The Death and Life of Superman (64 page)

“Yes. I saw in that death a chance for new life.”

“You flew to Metropolis, seeking to take over his body.”

“Y-yes, but there was . . . resistance. As I sought to possess the body, Kal-El’s own essence asserted itself. My energies joined with those stored in the body but briefly. I was barely able to create a matter/energy flux. I drew mass from within the tomb, creating a new body for myself. Kal-El’s perfect Kryptonian form was my model. But my new body was not perfect. My eyes were light sensitive. I could no longer directly channel the power of the sun.”

“Kal-El’s body, however, could. You brought it back to the Fortress and had it placed within a Matrix.”

“I did, yes. My rebirth had changed me in many ways. I felt strange urges . . . passions. Perhaps it was because my new body was made in his image.”

“You had assumed his form and drawn upon his power. You began to see yourself in his role. You preserved his body to absorb and convert solar energy into a form which you could then tap.”

“I became Krypton’s Last Son. With the aid of my robots, I became Superman.”

“No, you became irrational. You thought yourself Superman, and the Fortress servitors reinforced your delusions. You created them when you created the Fortress, programming them to obey the commands of Kryptonian intelligences. When you reintegrated, they recognized and obeyed you. In your absence they obeyed the will of Kal-El when he awoke and arose from within the Matrix.”

“But . . . the power of Superman was mine.”

“Not anymore. Kal-El has left the Fortress. You are the Eradicator. You must accept that.”

“But if I am the Eradicator, what is left for me now? Without the power of Superman, I am nothing—nothing but an artifact of a dead world.”

The robots watched as the Eradicator grew quiet within the transparent capsule. A new robot joined the circle. “Prognosis?”

“Uncertain. Backfeed loop suggests that the Eradicator has ended his self-denial. There is a chance he can be motivated to recover.”

Another unit disagreed. “Motivation is not enough, nor is the nutrient bath sufficient to correct his bodily injuries. He must be re-energized.”

“But how? Master Kal-El was by far the Eradicator’s best conduit for energy, and he is beyond our power to contact or recall.” The robots went on-line, desperate to find a solution. Their programming demanded that they do everything possible to preserve this being who had been their creator. But still the question remained: How?

The Kryptonian Battle Suit sped through the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, churning up a vast cloud of silt in its wake. Its rapid movements drew the attention of a bottom-dwelling giant squid that sought to ensnare the mysterious intruder in its tentacles.

The Battle Suit, however, had been designed to withstand multi-kiloton explosions. There were few things on Earth that could stop it—not the uncaring cold of the Antarctic, not the incredible pressures of the ocean floor, and certainly not a giant squid. The Battle Suit’s automatic defense systems came into play, shocking the squid with a high-voltage electrical discharge and discouraging it from any further interference.

Without ever breaking stride, the Battle Suit continued on, ever northward, toward its preprogrammed destination.

Deep within the walking tank’s chest cavity its lone occupant, half-curled into a fetal position, rode in a cushioned flotation chamber. The Battle Suit provided him with full life-support, defense, and locomotion systems, but a single system failure denied him communication with the outside world. For all intents and purposes, he was deaf, dumb, and blind to the world outside of the Battle Suit, dependent on updates from its navigation systems to know that he was still on course.

The occupant wore the black-hooded bodysuit supplied him by the Fortress robots. In deference to his status as the last natural son of Krypton, they had added silver wristbands and a huge silver S-shield that covered his chest. On his face, he wore a breathing mask and a look of concern.

The last news he’d heard before leaving the Fortress dealt with the battle in Metropolis between a Superman pretender that the robots had identified as the Eradicator and someone calling himself the Man of Steel. He had no idea what else had happened since he’d set out—but he knew that putting an end to all this nonsense was most definitely a job for the
real
Superman.

26

In Metropolis,
John Henry sat in his mini-warehouse hideaway watching the news as a small generator chugged away, recharging his armor. The continuing coverage of the Coast City disaster was profoundly disturbing to him; he knew that he had to do something about it.

John Henry secured his warehouse room and jogged to the nearest pay phone, dialing a private number that had been given to him just the day before. As the call was being put through, he slipped a special distortion disc over the mouthpiece. “Hello, Mr. Luthor, this is the Man of Steel.”
I can’t believe that I just said that.
John Henry shook his head and continued. “I have another favor to ask.”

So hard did Superboy strain against his bonds that the muscles of his arms and upper back started to cramp. After nearly an hour, the harness still held him tight. An awful feeling of panic set in.
I gotta get free!
The Boy of Steel began hyperventilating.
If I don’t, everyone in Metropolis gets toasted—Tana, my manager, everybody! I can’t let them die . . . I just can’t!

Superboy’s whole body shook, as if seized by a convulsion, and his massive bonds suddenly blew apart, exploding away from him in pieces.

Halfway across Engine City, an alarm sounded, and Mongul and the Cyborg looked up from their plans. The Cyborg plugged himself into an adjacent console and went on-line with the city’s security net.

“Interesting. The boy has shattered his bonds. I would have thought them too complex even for his wild talent to handle.”

Mongul was aghast. “We must seal off that sector at once.”

The Cyborg detached himself from the console. “Not to worry, Mongul. I’ve already dispatched a security team to apprehend him. I should think that such strenuous use of his power has left him drained. He won’t get far.”

