Enemies & Allies (21 page)

A
FTER THE HAPLESS OAF BUCHHEIM HAD REVEALED WHY
the death ray failed to fire, Luthor immediately returned to the Caribbean island base. His technicians had studied the malfunctioning systems, but since those men did not possess his genius, they couldn’t see or fix such an esoteric problem. Minions could be counted on only to a certain extent, after all. Luthor would repair the damage personally and get the beams working again.

Redesigning the Wayne Enterprises components took only an hour, and he easily completed the work during the flight in his private jet from Metropolis to the island. He gave the hand-drawn blueprints to the technicians, and they modified the devices as instructed, then tested them to verify that each component performed to its proper specifications.

Now it was time for another test firing, and this one would nourish the seeds of paranoia he had planted in Senator McCarthy’s mind. Even General Ceridov wouldn’t know what was happening.

After giving instructions to his control-room operators, Luthor stood outside in the tropical sunshine next to the gridwork towers, his back to the hodgepodge of modern buildings and ancient fort structures. The swiveling dish generators and antenna beam projectors pointed toward the sky at a new, and unseen, target in space.

As the moment approached, he felt the thrumming energy, sensed the crackle of static in the air. He imagined the power levels rising inside the island’s reactor, ramping up to peak energy output. Hurled toward the sky, that destructive power would carve a tunnel through the atmosphere all the way to orbit, toward one tiny blip no larger than a basketball with long antennae.

He hit the transmit button on his Handie-Talkie and said, “Commence firing.” He shaded his brow and watched, squinting his eyes in the bright sun.

When the projectors discharged, the gout of energy sounded like a bull elephant stampeding into the air. Serenely passing overhead, Sputnik continued alone in orbit—until Luthor’s beam vaporized the satellite in an instant. Its monotonous bleeping fell silent.

Neither Soviets nor Americans could have seen exactly what happened, but they would soon note that the signal had abruptly vanished. Now that the suggestion had been planted in his mind, McCarthy would do the rest of the work for him.
Sputnik must have been destroyed by aliens!

Satisfied that his energy weapons did function as expected, Luthor was ready to ratchet the world’s fears to a fever pitch. The Cold War was no longer the only threat that mankind faced. Yes, this was a very good day.

INSIDE THE CONTROL CENTER, HIS TECHNICIANS CHEERED
with wild abandon—a refreshing change from their previous test, after which they’d all believed civilization itself was going to end.

The red telephone on his desk rang like an alarm bell. Only Ceridov could reach him here, and Luthor was surprised the KGB general would respond so quickly. How could he already know Sputnik had been destroyed? How had he put the pieces together and known to call here? But Luthor couldn’t imagine any other reason why the Soviet officer would contact him now. Nevertheless, still pleased with himself, he picked up the receiver with a smile.

Instead of bellowing in anger, though, Ceridov sounded immensely smug—an unexpected turn. “Ah, comrade Luthor! You are a difficult man to track down.”

“Intentionally so.”

“But you will be glad I found you. I have obtained a fine specimen that will interest you. I can solve our mutual problem. He has been, how do you call it, quite a ‘pain in the shoulder’ for us both.”

“What are you talking about?” Luthor was in no mood for riddles during what should have been his moment of triumph.

“Are you unable to receive television broadcasts on your island? Can you not listen to the radio news?”

Luthor snapped his fingers for one of the techs to turn on a large wall screen, adjusting the channel to pick up a television broadcast originating from Miami. Within moments, he was viewing the footage of Superman beaten and in chains.

Astounded, Luthor stared at the laughably impotent super hero. Ceridov had captured Superman! To analyze, even dissect the self-proclaimed alien—here was a chance Luthor could not afford to pass up. “What have you found out so far? Does he wear a jetpack beneath his cape? Is his suit made of some impenetrable material?”

“He carries no obvious technological enhancements in his uniform or on his person. Your ‘hero’ is as weak as a kitten.” The general snorted. “I used to drown useless kittens when I was a boy.”

“Well, don’t drown this one until I’ve had a chance to put my medical researchers on the problem.” Luthor couldn’t control the eagerness in his voice.

“Our Soviet eugenics program can learn much from studying him, too. However, because you are my comrade and partner, we can perhaps share this information—for a price.”

“Money is no object if you give me access to Superman.”

“Oh, not money, comrade. Now that I have seen your island, I want a small nuclear reactor like your own.”

Luthor frowned. “You have your own reactor in Ariguska.”

“Soviet scientists claim this modified model is the best we can produce. Yours is better. With efficient atomic power, I can run my entire gulag without constant delays and equipment failures. After you send your men to build me new reactor, I will let you interrogate and torment Superman.”

