Enemies & Allies (12 page)

K
AL-EL FLEW OVER METROPOLIS, HIS RED CAPE FLUTTERING
in the breeze. Below, he saw nighttime traffic lights and the winking glimmers of bright skyscraper windows, people attending shows, dining in restaurants, seeing motion pictures. Staring at the kaleidoscope of night life, he tried to imagine how magnificent Krypton must have been, how exotic, how spectacular. But Earth was his planet now, and these were his people.

He needed to make sure that Lex Luthor did not pose a danger to them.

Kal-El himself had seen clear evidence of LuthorCorp planes chasing the mysterious alien saucer. He wanted to look the man in the eye and ask him why. If he had tried to do so as Clark Kent, reporter for the
Daily Planet,
he would have gotten nowhere. As Superman, however, he could not be ignored.

Kal-El streaked north beyond the city limits, up toward the Lake District. He skimmed pine forests interspersed with posh homes until he found the bright lights and incongruous modern architecture of Luthor’s mansion. It was naive to think he could simply land on the man’s balcony and talk with him, as he had done with Lois Lane. And he would not fly overhead and use his X-ray vision to spy on Luthor’s private activities in his own home.

By any measure, that would have been wrong. His parents had taught him better than that.

As he approached, still trying to formulate a plan, he heard Luthor’s household alarms and saw bright spotlights illuminating the grounds. With a quick scan, Kal-El watched guards responding to an emergency—a home invasion. Luthor was being robbed! Some intrepid burglar had broken through the industrialist’s security and was now getting away.

With his sharp vision he saw the shadowy shape of a man in a dark costume, cape, and mask. The caped figure expertly dodged booby traps, leaped over wire fences, and raced toward the perimeter of Luthor’s property. The confused guards shouted and fired their guns at the uncertain target.

Without hesitation, Kal-El swooped down. Jonathan Kent had taught him in no uncertain terms that the law was a safety net that applied to everyone, rich and poor alike. He had foiled many robberies and heists and would do so again, here on Luthor’s property. Kal-El could stop this criminal and turn him in to the authorities, without anyone getting hurt.
The law applies to everyone.

He recognized the prowler’s fearsome disguise from stories in the Gotham City papers: the Batman, a vigilante who had attacked the Gotham police and broken as many laws as the criminals he supposedly apprehended. Batman could have been a hero; he could have fought for the forces of good, but Kal-El was seeing him now for what he really was—no more than a petty criminal in a disguise. Kal-El had dealt with petty criminals before.

He landed silently in front of Batman, assuming a wide-footed stance, fists on hips, cape fluttering. “Stop!”

Intent on eluding the guards behind him in the trees, Batman halted. His eyes narrowed behind the dark mask, but his response was not what Kal-El expected: “I
knew
you worked for LuthorCorp.” He was holding something in one gauntlet, hidden by his cape.

Kal-El frowned, not knowing what Batman was talking about. “I do not work for Luthor.”

“Don’t lie to me. And don’t think you can stop me.”

With a flick of his other wrist, he flung a pointed Bat-shuriken, but the tiny throwing bat ricocheted off Kal-El’s chest and fell to the ground. The sharp barbs did not penetrate his blue suit, nor did the tranquilizer toxin come into contact with his skin. Batman paused only a moment before the same hand let fly a bolo string, and the weights wrapped around Kal-El’s arms and torso. With a flex of his elbows, though, the high-tensile-strength cables snapped like cotton threads.

Spotlights shone through the dark trees. The guards were coming, shouting, and Lex Luthor was with them.

Kal-El did not abide thieves; Batman had to be held accountable for what he had done here. The bald industrialist would likely want to take matters into his own hands. Kal-El couldn’t allow that either. He did not trust Lex Luthor to provide appropriate justice.

Bursting through the trees into the clearing, Luthor spotted the two of them standing there, facing each other. He let out an astonished gasp.

Acting on impulse, Kal-El seized Batman by his cape-covered shoulders and bounded into the air, carrying him away. “I’m taking you to the proper authorities.”

Below, Luthor shouted, “Stop them! Don’t let them get away!”

His guards opened fire, but Kal-El dodged the bullets as he flew into the night, heading across the calm surface of the lake. Batman didn’t struggle, didn’t argue as they raced out of sight, low over the water. Instead, he said accusatorily, “How did LuthorCorp create you? Drugs? Controlled mutation? Technological augmentations?”

“Luthor didn’t—”

Kal-El was startled when the other man twitched, touched a catch on his suit, and suddenly his slippery cape detached from his shoulders. Batman dropped free and plunged into the lake water below. Kal-El was left holding the scallop-edged cape while Batman dove deeper beneath the surface, fitting a breather over his face.

