by Greg Cox
They passed a row of tank-like vehicles painted for desert camouflage. Squat and angular, with wide racetrack tires, the heavily armored “tumblers” had been designed for the US military, but cost overruns and technical difficulties had scuttled the project. Bruce had once put a similar model to good use, before it was destroyed while he was chasing the Joker. He had never bothered to replace it.
“I figured you’d have shut this place down,” Bruce said.
“It was always shut down, officially,” Lucius reminded him.
“But all this new stuff?”
“After your father died,” Lucius said, “Wayne Enterprises set up fourteen different defense subsidiaries.” That had been under the ethically dubious leadership of one William Earle, whom Bruce had ousted several years ago. Fox had proven to be a much more conscientious and socially responsible CEO. “I’ve spent years shuttering them, and consolidating all the prototypes under one roof. My roof.”
Bruce marveled at the sheer size of the stockpile.
“Why?”
“Stop them from falling into the wrong hands,” Lucius said. “Besides, I thought someone might get some use out of them—”
Bruce shook his head. What part of “retired” did the other man not understand?
“Sure I can’t tempt you with something?” Lucius pressed. “Pneumatic crampons? Infrared contact lenses?” He eyed Bruce’s cane. “At least let me get you something for that leg.”
Bruce appreciated the offer, but no. His bad knee kept him grounded, more or less.
“It’s fine for the use its gets these days.”
Lucius shrugged.
“Well, I have just the thing for an eccentric billionaire who doesn’t like to walk.”
He moved to a thick metal door that guarded an adjacent chamber. Lucius entered a code into a keypad mounted next to the door and the security barrier rolled upward, exposing the hangar beyond. Bruce’s eyes widened at the sight of a sleek, state-of-the-art vehicle that appeared to be all folding metal planes and panels. Enormous rotors waited to lift the intimidating craft into the air.
“Defense Department project for tight-geometry urban pacification,” Lucius said proudly. “Rotors configured for maneuvering between buildings without recirculation.”
Bruce was impressed.
“What’s it called?”
“It has a long and uninteresting Wayne Enterprises designation,” Lucius stated, “so I took to calling it the Bat.” He turned toward Bruce with a sly smile on his face. “And, yes, Mr. Wayne, it does come in black.”
Bruce couldn’t resist taking a closer look. He limped forward and ran his hand over one of the prototype’s many angled and overlapping elevons. The cockpit was sheltered beneath the wings in a sturdy armored module. The empty pilot’s seat called out to him. Instinctively he wondered how the Bat handled in the air.
“Works great,” Lucius said, as though reading his mind. “Except for the autopilot.”
Bruce stepped back from the machine.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Software-based instability,” Lucius said with a sigh. “Might take a better mind than mine to fix it.”
Bruce eyed him skeptically.
“Better mind?”
“I was trying to be modest. A less busy mind,” he amended. “Yours, perhaps.”
But Bruce refused to let the older man entice him. He turned his back on the aircraft with an undeniable twinge of regret.
“I told you,” he said firmly. “I retired.”
* * *
“I’ve seen worse cartilage in knees,” the doctor commented, examining an X-ray.
Bruce sat on an examination table in Gotham General Hospital. It was already dark outside, but Alfred had managed to arrange an after-hours appointment. The Wayne name still opened doors in Gotham, no matter what the latest financial reports said.
“That’s good,” Bruce responded absently, only half-listening. He had other things on his mind.
“Not really,” the doctor said. “That’s because there is no cartilage in your knee. And not much of any use in your elbows and shoulders. Between that and the scar tissue on your kidneys, residual concussive damage to your brain tissue, and the general scarred-over quality of your body, I simply cannot recommend that you go heli-skiing.” He tsked at the map of old scars criss-crossing Bruce’s bare back and chest. “About the only part of your body that looks healthy is your liver, so if you’re bored, I recommend you take up drinking, Mr. Wayne.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, doctor.”
The physician left to attend to his rounds, leaving his patient alone in the exam room.
