Green Lantern - Sleepers Book 2

by Unknown Author

  The upper gunner pulled back the cocking level of his twin .50 caliber machine guns. “Sure did.”

  “Fire at will!”

  The squadron of B-25s opened fire on Malvolio. And because they hadn’t seen an enemy fighter in several bombing runs, they were happy to have something to shoot at.

  The gunfire directed at Malvolio wasn’t enough to injure him but it was distraction enough for him to lose concentration, letting Scott break free and dive through the formation of bombers.

  The planes slewed and dipped in Scott’s wake, almost colliding with each other. Scott dove down below them, into cloud cover, with Malvolio following closely behind.

  The bomber crews searched for any sign of the mystery men. Then, suddenly both men flew out of a cloud and straight up through the formation of twin-engine bombers, causing the pilots to wildly bank their planes.

  The bombardier shouted into the intercom. “Did you see that? They were falling up!”

  As he chased Scott, Malvolio felt his strength weakening-he had squandered much of his power escaping through the Stargate and was unable to recharge his ring. He would need to attempt something new to him: diplomacy. But First he would have to gamble.

  They were in the stratosphere now, fighting in the thin air, the blackness of space above and the magnificent arching horizon of the Earth below. The kinetic energy of the battle continued to cause storms to charge instantly beneath them, and lightning snap-flashed through the enormous thunderheads roiling up from the warm air below.

  Malvolio stopped fighting.

  “We should join forces.”

  “You killed my men,” Scott replied. “And for that you’re going to pay.”

  “A terrible mistake, to be sure,” Malvolio said. “Many were attempting to destroy me. Why do you not avenge those other men?”

  “They were the enemy.”

  Malvolio stared at Scott. “I’m not from your time-your rules are much more complicated. In my time I killed whomever was attempting to do the same to me.”

  “Like now,” Scott said.

  “This is why I'm no longer fighting. We are both Green Lanterns. My actions were terrible mistakes. But if you must take your revenge... ”

  Malvolio spread his arms wide, inviting Scott’s death blow.

  So Scott delivered it.

  Malvolio felt his body coming apart at cellular level. Scott was literally blowing him apart, disintegrating him.

  He tumbled towards the Earth, his pain surreal and enormous.

  Scott watched him fall. He knew that although Malvolio reflexively used his power to keep himself from fully vaporizing, the fall would kill him. So he watched his enemy tumble toward the ocean below.

  He thought about what Malvolio had said. He did not believe him.

  Malvolio was in agony. He used his remaining power to ward off Scott’s destruction but had none left to stop his fall. His gambit had failed, death was beckoning, and the rush of air spun his body lazily as he plunged towards Earth.

  Scott hovered, watching Malvolio become a dot in the atmosphere below. He thought hard and remembered what Beasley once told him: “It’s not about being innocent: it’s about not being completely guilty.”

  Malvolio killed his men. He clearly wasn’t innocent. But maybe Malvolio wasn’t completely guilty. Like Dekker.

  “Damn.”

  Scott dove down after Malvolio.

  Mal volio awakened to see Alan Scott staring down at him. He could not guess what Scott was thinking, but he knew that he would not be alive if it wasn’t for Scott. His bluff had worked.

  Malvolio sat up amidst the carnage of the battle around them. All the soldiers were dead. Malvolio looked at his ring—it was dark. He held it up for Scott to see. Scott shook his head.

  “I saved you but I don’t trust you,” Scott told him. “You’ll live without the power until I trust you.”

  “A bargain, Green Lantern.”

  “Don’t call me that until I’m in costume. No one knows that Alan Scott is the Green Lantern.”

  “Why do you hide your great power?”

  “Personal reasons. But in front of anyone else I’m Alan Scott. Betray me and you’ll be sorry.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “I’m going to find out why you’re here, but until then you’re suspect, understand?”

  “Completely. Although I’ve failed miserably at this so far, I’ve been sent to help you, Alan Scott.”

  “Great,” Scott replied.