Kal-El’s vision could penetrate the dark waters. Dropping the useless cape, he dove into the lake himself, knifing beneath the surface and stroking toward the sleek figure. Seeing him approach, Batman released a small canister from his belt, which burst open, spreading a foaming cloud of bubbles and murky dye, like an underwater smoke screen.

Kal-El couldn’t believe how quickly the man could move. Though he sped through the murk, Batman had already changed direction, stroking toward the nearby shore and the dark, clustered mansions opposite Luthor’s property.

Kal-El had had enough. With a burst of speed he seized Batman again and flew up out of the water, leaving a splash behind them like an erupting geyser. Batman punched him in the jaw with a blow that would have stunned any normal man, but Kal-El gritted his teeth, flew to the pebbly shore, and dropped his opponent on an empty stretch between homes. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m not going to let you get away. You’ll stand trial for your crimes.”

As lake water ran smoothly from his dark suit, Batman seemed to be studying Kal-El, seeking hidden vulnerabilities. Batman said in a low voice, “If you take me out of the equation, then who’ll make Luthor accountable for
his
crimes?”

Kal-El hesitated. Lois had been clear about her suspicions of what the millionaire industrialist was doing, and her reporter instincts were rarely wrong. But a crime was still a crime, and he could not ignore what Batman had done. Kal-El made accusations of his own. “I know you broke into Luthor’s home. What did you steal from him? What’s so important?”

“You tell
me
why it’s important.” Batman turned slightly, holding a small lead box in his gloved hand. “What does Luthor want with this specimen? Why is he protecting it?” He opened the lead box to reveal a shimmering green fragment of broken crystalline rock.

Kal-El suddenly felt as if a locomotive had struck him in the back. He felt weak, drained. “What…is that?”

“You tell me.” Batman pressed forward, and Kal-El’s knees threatened to buckle. His vision turned dim, and black dots swirled before his eyes. He reeled, utterly helpless on the stony shore of the lake as he struggled for breath. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He collapsed to his knees, fighting to stay conscious.

And in that instant Batman was gone. Among the complex shadows of the pine forest at the boundary of the estate, the other man simply disappeared, taking the glowing green mineral with him.

As soon as Batman was gone, Kal-El felt his strength begin to return, his senses restored like a rush of cool water. But he was still weak, disoriented, reeling. And astonished. How could such a brief exposure to a lump of rock affect him so greatly? What kind of secret weapon was it?

On the opposite side of the lake, the lights and commotion at Luthor’s mansion continued. He heard alarms, shouts, two random and unnecessary gunshots. Soon even the distant neighbors would realize something was going on.

Kal-El scanned the forest, the isolated docks, the dark houses, but he saw no sign of Batman. The other man had completely vanished.

T
HE DAY AFTER HIS STRANGE AND UNSETTLING ENCOUNTER
with Batman, Clark returned to his desk to face yet another bag of letters addressed to “Lorna for the Lovelorn.” He adjusted his dark-rimmed glasses and stared warily, as if these pleas for help were also made of the mysterious green stone that had so profoundly affected him the night before.

Yet another problem his superpowers couldn’t solve.

After what he had seen at Luthor’s mansion, Batman’s baffling comments and accusations, and the LuthorCorp planes chasing the flying saucer, Clark knew he needed to uncover the truth. He needed to be a journalist again, a
real
journalist.

He dumped the mailbag on his desk. All these letters came from people who truly wanted answers to their personal problems, but Clark Kent wasn’t the one to give them. He was a
reporter,
not a counselor or a social worker. Though he carefully maintained a meek and harmless demeanor, Clark was far from passive. Straightening his jacket, he went to the glass doorway of Perry White’s office and knocked politely.

Perry was reading his own newspaper, scrutinizing the headlines, chomping on his cigar. He looked up. “Kent! That first Lovelorn column of yours was lackluster. Those people want advice, not sympathy. You have to
solve
their problems, not just hold their hands.”

Exactly the opposite of what his mother and Lois had told him.

“You’re right, Mr. White. I don’t think I’m—”

Perry cut him off. “I’ve been thinking, Kent—I didn’t hire you to be a pen pal for our whiniest subscribers. My wife, Alice, has been nagging me to take a crack at the Lorna column herself. She’s always giving
me
advice—she might as well do it for profit.” He didn’t seem to expect Clark to laugh at his joke. “I’ve decided to reassign you.”

“Uh…thank you, Mr. White.”

“Don’t thank me—I want you back doing real work for this paper.”

