An electronic voice murmured in his ear. “he knows.”
Without warning, Daniel heard the blast doors slam shut at the top of the stairs, trapping him inside the bunker. Crimson lights flashed overhead, casting a bloodred radiance over the interior of the chamber. A high-pitched siren went off, echoing loudly within the claustrophobic confines of the underground laboratory. An artificial voice, that sounded not at all like Skeets', stridently sounded an alarm:
"RED ALERT! RED ALERT! LAB ENTRANCE HAS BEEN TAMPERED WITH! RED ALERT!"
"Skeets, what's happening?" Daniel shouted to be heard over the ear-piercing siren. He ran frantically toward the stairs. "Skeets!"
"TRESPASSER DETECTED! TIME-LOOP VORTEX DEFENSE ACTIVATED!"
The air crackled behind him. A whiff of ozone tickled his nose. Peering back over his shoulder, Daniel saw7 some sort of glowing purple whirlpool forming in the middle of the laboratory. Reality seemed to ripple around the edge of the unnatural phenomenon, as though the very fabric of time and space was being distorted. A powerful suction tugged on Daniel. Loose papers and debris disappeared into the gaping maelstrom.
"Vortex?" He felt the suction growing stronger by the second, pulling him backward toward the time warp. "No!" he gasped as he realized that he had somehow set off the world's scariest burglar alarm. He raced up the steps, fighting the pull of the vortex every step of the way. A rush of wind whipped past his face as he reached the top of the stairs. "Skeets, open the door! Get me out of here!"
He pounded his fist against the sealed doors, which stubbornly refused to open. "Hurry!" he pleaded with the silent robot. "Something's pulling on me! Skeets, please!" The suction began to drag him back down the stairs. He grabbed onto an arm rail, but, unable to withstand the inexorable pull of the vortex, the metal rail came loose from the wall. He tumbled backward towards the lab below. "SKEETS!"
The globe, the blackboard, the shattered crystal sphere, the broken clocks ... everything in the lab was sucked into the luminous vortex. Clinging to the bottom step by his fingertips, Daniel felt his flesh and bones being stretched like taffy by an irresistible force. His bloody nails scraped against the floor tiles. "You promised me glory!" he reminded Skeets. "You promised me a chance to relive my moment!"
“and so you shall, daniel,” the robot said at last, “over and
OVER AGAIN, FDR ALL ETERNITY.”
The floor tiles came loose and Daniel was sucked into the heart of the vortex. "Noooooo!" he cried out pitifully as he vanished beyond the event horizon of the time-loop. Upstairs, outside the bunker, Skeets reset the atomic time lock for 1,000,000 a.d.
“I’M SORRY IT HAD TO BE THIS WAY, DANIEL. I TRULY AM.”TherO-
bot took off across the desert, leaving the bunker behind, “but you have
SERVED YOUR PURPOSE.”
Skeets had gotten the answer he had come for.
“HE KNOWS.”
WEEK 20
OUTSIDE GOTHAM CITY.
The Batcave looked like it had been abandoned for months. Tarps covered the equipment and trophies. Dust coated the flat screen monitor of the primary computer station. Stalactites jabbed from the ceiling. Sleeping bats rustled in their roosts. Water dripped somewhere within the extensive network of caves beneath stately Wayne Manor.
Supernova floated silently down the steps from the empty mansion. His personal radiance lit the way, casting shadows onto the calcite-covered walls of the main grotto. He paused at the bottom of the steps to look around. A quick inspection confirmed what he had already suspected: Batman was not at home, and hadn't been for some time. Nor was there any sign of this mysterious new Batwoman who was rumored to be policing Gotham these days.
Good, the hooded intruder thought. That makes things simpler. He glanced at the various tarp-covered trophies scattered around the grotto. Now then, where could it be?
Touching down upon the tiled floor, he walked over to the nearest tarp-covered heap. He yanked the dusty sheet off the trophy to reveal a wooden display case containing a number of the Penguin's trick umbrellas. He took a moment to a boggle at the very concept of a flame-throwing bumbershoot before moving onto the next exhibit, which occupied a position of honor at the center of the grotto. Clouds of dust were stirred up as he pulled off another tarp, exposing a transparent plastic cylinder holding an empty Robin costume.
