Batman 4 - Batman & Robin

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Reaching for the cowl that was attached to the neckline of his suit, he pulled it forward over his face. Suddenly, he felt it. He was transformed. Bruce Wayne was gone—in his place, a denizen of the night.

  Batman.

  As he emerged from his vault, he saw Robin do the same. The boy was wearing a new costume he and Alfred had been working on. Instead of the red tunic he had worn as a member of the Flying Graysons, Robin sported a red-bird insignia that spread across his chest and ran down the outside of his arms.

  Batman grunted as he approached his computer array. “Nice suit. And today you are . . . ?”

  “Nightwing,” said Robin, joining him at the central console. “Scourge of darkest evil.”

  Taking a seat, Batman tapped into the police band, wanting to know what had prompted Commissioner Gordon to unleash the Bat-Signal. But with a part of his mind, he continued their banter.

  “This is all about fashion for you, isn’t it?”

  Standing by his side, Robin leaned over the console and chuckled. “It’s the gear,” he said, with just a hint of irony in his voice. “Chicks go wild over the gear.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Batman responded.

  As Alfred descended the stairs into the Batcave, a tray of lobster-salad sandwiches and tea in hand, he sighed.

  He had gotten used to the sight of a masked avenger sitting before the mighty Cray computers, his eyes glinting in the glare of a trio of oversize monitors, his cape catching the light of a dozen smaller surveillance screens situated on the opposite wall.

  That is, Alfred had become accustomed to one such figure. But now there were two of them, God help him.

  Two young men in masks and dark, molded body armor, ready to risk life and limb for a common purpose. A common cause. Or a common insanity, depending on how one looked at it.

  Batman and Robin. Sworn enemies of the Gotham criminal underworld, impelled by fate and circumstance to aid the innocent and protect those who could not protect themselves.

  And their fearsome accoutrements? Their dire appearances?

  They were essential to the task of fighting crime—or so his employer had explained to him time and again. Criminals were a superstitious and cowardly lot in Master Bruce’s estimate. Hence, the more imposing one’s appearance, the more effective a crime fighter one could be.

  At least, that was the theory.

  Of course, neither Master Bruce nor Master Dick was inclined to tend to the laundering of their accoutrements. Nor could they entrust them to the local dry cleaner. That part in the Great Undertaking fell to Alfred.

  Not that he was complaining. He never complained about how they were taking care of their clothes. Only about how they were taking care of themselves—or failing to, as the case might be.

  Still descending, Alfred cleared his throat. “Taking back the night again, are we?”

  His voice echoed through the immensity of the cavern, eliciting a whisper of wings from the swarms of bats in the outlying caves. They had retreated to those recesses when Master Bruce claimed this space as his own, and retreated still farther when he enlarged it recently.

  The crime fighters turned to him. Only Robin smiled in his mask, which covered less of his face than Master Bruce’s cowl.

  “Hey, Al,” he said, gracing the butler with a little wave.

  “Indeed,” said Alfred. Master Dick was the only one on earth who could call him that with impunity. “If I may ask, what is so interesting that it caused you to abandon my lobster thermidor?”

  “Ten police cruisers,” Batman said without looking up. “Frozen solid on the Gotham Expressway.”

  His protégé peered at the central monitor, reading the information scrolling by in a corner of it. “A giant drilling truck burrowing under the city,” he added.

  Robin was making an effort to affect the Batman’s clipped, efficient rhythms. He was still falling short.

  “Mr. Freeze,” Batman concluded.

  Robin nodded. “The Batcomputer tracks him heading for the Gotham Museum. What’s there?”

  Batman thought for a moment, the muscles rippling in his jaw. “The new antiquities exhibit. Including the Second Sun of the Sudan, on loan from the British Museum in London.”

  Robin laughed triumphantly. “Of course. He’s going to steal that giant white diamond.”

  Batman shook his head. “No, Robin,” he said with absolute certainty. “He’s going to jail.”

