After a moment, the lifeless body slumped back in the chair.
“Call Carl Grissom,” Palmares said. “He’s got that abandoned amusement park out there, just outside a’ town, and for a fee he’ll take care of burying this rat’s body. For sure nobody’ll find it out there.”
“Got it.” Frankie Bones smiled crookedly.
That handled, Palmares left to see his dentist for a special fitting.
8
“I assure you, this is totally unnecessary.”
Professor Linus Stephens addressed the man with the straight razor. “I’m not insane, and I’m certainly not suicidal.” When there was no reaction, he pressed onward. “Don’t you see, the knowledge I possess will change the course of human history. If I were to end my own life, everything inside here would be lost forever.”
Twisting, he attempted to tap his temple, but was reminded that his wrists were locked in tight leather cuffs.
He let out a heavy sigh.
“If that happens, they win.”
The man with the razor just nodded.
An unyielding steel collar kept his head and neck locked in place so that he could only look forward. There was one of those boxy, portable televisions with a snowy screen the size of a playing card, sitting on a shelf between the razor strop and a jar full of snaggletoothed combs floating in deep blue Barbicide. Its crooked antenna was wrapped in tinfoil, but that didn’t seem to improve the clarity of the picture. Stephens vaguely made out the blonde bouffant silhouette of a news anchor.
Through the static she breathlessly gave details of some sort of violent crackdown on the city’s underworld. The criminal in question went by the unlikely moniker of “Maximillian Zeus.” That grabbed his attention for a moment, but when it became clear that it was just another thug grasping for media attention, Stephens lost interest. Besides, the poor picture quality gave him a headache.
Other than the television, however, there was little of interest in his unfortunate surroundings. The barber shop in Arkham Asylum was a long, narrow, industrial space attached to the inmate showers. What it lacked in style, it made up for in decay. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in moldy, cracked, and maddeningly irregular white tiles. There were rows of rusted metal tubs like industrial sarcophagi, and a grubby, doorless shower stall inside of which Stephens had been hosed down in a most undignified manner.
Dressed in a clean inmate’s uniform, he was about to lose the carefully cultivated Vandyke beard he’d worn since grad school.
“I don’t understand why you have to—” he began.
“No facial hair allowed,” the man with the razor said, gripping Stephens’ chin between a large thumb and forefinger. “And no talking while I’m shaving, unless you want to get cut.”
Stephens took the man’s advice and shut his mouth. If he had to endure this shameful incarceration, then he would do so with dignity.
The barber was around forty years old, tall and lanky with some threads of white in his precise black fade. His dark eyes seemed jovial and friendly, but the long brown arms revealed by his rolled-up scrub sleeves were sinewy and roped with lean, hard-earned muscle. Like all the staff here, he might be called upon to deal with rough, violent offenders of the criminal class. So there wasn’t much a genteel and well-bred academic like Stephens could do to stop him.
Besides, he observed, the man’s razor could easily double as a weapon. Superior intellect offered no advantage against a well-sharpened blade.
There were no mirrors in the barber room, or anywhere else in the asylum for that matter. He wouldn’t be able to follow the progress of the ruthless shearing. That was probably just as well, he supposed. It would just add insult to injury.
Despite the restrictions imposed by his bindings, Stephens noticed movement in his peripheral vision, as another inmate was placed in the chair to his left, and fastened in place. He saw a disturbingly pale hand with strangely discolored nails, fastened in its own leather cuff, and heard the snipping of scissors. Hair trimmings began dropping silently to the tile floor.
Was that hair… green?
Surely it had to be the strain of incarceration that was playing tricks on his senses. But he couldn’t allow that to happen. He needed to stay focused at all costs. Otherwise, they would win.
The barber stepped back to survey his work. The professor had to give the barber credit, he certainly was efficient. The shearing had been completed in under three minutes. Stephens was shaved clean as a freshman, and the man moved on to trim his admittedly somewhat unruly white hair.
