Truth & Justice I #3

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Truth & Justice #3

Written by JC Roberts (Calamityjamie)
Edited by Daniel Dyer (Spider-Man Beyond)

Another day, another flying evil robot army, thought Superman distractedly as he punched one of the mechanized marauders into scrapyard fare. Random bolts, screws and what looked like a processor chip rained into Metropolis Bay.

“That isn’t very green,” quipped Superwoman, attempting to drop-kick enough of one the gleaming white seven-foot invaders into an actual junkyard sitting just south of the bay. Unfortunately, the robot appeared to be equipped with stabilizers that allowed for a good degree of inertia. Superwoman’s foot plunged into its mechanical midsection; she was literally knee-deep in robot innards.

“Kick with your heel, not your toe,” advised her father as she struggled to withdraw her leg from what had become, in essence, a mechanical bull.

Superwoman used her free leg to push off on the robot’s barrel chest, then, finished it off with a left cross that set its head careening into the Bay. “Can we debrief a little later?” she snapped. The ‘bots weren’t much of a challenge, but there were still three of them left and too many civilians on the ground to get sloppy.

Two of the remaining automatons had the misfortune to hover too close to Superman. Without actually looking at them, he grabbed one cylinder-shaped head in each hand and smashed them together. He blew the falling body parts into the junkyard, then politely waited for his daughter to finish off the final fighter.

She did so in style, taking off his head with a spinning hook kick that sent it flying past the bay itself and into the Atlantic Ocean. She grabbed the tumbling mechanical torso to stop it from falling on a convergence of longshoremen who hadn’t had the sense to run when the battle started.

“Any ships out there?” Superwoman called to her father.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. And he smiled. “Nice kick. Ready for Sunday dinner?”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

“You have robot guts on your Reeboks.” It was true; a small coil and some stray wires were caught in a shoelace just over the tongue of Martha’s running shoes. She tugged them out and flicked them across the table at her brother, Clay. They bounced off the front of his plaid cotton shirt and into his plate of tofu curry.

He was about to toss the now pungent clump of hardware back at her when their mother intervened.

“My God, you’d think we still had two teenagers,” Lois Lane said. There was no real irritation in her voice. A series of nominations for journalism awards had been announced earlier in the day and Clayton Kent’s series on a recycling scandal had been nominated. Very little could have ruined his mother’s evening.

“Very cool,” said Martha, upon hearing the news. She tried to sound excited. She was, of course, pleased for her brother, but it was hard to work up a lot of enthusiasm about the acquisition in the Kent home of yet another news industry accolade. Her parents’ den was plastered with them; they obscured every inch of wallpaper, and Clay was already accumulating his own collection of plaques and statuettes. Martha’s tone betrayed her “what else is new” attitude. Her brother went in for the kill.

“How sad,” he said evilly, “that they don’t give out awards for curing psycho-criminals. Oh, wait – they can’t be cured.”

Martha laughed. “That’s not true. Lobotomy. Just because it’s illegal, doesn’t mean it’s ineffective.”

“Sounds like a slogan,” said Clark mildly. He was glad to have the family together, if only for a few hours. When he was a boy, Sunday dinners were inviolate: Everyone would be there to wade through an avalanche of food: turkey, ham, homemade mashed potatoes, vegetables they’d picked earlier in the day… Now it seemed like even when two of them could fly home, there was never enough time to set aside a day of the week to share a meal together.

Clay, who was six years younger than Martha, still lived at home. He was a rangy young African-American man with a halo of dreadlocks that surrounded a baby face. He’d worn the ‘locks since the first grade and Lois became agitated every time he threatened to cut them. As it was, she was having trouble with the small amount of stubble he’d recently decided to leave on his jaw every other morning.

Clark – Superman, actually – had delivered Clay himself in an East Metropolis alleyway. His birth mother, just seven months pregnant, had been beaten senseless by a pair of gang members, who stole her purse and left her for dead. Superman had not arrived in time to prevent the mugging; he was on his way back home after rescuing 20 people from a tenement fire on the other side of the city. He had found her, hemorrhaging, unconscious and pummeled beyond recognition. She was in the middle of the final stages of labor. It had been too late to fly the woman to Metropolis Medical Center, although Superman had rushed mother and baby there immediately after the premature infant’s birth. Despite Herculean efforts on the part of the trauma team, Clay’s birth mother died half an hour after she arrived in the Emergency Room. A months-long extensive nationwide search did not turn up a single person who knew her.