  Before the echoes of his promise had died away, there was a blast of steam on the other side of the cave, the byproduct of a powerful hydraulic system. As Batman strode toward it, the steam cleared and revealed a sleek, redesigned Batmobile resting on a huge metal pedestal.

  He touched a stud on his Utility Belt and the hatch opened to admit him. With characteristic grace and agility, Batman swung inside and drew his cape in after him.

  Alfred called out from the bottom of the stairs. “Do call if you’re going to be late, sir. You know how I worry.”

  It was a joke between them. But there was a note of seriousness in it as well, and both of them knew it.

  The Batmobile’s turbo-charged engines roared, sending out one resounding echo after another. A moment later, the vehicle shot away through the stalactite-ridden arches of the cavern’s access tunnel.

  No sooner had it departed than the surface of the pedestal split open like the petals of a flower—revealing a sleek, turbo-charged motorcycle. It was Robin’s bike, the Redbird.

  Alfred called out again. “Drive carefully, Master Dick.”

  Robin winked at him with calculated abandon as he straddled the powerful machine. “Don’t wait up, Al.”

  Then the Redbird’s engine exploded into life, and the bike shot out through the tunnel after the Batmobile. Alfred watched it go until it was lost to darkness and distance.

  He hated the idea of what they would face out there. But at the same time, he understood the desperate need for someone to face it. And the desperate need within Master Bruce and Master Dick that made them want the responsibility.

  Suddenly, he felt an excruciating pain in his side—an agony so overwhelming it forced him to drop his tray of sandwiches and drinks. The cups of tea shattered on the hard rock floor of the cave, sending liquid flying in every direction.

  Alfred himself staggered forward, barely able to support himself, and grabbed the edge of the massive computer console. His suffering went on for what seemed like forever. And he remained there, gasping for air, teeth clenched against it, until the pain at last began to subside.

  My God, he thought. My God.

  Still, he was glad neither Master Bruce nor Master Dick had been present to see his discomfort. Gathering himself on trembling legs, he took out a handkerchief to remove the sweat that had accumulated on his brow.

  My God, he thought again.

  Then he recovered his tray, got down on one knee, and began to pick up the shards of glass. After all, the Batcave was part of Wayne Manor—part of the home with whose care he was charged. And he wouldn’t allow a mess to remain there one second longer than it absolutely had to.

  Clayton Krupzic had ice water in his veins.

  At least, that’s what he liked to tell people back in Waumagansett Falls. “Nothing scares me,” he’d add, impressing the hell out of the old geezers who liked to gather at the filling station. “Nothing in heaven or hell or on God’s green earth.”

  But it was a hard thing for a farm boy like Clayton to prove. After all, the scariest thing in Waumagansett Falls was him, and after that it was his twin sister Coleen.

  It got to the point where he’d go to other towns and pick fights on Saturday nights. But he didn’t find much of a challenge in those places either. No one big enough, no one mean enough.

  So as soon as he finished the twelfth grade, Clayton hightailed it for the big city—despite the warnings of everyone in town—and applied for a job in law enforcement.

  Why not? Gotham didn’t require a cop to attend any
kind of academy. If you’d finished high school, it was considered a bonus. In fact, it made you detective material.

  Trouble was, the Gotham Police Force was in the middle of some down-and-dirty budget cuts when he arrived. Someone suggested he go into security work until the department started hiring again.

  At first, Clayton was too proud for that. He hadn’t come to Gotham to be a rent-a-cop. But his pride lasted only until his savings ran out, which wasn’t long at all. Then he had to look for a job—or face the prospect of going back home and working at the filling station.

  Eventually, he found gainful employment at the Gotham Museum, a sprawling stone-and-glass palace set on the edge of Gotham’s Central Park. Unfortunately, the work was even more boring than he’d feared. Just a lot of strolling through big, empty corridors with nobody but the mummies for company.

  Oh, he saw some of the other guards sometimes at the stairways, their flashlights probing the darkness just like his. But that wasn’t more than a half dozen times a night. If not for the periodic walkie-talkie buzz from the main station, Clayton would’ve gone stark, raving nuts.