“You can talk all you want now, Prof,” the barber said with a conciliatory tone. “I’m all ears, and I got no victims scheduled after you.”
“Ah, right,” Stephens said, happy to be back on topic. His favorite topic.
“They had gotten so close this time, you see,” he said, picking up the thread of his thoughts. “Too close. I never in a million years could have imagined that they would stoop so low as to take over the minds of innocent students. In doing so, they forced my hand. Believe me when I say that it broke my heart, to have to kill such promising young people—but I didn’t have a choice, did I? Those young men and women had been compromised. Brainwashed.
“Their skulls were implanted with advanced technology,” he continued, “all in order to steal my data. Yet I foiled their nefarious plan. I’d wager they didn’t think I had it in me, didn’t have the wherewithal to take such decisive action at my admittedly advanced age.”
“They who?” the barber asked as he snipped away. “Who wanted your stuff?”
“Why, the Russians, of course,” Stephens said. “Who do you think?”
“The Russians?” The barber was behind him, but he could almost feel the disbelieving smirk floating somewhere behind his left ear. “Haven’t you been keeping up on current events? Glasnost and all that? That new guy Gorbachev’s changing everything. The Cold War’s gonna be ancient history, Prof.”
Stephens sighed heavily. It was never easy communicating with his intellectual inferiors. They simply couldn’t grasp the complex and multilayered issues relating to his work, or the profound global implications of cutting-edge research.
“Ah, but don’t you see?” he persisted. “That’s what they want you to believe. The Soviets are playing the long game, because they can see into the future. As can I. Not the sort of sideshow trickery designed to amaze the masses. This is the real thing—extrapolating scenarios using computer models, rigorous study of infinitely variable probabilities.
“In as little as ten years,” the professor continued, “the fundamental principles of my research will be used to construct a global network of interconnected computers. This network will change day-to-day life as we know it.” He lowered his voice, as if afraid he would be heard. “On a more sinister level, it will allow unscrupulous parties unprecedented access to every facet of our lives. Nothing will be exempt from manipulation. Our government, our banks, our private communication, even our very identities will be laid bare. Wars will be fought and won on a virtual battlefield inside a machine.
“You see, the Arpanet will be the key to everything!”
“Whatever you say, Prof,” the barber said, continuing his work. More and more hair fell to the floor.
Stephens clenched his teeth. Such scorn, coming from an inferior, was far worse than the physical indignities. He felt his heart beating in his chest, and there was a buzzing in his ears. As was always the case, he felt utterly alone. None of these people were capable of understanding his genius.
“I don’t know why I even bother…” he muttered.
“Please, Professor, don’t stop now.”
What the…? Stephens jumped, startled. It was the inmate sitting in the next chair. The man with the green hair. His voice was high-pitched, reedy and distinctive, with a kind of plummy, almost sing-song intonation that he could have sworn he had heard somewhere before. On TV maybe?
“Do go on. I’m dying to hear more.
”
* * *
Alfred Pennyworth’s footfalls echoed as he descended the circular iron steps that took him from the comforts of the mansion down into the Batcave.
There were several sections to the subterranean lair, including a state-of-the-art crime lab and a tricked-out mechanical repair facility designed to accommodate any sort of vehicle—land, sea, or air. Further along lay the open area where the Batmobile was kept at ready. Scattered among the polished steel supports and the naturally hewn rock walls were keepsakes from past cases.
While many were kept in display cabinets, others were enormous—like a twenty-foot-tall penny that had crushed the criminal who made it, a massive animatronic replica of a Tyrannosaurus, and a similarly huge playing card taken from one of the Joker’s earliest lairs.
A series of pumps similar to those found in the Gotham City underground transit system controlled the water that flowed naturally through the cavern. Environmental control units kept dampness at bay to avoid damage to the array of often delicate equipment, and to maintain a comfortable temperature in every area.
Finally there was Pennyworth’s goal—the computer lab.