Clark visited the neo-natal care unit the next day to report on the search for the boy’s family, which the Daily Planet helped sponsor. He found himself making excuses for “follow-up” visits until a nurse finally asked him if he wanted to hold the boy. He needed to bond to someone, she explained.

That evening, Clark approached his wife about adopting the child. Martha’s birth had almost killed Lois; having additional children naturally was out of the question. Raising a half-Kryptonian toddler had been an overwhelming task. Unlike Clark, whose powers developed gradually, Martha was flying before she could walk. It had taken some long-neglected Kryptonian technology and a few good minds from Cadmus to help Lois keep her under control and Clark couldn’t always be around. Lois often joked that all of her gray hair came in between Martha’s first and third birthdays; this was, in fact, the truth. But by the time her daughter had started first grade, she was open to Clark’s suggestion that they expand their family. By then she was well aware that her husband had fallen in love with the little boy he’d helped bring into the world and was expecting his request.

Unlike most adoptions, this one went through easily, as both would-be parents shamelessly pulled every string they could. When Clay was released from the preemie unit two months after his precarious birth, he was ushered into the Kent townhouse, where Martha danced happily around her new brother.

Clay had worshipped Clark – not as Superman, but as himself – since he was a toddler. While most little boys soared around in Superman capes and Batman cowls, little Clay donned an oversized pair of glasses and one of his father’s suit jackets, then waddled through the room clutching a pen and a reporter’s notebook. Neither Clark nor Lois had minded Martha’s preference for medicine over journalism, but they were truly thrilled when their son chose to follow in their footsteps.

By halfway through dinner, talk, as usual, had turned towards the news business. Martha had long since learned to tune out such conversations, taking the mental alone-time to consider the effectiveness of various treatment plans she’d been working on – Harvey was doing exceedingly well since she’d overhauled his medical regime and insisted he be treated with more respect. She wondered about the new patient she’d been told to expect tomorrow – some nutcase (weren’t they all?) who’d been attempting to transform himself into a snake. Martha had been so lost in thought that she was startled when her brother removed her empty plate from the table and asked, “How’s Lian?”

Lian and Clay were better friends than his parents would have wanted. Lian had played sexual mentor to many young men and Clayton was among those who had benefitted from her abundant generosity. He was wise enough to not have developed romantic feelings for Lian, but he did admire her. She had been there for his sister when she needed her – and, besides, she was a laugh.

“She’s fine. Says hello,” Martha said. In order to divert her mother’s suspicious glare at Clay, she added, “And, Dad, I had that talk you suggested with, you know, that person.”

“Good,” said Clark. “Does he feel a little more comfortable with you being in Gotham?”

“No,” said Martha, with a laugh that sounded equal parts amused and resentful. “He hates me.”

“Don’t take it personally,” said her father.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Lian was gone when Martha arrived home from dinner a little after 9 PM. She felt restless and there was nothing on TV, so she threw an armful of clothes into the washing machine and headed toward the little gym Lian had set up in a corner of their living room. The spaghetti-strap shirt and jeans she was wearing didn’t qualify as work-out clothes, but Martha suspected if she stopped to change, she might not return to the bench press. She reached up onto a shelf that contained a sweatband, a weight belt and several other training accessories and found a slim silver bracelet, which she snapped around her right wrist.

She considered a variety of factors, and then loaded 130 pounds onto the weight bar. That was nothing, of course, for Superwoman, but when the bracelet was secure around her wrist, it was Martha Kent lifting the weights. The bracelet was more than just an attractive trinket: it was a clever fusion of Kryptonian technology and Cadmus genius-scientist innovation that allowed two frazzled parents of a half-Kryptonian child to experience some relief. The metals and circuitry in the bracelet acted upon its wearer much like a red sun. While wearing the bracelet, Martha was no stronger or otherwise “super” than the average human woman of her age and fitness level. This enabled her to train with weights that were actually available for sale in the average sporting good store. There were other reasons to don the bracelet, including the need to occasionally take a pre-employment physical. And, if she was ever to want to become pregnant by a human man, the bracelet was currently her only hope – if such a thing was possible at all. Martha was not currently sorry her ovum were impenetrable, nor that she was immune to all known sexually transmitted diseases, but family meant too much to her to rule out the possibility of a baby someday.