“Can you be certain of that? If he should escape—!”

“Relax, Mongul.” The Cyborg gave the warlord a death’s-head grin. “The boy is hardly a threat to us. After all, he knows nothing of our overall plans.”

Mongul stared straight ahead. “No. No, of course not.”

Superboy weaved, stumble-footed, from the chamber. He still couldn’t quite understand what he’d done to get free, but he didn’t care as long as he
was
free.

Footsteps came thundering down the corridor in the Boy of Steel’s direction, and he launched himself into the air. Upside down, he hugged the ceiling and crawled along it, hiding in the shadows of some ductwork as the security team passed by below. Seeing the ductwork reminded Superboy of how the Newsboy clones had engineered his escape from the Cadmus Project, and he began looking for an opening. After several minutes of frantic searching, he finally found a vent grille and pried it loose. He flew up through the air shafts until he found an opening into the central construction area, and from there he shot away into the smoke-filled skies.

From the closed-circuit transmissions Superboy had seen, he knew that Metropolis was next on the Cyborg’s hit list, and that the Justice League had been sent off into space on a wild-goose chase.
I can’t take on the Cyborg and Man-Mountain Mongul alone, that’s for sure. I’m gonna need help, but who?
The Boy of Steel’s mind was racing.
The army? Yeah, right. With all the BS the Cyborg’s been feeding them, there’s no way they’d believe me.

Choking on the ash-laden air, Superboy poured on the speed, trying to rise above the sooty clouds.
Tana would believe me. And the Man of Steel . . . he might listen, if I can find him. If I get him to help out
,
we might even have half a chance of stopping the Cyborg.
It was a slim hope, but it was the only one that came to mind.
I gotta get back to Metropolis. I gotta make ’em believe!

On he flew, faster and faster. In minutes, he was high over the Sierra Nevada and approaching the speed of sound.

Lois slumped down into her couch and zapped on her TV with the remote. She had appealed to everyone she knew who had any pull or position of authority, but no one wanted to listen to her concerns about the Cyborg. She glanced over at the set; another news update was breaking in, this one featuring the Cyborg himself.

“I can’t get away from this guy.” Lois shook her head and punched up the volume.

“. . . must regretfully report that the utter devastation of the Coast City area has proven too much for my young clone.” The Cyborg’s voice was low and mournful. “I am terribly afraid that the boy has become unstable. When he was last seen fleeing the area, he was screaming and flying out of control. In his current state, there is no telling what he may do or say. If you should see the young Superman, do not approach him. Report any such sightings to your local authorities. And please, try to go easy on him.”

Lois hit the off switch and threw down her remote. “I’m not sure what to believe anymore, but I know that I don’t believe you!” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
Nothing makes any sense. Oh, Clark, Clark, I need you! The world needs you!

There came a sudden tapping at the glass door of her balcony, and Lois rose from the couch with a start. “Clark?” It seemed impossible, but—yes!—there it was again . . . someone tapping at the glass, just as he always did. Lois ran across the room and threw back the curtains.

But it was only a bird.

“I must be losing my mind.” Lois sank back against the wall. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to do something before I go crazy!”

The Man of Steel flew in low over the harbor on his approach to O’Hara Airport, skimming the water to avoid the aircraft flight paths. When he was fifty feet from LexAir’s main freight terminal, he cut his rockets and touched down. Ten big strides brought him to the supersonic transport that was waiting for him, but as he neared the jet’s cargo hatch, he could hear a heated argument.

“Dammit, Larry, I’ve helped you out plenty of times. We practically grew up together!”

The pilot cupped his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear it, Lane. Five years, our families were billeted at the same bases. That’s hardly growing up together.”

“Who was it who encouraged you to go to flight school? Who told you about this lousy job in the first place? You owe me!”

“Yeah, you’re right. I do. But I’m already expecting one passenger for this flight—!”

“I’m right here.” The Man of Steel’s voice boomed out, startling both the pilot and his friend. John Henry recognized her immediately. “Hello, Ms. Lane. Are you looking to hitch a ride west, too?”

“Uh . . . yes.” Lois quickly recovered her composure. “Yes, I’m trying to reach Coast City—or as close as I can get, anyway.”

John Henry shook his head. “Long ways to go for a story. Dangerous place these days, from what I hear.”

“Oh? And just where are you bound for, Mister . . . what should I call you? Steel?”

“That’ll do. I’m headed the same place as you, but—if you’ll forgive me—I think that I’m a little better equipped. You see, I aim to link up with the Cyborg Superman and give him a hand. As you may recall, I’ve had some experience with the visored gent he’s hunting.”

“I remember, Steel. But I’d be careful whom I joined out there, if I were you. There’s something peculiar about—!”

“Holy Christ!” The pilot dropped his flight manifest and pointed to the far end of the airfield. “What the hell is that?!”

Lois and Steel turned to see the Kryptonian Battle Suit emerge from the rocky shoals just off runway three. Even from that distance, they could tell that it was big. It rose up out of the depths and broke effortlessly through a heavy guardrail. A small plane coming in for a landing just narrowly missed clipping the huge metal figure.

Steel charged down alongside the runway, hammer at the ready. To his practiced eye, this thing had the look of a machine that was built for war.