  “I could teach you a great deal,” Malvolio declared. “You have enormous power but lack the will to use it.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to,” Scott said.

  “But think of all you could do.”

  Scott looked at Malvolio. “I used to be ambitious. It didn’t work out.”

  They both heard the rumble at the same time. Scott remembered his mission and at first was delighted to hear the reinforcements, until he realized it was from the wrong side. A column of German

  Mark IV tanks- eight-were making their way up the grade to the bridge.

  Scott turned to Malvolio. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  Scott looked down at his ring, but the power was faltering—the conflicts from within him were clouding his power.

  Malvolio put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “This is a trifling. Allow me. Please, before more of your fellow countrymen die.”

  Scott realized he had no choice.

  Malvolio walked towards the tank column. The commander of the lead tank was SS. Scott saw that he wore a headset over his black officer’s cap. The hauptmann shouted a command into the microphone hanging from his neck. The tank came to a halt.

  Now just thirty yards away, Malvolio strode towards the lead tank. He smiled, looking forward to the work before him.

  A huge green blade emanated from Malvolio, opaque and shimmering with energy. Malvolio focused and the blade fell on the tank, literally cleaving it in two. The men inside tumbled out, lucky to escape it.

  Malvolio then turned his energy on them and using the green force, gathered them together, the energy a string now, wrapping them tighter and tighter, condensing the men together and they screamed for help and mercy, the string blending until they were cocooned it in, then Malvolio squeezing them men, grinding them against each other, compressing them as if they were in the deepest ocean and their skin and flesh came apart as if they were cooked and all that was left of them was a mass of dead flesh, gristle and fluid.

  Malvolio dropped this mess onto the road. Another tank fired at him with machine gun fire, and for dramatic effect Malvolio allowed this, laughing as the rounds splashed the dirt around him and pelted off of him. Then, focusing his energy on this tank, it began to shake, more and more violently until it literally came to pieces, the men inside smashed against the bulkhead so much that they looked as if they’d been beaten with tire irons. The rivets of the tank popped like buttons on a tight sweater, and the pieces fell apart until finally the shells inside detonated, that tank blowing itself apart.

  The remaining three tanks reversed down the slope, the lead tank firing on the move. The shell impacted at Malvolio’s feet and for a moment he was thrown into the air, but he spun and landed in a crouch.

  He concentrated on the offending tank, and Scott could see a bright light emanating from the slits. The top hatch was thrown open and a column of light shot from it, too bright to look at. What was left of the commander tried to climb from it, his eyes burned to liquid-filled sockets, blood running from his nose, mouth and ears, richly red and flowing heavy, before he fell back down into the tank, from this agony to death.

  Scott’s mouth dropped open. “My God.”

  Malvolio’s hand was outstretched and he was soaked in sweat but clearly enjoying his work. The quietness of the aftermath of the carnage was startling, and Malvolio snapped out of his death-trance, looking at his now totally dark ring.

  He walked back to Scott and stared into his eyes. “It is will
, Alan Scott. My will. I see it and it becomes. That is what I have to offer you.”

  Malvolio took the musette bag from Scott’s hands and pulled out the green lantern. Scowling, he took the lantern between his massive hands and crushed it to a fine dust swirling in the hot Sicilian wind. “You do not need such trivial foolishness,” declared Malvolio. “All you will need is will and purpose.”

  Scott was dumbfounded. “I needed that lantern to recharge my ring. Every twenty-four hours.” Scott held up his dark ring. “I’m not going to be much good with this.”

  Malvolio grinned and touched his ring to Scott’s. Like candles sharing a flame, they both glowed brightly and the ring of each gave new life to the other.

  The general walked the battlefield and the fresh death that was everywhere. Already a column of Sherman tanks and trucks loaded with infantry were rolling across the bridge to link up with the amphibious forces making their way off the beaches five miles ahead. The fact that the bridge was standing was considered a miracle, and the general came to see for himself how it happened.