This was the last thing on her mind right now; her biggest concern at the moment was defending to Lian her decision to lift without a spotter. Martha knew Lian would scold her for doing so; she also knew her roommate would give her hell for not training. She’d slacked off big-time in Paris. Her most frequently used form of exercise equipment at the Sorbonne was a Frenchman named Philippe, who happened to be her “Trends in Therapeutic Neurosurgery” professor. None of their encounters involved strength training.

The first lift was fairly easy. Martha was young enough for her muscles to have retained sufficient memory to make 130 pounds seem almost effortless. Throwing on an extra 20 pounds substantially increased the challenge, but it was those last 10 she’d attempted during her final rep that really had her straining to lock out her elbows. She took a final breath, squeezed her eyes tight and pushed out with all of her might. Just as her arms straightened, she was jolted by a sudden absence of weight. Her eyes flew open. There were two black-gloved hands gripping the barbell, holding it steady.

Martha closed her eyes in relief and exasperation as she released the barbell and dropped her head back onto the bench.

“Jesus. Do you like to scare people?” Without waiting for a response, she sat up and rested her forehead on her knees.

“You should be able to lift more than that,” Batman said. It was no surprise that he was able to set the weights down one-handed, but it annoyed her.

“I know. I will.” She would. She built muscle fast. She examined him. As usual, Batman’s countenance made the grim reaper seem like a really fun guy. Martha was a little surprised to see him in her apartment. She wondered what he wanted, but his reaction to her openness during their last encounter made her unwilling to initiate the conversation. She slipped her hands into her pocket and looked at him, expectant.

After a moment, he said, “Salvatore Slipp. You’re admitting him tomorrow.”

The snake man. Martha hadn’t heard anything about Batman bagging him. She wondered what his interest was. “That’s right. You have a special interest in him?”

His interest was in her neglect, yesterday, to process the records they’d sent ahead of Slipp, but he saw no advantage in letting her know that Arkham’s files were, essentially, his files. A cop he’d spoken to suggested Slipp had done some hideous things to a woman before a posse of zealous police officers transformed him into the human equivalent of a bloody rag doll. It was likely Slipp would join the majority of Arkham’s less outstanding population, rendered impotent by a combination of strong drugs, restraints and solitary confinement, but, still, Batman liked to know. You never knew who was going to move right to the top of the class in what Jim Gordon used to call “The Academy of the Insane.”

Martha smiled, tilted her head at him and then plunked down onto her living room couch. She crossed her legs and waved a file at him.

“Got his CV right here. Interesting guy. All buttoned-down and GQ on the outside, kind of nerdy, even…” her eyes glittered impishly.

“And?” She could see a muscle work in his jaw. Martha knew he thought she was playing games, but he wasn’t the only one who could use silence as leverage.

“He wants to be a serpent.”

This was new information. “A serpent.”

“Yeah, he pretty much wants to be a snake. The arms and legs are setting him back a bit,” she added cheerfully.

He mulled this new bit of information over, before asking, “What makes the intake officer at Gotham prison think Slipp wants to be a snake.”

“Do you know that when you ask questions, there’s like, never a question mark in your tone?” asked Martha. “Your questions sound like statements.”

His eyes darkened. “Last time we spoke, you offered to help me.”

Still smiling, Martha waved the folder at him again, this time gesturing him to take it. He stepped toward the couch until he was towering over her, his shins were about two inches from her knees. He opened the manila folder. “You’re allowed to take patient files home?”

“Not really, but I needed to read it,” Martha said. “Got it just before an army of robots decided to knock over an armory in Metropolis. Of course, I’m not allowed to show it to anyone, either. You should probably give it back to me right now.”

He nodded without actually hearing her. His focus was on the file. The written report was rather spare, containing just the initial crime report and some comments recorded by the arresting officer and the intake guard at the jail. Shipp apparently got off on strangling women while sexually assaulting them in a variety of degrading combinations. He’d seemed to have made a science out of just how close to unconsciousness he could bring a woman so as to maximize her terror without making her lose consciousness. The specific details were brutally perverse; Batman had no intention of discussing them with Clark Kent’s daughter.

