Lauren stared out the window. If that was a mannequin, it was an incredibly…No. The Superman figure moved closer to the building. It was obviously someone dressed up in a Superman suit; she could see his expression change. He looked…confused. As if he were searching for something. Lauren pressed against the glass and peered upward. She couldn't see the wires. Weren't the wires supposed to be edited out in post-production? What were they using, transparent wires?
“That's so amazing. How is he doing it? What's holding him up?”
“Is he on a pole?”
“Where is the film crew?”
“There's nothing in the street.”
“He's hanging from the roof, then.”
“They're probably shooting from a window somewhere, or a helicopter.”
“Why aren't they green-screening, then?”
“Realism?”
“Maybe he's just a loony fan.”
Lauren covered her hand with her mouth, so nobody else could see. “Superman?” she whispered, just to amuse herself. “Can you hear me, Superman?” He turned to look right at her, nodded once.
JESUS! She took an involuntary step backward. Her heart started pounding. No, it was coincidence. Her imagination was running away with her. “Superman, if you can hear me, wait for me on the roof.” The man outside gave two quick nods, then rose out of view.
Lauren stared out the window at the empty air for about twenty seconds.
“Lauren? You all right?”
“Uh.” Lauren looked around the newsroom. Her eyes fell on a sturdy metal ashcan. “What's that made out of?”
“I don't know, aluminum or steel, probably. Why?”
“Nothing! I think I need a cigarette.”
“You don't smoke.”
“Never mind.” Lauren started for the elevators. A few moments later, she walked unsteadily back to her desk, picked up a pen and notebook. I need a lead-lined dress, she thought giddily. Well, no, she amended, passing a reflective metal wall near the elevators, I'm no Lois Lane, but here goes.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark schooled himself to have patience. She was waiting for the elevator, and nobody seemed to be paying her any attention. He looked around at the roof. He needed to talk to somebody about his predicament, and find out the local situation. Maybe there was a magician around he could consult. He itched to fly back to Boston, see whether the old man had survived. He needed clothes, though. He needed information.
The elevator doors were opening. Clark paced over to the roof-access door. It was locked. The wind ruffled his cape. He waited. The elevator ascended. Opened. The woman got out a floor below him, wandered a bit, looking lost. Clark rapped twice on the steel door. It made a booming echo that guided her towards him. After a few moments, she discovered that the door was locked. After briefly waiting fruitlessly for her to pull out a key, Clark simply reached out and pulled the door open. There was a loud metallic snap. The woman yelped.
“Sorry about that, you didn't seem to have a key. I'll be happy to pay for the lock.”
“Oh. Uh. No worries; maintenance will take care of it. Thank you.” She stepped out onto the roof, took a few steps, and looked in every direction, checking that they were alone.
“Looking for something?”
“Anybody else up here?”
Clark glanced around at the roof, through the access door, across the rest. “No.” He looked at the woman now: short, brown hair, dressed conservatively for the workplace, brown eyes wide with nervousness. “You wanted to speak with me, Ms…?”
“Cooper. Lauren Cooper. And you are?”
Clark tried to hide his unease. “I'm known as Superman.”
“I don't suppose you'd mind bending steel with your bare hands, or anything. You know, establish your bona fides?”
Clark raised an eyebrow, but played along. She picked up the broken door handle. She looked thoughtfully at the shiny edge where the metal had already broken, and felt it with her fingers, tried to bend it herself. “If you would.” She handed it to him. Clark obligingly crushed the doorknob into a ball as if he were crumpling a piece of paper, then offered it to her.
“Oh,” she said in a small voice, reaching out.
“Careful. Some of the edges are sharp.”
She took it gingerly, felt the weight. “Um. Thank you.”
“Ms. Cooper, now that you know who I am, I wonder if you would mind answering a few questions for me as well.”
“Such as?”
“Well, this may sound a bit odd.” She eyed him incredulously, but said nothing, so he continued. “Would you please tell me the name of this city?”
“Chicago.”
“Chicago,” Clark repeated, thinking. Didn't Metropolis go by that name, years back? “Ever hear of it being called Metropolis?” She stared at him. “No?”
“Um.” It had seemed a simple enough yes or no question, but she seemed ambivalent about how to answer. Clark couldn't figure out what was going on. “Actually, there is a Metropolis in Illinois.”
“But this isn't it?” Clark pointed at the ground. “We're not in Metropolis?” I know I'm turned around, but I couldn't have missed a major city…could I? He took a moment and scanned the horizon. From this altitude, and given the height of skyscrapers, the curvature of the earth limited his view to a sixty-mile radius. No, this had to be it.
“It's…smaller,” she added by way of explanation.
