The Death and Life of Superman (57 page)

The ship’s engines drove it on toward the inner planets of the solar system. It was a vast ship, nearly a mile across, and it was armed with weapons powerful enough to level an entire world.

On the bridge of the vessel loomed a giant humanoid being. He stood over seven feet tall and weighed nearly eight hundred pounds. Not a single hair grew on his skin, which was a pale yellow, like badly aged parchment, and his eyes were a deep, murky crimson. From the deference shown him by the other beings on the bridge, it was clear that he was their lord and master. His name was Mongul, and he nursed a long-standing hatred for Superman that Lex Luthor would have envied.

Mongul had once ruled a vast empire from the throne of an artificial planet which he called WarWorld. He had used that mobile world to sweep across the galaxy, conquering whole star systems. Whenever and wherever Mongul found sentient life-forms, he demanded their total and unconditional surrender. Any worlds that dared to defy him were rendered lifeless. In this way his empire had grown.

In hundreds of our years, no one had ever presented a real challenge to Mongul’s power and authority—until he had crossed paths with Superman.

One of Mongul’s slave ships had found Superman drifting helplessly in deep space, the oxygen in his lungs nearly exhausted after an accident on a long space mission. Discovering that they had chanced upon the last living Kryptonian, Mongul’s slavers had transported their find to one of their emperor’s arenas, to fight in a series of gladiatorial games. Superman, however, had defied Mongul, and the warlord himself had entered the arena. But to his dismay, Mongul found that his powerful fists were not enough to slay the disobedient slave.

Mongul’s armies saw their emperor’s failure to kill a slave in combat as a grave weakness. Mongul lost face, and revolution broke out on WarWorld. To his everlasting shame, Mongul was forced to give up his throne and flee for his own life, while Superman—he learned—had returned to Earth.

Now, after several long months in exile, Mongul was again in command of a spaceworthy dreadnaught. It was not as huge or as powerful as WarWorld, but he was confident that it would carry him on to the victory he craved.

A six-foot-long, slug-shaped being approached Mongul, its head bowed in obeisance. “All systems secured from hyperspatial transport, Lord Mongul. Switchover has been made to sublight drive engines, and all weapons systems stand primed and fully functional.”

“As they should be.” Mongul’s voice rumbled from deep within his chest, like the roar of a great beast within a cave. “And the navigation systems? What of them?”

The slug-being all but prostrated itself. “Locked on target, my lord.”

“Show me.”

One whole wall of the bridge seemed to dissolve away, replaced by an image of a bright blue marble of a world, flecked here and there with wisps of green and white. “There, sire . . . the third planet from the system’s single star.”

“Earth.” There was passion in the way Mongul spoke the word. “It is the world the Kryptonian claimed as his home. Soon it shall be mine, as well.”

23

In the Antarctic Fortress,
a score of robots mobilized in the chamber that held their master’s Regeneration Matrix. The gigantic egg-shaped construct was glowing white as the sun, and waves of static electricity were rippling across its surface. The robots instantly went on-line with one another, transmitting and receiving information at near-light speed. “Shut down all solar receptors!”

“Done, but the overload effect continues. There must be a release!”

“Agreed. There is no other choice. Modulate the support field . . . lower the Matrix to release position.”

Under the robots’ manipulation of the fields that had held the Matrix upright, the giant egg descended to the chamber floor, its long axis slowly lowering from a vertical to a horizontal position.

Energy continued to crackle across the Matrix, and the robots stayed highly agitated.

“Readings remain well off scale. This is without precedent.”

“Everything that has occurred since the master’s discorporation has been without precedent. We were programmed to improvise under uncertain situations. We must proceed with caution and carry out that programming.”

A seam formed in the surface of the Matrix egg, and it began to split open.

“Alert! Alert! The Matrix seal has ruptured! Prepare to receive the occupant.”