  Scott sat on a stone, head down, ignoring his success, still dealing with the shock of combat. The general understood this but he was also firm when he spoke the Scott.

  “What can you tell me about this?”

  Scott looked up. “He did it, sir. All of it.”

  The general looked at Malvolio, who was standing on the knocked-out pillbox, watching the troops roll by. The men were whistling and whooping at the strange long-haired guy in the funny costume, and he was enjoying their esprit: he was always moved by the magnificence of war.

  The general shot a look to his aide, Colonel Pryne. The colonel was long, thin and rangy, the star center on his high school basketball team in Indiana. The colonel was all-American and brilliant in a way that did not come from books. He was invaluable to the general, picking up opportunities and exploiting them with discretion, just as he had on the boards of the basketball courts of his youth.

  Pryne would understand the general’s orders without the general having to utter them or commit them to paper. Piyne saw to it that the job got done, even if it wasn’t officially “on the books.” It was his specialty.

  Pryne turned to Scott. “Captain, we’ll need you to escort Mister Mai... ”

  “Malvolio.”

  “...to the States.”

  Scott looked up sharply. “The States? Back home?”

  “For a while. You’ll be debriefed and we’ll need to look more closely to Mister Malvolio’s capabilities.”

  “Why me? Why do I have to go?”

  “Because Mister Malvolio has requested it. He’s making some interesting statements, Scott. If they’re true—and his work on this battlefield is proof of it—we’ll win the war faster. Much faster.”

  Two weeks later Scott found himself on the streets of Gotham, everything unreal, the cheerfully screaming billboard advertisements, the people rushing to work, taxicab drivers cursing the late-inning failure of their favorite baseball team, the latest dance craze, everything that had absolutely no meaning on a front, in a war zone, in combat, under fire. Scott had spent the last few months refining his abilities as a combat engineer and had seen more than his share of combat. And because of that he felt closer in many ways to his enemies than to these people leading their lives of distraction. At least he had an understanding with the enemy that effective destruction was their shared goal, and he alternately hated and respected them. And he found that without this hate and respect, he could not effectively do his job.

  So to Scott, the avenues of Gotham were less home to him than the wadis of North Africa, or the treacherous hill towns and shallow foxholes in Sicily. And to make matters worse he had this stranger/brother in Malvolio with him, the sharer of instant history;

  just add water and a green ring and it all comes together. Malvolio was striding in front of Scott, imperious, demanding in his manner that others step out of his path.

  Scott’s job was to watch Malvolio, keep him under wraps and find out what he could about the man’s background and mission. Of course he couldn’t reveal Malvolio’s identity as a Green Lantern for fear of putting his own at risk. So he lied.

  The oak-paneled bar was dimly lit and clogged with smoke. Scott spotted Piyne right away, staring into a cup of black coffee. Scott pulled a stool next to Pryne and ordered a bourbon and broke open a new pack of cigarettes. He was relieved that he wasn’t sitting across from Pryne but next to him, where he wouldn’t have to look directly in the soldier’s face when he lied to him.

  Piyne sipped his coffee. “How do you like being home?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I know how you feel. But this could push things in our favor.” “Spare me the cheerleading speech, Piyne.”

  “What have you got?”

  “He’s not German-he’s from England somewhere. An orphan, no real history on him.” That much was true, Scott thought. He lit a cigarette and continued, blowing smoke through his nose as he talked. “He’s apolitical.”

  “So he’s just as likely to be working for the enemy? What’s he want—money?”

  “No, he’s more like a-and I mean this in the most general sense-a monk or a priest. He likes to answer to a higher calling.”

  “Good.”

  Scott knew that Pryne would view his analogy of Malvolio as a

  positive one, that somehow Malvolio was God-fearing and more like Americans than the godless Nazis or Bolsheviks. But what Scott didn’t say was who that higher being was that Malvolio found so much more important.

  Pryne turned to Scott. “One last thing-I’m asking your opinion on this.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is he crazy?”

