The old man concentrated, and a pinpoint of light appeared in the darkened room. It was getting easier with practice. It was a piece of magic that would barely deserve mention in a tale of sorcery, but here in the real world, it was miraculous. Physicists would have given years of their lives for a chance to study that light, had they known it existed. The Amazing Randi would have given the old man a million dollars to demonstrate the ability before a team of professional stage magicians and scientists. But the old man was both cautious and ambitious.
If he could summon light from nothingness by the power of his mind, what else might he be able to do?
⛉ s ⛉
Weeks later, the old man was regretting his caution. His daughter was on board an airliner that was falling out of the sky, a wing sheared off by causes unknown, with live coverage on the major networks. His daughter had seconds to live, barring a miracle. He was determined to provide that miracle. He still didn't know what he could do—but he had to try something. She was his precious little girl.
He tried to create the light, and failed. Shaking, he took a breath, and forced himself to concentrate. The light appeared, brighter than before. He moved it, as he had before, making it trace patterns in the air. But now desperation pushed him to hold it, stretch the point into a fiery line, slashing diagonally through the air. Barely able to hold that, he turned the point and made it slash downward, drawing with light in the middle of the room. Two lines now, looking like a capital Greek lambda.
He drew a third line crossing the first, feeling energies crackle when they met, then a fourth horizontally, and then a fifth back downward, completing a five-pointed star. He had never accomplished so much before, yet it wasn't enough. It was something, but not complete. He started to add a circle in the center of the pentagram, but lost control—the lines began to drift apart and distort. They grew uneven, and began a slow, sickening rotation. In panic, he tried to reverse the rotation, drawing a circular arc the other way.
He was at the end of his endurance, and had no time or energy for another attempt. His effort was falling apart before his eyes, but it had to work. He could not fail now. He stared at the shifting lines, at the pattern they formed, and abruptly recognized it. The symbol was so powerful, feeding it would probably kill him.
He did not hesitate.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark headed for the double doors, then awkwardly held one open for two other reporters coming up behind him. “Hi, guys,” he squeaked, then cleared his throat and continued in a somewhat deeper voice, “Uh, go get 'em, guys,” to their retreating backs. They barely noticed him, but that was for the benefit of anyone watching from afar. He hid his smile and followed them at a slow walk.
The inward smile vanished as an ultrasonic squeal began to irritate his ears. Clark glanced through the wall to see a misaligned blade wobbling on a power saw operated by the construction crew renovating Perry's office after that last fight with Mutara. That had been a close one. Clark narrowed his eyes, and determined that the blade was in no danger of coming loose; it was just going to annoy the heck out of him and every dog in the neighborhood, with no human the wiser.
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“Staring at the wallpaper again?”
“Hm?” He turned and relaxed his eyes, and Lois came into focus.
“Do they write stories in the wallpaper patterns, Clark?”
“You'd be amazed, Lois. Did you know that there are over forty main types of materials used in wallpaper?”
“I'm sure someone would be fascinated to know that, Clark.” She narrowed her own eyes at him. “And somehow, you'd find the one guy in the world who would, and he'd just happen to be an informant with evidence that the Mayor's embezzling from the Carshen Fund.” She shook her head and smiled.
A snort came from behind a desk. “Oh, is the luckiest girl in the world complaining because somebody else gets a scoop occasionally?”
Clark frowned. There was something he should be doing now. Something urgent. Working with automatic habit, he put his hand over his stomach and started walking towards the men's room, slightly bent over. “Uh, excuse me a minute…” Seconds later, he was scanning the alley outside the window over the sinks, checking for potential witnesses and which way they were all facing. With a blur of motion he changed clothing, hid his three-piece suit in the usual place, and paused.
His thinking was muddled. He had to save someone…he had to fly…but he didn't know where…His skin began to tingle…and the question of transport was settled for him.
⛉ s ⛉
“Whoa!” The physicist spilled his coffee and sat up abruptly, staring at his readouts. “What is that, a supernova?”
⛉ s ⛉
Where am I?
Clark realized that either magic or a technology he had never seen before had teleported him here, wherever “here” was. The residual effects seemed to be hanging in the air, suggesting magic. Clark hated magic; he was vulnerable to it to a degree he usually didn't have to put up with, and its practitioners tended to be more unhinged than usual.
Clark swept the area with X-ray vision, and didn't recognize the collection of buildings. There was no one nearby except an old man who lay face-down on the floor. A moment's glance told him that the man was dead, but very recently. Listening, he heard nothing unusual in the vicinity—but off in the distance was a discordant shriek of a type he'd heard before: the sound of jet engines tearing themselves apart. That took priority.
He spared two seconds to inhale deeply and inflate the man's lungs, hopefully buying him time, and set him back down on the floor. Opening the window, he took the briefest of looks around, memorizing the location, then launched himself, heading for the airliner in trouble. Something felt strange as he flew, but there wasn't time to examine what. He had to push himself to get there in time. He concentrated on flying.
Matching speeds with the tumbling aircraft wasn't particularly hard, but a dangerous surprise came up when he tried to grab hold of the plane: The aluminum fuselage crumpled at his touch! He punched a hole in the belly before he could stop himself, and wind shear began to widen the tear. He looked for the handle most airlines had installed for him, but this plane didn't have one.
He would have to grab the broken wing and rely on help from the pilot. Quickly, he swooped up to the cockpit, rapped on the glass carefully, and gestured his intent when the copilot looked up.
“Jesus Christ, we're losing passengers!” The copilot exclaimed.
The poor man was rattled. He'd realize who he'd seen in a moment, surely. Clark could see the pilot wasn't waiting for him, still thought his situation hopeless, yet was doing his best to fly, anyway. Clark respected that, and felt better about his plan. He paused only a moment, until the pilot spared him the briefest glance. Reassured that the men in the cockpit knew he was around, he faded back to the remains of the wing, and with gradually increasing strength, began to supply the missing lift.
As he started to pull the craft out of its tumble, he realized an odd detail. It didn't seem very important just then, and it certainly didn't upset him, but it was a bit unusual: no one on board the aircraft was calling his name.