Supernova nodded soberly. The brightly colored uniform, he knew, belonged to the second Robin, Jason Todd, murdered by the Joker a few years back. Lately, though, Supernova had heard unsettling rumors that Jason had returned from the dead. Could be, he admitted. Stranger things have happened. He certainly wouldn't be the first of us to survive our own demise.. ..
Still, the gloomy memorial was not what he was looking for. Turning away from the vacant costume, he tugged a white sheet off another wooden trophy case. Beneath a pane of clear glass, an ominous-looking metal gauntlet rested upon a velvet cushion. Green and purple enamel plating gleamed upon the armored glove. Multicaret chunks of crystal, each a different color, were mounted in the gauntlet's knuckles. Supernova recognized five different varieties of kryptonite: red, green, jewel, blue, and black.
Talk about, jewelry to die for, he thought. Especially if you're Kryptonian.
The lethal gauntlet had originally belonged to Lex Luthor, Superman's greatest foe, but had come into Batman's possession after the Dark Knight and the Man of Steel joined forces to defeat one of Luthor's nefarious schemes. Supernova had hoped to find the glove in the Batcave—and here it was. fust what I was looking for.
He reached out and opened the case.
WEEK 21
OOLONG ISLAND. SOUTH PACIFIC.
Bullets bounced off the armored carapace of the giant mechanical mantis. Its multifaceted compound eyes glowed like headlights. Spiked forelegs speared hapless security guards as the robot insect rampaged through the hangar-sized secret laboratory. Twin antennae scraped the ceiling.
"No! No! Naughty Mantichine!" its creator cried out frantically. Baron Bug chased after the berserk mechanism. The tail of his white lab coat flapped behind him as he ran. His fingers frantically stabbed at the buttons of a handheld remote control device, which appeared to be doing him no good whatsoever. His face was flushed and perspiring. "Stop, I command you! Stop!"
The rebellious mantis was about to throw a gun-toting guard through a large plate glass window when a coruscating violet energy beam struck the robot's steel-plated thorax. The amok mechanism was disintegrated on the spot, leaving behind only a charred black stain on the floor tiles. The captured guard fell twenty feet before landing with a thump.
Baron Bug glared angrily at the source of the disintegration beam: a partially assembled robot head mounted on a mechanical lift several yards away. Roughly the size of a freight elevator, the huge metal skull had not yet been concealed beneath a layer of synthetic flesh. High-voltage cables connected the head to the lab's generous power supply. Servomotors and hydraulic conduits dangled from the bottom of the head's titanium neck assembly. A purple glow gradually dimmed within the reflective lenses of the robot's eyes.
"You . .. how dare you!" Baron sputtered indignantly.
"Back to the drawing board, Bugsy!" T.O. Morrow mocked him. The outlaw futurist leaned against the huge robot head. He wore a garish Hawaiian shirt instead of a lab jacket and sipped urbanely on a mai tai. "Didn't I say that your precious Mantichine was no match for my All-Purpose Omnibot?"
A third scientist looked over from his own workspace. An acetylene torch flared in his grip as he lifted the face of his welder's mask. "Crow all you want, Morrow. When I complete the Super-Hood Mark II, you'll all be lining up to kiss the butt of Doctor Rigoro Mortis!" .
What a stiff, Doctor Sivana thought. He watched the brewing confrontation from a metal catwalk overlooking the ground floor of the lab. Franz Waxman's score for The Bride of Frankenstein played over the Muzak system.
Baron Bug was still irate over the loss of his Mantichine. "It's sabotage! One of you has-bee
ns is jealous of my genius." He hurled the useless remote at the floor. "Afraid that Baron Bug will outshine you all."
"Hah!" Morrow laughed. "Your intellect is as weak as your Bug-o-Trons!"
"That's it, Morrow!" Baron Bug stomped across the lab toward the other scientist. Less than five feet tall and balding, the crazed entomologist looked more comical than threatening. "Put up your dukes!"
Sivana decided that this had gone on long enough. "Break it up, boys!" he ordered via a miniature microphone patched into the lab's loudspeaker system. He leaned out over the catwalk's metal rail to address his fellow scientists. "This is no way for the world's greatest minds to behave. We have work to do, or have you forgotten?"
