The Death and Life of Superman (40 page)

When the Kents returned
home to Smallville, everything in Kansas seemed gray, but nothing was grayer than Jonathan’s mood. The afternoon sky was overcast from Salina to the Rockies, but even a bright, sunny day would have done little to raise his spirits. Everything Jonathan saw made him think of Clark. Just staring out the truck window at the plains, stretching out to a gray horizon, had reminded him of the drab little Kansas farm in
The Wizard of Oz,
and the many times he and Martha had read that book to their son.

For Martha’s sake, Jonathan had tried not to brood, but neither of them had said more than three or four words since they’d left the airport parking lot at Great Bend. Silence seemed to suit them both at the moment, but Jonathan had seen a lot of grief in his life and knew too well the difference between the quiet that heals and the silence that festers. He was very much afraid that he was slipping into a dangerous silence, but at the same time he felt wholly unequal to the task of resisting it.

It wasn’t until they turned down the gravel road to their farm that Jonathan finally forced himself to speak. “Old farm looks the same as it did when we left, don’t it, Martha? Funny . . . feels like we were away in Metropolis a million years.”

Martha nodded slowly.
For a while there, it felt like two million.
“It’s good to be back, Jon. Home is a good place to heal. Leastways, I hope it will be.”

As they pulled up to the farmhouse, Ed and Juanita Coleman came out to welcome them back.
Were so lucky to have them for neighbors,
thought Jonathan.
They’re such good folks.
It had been a load off his mind, knowing that the Colemans were looking after the house and livestock while they were away.

No sooner had Martha stepped from the truck than Juanita swept her up in a big hug. Ed started to shake Jonathan’s hand, then changed his mind and gave his old friend a hug as well.

“Good to have ya back, Jon.”

“Thanks, Ed.” Jonathan reflected that there weren’t many men in these parts—of their generation, at least—who felt secure and comfortable enough to give so physical a greeting. He felt honored that Ed thought that much of their friendship.

Jonathan reached over to pull their suitcases from the back of the pickup truck, but without seeming to hurry, Ed somehow got there first. “I’ve got these, Jonathan. You take it easy.”

“Sure, Ed, sure.”
Me take it easy? He’s five years older than me, if he’s a day. Then again, Ed never has looked his age—“black don’t crack,” isn’t that what he always said?—and me, I probably look a hundred years old.
“Thanks again. And thanks for seeing to the chores while we were gone. Both of you.”

There were tears in Juanita’s big dark eyes. “Supper’s all ready and in the oven keepin’ warm for you. But listen, if’n you folks don’t feel like eating alone tonight, why, you just pop that casserole into your fridge and come over to our place. That meal won’t suffer any for it. It’ll even be better the next day.”

Martha’s eyes glistened with tears as well, but she smiled bravely and hugged her neighbor again. “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble, Juanita.”

“Wasn’t any trouble. You’d do the same for us.” Juanita’s face was lined with sorrow. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are ’bout what happened to Clark. I never would’ve thought . . .” She shook her head. “I mean, he reported from so many dangerous places over the years, and then right there in Metropolis . . .”

“ ‘We never know the place or the hour,’ ” Martha quoted softly.

Juanita bit her lip. “Have they found . . . any sign of him yet?”

“No, not yet. That Doomsday creature caused so much destruction. They may never find him.”

“Now don’t you talk like that, Martha Kent. If’n there’s no bad news, there might yet be good news. I don’t want to hold out false hope, but they could find him alive, you know! Big, strong boy like Clark—if anyone could beat the odds and survive, it’d be him.”

Ed returned from stowing the suitcases inside and put his arm around Juanita’s shoulder. He smiled gently, encouragingly at Martha. “So, you an’ Jon gonna be join’ us?”

“No—no, not tonight, Ed. It’s awfully kind of you, but I think we need a little time to ourselves just now.”

The Colemans nodded and headed over to their own pickup. As Ed started up the truck, Juanita rolled down her window. “Remember now, anytime you feel the need to talk, you just give us a call. And if we don’t hear from you soon, we’ll call you!”

