Enemies & Allies (4 page)

C
OMMUNISM IS THE GREATEST MENACE WESTERN CIVILIZATION
has ever faced,” declared Lex Luthor, prominent American industrialist and one of the world’s richest men.

Leaning across the rough pine table inside the administration cabin, the brawny Soviet general chuckled. “And you capitalists want to destroy the working class by denying the fair distribution of wealth.” He grinned, exposing square teeth.

“I prefer to keep my own wealth, thank you.” Luthor leaned back in the distinctly rustic and distinctly uncomfortable chair. “We’re both satisfied with our propaganda, General.” He was perfectly comfortable speaking in Russian, having become fluent in eleven different languages before he turned his genius to nonlinguistic pursuits.

General Anatoly Ceridov folded his sausagelike fingers together. The two men were alone in the Siberian work camp’s headquarters—nothing more than a primitive hut, but it was the best meeting place the Soviet KGB officer could manage.

Ceridov had ice-blue eyes, a squarish face, and rough skin, either from standing too long in the frigid Siberian wind or from using too harsh an aftershave. His reddish hair was carefully slicked back with a perfumed hair tonic. Considering that he lived in one of the most godforsaken areas on earth, his obvious vanity was both peculiar and incomprehensible.

The general wore two obsidian—rather than gold—rank stars on a red epaulet, denoting that his rank carried both great power and great secrecy. No one outside the innermost levels of the KGB knew of Ceridov’s projects, or his existence. But Lex Luthor did.

Ceridov extracted a silver cigarette case from a uniform pocket. He snapped the case open and extended it invitingly. “Cigarette, comrade Luthor? American tobacco is quite a luxury.”

Luthor gave a withering answer. “I can always get American tobacco.”

His cordial gift snubbed, the general snapped the case shut. “Ah, but you cannot get real Russian vodka.” He went to a corner of the wood-paneled room, where an empty diesel barrel had been filled with packed snow, in which rested an unmarked bottle of clear, oily liquid. Without bothering to ask, Ceridov poured two glasses and handed one to Luthor. “We have many plans to discuss, and vodka makes even weighty problems seem lighter.”

Luthor took a sip and found the taste of the fiery alcohol rough and harsh. He despised wasting valuable time on social niceties, since he knew full well how much his time was worth. (He had, in fact, done the calculations himself.) “I’d prefer to get down to business. Immediately.”

He had already taken incredible precautions to keep their meetings secret—a private jet with no filed flight plan, flying below radar so that even the Distant Early Warning–line guard stations did not detect him. Now he took control of the meeting. “General, as the weapons stockpiles increase on both sides, so does
our
power and influence. The USA and the Soviet Union must remain equally matched so that you and I can continue to build our respective arsenals. A cold war thrives on tension.”

Ceridov drained his glass. “The very best kind of war: no shooting, but a great deal of money being spent on both sides.”

Only Luthor understood the delicate balance he had to achieve. He was not just an important businessman, not just a wealthy man, he was also a
smart
man who played chess on a global scale. He owned a sprawling mansion in the swanky Lake District north of Metropolis and more secondary homes than he could remember. He could have a gorgeous woman on his arm whenever he pleased. He could buy the finest things anyone might imagine.

But such triumphs and successes had begun to bore him. Instead, Lex Luthor craved things less tangible: power, obedience, and respect. Once he set his mind on those goals, he treated them like any other business proposition. He created a perceived need, then set out to become the only man who could fill it.

Ceridov had a similar aim in the Soviet Union. While the pair might have seemed to be rivals, their shared focus made them convenient allies. Each man worked behind the scenes in his own hemisphere. LuthorCorp and its military-industrial subsidiaries reaped profits hand over fist, and the black-star KGB general became extraordinarily influential in the Communist Party.

Luthor had recently completed the construction of a new base on an island in the Caribbean, for which he had used mostly expendable workers—much like the Soviet gulag slaves here—to do the hazardous parts of the job, particularly in constructing the small power reactor on the island. Many of the workers, especially the weak and less valuable females whom he had placed in the most hazardous activities, had succumbed to lethal radiation exposure…which had the added benefit, in Luthor’s view, of ensuring that they could not reveal the existence or location of the base. Yes, indeed, chess on a global scale.