You'd think they'd be.more appreciative of the cozy setup we've got here, Sivana thought. Although initially recruited against his will, the fugitive scientist had come to relish the abundant resources that were now at his disposal, thanks to Intergang's deep pockets and patronage. The elevated walkway looked out over an enormous industrial facility that made his old lab back in Fawcett City look like a high school shop class by comparison. Robots and death-rays, in various stages of construction, shared space with all manner of revolutionary inventions and experiments, employing the latest state-of-the-art equipment and materials. Right at this very moment, any number of intriguing projects were in progress on the floor below. Doctor Death, late of Arkham Asylum, was brewing up quicker and more undetectable new poisons in an enclosed fume hood. A translucent gas mask partially concealed his cadaverous features. The lovely Dr. Veronica Cale, a persistent thorn in Wonder Woman's side, occupied the adjacent cubicle, where she was presently splicing genes together in imaginative new combinations. Dr. Cyclops, best known for his notorious "doomsday stare," peered into the Fifth Dimension via a complicated array of crystalline lenses. Doctor Tyme, who had a clock face where his eyes, nose, and mouth should have been, wandered all over the floor as he scanned the premises with a portable sensor of his own invention. The minute and hour hands on his face drooped downward to approximate a frown as he shook his head at the readings. Instead of a sensible white lab coat, Tyme wore a ridiculous blue and green super-villain costume, complete with cape. "I seem to have misplaced fifty-two seconds," he called out to his colleagues. "Has anyone seen them?"
The buzz of illicit activity tickled Sivana to no end. So this is what you get, he thought, when the world's maddest scientists are given an unlimited budget and encouraged to run wild on the finest mind-expanding narcotics known to man.
He couldn't complain about the location either. The picture window at the far end of the lab offered a breathtaking view of a pristine tropical beach, complete with swaying palm trees and lavish amounts of sunlight. Ira Quimby, whose celebrated I.Q. had been accelerated by exposure to an irradiated space rock, was lounging on the beach at this very moment, soaking up rays while being attended to by bikini-clad female simulacra. Ira claimed that the solar energy enhanced his intellect, but Sivana suspected that this was simply an excuse to slack off. I need to lean on him sometime soon, he resolved. Our benefactors are going to expect a return on their investment.
Sivana admired the scope of Intergang's ambition—and their wisdom in placing him in charge of the nefarious think tank. Unlike the majority of his colleagues, many of whom were antisocial recluses if the truth be told, Sivana had once been the CEO of his own multimillion-dollar corporation— before Captain Marvel exposed his criminal activities. He was therefore the logical choice to head the operation, at least after Lex Luthor turned down the position.
Luthor was keeping a low profile these days, while rebuilding the empire that had been stolen from him during the Crisis. Probably just as well, Sivana thought. I don't need that kind of competition.
The sound of an approaching helicopter penetrated the walls of the complex. Right on schedule, Sivana thought. We got rid of that malfunctioning Mantich-inejust in time. He glanced up at the ceiling as he heard the copter touch down on the helipad on the roof. "Look lively, boys and girl," he announced over the mike. "We have company."
And now a word from our sponsors....
Heavy footsteps preceded the arrival of Bruno Mannheim, Intergang's undisputed boss. A tailored Italian suit was stretched over his stocky frame. Beefy arms swung at his sides. Pomaded black hair and a pencil mustache did little to civilize his brutish features. Flanked by two sullen bodyguards, he joined Sivana upon the catwalk. His pin-striped suit stood in marked contrast to Sivana's rumpled lab coat.
"Boss Mannheim," the mad doctor greeted him. "How kind of you to visit us."
"This ain't a social call," Mannheim growled. "We're mobilizing. And they tell me you have a solution to my problems in Kahndaq."
"Indeed we do," Sivana cackled. Besides their own pet projects, Oolong Island's resident brain trust had also combined their respective geniuses on a single endeavor of unparalleled ambition. "Weapons so terrible only one name seemed suitable." He rubbed his hands together in sinister anticipation. "We call them the Four Horsemen." ■
WEEK 22
GOTHAM CITY.
"This is from three weeks ago, Mr. Mannheim," the pencil-necked flunky explained. "Our spy-eyes over Metropolis spotted Supernova rescuing a small child from a riptide."
