Enemies & Allies (6 page)

Back inside the Cave, surrounded by shadows, he found that his concentration always improved. This was far more than just a cave—it was a nerve center from which he kept watch and truly observed what work he needed to do to clean up his city. The cave roof high overhead was jagged with sharp stalactites. He had electric lights, surveillance cameras, an extensive library, all the information he could possibly need at his fingertips. Communications systems monitored police radio bands. The sophistication of his whirring, cutting-edge computer banks surpassed anything the U.S. government would admit existed. Part of the Cave was a chemistry lab; another grotto held an engineering bay and a machine shop. Small periscope cameras were hidden at strategic points on Gotham’s prominent buildings, their images viewable from his command center.

Since he needed to be present at the gala reception above, he didn’t plan to go out hunting, and so he had not taken the time to don the uniform. But the persona was always there. The Batman within gave him a different perspective, helped him think clearly and make difficult but necessary decisions. The dark suit remained on its stand nearby, always there as a reminder.

So many crimes in Gotham City were not obvious, and virtually the entire police force was corrupt, especially under Commissioner Loeb. Graft and blackmail ran rampant. Strong-arm tactics were used against anyone who accidentally witnessed activities best unseen.

He activated the high-tech cameras and receiver screens. As the cathode-ray tubes warmed up, he observed a black and white image fed directly from the boardroom of Wayne Tower. Hidden microphones had captured every word uttered since his departure and recorded everything on reel-to-reel tapes, gathering information. Now he watched the recent recording of these men, who had thought their conversations secret once Bruce left for the day.

Surprisingly, the directors did not seem concerned about the loss of Drayling. The conversation was more about Bruce and his increased interest in running Wayne Enterprises.

“Do you think he’s been meddling more lately?” asked Dennis Huston, vice president of applied technologies.

“Maybe he’s started believing the title on his office door,” answered Frank Miles with a snort. “We’ll just have to deflect him. Point him toward a new crusade, find a famine in Mongolia or something. He’s like a magpie—show him a bright and shiny object, and he’ll chase it. Then we’ll be able to do the real work without any interference.”

Bruce was not surprised by the scorn in their voices; he’d been hearing it every week, but lately he had suspected that something truly fishy was going on, and Drayling’s resignation had convinced him even more.

Alfred had to clear his throat a second time to make himself noticed. “Excuse me, Master Bruce. This evening’s first guests will be arriving within the hour.” The butler frowned disapprovingly at his rumpled clothes. “You might wish to change into more appropriate attire.”

“I see your point.” Bruce rose, switching off the monitor. He would review the recordings in much greater detail later. He turned to the butler. “Alfred, you knew Richard Drayling well.”

“Well enough, sir. He was an acquaintance of your father, and he and I have remained in touch. He is, after all, the last member of the ‘old guard,’ as it were.”

“He resigned today. He said something vague about not believing in the company anymore, but I get the feeling that something’s
happened.
”

Alfred frowned deeply. “I’m very sorry to hear that. He was a good man, one of the last good men on the board.”

“I agree, but I don’t think he respected me. My public persona fooled him completely.”

“You are quite convincing, sir.”

“Thanks.” Bruce frowned. “But you were his friend, Alfred. Talk with him. Find out if he’ll tell you more about his reasons, and see if he’ll have a private conversation with me. Discreetly.”

“Discreetly. Of course.” Alfred cleared his throat. “But this evening, sir…the party?”

Bruce gazed at the empty cowl of his uniform with its empty eye sockets, the stylized and frightening bat silhouette. He heaved a deep sigh at the thought of the party he had to endure upstairs. “Time to put on my other mask.”

C
LARK KENT PICKED THE WRONG MOMENT TO GO TO THE
watercooler. He bent over to fill a conical paper cup, and an air bubble belched up from the bottom of the tank. He straightened just in time to see Perry White lugging a swollen canvas mailbag across the bullpen.

When he spotted Clark, the editor in chief turned directly toward him. “Kent! Today’s your lucky day. I need somebody to take over the ‘Lorna for the Lovelorn’ column.”

Clark nearly dropped his water. Lorna Bahowic, who wrote the
Planet
’s personal advice column, was a spinster in her forties, thin, with mousy brown hair. Hundreds of letters arrived weekly from people begging her for help with their love problems. Lorna had also just gone into the hospital for gallbladder surgery and would be recovering for at least a month, maybe two. Clark had already sent her a small flower arrangement and a “get well soon” card.

“But, Mr. White, I—I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to give advice on relationships.”

Perry whistled loudly. “Lane! Kent needs your help understanding women and their problems. You’re a woman. Give him suggestions on how to write Lorna’s column.”

