by Peter David
“Of course. Thirteen is M . . . MRE? MRE?”
Carefully, and trying not to sound patronizing, Bruce said, “How about Mr. E?”
“Mystery?”
“And another name for Mystery?”
“Conundrum? Puzzle? Enig . . . ma,” he said, realizing.
“Exactly. Mr. E. Mister Edward Nygma. What wasted genius.” He gave a moment’s thought and then guessed, “The video of Stickley’s suicide must have been a computer-generated forgery. That must have been the night that Nygma first realized what his devices could do . . . and that poor bastard Stickley was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You really are quite keen,” said Alfred approvingly, “despite what others say.”
They moved through the charred remains of the Batcave, trying to determine what options they had left to them. Bruce looked at the twisted metal wreck that had once been the Batmobile.
“Pretty bad, huh, Alfred?”
“We’ve repaired worse, sir.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“True,” acknowledged Alfred. “I was hoping to provide some small comfort.”
“The small comfort we can take, Alfred,” he said, pushing a button on the platform on which the Batmobile’s charred frame sat, “is that Mr. E. didn’t know about the cave under the cave.”
The platform started downward, slowly descending into the subterranean depths where, decades before, young Bruce Wayne had heard water running. It had been the next area that he had explored before discovering the higher portions, eventually settling on the upper sections for his main headquarters, and the lower regions for the storage of the Batboat and Batwing. Plus he also used that area for the testing of some of the larger equipment; working out the kinks in flame throwers, for example, was not a particularly viable idea in the upper reaches.
“What now, sir?”
“Claw Island. Nygma’s headquarters. I’m sure that’s where they’re keeping Chase.” He paused and said, “Are all the Batsuits destroyed?”
Alfred seemed reluctant to bring it up, but he pointed to a darkened area of the cavern. “All except the . . . prototype . . . with the radar modifications you’ve invented. But we haven’t had a successful test yet.”
Bruce smiled. “You know what, Alfred? I’m feeling lucky tonight.”
The young man stood in the cave, looking around at the wreckage. His black cape was draped around him as he surveyed the wreckage. He was wearing a red armored vest, green tights, and knee armor. A Utility Belt was buckled around his middle, and he wore flexible black boots. A small stylized “R” decorated his chest plate, and a mask covered his features.
“So this is why he hasn’t answered the signal,” he said. He felt dread creeping through him. There had been no sign of Bruce or Alfred upstairs. But certainly there would have been a news report if someone as prominent as Bruce Wayne had been killed. It didn’t make any sense.
Then he noticed the platform for the Batmobile was gone entirely. He walked over to it and looked down. No, not gone. Lowered. And he heard voices from below, echoing up to him.
He unsnapped a grappling hook and length of cable from his Utility Belt, anchored it firmly, and then jumped down into the darkness.
Batman emerged from the shadows, his armor bulkier, his cowl more fearsome-looking. The Bat symbol now ran the width of his chest. Alfred stared at him with distress. He certainly looked more intimidating. Now if the blasted armor didn’t kill him in the process . . .
“What do you suggest, Alfred? By sea or by air?”
“Why not both?” But the response had not been from Alfred. They turned to see the red-and-green-clad form of Dick Grayson drop down a few feet away.
The two costumed individuals studied each other. Alfred felt somewhat underdressed.
“Dick . . . Where did you get that suit?” he asked finally.
It was Alfred who said, “I . . . um . . . took the liberty, sir.”
Batman nodded slightly, although it was difficult to tell in the mask. “What’s the R stand for? Richard?”
“Robin.” He hesitated, trying to decide whether to explain it, and decided there was no point doing so at the moment. “Riddler and Two-Face look like a pretty lethal combination. I thought you could use some help.”
“Two against two are better odds,” Batman allowed. “But your attitude—”
“—has changed,” Robin put in. “Whatever happens, I won’t kill him.” He hesitated, then went on, “A friend taught me that.”