It was the photographs, however, that gave him pause. The first depicted a man who, as Martha had noted, seemed fairly conservative in his appearance and not at all extraordinary. A shirtless photo revealed nothing more remarkable than a curious shadowy ring around his waist that seemed to peek just a millimeter or two above the top of his Dockers. The next photo, which showed Shipp stripped from the waist down, was another story. He’d had his entire lower body tattooed; from the tops of his feet to just above his hipbones were inky dark green and black scales reminiscent of a dragon or serpent. His white hands where placed to protect his modesty; this contrast only made the effect of the tattoos more disturbing.

Very little could move the stone face Batman had adopted decades ago as his permanent expression, but Martha, who had been studying him as he studied the folder, noticed the barest flicker of an eyelid as his eyes fell on the fourth photo.

“That one’s my favorite,” she told him.

Shipp’s hands, it seemed, had been covering himself not out of modesty, but in preparation for the big reveal: His penis was completely tattooed so it resembled a snake, complete with beady black eyes and a tiny forked tongue.

“That one’s the ‘Yes, I’m crazy’ money shot,” Martha said. “Can you imagine wanting to go through something so painful and something so potentially damaging to such an important body part? He’s lucky it still works.”

“Does it?” Batman asked quietly.

Martha shrugged. “According to what he did to that woman, it does. But if I were a guy, I wouldn’t be taking that chance.”

He closed the folder and handed it back to her.

“You know, if you’d waited a day, you could have hacked into our system and gotten all of this,” said Martha, folding her hands behind her head and leaning back against the couch to look up at him. He did not react, but she could tell he wasn’t happy that she’d figured him out. It hadn’t been a big reach – Superman had mentioned long ago that Batman wasn’t particularly protective of the civil rights of criminals. After he refused her offer of inside information from Arkham, she assumed he had his own way of obtaining the data. It didn’t bother Martha. Her own attitudes were much closer to Batman’s than to her father’s, at least where violent criminals were concerned. “I don’t scan in patient records until my own intake report is complete.”

He nodded. Before either one of them could speak, her phone rang. Martha reached across the arm of the coach to retrieve the receiver from an end table.

“Hello?” She listened for a moment, her natural smile broadening. Her voice, when she spoke, was surprisingly husky. “Ah, hallo, Philippe! Quelle surprise agréable! Comment sont vous, Bébé?”

Philippe’s response was characteristically erotic and his voice over the receiver seemed unusually loud. Martha looked up quickly, hoping that Batman did not speak French, or at least had not picked up Philippe’s part of the conversation. She needn’t have worried. He was gone.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Don’t bring a bag lunch – either leave the grounds for a quick bite or eat a big breakfast and try to get through the day without eating. Don’t hang around after dark unless you’re forced to take call – and then perch next to the biggest, nastiest guard for the duration. Never spend time with a patient near the beginning or end of a med cycle unless there is a shatterproof window between you. And never let an inmate lull you into believing he’s harmless. “Harmless” is an antonym for “Arkham inmate.”~ An unofficial survivor’s guide for Arkham Asylum Staff.

“Want an apple?” Martha Kent indicated the shiny piece of fruit on her desk without raising her eyes from her computer screen.

“Thanks.” Harvey Dent chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Gala?”

“Pink Lady.” Martha leaned back in her chair and pushed back her bangs. “What time is it?”

Harvey looked through the small window at the darkening sky. “Time for all good doctors to run screaming from the madhouse.”

Martha laughed and reached for a second apple. “Doctors with a social life, you mean.” Her eyes found the clock on her computer monitor. “Hey, it’s time for your meds, Harv.”

He withdrew a few capsules from his front coverall pocket and downed them with a half-opened bottle of spring water. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?” asked Martha, though she knew what he meant.

“You know what I mean. Do you have a death wish? You wouldn’t be the first. Or do you think your affiliation with the Justice League protects you?” Harvey asked.

Martha shook her head. “If anything, I think that makes me a bigger target. Look, I assess people pretty well. That’s one of my strengths. Between adjusting your meds and getting some other stuff straightened out, I think we’ve made a lot of progress. And, honestly, you help me. Your insights on some of the other inmates are useful. You helped me a lot with Slipp.”

Harvey gave a short laugh. “That wasn’t insight, it was a joke. I can’t believe you tossed a live rat at him and dared him to swallow it whole.”

“It got his attention,” said Martha. “He stopped hissing at me.”

After a moment of silence, Harvey said, “It doesn’t mean a thing to me that the guards are treating me better. I know they’re only doing it because you ordered them to.”

