"Curse you, Booster Gold!"
The armored villain known only as Manthrax shook his fist at the hero before cowardly escaping down a murky subway tunnel. Booster glared at the fleeing terrorist, but stayed behind to finish deactivating Manthrax's insidious bio-bomb. The safety of countless commuters, watching anxiously from a nearby subway platform, obviously took priority.
Or so the televised video footage made it appear.
"We're coming to you live from the Midtown train station," the TV news-woman announced after airing the video clip. Claudia Lanpher stood outside the station speaking into her mike as she faced the camera. "Where Booster Gold just saved thousands of Metropolis citizens from a brand-new masked marauder, as seen in the amateur cam-phone footage you just saw. The exclusive footage vividly captures the villain's attempt to unleash a biological weapon inside the city's busiest subway terminal."
A levitating golden sphere entered the frame. "With us now is Skeets, Booster's robotic sidekick." She turned her mike toward the robot. "Skeets, fill us in. I'm told that Booster abruptly left a crucial endorsement meeting with Promethium Razors when he heard about this crisis. Will that sour your negotiations with Promethium?"
“we hope not, ms. uanpher.” Skeets tilted toward the mike, “but
PRIORITIES ARE PRIORITIES. THE THINGS BOOSTER DOES ARE NOT ABOUT DOLLAR FIGURES.”
The reporter nodded approvingly. "Skeets, will Manthrax be brought to justice?"
“you bet,” the robot replied, “if this antisocial miscreant ever
SHOWS HIS MASK IN METROPOLIS AGAIN, HE’LL ANSWER TO BOOSTER
golds” His polished exterior reflected the lights of the camera, “you may
QUOTE ME.”
" 'Curse you, Booster Gold?' "
Booster rolled his eyes. Talk about cheesy dialogue!
Manthrax, aka Bob Somebody, shrugged. "I ad-libbed. That's what actors do." He removed his armored helmet, revealing a face that Booster vaguely recognized from bit parts in movies and the occasional late-night TV commercial. Booster also thought he might have seen Bob in a Law & Order rerun once. Just another out-of-work actor, in other words.
The two men stood on the tracks of an abandoned subway tunnel. Skeets hovered above Booster, projecting enough light to see by. Security cameras were conspicuously absent. The nearby platform was deserted. Nervous rats kept their distance. •
Booster wrote out a check and handed it over to Bob. Foam rubber padding bulked up the actor's physique beneath his metallic green and white armor. Flashing lights and circuitry were just for show.
"I teach a Saturday morning improv class at the Learning Annex," Bob mentioned as he accepted the check. "You should stop by."
"This Saturday?" Booster asked. "Love to."
Bob smiled, obviously pleased at the notion of recruiting a genuine super hero. "Really?"
"Absolutely," Booster said sarcastically. "We can make brownies after. Maybe braid each other's hair." Bob scowled as he realized that Booster was making fun of him. "Or, alternatively, Bob—"
"Bill," the disgruntled actor corrected him.
Whatever, Booster thought. "You can go find a horse to choke with the money you just made, then vanish back into the same obscure talent agency where I found you." He reached out for Manthrax's forbidding metal countenance. "I'll take the helmet. Drop the suit off at the same storage locker you picked it up from. Manthrax disappears forever as suddenly as he appeared. We never had this conversation. Everyone wins."
Despite his callous tone, Booster felt a twinge from his conscience. He had never faked a super-heroic stunt before, but what was he supposed to do? He couldn't depend on Skeets' predictions anymore. How else could he nurture his lucrative career unless he manufactured the occasional incident to enhance his reputation? The public had a short memory. He couldn't coast on his past triumphs for long.
Everyone wins, he told himself again. And nobody gets hurt.
"Capisce," Bob said, getting the message. A change of clothes waited in the gym bag at his feet. Booster intended to hang onto the "Manthrax" costume just in case he needed to stage an encore someday. Maybe with an actor less fond of ad-libs.
"Curse you, Booster Gold?"
Booster decided to cut the guy a break anyway. "Just because I'm a generous soul, let me give you a tip. I'd turn that dough into Promethium Razors stock before the markets close today." Today's heroic headlines were bound to seal the deal with Promethium, and get Booster a much fatter contract than he might have pried out of the stingy company otherwise. And Booster's endorsement was sure to send Promethium's sales through the roof, now that he had famously saved thousand of lives from Manthrax's diabolical plan. My popularity rating must be in the stratosphere right now.
He started down the empty tunnel. "Coast clear above, Skeets?"
“affirmative, si r;” the robot reported, “an d promethium wishes
TO RESCHEDULE. I TOLD THEM TOMORROW.”
He gave Skeets a quizzical look. "Why tomorrow?"
“THIS AFTERNOON WE TRAVEL TO ARIZONA. I FINALLY LOCATED, AS YOU REQUESTED, THE LAST KNOWN ADDRESS FOR DR. RIP HUNTER.”
At last! Booster thought. If anybody could get to the bottom of Skeets' recent spate of inaccurate predictions, it was Rip Hunter, this era's leading authority on time-travel. For all his bravado, Booster desperately needed to know whether it was the robot that was broken—or history itself. Maybe Hunter can straighten this out, he hoped, so I won't have to fake any more rescues. The sooner he got back to genuine super-heroing, the better he would feel.
"Then we're off!" His feet lifted off from the rusty subway tracks as he flew down the tunnel. "Don't spend all of that in one place, Bob!"
The actor's eyes bulged at all the zeroes inscribed on the check. "I'm not sure I could."
Booster grinned. The future was starting to look bright again.
Let it never be said I don't pay my villains well!
ARIZONA.
NO TRESPASSING, read the sign posted to the sturdy chain-link fence surrounding the remote desert outpost. Razor wire and security cameras topped the fence. Miles of desolate badlands surrounded the compound in every direction. Cacti bloomed amidst the arid landscape. Buzzards circled overhead . Red rock mesas loomed in the background.
"What's he preparing for? World War III?" Booster Gold flew over the fence and touched down in front of a pair of massive steel blast doors. "An underground bunker in the middle of the desert? This is his last known address?"
Despite Skeets' confident assertion back in Metropolis, it had taken them a week to track down this location. The Arizona address the robot had initially discovered had turned out to be merely the first link in a chain of forwarding addresses used to conceal Rip Hunter's true place of residence. Clearly, the celebrated scientist did not wish to be disturbed.
“IN HIS DEFENSE, SIR, DR. HUNTER IS JUST BEING SAFE.” SkeetS
was dwarfed by the size of the looming steel doors, “he is the unquestioned FATHER OF TIME-TRAVEL, OVER SEVENTY-NINE ATTEMPTS HAVE BEEN MADE TO STEAL HIS TRANS-TEMPORAL TECHNOLOGY THIS YEAR ALONE,”
I suppose, Booster thought grumpily. The hot sun and blistering temperature did little to improve his mood. He knocked on the steel doors. "Hello? Rip?" He had met the so-called "Time Master" once or twice before. "It's Booster Gold!"
There was no response.
“perhaps he isn’t home?” Skeets speculated, “that would explain WHY i COULDN’T REACH HIM EARLIER.”
"Or maybe he's caught up in one of his projects." Booster examined a futuristic-looking locking mechanism mounted to the door. "Skeets, what kind of a lock is that?"
“AN ATOMIC TIME LOCK, SIR.”
Booster fingered the device, looking for some sort of keypad. "A time lock? When's it set to open?" .
“MIDNIGHT, JANUARY FIRST . . . FIFTY-TWO B.C.”
Booster groaned. "I hate time-travelers."
Skeets tactfully refrained from pointing out that Booster was no one to talk.
“DR. HUNTER SET THE LOCK, BUT ITS COMPUTER CHIPS WERE MANUFACTURED BY KORD OMNIVERSAL. SO, TECHNICALLY SPEAKING, THAT MEANS THE CENTRAL PROCESSOR IS MY GREAT, GREAT, GREAT, GREAT,
great grandfather.” A probe extended from the floating robot, plugging into a matching port in the lock. «it speaks a primitive language, but
I THINK I CAN CONVINCE IT TO OPEN IF I JUST . . .”
Circuits hummed inside the lock. A second later, the blast doors slid open with an audible ivhoosh. A burst of cool air blew against Booster's face. Beyond the doorway, a long metal staircase led deep beneath the surface of the desert.
All right! he thought. Now we're getting somewhere. "You're magic, Skeets." “thank you, sir.” The robot did not withdraw his probe from the lock.
“UNFORTUNATELY, THE LOCK HAS A FAIL-SAFE REQUIRING A CONSTANT HARDWIRE SEQUENCING CODE TO KEEP IT OPEN. I’M AFRAID I MUST REMAIN HERE.”
"No problem," Booster said. He started down the stairs on his own. "I'm sure there's nothing to be worried about...."
His words trailed off as he reached the bottom of the steps, where a baffling scene confronted him. Rip Hunter's underground laboratory was in a state of extreme disarray. A transparent Time-Sphere, with seats for four temporal explorers, was cracked like a broken egg. Jagged shards littered the floor around the Sphere, which was obviously not in working order. Layers of dust covered the abandoned workstations and computer consoles. A wardrobe full of period costumes, to be used by Hunter when visiting the past, looked like it had been rifled through. Roman togas, Elizabethan ruffles, chain mail, capes, buckskin, and other antiquated items of clothing lay in a heap upon the floor. Hundreds of clocks, ranging from old-fashioned wooden timepieces to contemporary digital clocks, were scattered around the lab. Every clock was stopped at the same time: 12:52 a.m. The digital displays simply read 00:52. Scribbled notes and newspaper clippings were strewn about like confetti. Booster thought he recognized Hunter's handwriting.
Video screens played key historical events on a continuous loop. Booster recognized the Boston Tea Party, Columbus's ships setting sail, Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address, the arrest of Rosa Parks, Elvis Presley's first re-cordin g session, the destruction of Pompeii, the assassination of Julius Caesar, the battle of Marathon, the invention of gunpowder, the death of the dinosaurs, and a few scenes he couldn't quite place. History had never been his strong suit. That's what Skeets was for.