The Matrix yawned open like a huge clamshell, revealing a tall, dark-haired man, covered from throat to toe in a black Kryptonian bodysuit. “He awakes! Dim the lighting—his eyes may yet be sensitive!”

The Man in Black opened his eyes. “Who . . . who’s there—?”

The robots moved in closer, as if their appearance was all the answer needed. One dipped its head down to the Man in Black and spoke most solicitously. “Master? Master Kal-El? How do you feel?”

“Feel?” Kal-El rubbed his eyes. “A little . . . fuzzy-headed.”

“Some disorientation is to be expected. Do you recognize us? Do you know where you are?”

“You’re . . . the Fortress robots.” He looked around slowly, as if trying to determine whether or not he was still asleep and dreaming. “Then, I’m in the Antarctic . . . in the underground hideaway?”

“Correct. You seem unsteady on your feet, Master Kal-El. This is to be expected, following such a rude awakening. Allow us to seat you.”

“A-all right.”

The robots gathered on all sides of Kal-El, lifting him up out of the open Matrix and into the cushioned cocoon of a Kryptonian floating chair. As he settled into the chair, it slowly rose into the air until his head was at the same height off the floor as it would be if he were standing.

One robot continued to hover close by his master’s side. “Is there anything else you require—any other way in which we may be of service?”

Kal-El rubbed his temples as if physically trying to dispel the fog from his mind. “Yes, you can fill me in on what’s been going on.”

“At once, sir.”

The robots formed an honor guard around the chair, escorting it and its occupant away from the Matrix. Moments later, they all hovered in another part of the Fortress in front of the bank of monitor screens.

The robot designated Unit Twelve obediently snapped into debriefing mode. “As per my programming, I have been monitoring all world news transmissions and compiling data on any and all individuals operating under the name of Superman and/or utilizing your S-shield in their activities. There has been much speculation on the part of commentators—!”

Kal-El raised his hand for silence. “Save the commentary for later, Unit Twelve. Show me what’s going on right now.”

“Yes, sir.” The screens lit up showing Centennial Park from a number of vantage points, as provided from several different broadcast sources. On screen, a huge crowd could be seen gathered in the center of a wide plaza near the large statue of Superman. Many of those in the crowd wore bright blue robes with the S-shield emblem of Superman embroidered across the front.

Unit Twelve distilled the various disparate broadcast sound tracks into a single coherent narration. “At this hour in the city of Metropolis, cultists who worship Superman as a living god rally in Centennial Park. The emergence of four Supermen has caused much confusion and has already led to one major schism in the group. City authorities fear that this may lead to violence.”

Kal-El looked seriously disturbed by the news. “This is not good. This is not good at all. Unit Twelve, give me the rundown on all known Supermen.”

“Yes, sir.” One by one, computer-generated mug shots came up on screen. “This Cyborg Superman claims partial amnesia. His bionics show evidence of Kryptonian technology. Yesterday, he saved the U.S. President from an assassination attempt . . .

“Some pundits have called the youngest pretender ‘Super
boy
.’ He objects vehemently to that name. He claims to be a clone of Superman, and has maintained a high profile thanks to Galaxy Broadcasting . . .

“Little is known about the so-called Man of Steel. He is currently believed to be a man in an armored suit, and not a robot . . .

“Drawing the greatest negative response from Metropolis police is the visored Son of Krypton . . .”

Unit Twelve droned on and on. For over an hour, the little robot showed and told Kal-El all that the Fortress systems knew of the four Supermen.

“I’ve heard enough!” the Man in Black interrupted, abruptly turning the floating chair away from the monitors.

Worry lines creased Kal-El’s forehead, and there was a haunted look to his eyes. “Things have gotten completely out of hand. The name of Superman will
not
be turned into a franchise.” He rose stiffly from the chair, stretching as if he had not tested certain muscles in weeks.

