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He could see the bullet coming.
The big man in the windbreaker and ball cap had been leaning against a concrete security barrier in the heart of Metropolis's Federal Plaza, pretending to read the morning edition of the Daily Planet. But in the shadow of his cap, his eyes kept tracking from building to building, looking for trouble.
There wasn't much in the way of foot traffic in the grand plaza this morning. Twenty feet to the big man's left, a young woman in a business suit stood waiting at a bus stop. Fifty feet to his right, a tight crowd of men in dark suits moved down the marble steps of the Hamilton Courthouse to a line of black sedans idling at the curb. Across the street, a man with a pushcart was staking out a spot to peddle hot dogs to a lunch crowd yet to come.
And seven stories above, the barrel of a high-powered rifle suddenly jutted out from the cornice of an adjacent rooftop.
The rifle caught the big man's eye a split second before the shot was fired. And then, everyone and everything seemed to freeze in place around him.
Everything, except for the bullet. It flew on, spinning toward the center of that tight crowd of dark-suited men. The big man knew that the bullet was headed for a short, heavyset figure at the center of that crowd, a human target in a cheap overcoat who looked every bit as rumpled as the old fedora jammed tightly down on his head.
The big man sprang into action, leaping up in front of the crowd, his arms flung wide. The bullet ripped through the nylon of his windbreaker, the slug slamming into his broad chest, deforming slightly before ricocheting off at an oblique angle. His left arm shot out and he caught the slug in his bare hand. The big man stood suspended in midair, calling back over his shoulder to the crowd of dark suits: "Everyone okay?"
One of the suits shouted an affirmative. They had shoved the heavyset man down into a crouch at the sound of the shot, shielding him with their own bodies. Now, guns drawn, they were hustling him to cover behind another concrete barrier.
Up on the rooftop, the hitman was momentarily startled by the dark blur that had suddenly filled the telescopic sight of his rifle. He looked up, saw the huddle on the plaza below, and started to line up a second shot.
But now, all he could see through the crosshairs of the scope was a ripped-open windbreaker, framing a bold, red-and-yellow pentagon emblazoned with a stylized letter "S."
For a moment, the gunman froze. Then he turned and bolted away across the rooftop. He had carefully planned his escape route, but now his only hope was to move fast. The hitman prayed that the big man hadn't gotten a good look at his face.
At the far edge of the building he dropped his rifle and vaulted over a cornice, dropping six feet to another rooftop. As he pulled a small handgun from his waistband, the hitman spotted a stairwell housing fifteen feet away and headed for it at a dead run. He rounded the corner of the housing and ran smack into a tall form that had not been there a second before. The gunman fell back against the housing, slid down onto the rooftop, and sat staring wide-eyed at the figure he'd run into.
The big man was clad mainly in dark blue. Red trunks were secured at his waist by a yellow belt. The red of his trunks was matched by his boots and by the long cape that unfurled in the wind behind him. And there, once again, was the red-and-yellow pentagon, centered in the middle of the broadest chest the gunman had ever seen.
"S-Superman." The hitman still clutched the automatic in his hand. Though he recognized the man who towered over him, he reflexively leveled the handgun and squeezed the trigger.
This time, Superman didn't bother to catch the bullets that bounced off his chest.
Three slugs impacted harmlessly in the wall of the stairwell housing. A fourth bounced almost straight back, striking just inches from the hitman's shoulder, and he stopped firing.
"New in town?" The Man of Steel reached down with one hand, grabbed the man by the front of his jacket, and effortlessly hauled him to his feet.
The cognitive part of the hitman's brain registered that Superman's voice was a deep baritone, good enough for TV or the stage. But his only physical reaction was instant and reflexive. He jammed the gun against Superman's gut.
"Better think twice before you pull that trigger." The Man of Steel looked him straight in the eye. "Unless you're dead set on saving the state the cost of a trial."
The gunman stared into Superman's face. He could see no fear there, only a look of what seemed to be disappointment.
"Yeah." He relaxed his trigger finger. "Guess you're right."
The next instant, the automatic was gone from his hand. He brought his empty palm up to eye level, staring at it stupidly for a moment before he noticed the gun in Superman's free hand.