“Not just a friend . . .” Bruce extended his hand. “A partner.”
Dick stared resolutely into Bruce’s eyes. It was the hardest thing Dick had ever done because he knew, deep down, that he was still plagued with doubts. He had said what he had to say to get Bruce to accept him. But there was still the rage burning within him, the rage that blazed more brightly every time he envisioned Two-Face’s leering visage. The rage he was not altogether sure he could control. In order to function as Robin, had Dick’s first official act as Bruce’s partner been to lie? Had he become two-faced himself?
Who knew for certain? Perhaps Bruce was aware of his qualms, but was positive that Dick would do the right thing.
Now if only Dick could figure out what that was . . .
The walk up to the rooftop of police headquarters had been the longest Gordon had ever made. He stood next to Bullock and tapped the signal.
“He’s not coming. Shut it down.”
Bullock reached for the switch, and suddenly a roar cut through the night.
The Bat-Signal was coming closer.
It was impossible, but nevertheless it was happening. The great black shape, getting closer and closer, and then all of a sudden the Batwing burst through it, buzzing police headquarters and dipping a wing to Gordon.
A triumphant Gordon saluted as the Batwing, with Batman at the controls, arced up and in the direction of Gotham Harbor.
And in the waters of the harbor itself, Robin steered the Batboat across the still waters. His mind raced with infinite possibilities, infinite plans. And none of them included losing.
He cut back the engine noise, running silent and almost invisible in the darkness.
Claw Island loomed before him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Atop Claw Island, searchlights popped on one by one, flooding the water with light.
Within, the Riddler and Two-Face were playing electronic Battleship. The Riddler studied the board. “A-14.”
“Hit!”
Mortars exploded from the top of Claw Island, angling down toward the Batboat. Robin cut the ship hard to starboard and water spouted high in the sky behind him.
“B-12,” said Two-Face.
“A hit. And my favorite vitamin, I might add.”
Another explosion to stern. They were getting his range and Robin knew that he was in serious trouble. Then the water right in front of him erupted in a mountainous geyser, and Robin was blown back and out of the Batboat. The only thing he could think of was, Bruce is gonna kill me.
A mortar struck the Batboat square amidships and blew it to bits.
“A hit,” said Two-Face, looking disappointed. “You sank our battleship.”
Beneath the waters of Gotham City, Robin shoved a re-breather in his mouth and started to swim toward Claw Island. He had about three seconds to think that things were going to get better, at which point a stream of armed frogmen started converging on him from all sides. He twisted frantically out of the way as a spear shot past him, leaving a tiny trail of bubbles behind it.
Robin figured that maybe he had one or two more good dodges in him before he got shish-kebabbed.
Then he looked up as the roar of an engine alerted him to the presence of the Batwing.
The air vessel angled down toward Robin, and once again he allowed some measure of hope to bubble up within him. This fleeting hope lasted a good ten seconds, until laser beams from the top of the Riddler’s stronghold blasted outward, neatl
y severing one of the plane’s wings.
The plane spiralled downward, crashing into the water and sinking without a trace.
And that was when the frogmen caught up with Robin. They dragged him under, the water swallowing him, and he struggled furiously, lashing out with his hands, kicking desperately. But it was like moving in molasses, and the frogmen were far better equipped to maneuver in the water than Robin was.
Robin twisted, ripped the mask off one of the frogmen, and yanked the breathing tube out of another’s mouth. But more converged on him, grabbing his arms and legs, and now more were approaching with knives. And as if cutting him to pieces was going to be insufficient penalty, one of them managed to get his hand on Robin’s face and yank off his re-breather.
Suddenly one of the frogmen gestured frantically, and they all turned to see what he was indicating.
It was impossible to miss.
Speeding toward them through the water were the remains of the Batwing. Except that incredibly, even miraculously, it had transformed into something else. The other wing had telescoped inward, and sleek fins had slid into place. The Batsub, for want of a better name, approached at top speed to aid the beleaguered teen.