Clark jumped in, showing his initiative. “I was thinking about a follow-up on that flying saucer sighting—”

“You must be reading my mind, Kent. Get out there and snoop around before Lois gets it into her head to investigate. Since her expense accounts are always higher than yours, I want you and Olsen to check out this UFO story, especially with the new information that just came over the wires.”

Jimmy hurried into the office, hearing his name. “There’s more to the UFO sighting? Where are we going, Mr. White?”

“We’ve got reports that a flying saucer crashed in a Podunk town in northern Arizona. Could be the same one, or maybe it’s all part of an invasion. The closest airport is Las Vegas, so you’ll have to land there, rent a car, and drive. You’re sharing a motel room, mind you. And the
Planet
isn’t paying for gambling markers or topless Vegas shows!”

“No, sir, Mr. White!” Clark and Jimmy answered in unison.

“I knew you two would be perfect for this job.” Perry nodded wryly. “In fact—broaden the story, Kent. Give me a full background on the whole flying saucer craze. Even the Air Force has launched an official investigation—Project Yearbook or Project Bluebonnet, something like that.”

“I believe that’s Project Blue Book, Mr. White.”

“See? You’re already an expert! I want a full investigative piece. Tell me if this crashed flying saucer has real little green men or if it has more to do with pink elephants from the bottom of a whiskey bottle.” He shooed them out of the office. “Get to Metropolis airport, pronto. Lois is at an impromptu press conference Lex Luthor just called—I want you on your way before she decides to stick her nose in your story and asks to come along. Besides, there’s a gambler’s weekend special flight, and you can shave fifteen dollars off your plane tickets. Move!”

Clark and Jimmy scurried from the office, both grinning at their shared good fortune, though for very different reasons. “Gosh, Las Vegas, Mr. Kent! I’ll bet the lights on the Strip are bright enough to attract alien visitors.” The young man began gathering up his equipment. “Do you think the flying saucer is real?”

“Aliens on Earth? It’s up to us to find the truth.” Clark did his best to cloak his excitement. He had been seeking the same answers most of his life.

L
EX LUTHOR RARELY ISSUED PUBLIC STATEMENTS HIMSELF,
leaving that chore to his press relations staff. Therefore, Lois Lane was very interested when the bald industrialist called an emergency press conference. He was certainly incensed about
something.

Knowing what she did about his shadowy activities, Lois wasn’t inclined to believe what Luthor had to say; nevertheless, if he took questions, she could ask him—in public—about why and how he’d gotten rid of his female employees, about their mysterious deaths, maybe even about the unmarked LuthorCorp planes that had chased the flying saucer a few days ago, according to Superman’s statement after the recovery of the crashed jet.

She was eager to hear how Luthor would answer.

Despite her persistent telephone calls, Lois had been unable to get any clear answers from her father either; General Sam Lane’s military reticence had won out, despite his daughter’s pestering. But the incident could not be ignored: An Air Force jet had crashed in pursuit of a UFO, and no one seemed to understand why. Had the alien ship used a secret weapon, or had the systems been scrambled by the LuthorCorp planes?

She doubted Luthor would admit it, either way.

Now, as she stood among the crowd of reporters, Luthor emerged from the front entrance of his imposing corporate headquarters. He was impeccably dressed in a well-tailored black business suit with a thin black tie. He strode to the podium that had been set up for the event, positioned for optimum coverage, and gazed down at the clutch of reporters as though they were necessary evils. Radio newsmen proffered bulky microphones. Even a television news crew was there with an unwieldy, large camera.

Luthor had to force himself not to scowl as he recognized Lois, front and center, prepared to take thorough notes. His gaze skated past her, and he fashioned what must have been meant as a welcoming smile; it seemed to be an expression he rarely used.

He gave a pleasant greeting. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press. I have done many good things for the United States of America—and that has made me a target for evildoers and Communists. Last night an intruder broke into my
home.
” As he emphasized the last word, his pale face assumed self-righteous anger. Reporters eagerly recorded his words, scribbled notes, and followed him with their microphones. “This burglar might just as easily have been an assassin. I could have been killed.” He waited a beat, as if perplexed that his listeners were not as outraged as he was.

Lois seized upon the pause in the conversation. “Average people are robbed every day, Mr. Luthor. Why is this a big story?”

Luthor leaned forward, relishing his next words. “Because average people, as you call them, are not robbed with the assistance of
Superman,
Miss Lane.”

His words dropped on the crowd like a bombshell.
Now
the reporters did gasp, and photographers snapped pictures of Luthor standing there, looking smug.