“Unfortunately, comrade Luthor, you Americans have tipped the balance of power by developing a super-weapon that we cannot match. I have read reports of your ‘Superman’ in Metropolis. They say he can leap tall buildings with a single bound, that he moves faster than a speeding bullet.”

Luthor tried to cloak his annoyance with a mocking laugh. “You of all people should know not to believe propaganda! According to the newspapers, he also claims to be an alien. Personally, I’m not convinced.”

“But I have seen the photographs and read the interview he gave to Miss Lois Lane. Who is this man? How does he get his powers?” Ceridov’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. “More important, how will you keep him under your control? He is a loose cannon, and a powerful one at that.”

“Don’t worry about some costumed man showing off abilities that belong in a circus act. He’s a freak of nature.”

The general brooded in silence for a long moment. “If I learn you are lying to me, that he is a product of your own secret eugenics program…”

“Like the Soviet eugenics program?” Luthor smirked wryly. “I know you’ve been trying to breed your own superman for years.”

Ceridov seemed embarrassed by this. “Your program appears to have been more successful than ours.” He poured himself a second glass, then offered the bottle to Luthor, who had taken only one sip. “More vodka? It will keep you warm.”

Luthor rubbed his hands together briskly. Although Ceridov had offered him a fur parka as soon as his private jet had landed, Luthor still wore his business suit. “Why not just heat this cabin instead?” He knew that a modern scaled-down nuclear reactor provided ample power for the whole gulag and the industrial operations in the adjacent quarry. “We’re in the middle of one of the largest untouched primeval forests in the world—can’t you spare a few sticks of firewood?” He indicated the old-fashioned potbellied stove that sat in the corner.

“It will do no good. The wood from these forests around the meteor crater is…tainted, somehow. The fire burns
cold.
”

Luthor scoffed. “Nonsense.”

Ceridov opened the stove, and Luthor noted that while a fire was blazing inside, it generated no warmth. The general added a log from the firewood stack against the wall and shut the stove again. He didn’t even need gloves to touch the metal. “If only I had the manpower to investigate the mystery. Fortunately, our beloved premier is bound to arrest more Soviet scientists soon, charge them with crimes against the state, and sentence them here to my gulag. Then, perhaps, I will have the luxury of conducting research.”

Luthor had noticed an odd smell in the headquarters cabin—wood smoke with a spoiled, vinegary undertone. “The wall paneling? And this table? Made from the same local trees?”

The wood grain on the polished table, as well as the tongue-and-groove paneling that covered the wall, had strange, hypnotic swirls that drew Luthor’s attention. The patterns were quite unsettling. Though he was not a superstitious man, Luthor thought he saw hints of ghostly faces in the whorls, loops, and lines that stained the wood—screaming faces. He shook his head, sure it was some trick of Ceridov’s.

“Our workers cut down the trees, chop the firewood, and use the lumber. Sometimes it is difficult. Saw blades shatter. Trees fall and crush woodcutters. Our teams have a very high fatality rate.” Ceridov drained his vodka and shrugged. “It is fortunate that we have an inexhaustible supply of workers.”

“Let me see these workers and your quarry.” Impatient, Luthor looked at the rectangular face of his wristwatch, a white-gold Cartier Tank. “I’ve flown halfway around the world not to see
you,
General, but to observe the operations here. We’ve put a great deal of effort into this boondoggle, and I have yet to be convinced of its potential.”

“Then come look at our excavations of the meteor impact site.” Ceridov pulled on his heavy jacket. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a Russian
ushanka,
the familiar fur hat, which he proudly placed on Luthor’s bald head. “My gift to you. This will keep your brain warm.”

“My thoughts keep my brain warm.”

Ceridov opened the wooden door to the watery sunshine of a late Siberian spring. “The crater is very large. You will be impressed.”