  So it took him by surprise one night when the building began to shiver, and the air was split with a high-pitched whine.

  At first, he thought it was an earthquake causing the commotion—even though there was no record of any earthquakes in Gotham’s history. Then he heard the frantic voice of Sanchez, the old guy down on the first floor.

  “It’s drillin’ up through the floor!” he wailed. “Ya better getcher butts down here!”

  Clayton didn’t think twice. He came running, though he was farther away than any of the other guards. He didn’t know what the blazes Sanchez was talking about, but if there was some kind of action in the museum, he was determined to be in on it.

  How else was he going to prove what he’d been saying all his life—about that ice water in his veins?

  Clayton went down the stairs two at a time, heading for the first floor. By the time he rounded the World of Lizards exhibit, the high-pitched whining had stopped. So had Sanchez’s calls for help.

  Pouring it on, Clayton sprinted through the Hall of Man and Wonders of the Weather. Up ahead and around the bend, in the vicinity of the central rotunda, there was something going on. He could hear sounds, though he couldn’t identify any of them.

  Then he turned the corner and he saw what was happening. And it took his breath away—just as if he’d been belly-whomped with a milk bucket.

  Inside the rotunda, the nose of a giant drilling truck was protruding through the rubble of the shattered museum floor. And everything—the mighty brontosaurus that dominated the rotunda and a host of other exotic antiquities—everything was covered in a layer of thick, blue ice.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Clayton saw movement and whirled to face it, gun in hand. Across the way, a case with a gigantic gem in it was beginning to glow. First blue, then white. And in a matter of a few seconds, the case exploded into a thousand flying fragments.

  Through the storm of ice and glass, Clayton heard a peal of laughter. He traced it to its source.

  Across the frozen floor. Past snow-covered mock-ups of Aztec ruins. Up the stone steps of a pyramidal altar.

  To a tall, broad, silver-suited figure, holding aloft what looked like a massive bazooka—no doubt the weapon that had shattered the display case—in savage but silent celebration of his triumph.

  There were heavy metal boots on his feet, heavy metal gauntlets on his forearms, and a heavy metal shell protecting his upper body. His transparent helmet revealed a bizarre, bluish countenance rimed with frost.

  As if he could feel Clayton’s gaze on him, the figure turned to face him. Eyes like ice chips focused on him, made him feel like an insect. Less than an insect. And suddenly, Clayton knew who the intruder was, though until now he’d only heard about him.

  It was the villain known as Mr. Freeze.

  But Freeze didn’t look like a man. Gazing down haughtily from on high, holding his fearsome weapon aloft, he looked like some wintry god of evil—some high-tech monster hungering for his soul. And as much as Clayton tried to tell himself that was impossible, that such things didn’t exist, his trembling knees were far from convinced.

  “The Iceman cometh,” Freeze intoned, in a voice as cold and flat and lifeless as the arctic wastes.

  Then, almost as an afterthought, he cracked a smile at his little joke. And turned in the direction of the Aztec ruins.

  Following his stare, Clayton saw something he had missed the first time—something that had been added to the exhibit. Three dark-suited figures, frozen in various postures with guns in their hands.

  Sanchez and the others. Iced solid before they could interfere with Freeze’s plans. Clayton grimaced at the horror of it.

  Suddenly, he felt his arms grabbed from behind. He squeezed his trigger, but the shot went awry. Then someone ripped the gun from his hand.

  Unable to get a good look at his assailants, he struggled to free himself—but to no avail. As he was dragged to the base of the pyramid steps, he saw Freeze bring his weapon down and train it on him.

  Clayton’s heart was pounding in his chest, threatening to choke him. His legs were made of rubber. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice.

  “Please,” he begged Mr. Freeze. “Have mercy . . .”

  The figure in the silver suit descended slowly, majestically. He was shimmering, terrifying. And he seemed to like the idea.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, peering into Clayton’s eyes, “that my condition has left me cold to your pleas.”

