Michael O'Malley stared at the airliner, willing his eyes to tell him a different story, one that made sense. It was impossible, absolutely impossible, for an airliner to make a landing of any sort with that little left of the starboard wing. He would preside over a detailed investigation, look at mountains of evidence, take what was left of this aircraft apart with tweezers—but he was utterly certain that the cause of the miracle, whatever it was, was not here any longer. He only hoped that analysis would reveal traces left, so that he could reconstruct what had happened.
Michael O'Malley hated mysteries. That was why he investigated them.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark needed to change. He wanted to be around for news about the old man, but he was drawing too much attention. He also didn't know where he was for certain. Time for some altitude.
Outside, he rose up. A veritable torrent of exclamations came out of everyone nearby when he did so, enough that he glanced down in puzzlement. They were staring at him, but looking as if they had never seen him before.
As if they had never seen him before…Clark began to worry, and raced for altitude.
Troposphere, stratosphere, ionosphere, space: Clark felt the familiar changes and relaxed into the comforting feeling of freedom from Earth's gravity. He coasted, and turned to look down.
Earth was as beautiful as ever. The glorious orb of blue and white, its curve still barely visible even with hundreds of miles of altitude, lay before him. It was New England, all right. Newfoundland was heading into shadow, with Boston—that strange, altered Boston—soon to follow. Gotham still bathed in the light of mid-afternoon, while in Metropolis, it would be just after the lunch hour.
He turned and dove into the atmosphere, heading westward. The sauna of reentry eased his tense muscles, and soon he was settling back into the stratosphere, high enough not to bother people with his sonic boom, but still low enough to hear major cries for help. He decided to head for Gotham first; it was closer, and he wanted to see whether the Manhattan skyline was changed as well.
⛉ s ⛉
“This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Foxtrot Tango Niner Seven, you are cleared to fire.”
“Copy that, Base. I don't have a good lock, attempting to close as it passes.”
⛉ s ⛉
Clark slowed, surveying the countryside. The geography was the same, but little details seemed wrong. It was hard to see what was different; it was as if someone had doctored a photograph of a place he'd once seen and then asked him to spot the changes. For one thing, where were the reactors? He always got a touch queasy near reactors; the radiation was a bit too close to that emitted by kryptonite for comfort, even through the lead shielding. There were far fewer reactors here than would seem necessary to supply the power grid. He tried to remember what Gotham normally used.
Behind him, that National Guard formation he'd passed seemed to be trying to intercept. Clark abruptly slowed to let them catch up, then paced the leader a few yards ahead. His eyes briefly focused on the insignia. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” he called through the canopy. “Beautiful day for flying, isn't it?”
“Specter to Wildcard, tell me what you see over my canopy.”
“Uh…Specter, that's a big no can do.”
“Wildcard, does that look like what it looks like?”
“Specter, I do not see a blue and red object over your canopy.”
“Base to Patrol, What the hell is going on up there? Identify the bogey!”
“Base, this is Wildcard, I have visual contact, range five meters. Am unable to identify.”
“Am I making your life difficult, Lieutenant?” Clark asked, grinning. “I'll leave proof for the boys back at the base.” Flying backwards, Clark narrowed his eyes. This was a tricky maneuver; trying to write his symbol shallowly and neatly with heat vision was challenging, but—abruptly Clark stopped short. The patrol shot past him at Mach 2.5 as he closed his eyes against sudden pain.
My heat vision isn't working, he realized a few seconds later. And I feel weak. Enough fooling around. Clark accelerated, passed the patrol in a blur, and thundered towards Gotham. Something was seriously wrong, and he needed to find out what, before things got worse.
Clark really hated magic.
⛉ s ⛉
“…The children are reportedly out of danger and expected to make a full recovery. Also, an update on Delta Airlines flight 1123, which made a successful emergency landing at Hanscom Air Force Base ten minutes ago, is reporting no fatalities after a dramatic touchdown. Emergency teams are baffled as to how the pilot managed to land the 767 aircraft, when, as you can see in these images, it appears that virtually the entire right wing has been torn off…
“This just in: Researchers at NASA have announced that a probable supernova event has just registered on multiple instruments. Gravitational wave detectors, neutrino counters, and other experiments are reporting a surge of activity. This behavior is similar to the supernova which was detected in 1987, and poses no threat to the public. Interestingly, NASA apparently has not actually seen the supernova with telescopes yet, and has no idea where in the sky the exploding star might be. Further information will be reported as it is forthcoming…”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
⛉ s ⛉
Gotham was changed, almost beyond recognition. The geography was the same, but the entire layout of the city was altered. The highways weren't even in the same places. Clark began to wonder whether he was dreaming, or whether he had truly been pulled into an alternate reality.
“Stop, thief!”
Clark glanced down. A young man was running away from the shouting woman, a purse in his hands. Clark looked around for policemen, but saw none close enough. He looked for Batman, and didn't see him—for what little that was worth. Still, it was daytime, and a big city. What were the odds?
Higher than seems humanly possible, he answered himself wryly, but dove anyway.
It was too easy; the fellow didn't ever look up. Clark simply swooped down and grabbed him by the jacket, hauling him up about thirty feet over the street.
“Yeeeaaaaaaggggghhhh!”
Passersby stopped and stared upward. Clark was surprised to see that the thief was only a teenager, and a young one at that. A more pressing surprise was that the boy was falling out of his jacket rather rapidly. He didn't want to choke the boy or pull his hair out, so he had to flip the boy around and grab him under the arms.