W
ITHOUT KNOCKING, LOIS MARCHED INTO PERRY WHITE’S
office and dropped a newspaper on his desk, folded open to section 3 and Jimmy Olsen’s photo of Bruce Wayne. “This isn’t
news,
Chief. It’s entertainment. What’s so interesting about a playboy who flaunts his wealth and then tries to soothe his conscience by doing charity work? You shouldn’t have sent Clark to do a puff piece.”

“Wasn’t meant to be a puff piece.” Chomping on his cigar, Perry picked up the newspaper and perused the article again.

Lois pushed the paper back down so he had to give her his full attention. “I’ve got a better story to pitch. Forget Bruce Wayne—
Lex Luthor
is a different breed entirely. I want to do a profile on Metropolis’s own rich industrialist, and you can bet your ass my story won’t read like something written by the LuthorCorp public relations department.”

Perry raised his bushy eyebrows. “Luthor doesn’t give feature interviews. He likes his privacy too much. We’ve tried dozens of times.”

“
Superman
doesn’t give interviews either, and I managed to pull
that
off.”

“Good point.” Perry fiddled with his cigar, pondering. “You just have a bee in your bonnet because Luthor invited Steve Lombard to cover that flamethrower demonstration last month instead of you.” He actually chuckled, and a hot flush came to her cheeks.

Lois had submitted requests to LuthorCorp to attend the big-ticket military demonstration, but Luthor had turned her down flat. “Lombard is a
sports
reporter. What credentials does he have to cover such an important story?”

“Lombard is also a man, and you’re not.”

Lois harrumphed, knowing that Perry had put his finger on the reason, though she hated to admit it. She knew full well the difficulties a female journalist faced every day. “Then he might as well have asked for Kent.” She tried to summon scorn into her voice, but Clark was a decent reporter and so endearing with his small-town innocence that she couldn’t think ill of him.

Lois leaned over the desk. “I have it on good authority that there’s been a recent and very disturbing shakeup among the employees of LuthorCorp. Lex Luthor has been rapidly, but very quietly, getting rid of dozens of older men and
all
the women on his workforce, even though they’ve been a vital part of his military production lines for years. Tomorrow I’m meeting with a confidential source who’ll tell me what Luthor’s really doing in his weapons factories. My guess is he’s got a whole boneyard of skeletons in his closet.” She smiled at him. “By now you should know to let me follow my instincts, Chief. How many other reporters have gotten an interview with the Man of Steel?”

Perry sighed and leaned back in his creaking desk chair. “Go ahead, Lois. See if you can dig up any dirt on Luthor. Once you make up your mind, no force in the world can stop you—not even Superman. But be careful!”

She agreed quickly, but after hearing him give her the go-ahead, she wasn’t really listening.

BACK AT HER DESK, LOIS SMILED TO HERSELF AS SHE REMEMBERED
how she had gotten her big scoop on Superman.

Sure, Clark Kent had been the one to break the story about the strange flying man clad in blue and red. Clark, a country bumpkin fresh off the bus from Nowheresville, Kansas, had arrived at the
Daily Planet
offices when Lois, like every other reporter in town, was scrambling to get the story. In a single day, the mysterious hero had saved an airplane from crashing, foiled a robbery at an art museum, and saved five children and a puppy—never forget the puppy!—from a burning tenement. But nobody knew who he was or where he’d come from.

And Clark had waltzed in with a finished report, a front-page article that gave the amazing details of all the hero’s exploits. He had meekly asked for a job at the paper, and Perry gave it to him on the spot. Clark Kent—with his self-effacing sense of humor, his chivalry, and his bumbling kindness—had somehow scooped Lois Lane.

While Clark’s article introduced Metropolis to the mystery, Lois had given them the
man.
She had been the first to speak with him, had pried out answers to the most intriguing questions….

On that terrifying, wonderful day, Lois had been hot on the trail of jewel thieves who’d stolen the famed traveling exhibition of exquisite Buccellati jewel-encrusted cups from the Siegel Museum of Precious Gems and Geological Oddities. The thieves had peppered the air with a barrage of bullets while innocent bystanders dove for shelter.