The frogmen hesitated, the next move belonging to the sub.
With a roar and rush of water, a black torpedo streaked toward them, shot out of the Batsub.
A torpedo with arms.
That’s what one of the frogmen adjudged it to be as a capeless Batman shot past him, snagged the struggling Robin with one hand, and with the other released a large net. The guided net ensnared the frogmen. They tried to slice it open with their knives, but didn’t even come close to cutting through it.
Batman and Robin shot straight toward the surface. When they broke the water, Robin gasped for air, sucking in great lungfuls of it. Batman, meantime, hooked the net cable onto a nearby buoy to keep the net from drifting.
Moments later Robin had clambered up to the rocky shore of Claw Island. Batman came up several yards behind, refastening his cape to his armored shoulder plates. As he did so, he heard Robin exclaim, “Holy rusted metal, Batman!”
His partner frowned. “What?”
Robin took a few steps forward, kneeling. “The ground. It’s metal, and it’s full of holes. You know. Holey.”
“Oh.” He looked around. “This place was a refueling station for subs during the war . . .”
And just as Batman started to climb out of the water, he heard a grinding of motors and a horrible crunching noise. He looked upward as Robin started to rise into the air.
The cylinder in Nygma’s illustration of Claw Island now made terrifying sense. The island was situated atop a tremendous cylindrical oil tank, rising quickly out of the water. Batman was left behind on a necklace of jutting rocks as Robin, with the rest of Claw Island, ascended higher and faster. It was already higher than his wirepoon gun could shoot a grappling hook. Looking around desperately for some means of access, he spotted a rusted panel on the giant metal structure. He moved quickly to it, ripped it free, and climbed inside.
Robin looked down at the water surging far below him. That was when a silky voice said, “The Bat or the Bird. We couldn’t decide who got to kill who.”
He spun and looked straight at Two-Face. “Or is it whom?” said Two-Face thoughtfully. He had a knife in his hands, flipping it casually from one hand to the other. “We flipped for it. We got you. We’d be angry—furious, even—if we thought we’d be out of the loop in killing Batman. But we don’t anticipate your demise taking more than a minute or so. Plenty of time for us to get back for the main event. Indeed, the coin toss favored us. The Riddler, after all, only gets to focus on the Bat. We, however, will have the Bat and you. Two for the price of one.”
They faced each other, circling. “The circus-boy, right?” asked Two-Face. “Makes sense, after all. If Wayne is the Bat . . . then it makes sense that you’re . . . what? What are you supposed to be?”
Tightly, Robin didn’t answer immediately. Instead he said, “You flipped for me, huh?”
“That’s right. As we said, for the moment, Riddler got the Bat.”
“Great. Well, you’re going to get flipped . . . the Bird!” And Robin leapt at him.
Two-Face easily sidestepped. His own lunge was savage, catching Robin by the throat. Robin hit the ground hard, the metal shaking under him. Two-Face landed on top of him, slamming him viciously in the head. Light exploded behind Robin’s eyes.
“What’s wrong, circus-boy? No mommy and daddy to save you?”
Two-Face raised his blade over the dazed Robin, and brought it down fast. At the last second Robin rolled clear, the blade wedging into the rusted metal surface. It was the brief instant that Robin needed. He backflipped, kicking Two-Face hard in the head.
“For my mother,” he shouted. As Two-Face staggered, Robin kicked him again and again, moving so quickly that Two-Face couldn’t mount a defense. “For my father! For Chris!”
He knocked Two-Face to his knees, and said tightly, “For me.” He smashed Two-Face in the chin, sending him rolling down the slope. His fingers found dirt and stone, but no other grip. At the last second, Two-Face grabbed a jagged outcropping of rock on the island’s edge, hanging on for dear life, feet kicking wildly over the abyss.
To Robin’s confusion, Two-Face was grinning.