"Time for us to take a little trip." Superman tightened his grip on his captive's jacket and leaped straight up into the air.
The hitman's breath caught in his throat as the Man of Steel carried him up and over the buildings. For a moment they seemed to hang motionless in midair -- all of Metropolis spread out below them -- and then they plunged down toward the plaza below, faster than an express elevator. Just as the hitman was about to scream, Superman slowed their descent and they touched down on the pavement as easily as if they'd hopped one step down off a ladder.
Instantly, they were surrounded. A dozen uniformed policemen had joined the dark-suited plainclothesmen, as had the woman in the business suit and the hot dog vendor. All had automatic pistols aimed at the hitman.
"He's all yours, gentlemen...and lady." Superman nodded to the undercover policewoman and let go of the hitman, who was grabbed and handcuffed by one of the plainclothesmen. The Man of Steel turned to an approaching figure. "He left his rifle on the roof of the Langley Building. I can retrieve it, if you'd like."
"You've done more'n enough for us, Superman. Forensics is already on their way up there."
The hitman looked up in surprise at the sound of the gruff voice. It was coming from his intended victim. As he stared in disbelief, the "little man" straightened up from a slouch, seeming to grow in the process. The human target now stood nearly four inches taller, his weight more evenly distributed over a broad, barrel-chested frame.
The heavyset man shucked out of the old overcoat and doffed the rumpled hat, revealing the balding head of Police Inspector Daniel Turpin. "Weren't expectin' to see my mug under here, were ya?" Turpin gave the gunman a wicked grin. "Buddy, you are under arrest!"
The hitman moved his mouth as if to protest, but no sound came out.
The inspector set a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses across his broad nose and produced a tiny card from his pocket. He took his time, seeming to enjoy the discomfort he caused the gunman.
Superman had seen the inspector do this particular routine before, deliberately stretching things out to get under the perpetrator's skin. Later, he knew, an interrogator at the station house would "empathize" with the perp over Turpin's terrible behavior. "Yeah," they'd say, "he's always giving us grief, too." The routine worked almost every time.
"Awright, listen up now." Turpin cleared his throat. "'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say -- '"
As if on cue, the hitman found his voice. "You mounted this whole operation just to trap me?!"
Turpin glared up at him over his glasses. "I'm not finished, Quick-Draw. I said, 'You have the right to remain silent.' And until I finish readin' you your other rights, you're damn well gonna be silent! Got that?"
The hitman started to protest, seemed to think better of it, and closed his mouth.
The inspector nodded brusquely. "I'll take that as a 'Yes.' Now, as I was sayin', 'Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to an attorney before answering any questions. You have the right to have your attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you without cost, before or during questioning, if you desire. Do you understand these rights?' "
"Yeah, yeah, I understand already." The man shifted impatiently in the cuffs. "I don't believe this. What is it with you people?" He stared at Superman. "Why were you even here? I'm not a gang boss or...or some super-villain out to take over the world. I'm just an ordinary hitman! A working man! I'm like Joe Sixpack to you!"
Superman exchanged a look with Turpin, and the inspector folded his glasses in disgust. "'Joe Sixpack,' he says. 'A working man,' he says. Like he services your car instead of plantin' you six feet under."
Superman turned to the hitman. "Sorry to spoil your day, but I don't limit myself to stopping criminal masterminds."
"Yeah." Turpin tucked his glasses back into a pocket. "Think of this as his contribution to crime prevention."
"And you -- !" The hitman whirled to stare at the inspector. "You must be old enough to be my grandfather! What the hell are you doing, still playing cops and robbers?"
"Yer skatin' on thin ice, mister. Real thin." Turpin looked the hitman up and down. His nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. "O'Shaunessy!"
A uniformed cop snapped to attention. "Inspector?"
"Get 'im outta here." Turpin shook the old fedora. "An' will somebody get me my hat? My real hat!"
"Is this what you're looking for?"
Turpin turned to find Superman holding out a derby. "Yeah! Now that's a hat! I'll trade ya." He gleefully swapped headgear with the Man of Steel, polishing the derby with the back of his sleeve before setting it into place over his thinning hair. Turpin then pulled a cigar from his vest pocket and clenched it between his teeth.