Lois turned, clearly annoyed by the editor’s whistle. “And just because I’m a woman, that means I’m an expert on women’s problems? I’m a reporter, Chief, not a psychiatrist.”

“Besides, surely all the letters aren’t from women,” Clark pointed out. “A few must come from men—”

“We usually don’t publish letters from whining men. It can be embarrassing. The two of you have worked together before, and I need that column.”

Clark made a last-ditch effort without much hope. “But, Mr. White—the Korean War Veterans parade is today!”

“Olsen can cover that. I just need pictures.”

“And the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the new observatory—”

Perry snorted. “No excuses.
You’re
the reporters,
I’m
the editor.” He lobbed the bulky mailbag, which Clark caught easily. “And this is your assignment. We’ll still run it under Lorna’s byline. Nobody needs to know she’s in the hospital.”

Lois bustled past, purse already on her shoulder, pulling on her jacket. “Sorry, but I’ve got an interview scheduled. Confidential source about LuthorCorp, remember? Clark, you’re on your own for this one.” Then her expression softened, and she smiled at Clark. “All you really need is a soft heart. You’re halfway there already. And I promise I’ll help—just not right now.”

“I’ll give it a hundred percent—I always do,” Clark managed forlornly, not needing X-ray vision to realize that the satchel contained hundreds of letters, each one written by a sad or tormented person. The only saving grace was that he would get to spend more time with Lois, working closely on the column.

He had admired her from the first day he’d walked into the
Daily Planet
with his original story about Superman. Lois was smart, funny, talented, and beautiful—a girl as different from anyone in Smallville as the moon was from the sun. Lois carried an
energy
around her, as if Metropolis itself charged her like a power substation. He felt like a small-town boy whenever he was with her, and he couldn’t help but blush any time she paid him attention.

With a sigh, Clark carried the heavy sack of letters back to his desk and thunked it on the floor beside his rolling chair. He pulled out the letters one by one, opening them, reading the problems, and setting them aside. He was quickly overwhelmed.

I’m sure my husband is cheating on me. Should I confront him? Should I forgive him?

My boyfriend keeps hitting me, even though I know he doesn’t mean it. My friends tell me to leave him, but I love him. What should I do?

We’ve been going steady for three whole months—will he ever propose?

My husband doesn’t like my cooking….

Letter after letter left him mystified about basic human nature. He could bend girders with his bare hands, outrace a speeding locomotive, fly from one side of the country to the other faster than the most advanced fighter jet. He could grab Lois Lane out of the air as her car plunged off the Twelfth Street bridge. He could whisk victims of a school bus crash to the hospital faster than any ambulance. He could carry a sinking passenger ship to the docks in Metropolis Bay. He could hunt down jewel thieves, stop kidnappers.

But this? He had no idea.

My boyfriend won’t look at me anymore. He didn’t even notice my new $20 hairdo.

We’ve been trying to have children for five years, but nothing’s worked. Should we adopt? My husband says there must be something wrong with those babies, otherwise why would the mother give them away?

For the rest of the day, Clark felt he was reading the same basic letters over and over. These people posed difficult questions and had deep emotional problems that couldn’t be solved by simply twisting steel or outracing a bullet.

He thought about going to visit Lorna in the hospital, to ask her advice on giving advice. How did she deal with this every day? Clark tried to imagine the conversation in the sterile hospital room, with him awkwardly attempting to discuss love with an older spinster who, despite being single, still knew a lot about the human heart.

In fact, everyone seemed to know more about emotions than he did.

Clark had a deep-seated desire to help people, and he had never questioned his own motives or feelings on the matter. To him, it was the obvious thing to do whenever he saw someone in need. Until today, he had always felt he could overcome any challenge, but now he thought perhaps he was wrong. Helping people overcome emotional pain and suffering was obviously a lot more difficult than exhibiting feats of strength.

Still, in a different way, by answering these letters and writing the “Lorna for the Lovelorn” column he would also be doing something important for people in need.

But he couldn’t do it alone.

T
HE LUTHORCORP ANGLE. LOIS HAD AN INSTINCT FOR
these things.

She’d arranged to meet her source for coffee at a Canal Street diner. Blanche Rosen was a forty-eight-year-old widow whose husband had been killed in the Korean War. Though she had worked on various factory assembly lines for twenty years, and the last five at LuthorCorp with an exemplary job performance record, Blanche suddenly found herself jobless. Lex Luthor had systematically removed all of his female and older male employees and put “a man in a man’s job.”

It had happened previously in American industry, particularly after World War II. With the overseas war wrapped up and all the men returning home, many women had found themselves booted out of the factories and sent back to become barefoot and pregnant homemakers.