Luthor didn’t have to think about his answer. “I agree to the terms.” When he hung up the red phone, he couldn’t stop smiling. Yes indeed, this was a very good day.

E
VEN WITH THE ADDITIONAL LIGHTS AND CATHODE-RAY
tubes, shadows always lingered in the Cave. Bruce hunched over the monitor screens, watching several news reports at the same time. All of them replayed the same footage of Superman, barely able to stand, weighted down by chains, his Communist captors pushing him along like a whipped dog.

He muttered to himself, “He’s really gotten himself into a mess, hasn’t he?”

Alfred had unrolled charts on the large map table so that Bruce could try to pinpoint the source of the damning Soviet news broadcast. “I am familiar with that preoccupied look on your face, Master Bruce. Superman needs your help.”

Bruce glanced at another screen. President Eisenhower had called an immediate news conference, demanding that the USSR release their captive American citizen…but no one could actually prove Superman
was
an American citizen, since he claimed to be an alien from a planet called Krypton.

“I haven’t decided whether or not to rescue him.” His voice was distant.

The butler was surprised. “What are your concerns about him, sir?”

Bruce looked up. “I’m not sure I know where his loyalties lie. At first I thought Superman worked for LuthorCorp, but I can’t convince myself of that. Even the circumstantial evidence I’ve seen is contradictory. I don’t know why he was in the Area Fifty-one hangar. He may just be an amateur doing these heroics for his own reasons, saving people because it makes him feel good.”

Alfred made a noncommittal sound. “Hmm, an amateur vigilante—that reminds me of someone else I know.”

“I know why
I
do it, Alfred. I made a promise on the grave of my parents that I would rid this city of the evil that took their lives. It’s personal for me.”

“Then perhaps you should ask him the next time you see him, sir—if there is a next time.” The butler turned his attention back to a monitor screen.

Bruce had chosen to fight crime on a personal level, secretly and in the dark, not grandstanding as Superman did. He had vowed to save people by squashing the petty criminals who caused real harm, like termites chewing away at the foundation of a stable society.

When he learned they were in danger, he had even quietly protected the remaining members of his board of directors, those men who had been threatened and blackmailed into cooperating with Luthor. He had suspected—correctly—that Luthor would try to eliminate them after they no longer proved to be useful. But Bruce did not want to have any part—however tangential—in their deaths. The five surviving members who had “vanished” were, in fact, hiding under assumed identities, all arranged by Bruce himself. He had saved them from Luthor’s assassins, whether or not they deserved that mercy. And he would find some way to make Luthor pay for the others.

His own parents had been killed by a small-time thief, one weak and desperate man who, for whatever reason, felt entitled to take someone else’s money rather than earn his own. That thief, that gunman, that
murderer
had left a six-year-old orphan there in the alley.

Superman, though, rescued sinking passenger ships, prevented aircraft from crashing, saved dozens of people at a time from burning buildings…even prevented an all-out nuclear war. Those Soviet missiles would have killed millions of parents, not just two in an alley behind a theater in Park Row. Perhaps, Bruce thought, he should look through both ends of the telescope to see the micro-and the macrocosm.

Superman had shown his potential, his dedication. He could certainly be an ally in the war against crime. But how did he
do
the things he did? One way to find out.

Bruce squared his shoulders. “Obviously I have to rescue him, Alfred. Is the plane ready?”

Unruffled, the butler walked to an expanded grotto and, with a melodramatic flourish, yanked off the tarp that covered a sleek, angular object crouched in its parking circle like a black-armored pterodactyl. “All fueled up and ready to go. Fluids topped off, engines calibrated.” The butler smiled. “I managed to take care of that before bringing you your dinner last night.”

“That was a good dinner, Alfred. Please give my compliments to the kitchen staff.”

The batlike plane was an exceptional thing, breathtaking in its modern configuration, unlike any other aircraft that had ever flown. The texture of its hull would confuse standard radar tracers, making the fast-flying plane seem to be a cloud, a flock of birds, or some other atmospheric disturbance. This design was so cutting-edge that nobody at Wayne Enterprises guessed it had ever gone beyond the concept stage. This aircraft was far more advanced than even the new-design jets now rolling off the Wayne Enterprises production lines.

Alfred raised the tinted glass canopy. “Very spacious, Master Bruce. You will be able to accommodate a certain passenger.”

“He should be able to fly himself—he’s done it enough times.”

“Judging by the images on the television, sir, he doesn’t seem capable of walking across the street.”

“Good point, Alfred. Is the cycle loaded aboard?”

“I wouldn’t let you leave home without it, sir. I had hoped you would take the Batplane out on at least one test flight before putting it into service.”

“‘Batplane’?”

The butler simply raised his eyebrows.

Bruce climbed into the cockpit. “This
is
the test flight.”