A look of concern tempered Superman's smile. "You know, those things will kill you, Inspector."
"Aw, now don't you start in on me! My daughter Maisie's on my case all the time. I'm down to just one a month. An' I chew 'em more than smoke 'em anymore." The old detective took the half-chewed stogie from between his lips and stared at it forlornly. "See, I haven't even lit the blasted thing."
Superman nodded as he watched the hitman being loaded into a paddy wagon. "A good start, Inspector. You take enough risks as it is."
"Eh? An' what's that s'posed to mean?"
Superman swept his arm wide, gesturing to the plaza around them. "You put your life on the line here today, Inspector."
"All part of the job. The Feds were expectin' an attempt on the life of their star witness in the Intergang case. An' the Special Crimes Unit was eighty-five percent certain that a hit had been contracted with out-of-town talent. That's why I asked you to help out with my little decoy plan."
"You could've let me play the decoy."
"A big lug like you? Nuts! You never coulda made yourself short enough to look like the Feds' star witness. Oh, maybe that Martian buddy of yours coulda tamped himself down enough to play the part. Or even that Plastic Man goof. But you? No way. I was the closest in body type to the witness, even though I'm better lookin'. 'Sides, this was my plan, my call. An' I'd never ask anyone to take a chance I wouldn't take myself."
Superman shook his head. "Too big a chance. If I hadn't spotted the sniper in time -- !"
"But ya did. An' anyway," Turpin smacked a fist against his chest, "I was ready for 'im."
"If I'd been a second slower, that Kevlar vest wouldn't have done you much good." Superman poked a steely finger against the inspector's forehead, just below the brim of his derby. "The shot was aimed straight at your head."
"My head -- ?"
"Straight at it." Superman patted out the crown of the old fedora and smoothed the brim. "Given the angle of the bullet's trajectory and its velocity -- there's no question."
Turpin swallowed hard, as if suddenly aware of a bad taste in his mouth. He looked again at the half-chewed cigar and then tossed it into a nearby trash can.
"Two points." Superman grinned and leaned back against a lamppost. He twirled the fedora in one hand and plopped it low over his brow.
"Yeah, pretty good." The inspector tilted his head slightly back and to one side, sizing Superman up. "Ya know, you don't look half bad with that lid. You ever wear a hat?"
"Not in years, I'm afraid."
Turpin stared at the big man's profile. "Hey, you know who you look like?"
Superman kept his voice casual. "Who?"
"Dick Tracy!" The inspector clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, with that wide-brim hat -- an' just look at that jaw line! All ya need is a yellow overcoat."
"You think so? That's a new one. I hadn't heard that particular comparison before. An artist I know once said I looked like Cap'n Easy."
"Yeah? Oh, yeah, I can see that." Turpin folded his arms. "But how does a young buck like you even know about Cap'n Easy? He hasn't been in the funny pages in years -- not 'round here, at least. You must be a helluva lot older than you look!"
"Oh, I've always been a fan of the comics, Inspector." Superman thumbed the hat higher on his forehead. "Tracy, eh? Is my jaw really that square?" He rubbed his chin. "I've been told I resemble a lot of people, actually. Bond fans usually tell me that I look like Pierce Brosnan, or a young Timothy Dalton. My personal favorite was when a woman told me that I look like a young Gregory Peck."
"Nice. Very nice. I should be so lucky. Only actor I ever get compared to is Edgar Buchanan."
"Buchanan...Didn't he play...?"
"Yeah, yeah -- Uncle Joe on Petticoat Junction. Crazy show's still bein' rerun." Turpin took another look at Superman in profile. "Gregory Peck, huh? Sure, that works, too. 'Course, yer at least half a head taller than any of those guys -- an' a whole lot broader in the shoulder." The inspector started chuckling. "I still remember the first time I heard a TV comic point out that you and Charlie Sheen had never been seen together -- I just about busted a gut laughin'." He hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. "That was years ago, but it's still funny. To me, anyway. Ya gotta wonder if those other guys think it's funny when they get compared to you. 'Cause ya know that happens. Betcha every tall, dark-haired Caucasian male gets told he looks like Superman. Ya know it's gotta cut both ways."