A globe of the world, the size of beach ball, had rolled up against one wall. Large red Xs had been scrawled over the globe, crossing out great chunks of the Middle East, Russia, Korea, India, and China. A chisel had been used to carve a gaping scar where North Africa used to be. Booster gulped as he read the ominous graffiti defacing the globe: WORLD WAR III. WHY HOW?
Even more troubling than the mutilated globe, perhaps, was the classroomsized blackboard set up in the middle of the laboratory. Nearly every inch of the board's green surface was covered by what looked like the incoherent ravings of a disturbed mind. Chalky white arrows and equations were interspersed with dozens of cryptic remarks and queries. Booster hastily scanned the board, trying to make sense of some of the bizarre notations:
Don't ask the Question. It lies.
The scarab is eternal.
Who is Supernova?
When am I?
520 Kane.
Who is Diana Prince?
The four horsemen will end her rain?
I'm supposed to be dead?
Who is Batwoman?
TIME IS BROKEN.
The latter phrase was written in capital letters across the top of the blackboard, many times larger than the other sentences, as though it was the fundamental problem from which all the other puzzles arose.
"Time is broken?" Booster said aloud. He didn't like the sound of that, not to mention the reference to World War III. Perhaps Hunter had a good reason for hiding out in the desert like this? But where—or when—was he? "Rip?"
His call echoed within the subterranean chamber. Water dripped from a rusted pipe. Booster searched the lab, looking for some clue to Hunter's whereabouts. Stepping around the blackboard, he spotted more writing upon the walls in a far corner of the lab. To his dismay, he saw that a single phrase had been scrawled onto the walls, over and over again:
It's all his fault.
Huh? Booster thought. "Whose fault? Who ..."
Taped to one wall was a handful of publicity photos depicting him and Skeets in various heroic poses. The cover of a recent issue of NewsTime depicted
Booster triumphantly holding Mammoth over his head. Skeets hovered near the edge of the photo, shining a spotlight on Booster. The hero's gleaming smile and wavy blond hair had not required a trace of retouching. A framed copy of the same cover currently hung on the wall of Booster's lavish apartment, but this copy had been treated with considerably less respect. Arrows, drawn with a magic marker, pointed at the photogenic hero and his robotic sidekick. Post-it notes repeated the same damning message.
All his fault.
Booster couldn't believe his eyes. He swallowed hard, unwilling to accept what the crazing scribbling seemed to imply. "Me?"
I broke Time?
The Kane family estate was located in one of the ritzier neighborhoods in Gotham Heights. A high wrought iron fence surrounded the grounds of the multimillion-dollar mansion. Imposing stone columns supported the portico in front of the three-story Gothic Revival structure. It was the kind of house that practically screamed, "We Have More Money than You Will Ever Dream of Having, and No, You Can't Come In." Guards were posted at the front gate just in case you didn't get the message.
Tonight the house was host to the annual Kane Family Gala, one of the major social events of the season. Limousines were lined up all along the drive. The elite of Gotham society converged on the estate, eager to see and be seen. The men flaunted tuxedos and expensive haircuts. The women paraded their best furs and jewelry. Hired goons, in fancy suits, kept the local paparazzi at bay.
Just try to keep me out, Renee thought.
She had read about the Gala in the newspaper, while recovering at home from her injuries. Her right arm itched beneath a plaster cast, while another itch nagged at the back of her mind. It had been three weeks since she'd almost died in that waterfront hideout and she still didn't know why. Instead of answers, all she had to show for her investigation were three cracked ribs and a fractured elbow. That's not good enough, she thought.
Part of her wasn't sure why she couldn't just let the warehouse mystery go. She was no private eye; she didn't even have a license. Besides, her no-faced employer had only paid for three weeks, and she had already put in more like six now. Plus, No-Face himself seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. She hadn't laid eyes on him since that fight with the monster. There was absolutely no reason to keep pursuing this matter ... except that she had maybe one more lead to follow.
Which was why it was time to crash the party.
She felt a flicker of apprehension as she strolled up to the gate, but not because of the beefy security guard posted at the door. It's been a long time, Kate, she thought as she peered past the iron bars of the gate at the mansion. Close to ten years ...
"I'm sorry," the guard said brusquely. He sneered disdainfully at her leather jacket, white Oxford shirt, and pressed trousers. This really was her best outfit, but he still seemed to think that she didn't belong here—and was only too happy to point that out. "This is by invitation only."
"Yeah, it always is." She took a moment to light up a cigarette. "Listen, just call up to the house and let Katherine the Younger know that Officer Renee is here."
"That would be you?" he asked dubiously. A few feet away, another guard let a Rolls-Royce through.
Renee wasn't interested in bantering with this clown. "Just give her the message."
It took three minutes to get permission to approach the house and another five to walk up the damn driveway. A metal detector made her glad that she had left her spiffy new ray gun at home. Along the way, she tried to calculate how much money she was passing.
She gave up at fifty million.
The stem-faced butler gave her an even snootier look than the guard at the gate. "This way, please," he instructed, leading her away from the foyer. Polished wood paneling covered the walls. A crystal chandelier sparkled overhead. An antique lever-action rifle was mounted above a doorway in a position of honor. The name was Kane, she recalled, but the money was Hamilton. The Hamilton Rifle Company, to be exact.
Like trying to count the money, you couldn't begin to count the dead.
He escorted her to a cozy den, safely distant from the main festivities. Walnut bookcases, stuffed with expensive-looking first editions, surrounded her on all sides. A large globe rested upon its axis. An antique leather couch and old-fashioned rolltop desk displayed both affluence and good taste. "If you'll wait here, please," the butler said, "Mistress Kane will be with you in a moment." He left, shutting the door behind him.
"Thanks, Jeeves."
Her flippant tone belied the butterflies in her stomach. Now that the meeting was only moments away, she started to have second thoughts. Ten years is a long time, she mused, pacing restlessly about the opulent chamber. Maybe too long. She had just about convinced herself that sneaking out the servants' entrance was a good idea when she heard the door swing open. A husky voice addressed her from behind.
"If you've come to arrest me, Officer Montoya, I trust you'll be searching me first?"
The photos in the society columns never did her justice. Katherine Kane had the kind of beauty that took your breath away. Lustrous auburn hair cascaded onto her shoulders. A strapless red satin gown clung to her athletic figure. A string of pearls discreetly called attention to her generous cleavage. Perfect makeup subtly highlighted her exquisite features. Piercing brown eyes made Renee's heart skip a beat.
Renee tried to play it cool. "If you insist." Forcing herself to look away, she turned to light a fresh cigarette. "Although that dress isn't likely to conceal anything I haven't seen before."
She didn't see the fist coming until a hard right cross slammed into her jaw. Renee's head snapped to the side. The cigarette and lighter tumbled onto the carpet. A stunned Renee massaged her jaw. Her tongue probed for loosened teeth. She tasted blood in her mouth. Somewhere along the line, someone had taught Kate how to throw a punch.
Good thing I know how to take one, Renee thought.
"You've got a lot of nerve coming here." Kate's vibrant eyes flashed with anger, betraying a temper that Renee remembered well. Her fists were clenched at her sides. "Especially after the last time I saw you."
Renee gave as good as she got. "I assume this means you're still in the closet."
"You self-righteous—!" A furious Kate came at her again, her fingers poised to claw the smirk off the other woman's face, but this time Renee was ready for her. She seized Kate's wrist with her good arm, catching it before Kate's nails could draw blood. They confronted each other face-to-face, their bodies almost touching. Renee could feel Kate's puls.e racing beneath her fingertips. Her face was flushed with emotion.
It had been an easy button to push. Renee had always been able to press Kate's buttons, just like she had always been able to press Renee's. That's what had made it so good ... and why it couldn't last. At least, that's what they'd told each other.
"Not so loud," Renee taunted. "Someone might come in here and get the wrong idea."
She stared into Kate's brown eyes. An endless moment fraught with possibility. The beautiful socialite's gaze seemed to soften. She was breathing hard. A familiar perfume tantalized Renee's senses, throwing her memory back nearly a decade. Old desires surfaced, as strong as ever. Kate's bps parted, and Renee's own heartbeat quickened in anticipation. They leaned toward each other. Renee couldn't believe this was really happening.
GREG COX
It's been so long.. . .
so
But instead of kissing her, Kate pulled away at the last minute. She wrested her arm from Renee's grip and put some distance between them. "What do you want, Renee?" Her voice was hoarse with emotion. "You're not on the force anymore, so why are you here?"
"Been keeping tabs on me, have you?" Renee asked.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said crisply, regaining her composure. "Father had Commissioner Gordon to dinner last month. It came up in conversation."
Sure it did, Renee thought smugly. Despite everything, it gave her some comfort to know that Kate had not forgotten her completely. Lord knows I've never forgotten her. ...
"I'm asking you again." Kate said impatiently. Her bare arms were crossed protectively across her chest. "Why are you here?"
■ Renee was both relieved and disappointed to get down to business. "Five-twenty Kane Street. It's in the harbor district."
"Do I look like I spend my time in the harbor district?"
Not exactly, Renee admitted. "You look like you spend your time at Calais on Sixty-third, getting mud baths, massages, and facials. But the building, 520, your family still owns it?"
"I don't know." She shrugged her shapely shoulders. "Possibly. Probably."
"Could you find out?" Renee pressed her.
Kate eyed her suspiciously. "This have anything to do with that cast you're sporting under your jacket?"
Renee was impressed by her observational skills. She'd always thought Kate would make a first-rate detective. "I need to know," she pleaded. "Call it curiosity."
"Why should I help you?"
Her icy tone tore open a scab that Renee had thought long healed. "Because once we thought we were in love with each other." She laid all her cards on the table. "And maybe we even were."
It was the wrong thing to say, something she realized a moment too late.
Kate's face flushed once more. Breaking eye contact, she turned her back on Renee. Perhaps so Renee couldn't see her pained expression? "I think you had better go now.''
"Kate ..Renee longed to reach out to the other woman, but wisely kept her hands to herself. I've done enough damage already.
"Go," the other woman insisted, "before I change my mind and decide not to help you." She looked back over her shoulder, her face a frozen mask that gave nothing away. "You can show yourself out."
Renee got the message. She headed for the door. "You know where to find me."