“The scales are tipped. The blindfold torn from the lady’s eyes. Justice will be served.” The rock he was clutching began to slide. “You’re a man after my own heart, son. See you in hell!” The rock ripped free, and Two-Face started to fall.
He dropped only two feet, and then Robin’s hand grabbed him. His other hand had a grappling hook buried solidly into the rock.
He stared into the visage of Two-Face and saw himself. And more than all of Bruce’s words, more than all of his own twisted emotions . . . that face laid out for him the conflict within him.
He saw the part of him that wanted the death of Harvey Dent. It looked up at him with an unblinking, glaring eye from a scarred and distorted soul.
“No. I’d rather see you in jail.” And with that, he hauled Two-Face to safety.
“The Bat’s taught you well,” said Two-Face, catching his breath. And suddenly there was a gun in his hand, pressed against the flesh between Robin’s eyes. “A mistake. But definitely noble. I underestimated you after all, kid. You didn’t have the guts to do the right thing.”
Two-Face cocked the trigger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The interior of the cylinder was a world of spinning, glowing question marks.
A series of steel gratings at intervals of roughly a hundred feet rose the height of the cylinder. Each grating was flush against the walls, and Batman had been using them to make his way up. He would fire his wirepoon, hook onto a grating, clip it to the winch on his belt, and hoist himself up. Each grating had a trapdoor that he would ease through. Then he would repeat the process.
Far below him the surf crashed against the rocks.
There seemed to be only one more grating between himself and the top. Unfortunately, Batman could see from where he was standing that there was no trapdoor on that final one, for whatever reason. He tried to ignore the array of moving question marks as he planned his strategy. He’d have to haul himself up, and then dangle there as he sliced through it with a laser torch . . .
Was the grating closer?
Then he heard the grinding of motors. Sure enough, the upper grating was moving toward him. And it was doing so very quickly.
He knelt to pull open the trapdoor in the grating on which he was standing. It didn’t budge. It had sealed behind him electronically.
He looked up again, and the grating was moving so fast that he quickly realized he was not going to have time to cut through with the laser torch.
It left him exactly one option. He thumbed a button on his Utility Belt, painfully aware that the last time he’d tested the device, he’d almost set himself on fire.
His costume vibrated, building up in intensity, and seconds later his boots flared. The thrusters hurled him upward toward the descending grate. He crisscrossed his arms over his head, becoming what Robin would undoubtedly have termed a “Bat”-tering ram.
The descending grating and ascending Batman collided, Batman smashing through it. The metal wrenched free of the cylinder sides, clattering downward.
And the thrusters sputtered and cut out.
Batman reached out desperately and snagged an old access ladder set into the cylinder wall. He hung there for a moment, listening to the grating crash downward. Then he hoisted himself upward, shoving his way through a rusting access hatch to face . . .
. . . a weird haircut.
The head belonged to the Riddler, and the haircut consisted of a question mark shaved into the back of his head.
He was seated on his throne, which was slowly rotating. Extending from the back of his throne was a huge antenna, stretching up into the night sky. A ring of light encircled him, feeding even more brain power into him.
Batman quickly saw that the Riddler was substantially different from when he’d last seen him. Whatever he’d been doing to his brain had apparently spread to his body. Immense muscles bulged like a steroid-pumped bodybuilder’s.
Batman moved slowly through the Riddler’s control room, staring in bleak despair at what the poor, demented creature had done to himself. For his part, the Riddler grinned down at him. He indicated his overly muscular body. In a thick Austrian accent, he said, “Hasta la vista, baby. It’s me. Arnold Schwarzenygma.” He awaited a reply, but there was none. So he made his own. “Riddle me this. Riddle me that. Who’s afraid of the big, black Bat?”
“No more tricks, Edward. Release Chase. This is between you and me.”
Two-Face stepped from behind the Riddler’s throne. “And me . . .” and he added, “and me.”
Batman was looking up at the antenna. “Of course. The Box does more than enhance neural energy. You’ve been sucking Gotham’s brain waves.”