Lois had joined the chase, racing along in her 1951 white Ford convertible. The police were desperate to catch the robbers, the thieves were desperate to get away, and Lois was desperate for her story. She meant to scoop the whole world with an up-close-and-personal eyewitness account. She gunned the engine, swerved to pass a slow-moving car, and closed the distance to the fleeing robbers. She yanked her head to one side when a bullet drilled a spiderweb crack through her windshield and punched a hole into her car’s beautiful red upholstery. She didn’t slow down.

The thieves reached the Twelfth Street Bridge, a monstrosity that sprawled over the sluggish green-brown Metropolis River. On the other side, once the robbers got into the lower-end slums, a rats’ nest of alleys clogged with grocers’ carts and festooned with laundry-draped clotheslines, they would be able to elude pursuit. On the span of the bridge, the jewel thieves shot at the lead police car, striking its front tires. The car spun out, and the closely following squad cars swerved and dodged; one cop car scraped the guardrail, sending sparks flying.

Lois was driving too fast, intent on the chase. She slammed on the brakes to keep from plowing into the halted police cars, laying a smear of black rubber on the metal gridwork of the bridge. Her bumper smashed through the guardrail, and the shrieking metal slowed her momentum. But not enough.

Her convertible pushed through, its front wheels rolling into space, and the undercarriage caught on the edge. Lois held her breath as the snappy convertible teetered slowly, tipping her inexorably toward the river. Lois let go of the wheel and scrambled into the back seat, clawing her way toward the trunk in an attempt to keep the car balanced for just a few more seconds.

The other cops jumped out of their vehicles and rushed to help, but Lois knew they’d never get to her in time. She absolutely hated being the damsel in distress! The thieves, laughing and shooting at random in celebration, raced over the bridge and escaped into the maze of the slums.

Metal groaned as the convertible pitched forward, its heavy V8 engine dragging the front down and off the edge of the bridge. Lois scrambled from the back seat, seized the folded canvas of the convertible top, and tried to pull herself onto the trunk. So close! Two policemen had almost reached her, hands outstretched, eyes wide as saucers.

The car dropped off the bridge.

Lois found herself falling, then screaming, more in disbelief than panic. She didn’t have time to panic. She was plummeting toward the river, and when she hit from this height, the sluggish water might as well be cement.

Suddenly she was in the arms of a man who simply scooped her out of the air, a red-caped stranger who could
fly
! Her stomach lurched and so did her heart; she didn’t seem to weigh anything at all.

Below, her car plunged into the river with a ferocious explosion of spray, but Lois was being gently carried back up to the bridge. The air seemed remarkably still, and her world had focused to a tiny space, just her and this amazing man who was simply
there
exactly when she needed him.

Lois’s heart pounded, and she looked up into the face of this hero, realizing that she was the first person ever to see him clearly, since all the earlier photos had been blurry. He was classically handsome, square jawed, with beautiful blue eyes and dark hair with a sassy-looking curl that hung over his forehead. His smile was warm and generous. He could have been anybody, yet he exuded a kind of strange familiarity.

He flew up toward the bridge, where the gathered policemen watched in slack-jawed wonder. “Please watch your driving more carefully from now on, all right, Miss Lane?” the flying man said.

“You…you know my name?” She struggled not to stutter, trying to remember how to be a real journalist, instead of behaving like a woman who had just survived a terrifying brush with death.

“I’ve read some of your articles. You’re a good reporter.”

She laughed despite her awe, unable to grasp this surreal conversation. “So the great costumed hero of Metropolis reads the
Daily Planet
?”

His face displayed a slight frown as he returned her to the edge of the bridge, setting her on her feet. “That wasn’t a product endorsement.”

Her arms had automatically looped around his neck for a better grip, but once she touched down on the solidity of the bridge, she could barely stand. Nevertheless, her journalistic instincts kicked in, and she blurted before she lost her chance, “Now that you’ve rescued me, I’d like an interview, whoever you are.” Her tone suggested that
he
owed
her.