"Yes..." Kate admitted as Renee left the room. She spoke so softly that Renee couldn't be entirely sure that she was hearing her right. "I always have."
A huge crowd had turned out for the opening night of Aquaman: The Motion Picture. A line of eager moviegoers stretched around the block, while a handful of protestors demonstrated against the movie's alleged "distortion" of Atlantean culture and history. Police officers stood by to maintain order, even though no one was seriously expecting the demonstration to turn violent. Journalists and photographers were on hand to cover the premiere. The sidewalk outside the theater was overflowing with people—which made this the worst possible moment for a LexCorp tanker-trailer to jackknife right in the middle of the street.
Flames erupted from the ruptured tanker, climbing high into the sky. Billowing black smoke blotted out the theater's marquee. Terrified men, women, and children fought to escape from the spreading conflagration, only to find themselves trapped by the crush of the crowd. Overwhelmed cops called for order, but there was little they could do to control the frantic stampede. "Outta my way!" a frightened voice cried out, just one of many in the chaotic din. People were literally climbing over each other in their desperate attempts to escape the blaze. The protestors trampled over their own signs. A hefty movie fan shoved another man aside. "Move, jackass!"
“no need to panio, citizens!” Skeets' amplified voice could be heard above the hubbub. Dozens of faces looked up at the robot with varying degrees of hope and confusion, “ready your cameras . . . for once again,
IT’S BOOSTER GOLD TO RESCUE!”
Booster came swooping down from the sky. Fie eyed the burning tanker with genuine concern. This was no hoax; for once, Skeets' prediction had been right on target. Maybe Time wasn't broken after all....
He dived headfirst into the inferno, feeling the heat of the flames licking against his force field and body armor. His fists smashed through the pavement beneath the tanker and kept on going. He disappeared beneath the street, dragging the jagged ends of the broken fuel tank with him, but the smoke and fire continued to climb from the center of the wreck. Helpless bystanders choked on the fumes. .
The crowd gasped as the hero vanished into the heart of the blaze. "He didn't stop it!" shrieked a skinny nerd in an Aquaman T-shirt. The lenses of his Coke-bottle glasses reflected the voracious scarlet flames. "We're toast!"
Only Skeets seemed unconcerned, “please hold your applause until the bib finish,” he calmly instructed the people beneath him. “in two, one . . .”
Right on cue, Booster rocketed upward from the flames, followed by an enormous plume of water that shot almost two stories into the air. Gallons of water, released from a buried water main, poured down upon the burning truck, extinguishing the blaze. The spray from the geyser rained onto the grateful faces of the nearby civilians, who let out a collective sigh of relief. Jubilant people laughed and high-fived each other. A little girl hugged her teddy bear.
“success!” Skeets announced, “and let this be a reminder, ladies and gentlemen, never leave hdme without an official
BOOSTER GOLD WINDPROOF UMBRELLA!”
Thunderous cheers and applause greeted Booster as he descended toward the drenched sidewalk. The artificial rainfall bounced off his force field, keeping him perfectly dry. Pretty smooth, he thought, if I do say so myself. There were maybe easier ways to put out a burning tanker, but he couldn't think of a more dramatic one. Superman himself couldn't have handed this crisis any better.
“bravo, sir!” Skeets congratulated him. “a thrilling sight
INDEED!”
"Booster!" Drawn by the disaster, or perhaps already on hand to cover the movie opening, a throng of reporters swarmed toward Booster. As usual, Lois Lane was ahead of the pack. "Over here!"
"Greetings, Ms. Lane." Booster landed on the sidewalk in front of Lois. Superman had always given Lane the best interviews. Booster figured what was good for Big Blue was good enough for him. "Always a pleasure to chat with the Daily Planet's most prestigious correspondent."
Lois ignored the flattery. "Not a bad rescue. Any comments for our readers?" .
"I'm just glad I was able to find a water main in time," Booster said honestly. "Stopping an exploding propane truck is—"
"An amazing stunt," a harsh voice interrupted. Booster turned to see a guy in a trench coat force his way through the crowd. The man looked familiar, but Booster couldn't quite place the face. "But I have a question. How much did it cost you?"
Oh crap! Booster suddenly recognized the man's scowling face. Bob Somebody, or was it Bill? The actor. His heart sank. This could be bad... .
"I have ... no idea what you're talking about." Stammering, he looked around for a way out. "Interview's over, folks!"
"We'll decide that, thanks," Lois said crisply. Her shrewd blue eyes gleamed at the prospect of a juicy scoop. Turning her back on Booster, she pointed her tape recorder at the newcomer. "Your name, sir?"
"I'm Bill Castell, and I'm an actor." He opened his trench coat to reveal that he was wearing Manthrax's phony armor underneath. "Two weeks ago, Booster Gold hired me to. stage a fake—"
"Ms. Lane!" Booster blurted in a panic. He saw his life unraveling right before his eyes. "Don't listen to a word that man says!" He mustered a sternly heroic tone. "He's a proven threat to—"
But Lois had her teeth into the story now and wasn't about to let go. "Go on, Mr. Castell." .
"A fake attack on a commuter rail station," the actor continued. "Then his check bounced over the bank building in a single bound!"
What? Booster thought. How'd that happen? His finances had taken a bit of a hit when the Akteon-Holt deal fell through, and he was still waiting on the Promethium money, but he hadn't realized that things had gotten so tight. Then again, he admitted to himself, he had been spending lavishly in anticipation of more profits down the road. Apparently, he hadn't been paying close enough attention to the bottom line. And now his sloppy accounting had come back to bite him on the ass.
"I warned him!" Castell declared, taking full advantage of his fifteen minutes of fame. Flashbulbs snapped all around him. Competing cameramen and paparazzi jostled each other for the best angles. He held up a photocopy of the bounced check. "I knew I could go to jail for this, but I'll do it to drag that phony son of a bitch down!"
"Enough, Mr. Castell." Lois turned back toward Booster, her attractive face much more severe than before. She almost seemed to take his ersatz heroics personally. "Booster, is this true? Do you know this man? Was that subway rescue simply a publicity stunt?"
"No!" he lied unconvincingly. "I mean ... this isn't like it seems...."
Smelling blood in the water, the rest of the reporters charged at Booster.
"Booster! Gary McGraw, WGBS-TV. How much did you pay Castell?"
"Ami Soon, Channel Five! Can you discredit this claim?"
Lois refused to surrender her story to the competition. "Booster! How many of your various death-defying rescues have you staged to improve your marketability?"
Just that one, he thought, but who was going to believe him now? The bar-’•age of questions and accusations left him standing like the proverbial deer in
deadlights. Floating overhead, Skeets was unable to come to his defense. 1be robot drifted away, as though to distance himself from his disgraced master. All on his own, Booster faced the hostile press corps. He didn't know which question to answer, or what on earth he was supposed to say. "I swear, this isn't what it looks like," he mumbled.
Except that it was.
Not getting any good sound .bites out of Booster, some of the reporters turned their attention back to the actor in the super-villain costume. "Manthrax" shrugged off his trench coat, the better to show off his incriminating armor.
"Mr. Castell, would you be willing to take a lie detector test?"
"Where did you get that armor?"
"Would you testify in a civil trial against Booster Gold?"
Booster watched the scene unfold like a slow-motion train wreck beyond his power to avert. The falling rain washed his reputation into the gutter. This isn't fair! he lamented silently I just saved dozens of people—for real! Why doesn't anyone care about that?
But he knew why, and he knew who was really to blame.
It's all my fault.
Children these days! Mildred Heiney couldn't believe the scene her grandson, Clifford, was making right here on the sidewalk in front of Lacey's department store, all because she wouldn't buy him one of those newfangled computer games. The toddler was lying on the pavement, kicking and screaming and throwing quite a fit, and in broad daylight, no less. His shrill cries could be heard all across Metro Square. She shook her finger at the unruly child. "Listen to me, young man. Your mother may tolerate this sort of behavior, but in my day . .
Mildred was vaguely aware of other pedestrians rushing past her with alarmed expressions on their faces. Their reactions struck her as a trifle excessive. Little Clifford wasn't misbehaving that much. A large shadow blotted out the sun, and she noticed people staring upward in horror. What the dickens?
Before she could look up to see what the matter was, a strong hand fell upon her shoulder. She turned around in surprise to see one of those masked "mystery men" one so often heard tell of nowadays. A blue hood and cape were draped over his head and shoulders, concealing his face, and he wore a skintight white suit that left little to the imagination. Red gloves and boots matched the inner lining of his cape. A bright yellow starburst design was stamped on his chest and forehead. Who? Mildred thought. She didn't recognize this new hero at all.
She only got a glimpse of the costumed stranger before he lit up like the sun. Her eyes snapped shut against the glare, even as she instinctively grabbed onto Clifford's arm. The brilliant radiance faded almost as quickly as it appeared. She opened her eyes cautiously, only to discover that both she and Clifford were somewhere else. Disoriented, and seeing spots before her eyes, it took her a moment to realize that they were now across the street from where they had been only a second before. I don't understand, she thought. How did we get here?
GREG COX
But that wasn't the only shock in store for her. Looking back toward the department store, she saw that one of the city's many elevated trams had crashed nose-first down onto the sidewalk in front of Lacey's—right where she and Clifford had been arguing. Smoke and flames rose from the mangled remains of the tram, which hung at an angle from the cable overhead. Little Clifford squeezed her hand as he stared wide-eyed at the destruction before them, his computer game completely forgotten. Mildred looked around for the hero who had somehow come to their rescue, but the cloaked man was nowhere to be seen.
5G
"Well, I'll be."
"Who was that, Gramma?" Clifford asked.
"I have no idea, sweetie." She hugged her grandson, grateful to be alive. Tears leaked from her watery eyes. "But whoever he was, he saved our lives."
Fireman Fred Farrell thought he was a goner.
Fie and his crew were trapped inside the burning apartment building. Flaming rubble blocked the way out, while the thick smoke and ash made it almost impossible to see, even with their flashlights. Farrell hacked at the fallen debris with his axe, but his efforts barely made a dent in the deadly barrier. "Watch out!" someone shouted as the ceiling began to collapse above them. The burning beams were going to crash down on them any second. No way was their protective gear going to save them. Timbers cracked as the beams tore loose from the ceiling. Farrell threw up his arms in a hopeless attempt to shield himself.