  Then, without warning, he fired his gun. A beam of energy shot out, engulfing the guard in its hideous, pale glow. He could feel every process in his body slowing down, going numb.

  At long last, there was no disputing it. Clayton Krupzic definitely had ice water in his veins.

  Freeze didn’t let up on his cryonic beam until the guard was frozen solid. Then he reached out with his gloved fist and knocked on the man’s icy cheek. The sound he heard was a hollow one.

  “A copsicle,” he observed.

  His gang of thugs, whom he had dubbed the Icemen, chuckled among themselves as they skated backward in their thermal suits. They were giving Freeze the space he craved—the space he deserved. He had trained them well, he mused.

  Then he approached the shattered display case. With care not to puncture his suit, he began to wipe away the fragments of glass and steel.

  “A brief lesson on the ways of the universe,” he said to no one in particular. “Some substances are invulnerable to the heat of a thousand suns. There are stones that defy the weight of mountains piled on their backs. Certain subatomic particles exist forever and will outlive God himself. But in this universe,” he pontificated, “there is only one absolute. Only one thing you can always depend on. Everything . . .”

  He lifted a tremendous diamond from the debris of the display case. It sparkled magnificently in his hand.

  “. . . freezes,” he said, completing his thought.

  Freeze held the diamond high over his helmeted head. The light lanced through it, eliciting rainbows of color, making it shine more brilliantly than any star.

  “From perfect beauty,” he announced, “I will bring back . . . life.”

  Suddenly, the skylight seemed to explode, scattering daggers of glass that made the remains of the display case look like splinters. And in the wake of that unexpected explosion, Batman came plummeting into the room, his cape a huge, outflung shadow that darkened even the brilliance of the gem.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Before Freeze could move a muscle, Batman hit the ice-covered brontosaurus and came sliding down its neck. Plowing into the villain feetfirst, the Dark Knight dislodged the diamond from his grasp and sent it skittering across the frozen floor.

  Clenching his teeth, Freeze turned his cryonic weapon on his adversary. “Bat on ice, anyone?”

  Abruptly, Batman kicked the cryo-gun out of Freeze’s h
ands and snatched it out of the air. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with guns?” he asked in that low, ominous voice of his.

  Moving quickly, Freeze launched a kick of his own—and sent the gun pinwheeling out of Batman’s possession. Then he snatched it in turn.

  “You’re not sending me to the cooler,” he said.

  Before Batman could respond, Freeze fired. But his enemy dodged the blast. Undaunted, Freeze took aim again.

  That’s when the front doors of the museum blew open—admitting Gotham’s other costumed crime fighter. Robin came soaring through the air on his motorbike, a grin on his face as if there were nothing in the world he’d rather be doing than risking his life.

  Freeze was so distracted by the entrance, he didn’t see Batman kick at his gun again. He just felt the impact and saw the weapon ascend in a high, twirling arc.

  At first, Freeze thought it was headed for Robin’s hand. But Batman’s protégé didn’t catch it. Sailing over Freeze’s head on his bike, he kicked the airborne gun onto the altar atop the pyramid.

  “Score!” Robin laughed. “And the crowd goes wild!”

  Then he landed, laying his bike sideways in a long, slippery slide across the floor. To keep from slamming into the wall, Robin grabbed a Roman statue of Mercury and used it to whip around in a dismount.

  Batman went for Freeze. Robin was right behind him.

  How dramatic, thought Freeze. How inspiring. His own outlook tended to be more down to earth. More succinct.

  “Grab the gem,” he told his Icemen. “Kill the heroes.”

  Until now, his hirelings had been holding back, awaiting his orders. Now they rushed forward, hockey masks in place, sticks flailing as they closed with the caped intruders.

  “It’s the hockey team from hell,” Robin wisecracked.

  He didn’t know how right he was, Freeze mused, as he raced toward the altar and his fallen gun. But he never quite got there.

  There was a rush of dark security uniforms from a side door Freeze hadn’t paid much attention to. And before he could reach the top of the pyramid, they were swarming all over him.