“What the—what the—”
“Didn't anybody ever teach you that crime doesn't pay?” The kid looked shocked. He was still squirming around, staring down at the ground in disbelief.
“Let go of me!”
“Now?” Clark asked mildly.
“NO! I mean—put me down! How the—how the fuck are you doing that?”
Clark frowned at the language. “Give the purse back.” The boy was wide-eyed, still twisting. He tried to knock one arm away, then kept hitting Clark's forearm, as if he were dim-witted and needed to feel the impact several times to believe how hard the muscles were.
“Jesus Christ! We're up in the fucking air!”
“Yes, we are,” Clark agreed. The kid seemed to be having real trouble accepting the reality of his situation. Clark gave him a few more moments, then continued. “And we're going to stay up here until you give the purse back, and agree to apologize to the woman who owns it.”
“Are you crazy? What planet are you from?”
“Krypton, actually.”
“This is…you’re…” Clark waited patiently, allowing himself a small smile.
“Where are the wires? What's holding you up?”
“No wires. I'm flying. Hovering, at the moment.”
“This is impossible!”
“It's happening. What, did you think I'm never in town? Look, kid.” Clark gathered the boy's jacket closed and held him by it one-handed, tightly enough that the boy didn't slip; that way he had a hand free. “You're too young to be stealing. Is it really worth ruining your life with prison over twelve dollars and eighteen cents in a stolen purse?”
At that the kid opened the purse and looked inside. “Aw, man!” He stared at Clark. “How'd you know that?”
“One guess. Now, hand it over.” The boy did so, finally. “That's better. What are you doing stealing, anyway? Don't you have homework to do?”
“Are you crazy? I don't go to school! I gotta eat!”
That worried Clark. Something was very wrong here; this boy was clearly in a bad situation. “First things first. You're going to apologize to the lady.”
“The hell I am!”
“We don't go down until you agree to apologize.”
The boy's brow furrowed in confusion. “You're not…you're not for real, are you?”
“Of course I'm real. I'm right here.”
“But, I mean…” The boy suddenly looked years younger, and terribly vulnerable. To Clark's surprise, tears welled up in his eyes. “You're not…you're not really…” His voice became a wondering whisper. “Superman?”
Clark nodded. “Time to do what's right, son.”
They descended, and the boy apologized to a rather ungrateful woman, but Clark saw the opportunity to turn the kid around. An hour later, despite the strange reactions he kept receiving, Clark had gotten the boy a meal, a counselor, a bed, and a fighting chance.
The boy looked as if he had undergone a religious conversion. “I still can't believe you're real.”
“You have to be strong, for when I'm not around. I can do a lot, but I can't be everywhere at once. Stick with Mary; she's got a good heart. I'll be back to check up on you when I can.”
“They'll never believe me.”
“So, prove it to them. Show them all how you've changed, and they'll have to wonder why. Take care of yourself, Anthony.”
“Thank you.”
Clark rose into the sky, and Mary sat down heavily, staring and gasping.
“Told you,” Anthony reminded her.
Clark headed for home.
⛉ s ⛉
“Jenny, you got the cabbage that looks like Elvis?”
“Already up. The photo looks a little grainy, though.”
“Don't worry about it. Dan's busy with the cat juggler photo.”
The phone rang. Jenny grabbed it while sorting papers. “News of the Weird.”
“Jenny, it's Hiroshi. Did you see the Superman sighting?”
“In Boston? Yeah. I haven't put it up yet.”
“It was in New York.”
“Was it? That would make better copy, just a sec.” Jenny pulled up the file, skimmed through it. “No, it's Boston, all right.”
“Well, I've got one from New York right here.”
Jenny stopped her multitasking. “Hiroshi, are you sure?”
“What do you think, an ad campaign?”
“I don't know, are they making another movie?”
“Worth checking.”
“Worth putting up, in any case. Send me the New York one. Thanks.” Jenny put down the phone, looked around the tiny office. “Where's Paul?”
“Here.” The sound was muffled, coming from underneath a desk. Paul emerged a bit breathless, wires in hand. “What do you need?”
“I want a survey up on the site: ‘Have you seen Superman today?’ If they click ‘Yes’, ask them where and when. Put in a comments field.”
“No sweat. It'll be up in fifteen minutes, unless this stupid thing hangs on me again.”
⛉ s ⛉
Clark descended over Metropolis—or rather, the city that sat at the end of Lake Michigan where Metropolis belonged. Why was it all so different? Nothing was familiar. Star Labs should be visible over there; instead it was a block of apartment buildings. The LuthorCorp Tower was missing, and the Wayne Complex, and the airport was smaller than it should be.
Clark headed downtown. However different this world's history had been—and there was clearly some upheaval in finance, going back decades—it was still Earth, this was still Metropolis, and if any one thing of his own Metropolis was still here, it would be the Daily Planet. He couldn't imagine Metropolis without it. It had to be there.
Clark flew down a main thoroughfare he had walked countless times, and it looked completely familiar, and reassuring. He turned left at an intersection, keeping to automobile speeds. It was just around this corner…he could fly into the men's room and see if his suit was still there…
He stopped short, fifty feet up, in front of the news building, and swallowed hard. The name on the building read Chicago Tribune. He flew closer, slowly, staring in the windows, gradually drawing returning stares, and after a few seconds, a flurry of photographs being taken. Perry, he thought. Jimmy.
Lois.