Martha looked at him and nodded.

“I know you mean it, though,” continued Harvey quietly. “The respect. When you talk to me.”

“I do,” said Martha, softly.

Harvey looked at his lap for a moment. “You should go home, Dr. Martha.” He looked tired; the burned half of his face was drooping a bit more than usual. Martha walked him back to his cell. They had an unspoken agreement that Harvey’s free time in her office would be limited to when most of the staff had left for the day; Persky would probably be outraged if he knew she’d been removing him from his guarded, ultra-secure cell without authorization, but she also believed Harvey needed this. Real respect was the key to his compliance. Without it, he would not take his pills or adhere to Arkham’s multitude of regulations.

“Harvey,” said Martha, just before she locked him in. “I kinda have two sides to me myself.” Their eyes met for a moment, then Martha closed the door.

She had hours of work ahead of her. Her last jaunt with the Justice League had set her back days and she couldn’t afford not to make up the time. She didn’t know how the rest of the staff did it; even with her ability to stay awake for days, it seemed like the work just never stopped coming.

Lian, who knew her better than anyone, claimed this was because Martha was a perfectionist who enjoyed making more work for herself. This wasn’t altogether wrong. But the fact was that there was just a lot to be done at Arkham., she thought. The chaos and fear that was part of the nature of the asylum interfered with most doctors’ ability to produce the detailed and painstaking work most institutions required. Martha didn’t blame her colleagues – she knew she had considerably less to fear than any of them – but she did wish things could be different.

She dropped into her desk chair and pulled up another patient file. Lian had wanted to go out tonight. Martha called the house to let her roommate know she wouldn’t be able to make it. She was relieved to find that Lian had already gone on without her.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Outside Wayne Manor, the sun was coming up. Batman had just missed it; he’d pulled into the Batcave moments before, after a hard night. The Indian summer had long since faded, but the crime wave it had inspired had not. It seemed like the bad guys were getting bigger and more numerous – or maybe he was just getting old.

He’d just pulled off his headgear, ready for a hot shower and bed, when Meera’s voice penetrated his head: >>Batman. We need you. Superwoman is coming to pick you up.<<

“I can fly myself,” he said, pulling his cowl back on. Most League members spoke aloud to Meera out of reflex; Batman did it on purpose. He did not need stray thoughts slipping into his otherwise terse replies. He strode towards the underground hangar.

>>No time. Stand by for Superwoman.<<

She was already there, touching down on the floor of his cave, Quiver riding her back like a human cape. Neither woman took the time to glance around the cave, as the rare visitor tended to do.

“C’mon,” said Martha, holding out an arm. “We’re already late.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Arsenal, Midori and Flash were already at the Upstate New York headquarters when they arrived. Arsenal looked at his watch, said, “Good.” He motioned toward the wall-sized monitor that had been vastly improved by Midori. Hundreds of figures were dropping out of the sky into what appeared to be a patch of the American northwest.

Quiver’s eyes widened. “That looks bad,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Roy tersely. He pressed a button on his keyboard and the screen split. The second image showed four spacecrafts in close formation in low orbit around the Earth. “They’re right on top of NORAD.”

“There’s no base at NORAD anymore,” said Quiver. There had been endless fanfare when the government closed down the base fifteen years ago, not long after it announced that the war on terror had been won.

“Yes there is,” Batman and Arsenal said simultaneously.

“So what are we doing?” asked Superwoman.

“We fight them. Gren went to get Meera. Don’t know what’s keeping them,” said Arsenal. “I’ve called for back-up – Superman’s out of town; Animal Man’s hurt again. Thunder, Fantasia and Molten are all unreachable. We’ve left messages for members of the Green Lantern Corps – Gren’s going to try again when he gets here.”

He looked up.

“We can’t wait. Batman, Midori’s cooked up a few neat new toys for us –” he nodded at a pile of gleaming weapons strewn across the conference table. Batman picked up what looked like a laser rifle on steroids.

“Do they kill?” asked Superwoman.

“Of course not,” said Arsenal, irritated. “But they hurt – a lot.”

Midori stepped toward Batman. Shyly, she held out a small, boxlike device. “It’s a force field,” she whispered, blushing olive. She had become comfortable with most of her teammates over the past months, but Batman still intimidated her.

“Thanks,” he said, clipping the gadget onto his belt. Arsenal tossed a second force field generator to Quiver. He was already wearing one.