The Kents stood by the back porch, watching as Ed and Juanita’s truck disappeared down the road. Jonathan zipped his jacket shut against the wind. “You go on in, Martha. Ed said that he’d tended to the milking, but I want to look in on old Bessie.”

As Jonathan entered the barn, Bessie mooed her hello. “Hello, old girl, how’re you doing?” He looked around. Bessie’s stall—the entire barn for that matter—was tidy as it could be. “I knew I could trust Ed and Juanita to do right by you, Bess.”

On the wall beside Bessie’s stall, a few faded bits of ribbon fluttered in the breeze from the open door.
Clark’s old 4-H ribbons—the ones he won with Bessie’s mother—they’ve been tacked up there so long, I’d almost come to overlook them.
Jonathan shook his head.
How can everything look the same, when everything is so different?

“Hey, Pa, look! I got Bessie all cleaned up! What d’you think?”

Jonathan jumped. “C-Clark?” His memory was so vivid, the voice had sounded as clear as if his young son were actually there. He looked from the ribbons to Bessie and back again.
Clark must have been about twelve when he won that blue ribbon . . .

“Bessie is really the best, isn’t she, Pa?”

Jonathan beamed at his son. “I never saw a prettier little calf in my whole life, Clark!”

“Really? Do you think maybe she might take a ribbon at the 4-H fair?”

“If hard work and care can make a calf a winner, son, that little gal’s got more than a chance—she’s got a
good
chance!” Jonathan knelt down beside his son, scratching the calf behind the ears. “Just don’t go getting cocky, son, and counting your ribbons before you win ’em.”

“I won’t, Pa. Thanks!” Young Clark gave his father a big hug. “If she does win, it’ll be because of you!”

“Because of me, Clark? How so?”

“Because of what you taught me—you and Ma both!” Clark rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I wasn’t
born
knowing this stuff! You taught me how to care!”

“Well, we surely tried, son. We tried our best.”

“Jonathan?” Martha stood in the doorway of the barn, trying not to look too worried. “Jonathan, did I hear you talking to somebody out here?”

Jonathan looked around. The twelve-year-old boy had vanished long ago. “Nobody’s here, Martha. How could I be talking to anybody?” His voice sounded dead, even to himself. Jonathan managed no more than a weak smile for his wife; lifting those muscles in his face seemed to take more effort than hefting a fifty-pound bale of hay.

Jonathan gave Bessie one last pat and headed back to the house with Martha. And though they walked arm in arm, she found herself thinking that her husband had never seemed so far away.

Behind the doors of Lab Seven in the Cadmus Project, Dubbilex stood like a statue, contemplating the faintly green, Plexiglas-walled cold storage unit that held the body of Superman. The DNAlien did not even look up as the chamber door cycled open. “Come in, Jim.”

The Guardian crossed the room in three great strides. “I’m not surprised to find you still here, Dub.”

“Nor I you. We harbor many of the same reservations.”

“No doubt.” The Guardian rested a hand lightly on the storage chamber. “Well, I’ve sent a report to Washington, listing my reservations about all this. If nothing else, I guess we’ll find out how many friends Westfield has left in high places.” He stared down at Superman’s body as if trying to will the Man of Steel back to life. “You know, I still don’t really feel right about this. That probably sounds hypocritical, and maybe it is, but it’s the truth.”

“Indeed. I’m also concerned about Westfield’s proposal to clone Superman. The Project’s only truly unqualified cloning successes—yourself and the young Newsboys—involved the replication of purely human stock. We understand so little of Kryptonian physiology, Guardian; we could easily create a monster.” A dour smile tugged at the corners of Dubbilex’s mouth. “A prime example of which stands before you.”

“Don’t ever say that, Dub.” The Guardian looked up at his friend. “You’re no monster.”