This is it, he thought.
Suddenly, impossibly, a super hero appeared out of nowhere. Through the dense black smoke, Farrell glimpsed a caped figure standing behind them. Superman? Farrell thought hopefully, before spying a blue hood over the newcomer's face. The hero's upraised palms projected shimmering rays of golden light that seemed to erase the falling rafters. The fiery timbers vanished as though they had never existed. Farrell's jaw dropped behind his SCBA mask. He lowered his arms, amazed to find himself still breathing.
Maybe we're not goners after all.. . .
Light radiated from the masked figure, cutting through the smoky haze. He waved his arm and a second burst of concentrated light cleared the rubble blocking the exit. Farrell and his fellow firefighters scurried for safety. "Thank you!" he gasped as he ran past the glowing stranger, who lingered behind, making sure that all the firefighters got out safely.
Farrell was the last one out onto the sidewalk. He ripped off his breathing apparatus and inhaled deeply of the warm summer air. Flames erupted from
the building they had just evacuated, but the fireman did not fear for the hero they had left behind. Somehow he sensed that their mysterious rescuer could take care of himself.
"Who the heck was that?" another firefighter asked him. Her sweaty face was streaked with soot.
"Hell if I know," Farrell admitted. •
"Supernova? He calls himself Supernova?" Booster Gold crumpled the newspaper in his fist. Indignation was written all over his face as he railed at the reporter who had come to him for a comment on Metropolis's latest hero. He paced up and down on the pavement outside his apartment building. "I swear, if I have to hear one more word about this guy, I'm going to punch you in the neck."
“sir, pleases” Skeets said anxiously, “your image . .
"Is in the toilet," Booster groused, "so what damage is left to be done?" His uniform was missing about half of the corporate logos it had boasted before the "Manthrax" scandal last week. "One week, I'm the city's favorite hero. The next, some new Boy Scout has moved in while I'm given the heave-ho!"
Skeets flitted about nervously, “sir, this man’s taking notes. . .
■ " 'This man' is going to write whatever he feels like as long as it sells papers." Booster unrolled the crumpled newspaper, exposing the front page headline: "GOLD TARNISHED." An unflattering photo of Booster, taken moments after Manthrax spilled the beans, accompanied the banner headline. Booster glared murderously at the reporter in front of him. "Or have you actually gathered some facts for a change? Huh? What about it?" Passersby gave the disgraced hero dirty looks as he threw the paper in the newsman's face. "Do you know who this 'Supernova' is?"
"No, I do not," Clark Kent responded. "But I guarantee you I'm going to find out."
"I can't believe we're losing to Star City."
Renee nursed a cold beer as she watched the baseball game on the TV set at Molly's Bar and Girl. Most of the usual crowd was standing outside on the street, watching the Fourth of July fireworks, but Renee preferred air conditioning to pyrotechnics. She sat at the counter smoking a cigarette. Scrawled question marks covered the cast on her elbow.
"Tell me about it," Jilly the bartender said. She looked up from washing glasses as a newcomer entered the bar. She arched an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"
Someone sat down at the bar beside Renee. She was vaguely surprised to see that it was a young guy wearing jeans, a blue muscle shirt, and a red baseball cap. "A bottle of Lit, please," he asked pleasantly.
"Ooo-kay," Jilly said dubiously, but handed the man a beer.
Fie glanced up at the TV screen. "What inning?"
"Seventh," Renee volunteered. "Stars five, Knights two." She eyed him curiously, intrigued despite herself. "You do know this is a lesbian bar, right?"
That didn't seem to trouble him. "So no men's room, huh?"
"Smart-ass," Renee said, amused.
"Consistency is everything," he said cryptically. Fie kept his eyes on the game as he sipped his beer. "By the way, how's your arm?"
Renee recognized the tone, if not the voice. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who are you?"
"No, I asked you first," he said. "And I'm still waiting for an answer."
That cinched it. Renee's jaw tightened. This was definitely the no-faced asshole.
"You," she accused him.
He turned toward her and touched a finger to the side of his nose. A grin broke out over his face. "Me."
Renee rose from the bar stool, glaring at the nameless stranger. Now what? she thought. She honestly didn't know whether she wanted to punch him, walk away, or just sit back down. "I was wondering if I would ever see your face again."
"One of them anyway." He held out his hand. "My name's Vic, but my friends call me Charlie." Renee just glared at his hand, refusing to take it. He shrugged and slipped off his bar stool. "Curious? Full of questions?" Sounding just as infuriatingly calm and smug as ever, he headed for the door. "C'mon. I might have some answers for you."
She flirted with the notion of staying right where she was, but who was she kidding? Answers were even better than A.C.
Scowling, she followed him onto the street. Molly's clientele milled about on the sidewalk, flirting and drinking as they admired the skyrockets going off. A chorus of oohs and aalis greeted each spectacular burst of colored flares. Heat and humidity smothered Renee as "Vic" led her down the sidewalk, away from the other women. The scorching weather did little to improve her mood.
"I'm wondering why I shouldn't beat you within an inch of your life, Charlie," she told him. Oddly, though, she felt less angry than she sounded.
He didn't take the threat seriously. "You have impulse control issues, don't you?" •
"I thought you were gone for good!"
"Hey, I got hurt in that fight too, you know." He stopped walking and turned to face her. Now that she could see it, there was nothing at all remarkable about his face, which turned out to have blue eyes. Renee pegged his age as being somewhere in the early thirties. "So, you gonna tell me what you learned?" .
She couldn't believe the nerve of him. "Your money ran out a month ago, smart guy. What makes you think I'm even still interested in your little mystery?"
"Because you're like me," he said, insufferably sure of himself. "You're curious."
"You almost got me killed!" she protested, giving him an angry shove. "My curiosity doesn't extend that far!"
"Sure it does," he insisted. "Why else are you still looking into it?"
It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. "Wait. You've been spying on me?"
"I wanted to make sure you were all right," he said, actually sounding a bit apologetic. Glancing around, he stepped into a dingy alley off the main street. Renee chased after him, determined to get to the bottom of this. "Who are you?" she demanded. "I mean, just who the hell are you?"
"Like I keep saying ..He fished a balled-up wad of pink plastic from his pocket. He tapped his belt buckle, releasing swirling blue fumes. As the smoke enveloped him, he smoothed the plastic over his face, concealing his features. His brightly colored clothing turned an inconspicuous shade of brown. "I asked you first."
By the time the fumes dissipated, No-Face was back.
"Neat trick," she conceded. "How's it work?"
"See? Questions. That's good. That's why I like you." The faceless mask, which blended seamlessly with his skin, distorted his voice. "The clothes and the mask are chemically treated, activated by the binary gas released by the belt buckle."
She took his word for it. Chemistry was never her strong suit.
"Some people call me the Question," he informed her.
The name sounded vaguely familiar. Some sort of vigilante, who used to work out of Hub City? Hell, Renee thought, I can barely keep track of Gotham's freaks. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"To prove a couple points," he said. "First, that I trust you. Second, that most answers lead to more questions." His blank face confronted her. "How many more do you have now, Renee?"
"Oh, another dozen or so," she admitted. "But mostly I keep coming back to the same ones. What the hell's going on? What was that... thing ... that attacked us? What were those weapons?" She had phoned in an anonymous tip to the G.C.P.D., alerting them to the weapons cache, but that didn't mean that there weren't more of those futuristic firearms out there. "Where'd they come from?"
The Question nodded, like he approved of her queries. "Gotham is being targeted, Renee. What we found was the groundwork for an invasion." His voice took on a more ominous tone. "Gotham City is being targeted by Intergang."
Intent on their discussion, neither Renee nor her companion was aware of a third party eavesdropping on their conversation from five stories up. A cloaked figure crouched on the rooftop overlooking the alley. The scalloped tips of a voluminous black cape fluttered in the breeze, giving the figure the silhouette of an enormous bat. Keen eyes peered down at the alley through white one-way lenses. A determined expression showed beneath a forbidding black mask expressly designed to strike terror into the hearts of criminals. A nocturnal emblem was emblazoned on the figure's chest.
She wasn't Batman.
"I cannot change the world alone," Black Adam confessed. "Which is why I have summoned Kahndaq's allies here."
He addressed his honored guests in the palace's high-tech reception area. Kahndaqi flags hung upon the walls, while a large holographic representation of the Earth floated in the center of the room. Kahndaq's present allies, indicated on the globe by black with a golden band, included China, Singapore, Iran, Syria, Egypt, North Korea, India, Chile, Zandia, Qurac, and Modora. Conspicuously missing was Bialya, whose corrupt government remained under Intergang's control. A good beginning, he thought, but only the beginning.. ..
Super-powered champions from throughout the world mingled amongst themselves, accompanied by various aides, advisors, and translators. They sipped on champagne and iced fruit juices as they listened to Black Adam's speech. Among the costumed emissaries, he recognized:
General August-in-Iron from China.
Cascade from Indonesia.
Rocket Red from Russia.
Lady Zand from Zandia.
Ibis the Invincible from Egypt.
Sonar from Modora.
Queen Cobra from India.
Together, they represented a potential alliance with power enough to challenge the Justice League of America and its decadent Western allies. Exactly as he intended.
"Each of you is a representative of your great country," he continued. "And I ask you to deliver a message to your leaders." A short black cape, with golden trim, had been added to his uniform for this formal occasion. "Many have joined our coalition, but many more have been resistant... or reluctant to allow others in. As of now, I ask you to forget the political rivalries between one another. Soon we will have the strength to—"
"Stop!" A strident voice, coming from the corridor outside, interrupted his address. Scowling, he turned his head toward the disturbance. Who dares?
To his surprise, he saw the nameless young woman he had rescued from Intergang, the one who had so callously been offered to him as a "gift," come charging into the reception hall, pursued by a trio of palace guards. A loose-fitting robe clothed the fleeing maiden. Her dark brown hair flowed behind as she ran from the guards.
"Stop her!" a guard shouted. "Come back here!"
Heading straight toward Black Adam, she jumped through the holographic globe. Laser-generated oceans and continents flickered and fuzzed as her passage disrupted the three-dimensional image. She landed nimbly on the other side of the globe, only a few yards away from Black Adam. Before she could reach him, however, a pair of guards tackled her.