“They won’t make us invulnerable,” he said, “but we’ll definitely be tougher to kill. OK, let’s go,” he added. “They’re going to have to meet us there.”

A flash of green contradicted him. “No way, Harper,” said Gren, who was suddenly standing next to Arsenal. “You don’t get to leave without us.”

Most of the group rode with Gren in a green bubble-like force-field. Quiver, as usual, rode with Superwoman. The Flash, on foot, was the first one there. He was punching through his dozenth invader by the time the others arrived.

“Are they robot or human?” Roy shouted the question.

“Armored humanoid,” Wally yelled back, still swinging.

“There’s a whole bunch of soldiers out here,” Superwoman reported through Meera.

Great, thought Roy. He ordered Meera to tell the military commanders to hold back for now. He did not like the idea of dead soldiers.

There were probably three or four hundred of the invaders. They had apparently counted on fighting human military personnel, not superheroes. They were putting up a good fight, but not an impossible one. The key was going to be stamina, Arsenal thought. Can we keep going when they keep coming? He fired a “joy buzzer,” one of his newest arrows, at an alien fighter. Upon penetration, it emitted the force of a high-grade stun gun. The invader shook spasmodically and crumpled to the ground. Roy smiled grimly and reloaded.

Superwoman was working on pure momentum, flying low and banging into a succession of fighters as though they were dominoes. As they toppled, Quiver shot a binder arrow around the piles that were their bodies, effectively taking them out of the fight.

The aliens’ psyches were difficult to penetrate at a cognitive level, but Meera was able to induce in the fighters closest to her a wave of irrational fear that made it more difficult for them to fight. The effect was particularly effective on those battling Batman; his mere existence seemed to daunt people regardless of planet of origin. He was using Midori’s weapon as a quarterstaff, smashing barrel and rifle butt into whatever face happened to approach him. The force field was probably working, but it was hard to tell. His opponents weren’t getting the chance to hit him, either with fists or firepower.

Grendel decided right away that he wasn’t cherry-picking today. He hit about fifty of them with a solid light construct resembling a huge green tidal wave. He could have expanded the field of the wave, but Meera and Flash were fighting nearby and he didn’t want them caught up in his emerald tsunami. The blast of energy felled most of his targets. Gren, feeling more confident, sent a big green bowling ball after the rest of them.

They had probably been fighting for half an hour, when Meera’s voice ordered the Green Lantern and Superwoman after the orbiting ships. There were only a few dozen able fighters left on the ground by now. It was time to make sure reinforcements never arrived.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The two flyers shot into space together, quickly scouting the area where the ships had first appeared. Superwoman, who was working on a quickly-drawn lungful of air, looked at her partner. >>Where were they?<< she asked, using Meera telepathic link.

Gren’s puzzled eyes met hers and he shrugged. Then he gestured a suggestion that they expand the search in case the small fleet was still in orbit. She nodded nervously and broke away, searching for the ships.

It wasn’t Grendel’s fault, Superwoman told herself as she scanned the juncture of space and sky. He didn’t know how little time she could last without air; Superwoman was not big on sharing her limitations. It sounded too much like making excuses.

Ten minutes into the search, she felt her consciousness slipping. She let herself drop back into the atmosphere for a moment, sucked in a fresh lungful of air, then flew back to resume her search. Nothing. This wasn’t the best way to tell if the ships were gone, she thought. She concentrated hard on contacting Meera.

>>I hear you.<<

She felt dizzy again, fading.

>>Superwoman. Report.<<

Martha thought she’d managed to tell her that the ships were no longer at the original docking site and that Midori better check the skies on her remote computer. Then she let herself drop back into the atmosphere, barely replenishing her lungs and brain in time to fend off the black-out.

She had just righted herself when Grendel gripped her arm.

“Are you OK?” he shouted. “Meera said you were passing out.”

She pulled away from him. “Did she get my message?”

He didn’t know. “The ships are gone,” he shouted, redirecting
the both of them toward the battle site. By the time they arrived, the U.S. Army Corps had taken over the unenviable task of cleaning up mounds of unconscious invaders and their teammates were ready to be taken home.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The Green Lantern Corps had eventually received Arsenal’s message. They had captured the small fleet of spacecrafts as it entered the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. There had not been a second wave of fighters on board; they had not expected significant resistance.