“Not intellectually, perhaps. You must admit, though, that I have a face only the tabloids could love. It is not easy being the only one of your kind, Jim. But I have made my peace with my situation. I am reasonably happy in my work and enjoy life as much as I can, within my self-imposed restrictions. But what if we were to create a being that possessed all of Superman’s power and none of his humanity? That would be a true monster.” Dubbilex leaned over the Plexiglas surface, peering at Superman through his own reflection. “A superpowered monster might not be so easily restricted—or restrained. Wouldn’t it be the ultimate irony if, in trying to re-create the Man of Steel, we instead gave the world another Doomsday?”

The Guardian shuddered at the thought. “That’s why I wanted Tommy, Anthony, and Walt to supervise this. I trust them to pull the plug if things should get out of hand.”

“Yes, to the best of their abilities, they would.” Dubbilex stroked his long chin. “But there is another question that we should be asking ourselves. What if, somehow, Superman is still alive?”

“Alive? You mean, you’ve detected a mind—?”

“No. Not a trace. But look at him, Jim. This is not the result of any mortician’s art. The body has been thoroughly cleaned and there are no signs of any contusions. The terrible wounds that Doomsday inflicted upon him have closed!”

The Guardian bent close over the body. “Yes, you’re right. But surely that must have happened before he died. You’ve spent days searching for signs of life—ever since we discovered what Westfield had done.”

“Even longer than that, Jim.” Dubbilex gently shook his head. “I examined Superman at the battle site. Consider this: Even before you began CPR, when the Man of Steel’s wounds were still open and oozing blood, I could sense nothing of his spirit. Your valiant efforts, and those of the paramedics and of Dr. Sanchez, were all unsuccessful.
At no time
—and believe me, my friend, I kept close watch—did I ever sense the faintest stirrings of life.”

The Guardian sucked in a sharp breath and turned back to the DNAlien. “I see what you mean. Then, to the best of your knowledge, Superman was already dead, yet his wounds still closed.”

“Not merely closed. They apparently
healed.
”

The Guardian’s eyes widened. “Do you have any idea how? Or why?”

“I can think of two possibilities. Perhaps the healing of Superman’s wounds was a last reflex of an extraordinarily vital body; the separate tissues trying to heal themselves even after the individual life-force as a whole was gone. Certainly, cells expire at different rates in all multicellular organisms. Some tissues live on for minutes, even hours, after brain death has occurred.”

Wearily, Dubbilex rubbed his eyes. “Or possibly, his spirit
was
still present, but I did not look closely enough, or in exactly the right ‘place.’ Perhaps it is present even now, and I simply do not know how to find it.”

The chamber grew quiet as both men silently pondered what, if anything, they should do next. For several minutes neither said a word.

Then, quite suddenly, the stillness of the lab was broken by a thumping sound. A utility panel set into the far wall suddenly swung open, and five young clones came tumbling out.

“I told ya to quit shovin’, Scrapper! Didn’t I tell ya to quit shovin’? Now look what ya made me do!”

“Gabby, if ya don’t button yer trap, I’m gonna button it for ya!”

Tommy and Flip each grabbed one of the smaller boys and pulled them apart.

“Leggo a’me, Johnson! Lemme moiderlize the little motormouth!”

“Hey, chill out, Scrap.” It was all Flip could do to hang on to the squirming boy.

“That goes for you, too, Gabby.” Tommy held his captive’s mouth shut. “Keep the volume down, or the whole Project’ll hear us.”

“Uh, gentlemen?” Big Words gave an audible gulp. “I fear that our compatriots’ altercation has already betrayed us.”

Five pairs of eyes stared up into the face of the Guardian.

“Guardian! Hi!” Tommy mustered up the most innocent-looking grin he could manage. “We were looking all over for you! Weren’t we, Flip?”

“Yeah, that’s right. We heard one of the techs say you were inspecting the utility tunnels and—”

The Guardian held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear another word. I want you boys straight out that door and back to your quarters on the double. Got that?”

The Newsboys made not a sound. They didn’t nod, run, or otherwise acknowledge the Guardian’s orders. Their eyes had snapped open wide, and Tommy lost his grip on Gabby’s jaw.

“Holy jumping jeez! It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s Superman! They got Superman all laid out like this was Donnehy’s Funeral Parlor or somethin’!”