"Let me go!" she exclaimed. The guards struggled to hold onto her. She thrashed furiously in their grip, as when she had tried to escape from her American captors. The girl had spirit, if nothing else.
"A thousand pardons, Mighty Adam," a guard apologized as he and his comrades attempted to drag the squirming woman from the room. He looked profoundly ashamed by the incident. "She threw her dinner in Maqued's face and ran here before we could stop her."
Puzzled by the guard's account, he approached their captive. "What is the girl's problem?"
"My name is Adrianna Tomaz," she blurted defiantly, straining against the beefy guards holding her back. "And you are nothing but a terrorist!"
She spit in his face.
By the gods! he thought. How dare she mock me before my guests! His expression darkened as he wiped the spittle from his cheek. Anger flared within his heart. Had he not rescued this maiden from vile captivity? Her lack of gratitude offended him deeply. Were it not for the presence of his distinguished guests, who watched the altercation with varying degrees of embarrassment and amusement, he might have been tempted to strike her down where she stood.
"That was not wise," he informed her ominously.
"See for yourself!"
Perry White hurled a newspaper in Clark's face. Smarting from the impact, Clark unwrapped the paper from around his head and took another look at page one. Beneath the masthead of the Daily Star, the Planet's chief rival, was a blurry photo of Supernova soaring through the air above the city. "EXCLUSIVE! FIRST LOOK AT NEW HERO!" proclaimed a banner headline.
Clark winced at the sight.
"The Daily Planet has nine hundred and twelve employees on its staff," Perry informed him angrily. The apoplectic editor shook his finger at the damning headline. "This is what happens when Clark Kent lets every one of them down!"
"Perry," Clark began, "I tried for an exclusive—"
"Good reporters don't try, Kent! They succeed!" Veins bulged upon Perry's neck. He grabbed the Star and waved it in Clark's face. "Superman's been missing for weeks. A new mystery replacement is on the scene. You beg me—beg me!—to give you an exclusive on the investigation. And because you blew it, the Star broke the story, not the Planet. The StarV
The Star was to the Planet what Lex Luthor was to Superman. An intractable adversary to be defeated at all costs. Sitting before Perry's desk, like a schoolkid summoned to the principal's office, Clark knew that the other paper's scoop had to be driving Perry nuts. He couldn't blame his boss for being upset. I really dropped the ball on this one. Clark awkwardly fingered the Band-Aid on his cheek as Perry continued his tirade.
"Meanwhile, 'reporter' Clark Kent is six steps behind the Pony Express on this." Saliva sprayed from Perry's lips as he glared irritably at the other man. "And what is wrong with your face?!"
"I cut myself shaving," Clark said sheepishly.
"Again?" Perry shook his head in disgust. "If you don't kr ow how to use a keyboard, Kent, tell me you at least know how to use a razor!"
"Kind of," Clark said. These days his face was more delicate than he was accustomed to. He missed using his heat-vision to shave. Not that he could explain that to Perry.
"Don't get cute!" Perry scolded him. "This isn't good old Perry, just blowing off steam." His raspy voice took on a more rueful tone. He reluctantly removed an envelope from his desk drawer and handed it to the seated reporter. "Clark ... I'm ..." For once, he seemed at a loss for words. "I..
Clark took the envelope. In the past, before the Crisis, he would have peeked at its contents with his X-ray vision. Now he had to open the letter like anj'body else. The document inside read Notice of Termination.
Clark couldn't believe his eyes. He looked up at Perry, aghast. "You're firing me?"
"It's not just this, Clark. " The editor slumped into his large leather chair, looking miserable but resigned. He massaged his temples with ink-stained fingers. "You've been letting things slide for weeks. Big things."
Clark rose to his feet, determined to plead his case. "Mr. White, I know I've been in a slump...."
"In this business, Kent, two weeks is a slump." His voice held a definite note of regret. "Four weeks is burnout. After seven weeks of watching you walk around like you've forgotten everything you know about reporting, I went against my own better judgment and gave you the Supernova assignment, praying to God above that you could deliver in a timely fashion."
Clark walked over to the picture window overlooking Metropolis. "Mr. White, I can do better."
"No kidding!" Perry's temper flared up again. "That's the point, Kent! 1 don't know what secret skills and tricks you've been relying on all these years as an investigative reporter. Worse, I don't know where they went."
A flash of light caught Clark's eye. He peered through the window. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Could it be .. . ?
"You used to be great, Kent," Perry went on, oblivious to the approaching light. Getting out from behind his desk, he paced dolefully across the office. "You used to take risks. You used to put yourself in the thick of news." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Clark. "Now you play it safe, keep your distance. And that's not the job."
Squinting into the glare, Clark saw a caped figure flying above the city streets. The figure bore a distinct resemblance to the blurry photo on the front page of the Star. "So I'm fired." He reached down and unclasped the lock on the window.
"You cost us a lot of credibility," Perry pointed out. His back to Clark, he didn't see the mild-mannered reporter slide the glass pane open. "So far Supernova is still just a headline and a photo. There's still time for the Planet to get the first real interview, but it won't be by you. I've reassigned it to Cox. He'll get it somehow."
"You never told me this was my last chance, Mr. White," Clark said as he stepped out of the window onto the ledge. Fear of heights had never been a problem with him.
"I'm sorry, Kent, but—" A gust of wind blew into the room, rustling the newspapers on Perry's desk. Puzzled, he turned around to see Clark standing on the ledge,' only inches away from a thirty-story drop. "Great Caesar's Ghost!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing?" Perry rushed toward the window, desperate to keep Clark from committing suicide. "Wait! It's not worth killing yourself, man!" His face went pale as Clark toppled over the edge. Arriving at the window, he watched in dismay as Clark plummeted toward the street. "Kent!"
Clark found falling a peculiar sensation. Gravity, which he had so often disregarded in the past, grabbed onto him in revenge. The wind roared in his ears as the air rushed past him at alarming speed. For a second, he wondered if maybe he had made a fatal mistake. This always worked for Lois. .,.
"Easy, mister. I've got you." Supernova swooped out of the sky and caught Clark in his arms. Gravity was cheated once more as the flying hero carried Clark up, up, and away. His all-concealing blue hood muffled Supernova's voice. "Are you okay?"
Thank you, Lois, Clark thought with a grin. This particular stunt came straight from his wife's playbook. "I'm fine." He thrust a miniature tape recorder in the hero's face. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet," he identified himself. "Let's talk."
But before he could fire off his first question, Clark heard the sound of heavy artillery blasting somewhere below. What the devil? Supernova flew toward the booming noise, which was soon accompanied by frantic shouting and screams of terror. Looking down, Clark saw a formidable-looking armored vehicle rumbling down Memorial Drive. Gun ports and rocket launchers bristled from its dense steel hull. A 120-mm cannon protruded from its turret. Panicked pedestrians scattered as the tank opened fire on the buildings facing the streets. Masonry and broken glass exploded outward, adding to the chaos. Police officers fired at the vehicle, but their bullets bounced harmlessly off the ATV's spent-uranium armor. Whoever was manning the tank seemed intent on creating as much devastation as possible. ■
The Bahdnesian Revolutionary Front? Clark had heard a rumor that the terrorist organization was plotting to hijack the military's new mortar-proof all-terrain vehicle. Looks like those whispers were right on target. He frowned at the wanton destruction, wanting to personally take the tank apart. Even though he believed that the loss of his powers was only temporary, he still felt frustrated at moments like this. This was a job for Superman—or at least it used to be.
"Take care, mister," Supernova advised as he swiftly deposited Clark on the sidewalk, safely behind the tank's path. Clark wished the new hero well as, without hesitation, Supernova took off after the tank. A wide-eyed tourist started snapping off photos with his digital camera. Clark hurriedly handed the man a wad of cash in exchange for the camera. He focused the camera on Supernova just in time to catch the flying hero confronting the runaway tank. Dazzling beams emanated from Supernova's eyes, causing a stretch of pavement to disappear right in front of the oncoming ATV. Had the asphalt been disintegrated, vaporized, or teleported away? Clark couldn't tell.
In any event, Supernova definitely showed the terrorists that all-terrain was not the same as no-terrain. The speeding tank crashed down into the gaping pit and tilted over onto one side. Its armored tread spun uselessly in the air, churning up a cloud of loose dirt and gravel. Glowing like the sun, Supernova landed on the lip of the gap, overlooking the overturned vehicle. His cape flapped behind him as he gazed down confidently upon the immobile tank. Another brilliant eyebeam opened one side of the tank, exposing the trapped terrorists to the broad daylight. They threw down their weapons as a SWAT team closed in to take the felons into custody.
Supernova stepped back to let the police officers take charge of the situation. Clark seized the opportunity to approach the masked hero before he could get away. "Excuse me," he said, taking out the tape recorder once more. "Perhaps we could continue our conservation?"
He already had the first clear shots of Supernova in action. Maybe he could score the first real interview as well? Besides his obligations to the Planet, Clark also had a personal interest in finding out more about this new hero. As Superman, he might well have to fight beside Supernova at some point. Who knows? he thought. Perhaps Supernova was League material? The world could always use a few more brave men and women to fight the good fight. Especially after our recent losses.
"I don't know," Supernova said hesitantly. His blue hood made it impossible to read his expression (at least without X-ray vision), but he seemed wary of the press. He glanced up at the sky, as though wishing he was already aloft. "I should be on patrol...."
"The public has a lot of questions about you," Clark said, appealing to the man's sense of duty. Good public relations was part of the job, no matter what Bruce might think. "It might ease their minds to know more about who you are, what your agenda is."
"I'm just here to help," Supernova said guardedly. Was he simply worried about revealing his secret identity or was there more to his reticence? Still, he wasn't flying away ... yet. "The public has nothing to fear from me." He seemed to spot something out of the corner of his eye. "That kid..." He looked back toward the enormous cavity in the street. Clark saw a curious child approaching the pit. "He's not watching where he's going ...!"
Supernova vanished in a flash, reappearing a second later in between the little boy and the edge of the gap. "Stay back, pal!" he gently admonished the wandering child. "That's an awfully deep hole in the pavement."