  “How so?”

  “Christ, Scott, did you see what he did out there? And it’s like he hasn’t thought twice about it. For someone to do something like that... ”

  Pryne looked down and shook his head, the bumed-in memories of the aftermath of the battle coming back to his consciousness. Scott let the rest of his bourbon slide down his open throat, and licked his lips.

  “Colonel, one week ago I drove a bayonet into the back of a German sentry, and wriggled it around until it ripped open his heart. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. I did it in the name of democracy and freedom. And now here I am with you having a drink and a smoke. So I’ll give you my answer: yes, he’s stark raving bonkers, battle-wacky and screwed up for life.”

  Pryne blinked at Scott a couple times, stood up and dropped some coins next to his coffee. Then he reached into his pocket and placed a sealed envelope next to Scott’s cigarettes.

  “Here are your orders, Captain. There’re be a DC-3 waiting to take you two to the War Department in Washington tomorrow. There you’ll be briefed on your next assignment. Enjoy the rest of your leave.”

  Scott motioned to get to his feet, but Pryne placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “As you were, Captain. And just remember what the man said.”

  “What’s that?”

  Piyne leaned in and whispered into Scott’s ear. “It’s easier to fight for one’s principles than to live up to them.”

  Malvolio watched the buildings of Gotham go by as he sat in the back of the taxicab. In many ways it was similar to what he’d known: the chaos of the rich and the poor, the crush of merchants, thieves and whores. Everything was faster, the machines were noisier, but other than that the people were the same—same vanities, wishes, pettiness and fears. They only dressed and smelled different.

  And in this place and in this time they were obsessed about a conflict, a “world war.” The inaccuracy of the expression made Malvolio smile. He had seen a world engulfed in conflict. If they only knew a true world war.

  The cab stopped and Scott tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to make a stop to see a friend.”

  Malvolio followed his host out of the cab and into the magnificent granite and steel lobby of the Apex Broadcasting Building.r />
  The clatter and clamor of the newsroom set Malvolio back.

  “What manner of place is this?”

  Scott made his way through the busy reporters and copyboys toward the offices in back. “It’s a newsroom.”

  They passed a bank of recording booths filled with reporters speaking into microphones, reading from the typewritten copy in their hands.

  Malvolio watched a sports reporter animatedly broadcasting the scores of the day, a huge cigar locked between his fingers and he shouted and purred into the large microphone.

  “Is this serious work?”

  “They think so.”

  Scott knocked on the door to Irene’s office. Finding it open, he poked his head in. As usual she wasn’t there, but he could tell what she’d been doing the last few months by what was on her desk. Stepping in, he ran his fingers over maps of Guadalcanal and the Solomon Islands laying on her desk, coffee-stained and wrinkled, a magnifying loop on them.

  An aluminum ashtray made from the casing of a fifty-five millimeter artillery shell was stuffed to overflowing with spent, lipstick-stained butts, along with the silver lighter he gave her just before he shipped off. With the wire story copy paper lying about, it’s amazing that she hadn’t set her desk on fire.

  He frowned at the half-written copy still in her typewriter-an article about the jungle fighting near Henderson field. Had she gone overseas? He had stopped writing to her months ago when he was spending extended time in combat. He had assumed her not writing back was in retaliation to his silence, but now he saw that she was as immersed in the war as he was, not as a participant but as an observer.

  “Well, well, well.”

  Scott turned and there she was in front of him suddenly, his fantasy of many nights while overseas, harder-edged than he remembered (or preferred in his fantasies), hands on hips, copy in hand, lipstick red and eyes big as a deer’s, but with a predator’s glint in them: Irene in her glory, too smart for most men and intolerant of so many others, yet the one for Alan Scott.

  He looked at her knowing that they were both too world-weary for the rush and lung-sucking Big Kiss. Instead they stood apart, sardonic grins on their faces, appraising each other, sharing the pleasure of each other’s company after so many months, so much uncertainty, danger and the world spinning out of control.