From what Arsenal ascertained after a debriefing with Kurdoon, the leader of the Green Lantern Corps, the invaders were eco-terrorists on their own planet, an abominable sewage dump of a world that was infamous among the more urbane space travelers for its blind insistence on consuming itself into extinction. The group that had tried to overrun NORAD considered the Earth a fresh, green place to live and impose its own planet-friendly regime. That they’d have to overthrow or kill the planet’s existing leadership had not troubled them.

“And they thought we were clean and green?” asked Lian. “Not too bright, are they?”

“They were activists, not scientists,” said Midori primly.

“They were right about the pollution,” said Martha. She had turned off her new Midori-modified hologram. “It sucks that they were homicidal nuts.”

“They weren’t nuts,” said Batman. “They were cold-blooded killers.”

His tone irritated her. “No, they weren’t nuts, Batman, OK? Forgive me for trying to add a bit of lightness to the conversation.”

“A bit of light-headedness, you mean,” he shot back. “Nice stunt you pulled back there, Kent, nearly knocking yourself out. Great way to help the team.”

He’d managed to push two of her buttons at once. Martha smashed her hands on the conference table, rising, “Well –”

“Enough!” Roy waved at Martha to sit down. She did so, glaring mightily at Batman, who pretended not to notice. “Martha. You do have to be more careful. No one expects you to do anything you can’t do.” Roy thought sadly that this was probably not true. “And Batman, Superwoman was trying to ensure that the rest of us were safe. She was conveying important information at her own expense.”

“It didn’t have to be at her own expense,” said Batman. “She could have spent two seconds dropping into the atmosphere and taking a deep breath.”

“I didn’t think we had two seconds,” snapped Martha.

Lian put her hand over Martha’s mouth and said, “We’re going to go now, if we’re all done debriefing. I need to pour cold water on my roommate.”

Everyone except Batman laughed. Martha grinned reluctantly.

“Sorry,” she said to the room in general. She stood again. “Want a ride, Bats?”

He didn’t. After a round of hugs in which only Batman did not participate, Gotham’s female contingent took off through an open window.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Roy Harper looked around the plush living room and felt, as always, underdressed. His shoes were nearly new, but he still felt uncomfortable stepping on the soft off-white carpet. He stood awkwardly in front of an opulent antique couch, his hands in his pockets. When Bruce Wayne walked into the room, he nearly jumped.

“I feel like I’m in a museum,” he said.

“You get used to it,” said Bruce, with forced politeness. Most visitors to Wayne Manor – at least the ones he respected – were working people. They all had a similar response to the lavishly furnished mansion – as though they were out of place among these treasures and might somehow break or soil something. This reaction invariably made Bruce feel vaguely like a spoiled brat. He reminded himself that his father had been a working man, a doctor, and there was no reason to be ashamed of his family home.

“You want something to drink?” he asked Roy, as Alfred tottered into the room.

“We have a very fine sherry, sir,” the old butler informed him. “And some excellent brandy.”

“Just a glass of water, please,” said Roy. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

Alfred returned momentarily with two glasses of water. Roy fiddled with his messenger bag, eventually pulling out a sheaf of paper.

Early on, members of the Justice League realized they’d need funding to stay operational and that accepting too much support from government entities could lead to conflicts of interest. Eventually, it also became apparent that there wasn’t much money in the superhero trade unless you were willing to sell out. Clark, of course, had long had held down a job, but he had participated fulltime in the League for very limited periods of time – besides, he didn’t have to sleep much. Bruce had his fortune and Wally’s wife was a successful television journalist. Meera was a therapist who specialized in post traumatic stress disorder. They were among the few who rarely had money worries. Most of those who devoted themselves entirely to protecting the world had struggled to survive until the Martian Manhunter, during his stint as leader, suggested the League might seek stipends for some of their members.

By then, Eclipso had done his damage and there were no secret identities to protect among the membership. Batman had immediately offered to fund the stipends, which he claimed would amount to a write-off for Wayne Industries. The stipends – which J’onn himself graciously declined – would allow for food, shelter and utility payments, along with any sort of training equipment and professional items a League member might need. A generous medical plan was also included. Currently, Roy, Lian and Grendel received the stipend. Roy was there to arrange for Midori to receive one as well.