“I don’t speak to reporters, Miss Lane. That would be unfair to your competition.”

“It’s unfair to the people of Metropolis! You seem to be fighting for the forces of good, but how can we know? If you keep secrets, people will suspect that you have some sinister purpose.”

That made him pause, even though he seemed anxious to go after the jewel thieves. “You make a fair point. Maybe the people of Metropolis do deserve a few answers. Shall we say eight o’clock tonight, at your apartment?”

“You know where I live?” Lois was taken aback in spite of her triumph.

He responded with a mysterious smile. “Of course.” Then he flew off into the sky, dwindling to a speck above the skyscrapers, in pursuit of the thieves. Naturally, he rounded them up in due course, dropping the men like a weekly trash collection at the precinct station, but by then the jewel heist had become a much less important part of the story for Lois.

If possible, that evening had been even more surreal.

As the appointed hour approached, Lois grew more and more nervous in spite of herself. She spent the entire afternoon deciding what to wear, though she didn’t normally waste valuable time making herself gorgeous to impress a man (even though this particular one
had
saved her life). Was he expecting to have dinner with her? Should she light candles, open a bottle of wine or champagne? Did he even drink wine or champagne? Who could know the answer to that?
She
would…and in just a short time. She watched the door, watched the clock.

“I’m here, Miss Lane.” He stood on her open balcony, startling her. Of course—a man like him wouldn’t use the front door!

She regained her composure, surprised that her voice sounded so normal. “Do you often peep in on single women like myself?”

“That wouldn’t be proper.”

She smiled. “Exactly what I expected you to say.” She indicated the davenport. He declined both wine and champagne (no surprise) and got right down to business. He remained standing in her living room, his red cape moving in the slight breeze from the open balcony door. Lois urged him, “Please have a seat.”

Moving with a flash of endearing awkwardness, as if he didn’t know how to be casual, he walked to the davenport, adjusted his cape, and sat down. Lois took a seat on the cushion next to him, as close as she dared, and picked up her notepad and pencil, crossing one shapely leg over the other. She was pleased to see from a slight widening of his blue eyes that he noticed.

She cleared her throat, pretending to be all business. “First things first. What do we call you?”

Lois thought it was a straightforward question, but his brow furrowed. “You mean like a stage name? I haven’t really thought about it.”

“You have many amazing abilities, and you certainly seem like a real hero. Someone super…
Superman
! I like that, unless you’d prefer something else?”

“No, I like it, too, Miss Lane.” She was surprised at how pleased his approval made her feel, and she moved a little closer to him, trying to be nonchalant. He didn’t notice…or maybe he did.

“What’s the significance of the symbol on your chest and cape? Is that the letter
s
?”

He touched his chest. “It’s a symbol with its own meanings. But yes, it could be seen as the letter
s
.”

She sighed, trying to disarm him with charm. “Is this how it’s going to be, then? Evasive answers to direct questions?”

His eyes sparkled. “It depends on the questions.”

“What’s your telephone number?”

“It’s unlisted.”

“I figured as much.” As Lois scribbled a note to herself, she continued her questioning. “One other thing. Why do you wear your red trunks on the outside of your pants? Isn’t that a little backward?” Her lips quirked in a smile.

“Oh, now, Miss Lane,” he said, blushing. “I thought this would be a serious interview.”

“Just trying to break the ice. All right, I’ll be serious. Tell me more about these powers of yours. What, exactly,
can
you do?”

Superman explained that he could fly (obviously), that he had super-strength, that he possessed certain other powers, many of which were just emerging. He seemed a bit mystified about them himself.

Lois was fascinated, even forgetting to take notes. “And how did you come by these powers? A radiation accident? A scientific experiment? Vitamins?”

He laced his fingers together, holding his hands in his lap as if the answer was a difficult one for him. “No, you see, I…I don’t exactly come from Earth. I’m from another planet, a place called Krypton.”