“Care for a snack, Master Bruce?” he said as he arrived. He was dressed in dark slacks and shirt, and a gold-colored vest with paisley designs. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled up. The sound made by his leather-soled shoes was barely audible as he moved across the steel plating. Under his shirt, on his right bicep, was a tattoo from his days with the SAS. To say he was the butler was to say the Taj Mahal was just a building.
“I’m fine, Alfred, thank you.”
Up a rise reached by a built-in ladder, Bruce Wayne sat before his super computer. It had a huge monitor array, curved like the dual window of a 747, and a wide console. Various windows of various shapes and configurations appeared on the monitor. As his fingers played rapidly over the keyboard, numerous images from microfiche files to closed circuit camera feeds appeared, disappeared, or were moved to the side. Pennyworth was always amazed that Bruce could keep track of the overwhelming stimuli.
“Have you found anything that leads you to Mister Mannheim?”
“So far I’ve been unable to back track the transmission,” Wayne said, irritation plain in his voice. He wore his Batman uniform, the cowl pulled back to sit on his shoulders. He tapped a button on part of the console, and one of the screens to his left enlarged. A red dot slowly moved across a rudimentary topographical map of Metropolis and its environs.
There was movement on a screen next to the map. Letter by letter, a message appeared in glowing green type on the black background. Yet the man seated at the console wasn’t typing.
“My word,” Pennyworth muttered, as much to himself as to his employer. “Has this infernal machine gained a consciousness of its own?” The thought made him… uneasy. Having reviewed many of the files, he had found too many instances where such technology—often extraterrestrial in nature—had led to disaster.
“What?” Wayne said. He turned to peer at what Pennyworth was viewing. “Oh, that. That’s a reply coming in from a theoretical physicist, a Dr. Hawking. I consult with him when the situation demands his particular expertise.”
“Fascinating,” Pennyworth responded. “So far from having its own personality, this device is little more than an advance teletype system.” That concept eased his concerns.
Wayne let loose an uncharacteristic chuckle. He turned to face his confidant.
“It’s quite a bit more than that,” he said. “It’s called the Arpanet—a term that seems to be giving way to ‘the Internet.’”
“And what do these ‘nets’ accomplish?”
Wayne smiled thinly. “Nearly twenty years ago, computers at Stanford and UCLA communicated with each other, linked over telephone lines. The technology was developed for the Advanced Research Projects Agency, part of the Defense Department.”
“Ah,” Pennyworth replied. “Hence the ‘arpa.’ What was the purpose of this communication?”
“The applications are still being explored, and one of them is distinctly military,” Wayne replied. “As you know, Alfred, the Cold War heats and cools—though Mr. Gorbachev seems sincere in seeking reforms of the Soviet state. As promising as that may be, our generals wanted a way to maintain computer reliability in case of a nuclear strike. Thus enabling the various branches of the military to maintain their defense activities without allowing them to be compromised.”
“And this is part of that network?” Pennyworth pointed at the screen. A small green rectangle blinked at the end of the transmission.
“Electronic mail it’s called,” Wayne said. “E-mail for short.”
“Not to be confused with V-mail from World War II, eh?”
“No, though the idea has its similarities.”
During the war, letters to and from soldiers stationed overseas were photographed for microfilm. In that way many letters could be carried on a single roll of film. “Victory mail” freed up space that was needed for ferrying supplies.
Pennyworth considered the implications. “Am I correct to assume you’re not using this… advancement, just to trade quips and recipes with this Hawking fellow?”
“You know me well, Alfred,” Wayne said. “As science fiction writers have long predicted, linked computers will be capable of all sorts of tasks. For instance, if I want to access GCPD files without interference, I first need to bypass their security, then I need to dig through boxes of files, most of them abysmally organized.” He had done this at various times, disguised as a janitor so as to sneak into the archives at Gotham Central.
“Imagine if those files were on the Arpanet,” he continued, “and could be accessed by computer.”