Finally, Bruce thought. He quickly dressed and pulled a wool ski mask over his head. Moving rapidly, before anyone remembered to check on him, he hobbled over to the window and climbed onto the sill. Twisting the head of his cane, he drew out a length of unbreakable monofilament wire and clipped it to his belt, then wedged the cane securely behind the window frame. The glass pane slid open easily. A crisp autumn wind blew into the room. Bruce leaned out to inspect the view.
The exam room was on one of the topmost floors of the hospital, facing a dark alley. Litter blew across the floor of the alley, hundreds of feet below. A metal dumpster was filled with non-biological waste. Bruce had specifically requested this room—for privacy’s sake, he had claimed. It wouldn’t do, after all, for Bruce Wayne’s medical issues to be splashed all over the tabloids.
As cover stories went, it had the ring of plausibility.
He didn’t linger on the sill. Although he hadn’t attempted a stunt like this in years, he threw himself out the window into the night. Gravity seized him and he plunged toward the alley below, the wire unspooling behind him. The night wind whipped past his face.
One, two…He counted off the floors as he plummeted past them, accelerating at nine-point-eight meters per second squared. He waited until just the right moment to trigger the braking mechanism. Three!
He came to a halt directly outside a private room on the eleventh floor. Dim lights penetrated the curtains as he stealthily raised the window and slipped inside the room. Trained in the arts of the ninja, he made not a sound as he crossed toward the haggard figure in the bed. His heart sank at the sight.
Bruce had first met Jim Gordon on the worst night of his life. As a young police officer, freshly transferred from Chicago, Gordon had attempted to comfort an eight-year-old child mere hours after the boy’s parents had been murdered by a mugger in what would someday be known as Crime Alley. Although traumatized by the murders, which had taken place right before his eyes, Bruce had never forgotten the young officer’s kindness. One of the few honest cops in a town that liked being dirty, Gordon had proven a valuable ally in Batman’s war against crime.
Over the years, the Dark Knight had come to depend on Gordon’s integrity and courage.
Now Gordon lay helpless in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Blinking medical equipment monitored his vital signs, which were alarmingly weak. An oxygen mask was affixed to his face. An IV fed fluids into his arm. Gordon’s face was ashen. His skin looked clammy. Bruce felt a long-buried anger building in his chest.
Gordon was his friend.
Whoever did this to him needed to pay.
Bane.
A low growl escaped Bruce’s lips, rousing Gordon, whose eyes fluttered open. For a moment, Bruce feared that the commissioner might panic at the sight of a masked man standing at the foot of his bed, yet somehow the injured man seemed to recognize him. Gordon tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled his words. Wincing in pain, he tugged the mask away from his mouth.
“We were in this together,” he said hoarsely. “Then you were gone—”
“The Batman wasn’t needed anymore,” Bruce responded, disguising his voice. “We won.”
“Built on a lie,” Gordon croaked. “Our lie.” He moaned weakly, in obvious distress. “Now there’s an evil rising from where we tried to bury
it. Nobody will listen.” Anxious eyes pleaded with his visitor. “The Batman must come back.”
Does he know what he’s asking? Bruce wondered. “What if he doesn’t exist anymore?” he replied aloud.
“He must,” Gordon murmured, gasping for breath. “He must.”
CHAPTER TEN
Gotham’s Old Town had once been a prestigious place, but the neighborhood had never fully recovered from a series of economic downturns over the last few decades. Affluent families had abandoned it, only to be replaced by successive waves of struggling immigrants, welfare recipients, and squatters.
Elegant townhouses had been subdivided into shabby apartments and left to decay, neglected by absentee landlords who pocketed their rent checks but seldom laid eyes on their rundown properties. Graffiti blemished the buildings’ sooty brick walls. Prostitutes and drug dealers loitered openly on the stoops and street corners. Iron bars guarded the first floor windows. The police and politicians claimed to have cleaned up Gotham, but the view from Selina’s apartment told another story.