"Not too deeply, I hope." The Man of Steel smiled. "I just hope that the other men take the comparisons as a compliment."
Turpin snorted. "They'd be crazy not to."
"Well, thank you, Inspector." Superman doffed the hat and started to hand it over. "But I think you'd best return this to the police supply room. It's not a bad fit, but the style really doesn't go well with a cape."
"Heh!" Turpin reached out for the fedora, only to have a sudden gust of wind tear it from his hand. "Hey!"
Superman's hand shot out, caught the hat, and thrust it back into the inspector's grasp. "Better hold on a little tighter. Wind's picking up."
"No kiddin'." Turpin closed his eyes tight and clapped a hand to his derby as the men were suddenly caught up in a swirl of light debris. In seconds, the sky darkened and a gale was howling through the plaza. Superman's cape was sent flying straight out from his shoulders.
And then, just as suddenly as it had blown in, the wind died down to a pleasant breeze. The clouds broke up and -- again, in less than a minute -- the sun was shining brightly in a clear, blue sky.
"Dammit!" Turpin spit dust from between his lips. "As if last winter wasn't bad enough, now we gotta put up with this! Blasted weather's been screwy up and down the whole East Coast all month. It's gettin' so that when I wake up in the mornin', I don't know whether to put on sneakers or mukluks."
"Ah, 'the dazzling uncertainty of it.'"
"'Scuse me?"
"That's how Mark Twain once described the weather in New England. I'd say it applies to Metropolis, as well."
"Yeah, too bad." Turpin brushed an errant cottonwood seed from the band of his derby. "I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that?"
Superman stared off into the sky, as if he had suddenly become determined to see to the edge of space. He listened intently for a sound far beyond the range of human hearing.
"Superman?"
"Eh?" The Man of Steel looked back at Turpin. "I'm sorry. What was that?"
"I was askin' if there wasn't anything you could do about the weather."
Superman chuckled. "Sorry, Inspector. Holding back the forces of nature is a bit more difficult than apprehending a hired gun. But now, you'll have to excuse me." He took one step away from the detective. "There are other matters that need my immediate attention." Another step, a leap, and the caped man shot up into the sky, creating a small wind gust of his own.
Turpin waved his derby as he watched the Man of Steel clear the tall buildings of the plaza. "Say what ya want, Superman -- but when it comes to battlin' nature, my money's still on you."
At that moment, halfway around the world, Mark sat in a lotus position in a vast underground chamber, his eyes closed. In the far corners of the room, purple and gold silk tapestries flowed between massive marble columns. Beneath him, a soft woven mat stretched out for several yards in every direction, cushioning him from the smooth marble floor. In front of his outstretched hands lay a slender metal rod, half an inch in diameter and a little over a foot long. It provided a focus through which he channeled his energies.
At Adam's behest, Mark had spent more and more time over the past few weeks focusing on the rod, becoming more in tune with his potential for power. He was at the end of just such a session now.
Mark's respiration came in rapid breaths, as though he were working out with free weights. Beads of sweat collected on his brow and slowly trickled down the bridge of his nose.
Soft pulsing lights illuminated his face, signaling the end of the test session. In response, Mark opened his eyes and his breathing began to slow. He gazed across the room to a display screen that monitored his vital signs via wireless sensors. His "working" pulse rate registered at sixty beats per minute, lower than his resting pulse used to be.
Mark rose to his feet, taking time to thoroughly stretch each muscle in turn, then bent and scooped up the metal rod. He crossed to the screen, checking his vitals one last time. Satisfied, he touched a finger to the corner of the screen.
"Show long-range results, Test Twenty-seven."
In answer to his voice command, his physical stats vanished from the screen, to be replaced by a series of swirling patterns superimposed over an outline of North America. Glowing amber circles on the display illuminated a series of locations stretching along the Atlantic coast from Maine to the Caribbean.
"Hah! Right on target every time." Mark brandished the rod in one hand as if it were a rapier and pretended to run through an imagined foe. Adam was right. I am a man of vast potential. He tapped the rod against his palm. "I think I deserve a little reward -- don't you, Roddy-boy? Yes, I think a nice relaxing swim is in order. But first, let's put you away."