He looked back over his shoulder at the images of the other Supermen. “Something must be done about this! Continue your monitoring, Unit Twelve. Check every source you can find, and have me paged if anything new comes in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The rest of you, come with me. I must get to Metropolis as soon as possible.”

Kal-El walked purposefully from the chamber, the other robots dutifully falling in behind.

Fifteen miles south of Smallville, Jonathan Kent stood fuming in the middle of the parlor.

On the screen of his television, a gaudily dressed youth was shown shaking hands with a stocky, slick-haired man. “. . . the young Superman today announced that he’d engaged the services of Rex Leech as his personal business manager. Leech, a relative unknown, has vowed to crack down on what he called ‘the unauthorized use’ of his client’s name and image.”

“ ‘Unauthorized use’?!” Jonathan went red in the face. “Why, that miserable, two-bit—!”

“Jonathan, please!” Martha rushed into the parlor, drying her hands with a dish towel. “Don’t get yourself so upset. You know it’s not good for your heart!”

“I know, Martha. But it just makes my blood boil when I see these impostors on the TV. They’re no more our son than I’m the king of England! I wish that boy of ours . . .” Jonathan let the thought trail off. He knew that it made Martha uneasy whenever he talked about his finding Clark and bringing him back. Jonathan still had a hard time believing that it hadn’t happened; it had all been so vivid.

“Anyway, it makes me want to go on TV myself. I’d like to tell the whole blasted world that Clark Kent is the real Superman—the
only
Superman!”

Martha came up beside him, resting her head against her husband’s shoulder. “I wish we could, too, honey, but you know we can’t. It isn’t so much for us, but for Lois and Lana, and all the rest of Clark’s friends who would be put in danger.”

“I know, I know, but—oh, now look at that!” The network was rerunning a file tape of the Boy of Steel’s face-to-face meeting with Supergirl. “There’s something else that frosts my britches. First, Supergirl takes up with the Luthor boy, and now she’s making cow eyes at
this
young twerp!”

Jonathan angrily switched off the set. “I know she didn’t stay with us long, but I’d hoped we’d brought her up better than that! She was practically a blank slate when Clark brought her to us—so innocent. He got her back on her feet, and I thought we’d taught her a little common sense. Now, I don’t know. If only she’d stayed with us a little longer . . .”

“Yes, she was such a sweet child.” Martha sighed and brushed away a tear. “It broke my heart when she ran off. The poor girl had never had a real family before. She did learn a lot while she was here, but she’s still such an innocent. She sees things . . . well, not in black and white, exactly, but I think she tends to accept people at face value. She’s so straightforward, and she just isn’t experienced enough to deal with people who aren’t.”

“Yeah, it surely seems that way.” Jonathan slumped down against the arm of the old sofa. “Maybe—maybe it’s my fault, Martha. Maybe I just didn’t know how to raise a daughter.”

“You just hush now, Jonathan Kent. We did the best we could for Supergirl in the short time we had her. And for heaven’s sake, stop seeing only the flighty things she sometimes does! That poor homeless child has already done more good in her new life on this Earth than most folks do in a lifetime. Just look at all those people she’s rescued! And hasn’t she faithfully kept Clark’s secret? Didn’t she send us that beautiful sympathy card and write us that lovely letter? She promised, as soon as the search and rescue work is over, that she’d figure out some way to come and see us, and I believe her.”

“I suppose you’re probably right.” Jonathan hugged his wife to him tightly. “You usually are.”

“That’s better!” Martha kissed him on the cheek. “Supergirl will come around, just you wait and see. And I don’t just mean that she’ll come around to see us! I mean that she’ll get herself sorted out eventually. I’m as sure of that as I am of anything—and heaven knows, even with children you raise from the cradle—you can’t always tell how they’ll turn out.”

Martha looked out the window at the gathering clouds. “It’s just such an uncertain world out there!”

As night fell on Metropolis, the Man of Steel cornered four fugitive Sharks on the central borough’s south side. “A little far from the ’hood, aren’t you?”