A video monitor descended from the ceiling of the con ference room. Bruno Mannheim squinted at the footage on the plus-sized screen, which showed the mysterious new hero returning some squalling brat to her mother. The mother, whose bathing suit was clearly modeled on Wonder Woman's skimpy outfit, clutched the soggy child tearfully. Nameless beachgoers applauded in the background as Supernova took to the skies.
"If this footage is three weeks old, Strauss, why am I just seeing it now?" He scowled at the so-called intelligence analyst, jet lag from Mannheim's return trip to Gotham didn't improve his mood any. "How come I wasn't shown this earlier?"
"It... it took us awhile to retrieve the recorded data, sir." Strauss swallowed nervously. "We understand that we're under orders to track Supernova whenever he's sighted, but, as you'll see, he did what he always does."
On the screen, the masked hero stared directly into the camera, almost as if he was looking straight at Mannheim himself. A blinding light emanated from Supernova's head and shoulders as the screen whited out before going blank completely.
"He sensed he was under observation somehow," Strauss interpreted the images. "And used his power of disintegration on our cameras." He grimaced at the memory. "It took us three weeks just to reconstruct every pixel and byte that reflected off the satellite before it vanished."
Mannheim considered Strauss's report. "Intergang's billion-dollar comm satellite. Which he saw from hundreds of miles away." He brooded over the facts. "It certainly fits, doesn't it?"
Strauss looked baffled. "Excuse me?"
"Superman, you moron," the ganglord snapped impatiently. "The big blue Boy Scout."
Even though his ambitions were focused on Gotham these days, Mannheim kept a watchful eye over matters back in Metropolis. Having clashed with Superman before, he found it hard to believe that the Man of Steel would really leave his beloved city unguarded for so long, not unless he was dead and buried ... again. But the Crime Bible had not foretold Superman's demise this year, nor had it predicted that any new hero would rise in Metropolis at this time. The conclusion seemed obvious: Superman was posing as Supernova for some reason of his owti.
Who else had the telescopic vision to spot that satellite, Mannheim reasoned, and the heat-vision to destroy it?
"My orders regarding Supernova stand," he growled at Strauss. "And don't come back until you have some real evidence to show me."
WEEK 23
BIALYA.
" 'For Choice is the domain only of the strong, the way of true freedom. Trapped within thy Law, weak ye are revealed, and thus Choice ain't for ye.' And saying thus, the handcuffs snapped closed, and the beatings did begin. Yea, for forty days and nights did they torture the Detective, until his mind became as
broken as his body." .
The hooded woman raised her eyes from the leather-bound tome laid open on the pulpit before her. Sputtering torches and candles illuminated a cavernous temple deep beneath the arid desert northeast of the capital. Shadows capered upon forbidding stone walls, into which were carved graphic depictions of murder, torture, slavery, and every other manner of crime and brutality. A black silk ribbon marked her place in the book.
"From the Epic of Moriarty, Book of Crime, Chapter Twenty-Seven, Verses Seven through Twelve." She threw back the hood of her ebony cloak, revealing long scarlet hair and slitted yellow eyes. Her slinky black dress, and matching corset, appealed to instincts more sensual than spiritual. A thigh-high slit in her gown offered a provocative glimpse of a lacy black garter belt. "Unto Cain," she preached.
"UNTO CAIN." Her flock, a motley assortment of beast-men and Intergang flunkies, answered her in unison. They bowed their misshapen heads, their assorted fingers, claws, and talons steepled before them in prayer.
No such invocations came from the dozen or so children chained to the stone steps between the priestess and her freakish congregation. Wearing only rags, dirt, and bruises, the miserable kids huddled upon the cold stone floor at the base of the steps. Scrawny limbs and exposed ribs testified to weeks of near starvation. Frightened whimpers escaped their lips as they tried not to look at the throng of chanting monsters only a few yards away from them. Repeated lashings had left welts upon the children's abused bodies.
"Bring forth the boy," the priestess demanded.
How sick is this? Renee Montoya thought as she furtively eyed the unholy ceremony. She and Vic were crouched behind the stone rail of a mezzanine overlooking the ground floor of the temple. Looking away from the enslaved kids, she turned her attention back to the flame-haired femme fatale presiding over the ritual.
"You were right, Charlie," she whispered. "It's her. Whisper A'Daire." Renee's skin crawled at the memory of Whisper's forked tongue licking her cheek. Her hand tightened around the grip of her ray gun. "I should shoot her right now."