“Something very strange is going on,” Clark conceded aloud. He looked at her. “This is Earth?” She nodded. “North America?” A nod. “The United States of America?” Another nod. “Fifty states? Founded by George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams?”
“Among others.”
“Good. When was the Civil War?”
“1861–1865. Does that…match?” Clark nodded. She seemed to digest this, staring at the crumpled doorknob in her hand. “Superman…I'm going to take a guess here. When was the Great Depression?”
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
“The 1930's. It started in the crash of September 1929.”
“You mean October.”
Clark stood very still. “Ah.”
⛉ s ⛉
“Hello, Philip Marten's office, how may I help you?”
“Suzie, it's J.C. What's the scoop on the new Superman movie?”
Susan rolled her eyes. “Where did you hear that—”
“It's all over Hollywood by now. Suzie, you know I'd be perfect in a supporting role—”
“There is no Superman movie in the works.”
“Suzie, it's all right, you can tell me—”
“Look, I don't know who started this rumor, but I'm getting flooded with calls over a movie that doesn't exist—”
“Just a supporting role, not Lois, maybe the other woman competing for Clark's affections—”
“I've got another call. Gotta go, sweetie, bye.” Susan clicked a button. “Hello, Philip Marten's office, how may I help you?”
“ ‘JIMMY! I PAY YOU TO TAKE PICTURES, NOT LOUNGE AROUND!’ How's that? Am I Perry White, or am I Perry White?”
⛉ s ⛉
Michael stared at the fuselage with his lips set in a grim line. The skin of the aircraft looked as if a claw had ripped it open. He eyed the damage, thought about pressures and shear and strain. Something like a hand or a claw had raked the side of the plane. Something strong and hard, but not completely sharp. He couldn't think of any obvious mechanical means, but more to the point, a random impact would not have left individual finger marks, nor would a bomb.
There was the copilot's report of losing passengers, when no passengers were lost. Someone had been on the outside of the plane: in a jetpack of some kind? Military exoskeleton? It was time to call the Air Force and start asking some tough questions.
⛉ s ⛉
Lauren stared at the man who claimed to be Superman. Who had flown up to this roof, hovered in midair, ripped a door open and crumpled steel with his bare hands. Who didn't seem to know he was in the real world, or that he was just a story.
“What are you thinking?” she asked him.
Superman began to pace. “How familiar are you with parallel dimensions?”
“Um. They don't exist, except in stories.”
“Oh, they exist all right. I've lost count of how many times I've found myself in an alternate reality. Worlds run by magic, changed histories—there are endless other dimensions out there. They can't be reached except by using advanced technology or magic.” He gestured uselessly with his hands. “I'm not a physicist, but I know there are theories that describe alternate histories. It appears that I've been drawn into one. This isn't my Earth.”
Lauren stared, listening intently.
“It sounds as if something happened in this universe to delay the stock market crash. Fortunes were made and lost. Families such as the Waynes and Luthors lost it all, while others got rich instead. It all fits. And with decades of financial change, and political influence in different hands, public works projects happened in different places, different buildings got built—that's why it looks similar, but not exactly the same.
“So, all I have to do is find a magician powerful enough to send me home, or a scientist who has a machine capable of accessing alternate dimensions. Have you heard of any of those around here?” Superman looked at her hopefully, as if he honestly thought there was a decent chance she'd say yes!
“Um, Superman?”
“What?”
“There's a bigger problem.”
“What is it?”
“You're not in Kansas anymore. I mean, you're really not in Kansas anymore.” Superman smiled for a moment when she said ‘Kansas’ and hid it almost immediately. How do I tell him?
Abruptly, Superman lifted his head, and a light went on in his eyes. “Ah. I think I understand. Everywhere I've gone, ever since I was transported here, people have been staring at me strangely, even though they seem to recognize me.” He paused, nodding. “I'm dead, aren't I?” Lauren started to shake her head, but he pressed on. “It's okay, you can tell me. Something killed me, the version of me in this universe. It's the only thing that makes sense. That's why everybody looks at me as if they've seen a ghost, and nobody said anything.”
Lauren opened her mouth, but no words came.
⛉ s ⛉
“Lieutenant Goldstein, reporting as ordered, sir.” The Lieutenant, call sign Specter, stood at attention in front of the Base Commander's desk.
“Lieutenant, what happened up there today?”
“Sir?”
“The bogey, Lieutenant. What did you see?”
“I can't be sure, sir.”
“Lieutenant, the United States government spent a great deal of money on your training, and spends a great deal more every time you take up the aircraft that you seem to consider your personal toy. We do not expect practical jokes while you are on a mission, simulated or not.”
“Sir?”