“Although, if I were you, I’d hire her as part of your tech division,” Roy said. “She’d make you a freaking fortune – more of one, I mean.” He reconsidered, and added, “Forget it. I want her with the League full-time.”

Bruce looked up from the paperwork he was signing. “Full-time seems to describe how much time you’re spending ‘orienting’ her.”

Roy, whose relationship with Lian’s mother – and his two subsequent marriages – had ended in disaster, reached for a pair of reading glasses. “She’s from a different world – it’s not easy to acclimate. Believe me, she’s not my type. Unbelievably innocent.”

“That wouldn’t be your type,” Bruce agreed. “She doesn’t seem like the other Coluans we’ve met – not that we’ve run into a ton of them.”

Roy explained that, Midori had been an outcast on Colu, considered by her peers to be emotionally unstable.

“Why?” That didn’t sound too great.

“Because she actually has emotions,” said Roy. “Don’t worry, she’s fine.” He fumbled with the glasses. “God, it sucks to be old.”

“Get your eyes zapped like I did,” Bruce said.

“No, thank you. I prefer my eyes laser-free,” Roy replied. “And it’s not like I read a whole lot of fine print.”

Bruce leaned back on the couch and watched Roy return the papers to his briefcase – minus a direct deposit form Bruce would have processed the following day. “Kent doesn’t want one?” He’d hacked into her employment records the night she’d coaxed Harvey out of the tower and she knew she was docked whenever League business took her away from work. Even without this handicap, Lian made more money than her multi-degreed roommate.

Roy said carefully, “Kent? No, Clark’s pretty set. He’ll probably be able to retire in a few years with a nice, fat pension.”

“I meant –”

“His daughter,” Roy finished. He studied Bruce’s face. “Her name is Martha. And no, she probably thinks accepting money for saving people’s lives is worse than prostitution.”

Bruce clicked the pen he was holding so that the point moved in and out of its plastic sheath. He said nothing.

“You do know you picked that fight with her yesterday?” asked Roy. “The two of you can’t get through a meeting without arguing.”

Bruce stared at the pen for a long moment. “She compromised the team. She needs to know her limitations.”

“She didn’t compromise anything,” said Roy. “If she’d passed out, the worst that would have happened was that she’d make a big hole in the ground, wake up perfectly OK and pick up wherever she left off. And we were already cleaning up shop by then.

“But you’re right,” he conceded. “She put herself unnecessarily at risk. People expect a lot from Martha – too much. She knows that. She doesn’t want to let anyone down.”

Not a good quality in a crime fighter, Bruce thought. If not herself, she’d get someone else killed.

“They all have their problems, our JL brats,” Roy said. “Lian – I know she’s got issues. Gren’s nowhere near as bad as Guy, but he’s still an obnoxious bastard. And Martha's a workaholic who's going to overcompensate herself into an early grave.

“You’re wrong about her, though. She’s not from Smallville, Bruce. She’s no farm girl. And she’s far from squeaky-clean.” Roy’s tone wasn’t suggestive, but with his reputation, it didn’t have to be. A startling and entirely unwelcome image flickered in Bruce’s mind.

It must have shown on his face. Roy said quickly, “No, I haven’t. Lian would kill me.”

Bruce said, “Clark would kill you.”

“No,” said Roy reasonably. “Clark might terminate our friendship, but he wouldn’t kill me. He knows his daughter’s a grown-up. She was practically living with Dave when she was 20 and Clark loved him.

“And then last year in France,” he added. “That whole thing with Philippe. Clark loathed the guy, but he’s still alive.”

Philippe. The man on the telephone, that night in her apartment. “So she dated a Frenchman. In France.” Bruce noticed that Alfred was lounging nearby, apparently having determined that the conversation concerned Martha Kent. The old butler had taken a curious interest in her after their first meeting. He was pretending to dust, but Bruce knew better.

“A Frenchman who happened to be her professor,” said Roy. “And I’m not sure I’d call it dating. Philippe was good for her, though,” he added quickly, as though he felt she needed defending. “She needed something simple to get her back into the game. It took her years to recover when Dave was killed.”

That memory again – his visit to Metropolis eight years ago… Bruce rose abruptly. “You know a lot about her.”

Roy understood the meeting was over. He got to his feet and slung the messenger bag over his shoulder. “Martha tells Lian a lot and Lian tells me everything.” As they clasped hands, he added, “Thanks for adding Midori to the payroll, Bruce.”

Continued...