Looking away from the window, she admired herself in the mirror of her cramped, closet-sized bathroom. Her new pearls went nicely with the slinky black dress she had picked out for the night’s excursion. She was looking forward to getting out of the dingy apartment for a few hours.
A disturbance in the hall outside interrupted her thoughts.
“I told you!” Jen shouted, loud enough for all their neighbors to hear. “Money first!”
Selina rolled her eyes. Here we go again.
Moving quickly to the door, she stepped out into the hall, where she found Jen backed up against a wall by a smarmy yuppie type who looked twice her size and way too old for her. His face was flushed with anger. “Goddammit!” he swore. “You took my wallet!”
He drew back his fist. An expensive gold watch glittered on his arm.
Intent on bashing Jen, he didn’t even hear Selina pounce. She grabbed onto his wrist, her nails digging into his flesh.
“Get out,” she hissed.
Startled, he glared angrily at her.
“She took my wallet!”
Probably, Selina admitted to herself, but that didn’t matter. Nobody was turning Jen into a punching bag—not while she was around. She twisted the jerk’s arm behind his back and propelled him toward the stairwell. He grunted in pain.
“Now,” she insisted.
The guy got the message. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he retreated down the stairs, glancing back furiously over his shoulder on his way out. Selina waited until she heard the front door slam shut downstairs before checking on Jen. Her reckless young protege was already rifling through the guy’s thick wallet.
Selina sighed.
“I’ve told you not to try it with the assholes, Jen.”
“They’re all assholes,” Jen replied. She was dressed to entice, all slutted out in a micro-miniskirt, midriff-baring halter top, and high heels. Her makeup was about as subtle as a porn film. The guy with the fist was hardly the first jerk to take the bait.
Selina conceded the point.
“Okay, the assholes who hit.”
Jen had already been hit enough in her young life. She had been a runaway, living on the streets when Selina had first taken her under her wing. They had gone through a lot together, doing what they had to in order to survive. Selina just wished Jen showed better sense sometimes.
“I don’t know what he’s so upset about.” Jen pulled a handful of bills from the wallet. “He only had sixty bucks here.”
“Probably the watch,” Selina guessed.
“Watch?”
Selina held out her wrist. A brand-new Rolex gleamed against her bare arm. Smirking, she peeled it off and gave it to Jen.
“Don’t wait up for me,” she said.
A silver Lamborghini was parked in the shadows across from the converted townhouse. Although slightly out of place in this low-rent district, the deluxe sports car only attracted a few curious glances. It wasn’t uncommon for the upper classes to go slumming in Old Town, looking for drugs and other illicit diversions. Like the yuppie who had just followed a young girl into the apartment building, only to storm out in a rage minutes later.
Looks like he didn’t get what he wanted.
Bruce crouched inside the automobile. A hand-held tracking device informed him that his mother’s pearls were just across the street. He was weighing his next move when Selina Kyle emerged from the townhouse and hailed a cab. She looked as if she was dressed for a fancy date, or a party. The pearls hung elegantly upon her neck.
He had to admit that she wore them well.
He gave the cab a slight head start before pulling away from the curb. The tracker beeped on the dashboard.
Let’s see where she’s going with those pearls, he thought.
The cab dropped her off in front of the Gotham Museum of Art, where some sort of lavish celebration was being held. Spotlights splashed across the museum’s graceful neoclassical façade as limos disgorged elegant men and women in formal attire. Throngs of paparazzi lined the red carpet, snapping shots for tomorrow’s society columns and websites. Flashes went off incessantly, practically blinding the arriving guests. Bruce couldn’t help wishing that Selina Kyle had chosen a somewhat less public venue for her night on the town.
Good thing I put on a decent suit tonight, he mused.
He pulled up to the curb and turned the Lamborghini over to a valet, who appeared suitably impressed by the sweet ride. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the attention he was about to receive, Bruce removed his cane from the back seat.
“Look at that,” a paparazzo chortled nearby. “Another rich stiff too out of shape to climb out of his sports car.”