“Surely a network such as this one will have its own form of security.”
“Anything they can build, I can crack.”
“Yes, well,” Pennyworth sniffed. “There’s one thing they can’t duplicate.” He hoped. “The human brain can never be replaced.”
“Not yet,” Wayne agreed. “The brain is the most efficient data processor of all, and as yet it can’t be cracked.” He turned away again and began tapping at the keys. “No, for now computers are just sophisticated tools.”
“Sophisticated tools that can be wielded for good or for ill, depending on the whims of human nature.” He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “Tonight, however, my primary concern is that I’m not late for an engagement.”
“Who’s the lucky lady?” Wayne asked as he replied to Hawking.
“Dr. Thompkins and we shall be attending Don Giovanni.”
“Hmmm, that seems a bit racy for you, Alfred.” Tap, tap, tap.
“I’ve had my nap,” Pennyworth said dryly. “I’ll be taking the Jaguar.”
“The XJ?”
“Not likely, Master Bruce. The classic of course.”
“Of course.” There was a pause in the rapid-fire tapping. “Shall I wait up?”
Pennyworth snickered as he straightened his tie and buttoned his collar.
9
Stephens was ecstatic to finally have a companion capable of carrying on an intellectual discussion, particularly in this dingy cesspool full of damaged and inferior minds. Truth be told, he found the company of his new green-haired friend both amusing and intellectually stimulating.
The two of them had retreated to the far corner of the recreation room. A soft foam set of tic-tac-toe blocks sat on the rickety metal card table between them. It had been the Joker’s idea that they pretend to be playing the game, so that the aides would leave them alone.
“It’ll be easy for intelligent people like us to pull the wool over the eyes of the brawny but intellectually inferior orderlies.” That was how his new friend had phrased it, and the professor couldn’t have agreed more. He would have preferred a game of Go, or chess, or just about anything else, but they’d had to make do with what was available.
There was a noise behind him, and he watched warily as Kurt Lenk, a long-ti
me Arkham resident, took a chair in the corner. The shambling inmate showed no affectation on his blank face, so Stephens turned his attention back to the Joker.
The green-haired man had made some strange modifications to the uniform he wore. He’d added thick purple stripes that looked to have been drawn on with a cheap, waxy crayon. Below the unfinished crew-neck he’d sketched in a set of faux lapels, adding a strange ragged carnation that seemed to be made of brightly colored Monopoly money. The odd boutonniere proved advantageous as they talked. Stephens would focus on it when looking too long into his companion’s mad eyes became unsettling.
For the moment, however, he was energized by their discussions. In the Joker he saw the same fire, the deep-rooted intellectual yearning he’d encountered far too rarely. It reminded him of his one loyal assistant. A student he hadn’t—thank goodness—been forced to kill in order to save him.
“Zach Tazic is an exceptional young man,” Stephens said, picking up where he’d left off. “Only two of my students possessed the genetic fortitude and sheer intelligence necessary to resist the Russian brainwashing. Zach was one of them, and that’s because he has a place in history. A greater destiny, if you will—I’m certain of it. You see, he’s the one who developed the chip.”
“A computer chip?” The Joker lifted a soft X block and twirled it between his long spidery fingers before placing it, seemingly at random, on the board between them.
“That’s right,” Stephens replied. “And it’s the key to the future. It promises functionality and widespread practicality that will be needed to expand our fledgling network. Right now, it’s simply an academic curiosity. A bulky, slow, and expensive way to pass rudimentary notes between well-funded universities.” He clutched one of his own corresponding O blocks, using it to gesture emphatically without placing it on the board.
“But with Zach’s new chip comes the promise of portability,” he explained. “Imagine if you will a day in the near future in which, instead of requiring a huge, climate-controlled room full of hulking computer equipment, you could carry the equivalent of your own portable television broadcasting station in your suit pocket. A machine capable of delivering your own content to every single computer in Gotham City!”
DC Comics novels--Batman Page 6