“What else do you call this?” A manila folder slapped open on the desk, spilling out photographs. Blurry images of a red-and-blue-suited figure. “I don't know how you managed to doctor the camera on your aircraft, and I could dismiss some playful radio chatter with a warning, but that new radar system we installed last month damn well did pick up an intermittent bogey, and I damn well did order you to identify it, and I damn well will hear from you what you saw, Lieutenant, now.“
“Sir!” The Lieutenant swallowed. “What I saw…that is…what Wildcard and I…”
“He'll be in here next, Lieutenant, don't you worry about him. Right now, I want to hear it from you.”
“Yes, sir! Intermittent bogey, no good lock. It was approaching at over our top speed, so we turned to intercept as long as possible and closed to identify. It shot past us, but then slowed and dropped back to us, holding position five meters ahead and slightly above my aircraft. The object was approximately two meters long, mostly red and blue, and appeared to be…uh…Sir, it just sounds crazy.”
“Yes. It does.” There was no humor at all in the voice.
“Sir, did my flight recorder pick up any other voices besides radio chatter?”
“Voices?”
The Lieutenant colored. “I was just wondering if maybe I'd said something aloud at the time that I'm not remembering,” he added quickly.
“Lieutenant.”
“Sir!”
“Report to the infirmary.”
“Sir! Yes, sir!”
⛉ s ⛉
Clark watched Lauren Cooper open and close her mouth, searching for words.
“What's the matter?”
“This is insane. I've gone crazy,” she announced. She was staring at the ball of steel in her hands, turning it over and over. “How…how can you be here? You don't even exist! You're a story!”
Clark's mind raced. “There wasn't any evidence, after I died? People thought I was just a story? I'm not a story, Ms. Cooper, I'm as real as you are.” That seemed to start her panicking.
“No! No, you're not. You're not. This is insane! I'm standing on the roof talking to Superman! Is the Easter Bunny showing up next? Is Santa Claus?”
“Why do you think I'm a story?” Clark asked in puzzlement. “I'm right here.”
“I don't think you're a story, I know you're a story! It's a fact! It's…it's history! It's reality! You've got authors! You were invented! You're a comic book, for God's sake!”
“Look, just because people have written stories about me—”
“They invented you! A couple of kids made you up back in the 1930's on a rainy Saturday afternoon or something, the whole story: Krypton, Lex Luthor, kryptonite, Metropolis, the Daily Planet, all of it! I could look it up on the internet right now!”
“This is crazy. Look, I know I'm a bit out of the ordinary, especially for this universe, but I'm not a fairy tale.” She was shaking her head, wild-eyed. In frustration, Clark pointed at a large air vent. “Is that pipe real?” She didn't speak. “You use it to breathe every day. Is it real?” A bit reluctantly, she nodded. Clark walked over and ripped the top off, grinding the concrete into so much gravel, then picked up a small piece and held it out to her. “Is it still real?” He pressed the piece into her free hand.
“Could a story do that to a real pipe?” Clark asked her.
“No…”
“Then I'm real.”
“You're…you're not a story. But…but you were. You were, and now you're real, somehow.”
“How could I—”
“Hear me out!” she interrupted him. Clark held his tongue. “You've convinced me. You're real. Now let me convince you, because you need to hear this. You are a story. A great story, a terrific story. It's been told over and over, in comic books and TV and movies. Practically everybody in the world, this world, knows who you are, what you look like. Practically everyone knows your name, your story, your secrets.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know you're Clark Kent.” Clark stared, instinctively glanced around to see who might have heard—
“You don't understand. Everybody knows you're Clark Kent. ‘Mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper,’ ” she intoned, as if quoting something. “You're from the planet Krypton, you were raised by Jonathan and Martha Kent in Smallville, Kansas, you fight Lex Luthor again and again, and you always win because you're the hero and he's the bad guy. Sometimes you team up with Batman, who's secretly Bruce Wayne—”
Whoa.
“—you're in love with Lois Lane and she only has eyes for Superman and you work side by side at the Daily Planet every day.” She paused for breath. “Everybody knows these things. But it's only a story, and yet, you're real.”
This was madness.
“Where did you come from? How did you get here? How did you change from being a story to being real? Are we going to bump into other stories walking down the street tomorrow? What's going on?”
Clark backed away from the woman. “This is a nightmare. It's some kind of dreamworld—a magic-induced hallucination. I thought magic had brought me somewhere else, but instead, I'm imagining all of this—”
“No.”
Clark stepped closer to the edge. “I have to wake up. I have to get out of here.”
“Superman, how did you get here? What's happening?”
Clark launched himself, flying up, up.
“Wait!”
And away.