But with no such flood of returning soldiers now, LuthorCorp’s deliberate action really stuck in Lois’s craw. Worse, Blanche Rosen’s surreptitious message strongly implied that something more sinister was going on. Lois was doing some digging, but so far she couldn’t find anyone else willing to talk. In fact, she could find few of the fired LuthorCorp employees
at all.

Very fishy indeed. She couldn’t wait to hear what Blanche had to say.

Lois waited in a bright red Naugahyde booth. Exactly on time, an older, severe-looking woman arrived and took the seat across from her. She wore a nice dress, perhaps her best, the one reserved for temple on Saturdays. Her voice was gruff, no-nonsense. “Are you Lois Lane?”

“Yes, I am. I’m the one who can get your story told, Mrs. Rosen.”

Blanche nodded. “It’s not only
my
story. There’s a lot of women and men just like me from LuthorCorp, but most of them aren’t alive anymore.”

Lois was shocked. “Are you saying Lex Luthor
killed
them?”

“In a manner of speaking. Hazardous duty, no safety procedures or equipment, harmful radiation exposures…‘Caribbean vacations.’ I’m one of the last few left, mainly because I’m a tough old bird.”

Lois took out her notepad, her expression intent. “I’m all ears, Mrs. Rosen.”

The waitress came over. Both women ordered coffee, but Blanche also asked for a pastrami sandwich and potato chips. With only the briefest hesitation, she added, “And wrap up a second one to go.” She clung to her pride as she looked across the booth at Lois. “You don’t mind, do you, newsgirl?”

“A girl’s gotta eat.” Lois felt a tug at her heartstrings. “But you have to sing for your supper.”

Blanche looked around the diner, studying the other customers. She lowered her voice. “How do I know
you’re
not in Luthor’s pocket?”

Lois let out a laugh. “That’s not an image I want to think about. My journalistic credentials should speak for themselves.” She leaned across the table. “Frankly, Mrs. Rosen, Lex Luthor makes my skin crawl. I’ve been face-to-face with him. I’ve seen him smile. Ever see a snake smile? There’s nothing behind it.
Nothing.
”

Blanche slurped her coffee and heaved a long sigh. “The things I’ve seen, Miss Lane. LuthorCorp and their munitions factories, the military bases, the test flights, black programs that don’t show up on any official paperwork. I had a security clearance, and I performed the most delicate work…and now look at me. Crumpled up and discarded like a chewing gum wrapper—practically living on the streets, without a job, without a pension, my husband’s death benefits almost gone. It’s a damn shame, I tell you. Forget what Senator McCarthy rails about—
this
is un-American! This is not what my family left Germany for.”

Blanche paused to take a large bite of her pastrami sandwich as soon as it arrived. Lois stole a potato chip and pressed for more information. “What kind of work did you do, exactly? And what’s this about a ‘Caribbean vacation’?”

“Reactor assembly. Luthor has his own island, complete with a small atomic power reactor.”

Lois began scribbling in shorthand as quickly as possible. “Is that where he works on his secret projects for the government?”

“Miss Lane, the government doesn’t know
half
of what Luthor does. That uncharted island is a test bed for some of his most dangerous technology. Once Luthor’s weapons systems function, he’ll sell them to the U.S. military for ten times his investment.”

“So how did you get involved?”

“He invited some of his employees to help build facilities there and do the technical work. He hired Cuban locals to do the heavy construction of remodeling an old fort into a new base. Many of those men and women were just like me, divorced people and widows living on a shoestring without much to keep us here in Metropolis. When we got the offer to spend a few months in the Caribbean, who were we to complain? At the time, it didn’t occur to us that we were the employees Luthor considered the most expendable…the ones who wouldn’t be missed.”

Lois nodded, letting the woman continue.

“But then they started getting sick. The Cuban work crews left, and we didn’t see them again. I heard something about their boat sinking in open water, all souls lost. On the island, those poor men and women in charge of installing reactor fuel rods and coolant systems fell terribly ill, and Luthor—such a generous man!—took them to his own hospitals back on the mainland. He said he would provide the best possible medical treatment.” She set down her sandwich as if she’d lost her appetite. “They’re all dead now.”

The cheery waitress came back to fill their coffee cups.

“Apparently there was a radiation leak. All their hair fell out—I heard Luthor make jokes about them being bald.” She shook her head. “I haven’t shown any symptoms yet, but Luthor swept all of us under the rug.”

The story made Lois’s blood boil. “Do you have any proof of this, Mrs. Rosen?”

“They took everything from me. I have no records, no photos, nothing tangible. But you’ll find everything you need in the LuthorCorp munitions factory in the barrens outside of Metropolis.” Her eyes lit up. “And I can tell you how a smart, resourceful reporter might be able to slip inside and take a look around.”