“No, that’s Bruce Wayne!” another photographer said excitedly. He pushed forward to capture a shot of the famous recluse. “Hey, Mr. Wayne! Where you been hiding?”
Dozens of lenses swung toward Bruce, who quietly pressed a button on his key fob. All at once, every camera in the vicinity went dead. Frustrated paparazzi clicked uselessly and cursed their equipment. Bruce repressed a smile.
Climbing the steps, he approached the front entrance.
“I’m not sure my assistant put me on the guest list,” he said to a man who stood in the doorway.
“Not a problem,” the awestruck greeter assured him. “Right through here, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce entered to find a tasteful charity masquerade underway. Twinkling white party lights were strung upon the walls and ceilings. Rose petals fell like confetti. Gotham’s A-list, wearing colorful masks along with the rest of their finery, mingled and massed throughout the gallery. The main exhibition hall, located below the mezzanine, had been converted into a dance floor. A live band performed on a stage in front of an exhibit of sixteenth-century Dutch oils.
Thirsty revelers congregated at an open bar. Champagne fizzed in crystal flutes. Marble sculptures posed on their pedestals. Oddly enough, Bruce was the only person not wearing a mask.
Too bad I left my cowl at home, he thought.
But where was Selina Kyle?
Nodding politely to anyone who tried to engage him in conversation, Bruce wove through the crowd with ease, searching for the elusive thief. He eyed the priceless masterpieces hanging on the walls. Was the “cat” planning another elaborate heist?
Of course, he thought. That’s her M.O.
Taking the stairs up to the mezzanine, he leaned upon the railing and scanned the main hall below. A sea of masked partygoers, at least a quarter of them wearing little black dresses, made locating a single woman challenging. It took him a moment, but he soon spotted Selina on the dance floor, sharing a slow dance with a well-fed older gentleman wearing a simple white domino mask. She sported a lacy black mask of her own, complete with velvet cat ears. The stolen pearls still gleamed around her neck.
He stepped away from the banister, moving to intercept her. But before he could reach the stairs, a voice called out to him.
“Bruce Wayne? At a charity ball?”
He turned to find an attractive brunette in a red gown gazing at him in surprise. A frilly Venetian mask was her only concession to the theme. Her striking blue-gray eyes looked vaguely familiar. It took him a moment to recognize her from various business articles and profiles.
“Miss Tate, isn’t it?” he said.
She seemed amazed to find him here. When she spoke, it was with a hint of an exotic accent.
“Even before you became a recluse, you never came to these things…”
“True.” He looked around with disdain. “Proceeds go to the big fat spread, not the cause. It’s not about charity, it’s about feeding the ego of whichever bored society hag laid it on.”
“Actually, this is my party, Mr. Wayne,” she said.
Bruce seldom blushed, but for once he came close.
“Oh.”
“And the proceeds will go where they should, because I paid for the fat spread myself.”
He had no reason to doubt her.
“That’s very generous of you.”
“You have to invest, if you want to restore balance to the world,” she continued, lowering her mask. “Take our clean energy project, for instance.”
Alfred and Lucius were right, Bruce noted. She was lovely.
“Sometimes the investment doesn’t pay off,” he responded blithely. “Sorry.”
She regarded him thoughtfully.
“You have a practiced apathy, Mr. Wayne. But a man who doesn’t care about the world doesn’t spend half his fortune on a plan to save it—and isn’t so wounded when it fails that he goes into hiding.”
Bruce felt as if his own mask was slipping. Miranda Tate was clearly a woman to be reckoned with. He would have to be on guard around her.
“Have a good evening, Mr. Wayne,” she said as she turned to leave.
He watched her walk away, almost forgetting about Selina Kyle for a moment. Then he recalled what had brought him here, and hurried down the stairs as quickly as his bad leg would allow. To his relief, Selina was still waltzing in the arms of her grayhaired companion, whom Bruce recognized as Horace Gladstone, a rich old twit if ever there was one.