Alfred walked around the dark aircraft, performing a preflight inspection. “I presume you’ll also be requiring your suit? It’s freshly cleaned, pressed, and on board.”

Bruce could never tell when the acerbic butler was truly joking. He flicked on the control switches, warming up the systems.

“One last thing, Master Bruce. Now that Superman is in chains and on the other side of the world, do you intend to become the country’s new hero?”

Bruce frowned. “No, Alfred. If I wanted the spotlight, I’d wear a bright blue and red outfit. That’s not my style.”

W
EAK.
KAL-EL HAD NEVER FELT SO WEAK, SO CLOSE TO
death, or so confused about what was happening to him. Gravity itself seemed to drag him down. Every breath required a laborious effort. He thought he might be dying.

Chained to the steep rock wall near the bottom of the Siberian quarry, he hung like a rag doll in the late afternoon shadows. The smashed-open lead dome no longer hid the central meteorite mass, and the green light emanating from the mineral debris at the crater’s base offered no warmth whatsoever. It felt like acid on his skin. The sunlight was only a watery yellow glow through unyielding high gray clouds. He was so cold. Constant shivers racked his body.

General Ceridov stood before Kal-El, black obsidian stars prominent on his epaulets, his knuckles braced on his hips. His grin displayed square teeth stained by the expensive American cigarettes he bought on the black market. “American news media has made a hero out of you, but I see another propagandist lie. I am so disappointed—you are no
Superman
!” He slapped Kal-El with a vicious blow that knocked his head to the side. A trickle of blood ran from his lip.

Blood!
He had never bled before.

Around him in the quarry, the pathetic gulag prisoners slaved away with pickaxes, shovels, and metal carts, chipping fragments of the green mineral from the main mass. The unprotected gulag workers filled metal carts that were emptied into a storehouse of meteor fragments. For what purpose? Kal-El pitied them, even in the face of his own disaster.

The eerie emerald radiation continued to debilitate him. General Ceridov seemed to have figured out that Kal-El could not recover so long as he remained here in the quarry. He strained against the chains but could barely pull them taut, let alone rip the bolts from the stone wall.

The KGB general punched Kal-El in the stomach with the force of a cannonball. “Great American icon! My weakest slave here could beat you to a pulp.”

Ceridov strode along the gravel path to where two gaunt workers huddled in tattered Soviet military uniforms. Still playing the bully, he grabbed them both by their collars, one in each hand, and yanked them to their feet. “Do you see these men, Superman? These are great military leaders of Soviet Union: generals Endovik and Dubrov.
They
are the ones who launched missiles at your country, and now they pay the price for it.”

The two beaten men glowered at Ceridov, but having been directly exposed to the intense meteorite radiation for many weeks, they both looked withered, their skin bruised, their bones beginning to warp and twist. As he tormented them, a flash of green light shone in their eyes, which drew a puzzled frown from Ceridov. The fallen generals looked as sick as Kal-El felt, yet he saw something else at work here, an alteration of their body’s chemistry even worse than what was happening to him.

Though he knew what Endovik and Dubrov had done, Kal-El would have broken his chains and protected the two pathetic men. This was truly inhuman treatment. At the moment, though, he could hardly lift his head. He couldn’t even save himself.

As guards came forward to whip the two scapegoats, one of the defeated generals, Endovik, collapsed to the rocky ground, writhing. Veins stood out in his arms and neck—veins that pulsed a decidedly greenish hue. His companion, Dubrov, whose face also twisted and contorted with the pain of transformation, began to snarl, flexing his fingers.

Ceridov shouted in alarm, obviously trying to cover his fear with a veneer of anger. “Guards! Drag them to the holding bunker. Lock them up with the rest of the monsters.”

Swiping a hand over his oiled reddish hair, Ceridov turned back to Kal-El, struggling to regain his composure. “I expected those men to last longer before succumbing to the contamination, but the concentration is very powerful here. Perhaps it will happen to you, too.”

As the struggling, writhing prisoners were hauled off, Kal-El watched them, unable to comprehend what was happening.

“Once transformation begins, they survive for only a few days,” Ceridov assured him. “After we isolate the factors that make them into such brutes, we can adapt that knowledge to our own eugenics program. Soon we will have Soviet Superman.”

Ceridov hefted a chunk of the glowing green mineral and waved it in front of Kal-El’s face. The green light burned him, and the rough surface of the quarry wall at his back seemed to bite through his cape, his uniform, into his skin.

“I do not know why meteorite takes away your powers.” The general frowned at the mineral specimen in his palm. “Your countryman Lex Luthor has medical research laboratories and scientists eager to dissect you—but only when I am finished.” Holding the emerald rock, he swung his fist, smashing Kal-El on the chin with it. “And I am nowhere close to finished.”