Clark nodded in approval, impressed by the other hero's attitude. Despite being new on the scene, Supernova had an air of experience about him. Would most beginners have thought so quickly to secure the crime scene and look after the bystanders? I think he's on the level, Clark thought. He watched as Supernova escorted the boy back to his grateful mother, then took off into the sky. Supernova waved at the cheering crowd below, just like Superman would have done.
A pretty classy exit, Clark conceded. But one question remained.. ..
"Who's underneath that mask?" Booster Gold vented. He angrily tossed the Daily Planet aside, unimpressed by Clark Kent's front-page story and photo. Booster glared at Skeets as, all around them, movers carted the apartment's furnishings away. Aside from a few nasty smirks, the men ignored the ranting super hero in their midst. None of them asked for his autograph.
“it’s a mystery to me, s i r,” the robot replied.
"Yeah?" Booster said sarcastically. "You know what else is a mystery? How I'm going to adjust from living in a penthouse condo to a miserable three-room rental with alley view." He stepped out of the way so a mover could wheel a repossessed jukebox out on a handcart. "Hey, watch where you're going, bub!"
“YOU DO SO SUFFER, SIR.”
Booster overlooked Skeets' arch tone. "Largely, if not totally because this 'Supernova' jerk is stealing my limelight and eroding my endorsement deals." Only a few logos still adorned his uniform, mostly from companies that hadn't gotten around to severing their contracts with him yet. A worker thrust a clipboard at him, and he grumpily signed away his claim on various personal possessions. "This sucks worse than a time warp."
“I UNDERSTAND OUR FINANCES ARE AT A LOW, SIR, BUT PERHAPS IF YOU CHOSE A LESS DANGEROUS LIFESTYLE, A HIGHER CLASS OF REALTOR WOULD BE WILLING TO LEASE TO YOU?”
"Stop confusing me with logic." Booster grabbed onto Skeets and stared into the robot's optical array. "Isn't there anything in those twenty-fifth-century data banks about Supernova's true identity? Zero? Nada?"
“if only, sir."Skeets slipped away from Booster's grip, “but as we’ve
SEEN, TWENTY-FIRST-CENTURY HISTORY IS BEGINNING TO DIVERGE MORE AND MORE FROM WHAT’S RECORDED.”
Tell me about it, Booster thought.
“PERHAPS INVESTIGATING THAT SHOULD BE DUR FOCUS FOR THE
immediate future,” Skeets suggested, “such as it may be?”
Booster looked around. The movers had departed, taking the last of the furnishings with them. The once luxurious penthouse had been stripped to the bare walls. He trudged over toward the window and yanked it open. No point in sticking around, he thought. He didn't live here anymore.
"Whatever." He launched himself into the sky. Skeets tagged along after him. "As long as I can use whatever we find out to kick Supernova around the block."
“WE’LL TRY DUR BEST, SIR.”
Angry at being embarrassed in front of Black Adam, the guards roughly returned Adrianna Tomaz to her quarters. An unnecessary shove sent her stumbling into the room, where she fell loudly to the floor. She grunted in pain as her body hit the stone tiles.
"We had better have no more trouble from you," a guard warned her. He sneered at the bedchamber's comfortable furnishings: curtains, cushions, potted plants, and such. "Believe me, there are a lot worse quarters in the palace than this room."
Black Adam viewed the scene with distaste. The bothersome young woman was a victim after all; some allowances needed to be made. Now that his temper had cooled somewhat, he was willing to forgive Adrianna her outburst at the reception. No doubt her emotions had been overwhelmed by all the hardships she had recently endured.
"Enough," he declared. His powerful hands fell upon the shoulders of the guards, who were surprised to find their immortal ruler behind them.
A guard swallowed nervously. "But, Mighty Adam ... ?"
"Leave us." He dismissed the men, who were only too eager to withdraw from the corridor. Adam paused outside the door, not entirely sure why he was here. By rights, he should be seeing to his guests, yet something about his earlier encounter with Adrianna troubled him. Why should the victimized young woman turn against one who rescued her from shameful bondage? And what could have compelled her to call him a terrorist?
I mean to rid the world of terror, he thought. Can she not see that?
Moonlight filtered through lattice windows as he entered the woman's room, which had once belonged to one of his predecessor's many concubines.
Elaborate arabesques ornamented the walls. Brightly colored tiles adorned the domed ceiling. He found Adrianna sprawled upon the floor, a few feet short of an antique Persian carpet. She looked up at him with suspicion. Her dark eyes narrowed.
Feeling awkward, he offered her his hand.
She hesitated, then chose to climb back onto her feet by herself. Rather than being annoyed, Adam found himself intrigued by her stubborn independence. Looking at her closely for the first time, he saw that she was indeed as beautiful as the American hoodlums had claimed. Lustrous brown hair framed a lovely face worthy of a bygone queen or goddess. Her bronze skin glowed in the moonlight. Her loose orange robe, tied at the waist by a blue satin sash, failed to disguise her lithesome figure. Large brown eyes reminded him uncomfortably of Shiruta, his long-lost bride. Perhaps that was why her unjust accusation had lingered in his mind.
"Why were you running?" he asked.
She faced him without fear. "I won't be made a prisoner."
"Prisoner? You are not a prisoner." He glanced around at the luxurious bedchamber, which bore little resemblance to the palace's underground dungeons and torture chambers. A canopy-covered divan provided the girl with a soft place to rest her head, should she feel so inclined. The tiled ceiling and ornamented walls were pleasing to the eye. "You are a refugee. After I slew your captors, I asked my aides to take you back home to Cairo. They informed me that your family had been slaughtered when you were taken away, and that your younger brother had been sold into slavery." He sympathized with the girl's loss, remembering the murder of his own family countless generations ago. "You had no one. That is why I offered you refuge in this palace."
She listened to him in silence, a wary expression upon her face. He tried to fathom what he might have done to make this woman distrust him so. Only one explanation came to mind.
"I apologize," he said sincerely, "for killing your captors and denying you your revenge."
She gazed at him in surprise. "You apologize for that?"
Clearly, that was not what had angered her. The Wisdom of Zehuti, the ancient Egyptian god of learning, was among the gifts bestowed upon him by the wizard Shazam. But perhaps not even Zehuti, for all his knowledge, had ever truly understood the mysterious workings of a woman's heart.
He stepped away from the door and gestured toward the open archway. "You are free to leave at any time."
Adrianna marched boldly toward the door, then paused in her tracks. She turned back toward him, as though there was something she had to say before she left. Something that had been preying upon her mind for days.
"You're not going to save the world," she stated.
Once again, her impudence astounded him. What would a mere girl know of such matters? He wondered if he had heard her correctly. "Excuse me?"
"The last few weeks, I've seen and heard about this crusade of yours." She appeared to have given the topic much thought. Her confident voice did not mince words. "It borders on the psychotic."
"Really?" he said archly.
"You're gathering a coalition of other countries that will adopt your Freedom of Power Treaty," she said, accurately enough. Evidently, she was smarter and more observant than he had given her credit for; that much was certain. "Effectively enforcing lethal action against meta-human criminals."
"Some of them have the power to destroy a country," he pointed out firmly. Unaccustomed to being challenged in his own domain, he crossed his arms atop his chest and glared down at her. "If they have the inclination, they must be dismantled."
. I .
As I personally dismantled the despicable curs who tried to sell you into slavery.
"But you're targeting America," she protested, unintimidated by his superior strength and stature. "You're trying to build a power base to challenge theirs."
"I'm simply spreading a method of justice that will help protect the people," he insisted, "and ensure that no one will ever lose their family as you have yours." And if America and its overly idealistic heroes got in his way ... well, so be it. The safety of the world required a force strong enough to do what must be done.
She stepped forward, almost desperate to get through to him. "You're going to plunge the world into war," she warned. Laying an insistent hand upon his arm, she stared urgently into his eyes. "What happened to you? What happened that you have to take it out on the entire world?"
Unhappy with the turn of the discussion, he removed her hand from his person and stepped away from her. I grow weary of this debate, he thought irritably. He had not asked for her opinion, nor did he require it. He pointed toward the door.
"You are free to go," he reminded her.
But the infuriating woman seemed in no hurry to depart. "Your problem is that you don't listen to anyone except yourself."
"And your problem is that you are naive," he shot back.
She refused to give ground, even though he could obliterate her in a heartbeat. "Arrogant," she accused him.
"Disrespectful," he scolded.
"Alone."
Black Adam fell silent, unable to think of an immediate retort. He glumly pondered that final word. That last damning charge, at least, he could not deny.
Allies or no allies, he was indeed alone.
"You really should quit," he began.
Renee rolled her eyes as she reached for the cigarette. Here it comes, she thought. Just like a broken record. "Let me guess. You used to smoke."
It was a gorgeous Saturday afternoon in Robinson Park. She and Vic sat across from each other at a wooden picnic table, while the rest of Gotham took advantage of the park all around them. Smiling couples strolled hand in hand, or pushed strollers. Teenagers played Frisbee on an open lawn. Lush green foliage and leafy trees provided shade from the sun. Pamela Isley, aka Poison Ivy, was known to frequent this park. Renee had to admit that the crazy plant bitch did good work.
Now if she could just enjoy a smoke without her new friend talking her ear off.
"There's hydrogen cyanide in cigarette smoke, Renee. That's the stuff the Nazis used to murder the Jews in the gas chambers, except they called it Zyklon B." He leaned across the table toward her, intent on making his point. "That's just one of the chemicals. There's benzene. That's a solvent known to cause cancer, leukemia. There's lead, you know, the stuff that'll drive you insane...
"Charlie she interrupted him. He could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. Her elbow itched beneath the sports brace that had filially replaced the plaster cast. She lit up the cigarette and blew smoke in his face.
"No," he persisted. "I'm not done yet. I've looked into this, okay? There's cadmium. That's a poisonous metal. It's used to make batteries, which is why they tell you to dispose of them properly. There's formaldehyde, there's acetone, there's..." »
Tuning him out, she looked past his shoulder. A snazzy silver convertible pulled up to the edge of the park, and she got to her feet, suddenly feeling more nervous than she wanted to admit. She hastily ran her hand through her hair, grooming it, and squashed the cigarette out beneath her heel.