He raised his voice. “Superman claims he’s here to defend people. He says he wants to stop criminals—and yet, when
my
house was attacked, when
I
was robbed, he came…and helped the burglar get away. I saw him with my own eyes. When my security men were about to apprehend the thief, Superman flew off with him, whisked him to safety!” Luthor jabbed a finger toward the reporters, toward the TV cameras, and particularly toward Lois.

Chasing the story, looking for a big scoop, the reporters muttered about this new idea. “Why would he do that, Mr. Luthor?”

“Indeed, why would he do that? Maybe a good investigative reporter could find the answer. Ask yourselves—what is Superman hiding? What does he really want from us all?”

Offended on Superman’s behalf, Lois refused to consider what Luthor was suggesting. “Maybe Superman wants to protect the innocent. It’s what his track record shows.”

Luthor gave a brief, utterly humorless chuckle, as if he found the very idea of altruism to be absurd. “It seems that Superman protects only those he likes. Do we really want selective justice handed out by a man who openly claims to be an alien? From a man who refuses to disclose his true identity? I look forward to what you all dig up about him.”

Lois remembered the accusations Blanche Rosen had made and the corroborating evidence she herself had found inside Luthor’s munitions factory. Superman wasn’t the one who needed the persistent attentions of an investigative reporter. But from the predatory expressions on some of her fellow journalists, she could tell that at least a few of them would play right into Lex Luthor’s plans. It infuriated her.

“And how do you explain the unmarked LuthorCorp planes that were supposedly chasing the flying saucer? Superman says he saw them with his X-ray vision,” Lois blurted. “Did they have anything to do with the crashed jet?”

Luthor responded with a sneer. “Listen to yourself, Miss Lane.
Unmarked
planes.
Supposedly
chasing a UFO. All according to Superman’s
X-ray vision
? I wouldn’t put much stock in what Superman has to say after what I
actually saw
him do last night.”

Seeing that he had achieved his desired intent, Luthor turned about and disappeared into his headquarters, ignoring the cacophony of questions that erupted in his wake. It didn’t matter to her if these other reporters went haring off to uncover Superman’s dark secrets—they would find nothing. Though she had only met him a couple of times, Lois felt she understood him with her heart. She had not the slightest doubt that Superman was exactly as brave and as good as he appeared to be.

Luthor, on the other hand, had plenty of things to hide.

WHEN SHE RETURNED TO THE
DAILY PLANET
, LOIS HURRIED TO
her desk and pulled out the scrap of paper on which she had written Blanche Rosen’s phone number and address. She had already searched through hospital records and obituaries and had found listings for several of the men and women Blanche had identified. All of them had died of “natural causes.”

Since those men and women were either widowed or unmarried, without families, no one would raise too many questions. Their deaths would be quietly swept under the rug, unnoticed. No one but Lois was going to do anything about it.

She had made up her mind to get Blanche a job at the
Daily Planet.
With all her years of diligent service for the country, the woman could fill some position—in the secretarial pool, in the cafeteria, on the switchboard. And it would spite Luthor.

Feeling good about what she was about to do—Blanche certainly needed a break in her life—Lois went in person to the woman’s small apartment on the Lower East Side. Driving her convertible, she followed the directions she had jotted down.

As she turned onto the right street, scanning the address numbers on the brownstone buildings, Lois had to swerve to the curb as a police car roared past her, siren wailing. With her reporter’s instinct, Lois looked around, keen to see what might be happening. As she eased the car back into traffic, another shrieking siren came up behind her, an ambulance this time, its red lights flashing.

Now she followed, accelerating to keep up with the emergency vehicles, and her heart sank with dread as she began to realize where they were going. The same address she had scrawled on her notepad.

Outside Blanche Rosen’s apartment building, the police car had already stopped at an angle to traffic, both doors wide open. Two officers worked to keep the crowd back. Paramedics jumped from the back of the ambulance, but the body sprawled on the street had been covered with a sheet, already turning red from seeping blood. Several old women on the sidewalk were holding each other, sobbing.

Lois quickly got out of her car and ran over to the scene, but she already knew. A policeman stopped her from getting closer, though she pushed against his implacable arm. “Sorry, ma’am—this is a crime scene. I can’t let you get any closer.”

The paramedics looked under the sheet; both men shook their heads.

One of the old women from the sidewalk pleaded with the second policeman, grabbing his shoulders and looking up at him through owlish glasses. “I saw it all, Officer! You have to catch him—some terrible man ran her down in the street and then just drove off. Just drove off! He left her there on the street. Oh, poor Blanche!” The old woman looked at the policeman, then at the gathered crowd, as if someone there could give her answers. “What sort of man would do something so
awful
?”