Mark again touched the display screen. "Code Twelve -- 'hide and seek.'" The screen swung away from the wall, revealing a secret compartment. "Better quarters for you, too, kid. Beats being shoved up a pant leg, huh?" He secured the rod to a set of clamps and closed the screen over it. "Now for that swim."
He padded in bare feet back across the woven mat to a platform that looked out over the blue of a long elliptical pool. Mark dove in and swam several laps, luxuriating in the warmth of the waters.
Now this is living. I have won the freaking lottery! It had been over a month since he'd last had a drink, and he felt better than he had in years.
When Mark finally emerged from the pool, a small metal cylinder rose up out of the floor, dispensing a large, warmed towel. As he patted himself dry, a panel in the near wall slid open and a mechanical armature held out a silk robe for him. Mark smiled to himself. The first time he'd encountered these mechanisms, he'd reflexively blurted out a "thanks." Shaking his head at the memory, he slipped into the flowing garment, tying it around him.
A muted gong echoed, and Mark immediately snapped to attention as curtains parted along the far wall. Adam was entering the chamber. He strode deliberately around the pool, his ocher robes glistening as he walked. Mark had never asked, but he was sure that there were threads of gold filament woven throughout the fabric.
As his host approached, Mark brought his palms together in front of his face and bowed deeply from the waist. "Greetings, Sahib Adam." He held the position, looking up at the bearded man. "Is this right? Or should I have used your official title?"
"Please, rise. There is no need for formalities when we are not in the presence of the others." Adam smiled. "I trust that your accommodations continue to meet your expectations?"
Mark straightened up. "Are you kidding? Even at the top of my game, I never had a spread this lavish. I never imagined that anything could be so opulent and so exotic at the same time. Just look at this place! It's like Fred Astaire meets Bollywood, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I have screened both Top Hat and Flying Down to Rio -- and I am quite aware of the spectacles produced by India's film industry. Interesting diversions. But we must now clear our minds of all unnecessary distractions. The time for preliminary testing is over."
"You want to jump ahead to a full field operation?"
"Yes. A rare opportunity has arisen. We must ready ourselves to take advantage of it." Adam clapped his hands together sharply, and the mechanical armature again swung out of the wall panel.
This time the robotic arm produced a two-piece coverall and matching hood, both with an outer layer of tightly woven metallic mesh. At Adam's direction, Mark donned the garments; they had been tailored to fit him like a second skin. He caught his reflection in the burnished metal of the open wall panel and broke into a wide grin. "Nice. Green always was my best color."
"This is no time to indulge in base personal vanities." Adam's tone turned harsh. "It is both wasteful and unbecoming."
Mark bit off the smile and quickly bowed again. "Forgive me. What is our plan of attack?"
"Look here." Adam led Mark back to the display screen and pressed his palm to its surface. "Save and store test results. Show parameters for full field attack. New coordinates -- Four-Alpha-Nine."
At Adam's command, the glowing amber circles winked out along the eastern seaboard, and a new circle -- a much bigger circle, pulsing red -- appeared far to the north and west.
Mark checked the new coordinates on display and let out a long, low whistle. "Wow! What this calls for is...big! Bigger than anything I've ever tried before. I'm not sure I'm ready for a workout like that."
"I am. Absolutely." Adam looked him straight in the eyes. "With every test, you have doubled and redoubled my original belief in you, Mark. This will be a true challenge to your new prowess, but I have every confidence that you can meet it."
"You do, huh?" Mark swelled with pride. No one had ever expressed such faith in him. "Well, you haven't been wrong yet." He looked again at the display, then stepped forward, released its secure locks, and retrieved the metal rod from the compartment behind the screen. "Okay. Okay, let's do it!"
"Excellent. Come with me, we must begin immediately. To do otherwise would be an affront to the gods themselves."
"I am ready, Sahib. We are ready." Mark took the rod in both hands and handed it to Adam in offering. "And we are at your service. Lead on."
Copyright © 2004 by DC Comics. All Rights Reserved.
Excerpted from Superman: Neverending Battle by Roger Stern
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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