"Here she comes/' she informed Vic. "Try not to embarrass me, okay?"
Kate Kane strolled toward them, looking, as usual, like a billion bucks. Sunlight shone through the light red fabric of her designer dress, so that you could almost see right through it. Designer sunglasses perched upon her nose. She carried a stylish clutch that only a clueless plebe would describe as a purse. Golden earrings reflected the radiant sunshine. Renee tried not to stare, or at least not be too obvious about it.
Vic turned around to watch her approach. "Hubba hubba."
"Shut. Up," Renee whispered emphatically.
Kate joined them by the table. She didn't sit down.
"Thanks for coming, Kate."
"Renee," the woman said coldly. The shades concealed her eyes, but she didn't sound terribly happy to be here. She cocked her head toward Vic. "Who's your friend?"
"I'm her partner, Charlie." He leaned toward her, openly admiring her drop-dead gorgeousness. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Kane."
"Who's yours?" Renee asked. The fact that a sleek young blonde had remained behind in the convertible had not escaped her notice. She told herself it shouldn't bother her. •
It did anyway.
"Her name's Mallory. She's a doctor," Kate volunteered. "You don't know her."
Renee let it drop. That wasn't why she was here.
"What do you have for me?"
Kate sat down at the picnic table beside Vic. Reaching into her clutch, she extracted a sheet of paper. "You were correct. The family does own the property at 520 Kane Street. Like most of our holdings, it's controlled through one of several management companies. We have no direct involvement...
She started to hand the paper to Renee, only to have Vic pluck it from her fingers. "Thanks."
Kate looked annoyed, but said nothing.
"Is it currently being rented?" Renee asked while Vic examined the paper.
Kate shook her head. "No. At the moment, the property is empty. Up until six weeks ago, though, it was being leased to a company called Ridge-Ferrick Holding here in Gotham."
The name didn't mean anything to Renee, but something else did. "Six weeks," she pointed out to Vic.
"The timing's right," he confirmed. It had been about six weeks since they had nearly gotten their clocks cleaned down at the old warehouse. He got up to go, leaving Kate seated at the table by herself.
Renee turned to leave as well. "Thanks for this, Kate."
"No, wait a minute," she protested. Her tinted shades failed to conceal her confusion. She sprang to her feet. "What's this about? What's going on?"
Renee braced herself. This was going to be the hard part. "I told you, it's something we're looking into."
That wasn't good enough for Kate, who cut in front of Renee, blocking her path. "You're not a PI, Renee. You're not licensed, I checked!" Hands on her hips, she faced Renee defiantly. "And whoever your 'partner' is here, I don't think he's one either."
"Kate—"
"No!" she insisted passionately. "If this is something that concerns my family, I have a right to know! You don't come back into my life after ten years asking for favors without an explanation, Renee!" Her face flushed. Her voice grew more fervent. "You owe me that much!"
Vic studiously looked away, whistling, while the two women confronted each other. Their faces and bodies were only a few inches apart, just like during their encounter at the Kane family mansion a few weeks back. Renee felt her blood heating,up once more. Staring at her own reflection in Kate's sunglasses, she steeled herself to do what had to be done ... for Kate's sake.
"No, I don't," she said brusquely. "I don't owe you anything."
The words hit Kate like a slap across the face. All the fight went out of her as she watched Renee step past her and walk away. "How ... how can you say that?" She sounded genuinely stunned.
Don't look back, Renee thought as she strode away from the park. She couldn't risk Kate seeing the guilty expression on her face. Better to pretend she didn't care.
"Good-bye, Kate."
"No, that was really smooth," Vic said. "No wonder the women are falling all over themselves for you. We should double-date sometime."
The parking garage was located only a few blocks away from the park. Their footsteps echoed across an upper level of the garage as Renee and Vic headed toward a rundown 1980s VW Vanagon. Sunlight entered through gaps in the concrete pillars. Renee puffed on a cigarette as Vic gave her a hard time about Kate. She was starting to miss his usual antitobacco spiel.
"What was I supposed to do, huh?" she asked him. Frustration tinged her voice. "Bad enough what Intergang will do to us if they find out we're messing with their play. Maybe they'll let us off with being lightly murdered. That's fine. That's my risk. I'm willing to take it, but I sure as hell am not putting Kate in the crosshairs as well."
"Ah, right," Vic said. "I should have seen that. My bad."
Something about his tone bugged her. "What? Should have seen what?"
"That you still have a thing for her."
Arriving at the van, he dug around in his pocket until he located a compact car alarm controller that looked a whole lot newer and in better condition than the Vanagon itself. Rust crept like cancer across the van's dented exterior. Faded bumper stickers helped hold the fenders in place.
"The thing I had for her ended ten years ago," Renee insisted. "And she ended it." She sighed loudly, not wanting to talk about it. "I'm just tired of people I care about dying on me, okay? Better she stays far away from this."
He thumbed the remote and the van chirped in response. He slid open the side door and started to clamber inside. "You're packing a whole lot of guilt for someone so young."
"At least I come by it honestly," she said bitterly.
"Give me a break."
Renee couldn't believe her ears. "What did you say?" Her temper flared as she leaned into the van. Angry eyes looked ready to explode. "What did you just—"
"You heard me." He crouched inside the van, surrounded on all sides by books, magazines, and cardboard boxes stuffed with file folders. Printed labels identified the contents of each box: KENNEDY ASSASSINATION, FLORIDA 2000, LEXCORP, OHIO 2004, HUB CITY, BIG TOBACCO, WAYNE ENTERPRISES, PARADISE ISLAND, ELECTRIC CARS, QUANTUM UNIFICATION THEORY, etc. He leafed through a box labeled INTERGANG #52. "The thing with your partner. You've got to let that go. It'll eat you alive. Trust me, I've seen it before."
Renee clenched her fists. "You don't know anything about—"
"Detective second grade Crispus Allen, murdered three months ago." He reached behind him and snatched a bulging folder from on top of another box. He tossed the file over to Renee. "Corrigan, James, arrested for the killing, but released due to lack of evidence. Case is still open."
Renee caught the folder. A quick glance at the contents confirmed that Vic knew what he was talking about. She snapped it shut before she had to look at the grisly crime scene photos all over again. An overwhelming wave of sorrow and guilt washed away her anger. She bit down on her lower lip.
"James Corrigan killed your partner and then walked." Vic stopped searching through his files long enough to give her a stern but sympathetic look. "Allen was your friend and your partner and it had to be answered. You owed him that much. So you hunted down Corrigan, intending to kill him. And you couldn't do it."
She slumped against the side of the van, clutching the file to her chest. For once, she didn't worry how Vic knew any of this; all that mattered was that it was true. In her mind's eye, she saw herself back in Corrigan's apartment, pressing the muzzle of her automatic against his skull. Down on his knees, the dirty cop had begged for his life. Corriganhad gunned down Cris in cold blood. Fie deserved to die. But, at the moment of truth, Renee hadn't been able to pull to the trigger. Instead she had just walked away, leaving her partner's murderer to live another day. Twenty-four hours later, she had turned in her badge.
"That's why you hate yourself, Renee Montoya," Vic said. "Because you did the right thing."
Did I? She wasn't so sure.
Lost in thought, she went through one cigarette, then six more, while Vic continued to poke through his overflowing boxes of conspiracy theories. Night had fallen, and the garage's overhead lights come on, by the time she finally heard him crow triumphantly from inside the van.
"Got it!"
He emerged holding aloft a stack of documents and photos. Renee roused herself in order to hear what he had to say. Whatever he had stumbled onto, it had to be better than thinking about Corrigan again.
"Ridge-Ferrick Holding is a subsidiary of HSC International Banking," he explained. "HSC International is Intergang's spearhead, one of the legit fronts they establish to move into new territory. Part R&D, part Human Resources."
Renee arched an eyebrow. "They have R&D?" .
"They have 401Ks, Renee." He started laying the documents out on the hood of the van. "This is the new Intergang. They're just as happy to kill you in the boardroom as in a back alley. HSC is run by a former agent of the late Ra's al Ghul." Renee recognized the name of an infamous terrorist leader once said to command a veritable League of Assassins. "This woman here, name of Whisper A'Daire, and, yes, it's obviously an alias." '
He pointed to a color photo of a striking redhead with a cool aristocratic air. She looked slimmer than Kate, but twice as haughty. The photo appeared to have been taken covertly by a long-range surveillance camera. Pretty glam, Renee conceded. But not my type. t
"A'Daire reportedly inherited something from al Ghul: an alchemical serum capable of turning men into monsters. She also travels with a bodyguard-slash-legman named Abbot. If that's his first or last name I don't know, but the guy's a stone-cold killer."
A second photo showed the scowling face of a dark-haired man who looked to be in his early forties. His cruel eyes, completely devoid of any trace of warmth or compassion, reminded her of any number of hit men and gangbangers she had busted over the years. Heavy black stubble carpeted his cheeks and chin. Bushy eyebrows met above his nose. Renee committed his face to memory.
"If they're here," Vic concluded, "then there's no question that Intergang has Gotham in its sights."
The very idea scared the crap out of her. "So we need to confirm that they're here, and that they're still moving in soldiers and weapons for the takeover."
"Exactly," he agreed.
"And how do you suggest we do that?" she asked.
"Same way I get most of my questions answered." He scooped the papers and photos back together. "Breaking and entering ..."
"Will you hurry it up?"
Renee paced across the darkened hallway of the downtown office building. A pair of glass double doors blocked off one end of the hall. A sign above the doors read Ridge-Ferrick Holding, LLC. Through the transparent glass, she could see the empty reception area on the other side. The receptionist's desk was unoccupied, not too surprising considering it was nearly midnight.
"If you can do this faster, please be my guest," Vic replied. Wearing his Question mask, he crouched in front of an electronic card reader mounted next to the door handle. The reader's plastic housing rested upon the floor as he carefully manipulated the exposed wiring.
By Renee's count, they had already committed four misdemeanors and at least one felony getting this far. She figured that should bother her, but somehow it didn't. Maybe "Charlie" was a bad influence on her, but she was curious now and she wanted some answers. Plus, if she was totally honest with herself, she had to admit that part of her was enjoying this. Poking her nose where it clearly didn't belong. Asking the questions that nobody else seemed willing to ask....
