep wondering what that means.” She looked up at her editor. “Perry, at this point, I think that I may be the only one who’s spoken to all four of these Supermen. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I don’t think any of them is the real Superman.”

“Neither do I. People are always in such a damn hurry to jump on one bandwagon or another. I can understand that people want to have faith in something. There aren’t many folks in this world who can live with a lot of unanswered questions—if it were otherwise, most religions would go out of business—but we’re talking about a question of a man’s identity, of his good name. I hate to see people choosing sides in this, as if they were picking their favorite team for the World Series or something.”

“They’re afraid, Perry. They all want there to be a Superman. And so do I.”

The lunchtime patrons at the Ace o’ Clubs were just starting to wet their whistles when the WGBS
News-at-Noon
cut to live coverage of Superboy carrying a classic locomotive engine through the city to the Metropolis Museum of Science.

“Lookit that kid, ain’t he somethin’?” A bar patron lifted his mug in a toast to the scene on the television. “I tell ya, give ’im a few years and he’ll be a contender. Course, he ain’t the real Superguy—!”

“Ten-four to that, buddy.” The man on the next barstool swallowed the last of a pickled egg and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now the Cyborg—
that’s
yer Superman.”

“The President’s pal? Gimme a break! Okay, so he stopped those terrorist bums, but that guy with the visor, he’d’ve fried ’em on the spot! That’s the kinda law an’ order I wanna see!”

“Sez you!”

“Yeah, sez me!”

Before the argument could escalate any further, two huge hands suddenly clamped down on the men’s shoulders and spun them around on their barstools.

“Yer both wrong! Lissen up, ya yahoos, an’ lissen good!” Bibbo stood glowering at his customers. “You wanna argue politics or sports, that’s yer bizness. But nobody—an’ I mean
nobody
!—is gonna argue about Sooperman in this bar! Sooperman was a pal o’ mine, an’ none o’ them fancy pants is Sooperman in my book!” At the tavern owner’s feet, his pup Krypto yipped and growled in agreement.

“S-sure, Bibbo.”

“Yeah. Whatever you say.”

Some eight hundred million miles from Earth, space began to fold in upon itself, bending and twisting as if forming a hole in its reality. Matter and energy danced and swirled within the hole, jumping back and forth from one state to another. Suddenly there was a dazzling burst of light and a golden ship shot out of the hole. And then, as abruptly as it had opened, the hole sealed shut, leaving no sign that it had ever existed.