"Here we go," Vic whispered. Electricity sparked and the double doors swung open. He jumped quietly to his feet. "Camera," he prompted her.
"Got it," She darted forward and blacked out the surveillance camera over the receptionist's desk with a can of spray paint. The hiss of the spray nozzle sounded alarmingly loud in the nocturnal silence.
"Quietly," Vic urged her unnecessarily. They crept furtively down a hallway beyond the reception area. A narrow strip of light shone out from beneath a pair of closed wooden doors at the end of the hall. To her surprise, Renee heard voices coming from behind the doors.
Somebody's working late, she thought.
She and Vic pressed their ears against the doors, the better to listen in. Renee could make out most of what was being said:
", . . for the second stage is scheduled. Arming them won't be a problem, but converting the actual manpower base is going to be more of a challenge."
"We're expecting another shipment from Kahndaq within the month...."
Kahndaq? Renee's eyes widened at the name. If Black Adam was part of this, then things were even worse than she thought. That guy's in Superman's league.
And Superman hadn't been seen in months....
A low growl drove every other thought from her mind. She looked away from the door to discover an enormous wolf padding toward them, its eyes glowing red. The shaggy black beast was larger than any wolf Renee had ever seen outside of fairy tales. Its lips were pulled back, exposing ivory fangs. Drool dripped from its slathering jaws.
Oh crap, Renee thought.
The beast lunged at them, hitting her and Vic like a large furry battering ram. The impact knocked the wooden doors off their hinges, sending the two humans tumbling into the conference room. The office's bright lights came as a shock after the shadowy hallway. The wolf's hot breath, stinking of blood and raw meat, blasted Renee's face. Its massive forepaws pinned them both to the floor. She tried not to gag as she struggled for her ray gun.
"That's enough," a female voice declared.
The wolf grunted in disappointment, then began to change. Breathless upon the floor, Renee watched in amazement as the beast's sable fur retracted into its skin. Flesh and bone loudly twisted into new configurations. A hairy human chest replaced the beast's lupine torso. Its snout contracted into a stubbly male face Renee had made a point of remembering. The hellish red glow faded from the man's eyes, revealing the same cruel orbs she had noted before. Black trousers emerged from beneath the shaggy pelt. A powerful hand, complete with opposable thumb, closed around her throat. A hairy palm scratched her neck.
A wereivolf? The beast's stink lingered in her nostrils. I'm fighting a freaking werewolf now?
Abbot effortlessly lifted both her and Vic from the floor. Gasping for breath, she fought to pry the killer's fingers away from her throat even as she instinctively surveyed her new surroundings. A trio of goons in suits sat around a large oak conference table. Charts and reports were spread across the top of the table. A floor-to-ceiling window offered a spectacular view of the Gotham skyline. A string of halogen lamps hung from the ceiling. The goons grinned evilly at the captured investigators. One of them licked his lips.
"Let's have a look at them, shall we?"
The speaker stepped into view. Renee recognized Whisper A'Daire from Vic's surveillance photo. She'd changed her hair slightly, but otherwise the aristocratic beauty hadn't aged a day. A sinuous figure was poured into a slinky black sheath that accentuated its enticing curves. Her low voice had the sound of something ancient sliding across scalding sands.
" Ah, our faceless friend. What a surprise." She smirked at Vic before turning her attention to Renee. Her exotic perfume filled Renee's lungs as Whisper came close enough to touch. She looked the squirming prisoner over like a cobra inspecting a tasty mouse. A cool hand stroked Renee's cheek. "But you, you're new."
The woman's eyes captivated Renee, especially after they underwent a sinister transformation. All at once, they became the eyes of a snake, the pupils slitted and vertical, the irises an iridescent green. A hint of reptilian scales spread across Whisper's neck and shoulders. Renee tried to look away, but the hypnotic eyes held her fast. Her limbs went limp, abandoning their futile struggles. She offered no resistance.
"What's your name, morsel?"
She had no choice but to answer. "Renee Montoya."
Whisper smiled. A forked tongue flicked out and licked Renee's cheek.
Okay, that's gross, Renee thought. The sheer ickiness of it jolted her out of the snake-woman's spell. Charlie is never going to let me live this doivn—assuming we live past the next few minutes.
"Renee Montoya," Whisper repeated. "Nice to have met you, however briefly." She shifted her gaze to her lycanthropic lieutenant. "Mr. Abbot?"
"Whisper?" His hands still clutched the captives' throats.
"They'll have to die, I'm afraid." She stepped over to the conference table and started gathering her notes. The three goons rose from their seats, tonight's business evidently concluded. She stuffed the papers into her briefcase and started toward the door.
"Wait! Wait wait wait," Vic called out hoarsely. "C'mon, don't you even want to know why we're here? What we heard?"
She kept on walking. "That you heard anything is enough to satisfy my curiosity, sir." She glanced back at the three goons, who were closing in on Vic and Renee with bloodthirsty expressions on their faces. "Gentlemen, indulge yourselves."
Her dress rustled as she slithered out the door, leaving the conference room behind her. The sound of her high heels tapping against the hallway floor faded away. Abbot roughly shoved Vic and Renee onto the carpet before following after her. The remaining goons surrounded the prostrate intruders. They growled at the back of their throats.
Oh Christ, Renee thought. Now what?
If she had thought Abbot's metamorphosis was a shock, she hadn't seen anything yet. Bones snapped like broken twigs, and tailored Italian suits came apart at the seams, as each of the three thugs transformed into a different kind of beast. A full-sized gorilla beat its chest. A roaring lion, flaunting a shaggy mane, stood erect on two legs. A spotted leopard-man extended its claws. The tattered remains of their clothing littered the floor as the trio of monsters loomed over the outnumbered humans. A musky odor filled the room. Their feral eyes glowed like hellfire.
"Hey, you know that gun from last time?" Vic said. "Now would probably be a good time to use it."
Not a bad, idea, Renee admitted, drawing the weapon. Even still, the odds were against them. Just one of these monsters had nearly killed them both back at the warehouse. Gun or no gun, she figured that this time there was no way they were getting out of this alive. She found herself pining for the good old days when all she had to deal with was mobsters, meth-heads, and the Joker's occasional killing sprees. When did Gotham become the Island of Doctor Moreau?
The monsters lunged at them simultaneously. Vic jumped up, meeting one of the attacks with a spin-kick that nailed the gorilla in the jaw. Gun in hand, Renee dived out of the way of the were-lion's slashing claws. She fired the ray gun, but the sizzling beam missed the lion, vaporizing an ugly abstract painting instead. She found herself trapped on the other side of the conference table, far away from the exit. Growling, the lion and the leopard circled her warily. They moved in opposite directions, making it hard to keep an eye on both of them. Her gun swung back and forth as she hesitated, uncertain what to do next. If she targeted one of the cats, the other would be on her in a heartbeat. Heavy paws padded against the carpet. The leopard licked its chops.
Suddenly, without warning, some sort of metal missile came spinning through the air, taking out the hanging lamps one after another. Glass shattered and sparks exploded as the entire room was plunged into darkness. The prowling monsters looked about in confusion.
The missile slammed into the wall only a few inches away from Renee. The scalloped edges of the weapon caught the moonlight coming through the panoramic window. Renee grinned, suddenly feeling a whole lot more hopeful about her chances for survival. She knew a Batarang when she saw one.
I knew it, she thought smugly. Despite all the talk, the wild rumors. He didn't leave. He's still here. Gotham City will always have—
A masked figure burst into the room. A lithe body, wrapped in tight black latex, was silhouetted against the crimson lining of a billowing black cape. Flowing red hair spilled out from behind her forbidding mask. A crimson bat-symbol was emblazoned upon her chest, matching her dark red boots, gloves, and utility belt. The scalloped cape spread out like wings behind her.
Batman?
Renee watched in awe as the masked woman threw herself into combat against the startled monsters. A judo flip sent the lion-man flying headfirst into a wall. His head cracked loudly against the thick wood paneling, and he dropped to the floor. She whirled in place, slashing the leopard across the face with the pointed tips of her cape even as she extracted a collapsible staff from her utility belt. Forgetting Vic for the moment, the gorilla pounced at her from behind, but she slammed the length of the pole backward into his throat, then used it to backflip over his head, landing nimbly on the floor behind him. A backhand strike caught the leopard-man in the chin just as he was sneaking up on her. His skull slammed into the wall behind him. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
That's not Batman, Renee realized, her eyes agog. It wasn't even Batgirl. This was an honest-to-god Bat woman.
"Hot damn." .
So enraptured was she by the breathtaking sight of the woman in action that she almost didn't notice when the gorilla came charging at her instead. Renee drew a bead on the oncoming simian, her finger tensed upon the trigger. She had the shot.
And just like Batman, the masked woman didn't let Renee take it.
"No!" she shouted, jumping between Renee and the beast. She knocked Renee aside with her fist, then nimbly flipped the gorilla through the nearest plate-glass window. The massive ape landed with a thump on a balcony several stories below.
Batwoman's blow knocked Renee to the ground. Wow, she thought, impressed. Somewhere along the line, someone had taught this woman how to punch.
How to punch ... •
Renee experienced a sudden moment of deja vu. She rubbed her jaw, remembering a similar punch only a month ago. She took a closer look at Batwoman, as their rescuer paused to make sure that the two remaining were-beasts were down for the count. A bat-eared mask concealed the upper portion of the woman's face, and opaque white lenses hid her eyes, but there was no mistaking that lustrous auburn hair, nor the athletic body squeezed inside the skintight costume. Renee knew those seductive contours better than she knew her own.
I'll be damned, she thought, lowering her ray gun. Kate?
If Batwoman knew her secret identity had been compromised, she didn't acknowledge it. "The police are en route," she said, making an effort to disguise her voice. She unclipped a grapnel gun from her belt and fired it out the broken window. A de-cel jumpline affixed itself to a skyscraper across the street. "I'd appreciate it if you left me out of it."
Renee and Vic watched as Batwoman swung away into the darkness. Bruised monsters moaned behind them. Their unconscious bodies melted back into human form.
"I think she likes you," Vic said.
"Shut. Up."